Chương 38: Chapter 287 - Cladding of Identity

Sebastien Month 9, Day 28, Tuesday 10: 30 a. m. Sebastien squinted at Oliver skeptically.

"Don't you think that taking down the Architects is more likely to give Titus Westbay and the coppers ammunition against the Verdant Stags? You've been their main source of smuggled components, as far as I know, and even if you have secrecy vows with them, do you really think you can get away unscathed if their whole organization goes down?

They may have been able to avoid giving anything relevant to the coppers so far, but that's when only a few people are being called in for questioning at a time, and none of the truly important members are worried about a complete collapse."

"As I said, we will be prepared. However, let me clarify. It's not that I think that I can keep any incriminating information from leaking." Oliver lifted his forefinger and wiggled it back and forth.

"I think I can stop the coppers from caring." Sebastien took his meaning almost immediately, and couldn't help but let out a small laugh, more from the irony than any real amusement.

"How do you plan to go about it, exactly?" He shrugged nonchalantly and took a few sips of his newly made drink as if deliberately drawing out the suspense.

"Bribes, blackmail, or both simultaneously, of course! But don't be mistaken, these can take many forms and don't always need to be so cliched. There are many individuals, often those who hold smaller amounts of power and haven't yet been tainted by their environments, who have been fed up with the rampant corruption that festers through this city's streets like pus through veins.

In addition, the Thirteen Crowns have been making a lot of questionable decisions that almost seem designed to alienate those who have to actually implement their policies, deal with their new restrictions, or do the same job with less resources." He cleared his desk of books and various papers to reveal the map of Gilbratha beneath. Both the Verdant Stag's and the Nightmare Pack's territory had grown since she last saw the map, and the scribbled notes scattered about had grown even more numerous.

"The Crowns are feeling the pressure, and in an attempt to prepare, they seem to be passing that pressure down to those below them without much consideration. But as you well know, if you seal off a boiling cauldron and raise the temperature too high…"

"It explodes," Sebastien finished dryly.

"I want to release some of that pressure prematurely, in a more beneficial direction. Those who can be brought to my side through benefits, hope, and lofty ideals are preferable. I want to find people like that, and if possible, use my influence to directly create more of them. I will take everyone who is useful, but ideally this will involve a few in positions of real power, like Titus Westbay. I have known him for a few years now, and though he's long thought me a misguided idealist…

perspectives change when one begins feeling the pinch themself. But for those who cannot be swayed by such positive methods…

"I'm sure you've heard the saying, 'Spare the rod, spoil the child.'" Sebastien scoffed.

"What if you can't find something to blackmail them with or some dirt to get them deposed? Assassination? Threats to their family?" Oliver's eyes were on the part of the map that depicted the Lilies, to the east across the Charybdis Gulf. He made a small, doubtful hum.

"Perhaps, where appropriate. But you can also think more creatively, Sebastien. Blackmail doesn't need to be true to ruin someone's life. It just needs to be believable enough. And, of course, where possible I will mask the taste of bitter medicine by adding some honey on top." Sebastien narrowed her eyes.

"You'll force people to take bribes after blackmailing them? Just for insurance?"

"Bribes, favors, a gift of coal in the dead of winter… You decide what you want to call it." She tried to keep the uneasy feeling inside from showing on her face, speaking in a plain tone.

"Some of this sounds rather evil."

"All good medicine can also be poison if taken incorrectly." Oliver spread his hands to the side as if he were helpless. Sebastien wasn't sure if this level of honesty should be reassuring, because it meant he trusted her enough to be frank, or if the deviousness it revealed superseded that.' Oliver makes a very useful and reassuring ally, but a terrible enemy. The problem is, I cannot be totally sure than he will never turn from the former into the latter.

'But she remembered her contract with Legion, the various rare sources of power and influence she had access to, and the things they had discussed earlier, and her heart settled.' If I simply become too terrifying to betray, won't that solve the problem?' She cleared her throat.

"I refuse to involve Damien in any plans to overthrow his own family, and you are forbidden from doing so as well." Oliver pressed his lips together and nodded sadly.

