Lieutenant Commander Morinthian Meras. A few other titles were attached to her family line, who had been descended from royalty on Parania. She did not use them, however, for the High Federation cared little for such things. They cared only for those royals who were of use to them, working as their politicians and their soldiers.
In accordance, Morinthian Meras joined the military. Worked her way up the ladder. Took missions on hundreds of worlds, with so many biomes it made her head spin, deserts and pink oceans and ecumenopolises and endless forests and storms of diamond rain. She looked upon these, the planets of the Silver Eye, with all of their beauty, with awe. The First Men, blessed be they, had left an eternity of wonder for them.
She did not feel so, here in the multiverse.
Perhaps it was the stories. Perhaps it was the lesser technological level. Perhaps the First Men were right, and the multiverse was just too different from the Silver Eye. But whatever the case, Morinthian awoke with a cramping stomach. She stood up, swayed towards the sink, a hand covering her side as it twisted in pain. She awoke Orion in the other bed, the man fumbling awake.
She made her way to the toilet. Opened its lid.
Retched.
Paranians make a strange sort of whistle when they cough. She wheezed out a chorus of chirps as Orion got out of bed and strode over to her.
“You alright?” he asked.
“'M fine,” Morinthian said, hacking out another whistle, “Must've been something I ate.”
“I'll take another look at their menu,” Orion said, “What did you have for dinner?”
“That... salad,” Morinthian said, and her stomach roiled. She clutched a hand to it, “Along with some of the... crab.”
“Right,” Orion said, “How well cooked was it?”
“It seemed... fine,” Morinthian gasped.
“Doesn't look like it was fine,” Orion said, and he rose, “Hang on. I'll get you some medicine.”
He ran off, down the hall and down the stairs. Morinthian stumbled back over to her bed, curling up into a ball, still clutching her stomach.
They didn't cook their food all the way here?
They didn't even try to make sure?
Gods, the multiverse.
…
...
Orion returned with a tonic from a local potion shop a few minutes later. Had Morinthian take it. The next couple of hours were spent in bed, recovering and waiting for the shaking and the sweats to subside.
They did. Morinthian got up, her stomach still feeling shallow.
“Witch who brewed it said not to go out,” Orion said.
Morinthian looked at him. The spellsword shrugged.
“That's the rule,” he said, “Best to follow a witch's advice.”
“Doesn't matter, I have to go,” Morinthian said, and she rose.
“Woah, hey,” Orion said.
“The auction's today, Mr. Gyasi,” Morinthian said, and she walked over to the bathroom, “We don't have time for something like this. Tell your guildmates to get ready.”
Orion hesitated. Morinthian turned on the shower. Only a few minutes to get ready. The other guildmembers were probably downstairs already, eating breakfast.
Her stomach quivered. By the First Men, she didn't want to eat anything else on this forsaken plane.
***
Morinthian and Orion came downstairs last. Dama Runebreaker was feeding a tonic to Vespa. Hundreds of hungover hornets littered the small dining table that they had stationed at, and the dwarf was pouring a bit of tonic into her hand, letting individual insects drink from the small pool. Gouffant was at the breakfast table, stuffing himself silly. Ichabod was speaking with Petra, who gave a smile over Morinthian's way as the Lieutenant Commander made her way to the group.
“We were just talking about the funds for this mission,” Ichabod said, “You're working with credit, yes?”
“Correct,” Morinthian said, “Any arrangements for payment will be done using the Commodore's account.”
“And what about upfront payments?” Petra asked.
Morinthian tilted her head.
“Sorry?”
“You must understand,” Petra said, “Many items in the Auction will require payment to be made upfront. This ensures that the sold item is paid for immediately.”
“I was to understand,” Morinthian said, “That there were going to be payment plans set up for many of the items here.”
“That depends on the patron,” a voice said behind them. Urash walked up to the table, a drink in hand. He returned Petra's side-eye, before turning his attention to Morinthian, “Silver Eye auctions, especially in the Inner Reach and the Post-Colonial, rely on payment plans, because the majority of the people at those auctions are friends of the patron in question.”
“They know that the money's good,” Petra added.
