The Madness of Geeb
an excerpt

Prologue - In Which The Atmosphere Temporarily Gains Sentience

For the first time in years, Onan Ashio felt like crying.
The weather matched his mood. Unable to make up its clouded mind, it hung between rain and shine. The breeze was pleasant, yet strangely foreboding.
“It’ll be tough around here without you, Ryter Marschims.” Onan tried to grin as he grasped the older man’s lanky hand and shook it. Ryter laughed and shook back vigorously. Suddenly, the breeze caught Ryter’s trademark blue alchemist’s hat, but he caught it just before it blew away. He laughed as he balled it up and stuck it in his coat pocket.
Onan released Ryter’s hand, then looked at his feet and heaved a humongous sigh. Ryter placed a firm hand on Onan’s broad shoulder. Onan looked up, trying not to look disappointed. “Don’t worry, lad.” Ryter reassured quietly, his wispy, yet full-headed, hair tugged by the breeze. “You’ll do fine without me. You’re competent. . .or so I’m told!” Ryter chuckled, and Onan joined, though a bit distracted.
“So. How long will you be gone?” He asked, concerned. Ryter glanced up at the sky, thinking. He stroked his chin as he met eyes with Onan again.
“Until I’m finished with my research.” He said simply. Onan raised an eyebrow, unsatisfied. Ryter shrugged. “The new ‘synth crystal could have dozens of different combinations. Infinite, actually. It will take at least a couple months to completely figure out. Years, even. I honestly don’t know. . .” He looked away from Onan’s face. “I suppose I’ll just get back whenever I get back. We’ll have to be patient.”
Onan and Ryter stood there in the cold, awkwardly wordless. “Well.” Onan finally said with an airy exhalation. “Enough lolly-gagging. It’s time you left on your mission of discovery!”
Anxious to finally be gone, Ryter turned and hoisted himself into the stocked wagon. He made himself comfortable in the driver’s seat and took up the reins. He made a goofy salute to Onan, and as he snapped the reins to start the animals, twisted around. “Hey, give my best to your new missus!” He called out, waving.
One hand in his overcoat pocket, Onan waved back with a forlorn smile. He sullenly watched the wagon shrink until his friend disappeared over the next ridge.
Episode One - In Which Sz’io Almost Learns His Lesson, But Somehow Weasels Out Of It

Sz’io slipped on the morning-dew-covered grass on the hillside and slid all the way down for the third time.
He grunted at the hill, as though it were mocking him, and scowled. He closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating. Then, on the count of three, he determinedly pushed off the ground beneath him and darted up the slope. His sandal slipped out from beneath him, but he deftly caught himself by digging his fingernails into the roots of the grass. He slowly scaled the slippery ridge
His pack lay next to him, a sturdy bag with a strap. A few things had fallen out: a book, a rolled-up piece of parchment, and a foot-long rod of grayish-brown metal. “Need to get up. . .” He panted, though he made no move to do so. He slowly closed his eyes, blocking the gathering clouds from view.
A single drop of rain landed in between his eyebrows. He bolted to his feet, almost slipping down the hill again in his haste. “Great grick!” He cursed at the rain as he scooped up his belongings, strapped the bag over his left shoulder, and began running for the next hill.
Hills stretched as far as the eye could see, and thick grass covered them all like a blanket of spiky, green vegetation. If it wasn’t for the pearly stone spires in the distance, Sz’io would be completely lost. He dashed up the next hill, ignoring the increasing rainfall. At the summit of the knoll, he peered forward.
The city of Allem stretched before him, clean and dry-looking. Sz’io’s heart leaped, not at the prospect of a warm meal and a fire, but in apprehension.
Would they have bacon there?
And if so, was it cheap and plentiful?
Not waiting to be told, Sz’io bowled down the hill. His running soon changed to slipping, falling, and rolling. The world a blur, Sz’io only had time to curse and grunt in pain as the sky and ground conspired against his senses. Finally, thoroughly soaked, he came to rest at the foot of the hill. He quickly stood and brushed himself off.
