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This table is intended to be used when unprepared mortals tamper with things of truely dark and horrid origins. Most effects are fatal, and it is assumed that powerful magic would be required to reverse these.
1.Horrid Rotting.- At first, the flesh - starting with the area that made contact - will be subject to discoloration, psorasis, and eventually full blow rotting. Rotting moves inwards after affecting the limbs, eventually killing the victim. Severing affected parts does not help - the contamination is supernature, and rules of biology do not apply.
2. Petrification - Starts out as minor stiffening and inflammation, with arthritic effects on joints. As time goes by, nodes of stone begin forming in the being's flesh, starting at the hands and moving to to core. These are very painful and grow in size, eventually petrifying the limb and moving inwards. Eventually, vital organs will be effected and begin failing. Cancer-like symptoms will take, causing death unless checked by powerful magic.
3. Combustion - Users flesh bursts into flame, causing damage until extinguished. Willpower may allow the wielder to employ the Item that caused this effect for a short interval before pain forces them to drop it, or the hand fails due to muscle or tendon damage. It is possible that the fire may not be extingished by conventional means. The fire will start at the point of contact and spread. Interestingly, nothing carried or worn is subjected to the fire. Optionally, any other living flesh touched will also alight.
4. Transformation - User is morphed slowly into a demonic entity, and if the item is held too long, the transformation will be complete and the user lost. Letting go of the item causes the effect to gradually reverse, but at 1/10th the rate of the inital transformation. Other possible forms may be substituted at the whim of the GM.
5. Freezing - User slowly freezes - starts as painful cold, progresses to frostbite and complete freezing. This will start at the point where the Item was touched, and then moves inwards as with the other effects, eventually killing the victim. The effect will continue indefinately, enshrouding the (dead) victim in ice.
6. Crumbling - User's flesh turns to sand-like granules, falling away and leaving bare bones. Eventually unless magically countered, the victim will be completely skeletonized, and of course will die as major organs are consumed. This effect will only start after a delay upon handling the item, allowing for some use before the user begins their disintegration.
7. Phasing - User begins to fade away into nothingness, though a merciful GM might instead translocate the victim somewhere awful. As they fade, their weight and strength decrease (see Ring of Disappearance for details.)
8. Shrinking - User reduces in size gradually, eventually becoming smaller then the smallest insect. This is not fatal directly, but since the process continues indefinately, they will eventually reach a size where it is irrelevent if they are alive or dead, or they are eaten by a microbe.
9. Encorpulation - User begins to grow fatter and fatter, regardless of food consumption. This process continues until either stopped magically, or the victim dies of complications of their tremendous size.
10. Spiderspawn - Victim has bulbous growths similar to bubonic plague, but once they reach a couple of inches in size, they burst releasing a poisonous spider. This continues even after the victim's death. Each eruption causes a minor injury and may subject the victim to a poisonous bite if the spider is disturbed.
11. Bone Spurs - Victim begins growing sharp bony spurs in random locations, usually starting near the contact with the item was made. These will first appear as lumps and then eventually pierce the skin. If not reversed, Death will eventually follow from blood loss and infection. Those with the ability to regenerate may eventually resemble pincusions.
12. Possession - Victim has a beacon placed on them in the underworld. They will receive constant attempts at possession, and these attempts are at much higher rates of success then normal.
13-Midas Touch
Everything the person touches turns to gold. At first a boon-copper and silver coins, buttons, sword hilts and the like turning to gold means more money, this rapidly becomes a bane, as food becomes inedible and drink becomes undrinkable. Unless countered with magic, the affected person will soon die of thirst, surrounded by gold.
14-Touch of Decay
The person's touch rots. Human skin decays in seconds, food goes bad, leather and metal rusts and corrodes over time. The affected person's weapons may end up as rusted pieces of metal and the person wil find it hard to feed themselves.
Starting at the point of contact with the item and moving in, the person ages, becomeing a doddering old person within days with all the problems of old age. Rather then killing them directly the effect then stops,leaving them without very long to live.
16-Aura of Evil
A bit of the evil aura on the item lingers. Civilians will be scared of the person, law enforcement will be more likely to stop and question him and her, and dark villians may think he or she is one of them.
17-Attract Trouble
The toucher becomes a magnet for trouble, from wolves and bears in wild animals to guards in dungeons to theives in towns.
First, the toucher's fingers and then the rest of their body becomes immaterial, which lasts until the toucher tries to pass through a wall-when the toucher becomes promptly solid with fatal and very messy results.
Starting at the point of touch and moving on, the toucher slowly changes into the villian from which the object was taken. The very last thing to change is the brain, which leaves the PCs with a horrible choice-kill their fellow PC quickly or end up fighting the villian all over again.
The toucher has nightmares that prevent them getting much sleep. Should he/she take sleeping pills or try using a sleep spell then he or she will end up in a fight in a dream, losing this fight will kill the toucher in the real world.
21-Red Handed
The toucher's hands go the colour of blood, meaning that gloves are needed.
22-Urge to Steal
The toucher has an urge to steal and it is a constant hassle to keep it under control, as the majority of times it would be a very bad thing to steal and attract trouble from law enforcement/vigilantes.
23-I See Dead People
The toucher can see and hear ghosts, which whilst they can't hurt him or her, can and do constantly pester him or her for favours.
24-Random Magic
Spells that are meant to harm people that the toucher casts (fireballs, lightning bolts and the like) have a 50% chance of either hitting a fellow PC or an innocent NPC. Healing spells are unaffected.
Every full moon the toucher turns into either the classic wolf or some other creature (see the 30 Lycanthorpes submission for details.) The PC depending on the GM can be in control of his/her were form or just an animal.
26-Long fingers
The fingers of the toucher grow an inch per hour and become many jointed. Not a problem at first until they get ridiculously long.
The toucher is plauged by insect swams, rats, vultures, ect. Whilst not outright attacking the toucher or the PCs they are a pain in the neck and might spread disease.
28-Theme Music
An effect for one of the less serious games only. The toucher is bothered by loud theme music, which ruins ambushes, makes sleeping hard, and causes people to stare at him/her and the rest of the PCs. Bouncers will bar or at least try to bar the affected PC from clubs that play music.
29-Can I buy your soul?
The PC is approched by a powerful demonic being trying to get him to sell his soul. If attacked, depending on the GM it will either fight back (and be a major menace, plus any PCs it kills ends up in Hell) or vanish in a puff of smelly brimstone. It can offer one big piece of help, but only in exchange for the PC's soul when the PC dies.
30-No fingers
The PC's fingers drop off magically, leaving the PC with no fingers and unable to do anything that fingers are needed for, (holding weapons, scratching itches ect) but otherwise unharmed.
31-No Effect?
Everything's fine. Just fine. Don't worry about it. I'm sure that tingling sensation in your spine is just nerves. In fact, I'm CERTAIN it's just nerves. You just have a case of nerves... bring slowly pulled out of your body through your spine. Hold still, this might hurt.
Article Codex
Items • Jewelry • Cursed
Ring of Disappearance
A useful item, but overuse can make one ... Disappear
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How about making this stub into a 30?
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Diamond & Pearl (TCG)
- This article is about the TCG expansion set. For other uses, see Diamond and Pearl.
Diamond & Pearl (Japanese: 時空の創造 Space-Time Creation) is the name given to the first expansion of cards of the Diamond & Pearl Series of the Trading Card Game, introducing both new and returning game mechanics. The first cards in this set saw their debut in the 2006 Entry Packs, shortly after the Japanese release of Pokémon Diamond and Pearl, while the full expansion made its debut on November 30, 2006 in Japan and May 23, 2007 in North America. North American prerelease tournaments were held on May 12–13 and 19-20, 2007.
Background information
- Being the first expansion of the Generation IV era, the set introduced 55 new Pokémon to the TCG.
- Like most new generations, the card layout was redesigned yet again. Changes include:
- The evolution window graphic returns to the upper left of the illustration, as it was on cards released before the EX Era.
- Illustrator credit is included on its own line near the bottom of the card, just above the retreat cost.
- The circle pattern featured on EX Era cards behind both the card name and attacks is no longer present. This gives more space to be used by attacks and Pokémon Powers.
- Flavor text, such as height, weight, level and Pokédex entry return after a five-year absence, last appearing in Neo Destiny.
- Japanese cards revert to having no set numbering system (though still following the ordering system introduced in e-Card 2 with a slight modification to put Darkness-type and Metal-type cards before Colorless-type ones), instead listing a collection number modified from the Pokémon's National Pokédex number and evolutionary family. English cards use both this number (featured on the bottom left of the card) and the set numbering system introduced in the Base Set (featured on the bottom right).
- On English cards, level appears immediately after the Pokémon's name (previous releases had relegated it to the Pokédex entry). HP text is now smaller (though the number remains large) and appears before the amount, as on Japanese cards, rather than after.
- A new numbering system for Pokémon was deployed on the lower left of the card, labelled DPBP#; this Diamond & Pearl Battle Pokédex number system combines aspects of the National Pokédex and the habitat system featured in the FireRed and LeafGreen Versions.
- In an unprecedented change, Pokémon which are Poison-types in the core series games are now designated as Psychic-type Pokémon, rather than the former Grass-type.
- Pokémon-ex and Pokémon no longer appear and are replaced by the new Pokémon LV.X.
- Some Pokémon now have "free" attack costs, indicated by a , which require no Energy to use.
- Both Darkness Energy and Metal Energy receive new basic Energy forms which are free from the 4-per-deck rule (though they no longer have the former special effects). Cards that allow the player to search for a Darkness or Metal Energy card may seek out either version. In the set order, these new basic Energies are put after the other six, rather than being alphabetized with them.
- The term "Basic Pokémon or Evolution card" is replaced with "Pokémon" on cards, allowing for the selection of any Pokémon card when searching.
- Weakness and resistance are now dependent on the card text, rather than being a strict calculation that is static among all cards. Older cards still use the ×2 damage for weakness and -30 for resistance, but newer cards can have other factors involved.
- Unown are now named on the card according to their letter, meaning that most newer cards count as separate Pokémon.
