From the Street (shadowrun stories) Page 2

  The dragon smiled innocently. "No, not at all. I may ask Lady Brane Deigh of the Daoine Sidhe to speak in your place."

  Harlequin's face stilled. "I wouldn't recommend that."

  "Oh?"

  "Dunklezahn, you and I have always at least been cordial," Harlequin began.

  "Very true."

  "But I warn you, there are some of my kind, and your kind, who think you have told too much already."

  "Oh?"

  "Your comments about great dragons and dracoforms, for one thing."

  The dragon nodded. "Yes, I received some… grief for that."

  "Should you start to speak of other things…"

  Dunklezahn nodded again. "Thank you for your warning, Harlequin." He added wistfully, "You are quite sure of your decision? Such wonderful stories could be told."

  Harlequin smiled. "And they will be, in time."

  The dragon touched his fingers to his chest again, and when Harlequin had repeated the gesture, began to walk out of the room. He stopped as he passed me. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, my lady," he said. "You do your heritage proud." I smiled, and couldn't think of what to say, so I touched my fingers to my chest. He smiled, and returned the gesture.

  I closed the doors behind him, and turned back to Harlequin. "It's too bad," I said sadly. "I kind of like him."

  "I do too," Harlequin replied, looking down at his papers. "He's the most reasonable of them all. It'll be a shame when we have to destroy him."

  POST MORTEM

  by Tom Dowd

  They sit for a few minutes in uneasy silence. Around them the lives of those who'd chosen to visit the park this day unfold, all but oblivious to the two on the bench. Any other reaction would be a shock to both as neither appears to the unschooled as they actually are. Today they appear as two of the homeless, an ork and a dwarf, which is almost as far from the truth as one can get and still retain a degree of sanity.

  The ork, aged and dark skinned, finally turns his head slightly and regards the other through what seems to be the misty gray of partial cataracts. The dwarf, light skinned and long unshaven, does not move from staring at the stagnant pond they face.

  "So," the ork finally says, his tone low and careful, "did you kill him?"

  The dwarf shifts his gaze to meet the other's. He shakes his head. "No. Did you?"

  "No." The dark ork sighs.

  The other nods. "I could not convince myself one way or the other as to your guilt."

  "Me either."

  The dwarf raises a bushy eyebrow. "As usual, I do not follow your drift."

  The other nods again. "Exactly so." he replies. "I meant that there were times where I had to consciously think about whether or not I had killed him myself or arranged to have it done. I hadn't, but could have, and perhaps should have, hence my confusion."

  "Many believe you had a hand in it."

  "Of course they do. Let them." The ork says. "It is a dark and terrible thing I have done." he adds, chuckling.

  "Then who?"

  There is a long silence between them.

  "Blood and tears," the ork says finally, "the list is disquietingly short."

  The other nods. "The years slip behind us like a soft breeze, carrying away friend and foe alike, leaving us only the rumor of their passing."

  The ork snorts, looks away and stares at the pond. "You're in a better place to know; anyone else show up?"

  Shaking his head, the dwarf says: "No. Of course, we always hear rumors. None have proven true."

  "I sometimes get odd sensations that there are others out there, but this is the first Awakening I've seen. It could be normal," the ork tells him.

  "Perhaps." The dwarf pauses a moment, then decides. "Lofwyr all but outright said that he believes there to be another dragon."

  The ork tilts his head slightly. "Really? Any clue?"

  "No. He could have been speaking of the resurrected Alamais, but somehow I doubt it." The ork nods again.

  "I'd have thought it more likely that many of the others who'd survived would have talked to you before any of the Courts." the dwarf says.

  The ork shrugs. "Maybe."

  "So you are saying that you do not know of any others that I do not."

  The ork turns his head and raises an eyebrow slightly. "How the frag can I say that? But, since we are being up front I will say that to the best of my knowledge I do not know of anyone else that you don't also know about."

  Looking away, the dwarf nods and then falls silent for a moment.

  "So, since we are here," the dwarf finally asks, keeping his tone as neutral as he can, "how is my daughter?"

