The Infinity Concerto (42 page)

"Indeed, indeed," Clarkham mused. "Arno was always quite generous, when he needed something done. Did he give any advice with the book?" Clarkham asked.

"He suggested I shouldn't be afraid to take risks."

'To come here, that is."

"I suppose."

Mora broke in. "I'd love to hear some of your poetry."

"I'll have to write some new," Michael said.

"Splendid," Clarkham said. "Bin's been telling us a little about your journey. Quite remarkable. I'm saddened to hear what happened in the Pact Lands. I understand Alyons paid dearly for his excesses."

"Your trap killed him," Michael said. Mora gave a tiny, barely noticeable shudder.

"And he thought you were responsible," Clarkham said. "Poor fool. Never did know which way the wind blew. Not all Sidhe are brilliant, Michael; take that as a lesson."

"I'd thought you might be disappointed to hear I haven't brought the book."

Nikolai glanced between them, bewildered and uneasy.

"Heavens no!" Clarkham said. "What use would I have for it?"

"I don't have the first part of the Song of Power."

"Which one? I've dealt with so many in my time."

"The poem. Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan.' I don't even remember it."

"Then perhaps you'd care to read it again? I have it, right here." He stood and went to a bookshelf, pulling out a book from between two heavy leatherbound volumes. He handed it to Michael with his finger deftly insinuated between the appropriate pages.

Michael glanced at the poem. It was the same text - including the introduction - as in the book Waltiri had given him.

"You thought perhaps the Maln was trying to prevent you from bringing this to me?" Clarkham chuckled. "I've had it for decades. I once told a crazy old Spryggla that I needed it, but only after the fool tried to ensorcel me. For all I know, he spread the word, though his range seemed quite limited."

"He's dead," Michael said. "Or at least, turned to stone."

"And who was responsible for that?"

"Indirectly, I was."

Clarkham took a deep breath. "You are very influential, Michael. You eliminate age-old traditions right and left, break tabus, pioneer new ground. No, it isn't the old material I'm interested in. You have arrived here with potential. The potential is in your poetry. You are in the same position as poor Mr. Coleridge."

Michael turned to Bin. "You've gone over to him, haven't you? You really did want me to come here."

Bin nodded. "Adonna has no influence here. I am free of him"

"Ah, fine old Adonna," Clarkham reflected. "Biri tells me you survived even the Irall. I've never been there, myself. I likely would not have survived. I have been a thorn in Tarax's side for many years. Adonna, I suppose, made you forget the meeting. Typical. He's a very old, very weary mage, and he assumes too much responsibility. Valiant in his way, however."

Michael suddenly recovered a memory of Adonna - Tonn - in his kilt and tabard, holding a staff.

"Seeing more clearly now?" Clarkham inquired.

"Seeing what?" Nikolai asked, sotto voce.

"I'm remembering some things," Michael explained. Nikolai was obviously not competent to be anything but a spectator in this game. Who else was playing?

"May I ask who, or what, Adonna really is?" Nikolai looked around the circle. Mora took pity on him.

"At one time, he was the Mage of the Sidhe. He made the Realm - a masterpiece, nobody denies that - but he was overly ambitious. He has always opposed the Isomage."

"I never could muster up enough hubris to call myself a true mage," Clarkham said. "Others may have, but not I. The mages have earned their positions, their esteem. I simply hope to accomplish what they set out to do, long ago."

"Quite humble," Nikolai whispered.

Michael leaned forward in his chair. "You brought me here for a reason. Your wife - one of them - cleared the way for me. The other allowed me to escape, when perhaps she could have added me to her collection."

Clarkham kept a perfect poker-face, revealing nothing.

"Please tell me why I am here."

"This evening? I was willing to let you rest."

"Now is as good a time as any."

Clarkham held up his hand and looked at Mora and Biri. "Very well. You are here to finish the final Song of Power. That much must be obvious to you."

It was far from obvious, but Michael nodded.

"I, in turn, will use the Song of Power to gain control of the Realm, and restore liberty to humans and Breeds."

"You'll use it for nothing else?"

