Brenton
itumeleng kganyago
Shea
Always Eighteen
AhmedArtefacts 3
August 1st 2008 12:30
Jarvis Buckingham.
Kamato was a place of long fascination for Buckingham, and had been for some considerable time, so it was with a sense of elation and excitement that he set about exploring the land. He purchased a wooden box, lined in silver, and had this carried with him at all times, using it to store treasures and curiosities that he picked up around the cities and towns.
This morning, the morning before they were to board the ferry towards the island where the Go-Juu resided, he sat calmly, facing the rising sun, sketching the scene laid out before him.
The air was still, and brutally cold, though his jacket kept him well heated. There were no bugs to disturb him; they were rare in Kamato.
“Sir.”
Turnpike, behind him was speaking. Buckingham leant a little to grasp his cup of green tea, and sipped lightly, replacing it. He raised a hand to summon Turnpike towards him. He approached.
“Are you prepared sir?”
“As prepared as I see is reasonable to be, Turnpike.”
“Very good sir.”
They stood there for a short time, watching the sun trickle over the snow dipped mountains.
“The Samurai have organised a carriage for you sir. It ought be here in a hour, though they’ll probably arrive early, and as a rule, culturally, you really should be there a little early too.”
Buckingham nodded. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll be there soon.”
“Very good sir.”
The ride to the port was bumpy, though the coach was fitted out to be as comfortable and inviting as possible for the foreign guests.
Turnpike learnt towards Buckingham, speaking softly into his ear.
“We’d best be cautious, sir. They appear a little on edge.”
“You’re sure?”
“They tend to save face sir. So the signs of stress are of some concern. Just keep your wits close.”
They continued onwards for some time, Jarvis resisting the temptation to fall asleep. Finally the carriage stopped. Buckingham moved to exit but was prevented by a large Samurai, who had him stop and wait while they were approached by another, dressed in a black Kimono.
The newly entered Samurai glared over them, stonily. He said something in Kamatoan and Turnpike replied.
“What are your both name?” he said, eventually.
“Jackson Boulderman, and Thomas Driscoll,” said Buckingham, using the well rehearsed lie.
“And reasons you are here now?”
“To study the practices of the Go-Juu, and specifically, how these practices are consistent with the new science of Phasmology.”
“And again, please, your name?”
“I am Jackson Boulderman, and this is my academic partner Thomas Driscoll.”
There was a quick silence, and the Samurai stood back, talking in hushed whispers to the others. One man brought over a desk and placed it in the snow not far from the carriage.
“You come, now,” said the Samurai, and they followed him to the desk. The others followed, surrounding them. The Samurai placed his hand on the desk.
“Like this,” he said indicating them to do the same. They did.
The other Samurais moved their hands to the hilt of their swords, and pulled up gently, just enough to reveal the glinting blade. A deadly silence fell over the group, the bitterly cold air accompanied only by the quiet howl of the wind.
“I think you are lie,” said the Samurai. “What is your name?”
They remained silent.
“Who is Jarvis Buckingham?”
A silence again, for a moment. Then Jarvis spoke.
“I am.”
“And who is you friend?”
“This is Ellison Turnpike. I have him accompany me upon my request. You have no want of him.”
The Samurai turned to Turnpike, and they conversed quietly, tensely in Kamatoan.
Two other Samurai approached, white Kimonos, and produced sharpened chisels and hammers and placed them over the middle finger of both their hands. Buckinghand moved to pull his hand away but Turnpike gave a small shake of his head, and he left his hand as it was.
Then, very quickly, the Samurai brought their hammers down.
There was a quiet kind of cracking sound as the blade sliced through the bone, and the two men emitted raw exclamations of pain, both pushing their hands into the thick snow to numb the brutal agony, splashing spidery red stains across the perfect white quilt of snow.
The Samurai dressed in the black Kimono, looked at the whimpering men with mild disinterest, and reached out to pick up the detached finger, squeezing excess blood out into the snow, before wiping the bases, and wrapping them in cloth, placing them in a pocket.
The coach road on, with only two Samurai accompanying the two men, draped in rags, shivering from the violent cold and the loss of blood, nauseous from shock and emotionally raped. The wind howled a directionless rage, pushing against the carriage as is to simply spite the horses.
