by Baen Books
No. I'm wrong, she corrected herself, and smacked one arm against another reprovingly. It has two things on each side. Everything we know tends to have three sides, but this one has two.
Drawing up her courage, Blushspark took her gaze away from the strange thing within the shell, and drifted closer to the shell-thing itself, surrounded by that achingly pure singing light. She tapped the thing – oh, so very gently – with the spear; the spear rang as though it struck stone, with an undertone of bone.
There was a sort of oval area on one side, separated somehow from the rest, a line or crack running completely around it. She approached that, curious.
Vooom!
Without warning, the round black things all along the Sky-shell spun, whirring at stunning speed that caused the whole thing to lunge in the water. Blushspark instantly darted backwards, afraid she'd gone too far. But the spinning died down and the singing Sky-shell hung quiescent once more.
What was it doing?
It was a warning, obviously, she decided. That oval area must be sensitive, even though it didn't ping as any less hard than the rest of the thing. How did those spin? They looked like the crane-barrels, except there was nothing to make them turn. A crane needed someone to be able to grasp the handles on the outside and turn the barrel that was attached so it wound up, or let down, the braided line. Turned from inside the shell, then. She'd never heard of a creature that could spin things that way, but then no one had ever heard of anything like this at all.
She moved in again, back to the end that had seemed to have a face.
The face flashed at her with that pure white light. Blushspark jumped in the water, but held her location. Now it flashed again, and again. A pause, and now it flashed, flashed, flashed again. Another pause, flash, flash, flash, flash, all of them still clean and beautiful. A pause,and then a long, long blaze of that lovely light that went on for a heartbeat, two, three before it faded. A pause of several heartbeats, and then another flash.
What in the world is it doing? She watched the flickering as it repeated, and repeated again.
A chill struck her, as though she had driven herself straight into the sky. It's a pattern.
It's counting!
She was suddenly frightened, dashed back, back to the familiar, broad, solid form of Bluntspear. It's counting! Counting what? Why?
Slowly, the chill strengthened, along with a sense of wonder and awe. "Bluntspear," she said in a hushed voice, "I. . . I think it wants me to answer."
She took a long shuddering breath, letting masses of water pass through her, and felt her filters twitch at the foulness of the water, so diametrically opposite the purity of the thing she faced. Need a clear head. Reluctantly, she took one of the breathsponges, held it before her inlets and squeezed steadily while breathing in. The clean, strong scent of the bottom-water washed through. Blushspark got two, three good breaths out of the sponge and it reinvigorated her.
All right.
She rose up to face the strange thing again and concentrated. I hope you don't expect me to duplicate that light. She was nervous, trying to keep her hands from working in the water but failing. What will happen when I answer?
She swallowed water, then flashed once. Waited, flashed twice. Waited, flashed thrice, and now she saw the thing inside stiffen, move back, little mouth working, eyes almost seeming to widen, as she gave the series of four flashes and then ended with the long flare that – she hoped – meant "end".
The little thing inside hesitated. Then there was a single flash, a pause, and the long flash.
One. . . and end?
Counting, she reminded herself. She had to be right. She had to be right now. Hearts pounding faster than ever, she flashed twice, sent a long flare burning into the water.
Three brilliant flashes answered her, and Blushspark LAUGHED, looping through the water in joy. I understand! It understands! It thinks, it THINKS, it wants to talk with me! She sent her own understanding, counting up higher and higher, and suddenly she understood the real source of the joy within her.
This thing was no god, no spirit. But it was not one of the people, either. It was something new, something wonderful, yet somehow it was something like her. She knew it, somehow, just seeing the quick movement of the creature inside its shell. It was overjoyed to meet another thing to speak with, to know.
The shining Skyspark had not been a sign of the gods, or some impenetrable mystery. It had been something so much more. A sign that the answers were greater than the questions, that the people themselves were not alone.
Blushspark turned back, to see new patterns of shimmering light, new mysteries, and behind that she saw something familiar. For somehow, in the wideness of those eyes in the monstrous face, in the workings of the mouth and gesturing of strange-stiff appendages. . . she saw a reflection of the same joy.
Two flashes, and now the light took on a shape, two lines at right angles. Two more flashes, another shape like a spear-barb, and then four flashes.
What. . .?
That same strange pattern repeated several times, then stopped. Then one flash, the two crossed lines, two flashes, the spear-barb, three flashes. That repeated a few times, then another, two flashes, the crossed lines, three flashes, spear barb, five flashes.
The thing cycled through those patterns again. She tried to figure out how to replicate those shapes; the lines were clean and straight as spearshafts, a challenge since most patterns the people liked to use were curves and patterns of shadow. I think I can do it. But I'm not sure what it means –
All of a sudden she wanted to smack herself. Sky and Deeps, it's obvious! It's not counting now, that new symbol means addition. One plus two equals three!
She gave the long flash that meant "end", and the thing cut off, went dark. With careful concentration she inclined herself so her back would be easily visible, then sent a flash, made the crossed lines, then another flash. If I'm right. . . she made the spear-barb shape, and then added one and one to make two bright flashes.
