Of Machines & Magics (17 page)

“You make it sound as though thoughts are independent, entities in their own right.”

“And so they are Calistrope. They are demons, I tell you. Their sole purpose is to multiply, to be stored in our brains and to be passed on to infect others.”

“Mage or not, I simply cannot see this.”

“Because there is no
I
, no
you
. Self consciousness is a trick of the thoughts which inhabit your brain.”

“We are no more than the vehicle by which thoughts propagate themselves, then,” Calistrope recalled the moth that had tried to lay her eggs in his body. “Hatching grounds for new thoughts.”

“My villagers are incapable of pursuing a thought for more than a minute or two, incapable of linking two thoughts together.”

“Is this not degrading?”

“Is happiness degrading? They know nothing that is ignoble or hurtful.”

“They know nothing ennobling or inspiring either.”

“The simple things of life. That is what they have, all that is necessary.”

Lelaine had been frowning in concentration, now her eyebrows rose as high as could be: astonishment, amazement, disbelief; her eyebrows conveyed all this in one movement.

Two villagers, an old man and a younger woman grappled unsteadily with a pitcher which first one held and then the other. Occasionally, whichever was in temporary possession would remember to drink from it.

“What are they doing?” Lelaine’s brows bunched together, conveying perplexity.

“I would hazard a guess,” Calistrope answered. “Squabbling over a jug of wine.”

“Yes, yes. I see that but what does it imply? Don’t you see? They are fighting for ownership. Fighting presupposes purpose, purpose demands constructive thought and that is not possible.”

“Interesting.”

“It is impossible! And where did they get wine? Did
you
bring it?
You
have done this, haven’t you?” The black brows drew down, close together, accusatory.

“Me? Certainly not! I swear it.” Truth, yet truth shaded with deceit, for it was obvious where the wine had come from.

Roli chose that moment to return. He looked tired; in fact,
exhausted
was the word which sprang to Calistrope’s male and prejudiced mind. There was a reasonable amount of happiness in Roli’s expression, too; contentment, perhaps. To Calistrope’s male and limited imagination, it suggested
satiety
.

“My apprentice,” he introduced as Lelaine inspected the boy and her eyebrows signaled disapproval. Lelaine admired neither slovenliness nor disarray.

For a moment, Calistrope thought she was going to quiz the youngster but she was interrupted by an older woman assaulting two grinning young men a little older than Roli. If Lelaine had not just explained how it was men’s veins which were brimming with hormones and that women were the detached sex, Calistrope might have believed that the woman was tearing at the young men’s clothing.

“What
are
they doing?” Lelaine asked, shocked rather than ignorant.

Roli was equally shocked.“Yes, what
is
she doing? She must be three times their age.”

“Twice their age perhaps—though age hardly matters, surely. I’d say she had been watching you make sport with some of your new friends.” Calistrope replied wryly.

“Watching me?” Roli was aghast at the idea.

“You have given her certain ideas, now she obviously wants to try things out herself.”

Roli began to see the humor. “But she
is
quite old.”

“You seem to have a problem with age, young man. Lovemaking is not just the prerogative of apprentices you know,” Calistrope observed.

Roli giggled. “Well, perhaps not. It’s just that we’re better at it.”

“Not even that.
I
can assure you.”

Meanwhile, Lelaine had risen and was trying to part the
ménage a trois
and inevitably one of the men had become interested in her as well.

“What
do
you think you’re doing?” asked Lelaine sharply as she attempted to resist when he pulled her cloak from her shoulders and laid it on the ground.

“Now stop it,” she admonished. “Stop it or I’ll… Oh, er…” Somehow, he had persuaded Lelaine to lie upon the cloak with him.

“Now this is not the time, not the place… ouch! Oh I…”

Otherwise occupied, Lelaine did not notice the departure of Calistrope, Roli and Morph. They left quietly, not wishing to disturb the sorceress who they could not help but notice was rather a handsome creature.

“Lelaine may well discover some enhancements to add to her hypotheses,” said Calistrope to Morph.

Chapter 14

The four of them climbed the eastern slope rather than backtrack through the village, which they could hear, was in an uproar. When they reached the ridge line, the land could be seen to slant gradually downward towards the floor of the rift. They continued on along the gentler gradient.