- Supporter cards and Stadium cards are now treated as a separate class of card rather than a subclass of Trainer card as they had been considered previously. For this and future checklists, standard Trainers are still marked as "T", while Supporters are "Su" and Stadiums are "St".
- Several rules have been changed:
- A 2003 ruling disallowed the player who took the first turn from drawing a card; this rule has now been withdrawn.
- No Trainer cards, Supporter cards, or Stadium cards can be played during the first turn; however, cards depicting a Pokémon Fossil can be played during the setup phase, as long as at least a normal Basic Pokémon can be played as well. Fossils also no longer count as a free KO, and a prize is to be drawn if it is Knocked Out.
- Half decks are now allowed only two copies of cards besides basic Energy cards. Full 60-card decks retain the four-card rule.
- Packs of cards saw an increase from 9 cards to 10 in English, a welcome change for players and collectors alike. The contents of a pack are now:
- Refractor foil cards in this set have a "pixel" design. Refractor versions of normally holographic rares do not have their regular holofoil, unlike earlier expansions.
- The prerelease card for this set was Luxio. Event organizers received one stamped with "STAFF".
- In the Japanese set, certain cards are exclusive to one kind of booster pack, much as certain Pokémon are exclusive to one or two games in a generation.
Set lists
In other languages
|This article is part of Project TCG, a Bulbapedia project that aims to report on every aspect of the Pokémon Trading Card Game.
| Pokémon Trading Card Game expansions and releases
Bold indicates a main expansion. Italics indicate a special set. Releases that are entirely composed of prints from other releases are small.

subset: commoncrawl


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Now that Dawson (Monica Raymund) is training to become a firefighter on Chicago Fire, she's kind of the new kid in the firehouse. Which means plenty of hazing, largely at the hands of her former (and hopefully future?) colleagues. But can she handle all of it?
In this exclusive sneak peek of Chicago Fire's four new webisodes, all of which debut Tuesday on NBC.com, Dawson stops by her old digs to say hi. Otis (Yuri Sardarov), Cruz (Joe Minoso) and the gang already have plenty of duties lined up for the trainee, including finding new recipes to cook for the entire firehouse and cleaning the bathroom (ew).
However, Dawson's biggest test comes when a woman runs to Firehouse 51 yelling for help moments after the house leaves on a call.
Watch this exclusive sneak peek of the first webisode:
Chicago Fire's four new webisodes debut Tuesday on NBC.com. The drama returns with new episodes on Tuesday, Feb. 25 at 10/9c on NBC.


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San Francisco's Tech Boom Has Pushed Up Office Rents 81% in Four Years
The latest tech boom has been inflating commercial rents all across the Bay Area, but nowhere have the impacts been as acute as in San Francisco. The increases are certainly welcome news to the city's commercial landlords, but non-profits, small businesses, and startups are getting pushed out by rents they can't afford.
The Information reports the real estate turnaround began in 2010. Now, just four years later, San Francisco's office rents are approaching dot-com bubble territory.
In 2010, when the average rent for top grade office space fell to $34.02 a square foot, there were 22 blocks—real estate lingo for office spaces of 100,000 square feet or more—on the market. The city scrambled to alter its local tax laws to keep Twitter in town and generally worked to make itself more attractive to tech companies.
Today, with San Francisco displacing Silicon Valley as the location of choice for many tech companies, the average price per square foot for so-called Class A office space in San Francisco is $64.45, according to the real estate company CBRE. That's close to the dot-com bubble peak of $67.20 in the third quarter of 2000.
San Francisco's office vacancy rate has plummeted to 7.8 percent as tech firms have gobbled up available real estate. According to a report from Cassidy Turley, a commercial real estate firm, just six companies are accountable for the bulk of leasing activity. Google, Salesforce, LinkedIn, Twitter, Dropbox, and Uber have all signed leases in the past six months for two million additional square feet of space—offices that could house more than 12,000 new employees.
Non-profits are being especially hit hard by the increases. Around San Francisco's Mid-Market neighborhood—a longtime home to non-profits serving the disadvantaged—landlords are cashing in the area's tax breaks and tech charm.
One non-profit, the In-Home Supportive Services Consortium, recently had their rents raised from $18 to $45 per square foot. According to the San Francisco Chronicle, the only way for the organization to stay in the city was to move into a basement with no windows.
"They are turning our old offices into tech space. I get it - everybody wants to be across the street from the Twitter building," at Market and 10th streets, [Deputy Director Mark Burns] says. "As much as we hate to be underground, I feel fortunate to be here for the next 10 years."
The problem is only expected to get worse, despite a wave of new commercial construction slated to open in late 2015. Most of those units are already pre-leased by tech's biggest companies. And because of that, Cassidy Turley anticipates the vacancy rate will fall to 5.0% by early next year—only causing rents to climb higher.


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Phil Sturgeonhas posted about some Node.js vs PHP benchmarks that someone linked him to concerning web scraping. The article suggests that Node.js "owns" PHP when it comes to this but, as Phil finds out, there's a bit more to the story than that.
Sometimes people link me to articles and ask for my opinions. This one was a real doozy. Oh goody, a framework versus language post. Let's try and chew through this probable linkbait [where] we're benchmarking NodeJS v PHP. Weird, but I'll go along with it. Well, now we're testing cheerio v PhpQuery which is a bit different, but fine, let's go along with it.
Through a little discovery, Phil noticed phpQuery using file_get_contents, a blocking method for fetching the remote pages to scrape. Node.js instead uses a non-blocking method, meaning multiple files can be fetched at the same time. In answer to this blocking vs non-blocking, he decided to run benchamrks against a few cases - Node.js/Cherrio, PHP/phpQuery and his own, more correct comparison to the Node option - PHP/ReactPHP/phpQuery. He's shared his results, showing a major difference between the straight phpQuery and the React-based version.
It seems likely to me that people just assume PHP can't do this stuff, because by default most people arse around PHP with things like MAMP, or on their shitty web-host where is is hard to install things and as such get used to writing PHP without utilizing many extensions. It is probably exactly this which makes people think PHP just can't do something, when it easily can.


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Say the word "inventor" and most people think of a solitary genius toiling in a basement. But two ambitious new books on the history of innovation—by Steven Johnson and Kevin Kelly, both longtime wired contributors—argue that great discoveries typically spring not from individual minds but from the hive mind. In Where Good Ideas Come From: The Natural History of Innovation, Johnson draws on seven centuries of scientific and technological progress, from Gutenberg to GPS, to show what sorts of environments nurture ingenuity. He finds that great creative milieus, whether MIT or Los Alamos, New York City or the World Wide Web, are like coral reefs—teeming, diverse colonies of creators who interact with and influence one another.
Seven centuries are an eyeblink in the scope of Kelly's book, What Technology Wants, which looks back over some 50,000 years of history and peers nearly that far into the future. His argument is similarly sweeping: Technology, Kelly believes, can be seen as a sort of autonomous life-form, with intrinsic goals toward which it gropes over the course of its long development. Those goals, he says, are much like the tendencies of biological life, which over time diversifies, specializes, and (eventually) becomes more sentient.
Wired brought these two big brains together in New York, and the result was a conversation that covered everything from technological evolution to retweets to the value of Internet crap.
Steven Johnson: We share a fascination with the long history of simultaneous invention: cases where several people come up with the same idea at almost exactly the same time. Calculus, the electrical battery, the telephone, the steam engine, the radio—all these groundbreaking innovations were hit upon by multiple inventors working in parallel with no knowledge of one another.
Kevin Kelly: Our books are another case in point. We independently came up with not just similar ideas but a lot of the same examples.
Johnson: Actually, I just hacked into your computer. [Laughs]
Kelly: It's amazing that the myth of the lone genius has persisted for so long, since simultaneous invention has always been the norm, not the exception. Anthropologists have shown that the same inventions tended to crop up in prehistory at roughly similar times, in roughly the same order, among cultures on different continents that couldn't possibly have contacted one another.
Johnson: Also, there's a related myth—that innovation comes primarily from the profit motive, from the competitive pressures of a market society. If you look at history, innovation doesn't come just from giving people incentives; it comes from creating environments where their ideas can connect.
Kelly: The musician Brian Eno invented a wonderful word to describe this phenomenon: scenius. We normally think of innovators as independent geniuses, but Eno's point is that innovation comes from social scenes,from passionate and connected groups of people.
Johnson: At the end of my book, I try to look at that phenomenon systematically. I took roughly 200 crucial innovations from the post-Gutenberg era and figured out how many of them came from individual entrepreneurs or private companies and how many from collaborative networks working outside the market. It turns out that the lone genius entrepreneur has always been a rarity—there's far more innovation coming out of open, nonmarket networks than we tend to assume.
Kelly: Really, we should think of ideas as *connections,*in our brains and among people. Ideas aren't self-contained things; they're more like ecologies and networks. They travel in clusters.
Johnson: Exactly. And that, by the way, is also a fantastic example of how ideas work. After you'd read a galley of my book, you emailed me and wrote, "It's a book about why ideas are networks." And even though that line is in my book somewhere, I had never really framed it that way in my mind. But ever since then, when people ask me about the book, I've been using that concept to explain it. You had come to my work with fresh eyes and pointed out a really lovely way of expressing the main thesis that had completely escaped me. That's the way breakthrough ideas happen. They don't come from contemplative geniuses sitting alone in their studies, trying to think new thoughts.
Kelly: In part, that's because ideas that leap too far ahead are almost never implemented—they aren't even valuable. People can absorb only one advance, one small hop, at a time. Gregor Mendel's ideas about genetics, for example: He formulated them in 1865, but they were ignored for 35 years because they were too advanced. Nobody could incorporate them. Then, when the collective mind was ready and his idea was only one hop away, three different scientists independently rediscovered his work within roughly a year of one another.
Johnson: Charles Babbage is another great case study. His "analytical engine," which he started designing in the 1830s, was an incredibly detailed vision of what would become the modern computer, with a CPU, RAM, and so on. But it couldn't possibly have been built at the time, and his ideas had to be rediscovered a hundred years later.
