The Chart of Tomorrows

by Chris Willrich

  The brooches were not the only metal in evidence. The men, and no small number of the women, seemed to feel they were naked without a weapon of some kind. That last detail returned to haunt me when I noticed we’d picked up an escort.

  A growing number of men, women, and children on horseback were following us. A couple of them wore dark-blue livery, and although I’d never seen such uniforms, I knew officialdom when I saw it.

  Of course the group was armed. Everybody was armed. They probably gave the babies dirks.

  Katta remarked, “We have company, eh? Soldiers among them?”

  Katta’s resources frequently amazed me. “How did you know?” I asked him, for the blind monk remained beside Northwing within the ger.

  “The balloon receives sound from the countryside quite wonderfully,” Katta said. “It is easy to tell we have some twenty horses after us. Moreover, there is a regularity about some of the hoofbeats that suggests martial training.”

  “I fear they’ll lock us up as spies.”

  “Look on the bright side, friend Haytham. If we are injured we’ll have someone to look after us.”

  “You’ve guessed the danger?” I asked, for I had attempted to keep it from him.

  “You’ve been dropping to the ground and changing your mind for hours now. It’s your decision. But I’ll remind you, sometimes the dice have to roll.”

  “Very well,” I said. “A poet once said that a man will become bored with pleasure if he experiences it continually. I am about to slay boredom. Haboob, kindly cease heating the air. I will vent the envelope.”

  “Of course, O marvelous one,” said the efrit. “After all, I will survive any landing.”

  “My heart sings for you.”

  One might have imagined that crashing would be a short, alarming sensation. One would be wrong. It was in fact a seemingly infinitely prolonged alarming sensation. I’d chosen a moment to descend that would take us through an orchard, hoping the trees would serve to snag the envelope and bring us to a halt. Instead we careened through the trees, snapping branches, and while the envelope was punctured, still our buoyancy and the rushing wind sent us hurtling along. The gondola shuddered absurdly as we hit ground and bounced, collided with branches, and trembled in the clutch of the spasming envelope. Katta clutched Northwing with admirable determination, gripping a bamboo support to keep them from sliding about. I was somewhat less alert and was flung to and fro, at times colliding with pots and pans, and once setting my hand upon Haboob’s brazier. The efrit greeted my howls with a look of disdain.

  At last the eternity of shaking came to an end. We had finally slowed enough that a particularly massive apple tree, an elder of its kind, caught the envelope in its gnarled embrace. Our ger creaked, suspended a few feet above the ground. I was bleeding from my head, but Katta and Northwing appeared to be intact. Northwing stirred and said, “What’s happening?”

  Squeezing my turban against my wound, I said, “I am about to claim this land in the name of the caliph.”

  “Perhaps I should go first,” Katta said. He took a washcloth and wrapped it around my head.

  “It was a joke,” I said.

  “Are you dizzy?”

  “What would you suspect?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Haytham ibn Zakwan, master scholar and explorer, inventor of—”

  “Good. Nevertheless, let me go first.”

  “Of course,” Northwing said, stretching and seeking balance. “It’s not as though Mad Katta’s ever been chased out of any country.”

  “We’ll all go,” I said, “hands raised. Haboob, I ask that you go unseen until we next call upon you.”

  “And if you never return?” asked the smoky figure of the efrit.

  “If a month passes without further instruction, you are free with my gratitude.”

  This generosity left Haboob speechless, which was in itself sufficient justification.

  Thus did we set foot on the soil of Kantenjord. We had a rope ladder for such an occasion. I believe in being prepared. I was glad Katta and Northwing had gone first, however, for I stumbled on my way down and was caught between them.

  And speaking of caught, we were at that point surrounded by some twenty riders, a few being the blue-clad soldiers I had noted previously. It was not difficult to understand that we were to surrender any weapons and climb a trio of horses commandeered from the farmers. Northwing and I gave up our daggers, as did Katta, but Katta successfully conveyed that his staff was a blind man’s cane, and thus we had one weapon among us at least. He kept also his pack of supernaturally imbued and very tasty sweetcakes, which could in extremes be hurled against monsters with surprisingly powerful effect. I consoled myself with this accounting, as we abandoned Al-Saqr and rode to an unknown fate.

