by Adele Abbot
Voss the Somber.
And who had been the most irritated at Calistrope’s remarks?
Calistrope nodded.
Voss of the Thin Smile.
“Voss,” Roli. It was Voss who came here while we were away. Voss the Despondent. Who else would dare to enter the manse of a fellow mage?”
Calistrope had been right in his criticism of course. No man-made fire could replace the sun’s waning energy, not a thousand, not a million. But the Mage was guilty of being tactless, worse—of expressing his doubts in front of others and worse of all, Calistrope had been right. Voss, he had no doubt at all, was taking his revenge.
The Mage left the room and took the winding staircase within the north branch; he crossed an aerial walkway to his sleeping chamber and passed through to the dressing room. Here he glanced from the window, the weather—as almost always—was calm and chill.
He chose garments from his wardrobe: a pair of grey leather breeches tooled with convoluted patterns, a pair of boots of similar color with blue inlay and a matching tunic with blue enameled plates of insect chitin on the epaulettes.
He glanced in the mirror. The effects of his choice of garment were as he expected. They signified aloofness, reserved judgment, dignity.
The College had been constructed with the successful intention of making it the most impressive building in the City. It was a single slender shining column of fused basalt rising over a thousand spans in height which to the citizenry was Sachavesku: the City without its spire, the College without its jewel-like setting could not be imagined. The interior of the column was separated into two hundred and seventy seven lecture theatres and laboratories and in its heyday—when the sun still blazed a golden orange, every level was occupied. The lower floors thronged with students, while the middle and upper floors became steadily less crowded until only savants, mages and archmages were left from the lengthy climb to knowledge.
Calistrope entered the ground floor, a vast circular space with floors decorated with tiled tessellation; tall windows behind each dark wood lectern illuminated the manuscripts from which masters once lectured the novitiates in the elements of their selected profession. Entrants were few in these latter days, few enough for instruction to be carried out on an individual basis so that vast areas of the College were empty, dark and dusty places visited only by echoes.
There were ten portals spaced evenly around the walls, stairs led from floor to floor as far as the seventh level, beyond that, there were only smooth bare shafts. It was considered that anyone aspiring to rise beyond the seventh level must be able to do so by their own efforts entirely.
Calistrope entered the nearest portal and exerting a minor effort, levitated himself to the highest floor. Here, the meager rays of the latter-day sun shone through sloping casements decorated with richly colored designs and pictures of ancient events.
The Great Hall of Assembly exerted a curious influence on many who gathered there. Most were content to contribute nothing more than an occasional Hear, hear or an Aha to the debate, to utter a discrete cough or a telling shake of the head. However, those who addressed their fellow Mages were often afflicted with an excess of gravity. Gestures grew slow and ponderous, words were burdened with portent, speech became pompous and grandiloquent.
The Mage was aware of this bizarre effect. When called upon to speak, he acceded with reluctance; he took pains to be brief, eschewed sarcasm, avoided malice. Though each of his fellows professed the same self-control, Calistrope considered himself to be the only true master of the terse remark, the concise exposition.
Calistrope took his seat precisely as the tall pendulum clock struck the twelfth hour on its thick glass bell. Voss the Despondent, who had been at the head of the table for some minutes, struck the small iron gong and called the meeting to order. His long lugubrious face was occasionally known to smile briefly but there was no trace of such an expression now.
“I and two of my fellow Archmages have completed a new task. As a result, I have decided on a new undertaking,” he told them somberly, without preamble. “This is the only possibility we have found which may ensure the survival of the human race.”
A murmur ran the length of the immense table, Voss waited patiently for the sound to subside. “Our present power is insufficient to rejuvenate the sun or to find alternatives to its heat and light which dwindle as we talk.”
Calistrope considered clearing his throat but decided that silence was the more pointed comment.
Voss raised his eyebrows a fraction, surprised that Calistrope should waste the opportunity of making a remark.
