Gatecrash

AID FROM AN ENEMY

Jace left the Selesnya grove feeling like a puzzle with its pieces scattered. He pulled his hood up over his head and his cloak around his arms, and stalked off into the metropolis, letting the endless buildings and crowds of pedestrian traffic swallow him.

He was a planeswalker who was once involved in a planar plot—but now that he assessed his circumstances, he had successfully cut himself off from everything about this place. Knowledge of Ravnica’s woes had been excised from his mind. His mage sanctum was ruined. His compatriot Kavin had run off, presumably never wanting to see him again. And Emmara was back with her guild, back in the arms of someone important to her. The exit was open to him, hanging wide like the gates of an abandoned estate. This plane didn’t need him. He was not required here. He could simply step through the veil of reality separating this world from the next, and leave Ravnica behind.

But of course, he couldn’t be sure of that. Certainty was one of the many things that had fallen into the dark hole in his mind. Whatever the guilds were plotting—whatever the Izzet had discovered—whatever the Dimir wanted with Emmara and the knowledge inside his head—it was all gone. And his sense that Emmara was in danger remained. He had thrown open the gate out of Ravnica himself, and had practically put down a fine carpet to ensure total comfort for his departure, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to take the final step and go.

Something was missing. Something wasn’t quite as tidy as it seemed, and it nagged at his mind like an itch inside his skull. It didn’t sit right with him that everything had played out this way.

I need those memories back, he thought.

A patrol of Boros legionnaires turned the corner toward him, even-shouldered and marching in smart precision. By reflex he hid around the other side of a cart of market goods, eyeing the soldiers through the gaps in the rigging, letting them pass by. If he was their target, they didn’t seem to notice him. He wasn’t even sure who was looking for him now, but his impulse was to hide from guild authority figures, and he trusted his impulses.

Jace paused at the edge of a huge thoroughfare, the so-called Transguild Promenade, a pedestrian walkway that passed between many of the guild-held territories. As beings of all races and shapes and guilds passed by him—a Simic biomancer holding the leash of a ten-legged crablike monstrosity, a Golgari trader with a handcart of treasures found in the undercity, an Orzhov aristocrat with an entourage of dutiful thrull servants—he strained to devise some way to recover what he had lost. The hole in his memory was real, to the degree that any absence could be real, and thanks to the fissure he had no way of remembering what he had actually done with his memories during the excision spell.

The promenade branched into multiple directions, some of the roads winding their way toward various guild territories, and others leading out of the Tenth District entirely. He found himself stopping in the middle of the street, letting the pedestrian traffic flow around him.

Jace had created a knotted riddle for himself. The question consisted of the excruciating sense that he had given away the answer. He wracked his brain, trying to think of who might have a shred of a clue about that night at the Cobblestand Inn, and trying to stifle the feeling that if he failed, Emmara would die.

Exava swung her swords in figure eights, slicing through the air with unbridled glee as the towers of the district streamed past her. The Rakdos witch stood atop a war platform, held aloft by four muscular, masked minions, who in turn were surrounded by a massive horde of Rakdos cultists that filled the street from shop front to shop front. A wave of Rakdos flowed through the thoroughfare from Rakdos territory, sending up a chaotic clamor that could be heard for miles. Screams and impish laughter mingled with the clatter of the bone drummers and the hissing of riot demons.

Exava was smiling so hard that blood trickled from between her clenched teeth and down the sides of her mouth. She liked the feeling, so she smiled harder. Exava had a wisp of a plan to find the insolent mind mage; he was the type who would concern himself with the lives of innocents. A soft touch, like the Selesnya elf. She would only have to kick up some chaos, and he would, in time, reveal himself.

She looked down below her at the glorious bedlam she had created. She rode the frenzy and let the riot take her where it wanted. Every once in a while she would give the horde a nudge, guiding the riot toward population centers and guild landmarks. She only needed to lean on her platform, applying her weight in the direction she desired. The man-minions below her would feel the shift in the weight of the platform, and they would compensate, drifting in the direction she leaned. She wondered if her muscle could even see. The spiked leather masks they wore, like all Rakdos gear in general, were designed more for the impact on the viewer than for the comfort of the wearer. No matter. She would see for them.