  As fate would have it, we were within a day’s ride of Svanstad. My navigation instincts had not failed me. What did fail me were my wits. I had suffered more blood loss than I reckoned on and was so eager to appear formidable that when the swooning hit me, I nearly tumbled from my horse. In moments Northwing had ridden beside me to ensure my safety. “Our mistress will be annoyed if I let you die,” the shaman said.

  “I love you too,” I said.

  I found myself a guest—or patient, or prisoner—in a nearby manor house. Owing to the wound, I slept a great deal and was annoyed by the people who kept awakening me. Once I dreamed of the house of my mentor Abbas ibn Hayyan of Mirabad, whose workshop was one of the wonders of the world. Above the most astonishingly haphazard arrangement of beakers, flasks, and alembics glowed a dome presenting a mosaic of the heavens, split between turquoise day and onyx night, pipes from below transmitting mist to simulate clouds, metal tubes with mirrors conveying the sound and light of little alchemical explosions. The mess of Abbas’s laboratory as contrasted with the glory of his ceiling made a perfect metaphor for the disorder of our lives compared with the perfection of the All-Now, though before now I had never had the nerve to express it thus.

  I awakened to true sunlight and the memory of the unnatural troll-storm. My mind felt lucid as crystal. I lay in a feather bed with curtains shining with sunlight entering via windows of glass. With my wits returned, I wondered: what questions had they asked me? Questions about dragons? Although my mind was clear, my memory was not.

  It occurred to me it had been some time since I prayed. I am not always a proper man, and my travels in wild regions have encouraged my eccentricity, but I do offer devotion as I can. Carefully I escaped the comforts of the bed and washed my arms, head, and feet with a nearby basin, then checked the position of the sun. I reckoned it to be midmorning, and the City of Pilgrimage as toward the back of the room. As I knelt and prayed, my thoughts cleared still more, and even as I recited verses I remembered more of what I had been asked, and what I had answered. The line of questioning had been curious, I recalled, and the voice had been a woman’s. And rather memorable—

  The door opened behind me. I heard the very voice from my memory cry out in alarm. Well, of course, she had checked upon her charge and found him (at that point in my devotions) on the floor.

  I raised a hand. “I must request,” I said in Roil, “you not interrupt me.”

  It seemed I was understood. I completed my acts of homage.

  Rising, I found myself in the presence of a most striking woman. She was perhaps ten years my junior, in her forties, with dark-brown hair worn shoulder length and blue eyes that recalled the bright winter sky beyond the window. She wore a simple turquoise-colored dress and a silver swan pendant around her neck. A red cloak around her shoulders was attached with a brass clasp representing three intertwined dragons. Her presence was so striking, her gaze so direct and intelligent, I did not at first realize she had a slight irregularity to her shoulders, one being higher than the other.

  “As I thought,” she said in Roil, “you are a gentleman of Mirabad.”

  I smiled and bowed. She surely did not know my full reputation. “Ho
w do you know I am a gentleman?”

  She smiled back. “I could say I’m a good judge of character—and I am. But I’ve also had reports of your craft and its possessions. There were far more books in your vessel, Haytham ibn Zakwan, than there are in this house, and this is a fine house. I wish only that I could read them all. Do not fear. They have all been brought here. Beyond that, even in a delirium you have a scholarly manner about you, an exact way of speaking.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, then, Madame . . . ?”

  “Sigrid Kjetilsdatter, wife of Squire Lars. Call me Sigrid. It is my house you are sleeping in.”

  “I’m grateful. I seem to be in good condition. You spoke of my vessel—what of its condition?”

  “It has been extracted from the orchard and moved to this manor. Do not be alarmed, but many individuals from the city are studying it even now.”

  “I am alarmed but not surprised. I’d do no less in their place. What of my companions?”