Kelly: I think there are a lot of ideas today that are ahead of their time. Human cloning, autopilot cars, patent-free law—all are close technically but too many steps ahead culturally. Innovating is about more than just having the idea yourself; you also have to bring everyone else to where your idea is. And that becomes really difficult if you're too many steps ahead.
Johnson: The scientist Stuart Kauffman calls this the "adjacent possible." At any given moment in evolution—of life, of natural systems, or of cultural systems—there's a space of possibility that surrounds any current configuration of things. Change happens when you take that configuration and arrange it in a new way. But there are limits to how much you can change in a single move.
Kelly: Which is why the great inventions are usually those that take the smallest possible step to unleash the most change. That was the difference between Tim Berners-Lee's successful HTML code and Ted Nelson's abortive Xanadu project. Both tried to jump into the same general space—a networked hypertext—but Tim's approach did it with a dumb half-step, while Ted's earlier, more elegant design required that everyone take five steps all at once.
Johnson: Also, the steps have to be taken in the right order. You can't invent the Internet and then the digital computer. This is true of life as well. The building blocks of DNA had to be in place before evolution could build more complex things. One of the key ideas I've gotten from you, by the way—when I read your book Out of Control in grad school—is this continuity between biological and technological systems.
Kelly: Both of us have written books on this idea, on the primacy of the evolutionary model for understanding the world. But in What Technology Wants, I've actually gone a bit further and come to see technology as an alternative great story, as a different source for understanding where we are in the cosmos. I think technology is something that can give meaning to our lives, particularly in a secular world.
Johnson: One thing I love about your book is that by the end, you've moved from discussions of cutting-edge technology to this amazingly grand vista of life and human creation. It's very rare to have a book about technology that is moving in that way—that has this almost spiritual component to it. Really, it's kind of the anti-Unabomber manifesto.
Kelly: [Laughs] That's a great blurb.
Johnson: No, seriously! He had this bleak, soul-sucking vision of technology as an autonomous force for evil. You also present technology as a sort of autonomous force—as wanting something, over the long course of its evolution—but it's a more balanced and ultimately positive vision, which I find much more appealing than the alternative.
Kelly: As I started thinking about the history of technology, there did seem to be a sense in which, during any given period, lots of innovations were in the air, as it were. They came simultaneously. It appeared as if they wanted to happen. I should hasten to add that it's not a conscious agency; it's a lower form, something like the way an organism or bacterium can be said to have certain tendencies, certain trends, certain urges. But it's an agency nevertheless.
Johnson: I was particularly taken with your idea that technology wants increasing diversity—which is what I think also happens in biological systems, as the adjacent possible becomes larger with each innovation. As tech critics, I think we have to keep this in mind, because when you expand the diversity of a system, that leads to an increase in great things and an increase in crap.
Kelly: Right. This is a big theme in your book, too—the idea that the most creative environments allow for repeated failure.
Johnson: And for wastes of time and resources. If you knew nothing about the Internet and were trying to figure it out from the data, you would reasonably conclude that it was designed for the transmission of spam and porn. And yet at the same time, there's more amazing stuff available to us than ever before, thanks to the Internet.
Kelly: Ten years ago, I was arguing that the problem with TV was that there wasn't enough bad TV. Making TV was so expensive that accountants prevented it from becoming really crappy—or really great. It was all mediocre. But that was before YouTube. Now there is great TV!
Johnson: Yeah.
Kelly: To create something great, you need the means to make a lot of really bad crap. Another example is spectrum. One reason we have this great explosion of innovation in wireless right now is that the US deregulated spectrum. Before that, spectrum was something too precious to be wasted on silliness. But when you deregulate—and say, OK, now waste it—then you get Wi-Fi.
Johnson: This is another idea with a clear evolutionary parallel, right? If we didn't have genetic mutations, we wouldn't have us. You need error to open the door to the adjacent possible.
Kelly: In your book, you use this marvelous image of the coral reef as a metaphor for where innovation comes from. So what, today, are some of the most reeflike places in the technological realm?
Johnson: I have two answers to that. One, not surprisingly, is Twitter—not to see what people are having for breakfast, of course, but to see what people are talking about, the links to articles and posts that they're passing along.
Kelly: The retweets.
Johnson: Exactly. But my second example of an information coral reef, and maybe the less predictable one, is the university system. As much as we sometimes roll our eyes at the ivory-tower isolation of universities, they continue to serve as remarkable engines of innovation.
Kelly: In my book, I quote the astrophysicist Paul Davies, who asks whether the laws of nature are "rigged in favor of life." For my part, I think the laws of nature are rigged in favor of innovation.
Johnson: Life seems to gravitate toward these complex states where there's just enough disorder to create new things. There's a rate of mutation just high enough to let interesting new innovations happen, but not so many mutations that every new generation dies off immediately.
Kelly: In this way and many others, technology is an extension of life. Both life and technology are faces of the same larger system.
Johnson: So what I want to know is this: I started thinking about the connection between biological and cultural systems from your first book, but where did you learn it from?
Kelly: One big influence for me was Douglas Hofstadter's book Gödel, Escher, Bach, published back in 1979.
Johnson: So where'd he get the idea from?
Kelly: [Laughs] He was a genius!


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Godspeed, Jantz Grodzicki
November 26, 2012 1:35pm
After several conflicting reports since Friday, we are very sad to report that 16-year-old Jantz Grodzicki of San Diego, CA, passed away this afternoon after a crash at the Winter Olympics in Gainesville, Florida.
The following message was posted by his mother:
"It is with the heaviest of hearts and deepest sorrow that we share with you the loss of our son Christopher "JANTZ" Grodzicki #96."
-Lisa Adams Grodzicki
You will be missed deeply 96.
Ride In Paradise Jantz!


text:
Travellers' Rest
James Enge
Download this story as a free epub or Kindle format ebook in celebration of Pyr's 100th title!
The story you are about to read features James Enge's wondrous character, Morlock Ambrosius. Morlock is a swordsman, an exile, a hunchback, a drunk, and a wizard, though he himself would use the term "Maker" and say he is a master of the two arts, Seeing and Making. He is a modern descendant of the sword and sorcery adventurer that was birthed in the pages of Weird Tales magazine, and Enge himself has been favorably compared to Fritz Leiber, Jack Vance, David Eddings, Steven Brust, and, interestingly, Raymond Chandler. His tales of Morlock the Maker have appeared in Black Gate magazine, in the anthology Swords & Dark Magic, and elsewhere, and Morlock features in the novels Blood of Ambrose, This Crooked Way, and The Wolf Age. Speaking of the novel The Wolf Age, Locus magazine wrote, "One of Enge's great virtues as a writer is weirdness—he's not afraid to do the unexpected, and his imagination is formidable. But there's an underlying emotional power here, too. The author excels at depicting the bonds of friendship, the pain of betrayal, and the tragedy of well-laid plans going awry, and that emotional payload is what makes this novel into more than just an entertaining adventure story about a guy with a magical sword who fights monsters." Which is not to say that there isn't a magic sword, because there is, and where Morlock goes, rest assured there are always plenty of monsters. This story, "Travellers' Rest," is no exception. Chronologically, it takes place some years before the events of the novels. If you are new to Morlock, it should make a fine introduction to Enge's creation, and if you are not, you will be pleased to see the return of at least one old friend. Either way, we hope that you enjoy it.
Lou Anders, Editorial Director
Pyr, an Imprint of Prometheus Books
Download this story as a free epub or Kindle format ebook in celebration of Pyr's 100th title!
The awkwardly made maker and his dwarvish apprentice were passing through trackless green fields peppered with large, slow-moving shellbacked beasts. Ahead, scattered around the junction of two roads that met in the shadow of the nearby hills, were some ragged brick buildings. The town, if that's what it was, looked worn, weather-bitten, barely populated.
The apprentice—a gray-faced, brown-bearded, dark-eyed dwarf named Wyrth—said, "Master Morlock, let's go on to the next town."
"Morlock, those beetles are taller than I am. Imagine what the bedbugs are like! Next town, please."
"I believe these are cattle. Note the udder on that one."
"I have better things to do than look at the private parts of cows! Um. If that's an udder, there's another one sprouting from the beast's other side. Are you sure they're cows?"
"No. They seem to be chewing cuds, though. If you can bring yourself to look."
"You may practice your wit on me as you like, Master Morlock. It needs the practice, as God Sustainer knows. I still vote for the next town."
Since voting had nothing to do with the matter, Morlock proceeded with his loping irregular stride toward the buildings clustered at the town's center. His lack of reply was all the reply necessary: Wyrth was free to continue to the next town if he liked, but Morlock was stopping here.
"For the conversation, probably,"Wyrth speculated at Morlock's crooked shoulders and followed him into town.
Two roads met at the town's center, where there was a fairly large hostel several stories high. But the facade was in poor repair, and the road running westward to the sea was ill tended and untravelled, carpeted with brown weeds. The road running north toward the hills was in a slightly different condition: the weeds carpeting it were more of a reddish gray.
"Next town," Wyrth muttered rebelliously, but followed Morlock through the broad open door of the hostelry into the shadows within.
One of those shadows was snoring behind a counter. Morlock rapped a knuckle on the counter and the shadow jumped like a startled rabbit and, rubbing its eyes, said in a professionally suave voice, "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Your pardon!Welcome to Travellers' Rest at Boulostreion! What can we do to assuage the weariness of the long roads you have travelled to reach us?"
"Couple rooms," Morlock said. "Lunch."
"Lunch. Yes. Lunch. Let's see. Right now it's about—"
"Noon. Not really? I've slept the morning away. I hope my good wife and daughters have not done the same. I mean—daughter. Never mind. One moment while I check. Before I go, may I ask how long you'll be staying with us?"
Morlock opened his hands and shrugged. When the hosteller realized that was all the response he was going to get, he shrugged himself and hurried off.
"If there is cooking going on in this establishment," Wyrth remarked, "then I'm one of those cow-beetles back there. I didn't even see a thread of smoke from the chimneys as we approached."
