Wartorn Obliteration

BRYCK (2)

The consistency had taken some while to refine. At first it had caked, then flaked; then it was too runny, sliding off Bryck's face at the least suggestion of body heat. With a little help from other members of the Broken Circle it was correct now.

It was still uncomfortable, provoking a maddening urge to itch, but as a disguise it was impeccable. Also simple. It appealed to Bryck. There was a certain bold panache about it. The Felk garrison was still searching for him, and he was now walking about in the daylight, unmolested, undetected.

Tyber gave him the sly nod, and Bryck concentrated, expecting and feeling the pressure around his skull and the mild wave of feverish chill. Tyber was juggling the three leather balls with a brash dexterity. He was competent enough keeping the trio of objects skipping through the air, but what held their audience was his accompanying patter, a mixture of ribald witticisms and fast awful puns.

Tyber's hands were gloved. Of a sudden one of the three balls erupted into flame, followed just as inexplicably by the second, then the third. The audience, a crowd of about twenty by now, sucked in a collective breath. It was a good trick. Good because as impressive as it was, everyone watching it no doubt thought it was a trick. Sleight of hand. Fakery.

They would think it magical, not magic. That of course was how Bryck wanted it.

Tyber kept the flaming leather balls, which had been treated so to resist melting, moving through their patterns. It made the juggling that much more impressive, as the spheres left behind trails of fire.

"My own balls have felt like this sometimes after a particularly harsh fuck!" Tyber cackled, and the crowd laughed along with him.

Bryck, in his time around various theatrical troupes that had put up his works, had occasionally met types like Tyber. Big, brazen, loud. More exhibitionist than actor. Such a variety of performer actually suited some of the roles in Bryck's plays, characters whose function it was to draw the audience's attention, to entertain in a broad way while subplots with more substance played out around them. Bryck had often found these "buffoon" parts useful.

Sometimes, though, in his better theatricals, when he was actually making an effort at what he was producing, sometimes those large and audacious characters themselves had a deeper purpose. Sometimes they turned out to be the heroes.

Tyber's face, too, was painted. One half yellow, the other blue, which were traditional carnival colors. It had the effect, at least, of covering over his many unsightly blemishes. Physical appearance, however, often meant nothing to personalities like Tyber's. They got by on the bluff and bluster of their deportment. Tyber's carnal tastes ran toward males, the younger the better, and Bryck had no doubt that the plump man with the bad teeth still drew more than his share of willing partners, presuming there were still enough young males in Callah for him to hunt among.

The Broken Circle's water-dyeing campaign had been successful, at least in that they did manage to transform all of Callah's public water supplies. The disruption during that first day, when everyone found the cisterns full of what appeared to be blood, had been exceptional. Commerce and all other activities ground to a standstill. The garrison hastily investigated. A fear overcame people, dread that the gods were intervening in a way that they were always rumored to do, but of which nobody ever had any proof.

The Felk remedied the situation with admirable speed, even as Bryck's fellows in the Broken Circle circulated the word that the water was safe for any native Callahan to drink.

In the end, Bryck conceded, the disorder it had caused probably didn't amount to much in the way of effectiveness. It hadn't tangibly loosened the Felk's grip on Callah. But perhaps it gave some among the occupiers real pause. If the water could be tampered with, next time it might be poisoned. Or maybe these rebels would do something else equally widespread but more destructive. Perhaps Governor Jesile himself had been disturbed by the possibilities the operation had raised.

As with everything else Bryck had done to undermine the Felk since arriving in Callah nearly two lunes ago, he had no reliable means to gauge the impact of these activities. He simply had to hope that these deceptions and confusions were adding up to something.

That required faith. Absent that, he always had his hatred. For the Felk. For what they had done to U'delph, to his people, to his family.

"This is impossible, you say?" Tyber grinned, exposing those awful teeth. "How did these balls light with fire? It can't be done. We were all watching. We saw nothing!"

The crowd was mesmerized, watching the flaming trajectories of the juggling balls.

"But obviously it is possible! You see it happening! Watch close... and you'll see even more."

With that he altered the pattern. Two of the balls he kept moving in a circle, one chasing the other, around and around. The third, he tossed straight up so that it came down in exactly the same place, bisecting the circle; when it did, he caught it and tossed it straight back up, all the while keeping the other two going in their circular course.

Juggling was strictly a matter of timing. It looked beyond human capabilities, which made it a fun spectacle to watch, but Tyber had explained that you just had to keep it moving. Once you learned the pattern, it became relatively easy.

This particular pattern had purpose. The crowd, gathered here at this street corner, continued to watch. As they did, Bryck detected the first sharp inhalations. He saw recognition light the eyes.

"Nothing is impossible!" Tyber cried.

Bryck gave him the signal, and he let the leather balls drop one by one. It had rained earlier, and the ground was still damp. The juggling balls extinguished themselves with tiny hisses.

