The Poems of Madam Albithurst: Riddlemaster

Even with the careful and steady guidance of Nock, it took us many days to make our way out of the wooded jungle that was the Inner Wings. We traveled through the Asparitetis and out the other end, around the Oyn and about the Upper Scapula we walked, seeking egress from the foul environs, until at last we arrived at the Pollier.

Covered with barnacles and dangling vines, the Pollier was perhaps the quietest portion of our journey. It was neither cold nor warm, but still and soft. I do not think any of us particularly enjoyed the experience, but it was the necessary transition point between where we were, and where we needed to go: the Spine-case.

Having left the wings, it is logical to assume we found ourselves at the top of the spine, near the shoulder-blades, but alas the Sibilants has no such sensible arrangements. We found ourselves at the base of the spine, looking out over the pelvic floor across to the hips, the hollows, and the killgrig.

Such a noisy grotto it was! We made our way through the wandering destitutes, the hawkers and couriers of castoffs and scroungings. The makeshift nobility — those with airs and efforts to appear important — strode with purpose from one end of the tailbone to the other, greeting each other with polite deference or theatrical delight. There was not a single custom that was shared by more than two people, as costume and language was as bespoke and ad hoc as a child’s game.

The slope was so gentle you could easily fool yourself that you are walking on flat cobblestone. Yet, how wide about was the spine, that fully circumnavigating the open center caused us to descend almost two full stories. So deep did the spine-case go, all the way down to the Apex, that there were those who spent their lives walking from the Underheel to the Apex, only to die with a life ill spent, leaving their children to take the trek back, searching for the long past places of their parent’s memories — better places that they don’t remember.

Such time was not on our side, however. Thankfully, Nock knew the short and quick ways up and down the spine-case. After some cajoling and pleading, our boxy guide agreed to take us.

As we walked, Nock sang to us of beautiful things. So beautiful. It sang its song of misty winds and dry waters, of sandy mountains and frozen shores. People made of song and cities made of shadow. Oh, how it made me want to turn back!

But we did not, for the prize was far more important than mere creature comforts. On the journey we saw such wonderful and beautiful sights. Merchants peddling exotic foods and aromatic drinks, Gilbrim running their Rickjins back and forth as quick as you like. Yattrinti testing the edges of their picks and hammers on pieces of discarded tin. Flocks of Kit running this way and that, carrying messages and scavenged trinkets. An Ogre marching up and down the path, their single glowing eye scanning each and every passerby. Aeolam of such unearthly beauty, I was horrified to be in their presence. Insect-folk of such gossamer and effervescent shine, that I could not help but imagine the countless fashions that I could wear to the next seven seasonal balls.

But do not think that the spine-case was a thing of pure beauty, for it was horrific as well. The things we saw being done to our fellow kind was heartbreaking. Terrifying. Whispering shadows begged us to tarry and dawdle, promising us that ours was the only hand to bring peace to their tormented souls. Mirrors of friends offered moments of peace and hope, followed by cries of ’thief’ and ‘rapist.’ The Pass of Forced Perception saw papers wrapped about poles of steel, who set about screaming and crying whenever we looked at them, for we were not looking at others more deserving. The only way forward was with eyes tightly shut, or with the fortitude of a saint and the callousness of a devil.

Through the winding ways we walked, taking stair, escalator, and elevator whenever we could. A lifetime could be spent on a single circumvention of the spine-case, but we had no such luxury. Our cause was timely.

I cannot tell you everything we saw. No, nor everything felt, nor heard, nor smelled, nor tasted. Alas, there are perhaps not enough pages in the world to hold the words required. There is no knowing, no seeing, no feeling what resides betwixt the heart and mind of such long-dead domains.

At long last, after many days and no small number of adventures, we reached the boundary separating the spine-case from the Apex.

There was no door, just a hole wide enough to admit an army. Nevertheless, we could not pass: the Mouth would not allow it.

“Stand fast,” it said, floating above our heads, popping in and out through the misty static on its screen. “None may pass through to the Apex. We are closed, yes I say closed for business, and none, not even those of consummate and inviolate hair may find entry.”

“An odd distinction to make,” Sir Juhrooz stroked his chin with a gauntleted hand. “Is well-made hair oft used as passport to places cordoned?”

