by Various
Piros still hesitated. "You look strange. Your eyes are wide, not good for the desert."
"I'll only be in the desert for a moment. Come."
Piros finally stepped close to him, and Alaric enfolded the caravan master in his arms. Two heartbeats later, they were a few hundred paces from the camp, too far away to be noticed when all eyes were on the city. Alaric released Piros, and one heartbeat later the minstrel was outside the chamber that had tried to kill them.
All around was impenetrable darkness.
In spite of the darkness, he knew exactly where he was. The short passage to the gardens was to his right, the gardens themselves beyond, as dark as the rest. He stretched out a hand and a pool of light sprang into being half a dozen steps from him, revealing Ronnel and a few other gray-robed men clustered together, clutching each other. They squinted against the light, looking at him with terror on their faces.
"Who are you?" said Ronnel.
"I am your new king," said Alaric. He waved, and more patches of light kindled. The door to the king's chamber, closed tight, became visible, and now Alaric could see that there were words carved into the wall above that door, just beginning to glow in sunset red, and he knew what those words said, though he had never seen that language before: COMMAND AND CONTROL. He gestured for the door to open, and it did. Inside, gem-sized lights of blue, green, and gold were clearly visible now, chasing each other across the walls, the floor, the ceiling, in a dense pattern that mimicked the filigree of the crown. He could feel those lights calling to him, and he let them pull him into the chamber.
The one-legged man still lay on the floor, and the dead king still sat in his carven chair on the dais. Alaric went to the king, lifted him up, and gently set him on the floor beside his throne; he was as light as a bundle of dry grass. Then Alaric sat down himself, his hands on the chair's arms. He tried not to shred the velvet padding any more than it was already shredded, but that was impossible, and pieces of it dropped away at his touch. The wood beneath was warm to his skin, and that warmth seeped into his hands, his arms, his chest, climbing up the back of his neck to merge with the filigree crown. And then he realized that the city itself was seeping into him, until he was the city, and lights began to bloom all around him, the walls glowing not just with those small racing specks but with an overall mellow light that spread outward from the king's chamber to the gardens, the stairs, the myriad rooms that were sometimes empty, sometimes occupied by Ronnel and his like. With that light, Alaric himself stretched outward along corridor after corridor, winding through them like mushroom filaments seeking nourishment among the roots of oak trees, stretching onward until he and the light were in every part of the city, and he knew everything about the place, including where Arnay was hidden and that he was still alive.
And knowing it all so intimately, Alaric realized that the city was like a living creature whose life extended back and back to its birth long ago and somewhere else. The story he had heard in the North, of the ancient folk who had journeyed through the Great Night in search of a new homeland, he now understood to be true. This place was the refuge they had found, the end to their wandering, and this was the city they had made from the vessel that had brought them here, that had served them so well for so long. Gradually, they learned to live in this new and strange place, and gradually they spread far and wide across the world—they and their children, and their children's children—at last leaving behind only a few folk too unwilling—or too afraid—to walk away from the city that had been their home for so long. Nor did the last man who sat that chair in COMMAND AND CONTROL leave, for at the end of a long life he died in his chair, and now he lay, a dried husk, on the floor at Alaric's feet. Yet the city went on without him, if only a fraction of its former self without a human master, but well enough to sustain those who remained and the children they bore, to give them light and water for the gardens, and to sweep the plaza and its fountain clear of wind-blown sand.
Generations had passed. Occasionally, men and camels bound east or west across the great desert stopped at the city and traded novelties for water—cloth or wine or salt. Sometimes the languages they spoke had changed since their forebears had gone away, and the city dutifully recorded those changes against any future need. Sometimes they knew the secret of coaxing water from the fountain or of opening the city doors, knowledge carried off by their ancestors. Sometimes they did not. Sometimes the descendants of those who had remained stole a man or a camel from them, for life was not easy in the ancient city, and they did what they must to cling to it.
