A Preview of High Tower Gods

Maxwell House clung like an oversized barnacle to the edge of the low cliffs, protected on one side by a rocky surge below, and on the other by scrubby desert. When approaching the squat mansion, eager visitors had the choice of being pounded to a bloody pulp on the seaweed-slick rocks, or walking through a blinding white shimmer of endless sand.

Most people chose the sand.

Elian Maxwell sat at the vast window of her upstairs laboratory, looking down at the Wilderstrand road as it wound between the dunes. A lone speck trudged through the sinuous ridges; their path a slow meander as they followed the curves of the road. In some places, the speck had to stop and clamber over the ridges that had grown up across the tarmac track.

The near-constant winds could cover whole sections of the dull black ribbon overnight. Occasionally workers from distant Leeburg would drive down Elian's road with their machines and ploughs in a hopeless attempt to clear the way once more.

Elian could have told them not to bother, but her assistant Martyn was under the impression that a road linking Maxwell House to civilisation was, in fact, a good thing.

She snorted, though seeing as how he was the one who made the infrequent supply trips into town, she supposed he had a point.

The figure lurched to one side, buffeted by an especially strong gust. Sand sailed in fine plumes from the tops of the dunes, making them look like echoes of the white horses in the ocean on the opposite side of the house. The figure lay on the ground for a moment, before jerkily pushing itself upright and beginning its trek once more. Elian wondered which variety of fool she'd be dealing with this time. Was it to be a bright-eyed worshipful alchemical student, desperate to speak with the great Elian Maxwell, or an indignant activist on their way to deface her house and yell pointless slurs.

When she did get visitors—which was a rare occurrence—Elian preferred the latter. They were generally more entertaining than their counterparts, and it was a wonderful way to keep up to date on changing patterns in modern vernacular.

A lady had to have hobbies. And she'd been around long enough to collect a few.

Once her infrequent visitors calmed down and had spent as much of their frustrated rage on her house and character as they could, Elian would usually have Martyn offer them some tea and cake.

Not because she was particularly concerned for their welfare; she just liked to watch their confused expressions from her laboratory window. If she was feeling particularly contrary, she'd send them off with a signed copy of The Alchemical Dynamics of Chimera Interfaces, and a note thanking them for their continued interest in her work.

If the visitor was of the more fawning variety, Elian pretended to be dead. Or at least dying. Martyn's role then—a role he confessed to hate but which he entered into with such relish and spirit that Elian was convinced otherwise—was to sorrowfully usher in the poor bewildered twit and explain in hushed tones that no, it was sadly impossible to see Dr. Maxwell, she's taken a turn for the worse, she's really very frail. He might even whisper of dementia, and how Dr. Elian Maxwell no longer remembered being part of the Chimera Three, or any of her work in the creation of the biochanicals. Most days she barely remembered her own name or where she was, he would tell them, his face solemn. Depending on how much of his own alchemical "experiments" he'd tested that day, it was not unknown for him to start making comments about bats in the belfry. Since Elian Maxwell was now ninety-three, this sad news was treated with revered nods and hushed acceptance.

Idiots, the lot of them.