Locals came out to witness their arrival before the gates. Locals that lived outside Dis, outside the thick, lead walls; poor and suffering the ravages of mutation and poison. Children with faces like cauliflower, tumors upon tumors. The young man grimaced and his master drew down the shades from within the coach.

"Enough of that. We'll be inside shortly and you'll see a different kind of splendor, I assure you." He recovered his book from the floor of the coach and began again at the beginning, reading each page as though it were newly scribed. He pulled his hand through his beard slowly.

"Master, why not flip through to where you left off?" The elder said nothing but turned the book around. He held his current place, but flipping back to the first page. There on the paper, beneath the title, was a small engraved portrait of a blandly smiling boy.

"This book, my young friend, tells the story of a life living." He pulled the book back into his lap, "This one is of little consequence so far, and already I am up to the babe's second year. He is in a field picking flowers in this scene."

"How marvelously charming!" The younger exclaimed, smiling.

"Indeed, quite droll. But I rather prefer a beginning with more spark to it." He snapped the book shut with an air of finality, then handed it to the young man across the carriage. The youth took it, not understanding. He felt over the leather cover and found it warm to the touch.

"Always," said his master, "Always open it from the beginning. See now for yourself."

The elder's eyes twinkled in the jostling gloom. Outside sounded the gruff speech of guards and the creaking wheels paused. They had arrived at the gates to Dis.

The youth opened the book to the first page. The title was now different, and the portrait now of a mere infant - perhaps a girl, perhaps not, too young to tell. He looked up, confused.

"Yes, my boy, a new story begins... a new life," he waved his hand absently, "Perhaps it will be one with a little more flair than daisies in pastures."

The younger began to read. The child in the book was a girl, born on a battlefield, cut crying from her mother's slack womb. Her mother had been killed, and the armies had moved on. Her midwife was a cowardly soldier who hid under the slain to play dead himself. He was searching her mother's body for money, anything.

She was still alive when he started, but mortally wounded. He searched her tatters in silence, ignoring her feeble moans and her flesh draining paler and paler. She was royalty, attacked with the rest of her family and left for dead. In mere moments she would join her kin in endless peace. The looter rolled her over and snatched off her jewelry. He pried her fingers from around a slim ornamental blade. The knife was frail and beautiful, meant for cutting fruits and opening letters. It would hardly stand up in battle, but might fetch a coin or two. Suddenly, the woman lolled her head, gasping out wetly from a half-slit throat. With a surge of strength, she pulled the coward down to her and spat red into his panicked recoiling face.

"My child," she gurgled with utter conviction, struggling with him, "will live."

She held his gaze and her grip, streaming down from her wound to her ruddy soaked robes. The coward watched her die with the look of command upon her face and her rustling voice in his ears. He placed his hand to her belly and felt the child inside. With a shaking hand, he began to cut-

"I see this life is already off to an interesting start, mmm?" The elder chuckled, showing a thin smile. The stagecoach moved forward again. The groaning of great doors on greater hinges surrounded them, deep and resonant as whalesong.

The youth swallowed thickly, "Is this real? Is it happening, somewhere?"

"Oh yes, my boy. Or perhaps it has already happened, or still yet will. But it is quite real."

"And if should I close this book?"

"The life would end, as all must."

"But that means that boy you were just reading about, in the field with the flowers?"

"Gone without a trace, I'm afraid. In fact when I lost my place earlier, I was reading about a young man much your age, just beginning his prime," He snapped his fingers abruptly, and then grinned. "He was an adventurer! I wonder what will become of his siblings was planning to save. He was about to fight the forces of evil or something like that. I have to confess that I was skimming."

"Evil?"

"Mmm, An evil that now will go unchecked. But I see that you are disturbed. Don't be. These stories are always set long ago, far away. Other worlds. That sort of thing."

"But these are lives! Real people!"

"Then I suggest you keep your thumb on that page until you find a suitable bookmark. And begin where you left off - otherwise," he flared his eyes dramatically, "Madness."

The awful responsibility of it settled onto him, overwhelmingly. He tried to hand it back.

"No, you must hold it now, my apprentice. You may give it back to me when the story is finished. Or when you've had enough." He peeked through the shade into the city and smiled, getting his cane.

"Ah! And I see we have come."

= = =

They arrived into a bustling plaza surrounded by towering buildings of bleak slabs of pocked lead and dark stone. At one end of the expanse rose a sprawling mound of basalt rubble as though the earth had vomited up the slag in a messy heap over the buildings, which then cooled in place. Winding stairs were hewn into this black stone leading to an immense, crudely tapered cathedral marked with red banners.

