CHAPTER 16

  Can banged defiantly against wall. He kicked it again. Bang.

  Head hanging limply Ran went out of his way to line up another kick, and it glanced off of the side of his foot and spun, pathetically, in place. Is there anything I can’t shake up?

  A pulsing light in the corner of his vision. He looked up to find a small, red neon sign blinking against dull brick. Fritz’s.

  The rank injustice of being burdened by an absolutely unique problem clawed at Ran’s heart as he continued down the sidewalk. Why him? Why did he and he alone consider weight of questions everyone else would think silly? "Who?” and "What? and "Why?” He’d thought of those questions before, hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he asked them to Word Heracla? He tried to imagine how the Word would ever answering them. I would have unanswerable questions. Not fair, not fair. Am certainly isn’t worried about this stuff. Or Kiyo. Just you. Just me.

  Ran stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets angily.

  Meeting Nail had seemed such a positive sign, minus the savage beating, of course.

  He remembered the copy of the Speech Nail had given him. If only Heracla had known that was there! Never once had he considered becoming a Rockman. That was stupid. He was a blue-eyed northern boy in a Given city and that made him Given. His family were Given. But. . .

  For as long as he could remember, true it was not very far, but still, Ran had been saturated in Given thought and Given ways. He knew the way Wordhealers talked, catchwords and code terms. In his most honest moments, he found it all annoying, clownish.

  Talking to Nail, someone who’s thinking had formed outside of the Text, had been nice. The world really was bigger than just narokks and Text.

  Then came the ruinous meeting. . .

  Someone yelled across the street. A crowed simmered around two arguing men, each slowly raising his voice to match the other’s.

  "No Rules on me! Get them Archives outta here, man! I don’t take 'em the way you do. Heir’s love ends. . ..” The remainder was lost in the grumbles increasing pool of observers.

  "Why bring Sebi into it?” the other man cried. "They lost their chance. You’ll be eaten by the gaping maw just like them and narokks. Oh, I know you don’t like the Rules, Marty. Been your neighbor for years.”

  All across the city Ran had seen the same all day. At Central, a woman in the most expensive looking clothes, demanding the bookstore--Ran had had to check it out--begin to carry some new Crester books from Olde Honour. Heir more as "a way of the heart, than man”. "Extremist!” and "divisor!" she'd screamed at the poor manager.

  On the elevated coming back, an old man told a group of kids who had just finished carving their names into the wall, that they needn’t worry. "Inheritance is yours,” he had said with a smile. "Do as you like.” He'd continued proclaiming such even when they had fled with his bags and hat.

  One Given city, but seemingly many Heirs.

  Through a shops’ open door, he saw news coverage of the demo he and Nail'd heard falling. The smoke trail from the earlier demolition hung in the air like a gnarled, bony finger pointing down at Wordheal. Screaming, Ran thought. I heard it. Nail must think I’m goofy.

  Meaaaaninglesssssss. Joke. Vanity. Alone. Alone.

  At his consciousness’ edge, every now and then, his enemy would so overwhelm him that it seemed he could see the words, even with eyes shut. When this happened, all Ran could do was lay back and wait.d.

  "Gonna to be a great night,” Ran rubbed his temples. Rokk, he thought, Make this go away. Please?

  "Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!”

  The shout, the screech, pulsed in his head with his heartbeat. His eyes snapped open.

  A strange wiggling figure across the street. Ser Pau was there, holding the figure, trying to stop him from falling off the railing he'd climbed. Every single person on the street, a woman watering flowers, a man popping his head out of a manhole, a group of brown eyes on the corner, turned to the noise.

  "Ran! Yep, that’s him!” Nod laughed and pointed. "That’s my friend! Ran! Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan! Everyone, turn! Look at Raaaaaaaaaaan!” They all turned toward Ran.

  "Heh,” Ran coughed and waved "Hi.”

  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\

  They sat in the grass of the shelter' lot, enclosed by three walls and piles of fresh cut boards that smelled warm and alive in the hot night air. He’d be there tomorrow helping Ser Pau and his estate fix up the place. No, I won’t. Memory crotch-shotted. "I’ve got to meet Word Urba tomorrow!” he whined.

  "Two Words in a week!” Nod juggled the ice pack and the water bottle. "Heracla’s meeting wasn’t great, eh?” Nod tried to take a swig of the ice pack but realized it just in time and put it on his ankle instead.

  "That hurt?” asked Ran.

  "Shaddup.”

  "Never seen a guy trip as much as you.”

  "My thorn. Anyone could have tripped on that bucket of paint after jumping off the railing.”