His dirty brown hair plastered to his forehead, Sz’io raised his face to the rain. “Bork!” He screamed at the sky. “Keep to yourself, you stupid clouds! Can’t believe them. Raining on a beautiful day like this. . .” He grumbled to himself as he covered his head with his bag and sprinted for the city gate.
Luckily, there was an overhang above the portcullis, blocking the rain. Standing in a dry spot, Sz’io rubbed his hairless chin suspiciously as he examined the large, wooden doors behind the thick, metal grate. He reached out with his right hand and stroked the wood; he jumped as his finger began bleeding with the splinter that had entered it. He hopped up and down, sucking on his pointing finger and cursing to himself.
“Hey, kid?” A voice said. Sz’io froze and dropped his finger. He turned his head very, very slowly, grating his teeth all the while.
“. . . kid!?” He seethed.
The guard continued, ignorant to Sz’io’s sudden anger. “Yeah, do you need to get in to the city? I can let you in. . .”
“Kid THIS!!” Sz’io roared as he sprang onto the armored man, knocking him flat onto his back with a heavy clang.
Alarmed, the guard yelled at the enraged Sz’io. “Hey! What are you doing?! Get off!” Sz’io snarled and clawed at the man’s goatee.
“I’ll teach you to call me kid!”
The guard had had enough. He grabbed Sz’io’s forearms, pinning them to his sides, and got to his feet, still holding Sz’io’s arms. Sz’io struggled, helpless, and spat curses at the guard. “Jabbo! Grick! Bork! Your mother eats pig droppings! Your father—”
“Silence!” The guard roared. Sz’io, despite his rage, found himself suddenly intimidated. He glared up at the man’s stern face, and felt an overwhelming rage surge through him again. This guy needs a shave. Sz’io thought maliciously. The guard scolded him sternly. “You’re coming with me, kid.”
“What did you just call me?!” Sz’io screamed, kicking the guard’s shins. His bare toes struck the guard’s steel greaves. He felt something pop, and pain shot up his leg. “Doop!” He cried out, hopping up and down, still in the guard’s grip. The man gruffly pulled on his wrists, and Sz’io fell onto his rear with a painful thump. He begrudgingly allowed the angry guard to drag him into the door-guards’ booth, grumbling all the way.
Sz’io took a look around as he was dragged through. There were several wooden chairs scattered around an extinguished fireplace, and a few flasks of something or other placed on the hearth. On a simple table, there was a book with a strip of leather as a bookmark placed about halfway through. Sz’io read the title as he passed; it was apparently The Chronicles of Geeb. Sz’io’s jaw dropped. This guy’s reading that too?! He exclaimed silently. A newfound respect for the goatee’d guard bloomed inside Sz’io’s chest. His sandal caught on a lopsided paving-stone, causing him to scrape his ankle on the stone floor. He winced at the pain.
Sz’io heard a door slam open. He twisted his head around and saw that the guard holding his wrists had shoved open a wooden door with his shoulder. Through this new door was a roaring fire in a pit, surrounded by chatting, armored guards. Several picked up their spears and snapped to attention as Sz’io and his captor entered the room unceremoniously.
“Hey, Hooc, who’s the kid?” One of them asked, pointing at Sz’io, who promptly ground his teeth in rage at the last word.
Hooc, Sz’io’s captor, immediately began recounting the tale in chilling tones. “So there I was, sitting alone, reading my book, listening to the pouring rain. Then suddenly, I hear this yelping sound out of nowhere! I jumped in my seat.” As he narrated, the other guards chuckled amongst themselves. Sz’io didn’t know why; this story was terrifying! Who—or what—had the yelping sound come from?
Hooc continued, gripping both of Sz’io’s wrists with a single gloved hand. His other one gestured mysteriously. “So by this time, the hair on my neck was standing up. I slowly reached for my spear—”
“Enough storytelling, Hooc. Just tell us who the kid is.” Grunted one of the guards irritably. Sz’io wasn’t looking, so he couldn’t tell which of them had said it.
