Ideworld Chronicles: The Art Mage

Act 3, Chapter 48: Various welcomes

Day in the story: 15th January (Thursday)Gertrude MonkeyOut of each splinter I’d been in so far, this one was definitely the strangest, if only by the sheer virtue of being the most Earth-like of them all. The only thing that kept bothering me was the constant feeling of wanting to get out of here, to move the fuck out. And while the lack of an actual way out did not seem like a big problem given my Connection soulmark, the fact that we still had to find out what the deal was in here was a more nagging concern.

Phillip moved toward the main desk, which presented itself like a wave, without a single sharp corner. Behind it sat two front desk clerks. One—a taller shadow, but changed either by this place if he was spawned by it, or by something imposed by its caster if he had one in flesh. His entire body was elongated and flattened from the side, making him look like a very tall man if he turned sideways, or just a thin stick figure if he faced you directly. He moved strangely too, as if his body were made of rubber instead of muscles and bones. The other one was a lady—older than me by five years perhaps. No more than that, judging by looks alone. Curly hair kept in a low ponytail. Clean, pretty face and a body curved in just the right places.

It was obvious which one Penrose would choose to speak to.

“Excuse me,” he said to the flattened man, looking at him with curious intensity. “We are looking for a group of people that arrived here a few weeks ago, dressed similarly to the good folks behind me.” He pointed at the mercs.

“Welcome to InterContagental.” The shadow’s voice was hollow. Hard to listen to if one did not pay special attention. I moved closer. “We do not share our guests’ information, but I’d be happy to find you all a locum, and maybe you will meet the people you are looking for in here.”

“And if I don’t?” Penrose asked.

“You are free to look for them outside, if you ever would love to leave, that is.”

“Not ominous at all,” Thomas voiced my own concern. Ramirez just kept looking at the people around us, whispering silent prayers when someone obviously changed moved too close by.

“Fine. Find me four double rooms,” he said, then turned to me, as if only then reminded of my presence. “Do you mind staying in one room with me, Ramirez, or Thomas?”

“No, I will stay with Torque, if he doesn’t mind it,” I replied.

“Fine,” Thomas said, and Penrose turned back to the clerk.

“As I said then, all of the rooms close together. Make it a week’s stay. How much do I pay?”

“It will be five hundred dollars per person, per night, paid at checkout. I am afraid I can’t book you for more than one day, good sir.”

“No rooms?”

“No, plenty of rooms. Hotel policy, sir. We can book for twenty-four hours only. You are free to renew the booking for the next day after the initial twelve hours have passed, and we will find you another room to move to.”

“Why can’t it be the same?” Ramirez asked from behind.

“Hotel policy, my good man. No guest stays in the same room for more than a day. We do not want our guests to get bored.”

“That’s ridiculous. You are just making it more difficult for guests and your staff,” Thomas countered from the side, slamming his fist on the desk. That resulted in the lady who had been tangled in some phone conversation jumping slightly out of fear.

“Please, behave properly or we will be forced to call security,” the thin man said.

“We don’t care for your policies. We did not come here to enjoy ourselves—” Thomas continued in a firm tone, but Penrose stopped him, raising an open hand.

“We will get those rooms for a day. Let us be done with the necessities as quickly as possible,” Phillip said. I liked this approach better than Thomas’s. Paying with money that was worthless to Penrose was better than paying with blood that had some value. At the same time, allowing and quickly squelching the outburst showed that we were both capable of being a nuisance and of behaving properly, depending on how we were treated.

When they all flocked to the desk and dealt with the accommodation issues, I started moving around. The interior of this place did not follow the clear symmetrical but broken logic of the exterior. Here everything seemed more fluid, like some fractal unfolding on many planes. Each shape was curved and seemed plastered together into some strange geometrical whole. Even the high aquarium that replaced the exit wasn’t just a rectangle. It was more akin to a tower vine that sprouted along the wall upward, dividing into many branches—each one containing water, fish or other marine animals, and little coral enclosures.

I did not look at it with my own eyes though. Sp-eye-ders did the spying for me as I tried to catch the moment someone else would come inside, which unfortunately did not happen.

I did not want to be seen as someone who noticed that our exit had ceased to exist. It could paint a target on my back. And this kind of painting usually could not be spelled without the pain. Something that I’d try to avoid whenever it was possible.

Instead my gaze was directed at different modern art sculptures in the lobby. Standing on wide and rather tall platforms—reaching about to my chest—were vaguely humanoid figures made of uneven brass. Some of them held books and were caught in the position of silent readers; some were seen running or preparing to jump; one had a cane set firmly against the ground, putting its weight on it. They all were about eight to ten feet tall and seemed to portray potential clients of the hotel. Although my sense of art was duller than that of Elle’s or Alexa’s, I too could appreciate their intricate deconstruction of human movement and the position of the body mid-action.