They rode on.
Sata
Sata entered the room and knelt before the seer who knelt, eyes closed, facing the window.
“You wished to see me?”
The seer sat up, looked at Sata, and gave a small nod. He reached into his Kimono and pulled out a piece of paper, unravelling it. He placed it on the ground.
The paper held an image of two elephants crossing tusks. A stomach shaped had been cut out at the appropriate point of the illustration. Along the sharp ends of the tusks, was written the symbols for ‘50’.
“What do you take of this image?”
Sata stared down at it for some time, then placed a finger on the page.
“Elephants, powerful. Fighting. Two powers collide. Empty powers. Or, hungry powers. And the 50 is us. Ruling over the powers. But precariously so.”
“Are we ruling?” asked the Seer. “Or are we being speared by the tusks of the beast?”
Sata stared for longer, then shrugged. “I couldn’t tell. Why are we playing with riddles?”
“Sata, earlier this year you were attacked by a clan of robbers, who killed one of your men. He was killed because of a mistake you made.”
“Why are speaking of this?”
“Because Sata, if I had been in that same situation, do you know what I would have done?”
“Taken more causation… moved slower…”
“No. I would have done exactly as you did. I would have made the same mistakes and the same death would have happened.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Your Wisdom. As I said, I’m none too good at riddles.”
“As the last light of the sun dips under those hills, Sata, I will walk out and address Great Lord Katsu of the Go-Juu. I will tell him I believe two great adversaries are soon to attack us, to take the artefacts and use them for darker purposes. I will tell him that we ought to prepare early measures for an emergency evacuation. I will tell him all this, and he will trust me. However, as you know, I am only a man, as are you. I am as flawed as you. I am asking. What would you do?”
“I am not you, your Wisdom. I could not answer.”
“And yet somebody must answer. Somebody must risk the life of others.”
“Then I hope you are confident in your choice.”
“Where you confident in your choice before your man died?”
There was a short silence.
“Yes. I was.”
Vildreich Dulvich
Dulvich was by no means a mastermind, but he was a man who knew the score. And the score was this; the plan was for him to become elected, and become the figurehead of the entire operation. Then when he had convinced his people to take the military course of action and succeeded in the expansion of Doichia, they would dispose of him, and establish their own order.
The main two behind the operation intending to groom him then destroy him were MiIlreich and Dover. However, what they hadn’t expected was that he was already expecting them.
Which is why he now stood in a morgue, observing their dead bodies.
“My Captain.”
Dulvich turned his head, observing the morgue worker. He was young, maybe twenty, with thick black hair.
“What is your name sir?” he said.
“I am Fiebr.”
“You are the best in this institution?”
“Well, I take pride in my work, My Captain.”
“I specifically requested the best, for this operation.”
“Then that is me, My Captain.”
“Very good. You understand these men here are traitors to our nation.”
“I understand that I was responsible for filling out a death report sir, and lodging it, and this has been done.”
“Very good Fiebr. You will be briefed by my men before you leave. Job well done.”
“Thank you My Captain.”
Back in the Parliament, Dulvich met with his secretary, a man called Kitz.
“We have received notice, My Captain, from Empirica. They seek to meet with you.”
“Damn irritants. When?”
“Three days now.”
“Goddamn pests.”
“Sir, also your gentlemen have arrived. They are waiting in the private room.”
“Very good. Thank you Kitz.”
Dulvich retreated into his private office space where six other men sat waiting. They were not the usual type seen in political circles. Some wore jewelery or scarring or tattoos. Their dress was informal, often of a foreign design.
They met, for an hour each week, to discuss matter of magic, occult, the paranormal or Phasmology. They were known, at first by outsiders, in mockery, as the Wizard circle, however, Dulvich had since adapted the term for himself, enjoying the Mythology with which it granted him.
“Gentlemen,” said Dulvich, addressing the table.
“My Captain,” they replied.
Dulvich sat at the table, helping himself to a small bread roll in the centre.
“Tell me,” he said, “Have we yet reached a consensus over which of our options we are able to pursue?”
“There is a general concensus, My Captain, over several options we might pursue.”