As time passed, visitors became less and less common. Then, one day, a man arrived who did not lead a caravan, a man accompanied by a few dozen followers, tall men on tall camels, without the burden of trade goods. They came to the city's door, he spoke the word that would open it, and they entered, carrying torches and striding confidently through the corridors, down the stairs, into the gardens. They plucked vegetables from the troughs and ate them, standing amid the greenery, shouting for the city's people to come out and trade. But when one did venture to greet them, they seized him and demanded water, food, clothing, and gold—especially gold—and they offered nothing in return. When he said there was no gold, they beat him till he bled, threw him to the floor, and kicked him as he lay there moaning. There was gold, of course, in the master's filigree crown, but the gray-robed man did not speak of it, even as he bled.
They left him there and stalked through the city, stopping in rooms that were sometimes occupied, sometimes vacant, filling their arms with whatever poor possessions they found. And at last, they reached the master's chamber.
The door was open, for there had never been any need to close it. The men stood just outside it for a time, pointing toward the dead master and gabbling among themselves. Suddenly, their leader stepped across the threshold, and because the city understood that he intended to take the crown, not to wear it—and that no man who led such a group was worthy of wearing that crown—it slammed the door shut on him. His leg, which had not quite cleared the threshold, was sliced off below the knee, and he fell to the floor, screaming, writhing, as the city removed the air from the chamber, something it had done occasionally, long ago, when it was still a vessel gliding through the Great Night. The city's structure had been different then, the door to the master's chamber the gateway to the airless Night itself, a door that could be opened without endangering the rest of the passengers. The city had never before removed the air from the chamber without instructions from a master, but it knew what would happen to an unprotected person when the air was gone.
Never before had the city killed. But it had to protect the crown.
A long time later, when both the old master and the new man were no more than dry husks, the city allowed the door to open once more. No one was outside that day, and though occasionally, in the days and years that followed, someone would come to look into the chamber—the gray-robed folks or a visitor or two—no one else tried to enter. Not until Alaric and Piros arrived. They had said nothing about gold, but they had looked into the chamber, they had drawn weapons, they had crossed the threshold, and once more the city had done what appeared necessary. When Piros laid hands on the crown, the city had set the air extraction in motion and waited for the strangers to die.
Instead, they disappeared, and the city knew at that moment that Alaric was the master it had been waiting for.
Alaric slid his hands along the arms of the master's chair. His chair.
Welcome, the city whispered to him. All I am is yours.
Alaric looked toward the door. Ronnel and his fellows knelt just beyond the threshold. When the old master had been alive, he had controlled that door, opening and shutting it as he wished, just as he had controlled the entire city, ensuring that there was food and water and light enough for all who continued to live here. But with his death, the city itself took over those responsibilities, and, masterless, it protected this chamber and its contents just as it kept itself
free of encroaching sand, as it provided water from the fountain whenever someone asked for it properly, while it waited through the long years for someone who might never come.
Alaric rose from his chair, and the gray-robed folk scuttled away from the doorway on their knees.
"Bring my friend to me," he said to them. His first royal command.
They hesitated, staring at him, and then they scrambled to their feet and ran. When they were gone, even the soft sounds of their pattering footsteps faded away, Alaric touched his crown, one hand on each side of his head. The crown's power thrilled through him. It was power a man could become accustomed to.
Arnay came at last, with hunted eyes and pale cheeks. Ronnel pushed him into the COMMAND AND CONTROL chamber.
The door did not close behind him.
Alaric stepped off the dais, took Arnay by the arm, and walked him back through the door. Then he pointed at Ronnel. "Escort my friend outside and set him free, unharmed. Use one of your tunnels."
The gray-clad man dropped to his knees again, bending so low that his forehead touched the floor. Then he sprang up and started off, gesturing frantically for Arnay to follow. Ronnel's fellows were waiting at the entrance to the gardens, and when he and Arnay reached them, the whole group hurried away.