Dense thickets of tangled oak and dwarf spruce grew all across this upland and forced their path to wander. Each of the larger clearings were dotted with barrel-stemmed plants surmounted by bright flower heads nodding in unison, a phenomenon which implied that the group grew from the same plant. Fireflies, sparkling like stray reflections of sunlight from a shower of sequins, hovered in the shade cast by the many-colored flowers.

“These are the colors we saw from beside the river,” said Roli. “You said they might be flowers.”

“So I did,” Calistrope grinned, pleased at the accuracy of his earlier guess.

It was the first time in Morph’s short sentient life that it had seen such vivid colors—reds and blues, yellows, dark purples—a single color to each glade. Morph investigated each new crop of blooms with a child’s wonder.

They passed a group of chrome yellow blossoms. Morph poked at the nearest and with an audible
snap
, it closed and withdrew into the ribbed green trunk. The attendant fireflies blinked out. A little nonplussed at the sudden reaction, it went to another and—careful to avoid touching it, the creature gazed raptly at the tossing flower.

“Are they alive?” he asked after some time, hurrying after the others.

“Oh yes,” Calistrope thought a moment or two. “You may be related to them more than to us. I remember that when you were in your…
quiescent
phase, you seemed to draw something from the rock beneath you.”

“I believe that’s so,” agreed Morph. “And do these do the same?”

“They extract minerals and certain nutrients from the soil.”

At the next clearing, Morph went to stand next to a perfectly white blossom. “I cannot detect any thought at all.”

“Ah, no. Plants—which is the term we give to this type of life—are not sentient. At least, not on Earth and not as far as I know. You will note too, that they are rooted in the ground, they do not move from place to place.”

Again they walked on and again Morph scurried to catch up, only to stop at the next group of plants. “This exudes a considerable odor,” he said of the orange bloom. “I would classify it as similar to decaying meat, I doubt you would care for it.”

Morph stood on tiptoes to look into the centre of the flower. “There’s a hole at the middle,” he said. His changeable body stretched up a little more. “What are these? Ulp!”

Calistrope, Ponderos and Roli had passed the clearing and it was several seconds before they realized their friend was no longer with them. “Morph?” called Calistrope. “Where are you?” Then, to the others: “We had better go back, we don’t want the fellow getting lost.”

They returned to the last clearing. There were eleven of the big orange flowers and one where the long fleshy petals were folded in.

“This is the right place, isn’t it?” Ponderos asked.

Calistrope nodded. “Orange ones. Yes.”

“You don’t suppose it’s fallen in, do you?” Roli swallowed.

“Into one of the flowers?” Calistrope rubbed his chin. “Morph was saying something about a hole inside, but falling in…”

Ponderos picked up a long twig and waved it over one of the flowers. “Just wondered,” he explained a little sheepishly. “You hear these tales of carnivorous plants, don’t—”

The stick was whisked from Ponderos’ hand and an instant later, his hand and forearm were enfolded by a ring of muscular petals. “It’s going numb,” he gasped. “Can’t feel it.”

Slowly, Ponderos’ arm was being pulled into the flower. Calistrope and Roli caught hold of him and pulled against the plant and slowly, Ponderos’ arm came out. There was a squelchy, sucking sound and suddenly, he was free; they tumbled backwards, laughing with relief until Calistrope thought of Polymorph.

“Morph must be already inside one of these!” Calistrope shouted.

“That one,” said Roli. “The one that’s closed up.”

Ponderos’ arm would not work properly but Calistrope and Roli attacked the plant with their swords, carefully slicing the stringy stem open. The stem was quite hollow, with downward pointing thorns growing in the internal space. When they had completely cut it away, the tubular stem carried on below ground level to unknown depths. They rolled a stone down the tube and it vanished out of sight without a sound, a cut sapling longer than Calistrope reached no barrier.

“I’m afraid that Morph is gone, my friends. Beyond our reach.”

Roli and Ponderos nodded, the latter rubbing his right arm in an attempt to restore some feeling. Calistrope noticed and was instantly remorseful. “Ponderos, I am so sorry. I quite forgot that it had hold of you.”

He looked at Ponderos’ hand and arm. The skin was covered with myriad scratches and was slick with a film of blood. “We must have absorbed quite a lot of power in Lelaine’s village—can you make it heal?”

“Of course. I’ve grown so used to doing without magic that I’d forgotten.” Over a space of twenty seconds, the skin healed and feeling returned to his arm and fingers. The blood dried and fell away in flakes as Ponderos rubbed his other hand over it.