"I understand. But just thinking about it, how much effort, blood, and tears will go into covering this entire map in green?" He sighed deeply, his head hanging.

"If only I had something to improve my information gathering, that would be so useful. Something like a network of spy ravens." He peeked up at her through his lashes. Sebastien stared back at him expressionlessly.

"I have no plans to develop that for you." Oliver's mouth dropped open, and an expression of deep shock and betrayal tugged at his face. He closed his mouth and nodded again, this time even more pitifully.

"Oh. That's okay. I didn't expect it anyway." She knew that he was putting on a show, because no one with even three brain cells would fall for this after all of the scheming he'd revealed earlier, but that didn't stop her from shuddering in discomfort and shoving her chair back from the table with the harsh screech of wood on wood.

"Meet at the Verdant Stag this evening?" she guessed. If she had to put money on it, she would bet he was keeping Myrddin's journal somewhere there. He agreed and, without hesitation, she left. When she reached the street outside, she hesitated for a moment, looking around at the people passing by and wondering what she should do with the time until night.

It only took a moment for her to organize her thoughts, and while she hailed a carriage and rode toward the small shop of the artisan she'd worked with before, she created a mental list of task for herself, breaking it down into sub-steps and organizing it based on priority and ease. This was something she usually would have felt most comfortable doing on paper, but somehow she didn't have much trouble keeping track of all the details mentally, as she once might have.

Maybe it was all the studying she had been doing since she came to Gilbratha, or maybe it was the third branch of her Will. When she entered the shop of the artisan who made her spell rod, the man paused for an unusually long moment, then looked around as if worried about eavesdroppers before waving her into the back room. Sebastien found a seat on a stool near the man's iron workbench, which was covered in tools and half-finished projects. The artisan took his own seat, his broad face grim.

"Kid," he greeted.

"I deposited your share of sales earnings into the account you wrote down and I kept the account books are ready for review any time." Sebastien's first instinct was that something had gone wrong with the sales, so she tried to put an unconcerned expression on her face so that the artisan would feel less pressured. But the man's broad hands fisted atop his knees.

"Several batches of people came 'round asking me about you. I told them the truth," he warned her. A stone form in Sebastien's stomach, but she tried to remain optimistic and keep it from sinking. This man didn't even know anything incriminating about her.

"Okay…?"

"They were all the fancy looking types, so I couldn't just keep my mouth shut. You should be wary. There might be some kind of business espionage thing going on. Do you have any enemies?" Sebastien kept her face calm and shook her head, lying boldly. The artisan sighed.

"Maybe you should have partnered with someone else, lad. I don't have the connections to get any kind of legal protections or exclusive licenses for your invention." If Sebastien had to guess, at least one of those groups had been from the Red Guard, but the others might really be business competitors.

"I'll look into the legal side of things," she assured the man.

"I have connections of my own." His mouth wobbled, then stretched into a full-on grin.

"Well, I'll say. Sebastien Siverling, of course you have high-flyin' friends. You think those Crown Family kids can handle it? Or…Thaddeus Lacer? I hear he's about to become an Archmage."

"Don't worry," she assured him. The artisan lifted one large fist to his mouth, coughed, and asked shyly if she could get him an autograph.

"For my daughter," he explained shiftily. Sebastien smiled even harder to suppress the sudden dread radiating from her core and pressed her hands into her legs to keep her fingers from trembling.

"I really can't promise that." The man sighed.

"Oh, I understand. Everyone knows how that old dragon is. I just figured he might make an exception for his apprentice." Sebastien reviewed the sales accounts for the spell rod, which seemed moderately successful. Most sales had been to adventurers, with the rest going to the occasional Apprentice-level thaumaturge. She went out into the shop and looked at where the spell rod was displayed, under a small banner than proudly read, "Invented by Sebastien Siverling!"

The artisan bashfully rubbed the tip of his nose with a finger. Though it was a bit embarrassing, Sebastien didn't scold him for this attempt at advertising. In fact, she had several ideas of her own.

"The biggest selling point of the spell rods is versatility and convenience, right?" she asked. When he agreed, she continued.