“Constantly,” the Mouth said with a hiss. “But not today. Not here. Not to the Apex. We’re closed.”

“But why?” Mr. Porist asked, clasping his hands in supplication. “Oh wise guard of the Apex, why are those within forbidding entry? We have a pressing need to speak with Lady Song.”

“Oh?” The Mouth twisted and turned, as though working a seed from between its teeth. “Lady Song, eh? She of the Backward Days? And I suppose you all want to see her?”

“We do,” I said, curtsying to the ephemeral guard. “Would you do us the courtesy of allowing us passage so we might petition her?”

“Nope,” the Mouth said. “Maybe she’s here, maybe she’s not, and you’ll never know for sure because we’re closed I say! On order of their two Majesties.”

“Two Majesties?” Image cocked a insectoid head. “Which two? I have heard of many in my time among your lands, and cannot think of any two that could command the entire Apex.”

“Well, that shows what you know,” the Mouth frowned. “The Two Majesties, that’s who.”

“I’m sure if I could speak with them, I could explain things,” Mx. Image said. “Might I request an audience?”

The Mouth laughed long and loud. “Request and audience with them? Oh, and I suppose you know a lot of majesties, do you?”

“Of course I do,” Image brought xer claws together in warm supplication. “As Marq of the Circumvexing Hill, I am invested with my Queen’s confidence. Please, allow us entrance, as I would be remiss in my duties if I did not convey her majesty’s greetings.”

The Mouth fell silent, the white noise of static humming in the background.

“Queen of the Circumvexing Hill, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Invested with confidence?”

“I am.”

“A Marq, too?”

“These seven years, as the soft-skins count them.”

“Right!” The Mouth exclaimed, popping back into view as it loomed over us all. “Here’s the deal. I let you in, right? And you can talk to the Two Majesties, only you got to earn it. Do or die sort of thing. I’ve got a riddle for each of you. Answer the riddle, and I let you through. If one of you gets it wrong, I eat all of you. Deal?”

“That doesn’t seem fair at all,” Mr. Porist protested, crossing his arms in defiance.

“Oh don’t worry,” the Mouth smiled. “I promise, these riddles are tailor made for each of you. I swear you’ll know the answer to your riddle in less than a second.”

Now to me, that still didn’t seem very fair, but in a rather more advantageous direction to ourselves. But before I could answer, dear Sir Juhrooz stepped forward.

“Then by my honor as Doppewassl to the Arcwhite Kingdoms, I accept your offer! Give us your riddles, and we will pass through your door with but a moment’s thought! Come, speak my riddle and I shall answer!”

“Ha!” The Mouth laughed again. “Now, I gave no promise that the riddle I gave you would be yours! Ha ha! Fool! A riddle of the self, though not your own! I will indeed ask a riddle to each of you in turn, and each of you will know the answer to one of my riddles, but never shall I ask you a riddle to which you know the answer! So obvious the answer will be to one of you, who cannot speak lest the game is forfeit, and I shall devour you all!”

“Vile cad!” Sir Juhrooz shook his metal fist. “You are a beast without honor or scruples! No matter! By the Hunger, we will pass through your barrier, and by the Hewn you will regret crossing us!”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” the Mouth rocked back and forth. “Now, are you ready, sir warrior? Ready to risk your life and those of your fellows on my whetstone of riddles? A great question, a riddle of old, a story, a secret, never to be told?”

“No warrior of the Angry Pantheon, nor Doppewassl of any kind or creed, will ever back down from a challenge!”

“Very well then,” the Mouth gaped wide. “Riddle is now! Poke your fingers in my eyes and I will open wide my jaws. Torn asunder at my hunger, does my wrath make many things.”

Mr. Poris shifted at my side. His gasp was soft, and I knew then that this riddle was his and his alone. He knew the answer as clear as day.

Knowing Mr. Poris as I did, the answer came to me not long after, and I was delighted to realize this would be a simple manner of divining the answer to any riddle I did not know.

Poor Sir Juhrooz, he was not so fortunate. The Mouth was cruel to speak of jaws, hunger, and wrath. As a soldier of fortune and fighter of wars, Sir Juhrooz knew of battle and blood. He knew of beasts and combat. The softer skills were perhaps unfamiliar to him. A clever and cruel ruse, I thought, laid by a clever and cruel mouth.