“Aye, or they have ways to leverage the payer outside of monetary value,” Urash said, “Auctions in the Silver Eye are done by old money families. The Valms, the Gwedenos, and the like.”
“That is what I expected here,” Morinthian said, and she swallowed, “The Commodore gave me a credstick with a hundred million credits.”
They looked at her.
“Better quiet yourself down while you say that,” Ichabod said, “I don't fancy having to deal with muggers here.”
“Chump change, depending on where in the Eye you are,” Urash said, “That'll do, if the auction for the freedom elemental runs up short.”
“Not enough to get all three items,” Petra said.
“Aye, not enough,” Urash said.
Morinthian swallowed.
“I apologize,” she said, “I... didn't realize. I should have done more research.”
“Aye, you should have,” Urash said.
Petra rested a hand on Urash's shoulder, which the dwarf shrugged off.
“I've been doing research on our three patrons,” Petra said, and she produced a photograph from one of her pockets. It depicted a young man, maybe around twenty, smiling for the camera and accompanied by a superhero.
“Jason Overton,” Urash said.
“Who is he?” Morinthian said.
“The first of our three targets,” Petra said, “A rich boy from Prime. Recently inherited daddy's estate, trying to sell off as much of it as he can so he can continue his life of drugs and ladies.”
“Lucky bastard,” Urash grunted.
“So he'll want upfront payments, then,” Morinthian said.
“Correct,” Urash said, “Upfront. I don't even think he's here at the auction, one of his representatives will be doing most of the heavy lifting. He's probably back in Horizon City, doing lines of coke off a stripper's-”
“Anyways,” Petra interrupted, shooting Urash a warning smile, “That's him.”
“What about the other two?” Morinthian asked.
“Locus of Locust,” Ichabod said, “That's from the Museum of Unnatural History, right?”
“Well, technically a private patron, who had it on display there,” Petra said, “Until, ah...”
A pause. Ichabod scratched his chin, Urash a bearded cheek. Petra was still smiling, but there was an edge to it, now.
“What is it?” Morinthian asked, “Something to be concerned about?”
“One of our guildmates burned most of the collection down,” Ichabod said.
Morinthian blinked.
“Oh,” she said.
“Small world,” Petra said, her voice tight, “Thank goodness they never found us out. We kept it... guild-to-guild, as it were.”
“What it means,” Urash said, “Is that the private patron, a man named Iridos von Gronheim, is putting the rest of it up for sale. Several destructive spells.”
“The Locus of Locust is the important one,” Morinthian said, “In terms of priority, it's after the freedom elemental.”
“I believe von Gronheim is here, actually,” Petra said, “We may be able to speak with him, set up a payment plan of some sort.”
Urash groaned.
“Should have gone to a credit union, get a loan,” he said, “Silver Eye doesn't have many of those-”
“They wouldn't work with the Commodore,” Morinthian said, “Considering he's from the multiverse. Even when he suggested using an intermediary from the Silver Eye, they wouldn't work with us.”
They lapsed into silence. Petra smiled grimly. Urash took a long swig of his drink. Ichabod sneered. By now, most of Vespa was up and running, and hornets lazily flew about them. A few of the other hotel guests watched them nervously. Archenround was coming over with plates for them, eggs and hashbrowns, a few slices of bacon. Salad for Petra and Gnawliver.
They ate for a few minutes, though Morinthian declined.
“I had food poisoning this morning,” she said.
They looked at her.
“Are you quite alright, dear?” Petra asked.
“I'm quite fine,” Morinthian said, “Don't order the shellfish here.”
“Shouldn't you be in... bed, then?” Petra prodded.
“No,” Morinthian said, “Mr. Gyasi gave me a tonic from a witch, and I'm quite fine.”
She looked, disapproving, at the plate of eggs.
“Not hungry, though.”
Urash and Ichabod shrugged. Petra motioned for her butler.
“Mr. Gnawliver,” she said, “Please, order a few more of those... 'tonics-'”
(She said this with a touch of distaste.)
“-In case our good Lieutenant Commander has need of them.”
“Of course, ma'am,” the beaverfolk said, “I will get directions from Mr. Gyasi.”
He walked over to Orion, who was eating with Archenround and the others. After a few hurried words, and Orion pointing and waving out a handsign map, he went through the hotel's front entrance.
