I

Kay barely remembered the days when his brother was young.



In truth, he didn't remember much of his early days. He only barely remembered waking up on the Plains, walls on all sides save the front, the sky blocked by a hard, grey barrier. He had shortly thereafter met his brother- though admittedly they did not, strictly speaking, "know" each other. They had not even exchanged names, nor more than ten words at a stretch. But his brother looked a bit like him, perhaps a little older, and so Kay affectionately applied the label. Never since they had met had Kay's brother seemed anything but aging. He appeared tired, worn out. He looked like Kay would look after half a lifetime and a bad day.

Not that Kay got much opportunity to look. Much of Kay's life was spent in darkness. The most interesting view was to the front. A wall, thin and hard, but transparent, separated Kay from creatures and beings of which he could only dream. He could never quite make out features, or details, but once in a while, the light would shift on one, or he'd catch a glimpse of something moving, and his dreams and nightmares would take flight.

He had, in the early days, often asked his brother what they were. The only reply his brother ever offered was that one day, he would find out.

His brother would leave, occasionally. When he came back, he would look even more tired and haggard than usual. He didn't like to talk about these times, but this was scarcely unusual, since he didn't much like to talk about anything. Their most prolonged conversation had been all of a few seconds, and had gone something like this:

Kay looked over to his brother and said "Brother?"
His brother looked over and adopted the usual expression that indicated he was waiting for a further question.
"Sometimes when the light is good, I can see people further along the Plains, big tall people and little short ones and some that look a bit like us. Do you ever talk to them?"
His brother, evidently unimpressed, sat back down in his normal position.
"You can't see anybody".

And that was the long and short of the matter. Kay knew it to be a lie. Some nights, when his brother thought he was asleep, he would overhear his brother talking with someone else, someone with a low, raspy voice, like their throat had been burned away by something. Kay could never tell what they were saying, but his brother sounded angry and afraid.

Kay tried not to let it bother him, but he knew he could see more people across the Plains. The easiest to see were two tall, lithe ones that, like his brother, would disappear every once in a while. If they became more ragged and drained with every departure, though, they never showed it.

One day, Kay's brother left, and simply didn't come back. Kay simply woke up one day and noticed that he was gone, and suddenly, the space he occupied on the Plains was open and free. Kay ran for hours through the night, searching for his lost brother, but found nothing, only the cold walls of his world and the darkness that filled the sky.

Finally, after hours of running, Kay came upon a fellow wanderer, wearing a cloak of a deep red, and a small white hat that only barely covered the top of his head.
"Hey", Kay cried across the Plain. The stranger turned and saw Kay, and turned and began walking towards him. As it happened, the stranger was a young lady, pretty in her own way, with dark red hair to match her cloak and pale skin not so different from Kay's. Kay could see her smiling as she approached, but when she was close enough to see his face, her grin collapsed into dismay.
"Oh, I'm sorry", she said. As soon as she spoke, Kay recognized the voice- it was the same raspy whisper to which his brother had spoken those long nights. "I thought you were someone else".
"No, it's alright. Have you seen my brother?"
"Ah yes, you must mean Kay", she said softly. "He spoke of you often. His little brother".
"What? No, you must be mistaken- I'm Kay".
She smiled again, halfway between knowing and sadness.
"Yes, I'm sorry. Forgive me".
"Have you seen him around? He was here a moment ago".
"I doubt very much we'll see him again, child".
A lump, silent and subtle, made its way into Kay's throat. "Why?"
The wanderer let out a heavy sigh and sat down on the cold, hard ground.
"Have you ever had an idea that was so simple, but you couldn't explain it to someone else? You know how it works, because of who you are, and what you've done, but they can't grasp it?"
Kay considered this. "No".
The stranger idly brushed some dust from her knee.
"Then you'd best accept that your brother is gone, Kay, and leave it at that".
"What's that supposed to mean", Kay said, his voice quivering. The lump in his throat was beginning to assert itself.
"It means you'll have to take his place, naturally. I thought that was rather obvious. You are the only one who can, after all".
"Take his place?" A hint of incredulity crept into his voice. He hadn't even known his brother had a place to take, let alone what it was.
"Yes, unfortunately. Now that he's dead-"
Finally, Kay's voice cracked, the levies broke, and a torrent of rage and sorrow burst forth. "What do you mean, dead? He was the only other person I ever knew! Why did he just leave?" His knees buckled under the weight of sudden despair, and he collapsed to the ground in a fit of sobbing.
"Why did he just leave me?"
The stranger sat awhile before sidling closer to Kay and gently wrapping an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close. When he wouldn't stop crying, she fumbled for an explanation.
"It's just what happens", she finally blurted out. "Something comes and scoops all the life from you, and in the end, you die. And then you... go someplace else, I guess".
"We shouldn't", Kay said into her shoulder, his face pressed close to her cloak. "We shouldn't die".
The stranger shivered at long-forgotten memories, involuntarily brought to the fore.
"Better that we die. I've seen what happens to those that didn't. Did your brother never tell you of the upper levels?"
The sobbing subsided briefly as it gave way to curiosity. "Upper levels of what?", Kay asked.
The stranger smiled, partly at Kay's marginally improved mood, and pointed at the hard roof of the sky. "Did you think your world ended there?"
"Yes".
She chuckled, though in her raspy whisper Kay couldn't tell if she was ridiculing him or not. "Sit down a while, I'll tell you a tale".
Kay made himself as comfortable as possible on the ground, and listened. He'd cried well and long, and was now ready for anything that would take his mind off the tragedy of his brother for a while.
"Alright", the stranger said, once she saw Kay was well-situated. "There are three levels over us..."

