Jim Baens Universe-Vol 1 Num 6

by Eric Flint

  With an incoherent cry, one of the three Alonts suddenly rushed another and both flared out with a flash equal to Jaeko's. Someone screamed as I glanced around the dining room, but no one else even looked up. What I could see of their eyes was blank and disinterested.

  They all knew what I was just beginning to understand. Those who were knocked "loose" would either be back, or they wouldn't, and either way it didn't matter. There were always plenty more Alonts, just as there were plenty more Jaekos, Rafes, and Marissas. We were none of us unique, but strangely in abundance across all of creation, infinitely varied and yet distressingly the same at heart. Strike down one, and two or four or eight would spring back up. In this playground, nothing was ever lost and certainly nothing ever gained. Conservation of energy after all. How—comforting.

  I threaded through the tables, noting the odor of spilled drinks, the cloying oversweetness of one balanced by the astringency of the next. Conversation resumed its constant low buzz as I picked up Jaeko's cloth and edged behind the bar. The colored rows of half-filled bottles fanned out across the glass shelves, the condiments, both familiar and alien. And on the other side, another shelf below the bar itself, hidden from customers' eyes, weapons of every sort imaginable, most of which I had no idea how to operate. But with time, I thought, with time, I would figure it all out. At least I recognized Jaeko's familiar black ceramic rifle. I picked it up and it felt warm to my fingers, ready to go.

  Someone leaned over the bar and ordered. Without conscious thought, my hands went to work. Perhaps other versions of myself had worked at this craft from time to time, or perhaps in some other universe I had always done this.

  "Enjoy yourself, sweetums, while you can," Marissa said over her shoulder as she left arm in arm with a burly green-haired soldier. "There's always tomorrow when Jaeko or one of your own twins will come back and, before you know it, you'll be the one out wandering in some godawful backwater or seeing life from three levels down inside your own skin."

  I picked up a fluted glass and polished it with the soft white towel as the doors swung shut behind her, watching the Otts in the other room, the nameless soldiers, the deformed children, all the restless shifty eyes. Hides gleamed, bright with alien texture, skulls nodded and dipped, teeth of varying sizes flashed. Someone shouted and threw an opponent across the room. Glassware shattered over by the wall as three rammats faced off. A pair of eyeless patrons swept in and threw me a condescending sneer.

  Marissa was wrong. The cafe has never seen a "tomorrow," and it never will. Even I have come to understand that much. It's always the cusp of midnight in this out-of-the-way pocketverse, that pregnant instant when night flashes over into day and reality eats its own tail yet again, when everything and everyone is on the knife-edge of becoming.

  That first night, I thought I came here to find my lost love, but now I know better. I came here, as do we all, to find myself, only to learn there is no one true Marissa, Alont, or Rafe, just as there is no tomorrow or yesterday, only endless branching possibilities and now, that enduring moment before what might be is forcibly shaped by someone's conscious attention.

  Voices rise. Arguments twine through one another like vines fighting for purchase on a sheer glass wall rising up forever. A rammat snarls. A kunj soldier breaks a table over his mate's head and splinters bounce like freed electrons off the walls and corners. It's midnight again, or still, or always, and we all drink up as we wait for someone to come through those doors and observe us into existence yet one more time.

  * * *

  K. D. Wentworth is the author of several novels and short stories.

  Redemption of Nepheli

  Written by E. Sedia

  Illustrated by Gulcim Akyuz

  There were fires outside the Tavrid city wall, and they crackled day and night, their glow sinister, and their smell putrid. Dark shapes moved among the fires, stirring the embers. Their chants carried all the way to the city wall, where Mayor Shai stood, sick in his heart.

  He could not tear his gaze away from the fires and their tenders, from the grey wisps of smoke, just a shade paler than the night, stretching their broken fingers toward the city. Shai knew what they cooked: misery and disease, heartache and broken spirit. The quiet unease that seeped into the city and robbed its inhabitants of their will to live, the malaise that lodged in their hearts, making them heavy and sluggish, were the makings of the shadowy figures and their smoke.

  Shai turned and descended the worn-out steps carved in the city wall. The sandstone crumbled beneath his feet. As soon as he was concealed from sight by the wall, he lit a lantern. It swung with every step as he walked to the manor house of Tavrid, sending his shadow across the pavement and up the adobe walls of the artisan hovels.

  Shai entered the rich part of town. The spires of pale stone did not fill his heart with joy; they seemed mere ghosts hovering in the dark desolation of the sky, reaching for the moon like white, dead hands of lepers. The sweet smells of the gardens did not renew him; the soft babbling of the fountains did not heal his discontent. His city was dying before the enemy took it. Worse, he knew what he must do.

  In the morning, Shai called the captain of the guards. The captain, a dour man with mistrustful eyes and a face lined with fatigue, entered the mayor's chambers, his sandals clicking on the tiles of the floor.

  Shai greeted him. "What news?"

  The captain's shoulders sagged. "The same. They're biding their time, Mayor. If their curses won't finish us, the famine will."