“We have made a new search of the archives; we have a new course of action,” Voss sat back and flicked dust from his sleeve. “Since arcane powers are no longer enough, we must restart the engines at the heart of the world. As the sun shrinks, the Earth must be made to follow it.”
A shocked silence followed his words, a silence which stretched on and on before being gradually filled with the sounds of breathing, of murmured comments, scraps of conversation.
“Move the world?” said someone, disbelief writ large in the tone.
Voss lifted his voice somewhat. “Accordingly, we have conferred with those who have a more exact record of history. The Ants.”
Pandemonium broke out. Arguments, comments, oaths, counter arguments… all of which dwindled to a most unusual silence. In ones and twos, in groups, the gathering became aware of the new presence at the head of the table—polished chitin, spiky red whiskers, black faceted eyes, trembling antennae.
“May I introduce Micca, the Ant? I have requested engineer Micca join us and address us.”
The magicians gazed at the ant. She stood as high as an average man, her chitin armor shining dully with ruddy highlights, there was a faint susurration—the sound of her tracheal bellows. She raised her antennae and a hum filled the air as they vibrated. After a few seconds, the tone became modulated and the insect essayed an imitation of human speech.
“Venerations,” she greeted and tilted her head in a series of small jerks as her glittering black eyes were brought to bear on each of the sorcerers in turn. “At the request of the Archmage Voss, we have made an examination of the Nest’s records; we have established several unquestionable facts.” The insect moved two of its legs, they made a metallic scraping sound on the floor and as she shifted, the sunlight struck a series of green iridescences from her thorax. The ant’s exhalations imparted a faint acid quality to the air in the chamber.
“The Earth’s orbit was once inside that of the cinder world, Mars. Humans constructed engines which moved the Earth from there to its present position, beyond the reach of the sun which was expanding into its red giant stage.”
Impassively, the ant waited as a new round of conversation swelled. A sorcerer at the table’s far end signaled for silence, the murmurous dissonance diminished. Sarra Rivera looked along the stretch of ebony wood with its shell and scarab wing inlay; he held Micca’s attention with his cold, silver gaze. “This notion is a myth, a story the Ephemerals tell each other for comfort. The movement of a whole world at the bidding of a human being is ludicrous.”
“Yet it happened,” said Micca. “I have seen the memories stored in our records. The journey had already been under way for half a million old years when my species recorded the helium flash.”
“The possibility is discounted by the Sorceress Almatirra’s Principle of Equivalent Mass,” Rivera continued, hardly listening to what the ant had said.
The ant nodded, a peculiarly human gesture which seemed at variance with the insect’s anatomy. “Your objection is perfectly valid—according to the tenets of your science.”
Voss nodded and spoke to Rivera. “The universe is stranger than you imagine, Sir, stranger than you can imagine.”
“Quite so,” added Micca. “The ancient science of physics places no such restrictions upon the possible—fortunately. The sun is now shrinking to its dwarf stage and the Nest agrees the
Earth must be returned to a narrower orbit.”
“And how,” asked Issla the Inquisitive, “is this to be done?”
“The mechanisms which control the engines are in the eternal City of Schune,” Voss interjected. “Oh yes,” he said as he saw expressions of disbelief about him, the City exists.”
Issla continued with her doubts. “The Ants have never been interested in helping the Human Race before, why should we believe what she says?” She gestured dismissively at Micca. “Can she persuade us of her goodwill?”
Voss was at a loss but Micca, to whom rancor was an alien concept answered without acrimony. “The Nest draws its power from the remnant heat of the world’s core. It will last us many millions of years, far longer than either of your species. However, the sun will last us longer if we follow it.”
“Either species?” Queried Calistrope.
“The Ephemerals and ourselves,” Voss explained.
Calistrope raised an eyebrow and tapped a front tooth with a fingernail. “Why then,” he asked, “why does the Nest not organize an expedition to Schune. Why come to us?”
“Higher castes cannot travel so far,” Micca told him, “our intellect resides within the Nest.”