  "Which sent you face first into the streetlight, which caused you to reel back and turn your ankle--”

  "Ankle on the stairs,” Nod waved his arms around, "it happened to me I know!"

  Ran smiled, just barely caught the bottle Nod threw. "You look thirsty,” said the bald man.

  He was, in fact, parched, and so drained it in three gulps.

  "Got any more?” Nod tossed another, but this one hit Ran in the face.

  "Ha. Loser.”

  "Know what I hear?” asked Ran, diverting the attention, if only for a moment, as he stared up at the floodlights on the inner wall rim.

  "Hmm?”

  Ran leaned over, said louder, "Know what I heard at the Pub?”

  Nod closed one eye, ringed out his ear with his pinky, "Wow. Ow. Not, 'Hmm?’ as 'What?”, but 'Hmm?’ as, 'No, I don’t. What did you hear?’”

  Ran flushed. How was it possible for a dude who could barely walk a straight line without beating himself senseless to make him feel stupid? "I hear that the guards up there have to play music cause the wailers are getting louder.”

  "Yeah?”

  "Louder every night. They say they’re always down there crying, 'Join us.’ and other creepy stuff. Either they’re getting louder or there’s more of 'em. Where are they coming from?”

  "Where do you think?”

  It took Ran a few seconds to realize the question was earnest.

  "Me? I don’t know. How would I know? I mean, I thought they were gossip at first, but Tek’s told me it’s true.”

  "Really?” Nod took a drink, eyes glued to Ran. "Now how would little man know things like that?”

  Keep your mouth shut, you idiot! Tek’s tiny, angry head screamed in Ran’s mind. "I mean, everyone says they’re Firsts. Firsts who’ve gone nuts.”

  "You think that?”

  "Does it matter?”

  "Yeah. A great deal.”

  "I guess it makes sense. I mean they are narokks, right? Narokks believe nothing. That’d drive anybody crazy.”

  "Don’t do that.”

  "What?”

  "Say what you think I want to hear. You’re smart.” Nod looked away and Ran was finally able to breathe. How he hated being stared at. "Do you think Firsts or narokks are the only ones who go crazy in this Nameless World?”

  "No.”

  "Ah, good.”

  "Where do they come from, then? We should see em in the valley all day.”

  Nod laughed, "I suppose if a bunch of Wordhealers were wandering into the night, buck-naked, screaming at the sky, the Words would be telling the people.”

  Ran snorted.

  Nod smiled again, and Ran again found himself comparing the man to Nail, though two more different Ran could not imagine. Nail moved through the world like a distant storm. Nod? Ran looked down at the ice pack.

  On the other hand, Nail’s face always seemed as if it wanted to twist, as if he were ever pushing, straining even, to keep one thing out, and another in. When Nod was silent, well it was silly, but he was not like a storm in the distance, but the storm’s center, and things around the man were spinning, screaming, exploding, but still the man himself sat, a dopey, honest smile on his face that made you think he knew things that made the storm look, and feel, dumb.

  "My meeting with Heracla sucked.”

  "Well, tell me.”

  --------------------------------------------------------------------

  Ten minutes early. Showtime. Ten minutes past. Fifteen. Forty-five.

  Coughs from the nearby offices. Idle chitchat.

  One hour late when Ran finally worked up the courage to ask the pleasant chubby receptionist, who smiled and called into the office.

  "Ok, I’ll send him right in. Sorry hun.” Ran heard the click of a pushed button. "He forgot.”

  The two great, dark cherry doors opened just as Word Heracla came popping out. Five feet if an inch, wide as tall, his rosy cheeks, sparkling pale blue eyes, and silver beard gave him the look of an imp.

  "Come! O come! Terrible me, dreadful. But this is the a great Wordday, you know. Of course you don’t! You are in Freedom Canton. Ah, I have no idea how you even know what day it is without Worddays. Cleanthesday, to be specific. Fifteen hundred years dead. Poor man. Poor, dead man. Sawed in half by ruthless black eyes.”

  Ran followed the smaller bouncing man into the office, and nearly passed out.

  Stacked along the walls and in front of the bookcases, in the corners and on high window ledges, on every single step that led up a wonderful small spiral stair to the second level, similarly bursting with packed bookcases, he saw books. Books and books and more books and every edge was dotted with hundreds of tiny bookmarks, and hope burned in Ran.