  The appearance of the dark skinned ork shifts without warning, slipping into a smear of color and shape as his eyes widen slightly in surprise. He turns his head very slowly as he regains his composure. "Excuse me?"

  A slight grin appears barely visible beneath the other's matted white hair. "Of course I knew, you twit. I am not as completely self absorbed as you like to believe."

  "No, I suppose you couldn't be…"

  "How is she? I presume you are training her? Is she a quick study?" There is a surprising eagerness in his eyes.

  "Yes, yes she is. I wasn't sure at first, but she catches on quickly." the other tells him. "She has an intriguing perspective that at times is a gross hindrance but at other times is damn practical."

  "Good." There is another long pause. "Does she know?"

  "Know what?" the ork asks as innocently as he can.

  "You know exactly what I mean you caustic goat!"

  This time the ork smiles. "No. She doesn't."

  "Good."

  "Good? Good? Not too long ago you'd have tried to force me to eat bone worms for less!"

  "True, but she needs to find her own way." the dwarf says. "Though she is of me, she is not me. Keeping her close by would only force her to be something she is not."

  "Yea," the ork says, "Glasgian really is a shit, isn't he?"

  "I said nothing of the kind." the dwarf retorts. "But yes, he is a proof of my point."

  The ork nods again. "Still, I have to say I'm surprised that you're not more pissed off at me. I wasn't sure if your asking for this face to face was about daughter or dragon."

  "Which concerned you more?"

  "Daughter." The ork tells him after a moment. "You were never particularly fond of the dragon."

  "I never had any quarrel with the dragon. It was the motion of his mouth I thought we could all do without."

  "I'm with you there."

  "As for my daughter," the dwarf says slowly, "you and I have not seen eye to eye in quite some time. Nor do I suspect we will truly ever."

  "We agree about the dragon."

  "Point. And if you'll let me continue, though we do not agree, and though I have and will continue to describe you as an irrational, inconsiderate, unaccomodating, argumentative, slacker-"

  "Slacker?"

  "-Be quiet. It was the only word I could think of – who conveniently hides behind an all-too-literal mask, I, unlike many, have a long memory."

  The ork looks away again.

  "I have no concerns for the well-being of my daughter under your tutelage or care." the dwarf finishes, and then lets the moment hang. "Getting back to the dragon: Have you found Excalibur yet?" he continues.

  Snorting, the ork turns back toward him. "You know better than I that there ain't no such thing."

  "Literally, no. But as the years pass such literalness becomes less and less relevant. And we both know what he truly meant."

  The ork nods again. "The armor still fits."

  This time the dwarf chuckles. "I'm shocked." he says, and then stands. "I have to go. There is a Council meeting tonight I cannot miss."

  "Don't worry, I'm sure they'll deal you in whenever you get there."

  The dwarf snorts and turns to begin walking away.

  "But you know," the ork says, and the other pauses to listens "we didn't decide who did kill the dragon."
/>
  The dwarf nods. "No, we didn't." he says. "And if you can remember how, I would suggest you pray that it was someone, or something, we know." He turns, steps, and begins to fade away as if engulfed by fog. "Because if it is not…" And he is gone.

  The ork sits on the bench as the overcast light slowly fades from the park. Every once in a while he drinks from the amber bottle wrapped in brown paper he keeps in his coat pocket. It's taste is bitter. Everyone ignores him. He knows it will not last.

  VOICES FROM THE PAST

  by Tom Dowd (1993)

  Harlequin sat alone in a quiet room lit only by the sinking flames of a dying fire. His face was unpainted, and he wore a plain long robe woven with golden and burgundy threads. The firelight caught the metallic threads of his robe and the intricate metal filigree on the walls behind him and made them sparkle. Harlequin didn't even notice. He was drunk and his drink was his only concern.

  The liquid swirled in the glass, impelled by the gentle motion of his wrist. He watched the magical blending and bleeding of colors as the liquid hovered on the edge of solidifying, maintaining its liquid state only by the energy from his moving hand. The colors changed dramatically as he changed the direction of its motion. Firelight danced along the edges of the fine crystal goblet that held the drink.

