Quantum Shadows

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Yes, sir. Your table is ready.” After escorting Corvyn to the table, the maître d’hôtel removed a card with the emblem of a raven and departed.

  Corvyn smiled at the quiet reminder that everyone knew who he was. Jaweau can’t resist such touches.

  His server appeared, a woman in the same gold-trimmed white as the rest of the hotel staff and functionaries, and handed him an actual physical menu—one single stiff white sheet edged in gold, but, thankfully, with all the items printed in black.

  “The small Caesar salad and the lobster bisque, with pita bread, rather than a baguette, and a carafe of the Appalachian Viognier.” Those were more than enough for Corvyn after the heavy food of the last day, although the lobster bisque would be rich and creamy.

  “An excellent choice, sir.” She nodded and slipped away.

  Corvyn always studied any chamber in which he placed himself, and the Paradise was no exception. The tables were set far enough apart that personal eavesdropping would be difficult, but most likely everything said was recorded and analyzed with the result that little would be said that was not meant to be overheard. The walls and high ceiling were a pale blue verging on white, with darker blue trim, while the table linens were that same pale blue, and the napkins matched the darker trim. Those dining were a varied group, with perhaps half white-clad, and the remainder in various garbs in an assortment of colors. They included a man in a purple thobe, and a woman in a scarlet and gold tailored trouser suit, and a couple in formal green singlesuits, possibly from Aethena, although Corvyn had his doubts. There were also two men in high-collared shimmering silk jackets, one teal and the other maroon, likely from Tian.

  The carafe of Appalachian Viognier and a wineglass appeared. Corvyn tasted and approved the wine, and the salad followed in due course. Corvyn ate the perfectly crisp romaine lettuce, with the touch of anchovies and tiny croutons, and just the right amount of dressing. When he finished, the server immediately removed the salad and, after the slight and proper delay, presented the lobster bisque.

  As Corvyn looked at the bisque, he noticed that a musician had taken her place on the small slightly raised dais set to the side, and was tuning her harp. He smiled faintly, then tasted the bisque, excellent, without any hint of the bitterness that might have come from shells handled improperly, although he doubted that it could have been anything other than outstanding at the Paradise.

  The first selection that the harpist played sounded as though it was a hymn performed in a style he would once have called refined classical. The second short piece she played reminded him of something ancient, although he could not remember the composer or the title. None of the other diners, it seemed, even noticed her skill. The third selection was the melody of “Purity of Light,” a hymn that Corvyn had heard a handful of times and recalled only because of its melodic banality. He was scarcely surprised at the light scattered applause around the dining room. Well-recognized banality almost always triumphed over the excellent unknown.

  He studied the harpist as she played. While her features, form, and skin appeared young, their refinement and her skill, not to mention her repertoire, suggested that she was anything but in first youth.

  The fourth selection was from Fall of the Redeemers, a long-forgotten virtual opera, and one Corvyn would have thought might not have exactly had Jaweau’s approval. Then he nodded. That selection was an invitation … and possibly a trap.

  Still … it might be interesting.

  The harpist performed for another half hour, by which time Corvyn had finished his bisque, and most of the selections were versions of hymns, if masterfully played, by which time Corvyn had also finished the crème brûlée and was sipping his bergamot tea. When she was about to either take a break or leave, he stood and walked to meet her.

  She did not look surprised at his approach, but waited, standing in a tailored cream jacket with matching trousers.

  “I greatly appreciated the selection from Fall of the Redeemers. I haven’t heard that in years.” More like decades, if not longer.

  “Thank you. If you liked that, you might drop by Lucifer’s Basement later this evening.”

  “Can I find it?” Corvyn asked with an amused smile.

  “I believe you could find anything, but it’s three blocks south and one west.” There was just the tiniest emphasis on the word “you.”

  “I just might.”

  “Then I might see you.” Her smile was pleasant, but there was glint of humor in her eyes. “Now, if you will excuse me…”

  “Of course.” Corvyn nodded and returned to his table, where he finished the last of his tea before leaving the Paradise and returning to his room.

  Once there, he spent some time perusing the area around the hotel for the shadows of power, of which there were only a few, and fleeting. None interested him. He then made several brief preparations before leaving the room and taking the lift down to the main level. From there he walked outside onto the street, turning south. With all the white buildings, and the incandescence of the cathedral, night in the center of Los Santos did not really exist but had been superseded by a glowing white twilight that apparently encouraged people to be out, because while it was not late, neither was it early, and Corvyn saw people everywhere, but generally as couples or individuals, rather than as larger groups.

  He walked the three blocks and turned west. Not quite a block farther, between a bistro and a shop apparently catering to women, which was closed, he observed a staircase heading down, and over the archway at the bottom of the white stone steps were letters engraved in black, and outlined in thin red light, spelling out LUCIFER’S BASEMENT. The door set back into the archway was a lurid red. Corvyn descended. As he neared the door, it slid into a recess, and he proceeded into a dim foyer.