The light flared out, one short, one long, a sign that seemed to shout yes! as loudly as her heart was beating. She couldn't restrain a spin of joy, and then to test her understanding, sent them three flashes, the crossed lines, and seven – followed by the long ending flash. Will it. . .
Instantly, it seemed, ten brilliant flares answered her. Blushspark flung her arms wide with exultation and felt the rosy blush cover her. She didn't care. This was something so wonderfully strange, and so special, there was no chance of embarrassment.
But now the thing inside was doing something else. She couldn't make it out.
Then it used the manipulator branches that seemed attached to the moving inside parts to put. . . something else in front of it.
A three-sided thing that looked like a child's doll, like one of the woven charm-dolls most children got shortly after they hatched.
What. . .?
She stared at it, wondering. Is it imitating me somehow? Why?
Then something else, long and cylindrical, with round things spaced along it, bent objects attatched to the front, placed with the rear facing the doll.
She knew the thing was trying to say something, and she felt so stupid. What does it mean?
And suddenly she found herself sinking as revelation burst in. That cylinder thing with the round objects. . . it's representing ITSELF.
And that means . . .
She streaked back up, reached out a finger, touching the smooth heat-shimmer solid as close to the charm-doll as she could. Then she extended her arms, gesturing to all of herself. Repeated it, and the Sky-thing blazed out YES. She pointed to the other object, and to the Sky-thing, and again it blazed YES.
But there was more. Two more models, a giant charm-doll and something tiny, something that fit inside the Sky-thing doll. With a jolt, she realized the tiny thing looked like the moving part within the Sky-thing.
And then it all suddenly fit. This is not a shell. This is a riding. . . something. The moving thing
inside is what's talking to me!
Shaking with nervousness, Blushspark reached out, pointed to the little creature inside and to herself, and then from the big shell-thing to Bluntspear far below.
YES, blazed the Skyspark-light. Yes, yes, yes.
Amazing, she thought, and spun herself around with the joy of having more mysteries in the answers. How do you ride inside something without it eating you? Or. . . She touched it again, drifted around. It is as solid as spears. Could it be. . . a spear? An object, something made? But then how. . .?
She looked more carefully inside. There are. . . other things in there with this one. Objects, tools. That's how it made the dolls. Looking closely, she saw there were several such objects hanging on the walls of the shell… and despite the distortion of the transparent material, one of them had curved and straight lines that looked familiar. The first Skyspark… it was a tool. Something they dropped. But those are inside. The creatures are inside. How could they drop. . . ?
Drifting farther, she felt heat radiating from two fins on the thing's back – heat so great that it seemed the thing must have a deep-vent within. Yet the rest of it was cool. The arms, too, were hard, solid things, no sign of life. She saw, now, another of the two-sided moving creatures inside, this one in the front of the riding. . . object?
She was close, now, to the Sky, so close she reached out a finger and drew it along the smooth coldness. Water flowed past her, rumbling along the ice and away into that impossible roaring something only a dozen spears distant.
This close, she could see how the riding-object was anchored to the Sky, and for a moment her hearts seemed to stop.
For this was not an anchor of a living thing. It was not even a permanent anchor at all.
A loop of cable – not braidline, but something similar – stretched through a round eye-support, for all the world like something suspended from one of the Pod's cranes.
But the cable, stretched taut as her nerves, went into the Sky.
She heard taps, raps, bangs through the Sky above her. And though it was impossible, she thought, at last, that she understood.
Blushspark streaked back down, got the attention of the creature inside, and gestured to herself. Pointed into the depths. Then she pointed to the creature –
And pushed upward on the Sky-thing, making it bob upward towards the Sky.
For a moment she thought she had somehow understood things wrongly, for there was no immediate reply. But the second time she repeated it, the blaze of YES eradicated the darkness.
And if that's true. . .
She went up to the Sky, spread her arms wide, sensed as hard as she could.
Movement. A faint singing above, a light I can sense just barely there.
Hammering on the Sky.
Hammering from above the Sky.
She was suddenly absolutely sure of the impossible truth. This was a Sky being – one from beyond the Sky – and it had fallen through the Sky . . . along with something, a tool, perhaps. . . that had continued to fall until she saw it come singing into view. Above. . . above the Sky were more…
Blushspark knew, now, that this was bigger than she was. This was bigger maybe than the whole Pod of Seven Vents. She gestured to the creature, trying to tell it that she understood, that she was going back, that she'd be back with more people.
As she dove down and landed on Bluntspear, urging him to dive, dive, she didn't know if the Sky-creature had understood yet.
But it would, when they came back.
Blushspark smiled, shimmering and tingling with awe, and drove for home.
And the song of the Skyspark followed her. . . within.
Ryk E. Spoor is the coauthor, with Eric Flint, of Boundary, Threshold, and Portal. All are part of the Boundary SF series, as is the preceding short story. Ryk (pronounced “Rike”) is also the author of solo novels Digital Knight, Grand Central Arena, Phoenix Rising, and upcoming Grand Central Arena sequel, Spheres of Influence.