  Heracla squeaked as he pulled Ran to a wonderfully lit, old painting hanging between the two center bookcases. Two feet by two, it depicted Heir standing with one arm wrapped around another figure, his free arm cradled Inheritance, as always, depicted as a thick book. Unlike Heir, whose eyes were lapzu, the second man’s were hazel, the forgotten color of ancient Ovon. Tek would say they look like cartoons. Those little bodies and huge eyes. Heracla purred as he took his long red robe and triangle hat from nearby hangers. "Is it not glorious?”

  "Yes,” Ran droned, truly marveled. "I recognize this style with the twirling spirals and golden inlaid frame, the vines plump with grapes around the edge. Old Nesgoh?”

  "Very good! Eyes fixed on the past. Good boy! Only worthy place.This is Heir and Word Sanem.”

  "Sanem. Is it real, I mean, genuine?”

  Heracla chuckled, "I should hope! It’s been in Wordheal since the founders came from the rise.”

  "It’s so bright! I’d believe it was painted yesterday!”

  "Well, good! It was painted yesterday. It’s re-painted every month!”

  Ran looked questioningly at the Word who gestured to the table beneath the picture, upon which sat many small cans and tubes of paint, glasses of water and hundreds of brushes.

  "You,” Ran swallowed, "you mean you’ve been painting a genuine, ancient Old Nesgoan artifact?” A closer inspection revealed this was indeed the case, as many of the edges were not nearly as neat as Ran had first thought. Across it he could clearly see where previous colors leaked through cracked paint, and new colors dripping, if only slightly.

  "Of course!” Heracla chirped as he snatched up a brush and hurriedly traced a crude outline of the hat on Heir’s head. "I try to stay within proscribed boundaries, but I need flourish too!” The Word filled the hat with deep red.

  Ran steadied himself on a chair, slumped down into it. Who knows what’s original? Who knows what’s underneath?

  After a minute, as Ran’s horror dispelled, he was able to look up. The Word had not moved, and stared lovingly at the picture. Ran waited a few seconds, and then a few more. After a minute, Ran whispered, "Excuse me.”

  The Word flew back against the wall, hands clutching at his chest as he coughed with every breath he took. "Boy! Why scare an old man?”

  "I’m sorry. It’s just, I made an appointment with you. I have some. . .problems. I don’t want to waste your time.”

  The small Word hacked as he made his way to the other side of his desk. After pushing aside several large books and a few biblios much larger than the one in Ran’s bag, he said, "After the painting you still have questions?”

  "The painting doesn’t really help with those.”

  "But look!" He stretched out pleading arms. "The lines, the fine golden border, rokkishness in art! I grant that my own additions are a tad pedestrian--”

  "No!” That was all Ran needed, and insulted Word. "No, that’s not what I meant. I just think my problems are more of a. . . well, uh, conceptual nature.”

  "And you’re sure the painting isn’t helping?”

  "Uh. . .” Ran looked once more to be as polite as possible. "No.”

  "You aren’t sure?”

  "No, it’s not helping.”

  Heracla sighed, pulled on the sleeves of his coat until he could clasp his hands together. "How may I help?”

  And so Ran began, slow at first, picking up speed, leaving aside certain oddities (that he had been found naked in a field with no idea who he was), sticking mostly to describing his melancholy, though he dare not refer to it as his 'enemy'. and before he knew it, he had finished.

  Almost as soon as he started speaking the Word had begun pulling various books to himself, opening them, looking up and down, making notes, nodding. . .Ran assumed he was looking up things relevant to his problem.

  Instead, Ran sat, hands resting on his leg, watching as Heracla kept reading. No, thought Ran. It’s not possible. So, he waited.

  Five rokkdamn minutes!? Am I going nuts!? Finally Ran coughed.

  Heracla started, and his triangle hat falling into his face. The Word giggled. "Oh my, oh dear.” He pushed the hat back, "Forgive me.”

  "Uh..."

  "Oh, my, my, my, quite embarrassing.” He smiled across plump cheeks. "I am afraid I did not hear a word.” He tapped the books. "Riveting. The best ancient Given writers. Millennislanders. Don’t tell Ferapa or Urba I said that.” The Word laughed himself into another wheeze. "Gah! Pardon. Everything from Heir’s offices to his Saga.” The Word’s face turned red-purple as he roared and hefted one of the largest books Ran had ever seen and let it slam down onto the desk. "The Millenislands Trio!” He ran a tiny hand along the spine. "My pride and joy. Their collected works! Page after page of the most ancient and important writers,” his eye glistened. "What more is there? Simply too much to see. Much too much.” His eyes fell like dying birds onto the page.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  "Word--” Ran chuckled madly, almost screamed, "Heracla! Sorry. May I start again?”