“We're getting off track,” Ichabod said, “Morinthian, you want to review the third item?”
The Paranian nodded, and she produced a holostick from her jacket coat. She placed it on a table, and a hologram of a book appeared. Even in the image, it looked plasticine, a flash-printed High Federation record.
“A record of the Armagestine Squall,” she said.
“Armagestine,” Petra said, “Sounds familiar.”
“So named for a metahuman kingdom that inhabited it,” Morinthian said, “According to one of the Commodore's contacts, it used to be very close to the Silver Eye, with many Traveling Points that went to multiple planets in the Post-Colonial. The metahuman kingdom lived there and had many settlements in the Silver Eye, as well.”
“And we want it, because...?” Urash said.
“The record of the Armagestine Squall was located on Penitent Orations,” Morinthian said, “A Library World that the Sons of Darwin glassed during the war.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“So it's the only surviving record, then,” Urash said.
“Precisely,” Morinthian said, “The Commodore thinks that the Darwinists may be targeting it.”
“Hmm,” Urash said, and he took another drink. Flecks of beer dribbled down into his beard. Petra disguised her revulsion as she spoke to him.
“You did the groundwork for this one, didn't you?” she said.
“I did,” Urash said, and he brought a hand to his soaked beer, pulled out a slip of sodden paper, unraveled and read it, “The patron putting the record up for sale is a noblewoman from Titan's Walk, specifically from the Titan Oersten.”
Ichabod pulled a face. He looked up at the rest of the group.
“Archenround!” he said, “You have a sec?”
The demon nodded, slithered over to them. Signed, and Ichabod translated for Morinthian's benefit.
“You've been on Titan's Walk a few times before, haven't you?” Ichabod said, “Anything on a Titan called Oersten?”
Archenround's brow furrowed, she thought for a few moments.
I heard of him, she signed, One of the older Titans. One of my clients there mentioned that he was dying.
“From what?” Morinthian asked.
I am unsure, Archenround replied, Most of them die of old age, that's all. It takes a few millennia.
“So she's probably selling to get enough money to get the hell away,” Urash said, “One of those bastards taking a dirt nap usually causes all sorts of chaos.”
Agreed, Archenround signed.
“So,” Morinthian said, “Another upfront payment.”
“Not necessarily,” Petra said, “Titans usually take a while to go. Am I correct in that assumption, Archenround?”
The demon nodded.
Yes. The Titan I worked on, Plamon, was dying, but she had been dying for at least a few decades.
“So, a payment plan may work,” Petra said, “Depends on what we say. I'll talk to this noblewoman. Is she here on the plane?”
“Aye,” Urash said, “Scoped that out myself.”
“Of course you would,” Petra said, a hair accusing.
“Never you mind, revolting woman,” Urash spat, “Her name is Kristen Omandi. Go have your girltalk.”
He shook his head. Petra rolled her eyes. Ichabod grimaced.
“Regardless,” the cybernetic man said, “Even if we don't make the sale, we have the second option.”
“Is your part in this ready?” Urash said.
“Dama Runebreaker's ready,” Ichabod said, “Vespa needs to get over her hangover. Archenround...?”
He looked at her.
The demon gave him a resolute nod.
“Right,” Ichabod said, “We'll see what we can grab.”
Morinthian shuddered.
“It is always like this, at the auction?” she asked.
“The auction comes in two parts,” Urash gruffed, “The first part, we're civilized. Clients show what guilds they've hired, people make their sales.”
“And then night falls,” Ichabod said, “And then everyone who wanted the item, and didn't get it, make a grab.”
Morinthian held her tongue, though she wanted to say something the others would find insulting.
Petra smiled, sensing the Paranian's distaste.
“It's just tradition, at this point,” she said, “Most of the time, whatever guild is hosting the auction is able to keep up security. But that doesn't mean people don't try. Including us, of course.”
Orion approached them.
“We should go,” he said, “Doors are going to open soon.”
“Right,” Petra said, and she looked at Urash, “You'll behave?”
“Of course I will,” Urash said, offended, “I've got the proper spells. Just get me a layout of the place, will you?”
Petra raised up her nose.
“Come, then, dears,” she said, “Let's leave this one to his little games. No offense, Ichabod.”
