Hespira

by Matthew Hughes

  As they neared the Arlem estate the aircraft separated into a half-circle and descended until they were about twice the height of the tall trees at the back of the cottage. I noticed that those vehicles that were equipped with windows had them open; those that had no windows along their sides had had small hatches installed, and they, too, were open. From each of them poked the dangerous end of a weapon: energy rifles and disorganizers, and even what looked as if it might be a tumble-thrust.

  For an extended moment, the only sound was the thrum of several gravity obviators and the growling of the salamander. Then came that curious hiss that told me that someone aboard one of the vehicles had keyed an annunciator to life. The high-pitched voice of Hak Binram spoke in my ear, as if he were standing beside me.

  “Henghis Hapthorn, surrender yourself and no one need suffer.”

  The annunciator had also touched every auditory apparatus within its range, including Yeggoth’s, which brought a howl of impotent resentment from the contact-loathing deity, and Madame Oole’s. She responded for me.

  “His person is not his to surrender,” she shouted up at the hovering aircraft. “He is mine.”

  “And who,” said Binram, “are you?”

  “Who I am is none of your concern,” the sorceress answered. “What I am is something you would be wise not to discover.”

  “We have come for Hapthorn. We would prefer him alive. But we will take him hot and smoking. And if we have to separate his ashes from yours, so be it.”

  I saw that Madame Oole held a rod of dark wood in one hand and an orb of crystal in the other. “I am not accustomed,” she said, “to repeating myself. Leave now, or never.”

  “I see a third option,” Binram said. An energy weapon’s snout projected a little farther from one of the hatches on the vehicle at the center of the demilune. Immediately, Oole shouted a polysyllabic word and flung the orb up into the air well above her head, where it hovered and spun, glinting in the orange sunlight. A minim later, a stream of bright force sluiced down from the aircar, only to break in a spatter of sparks against the semi-opaque hemispherical barrier that now hung like a dome from the rotating ball. The shield was wide enough to cover not only Oole, Devers, and me, but the cottage and half the lawn—though I noticed that Yeggoth’s pen lay just outside its circumference.

  Even as the blast splattered ineffectively against the shield, the sorceress extended the arm that held the black rod and pointed it at the volante from which the weapon had discharged. I could see no visible emanation, but the aircar shot upward and away as if it had been struck from beneath by a great blast of wind. It went rolling and tumbling across a wide arc of sky, shedding two or three of its passengers, before its systems managed to reassert their authority and right it again.

  There was a pause in the proceedings that I put down to surprise on both sides. The cottage lay at the conjunction of ley lines, and here the influence of the coming age was already being felt. Madame Oole was discovering that at such an intersection, her powers were considerably enhanced. I imagined that Hak Binram’s hardhides in the other volantes were similarly awed, though from a different standpoint. But the warlord soon recovered. Moments later, every weapon opened up on us in a coordinated blaze of beams, showers, crackles, and even the whump-whump-whump of a medium-powered tumble-thrust.

  But Oole’s defense was up to the task. The dome apparently had the property of absorbing some of the energy that was applied against it, so that it actually strengthened as the assault continued. However, that toughening rendered it even less transparent, so that it became harder to see the attacking vehicles, which were also now weaving and jinking evasively through the air, making it difficult for the sorceress to connect with another blast from her wand.

  Devers, for his part, wanted to join the proceedings. He had found the disorganizer with which I had threatened my captors upon their arrival. He was poking at the controls, trying to overrule its insistence that I and I alone was its operator, so that he could use it against the volantes. But the weapon’s systems were strictly ordered.

  “It will work for me,” I said. I could tell that he did not take this as a constructive observation. But he slung the weapon’s carrying strap over his shoulder before shoving me along the wall toward the door of the cottage, where Madame Oole had already preceded us, there to enter and take stock of her options.