II



"MAKE WAY, CITIZENS. MAKE WAY FOR YOUR LORD AND MASTER".

Svendin could hardly see the procession from where he was. His brother, Castaka, was short enough to not be an obstruction, but the entire affair was blocked by the throngs closer to the parade itself. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort to strain, he pulled his red cap down over his face and prepared for a late afternoon nap. Sure, it all sounded impressive enough, he could hear the Thousand Horns of the Cardinal blasting away at marching songs. But there were so many buildings and people between the procession and him, and the divide besides, that even from the rooftop, they couldn't see anything.

Castaka, on the other hand, was beside himself with joy. "Sven, look!", he would periodically cry, followed by some tidbit of information delivered in a similarly ecstatic manner. "Look at the pointy hats on the guards, don't they look silly?", or, "I think I can see the Lord-Cardinal! Or, maybe one of his advisers? I'm not sure", or, "We really ought to head closer to the procession!"

This last remark was enough for Sven to lift his cap and cast an incredulous gaze towards his brother. "Hell's bells, Cast, death wish going a bit strong today? As soon as they see our red caps that close to the Lord Cardinal, they'll put a bolt through them faster than you can say 'diablo'".

Castaka took off the red cap that marked him as a smuggler and a thief and nervously twiddled it between his fingers. Sven saw the question coming and headed it off at the pass. "No way, Cast. Put the hat back on".
"It would only be for a minute-"
"Put. The cap. On".

With a downcast, sullen glare, Castaka gingerly put the cap back on. It wasn't so much that it marked him as a smuggler and a thief that made him hate it, more that it marked him as a bad smuggler and thief. Namely, one who had been caught, hence the need to mark him. There was nothing compulsory about the cap, of course. Anyone who wore one was free to take it off anytime they liked. Necessarily, the enchantment on the cap would then lead elements of the City Guard to the offender, who was promptly apprehended, taken to the palace, and thrown in a Rot Chamber. In Svendin's mind, being a bad smuggler was still better than being a dead smuggler.

"Aren't you supposed to be the older of us?", Svendin asked, pointedly. "Older brothers are supposed to be smart".
"I am smart", Castaka whined. "It's just that you're not smart enough to see it".
"Better alive and stupid than dead and smart".
"Come on, they'd never see us!"
"It doesn't matter if they see us, Cast, the hat is magic. The only reason the hat is magic is so that they don't have to see us take it off".
"But we take them off to sleep".
"Cast, it's a magic hat- it knows".
Castaka slumped over and kicked a rock from the rooftop. "I don't see why we don't just leave".
"Because the hat would tell the guards while we were planning our escape and we'd be caught before we could charter a ship. We can't simply up and leave- this city is our prison, and a prison break has to be planned. And if we plan, the hat knows".
"But-"
"Cast! It knows!"

He punctuated this final sentence with a menacing wave of his hands, which seemed to end the discussion there. Visibly peeved, but silenced, Castaka went back to watching the parade. Seeing that his brother appeared to be, for the moment, placated, Sven pulled his hat back down over his head and closed his eyes, the staccato bursts of the trumpets in the night lulling him to sleep.

It wasn't long before Sven's preternatural ability to sense his brother's foolishness perked up. He went from drowsy to sudden wakefulness (for all thieves are by necessity light sleepers) and madly glanced around- Castaka was gone. Svendin cursed Castaka for being so stupid and himself for trusting Cast in spite of it. No doubt the damned fool had gone off to watch the procession up close- and that meant he probably had his cap off. An optimistic estimate gave Sven between four and five minutes before one of the Guard found his brother and carted him off to a Rot Chamber. Cast was too bloody stubborn to put the cap back on himself, so unless Sven could find him before the enchantment permanently branded him, his brother was a dead man.

