Merchants and Maji: Two Tales of the Dissolutionverse (Dissolution Cycle)

by William C. Tracy

  “I must go through last,” he slurred. “Move.” The crewwoman left him and he fell hard against what used to be the dome of the capsule, a curved surface not quite a wall. It was crafted of finely burnished steel, worth more than many wealthy members of the ten species would see in a lifetime. He didn’t know why that was important. He gasped for air.

  The improvised stretcher with Dipara and the three who carried it went through first, turning awkwardly, then the two free crewmembers, holding bundles of supplies. The captain paused to survey her capsule sadly, a small pack slung over her shoulder, and Origon would have cursed her for the wasted effort if he could have. The Drain was not even two body lengths away. It must have eaten most of the far wall and the floor by now. Finally, the captain nodded to him, then pushed the doctor through in front of her. She disappeared through the portal. Origon’s head turned slowly to the malevolent ball. There was only one feeble light left. So cold. So dark. The Drain buzzed in his mind, deconstructing the Symphony, threatening the portal—

  His head turned, so slowly, back to the patch of blackness next to him, ringed with his colors. There was something he had to do. Reverse the change he made? Yes. He began to unknot the melding of this melody, his own, and the one at the portal grounds, but it felt like untying cobwebs with heavy mitts. His eyes drifted shut.

  “No.” The word was soft. He must have said it, for there was no one else here. He had to be on the other side of the portal. His shoulder slid along the steel, and he stumbled into the blackness. As he lost consciousness, he felt the portal come undone and his song flowed back into him.

  * * *

  “Ori.”

  Someone poked him and Origon sat up, the Symphony of the room springing into his head. The notes slipped away as he tried to craft a shield of air.

  He realized who had called his name.

  “Where am I?” he asked Rilan. She was still wearing the formal white dress she used for Council business. This close, he could see the olive green scrollwork highlighting its contours. She saw him looking and gave an ineffectual tug at the garment.

  “Finally awake,” she mumbled. Then, “I’ve managed to hold the questions off to let you rest, but they’re getting insistent.”

  “How long have I been sleeping?” Origon smoothed back his crest, ran fingers down his moustache.

  “Most of a day.” Rilan crossed the room and pulled a window shade open. Morning light from a sun still low made Origon wince. When they had left in the capsule it had been almost lunch the day before. When had he last eaten?

  “One of the Mayoral Guard was waiting for you at the portal grounds. The crew shared their stories, and how you saved them. Ksupara is still there, so evidently a giant…ball…didn’t destroy it. All their stories agree, or the mayor and the other officials wouldn’t have believed them.” Rilan frowned. “Also, Aditit’s asking for you.” She completed her summary as Origon pushed himself up from the bed. He hastily grabbed for his robe on a nearby chair and yanked it over his head. Not that Rilan hadn’t seen it all before, but it was just indecent to show off so much arm and leg. He stuffed his feet into his boots, lying by the bed.

  “Yes, yes. I will be going to her first,” Origon said, and yawned. He still felt lightheaded, and hadn’t had nearly enough sleep or food. The Symphonies of Communication and Power were still there, flowing through his head, but he dared not try to change the music. He pushed down a stab of fear at the thought of his song failing, and that he might never make a complex change again. He kept his face neutral. Rilan followed him out the door, to make sure he didn’t fall over, he suspected.

  “We’re in the Mayoral Hall,” Rilan told him as they exited the room. Origon looked around. A guard stood on either side of the door, one female, heavyset but muscular, the other male and skinny almost to unhealthiness. Both were dressed in suits, but he could see the bulk of leather armor underneath the cloth. They each had scimitars at their sides.

  The hall was decorated in the prominent architectural style of the wealthy Kashidur province, tall fluted columns and glistening marble and quartz everywhere. Just as in the capsule, the Mayoral Hall was lit by carbon arc lamps, dim in the morning light. Normal bland Methiemum architecture. Could have used a splash of brighter colors.