"They don't see as many travellers as they once did; that's clear," Morlock replied.
"Maybe travellers know something that we don't and tend to travel a little further down the road? To the next town perhaps?"
Morlock travelled a little further into the hostelry, where there were many tables and benches set up in a roomy (if somewhat dim) dining hall. The benches, tables, and floor were all scrupulously clean, as far as Wyrth could tell. He was about to comment on it when Morlock gestured at something moving in the shadows nearby. It was some sort of insect fringed with dozens of feathery tendrils; it spun endlessly across the shadowy floor.
"Does it eat the dust?" Morlock wondered. "Or just pick it up to deposit elsewhere?"
"What else does it eat besides dust?" Wyrth countered. "How will you feel when you find one crawling up your thigh in the middle of the night? The thing's bigger than a sausage tray!"
Morlock hung his sword belt over a nearby chair, then unshouldered his backpack and took a cold-light from it. He tapped the crystalline cylinder and set it on one end of the table, giving light to the room.
Wyrth grumbled a little but eventually slid off his own pack and engaged Morlock in conversation on various topics: the weather; the state of politics in the imperial capital when they'd left it; the likelihood that the cows they'd seen were actually blood-drinkers, like bovine mosquitoes; the amount of blood it would take to satisfy such ravening beasts; and so on.
Morlock had little to say about any of it except, "They won't be interested in my blood." This was perfectly true: Morlock's blood tended to set things on fire, and few parasites made the mistake of putting the bite on
him—none made it twice. The same was not true ofWyrth's blood at all, and reflections on this topic led him to fall into an unusually gloomy silence.
Meanwhile the hosteller returned to his counter and, not finding Morlock and Wyrth, cried out in vexation and something like despair.
"Mine host!" Wyrth said. "We're over here."
"Ah!" The hosteller leapt eagerly toward them into the circle of light cast by Morlock's cold-light. He was followed by a shorter, thinner, paler, female echo of himself. "Ah, gentlemen—may I know your names?"
"No," said Morlock.
"Oh!" said the hosteller. His plump reddish-brown face looked baffled.
Wyrth was annoyed at his master. The man had his reasons for not giving his name every time he was asked, especially south of the Dholich Kund, but you'd think that by now he'd have figured out some more diplomatic way of answering.
"Canyon keep you, you surly old bastard," Wyrth muttered at Morlock. "Mine host, this gentleman here is a secretive fellow, but he's not dangerous when well fed and kept away from poisonous or predatory insects. I just mention that in passing, in case there are any around here. I'm his apprentice in the many arts of making, God Avenger pity me for it. My name is Wyrth, and I don't give three chunks of chaos who knows it."
The hosteller was relieved to meet someone of his own talkative turn of mind. "Well! Gentlemen, I am Sunlar; this is my house. Here is my younger daughter—I mean my daughter, Raelio; she will see to your comforts, within reason, of course."
Wyrth assumed this meant that the girl was not on the menu. That was fine with Wyrth: he himself never dated outside his species, and Morlock's vices did not include preying on children. "Despite appearances, we're reasonable people," Wyrth said to the hosteller, hoping he could make himself understood without any disgusting particularities.
"Excellent, excellent," said Sunlar. "Well, I'll leave you with Raelio. I have to go help my—I have to help with the—Some matters await my tending." He bounced off toward the back of the house.
The child watched him go, amusement and affection gently lighting her dark-eyed weary face.
"He's awful excited," she remarked.
"We're the first guests in a while, I suppose?" Wyrth said.
"I wasn't supposed to say. If I did, I'd have to count back a month or two. And they snuck out without paying, the scasp-chewing branticules. Still, it was nice to have someone in the house for a while. How long are you staying?"
"A while," Morlock said. "What's to eat?"
"I couldn't exactly say. I was supposed to tell you that the house special was the best thing I'd ever eaten, but I can't exactly say that because I don't know what it is and I don't want to lie."
"You're an honest waitress," Wyrth said.
The girl nodded. "Morlock drags you to hell if you lie. I don't want to go to hell. So I'm not lying anymore." Her tone was cool and pragmatic; she had thought the matter through and this was her decision about it.
"Er," Wyrth said wittily. He was taken aback, and somewhat annoyed to see that Morlock himself was not: the crooked man was used to hearing these wild tales about himself. "Morlock drags liars to hell, does he?"
"Everyone knows that. My mother says so."
"But—you don't anticipate death soon, do you? I mean—"
"It can happen to anyone. At any time. Isn't that true? They can come for you and then you're gone. So we have to be happy and good while we can. My mother says so."
"Well. Well. Right she is, of course."
"Who are they?" Morlock asked.
"Shut up, you old fool; you'll frighten her. Never mind him, Raelio. He doesn't mean any harm, as a general thing, but you have to practice ignoring him."
"They come for you from the hills," the girl explained to Morlock, ignoring Wyrth instead. "And then you're gone. We have to hope that you are dead. That's the best we can hope for. That's what my mother says."
"And is Morlock one of those who come from the hills?" Morlock asked. (Wyrth had to admit that his interest was perfectly natural.)
"No, silly. They kill you in the hills and then Morlock and the angel fight over your soul. But the angel won't fight for you if you're a liar, so then Morlock gets you. My mother says so. Do you want something to drink? I was to start you with drinks and then inveigle you in innocent conversation. I guess I inveigled first, but I don't know what that means exactly."
"Inveigled is—it means—Well, anyway, what have you got to drink?"
"We have wine—"
"No wine," said Wyrth firmly, looking sideways at Morlock.
"—the beer's not bad; I had some at breakfast—"
"No beer."
"Well we have a little mead from over the border, but—"
"No mead. Have you got anything but strong drink? Water, or something of that description?"
"Water's all right, I guess," the girl said dubiously. "Our well's a little murky and we have to pay Gar Vindisc to use the stream."
"Get us some of his good water, my dear; we'll pay you triple whatever it costs."
"Her. Her water. Gar Vindisc is one of the Old Women. What do you think 'gar' means?"
"If I told you I knew, my dear, I would have some trouble with Morlock right quick."
"Wouldn't you rather have thrinnel? I love thrinnel. It's even better than beer!"
Wyrth didn't know what thrinnel was so he asked, "Is it strong drink? Can you get drunk on it?"
"No, no. Babies drink it. It's yummy."
"Well, if it's yummy then we must have some. Now we move on to shiftier ground. What do you think they're going to offer us for lunch, Raelio?"
"Anything you want that we've got. The da is that excited to have people under the roof again."
"What've you got, then?"
"Shellback brisket, shellback liver, shellback kidneys, shellback steaks and tripe, shellback-tail soup—"
"Shellbacks are those remarkable cattle we saw coming into town?"
"I guess."
"What is there beside shellback?"
"Might be fish. Dry salted fish, from before winter."
"Seethe some of that in Gar Vindisc's good water and bring it to us. Bread, too, as long as you don't make it from shellbacks."
"And two shellback steaks," Morlock added. Wyrth looked at him with a sense of deep betrayal, but Morlock shrugged his crooked shoulders and said, "Might as well see if it's edible," and Wyrth had to concede his point.
Raelio fetched them wooden mugs of thick yellowish fluid ("Thrinnel!") and ran off to carry their order to the back of the house. Both the master maker and his apprentice could now detect the presence of several fires in the house, and anyone with ears could have detected a man and a woman shrieking at each other, with excitement rather than rage, amid the clanking of much cookware. A brief silence prevailed, in the heart of which Raelio could be heard reciting their order. There were some whispered consultations and the clanking resumed, even more purposefully than before, but with less shouting.
"What is this stuff?" Wyrth asked, fearfully peering into his mug. "Pus? Does 'yummy' mean what I thought it meant?"
"It's buttermilk," said Morlock after sipping some. "Reasonably fresh buttermilk."
"Buttermilk?" demanded Wyrth, outraged. "And they serve it in a public establishment where anyone might drink it by accident? Civil law must have broken down entirely hereabouts."
"It's not so bad. Better than wine. Or beer."
"Er. Yes." Wyrth was particularly worried about Morlock getting drunk these days.
"Could you map a four-dimensional image of it onto three dimensions?" Morlock asked.
"A four-dimensional image of a fluid?" Wyrth wondered. Then he realized that lesson time had begun. "Or a fluid in a four-dimensional container? Well, why not? What should I use as a medium?"
"Something particulate. You can use a cementing spell to retain the shape."
"Yes. If only we had some salt or something. Is there some in your pack?"
"There is a dish of it at your elbow."
"So there is!"
Someone else entered the front of the hostelry while Wyrth was occupied in his model making.
"Must be a happy day for ourn host," Wyrth remarked. "Two sets of guests in one day."
"Eh," said Morlock, but it was the way he said it.
"What do you mean? What's wrong?"
Wyrth listened. He couldn't catch many words, but Sunlar's voice sounded angry or frightened. The stranger's voice was low, steady, implacable. A third voice rang out, a woman's, loud enough for her words to carry to the refectory.
"We've done our part!" the woman shrieked. "We gave you our other one! Leave us alone! You said you'd leave us alone. Leave us alone!"
"Morlock," Wyrth said warningly. "Not our problem."
But the crooked man was already standing. Wyrth knew the crazy look in those pale gray eyes, and he feared the worst. At least Morlock left his sword hanging on the chair back, Wyrth reflected, which showed he wasn't intending to kill anybody right away.
Morlock walked back up the refectory hall and into the shadowy entrance hall, Wyrth following reluctantly. The door to the street was standing open and a huge hulking man stood in it. The day was warmish, but his bulk was covered by a full cloak and his flat dull-eyed face showed no suffering from heat. It showed no feeling at all as the stranger said, "I've come to take her, that's all. You know what he says. She is to come with me to the hills."
Sunlar, Raelio, and an older women that Wyrth guessed must be the girl's mother were huddled together behind the counter, as if that could protect them from the stranger.
"What is this?" Morlock demanded.
The stranger turned to him. He didn't seem surprised or even interested in the interruption. He said, "I am to take the girl to the hills. Kyrkylio says so, and I do as he says."
