Tuning the Symphony (Dissolution Cycle)

by William C. Tracy

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the restaurant, a little corner establishment tucked between two busy thoroughfares and across from the campus of the medical research center. On the way, Rilan was almost positive she saw Vethis walking next to the hairy mass of a Festuour, possibly the same one as from last night. She shook her head. The oily man wasn’t worth the effort. She needed to get him out of her head. Just wait and see if he passed his second testing.

  The owner of the restaurant, a Lobath, lived above it and beneath a higher roadway serviced by the Imperium tram line.

  “Come in, come in,” Methle a’Tru, the owner, enthused at them when they opened the door. “Finally a majus, then? Will I expect more or less business from you in the future?” He kept up his steady flow of one-sided conversation, large silvery eyes staring unblinkingly as his head-tentacles twitched with delight. Methle had served generations of apprentices and maji.

  Rilan and Origon got their usual—her, a fruit yogurt and spiced flatbread, and he a bowl of wiggling worms, with a tall container of hot tea. They discussed the logistics of getting to Festuour later that morning. Rilan watched the older man, his pointed features relaxed as he ate. Was this really the beginning of something lasting, or just a young woman’s crush? She feared she was over-analyzing, but he was the one pushing for her to come. He wouldn’t do that if he thought she was a mere fling, would he?

  His brother’s death certainly weighed on him. She wanted to help him—draw the pain from him, but she knew it would take time. Though she had known him for several cycles, much of Origon’s past was still a mystery to her. Maybe she would learn more on this trip. She hoped so.

  Afterwards, they stood outside the restaurant. “I’ll meet you at the portal ground,” she told him.

  “I can easily be coming with you,” he said. “I can help you carry your bags.”

  “I’ll be traveling light,” Rilan told him. Since when did Origon offer to carry someone else’s things? “You just wait at the portal ground.”

  “You are sure? It is no problem.”

  “Quite.” She searched his face, but could find no hint of amusement. His crest was calm, at ease.

  As if telling her mentor—former mentor—that she was off on a wild adventure with one of the Council’s least favorite maji wasn’t bad enough. She shuddered to think about Origon being there.

  “I am thinking Farha Meyta will not be minding much if I just—”

  “Go.” Rilan pointed away. Now she saw the crease next to his eyes. The Shiv-cursed man was laughing at her! He brushed his moustaches down, obviously hiding a smile.

  She waited while he sauntered off, whistling through his pointy teeth, before she went in the other direction, toward the House of Healing. At least he felt better enough this morning to joke. She didn’t think his humor would continue when they got to Martflen.

  Majus Meyta was not at home—praises to all the gods—and she hurriedly packed what she needed. That only meant she looked more like she was running away when the door opened. Rilan’s eyes darted around, but she knew there was no other exit. He must have been out at breakfast too.

  “Have you found an apartment already?” her former mentor asked, removing his bowler hat and setting it on the stand next to the door. His tufts of white hair stood out like errant vegetation.

  “Not…exactly.”

  Farha Meyta only raised his eyebrows, his face bland—an expression she knew from long experience meant, ‘Yes? Tell me more.’

  “I’m taking a quick vacation before starting my career as a majus.”

  “I see. With Origon Cyrysi, I suppose?”

  Her mouth worked, but no sound came out.

  “The Council will not be happy with this.” His tone said he wasn’t pleased either.

  “It’s only a few days. The Council doesn’t need to know. I’ll be back and starting my promising career before they figure anything out.” She was babbling, but Majus Meyta had a certain way of looking at people.

  “Hm.” His mouth tightened, just a little.

  Rilan took that as a form of acceptance and scurried past him to the door.

  “Majus Ayama.” The new title brought her up short. She looked back over a shoulder.

  “I assume he wouldn’t be satisfied with just visiting your home city or some other part of Methiem. Where are you going, if I may ask?”

  She paused, but she owed him that much. “Festuour.”

