Of Machines & Magics (3 page)

Calistrope raised an eyebrow and tapped a front tooth with a fingernail. “Why then,” he asked, “why does the Nest not organize an expedition to Schune. Why come to us?”

“Higher castes cannot travel so far,” Micca told him, “our intellect resides
within the Nest.”

“In the Nest?” Calistrope stroked his chin. “A communal intelligence?”

“That is the case.”

“And naturally.” The Mage stepped forward, nodding. “The intelligence fades with distance?”

“Over several of your leagues,” Micca told him.

“Thus, our goals are yours.”

“For the present,” agreed the ant.

“In short,” Voss broke in, “the Ants will teach a sorcerer to revitalize the engines.”

“Oh come now, Voss.”

“Calistrope, you try my patience.”

“If this confederate is expressing doubts, Archmage, then it is correct.”

“Correct?”

“There is no possibility of reclaiming skills lost as long as these, Archmage. No. Neither is it necessary. Whoever goes to Schune has merely to contact the guardians.”

Voss’ forehead wrinkled. “And these guardians will revitalize the engines? Will they still be there after such an age?”

Calistrope inspected a nail on his left hand. “Suppose there is a community at Schune, Voss and suppose we call them
engineers
rather than guardians and say
restart
rather than revitalize; the scheme begins to seem a little more practical,” Calistrope caught a fleeting smile on Voss’ face and cursed himself for a fool.

“Exactly. You show me the proper interpretation Calistrope and I am in your debt. Now, let us be practical by all means. The Nest can provide maps, an adventurous fellow will discover the way to Schune without … with only minor difficulty. Someone like your…”

“I received a message,” Calistrope said, his tone a grim one. “It mentioned an honor. If this is the honor referred to, “he looked back at the fingernail which had caused him concern before, “my attitude to travel beyond the valley of Mal-a-Merrion is well known. My reluctance to tread upon unfamiliar pathways is proverbial.”

His comments received a variety of responses both pro and con. Voss stretched his face into an unaccustomed smile. “All is taken into account, my friend. It is understandable that you are overcome by the honor but a moment’s reflection will convince you that you are the natural, the best and only choice.

Calistrope was disconcerted. With hindsight, it became obvious how he had been manipulated, right from the moment his treasures had been pilfered from the manse.

“Naturally, a great deal of prestige attaches to the venture, the status of Archmage becomes a formality.”

This is the carrot,
thought Calistrope;
without doubt the whip will be the return of my possessions
. He inquired, “A posthumous formality?”

“Ha ha. Such wit, I am overwhelmed.” Such was clearly not the case and Voss hastily turned to other matters before announcing arrangements for a celebratory banquet. He was visibly relieved as the delegates left the hall without Calistrope precipitating a confrontation. Nevertheless, as Calistrope rose to leave, Voss signaled that he wished to speak privately with him.

When all but Voss, Micca and Calistrope were left, the Mage went to the head of the table; he drew a chair out and seated himself. “Well?”

“Well? Well,” Voss assumed a reasonable tone of voice, “I am certain that you now see things in different light.”

“No,” Calistrope replied.

“I am certain that you look forward to this excellent adventure.”

“No,” Calistrope shook his head. “The title of Archmage seems to me to be poor recompense for the discomforts and dangers of such a journey,” he tapped a fingernail against a tooth. “Perhaps I lack a proper perspective but I must refuse this offer,” Calistrope invoked the similitude of aged infirmity. “I am tired; I am victim to some disease which drains my vigor.” His cheeks became sunken, creases furrowed his brow.

“Ha, ha,” Voss countered with an injunction to eternal health. “I sympathize with your condition, my friend, you need to get out more, to see the world. Out there,” he flung his arms out and Calistrope’s face filled out with plump flesh, his eyes brightened; a smile came unwillingly to his lips. “Out there, you will find yourself. See? Just the thought has made you feel better. However, one moment.”