Sven had one chance- follow the trumpets. Travel by rooftop. Run like hell.

The smooth rooftops of the city made for terrible routes of travel unless you had balance like a cat- or, like Sven, gecko-boots that adhered to any surface. He leaped from roof to roof with practiced grace, years of running from Guards finally paying off. The irony was not lost on Sven. After years of running away from guards, he was now more than likely running towards them faster than he'd ever run before.

Follow the trumpets.

It wasn't long before the sounds of the parade came to his ear again, and he adjusted his course thusly. The parade was down by Uppertown now, moving back towards the palace. Damn, thought Sven, that only means they have less distance to carry him. Most importantly, it meant he had little to no chance to intercept them if he was too late.

Travel by rooftop.

Distraction got the better of him. He miscalculated a jump, landed with toe where he ought to have landed with heel, and before he knew it, the rooftop was rushing past him in decidedly the wrong direction. He floundered in the air, desperately trying to grab the ledge, but his hands were too sweaty to get a hold on the slick surface, and he fell to the crowd below.

Fruit exploded out into the crowd as Sven's considerable weight smashed into the stall. He made no note of the varieties, nor of the furious protests of the merchant, nor of the shrieks of the crowd. By now, all other thoughts were secondary to the needle of single-mindedness driving right between his eyes.

Run like hell.

His feet drummed against the ground in accelerated tempo with the trumpets of the parade. By now he could hear the march of the Guard's boots- he got four steps in to their one. Thundering around corners and shoving whoever wouldn't clear a path out of the way, he barreled ahead like a rocket. Run like hell.

Another corner rounded, and he felt his heart implode.

Cast dangled from the grip of a Guardsman several heads taller than he was, his feet swinging furiously a solid half-meter off the ground. His red cap lay like a bloodstain on the ground below, a sad complement to the pointed red plume of the Guard's helmet. Sven watched as the Guard raised his hand, his fingers unfolding into the metal prongs that would deliver the hypnotic beam, forcing Cast to be placid and obliging as he was dragged to a mock trial and his death.

Knowing his brother as well as he did, Sven had often thought about what he might say in a moment like this. In his heart, he'd imagines that in such a situation, he would let forth an ear-splitting cry of "No", or perhaps a witty one-liner, or even just a battle cry that would make heads turn and rally the forces of the battered and downtrodden to his side. The noise he made was nothing like any of these, a bellowing, animal cry somewhere between rage, hate, courage and horrible, piercing fear. He let fly this noise from his lips as he pulled the small pistol he kept hidden in his belt, took a haphazard aim, and loosed its only bullet.

Sven was a criminal, a cad, and by rights, a three-time loser. But sometimes, the gods love a bastard, and on this day, they favoured Svendin Ballacoyne. The bullet flew straight and true, and the guardsman's head exploded in a splash of the yellow sludge they had in place of blood. Cast fell to the ground, shaken but unharmed, as Sven rushed to his side.

"Sven", Castaka muttered quietly. "I'm sor-"
"No time, brother. On your feet".

Run like hell.

The gods favoured them both, it seemed- the shot had undoubtedly been mistaken as an assassination attempt on the Lord Cardinal, and for now, the guards were more focused on protecting him. The enchantment could scream as loud as it liked, it would never override their unthinking devotion to their god incarnate. Sven and Castaka managed to make it to the harbour with little incident. Barely breaking stride, they jumped onto a small fishing sloop, threatened the old man who owned it with Sven's unloaded gun (not that the old man knew), and loosed the sails.

When they were safely away, Castaka turned to his brother. Svendin gazed out across the stern of the ship, at the city he left behind. Once Castaka made sure the glassy sea on which they sailed was free of obstructions waiting to tear the ship down, he spoke up.

"Svendin, I'm really sorry. I just... well, I wanted to get up close and see the whole thing. I didn't mean for any of this. I just-"
"You just decided to commit a crime and go where the most guards were".
Castaka had no reply to this. He reddened and turned back to the front of the ship, setting the sails to carry them far across the sea's transparent surface.

It took a few minutes for him to notice his brother was laughing. He turned just in time to see Sven lift the red cap from his head and toss it to the wind.

III



David sighed and hoisted himself up with the long cane that his kind all carried, his yellow cloak waving in the breeze. Ruins of a once great city lay around him, pillars and half-destroyed statues lodged in the cold, white ground. He'd hoped there would be something here worth taking home, but so far, only stones, and the forgotten lives of a thousand dead souls.

He lifted a small chunk of polished glass and held it up to the dim light of the fading day. What had it once been, he wondered. A stained-glass window in a cathedral? A crystal goblet for kings and conquerors? Whatever it had been, it was now garbage. Taking aim at a distant pillar, he tossed the glass aside. It missed the stone spire and landed in a heap of sand with a desultory paff.