  I looked back as I shambled under Devers’s rough-handed urgings and noticed that the salamander’s pen had been shattered by a sideblast from the barrage. There was no sign among the wreckage of the choleric god of avarice, but before we turned the corner at the front of the cottage, I saw the flash of a jewel-encrusted tail disappearing into the dark-trunked trees. It seemed to me that the appendage was appreciably larger than it had been before the sorceress employed her powers.

  Inside, matters were much as we had left them, except that Hespira’s bonds seemed not quite as tightly knotted as I remembered them. I did not linger near her, but walked a small distance across the oversized room, drawing Devers’s attention away from her. My legs did not yet feel as if they were prepared to give me undivided allegiance, but they had at least begun to feel as if we were more than just passing acquaintances.

  He gestured to the disorganizer’s controls, then to me.

  “You wish me to unlock it?” I said. “Certainly. If you would just care to hand it over.” I extended a hand but he gave it and me only a scowl.

  Madame Oole was rummaging through her bag. She brought out a hand-sized ring of golden metal, worked all around with figures and symbols. She laid it on the low table atop the grinnet text, then said a word. The ring expanded, like a ripple in a pool, simultaneously filling with a shimmering, opalescent grayness so that I could no longer see the table beneath. Oole touched a finger to one of the symbols and the ring ceased to grow. She touched another and the grayness was replaced by an image; I recognized the cottage and its surrounds, as seen from high in the air. The protective dome glowed a pale yellow, and Hak Binram’s aircars could be seen darting here and there, in randomized patterns. Oddly enough, I could also see Madame Oole’s clouded spaceship; it looked to be a mid-sized Wayfarer, though with some peculiar modifications.

  “I wanted to ask you,” I said, “about the cloud surrounding your ship. It is highly effective, yet I do not recognize the type.”

  She spoke without taking her eyes from the ring. “I have been working with magic for several years. Not just preparing for the transition, but managing it. Did you know that it is possible, in some instances, to hybridize some elements of the two regimes?”

  “I did not,” I said. “I would have thought it impossible.”

  “It is not simple, nor easily achieved. But I have dedicated myself to the work.” She looked up at me. “That is why I am what I am, and why you cannot withstand me.”

  I did not dispute the statement. “So the cloud over your ship, the shield above our heads—these result from the energies of the empirical universe being brought into harmony with their opposites from the regime of sympathetic association?”

  Her attention was back on the ring’s image, but she made a sound of agreement. I said, “If I was impressed before, I am doubly so now. No, triply.”

  She did not look up, but said, “More aircraft are coming.”

  I looked at the display. She had widened the range and I could see several specks flying in a vee formation from the direction of Olkney. “How much of a battering can your shield withstand?” I said.

  “I do not know. I was surprised at its strength under the first assault.”

  Devers had given up on the disorganizer. He came to stand behind his mistress, staring over her shoulder into the ring. I began a brief explanation of ley lines—anything to keep their attention from Hespira. Even though I knew that my reaction to a threat against her was artificially stimulated, I still had to deal with the emotions that welled up from my deeper levels.

  Oole listened attentively to my r
emarks for a few sentences, then held up a hand to silence me. “That is a discussion for another day,” she said. “Now I need to know why those men have come for you.”

  I spread my hands. “It is a complex story.”

  “Then simplify it.”

  “I acted as a go-between in a dispute between a wealthy man and an ambitious chieftain of the criminal halfworld, both of them far too conscious of their dignity. Now I am become a trophy each wishes to deny the other.”

  I felt the chill of her gaze upon me as she considered these facts and their relation to her goals. “This has nothing to do with magic?” she said.

  “I doubt that either of the disputants has any regard for it.”

  She indicated the vee of dots in the ring’s display. “And these incomers are not reinforcements for the first contingent?”

  “No,” I said. “They are a further complication.”

  “Will they fight each other? While we make an escape?”

  That was not the outcome I wished for. “Possibly,” I said, “though you might have to leave behind…” I gestured toward the items she had earlier spread on the floor.

  Her face closed. “No.”

  “Then I suggest you allow me to assist in our mutual defense.”