"So let us make them even more versatile and convenient. Rather than requiring people to install their own fabric spell arrays, we should sell those, too." The orb-weaver silk base, along with the conductive paint she'd developed, worked exceptionally well.

"We can sell different series of the spell arrays. One for adventurers and survival, one for household and kitchen spells, one for performance arts, and whatever else we can think of. People can mix and match which arrays they want, and the spell rods themselves should also have modular segments, so that people can create one with as many or as few options as they want. And… we'll need some more expansive marketing to go along with all of this." She tapped her lower lip thoughtfully.

Technically, she could handle the production of silk, paint, and drawing the spell arrays herself, but it wasn't as if she had an excess of time. Ideally, she would delegate all of this, but the shop owner certainly didn't have the expertise. Ana would be capable and good at all of it, but she was busy with being the Gervin heiress and investing much larger sums of gold. Who else might be available, competent, and willing to work for her?

"Ah!" she said brightly, smacking one fist into her open palm. She turned back to the artisan.

"Don't worry, I'll handle all of that on my side as well. My business manager will come to liaise with you soon." Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. When Sebastien left, she still had plenty of time left before needing to meet Oliver. As the wind blew strands of hair into her face, she turned her footsteps toward a beauty salon. It was time for a haircut.

The receptionist actually cheered aloud as soon as Sebastien stepped through the front door, and as soon as she announced that she was there for a haircut, several of the specialists fought over who would get to serve her, including one man who attempted to abandon his current client half-way through.

Finally, a very stylish woman won, and had Sebastien pick styles she favored from a book of drawings, then upsold her on a full spa service, including massage, apparently highly favored by "over-worked thaumaturges and those who suffered from high-performance related stress." Sebastien felt she met that demographic a little too well, and thus was introduced to a world of extreme luxury she never would have imagined.

She was trimmed, massaged, rubbed in various magical and non-magical goops, and ended up falling asleep to the sound of some tintinnabulating sand falling cyclically through a metal tube contraption. It was truly heavenly. She couldn't remember ever feeling so relaxed in her life, and there wasn't a single spot on her body in even minor discomfort. Even the inside of her nostrils tingled pleasantly from the scented mist an artifact continually pumped into the air.

When she dressed and made to leave again, her attendant shoved a piece of cardstock and a fountain pen into her hand.

"Today's services are free if you allow us to display your signature in the entryway." Sebastien agreed immediately, especially because hers would only be one of over two dozen other signatures already hung there. It was the easiest twenty-four gold she had ever saved herself.

"Come back next time, let us take your photograph, and it'll be free again," the woman promised. Sebastien almost laughed aloud at this enticement. It was too effective. On the street outside, the wind caught her newly short hair, and she caught the eyes of passersby. She had gotten a tapered cut, longer on top, which was arranged into a slightly messy, feathered style that the woman had promised would require almost no effort from her to maintain.

People kept turning to watch her as she walked, and Sebastien was reminded that appearances were also a form of power. It didn't have to entail the outlandish rumors that followed the Raven Queen earlier. She'd once heard that people who were well-dressed and attractive were less likely to be convicted of a crime than their counterparts. And hadn't she seen it herself?

When the villain of a play was handsome enough, people were filled with sympathy for him, no matter how heinous his crimes, and often privately believed that he could be "saved."' Perhaps I should buy more clothes for this body, as well,' she mused. She was still wearing the few high-end suits she'd bought previously, and while she took great care of them and they weren't in bad repair, this body also seemed to have grown slightly since then, and they no longer fit as perfectly as they had.'

I'll just take my measurements and let Damien or Ana handle the rest,' she decided. She hesitated before turning toward the University, mainly because she was not prepared to accidentally meet Professor Lacer, but steeled herself and headed north despite this. She found Tanya in one of the warded spell-practice areas, repeatedly casting some kind of half-shield spell that burst with concussive force from the outward-facing side. Tanya was panting, the dirty blonde hair at her temples dark and slick with sweat.

She noticed Sebastien, and her eyes flashed with confusion as she stepped away from the spell array drawn onto the floor around her.

"Sebastien" she greeted with a nod.

"You look different. Good, I mean, just…different." Sebastien ignored that.