“Good,” Calistrope nodded. “I’m as forgetful as you, too. If we both use our power, we can tear this plant out by the roots. Morph may still be alive.”

The two mages concentrated. The broken stem came up out of the ground as though an invisible giant was tugging at it. Ell after ell of green tube was extruded, broken side vessels showed where it had been connected to the other flowers.The flowers nearby shuddered and wilted as each junction was broken.

Soon there was a huge pile of split plant stems. Rings of brown vegetable muscle clustered around many of the sections; these would be a part of the plant’s digestive organs. Of Morph, there was no sign, however.

“I think we have to admit it,” Ponderos said gently. “Our friend is gone.”

They recommenced their journey, a sad and silent group of travelers. Despite the short time that Polymorph had been a part of the company, all three of them had come to regard the little creature as their friend. Nature had given Morph an exuberant character; the fresh point of view from which it saw everything made the mundane new again, its enthusiasms were contagious.

Now that it had all gone, the travelers felt Morph’s absence more keenly. There were times when each of them preferred to keep his own company and would walk apart from his companions. Calistrope in particular would stand at the edge of the upland and gaze in silence into the depths below while the other two walked on.

Time improved their dispositions gradually, but it was not until they reached the continental edge and the awesome plunge to the ancient seabed that they were able to put the tragedy behind them.

Chapter 15

The ground dropped away steeply, a breathtaking fall of almost a league—the eastward side of the continental massif through and across which they had journeyed. The river, a very respectable torrent by now, cascaded over the lip of hard rock and plunged downward over a series of slides and falls. Long before it reached the marshes which bordered the great river below, much of it had broken into spray and mist, drifting down as a constant rain.

Far off to the southeast—perspective had changed over the past few days—was the sugar-loaf mountain rooted in the nearer waters of the Last Ocean. This was where the single word Schune was situated on their maps. Before them and beyond the shadow of the continental height, the Long River sprawled along the wide alluvial valley.

Their descent was by means of an ancient trail, once the final stage of an ages-old trade route. At some time in the long ago past, steps had been cut into the granite, what had once been a huge and imposing stairway was now a worn and crumbling path overgrown with slippery mosses and algae nurtured by the ever present vapor from the plunging water. There were signs that handrails had once been fastened into the rock along the edges of the steps but these had long since collapsed and rotted away to stumps.

Everywhere was wet and slippery and treacherous, slick with slime and decaying matter. The shadow of the continental massif stretched out several leagues across the marshlands towards the river, the steps had been dark and gloomy since the world had stopped turning. Rest stops were out of the question, the continual rain drove them on to the finish. It seemed like climbing down the edge of the world—three hours to descend to the confusion of fallen boulders and unsteady slopes of scree which covered the lowest levels. Aching and more exhausted than any of them could have believed possible, they negotiated the final obstacles and made a rough and ready camp at the very edge of the Long River flood plain.

Here, on the banks of one of the many streams which took the falling waters to the Long River, the air was filled with water droplets and vapor. It was an uncomfortable place to be for long. Wood would not burn without the continual urge of magical power to keep the chemical processes going, clothing was never dry, fish and larvae from the nearby pools tasted too foul to eat.

“I’m still tired,” said Ponderos after half an old day. “But I cannot sleep, the food is unappetizing, I feel as though I’m rotting from the feet up. I believe we should move on as soon as possible; get out of this constant rain.”

“Here,” said Calistrope to Roli, “is a man who speaks in euphemisms. Frogs croak without cease, no one can sit down without getting one’s bottom wet, fish taste like mud and the hornets are as big as my thumb and the most vicious I have come across—thank the fates nobody thought to improve their gene base.”

“Someone improved the wasps,” Roli pointed out.

“Just so, perhaps there are hornets as big as me. Let us go before they come to torment us.”

They went. Striding out across the soggy marshland, jumping sluggish streams, wading through turbid ponds and black mudflats, testing the perfidious surface for quicksand beneath its emerald covering of moss and weed.

The companions reached the bank of the Long River, it had taken them more than a day to cross what, on Calistrope’s map, were a few finely drawn flood lines. They made a more agreeable camp at the side of a rare shingle beach beyond the reach of the continental shadow. Here, out in the sunshine at last, they could wait days or weeks for one of the occasional trading flotillas which were the only means of bypassing the marsh and swamp flanking the Long River’s course all the way to the sea.