“In the Nest?” Calistrope stroked his chin. “A communal intelligence?”
“That is the case.”
“And naturally.” The Mage stepped forward, nodding. “The intelligence fades with distance?”
“Over several of your leagues,” Micca told him.
“Thus, our goals are yours.”
“For the present,” agreed the ant.
“In short,” Voss broke in, “the Ants will teach a sorcerer to revitalize the engines.”
“Oh come now, Voss.”
“Calistrope, you try my patience.”
“If this confederate is expressing doubts, Archmage, then it is correct.”
“Correct?”
“There is no possibility of reclaiming skills lost as long as these, Archmage. No. Neither is it necessary. Whoever goes to Schune has merely to contact the guardians.”
Voss’ forehead wrinkled. “And these guardians will revitalize the engines? Will they still be there after such an age?”
Calistrope inspected a nail on his left hand. “Suppose there is a community at Schune, Voss and suppose we call them engineers rather than guardians and say restart rather than revitalize; the scheme begins to seem a little more practical,” Calistrope caught a fleeting smile on Voss’ face and cursed himself for a fool.
“Exactly. You show me the proper interpretation Calistrope and I am in your debt. Now, let us be practical by all means. The Nest can provide maps, an adventurous fellow will discover the way to Schune without … with only minor difficulty. Someone like your…”
“I received a message,” Calistrope said, his tone a grim one. “It mentioned an honor. If this is the honor referred to, “he looked back at the fingernail which had caused him concern before, “my attitude to travel beyond the valley of Mal-a-Merrion is well known. My reluctance to tread upon unfamiliar pathways is proverbial.”
His comments received a variety of responses both pro and con. Voss stretched his face into an unaccustomed smile. “All is taken into account, my friend. It is understandable that you are overcome by the honor but a moment’s reflection will convince you that you are the natural, the best and only choice.
Calistrope was disconcerted. With hindsight, it became obvious how he had been manipulated, right from the moment his treasures had been pilfered from the manse.
“Naturally, a great deal of prestige attaches to the venture, the status of Archmage becomes a formality.”
This is the carrot, thought Calistrope; without doubt the whip will be the return of my possessions. He inquired, “A posthumous formality?”
“Ha ha. Such wit, I am overwhelmed.” Such was clearly not the case and Voss hastily turned to other matters before announcing arrangements for a celebratory banquet. He was visibly relieved as the delegates left the hall without Calistrope precipitating a confrontation. Nevertheless, as Calistrope rose to leave, Voss signaled that he wished to speak privately with him.
When all but Voss, Micca and Calistrope were left, the Mage went to the head of the table; he drew a chair out and seated himself. “Well?”
“Well? Well,” Voss assumed a reasonable tone of voice, “I am certain that you now see things in different light.”
“No,” Calistrope replied.
“I am certain that you look forward to this excellent adventure.”
“No,” Calistrope shook his head. “The title of Archmage seems to me to be poor recompense for the discomforts and dangers of such a journey,” he tapped a fingernail against a tooth. “Perhaps I lack a proper perspective but I must refuse this offer,” Calistrope invoked the similitude of aged infirmity. “I am tired; I am victim to some disease which drains my vigor.” His cheeks became sunken, creases furrowed his brow.
“Ha, ha,” Voss countered with an injunction to eternal health. “I sympathize with your condition, my friend, you need to get out more, to see the world. Out there,” he flung his arms out and Calistrope’s face filled out with plump flesh, his eyes brightened; a smile came unwillingly to his lips. “Out there, you will find yourself. See? Just the thought has made you feel better. However, one moment.”
Voss rummaged through the capacious pockets of his gown. “Aha!” A fat tube stoppered at both ends with wooden bungs. He placed it on the table and felt again in his pockets. “Ah,” he said and placed a long flat case upon the table beside the cylinder. He opened the case. “Now. Here, stored for safety while you are off on your travels,”
“Bless me, my collection of miniature succubus,” Calistrope brought out a pair of magnifying spectacles and peered closely. “It is. Each one fashioned after a notorious courtesan,” he looked up. “I knew it was you, Voss. Voss the Vile, the Thief.”