Inside the master's chamber once more, Alaric gave a silent command that made a map of the city form on one of the walls, and moving within that map was a cluster of blue lights, marking the group's route. On the far side of the gardens, a tunnel splayed outward in a dozen branches leading under the desert pavement and ending at a larger tunnel that encircled the city like a wheel. There were more than a score of outlets, Alaric knew, along that wheel, and the city's people could emerge from any of them to steal from travelers too fearful to sleep close to the city itself. That was how they had stolen Arnay. He watched the map, saw the symbol that indicated the opening of a door to the surface, saw one of the blue lights move past the symbol to the desert outside, where it faded away. The rest of the lights retreated toward the hub of the wheel.
My subjects, he thought. His kingdom in the desert, its people his responsibility; his servants, both living and insubstantial, obedient to his every whim in exchange for his care. For the rest of his life.
At the dais, Alaric stooped and lifted up the dead master, cradling the desiccated body in his arms as if it were a child. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and he set the dead man back on his throne. Then he unfastened the golden filigree crown and peeled it from his brows. It stuck to his scalp and hair for a moment, as if reluctant to let him go, but it came away at last, and he wrapped it gently about the dead master's fragile skull. He dislodged a few last wisps of white hair in the act, and they fell to the dead man's thighs. Alaric left them there. The map of the city had vanished, the specks of light on the walls extinguished, the lighting overall dimmed from what it had been. Yet there were still incandescent patches scattered here and there, as before he had donned the crown—enough to illuminate the COMMAND AND CONTROL chamber and the passage to the gardens. The door—that deadly door that had guarded its treasure so jealously—still stood open. Alaric did not approach it again. Instead, he stood in the middle of the chamber and stretched his arms out toward the walls.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I don't really want to be a king. I'm just a minstrel who collects stories and makes them into songs. I'll make your story into a song, O city of wonders. I promise that. And wherever I go, people will hear about you and marvel. Or disbelieve, if that's their inclination. But you must return to what you were before I came to you. That will have to be enough for those who call you home."
He heard one last whisper from the city, plaintive as the breath of wind among the dunes: Claim my power. And in the filigree crown, the cabochon gems sparkled briefly, red, green, blue.
"I don't want your power," said Alaric.
Then, very slowly, the door to the chamber began to close.
"You know you can't keep me here," said the minstrel.
Still the door continued to ease shut.
In a heartbeat, Alaric was outside the chamber, and the door was still moving, sealing its dead master into his throne room. Alaric could hear footsteps approaching from the gardens—Ronnel, he assumed, and whatever friends accompanied him, back after freeing Arnay. Before they reached him, Alaric was gone.
Standing out in the desert, not far beyond the caravan's camp, he could see the camels clustered together, and, nearby, the men all crowded around Arnay. He walked toward them, and one man noticed him and pointed, and a good deal of shouting began. By the time he joined the group, Piros had managed to wave them to some semblance of silence.
"There's a tunnel," said Piros, gesturing toward the west, "and a trapdoor opening upward from it. They set Arnay free there."
Alaric nodded. "There are others all around the city. We should move our camp and set up guards to prevent them from raiding us again."
"They're afraid to do that," said Arnay. "They're afraid of you. "
"That may pass," said the minstrel. "I'd rather not tempt them."
Piros gave the order. "We have enough water to carry us to the next three wells. One of them must be usable. Load the camels and move out."
"They said you were their king," said Arnay, looking wide-eyed at Alaric.
"I was foolish enough to try on the crown," Alaric replied. "They are so desperate for a king that any man who wore it would be called one. But I'm a minstrel, nothing more. They would have been disappointed in me soon enough."
One of his tent mates handed him his lute, his blanket, and his bundle of meager belongings. The tent itself had already been struck. Alaric went to his camel, where his full water bag awaited him, and he slung the rest of his possessions over the saddle. The camel knelt for him to mount, and he saw that he was one of the last to do so. As quickly as that, the caravan had packed up, riders and mounts ready to resume their journey west.