“What is the most likely of these options?”
“The Artefacts of Kamato, My Captain.”
Kamato was a place of long fascination for Buckingham, and had been for some considerable time, so it was with a sense of elation and excitement that he set about exploring the land. He purchased a wooden box, lined in silver, and had this carried with him at all times, using it to store treasures and curiosities that he picked up around the cities and towns.
This morning, the morning before they were to board the ferry towards the island where the Go-Juu resided, he sat calmly, facing the rising sun, sketching the scene laid out before him.
The air was still, and brutally cold, though his jacket kept him well heated. There were no bugs to disturb him; they were rare in Kamato.
“Sir.”
Turnpike, behind him was speaking. Buckingham leant a little to grasp his cup of green tea, and sipped lightly, replacing it. He raised a hand to summon Turnpike towards him. He approached.
“Are you prepared sir?”
“As prepared as I see is reasonable to be, Turnpike.”
“Very good sir.”
They stood there for a short time, watching the sun trickle over the snow dipped mountains.
“The Samurai have organised a carriage for you sir. It ought be here in a hour, though they’ll probably arrive early, and as a rule, culturally, you really should be there a little early too.”
Buckingham nodded. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll be there soon.”
“Very good sir.”
***
The ride to the port was bumpy, though the coach was fitted out to be as comfortable and inviting as possible for the foreign guests.
Turnpike learnt towards Buckingham, speaking softly into his ear.
“We’d best be cautious, sir. They appear a little on edge.”
“You’re sure?”
“They tend to save face sir. So the signs of stress are of some concern. Just keep your wits close.”
They continued onwards for some time, Jarvis resisting the temptation to fall asleep. Finally the carriage stopped. Buckingham moved to exit but was prevented by a large Samurai, who had him stop and wait while they were approached by another, dressed in a black Kimono.
The newly entered Samurai glared over them, stonily. He said something in Kamatoan and Turnpike replied.
“What are your both name?” he said, eventually.
“Jackson Boulderman, and Thomas Driscoll,” said Buckingham, using the well rehearsed lie.
“And reasons you are here now?”
“To study the practices of the Go-Juu, and specifically, how these practices are consistent with the new science of Phasmology.”
“And again, please, your name?”
“I am Jackson Boulderman, and this is my academic partner Thomas Driscoll.”
There was a quick silence, and the Samurai stood back, talking in hushed whispers to the others. One man brought over a desk and placed it in the snow not far from the carriage.
“You come, now,” said the Samurai, and they followed him to the desk. The others followed, surrounding them. The Samurai placed his hand on the desk.
“Like this,” he said indicating them to do the same. They did.
The other Samurais moved their hands to the hilt of their swords, and pulled up gently, just enough to reveal the glinting blade. A deadly silence fell over the group, the bitterly cold air accompanied only by the quiet howl of the wind.
“I think you are lie,” said the Samurai. “What is your name?”
They remained silent.
“Who is Jarvis Buckingham?”
A silence again, for a moment. Then Jarvis spoke.
“I am.”
“And who is you friend?”
“This is Ellison Turnpike. I have him accompany me upon my request. You have no want of him.”
The Samurai turned to Turnpike, and they conversed quietly, tensely in Kamatoan.
Two other Samurai approached, white Kimonos, and produced sharpened chisels and hammers and placed them over the middle finger of both their hands. Buckinghand moved to pull his hand away but Turnpike gave a small shake of his head, and he left his hand as it was.
Then, very quickly, the Samurai brought their hammers down.
There was a quiet kind of cracking sound as the blade sliced through the bone, and the two men emitted raw exclamations of pain, both pushing their hands into the thick snow to numb the brutal agony, splashing spidery red stains across the perfect white quilt of snow.
The Samurai dressed in the black Kimono, looked at the whimpering men with mild disinterest, and reached out to pick up the detached finger, squeezing excess blood out into the snow, before wiping the bases, and wrapping them in cloth, placing them in a pocket.
***
The coach road on, with only two Samurai accompanying the two men, draped in rags, shivering from the violent cold and the loss of blood, nauseous from shock and emotionally raped. The wind howled a directionless rage, pushing against the carriage as is to simply spite the horses.
They rode on.