Clarkham tilted his head to the right and tapped his forefinger on the endtable, then his middle finger. "You've met Tarax. You know what the Maln is capable of."

"And you've helped me remember Adonna. He doesn't seem such a fiend."

Clarkham's face reddened. "Tonn appears to you as he wishes. Sidhe of his age and accomplishment are very little less than gods, Michael, and enormously devious. I have worked for centuries to simply be able to resist him, and I have succeeded - but I cannot overcome him. It isn't because he is a nice fellow that I wish to conquer him." The muscles of Clark-ham's cheek worked visibly and his eyes narrowed. Then, with obvious effort, he brought himself again under control. The ingratiating smile returned. "It isn't an issue I can always be calm about. Tonn is not quite the monster Tarax would have him be, no. But Tonn knows his Sidhe. He designed the Realm for them, and he rules them with a severity which he relaxes only for the Ban of Hours. Can you guess why?"

Michael shook his head.

"Because she was the daughter who stuck by him when Elme defied him. Even though he turned their mother into an abomination, in a fit of. I'm not sure what you would call it. Horrid anger. When Elme married a human, it was Tonn who orchestrated her banishment, and devised all her fell tortures. When he couldn't break her to his will, and when the Council of Eleu supported her, then and only then did he put all his power into creating the Realm. He hated humans desperately, Michael."

"Perhaps he's changed his mind."

Clarkham looked surprised, then laughed shortly and sharply. "Obviously he's exercised some influence over you, and without revealing his true nature. For that reason, I suppose I should be a little wary of you."

In the ensuing silence, Nikolai regarded the occupants of the room with growing discomfort. "Michael is for the humans and the Breeds," he spoke up finally. "Michael is a good fellow."

Mora smiled and Bin grinned. Clarkham laughed heartily and without malice. "Of course. He has struggled long and hard to get here, to help his people and mine. We will work together, and all our goals will be achieved. For now, after such a long journey and an excellent dinner, it's best we retire to our rooms and enjoy a comfortable night's sleep. Mora will show you where everything is." He stood and stretched casually. "Good evening, gentlemen."

She led Nikolai and Michael upstairs and showed them the bathroom, their bedrooms and places where linen could be procured. She left a scent of roses in her wake. Michael was distracted from his jumbled thoughts by her black, shining hair and teak-colored skin.

There was a fine king-sized bed in his room, the sheets folded back neatly and the white cover pulled down to reveal warm woolen blankets. On the valet near the oak dresser hung a complete change of clothing - slacks, shirt and sweater with new-looking brown shoes made of very supple leather. When he put them on in the morning, he would be better dressed than he had usually been on Earth.

The bedroom walls were decorated with soothing abstract pastel patterns of brown and gray and blue. In one corner sat a tiny rosebush in a brass pot, and beside that, a writing desk with an inlaid leather pad. A goose-neck reading lamp cast a soft glow over the bedstead. A bookshelf near the door was filled with interesting volumes - Gerald Manley Hopkins, Yeats, Keats and Shelley, as well as novels old and new.

He shut the door and sat on the bed. With all the comforts of Earth arrayed before him, he should have felt touched, even despite his caution. But there was no room in him for sentiment. He removed his clothes and put on a terrycloth robe. Then he went into the hall, chose a towel from the linen closet, and entered the bathroom.

Hot water, soap, white enamel basin and tub and marble countertop, fern-leafed wallpaper, tiled shower stall. He showered for a long time, until his exhaustion was unavoidable, and dried himself with his eyes closed.

When Michael returned to his room, he found Clarkham standing beside his bed. Clarkham held a box of paper in one hand, his thumb clamping down a fine black fountain-pen with gold banding and a clip. "For your convenience," he said, placing the items on the desk. His expression was almost beseeching as he took a step toward Michael. Clearly, he was interested in being friendly, but something came between them, a so-far muted antagonism that might break from its cover at any moment.

"Sorry," Clarkham said after the moment passed. He walked around Michael and stood in the doorway. "I'm still having difficulty deciding what you are."

Michael shook his head. "I'm not a sorcerer, if that's what you mean."