"Dav!" cried a voice from just beyond the next hill. "Come quick, look what I've found!"

David hurriedly picked up his rucksack from the ground and jogged up the rise, sliding down the other side to come to rest at the feet of his companion, Miranda. She was wearing the same goldenrod robes as he was, and carried a staff (though shorter and with fewer rings). In fact, save for their upbringings on opposite sides of the Divide, they might have been twins- they had the same flaxen hair, the same blue eyes, they were even about the same height.

As soon as David was close enough, Miranda thrust a small, black vial into his hands. "Look!", was all she said.

David's eyes went wide when he read the label- in the ancient characters, it read "Water What has Not Seen the Light of Day". It was very rare, and very precious- the ancients were very fond of such things. It had to be brought up from aquifers below the earth and stored in black clay vials. It had probably seen all manner of artificial light, but never daylight, and that made it special.

"Oh, Rand", David said breathlessly. "You're the greatest". She blushed, and smiled a bashful smile at that- David loved that smile. Miranda positively glowed when she smiled.
"It was just lyin' on the ground", she said quietly.
David reached out and pulled her close, pressing her to his chest.
"You're the greatest, Rand".
"You already said that, silly". He let her go, and they took stock. Most of what they'd found, they'd picked up over the course of the last few days wandering the wastes. This last stop was at Miranda's behest, just because she liked the ancient ruin sites. Turned out it had paid off. Now, their packs were full, and they were ready to head into town and sell what they'd found.

Town was a good three day's walk away, but they made the journey without trouble- the storms and quakes that plagued the wastes seemed to leave them be, for now. Along the way, they joked, and went over their substantial haul, and David played cheerful songs on his lute while Miranda sang. Finally, they reached Duro-Steid, city of merchants, the one place they could sell the things they'd found.

Duro-Steid wasn't so much a city as it was a collection of ramshackle huts and stalls owned by any number of bizarre and strange beings. Creatures from all realms of time and space came forth to buy and sell items from other worlds, and for junk merchants like David and Miranda, their wares were always welcome by someone. The huts spanned about the size of a city, and occupied multiple levels up and down the hills and valleys that it covered, so it came to be known as a city- Duro, from the old word meaning trade and money (but also lies), and Steid, after the name of the wasteland it skirted.

Duro-Steid didn't have walls, or borders, it just sort of started. Usually those merchants on the edges were new franchises, owned by established merchants nearer the city center. A scant few were new merchants, eager to ensure their wares were the first seen and with some sort of protection against the rabid franchise owners who would do anything to preserve their dominance. Towards the center, quiet wars were fought in shadow for real estate, all merchants eager to set up shop. It was a well-established fact that any merchant who left his stall unattended would have the space- along with most of the wares therein- stolen by some opportunistic bugger looking to turn a quick buck.

It was into the center that they were headed. A vial of the kind they carried would be too risky to sell to a franchise owner- too much risk of being ripped off before it made its way up the hierarchy. Indeed, to sell to anyone other than one of the six merchants who controlled vast shares of the market would be suicidal. Snubbing them with an artifact of such value was a crime more reviled than murder in Duro-Steid. After all, cutting throats was a normal and healthy part of business, but ignoring the major players on the scene- well, that was just rude. In either case, selling to the king merchants was hardly a profitless endeavour- their pockets were deep, their prices fair, and currying favour with one or more of them was more valuable than anything you could buy in the market.

David and Miranda came to a halt outside the tent of Lord Merchant Alejandro Balagopal Villiasker Taggart von Bonham IV, and Lady Amyttapa Jodorowsky Caplan von Bonham XIII- Lord Alex and Lady Amy, for short. Alex and Amy owned much of the western share of Duro-Steid, including a large portion of the harbour overlooking the glass sea. To those who did right by them, they were the picture of a loving father and mother- doting on loyal "children" (as they fondly referred to them), welcoming in their home. Of those who maligned them, there was little said, for little was known. The stories, however, were not reassuring.

When they stopped, Miranda handed David the bottle.
"Here, you go".
"Why? You're not scared of Papa Alex".
Miranda laughed, a bright and beautiful sound like the pealing of a small bell.
"Of course I'm not scared, dummy. I want to go into the market and get something".
"Oh, well, we'll only be a couple of minutes- if you want, we can go together-"
"I don't want to go together", she said, ruffling his hair. "It's something for you".
She laughed again at the surprise on his face. "I'll meet you in the Ciderhole tonight", she said, and then darted off into the market, her prize to find.