Sata
Sata entered the room and knelt before the seer who knelt, eyes closed, facing the window.
“You wished to see me?”
The seer sat up, looked at Sata, and gave a small nod. He reached into his Kimono and pulled out a piece of paper, unravelling it. He placed it on the ground.
The paper held an image of two elephants crossing tusks. A stomach shaped had been cut out at the appropriate point of the illustration. Along the sharp ends of the tusks, was written the symbols for ‘50’.
“What do you take of this image?”
Sata stared down at it for some time, then placed a finger on the page.
“Elephants, powerful. Fighting. Two powers collide. Empty powers. Or, hungry powers. And the 50 is us. Ruling over the powers. But precariously so.”
“Are we ruling?” asked the Seer. “Or are we being speared by the tusks of the beast?”
Sata stared for longer, then shrugged. “I couldn’t tell. Why are we playing with riddles?”
“Sata, earlier this year you were attacked by a clan of robbers, who killed one of your men. He was killed because of a mistake you made.”
“Why are speaking of this?”
“Because Sata, if I had been in that same situation, do you know what I would have done?”
“Taken more causation… moved slower…”
“No. I would have done exactly as you did. I would have made the same mistakes and the same death would have happened.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Your Wisdom. As I said, I’m none too good at riddles.”
“As the last light of the sun dips under those hills, Sata, I will walk out and address Great Lord Katsu of the Go-Juu. I will tell him I believe two great adversaries are soon to attack us, to take the artefacts and use them for darker purposes. I will tell him that we ought to prepare early measures for an emergency evacuation. I will tell him all this, and he will trust me. However, as you know, I am only a man, as are you. I am as flawed as you. I am asking. What would you do?”
“I am not you, your Wisdom. I could not answer.”
“And yet somebody must answer. Somebody must risk the life of others.”
“Then I hope you are confident in your choice.”
“Where you confident in your choice before your man died?”
There was a short silence.
“Yes. I was.”
Vildreich Dulvich
Dulvich was by no means a mastermind, but he was a man who knew the score. And the score was this; the plan was for him to become elected, and become the figurehead of the entire operation. Then when he had convinced his people to take the military course of action and succeeded in the expansion of Doichia, they would dispose of him, and establish their own order.
The main two behind the operation intending to groom him then destroy him were MiIlreich and Dover. However, what they hadn’t expected was that he was already expecting them.
Which is why he now stood in a morgue, observing their dead bodies.
“My Captain.”
Dulvich turned his head, observing the morgue worker. He was young, maybe twenty, with thick black hair.
“What is your name sir?” he said.
“I am Fiebr.”
“You are the best in this institution?”
“Well, I take pride in my work, My Captain.”
“I specifically requested the best, for this operation.”
“Then that is me, My Captain.”
“Very good. You understand these men here are traitors to our nation.”
“I understand that I was responsible for filling out a death report sir, and lodging it, and this has been done.”
“Very good Fiebr. You will be briefed by my men before you leave. Job well done.”
“Thank you My Captain.”
***
Back in the Parliament, Dulvich met with his secretary, a man called Kitz.
“We have received notice, My Captain, from Empirica. They seek to meet with you.”
“Damn irritants. When?”
“Three days now.”
“Goddamn pests.”
“Sir, also your gentlemen have arrived. They are waiting in the private room.”
“Very good. Thank you Kitz.”
Dulvich retreated into his private office space where six other men sat waiting. They were not the usual type seen in political circles. Some wore jewelery or scarring or tattoos. Their dress was informal, often of a foreign design.
They met, for an hour each week, to discuss matter of magic, occult, the paranormal or Phasmology. They were known, at first by outsiders, in mockery, as the Wizard circle, however, Dulvich had since adapted the term for himself, enjoying the Mythology with which it granted him.
“Gentlemen,” said Dulvich, addressing the table.
“My Captain,” they replied.
Dulvich sat at the table, helping himself to a small bread roll in the centre.
“Tell me,” he said, “Have we yet reached a consensus over which of our options we are able to pursue?”
“There is a general concensus, My Captain, over several options we might pursue.”
“What is the most likely of these options?”
“The Artefacts of Kamato, My Captain.”
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