Quantum Shadows

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Corvyn nodded, even though the theological implications of those specific words chilled him. “Very idealistic, it would appear.”

  “More like gently bombastic,” suggested Lezli.

  “That, too,” agreed Corvyn, thinking about how “goodness” imposed by power was seldom regarded as such by those on whom it was imposed. “Do you know where he went?”

  “I asked him. He just said that he was going where people would listen,” replied the redhead. “That could be anywhere.”

  More like everywhere. “I won’t take any more of your time. Thank you.”

  She frowned. “Somehow, you look familiar. Have you been here before?”

  “I’ve never been in Lasseters. I was in Portroyal years ago.”

  “Oh … somehow … I’m sorry.”

  “Sometimes, people mistake me for someone else.” Usually someone else well-acquainted with the shadows.

  “That must be it. Good luck with your search.”

  “I hope so.”

  Corvyn smiled wryly as he left. It took him exactly nine inquiries to discover who the singer was—far too easy. Theoretically, with Denu’s name, accessing information on him wouldn’t be difficult given Heaven’s requirement for single identities.

  In a short time, he was on the electrobike heading toward the Shakuni, one of the two gaming houses he had not visited, the other being Hollidays, for a total of ten, exactly the same number as Houses in the Decalivre, an odd sort of symmetry. He wondered what the ownership might be. But then, the official ownership is not likely to be always the real ownership, even in Heaven.

  Using equipment built into the electrobike, he accessed certain data sources. None of them indicated information on Bran Denu after his employment at Lasseters, though certain perturbations suggested that had not always been the case. That meant that more than a few matters were not at all as they seemed. He wondered exactly how painful finding out what they were would be.

  He met with entertainment personages at both the Shakuni and Hollidays, and no one could tell him much more about Denu, except that the entertainment director at Hollidays vaguely recalled auditioning Denu and finding him totally unremarkable.

  From pleasant-voiced and totally unremarkable to a singer who can move hundreds, if not thousands?

  Corvyn continued to mull that over as he left Hollidays and mounted the electrobike, heading toward the River Acheron and the river port of Volos, more than two hundred milles to the east-northeast. There he hoped to catch one of the high-speed courier boats to take him to Keifeng and Yu Huang, the Jade Emperor. While Denu could also have taken a boat directly to Helios, Marcion, or Nauvoo, Corvyn had sensed no disruptions likely from his presence in any of those cities. Nor were any present in Jannah or Yerusalem. In turn, such absences confirmed that Corvyn must play out matters in other cities, towns, and Houses, for the present. He could only hope to learn enough to act before others, always for the best of motives in their own eyes, precipitated another Fall—one that might be the last.

  This time is the reversal of an age

  and the ancient raven becomes the sage.

  26

  After seven long hours on the electrobike riding up and down the fertile rolling hills that supplied much of the wine to Helios, or Hel, as it was sometimes referred to by those with highly fervent beliefs and biased adverse opinions formed without factual bases, Corvyn pulled off the gray stone road at the top of the rise overlooking the River Acheron and the river city of Volos. The port of Volos shipped many of those vintages throughout Heaven except, of course, to Nauvoo and Jannah, or at least not with the approval of the hegemons of those two lands.

  Even from the top of the rise, several milles from the river, Corvyn saw that Volos had grown since he last traveled there. But then, some towns grew and others dwindled, even in Heaven, although few would have dared to voice that today might not be as perfect as yesterday or that tomorrow might be more perfect.

  Depending on the faith of the believer.

  Corvyn smiled sardonically and started down the gentle rise toward the center of Volos, a town close to the size of the Saint town of Corinne and considerably larger than Portroyal.

  Unlike any town or city through which he had passed on this journey, the houses and other structures were all finished with stucco and colored in every shade of light pastel possible, with the doors and trim in a darker shade of the same pastel. The light-colored buildings gave off a certain glare, but the black of his stedora absorbed some of it.

