Split Infinity

by Piers Anthony

  Neysa shifted into a variant of the trot: the pace, in which the left feet moved together, and the right feet together also. Two beats, throwing him from side to side, but covering the ground faster than an ordinary trot. Then back into a canter-but not an ordinary one. Her rear hooves were striking the ground together, synched with her right front hoof, so that this was another two-beat gait: a single foot alternating with three feet. One-TWO! One-TWO! He had to post over the shocks, lest his bones begin to rattle.

  She was showing off her gaits, proving that no horse could match her in variety or facility. Yesterday she had demonstrated gaits from one-beat to five-beat; now she was doing the variations.

  “This is great stuff, Neysa!” he said warmly. “You are the most versatile hoofer I know.” For this was an aspect of companionship: performing for an appreciative friend. Animals, like people, would do a lot, just for the satisfaction of having their efforts recognized. Though Neysa was not precisely an animal or a person.

  Just when Stile thought he had experienced the whole of her repertoire, Neysa surprised him again. She began to play music through her horn. Not an occasional melodic note, but genuine tunes. Her hooves beat counterpoint to the sustained notes, making a dramatic march.

  “The five-beat gait!” Stile exclaimed. “That’s what it’s for! Syncopation, going with your music!”

  She moved into the five-beat, playing an intricate melody that fit that beat perfectly. This time her motion was easy, not designed to unseat him, and he liked it. Stile was no longer surprised by her comprehension; he had realized, in stages during the prior day and night, that she comprehended human speech perfectly, though she did not bother to speak it herself. When he had indulged in his soliloquy on the ledge above the Meander River, she had understood precisely what he said. His meaning, not his tone, had converted her. That was good, because he had meant exactly what he said.

  Now he could give her detailed verbal instructions, but she preferred the body directives of legs and weight-shifting. She moved to his directives with no evidence of those messages apparent to any third party. That was the riding ideal. She was at home with what she was: a unicorn. Stile, too, preferred the closeness this mode entailed; it was the natural way, a constant communication with his steed.

  Neysa’s horn-music resembled that of a harmonica. No doubt there were many small channels in her horn, with natural fiber reeds, and she could direct the flow of air through any channels she wished as she breathed. What a convenient way to play!

  “You know, Neysa—I know something of music myself. Not just whistling. I was introduced to it by a girl a bit like you, in your girl-form: very small, pretty, and talented. I’m not the top musician in my world, but I am competent—because music is part of the competition of the Game. You wouldn’t know about that, of course; it’s like a—like a continuing contest, a race, where every day you race someone new, in a different way, and if you get really good you gain status. I have won Games by playing themes better than other people. The violin, the clarinet, the tuba—I’ve played them all. I wish I could accompany you! I suppose I could whistle again, or sing—” He shrugged. “But I’d really like to show you what I can do with an instrument. One like yours. Another harmonica. So we could play together. A duet. There’s a special joy in that, as great in its way as—as the joy we had in our game of the night. With an instrument, I could come to you, as you came to me, sharing your frame.”

  Neysa accepted this as she did most of his commentary: with a wiggle of one ear and tolerance. She didn’t mind if in his vanity he thought he could play the way she could. She liked him anyway.

  Stile pondered briefly, then made a little verse of it. “The harmonica is what you play; I wish I had one here today.” He fitted the words to her melody, singing them.

  Neysa made an unmelodic snort, and Stile laughed. “Corny, I know! Doggerel is not my forte. All right, I’ll quit.”

  But the unicorn slowed, then stopped, then turned about to retrace her last few steps. “What’s the matter?” Stile asked, perplexed. “If I offended you, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your music.”

  She fished in the tall grass with her horn. Something glittered there. Stile dismounted and walked around to examine it, fearing trouble. If it were another demon-amulet—

  It was a large, ornate, well-constructed harmonica, seemingly new.