"That is the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, built on the site of the Great Eruption centuries ago. We are expected inside." The elder stepped down from the coach with difficulty, assisted by the driver. He directed the removal of their luggage to servants of the church who were already in waiting. Among them was a rich brown woman of visible status and stature who stepped forward to greet the travellers. She was dressed in heavy robes and she bore the Vicar's mark upon her neck. The young man saw that her smile matched his master's.

"Ah, bonjour. Welcome." They clasped hands and kissed briefly. She spoke in a crisp manner, "Lailoken. Always a pleasure to see you here in this forsaken city."

"Kiskil-lilla. Considering our passage here was as perilous as usual, I can say that it is a pleasure to be seen in Dis as well." They chuckled cordially, then she turned to the youth.

"And ici? who is your second?"

"This is Ishmael, he is my pupil of a sorts. We are travellers together, these days. Ishmael this is Her Holiness Kiskil-lilla, the presiding authority in Dis" He set his hand upon Ishmael's shoulder. She extended hers to him demurely. The youth fumbled the book in his grasp to his other hand, keeping his place within it and awkwardly took her fingers. She wore two rings, one set with a dark red gem and another band enscribed with the old language. Unsure of propriety, the youth kissed both rings to be safe. As he did so she nodded to the older man.

"How charming, his hair. It is wild like yours. I might have mistaken him for you, years ago." Ishmael looked down politely, confused. She spoke to the three servants in waiting without turning to address them.

"Senoy. Sansenoy. Take their things in. Semangelof, alert the staff that guests of prominence have arrived. Lailoken, will you be staying long?"

"No, my dear. Three days at most. We are bound for beyond the city. Into the wastes."

She tsked and pursed her lips, "Such a shame. You will miss the climax of the fights this Sunday." She looked to Ishmael, "The bullfights. We are selecting our new champion. But you may still see tonight's round and perhaps a few others before you go."

"It will be an education," said the elder, about to elaborate when a cry sounded from the plaza. Thick with the midday market, it was hard to tell what the commotion was about, but a rush of guards soon streamed into the crowd, pulling apart two commoners squabbling in the dust.

"As will this be, I suspect," whispered Lailoken, barely rustling his beard.

Their host moved a step closer to them, "Perhaps we should enter the basilica, my friends. You are surely tired from your travels." The crowd roared again, flaring at some new outrage.

"I think you are right, my dear. I am weary. However, Ishmael, why don't you investigate this further and report over dinner? I am curious what you might learn. We shall be inside should you need us." So saying, the two proceeded up the long winding stairs, talking to each other as old friends. His master and his cane. The lady and her rings.

Ishamael held the book still, tucked under his arm, his finger still in place. He thought of the child within, and wondered at her fate. She was an heir, a princess or a queen. A precious early babe, in the arms of a scoundrel. In the book in his arms, doubly precious. Holding it close to his chest he approached the swirling mob of the market.

Stalls and stands had been set up through the plaza, with merchants selling and smiths tinkering and cobblers nailing and scraping. However, all had paused in their labors and haggling to oggle the ring of soldiers clearing back a space in their midst.

Ishmael sprang up onto the wheel of a parked wagon to get a better view. He saw one figure circling another crawling on the ground. The man standing was gesturing vigorously, pacing the clearing as the guards struggled to hold back the mob.

"See! See 'ow it crowls, dis abom'nashin, on legz loik rubba! Dis twistid mockry a' flesh n' bown!" The accusing figure ran up and kicked the other hard in the chest, eliciting what might have been pity or a shared outrage from the crowd.

Others were already perched on the wagon, watching. Ishmael leaned to one and asked, "What's this going on?"

"Aya! That feller there's Ignatius th' Prophet. The Mad Prophet, some might say. It looks like he's got his eye on poor Coconino today. Brained him good already!"

"On who?" Ishmael said, craning his neck to see clearly. The local turned and gave him a look, seeing his strange mode of dress.

"You must be new. That's Coconino. Been in these streets since forever. Not exactly mad, but just, you know, touched in the head. Can't barely speak, Coconino, but wouldn't hurt a fly. He's normally what you'd call harmless, but I guess he must've upset Ignatius somehow."

"Well aren't they going to stop him?"

"Who? They who? The guards?" The local cackled abruptly. "I doubt it. Ignatius is fuckin' walking miracle, my friend. Pillar of salt. Pillar of fire. He's got followers all over this town. Hey! Oy! Where you goin'?"

Ishamael had already hopped down and was pushing his way closer. Coming nearer he saw that the one pointed out as Ignatius was tall and lanky, swaddled in dirty robes and wearing what looked like a cheap plastic mask of a mouse or rat. His fingers were long and knobby, curled around a cobblestone. He raised it into the air and the crowd hollered around him.