"That will not be convenient for me," Morlock said. "The girl is to serve me lunch."
"The old woman can serve it."
"She's cooking it."
"The old man can serve it."
"He has other important duties around this busy house."
"Oh." The stranger paused, evidently not wishing to be unreasonable. "How long will your lunch take? I can bring her to the hills after you're done."
Morlock was usually prepared to be unreasonable, as Wyrth well knew and as the stranger was learning. "I will require lunch tomorrow also," the crooked man said implacably, "and the next day."
"How long are you staying here?"
"As far as you're concerned, forever. Go back to the hills. Tell Kyrkylio that he may not have the girl."
"He won't like that."
Morlock shrugged.
"He gets angry."
This time Morlock didn't even bother to shrug.
"I get angry, too," the stranger said. "You treat me unkindly. I am not used to that."
"Learn," Morlock suggested.
"No. I'm done with learning." The stranger drew a sword from under his voluminous cloak and pointed it at Morlock. "I learned how to cut people open when they are unkind to me. That's all I need. Now people are kind to me or I cut them open. Which is it for you? What do you say?"
What Morlock said was, "Tyrfing!"
Wyrth dropped to the floor. Morlock's sword, Tyrfing (its black-and white blade glittering in the light from the open door to the street), flew over his head and into Morlock's open hand.
The stranger looked without dismay at the sword that had suddenly come to Morlock's hand when called. "I see it. You are a sorcerer."
"I am Morlock Ambrosius," the crooked man replied.
The man and the woman screamed together and hid their faces. The girl seemed frightened, too, but she kept watching.
"I have a name, too," the stranger said slyly. "A name that makes people scream, a name they are afraid to say."
He tossed back his cloak, and Wyrth saw that his frame was not so very large after all. What made him seem bulky was the fact that he had six arms, each of them armed with a sword. "I am Iagiawôn," the stranger said triumphantly. "Iagiawôn the Many-Handed!" He advanced, spinning the blades as if his wrists were on pivots.
"I told you," Wyrth shouted at Morlock, "we should have gone to the next town!"
"Get them out of here," Morlock said and retreated a step or two, Tyrfing raised to guard against the rippling hedge of blades.
"That means you!" Wyrth shouted at the family huddling behind the counter. But only the girl seemed to hear him, and she was caught tight in her parents' double embrace.
Wyrth muttered a brief but sincere curse and dashed across the entryway, sparing a moment to kick at the back of Iagiawôn's left knee, spoiling his six-fold thrust at Morlock. Unfortunately it did no other harm; the joint had some sort of buglike carapace to protect it. Wyrth half expected one of the six freakishly mobile arms to swing around and stab at him with a sword, but that didn't happen. When Wyrth realized it wasn't happening, he knew that was important somehow, but he didn't have time to think about it.
Wyrth dragged Sunlar and his wife to their feet and pushed them across the floor into the dining hall. "Is there a back door in here?" he asked the wide-eyed girl, there obviously being no point in addressing a sensible question to the sobbing hysterical adults.
"Yes—" the girl began.
"What's the point?" Sunlar wailed. "Morlock can find us wherever we go! Unless you think Iagiawôn can kill him?"
Wyrth lived on terms of irritable cheerfulness with life, and very few things really made him genuinely angry. But this was one of them.
"You snivelling swill-vendor!" he shouted up at Sunlar's startled tearstained face. "Morlock is risking his life out there for you and your family, even though he probably doesn't remember your names. And you're in here hoping the monster who came to take your daughter—your second daughter as I understand it—you're hoping he fulfills his wish and cuts Morlock open. Well, don't worry about it. However the fight works out, you won't have to worry about Morlock coming after you; all those old stories are lies. Go on; get out of here; run as far and as fast as you can. But remember: every day of your life from now on is the gift of Morlock Ambrosius."
He turned away from the family and grabbed a heavy drinking mug molded (badly) from pewter. He ran back into the entryway and saw Morlock was continuing a circling retreat, dodging the occasional sixfold thrust.
Wyrth threw the mug as hard as he could at Iagiawôn's head, hoping it would bash out whatever the insectile thug used for brains. Wyrth was not hampered by any superstitions about fair fighting.
Unfortunately, it did worse than no good. Iagiawôn turned slightly to face the flying mug and caught it in his spinning blades; it shattered like glass. One of the larger chunks bounced off Morlock's knee and he staggered a bit. Iagiawôn gleefully stabbed at him with his sheaf of blades, but Morlock managed to keep his feet and fend off the blades with a sweeping slash, like a reaper mowing glittering deadly stalks of hay.
"I told you to get them out!" Morlock shouted to Wyrth past his antagonist.
Wyrth hesitated. That meant Morlock thought there was a real likelihood Iagiawôn would win the fight, and Wyrth and the others would be in danger. On the other hand, Wyrth thought he could better Morlock's odds if he stayed. On the other other hand,Wyrth hadn't been doing a very good job of helping so far. . . . How many hands was that?
Hands. Suddenly Wyrth realized the importance of something he had noticed earlier. Iagiawôn had six hands, but he couldn't use them independently. When he moved them, he moved them all in the same way.
He shouted to Morlock in Dwarvish. "Hwaet! Vakt sorn knektan wyruma thledhan; dal sar aknekt ma kapt!" (Hey! The bug has six clever hands but just one stupid head!)
"Yes," Morlock said. "Get. Them. Out."
Wyrth was about to say they were out when he noticed the innkeeper and his family watching the fight from the doorway just behind him.
"Go," he said, pushing them back. "Go, get out. It's life or death for you."
He led them into the dining hall, each clash of the blades feeling like a thrust through his own heart. But what could he do? If Morlock thought this was worth spending his life on, Wyrth had better make sure it was not for nothing.
There was a clatter that caused him to look over his shoulder. Iagiawôn had leapt up on the counter to rain cuts down at Morlock's head. The monster must have been confident about the carapace protecting his legs.
But Morlock didn't attack him directly. The crooked man jumped to one side and shattered the counter itself with a single slash of Tyrfing's glittering unbreakable blade. Iagiawôn hit the ground rolling on his shoulder—he had a lot of shoulder to roll on—and was almost instantly on his feet.
Morlock grabbed a stretch of the shattered counter in his left hand, extended Tyrfing, and stabbed at his enemy. Iagiawôn caught the accursed blade in a sixfold bind. Morlock swung the length of wood he held in his left hand and buried the end of it in Iagiawôn's skull. The six-armed swordsman slumped to the splinter-strewn floor. He was dead by the time Wyrth ran up to stand by Morlock.
"Are you all right?" the dwarf said to his craft-master. "That chunk of metal seemed to hit you pretty hard. Sorry about that, by the way."
"It's all right," Morlock said. "Wyrth."
"'Out' does not mean 'part way into the next room.' In case this situation comes up again."
"How likely is that?" Wyrth shouted back, stung. "More important, how would I carry the news to my father under Thrymhaiam that I ran away while you fought to your death against a six-armed beast?"
"I'd prefer that to seeing you die next to me."
"But I wouldn't, and neither would my father, as well you know."
"You think too much of your father's opinion."
"And you think too little of it. No, I've heard what you said, Master Morlock, and I'll consider it. You'll note I obeyed you sufficiently as to be no damn use at all, anyway."
Morlock's scarred face bent slightly in a one-sided smile. "It's a start. Let's haul the meat into the sideyard. If that suits you, Sunlar?"
The hosteller and his family had approached tentatively and were eyeing the dead body with interest and some dismay. Sunlar realized he had been addressed and jumped. Morlock repeated his question. Sunlar nodded mutely, and Morlock remarked toWyrth, "I want to have a look at his wrists, at least, before we eat."
"They must be ball-and-socket joints, I guess."
"Plainly. Though how the musculature attaches is not plain at all, at least to me."
"Will we have time to make a few incisions?" Wyrth wondered.
"Yes." Morlock gestured at the greasy smoke billowing from the back of the house. "Lunch will be a little late."
Sunlar and his wife both shrieked and ran back into the kitchen, calling for Raelio to follow them. She did, reluctantly, keeping an eye on Morlock and Wyrth as they hauled the dead body of the monstrous bravo outside.
Lunch, when it arrived, was more splendid than anything they had ordered. The fish were fresh, caught that very day, Wyrth guessed (from Gar Vindisc's pricey stream, possibly). The shellback steaks were, the finicky dwarf had to admit, more than passable, and there were several of them. Wyrth kept fending off a stream of offers of expensive wines and exotic beers. But the thrinnel ran like water, and the water ran like more water, and there was nothing murky about it. Dessert was a plate of spicy custards and a bowl of
multicolored fruit, none of which Wyrth recognized but all of which were juicy, tart, and delicious.
Morlock ate sparingly. Killing a man didn't put him off his appetite, and Iagiawôn was a borderline case anyway, but food was just fuel to Morlock and whenever he stopped being hungry he just stopped eating. Wyrth had more expansive ideas, and finished off whatever Morlock left behind.
Through the meal they discussed how Iagiawôn had been put together. He had clearly been built through a series of surgeries; the network of scars was easy to read in his skin and his bones. By this Kyrkylio, no doubt—a lifemaker who had a dwelling somewhere in the hills north of town, it seemed.
This much they discovered by inveigling Raelio in innocent conversation, but she wasn't much inclined to talk to them. But as Wyrth was in the final stages of his victorious campaign against the magnificent lunch, she
looked straight at Morlock and said, "Is my sister still alive? They took her to the hills. I figure you'd know if she was dead. She was a terrible liar."
Wyrth would have said something, but his mouth was full of custard.
Morlock, whose mouth wasn't, shrugged. "I don't fight angels over human souls," he said.
"My mother says so."
"Who gave your sister to Kyrkylio?" Morlock asked.
The girl turned away. "No one. No one. The monster, he—he took her. My mother said it was for the best. She said they would leave us alone now."
"Why do the townspeople let the monster prey on them?"
"It was part of a deal, a long time ago. The sorcerer he . . . I guess he gave people stuff, things they could never get otherwise."
"The shellbacks," Morlock suggested.