  Stile picked it up, examining it in wonder. “You have a good eye, Neysa, spotting this, and it couldn’t have happened at a more fortuitous time. Why, this is from my world. See, it says MADE ON EARTH. Earth has a virtual monopoly on quality musical instruments. Most colonies are too busy to specialize in the arts. This is a good brand. I’m no specialist in this particular instrument, but I’ll bet I could play—” He looked around. “Someone must have lost it. I’m not sure it would be right to—” He shook his head. “Yet it won’t help the owner, just to leave it here. I suppose I could borrow it, until I can return it to—”

  Having rationalized the matter, Stile remounted his straw saddle—which seemed to be holding up extraordinarily well, packing into an ideal shape—and settled down for the resumption of the ride. Neysa moved into a smooth running walk, and played her horn, and Stile tried out the harmonica.

  It was a lovely instrument. It had sixteen holes, which would translate into thirty-two notes: four octaves. It was, in addition, chromatic; it had a lever at the end which, when depressed, would shift the full scale into the half-tones. There were also several buttons whose purpose he did not fathom; he would explore those in due course.

  Stile put his mouth to it, getting the feel of it, blowing an experimental note. And paused, surprised and gratified; it was tremolo, with the peculiar and pleasant beat of two closely matched reeds. He blew an experimental scale, pursing his lips to produce a single note at a time. This harmonica was extremely well constructed, with no broken reeds, and every note was pure and in perfect pitch.

  Very good. Neysa had halted her music, curious about his activity. Stile essayed a melody. He kept it simple at first, playing no false notes, but the instrument was so conducive and the sound so pleasant that he soon broke into greater complexities.

  Neysa perked her ears to listen. She turned her head to glance obliquely back at him, surprised. Stile paused. “Yes, I really can play,” he said. “You thought I was a duffer? That whistling represented the epitome of my achievement? I love music; it is another one of those things that comes easily to a lonely person. Of course I’m not as sharp on the harmonica as I am on other instruments, and I can’t play elaborately, but—”

  She blew a note of half-negation. “What, then?” he inquired. “You know, Neysa, it would be easier for me if you talked more—but I guess you’d have to change to your human form for that, and then we couldn’t travel properly. You know, you really surprised me when you—do you call it shape-changing? Permutation? Reformulation? It was an aspect of you I had never suspected—”

  She blew another note, three-quarter affirmation. He was getting better at grasping her communications. “You’re still trying to tell me something,” he said. “I’m pretty good at riddles; that’s another aspect of the Game. Let’s see—is it about your manifestation as—no? About my reaction to it? You say half-right. About my surprise—your surprise? Ah, now I get it! You were just as amazed to discover I could play a musical instrument as I was to see you in human form.”

  Neysa made an affirmation. But there was still a slight reservation. Stile pursued the matter further. “And, just as your change of form enabled us to interact in a new and meaningful way—though not more meaningful than this joy of traveling together across this beautiful land—my abruptly revealed facility with music enables us to interact in yet another way.” He smiled. “Which is what I was trying to tell you before—oh, you mean now you agree! You—no, you couldn’t be apologizing! Unicorns never make mistakes, do they?”

  She made a little buck, just a warning. He laughed. “Well, let’s get
to it,” he said, pleased. He put the harmonica to his mouth and played an improvised theme, sending the perfect notes ringing out over the plain between the mountain ranges. Now Neysa joined in, and they made beautiful harmony. Her hooves beat the cadence, in effect a third instrument. The resulting duet was extremely pretty.

  Stile experimented with the mystery buttons, and discovered that they were modes, like those of a good accordion; they changed the tones so that the harmonica sounded like other instruments, to a degree. One canceled the tremolo effect; another brought into play an octave-tuned scale. Another rendered the instrument into a diatonic harmonica, with the popular but incomplete scale and slightly differing tone arrangement. This was the most sophisticated harmonica he had ever played. That only increased his wonder that it should have been so carelessly lost out here. If he dropped such an instrument, he would search for hours to locate it, for it was a marvel of its kind. Who could have left it without a search?

  Stile taught Neysa a song, and she taught him one. They played with improvisations to the beat of differing gaits. They did responsive passages, one taking the main theme, the other the refrains. They played alto and tenor on a single theme.