  “You are wobbling a little,” the squire’s wife said, gripping my arm. It was quite a strong grip. I rather liked the feeling of a woman fussing over me, and scolded myself for unworthy thoughts. She said, “Perhaps you should rest.”

  “Nonsense. Activity is what I need.”

  “Very well.” She did not let go of my arm. I did not argue. I reminded myself to appear particularly feeble should the squire appear.

  “Are my companions here?”

  “They are guests in the city, at the Fortress.”

  “Forgive me, but that sounds ominous.”

  “I assure you it’s not.” She led me through the house. To my eyes it seemed a modestly appointed home, but then I am the scion of a wealthy family of glorious Mirabad of the white towers. In Kantening terms this was surely an impressive house. We descended a staircase into a grand hall marked with shields and the heads of beasts. Servants in brightly -dyed woolen clothing nodded to the house’s mistress. They inspired mixed feelings in me, for while they seemed a pleasant lot they did not much seem to prize bathing, and the scent of sweat mixed with that of woodsmoke. It was a relief to pass through the oaken doors of the house and enter the snowy outdoors.

  “I’m fortunate to be in such pleasant surroundings,” I said, meaning it, breathing in the crisp air. “I am not so certain I’d prefer to be at your Fortress.”

  “The Fortress is the royal palace. Though we in Soderland have adopted the peaceful ways of the Swan, we remain a warrior people.”

  “A paradox.”

  “Not really. Many of our northern neighbors remain enamored of the old ways. If we are not strong, we inspire them into raids. Our military strength helps preserve the peace.”

  “I think you’ve merely given the paradox more detail,” I said.

  “Perhaps. It is a parlor game of Swanlings, to compare ourselves to the earliest worshippers—pacifistic, communal, living as though tomorrow the world would end. We cynical moderns always come up short. And yet, what fully pacifistic society can endure?”

  She surprised me, this farmer’s wife. “Do not ask me,” I said. “Our Testifier treasured peace, but he never commanded us to abandon war.”

  “Indeed, at times I envy the Testifier’s followers. For while your doctrines are strict they at least seem achievable. While our doctrines seem designed for angels, not flawed human beings. And yet we are never entirely condemned for failing, as long as we keep trying to roll our stone up the hill. Curious.”

  I looked upon her in wonder now, as our footsteps crunched snow and we passed stables, pens, henhouses, for she spoke as a philosopher. Likewise, she walked straighter and spoke more commandingly out among the elements than she had indoors. It’s tempting to think of the Kantenings as ferocious due to their northern climate. Indeed, I might draw a parallel between them and the Karvaks, in the sense that both peoples must at times endure bitter cold. Such conclusions might be too pat, but she did remind me of my lady Steelfox.

  I found my admiration not limited to her mind and her bearing, and began considering sinful thoughts. It seemed to me, in the poet’s phrase, that she stayed the sun of beauty from darkening. As a man of modest looks, approaching old age, far from home and with little fortune, I knew I had little hope of marriage or even honest womanly companionship. Thus I allowed myself to enjoy the company of this Sigrid, though not to let my attraction show. For even though I’ve indulged myself sinfully on many occasions, to romance another man’s wife is a garden wall I’ll not climb.

  “We argue much among ourselves,” I ventured, “as to how uprightly to live. I myself have been condemned for moral laxness and philosophical innovation. It is one reason I took my inventions far from the Caliphate.”

  To see her look of sympathy was like watching the melting of snow. “You abandoned your home?”

  “The desire for knowledge burned within me, hotter than a blazing tamarisk. I wanted to build my flying machines, see other lands. There are those who think that to discover new knowledge is dangerous, even disrespectful to the All-Now. As if I could reveal anything that was not ultimately the work of His hand! Year after year I moved farther from Mirabad, until in the steppes I found my great patrons.” And, joying to tell my tale to such company, I briefly described my travels in the wide world, leaving out only that I still owed allegiance to a Karvak princess.

