Tap and Die is a 90’s action story full of characters like Dövë who use wands and staves instead of guns on the set of an epic fantasy world. I’m releasing it serially over the course of 6 months — the first 2 5% is FREE and the rest requires a subscription: if you subscribe for at least 3 months, I will send you a hard copy before the book releases even if you don’t finish the story.
The main attendant scrolled through. And scrolled through. “No Dawes other than a young girl.”
Jack’s daughter. And his wife?
“Try Frey Sfansòrsiʡ.” The last sound came out as if someone had grabbed his throat and choked him halfway through. That was how Frey had taught him: choking off his airway with her nails while grinning.
“Miss Sfansòrsiʡ is right at the top.”
“Missus,” he said.
“Take the nib out of the well and write down the floor you need,” said the attendant. “In this case, forty-first. It summons a carved limestone pod that will fall up toward us. Write the floor again inside to confirm, and the reverse gravity will release and you will fly down to your floor. Have you never seen a descender such as this?”
“They call them elevators where I’ve spent most of my time. Elevators work the opposite in… almost every way.”
“How odd, Good Sir Dawes. Enjoy.”
Sir. Pfft.
Jack wrote down a calligraphic 41, and two stone doors opened without a hint of a sound, revealing a hand-carved box large enough to stand in. He stepped inside, started to write 41, and then wrote 42 instead.
Instantly he felt the sensation of dropping. Even going as slow as the thing went, he hated that feeling. That feeling of…
Soaring down…
Soaring down…
…into the belly of the planet Gergia.
“Floor forty-two. Enjoy your visit.”
He exited into much color and noise. The curved and floating shapes of people filled the landings above and below in silks and linens and wools and armor made of papier-mâché and chains topped with asymmetrical hats and other metal headgear. None would ride well on a horse, disguise well in the wild, or protect well from lightning or spear. No weaponry other than the collective armed force from the best troops of each nation of the Common Realms: trained as one, polyglots all, and defenders all of their homeland of all lands. Or all participating lands.
Something in Jack’s poorer upbringing made him think of how he was dressed. He didn’t like thinking of his Pit-damned outfit.
He scanned the crowd—and locked eyes with his little girl.
Dövë, he mouthed.
“Dad!” she screamed over her table’s guests.
The guests looked at her and looked at where she was looking and saw Jack, looking down not on them, but his girl. But his eyes had moved, and when they turned to follow his gaze, Dövë had moved as well, sprinting up the closest ramp from the forty-first landing to the forty-second.
Jack didn’t sprint, but he did hustle his long bow-legged strides.
They collided on the second step. She always hugged him tighter than anything. He felt the swelling of twenty-one bows on twenty-one heartstrings, a swell that vibrated his tear ducts. A great cathedral opened in him, one he could not quite shut the door upon, one that spoke of his bit role in this passion play.
***
At five and a half, Dövë had gone off to school in The Tap at the request of her mother. Both the daycare and babysitters like Sfòne had watched over Dövë, and Sfòne in particular, astonished by Dövë’s prowess in all things—though he ascribed it only to the mother and not to the father— had taken an interest in getting the girl tutors, and in finding her a mentor for her mind and powers.
Frey wanted nothing to do with this. She didn’t want the tutors. She didn’t want the mentor.
Dövë had thought this was because Frey didn’t want her to thrive, to succeed. She told her as much.
Sfòne, half wringing his hands, had fed this fire in hopes of ingratiating himself with the girl.
Frey didn’t notice. But in the end, she didn’t care about the ends so much as the means. She didn’t know if she wanted Sfòne getting that close to her daughter, both on account of Jack—her still-husband in her mind—and on account of Dövë’s safety. Who knew what kind of man Sfòne was, deep down?
Sfòne wanted to find the right mentor. He told Dövë as much.
Dövë thought she had to thrive. She had to. She felt as if she’d burst otherwise.
That was all before Dövë ran up to hug her father, Jack Dawes.
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