They approached an Azorius guard station and checkpoint. An archway of elegant white marble stretched across the road, with an intricate triangular guild symbol of the Azorius at its apex. A band of Azorius lawmages raised their swords to the oncoming Rakdos horde, chanting the minutiae of legal protocol as if it were scripture.

“In accordance with public conduct code, section four-two-one, subsection D,” droned one of the officials, “you are requested to reverse your trespass and proceed to the nearest registered guild boundary.”

“Any incursion beyond this point shall be considered warrant for the request of a writ of barred action,” recited another.

A third lawmage just stammered the same phrase over and over. “Entry hereby denied. Entry hereby denied.”

When the snarling Rakdos rioters reached the archway, they smashed through the lawmages like a bull through a curtain. The Azorius officials’ shining swords were more reference material than weapon, their blades etched with runes of law. Some of the lawmages gave way, and Exava laughed and made rude faces at them, knowing they couldn’t stop her horde without days or weeks of intricate bureaucracy.

The rioters proceeded around a turn. The horde flipped horse carts, smashed shop windows, and trampled pedestrians. Exava grinned with all her teeth, stretching the stitches at the edges of her mouth. As the throng of Rakdos cultists marched, she began to chant, and the cultists chanted with her.

Jace leaned against Lavinia’s door frame like a book propped up diagonally. A globe of lamplight, identical to the staid and precise globes throughout the towers of New Prahv, lit only half his features. The rest of his face was still hidden under the hood of his cloak. Between them was Lavinia’s desk, full of tomes, architectural charts, ancient maps—evidence of deep study in the Azorius archives.

“Didn’t expect you,” said Lavinia.

“You should be asking yourself why I would come,” said Jace.

“Would you like some tea? I could send for the hussars. My captain of the New Prahv guard brews a mean pot.”

“You do, and I vanish. I leave and never come back. And your case never goes anywhere.”

“Until I track you down.”

“Believe me. Where I can go, you’ll never be able to follow.”

Lavinia sat back in her chair and sighed. “Well, my ‘case’ is already nowhere. You’ve been handed off to the Boros, did you know that? The Boros, whose idea of a proper investigation these days is barging into random addresses with a fireball spell. But I’m not even sure you’re such a hot property anymore.”

“I’m not. Before I had my hands on something of value, something dangerous—you would have been right to track me down. But I’ve lost it. And I need to get it back.”

“And you thought you’d break into the Azorius guildhall, and ask your arresting officer? That was your plan to get yourself some help on that score? You’re not a very good criminal, are you?”

“You’re after the truth. I think you know I can be of help in finding it.”

“You know what’s sad? It’s that part of me believes you. But I don’t help those who think they’re above the law.”

“I’m not trying to escape justice. I’m using everything in my power to expedite it. You want to solve the case of the kidnapped Selesnya woman? I can tell you which guild is responsible for the abduction.”

“The Rakdos. We already know that.”

“Go deeper.”

“We know Exava was involved. The demon’s most trusted witch.”

“Deeper.”

Lavinia paused. “You think someone put her up to it? Another guild?”

“Think. Who benefits from guild infighting? Who wants to rouse the ranks of the Selesnya, and start a riot with the Rakdos, so that the public sees nothing of their own schemes?”

“The Izzet? We know they’re up to something.”

“But they’re being anything but subtle about it. In fact, the Izzet helping the cause. Helping draw attention away.”

Lavinia’s eyes glazed over. “House Dimir.”

“After setting up Emmara’s kidnapping, a Dimir agent attacked me for something I no longer have. And I need to recover it as soon as possible.”

Lavinia looked up at him. Jace gave her an opportunity to speak, but she said nothing.

“Now’s when you ask, ‘What did you lose?’ ” Jace said. “And I explain the strange situation I’m in.”

A smile of realization spread across Lavinia’s face. “Don’t tell me. You lost your memories.”

“How did you know?”

“And the Dimir were after them? That is a predicament you’ve got yourself into. And now you don’t even know what it is you’ve lost.”