But I need not have worried. Dear sir Juhrooz thought for many minutes, pacing up and down, huffing to himself as his brain spun back and forth. I do not know what brought the answer to his mind, but at long last he looked up at the mouth and spoke in his clear thick voice: “Scissors.”

“Ha!” The Mouth smiled. “Well done! The riddle solved, you may pass freely.”

Sir Juhrooz smiled at us, and crossed behind the Mouth’s back, clasping his hands to wait. “Fear not, friends, it is but a minor test. Easily passed by those of quick wit and strong will.”

“Yeah, sure, fine,” the Mouth muttered. “Quit your gloating. Who’s next? I think you, my chitinous friend, so full of confidence as to your noble bearing. Thing of many arms, many eyes, and many hearts, are you ready to hear my riddle, and risk the lives of your friends on your own wits?”

“My wits are responsible for many things,” Image said, stepping forward. “I have cost the lives of many of my kin before, I see no reason to step back when my own is on the line.”

“Very well then. Riddle is now! I fly when I’m born, lie down when I’m alive and run when I’m dead.”

Oh how Mx. Image chittered and clicked, forearms waving in front of its eyes. It took me a moment to find the answer, and once I had it, I was forced to wonder whose riddle Image had been given. Not Porist’s, of course, as his had already been spoken. It was surely not mine, for I had to consider some time. Sir Juhrooz stood with finger on chin, still seeming to ponder, so it had to have been the riddle of the Agent.

She stood still, making no sign of recognition. Knowing that the riddle was hers made me yearn ever more to know what lay behind the door to the Archonarchy’s domain.

At long last, with eyes wide and a tentative and hopeful expression on xer face, Image said: “A snowflake?”

“Yes, a snowflake!” The mouth answered. “Another’s riddle solved, you may pass freely.”

Though I had never heard one of the insect-folk sigh, I was certain I saw the limbs of Image relax with relief as xe took xer place next to Sir Juhrooz.

“Now little man, of soul greater than your size, are you ready to hear the heart’s mystery of one of your fellows? Are you prepared to answer true, and spare your friends the gnashing of my molars?”

Mr. Porist stepped forward. “Ask your question, Mouth. I am not afraid.”

“Oh, most excellent,” the Mouth turned flips. “Riddle is now! What am I?”

I knew it at once. It was my riddle. Whose else could it have been? A pure riddle, bereft of mindless and floury translation, misdirection, failed language and awkward attempts to connect one person’s heart to another. There was no cleverness in it, just unabashed and heartfelt truth. No snaring dreams, no fitful lies, no imagined futures could bring the victim closer to the answer, only a firm understand and willingness to observe the here and now.

“Is that it?” Mr. Porist asked. “The whole riddle?”

“That’s it,” the mouth said, grinning evilly at my friend. “‘What am I?’ Pretty good, huh?”

“I presume you know the Jurisdiction of Riddles Vol. 3?” Mr. Porist crossed his arms. “If you’re speaking of yourself, the whole riddle is forfeit.”

The Mouth frowned. “You impugn my honor? Bah! No, the answer is not myself, and I tell you that for free. How’s that for honorable?”

“Acceptable,” Mr. Porist said, before dropping his hooked chin into his hand. He thought for some time, hopping back and forth as he paced in front of the mouth.

But oh, admirable Mr. Porist, it took no more than ten minutes before he looked up at the Mouth and smiled. “A question,” he answered.

“Ha! Good, good!” The mouth opened wide. “Another’s riddle solved, you may pass freely! And well puzzled through, good soul, well puzzled through.”

Mr. Porist turned to me, and gave me a wink. I am not ashamed to say that my admiration for my dear friend grew more than I thought it had in many years.

“One for the road,” the Mouth whispered as Mr. Porist passed. “I stand on one leg, my heart’s in my head!”

“An artichoke,” came the instant answer.

“I would too have accepted cabbage,” the mouth muttered. “But not cauliflower. Well done, well done! Now! With a face of steel and a heart of stone, will you step forward, bloody blade, and accept my challenge?”

The Archonarchian pilgrim stepped forward, and said nothing.