  “Wear the bell I gave you. No knowing what diseases you could pick up on the first trip to another homeworld. I won’t be there to heal you like when you decided to tangle with that nest of ratwolves in Low Imperium. And healing yourself is not your best skill, as we both know.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “On your way then.” Rilan fled. Old obediences died hard.

  The Spire of the Maji was the center of their presence in the Nether, surrounded by all six houses, and it had its own private portal ground, used almost exclusively by the maji. The ground was enclosed by an oasis of hedges and trees, obstructing the view of the rest of the city. When maji traveled there, it was like they were stepping out into a well-manicured estate, not a city crawling with millions.

  This portal ground, just as with every other one on every homeworld, was tended by a majus, one of the less glorious jobs of the maji. Just as any majus, no matter which house, could create a portal, so everyone took their turn to tend them.

  Origon was waiting. This early in the day there were few travelers, and a Benish majus she didn’t recognize was tending the ground. The massive creature’s skin had the hue of polished oak, and it stood three times as wide as she, though only slightly taller.

  “There is no portal ground near Martflen,” Origon told her. “The nearest is to be a week’s journey away. I was given the information for the town’s location, so I will be providing it to the majus. Do you have all you need?”

  “I’m ready,” Rilan said. She took the little white bell out of a pocket in her leather vest. Did it need to be touching her skin to work? Majus Meyta hadn’t told her.

  Origon went to the Benish, who watched him with pupil-less yellow eyes from a craggy face. Rilan followed.

  “We are going to a location on Festuour,” he told the Benish. “I will be communicating the exact coordinates, by your leave.”

  The Benish nodded its head with a creak. “This one will accept the information.”

  Origon raised a hand, the yellow of the House of Communication visible in rings around it. His house was the best at transferring the half scientific, half intuitive coordinates to make a portal reaching across the universe. One could only make a portal to where one had been, unless the location was transferred in this manner. So information about the maji’s network of portals spread through their ranks.

  Origon’s hand touched the Benish’s head, and the color moved from his hand to the other’s craggy skin as he adjusted the Symphony of Communication. Rilan could not hear the change, of course, any more than she could hear the Symphony of any other house. The Benish’s eyes dimmed at the wash of new information.

  “This one has the location,” it confirmed, and turned to the center of the ground. Thick arms with skin like old bark lifted and before them, a hole, pitch black, appeared in the air. As all maji shared the ability to make portals, Rilan caught hints of the melody of this place merging with another one: humid and dappled with light.

  The hole, ringed in the blue of the House of Grace and a drab rust color, grew until it would accept Origon’s height. Rilan pushed away the twinge of panic that always rose when she approached one of the pitch black holes between locations. She had to trust the majus who made the portal.

  “Let us be going.” Origon stepped into the blackness of the portal without even blinking.

  Rilan gave the Benish a little wave, sighed, and entered after him.

  Festuour

  - Festuour is almost an anomaly among the ten homeworlds with its dense air and crushing weight. Where one woul
d feel light and graceful on Etan, that same person would drag their feet on the Festuour homeworld. Perhaps this is why it is inhabited by such fearsome predators. In contrast, the folk of this homeworld tend to be lighthearted, inquisitive, and jovial.

  Excerpt from “A Dissertation on the Ten Species, Book IV: Festuour”

  Rilan’s foot hit the dirt with more force than she expected. She turned, clumsy, just in time to see the portal close behind them. The blue and rust rings around it compressed, squeezing it into a droplet, and then to nothing at all. Behind where it vanished, trees filled the sky.

  Rilan adjusted her shirt, dark green under her leather vest. Both hung heavily on her. She was lighter in the Nether than on her home world of Methiem. But this was like walking with a heavy bag slung around her waist. The heat didn’t help. It was almost as oppressive as her extra weight. It hung over her.

  There was no breeze to lessen the heat, but there were trees everywhere—massive things, twice as wide as she was tall. Rather than the teaks, beeches, and banyans of her home, these had no leaves, but something like cilia in place of bark. Their branches divided like fingers, pointing nearly vertical. Small furry things nested in the branches, and glided from tree to tree.