“Don't rope me into... whatever this is,” Ichabod sneered, “Off you go. Have fun.”
Orion called for Gouffant, and the rat swayed off of his seat and skittered over.
“Did I miss anything?” he said.
“Nothing you don't already know,” Petra said.
“Ah, good,” Gouffant said, “The food here? Fantastique.”
“And you've got a bit of it in your whiskers,” Orion said, chuckling.
“Snack for later,” Gouffant said.
The three of them, along with Morinthian, left the hotel. Gnawliver caught up with them on the way to Oracle's Aviary.
***
A line was forming outside the guildhall. Prospective buyers at the auction, along with their guildfolk escorts, were filling out the main plaza that hosted Oracle's Aviary, talking and chattering and jeering. Already a couple were arguing with each other, held back by their comrades, the two about to dissolve into blows. Security automatons patrolled the crowd, held them back from the front door. They were large and hulking, primarily made of metal and with Fedtek circuitry, powered by manastones that had been bought, en masse, from a supplier on Krenstone. Mechanical birds flew through the air, each of them a camera. Some were undisguised, bronze and glass automata that circled in the air.
Others, however, were clad in feathers. Pigeons and crows, a few seagulls. On the surface, they looked like any of the other fowl that flocked to the plaza, to pick at the peanuts, sandwiches, and chips that vendors were selling to the crowd as they waited. But underneath the feathers were clockwork hinges and gears, their eyes were cameras and their ears were listening devices that fed into Drebulon Anxen's office.
Drebulon Anxen. A Makooran, naturally large, almost hippo-like in appearance, with pinkish scales. Two horns grew from his head, and because he was working with Polly Poltergeist for this job, he had them freshly polished and filed. He was sitting at his desk, watching readouts from half a dozen monitors, his hands a blur on his keyboard as he entered commands into the network. Most of the automatons were on autopilot and able to move without his input, but he had overridden these commands for a small grouping of them to specifically watch for a group of guildfolk who were streaming in, led by none other than Ultan. Exodus Walkers.
Drebulon shivered.
One of the machines next to him rattled. Drebulon glanced over to see Polly Poltergeist manifesting beside him. She was wearing a nice dress for this occasion – or, at least, she had manifested herself wearing a nice dress. A sunhat, too, and as she smiled Drebulon felt his heart quiver.
“Oh!” he said, “You look-”
(Nice? What kind of compliment was that? She'd know his feelings for sure, if he said that.)
“Ready,” he decided.
“Ready,” Polly said. Did she sound disappointed?
“Good,” Drebulon said, “Cool. Right.”
He took a deep breath. Re-centered himself.
“Right,” he said, again, “So the Exodus Walkers just got here. Looks like it's Ultan himself, Khosrau, Meldorn, and Jani. You've read the files on them?”
“Yep,” Polly Poltergeist said, “I'll possess one of Jani's devices, feed you back any information.”
“Right,” Drebulon said, “Be really careful, alright? Ultan's a necromancer.”
“Please,” Polly Poltergeist said, “I know his tricks.”
“All the same,” Drebulon said.
And Polly Poltergeist rolled her eyes.
“Come on, Drebulon,” she said, “I'll be fine.”
She looked him up and down. Quirked an eyebrow.
“Did you... polish your horns?” she asked.
“No!” Drebulon said, then, “Y-Yes. Have to look my best, you know?”
“It looks nice,” the poltergeist said.
(Nice? She thought, What kind of compliment is that?)
“Thanks,” Drebulon said, and that's all he could say to that, “Uh, good luck.”
“Ah, right,” Polly said, “Same with you.”
And she disappeared back into the machine. Drebulon knew that she would leap from device to device, until she made it to the Exodus Walkers.
***
Amphitrite Vivi-Tone was the sixth member of Blue Sky Waiting assigned to watch over the guildhall. She was below, watching in a silent way as automatons patrolled the storage rooms. The sellers had arrived a week ago to bring their goods into Oracle's Aviary, setting them up in a series of large vaults that Aldr Fatebreaker had personally crafted. A long hallway, each with a massive metal door with a wheel on its front, each inscribed with a rune. Each room inside was larger on the inside, its own little pocket dimension. They were all closed right now, and Amphitrite was alone below save for Drebulon's workers. She was from Doremi. A Meldicon, those who believed that the Classicists and the Electrons could find common ground and just play the music.