David's trouble, Miranda mused as she walked through the market, was that he was such a pack rat. In their line of work, it was sometimes an admirable trait- after all, you never know who's going to want your trash- but it made him hold on to everything until it just up and broke. Recently he'd been on and on about his boots, a pair of old hobnail boots he'd had since she'd known him. The things were nearly rotted through with holes, and the nails were missing, and it seemed like every time he went to polish them, new tears opened like weeping sores. But he still wore them, wrapping cloth around the holes. The soles were still stuck on, that seemed enough for him. She'd half-considered cutting the things to ribbons to force him to replace them, but in the end resolved to just buy him a new pair.

The market was labyrinthine and convoluted, but Miranda had been here many times and knew the fastest ways through. A cut across and alleyway here, a jaunt up the old ladder and along the roofs, and then a quick slide down the awning and she'd be just a quick walk from Janos' stall, which sold all manner of things for wanderers.

Janos was tall, with milky white skin and a blue cap that was just a bit too big for his withered old head. His eyes still glimmered with a touch of youthful vigor, though, and he was always glad to see Miranda or David come by the stall. He smiled and waved as Miranda drew near.

"Ho, Janos", she said as she stopped, nearly out of breath, in front of the stall.
"Hello, Miranda. In a hurry?"
"No, only I've many things to sell. I'm wondering if you have a pair of boots I might buy before I start selling, though- I've much on hand, I can give you an excellent price".
Janos made a sort of reverse-whistle, sucking in air through clenched teeth. "Sorry, my dear. All out of boots. Sold the last pair I had on me to a fella on his way to Skywalde".
Miranda's heart sunk. Surely there were other merchants selling footwear, but Janos was the only one she knew, and it could take all day to find another- besides which she had her own things to sell.
"Ah", she said glumly. "Well, I'd best, uh... I'd best be off. Much to do, and all that".
He nodded a kindly nod. "It's not the end of the world, hon. Swing by tomorrow, I'll have more then".
"Sure", she said, knowing full well she wouldn't be here tomorrow. David never liked to spend more than a day in town, he always wanted to be on the move. She would need a very convincing reason for him to stay- but at least now she had all day to do so.

The sun was dropping behind the horizon as she finally reached the Ciderhole. A small tavern in the eastern part of town, it was run by Caleth, a giant, eight-legged beast who resembled a spider only in passing. Still, he thought the name apropos. A quick survey of the room revealed that David wasn't there yet. Hardly surprising, since Lord Alex would be dead-set on celebrating his new acquisition and would probably twist David's arm until he stayed for a lavish, eight-course meal and a late-running party.

She pulled up a seat at the bar and glumly looked at the floor as Caleth filled her cup. But while looking down, she saw something out of the corner of her eye- a pair of boots that could conservatively be described as magnificent.

They were soft, but rugged leather, with good, thick straps that would weather days of walking through dust well. The soles looked to be rubber, and a cursory glance revealed that they hadn't seen much wear. They were polished, and very nearly shone, even in the dim light in the Ciderhole. And with a quick estimation and some mental math, Miranda figured they were just about David's size. In short, they were perfect.

Of course, there was the problem of the man they were attached to. A large, wide-brimmed hat hid his eyes, and a bloodred scarf covered the rest, save for a bushy, drooping, grey moustache. The man was nigh-on emaciated, his long coat hanging off him like it would off a coat rack, and his shirt and pants seemed several sizes too big.

It was an unpleasant picture, to be sure, but Miranda had dealt with worse. Besides, she would surely be able to convince him to part with his boots. Whether blood or iron, gold or silver, song or spirit, everything in Duro-Steid had a price- or so went the saying.

She cleared her throat and tugged on the man's shoulder.
"Excuse me, sir, I don't mean to interrupt, but would you be interested in selling your boots?"
For a moment she thought he hadn't heard, and then, with an almost imperceptible rustle of the hat and scarf, he turned barely enough to see her.
"No", he said.
Undaunted, she pressed on. "Are you sure, sir? I have many-"
"Bassa".
"Pardon?"
"Bassa. Not 'sir'".
Customers willing to be on a first-name basis were always easier to trade with, and Miranda positively beamed at the reveal.
"Well, my name's Miranda, and I've got lots to offer you for that pair of boots".
"No".
"There must be something you'll take. I can trade you an excellent hat. The finest-crafted guns from across the glass sea".
"Already got both".
"Then something less tangible? A song? A spring day? A golden fleece- pre-packaged, for your convenience!"
"Heard all the songs, had enough spring days to last a lifetime. Found a golden sheep, once".
"Really?", Miranda asked suddenly, forgetting herself for a moment. When Bassa didn't answer, she pressed on. "Mister Bassa, I know you might not believe it, but I'll pay you any price for those boots. I'm well-connected around Duro-Steid, so make no mistake when I say I'll get you whatever you want to trade. Name a price, and I'll see it met!"
She let the offer hang in the air between them, and watched as Bassa considered it. And she knew he was considering it- his entire demeanor shifted, giving off the air of one who was deep in thought. He lifted his glass and turned it around in the light. Then he looked at his boots and idly kicked at the end of the bar. Finally, as he pulled down his scarf and scratched a narrow chin well-covered in stubble, he said "I suppose I'd trade 'em both for a good night's sleep".
Miranda coughed up the small mouthful of cider she'd been sipping. "I didn't mean-"
"No, I didn't-"
"Not that you're-"
"You're mistaken, I-"
"It's just-"
"Young lady, please", he said, raising a hand and ending the minced back-and-forth. "I meant only that I've as late had trouble sleeping. If you've the connections you say, then surely you can find something that'll put my head to rest".
Shock gave way to joy in Miranda's eyes. For the man to be so adamant in his refusal and then to ask for something so simple was fortune unmatched. With a nod, she hopped off her stool, tossed some coins on to the table, and near skipped out the door.

