by James Gurley
“Sira!” he called after her, but she ignored him. “Stupid oaf,” he swore at himself. “Hurt her feelings for sure.” Her needling was a light-hearted jest, meant only to rile him, but his lack of confidence leant undue credence to her words. He was ashamed of his background, but could do little to change it. His schooling had been broken into classes wedged in between harvests, and she was a second-year college student. He had struck back at her like a slighted child. He considered going after her, but the horn signaling dinner sounded. He hoped to see her at the communal meal, but she remained sulking in her wagon and did not eat with the others. He explained his plight to his uncle.
“Don’t worry too much. Your barbed tongue struck home, but I’m sure she will understand when she thinks on it. Be sure to speak with her later and apologize.” He thought for a moment and reached for a skewered potato roasting over the fire. “Perhaps she is as uncertain of fitting in as you.”
Tad had spoken of his fears to his uncle before, but the thought that Sira might be afraid confused him. “But she won honors in her school.”
“Stiringly Astor is a small town, larger than Casson, yes, but still small compared to Delphi. It will be a big step for her.” He pulled the hot potato grown on their farm from the skewer gingerly, testing its doneness with his fingertips.
Tad considered this, thought of his plans. “You’re right, Uncle. I just assumed she was eager to begin University.”
His uncle tossed the hot potato from hand to hand and blew on it to cool it. He looked at Tad. “Starting a new life away from friends and family is a difficult thing.”
Tad felt his uncle’s eyes probing him as if he had guessed Tad’s secret thoughts. “I’ll ask her to ride with us later.”
His uncle bit carefully into the steaming potato and nodded. Tad retrieved his own hot potato and reached for the butter urn kept wrapped in wet burlap to keep it cool. He split open the potato, lathered it with rich, creamy butter from the farm, one of the commodities they had brought for trade, and sprinkled it with a pinch of salt and hot pepper flakes. The potato, slightly yellow inside and sweet, tasted more like dessert than a meal. The cart contained three dozen large bags filled with white, purple and red potatoes and sweet golden yams from their farm.
Few agricultural provinces could rival the Spindrift Valley for production. Casson sat at the head of the valley, near the foot of the extinct volcano that provided the valley with its rich loamy soil. The de Silva farm, one of the largest, occupied nearly a quarter of the valley. Tad could walk the valley from end to end in half a day past lush rows of Terran staples such as corn, beans, squash, potatoes, tomatoes, flax, cotton and more exotic produce like kivee melons, a Haffa delicacy, and delicate fungi found on native trees. Canals carried nutrient-rich mountain water from the Cass River to each field and made excellent swimming holes in the hot summer months.
After the meal, appetites sated, Tad and his uncle sat and watched the embers of the fire slowly die. Sparks danced on drafts of hot air. Tendrils of smoke curled into whimsical shapes and chased the sparks. Tad swiped his fingers through one ribbon of smoke, leaving it in tatters.
“Do some of your magic, Tad,” his uncle urged.
Tad was always pleased to perform for his aunt, uncle and friends. On the Caravan, his magic had whiled away many hours after dinner. Some tricks were simple sleight of hand tricks learned after many hours of practice, but a few of the conjuring feats seemed to come to him easily, more easily than they should have. He began with a few relatively easy card tricks and worked his way up to making coins disappear and seem to reappear in thin air. Then, he juggled three rubber balls in one hand while eating an apple with the other. By the time he started working the smoke balls, two dozen people had gathered to watch. He was disappointed that Sira was not among them.
For the next trick, he had to concentrate. It usually gave him a headache later, but he enjoyed the looks of amazement of those watching. He reached into the column of smoke rising from the fire, grabbed a handful of smoke, and carefully patted it into a small ball. He bounced the ball between his open palms, letting it float slowly between them; then placed a finger into it and gently began it spinning until it assumed a saucer shape. He willed the smoke to obey him. Lightly caressing the spinning saucer with his finger, he adroitly broke it into a dozen smaller spheres that danced like sprites. At last, tiring, he allowed the smoke to revert to its natural form and drift into the night sky. Amid the applause, as he rubbed his forehead where the tickle always came after such a performance, he also heard a few people muttering, “Mage.” He ignored them. After all, it was a simple trick perfected over the years. He imagined that others could do it if they tried. After the meal, as they let their stomachs settle and the noise of the camp floated in the still air, Tad sat and thought of Delphi.