  Although he had stayed at the Aetalos long before, Corvyn did a quick search and decided on the Polyteleia, much closer to the courier boat piers, if he even needed a place to stay, since a courier boat could be leaving that evening.

  Less than a quarter hour later, he arrived at the courier pier, where there were no boats in sight. Still, he made his way to the small office, then entered after securing the electrobike outside.

  An older man looked up with a momentarily bored expression until he saw Corvyn’s shimmering grays. “Honored sir, what can we do for you?”

  “I’m looking for passage on a courier boat to Keifeng.”

  “Keifeng? The first boat for Keifeng won’t be leaving here until two tomorrow afternoon. There is a salon suite free, but other than that … well…”

  “The salon suite will be fine.” Corvyn tendered his card.

  The clerk scanned the card and barely looked at it, as if he did not wish to know anything more than necessary about Corvyn. He quickly handed it back and said, “If you would be here a half hour before departure, sir, that would be more than helpful and assure that there are no delays in departure.”

  “I will be, thank you.” With a smile, Corvyn replaced the card, nodded politely, and departed the small office.

  From there, he rode the two short blocks to the Polyteleia, a handsome three-story edifice of pale blue formulated stone blocks with dark blue trim. A portico supported by fluted columns of the same formulated stone as the hotel proper covered the entry. Rockroses, larkspurs, and violets filled the raised stone beds on each side. Corvyn smelled the roses even before he got off the electrobike and left it in the temporary care of the doorman. He smiled, because the sweetest-smelling roses were the thorniest. He then entered the Polyteleia.

  “A large suite or a small one, honored sir?” asked the man who rose from behind the table desk in the spacious entry foyer.

  “A small one, if it has a river view.”

  “Yes, sir. On the third level? How long will you be staying?”

  “Just tonight and until midday tomorrow. The third level will be fine.”

  “Excellent, sir. Your room is the Larkspur Suite.”

  Again, Corvyn tendered the card.

  When the manager swiped the card, a faint smile crossed his lips, suggesting that the hotel’s information system had alerted him to the fact that C. O. Poe was likely at least a principality. He handed the card back. “Take any bike locker beyond the roses on either side. Touch your card to the lock plate and that locker is yours. The concierge this evening is Aspasia.” He gestured toward the woman seated at a small table desk to the side. “Is there any other matter in which we might be of service?”

  “What might be the best restaurant in Volos?” asked Corvyn. “In terms of the cuisine, I mean.”

  “The best restaurant in Volos? The Apollon,” replied the manager with obvious enthusiasm.

  “It’s the largest good restaurant,” interjected the concierge, “but the very best is the Diamond Z. It’s small enough that every dish is outstanding.”

  “Only if you like outstanding exquisitely prepared blandness,” returned the manager, turning to Corvyn. “You see how I indulge Aspasia.”

  “The Apollon specializes in excesses of garlic and opinion,” rejoined the concierge politely. “Miltiades has to support the Apollon because his second cousin is the sous-chef. A sous-chef there is one step above the dishwasher. The chef at the Diamond Z is Zaphir Rennop
oulos, and any information search will show how noted he is.”

  Miltiades shrugged. “He is a good chef. But the pasta at the Apollon is better.”

  “You’ll hear better conversation at the Diamond Z,” added Aspasia.

  “This distinguished personage might prefer quiet to opinion.”

  “All good restaurants in Volos have conversations,” returned the concierge. “The question is which ones are worth listening to.” She looked to Corvyn. “Which would you prefer? It might be less … interesting if I made a reservation for you.”

  Corvyn laughed. “It might at that. How far is the Diamond Z?”

  “Two blocks north, and two east to the river.”

  “A half hour from now?”

  “Three-quarters,” suggested Aspasia.

  Corvyn nodded, not quite hiding his smile.