The audience cheered and applauded. Tyber took a great exaggerated bow, grinning happily, soaking up the adoration as if it was his unquestionable due. Bryck took the jauntily feathered cap from his head and circulated through the crowd. The faces were astonished, and those who hadn't noticed the Broken Circle's sigil traced out in flame were being eagerly told what they'd missed by those who had seen it.

A few people tried to put money into Bryck's cap.

"Save it," he said softly. "Taxes are bad enough. The Broken Circle works only to rid Callah of the Felk."

He came back around to where Tyber was retrieving his gear.

"Time to go?" the older man asked.

"Yes, it is," Bryck said. A policing squad of Felk was moving toward the corner, though their manner wasn't outright hostile. Still, Bryck thought he saw an anxious tension in those faces.

But the assembly was already dispersing on its own. Bryck and Tyber, in their half and half painted faces, couldn't just blend in with the crowd. The whole idea of this disguise, of course, was to hide in plain view. Bryck turned deliberately toward the patrol. His clothes were as festive as the feathers he'd added to his cap.

With the same studied flourish he'd seen Tyber use, Bryck gave the Felk soldiers a grand bow. They ignored him and passed on by.

Tyber tapped his shoulder. "We were going?"

"Yes. We are." But Bryck felt a small hard smile move his lips. None of those Felk had recognized him, had given him any attention beyond the flamboyancy of his appearance. This had been a fine test of the disguise's effectiveness. Now that he had freedom of movement throughout Callah's streets once more, he would have to make use of it.

He hadn't performed magic since the Lacfoddalmendowl festival, when he'd seared those sigils all over the city. This episode didn't strain him so severely as had that previous occasion, which had bedridden him with fever for two days.

Bryck was suddenly hungry, and they stopped at a tavern. When the proprietor told him how much a meal would cost, however, Tyber burst out, "That's outrageous! For that price my friend should get a sweet damsel kneeling under the table and sucking his stump while he eats."

The proprietor shrugged blandly. He looked tired, without the spirit to argue. The tavern, Bryck noted, was nearly empty.

Tyber was evidently annoyed by the lack of response to his vulgarity. He made a final stab. "Make it your daughter, and we'll think about it."

Bryck hauled the man out of there.

"It's the taxes," Bryck said as they moved along down the street. Their colorful faces drew passing attention. "They're going to inflate prices. Goods and services are going to become rather dear in Callah, I'm afraid."

"And how will people pay for them?"

"With their money. With that scrip the Felk issued everyone when they confiscated all the hard currency. Only, they're being heavily taxed now as well, which is draining off the access paper currency already in circulation."

"Paper you're responsible for creating," Tyber said quietly.

Bryck gave a shallow nod. He accepted that responsibility. He had known his counterfeiting scheme, which had flooded Callah with false notes, would have consequences. That was the aim. But it was going to be a burden for more than just the Felk. These Callahans would suffer. But they were already suffering, Bryck noted. The sovereignty of their state was gone. They were a conquered people. If they wanted to change that condition, they had to risk what little comforts they had left. They had to be willing to sacrifice it all—

"Not that any of us in the group blames you," Tyber went on, interrupting Bryck's thoughts. "Frankly we applaud you. In my time I've been involved in quite a few, oh, less than legitimate undertakings. Some extremely profitable. Those were also, however, the same ones that were the riskiest. What my fellow Callahans have to eventually understand is that risk and reward go hand in hand."

Bryck blinked. Tyber had just voiced Bryck's very thoughts. It was like the routine of a true carnival huckster, mental games meant to awe an audience.

"I was just thinking that," Bryck murmured.

"Were you? Well, just shows that the minds of the magnificent all flow in one direction. Still, I must defend my fellow Callahans to some extent. They've been beaten, and had their sons and daughters conscripted into the same mighty army that conquered them. There is a loss of identity for us. Who are we now? Not the Callahans we were, living securely, prosperously, within the inviolated borders of our state. Now... we are some other people."

This did not move Bryck. In fact, it had the effect of chilling his feelings of sympathy. True, these Callahans had fallen under the unwanted rule of the Felk. But they were still alive. Their city hadn't been burned, destroyed. Not like U'delph.

"It's time for your people to decide who they are, then," Bryck said. "Permanent subjects of the Felk... or men and women with the determination to overthrow that rule."

They continued on in silence.

At another intersection they paused briefly to again perform. Bryck had procured a tinny whistle and now blew a repetitive tune on it, something catchy and fast. It drew enough interest for Tyber to once more launch into his act.

As Tyber performed, Bryck realized that many of the seemingly spontaneous comments he was making were ones he'd used earlier. Well, one didn't have an endless supply of wit. Bryck himself acknowledged that in his days of carousing at pubs and being the reliable wag at every gathering, he would often tell the same jokes and stories incessantly. They were always amusing, though, and few people were graceless enough to point out that they had heard this or that one before.