The Krumhorn and Misericorde
by Dave Freer
Ferrara, 1523 AD
This was going to be difficult. There really wasn’t any easy way into the walled city of Ferrara, or, now that it was too late, even a chance to get out of the queue to enter the Porta di Leoni. All that young Antimo Bartelozzi could do was be his normal assassin self – in other words, try to be invisible, or at least un-noticed. It didn’t help that eight out of every ten people heading through the crenellated city gate were female, and the gate-guards were searching and questioning all the males. Antimo could do a good job of passing for a woman. It did cause complications when the soldiers tried to get his skirts up and rape him, though.
That was too common a problem here in the fractured and squabbling city-states of Italy to make that disguise worthwhile, in general. Antimo’s task was to kill the ruler of this city, not to stab its soldiery. Of the various tasks his master had sent him to do, it looked likely to be the hardest yet. And he had a bare five weeks to return. Part of the time he had been given was lost to travel and preparation. He had four weeks and five days, now.
It was something of an unsavoury challenge, but he did what he had to do.
The queue nudged forward, and then again. Antimo arrived at the guards. “Good day, masters,” he said servilely. The sergeant in the iron-bound leather cap looked at him disinterestedly. Didn’t bother to greet him. That was good. Then the sergeant said, jerking a thumb at the watch-room, “Bring him in and search him.”
That wasn’t good. And it was more than the man with the donkey carrying wicker panniers just ahead had got.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” said Antimo in a slightly fearful whine as he walked into the small stone-walled room. The fear in his voice was not entirely false, either.
“Yet,” said the soldier. “Off with the pack. Let’s see what you’ve got in it.”
Antimo shed the rough hemp bag with its simple rawhide drawstring and straps onto the table, looking scared. That too wasn’t hard.
There was open suspicion in the soldier’s face by now. He cut the drawstring, not bothering to untie it. Poured out the contents. A spare shirt, patched and frayed, considerably worse for wear than the one he wore, a small roll of canvas, and a coarse-weave woollen blanket fell out of the bag, along with a leather bottle, a loaf of bread, and a small bag. The blanket-roll landed with a suggestive thump. Suspicious eyed, the sergeant unrolled it with a jerk.
“Careful!” said Antimo, reaching forward.
“Back off… oh.”
It was no hidden weapon or contraband.
“Sorry sir. My krumhorn is all I have to earn my bread,” said Antimo, looking at the object. As musical instruments went, it was plainly old and well-used.
“Ah,” said the guard. “A musician, are you?”
Antimo nodded eagerly, smiling as if vastly relieved that this deadly secret had been revealed. “Yes. I play the lute and the sackbut too. But we were robbed just north of Cantia. Mario and Nico went home. Nico has a broken head, and Mario would not let him go alone. I… I came on, on my own, for the Palio. I have never been to such a big place. We played in the villages around our home.”
The soldier snorted. But his suspicions had been eased. “Ferrara is safer than most. Our Duke keeps it well patrolled, especially over the Palio. There are still thieves and cut-throats about, of course, but it’s a good town. You wouldn’t last a day in Venice or Milan. And where is your home?”
“Milcantone, Sir.” That was still, technically, within the demesne of Duke Enrico Dell’este. A little close to the flexible border, but far off enough not to make it likely that the guard would know anyone there. Far enough to off to explain a slight difference in accent, Antimo hoped. He was a natural mimic, give him three days here, and he should pass for a local.
“Huh. Who is your podesta?”
Antimo knew the answer to that, and gave it. He knew the local priest, and the names of several prominent land-owners too. After his firs
t mission, which had nearly ended in his imprisonment, he had learned the value of good preparation.
“It’s an unusual instrument,” said the guard, not quite ready to let him go.
“My father taught me how to play it. He was a soldier, before he was injured,” said Anitmo proudly. There was a value in truth, as well getting some sympathy from the guard. His father had been a Swiss mercenary, and had taught him a thing or two. Not the bass krumhorn in the blanket-roll, but about the knife.
The guard didn’t ask why Antimo had not followed his father’s path. His clothes and stature told that story. He was small, and plainly, whoever his mother had been, she’d been a mere peasant, by the boy’s dress. That was the wrong conclusion too, but Antimo wasn’t going to point it out. Instead, once his meagre pouch with its scanty handful of coppers had been inspected, and his short little knife, essential for eating and not much use for cutting anything more than bread, had been sneered at, he packed up his bag as directed. He muttered a bit about the cut thong, and got a cuff around the ear for his temerity, behaving just as a one-step-above-a-peasant musician would. He had to give his name and profession to the bored clerk, who scratched them down and shooed him away, as he stopped to peer at the writing as if he never seen it done before.
Expected, normal behavior: It let him walk off into the city’s winding streets.
It would have been better to enter the city as part of a consort of krumhorn players, of more obvious success and ability, and gone to play in the homes of the nobility and gentry. That would have given Antimo easier access to his target. It would also have required that he could play the instrument reasonably well, and had a compliant musicians consort. Neither held true. He could play, possibly well enough to be the weakest member of the group of village players. He could have shown the guard that much skill. But the misericorde secreted inside it would have made it sound very strange, so it was just as well it hadn’t come to that. And trusting others was not something Antimo wanted to have to do again.