  But soon something developed in the atmosphere—a brooding presence, an intangible power. It intensified, becoming almost visible.

  Stile broke off his playing. Neysa halted. Both looked about.

  There was nothing. The presence was gone.

  “You felt it too?” Stile asked. Neysa flicked an ear in assent. “But what was it?”

  She shrugged, almost dislodging his impromptu saddle. Stile checked his woven-straw cinch to see if it was broken. It wasn’t; the strap had merely worked loose from the ring, as happened on occasion. He threaded it through again, properly, so that it would hold.

  And did a double take. Strap? Ring?

  He jumped to the ground and looked at his handiwork. Loose straw was shedding from it, but underneath it was a well-made if battered leather saddle, comfortable from long use.

  He had fashioned a padding of straw. It had been straw this morning when he put it on her. Where had the saddle come from?

  “Neysa—” But how would she know? She could not have put it there.

  She turned her head to gaze directly at him. Then she turned it farther, touching the saddle with her horn. And looked at him, surprised.

  “Someone has given us a saddle,” Stile said. “Yet there was no way—it was straw this morning—I was riding you the whole time—”

  She blew a nervous note. She didn’t know what to make of it either.

  “Magic,” Stile said. “This is a realm of magic. There was magic in the air just now. A—spell?”

  Neysa agreed. “Could it be my nemesis, the one I think tried to kill me?” Stile asked. “Showing his power? Yet the saddle is helpful, not harmful. It’s something I needed, and it’s a good one. And—” He paused, partly nervous, partly awed. “And the harmonica—that appeared like magic when I wanted it—Neysa, is someone or something trying to help us? Do we have a gremlin friend as well as an enemy? I’m not sure I like this—because we can’t be sure it is a friend. The way that amulet turned into a demon—”

  Neysa turned abruptly and began galloping at right angles to her prior course, carrying him along. She was bearing south, toward the purple mountains. Stile knew she had something in mind, so let her take her own route.

  Soon they approached a unicorn herd. Neysa must have been skirting the herd all along, aware of it though Stile was not, and now sought it out. She sounded a peremptory note on her horn before drawing close. A single unicorn at the edge of the herd perked up, then galloped toward them. A friend?

  Neysa turned and bore west again, away from the herd, and the other unicorn cut across to intercept her. The other was male, larger than Neysa though not substantially so. His color was quite different: dark blue, with red socks. Really the same pattern as Neysa’s, but with completely unhorselike hues. Again Stile reminded himself: these were not horses.

  As the two animals angled together, Neysa tooted her horn. The stranger answered with a similar toot. His horn sounded more like a saxophone, however. Did every unicorn play a different instrument? What a cacophony when several ran together!

  Neysa shifted into the five-beat gait and played a compatible tune. The other matched the gait and cadence, and played a complementary theme. The two blended beautifully. No wonder Neysa had played so well with Stile himself; she had done this sort of thing before, with her own kind. Stile listened, entranced. No cacophony, this; it was a lovely duet.

  Who, then, was this young stallion she had summoned? Stile did not really want his presence advertised. But he knew Neysa understood that, and was acting in his interest. She had to have reason. This must be some friend she trusted, who could help them discover the nature of the magic—or protect them from it if necessary.

  They ran until well clear of the herd. Then they slowed, their harmony slowing with them. Neysa finally deposited Stile by a handsome nut tree and started grazing. It was the middle of the day: lunch break. She would probably insist on grazing for an hour or more, and he did not begrudge her that. She needed her strength, still not entirely restored after yesterday’s trial. He removed the saddle and set it under the tree.

  The strange unicorn did not graze. He watched Stile, looking him up and down. He took a step forward, horn pointed at Stile’s navel. The musical instrument was now a weapon, without doubt. Stile stood still, chewing on a nut, relaxed but ready to move in a hurry if the creature charged.

