Page 32

Crispin

C rispin’s mother led the two of them down the alley and around a corner, past a few drunks snoring loudly next to a bright yellow dumpster.

Almost all truly civilized worlds seemed to have dumpsters—though their specific design and color varied wildly—and squirrels, which was a weird stray thought probably inspired by Minkis chittering away on his shoulder.

The sleepers seemed blissfully unaware of the chaotic event unleashed just steps away from their uncomfortable sleeping place, and Crispin sighed, torn between compassion for their plight and disgust at their inability to control their baser impulses.

Then again, look who’s talking. You fell in love with a lumpy bit of human Chaos. He hoped Bidulla—or whomever had taken Leo—was treating him right.

Aspin gave Crispin a wide berth, barely disguising his own disgust at his prodigal brother.

Where did we go wrong? When they’d been children, Aspin had watched over him, not just an older brother in name only.

“Through here.” The Fae Queen opened an old, creaky metal door—when had she ever opened a door for him before?—and ushered both her sons inside.

It was a sleazy dive bar—as typical a sight on multiple worlds as the dumpster outside—and probably the place where the two sleepers had stumbled out of, after drinking their fill of watered-down beer.

The tables were Odds’s version of some weird blue plasticy stuff Crispin had seen in old Earth diners, but so old that the once smooth and shiny surfaces were now cracked and faded.

Pendulum lights in the form of some kind of prickly round sea creature failed to shed enough illumination to reach the floor, which no doubt, from its sticky feel, was better off for not being seen.

The walls were covered with layer upon layer of posters and fliers, with only an occasional glimpse here and there of an ancient wallpaper that once might have matched the tables. A neon sign on one wall flickered a sickly green Himpel’s Beer—The Best Money Can Buy . Apparently .

The only almost luxe part of the place was along the back wall: a gleaming goldenwood bar with neat shelves of alcohol behind it, as if some enterprising soul had bought the place with dreams of turning it into a new hot spot but had run out of money halfway through the project.

The place was only a quarter full. At this time in the morning, only the most determined drunks were still at it. As one, they turned bleary eyes toward the newcomers.

“Hey lady, this isn’t your kind of place.

You’d best move along.” That was from the barkeep, the only other being fully upright in the dark, dingy place.

He was well-dressed in a crisp white shirt and purple suspenders, with the strange prickly horn particular to his people.

Perhaps the once-optimistic entrepreneur himself.

Cerillia ignored him. “Out.” She pointed at the door, and despite her comedown in the world and her less-commanding appearance, the men and women gathered themselves up and scurried out like so many rats running from a giant cat.

“Hey, those are my paying customers.” The barkeep tried to muster some indignity, which in this place was probably far easier than managing actual dignity.

The Fae Queen strode to the counter and pulled three gold coins from her pocket. “Bring us three”—she glanced at the wall—“Himpel’s, please. I trust that will cover your cost?”

The man’s eyes had gone wide, as if ready to pop out of his skull. He was probably scared silly; the Mother of Fae often had that effect on mere mortals. Crispin had seen it his entire life. “I’m so sorry. Mom can be intimidating. Will that cover the cost?”

The barkeep nodded vigorously. It was probably enough to finish his long-delayed renovation, and then some.

“I’ll bring your drinks straight away, ma.

.. um, miss.” He shuddered at the look she gave him and hastily turned away to pull down three glasses from the shelf and draw their beers from the tap.

Minkis chittered. “Hungry.”

Cerillia raised an eyebrow. “It speaks now?”

“Apparently.” Crispin turned back to the barkeep. “And a bowl of nuts?”

The man didn’t turn around, but simply held up a thumb in the universal gesture for “I got it.”

“Please, follow me.” Cerillia led her sons to the far corner of the bar, choosing a table that seemed to be the least dirty and cracked of the lot.

She pulled out a chair, stared at it distastefully, and snapped her fingers.

It spun merrily around on one leg, awash in sparkling magic, and when it settled down again, it was clean and shone like new.

Satisfied, she sank down into it, shrugging off her leather jacket and heaving a contented sigh.

She pointedly did nothing about her sons’ chairs or the poor long-suffering table.

With a sigh of his own, Crispin sank down into a grungy chair across from his brother, who eyed him warily.

“Here we are, three Himpel’s and a bowl of nuts.” The barkeep slid them smoothly onto the table. “Is there anything else I can bring you? Some bar pops, perhaps?”

“No thank you….”

“Hubble. At your service, ma’am.”

“No thank you, Hubble. You’ve done quite enough. Now please, give us the room.” She waved him away.

The poor man stood there for a moment, wringing his hands, transfixed by Cerillia’s faded but still potent beauty. Not only did she have that effect on mortal men; it worked on a few of the immortals too.

She snapped her fingers, breaking him out of the spell. “You can go now.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He mopped a sheen of sweat off his brow and, with an apparent effort, turned and retreated through a swinging door at the back of the bar, leaving the three of them alone.

Crispin’s mother lifted one of the heavy glass mugs and took a sip of beer. A deep crease furrowed her forehead. “Quite dreadful.” She snapped her fingers again and the drink transformed into a fluted crystal chalice filled with something frothy and pink. She took a long sip. “Much better.”

Crispin stared at his own mug, waiting for her to transform it as well. When no further magic was forthcoming, he sighed, picked it up, and took a sip. It wasn’t really that bad, and it would certainly have its intended effect if consumed in quantity.

Minkis scampered down his arm to the bowl of nuts, almost knocking the mug out of his hand.

“Hey, careful there.”

“Hungry.” He picked up one of the nuts—round and purple with little yellow points on each end—and began to nibble contentedly.

Crispin set down his mug, having no intention of dulling his wits. “You promised secrets?” He sat back, arms crossed, hoping to hurry this along. He did have a human to save, after all.