Delphi, older than the Veil, bigger than the mountains surrounding Casson, would be an adventure, a delving into mysteries beyond his provincial home. Delphi was a living, breathing organism comprised of every disparate race on Charybdis thrust together in mutual mistrust for common need. Part Heaven, part Hell, Delphi had been a beacon on his mind’s horizon for years, drawing him as sweet nectar drew the hummingbird or pollen the bee. He had gathered tales of Delphi in snippets from his uncle, from memories of his father, from neighbors and passersby, from anyone willing to spend a few minutes remembering or imagining the magical city. Half of what he knew was fantasy and the other half was pure conjecture, but all of it was Delphi and by Second Sunset tonight, he would see it rising from the plains.
2
INTO THE MAW OF
THE BEAST
THE CARAVAN BROKE CAMP SLOWLY, RELUCTANT TO LEAVE THE comfortable glade after weeks on the dry plains. Tad returned to the clear pool for a quick second dip and found Sira there. She swam naked, just hidden by a thin veil of reflecting water. Her movements were as graceful in the water as running or simply walking, hardly stirring a ripple. Her creamy smooth skin glistened under the pale azure light of First Sun. He watched her for long minutes, rooted to the spot in admiration. She dove to the bottom and arched out of the water like a sea nymph. Her breasts broke the surface, full, firm and enticing, bouncing in their unaccustomed freedom. He had imagined them just so many times hidden beneath her long dresses. His heart began to pound so hard he was afraid she would hear him.
Suddenly, ashamed at invading her privacy, he stepped back behind the rocks before she could see him and returned to the Caravan. Later, when she returned, he went to her, her hair still damp from her swim, the vision of her breasts still looming in his pubescent mind’s eye.
“Sira, I’m sorry for earlier outburst. My fears of what may come made my words bitter. Will you forgive me?”
She laughed, the sound of a larks singing. “It is forgotten and forgiven.”
“Will you ride with me for a while?” he asked, trying not to stare at her, remembering the water cascading from her naked body.
“Oh?” she said in mock surprise. “Did you not see enough of me at the pool earlier that your lecherous eyes wish further viewing?” She giggled, turned and walked away to her wagon, purposely shaking her hips.
Tad’s cheeks reddened. He looked around quickly to see if any one had overheard her provocative remark, but he was thankfully alone. It surprised him when a short time later, she ran up beside his uncle’s cart and climbed in. Sitting close beside him, she said nothing, but the heat of her young body pressed against his was searing.
The Caravan moved ahead wearing its fresh new garments of canvas and colorful ribbons and bows. Laughter accompanied the groan of axels and squeak of wheels. The long journey was almost over. An air of excitation descended on the group. Even the animals seemed excited at the prospect of a few days of rest. The hard-packed dirt track changed to a gravel road, then later, a paved highway. Rows of tall, silver-leafed trees lined the sides of the road as it wound up and down rolling hills of verdant grass rolling like ocean waves in the breeze. Stone
bridges spanned the larger rivers. The ocher sky began to slide behind the Caravan and azure blue flowed from the east. The air became cooler and cleaner, filled with the fragrance of flowers. Many of the plants bore leaves as colorful as their rainbow of blossoms, adapted to absorb the wide spectrum of wavelengths of Charybdis’s three suns.
Finally, Second Sun Corycia kissed the horizon, swallowing one shadow, but the Bulls Eye moon rose high in the early evening sky with fiery fingers, holding back the night so that they might see their goal. As they topped one last hill, Tad saw it.
Delphi!
His heart pounded. As far as his eye could see spread buildings of stone, brick and wood, many of them several stories high. Beyond them, the massive block walls, tan and buff, glowed as if polished. In the heart of the city rose the Black Tower, a solitary ebony native rock pinnacle carved over the centuries into a labyrinth of corridors, rooms and courtyards. It had stood reaching skyward since before the Veil as if pointing its black finger into the heart of the galaxy in defiance of what was to come. From the top of the tower, flames danced red, blue and orange, the colors of Delphi’s banner. Others danced through the spectrum of the rainbow, dimming or growing brighter by salts of different metals added to the flames.