She knew precisely where to find what Bassa was looking for. Niita, who owned a stall not far from the Ciderhole, would have potions aplenty, and no doubt a sleeping draught would be among them. Undoubtedly she could sway Niita with something in her satchel.

Something was off, when she reached Niita's stall. Niita was behind the counter sure enough, but she had a drawn and tired look about her. Her skin was pale, her eyes red and watery, and she didn't notice Miranda until they were but a couple of meters apart. As Niita looked up, Miranda saw that her eyes were circled by pale, white scars.

"Niita! What happened to your eyes?"
Niita tried a weak smile, but failed.
"Hi, 'Rand. What can I do for you?"
"Nevermind me, Niita, what happened?"
"This", she asked, her fingers brushing her cheeks. She tried to pass it off as nothing, but Miranda saw her wince at the touch. "Nothing. Potions accident. Can I get you something?"
"Oh, Niita", Miranda muttered, her task forgotten. "That looks painful, do you want me to get you something? I can run to Vastyr's and pick you up a-"
"'Rand, please", she said, again trying to pass for disinterested. Still, a note of genuine pleading crawled into her voice. "Did you want to buy something?"
"Well, if you're sure you're alright", Miranda said uneasily. "I need a sleeping draught. Err on the side of potency".
At the words "sleeping draught", Miranda saw the colour go out of Niita's face.
"Sorry. No sleeping draughts. Bad batch. Poured them out".
"What?"
"Yeah. Like I said, bad batch. How I got the scars. Too much asyrium, boom, crystal shards everywhere. No more sleeping potions".
"Oh. Could you mix another? I have time, I can wait, and I'll pay handsomely".
"No. Best not to. All out of supplies, I mean".
Miranda frowned; it wasn't like Niita to simply be "out of supplies".
"Niita, is something wrong? Please, you can tell me".
The voice in her ear sounded the way a cold day felt.
"You ask too many questions, little girl. Too persistent".
Miranda couldn't turn. She feared too much whatever could make a sound like that. Suddenly the light began to fade from the world when that voice crept into her ear.
"I have heard your mewling pleas, little one. I know on whose errand you run. Make no mistake, Bassa is mine- boots and all". It made a noise that may have been a laugh, a noise that sounded like ill wind blowing through a cemetery.
"Now, a conundrum- to claim, or to kill? You can do nothing to harm me, but you know of me now- but what is to be gained from claiming you?" Another laugh. She could feel cold creeping up the sides of her face, towards her eyes.
She didn't know where the strength came from, but she finally found it within herself to run. Shoving oblivious citizens out of her way, she took off down the streets towards the only safe haven she could think of- the center of town, to Lord Alex and Lady Amy.

As she ran, the people she passed never parted to let her through, never turned to look at the rushing horror behind her. Couldn't they see? Didn't they realize? She shoved them out of the way and towards what she hoped was safety. She felt the cold closing in, and felt thoughts creep into her head, telling her to lie down, to stop running, to accept it, to be claimed.

Only when she came tearing through the door of Lord Alex's tent did she finally stumble and go tumbling to the floor in a heap. Lord Alex, gave a start, his gigantic, pale, white form jolting upright, while Lady Amy's hammer-shaped head swept back and forth, looking for the aggressor. Miranda could feel the cold approaching behind her, felt it closer than before, and knew she was lost.

Suddenly there was a thundering crack from across the room, and the cold vanished, receding. She looked up and saw Lord Alex and Lady Amy, their twin staffs at the ready, each of them focusing their eight piercing blue eyes on the creature behind her.