"I am God's will! I be God's 'and... I am de shadow of God on dis eart' an' I will not suffer dis broken monsta t' live and breet." He brought the brick down with a crunching thud against the back of Coconino's head. His victim flopped onto the ground, pawing at the uneven stones, his arms curiously loose. Ishmael could see that they weren't broken, but they weren't right somehow either. They weren't straight. They bowed and flexed sickeningly under the creature's weight. Ishmael found himself thinking 'creature' because the more he looked at Coconino the less human it appeared.

It had something like a tail. It had odd boxy square ears. It had a vacant smile plastered on its stylized animal face with features mangled and battered and bleeding. It had odd protruberances along its surface. It had a surface instead of skin, like rubber or oiled leather. It would have seemed blatantly mechanical if not for the way it moved and grimaced. Smiling without smiling. Swaying and staggering about to its feet. It moaned a pathetic laughing noise and lurched away from Ignatius, only to stumble onto the ground again, sobbing and babbling.

Ignatius pried another stone from the ground, pulling it almost effortlessly and over his head with both hands. "Chu alla bear witness! Chu gon see de troot, I will make y'see de troot!" He swung it down into the face of Coconino. Of all things, sparks and embers squirted out among the ankles and sandals and Coconino flopped about in spasms, the stone still crushed to its face. Startled, Ignatius stepped back and raised a hand against the discharge.

"Leave it alone!" Ishmael pushed through the distracted guards who turned at the zapping shriek of ruined electronics. He clutched his book tightly and looked around to the dirty curious faces looking back at him. Jackals all, none would help him. The masked figure regained his composure and watched him silently, curling his fingers into fists, but his expression otherwise unreadable.

"Chu, boy. Ar' ya defendin' dis monsta?"

"I say it is a machine. You know they are innocent." Ishmael kicked aside the stone, revealing Coconino's caved in face, still grinning, the eyes black with running fluid. He knelt by the still trembling, strangely soft body and hesitated a moment before touching it, brushing his fingers over the carapace. It yielded under his touch, warm and springy, but nothing like skin. The local had said that it had been wandering the streets of Dis forever and it certainly looked like it, cracked and scuffed all over.

As he examined the surface he found what he was looking for, a flap covering jacks and plugs, serial information, recessed buttons, other marks in the old language. The buttons were caked with grime, inoperable, and he had to dig out a wad of filth to get at the vital socket. Those who could see what he was doing gasped and murmured to each other, rippling the whisper back through the crowd that Coconino was truly a machine all along, all along, all along.

Some that were elderly and remembered, nodding, eyes watering. Those that were younger disbelieved. The robotic age had come and gone. Everybody knew that.

Ishmael carefully swapped the book to his other hand and dug around in his pocket for the tool given to him by his master, learned and wise. He inserted it into the socket and it lit up a red light that flashed for mere seconds before turning green. Coconino abruptly quivered into stillness like a dropped penny.

Ishmael pocketed the device and stood up from the wreckage. Ignatius stalked towards him, rolling his shoulders, seething. He stood over the youth and looked down into his eyes. This closely, Ishmael could see more into the mask and the hard gaze there was most unmistakably, profoundly insane.

"Dis ting was a creatcha a' Set, Seth, Setekh, Sut, idol god of storms, slayer of Apep, equal to and rival of Horus and a pagan abom'nashin before de one troo God a' Isaac, Abraham, an' Ishmael."

"I a-am Ishmael." The madman's eyes narrowed, and he growled, bristling visibly. Ishmael gulped down the lump in his throat, continuing lamely, "I'm a g-guest of Her H-holiness Kiskil-lilla... the presiding... authority... in... Dis. The city, I mean."

"Chu ar' ded." He knocked past the youth and waded into the crowd, taking his oppressive menace with him. Already the guards were shuffling people along, trying to disperse things back to normal. Ishmael felt a tug at his waist and he turned, ready to fight, feeling threatening, unwelcome eyes on him from all angles.

"Hey! Easy there, pup." It was the local from before, with his hands up appeasingly. "I think you might want to keep moving, if you know what's good for you. You don't exactly blend in around here." Ishmael didn't take a good look before, but the fellow seemed amiable enough, younger than he was even and hungry, probably hoping to make quick cash off the tourist.

Ishmael turned towards the basilica and started to walk off, waving his hand dismissively, "I don't plan on staying here that long, thank you." The other licked his lips a moment, then shuffled after him.

"I can help you, y'know. Find whatever you need. If you plan on spending any more time outside the safety of the basilica I'd suggest you change into something more suitable for living in Dis."

"Like what?"

"Well," he said with a grin, "considering the friends you've already made, I'd say a coffin."