  Origon followed Rilan for a few steps, then looked back. “Why the guards?” No one would harm the hero of the first space flight. And they seemed familiar for some reason.

  “The assassin,” Rilan said, still walking. He could catch up to her easily with his long legs, so he watched the guards a moment. They looked steadily straight forward. He had almost forgotten about the assassin.

  Something was bothering him about them, and he caught up to his old friend quickly. “Who are the guards answering to?” They made their way across the immense entry foyer of the Mayoral Hall, headed to a side room.

  “Only the mayor,” Rilan answered. “Nandara spared no expense in making sure the entire crew was protected when they returned. A couple are still in hospital, but the rest have retired to their homes, each with their own Mayoral Guard members to protect them.” She threw a thumb over her shoulder. “One of these two was waiting at the portal for you.” That explained the familiarity. “Old Nandara’s a skinflint, but he’s not taking any more chances with endangering his space-faring crew. He wants to show them off at all the award ceremonies Kashidur province will be holding. Can’t do that if they’re dead.”

  “He is to be a model of avuncular concern.”

  Rilan snorted. “You’ll see.”

  Ten maji of the House of Communication were waiting for him in the side room, all Methiemum, of course. The species would have their own monopoly on traveling to their moon, at the start. Eventually, the location would get around to maji of other species, but the Methiemum might well construct a barrier by that point, to keep anyone with the location of the shuttle’s landing spot from traveling farther into Methiemum space.

  Origon nodded to Aditit Baska, a particularly old Methiemum female he had known socially for several decades, clothed in a boring dun colored dress. Her black hair had long since turned to a silvery gray, and her wrinkled and liverspotted face made her look more like a Kirian than a Methiemum. She and the others greeted him and Rilan politely. She was obviously the one in charge.

  “Councilor. Thank you for retrieving Majus Cyrysi,” Aditit said in her old, dry voice, then turned to him. “I’m glad you will finally share with us.”

  “I would have earlier, had I not left enough of my song in that ancestors-cursed capsule to nearly kill me,” Origon told her. “I have been…recuperating since I returned. You must be cautious. There is to be a disturbance—a Drain—in the capsule. I am not knowing how big it is now, but I could not touch it. It had…it had no Symphony.” He pulled on the end of his moustache, nervous. It pained him to even say that much.

  Aditit pursed her lips. “This is hard to believe. I heard as much from the crew, though in layman’s terms, of course.”

  “Of course,” Origon agreed. They probably spouted off something about his magic being weak. Those who had not heard the Symphony did not understand.

  “Astronomers have been searching Ksupara with their telescopes, but they cannot see the capsule, or its remains.” Was that emphasis on the state of the landing? He wished Aditit had tried piloting that disgrace of a space ship. “They must take the word of the crew.”

  “The Drain will have emerged from a hole in the capsule,” Origon said. It must have somehow stopped growing after they left, or it would be eating into the surface of Ksupara, surely visible by telescope.

  “There is nothing,” Majus Baska repeated. “Our scientists postulate it was an effect of the differing conditions on Ksupara.”

  Origon looked to Rilan, who shrugged. “I heard the same.” A few of the maji in the background were whispering together, shaking heads.

  He suddenly remembered the urn he tripped over, so out of place. The D
rain appeared directly over it. Could it possibly have…? Certainly not. For that to happen would mean some person or agency knew about the launch, had resources to sabotage it, and had the means to create such an anomaly. Such a conspiracy would have attracted the attention of the Council of the Maji by now, if not the Great Assembly of Species itself. Better by far if it was a strange natural phenomenon. If they could only get near it again, protected this time, they could study it. Aditit and the gathered maji were watching him expectantly, and he frowned.

  “I am not knowing what happened to it, but it was a Drain, I tell you. The Symphony did not touch it. I will show you, though there is to be danger in opening a portal.” Once they could see the thing, their disbelief would vanish. Fortunately the House of Communication could bring their own air supply with them. Majus Baska nodded in agreement.