  The unicorn blew a single derisive note, shimmered—and became a man. The man was clothed. He wore furry leather trousers, a blue long-sleeved shirt, solid low boots, red socks, and a floppy light-blue hat. His hands were covered by heavy fiber gloves. A rapier hung at his side.

  Astonished, Stile stared. A Citizen—here?

  “So thou’rt the creep who’s been messing with my sister!” the man said, his right hand fingering the hilt of the rapier.

  Just what he needed: a protective brother! Now Stile saw the forehead spike, similar to Neysa’s. No Citizen; ordinary people wore clothing here, he remembered now. “It was voluntary,” Stile said tightly.

  “Ha! I saw her charging up Snow Mountain yesterday, trying to shake thee off. Thou’rt lucky she changed not into a firefly and let thee drop in a crevasse!”

  Oh, The unicorn was talking about the day, not the night. “She changes into a firefly, too?”

  “And pray what’s wrong with that? Most beasts are lucky if they can change into one other form. We each have two.” He shimmered again, and became a hawk. The bird winged upward at a forty-five-degree angle, then looped and dived toward Stile.

  Stile threw himself aside—and the man was back, appearing just as the bird seemed about to crash into the ground. “Well, there’s no accounting for tastes. Thou’rt a shrimp, and thou’rt naked, but if she lets thee ride her I can’t say nay. I want thee to know, though, that she’s the best mare in the herd, color or not.”

  “Color?” Stile asked blankly.

  “Don’t tell me thou noticed not! Let me warn thee, manthing: an thou dost ever use the term ‘horse-hued’ in her presence, I will personally—”

  Neysa had come up behind her brother. She blew a warning note.

  “All right, already!” he snapped. “She is one season my senior; I may not talk back to her. But remember what I say: there is nothing wrong with Neysa!”

  “Nothing at all,” Stile agreed. “She’s the finest-performing and finest-looking mare I’ve encountered.”

  The man, evidently braced for doubt or argument, was briefly nonplused. “Uh, yes. Exactly. Then let’s get on with it. What’s thy problem?”

  “My name is Stile. I am a stranger in this world, without information or clothing, someone is trying to kill me, and magic is being performed around me whose ultimate purpose I can not fathom.” Stile had the gift for succinct expression, when required.

  �
��So.” The man frowned. “Well, my name is Clip. I’m Neysa’s little brother. She wants me to help thee, so I’ll help. I’ll fix thee up with information and clothing. And a weapon to defend thyself from thine enemy. As for the magic—concern thyself not about it. Unicorns are immune to magic.”

  “Immune!” Stile expostulated. “Here you stand, a shape-changing unicorn, and you tell me—”

  “Other magic, nit. Of course we do our own, though easy it is not. Like learning another language—which is part of shape-changing, of course; can’t be human if thou canst not talk human idiom. Can’t be avian if thou canst not fly. So most unicorns bother not. But none other can change a unicorn, or enchant one. Or anyone in contact with a unicorn. Was that not why thou didst desire her? So long as thou stayest with Neysa—” He frowned. “Though why she’d want to stay with thee—” Neysa’s note of protest cut him off again. “Well, there’s no comprehending the ways of mares.” He began to remove his clothing.

  “No comprehending!” Stile agreed. “Look, Clip—I rode Neysa as a challenge, because I needed a mount. In the end I couldn’t keep her—but she joined me by her own choice. I don’t know why she didn’t jump off the mountain and change into a firefly and let me drop to my death, as I gather she could have—” And he had thought he was sparing her, when he released her at the ledge! “And I don’t know why she’s not talking to me now. When she—changed to human form, all she said was my name. She didn’t explain anything.” At the time he had thought no explanations were necessary; he had been naive!

  “That last I can clarify. Neysa doesn’t like to talk much. I’m the talkative one in our family, as perhaps thou hadst not yet noticed. So where there’s talking to be done, she summons me.” Clip handed his shirt to Stile. “Go on, get dressed. I don’t need clothing, really, anyway, and I’ll get another outfit when convenient.” He glanced at Neysa. “I guess she saw something in thee she liked. Thou’rt not a virgin, art thou?”