“It’s beautiful,” Tad whispered softly, as if speaking aloud would cause the wonderful apparition to vanish like an illusion. “Can’t we hurry, Uncle Wilbreth?”
His uncle laughed. “We’re still two hours away. You’ve been patient for sixty long days. Two hours won’t kill you. Just you wait until we pass through the city gates – ten men tall and broader than twenty men’s outstretched arms. Beneath the massive stone arches, you’ll feel like a mouse daring the cat out to play.”
As they rode, Tad stared at the city, mesmerized, grinning as each new feature came into view with each league they traveled. A maze of buildings stood against the carved stone walls of the city like an afterthought, as if a giant child had left his building blocks scattered about after play. Smoke, blue and acrid, rose from the buildings. Smells, tantalizingly familiar drifted on the breeze. Beyond the city, he caught a glimpse of the sea, black as night.
“Those buildings are the Warrens,” his uncle pointed out the buildings outside the wall. “You must be careful there. It houses thieves, murderers and drug dens. The Constables seldom venture there. Never go there at night.”
“Who lives there?”
His uncle frowned. “Low-class Terrans and vagabond Saddir mostly; another reason they dislike Terrans here.”
His uncle’s bitterness was not lost on Tad. “Where are we bound?”
“To the Warehouse District beyond the city, near the docks.”
Tad squinted but could not make out anything beyond the Black Tower. “Can we see the city?”
His uncle grinned. “As much as you want.” His face became more serious as he said, “I have long suspected you intend to seek work in Delphi and not return with me to Casson.”
Tad’s heart leaped at the discovery of his supposed secret. He started to protest but his uncle stopped him with an upheld palm.
“I cannot blame you. Farming was never in your blood, as it was not in your father’s. If not for you and your mother, he would have been a wanderer.” He paused at the pained look in Tad’s face at the mention of his parents. “I have a friend, a Plin, who might help you if you wish; not to become a Mage—that takes many years for a Plin and is impossible for an outsider —but to become a Watcher’s assistant. They roam the city taking account of all they see and hear. It might be to your liking.” He shrugged his shoulders. “If not, you can find any work you desire. You are bright, young and strong.”
Tad grinned, embarrassed that his secret desire had been so obvious to his uncle. “I thought to wait to tell you when you had finished your business.”
“I have long watched the magical gleam in your eye as I spoke of Delphi and the eagerness with which you chaffed to reach it. Sometimes it is in your blood, like a fever that must burn its course. Later, when you’ve had your fill of Delphi, you may return to Casson and earn a share of the farm.”
His uncle’s offer was generous, but he did not intend to return to a life of farming. “Your Plin friend —how did you meet?”
“On my first visit to Delphi, I was tested by the Plin. I failed.” A look swept over his uncle’s face that Tad interpreted as relief.
Curious about why he would submit to a Plin test, he asked, “What kind of test?”
“Oh, just an aptitude test.” His uncle smiled. “As I long suspected, I was best suited to be a farmer.”
“How do you keep in touch?”
“We write each other several times a year. A letter takes fewer than ten days to reach Delphi by post riders while we plodded along on our journey for more than sixty days.” He chuckled. “Our paper made from the stalks of the sisal plant is thick, rough and unwieldy, while his letters are meticulously drafted on paper as smooth and as delicate as glass.”
Tad considered his uncle’s generous offer of introduction to the Plin. “I thank you, Uncle, but what if I too fail their test?”
His uncle shrugged again. “Who can say what failure truly is? To strive and not succeed is not failure. It is merely a test of life. True failure is never striving for fear of failing. I do not think you will fail.” He grinned. “Besides, the blood of the de Silvas runs through your veins. Once, our ancestors sailed the great void between the stars where failure meant instant death, but they succeeded. You will also. Your grandfather . . .”
His uncle left the last sentence unfinished. Tad knew very little about his grandparents. They had died long before his birth and his uncle spoke very little of them. Any time he had asked about them, his uncle had merely replied, “He was a strange one, as rootless as your father.”