  Heracla smiled, crossed his arms and waited.

  Ran ran through again, though faster.

  "Worldbrawl!” Heracla cried as he snatched up a loose paper, scribbled. "Check that reference. Undying, that’s the name! Heir's unique rokkishness, and its its own book! You wouldn’t know any of that. Poor Freedom Canton. The Text and Text alone. How boring. Ferapa’s far too busy planning his shows to actually expect anyone to read.”

  "I love--"

  "Ah, boy.” Heracla hopped from his chair, "I am no simply good at what you need as a Freedom. I cannot confine the Text. Oh, if only Ferapa wasn’t so busy I’d send you right to him. No young one, that is not the sound of envy. The Mystery Canton always rises. Too much to be too sure.” He spread his hands wide, waving out to all the shelves and papers, "How can I say that I understand even a letter of the Text when all of these greats could not? Rokk is far too great, far too up. . .Up there, too, and. . .and” the small man, thought, trembled, his eyes bulged. "Nevertheless. Ah, now don’t look at me so, young one. I will not leave you unprotected to twist in the winds of the world.” Word Heracla had pulled Ran up and helped, herded really, him to the door. "I’m so much more at home with the esoteric and ethereal, ah, what luck, Urba!”

  On the other side of Heracla’s doors stood a gloomy shade. The opposite of his college in every way, Word Urba of the Glory Canton was tall and thin and sallow. Everything from his cold green eyes to his elbows to his knees to his eyebrows to his nose seemed angled, and sharp as a talon. Like Heracla he wore a bright red robe and triangular hat. Unlike Heracla, around his neck hung a long golden chain so ponderous it caused him to bend forward, if just a bit.

  "Heracla,” Urba rasps were like the whispers of a dry tomb, "Our meeting. Forgot, again! All preparations must be finalized today!”

  "Of course, of course. Gift! Upon us! But I must also fulfill my duties as an underbook, yes, fellow Word?”

  Ran laughed aloud at this. Neither man seemed to notice.

  Suddenly was pushed toward Urba. "This young man, he had some questions that I believe are suited better to you, old friend. Well-versed as you are in the latest Text-research. I myself do not know how you manage to read all of that modern hokum. What do you say?”

  Urba seemed to bend above Ran like a monstrous bird. "No."

  "Ah, but he is a Freedom! Ferapa has no time. Perhaps a dose of Glory is all that's needed."

  At the mention of Ferapa and his deficiency, well, Urba's face hadn't softened, exactly, but it did seem less intense. "No time today. Tomorrow, after morning estate. We of Glory Canton are not so indolent as to restrict our reverence to a morning a week. Heracla, come!” Then he turned and in several great strides was gone.

  "There you are!” Heracla said happily, bouncing after Urba. "Everyone's happy.” Word Heracla too disappeared around the corner.

  ----------------------------------------------------------------------

  Nod exploded to his feet with a roar of a laugh, reared back, and threw the ice pack. A cat’s vicious hissing and spitting, falling trash cans, and Nod laughed, well and truly, all over himself, so that with every breath his laughter doubled until he was gasping.

  "Don’t laugh at me,” Ran whispered angrily, still reeling from the sudden action.

  "Two Words, underbooks, too afraid to try answering a few questions. Losers! Jokes!” Nod’s legs crumbled beneath him. "I may have killed the cat!”

  Ran wanted anger, for a moment sought it, but then he thought of the way the cat had shrieked. Another can fell, and the cat’s scream sounded almost human this time.

  Before he knew it the laughter spread from toes to mind, and now Ran trembled, heaved, stomach burned with laughs. Soon he too was on the ground.

  A minute later they both laid on their backs and stared up into the light polluted Field when suddenly, for reasons Ran couldn’t explain, a question popped into his mind. "Who are you, dude?”

  The bald man turned to look at him.

  "I mean, I just. . . I know that Ser Pau, well, she thinks, I mean I don’t know what she thinks exactly. . .She seems to trust you. . .Kiyo trusts Serpau. . .” He paused.

  "I only met you today, man,” Nod chuckled. "Why should you know me?”

  Blood burned in Ran’s face.

  "But,” said Nod, "now that we’re friends and have together laughed at a cat’s misery, I can tell you three things. One: I hate water. Like, all of it. Lakes, rivers, streams, quiet little brooks, the sea, the Sea of Seas, and the horrible, slimy, things that live down there in a black more alien than space just floating with their lightbulbs heads and rows of teeth and. . .fins!” Nod shuttered. "Anyway, two: I love food. Three: Friend’s call me PilgriM, and I’m here to help.”