  Harlequin drank from the goblet, barely sipping, and let the drink's deep fire run through him. He nearly laughed with the pleasure, but, as always, the cold aftertaste caught him by surprise.

  "You have fallen far," spoke a long-dead voice.

  Harlequin turned slowly from the fire and looked across the long expanse of the room. In the center of the room, caught in the flickering firelight, stood a figure. Its robes were black, torn, covered in the dirt of a thousand roads. Dark, gnarled hands hung limply from the sleeves of the robe, but no face appeared within the raised hood. In its place, he could see only smoke churning slightly.

  Harlequin raised an eyebrow, snorted once, and turned back to his drink, raising it to his lips. "Oh, please," he muttered.

  "You cannot ignore me," said the robed figure.

  Harlequin snorted again, spraying a few drops of liquid from his mouth. "I can do as I please," he said.

  "You are drunk."

  Harlequin laughed. "And you, sir, are a feeble attempt to frighten me with an image so common that it would not frighten a child." He looked into the fire. "Lewis Carroll must be spinning in his grave."

  "Indeed he must," agreed the figure. "You are drunk and confused. A Christmas Carol was written by Charles Dickens.

  "You fog your mind so you cannot see the truth."

  Harlequin stood abruptly and hurled the glass toward the robed figure. The missile fell just short, exploding into fragments of brilliant, flashing crystal and a spray of liquid color. The figure did not move.

  "Begone, foul spirit," Harlequin cried. "I summoned you not into my home and I banish you hence." He flung his hand out toward the robed figure, spreading his fingers as if throwing dust. A hint of power danced there.

  The figure did not move. "You cannot," it said.

  Harlequin's face grew wild. "I can and I do!" he cried again, and thrust his arms out to his sides. "M'aela j-taarm querm talar!"

  The room darkened suddenly, and pockets of moisture sealed in the firewood burning at Harlequin's back burst, throwing showers of sparks into the air. They rained down up him, ignored, until a cool wind rushed back at him and damped them into embers. He brushed the char from his shoulders.

  The figure did not move. "It has been a long time since those words were last spoken, Har'lea'quinn. It is not the first time you have used them against me." The figure's robes rustled slightly. "And they did not aid you then."

  Harlequin paled. "No…" he breathed, and stumbled back to his chair. "You are gone… forgotten…"

  "Forgotten, perhaps, but never gone. How could we ever be truly gone?"

  Harlequin turned away, covering his eyes with his forearm. "You are the past. Your place is there only," he moaned. "That world is gone."

  "Perhaps," replied the figure, "but as long as you remember…"

  "Yes. That is the key, isn't it?" Harlequin said, standing and dropping his arm to his side. He faced the robed figure again. "My mind. You are right, whatever you are. I am drunk, and that is a bad state for one such as me."

  "Then I am a figment of your imagination?"

  Harlequin shrugged. "Were you ever anything more?"

  The robes moved as if the figure laughed, but Harlequin heard no sound. "That borders on blasphemy. You once were more devout."

  "Never for you."

  "I understood you too well."

  Harlequin thrust his hands into the pockets of his robe. "Or vice versa."

  The figure bowed slightly. "Perhaps. Madness can bring wisdom."

  Harlequin sneered. "You are the Master of the Twisted Path. The only wisdom you teach is avoidance."

  "And yet I am here."

  "Alamestra," said Harlequin, pointing to the now-motionless, solid globs of color around the figure's feet, "is not an indulgence known for gifting wisdom."

  "Then what of me?"

  "What of you?" replied Harlequin.

  "If I exist only as a creature of your mind, why am I here?"

  Harlequin shrugged again. "It matters not. Your words are lies and your deeds treachery. Your inspiration is betrayal. I care not why you are here and will not listen to you."

  "And yet you say you summoned me."

  "I am, was, drunk."

  "If I am of no consequence or concern, then why did your dispelling not work?"

  Harlequin stared at him.

  "You have cleared your mind. The fog is lifted, yet I remain."

  "You are a hangover incarnate, nothing more."