“No, no, no,” Voss was not even ruffled by the epithets. “You misunderstand. At your manse, they are unprotected. When you are away, any vagabond might chance by and take what he fancied. Here they are secure,” Voss leaned down and opened a chest at his feet. He took out a roll of fabric, held it up. “See; is this not your tapestry?” he let it fall open, a cloth of such fine weave it seemed like soft vellum, “the one you are so proud of?”
“Voss. This is pillage. No other word suffices unless … unless it is blackmail. My manse is sealed against all except the most adept,” Calistrope placed a finger on the artwork. “This tapestry you handle with such carelessness has been a thousand years in the making, a hundred tiny manikins have worked upon it diligently all that time and you filch it to serve your own selfish ends.”
The Archmage seemed unrepentant. “Selfish? I think not, Calistrope but there is more,” he went on. “Do you not want to know the whole of it? Here for example,” he pulled a cedar wood casket from beneath the table; he laid back the lid, “your pandect on Hypnotism, your unrivalled collection of aphrodisiacal spells. Hmm? What do you say to that? We shall keep them all here safely against your return.” His chuckle was dry and humorless.
Calistrope was silent for some considerable time. Although suspected, Voss’ admitted duplicity had come as a shock. “How did you gain admittance to my home?” he enquired at last. “How did you pass the Guardian and what of the curse of Overburdening Guilt?
Voss smiled briefly. “Do not trouble yourself about my safety and health. I came and went without disturbing your excellent precautions against thievery. Now, it is time to speak of more practical matters, Calistrope,” he became brisk, businesslike. “It is a long way to Schune and there is much to be done before you leave. Micca—” he paused abrubtly and stared. “Calistrope, does something ail you?”
Calistrope had turned very pale, his eyes bulged, slowly he brought up his hand and extended a trembling finger, he pointed. “A memory vault.”
All of the Sorcerers kept a memory vault. For those who lived so long, there w
as just too much to recall, too much for a single brain to organize and so every few centuries, older and less useful memories were removed and committed to the memory vaults.
Voss turned to look where the other pointed. A slim cylinder with a metallic hue, perhaps a span in length, rested upon the tray set in to the top of Voss’ chest. “Why, so it is,” he closed the lid. “So it is.”
“It is mine, Voss. I recognize it; there is no other like it. Let me describe it to you. A silver ceramic container, there is a thumb print seal on one end and if I place my right thumb against it, a small spot illuminates to show the print is recognized,” Calistrope held out his hand. “Let me have it and I can prove it is mine.”
Voss’ shoulders slumped. “There is no need, Sir,” he mumbled guiltily, suddenly humbled. “I admit that it is your memory vault. It was taken…” he paused, searching for words,” taken on a whim and it should not have been. Still,” he looked up with a brighter expression, “it should still be stored here, where it will be safe. You owe this to the College; your memories are a valuable asset, not to be risked. You owe them to humankind.”
“Well, I suppose so.” With the complement, Calistrope’s rigor eased somewhat and his complexion began to look more healthy. “The vault should be brought up to date, however.”
“You are correct,” Voss hurried to agree. “Oh, absolutely. Let it be done after this business with the Ants, though.”
Calistrope raised his eyebrows, a silent inquiry.
Voss gestured toward the ant which had been standing motionless during the altercation. “Micca has made arrangements for you to go to the Nest to be instructed as to the matter of charts and maps, perhaps to hear details of these ingenious engines.”
Anger suffused his features once more. “The Nest?” Calistrope brought his fist down on the table top with such a force that a million tiny fragments of inlay leapt into the air, a glittering cloud of greens and blues, of pinks and mauves hovering above the surface. “Do I have no say at all in my own destiny?”