Observing them made me realize that besides being barred from the exit by normal means, there was something else at play in here. Accessing the thoughts of my other selves seemed to be more difficult, as if my mind were caught in some soul’s slowing field.

*There is certainly something fishy going on,* Alexa’s main thought on the matter reached me long after I stopped looking at the aquarium, proving my feelings on the subject. While this thing was nothing major, it did make me feel a bit nauseated.

A lot less than the guy I was observing, though. A fucking lot less—especially judging by the fact that he had just vomited all over a family standing by a couch with their luggage. And it clearly wasn’t his first time. The smell alone testified to that. It was thick, sour and fermented into his very skin.

He had a long, tangled blond beard that spilled halfway down his chest, matted into ropes. Bits of dried food, crusted foam, and stains of old drink were glued into it, turning parts of it stiff and yellowed. His hair was greasy, stringy, flattened in some places and puffed in others.

His clothes might once have been layered intentionally, but now they were just accumulated fabric—jackets and shirts soaked through with old spills, sweat, and grime. The cuffs were darkened to near black. The fabric around his collar had hardened from repeated exposure to whatever he’d coughed or spilled down himself over the months.

His face was old. Wind-burned cheeks. Broken capillaries webbing across his nose. Stubble pushing through unevenly beneath the beard like neglected undergrowth. His lips were cracked and pale at the edges.

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And his dull eyes were half-lidded and oxen-like.

I avoided him in a wide circle on the merit of the smell alone, letting the affected family deal with him on their own. It was during this maneuver that I noticed all those people in here were basically waiting in line to get to the reception—and we had cut in. Due to our looks and weapons, no one seemed willing to react or protest. Fucking smart.

The main lobby extended to both sides with enormous hallways that once again avoided right angles like they were curses. Fitted with couches and lounge areas, they were all full of people who moved slowly toward the reception desk, most likely to renew their accommodation. How that left any time for them to enjoy their stay was completely unknown to me.

Elle EriksonI spent most of my day drifting from boutique to boutique, boldly building a wardrobe worthy of Paris. I gravitated toward high-waisted, cigarette-cut trousers in charcoal, cream, and deep forest green—tailored enough to sharpen the leg and elastic enough to move. I paired them with longer A-line skirts that swayed just below the knee, some pleated, some wrapped—fabrics ranging from soft wool to fluid satin that caught the light when I turned.

On top: cropped knits that revealed just a suggestion of midriff; fitted ribbed turtlenecks in neutral tones; sharp white shirts with exaggerated cuffs; and a few slightly oversized button-downs meant to be half-tucked with practiced carelessness. I chose faux leather jackets—one jet black and structured, another in a muted burgundy with silver hardware.

For colder weather: cashmere scarves; a structured beret—I was in Paris after all—a felt hat and slim leather gloves.

I chose plenty of shoes for different occasions as well. Black patent stilettos, lower kitten heels, knee-high boots, suede ankle boots, and clean white sneakers. I felt like those last ones would be the most used, so I went with the most expensive option.

Dresses included a simple black slip, a fitted emerald piece with a slit, and a cream knit dress.

Accessories stayed minimal—gold hoops, thin rings, layered necklaces, a crossbody bag, a larger tote, narrow sunglasses, an additional regular pair with wide rims, and a slim watch.

Cosmetics covered the essentials: foundation, red lipstick, neutral palettes, liner, highlighter, and proper skincare.

I bought myself a phone with a plan, took a selfie, and sent it to feline Anansi, who was working on Alexa’s laptop. She would design the family photos I planned to place around the room.

And to top it off, I purchased lots of paper in various forms, sizes, and shapes. The events of previous night made me decide to pose as a lady of the Domain of Paper, coming down from a long line of lords and ladies who cultivated it and passed it down to me over the years. To make this illusion real, I needed a ton of my origami helpers around myself. Which I could not wait to start creating.

With everything unpacked, the room I’d booked for the month upfront started looking like something that would welcome me properly whenever I came back from uncovering this city’s secrets. I would never be able to live like Jason had—with everything absent or hidden away. I did hide most of the stuff in various chests and put it on the shelves, but I left some pieces hanging on the backrests of the chairs and draped across the bed, just so it looked like I was living here.

Then, with everything done, I opened a sketchbook with a hard cover and began drawing the image of this room. It was time to make a more personalized spellbook for myself—one I’d carry in my bag wherever I went.

Alexandra MaySophie and I both sat in the arrival terminal of JFK Airport. My head was spinning, as I had barely woken up an hour before we came here. My body was giving me a hard time, freezing its motor functions along my left side every now and then. Something that was not helped at all by whatever Peter had unlocked in me to make me regenerate. The leg had not grown in any noticeable way either.

“You did not have to come with me,” Sophie mentioned, looking me up and down. Only then did I realize my face was contorted in a grimace of pain.

“I wanted to come. He is my friend too. His entire family has been nothing but good to me.”