  “Good evening, sir. Might I scan your card?” The androgynous individual who offered the question wore antique black and white formalwear and would have looked suited to fit in some virtual drama, save for the red horns protruding from the short dark black hair and the equally red tail that snaked out from beneath the black jacket.

  Corvyn offered the card.

  The functionary scanned it, then stiffened momentarily. “Thank you, sir.”

  Corvyn suppressed the smile he felt … and the datasurge from the greeter. “I understand there’s live music here.”

  “In the showroom in about ten minutes. Enjoy yourself.”

  The door beyond the greeter, also lurid red, opened, and Corvyn stepped through it into a red-illuminated room that, except for the illumination, looked little different from all too many taverns or bars that he had entered over the years. Half the backed stools at the bar were taken, as were perhaps six of the thirteen small tables. Another horned individual stood behind the bar.

  Corvyn made his way through the next doorway, where another red door opened at his approach, into what had to be the showroom. He had no more than stepped inside than another greeter of sorts appeared, also dressed in formalwear but with the head of a shepherd guard dog. “Welcome to the Music of Lucifer, most honored Raven.”

  “Thank you.” Corvyn was only modestly surprised, even though his card was linked only to the Poe identity. “Only one head this evening?”

  “We are in formal attire. Your table is the one edged in black.” The dog-person gestured to the far side of the showroom, which had twenty-seven tables of different sizes and shapes, all draped in crimson linen, but many edged in diverse colors, and most of which had already been taken by the audience of perhaps seventy people. Their garb was as varied as the edging colors and table sizes, and a number wore dominoes, as if such provided much disguise. The table to which Corvyn was directed was at the side, against the wall, yet provided an unobstructed view of the low stage, currently empty.

  A server, also in the formal devilish garb, but definitely female, took his order for a glass of whatever Viognier the establishment had, since Corvyn did not like to mix drinks, although it was unlikely that he w
ould finish the wine, which arrived as the performers entered through a door at the side of the stage. Most carried instruments, all of which Corvyn recognized immediately, that were strictly acoustic. Each wore a black formfitting singlesuit, with glowing red piping down the sleeves and legs, and black boots. The woman who had played the harp at the Paradise carried a viola and bow. The other instruments were a trumpet, a clarinet, a balalaika, and what looked to be a five-string acoustic bass guitar. Given the five instruments, Corvyn was prepared to be surprised. He also wondered about the choice of the three stringed instruments—three strings, four strings, and five strings.

  The quintet began with a piece Corvyn knew, “The Devil’s Sonata,” although it had long since fallen out of favor, possibly because it was far too short to be a sonata. What followed were a series of works, each featuring a different instrument. The one for trumpet could have been called “Lucifer’s Call for Judgment Day,” but Corvyn had no idea what the real title might have been because the players announced nothing. They just played. Then came a work that was similar to, but not quite the same as, “Satan’s Son,” that featured fingering on the viola that Corvyn would have doubted could even be played on the viola if he had not been listening and watching the musician.

  The set ended with several more upbeat, almost musically mischievous pieces.

  Shortly after the musicians left the low stage, the violist who had been the harpist at the Paradise reappeared and walked to Corvyn’s table, where she seated herself. “You came.”

  “How could I not? I was slightly surprised at the name of the club. It is a club of sorts, is it not?”

  “It is. I told the manager to expect you. Otherwise…” She laughed softly, but throatily. “Otherwise, you would have been turned away or required to use certain abilities. Either seemed … unnecessary.”

  “Why did you want me to come? Just to hear the music? By the way, you’re impressive musicians. I couldn’t believe what you did on that one piece. Was it a riff of sorts on ‘Satan’s Son’?”

  She smiled. “You could call it that. Violinists who play intricate works swiftly and accurately have often been called the offspring of the devil. Most violists won’t try something like that.”

  “You’re obviously not like most violists.”

  “That’s why we play here.”

  That definitely made sense to Corvyn.

  “You see. I didn’t even have to explain.” She smiled.

  Corvyn could sense a sadness of sorts beneath the smile. “You play the music for the sake of it,” he went on pleasantly, “but music is often used to move people in various ways. The way you played the harp, for example, was designed to put people at ease, so much so that it took a moment for me to recognize the source of the fourth selection.”

  “Only one such as you would have been able to do that.”

  “The guitarist … he’s good also. But that made me think. I heard about a singer who uses what I’d describe as a lutelin, or a lutar. Have you ever seen or heard of anything like that?”

  She frowned, after waiting slightly too long. “I’ve never heard of anything like that, but I can see why a singer who wants to stand out might develop an instrument that’s particularly suited for his voice.”

  “I just wondered.”

  “Even if such a singer were from Los Santos, he wouldn’t stay here.”

  In turn, Corvyn frowned. “Even in a place like the Basement, here?”

  “A singer like that usually wants more.”

  “That’s true. Some singers live for more than the music, and that can be a problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “Music can lift civilizations and societies, but it’s also been used to destroy them, often with what the users claimed were the best intentions.” What Corvyn voiced was a truism, but one particularly accurate, unlike some.

  “Sometimes, they’ve just used music to depict the great cycle.”