  Aspasia’s estimate was far closer to the actual time it took Corvyn to stow the bike, get to his small suite, freshen up some, and then walk to the Diamond Z. He left the stedora in his room. When he neared his destination, he studied the comparatively small building, just a single-story structure of cream-white stone with teal-colored trim and front door. The brasswork on the door shimmered without a mark or smudge.

  After stepping inside, Corvyn discovered that the Diamond Z was indeed a small restaurant, with but eighteen largely filled tables if his quick tally was correct, a count which he barely finished before a trim dark-haired woman appeared.

  “Seigneur Poe, I believe?”

  “That’s my reservation,” replied Corvyn, not wishing to speak the sub-identity aloud any more than necessary, a habit of reticence most likely useless now, but one still ingrained by years of caution.

  The woman, who wore a teal jacket above shimmering white trousers, gestured and led Corvyn to a table set slightly apart from the other tables. The table linens were white, but the napkin at the one set place was dark teal. She handed him a single sheet, which bore the feel, consistency, and strength of parchment, but which was not. After he seated himself, she asked, “Would you care for an aperitif?”

  Before answering, he scanned the bill of fare, laid out in an ornate but readable calligraphy he recognized but did not immediately recall. “The Malbec Volos.”

  “Very good, seigneur.”

  “And if you can convey the order, the dumplings and the lamb mavrodaphne.”

  She smiled. “I can do that, since I’m also the one serving you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We will ask a favor of you, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “Zaphir would like a few moments of conversation with you later.”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  As she left the table, Corvyn noticed several covert glances in his direction, but no one seemed to want to look directly.

  She returned almost immediately with the Malbec, which Corvyn sniffed, then sipped, finding it more than acceptable and hoping the rest of the meal would be as good. As he savored the wine, he surveyed the others seated around the restaurant, noting that all were well-dressed, some of the men in jackets, a few with cravats. While he used the shadows to eavesdrop, something he refrained from in Los Santos, he overheard nothing of import except a few words of curiosity about his identity.

  The dumplings arrived shortly, and Corvyn took his time eating them, and found them not only flavorful, but lighter than he expected from their description—filled with a feta cheese mousse, pistachios, sun-dried tomatoes, olives, and topped with a piquant pomegranate sauce.

  The lamb mavrodaphne with the spinach pastitsio was equally good, and Corvyn silently thanked Aspasia for contradicting Miltiades. In the end, he decided on the baklava, made with the purest of clover honey.

  He was sipping some excellent bergamot tea when a blond older man in the whites of a chef appeared and seated himself on the far side of the table.

  “Zaphir Rennopoulos, shadowed one.”

  “The dinner was excellent,” replied Corvyn, “especially the dumplings.”

  “Thank you, and thank you for allowing me a few moments of conversation.”

  “It’s my pleasure, but before we begin on that, might I ask a simple question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you heard of a singer who only accompanies himself on a guitar-like instrument that might be called a lutar or a lutelin? It’s not the same as a bouzouki. It doesn’t have a double course of strings. He may go by the name of Bran Denu.”

  Rennopoulos shook his head. “I would have heard if such a singer appeared anywhere in Volos.”

  “I’d thought as much.” For more than a few reasons. “Thank you. Was there a particular conversation you wished to begin?”

  “There is.” The chef smiled, if slightly tentatively. “I’ve always wondered why Helios is called the City of Skeptics, when it seems to me that I see and hear more Skepticism here in Volos.”

  “The simple and largely accurate answer is that it suits Lucian DeNoir to have Helios known as such. The fact that Volos also holds Skeptics just reinforces the idea that Volos belongs to the Dark One.”

  “And what of you?”

  “I’ve always been more in favor of enlightened skepticism than blind faith.”

  “Even in Heaven?”

  “Especially in Heaven,” replied Corvyn.

  Rennopoulos frowned, then said, “Because you’re of the shadows, the shadows of Helios, I would wager that you are a personage of intellect. Because you are a person of intellect, I would ask you to define a skeptic.”

