Guildmarks

And there it was. The slight curling of the fingers, seeking -- and finding -- the subtle scars on the heal of the hand; more importantly, his own curling and seeking and finding of my own Mark. And suddenly our conversation took on a new meaning. The words weren't important; we could be talking about the weather or the price of tea or anything at all. The real meaning was hidden in the tone and inflection of the words. There was a Guild Safehouse in Downtown, but the city was mostly a Union stronghold. Things were tense, but hadn't escalated to outright violence. Yet. Avoid the subways; they were infested with Underlings, and worse things according to some.

Conspiracy

"This," she said, pointing to an article in the New York Times, "isn't dangerous. Nor was the Special they showed on CNN last night, or the piece in last month's Popular Science. What's dangerous is all of them taken together, combining all the pieces." She looked sadly at him, "Knowing isn't the problem, James; knowing you know is."

Phonemes

Professor Hartdale's usual demeanor, which gave one the impression that he secretly knew the punchline to a joke no one else heard, melted in an instant to a mix of weariness and anger -- or the closest approximation to anger that his grandfatherly features could accept. "Yes, yes, boy. The words have power -- harmonics intrinsic to the fabric of reality and all the other theoretical jargon. But no, you can't just teach anyone to say them and be done with it; it's not that simple. Even aside from everything else, you have been studying for well over a month now and you still can't pronounce them correctly. There are subtleties, sounds and slurs that you can't even distinguish yet. It's more than a matter of hearing what the words sound like, boy. You have to know what they are."