Hooc sounded disappointed. “Well, he was at the gate, then he tried to attack me for no reason. So, of course, I brought him here so we could teach him a lesson!” Hooc began cackling theatrically. As the others joined in, Sz’io’s gut froze.
He began pleading for his life. “Great grick! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please, don’t teach me anything, please, I’m not a good student! I already know enough!” He violently drummed his feet against the floor in desperation and thrashed around in terror. Hooc lost his grip, and Sz’io’s head crashed against the cobble floor. Sparks danced in front of Sz’io’s eyes for the brief moment of pain.
He eventually sat up, hearing only the guards laughing even harder than before. He swiftly jumped to his feet, his bag’s weight making him stumble a bit. He whipped around to face the men, lower jaw jutting out ferociously.
One of them, leaning leisurely on his spear, asked Sz’io a question in a conversational tone. “Hey, those are some weird clothes you got on, kid. Where exactly are you from?”
Sz’io only gawked.
“Hey, kid. You okay?” The guard leaned forward suspiciously, eyes squinting in confusion.
Sz’io shakily swallowed the lump in his throat, utterly entranced.
The furry guard turned to Hooc. “What’s wrong with this guy?” Hooc shrugged, an eyebrow raised at Sz’io.
“You’re a dog-person!” Sz’io blurted out, pointing rudely.
“Say what?” The doglike guard scoffed, looking to his friends for support. They only shrugged, looking at Sz’io. The strange ‘man’ scratched his ear with his padded hand, equally perplexed. “What did you just call me?”
Sz’io couldn’t believe this guy! He explained the concept slowly and carefully. “You’re a dog-person. You’re a person. But you’re like, a dog. You know,” Sz’io gestured at the top of his head. “You got the ears, and the nose,” He shaped an invisible snout with his hands. “And a tail. And you’re covered in like, hair. Er, fur. Whatever it’s called these days.”
The troubled guard examined his hands. They were a dark shade of brown. His ears drooped a bit as his bewildered expression deepened. He looked up, panicked, and asked a single question. “What is a dog?”
Sz’io snorted, then burst into an uncontrollable laughing fit. He fell onto the floor, kicking wildly and roaring with laughter. “‘What’s a dog?’ Ha! ‘What’s a dog?!’ Tah ha haaa!” The ridiculed guard, completely mortified, dropped down into a creaky chair. Suddenly self-conscious, he began rubbing his furry hands against each other. The other guards stepped forward, angered.
“Hey, what’s the big idea, kid?” Hooc growled, his hands flexing as though they were already around Sz’io’s neck. “Who do you think you are, anyhow?”
Sz’io took a deep breath and stood up, oblivious to the advancing men. “Heh. Ha. Well. Um, I’m here, ‘cuz of work. Yeah, um, I’m working with this alchemist guy, you know, I figure you guys all were alchemists here in Allem, but I’m not so sure any more. Ha!” Sz’io’s bout of glee unexpectedly returned, making him double over, shaking with laughs, tears flowing like the rain just outside the stone walls.
“Wait.” Hooc said, holding a hand out to stop the others. “Who exactly did you come to work for?” The question hung in the air fragilely, nobody making a sound, but the effect only slightly spoiled by Sz’io’s bellowing guffaws. Hooc waited semi-patiently for Sz’io’s outbreak to subside. When Sz’io could speak again, he did so shakily.
He sniffed back some tears. “Heh. Um, some guy named Owen. Er, no, Logan. Uh. I think so. No, wait. . .” He trailed off, searching through his bag for his letter of invitation. He heard the clank of metal against stone as the soldiers began to approach, too impatient to negotiate with Sz’io. He panicked. “Hey! Wait! It’s right here!” He looked up, then jumped back, pinning himself against the closed door. He whipped out the rolled-up parchment triumphantly, pulled off the string around it and flung it at Hooc. It spun in the air, then anticlimactically settled on the floor with the force of a thousand plummeting feather-tufts.
Two of the evilly-grinning guards grabbed hold of Sz’io’s arms. He screamed, terror filling him once more. “Aaaargh! Help! Help me, dog-man! Call ‘em off!”