  Corvyn did not reply immediately, considering how best to address the question again, since it was one he had pondered for many years. Finally, he said, “My short answer would be that a skeptic is one who believes that, while many truths have been discovered, such truths may not be the entirety of what they involve, but that it is theoretically not impossible that the whole truth might be discovered. At the same time, I am doubtful that there is any universal single truth.”

  “Yet here on Heaven we have the ten Houses of the Decalivre and hundreds, if not thousands, of villages of belief,” declared Rennopoulos. “All profess a different view of truth, and one must admit that many of the heads of these Houses possess some intellect.”

  “Anyone who can speak, and some who cannot, possess intellect,” said Corvyn dryly. “The question is always the amount of that intellect. Dogs have intellects of a sort, as do certain types of cats.”

  “Ah … but how do you know that?”

  “I do not know that absolutely. I do not deal with dogs or cats as a scholar. I accept the proof of scholars, and you can assert quite rightly that is a form of belief, not proof. The question in our lives is not that we believe, but what we believe, from what sources come those beliefs, and why we believe what we do.” And the fact that from beliefs come the differences in faiths that lead to Falls.

  “Are not most beliefs based on the sources we find necessary to support what we wish to believe?”

  Corvyn smiled. “That is what the ancients should have called the ‘natural state’ and did not. The true skeptic is the one who questions the very basis of his beliefs, particularly those he does not think of questioning or does not wish to question.”

  “Such as our senses?”

  “The question is when to trust our senses and when not to. Our senses are sometimes most reliable, within their specifications and limitations, and within our design parameters, but the universe is far more diverse than the environment for which we are optimized. We can physically perceive gravity when standing or resting upon a body above a certain mass, but not in space when we are not close to any such body, or when we are orbiting that body. That we cannot perceive what we conceive of as gravity does not mean that such a curvature of space-time does not exist, only that our senses are not reliable in those circumstances. My senses, on the other hand, are sharp enough to ascertain that you are indeed physically present and resemble a living being.”

  “We could both b
e illusions, and those senses illusory.”

  “Any illusion that complete is, in effect, indistinguishable from reality. Given that, what we perceive is real, but how we perceive it is illusory. Thousands of years of science have shown that everything we have so far encountered in the universe is a combination of energy, usually energy structured in some fashion, and space, with far, far more space than those points of energy, yet we perceive and act as if that energy has solidified the space it binds. Our senses interpret those energy levels they can perceive as colors, and we know that different individuals can identify differing ranges of what we call colors, but we have yet to determine accurately that the way in which I perceive blue is the same as the way in which you perceive blue. Which is the true blue? Or, for that matter, the purest white?”

  Rennopoulos raised his bushy eyebrows. “And your point, honored shadowed one?”

  “One kind of skeptic would doubt any other true blue except the blue that he or she vouchsafes. A second would say that the true blue can never be discovered, and a third would say that the truth of blue has yet to be discovered, but might be, and in the meantime, the color perceived at four hundred and fifty-five nanometers is a workable approximation.” Corvyn laughed softly. “Or, put more practically, everyone is skeptical. It’s what they’re skeptical of that defines them. If they’re so skeptical of anything that’s unfamiliar that nothing can change their minds, then they’re dogmatic Skeptics, or perhaps True Believers. I suppose I’d call a true skeptic one who doubts anything that has no absolutely verifiable evidence, but who proceeds on the best available proof, changing his views as his knowledge and perception increase. Those skeptics are rare. Too many who call themselves Skeptics believe they have a duty to relieve others of the false pretense to knowledge and wisdom. No one can change another’s deeply held beliefs. Only the believer can make that change, and, unhappily, most changes in beliefs occur when those in power with views no longer supported by fact die off, that is, if they’re replaced by those with changed views.”

  “That is an academic observation, since there is seldom change in Heaven,” Rennopoulos observed sardonically.