  At this, Devers began to dance from one foot to another, pointing at me and making gestures that Madame Oole would not have needed any spell to interpret. She waved him to stillness with the same gesture that had silenced me.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  It was one of those moments when only the truth would serve. “My situation is not optimal,” I said. “Yet I am useful to you as I am. When I said that those people outside want me for a trophy, I spoke in generalities; in actuality, they would be satisfied to carry away only certain parts of me. But the remainder they would leave behind would be of no use to you or, for that matter, to anyone.”

  She put finger and thumb to chin and weighed the issue. As she was doing so, an annunciator spoke, but not in Hak Binram’s fluty tones; this time we heard a low voice, like gravel shifting in a rolling barrel: “I am Chai Esquilieu of the Hand Organization. We have come for Hapthorn. Deliver him.”

  For the first time, I saw Madame Oole startled, though she recovered quickly. “You did not mention the Hand,” she said.

  “You did ask me to simplify.”

  “The Hand is not a factor I would expect you to leave out.” Finger and thumb returned to her chin. “I must think about this.”

  So did I. I had expected Hak Binram. And if Binram came, could the Hand be far behind? But when the Hand arrived and found Binram standing between it and its desire, I had anticipated that a fairly brisk fight would break out over our heads, leading to an intervention by the Bureau of Scrutiny. The sorceress would have thought twice about taking on the entire Archonate, whose powers were immense if usually only vaguely alluded to. She would have stolen away, perhaps with some of Osk Rievor’s treasures, and Hespira and I would have escaped in the confusion.

  Instead, it appeared that the adversaries had agreed on a truce while they winkled me out from beneath Madame Oole’s protective shell. Unfortunately, that gave my captor time to think.

  “The question is,” she now mused aloud, “are you worth more to me than would be a favor owed by the Hand?”

  “Yes,” I said, willing her to ignore her henchman’s silent arguments.

  Oole’s focus remained fixed on me. “Why?” she said.

  I had one piece left to play. I played it. “Because I have seen the world that is coming. I have been there—or then, if you prefer.”

  The room fell silent, except for the hum of gravity obviators overhead. A small snore sounded, but Madame Oole was not listening for distractions, though Devers looked about suspiciously.

  I was very conscious of her eyes on me. They seemed to enlarge, to surround me like the coils of a great serpent. “How?” she said.

  “Again, it is a complex narrative.” Before she could snap at me I went on, “But here is the nub of it: an entity of immense will but little magical ability was able to draw me several hundreds years into the future. I met five magicians, one of them a woman, and she held great power over dragons. The new-looking materials you found in my study are items that I brought back.”

  “The woman,” she said, “tell me about her.”

  “If I tell you everything, what then am I worth to you? You will hand me over to—” I pointed to the ceiling. “—then take all my collectibles, and leave me dangling on someone’s trophy wall.”

  Her eyes went to Hespira and I did not need to follow her gaze to feel a pang. But there was no time for persuasion; a heavy concussion struck the shield above our heads. The Hand had a reputation for arriving fully equipped.

  Chai Esquilieu’s voice spoke in our ears again, harsh and insistent. “We will wait no longer.”

  “Very well,” said Madame Oole, and for a moment my fate, and other parts of me, hung in the balance. Then I was relieved to see that the decision had gone in my favor. She turned to her henchman. “You will give him the disorganizer. No arguments! We will pack everything in the workroom that is small enough to carry, then we will collapse the shield. At the same time, we will throw some chaff in their eyes and run for the ship. They will not know it is there until we are already lifting off. We have only to rise high enough to activate the drive and we will be gone.”

  I heard the hiss and zivv of energy weapons from more than one direction. At the same time a heavier blow struck above our heads: a direct hit from a tumble-thrust. Oole reflexively took a step back, looking up as if she expected the high ceiling to come crashing in. Then she steadied herself, clasped her arms around her torso, and spoke three syllables, accompanying the last one with a sharp forward nod of her head. The effort seemed to cost her, because the face she turned toward me was suddenly older. “Dragons?” she said. “Real dragons?”