  "You said four things.” It almost hurt Ran when it clicked. "Wait, what? WHAT? Pilgrim?”

  "Shhhh!” Nod hissed, sat up.

  Ran rolled onto his stomach, "WAYFARER PILGRIM?!”

  Pilgrim nodded.

  "The Wayfarer? The famous Wayfarer? The itinerant from rise? The underbook everybody won’t shut up about?”

  Pilgrim's eyed twitched, "Shut up or I’ll BRAIN YA!”

  Ran thought for a second, "Bullshit.”

  Pilgrim cracked his neck, "Ask Ser Pau. You said your ma trusts her. We go way back.”

  "Why are you calling yourself 'Nod?’”

  "That’s my name.”

  Ran must have looked highly unimpressed, because Pilgrim snorted.

  "You already know one other of my names. Now you know three. Nod, Wayfarer, Pilgrim. First is Oldword. Means, 'wander-fool.’ 'Wayfarer’ is obvious, and 'Pilgrim,’” here he stopped and smiled, "Given to me.”

  Ran processed all of this. Oldword? Does he know Oldword? Then he said, "Given?”

  "What?”

  "Given by who?”

  Pilgrim shook his head, smiled, "My story. Maybe someday, but now it’s mine only. The day I met a stranger.”

  "That doesn’t. . . Me? You’re here to. . .help. . .me?”

  Pilgrim fired two finger guns at Ran, "You and anyone like you.”

  "No one’s like me.”

  "So thinks everyone,” Pilgrim pushed himself to his feet, pulled Ran up. "You’re ain’t alone.”

  "Hey!” Ser Pau called from inside the shelter. Her voice was pretty and high he realized, like an elegant, honorable mouse. "I don’t want Kiyo kicking my door in. You better go home, Ran. It's getting late.”

  "Let the men talk Ser Pau!” Pilgrim screamed back. "I’ll take him home.”

  "You don’t have to. . .”

  "SHUT UP!”

  Again, everyone up and down the street stopped and stared.

  Ran couldn’t help but laugh again, and the odd guy seemed to drink in laughter as if it were energy.

  "Wait here, man. I’ll get my coat.”

  As Pilgrim went up the steps Ran noticed an odd sparkle coming from the soles of his shoes, but before he could focus on them, Pilgrim pulled a hand from his pocket, and something fell, rang on the ground.

  Ran bent over to pick up a purple pin in the shape of an open fan of feathers. Ran began to count and was up to six when the pin was no longer in his hand and he was staring up into Pilgrim’s face. Ran fought the urge to gasp, for Pilgrim stared down at the pin with a roiling, barely contained rage.

  "I'm sorry,” Ran croaked.

  The calm came so suddenly it was as if the man had pulled down a mask. "No worries.” He flipped the pin into the air and caught it in his pocket. "Wait here.”

  Ran thought this sounded a lot like an order.

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  When Pilgrim slid back out onto the street a minute later wore the thin, kinda-pale-blue-but-really-kaleidoscopic jacket from breakfast. The glow of streetlights and storefronts rolled across its sheen. It was cool.

  The odd, bulky belt, also from breakfast, that looked uncomfortable as maw was around his waist, and was not cool.

  "Now!” Pilgrim pumped a fist.

  Readjusted his bag, Ran followed.

  Odd for this early, the streets beyond the shelter were deserted, which made the silence between them so much worse. Where was everyone?

  Every half-minute Ran glanced at Pilgrim. If the man noticed, he didn’t care, but let his eyes range across the streets ahead.

  "What do you like, man?”

  "Huh?”

  "What do you like? I know your little bro likes food and is a tenacious pain in the rump. Never got off of my back about those pancakes.”

  "Books, I guess. Reading.”

  "Novels? Poetry? Sappy love poems for a young lady?” He poked Ran with his elbow.

  Ran laughed, batted at his arm. "There is a girl I. . .I mean no. What? No. Not poetry. History. Ancient history, actually.”

  Pilgrim turned, walked backward as he spoke. "Excellent! One of the great general rules about the Text whether it's MyEcho or the Break or whatever. Progress. Can’t know where you’re at or going unless you know where you been.”

  These words were unusually sharp for Ran. "Yeah, that’s me.”

  Pilgrim examined him.

  "I. . .I don’t know where I’ve been.”

  Pilgrim shrugged, "Everyone’s like that.”

  "Not like me.”

  "How you figure?”