(“Fucking centrists,” G-Wiz called them, when Joseph asked.)
She was wearing a nice suit, sitting on a stool, her hair shot through with bright silver strands, like lines of the moon. She had applied glittering silver eyeshadow, matched by glittering silver lipstick. Really, all of her glittered, though she didn't have an audience.
(Yet.)
With each note she played, an excerpt from Chopin, moonlit notes emanated from her piano. They floated around the place, bouncing off the walls like sturdy bubbles. Each one fed vibrations back to her.
All music is vibration.
And through those vibrations, she could see the entire hall, and any interlopers that might come down.
***
“Alright,” Haemosu said, through a comm. He was on the third floor's balcony, watching people start streaming in from outside as doors opened. Gods, there were so many out there. The final guest list sat at around a few thousand, give or take. Thousands of people, all in the guildhall at once. The lobby became alive with voices, people talking, and Haemosu felt them shudder in his ears. For a moment, he gripped the balcony's marble rail.
A hand rested on his shoulder.
“Everything alright?” Aldr Fatebreaker asked.
He was wearing his usual storm-colored cloak, spear in hand, his conical hat rising high above like a pointed spike, a mirror to his billowing beard. All three eyes peered at Haemosu as he took a deep breath.
“Lots of noise,” Haemosu said, “I'll be fine.”
“Don't be afraid to duck out, if you need to,” Aldr said.
“I said, I'm fine,” Haemosu said, “This is more important than my own sensory issues.”
They had had these discussions before. Aldr let it drop, the two of them watching as the crowd streamed in, and were directed by the robots to go into one of the side rooms. On normal occasions, it led into one of the dining halls. Aldr's magic, however, had replaced it with an oversized seating gallery, a theatre that descended downwards towards a smallish stage, where Lilmora was situated, watching people stream in and take their seats. People from all over the multiverse. Elves and dwarves, trellian dignitaries from the last pureblood nation, a few well-to-dos from Kelstonda, one with a metahuman bodyguard, a pocket-covered woman who looked upon the scene with a surly glare. Ultan the Ultra-Skeletal strode in with his client, a meek looking nobleman from Melmaen, the two of them sitting, along with his guildmates, in one of the corners, where a specialized chair had been set aside for Ultan's great size.
“Quite the crowd,” a voice beside Lilmora said. She turned, and there was the auctioneer. Siltman Saltman gave his practiced, cheery smile that made Lilmora's stomach roil as he walked onto the stage, stroking that annoying white beard of his. It matched his white suit and his oversized white cowboy hat, as well as the ivory gavel that replaced his left hand.
“Is it always this...” Lilmora bit a lip, unsure of whether to say something rude.
“Bougie? Arrogant? Ridiculous?” Saltman's smile became a hair more genuine, “Why, of course. They're rich. They're allowed to be all of those things, and we can't do anything about it.”
“You certainly can count yourself among their number,” Lilmora said, shooting him a sideways look, “That suit looks like it costs an entire year's salary.”
“It takes a trained eye to see that,” Saltman said, “Let me guess, runaway rich girl? Noblewoman?”
Lilmora turned to fully glare at him. Saltman shrugged, raised up his hands, gavel and all, in surrender.
“Well,” he said, “This is going to be a productive time, at least. Tell that Feddie friend of yours-”
“I'm a Coribaldi.”
“Tell your fellow Feddie to start getting the automatons prepped with the first item,” Saltman said, “It's almost time to begin.”
A couple of automatons were already coming up onto the stage, each holding an end of a long table. Saltman walked up to it, checked it over. It was shortened, to accommodate his small stature. Lilmora walked off the stage, shaking her head, letting the anger pool in certain spots of her mind, in case she needed to use it later.
Saltman cleared his throat. Tested his gavel. Then, brought a hand to the side of his neck, whispered a few magic words.
And when he spoke next, his voice was booming.
“WELCOME!” he roared, “Welcome, one and all, to the Two Hundred Thousandth-and-Third Interplanar Auction of Triceradeus!”