"Do you remember a conversation we had some time ago about your career plans, Tanya?" Tanya's eyes narrowed.

"I do."

"I would like to offer you a job as my business manager. You would be able to schedule work hours around your schooling and would be handling some small business endeavors as well as a charity that I would like to set up. You can hire a solicitor to help you with the legalese and paperwork. Everything needs to be as official and above-board as possible." Tanya raised a hand and closed her eyes.

"Wait, wait. Can you explain more clearly? What business endeavors? And also a charity?"

"I invented something that's being sold, and I want you to increase the product's reach and revenue. It's called a spell rod; you probably haven't heard of it, which is part of the problem. As for the charity, I want to start… a school. One for young children or illiterate commoners, that teaches basic classes and maybe some natural science. The kinds of things that don't directly involve magic or require accreditation. But I do want accreditation, so you should get started on acquiring that as soon as possible.

I imagine it will be a difficult process." Tanya pressed a hand to her forehead.

"Fifty gold a month," Sebastien added. Tanya lowered her hand and opened her eyes.

"I will quit my job as a teacher's aide immediately, Boss" With the hard part out of the way, they went to the library and spent a couple of hours hashing out the plan. As Tanya was compiling all of her notes into a folder, Sebastien said, "I can help you if you meet any roadblocks, but ideally, you should manage everything with as little oversight as possible. I'm hiring you to save me time and energy."

"Don't worry, Boss. I won't abuse my authority, and you can count on me. We'll change the lives of as many children as possible," Tanya said, burning with determination.

"Do your best," Sebastien said, suppressing her awkwardness. It wasn't as if she could admit that the charity didn't have as much to do with her desire to selflessly uplift children out of poverty and hopelessness as it it did with her desire to build a reputation and influence for herself. Still, privately, she admitted that it was rather fulfilling to be directly responsible for imparting knowledge and opportunity onto those who would appreciate it most.

When she finally arrived at the Verdant Stag that night, wearing her female form, Siobhan was already feeling somewhat mentally exhausted. She needed to cast the sleep-proxy spell again.' If only Liza were here,' she lamented. Doing it herself was an ordeal. Enforcers were training on the street in front of the gang's headquarters, as well as in the small courtyard at the back. They had the clumsy, slightly-too-serious look of new recruits. When she met Oliver inside, she asked about it.

"We're always training, but this latest batch is particularly large."

"Can you afford all of this expansion?" she wondered, thinking of the territory she'd seen on Oliver's map earlier. As he led her into the back, past the kitchen, he spoke in a low voice.

"Being able to produce celerium would ease the burden a lot." The wine cellar seemed rather ordinary until Oliver activated a hidden door behind one of the shelving units. It opened onto a dimly lit hallway with an oppressively low ceiling, but surprisingly no smell of long-term dampness. As Oliver led her, they passed several doors along the way.

"Strategies supplies," he explained simply. Siobhan's eyes widened. She didn't know how large the storage rooms beyond were, but even if they were small, to need several rooms for them indicated a wealth of preparation that she hadn't expected.' Celerium would help, indeed,' the thought wryly. She wondered what exactly he had stockpiled.

Finally, he brought her to a metal door that reminded her of the one in the restricted archives where the University held their own entries from Myrddin's journals, except that it had no strange bubble of force and instead used some sort of complicated password pad that required Oliver to tap out almost a dozen different responses.

Myrddin's journal rested on a shelf within, along with a few rare planar components and several dozen pieces of celerium. The journal was the only thing preserved inside an evidence box, which would protect it from decay as well as any incidental harm. In the other corner of the room, a short couch sat beside a fancy standing lamp, both distinctly out of place. Siobhan sat on the couch while Oliver retrieved the journal from the box, which also seemed to be bolted to the shelf, which was in turn bolted to the wall.

Holding the journal as if it were a priceless relic—which she supposed it was—Oliver moved to sit beside her and put the journal in her lap, watching expectantly. This entry was, outwardly, the same as the others. She examined it for a bit, looking for any loose edges on the leather or strangeness about the binding, just in case some other fantastical thing like her transformation amulet might pop out. She found nothing.