They enacted the flaming sigil again, and again there was scattered response throughout the crowd. The Broken Circle's members had been spreading the word. Bryck himself had been responsible for those twenty-eight sigils burned onto doors and walls during Lacfoddalmendowl. The Broken Circle was a rebel underground intent on overthrowing the Felk here in Callah.

It was a fiction. It had begun, just as all those theatricals he'd penned, as an idea in his mind, a fancy. But now it was being played out in reality, not on a stage. Even the players—Tyber and Quentis and Ondak and Gelshiri and the rest—weren't aware they were enacting predesigned roles.

In the past Bryck's contribution to the culture of the Isthmus was his talent to amuse audiences. His plays were exported from U'delph and performed by troupes throughout the Isthmus. They were a worthwhile offering, so he had always thought, though he had never quite taken himself seriously as a playwright, despite his success. Cheering people, making them laugh—that was valuable in a very basic way.

But this, here, was more important. His fight against the Felk in Callah. It was possible he would be remembered for it... but he would be remembered as the Minstrel, not as Bryck of U'delph. That suited him perfectly. He no longer was Bryck of U'delph, after all. There was no U'delph. And the man he had been was equally lost.

When the performance was done and Tyber was taking his grandiose bows, Bryck again circulated with his cap, just for show. As before he refused to accept any money when it was offered. Twice, however, members of the crowd seized his hand and asked, in sharp urgent whispers, how they could join the Broken Circle.

He had no ready answer and felt the fool for not anticipating this situation. Of course more of these people would want to join up with the movement. Some would be impulsive about it, others more serious. The Broken Circle would inevitably have to accept new recruits. How Bryck could make use of those extra numbers was something he had to give serious thought to.

He and Tyber dispersed hurriedly this time. Bryck was satisfied that he could travel Callah's streets in this costume, behind this face paint, and go unrecognized by the Felk patrols. But the day was waning. It was time to get back to the Circle's base before curfew.

As they were striding along, Bryck chanced to glance up and to his left. By now he had a good sense of Callah's layout. He knew what he would see, peeking out between intervening buildings, before he looked. It was the Registry. The seat of the Felk occupational government.

Bryck's steps slowed, stopped. The great white structure was some distance off. Its tall wide walls caught the dwindling rays of sunlight.

"What's wrong?" Tyber asked, glancing back.

Bryck shook his head. Nothing was wrong. The Broken Circle was becoming real. It was real, in fact. If more recruits enlisted, its reality would only increase. And Bryck had just had a thought as to how to use those potential new members.

He gave Tyber a pat on the arm, and the two men headed onward.

He explained his ambition to the rest of the Broken Circle that evening. It was still something of a marvel to him how they all deferred to him, hung on his words. He was truly the leader here. The Minstrel.

It didn't matter that he wasn't a minstrel, that he didn't even have a vox-mellifluous anymore. He, too, was a player in this piece.

They liked his plan. They agreed that new members to the Circle would help realize it. Later, they discussed means of recruitment, how to weed out the useless from the worthwhile.

These rooms didn't afford a great deal of privacy for their more than a dozen occupants, but Bryck still had the most comfortable berth, partitioned off from the others by a decorative screen that was painted with birds in flight above a lush grassy field. He had often spent some while at bedtime staring at those images, waiting for his mind to slow and slacken so that he could sleep.

Tonight as he lay on his bunk, drained by the minor magical efforts of the day, there came a soft rapping on the screen. He had washed away the paint from his face.

"Who is it?" he murmured.

Quentis peeked her head around the edge. Her amber eyes blinked. "I'm not waking you?"

He shook his head, making to sit up, though he was quite comfortable where he was. Beyond the screen the room was dim, lit only by the light of a single candle. The noise of the workshops on the other side of the wall had gone still watches ago.

"Don't get up," she said. Her voice was quiet, edged huskily. She wore clothes he had seen her wear before, though now the front of her garment was loosened. Not enough to be flagrant; but too much flesh exposed to entirely ignore.

She was Bryck's age, and her face showed those winters. But it was still a comely face. And she had been the one who had saved him when he was first on the run from killing that Felk soldier.

"What do you want, Quentis?" he heard himself asking, his own words faint, uncertain.

She stepped around the screen but did not approach his bunk. She was regarding him intently. There was something sad in her eyes, he thought. And perhaps something needy.

"I want to know if there is anything you want," she finally said.

Bryck felt his heart beating hard, the blood rushing. It was an almost adolescent anxiety, an uneasiness and excitement that was unmistakably sexual.

So much had died within him. So much, he presumed, that would never live again. Nonetheless he felt a stirring, but it was so odd, so out of place, so alien. He had not known a woman since the last time he and his wife, Aaysue, had made love. It wasn't something he thought about.

He wasn't sure he could even imagine himself being with another woman...

"There's nothing I want," he said at last. Frail words. Helpless words.

But Quentis accepted them, and she nodded her acknowledgment and turned and went, even as Bryck caught the shine sparkling her amber eyes. When he felt the wetness on his cheeks, it took him a moment to realize that he, too, had shed tears.