  “The town is to be this way.”

  As she turned, her loose black hair whipped her in the face. It was like little steel wires on this world.

  “Phaw.” She spit it out and went to draw it behind her back, but realized she still had something in her hand. The little bell. She looked back to Origon. He was pointing to a road cleared between the trees.

  “Is it far?”

  “A walk of a few minutes. I was placing the portal far enough from the town to be out of danger of passersby.” There was a reason there were designated portal grounds.

  “Then I’m putting my hair up in a braid while we walk. It feels like I have a bunch of wet socks tied to my head.”

  “My robes are being as much a bother.” Today Origon wore orange and purple checks, with silver filigree and a green belt. A long collar stuck out behind his neck, but even it was drooping. It was very nearly coordinated colors, for a Kirian.

  “You could always roll up your sleeves,” Rilan suggested while they walked, “Show off a little arm.” Origon scowled at her, making the ends of his moustaches twitch.

  “There is no need to be indecent.” But he swept a fold in the excess fabric of his robe and tucked it into his belt.

  Soon they passed a massive wooden and metal construct ringed around a tree. The cilia-bark was stripped in thin spirals, leaving a fair bit still attached to the tree. Sheets of bark lay between massive swaths of oilcloth. Rilan spotted another scaffold, and another. Every alternate tree had something around it, though none seemed damaged or dying.

  Festuour swarmed over the platforms, at least five to a tree. Most of the stocky furred creatures had iron-rimmed goggles and large wooden hats like circular shields. Besides that, they wore nothing but bandoliers filled with tools. They slotted curved spades in between the tree and its bark, and pulled off sloughs of material.

  Rilan and Origon passed hundreds of trees being harvested before the dirt road dumped them into a bare expanse in the forest, holding a sizeable town. Rilan, her new braid in one hand, tied the little white bell to the tip with a bit of string she had in one pocket. It was almost impossible for a majus to see the glow of the House of Healing around it, it was so slight. She let it fall, like a pendulum down her back.

  “Do you even know who we’re meeting here?” she asked. Origon looked to her, his crest ruffling. The Nether didn’t put the translation in her head on the homeworlds, of course, but she could tell curiosity in a Kirian.

  “I am not certain. I am assuming a local law officer, if there is even one here.” He looked around, arrogant as usual, no sign of his recent grief.

  It was a funny thing, but maji, as if they carried a bit of the Nether around with them, had no trouble communicating with each other on the homeworlds, and she would be able to hear and translate the local language. Communicating to the non-maji inhabitants, on the other hand, was another matter. She ran through phrases in her head, hoping the Festuour in this little backwater town spoke the Trader’s Tongue.

  As they passed through, Rilan saw the town was laid out in a spiral, stores and warehouses on the outer arms nearest the trees they harvested, and residences in the middle. Anyone—or anything—coming out of the forest surrounding them would have to go through low, curved, wooden buildings containing tools easily adaptable to weaponry.

  They saw no species but Festuour as they walked through the town, and the usually jolly creatures stared back suspiciously. Their brown and green fur looked bedraggled and matted in the humid heat. A mother in a frilly lace hat pulled her cub close to her as they passed, watching them through narrowed blue eyes behind spectacles. A male in a high top hat and monocle peered down his snout at them.

  “Cheery lot,” Rilan murmured. “This is a wonderful reception for my first visit to another homeworld.”

  Hantamoptigor Wint, Guarder

  “I do not believe Festuour prefer this environment. They must live here for the textiles they make from the trees.” Origon motioned to a factory as they walked by, stacks of the raw cilia-bark on one side, and folded sheets of sheer fabric on the other. They had passed several others like it.