“That’s about the sum of it. Your investigation told you all this?”

“Unfortunately, no. Kavin did.”

“Kavin came to you? When?”

“He gave me something.” Lavinia produced a sheaf of scribbled notes, but she hid them against her chest. “He managed to save some information as you were destroying his memories.”

“May I see that?”

“Sorry. It’s evidence in your case, I’m afraid.”

“Officer Lavinia. Unless I recover what I’ve lost, people will die. Including, I think, Emmara Tandris.”

“As I remind you, you’re a suspect in a crime. Including the abduction of Emmara Tandris. Now it sounds like you’re threatening her.”

Jace took a deep breath. “I seek the same thing you do, Officer Lavinia. We should be on the same side.” Jace nodded at the notes spread out across Lavinia’s desk. “You’ve been doing research of your own. These are from your archives, aren’t they? Can you at least let me in on what you’ve found?”

“Please, make a move for them. Or use your mind tricks—go ahead. You’ll see what kind of magic an Azorius official has in her own office.”

“No one’s forcing. I know your guild’s expertise with wards and safeguards. All I’m doing is asking a favor, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“No, you’re asking me to help you spread lies. I studied the archives. All I found was dusty old architectural plans. Some patterns, sure, if you’re looking for them. But it’s all just a matter of coincidence, unless you’re conspiracy-minded—or are looking to take advantage of those who are. It’s circular logic. You’re using these secrets to convince people to believe in secrets. It’s all for show.”

“And yet I ripped out my own memories to keep safe such secrets.”

“A trick—and a cruel one, when it came to Kavin. I’ve seen your kind before, Beleren. I’ve seen a hundred guild-hating demagogues like you. You use people. You lure them in with promises and lies, and then when they’re no longer useful to you, you dispense with them.”

“We thought it would be safer if he didn’t know.”

“Did you both think that, or just you? But it’s not just him. You’re a danger to this entire district and all the people in it. You sent that two-headed Gruul brute on that wild crusade—do you know how many people he’s injured? How many he’s killed?”

“Ruric Thar?” Jace had been in contact with the Gruul ogre when he was at the Cobblestand. And it was mind-to-mind contact. The ogre could have information related to his lost memories. It was a thin lead.

“He and his Gruul thugs have visited the guildgate of every guild multiple times,” said Lavinia. “Smashed through platoons of guards, shrugging off magic designed especially to stop him. My own Azorius have lost six to his rampage. And he keeps coming back for more. Trails of bodies crisscrossing the district. And it’s ever since you hired him, Beleren.”

“Do you have information on his whereabouts?”

Lavinia sighed. “We’ve lost track of him. He could be anywhere. But as I said, he’s been hitting all the guildgates.” She turned back to the shelf behind her desk and consulted her station book, then whirled back to her desk. “We might know more by tomorrow. I—”

But when she turned back, Jace had made himself gone.

Ral Zarek rode in the back of an enclosed vehicle of mizzium metal, propelled by a combination of elemental energies and one strong, harnessed cyclops. He and his team of Izzet mages, including Skreeg the goblin, had been crisscrossing the Tenth District for days, following the routes they had discovered from Beleren’s sanctum. The inside of the Izzet jalopy was covered with maps of the district, sheets of Ral’s own notes, and the stink of days of travel.

No single solution suggested itself. Beleren’s research had only narrowed down the potential paths to a dozen or so orderings of the guildgates, and Ral’s own study of latent threads of mana had narrowed it down to three paths. “What’s stopping us from trying them all?” he had asked himself. Maybe the fact that the gates were miles apart, in some of the most dangerous areas of the district, many of them actively guarded by horrifying monsters and traps. Maybe that was what was stopping them.

The vehicle came to a halt at the Forum of Azor, a wide, circular public space near the center of the Tenth. According to legend it was established by Azor, the founder of the Azorius Senate, as neutral ground where the guilds could meet and discuss matters of law. A set of kiosks representing each guild encircled a central hub. Guild representatives manned the kiosks, providing information and broadcasting recruitment slogans to unguilded passersby.

Ral and Skreeg got out of their vehicle and looked around the Forum.

