Free Darkvision by Bruce R. Cordell

Sitting back in his seat allowed Warian a chance to absorb the ambience and study the various city dwellers and visitors who strode to and fro, each intent on his own unknowable business. Many were from outside Durpar, having traveled from countries like the Shaar, Dambrath, or Halruaa. Others hailed from even farther shores, such as the nearly mythical Sembia or Cormyr. Warian had never personally met anyone from places so distant, but he’d heard stories.
    The sharp, glinting light of sun through crystal caught Warian’s eye. A woman walking out of a stylish saloon on the high balcony to his left carried a prism … no…
    The woman’s hand was clear, as if made of glass! More than that, delicate traceries of crystal writhed across her whole arm, and marked her face, too, with an elaborate embroidery. Warian gaped. As he pulled closer, there was no doubt—the woman sported a crystal prosthesis, and then some, just as he did!
    Her body art reminded Warian of an intricate tattoo, but never had he seen one laid down in glass. He didn’t doubt the glass of her prosthesis and decoration was Datharathi crystal.
    Warian waved to catch the woman’s attention, but she turned and moved down an elevated path, and a bridge intervened as the rickshaw continued to move forward.
    “Say,” Warian called to the driver who plodded along ahead of him. “Do you see many people who have crystal like mine?” Warian tapped his arm even though the driver didn’t turn. “Like my crystal arm?”
    The driver shrugged without turning, and said, “Sure. Plangents. Too rich for my blood.”
    “Plangents?”
    “Yeah.” The driver craned his neck to fix Warian with an assessing eye. “Like you.” The driver turned his attention back to his path.
    Warian searched his memory, but came up blank.
    “I’m sorry, I’ve been gone from Vaelan for most of the last five years. When I left, I was the only one who had such a… um, crystal prosthesis.”
    “Hmph,” the driver snorted, and turned down a high but narrow alley. “You’re in good company now, eh? Datharathi’s got the goods. They’ll make you ‘stronger, faster, smarter— better!’ if you got the gold.”
    Warian shook his head and said, “But this prosthesis is worse than a real arm. It’s slow, weak, and I can’t feel a thing through it! I have this arm because I lost my real one in an accident. Who’d want that?” But, indeed, what of the flash of potency, the reason he’d returned to Vaelan in the first place?
    “Well,” the driver responded, chuckling. “You got a bad deal. The plangents I’ve seen are none of that—you put a plangent against me in a pulling contest, and even though I’ve pulled this rickshaw every day for thirteen years, a plangent’d beat me every time, if he had a brand new overhaul.”
    “What’s this word you keep saying—plangent? Anyone who gets a prosthesis is a plangent?”
    “Well, yeah, that’s what we call ‘em. But from what I heard, you can’t just replace an arm, a leg, or an eye. They replace stuff on the inside, too, stuff we can’t see. The plangents—they’re supposed to live longer—they’re their own thing now. A new thing. A plangent.” The driver snorted, then yelled at another porter who edged in front of him at an intersection.
    Warian sat back. Uncle Xaemar and Grandfather Shaddon had been busy. Warian was confident that the crystal of his arm stopped at his shoulder. Since he’d been given his fake arm, they must have refined and expanded the technique. And improved it—no one would give up the limb they were born with for something worse, like Warian’s. Well, it was usually worse. Did all the plangents enjoy the strength and speed he’d accidentally discovered? A scary thought! He didn’t know enough, clearly.
    All the more reason to seek out Eined first and get an unadulterated account from her before being propagandized by his elders.
     

     
    Eined Datharathi lived in a quiet tenement in the