  "I came into this world blind. Didn’t know my hand from butt. Familiar, wrong, all at once. I don’t know.” Stop smirking!"

  Pilgrim was smirking, "LAnyway, there’s nothing better for any decent Given than history. That's the Text. Record of Rokk’s interaction with the world.”

  Ran watched Pilgrim barely avoid tripping over three signs and a hydrant. "I guess I’ve always thought of the stuff in the Text as something that happened way far away. I’ve always liked everyone else’s ancient stories more.”

  Pilgrim hummed. "Most think all the stories of the other rokkae are as stupid as anything in the Text.”

  "I meant more of the history-ish parts.”

  "Histories all drip with the rokkish, wherever they come from. Probably don’t have to tell you. Dulleye has rokkae zipping around everywhere. Even those old Ovoni. Rokkae were as tangled into every ancient’s life as air and water.”

  For the first time Ran heard just a hint of condescension, and it bristled him. Did the bald guy think he was that much a novice? "I guess the Text blends rokkish stuff so naturally that it gets boring. You’ll get the Lawman and Ante and the Break one second, and then sixty pages on how to wash victims and throatcut animals and what side of the table you’re supposed to eat on. Even the things Heir did read like they bored the dudes who wrote the Lives, even OxLife, my favorite, if I have one anyway. At least when Millenislanders like Dulleye do it it’s so extravagant and gorgeous and unforgettable.”

  "OxLife's your favorite, huh? Yet if Dulleye were right, we’d have no history. Ground and water and sky would always be fighting their petty wars.” Pilgrim finally hit a light-pole, cursed, turned, began walking forward again. "No progress.”

  "But the stuff in the Text is still magical, or whatever word you like. Even if not as obvious as others. Real history isn’t that way. It’s wars and politics.”

  Pilgrim stopped, spun on his heel, "Who told you real history is just about those things?”

  Ran stopped, "I think I just assumed it. You kind of have to, don’t you? People lie about magical stuff all the time. Doesn’t every rokkism have magic stories?”

  "And people don’t lie about wars and politics, of course.” Pilgrim started walking again. When Ran caught back up, Pilgrim asked, "Ever read about Thesaur?”

  "Thesaur?” Ran thought. "No.”

  "Good, cause even I if you had I’d still talk about it now, only it would be boring and I wouldn’t feel as smug. Thesaur was the name of a Given megacity somewhere in in the northset. It's in Favorson, part of his Set--”

  "Favorson? A Rockman?”

  Pilgrim grinned, "Good, but shut up. Dhama Favorson wrote one book for all four directions. Unfortunately, Set’s the only one that made it down to us. In it, he has three long sections about Thesaur. 'So large,’ and I’m quoting now, 'that it takes a portly man of narrow gait ten and one to walk a straight line from wall to wall.’ Rockmen do love to exaggerate. For some reason he calls it 'Bowl'. According to him, even the most meager buildings were covered in carbuncles and silver, as were the Thesaurians. He even complements them for being the most faithful and loving Given you’d ever meet! 'I couldn’t piss without hearing about Gift.'”

  "Set. Northset?” Ran imagined a map of the Nameless world. "I don’t know where it’d be. A city that big would leave ruins.”

  "The only other city I know of even big enough out here is Wanhope-Beyond-Mountains.”

  Ran thought. "Why are you telling me all this?”

  Pilgrim rubbed his chin stubble. "Hmm. Well perhaps some kid in that lost city felt as alone as you.”

  His enemy, long silent, seized the word, engorged on the dark thought of a whole city vanishing. A thing that had been, and then, just, wasn’t. Like a great, dark cobra it reared back in his mind. "What happened to it?”

  "I’m more interested that you so easily accept that this city existed even as a possibility. Why?”

  "I don’t get it.”

  "You said something about the Text and magic. I guess you mean 'silly' or 'childish'. But why accept, without thinking, this idea of a megacity that no one but a rokkish Rockman mentions and that we, currently, have no idea where it sat, or could have sat?”

  Ran frowned. "Well Nod. . .er. . .Pilgrim. . .Perhaps when I looked into it, I would decide there never was a Thesaur.”

  Pilgrim shook his head, "No. Wrong.”

  Ran grabbed Pilgrim’s arm, "Hey, I suck at a bunch of stuff, but I know historiography! I know the methodologies and philosophies! I know the work!”

  Pilgrim slowly bent his head down, stared at the hand Ran held him by. Ran pulled it back. Pilgrim exploded with laughter.

  "Why do you do that?” Ran cried. "You scare the crap out of everyone!”