  “The ring, if you will?”

  “That’s as good a term as any.” Her words were pleasant, matter-of-fact.

  “Music and words do move people, though,” Corvyn asserted gently. “Certainly, music and words together can be most powerful, given that those caught in sensual music all neglect monuments of unaging intellect. At other times, words alone have played a part in Falls.” He paused, as if considering, before he added, “Even poetry, at times, especially in the years when the stars threw down their spears.” He laughed ruefully. “But I doubt we have poets … or poetesses … like that in Heaven today.”

  She nodded politely. “Who am I to doubt the shadows of a Skeptic?”

  “Then where…?”

  “Jaweau might know, the Maid, more so.” She smiled warmly. “I’m glad you came and enjoyed our music. I’d stay, but I need to get ready for the next set. It’s a bit … more lurid.” She stood.

  So did Corvyn, knowing that he had gotten all the answers that she was willing to give, and that to press more would only endanger her and gain him little. “Thank you, again.”

  Once she had left the showroom, so did he, making his way back through the bar and up onto the white twilight of Los Santos.

  From the violist’s words and unseen but perceived feelings, she knew about the singer, but not about the poetess. It would be interesting to see what Jaweau had to say, assuming the White One did not avoid him.

  He walked at a deliberate pace back to the Domus Aurea.

  Tell the raven where past years are,

  unlighted by the morning star.

  23

  Corvyn stood in a narrow alley between tall, thin houses with steeply pitched roofs. The heavy night air smelled of burning wood and other substances. The few windows overlooking the alley were dark, but thin slivers of light at the edges of one or two told him that the windows were heavily curtained for a definite purpose. The faint glow of a light on the street less than a block away barely penetrated the brownish-black darkness of the alley, and the only other light was a reddish glow barely perceptible above the dull slate roofs of the buildings to his right.

  He walked toward the streetlight, knowing the library was somewhere beyond, slowing as he neared the street, not all that much wider than the alley, lined by shops on both sides closed and shuttered for the night.

  “What are you doing in that alley?” The words issued from a tall man in a black uniform with a strange silver insignia on his shoulder boards and his belt buckle, words spoken precisely and harshly in an ancient tongue. Corvyn understood it and replied in the same language. “I’m trying to find my way to the library. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Over there.” The soldier gestured to Corvyn’s right. “They’ve just started. You’d better hurry.”

  “Thank you.”

  Corvyn walked swiftly along the street toward a small square, in the middle of which was a fire, more like a bonfire. Close to fifty people circled it, throwing billets into the flames. As Corvyn approached the square and the crowd, he saw a slightly larger structure ahead and to his left, the only one with the doors open, from which people hurried down the wide stone steps with their arms full of books, passing them out to those around the fire—who then tossed the volumes onto the flames. Each book seemed to flare as the flames touched it.

  Corvyn knew such a flare was an illusion, but still winced as he angled his way toward the library. As he reached the base of the steps, another man in a black uniform appeared. In the firelight reflected on his face, the man took on the appearance of another kind of being, except he carried no trident. “Just keep to the square. They’ll bring the forbidden books.” The officer’s eyes narrowed, and he looked more closely at Corvyn, then gestured abruptly.

  Two troopers in brown uniforms with red armbands hurried toward Corvyn, who side-kicked the officer in black, then shoved him toward the brown-clad troopers, before turning and racing toward the steps, dodging between the young people carrying the stacks of books toward the ever-growing bonfire.

 
He almost made it to the library door before the sky split and fire engulfed him.

  Abruptly, Corvyn sat up, throwing off the damp and clinging white sheets. Sweat streamed down his face as he stood in the coolness of the luxurious bedchamber and stepped away from the capacious bed, its disarrayed white spread thrown back from Corvyn’s uneasy slumber.

  He blotted his forehead with the back of his forearm as he walked into the larger sitting room. Slowly Corvyn paced, considering the dream, which was and was not a dream. He had dreamed it many times, for it was one of the oldest, dating back to a time before he had become what he now was, yet that memory had become his own over the endless years.

  That he had dreamt it now—that was disturbing … and possibly revealing.

  For all the vanity of light,

  bare truth prevails in Raven’s night.

  24

  Once Corvyn woke, breakfasted, and readied himself, he set out for the cathedral in his own fashion. He emerged from the shadows at the base of the Avenue of Redemption. The long incline of the avenue traversed from the level of the rest of the city up the gentle north slope of the Mount of Faith to the Cathedral Los Santos itself. He considered whether he should walk, then shook his head and reentered the shadows, guiding himself to the anteroom to Jaweau’s private sanctuary, situated behind the Altar of Light that dominated the cathedral. The wall separating the two might well have resisted the powers of an ancient space dreadnought. While Corvyn could have entered the private sanctuary directly, he opted for a mannered approach and appeared in the anteroom.

  The white-clad functionary at the white table desk did not seem surprised. “He’s expecting you, dark one.” As he spoke, the white door irised open.

  “Thank you.” Corvyn stepped inside, into the momentarily blinding white light, and the door closed behind him.