Frays In The Weave 18 Arrivals: 1

A year ago he'd given up on newscasting, given up on living at all, if he admitted his cravenness. Now, once again, he gloried in spinning his tales in ways he could never have done when he counted his audience in billions. That had been holo casting; this was Weaving. This was living what he told, experiencing it as if he was reliving the episodes, and bringing his audience along. A true mesh of mind and tale where every sense came alive, wonderfully alive, disturbingly alive, horribly alive, and that was the core. Alive; living it here and now.

Arthur smirked and turned a corner on his way to Two Worlds. A late afternoon, warmer than the previous, and each new evening carried the possibility of new travellers arriving to Verd. Travellers, not necessarily traders, or so the rumours went. Something ma.s.sive had made transit, several somethings, a Federation armada, thousands of merchantmen, a new alien s.p.a.ce-faring race had been found and the diplomatic corps were frantically making first contact, an invasion of s.p.a.ce bugs had the Federation scrambling all their s.h.i.+ps in a desperate attempt to protect the gate before the entire solar system was overrun. That was the problem with rumours, they were each very clear about what had happened and equally unclear on from where the information really originated, and as always, if they were all true then black was white and pigs flew, hunting eagles on the ground.

Arthur wanted to know, needed to understand exactly what kind of madness had gripped the federation and how it would impact on the world he had adopted as his new home. He walked on, following narrow alleys and crossing the intersecting boulevards, steadily heading for his hotel. Now he was once again getting used to the stench clinging to the poor quarters, but never to the s.h.i.+ning, perpetually clean streets. That was Verd, Capital where magic was forbidden and yet imbued with that magic so much that the city would have fallen over itself and died but for it. Running water but no river. Clean streets and not a single person carrying the trash outside the city walls.

Arthur left an alley where it abruptly ended in a wider street. One side the poor, on the other the well to do. An invisible line was drawn in the middle with the wealthier trying to avoid looking at their less fortunate neighbours and those neighbours throwing envious glances across the street whenever a coach or carriage made the staring a little less obvious.

Arthur hardly noticed. Even the poor in Verd were wealthy by the standards he'd seen in other towns and cities. The magic that was Verd only reached out through long tentacles of everlasting highways but never into the cities they connected. Where the power of Keen no longer reached the squalid pallor was appalling.

The hors.e.m.e.n made an attempt, though, he thought. And Belgera, of course. Belgera, fortress capital of Braka. First of cities to enjoy Terran technology to its fullest. Explosives, cl.u.s.ter grenades and needle grenades. They must have loved the wondrous gifts offered by the foreigners.

He shook the thought aside. He was one of those foreigners, but he'd decided long since to take the side of this world. He frowned. Did that make him a renegade and a traitor? To the federation perhaps, but never to humanity, and that was what counted, he decided.

Humanity. The thought brought a surprised laugh to his lips, and a group of inquisition soldiers in their red and black frowned at the tall stranger in their midst. Arthur didn't mind. He laughed even louder as he pushed his way through the uniformed men. Had they known his thoughts they probably wouldn't have satisfied themselves with muttered profanities about outworlder impoliteness. Humanity. It included Gring's concept of the word. But the monstrous mindwalker with her honour, needle sharp insights and, most important of all, loving humanity, was caught up in the madness that had forced him to flee. If she was alive at all. If he hadn't been stabbed. If Harbend hadn't valued the needs of a nation above friends.h.i.+p. If Harbend could finally believe that Arthur had already forgiven him. If, if, if.

He reached the central square, playground and marketplace in one beautiful setting, and sat down on a bench. He had enough time to marvel at Ming Hjil de Verd, imperial castle from when Keen had ruled by an emperor. It hadn't been Keen at that time, if he recalled history correct.

He kicked off his boots and ma.s.saged feet tired from walking. A few children approached him, and he searched for their anxious parents. Wiser now. If he saw no parents close by then a gang of children was more often than not young cut-purses.

Ah, that has to be the mother. Are they all hers? He went through flashes of memories, running them as through an edit before final cut and shook his head. Well, there should be, yes, a friend. Two women with their children. If this had been Erkateren all the kids would all have been hers. But d.a.m.n, that's a depressing thought! Six kids so that hopefully three reach adult age. What kind of life is that? They don't know how lucky they are here. Arthur glanced up at the castle. I'm an idiot! They revel in the knowledge of their luck, and supremacy. You're in Verd now, centre of the civilized world. Kids look cute, but they're brought up as arrogant as any youngster in Cairo. And am I happy to be nowhere close to that sewer, federation capital or not.

He grimaced. No reason to become moody now. He continued his rest and drank the beauty of the living art displayed on the roof of the castle. From time to time he was pulled away from his daydreams by pigeons, pa.s.sing coaches and the sound of hawkers crying out the excellency of their products. Then dusk gave way to evening and as darkness fell street lights flashed alive. First like glimmering fireflies and then flooding streets, square and façades in soft, yellow light. Arthur smiled and rose. Verd! Magic street lights He'd gotten used to take those for granted. It was easy getting used to a lot of things here. He pulled on his boots on sore feet and limped across the square.

White marble to his right and red granite to his left he followed a boulevard to Two Worlds.

Rumours It was time to exchange a few of those for facts, and, he admitted, to return the favour in turn. He was Arthur Wallman, the taleweaver, but he'd been Arthur Wallman the media icon. Rumours about his whereabouts were bound to come thirteen to a dozen. He'd left no information, and fifteen billion wondered what had befallen the most famous person in Terran s.p.a.ce.