  The figure's robes shifted again. "You lie to yourself."

  "No," said Harlequin, "you lie to me."

  "As I said."

  Harlequin tensed. "This is foolishness. You are a shadow of the dead past conjured by my drunken mind to vex me."

  "Why me?"

  "I do not care." Harlequin told the figure, turning back to the near-dead fire.

  "You lie to yourself."

  "You repeat yourself, bland spirit."

  The figure slowly raised one arm and pointed at Harlequin. "I am Deceit. I am Deception. I am Treachery. I am Betrayal. I am the passions that bring men to lie to others, and themselves."

  Harlequin turned and stared, his eyes growing slightly wider. "As you say," he said.

  "As you do, now."

  "Your words can never be believed," said Harlequin.

  "I am not words, Har'lea'quinn. I am emotion, I am passion, I am what you feel."

  Harlequin was silent.

  "And you feel them, do you not?"

  "I feel nothing."

  "You can taste them in the air."

  "I taste nothing."

  "Smell them on the wind."

  "The air is still."

  "Hear them laughing in the silence, calling for their due."

  "I hear only your maddening voice."

  The figure lowered its arm. "You lie to yourself."

  Harlequin rushed toward the figure. "I do not!" he howled, his hands clenched into sweaty fists. He shook them at the robed figure. "It is too soon!"

  "They are coming."

  Harlequin spun away, then rounded back on his antagonist. "It is too soon! They cannot be coming!"

  "You lie to yourself."

  "It is you who lies to me!"

  "As I have said."

  Harlequin turned again and stumbled back toward the fire. "It is too soon…" he mumbled. "Nothing is right…I cannot understand…"

  "You do not wish to understand. The humans play with things they do not comprehend because no one teaches them."

  Harlequin whirled back to face the figure. "And telling them would stop them? I think not."

  The figure shifted. "The humans have danced their little dance, Har'lea'quinn. They
shook this world, and the others. Now they pay the price."

  Harlequin grasped his head and shook it. "No…It is too soon…"

  "You will still be saying that when they tear the fingers from your hands and blind you with them. Have you fallen so far, Har'lea'quinn? Have you forgotten the horror?"

  "I can't…"

  "Nor can I." The figure stared at Harlequin. "I expected more from the last Knight of the Crying Spire."

  Harlequin stared back at the figure. "The Northern Islands are gone. Forgotten dust of a forgotten world."

  "As all shall be, Har'lea'quinn, as all shall be."

  "What would you have me do?" Harlequin cried.

  "Destroy the bridge."

  Harlequin blanched. "That cannot be done…How…"

  "Thayla's Voice."

  Harlequin sat abruptly. "No…"

  "You know where she roams. Her song will shatter the bridge and cast them back from the chasm. It will take them time to find it again."

  Harlequin stared off into the darkness and nodded. "Yes…"

  "Travel lightly. Some already wander the netherworlds. It will not be safe. They will smell you coming."

  Harlequin continued to nod. "I understand…"

  The figure moved forward, walking past Harlequin toward the dying embers of the fire. "Move quickly, Laughing One; they have experience in building their bridge."

  Harlequin did not answer but stared off into the darkness of the room, still nodding.

  The figure shook its head and stepped into the fire. The embers flared and kindled, but no heat warmed Harlequin. At last he looked up and saw his growing shadow on the wall, and turned. He saw only the last swirls of burning cloth as the heat from the now-raging fire danced them higher and higher.

  He stared at the fire. The large, ornate doors at the far end of the room swung open and Harlequin stood quickly. A young woman entered, her long, white hair falling in waves over the black satin dressing gown she clutched to her body with one hand. The other hand held a heavy-barreled chrome pistol. "Did you…" she stammered. "I felt…"

  Harlequin nodded and walked toward her. "Indeed you did. Prepare yourself; it is time to see how much you have learned."

  She stared at him. As he moved past her he turned and continued walking, backward.

  "The netherworlds…" he paused, and smiled. "Pardon my anachronism. The metaplanes will ring with the sounds of battle and songs long unsung." He walked backward out of the room and down the hall.