“Where does it lead next?” asked Ral.

Skreeg touched a dial on his gauntlet. The gauntlet exploded, blasting the goblin’s arms and face with a fine shrapnel of mizzium metal. He blinked and coughed a puff of smoke. “According to my readings, it ends here,” he croaked.

“What?” said Ral. “This is it? This is the end of the maze?”

“Conclusive,” said Skreeg, knocking the side of his head. Pieces of brassy metal fell from his large ear. “There’s a trove of incredible power here. The braids of mana terminate at the hub of the Forum.”

Ral felt nothing—nothing like the greatness he expected to find. “So, why aren’t I surging with previously untapped mystical power? Why hasn’t great knowledge opened itself up to me? Why aren’t I emperor of Ravnica?”

“Is that what should happen?” asked Skreeg.

“We followed the route!”

“We followed a route.”

“No,” said Ral. “This was the final combination, the third of the three potential paths. One of them should have been the correct route. We should have solved it.”

Skreeg put his hand out. “Well then, congratulations on an experiment well performed!”

Ral scoffed. “We’re not done,” he said “There’s more to this than what we’ve found.”

“Will we be reporting this result to the Firemind, then?” Skreeg asked.

Ral looked at the goblin’s face, all explosion-crisp and cheerful. He scanned around the Forum of Azor, resenting the civilians who milled about the space, and wanting badly to absorb the potential he knew must be lurking here.

When Emmara arrived at home, two centaurs loyal to the Selesnya were posted at her door. A squad of archers patrolled the rooftop garden of her building. It was a waste of effort, she thought. Since Trostani had taken an interest in her and she had begun doing more work for the guild, she barely lived there anymore.

She tried the door, but it was locked. “What’s this?” she asked one of the centaur guardians.

“I can open that for you, ma’am,” said the centaur, producing a set of keys and unlocking the door. “Captain Calomir commanded that all dignitaries of the guild be under constant protection.”

“I’m not even in there.”

“The captain is concerned about security, ma’am.”

“Indeed I am.” Calomir came from around the other side of the house, and caught up to her at the door. He wore his usual charming grin as well as he wore that soldier’s uniform. He held the door open for her. “A moment, Miss Tandris?”

“What’s all this? This was your idea?”

Emmara stepped in, and Calomir closed the door behind them. The house’s familiar smells of wood and herbs were almost covered by the smell of Calomir’s oiled boots and steel sword. She could hear the shuffling of footsteps of the Selesnya sentries on the roof.

“Would you believe it’s Trostani’s?”

Emmara wasn’t sure she did believe him. “Soldiers on my house, Calomir. What are we becoming? It’s giving the guild the wrong message. I’ve only lived here for a short time, and now I’m singled out, treated differently from the rest of the Conclave. Treated like a prisoner.”

“We just want to keep you safe.” He leaned against Emmara’s kitchen table, a solid piece of oak that had been woodshaped by Selesnya mages. “And I think a strong Selesnya army sends a good message.”

“Since when? I don’t like this belligerent streak in you.”

“Emmara, you were taken. You, a Selesnya dignitary, were kidnapped by the Rakdos. We can’t do nothing.”

“Those warriors had no agenda. They were drunk on their obsession with their demon—they would have done anything their superiors told them. And as Jace said, I think the Dimir were behind it somehow.”

Calomir’s condescending smirk irritated her. It was the one he gave before he broke bad news to her. He took her hand in his and patted it. “My dear, you’re a true force for peace. But the world is changing. The Izzet have expanded their experimentation. There have even been squads of Izzet mages threatening our sacred guildgate. The Orzhov have been buying spies and mercenaries from the outer districts. The Simic have been massing an army of their twisted hybrid monsters. A squad of Gruul warriors has been crisscrossing the district, ignoring guild borders. Tensions are high.”

“Which is exactly why we have to reach out to the other guilds—now, before this hysteria goes too far. We have to learn to understand them. You used to say that.”

Calomir released her hand. “So you sought out him.”

“Jace? Yes. My friend. Are we actually going to fight about this?”

“He’s a strange one, that’s all. He’s an unguilded mind mage. Isn’t that dangerous?”