Time passed and the three relaxed while keeping watch up river. They talked of this and that; about the journey, the way magic faded in and out, what might be at Schune.

“What is magic?” asked Roli as though Calistrope and he had never discussed the matter before.

“I’ve told you—the remnants of old… Ah,” Calistrope realized the question was different. “A sort of broadcast power,” he said. “Those with the proper training can trap it and make use of it. It can be channeled into pure energy, or physical movement, action at a distance… This is not what you asked, is it?”

Roli shook his head.

“The answer then, is that I don’t know. Perhaps I used to but not anymore.”

“The ether that you talk about, what is that?”

Calistrope sat and thought about the question. “The ether is the interface between reality and nothingness,” he said slowly. “At this level, the smallest particles of materiality spring spontaneously into being then, more often than not, they vanish again. The power we call magic seems to be an imbalance between certain of the most minor particles of reality.”

“And human beings alone can extract this power?”

“As far as is known. Ponderos? Do you know more than this?”

Ponderos shook his head. “I have not heard of another creature that can do this.”

“Perhaps people are magical,” Roli suggested. “Perhaps all life is magical by nature.”

Calistrope shrugged. “Perhaps so.” And smiled at Roli’s enthusiasm.

Three days and a part of a fourth passed by. Ponderos, whose eyes were the keenest and who watched upriver with a set of magnifying lenses noted a speck on the surface of the brown and turgid water. He waited an hour and looked again and nodded. “A raft,” he told the others. He looked again. “And another and more. There are houses on each one.”

The caravan numbered seventeen rafts. Most were in line astern although there were also two pairs where the craft were secured side by side. More hours passed by slowly and eventually the leading raft came abreast of their camp. Fifty ells long with two huts on it and a long pile of boxes and rolled-up skins secured between them.

Calistrope signaled with a mirror and a skiff was detached from a half dozen along the side of the raft and rowed towards them.

There were two men in the boat, one manning the oars and another dressed rather grandly in dark maroon with gold frogging to the sleeves and hip-high water boots of white and grey lizard skin. This second individual stood in the stern in a studied pose, peering ahead over the top of the man who rowed the craft.

“I am the caravan’s Purser,” he said, introducing himself. “You wish for transportation?” he asked. “To what destination?”

Calistrope explained their ultimate destination.

“Shune,” he nodded. “You will have to go to Jesm and arrange passage there to cross the delta.” The travelers were appalled at the price he stipulated.

Calistrope shook his head. “We don’t have that much copper.

The Purser shrugged and ordered the oarsman to pull away.

“Wait,” said Ponderos. “Surely there is work to be done on one of those rafts. We are strong, resourceful. Can we not work our passage?”

“There is always the possibility,” agreed the Purser readily. “Food and passage. No more. Let me think,” he frowned for a moment. “We have seven prisoners on board, some of them are desperate men and only two guards to spare if river pirates inflict themselves upon us. I see you wear swords—even the boy.”

Calistrope nodded. “We have traveled a hundred leagues and used them well and truly thus far.”

“But have you killed men? Hmm?” asked the other. “One man’s life is worth a dozen snapdragons.”

“What you say is true but we, too, are desperate men. Be they escapees or pirates, our blades will carve one as well as the other.”

The Purser nodded and made a show of looking them over. “Very good,” he decided. “Step aboard and lively. Every instant, our raft drifts further away.”

They scrambled on board and the oarsman leaned into his oars, building up his speed to overtake the rafts which had been sliding by while they talked.

“I will take you to see Karkadee who is master of the caravan. He it is who must decide whether you stay or must swim for the shore.”

Calistrope raised his eyebrows and the others also expressed shock and surprise.

“I shall recommend you to him. Master Karkadee has seventeen rafts under his authority and three hundred men and women but Karkadee rarely goes against my advice.”

The oarsman coughed and spat into the river’s muddy water.

“You were about to say something?” The Purser asked him.

“I?” Said the oarsman. “I have work to do with these oars. I have no breath to spare for conversations.”

“Hmm,” said the Purser.

“Even if I ventured an opinion, who is there would take note?”

The oarsman’s question went unanswered and after a little while, he decided the situation should be remedied.

These three fine gentlemen? They will have nothing to say on any matter that
I
might speak of,” he sucked in his lips and bent to his oars for four, five strokes. “And you Rem Alcudea? It is well known that…”He was cut short.