The specified guard didn’t look up, but muttered something about pig-sties and ‘what in Gowwi’s name is a dog.’
“Let go of him, men.” Hooc commanded suddenly. The others, a little disappointed, let go of Sz’io and backed away, uttering threats and oaths to Sz’io concerning what they would do to him should he exercise rudeness again like unto the foul-mouthed sailors of Ignopotus Bay. Hooc rolled up the missive and handed it to Sz’io, who snatched it from the guard’s hands and shoved it gruffly into his bag with a grunt. Hooc turned to his companions. “This guy’s with Onan Ashio.”

Episode Two - In Which Onan Extracts A Knife From A Hidden Compartment

“Sir?”
Onan looked up from the mound of documents he was analyzing. “Yes, Tylus?” He said quietly, trying to remember what he was just thinking about before he was interrupted.
Tylus, a black-eared and rust-furred Dibtorian, spoke brightly. “A message for you, sir!” He approached Onan’s desk and placed an unopened envelope on it. Onan nodded, dismissing the young man. Once Tylus had left the room and closed the oaken door, Onan examined the white envelope. It was pristine and spotless, and felt smooth and new, as though it were only written minutes ago.
For Onan Ashio
Immediately recognizing the exquisite calligraphy, Onan paused in apprehension. Should have seen this coming. He groaned to himself, leaning back in his leather-padded chair, idly turning the small envelope over and over in his hands. Now, do I really want to open this? While debating withing himself, Onan decided to procrastinate a bit.
He looked over his office. Nothing new had been done to it in weeks: the same stacks of old synthesis-authorization documents lay scattered here and there on the stone floor; the familiar, wooden walls gathered dust; the antique desk with gruesome carvings etched in. The chair he sat in wasn’t fancy per se, in fact, it was rather uncomfortable, but it took weeks to wear in a leather chair. Onan kept it as a subtle reminder of perseverance.
On the desk, though he couldn’t see it through the stacks and stacks of papers that had piled up in the past few days, was an envelope identical to the one Onan held at this very moment. This new one would be a complaint letter, Onan was sure.
. . .Which brought him back to the moment. Well, he reasoned with himself, I shouldn’t prolong the inevitable. Sighing glumly, Onan pulled a small knife from a drawer in his desk. He pried off the extravagant, red wax seal and extracted the creased parchment within. As his eyes neared the bottom of the page, his heart beat faster and faster with a tinge of uneasiness.

Dearest Onan.
As you well understand, we arranged for fifty crates of Apprehension to be delivered to House Sarrez as soon as possible. That deal was several months ago, and both I and my staff are still waiting. I am truly sorry to say that if you cannot deliver within the week, someone else will replace your position in this contract and you will be punished for wasting my valuable time.
I would like to speak to you personally when you deliver the Apprehension. Despite the lateness of your actions, I am reassured that you will not let me down. I trust in your abilities, Onan.
Yours, as ever,
Opa Sarrez, House Sarrez

Onan groaned. Looks like Opa’s on the war-path again. He mused in his head. One never wants to mess with House Sarrez, so for my neck’s sake, I should comply, but. . .
Onan placed the letter on the desk and stared at it balefully, hoping that if he looked at it hard enough it would erase itself from history. So. Apparently, Opa, head of House Sarrez, wanted fifty crates of Apprehension as soon as possible. I doubt she knows how long it takes to make a single bar of Apprehension. Onan thought spitefully. Or even how hard it is to get one’s hands on some Hope and Fear to make it in the first place.
Onan thought for a moment, then pulled a reference sheet from a usually-untouched column on the floor to the side of his desk. He examined the contents of the paper, rereading his notes from so long ago. This particular page dated all the way back to his alchemy-schooling years, so they should have been unnecessary. But even as an esteemed supplier of high-quality ‘synths, he found a cheat-sheet invaluable.