As they neared the city, the Caravan passed over a wide bridge built of shiny white stone spanning a chasm half a league from the city wall, a deep gash gouged by hand from the hard earth. The massive bridge arched over the gap for a span of twenty meters, buttressed on each side by low stone towers, each tower topped by weathered statues of a man atop a pony, a likeness of Saracen. The centuries of weather had erased the faces of both man and pony. Even so, it was obvious that the statue was not of a Haffa.
“With this statue as evidence, why do the Haffa still believe Saracen was of their race?” he asked.
His uncle pursed his lips before answering. “The statue was placed there by a past Terran ruler. Its erection antagonized much of the population; another reason why some races distrust and dislike Terrans. The Haffa prefer to believe, as do many, that their culture could produce such giants.”
Tad stood and leaned over the edge of the cart to see over the low stone curb and into the split earth hoping to catch a glimpse of an iron locomotive puffing its way along the tracks. He saw only darkness. He knew that two sets of twin steel rails ran along the bottom of the manmade chasm, tracks for the coal-fired steam locomotive that plied north and south from the city. To the north, the railroad opened up the iron and copper mines in the mountains and south lay the vast agricultural heart of the country, source of almost all the food necessary to feed the giant city. The small amount of food goods brought in by Caravans such as theirs was insignificant compared to the amount grown nearby. The Caravans delivered mostly harder to find manufactured goods and produce. No other province produced finer potatoes and vegetables than Casson.
Beyond the bridge, a crowd of people lined the walls and the street leading into the heart of the city. Many waved flags and glowing gas lanterns. Their shouts became a jumble of disjointed syllables, slowly becoming clearer as the Caravan drew nearer.
“Caravan!” they all shouted. “Caravan!”
The crowd, composed mostly of Terrans, Saddir and a few Lilith and Gecks, sang and shouted as they ran alongside the freshly scrubbed Caravan, tossing garlands of flowers and offering kisses. Many held out bottles of liquor and wine to those driving the wagons. A f
ew score avian Triocs, the first he had ever seen, perched precariously on rooftops, squawking their disapproval of the noise. A few swooped along the streets just above the heads of the townspeople, most of whom looked as though they had been reveling most of the day with no thoughts of stopping.
The gates of the city opened wide, the maw of a great black beast ready to swallow them all. As his uncle had said, the gate entrance was wide enough for four wagons to enter abreast and taller than a river willow. The massive gates of ancient polished ebony wood bound by burnished steel and hammered iron looked as if they had not been closed in many years. Small food kiosks, wine booths, even tall trees stood before them. The entrance became a dark tunnel ten meters deep, lined with narrow slits, an ancient defensive position. Narrow corridors behind the walls once allowed defenders to rain arrows upon their attackers through the slits if they breached the gates. Now, lamps burned behind the slits, casting a pallid glow along the corridor. Delphi projected an image of a city that feared nothing. Having survived Veil Fall, what more was there to fear?
Brilliant bursts of light exploded from the Black Tower and cascaded down its ebony sides like waterfalls of liquid fire amid great cheers from the revelers. Before the flames reached the base of the tower, they swirled upwards and became millions of tiny fireflies. Each burst was a different color. Soon, giant dragons swooped around the tower leaving trails of fire, devouring the fireflies. The colors were so vivid and bright, they were still easily visible in the full-moon brightness of Bulls Eye.
“Mage work,” his uncle said in admiration. “It must have taken them a long time to conjure so many light sprites.”
“Light sprites?”
“Yes, the lights are tiny creatures conjured and controlled by the Mages. They glow brightly but do not burn. My Plin friend Askos might be among those conjuring them.”
Tad watched the display as they passed through the gates and down the tunnel and wound down a long, curving tree-lined boulevard. Wide sidewalks fronted cafes and taverns filled to overflowing with revelers and each side street seemed to have its own troupe show, jugglers, acrobats or Mages. The tall buildings shadowed the streets but gas lanterns glowed brightly at each street corner, attracting moths and other flying insects. Small bats swooped in and among them seeking a meal. Large, gray rats scurried along curbs snatching up tidbits of food dropped by revelers. Tad was surprised to witness a juvenile Trioc float soundlessly from a rooftop, snag a large rat in its claws from beneath the feet of a partier, and carry it back to his perch. Methodically, the Trioc began to dismember the rat and eat it raw. Tad’s stomach struggled at the sight.