“Kindly do not address me by name when either of us is on duty. It is proper to use my rank.” The Purser, stood in the stern, tiller in hand and stared with stiff formality over the head of the oarsman.

A further five or six strokes sent them skimming over the water. “The
Purser
,” Rem began again with emphasis and sucked his teeth for a few seconds. “The Purser and I do not converse together and if we did, well, my advice would be ignored. If we were the last two left unfrozen at the End, he would not take my advice. No.” The oarsman shook his head and pulled strongly again. “I would not waste my breath.”

“Quite so,” agreed the Purser. “Best to save all the breath you have to pull with.”

“I will.”

“Hmm.”

Their introduction to Karkadee, Master of the caravan and
de-facto
commander of every soul on board, was an anticlimax after meeting his Purser. Karkadee was short and stout and nondescript where Alcudea was tall and elegantly dressed; Karkadee was worn down with weighty matters of polity while Alcudea’s mind was free to concentrate on the only conceivable item of interest—Rem Alcudea.

The Purser bent to speak briefly in the Master’s ear. Karkadee nodded and turned back to the instruments before him.

The Purser gestured them away from Karkadee’s presence and took them aft where he had words with another officer.

“The carcery?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows.

“Just so,” Alcudea confirmed.

The Purser had brought them to the leading raft which, despite its cargo, was master Karkadee’s command and navigation post. From here, the master calculated the position of the ever-shifting deep-water channel. Behind, the other rafts followed, keeping to the same course and speed.

The Purser left them with the officer.

“Minallo,” he introduced himself. “By chance I had come to see the victualler and I find that my command is increased by three.”

Minallo pointed to a small boat made fast to the starboard quarter. “We shall be turning a point or two to westward very shortly. Wait by the skiff there until I have seen the victualler once again.”

The officer left them and was back again a few minutes later. “Right, gentlemen. Into the skiff with you and we will fall back to your new home.”

Once into the skiff. Minallo, undogged a winch; the rope from the winch was fastened to a mooring post on the side of the raft. He let the winch unwind freely and they found themselves drifting back down the line of rafts until they came to the fifth in line. Here Minallo slowed the winch, stopped it and allowed the skiff to float sedately up to the side of the raft. The timbers below the deck level were laid with a space between every third and fourth stringer, making a sort of ladder. Following their new acquaintance, they climbed up the side to the deck which was an ell or so above them.

Here Minallo stopped them. “I am Minallo, first officer of the carcery.” Minallo made the boat fast. “As Karkadee is the absolute master of the caravan so am I the absolute ruler of this one raft—responsible only to the Master. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely,” Calistrope nodded.

“Perfectly so,” said Ponderos.

Roli looked around the raft with interest.

“Young man.” Minallo looked pointedly at Roli. “Do
you
understand?”

“Oh yes Sir. I do,” Roli vigorously made amends.

“Very good. When I left here an hour ago, there were five of us here to guard seven prisoners. Now there is one of us to each prisoner and one to spare. Do you think the Purser has a plan which he has failed to mention to me?”

“The Purser mentioned river pirates,” Calistrope ventured. “He said that only two guards would be left if we were called upon to repel river pirates.”

“Well, that’s as true as may be.” Minallo wagged his head and blew out his cheeks. “But river pirates are a dying breed in these parts. I will tell you how it is.” And he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial rumble. “The more men and women Rem Alcudea commands, the better he seems when he applies for a new berth. It was I who controlled thirty and four under Master Felwith and a hundred and twenty when I sailed under Master Jalem.” And Master Karkadee was very impressed—as were we all.” Minallo waved his hands about. “Next time of course he will push out his chest and swagger, “three hundred men and women and a boy when I sailed with Master Karkadee’ but will he tell you fifty and more are make weights? Hmm?”

“It seems doubtful Sir. Is there no work for us then?”

“We have two river pirates incarcerated here and they are the whole population of such miscreants between Istanfa and Jesm. I will post double guards so there’s no question of escape. Neither for them nor for any of the others. Why should I worry so long as I am dealt my proper purse when the caravan breaks up? Come this way.”

There were indeed seven people in the carcery: a passenger who had been found rifling a fellow passenger’s strong box, a factor who had tried to sell the Purser a case of corked wine, a religious fanatic who had impugned the Pursers’ good name. These three were the three most ordinary.

Less commonplace were the two river pirates to which Minallo had referred. They had been caught during a raid on an earlier caravan and were now being transported to Jesm for sentence to be carried out.