Voss rummaged through the capacious pockets of his gown. “Aha!” A fat tube stoppered at both ends with wooden bungs. He placed it on the table and felt again in his pockets. “Ah,” he said and placed a long flat case upon the table beside the cylinder. He opened the case. “Now. Here, stored for safety while you are off on your travels,”

“Bless me, my collection of miniature succubus,” Calistrope brought out a pair of magnifying spectacles and peered closely. “It is. Each one fashioned after a notorious courtesan,” he looked up. “I knew it was you, Voss. Voss the Vile, the Thief.”

“No, no, no,” Voss was not even ruffled by the epithets. “You misunderstand. At your manse, they are unprotected. When you are away, any vagabond might chance by and take what he fancied. Here they are secure,” Voss leaned down and opened a chest at his feet. He took out a roll of fabric, held it up. “See; is this not your tapestry?” he let it fall open, a cloth of such fine weave it seemed like soft vellum, “the one you are so proud of?”

“Voss. This is pillage. No other word suffices unless … unless it is blackmail. My manse is sealed against all except the most adept,” Calistrope placed a finger on the artwork. “This tapestry you handle with such carelessness has been a thousand years in the making, a hundred tiny manikins have worked upon it diligently all that time and you filch it to serve your own selfish ends.”

The Archmage seemed unrepentant. “Selfish? I think not, Calistrope but there is more,” he went on. “Do you not want to know the whole of it? Here for example,” he pulled a cedar wood casket from beneath the table; he laid back the lid, “your pandect on Hypnotism, your unrivalled collection of aphrodisiacal spells. Hmm? What do you say to that? We shall keep them all here safely against your return.” His chuckle was dry and humorless.

Calistrope was silent for some considerable time. Although suspected, Voss’ admitted duplicity had come as a shock. “How did you gain admittance to my home?” he enquired at last. “How did you pass the Guardian and what of the curse of
Overburdening Guilt
?

Voss smiled briefly. “Do not trouble yourself about my safety and health. I came and went without disturbing your excellent precautions against thievery. Now, it is time to speak of more practical matters, Calistrope,” he became brisk, businesslike. “It is a long way to Schune and there is much to be done before you leave. Micca—” he paused abrubtly and stared. “Calistrope, does something ail you?”

Calistrope had turned very pale, his eyes bulged, slowly he brought up his hand and extended a trembling finger, he pointed. “A memory vault.”

All of the Sorcerers kept a memory vault. For those who lived so long, there was just too much to recall, too much for a single brain to organize and so every few centuries, older and less useful memories were removed and committed to the memory vaults.

Voss turned to look where the other pointed. A slim cylinder with a metallic hue, perhaps a span in length, rested upon the tray set in to the top of Voss’ chest. “Why, so it is,” he closed the lid. “So it is.”

“It is mine, Voss. I recognize it; there is no other like it. Let me describe it to you. A silver ceramic container, there is a thumb print seal on one end and if I place my right thumb against it, a small spot illuminates to show the print is recognized,” Calistrope held out his hand. “Let me have it and I can prove it is mine.”

Voss’ shoulders slumped. “There is no need, Sir,” he mumbled guiltily, suddenly humbled. “I admit that it is your memory vault. It was taken…” he paused, searching for words,” taken on a whim and it should not have been. Still,” he looked up with a brighter expression, “it should still be stored here, where it will be safe. You owe this to the College; your memories are a valuable asset, not to be risked. You owe them to humankind.”

“Well, I suppose so.” With the complement, Calistrope’s rigor eased somewhat and his complexion began to look more healthy. “The vault should be brought up to date, however.”

“You are correct,” Voss hurried to agree. “Oh, absolutely. Let it be done after this business with the Ants, though.”

Calistrope raised his eyebrows, a silent inquiry.