Clarkham smiled grimly. "Unaware sorcerers are the most formidable, sometimes. But take no heed of my prattling." He made an offhand gesture at the desk. "Exercise your talents whenever you feel the urge. We will all be a receptive audience."

Clarkham left, closing the door behind.

Michael doffed his robe, put on flannel pajamas laid near the bed and crawled under the covers. He reached up to turn off the light. Every gesture was so alien, so familiar.

He slept. And this evening, he dreamed.

Chapter Forty-Three

The rose had turned to glass. It lay on the dresser, perfect in every detail, and rang softly when Michael touched it. He picked it up by the stem and inserted it into the lapel of his shirt. It poked from the sweater, still sweetly scented.

As he came down the stairs, three sheets of paper in one hand and the gold-banded fountain pen in the other, he realized that all that had gone before had been trivial.

In bed, he had written five short poems on one sheet. They were more exercises than finished works; tests of his skill. They showed that his ability had not withered. If anything, even while not in constant use, it had grown.

He passed through the french doors onto the patio.

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Mora, however, was not singing of Abora, but of a paradisaical place called Amhara. Michael probed her lightly and she allowed him into her weave of Cascar words with a smile and a willingness that was quite erotic. Clarkham, seated across the umbrella table from her, did not seem to notice or care. She played her lute-like instrument, occasionally pausing to experimentally tune a string.

Nikolai had already eaten breakfast and sat on a white-painted wrought-iron bench near the low brick wall separating the patio from the garden of tree roses. Bin was not present.

"I dreamed of you last night," Michael told Mora.

"Yes?" She stopped playing.

"You were singing, just like now, with your lute."

"It is apliktera," she said. "Where was I playing?"

Michael didn't answer. He turned to Clarkham and handed him a sheet of penciled poems. "Is this what you're after?"

Clarkham read the poems quickly and laid them on the table. "You know they're not."

"How can I be sure what you need?"

Clarkham stared at Michael steadily. Nikolai shifted uneasily in his seat. Beyond the rose garden, across the black marble-and-ice floor and near the perimeter of the dome, stood Shah-pur, Harka, Bek, Tik and Dour. Far too many for Michael to take on if they combined their power -

"I tried to help you last night," Clarkham said.

"You sent me a dream. Not much help." For a brief moment, Michael felt sorry for the Isomage.

Clarkham laughed sharply. "I've dealt with far more songs of power than you, young man."

"I don't need suggestions in my sleep. I've had quite enough from others."

"From Tonn?"

Michael nodded.

"And who else?"

"Whomever. I'm free of them now. I'm on my own." The image came to him clearly; falling free, living up to his purpose. He was full of strength.

The strength of a bomb.

Arno Waltiri had begun the process. The Crane Women and Lamia - Lamia unwittingly, he assumed - had carried k further; Michael had been forged under their hammers. His journey had annealed him and filled him with the necessary images - images which he would transform beyond all recognition. Clarkham himself had set the timer with the dream sent during the night - awkward as it was, so sublimely ignorant of what was necessary.

"How pompous," Clarkham said. "You're only a boy. You've lived what, sixteen, seventeen Earth years? I'm older than the city in which you were born."

"Wherever you went, you left disaster and disappointment. Even in the beginning. when you worked for the Maln." It was just a guess, but apparently an accurate one.

Clarkham's eyes narrowed and his hands clenched into fists on the table top.

"You were the person from Porlock, weren't you?" Michael continued. "The Maln sent you to interrupt Coleridge. You did your job, but afterward you began to wonder if a Breed could serve Sidhe interests and his own at the same time. And you wondered what Coleridge would have written if you hadn't interrupted."

Clarkham rose to his feet.

"Years later, when you had developed your own magic, you tried to get Emma Livry to dance a song for you. You must have come very close then, because you drove Tarax and the Maln to bum her."

"I loved her," Clarkham said, his voice a menacing purr. Mora looked up quickly and turned away from his glance.

"Who else did you touch?" Michael asked. "And how much better off would they have been if you had simply left them alone? Besides Arno, of course."

"Do you know who Waltiri was - is?" Clarkham asked.

"No," Michael said. He didn't really want to know.