  "Better than crying. I knew I’d like you, man. My question had nothing to do with where you’d end up, but where you begin. You start by believing one more or less likely than the other, the carve one from history for no reason, a judgment of 'magic' or something’, and think it unlikely. You know what you think before you know what you think!"

  Pilgrim started again. "Besides, what’s harder to believe than an entire city of faithful Given that a Rockman compliments? Much less one that disappeared?”

  Ran followed, swallowed. His mouth was dry. He did have a bias. Why? He shouldn’t. How had he never seen? "I know other cities exist. Right now. Everywhere on Nameless. I’ve seen them, read about them.”

  "You’ve seen the cities?”

  Ran frowned. "Pictures.”

  "Pictures books tell you are of the cities?”

  "Yeah. . .”

  "People lie.” Pilgrim grinned. "Pretend I’m a na-city, instead of a narokk.”

  Ran thought. The idea that all these cities, or even one, were threads of some elaborate lie, a web of deceit so global in scope it made the thought of Thesaur vanishing nothing. It made him feel insane. Ah, his enemy cooed, it is possible. And what of sanity, anyway. You think like this world was made for you to think in. Ran tried to still his thought. But is it probable? Was that him, or his enemy? He looked up at Pilgrim, found him smiling. He knows what I’ll say. What would he say? 'Who taught you about probability? These who believe books about places they’ve never seen?’

  The creeping enemy. Dominating. An idea that Tek’s dreams about seeing the world were fantasies no more or less silly than the Text. How could he stand it? He wanted to cry. To scream.

  "I know there are other cities,” he finally whispered. "I want to see them. Me and Tek. We’ll get out of this hypocrite city and we’ll see them!" But cold fear numbed his lips with the words. He opened his eyes. Had he really just said that to an underbook? "It’s not that I don’t believe. . .”

  Pilgrim folded his arms behind his head, yawned, "Told you not to do that. You’re too smart. Brave too. But smart and brave don’t change that you’re building on rotten struts. That’s why your back hurts.” They turned the corner onto Radvaad, his street. "I was much the same there, too.”

  Ran wondered what Pilgrim meant by "back" and was about to ask when he took in a breath of smoke. Pilgrim had stopped and was staring across the street.

  Sao and at least twenty others from around the block stood fueling some barrel-fires in the street. Every second someone dropped something, or an armful of things, into a barrel

  "Much too small!" said Sao. "Fires are much too small. Get rid of this broken trash. For Gift rid your home of 'em! My wife's stupid brown-eye rags. Poems from southcontinent! Rokkae that throw trash from trees and giant spiders. What I get for marrying Olde Honourish blood.”

  "I didn’t smell any smoke," said Ran in a haze. They were burning books. "Why?" Not as if he should care. They weren't his books. They could do as they like. But the scene, fires and hooting people, seemed to augment his enemy's current rampage.

  Tiny orange fires danced in Pilgrim's pale blues, and he said, "Listen, and maybe we’ll hear.”

  "Back to the gapin’ maw,” a blonde man said as he dumped his stack. "Rockman trash! Ever since I brought 'em home I’ve had nothing but bad luck.”

  Ran coughed. "I’ve never seen them like this before.”

  "This city,” Pilgrim said, and he turned to continue down the street.

  "Hey! Wait! What are we going to do?”

  "’Bout what?”

  Ran caught back up, "The book-burning, dude!”

  "You want to go fight 'em?” He laughed until they were on the other side of the street.

  "But, you’re a great underbook! You know that’s not right! Bad luck because of a book! Even I know that's dumb!”

  "First, don't talk so loud about the underbook damn ya. Second, some books should be burned and third, and listen carefully, man, scum even such as I are, on rare occasion, gifted with insight. You can’t stop the stream. Bard weaves the world's story and sometimes uses even Rockmen sticks to draw straight lines.” He looked back, "Sometimes he beats you over the head with a stick. They don’t get that, and likely nothing will make them. You know what’s what and more often than not that’s enough.” He looked back to Ran. "Given should never fear words. Saga is words for us. You’re brave, man. You’d be braver with the Text.”

  "You said that earlier,” Ran replied. "But I’m just small, and. . .and. . .” He lowered his voice. "Alone.”

  "I thought I told you you’re not alone. I also believe I told you to shut up.”

  "Stop telling me to--ay!"

  The old two-color eyed woman! Beside the stoop!

  Pilgrim followed his eyes. "Ah. Didn’t see you back there, ma’am, and that is impressive. Sneakin’ up on Nod’s hard as. . .something hard I dunno like a rock or something shit I been awake too long.”