A few people in the crowd, who were already seated, clapped. That was all the energy the gnome needed.
“I am your auctioneer for this fine day, Siltman Saltman! I've been working for this auction for damn near two hundred years, and I'm mighty grateful that y'all have decided to let me somehow worm my way into another one.”
A couple of laughs.
“Today's gonna be like any other day, folks. Now, if you've never been to one of these ol' auctions before, it's pretty simple. One of these fine automations that Blue Sky Waiting has provided, will bring up an item from downstairs, generously put up for sale by one of several patrons, and we'll name a price. If you like it, bid on it, but someone else might want it, too, and bid higher. Highest bid wins the item.”
He leaned forward.
“We deal in High Federation credits here. No buts or how, credits are what makes the multiverse go 'round.”
(“Not round,” Aldr said to Haemosu, as an aside, “It's a far more interesting shape than that.”)
(Haemosu resisted the urge to walk out of the guildhall.)
“We'll get started in a few minutes, here,” Siltman Saltman said, “Once everyone's seated, we can start the fun.”
He smiled wide, revealing pearly white teeth.
***
“Annoying little man,” Morinthian said.
“Yuh, he can be like that,” Gouffant replied. He had been given a specialized seat, a long couch that took up two chairs' worth of space. Morinthian sat beside him, and behind them, Gnawliver was adjusting a seat for Petra. She gave him a nod in thanks, the butler sinking down beside her. Orion sat next to Gouffant, looked a bit disturbed as a mass of ooze slithered over to rest next to him. Automatons directed people to sit down. They were an interesting mix of Fedtek and lesser machinery, Morinthian noted. Amalgamations of technologies that certain circles in the Silver Eye would see as heretical.
None of that, here. Even those fellow Federation merchants here turned them a blind eye. There was money to be made, faith be damned. Morinthian found herself judging these people most of all. Silently, of course, for she was a guest to the proceedings.
“Saltman's one of the best auctioneers in the multiverse,” Petra said, “Doesn't look a hair over four hundred. And he's got an excellent poker face. Quite the singer, too.”
“You've seen him perform,” Morinthian said, mirthlessly.
“Oh, yes,” Petra said, “We frequent the same circles.”
“I see,” Morinthian said.
“Don't worry too much 'bout him,” Gouffant said, “He talks fast, but as long as you raise your hand when the time is right, he'll see you.”
“Right,” Morinthian said.
She had been to an auction but once before, and hadn’t bet at the time. It was in her earlier years, when she was a military escort for a High Federation official on Everlasting Truth. The official, the head of the Department of Interrelations Between the Chosmians and the Kleptonians, was bereft of any actual work, as the two civilizations had ceased to exist over two thousand years ago. Instead, he wasted away his salary, which still came to him, year by year, on auctions and casinos, hoping to score something big. She could still see his thin, greedy little spider hand, grasping at the air, hoarsely shouting out “Ten million! Ten million!” at an ancient artifact.
Gods, how she hated him.
Yet, here she was now, about to scream out the same thing. She felt herself recoiling at the thought of it. And her stomach still ached.
“Mr. Gnawliver,” she said, “Can you hand me more of that tonic?”
The beaverfolk nodded. Produced some of the potion from his jacket pocket.
“I must warn you, miss, for the sake of your own health,” he said, “Don't drink too much. But, a little more should help.”
He unstoppered the cap. Handed it over. Morinthian drank it down. The potion was bitter, and she found herself having to force it down. It almost came up a number of times, but she swallowed. And kept swallowing.
“Disgusting things, aren't they?”
She turned.
Sitting down next to her was a man in a dark cloak, his oily blond hair hanging, like curtains, on either side of his face. A serpentine creature with a raptor-like body rested on his shoulders, its lion-like head swirling this way and that.
His eyes, they were filmy, as though covered in swamp murk. They slid over to her compatriots.
“Ah,” he said, “The Amber Foundation.”
A multitude of reactions on her companion's faces, as she observed them. Petra smiled politely. Gouffant let out a chuffing “Hullo.” Orion nodded, though his easy smile disappeared. Gnawliver took to polishing his monocle.
“Greetings, Mr. Agrippa,” Petra said, “How are you?”