"Yes. Yes. I guess so. Other things, too. And they. They wanted to pay him but he wouldn't. He didn't want money. This was a long time ago; my mother said so. They said they would let the sorcerer take people once in a while. It was travellers mostly. For a long time it was only travellers. But now no one comes here. So the monster he . . . The sorcerer sends him out and he takes people. And people let him mostly. But you didn't."
"I hadn't had lunch yet."
"You're a liar!" the girl shrieked, tears running down her face. "Everyone lies! My mother said . . . about my sister . . . like it didn't even matter! She'd'a said the same when he took me. When I was gone, as if I was never here. And you. I saw your face. I saw it. You hated him. Like I hated him. And you hit him. Like I wanted to hit him. When he took my sister. I wanted to hit him and hit him and hit him until he's dead and leaves us alone, just leave us alone, why won't he leave us alone!"
"I hated him," Morlock admitted. "It's a weakness. But now he is dead and my hate is dead."
"Mine isn't," the girl said through gritted teeth. "I went out to the yard after you were done cutting him, I was so glad you cut him, but I went out afterward and kicked him and kicked him and spit on him and cursed him
and kicked him. But it didn't matter and now I still hate him. I think it's because he took my sister and she's still gone. He didn't take your sister."
"No," Morlock agreed. "He didn't."
Wyrth would have liked to see the late unlamented Iagiawôn try to abduct Morlock's sister, Ambrosia Viviana, dark eminence behind the imperial throne of Ontil. The ensuing mayhem would have been entertaining to everyone except Iagiawôn. He almost said so, but he had noticed Morlock's brief responses were getting the girl to talk more thanWyrth's inveiglements had.
"You didn't say is she dead," the girl said quietly. "I figure you know because she is such a liar. Her name's Iuinoe. I love her, but she lies all the time, like about the dance and Vikels's harp and boys and things."
"I don't know," Morlock said.
"Can you find out?" asked the dark-eyed weeping girl. "Can you find out is she dead? My mother says she is, says she must be, but I don't know. I don't know. You don't know. Nobody knows. I want to know. I want her back and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry what I said to her about Vikels's harp."
"I guess we can find out for you, Raelio," Wyrth said, reading the inevitable in Morlock's scarred taciturn face. "It's the least we can do for this splendid lunch."
A passing crow agreed to carry a message to Kyrkylio's lair in the hills. He knew the place well and enjoyed going there; it was always surrounded by interesting piles of offal that exhibited a pleasing variety of decay. If he were not a crow of few squawks, like Morlock himself, really, he could have expanded in some detail about the odd sorts of carrion Kyrkylio threw out. For instance, there was this one time—
Wyrth agreed hastily that there were times when concision was really the thing. Morlock often had to warn him about running on and boring people with extraneous detail, especially about subjects like carrion, which are really more interesting when they're actually present.
The crow, not the swiftest bird in the sky, finally took the hint and flew off with the message clutched in his claws. The message proposed a meeting between Morlock and Kyrkylio.
Less than an hour later, a shimmering blue beetle flew in through the doorway of the Traveller's Rest. It carried in its horns an oath, specific and binding, and a message agreeing to the meeting if the oath was sworn. An ambiguous clause in the oath would have made anyone who swore it subject to Kyrkylio's control. Morlock struck out the clause, and sent it back via the beetle along with a note, Agree to meet on fair terms or we will meet with no terms. I am Morlock Ambrosius; I will not tell you twice.
Wyrth was skeptical of Morlock's diplomacy, but when the blue beetle returned it carried a reasonable oath that self-bound the swearer at fearful cost not to harm Kyrkylio while visiting in his lair, except in self-defense. A talimprint interwoven with the text showed that Kyrkylio had already taken an oath swearing not to harm Morlock and Wyrth while they were in his lair except in self-defense.
"Too swift; too reasonable," said Wyrth. "We shouldn't do this."
But they did, and the eastering sun of midafternoon saw them climbing the slope to Kyrkylio's hill-cave lair. The adept met them, standing carefully within the shadows over the threshold, but voluble in welcome for the maker he considered his colleague. Wyrth he didn't so much as glance at, nor waste a word on.
And Kyrkylio was a man of many words, to the extent he was a man at all. He liked to emphasize his words with a dramatic sweep of his long, bristly proboscis, and when he had said something especially decisive he
would clack his horns together—as punctuation or something, Wyrth guessed.
All this, and the spotted golden carapace that adorned his back, and the four arms with their curving clawed fingers, made it hard to think of him as a man. The lower pair of arms seemed more insectile, flexible but armored with yellow chitinous plates. The upper arms were more nearly human, though they were textured with brownish crisscrosses that seemed to have been incised into the scaly pale skin.
The eyes on either side of that buglike nose were pale blue and weary looking, deep in dark sockets. And the adept's pale sagging cheeks were lined with pain or age (or both). But his voice soared with enthusiasm as he guided Morlock around his cave, rather like a boy showing off his bug collection.
Except in this case it was more like a bug with a boy collection. Anyway, there was an object in a wooden cage that had certainly been a boy at one time, at least in part. But the back of his head had been removed along with its burden of brain. In its place was a forest of yellowish tendrils, each one ending in a red mouthlike opening. The mouths murmured quietly to themselves as the tendrils waved back and forth, but it was not clear that the sounds had any meaning. What had been the boy's face was as hard and immobile as a piece of wood; there was no life left there.
"And here is something that might interest you," Kyrkylio was saying. He gestured with one of his right arms while the other hung down, slowly clenching and unclenching its insectile fingers. "I developed it as an attachment for poor Iagiawôn." Wyrth finally managed to tear his eyes away from the adept's hands and follow his gesture. Morlock was already bemusedly examining the thing; it lay pulsating on a glass tray. It looked like a crown or necklace and it was made chiefly of eyes, strung like beads on a gleaming cable of nerve.
"It was intended," Kyrkylio explained, "to give him a complete range of vision and, ideally, let him watch for dangers even when he was asleep. But you inconveniently slew him before I had a chance to perfect the instrument."
"Doubt he could have used it," Morlock said, looking away toward a glass jar or cage that stood on a rickety shelf nearby.
"Why do you say so?" Kyrkylio replied, stung in his makerly pride.
"Incomplete command of his augmented limbs. A lack of innate capacity maybe. The limbs themselves were well made."
Wyrth was fascinated by the struggle in Kyrkylio's face. It was as if two different people were trying to talk through the same mouth. The face twisted; the mouth issued a rasping quack that was not clearly even intended as a word.
"Thank you," Kyrkylio said at last. "Iagiawôn was inadequate in many ways. A merely human brain seems unable to effectively master multiple limbs. They rarely use to advantage the ones they were born with."
Wyrth was inclined to agree about the deficiencies of the human brain; he'd encountered few he could cordially respect. But since he was standing next to one of them, he discreetly kept his meat-hole shut. Also, he thought it was interesting that Kyrkylio referred to humanity as a group separate from himself. Was he a man who'd become part bug, or was he a bug who'd grown to resemble a man? The point was moot, perhaps. The speculations whirled within Wyrth like a cyclone, but he resolved not to speak. It was for
Morlock to pursue these avenues of investigation, for Wyrth to watch and learn from the master.
"Hm," said Morlock, still gazing with interest at the rickety shelf and the glass cage on it.
"That's a big word for you," cried Wyrth, goaded against his will into speech.
Kyrkylio had not once looked at Wyrth and he didn't do so now. But he said to Morlock, "I can resect as well as augment, in case your servant's loquacity troubles you."
This was the perfect opportunity for Morlock to engage in some rallying at Wyrth's expense, but as usual he failed to rise to the occasion. "If you threaten my apprentice again," Morlock said flatly, "I will hold your oath violated."
Kyrkylio unfolded his wings in vexation, then refolded them. "I meant no threat. Certainly I would rather avoid a conflict, if possible, as I assume you would."
"You killed my servant Iagiawôn, but I do not resent it. I know your reputation, and no doubt he gave you some cause of offense. Live by the sword; die by the sword. Let me show you—"
"What are those?" asked Morlock, pointing at the glass cage.
"Those. Oh. That. Yes. Well."
Wyrth took a closer look at the cage that so fascinated Morlock. Inside it was a cloud of bugs that seemed to consist largely of wings and teeth. They were attacking the inside of the cage and had succeeded in etching the inside of the glass. Behind them, at the bottom of the cage, was a greenish lump of flesh with a single human eye.
"That was a failure of mine, I'm afraid," Kyrkylio said. His lower, more insectile arms reached up and gently caught his upper, more human ones. Wyrth wondered if it was a gesture of concern or contemplation, like a man rubbing his hands together. "I attempted to make a single creature that was a collective of both sessile and motile parts. Unfortunately, the creature whose brain I used for the purpose was most unsuitable. It declined to reproduce and seems to resent me intensely. Periodically I must recage the collective, as the motile rovers eat through the glass. They would do me harm if they could. I could wish I had made their natural defenses a little less, oh, offensive."
By now the lifemaker's insectile claws had sunk deeply into his more human arms, and a yellowish ichor began to exude from the scaly skin.
"I beg your pardon," Wyrth said to Kyrkylio, "but you seem to be harming yourself."
"What? Oh! That's nothing. Er—thank you." The insectile claws retracted suddenly (guiltily?) and Wyrth realized that much of the patterning on Kyrkylio's skin must be from this sort of self-injury. The lifemaker was a being at war with himself. Wyrth wished he could bring this to his master's attention somehow, but Morlock was still examining the rickety shelf.
"You should fix this," he observed to Kyrkylio. "If the cage fell and broke, you'd be in a bad way."
"Yes, yes, yes. I have plans to see to it." The horns clicked irritably.
Kyrkylio showed Morlock a few more of his experiments that once had been men, women, and children and then said, "But I suppose you will be eager to tell me the purpose of your visit. It is pleasant for solitary adepts like you and me to visit and talk shop, but we both have our work to do."
"I've come about a girl you took from the town. Her name is Iuinoe."
"I'm afraid I don't keep track of my subjects' names. I give the successful ones new identities, and the others I dispose of."