  Ran hid behind Pilgrim, gripped at his jacket just where the bird's wing met the shoulder.

  "Need shelter tonight, my lady?” Pilgrim’s voice was so kind it emboldened Ran, and he stepped out. "I know a wonderful house you can stay in.”

  "I’m Tirezaya, split,” here she drew a line down her face and between her eyes, opened only the milky, "right up the middle. This eye that doesn't lie, rips out truth. One not two. A joke! It moves but it's lifeless. One, not two. They shuffle but are dead.” She closed the milky eye, opened only the brown. "The other eye don't see shit.”

  "Ah,” said Pilgrim, "you made me pee a little..”

  Tirezaya looked him up and down, "Darkness. Evil. How do you stand it?”

  "H-hey,” saidRan. "D-d-don’t talk to him like that.” But when he looked up, he found Pilgrim’s face still like a cloudless night.

  "Ward yourself!”

  As if he’d just huffed a pile of cinnamon, Ran's breath caught in his throat, burned red. Why were his feet above him? Why was an angry wind swirling around him. His ears popped.

  On his back he landed, bright clang of metals, a curse, a hollow crash. Ran sat up to find Pilgrim’s feet kicking wildly out of the end of a garbage can.

  The man himself screamed from within. Panicked kicks sent the can tipping with another crash, and the bald man spilled out, a cheese slice wrapper stuck to his forehead. "Wow,” he said. "That sucked.”

  Ran was suddenly surrounded by people competing to lift him up from the ground. His neighbors. The scent of smoke clung to them.

  "I’m always helping you up these days,” Sao said.

  "Wayfarer!" Ran meant to say his proper name as he gestured to Pilgrim, but that's what came out. "Pilgrim!"

  As others moved to aid him, Pilgrim grimace as he picked the wrapped from his skull, and it took Ran a moment to realize why. "Nod!” he shouted. "I was so worried. . . Nod, "Are you ok, uh, uh, Nod?”

  "Yes,” Pilgrim screamed. "I, Nod, am fine. Got startled by a cat.” Several of the book-burners laughed, others shook their heads and muttered words like "fool”, but a few, Ran saw, looked hard at Pilgrim.

  The old lady! Ran looked to the stoop. Left and right. Gone.

  "Well, this has been fun,” Pilgrim cracked his neck. "Thank ya fellas, but I gotta get the young man home before I kill myself.” He knocked Ran's shoulder, "Smooth, the both of us."

  As they approached the pub, Ran saw Missy throwing the evening trash into the bin, so he called, she turned, and he realized he’d never appreciated how beautiful Missy was.

  Not Missy at all, for though the waitress was cute, this girl, this woman, was magnificent. Burned skin like shining copper shields, long hair as black as the elder dark, perfectly framing eyes so bright and blue that even in the growing dark they looked like windows to summer sky.

  "I’m sorry,” she said in a voice like a song to break hearts. "Were you talking to me?”

  Ran only managed pitiful squealing before a powerful hand came clamping down onto his shoulder. "Rina, this is the lad I told you of.” Nail, his friend from the morning was standing beside him. "This is Ran. He saved me a few coins, and a lot of harassment, by recommending the pub.”

  "Ran!” ad he found his hand in hers, shaking. "I’m Rina. Sorry! Your mom hired me to work while your regular, is sick. She’s very kind. Won’t take any money for the bed I’m stealing.”

  "Your house has been invaded by the rise,” Nail chuckled, then surveyed Pilgrim. "Not a room left.”

  "Missy is sick?” Ran asked. "Wait, you’re from rise too? Where? What’s it like there?” Rina giggled at the sudden outburst.

  Completing Ran’s humiliation Tek called down from the entrance, "She’s from Sebu, moron! Look at her eyes!”

  "Nod,” Pilgrim said as he shook the riser's hands.

  "You owe me pancakes."

  "Prove it!”

  "Excuse me,” someone said from behind. "Do any of you know a place that boards? I can pay.” Ran almost fainted. Rina was enough to drive any good man mad by her beauty, but this tall, pale, chestnut-haired, husky-voiced rokkae nearly killed him on his feet.

  "Seem full up here,” Pilgrim waved to the pub, looked the new woman up and down. If Ran didn’t know better, and if his heart wasn’t currently in traction, he’d think the Given shocked, and a tad afraid. "But I know a place that’ll put you up for free.” He held out a hand. "Nod.”

  "Fritz.” The green-eyed woman, clutched at her bag, reluctantly shook it. "I’ll only be in Wordheal a short, short time.”