  Shai guessed that the captain avoided sleep, lest the enemy magic enter his dreams and rob him of his spirit. Shai himself had stayed awake for the past three nights, chewing ephedra stems that dispelled sleep. "There's hope yet, Captain. Our allies from Semet may break through the siege."

  "Too far, Mayor. We could've lasted until the relief arrived, but not with the sorcerers brewing our doom. How do you fight such a thing?"

  Shai sighed. "With sorcery, I suppose. Bring Nepheli to see me."

  The captain's listless demeanor disappeared—his eyes bulged, and he gasped. "But Mayor . . . he's the worst of them all."

  "That is why I threw him into the crypt," Shai said. "Now he's the only one we have. I didn't plan it that way, but I suppose it was a farsighted move." He did not say it out loud, but his hatred for the warlock, more personal than Shai would ever admit, had prevented Shai from sending him into exile like the rest of his coven; even death seemed too good for him then. Shai did not count on gaining an advantage from his hatred for the man who broke his family.

  "He won't help you."

  "Even if it means seeing the sun again?" Shai waved his hand. "Go, bring him."

  * * *

  Shai did not expect to pity the warlock. Yet, as he looked at the ruin of a man that stood in front of him, swaying, squinting with his single eye at the diagonal slats of sun that filtered between the shutters, he could not force himself into the burning loathing he used to feel twenty years ago.

  The captain stood by the door, his mouth set in a straight, bloodless line, as if he were expecting the prisoner to bolt. He remembered Nepheli, and did not trust the warlock out of sight even with a twelve-foot chain looped around both ankles and wrists.

  Nepheli recognized Shai. "Mayor now, are you? Not a constable anymore?"

  Shai ignored the jab. "Nepheli, I give you a chance to earn your freedom."

  Nepheli shifted on his feet and tossed his matted, waist-long hair away from his face. "I could've been interested in it ten, even five years ago, Mayor. Not now."

  "I need your help, Nepheli." Shai's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, carved from a single sandalwood slab. "I'll give you whatever you want for it."

  The warlock's face, mercifully concealed by a layer of grime, cracked in a smile, showing gaping black holes among his surviving teeth. "I want my eye back, Shai. I want my life back. Can you give them to me?"

  Shai looked away. "No. But I can give you a chance to redeem yourself."r />
  "Twenty years underground was not enough?"

  "I'm not talking of punishment, Nepheli, but forgiveness."

  Nepheli's single eye studied the floor tiles under his dirty bare feet. "I don't need your forgiveness, Shai. I owe nothing to you."

  Shai tried to reconcile his memory of Nepheli twenty years ago with the twitching, stooped, grey-haired creature in front of him. He remembered a tall, commanding young man who never flinched as the pommel of Shai's sword broke every bone in his hands—Shai had feared him then and cringed as he ripped the red crystal, the source of the warlock's power, out of his left eye socket and shattered it upon the stones of the guild's hall. That terrible red glow of the warlock's eye had fallen across Shai's sister's face, like a bloody streak on her white skin, and claimed her. It still chased Shai in his nightmares.

  Nepheli's voice dispelled the memory. His eye socket was empty, harmless. "You expect me to forget everything you took from me and help you?"

  "It's not about me. It's about the city. Would you let it perish just to spite an enemy from twenty years ago?"

  Nepheli gave a thin, crooked smile. "I wonder at you, Shai. Twenty years ago, you thought I was a murderer, and now you suddenly believe I would care about people's lives?"

  "I still think you're a murderer, but I have no other choice," Shai said. Yet, deep in his heart, he doubted his words. He was certain then that he was right; but with the passing of time, his certainty waned. "Besides, wouldn't you like to practice magic again? To seek out your former allies?"

  Neither of them said it, but Shai was certain that Nepheli thought the same thing he did: Shai's sister was among the warlock guild. He prayed that this offer of hope would be enough for Nepheli.

  "What do you need me to do?"

  Shai told him about the siege and their malignant sorcery. "They are from the north, Suora. Many cities have fallen to them . . . I fear for Tavrid. Have you heard of anything like this?"

  "No. Have you asked any of the others?"

  "There are no others," Shai said. "After you were put away, the warlock guild asked for your freedom. They threatened me, threatened the city. They wanted to continue what you were doing. I could not abide, and I had to exile them. Some would not leave."

  "So you killed them," Nepheli interrupted. "Is that when you became the mayor?"

  Shai nodded. "But that wasn't what I was trying to do. I wanted the city safe. I wanted my people safe. With your guild around, it was impossible."

  Nepheli smiled. "And without it, you're defenseless against magic."

  "Not if you'll help."

  * * *

  Shai and Nepheli crossed the market square, heading for the jewelers' district. The streets were empty, as most of the inhabitants stayed home, too ill or too dispirited to venture outside. As they passed a narrow street on their left, neither could help glancing at its cobbled hump. The street led uphill, to the abandoned building of the warlock guild that stared down at the city with empty sockets of its dark windows. Shai's shoulders stiffened at the sight of it, just as they had twenty years ago, when he ran up that street to demand his sister back.

  Apparently, Nepheli's mind was on the same track. "Jenara," he said. "Is she still alive?"