"That's a problem."
"I hope this is not some sort of, well, rescue mission. Our oaths were quite explicit, and I have instrumentalities to protect me if you violate your oath."
"I said I'd ask about her. So I'm asking."
"Well. I'm not really sure I can help you. The adults in town mostly surrender their children to me when they have a choice between that and surrendering themselves, so a lot of girls have passed through here. When was she taken?"
"Don't know. She was from the hostelry, though."
"Oh! The one with the sister!"
"Yes. She has a sister."
"Now I know the one you mean. I would have shown her to you, but she isn't finished yet. Come along; we'll have a look at her."
Kyrkylio grabbed a lamp with one of his hands and conducted them (or Morlock, really; he still hadn't looked directly at Wyrth) up a short corridor to a kind of cell. It was lined with glass, like the cage that held the malefic collective being.
Inside the cell was a sort of animal. It looked like a cross between a partially shaven ape and a spider. It had eight legs, except the legs were really arms, and at the end of each was a human hand. The creature's head was set on a hump in the middle of its back. When it saw them, its eyes gaped wide in fear and horror and it backed away, twisting its head from side to side. Its mouth moved, but Wyrth could not hear the words through the glass cage. It seemed to be saying "Help me!" . . . or perhaps "Kill me!"
"Now, you will notice," Kyrkylio said, with professional enthusiasm, "how ineffectively she uses her additional limbs. She has a powerful emotional impetus to cover herself, but how awkwardly her limbs answer to her desire! She really only uses one pair fully; another pair she uses like legs; and the others she hardly uses at all. I've tried a number of experiments to train her in their use, but they all failed and now I'm convinced there is a real lack of cerebral capacity for the purpose."
Morlock said nothing, but Kyrkylio hardly noticed.
"So the next natural step would be to augment her cerebrum, or perhaps add a new one. I've tried attaching several external grafts, but she rejected them all—you may be able to see the scar tissue just there at the base of her neck. So my latest thought, since she talks so much of her sister, was to make use of the younger girl. The two brains seem more likely to be complementary. I hope you won't ask me to reconsider; I'm quite set on the project."
"I'm set against it."
"Well. Perhaps I can find a way to persuade you. Will you be in town long?"
"Long enough."
"For the sake of collegial relations, I'm willing to suspend this project for a time. I don't promise to end it, of course: I expect some collegiality in return! But perhaps we can negotiate some sort of agreement."
"Maybe," Morlock said. From his tone Wyrth knew this meant Maybe when the ground gapes wide and swallows the three moons, but Kyrkylio didn't seem to be aware of it. The lifemaker's bristly nose-heavy face beamed with professional cordiality, or something.
Kyrkylio escorted them to the exit of his cave, burbling happily about the nightmares he was compounding in its various nooks. As they passed by the rickety shelf, its glass cage buzzed with the attacks of the vengeful collective within.
"I can remove that for you," Morlock said.
"As a gesture of good faith?" Kyrkylio seemed taken by the idea, yet also reluctant. "That's very collegial of you. Very collegial indeed. I must say, I don't know how all those horrible stories about you got started."
Morlock shrugged. "I would take it out of here. That's all. You're in danger from it every moment, you know."
"I know. But I hate to give up on a project, even when I know it's failed." Kyrkylio looked at the glass cage with longing and hatred. His insectile limbs started clawing at his human ones again, but in the throes of making his decision, he didn't seem to be aware of it. "All right," he said suddenly. "Please take it away. I'll be grateful to you for it."
"Eh," Morlock said, and picked the glass cage up from the sagging shelf. The eye in the greenish fleshy mound looked sharply at him through the etched glass, then sharply at Kyrkylio. The vicious rovers redoubled their attacks on the glass wall.
"Now," said the weevilly lifemaker as they reached the threshold of the cave, "I decline to annul my oath, and I hope you'll do the same. It's a good foundation for a collegial alliance, I think. We'll visit again soon, and perhaps I can change your mind about my little project."
Morlock said nothing to this; instead, he and Wyrth walked out of the cave into the blue of gloaming. Kyrkylio stood on the far side of the threshold and watched them for a moment, then turned back toward the inner cave.
When Morlock had taken three strides away from the cave threshold he turned and tossed the glass cage back into the lifemaker's lair.
The cage shattered with a satisfying crash. It was followed by Kyrkylio's shriek, "Your oath! Your oath! I invoke it!"
"I'm not in your cave, Kyrkylio," Morlock called. "Nor am I harming you. Reach an agreement with your failed project."
From where they stood, the maker and his apprentice could see the battle between the lifemaker and the life he had made, or marred. The fierce little rovers were chewing through Kyrkylio's winged carapace. He could not reach them with either set of arms, his horns, or his proboscis, though he tried with all of them. He smashed his back against the walls of his cave, against tables in his workshop, and he did succeed in smashing some of the rovers as they fed on him. But others made it through his shell, and soon they were safe
inside the lifemaker's body. He shrieked in horror and pain and something like ecstasy as they tore through him, and finally his body fell across his own threshold, twitching and fluttering its wings uselessly. Presently it grew still. Moments later, amid a burst of yellowish ichor, a cloud of rovers emerged from the cavities where Kyrkylio's eyes had been. The lifemaker was dead.
The cloud of ichor-stained rovers hovered in midair, looking out of the cave at Morlock and Wyrth. The dwarf was wondering if they shouldn't retreat, lest they become the next item on the rovers' menu. But they suddenly turned away and descended on the ruins of the glass cage.
Going back home? Wyrth wondered. Where else did they have to go?
Morlock stepped over the corpse on the threshold and Wyrth hesitantly followed him. As he did, he saw what the rovers were doing. They were attacking the greenish lump with the human eye—the sessile portion of their collective self, if Wyrth had understood the now-dead lifemaker.
Suddenly, as one, the rovers ceased to move. The half-eaten fleshy lump was also still.
"Suicide," Morlock said. "Its vengeance on Kyrkylio was complete and it had nothing else to live for."
Wyrth nodded slowly, and then he said, "God Sustainer. There's a whole cave of things like that in here."
"Yes, we have work to do. Go down to the Travellers' Rest and get our backpacks. Tell them as little as you can."
Wyrth gaped at him for a moment. The crooked man opened his hands and waited. Wyrth finally took the hint. He ran out of the cave and sprinted down the hill. When he returned, Morlock had already begun the long grim task before them.
A few days later, lost children and strangers began to wander down from the hills into the half-empty town of Boulostreion. All were seamed with scars where they had been patched together by Morlock Ambrosius and his apprentice.
Some said this was the vengeance of the Evil One on them for accepting the wicked bargain with the slain lifemaker, and some said it was a trick of Morlock's for his own amusement. Some waited anxiously for the return of their lost ones; some feared it, and the attendant explanations of why they had been sacrificed for the good of others. Not every family who had lost someone was blessed or cursed by a return, but once again there were two daughters under the roof at the Travellers' Rest.
One day, without talking to anyone else in her family, Raelio put aside her morning's work and walked up into the terror-haunted hills. Few walked there still, because Morlock was now known to be living in the lair of the lifemaker he had killed and dragged to hell. But Raelio was not afraid of Morlock, because she knew they hated the same things.
Long before she saw the cave she knew where it was: there was a tall column of greasy black smoke rising like an accusing finger at the sky. She figured that was the place, and it was.
When she arrived there she saw that Morlock and Wyrth were burning things. The cave inside was bare, as far as she could see. Their backpacks were lying on the hill, laced up and ready for travel.
"You're going home," she said accusingly to the crooked man's shoulders.
He turned and looked at her with his cold gray eyes. "I have no home," he said.
"Ah," she said, after some thought of Travellers' Rest, and the strange silences there these days, "a home's not so great, I guess."
He shrugged.
"You're leaving, anyway. Not staying and taking over Kyrkylio's business. People say you are, but they're liars, I guess."
"They're wrong, anyway. You can tell them."
"I tell them all the time, only they never listen. Listen, Iuinoe—she says . . . she said you should kill her, but you didn't kill her."
Morlock shrugged.
"I guess you don't say much. Anyway. I wanted to say. Thanks for not killing her. She was talking like she was going to kill herself for a while, but now I don't think she's going to. Not totally sure, anyway."
"It was hard for her," the dwarf said. "We can't even guess how horrible it was. Remember that, and help her all you can."
Wyrth shrugged uneasily and looked at his master. Morlock opened his hands and turned away to shoulder his backpack. The dwarf stared after him, then followed to do the same.
"Goodbye," she said.
"Take care of yourself," Morlock said and walked away. Wyrth followed him, waving to her in farewell. They hadn't gone twenty paces before the dwarf started talking about something, but Morlock didn't seem to answer. She stood beside the greasy stinking fire and watched them go until they disappeared beyond the shoulder of a hill. Then she turned around and went reluctantly home to the Travellers' Rest.
Cover Illustration © Chuck Lukacs
Design by Grace M. Conti-Zilsberger
James Enge lives with his children in northwest Ohio, where he teaches classics at a medium-sized public university. His short fiction has appeared in Swords & Dark Magic (Eos, 2010), in the magazine Black Gate, and elsewhere. His novels are Blood of Ambrose (Pyr, 2009), which was nominated for a 2010 World Fantasy Award for Best Novel and listed on Locus magazine's Recommended Reading for 2009, This Crooked Way (Pyr, 2009), and The Wolf Age (Pyr, 2010). Visit him online at http://www.jamesenge.com/.
Chuck Lukacs has been illustrating for the science fiction and fantasy gaming markets for over twelve years. In 1993 he graduated from the College for Creative Studies, Detroit, Michigan, and has also spent a number of years studying the crafts of ceramics, book arts, and wood engraving. His clients have included Impact Books, Pyr/Prometheus Books, Wizards of the Coast, Paizo, Upper Deck, Games Workshop, Atlantic Records, and Alderac Entertainment.