  He stepped close, pressing his long fingers to the woman’s temples, and felt through the Symphony of Communication. The notes were shaky. Origon took in a deep breath, letting the wash of music pass him by for an instant. Then he snatched at the phrases, barely catching hold of the notes defining this place. They would not slip away.

  His rest must have refreshed him enough. Yellow light dripped from his fingertips as he summoned the memory of the surface of the moon: the dusty landscape, the musty smell of used air, the equipment laying helter-skelter in the capsule, the feel of being light as a bird, and lastly, the menace of the Drain. He rolled the melody over to Aditit, not making changes, simply using his song to show the way the music would be arranged to bring both sides into accord. It was a complex set of coordinates, half mathematical and half intuition. That was why it was left to the House of Communication to disperse the location of new portals to the maji population.

  Origon stepped back, regaining the portion of his song he had used, and felt the room spin. Rilan’s strong hand caught his arm, and he clutched at her to keep from falling. He heard a couple of the other maji gasp, and let go as soon as he could. Majus Baska was staring at him.

  “The capsule took much from you, didn’t it?” she said.

  “I will be better in a few days,” Origon lied. “I simply am needing sleep.” He couldn’t stand in front of the group of maji any longer, not in his state. “If you will excuse me, I am sure there are to be many more questions coming from the inquisition into the failure of the capsule. I hope to get more rest soon. Do not be forgetting the scarcity of the atmosphere on Ksupara.” Once they saw and believed, then they could discuss the phenomenon of the Drain.

  “Of course,” the older woman said. Origon made for the exit in a hurry, trying not to lean on Rilan. The embarrassment.

  He was almost to the door, Rilan surreptitiously supporting him, when Aditit called out, and Origon turned tiredly to see what else she required. The old Methiemum was staring ahead of her, brows wrinkled more than usual.

  “It doesn’t work,” she said flatly.

  “What?” Origon almost forgot his weariness. His crest surged upward in surprise. It wasn’t possible. He had translated coordinates for close to forty cycles, in remote and unexplored regions. He did not translate them incorrectly. That was a mistake apprentices made, and not more than once. If a portal even opened with incorrect instructions, it might be anywhere. The complex mathematics involved were in no way linear, and a small change could result in a portal opening on the other side of the universe.

  “Were you compensating for the difference in pressure?” he asked, more for words to say than anything else.

  Aditit gave him a withering look. “I have been doing this since before you were born, Majus. I have opened portals to vacuum before. There is a reason I am the senior Methiemum in the House of Communication.”

  “Of course, Majus Baska,” Origon said, placating, raising a tired hand. “It is not my intention to imply any disrespect.” He was her equal in the House of Communication, even if she was the senior Methiemum. She was probably upset about the loss of Teju, as was he. “We have both been working with portals for many cycles.”

  He took a deep breath, and let it whistle out through his pointed teeth. He gauged the stress of opening another portal, while holding a pressure difference in the air around him. How much more of his song could he spare? But he owed it to these other maji to check his own portal. He knew the location was not incorrect.

  He closed his eyes, but Rilan grabbed his elbow, swinging him around to face her. “Transfer the location to me,” she whispered. “You can do that much, but Shiv desert me if you can do more without collapsing. I’m not letting you open a portal in your state.”

  Origon thought about arguing, and gave up. Rilan was far too stubborn, and furthermore, she was right. Rilan was House of Healing, so she could not change the air density, but the other maji in the room could easily hold the pressure difference at bay. He planted his feet to keep from swaying and grasped at the notes again. He was only showing how and where to make the portal, not actually making it. Otherwise the Symphony would not have let him do the same thing twice in such a short time. Wearily, he passed the location again, yellow light flaring, then leaned back against the wall to recover while she tried the portal. He was weaker than the newest apprentice.

  Rilan had her eyes screwed shut, one hand out. No portal opened. A halo of white and green buzzed around her hand.

  Her eyes snapped open. “It won’t work,” she said. “There’s too much resistance.”