  Even now, I shake my head at my own foolishness.

  “I still hope one day,” I told her, “to triumphantly arrive in the city of Mirabad by air.”

  “I wish I could see it,” she said, squeezing my arm.

  “Ah, you would love it. My Mirabad is a vast, circular city, perhaps eight times the scope of your Svanstad. It is a goblet of experience, brimming with people, as well as parks, palaces, gardens, promenades, and places of worship. It is a world in itself. Once it commanded a realm that shook the Earthe, but even diminished its power is considerable. Perhaps one day I’ll take you—and your family—there as my guests, to repay you for your kindness.”

  She laughed. “I meant, I wish I could see you triumph over those who drove you out. They were fools, Haytham ibn Zakwan.” She seemed to me wondrous in her self-assurance and ferocity. “You have created a thing that may change the world.”

  We had come to the edge of the farmstead, and I beheld an encampment. Numerous military tents surrounded a freshly painted barn, all flying flags representing a stylized white swan, bordered in indigo, upon a red field. There were soldiers in byrnies and a few men garbed in plate armor of the sort more common in Swanisle and the Eldshore.

  My escort nodded to these men, and they parted for her, allowing her to enter the barn.

  Within, lit by magical gems upon posts, surrounded by studious-looking men and women, was the sagging ruin of my Al-Saqr. The vessel’s gear was neatly arranged beside one wall, and my various books and alchemical tools upon the other. In a far corner the dark brazier of Haboob stood by itself, regarded by a trio of scholarly-looking people.

  One of these three noticed us and walked over, a brown-haired old woman in a nondescript gray robe.

  “What news, Runewalker?” said the woman beside me.

  “We’re certain the brazier is the key to it all. We believe there’s some sort of supernatural entity lurking in there.”

  “Can you isolate it?” my host said.

  “With time, we believe so.” This “Runewalker” turned toward my surely bemused face. “So this is our inventor,” she said. “I am honored. When Soderland commands the air, it is you we must thank.”

  I bowed, and she returned to my brazier.

  I turned to my host. “So. You intend to use my craft for purposes of your own.”

  “What would you do, Haytham, if an unearthly vessel crashed in your lands, a craft beyond your ken, one that might as well have arrived from another world?”

  “I would study it, of course. And I would detain its occupants if I could. I would press them for information. Perhaps I would charm them with a lovely companion.
”

  “You would be wise.”

  “Are you ever going to let me leave?”

  “You must think us barbarians. I admit you have reason to. But fear not. We will let you go, but there will be a price.”

  “You are not the squire’s wife.”

  “When did you know?”

  “Only now, for certain. But you have shown a distinct lack of interest in the business of this farm and no distress as to the disruption of its routine. Meanwhile you have flirted with me outrageously. And while I have the requisite amount of male pride, I don’t believe I could so easily turn your head.”

  “Trust me, Haytham, if I were truly flirting with you, you would know it.”

  “Even learned men have trouble learning when they are truly wanted.” He sighed. “And what is this price for freedom, whoever you are?”

  She smiled, and the smile put me in mind of the icy peaks that had nearly destroyed our craft. “Why, once this craft is ready to fly again, you will take me with you.”

  In that moment I first feared the iron grip of Corinna, crown princess of Soderland.

  (This concludes the first section of A Journey to Kantenjord)

  CHAPTER 10

  SKALAGRIM

  “Are we not going to a slave market?” Bone asked, once he and Yngvarr’s other prisoners were led beyond the town walls. In response he was swatted with a thick branch.

  “Shut up,” said a foamreaver. “This isn’t some Oxiland Althing.”

  “Of course,” Bone said, having no idea what that meant.

  Fresh snow collected fast upon the ground. A bitter wind whipped the flakes in mad whorls as they ascended into the fjord’s high country, and Bone shivered. Upon a hilltop stood a great wooden hall, bright with red pillars and golden dragons, overlooking several farms below and the town beyond.

  The foamreavers stopped the line beside a cliff opposite the great rune-carved doors.