Chuck's paintings and prints have appeared and won awards in fine art and science fiction & fantasy conventions, galleries, and museums across the globe. He has been featured in Spectrum 7, ImagineFX (June 2010), and Fantasy Art magazine (Peking University), and has authored two fantasy art tutorial books: Wreaking Havoc (2007) and Fantasy Genesis (2010). Check out his website, http://www.chucklukacs.com/, for more info.
Pyr is the science fiction and fantasy imprint of Prometheus Books. Prometheus Books took its name from the courageous Greek god who gave fire to humans, lighting the way to reason, intelligence, and independence. Pyr, the Greek word for fire, continues this connection to fire and the liveliness of imagination. From the outset, Pyr has set the bar high for creativity, intelligence, and quality. To find out more about Pyr and its exciting authors and novels, visit http://www.pyrsf.com/.


text:
This little house is looking for a home.
In the past five years, 600 single-family homes have been demolished in Arlington, Va., many to make way for larger houses, according to a preservation group. One architectural firm is so determined to save one 1920s Sears kit house from demolition, it's giving the house away for free. But there's a catch: the buyer would need to pay to move it to a new location.
The 960-square-foot house is a Wellington model, a style of home Sears sold by catalog in 1926 through its mail order Modern Homes program. Preservationist Eric Dobson stood in the freezing cold in front of the house recently, flipping to its picture in a replica of a Sears catalog, and explaining the process.
"You would order everything from your light fixtures, to your lamp, [the wall covering], kitchen cabinets, the whole thing, whether you get a garage or not. And then it just shipped to you," Dobson says.
The property owner bought the plot for $750,000 but doesn't want to live in the tiny bungalow. It is cute and inviting with its original fireplace, and a living room, dining room, two bedrooms and a kitchen. Paola Lugli and Paola Amodeo are the architects for the client who bought the land. They wanted to preserve the house rather than tear it down.
"So we thought, why not?" Lugli says. "Let's move it."
They'd like to go further than just preserve the historic building, she explained. Such a house could also be used as a coffee shop or an art center.
"We are from Italy and we respect historic structure," Lugli says. "We want them to have continued life, new life, different life."
Dobson is with Preservation Arlington, which featured the house on its website. He says there are between 100 and 200 kit houses in Arlington County, dating back to when it was a working class community, but they are disappearing. Sears, Roebuck and Co. sold more than 70,000 of the mail order homes between 1908 and 1940. There were more than 400 styles, ranging from dignified, multi-story models such as The Ivanhoe, to the three-room, no-bath summer cottage called The Goldenrod.
Cynthia Liccese-Torres, Arlington County's historic preservation coordinator, says the homes were very popular in the area because there was a rail line nearby.
"The materials would be delivered, and then whoever was purchasing the kit would have them shipped to the building lot," Liccese-Torres explains. She thinks it is important to preserve the house because it is part of Arlington's character. "This typifies the types of homes that were originally built here and being able to reuse it just shows how they are still viable, even in the 21st century."
But Lugli's partner, Amodeo, says moving the house will be quite a project. The house would need to be lifted off the foundation, without its two porches, placed on a truck and moved. A contractor would need to disconnect and cap off the utilities at its current location, which is not cheap.
"Just to put it on a truck and move it locally, it's about $30,000," Amodeo says. That estimate doesn't include any work needed once the house is at the new site, such as a foundation for the house. Such a thing couldn't be done in Europe.
"In Italy, everything is built out of concrete and brick," she laughs. "You couldn't just lift a house."
Lugli is certain it's feasible to move this little Wellington model, though it won't be simple. "Obviously there's a little work involved," she admits. "Just a tad."
Despite the challenges, the architects have received nearly 150 emails about the Sears house; they're scheduling meetings in hopes of finding it a new home.
People order shoes, laptops, all kinds of stuff over the Web these days. But in the early 1900s, Sears, Roebuck and Co. sold kits to be made into homes. In Arlington, Va., one was set to be bulldozed. But an architectural firm is so determined to save it, the house is being given away for free. NPR's Allison Keyes explains.
ALLISON KEYES, BYLINE: Preservation buff Eric Dobson and architect Paola Lugli stood in the freezing cold on the lawn in front of the 960-square-foot house, flipping through a replica of a Sears catalog.
PAOLA LUGLI: You guys said it's a Wellington? I think it's...
KEYES: It is a Wellington, a style of homes sold by Sears in 1926 through its mail-order modern homes program. Dobson explains how it worked.
ERIC DOBSON: You'd order everything from your light fixtures to your lamp, the wall covering that would go on there, kitchen cabinets, the whole thing; whether you get a garage or not. And then it was just shipped to you.
KEYES: The house is small but cute; with a living room, dining room, two bedrooms and an unfinished basement. It's also got its original fireplace. Lugli's client bought the property for $750,000 but didn't want to live in the house. Architect Lugli and her business partner decided they wanted to preserve the bungalow rather than demolish it.
LUGLI: So we thought, why not move it? Let's move it.
KEYES: She says they were thinking of something more elastic then simply preserving it or demolishing it. Maybe someone could use it as a coffee shop or an art center.
LUGLI: We are from Italy, and we respect historic structure; and we want them to have continued life - new life, different life.
DOBSON: We have somewhere between 100 and 200 of these in Arlington County.
KEYES: Preservationist Dobson says the little houses date from a period when Arlington was a working-class community, but they're disappearing. What was then called Sears, Roebuck and Co. sold more than 70,000 of the mail-order homes between 1908 and 1940. Arlington County's historic preservation coordinator, Cynthia Liccese-Torres, explains that railroad lines are one reason the small bungalows were so popular in this area.
CYNTHIA LICCESE-TORRES: There was a train stop not too far from here. And so the materials would be delivered, and then whoever was purchasing the kit would have them shipped to the building lot.
KEYES: She thinks it's important to preserve the house because it's part of Arlington's character.
LICCESE-TORRES: This typifies the types of homes that were originally built here, and being able to reuse just shows how they're still viable even in the 21st century.
KEYES: But Lugli's partner, architect Paola Amodeo, says moving the house is a project.
PAOLA AMODEO: The house, as it is, gets lifted off. All the walls, the doors - everything comes with it. (Laughter) And you put it on a truck and move it.
KEYES: She says it won't be cheap, either.
AMODEO: Just to put it on a truck and move it locally, it's about $30,000.
LUGLI: It's 24 feet wide by 36 - about that - so it's feasible. Obviously, it's a little work involved.
KEYES: Just a tad.
LUGLI: Just a tad, but yeah.
KEYES: The architects say they've gotten nearly 150 emails, and they're scheduling meetings about the Sears house.
Allison Keyes, NPR News, Washington.
SIMON: This is NPR News. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.


text:
I'm switching to Cygwin from the bash shell that ships with Git for Windows, and for some strange reason the .bashrc file is not being sourced when I open a new Terminal. I have to
source .bashrc
manually just to get my normal settings.
echo $0 $- returns
-bash himBH
What could be the problem?


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Your search did not match any results.
We suggest you try the following to help find what you're looking for:
Dee Houchen,
Senior Director of ERP solutions at Oracle @DeeHouchen
Companies have always looked to make shared services more cost-efficient. After all, why invest in a cost-centre that is of limited strategic value to the business?
Significant leaps have been made over the years, with many simple processes being centralised or outsourced, but the time and money required to run these operations still dwarf returns for the organisation.
The key to lowering the cost of shared services is to make administrative processes leaner and more efficient, making this the perfect proving ground for automation.
Enter Robotic Process Automation (RPA). RPA is gaining a great deal of attention in shared services because it allows businesses to systemise simple, repeatable tasks. That doesn't mean shared services workers will be replaced by mechanical robots like those used in manufacturing. Instead, virtual bots (software robots) programmed to mimic human keystrokes at a computer will take on clerical jobs, and complete them more quickly and accurately at a lower cost.
Of course, automation is not new to the finance department. Many companies already use integrated Optical Character Recognition to input supplier invoices into their ERP systems instead of doing this by hand. However, CEOs are paring back on non value-adding operations in this time of economic uncertainty and expect the CFO to help them uncover new efficiencies.
"Virtual bots (software robots) programmed to mimic human keystrokes at a computer will take on clerical jobs, and complete them more quickly and accurately at a lower cost."
For many businesses, the ability to sweat their legacy systems while driving efficiencies is very attractive and RPA is ideally suited to that end. Additionally, the more transactions businesses automate the bigger their savings – so there is value in applying RPA to as many processes as possible.
For years, companies have been chasing a nirvana state of "lights-off processes" for routine tasks, and the advent of AI, chatbots and other forms of automation has finally put this vision within reach.
That said, a true lights-off approach is still some time away. While some specialised outsourcers are seeing success with RPA most businesses are still managing a disjointed collection of processes and data, with each department handling simple tasks in completely different ways. Unless they standardise these processes with greater vigour their investment in RPA will only result in a large mess made more quickly.
The most compelling business cases will come as RPA begins to develop machine learning capabilities. We will then see the shared services function become elevated into a self-improving mechanism that constantly scrutinises processes and makes recommendations on how they can be improved in real-time.
"RPA will show its true potential when it influences human decision-making for the good of the organisation."
In other words, RPA will show its true potential when it influences human decision-making for the good of the organisation. Oracle ERP Dynamic Discounting is an early example of this concept in practice – the application monitors supplier invoices and flags those that offer discounts for early payment, allowing finance teams to better prioritise their disbursement.
Automation and AI will help companies cut their shared services costs, but they will also allow HR and finance teams to focus on more value-adding activities like business partnering. The boardroom has long been calling for more strategic thinking from the back office – the more processes are automated, the more time and energy HR and finance employees can dedicate to shaping the business' future.
The timing also coincides with a period during which companies are migrating their back office systems to the cloud. A rethink of their shared services is a natural extension of this larger IT transformation project.
Time will tell how big a role RPA will play in shared services, but as the technology becomes more sophisticated and affordable businesses are right to be rethinking their current approach.
It's also worth considering how RPA will affect the skillset of shared services employees. Some companies may decide to bring high level tasks back in house while others may invest in up-skilling their off-shore centres to work with new technologies – in either case, the back office is certainly heading towards a new look.
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text:
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Offer Disclosure
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