  The local law house was mid-way through the town, dividing the residences from the factories and stores. A large Festuour was standing outside, his protruding belly circumnavigated by a bandolier of pockets with paper, writing utensils, a short sword, and even a small projectile weapon—one of the newer ideas to come from Methiem. Rilan usually admired her homeworld’s inventions, but not in this case. The slugs they shot moved so fast even a majus didn’t have time to react. Maji were the servants and protectors of the Great Assembly. They should be harder to hurt than a non-majus.

  “You all are here for the feather-head, I expect?” the Festuour drawled. He was wearing a large hat, the sides curled up and a metal emblem on the front. He was the local equivalent of the sheriff, Rilan guessed. The bit of the Nether left in her mind made his words clear, even if his body language was strange.

  His blue eyes took in Origon. “No offense, meant, naturally.”

  Rilan watched her friend, noting the tightening of his mouth, the way his crest bunched and curled. Kirians in general were a stoic lot—but Origon was affected, not just by the epithet, but by the reminder of his brother’s death, she guessed. She put a hand on his sleeved arm, but he didn’t look at her.

  “I am Origon Cyrysi,” he said, and there was a yellow aura around him, more concentrated about his throat. He must have been putting his song into the Symphony of this place to make his words easier to understand. She would be able to comprehend him either way, so it was hard to tell if he was speaking in the Trader’s Tongue.

  The Festuour’s bright eyes widened. He was one of the few of his species who didn’t wear some form of spectacles. “And I’m Hantamoptigor Wint, Guarder. Then y’all’re related, I reckon. About the only thing I’ve found out about this fellow is his name, and that has a ‘Cyrysi’ in it too.”

  Origon nodded, and Rilan heard his sharp teeth grind together beneath his moustache. The aura was still around him. “He is to be my brother. Delphorus Cyrysi.”

  “Yep. That’s the name he gave us, when he was still alive. Best you folks come in. We’ve got him laid out.” The sheriff turned his bulk through an arched doorway, waving a three-fingered paw lazily over his shoulder.

  Rilan tried to catch Origon’s arm as they went inside, to say something—anything—to show she would support him, but he brushed past her, his crest twitching.

  The inside of the law house was sparse, but clean. Wint took them through several rooms with various desks, piles of paper, wooden cabinets, and Festuour clerks scribbling notes. In the back of the building was a closed and locked door. Wint produced a ring of circular keys from a pouch on his ba
ndolier and unlocked it.

  “In here. We keep a special room for any dead in our town. Got to keep ‘em chill, on account of the heat here. Turns ‘em to slush otherways.”

  The room was freezing. Rilan’s eyes automatically went to several devices fastened to the ceiling, walls, and floor. They were small bundles of wire, with an aura of blue, orange, and brown around them. The Houses of Grace, to control the humidity, Power, to control the heat, and Potential, to fashion the artifact. Physically the wires glowed a soft yellow-red, melting the ice that gathered around them. They were hot, busy removing the heat and humidity from the air.

  Delphorus Cyrysi was laid out on a wooden table in the middle of the room, and Origon was already at his side. The body was still dressed in a dull brown robe—the least colorful she had seen on a Kirian. It was filled with pockets, inside and out, and a line of Kirian hieroglyphics was stitched on the right breast, probably giving his name. Rilan stuck her hands in her pockets to warm them.

  She could see similarities in the face—the long nose, and triangular feathered eyebrows—though Delphorus hadn’t worn a moustache. His face was relaxed in death, but Origon’s was fixed. He gently ran his liverspotted hands down his brother’s robe, as if looking for something.

  “His work as an officer was meaning much to him. Female Kirians were never holding much interest for him. We were alike in some ways.” He gave her a shaky smile, filled with sharp teeth. It didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Y’all lookin’ for this?” Wint held up a leather-bound book. “He requested some help on a case of his, even though I told him this was a smidge out of his jurisdiction. He wouldn’t listen and went off into the jungle.” The sheriff shook his head, blue eyes fixed on Origon. “One of the harvesters found him a couple days later, sprawled out. He was dead, but still fresh. No animals got to him. That’s when we sent off a message to his kin. Guess it found you.”