"Why have you come to our home, outlander", Lady Amy boomed. It was not a question. Lady Amy did not ask questions, she merely stated what she wished to know and whoever wished to keep their head would tell her.
"I have laid claim to this creature", the cold voice hissed. "And I would take my prize".
"You will not", Alex thundered. "This 'creature' enjoys our protections, and harm that comes to her will be visited doubly so upon you".
"I have staked a claim, false gods", croaked the voice, "I am owed my due".
"You are owed nothing" Lady Amy bellowed. "Do not speak of dues to us, outlander, you have no power here".
A soft hiss from behind her was all the creature could muster. Miranda didn't try to stand, the ground seemed safer right now.
"I believe you have worn out your welcome, outlander", said Alex, his tone more jovial now that the creature seemed subdued.
"Then... I will take my leave", the creature said, its icy voice dripping with acid and sarcasm.
"Yes- of all Duro-Steid".
"What?!", cried the beast. "I am a citizen of Skye-Taran-Zyl, I am blood of the conqueror worm! You cannot deny me passage in the city of merchants!"
"You have done harm to a merchant, Taran-Zyl", Alex said, thundering again. "You have done harm to a merchant, and you know the law".
She felt a scream of rage and hate emanate from the creature, heard it struggle against invisible bonds.
"Would you do the honour, darling wife?", said Alex sweetly.
"Gladly, sweet husband", Amy replied.
There was a sound like flesh tearing, and a scream like icicles shattering on stone, and it was over.

And then, David was kneeling beside her, and other friends from around Alex and Amy's tables, and David was holding her close, and she could feel the warmth and life returning to her.

She stayed a long time at the tent, another reveler at the party, glad to be alive. She ate, and drank, and told the Lord and Lady and all those at the table stories of her travels with David. Then David took out his lute and played a song, and all those at the table sang and danced, and all knew what it was to be happy, and safe, for a time.

And then night came, and it was time to return to their room at the Ciderhole. They held each other all the way there, glad to know they were protected in true. They walked the way in silence, and Caleth gave them their key, and they went up the stairs to sleep.

But as they unlocked the door, and went into the room, they saw something they did not expect- on the bed, were a pair of magnificent boots. Miranda had forgotten all about Bassa in the confusion and the party- had that Taran-Zyl been the one keeping him awake? Was he away safely, somewhere? Her thoughts were broken off by David's laughter.

"Rand! Did you get these for me?"
"I, uh, I suppose I did". She didn't want to tell him about Niita, or Bassa, or any more of the Taran-Zyl. Just the thought of the afternoon soured the day for her.
"Ha! They're perfect", he said, pulling one on. "Gods, I suppose I needed a new pair, didn't I?"
She nodded, and smiled, the days events slipping from her mind as she saw her love smile and laugh.
"Oh, 'Rand", he said, doing up the last straps on the boots. "You're the greatest".

IV



Little is known about the top realm.

It is said that the inhabitants there are wizards, great men of great power who live in spiral towers and cast spells at one another and those below them. Their magic burned the ground below and from the cracked and melting ground, life on the lower realms emerged.

Others say that the inhabitants are great warrior kings, warmongers whose prowess in battle makes them unto gods. They do battle, and the blood from their armies flows down through the realms and that gives life to the lower realms.

Others say they are men of science, creatures of vast intellect and startling artifice, who constructed great engines for purposes beyond normal comprehension. It is said these contrivances go about their daily functions, and that these give life to the lower realms.

But the stories all agree on one thing- that the creatures of the top realm were frightened by nothing, save by death. It is said that they looked down on what they believed to be their creation, watched those below wither and die, watched the same happen to their number, and realized that their self-proclaimed superiority may be a lie. How, after all, could they be gods if they were subject to the same laws as those below? How could they call themselves superior when they could not avert the most common of evils?

So it was that Archevus, a man of some power, decided on a solution. Death, he reasoned, must be a creature of some sort, coming in the dark of night to drain the life from everyone in turn. After all, what else could it be? So it would seem that all he would have to do is hide from this creature, and he would outlast all others.

Some said Archevus was a genius, others said he was a fool, but neither objected to his attempts- after all, success would mean eternal life for them all, failure would change nothing. So Archevus found a chamber in which to seal himself, with no light, and dark walls. He washed himself thoroughly each day to remove his smell. He tied a gag around his mouth so idle speech would not escape and alert the Death Beast. Finally, he dressed all in black such that if the Beast found him, he would have a better chance to hide.

Many days passed since Archevus sealed himself in his chamber. Others watched themselves as the signs of age set in- the slow draining of colour from the skin, the redness of the eye, the greying of the hair. After fifty days, they opened Archveus' chamber, as per his instructions.