Voss gestured toward the ant which had been standing motionless during the altercation. “Micca has made arrangements for you to go to the Nest to be instructed as to the matter of charts and maps, perhaps to hear details of these ingenious engines.”

Anger suffused his features once more. “The Nest?” Calistrope brought his fist down on the table top with such a force that a million tiny fragments of inlay leapt into the air, a glittering cloud of greens and blues, of pinks and mauves hovering above the surface. “Do I have
no
say at all in my own destiny?”

“Beautiful,” breathed Voss as he watched the haze of dust sink back to the table’s surface again. “Enchanting. Calistrope, do that again.”

Voss had, of course been quite certain of securing Calistrope’s agreement or, at least, his capitulation. To some extent, his violation of a fellow sorcerer’s manse troubled his conscience.
Still,
he told himself,
it had been necessary. All would become apparent to Calistrope should he prove successful. So much rested on the undertaking, it would not be untrue to say the future of mankind was in the balance.

History would surely vindicate his actions.

A day or more later, when Calistrope’s anger had cooled to a smolder, he took himself along the road to the south, a distance of several leagues where, among lumpy hills, the Nest was situated. Two of the ants’ specially bred soldiers guarded the entrance. A little larger than Micca and protected by considerably thicker chitin, they were a darker color and conveyed a sense of menace.

Closer, he saw other differences between the breeds of soldier and thinker. The guards’ eyes were protected by great horny plates, the joints of their limbs by overlapping scales. Their mouth parts too, were different to those of their nest mates. Careful breeding had extended the soldiers’ mandibles into a double spike, visible within were ducts which led toxins from a multiplicity of poison glands at the base to the razor sharp tip.

How should I gain entrance?
The soldiers ignored him, there was neither herald nor messenger. While he was still wondering what to do, Micca—or one closely resembling that ant—appeared behind the guards. An invisible signal from Micca instructed the guards to stand apart and Calistrope, at a twitch of the ant’s antennae, walked under the roughly shaped archway of the Nest’s main entrance. He followed the other downward and the tunnel sloped more and more steeply and seemed to wander at random from side to side as they proceeded.

They met ants and other insects traveling in both directions, many were grotesquely shaped and Calistrope guessed they had been bred to perform specialized tasks. Lower, they passed by terraces where green foliage was grown in the light from luminous beetles which crawled about the ceilings. A long, long millipede raced by on its way to the surface, a score of worker ants clung to the scales on its back.

Calistrope shivered. Everywhere were signs of altered form, nature bent to the will of the Nest—in Micca’s fellow ants, in other insects and grubs. Even the shape and path of the tunnels were undeniably… organic. The environment was a disturbing one.

Micca took him to a long unevenly cut tunnel where ants came and went on incomprehensible errands. His guide signaled to a passing worker, a swift conversation of hums and clicks and touching of feelers took place. The little faded pink worker hurried off and returned very quickly with a roll of parchment clutched in the secondary claw of a forefoot, almost an opposable digit.

“These are charts,” said Micca. “You are familiar with geographical representations?”

“Certainly,” Calistrope replied.

The charts were unrolled on a flat but rough surface. “This is our present location.” One of Micca’s antennae drooped, bent, and touched the map. The worker—or perhaps, insect clerk—used a stylus to make a dark smudge at the indicated spot. Calistrope saw the edge of what he assumed to be the Lake; the mark represented Sachavesku, or perhaps the nearby Nest. “The water you call Mal-a-Merrion lies along the western edge of a high massif. It narrows here, do you see?”

Calistrope nodded. The ant was indicating a long peninsular which hung down past the equator from a broad continent. “From here, there is a rift which has been eroded into a wide valley. Even at its highest point, the air is thick enough to breathe and it cuts all the way through to the east side of the massif.”

“Is this a river?” asked Calistrope. “It must be a thousand leagues long if I have grasped the scale properly.”

“Men call it the Long River or the Golden River, depending on the vicinity. It runs to the Last Ocean where Schune is situated.”