“Brave,” the Mouth said. “Brave and bold. Foolish too? No matter, we shall see. Riddle is now! I am perfect, impossible, permanent, and guaranteed. What am I?”

A soft clank of metal drew my attention, and I saw the look on Sir Juhrooz’s face. A man of action, yes, but a man of faith as well. A soul who had traveled the Myriad Worlds for…well, I hadn’t actually thought to ask at the time, but I learned later at least twenty years. A follower of the Angry Pantheon, he didn’t just know the answer, he believed it.

The poor agent, however, did not understand. She stood as still as gravestone, her domed body casting a flickering shadow in the dim light. A minute passed, then two. I yearned to call out, to explain, to tell the dear thing precisely what the answer was, but of course she would never have experienced such things behind the stratified and hierarchical Archonarchian door.

Thirty minutes. Then an hour. We stood in silence as the Agent thought, her mind twisting and turning in confusion, in abject refusal of the answer. I know this, for we spoke later and she confided in me, most charmingly, that she knew the answer in forty minutes, and spent the next twenty five desperately looking for another.

But at long last, she looked up at the Mouth, who was already licking its lips, and spoke:

“Nothing.”

The mouth sighed. “Yes. Nothing. Very well. Your riddle answered, you may pass freely. Go on then.”

The Agent ran to the other side, with a pace that I could only perceive as grateful. Had she been frightened? I dared not wonder too hard.

At last, it was my turn. “Lady, madam, poet fair. Seeker of lyric and romantic truth, finder of mystery and grounded sensation, nothing more frightening than a dream. Are you ready for my riddle?”

“I suppose I must be,” I brushed my dress straight, more to hide my anxiety, rather than make myself presentable. “Ask away, good mouth.”

The lips parted in a fiendish smile. “Riddle is now! Two in a corner, one in a room, none in a house, but one in a shelter.”

Now, it is entirely possible that you, clever that you are, have already grasped the answer to this riddle. Me, however, I could not fathom what the answer could possibly be! I turned it over and about in my mind so carefully, but no matter how I looked at the riddle, its answer escaped my grasp.

Every answer I came up with only confused me further. Mice was obviously wrong, as were insects, potted plants, and servants. Shadows was a stretch at best, nowhere near as clever or witty as the others, and I would not risk the lives of my companions on the chance the Mouth had become lazy in its riddling.

Then I turned to the more metaphorical, as difficult as it was to do so. I thought of house-flies, the room inside eggs, the shelter under trees and the corners of streets and mouths alike.

I will not say I am a master of riddles. Though I have heard many that I found charming, they did not bring to me the same level of joy and satisfaction as other forms of poetry. They are like charming pieces of popcorn, well popped and softly buttered to melt just so in the mouth.

But no matter how I turned the riddle about in my head, no amount of poetry brought me a satisfactory answer. The adjustment of words and the subtle shifting of facets did nothing. The riddle remained locked fast.

At long last, after perhaps half an hour of pondering, I turned to my companions, to apologize for my failure, and their subsequent demise.

And there was the answer; for I had already deciphered which of the other riddles had been known by whom, and the only one left was dear Mx. Image.

Image, who was so alien to we soft-skins, who thought like xerself and no one else, who needed to have even the simplest things explained to xer, and in the end only receiving confusion for the trouble. Xe knew the answer outright.

How did Image think? I pride myself on understanding even the most xenophiliac of people, and so found xer mindset startlingly easy to attain. A mind devoid of suggestion and fleshy poetry, ignorant of a gentle caress on the arm, of passion for things yet felt. A being for whom the most clever of designs was but a single step away from the most banal of observations.

Once I had it, the answer was startlingly easy.

“The letter ‘r’,” I said, with a smile.

“Gah!” the mouth spat. “Thought I had you with that one. Fine. Another’s riddle solved, you may pass freely, if not happily.”

When I joined my friends, we clasped our hands together in celebration, only for Nock to interrupt our joys: He need not outrun the lion, only his friend. But what will happen when the second lion comes along?

“You are correct,” I said, breaking free from Image’s awkward embrace. “We must continue on our journey to find Lady Song. Please, dear Nock, carry on.

And so it was, together and whole, that we entered the Apex, with our floating Nock still guiding the way.