“He has unique gifts, Calomir. He can see through all the bickering, the masks, the walls we put up between our guilds. He can unify us. We came to this guild because we believe in unity, didn’t we? I still believe in that, and I believe in his potential. But I’m starting to believe you don’t believe in mine.”

Calomir snorted. “Do you actually believe the nonsense he was saying? He all but accused me of treason to my own guild.”

Calomir shook his head. “I’m concerned for your safety. Listen, Trostani is waiting for me. I just want to know one thing about this Jace. You sought him out to help our cause. So how much does he know about the … conflict between the guilds? The Izzet’s secret project?”

Emmara sighed. “Well, he knows … he knows nothing, now. He got deeply into it, apparently, but then he took himself out again. He used magic to destroy his own memories about it. That’s what he was doing when the Rakdos attacked us.”

“And he hasn’t been able to learn anything more since? He doesn’t have any other sources of information?”

“Not that I know of. He destroyed all his research. I don’t think he can help us now.”

Calomir nodded. “Stay here. Get some rest. You’ve been through a lot.” He leaned in to kiss her.

She gave him a peck on the lips, and watched him leave between the guards flanking her door.

The Gruul Clans were usually found huddled in the cracks of civilization. They were a guild with a conspicuous and time-whittled chip on its shoulder, seething from their eviction from a long-extinct wilderness, perennially regarded as brutes and uncivilized throwbacks by the other guilds. The Gruul had come under control on Ravnica long ago, cowed by rules and bounded by fences, just as nature had been. But their memories were long and resilient, and a fire raged in their hearts.

Jace caught up with Ruric Thar and a gang of his Gruul cohorts near the Orzhov guildgate. They were camped in a patch of thicket in a city park in view of Orzhov territory, seemingly about to go on the warpath.

Jace hadn’t seen Ruric Thar lead a war party like this; in fact, Jace had never seen, or for that matter smelled, a Gruul war party at all. Their armor was made from animal hides and bones, and their weaponry was heavy pieces of scavenged city rubbish. Their skin was alive with tattoos, etched with a combination of magic, ink, and, Jace supposed, a considerable amount of pain. Each of them was a hulk of muscle, and Ruric Thar was the largest and mightiest of them all.

Jace figured the direct route was best, and approached the war party. “Hail, Ruric.”

Ruric Thar and the Gruul war party turned to him.

“He’s Ruric,” said the leftmost of the ogre’s two heads, tipping toward the right. “I’m Thar.”

So they used different names for their two heads. Jace thought of them as brothers, in a way, but he supposed that wasn’t accurate. They were the same being from the necks down.

“Both of you, then,” said Jace. “I come to ask for your help. Since you worked for me, you’ve been traveling around the district in a certain way. Following a route. Visiting gates.”

“How you know this?” asked Ruric.

“Are you following a pattern of some kind? Some new information that you might have picked up at our last meeting? I think I may have left something in your mind, and I need it back.”

Thar chuckled, a sound that echoed in the ogre’s chest like a barrel. “Can’t, little mage. Ours now.”

“I’m afraid I need it, and I’m afraid it has to be now. It’s vitally important.”

“Answer’s no,” said Ruric, waving the arm that terminated in a large axe. “Now go. We have crook-priests to smash.”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” said Jace.

The Gruul warriors looked at each other, as did the Ruric head and the Thar head.

“All right, then,” said Thar. “You want it, you must take it. Take out your sword.”

Jace spread his palms. “I—what? I have no sword.”

Ruric and Thar nodded understandingly. “Axe, then.”

“What I mean is, I don’t carry weapons.”

“You must have weapon. You are challenger. Challenger has the honor of first hit. Oszika, give him your sword.”

“Isn’t there another way to do this?”

Ruric shook his head. “This is Gruul way.”

A tall female troll presented Jace with the hilt of an enormous, wide-bladed sword. Jace took it, recoiling from the weight of it. He tried to heft the tip of it, and barely managed to pull up the point.

“Swing it,” said Thar.