Getting past the encrypting effect was easier than it had ever been, and she succeeded on the first try. Slowly, she opened the journal to the first page. Myrddin had written a note: I have already finished four notebooks since I finished the groundwork and began the true Work. Somehow, unnoticed, another thirty years have passed. I refresh my body, of course, but it seems each year flies faster than the last. I look up, and people have aged, while the world continues to change.

Years spent without true companionship hold no meaning and no weight. I wonder if this is what it is like to feel old. But then I remind myself that being elderly is a state of mind. I am only a smidge past two hundred! Practically a spring chicken! And The Work gives me purpose, no matter how many years pass since I last saw you. I realized that perhaps these journals would make a useful gift. A way for you to catch up on what you missed, these decades. Though… some things may need to be redacted.

Alright, I have completed the redactions. When you read this, I anticipate that you might be angry. But in my defense, I am not keeping secrets, rather openly deciding that I will not share certain details. This counts as honesty, so you cannot get angry, right? Siobhan squinted and tilted her head to the side as her mental image of Myrddin crumbled slightly.

She thought back to a recent redaction in the third book of his ongoing journal, where the Widow Gray had wanted to incentivize him properly, and thus took out her wooden teeth and offered Myrddin something that, apparently, he didn't want the intended recipient of these journals to know about. She shared a meaningful look at Oliver, who rubbed his nose.

"Is Myrddin always like this? So…" Siobhan nodded.

"He is rather unlike the heroic tales. Or perhaps it's only here that he revealed his true self so freely."

"Do you know who he's talking to? The person he intended to gift this to?" Siobhan sifted through her knowledge of the ancient man.

"I don't. Perhaps a lover?" she guessed. There were plenty of stories about Myrddin's various liaisons and conquests in his youth, but none past the time he was over a hundred and twenty or so. Her mind ran off on a small speculative tangent that perhaps Myrddin had been secretly involved with one of his rivals, but then returned her attention to the book in front of her.

She skipped a few pages and found a list that seemed to include everything that made up a human body, from bones to the fine vellus hair that covered the skin almost invisibly. Each had a check mark next to it. In the remaining space, Myrddin had written a note complaining about how transmutation simply didn't have the same kind of power in his hands that transmogrification did. She wondered if he was transmuting another body of flesh for some reason, but instead of digging deeper, skipped another few pages.

Her Will only had so much stamina, after all, and she wanted to find information about celerium. The page she had turned to bore fruit. Most of what she saw was incomprehensible calculations and a few fragments of spell arrays that she couldn't read, even with all the glyphs she had learned. But another note from Myrddin made the breath catch in her throat. This work on creating a method to synthesize celerium has given me inspiration about quantifying the Will.

After all, the ones they call Titans were trying to forcefully create a cladding of "identity," but everyone has a Will—even those who aren't thaumaturges. The answer might lie in exploring the interface between the Will and magic. If I can find the place where change happens, I might be able to trace it backward. Siobhan traced the words with a finger, her touch feather-light. There was so much packed into those few sentences that she didn't even know where to start unraveling them.

She forced herself not to speculate unduly—at least not until she'd had the chance to read the entire journal, page by page. Too much remained unknown to make inferences.' I do not understand,'she told herself.' But one day I will.' She jumped ahead once more. There was no indication of how much time had passed for Myrddin since the previous note, but he had made progress. This time, he had written: Success! If only I could brag to others about my unparalleled genius.

I can now detect use of the Will and isolate it by tracking someone's identity from their body, then into and through the fabric of magic.

I'll call this link between the flesh and the other a quantum tether, which works on a similar principle to the sympathetic magic people dabble in. This "other" identity is external, but constantly updating and interdependent with the Will-source—the mortal flesh. If I were more romantic or less educated, I might call it a soul. But for those who believe in the myth of the soul, this would be the most disappointing possible revelation, seeing as it is artificial.

I knew of this from talking to Night, and of course had seen the evidence in myself, but grasping the specifics for myself, understanding it in clear calculations, is entirely different. Siobhan lost concentration, and the words on the page degraded into nonsensical scribbles.