“You’re in pain. Your leg?” she asked, resting her hand gently on my knee. Until now, she had been mostly focused on what I assumed was Nick and had remained eerily silent for most of the journey here.

“No, the leg is fine. I am recovering from splitting myself yet again,” I told her, thinking about Maya—my seer self and newest addition to my persona repertoire. I had woken her up a few hours earlier.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Why? Because I want to and I can. My mind seems to be doing just fine.”

“Is there a limit?”

“I think I am near it right now. I need to allow myself to grow in power before I do something like that again. Maybe once more. I still need Alex to be out there.”

“You are kidding, right?”

“No?” I asked, unsure myself. “I don’t know if—” I started, but a sudden jolt of pain stopped my mouth from moving. She unfortunately noticed it.

“Can’t you see that it’s not as easy on you as you are making it out to be? You said that Peter healed you and yet you are still hurting, so it must be your soul that is causing the problems, right? He could not fix that.”

“Look who’s the magic expert now,” I whispered with difficulty. “It might be the soul, because as I said—” I stopped due to a cramp again, then resumed after it passed. Sophie’s brow furrowed in anger at me “My mind is doing just fine. I have always been able to separate various personalities in my head. Now I am just giving them bodies.”

“How does it work, exactly?” She smoothed out her brow and exhaled sharply. She must have realized she wouldn’t budge me on that point and decided that understanding it might help her cope with my condition.

“Exactly? No idea, but it is similar to having multiple sets of eyes. I see through them all the time, but only when something interesting happens can I focus on a particular one. So my personas are out there, each with a set of traits and personalities to help them be their own people, and when I notice them doing something worthy of my attention, I can tune in.”

“And take over?”

“No. Not like that. I am not taking over anything. I am still me all the time, inside every one of them.” I replied and started thinking of a better analogy to explain it to her. My creative brain did most of the thinking. “It’s like when you are walking. It’s your whole body that does the movement and you are not particularly mentally engaged in the process, but at any point you can focus and start controlling each step directly, right?”

“Oh, I get it now.”

“Yes, so it’s exactly like that, but amplified because those are entire bodies, with their own brains and personalities doing the ‘automatic’ movements. So having them out there is just slightly more tiring on me than having legs or arms.”

“What are they doing right now?”

“Gertrude’s a bit fuzzy, to be honest. I have difficulty tuning in to her, but she reached the place Penrose wanted to go, and they are scouting and mapping it out. Elle’s setting herself up in Paris to explore the city properly—”

“Wait, really?” she interrupted me. “I’d wish to go there again too.”

Her request got me thinking—if I’d be able to set permanent and real portals for once. I had animation on my side now, and Connection too, so maybe if I painted a door to Paris, that could work and take her there.

*She won’t be able to enter the painting,* Elle suggested.

But it would not be the painting she would be entering. I want her to get outside through the other door. It would be like an anchor between two points and two items. Animation would give them the ability to switch between being normal doors and portals. We could add eyes on them to let them see who wants to go through and change between those two modes depending on who the doors perceive. I am certain this could work.

*It might, but it’s certainly a lot more complicated to do than a simple infusion of identity. This identity has to be crafted by us, not borrowed from the universe. We’d have to set up clear rules on how the animation would make it work too. And I assume it would also consume lots of Authority.*

It might—we would have to try and see. As for carefully designing it, it’s not that difficult. It’s what I did with every one of you.

We—or rather, I—were fractured, yet whole in a strange way. I designed each of my personas long before I was able to give them proper, independent form. It was like light passing through a crystal prism and emerging as separate wavelengths. Through me, and through the sharpening of my own traits, they came alive—each with its own hue, each a quality intensified.

Gertrude embodied my composure, my capacity for violence, and my vulgarity. She was level-headed and capable of profound malevolence.

Elle was the magnification of my creative process and its need for order. She was artistic—not only in craft, but in her understanding of worlds and her relentless pursuit of their truths.

Jess would be my chaos and thievery given form—my whimsy and social ease made flesh. She would be bold in both artistic and personal expression.

Alex would represent my masculine aspect: the instinct to protect, the violence harnessed in service of purpose. He would be direct, unafraid to dirty his hands if it meant safeguarding what I loved.

Miriam, in my mind, would be thievery and cunning—my talent for social engineering. She could be my keeper of secrets.

And the newest of me—Maya—was my longing for truth personified. She did not merely want to know. She needed to know everything.

“I’ll think of a way to make it easier for you,” I said to Soph. “I want you to have more freedom of movement—without my constant presence.”

“Seriously?” she asked, rising to her feet.

I stood as well, carefully.

“Of course,” I confirmed, my gaze shifting to the gate as the entire Leben family stepped through. Dam had shaved both his beard and his head at some point, which made him look rougher—yet oddly younger. Ariana seemed thinner, as though the strain of everything had worn down her appetite.

Nick, however…