Jace knew he was far beyond the bounds of his expertise, but he gave the sword a test swing. It was so heavy that he had to use gravity to swing the end of it around, which gave it so much momentum that it nearly spun him around. It took all his body weight to absorb the trajectory of the sword and end his swing.

Ruric spat on the ground in disgust. The Gruul warriors laughed.

“While I’m flattered you want to duel,” said Jace, “I am not going to strike you. I only need a moment to plumb your mind, and I can be on my way.”

The war party laughed again. “Just try it!” one of the warriors shouted.

Thar had the left hand on his chin. “You do spells.”

“Yes,” said Jace. “Spells. Just one spell to scan you two, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Then spells will have to do.” Ruric Thar took the sword back and handed it back to its owner. He squared up opposite Jace and braced for impact. He was empty-handed, but not unarmed: one of his forearms ended at the elbow, and had been fitted with a huge axe.

“As we said, first hit goes to you,” Ruric said. “No death magic, no summoned creatures, no rotting spell. Fire, lightning okay. Hit us.”

This is barbaric, Jace thought. He wasn’t going to attack this ogre with magic, not while he just stood there. That would only invite a counterattack, and would just start a fight, which Jace suspected was exactly what the Gruul ogre wanted. Jace would be agreeing to a fight he couldn’t win. He just wanted to explain himself, but it didn’t look as though things were heading toward a diplomatic resolution.

Plus, there was an even more pressing problem. “I don’t typically use spells that … hit people,” he said.

“Ah,” said Thar, nodding. “Grow claws, slash my face?”

“No, I can’t do that, either.”

“Call down blast of searing light?”

“No.”

“Lift and hurl heavy boulders at great speed?”

“No.”

“Unleash flurry of jagged blades?”

“No …”

“Turn yourself into giant? Shred me with serrated vines and leaves? Sonic scream of rage? What?”

“Listen, Ruric, Thar. I’m not a warrior. I’m not a battlemage. I can’t do any of those things.”

This set the warriors to murmuring.

“What’s your magic do?” asked Ruric, finally.

“You already know that. I’m a mind mage. I alter the mind.”

Ruric and Thar laughed heartily. “A wizard of daydreams. Yes. So you are. So, no hitting. No hitting, no duel. No duel, no prize.”

Jace had no recourse. He had to have what was in the ogre’s mind. If Ruric Thar wanted a blast of Jace’s magic, he would have it. “All right. I will try.”

The ogre nodded doubly, and once again positioned himself to absorb an impact, the faintest smile on both the ogre’s faces. Jace summoned up all his mental strength, and formed his mind into a projectile, firing a blast of mental force at Ruric and Thar simultaneously, hoping to knock the Gruul warrior down in one psychic blow.

The backlash was immediate and blindingly painful. The force he sent at both of the ogre’s minds reflected back on him, and he was hit with the full brunt of his own spell. It knocked him down with a nauseating wave of crushing agony, and he lay there, trying to hold the sides of his head in. The Gruul warriors apparently thought that was the funniest thing they had seen all day.

Savage echoes of pain reverberated through Jace’s skull. It didn’t feel like a protective enchantment or some other kind of reflective spell that had sent back his psychic blast—the ogre hadn’t had to react at all. Ruric Thar’s very nature had rejected the magic somehow.

“Was that your hit?” asked Thar.

“We’ll give you another try if you want,” said Ruric.

“Just a minute,” muttered Jace. “Let me finish throbbing.”

The ogre had something in his nature that absorbed magic and sent it back at its caster, or focused it. It explained why the ogre had been able to smash his way through a series of guild-controlled gates almost singlehandedly. Jace tried to imagine legions of guildmages trying to slow down the rampaging ogre. They probably ended up with more than bad headaches.

When he felt like he wasn’t seeing four heads instead of two, Jace stood and brushed off his cloak. “I can’t beat you with mind magic,” he said slowly, his cranium still pounding. “But I still need what’s in your mind.”

“Have to beat us somehow,” said Ruric.

“Or we can just kill you,” offered Thar.

“Neither of you is ‘the nice head,’ I take it,” said Jace. “There’s nothing I can offer you? Some way to convince you to let me poke around in there?”

“Fight or die, mage. Decide.”