  Origon considered, following to the one possible conclusion. It must be the Drain. Ancestors only knew what the landscape looked like on Ksupara after the Drain stopped eating. His coordinates, what he experienced, was no longer accurate.

  Once before, many cycles ago, an earthquake marred a portal ground on Kiria, plunging half of it underground. He had traveled there over land to re-establish the melody of the place for the maji. The Symphony was forgiving, with respect to portals. Rain would fall, plants would grow, air and earth would move slightly. Still the portals opened. The only way they would not was if the location of the portal changed beyond recognition. The capsule must be completely destroyed. And that meant any evidence of the urn was destroyed as well. He would have to start investigating it somehow else. At a later time.

  He explained his thoughts, leaving out any mention of the urn. That would be his private investigation.

  Aditit humphed after he was finished. “Unlikely,” she said. “But possible. Still, I trust your skill enough to know you would hardly give us the wrong coordinates. I must take this to Councilor Freshta.”

  Rilan raised an eyebrow. Origon knew she was sick of other councilmembers pushing her to the sidelines. If it had spread to the maji population as well…

  “I will take this to the entire Council, not simply the head of the House of Communication,” she said. “Unless you’ve forgotten my own place on the Council.”

  “No offense meant, dear,” Aditit told Rilan. Origon could see his friend’s back stiffen through the white dress. “Of course you should take this to the Council.”

  “I will come with you,” Origon said hastily. It was his discovery—he should get the credit for it.

  “After we meet with the mayor and the city elders, of course,” Rilan said.

  He grimaced. “Of course.”

  Aditit tapped her fingers together. “Then I will work here on Methiem. I have many tempers to soothe.” She turned to the group of maji around her, assigning orders.

  * * *

  Origon watched the room full of well-dressed Methiemum dignitaries, bankers, and politicians. They watched him back; a sea of gray and black. They had been in the midst of a vigorous discussion when he and Rilan entered. Fortunately, they stopped so he could address them. He smoothed down the bright orange and yellow striped fabric of his robe, picking small bits of dust out of the blue scrollwork. The other species never had enough color in their clothes. He was standing next to Rilan at the center of a vast crescent of bench seats, occupying most of th
e area of the Mayoral debate chamber. Hanging scrolls and banners glittered with gold and red, and the walls shone white in the morning sun through a line of windows.

  The Methiemum were primarily traders, and Origon gathered many had wagered significant amounts of their wealth on the success of the venture. No self-respecting Kirian would be caught dead gambling money on such a profound and philosophically important event as exploration of space.

  “We heard you were taken ill after your voyage, Majus Cyrysi,” a corpulent figure in the middle of the sea said. His voice was loud, used to public speaking. It was the same person who had “launched” the capsule—Mayor Nandara. “Still, Kashidur City owes you a large debt of gratitude. You seem much recovered. Maybe enough to give us your account?”

  Origon glared at the assembled Methiemum, trying not to sway on his feet. The arrogance! “I am not much recovered at all,” he countered, “as your capsule nearly killed me on the way to Ksupara. The design was to be so terrible it could only have been purpose-built to suck away the ability of a majus.”

  As he expected, the sea of gray and black began muttering and gesturing to each other. He looked to Rilan, who had a long-suffering expression on her face.

  “You could at least try to make this easier instead of harder, Ori,” she said. The noise of the room was enough that no one else would be able to hear her. He ignored her, waiting until the clamor died down.

  “At least your noble sacrifice results in a new state of affairs for the Methiemum, and indeed for all species of the Great Assembly,” Mayor Nandara said. It was all political bluster. Origon gave the room his best toothy smile—the one most Methiemum found disturbing. He did not like this mayor. Not that he liked many individuals who led power-hungry groups.

  “Alas, I just discussed this with your Majus Baska. It seems the calamity which was to be endangering your crew is also preventing a portal to be made to Ksupara. You will have to commission another space capsule, I am afraid.”