Piros worked his way through the crowd to Alaric's side. "Will the time before sunset be enough to see us safely beyond their reach?"
Alaric nodded.
The caravan master gave the signal, and the camels began to move. At first they were a confused mass, as no rider wished to straggle and perhaps be taken by the people of the city, but gradually they formed their usual line, with Piros ranging up and down its length. They moved directly south to avoid the known trapdoor, and then west. The sky was deepest blue, the first stars visible, before he called a halt and let his men dismount and kindle their fires.
Supper was quickly prepared and small, for no one felt very hungry, though much tea was brewed and drunk. As Alaric sat by the caravan master's own fire, plucking at his lute and humming a song he had sung a hundred times, Piros sipped at a cup of tea and looked long and hard at him. "How many men would give up a crown?" he said at last.
"A crown in the middle of a desert," Alaric replied. "It didn't seem a pleasant prospect to me."
"A soft life, I think," said Piros. "Servants, food, cool breezes within the city itself. And nothing to stop you from visiting other places whenever you wished."
Alaric laughed softly. "I've never much wanted a soft life. And a king has a great many responsibilities."
Piros poured himself another cup of tea from the communal kettle. "You would have been a good king," he said.
Alaric shook his head. "You don't know me, Piros."
"Oh, I think I do. I think I know you can go back to the city whenever you like, and it will welcome you. Did you know that, while you were inside, the fountain flowed freely from its every branch, and its basin filled to the brim? The windows became transparent, and one could see the corridors inside through them. And music played all around the plaza, as if the city were holding a fair—or a coronation. Arnay said the men who brought him out sounded alternately happy and fearful when they spoke of you, and they asked him questions about you that he did not understand and could not answer. I think perhaps I could have answered them. I think
you are what they and the city have waited for, these many years." He sipped at his tea, both hands clasped about the metal cup. "I think I saw it in you when you first touched the crown."
"Are you so anxious to be rid of me?" said Alaric.
"You must have been tempted."
Alaric looked back toward the city, cloaked now in darkness and distance. "The city didn't know me, either." Claim me, the city had begged, but Alaric the minstrel knew he was the one who would have been claimed.
He plucked at his lute strings again. There were any number of ways to begin a song of the city, and he would find the right one, someday. And like so many other songs, he would carry it with him to distant lands, where other minstrels might hear it and pass it on, and so the city would live on, and not just as a legend in the North.
Sleep, he thought. You served your purpose long ago, and there is nothing left but the dreams that brought you here. That should be enough for you.
In the deep darkness of the desert, the horizon was invisible. But still it beckoned him, as Alaric knew it always would.
* * *
Vishnu Summer
By David Prill | 11023 words
David Prill grew up in Bloomington, Minnesota in the 1960s. This next story evokes those Midwestern summers in all their familiar Bradburian glory—the smell of dry grass and gas mowers, the incessant buzz of grasshoppers, the shiny whirl of carnival rides—and then takes us someplace unexpected. This is Prill's first story for us since "Dating Secrets of the Dead" appeared in our June 2002 issue.
SO I WAS OUT SLOPPING THE hogs while pondering Vishnu. I did my best pondering in the hog barn. Pigs are ruminatin' creatures. Deep dreamers.
There was a thick, thinking aura when I was among them. You couldn't help but be part of it.
For my part, I hadn't thought about Vishnu in ages, not until Ma painted him on the back of the barn last week, one more piece of her never-ending mural. It shook loose a memory, a grade school trip to a museum in the Cities. While the other kids ran screaming through the hall of mummies, I stood silently before a many-armed figure in its display case. I didn't know who or what he was, but I felt an odd kinship with him. See, I had one less arm than everyone else and he had many more, while the rest of the world went along more or less well balanced.