  "I don't know. She left with the rest of the guild. I pleaded with her, but . . ." Shai's voice broke. When he spoke again, he stared into the warlock's face. "You've charmed her, haven't you? She was under a spell."

  Nepheli shook his newly shaven head. "I never did. I only showed her that there was a different life. I taught her to open doors to other realms."

  Shai shuddered at the memory. "You sacrificed people."

  "Magic has a price." Nepheli sighed. "Remember that when you ask for my help."

  They stood in front of a jeweler's workshop. It was daytime, but the shop was closed, like almost every other business in the city. Shai knocked on the door, and, receiving no response, put his shoulder to the wood. Despite his fifty years, he was still a strong man, and the door gave.

  Making no comment, Nepheli followed Shai inside. There, glittering in the dusk, lay the gemstones—some polished, some still rough, but all of them beautiful. They littered the low table by the window like pebbles on the riverbank.

  Nepheli scooped a handful and let them fall back on the table through his fingers. He sifted through the stones, his hands as awkward as rakes, and Shai felt a stirring of guilt. He had crippled Nepheli all those years back, to make sure that his magic never harmed another soul, that his hands would never regain their former dexterity.

  Nepheli picked an emerald out of the pile—a large, rough stone the hue of sea grass. He fitted it into his eye socket and turned to Shai. The stone seemed dull for a while; then, a glimmer started in its depth, the power of the warlock awaking and focusing it. When an even, soft shaft of light sliced through the darkness of the workshop, Nepheli smiled.

  Shai fought back his fear. The warlock would not turn on him, he kept telling himself; Nepheli had no desire for revenge—it had dried up in the intervening years, just like Shai's hatred for the warlock had dulled and trickled away. "What about your hands?" he said. "Can you make spells?"

  "Simple ones," Nepheli said. "Let's go to the wall and see what magic they've got."

  * * *

  The multicolored tents bloomed on the trampled grass, like leprous flowers. The soldiers had been waiting for the sorcerers to finish their work so that the northerners could enter the city with only the clanking of weapons, encountering no resistance. Their wait was nearing an end.

  The fires burned; the shadows moved among them. Even in the warm sunlight, the shadows seemed indistinct, as if they were mere smudges on the face of reality. Nepheli listened to the sorcerous chants, his head tilted to the shoulder.

  "What are they doing?" Shai glanced at Nepheli anxiously. "What are these spells?"

  An irritated emerald flame shot from Nepheli's eye. "How should I know?" His voice sounded bitter.

  "You are a great sorcerer," Shai said.

  "I used to be. For twenty years, you kept me away from everything . . . I could not learn, I could not practice." He turned away from Shai, his gemstone eye tracing the movement of the shadows. "Now, I suspect any apprentice would leave me in the dust. Magic always grows, always changes. One can't catch up after twenty years."

  Shai's heart felt cold. "Is there anything you can do?"

  "I can't combat their spells." Nepheli's twisted, awkward hand gestured toward the fires. "But it seems to me that the smoke carries them into the city. And wind blows the smoke."

  "Yes," Shai said. "Every time the wind changes direction, they chant, and the smoke blows back at us."

  "Well," Nepheli said. "Let's see if we can do something about the wind."

  His knotted, deformed fingers moved through the air, as if plucking invisible threads from it and spinning them together. Shai couldn't help but think of a spider binding a fly with a complex and mechanical movement.

  The air around them shimmered and thickened. A wall of heat rose from the top of the battlement where they stood, enveloping Shai, covering the exposed skin of his neck and wrists with a film of sweat. The air undulated, and a weak gust of wind issued forth. The tendrils of smoke trembled and flowed upward, like ivy climbing a fence.

  "It's working!" His gnarled fingers still kneading the air, Nepheli did not answer. His face, pale as a ghost's, trembled with suppressed tension, and rivulets of sweat trickled down his hollow cheeks.

  The figures by the fires stopped. Shai had never seen them break their constant motion, and their sudden stillness filled him with dread. The shadows turned toward the wall, and Shai felt exposed, outlined against the blue sky and the tall white spires. They clustered together and chanted, softly at first. Their voices rose, and Shai fought back a spell of dizziness. He looked down, at the green expanse of the meadows outside the city wall, and wondered briefly if it would be a long way to fall. His vision blurred, and out of the corner of his eye he
saw the shimmering wall of air undulate, then disappear, letting the thick smoke pour over the wall. The spells enveloped Shai, and then it was dark.

  * * *

  Shai found himself suspended in a shimmering sea of light, and wondered absently if he had died in his city, on the wall. The recollection brought forth its form, and tall spires and a thick, low wall stood in silhouette against the glimmer of air. There was no sign of their enemy, and Shai recognized with gratitude that the vision he had conjured harked back to happier times. Fervently, he hoped that he would see his sister again.

  Obediently, she appeared far below, and yet Shai could see every fold of her dress, every shining auburn hair on her head. He could also see himself—much younger, with no grey in his hair—walking in step with his sister, their twin footsteps ringing on the cobbles with assurance of youth. Her cheeks, still healthy and bright, dimpled in a smile.