“Treat Mum with a little respect, you yellow, lily-livered twerp.” Aspin glared at him as if Crispin were responsible for all the trouble in the family.

Well, maybe I am. He snorted. And maybe they deserved it.

“Enough.”

Aspin had started to speak again, but a sharp look from the Queen of Fae silenced him.

“Your brother deserves some answers. And so do you.” She drained the glass and set it down on the sad little table.

Crispin braced himself. Was his father a warthog? Had he been adopted from some gods-forsaken world that no one wanted to talk about? Oh gods, am I actually… human?

“Crispin is my one true heir.”

Now that he hadn’t expected.

Aspin was on his feet. “What? Him? When I’ve been at your side, loyal as a fire dragon, while he?—”

“Sit down, Aspin.” Her voice cut through the rant and all but took the legs out from under her pompous older son.

Crispin stared at the two of them.

Minkis had stopped nibbling to stare with him, seeming suddenly fascinated by the larger beings around him.

“You… you can’t be serious.” It was disconcerting to actually agree with his brother, for once. “You’ve never had one good thing to say about me. And Aspin’s older than me.”

“Aspin’s not like us.”

Us. That one word knocked the wind out of him. The Queen of the Fae, Her Great Mabness. “How in Hades’ dark halls am I like you?”

“We are both the servants of Order.” Her eyes bore into his, as if to see whether he understood the true import of what she was telling him.

And suddenly it became clear. “I’m… I’m like Leo.”

She snorted in the most lady-like and yet derisive way possible. “Hardly. Leo is a servant of Chaos.”

“But I don’t have a real father, do I?”

She shook her head. “No more than I did. Nor a mother, in truth.”

Aspin looked from Crispin to his mother, and back again. “I don’t understand.”

“She didn’t birth me. She… created me.” Suddenly everything made sense.

The arms-length treatment he’d received all through his childhood.

His attraction to the Red Door. His exile to the Office of the Lost. His love of all things straight and clean and organized.

“I’m… Order personified. Aren’t I? And so are you. ”

A smile spread across her face. “Now you see it.”

“And my father…”

“Was from behind The Door.”

A horrid thought crossed his mind. “Is Leo my?—”

“Oh sordid heavens no. There are as many manifestations of Chaos as there are of Order.”

Crispin heaved a sigh of relief. For a moment there, he’d been afraid he’d slept with his own father. Which… just no. “But why? What are we, really?” Being so like his mother was profoundly disturbing. All of his life he’d consoled himself that he was nothing like her.

“You are Acorn Man. Belong with Chaos Man.”

Crispin stared at his squirrel companion. Minkis’s poor grasp of English grammar belied the truth and deep insight of what he’d just said.

Unconcerned, Minkis went back to rummaging in the nut bowl for hidden treasure.

“He’s not wrong.” Cerillia’s face looked a bit sour at the admission, like she’d just sucked on a lemon.

“In the beginning, there were two forces in the void. Chaos and Order. Neither one had the upper hand, and worlds were built and destroyed as they fought for dominance. Unimaginable pain filled the young Connected Worlds, until a group of elder mages came up with a solution. They married Order to Chaos in the form of two beings, each made of one pure essence.”

“Why did these… beings… agree to such a union?” He didn’t like where this seemed to be heading.

“Because they were too evenly matched, and the world would never see an end to their strife if something wasn’t done. And because they realized something important: that Order without Chaos was deadly boring, and Chaos without Order was unsustainable. They each needed the other.”

It made a certain kind of sense. He and Leo balanced each other out nicely. “So where is your… consort? The King of Chaos?” He was rather proud of that one. It rolled neatly off the tongue.

She looked away, regret clouding her features like frost on a delicate leaf.

“The Red Door,” he said. “You imprisoned him.”

“It was the only way. My father did it before me, and his mother before him. Chaos, if left unchecked, eventually seeks to dominate everything?—”

“Just like you have?” He frowned. “That’s why I was sent to collect Leopold. He was a loose end, a bit of Chaos free in the world, not under your control.”

She took a deep breath. “Not exactly. He was meant for you.” She reached out to him, her white hand—cold, so cold—touching his cheek. “You just found him too soon. In a few more years….”

Crispin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You and Bidulla plan to keep him locked up for years ?”

He’d never seen his mother look uncertain before. “You weren’t ready.”

Before he could reply, the door slammed open. One of the mages who had been fighting the erosion of the Prickles Hotel stood there breathless. “Oh… thank… the... seven… gods.”

There was something strange about him, but Crispin couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

The anguished look on his mother’s face vanished. “What is it now?” She was once again the cold, bright, beautiful, terrible creature he’d known throughout his childhood. “Speak!”

He essayed a quick bow, but something outside had scared him more than she could. “Come quick. Something is happening!”

He turned sideways and vanished.

Cerillia Ailedrin Moss’caladin swept out of the empty bar and into the light of the new morning. Crispin followed her, and stopped at the threshold.

The world was flat. Or maybe flattening was a more accurate description.

Color was seeping out of it like the bloom off a rose.

All the random jagged lines were straightening out, crackling like broken glass as the change passed through.

The mage turned back, and Crispin could see that he was now two-dimensional, thin as a slip of paper. “What’s happening?”

Only the Queen and her two sons seemed unaffected.

“Mother, what’s happening?” Aspin was actually shaking. Crispin had never seen his brother afraid.

“It’s Chaos. It’s leaking out of the world.” Crispin grabbed his mother by her leather jacket, spinning her around to face him. “Mother, what did they do to Leo?”

She shook her head, staring at the morphing world. Only the twitching of her cheek betrayed her own fear. “I don’t know, Crispin. I truly do not know.”