And indeed, Archevus emerged, seemingly untouched. He was as hale and as hearty as the day he entered. And there was much rejoicing in the land, and cheers of Archevus' name, for it seemed as though he had conquered death. The lone dissenting voice was Archevus himself, for he had noticed that different people aged at different speeds, and he thought perhaps he was just fortunate enough to age slower than the rest. So he told everyone not to seal themselves away so quickly, and to wait another fifty days.

So the people of the realm closed Archevus away for fifty days, and continued to wait. And again they watched as the effects of age set in, and they wasted away. And fifty days later, they did open up Archevus' chamber and watched him emerge anew.

He had changed, somehow. He had not aged, but some of the colour had gone from him nonetheless. He coughed, and when he spoke, it was in a choked, raspy voice. Hair grew in grey-green splotches across his face and hands. But he was in good humour, and he insisted it was a small illness, and ordered the others to seal him away for another fifty days, and if he continued to not age, then he would declare the experiment a success.

So they sealed him away for fifty days again, and watched as they all aged, each eagerly awaiting the day Archevus would arise from his tomb and show them that death could be defeated.

And on the one hundred and fiftieth day, they opened up Archevus' chamber.

Many would not speak of what they saw inside. Many would not say, not the men who first opened it, nor those who went in after with fire-batons and bottles of burning wildfire, nor those who went in after to clean the chamber out. They would say that Archevus had been mistaken, that the illness had claimed his life, and that death could not be conquered. They would say it was a terrible tragedy, but they should learn from Archevus' mistake, and not spend their lives in seclusion. They should live every day to its fullest, and enjoy the company of those around them so that when they did die, as must all, it was not alone, in the dark, and the cold.

They did not say what they had really seen. They did not speak of the thick grey-green rot that carpeted the walls of the room. They did not speak of the armies of flies and beetles and of nameless crawling things that lurked within its putrid folds. They did not speak of the dessicated form of Archevus, his mouth twisted in horrible pain and fear and rage, eyes rolled skywards, clothes in tatters.

They did not say that when they unsealed the chamber, and the light shone on Archevus' ruined form, his eyes twisted madly in their sockets, searching for the source.

They did not say that he tried to stand.

V

Kay sniffled a bit and looked up at the stranger.
"Thank you. For the stories, I mean".
She nodded. "Your brother was very fond of them".
Kay felt as though he should be sad at the mention of his brother, but he could no longer muster the emotion. The tears were gone from him, with them, the sadness and the rage.
"I am sorry about him, Kay", she said softly.
"'S alright", he muttered. "I guess I'll see him again, maybe".
"Maybe", she agreed. "Maybe".
"Did he ever tell you why he had to go away all those times?"
"No, he never did". He never did, but I knew, she left unsaid.
"Oh", was all he could manage. He was too tired to speak, too tired from the crying and the loss. "I think I need to lie down. Do you have any more stories?"
"Many", she said, "And I'm not going anywhere yet".
That was a small comfort to him, and he smiled weakly as he lay down to rest.

Soon after, Kay found why his brother disappeared those many times. A pale, shambling creature came in the night, bigger than anything he'd ever known, and carried him to the lair of death. He saw its featureless, pale face, dotted with thousands of milky-white eyes gazing, unblinking up at him. He watched as it opened its gaping maw, revealing the rough brown ruin within, toothless and dark.

Then there was a tightness in his chest, and as he screamed to the darkness, he understood.

END

If you find yourself asking the question "What the hell does any of this have to do with sauce?!" press CTRL (Or command, if you're on a Mac) +A now. If you'd rather leave it as is, without explanation, don't do that.

So you may have noticed I was rather liberal in my interpretation of the task. The fact is, it's not as though I know every single story of the condiments in my fridge. And it's not as though they're very interesting like some of the higher ranked ones. So I just picked some bottles and thought of what they'd be like if they were people. The ketchup bottles on the lower levels were obviously siblings. The honey mustard bottles on the second row up looked like they were guarding the jar behind them. The two bottles on the far left looked like they were peeking over the box of stock trying to get a glimpse. The yellow mustard bottle looked like a guy in a robe standing amidst the ruins of a destroyed city, formed by the other bottles that had been knocked down, and so on and so forth. Once that was done, I just told the stories that seemed right.

As for the neglect and abandonment part, I chose to include that mostly in the framing narrative with Kay so that I could play around with the others.

In case you're not sure, that Horrible Bastard in story III is the same one from my Callouses on Your Hands completion. I'm not the only one he's tormented.

And yes, death is a hamburger. Don't read too much into that one.

Also, the part with the Water What Has Not Seen The Light Of Day and the pre-packaged Golden Fleece are references to Sir Pinkleton's completion of The Treasure Hunters. I highly recommend you go read that if you haven't. I dare you to read it and feel worse than you did when you started.