  “She owned two.”

  “Devers! Give him the weapon!”

  The man dragged his feet but he brought me the disorganizer. But instead of going to the study, he made a flurry of hand motions.

  “Yes,” Oole told him, “well thought.” To me she said, “You will instruct the weapon not to harm either of us, nor our ship.” As she spoke, she produced the wand that had thrown Binram’s aircar across the sky and held it poised. I did as she bid, then slung the heavy weapon from my shoulder. Its grips felt cool in my hands.

  “What about her?” I said, flicking my head to indicate Hespira.

  The sorceress thought for no more than a moment. “She comes with us. She may still be useful. And if not, Devers deserves some consolation, doesn’t he?”

  The henchman grinned and rubbed his hands, then ran for the workroom while I fought the acid bile that climbed up my throat. Oole told me to go and watch from the door.

  “Something is going on,” she said, turning back to the ring and its image. “They are testing the shield by simultaneous fire from different directions. They may try a coordinated ground attack from all sides.”

  “Could that succeed?” I said.

  She pinched her lower lip between thumb and forefinger. “It might,” she said. “If I give any more strength to the shield, I will not have anything left with which to create distractions.” She began to rummage in her bag, taking out items and laying them on the table that supported the viewing ring. She found a glove of silver mesh and began to tug it over her right hand. The glove seemed to be resisting her effort, but she was winning the struggle. She looked at me and said, “Don’t stand there. We must hurry.”

  “Yes,” I said, “we must.” I turned and moved toward the exit. My client, wide-eyed with fear but with her also too-wide mouth set in determination, was seated between me and the portal so that she was at least partially shielded from Oole’s sight. Silently, I mouthed, “Run!” and “Now!” while nodding toward the door.

  Hespira slipped from the chair in which she had been tied, the already loosen
ed bonds falling from her ankles and wrists. I saw the flash of the soles and heels of her shoes as she ran at her best speed. But my alter ego had expanded the inner dimensions of the cottage so that what should have taken three steps instead required thirty. Behind me I heard a wordless snarl of outrage from the sorceress.

  I turned to cover our retreat and saw Madame Oole bringing up the hand that bore the glove, the forefinger extended while the thumb held the others down. I did not know what the arrangement signified, but I expected that it did not bode well for Hespira or me and I saw no point in waiting to find out. I had already set the disorganizer for manual operation; now I swung it straight up and let loose a full discharge into the ceiling.

  There were, of course, two ceilings involved: the real layer of beams, lathes, and plaster between us and the cottage roof; and the—in this place—equally “real” ceiling far above from which hung the glistening chandeliers. I did not know how the magicked version would respond to a full blast from a disorganizer. I knew that the mundane version would have disappeared in a lightless burst of molecules, each of them suddenly freed from their mutual association, and all hurrying to put as much distance between themselves and the weapon as possible; I hoped Osk Rievor’s invented overhead would react the same way.

  My hopes were well rewarded. A huge chandelier fell from above, crashing onto the tiles, spewing twisted fragments of metal and explosive shards of shattered crystal in all directions. I kept the activation stud depressed and played the disorganizer’s black column of nullforce across the ceiling. Great cracks appeared in the vault above, then ran down to split the walls. Blocks of masonry larger than my head smashed into the floor, raising a heap of rubble between me and Madame Oole, who fell back with her gloved hand raised to protect her face from flying chips.

  I switched off the disorganizer and turned back to the door. Hespira was already flinging it open and darting outside. I ran to join her. To one side, Devers appeared in the study’s doorway, a well-stuffed bag in one hand, the other trying to drag the shocker from a flapped pocket of his singlesuit. The disorganizer was not allowed to target him, but the doorway was another matter. I played its anarchic energies over the lintel and the jambs, and the resulting detonations rocked him with their blasts and showered him with splinters. He fell back, tripped on his own feet, and went down.