According to his notes, Apprehension was a stimulant. It was commonly used in metalworking, its superconductive nature quickly igniting even the most frozen forge in mere seconds. However, if combined with Unrest in the right proportions, Apprehension was an extremely volatile explosive. Onan had seen the devastation that an Apprehension/Unrest bomb could cause.
I don’t like to think about what Opa really wants with all that Apprehension. Onan closed his eyes and moaned quietly. But the customer’s always right. Especially with House Sarrez. Every Sarrez is annoyingly persuasive. . .they’re popular among nobles, though. Very popular.
A knock suddenly came to the door, breaking Onan out of his thoughts. “Uh, come in!” He stammered, fixing up his impossibly untidy desk. He hastily tucked the letter into a drawer as the door opened.
An intimidating Human woman opened the door fiercely and stormed to Onan’s desk. She had waist-length blond hair, angry blue eyes and faint freckles. She wore the traditional alchemist’s tan overcoat with a large pocket on either side and long sleeves. She made her way to the desk through the maze of papers and, since there were no chairs, promptly sat herself on a stack. Onan dismissed his irritation: only Angi could get away with sitting on Onan’s precious documents, because nobody could make her do otherwise.
“You got Opa’s letter, correct?” She immediately asked without preamble, stern-faced. Onan slumped forward, resting his elbows on the desk and interlocking his fingers in front of his nose. He nodded contemplatively. Angi leaned forward until her face was inches from Onan’s hands. Her blue eyes blazed with fury. “Well then, what are you doing sitting idly in your office?! I can’t have us losing our business because you don’t like Opa!” She pounded the desk with her fist, sending a cascade of delicately-balanced pages fluttering to the floor. Onan followed them with his eyes, unfazed before Angi’s wrath.
“I’m working on it.” Onan lied.
“No, you’re not. You’re being lazy again.” Angi spat out, pulling back a bit. Her tone became quiet, but lost no heat. “Ryter didn’t leave this business in our hands to have you ruin it like an arrogant dolt!” Onan squeezed his eyes shut behind his steepled fingers.. Angi increased her volume. “If we’re going to go out of business, at least go down with a fight!”
Onan still refused to reply. It was best to wait out the storm, then reason with his wife’s quieter side. She looked at the desk, focusing on Onan’s cheat-sheet. She said nothing, waiting for Onan to speak.
He dropped his hands and sat up straight in his chair. “Angi, honey, I really am working on it. I even called in some extra help. He should be here any day now.” Angi looked up at her husband, skeptical. Onan continued. “If he’s true to his word, he’ll help us finish this job in no time.”
Angi nodded slowly, still glaring at him. “Good. Let’s see you give him some experience.” Onan nodded back to her and stood, walking around his desk. Angi stood as well, her height not quite reaching Onan’s. Onan put his thick arm around his wife’s shoulders and squeezed.
“I’m not as lazy as you think.”
“Really.” Angi asked, grinning mischievously. The two moved to the door, and Onan pulled it open with his free hand. With an exaggerated sweeping gesture, Onan allowed Angi to exit first. But before she moved, she raised an eyebrow at Onan. “Winter’s coming on quickly.” She stated simply.
Onan examined Angi’s face, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Angi put her hands on her hips, her angry look returning. “That means we’ll have to put off synthesizing for another six months once it starts! You’d better move fast, you lazy hog!”
Onan looked downward, biting his lip. Angi’s playful insults were losing their playful quality and were beginning to actually etch away at Onan’s spirit. They didn’t used to, but lately they were getting worse and worse. . . “How long do we have until then?” He asked, trying to focus on the matter at hand.
“About a month. Less than that.” Angi shook her head, disappointed. She snorted and left the room. Downcast, Onan looked back at the single window in his room. It allowed a pillar of pallid, mote-filled light to fill his desk. The pearly-white envelope from Opa especially stood out, gleaming in the cloudy sunlight. He gave a disheartened sigh, then pulled the door closed.
He watched his wife’s cone-shaped, dark-blue alchemist hat as she walked away, down the hall without looking back or saying another word. Somehow, her silence hurt him more than any insult could have.