by Lyndon Hardy
Jemidon twisted restlessly as the large sphere gradually drew closer. He had been able to deduce some additional facts about his surroundings, but even more time in his own universe had been lost as the lithons converged. With no periodic repetitions in the heavens, he could not be sure how much. But at least Melizar’s djinn had not reappeared. Now, with contact with other Skyskirr imminent, perhaps he could find something more than bare rock to bridge the gap to the demon realm and home.
“I still do not understand about the forces between the special stones,” Delia said at his side. “How do their attractions affect the direction in which we will go?”
Jemidon smiled at the sweetness in her voice. For most of their journey, she had remained to herself, gladly accepting a separate cavern when it was offered. Now, like a weathervane, her charm was again pointing his way.
“It is the construction of this universe,” Jemidon answered. He grabbed a shovel from her hand and with its blade scratched a crude figure in the surface of the rock. “Ponzar is reluctant to say much; but from his small slips and what we have seen, I have figured out much of their laws.”
“You know the third metalaw?” Delia’s face brightened. “Does it provide the means to see us back?”
“Just laws, not metalaws.” Jemidon shook his head. “It all began to make sense when I finally recognized the pattern of the distant lines in the sky.” Jemidon looked upward and nodded his head. He had carefully walked all over the surface of the lithosoar and seen them all. There could be no other answer. “We are in a box, Delia—a giant icosahedron, it properly would be called, a regular solid with twenty triangular sides. All that the Skyskirr know to exist lies within the walls of this crystal. From the triangular surfaces they get light and heat. The closure of the ’hedron keeps the air from whirling away to whatever is beyond.”
“Like the edges of the world in our own sagas?” Delia asked. “If you sailed too close, you ran the risk of falling over the side.”
“Here the risk is not one of falling off,” Jemidon said, “but of never being able to return. I suspect that the planes are covered with the lodestones that the scavengers find so dear.”
“It is these rocks that pull them through the air?”
“Exactly so,” Jemidon said. “Positive cairngorm is attracted by one of the plates and repulsed by another on the other side of the ’hedron. For negative cairngorm, the effect is the reverse. Even when it is near no other sphere, a lithosoar can be accelerated by the forces between the walls.
“There are twenty faces in all and ten opposite pairs. For each pair, there is a corresponding rock: black sphalerite, violet spinel, rusty cairngorm, orphiment, realgar, anatase, chrysocolla, epidote, beryl, and serpentine. I have seen the rocks on the tablestone and as they have spilled from the manipulants’ pouches—ten types of lodestones in both positive and negative varieties. And for each type, a rock of one variety is attracted to those which are opposite and repulsed by those which are the same. The force falls off with some power of the distance.”
Jemidon paused and contorted his hand in the sign of greeting. “Actually, it is a little more complicated than that. Two additional plates interact with each type of lodestone as well. But only when it is moving and at an angle to the direction of motion. It is the meaning of the right hand. If the thumb points in the direction of the primary tug and the forefinger in the direction the lodestone is moving, then the additional force will be in the direction of the curling fingers. The extended fingers of the hand are a simple mnemonic from a distant past to aid in the calculation of trajectories. If there were only one lodestone and no others to perturb its path, its motion would be a helix that would eventually reach one of the walls.”
“But our flights are anything but so simple,” Delia said. “Utothaz maneuvered us almost at will.”
“There are other bodies in the ’hedron as well, each with its own complement of rocks that attract and repel.”
“But what of the control?” Delia asked. “He maneuvered our lithosoar over the other as if we were a docile bird.”
“It is the—the metamagic. Yes, that is the word for it,” Jemidon said. “The laws of attraction for the stones can be turned on and off at will. To approach a target, you invigorate the law that attracts the two bodies together. To break before collision, you switch instead to one that repels. Far away from any lithon, you rely on the forces between the walls. Indeed, that is the role of the metamagician in this domain. He is the pilot who calculates the courses and steers the scavengers through the sky, guiding them from one stone to the next to collect whatever of value they can. The laws themselves are simple. Attraction or repulsion, falling with distance, and a second force at right angles to the velocity. Once a law is in effect, it permeates the entire universe; but with a few observations, anyone can calculate the trajectories that result. There is little of the arts as we know them here, Delia. No complex rituals or incantations that only a master can control. It is metamagic instead that is supreme.”
Jemidon broke off and pointed skyward. A swarm of small figures rose from the surface of the larger lithon and accelerated swiftly to catch their lithon as it hurled past. When the visitors grew closer, Jemidon saw that they looked much like Ponzar and the rest, dressed only in loincloths, despite the stinging cold. Each carried a huge pack on his back, and a copper sword dangled from his side. Arms were extended directly forward. In one hand, each held a fair-sized stone of blue that seemed to pull its owner along; in the other was an inert crystal of black.
Partway on their intercept trajectory, Jemidon experienced the feeling of disconnection. It was stronger than any since Utothaz’s sweep of the beasts, but the disorientation was totally under control. It was merely an irritation that he hardly noticed any more.
“They have deactivated the attraction of the blue stone and changed to the repulsion of the black,” he said. “When they arrive, their relative speed will be almost zero. Then the law will be shifted to another and the lodestones will have no special powers until they are reactivated for their return.”
In a few minutes, Ponzar climbed with a slow, careful step to where the first visitor had landed. He signaled with a finger-bent right hand and ordered the security of a well-anchored rope. The new arrival accepted the hospitality with a quick patter of soft tones.
Immediately, Ponzar pointed in Jemidon’s direction, and several members of both parties approached to view him better. He scowled back at the rude stares and put up his hand when one reached forward to rip away the front of Delia’s gown.
“Careful, faraway one,” Ponzar warned so that Jemidon could understand. “Your value is less if you are no better than the beast.”
“Far away, a man is valued by the keenness of his mind,” Jemidon answered.
“As it is here,” Ponzar said. “And in your case, there is perhaps a little interest. It would help if you would show them how you fail to conjure up a demon.”
Jemidon’s scowl deepened. “There would be nothing to see, only empty flame,” he said. “Let me show another art. I have been trained in them all.”
“Very well,” Ponzar said. “Make it one that catches the eye. The Skyskirr of Valdroz trade with sleepy faces.”
Jemidon did not relax his frown. Aiding in Ponzar’s petty exchanges did little to help his own plight. Still, what the captain had said was true enough. As long as he and Delia had some value, they had remained away from the sucking lips. And on a bigger sphere they might have a chance to find some of the powders for which they were looking. But what craft to demonstrate? None save wizardry would work here at all. He needed something that appeared impressive, despite what the outcome would be. Quickly he looked around the various items stacked for trade. He dug his hands into one of the nearest sacks and extracted a fistful of soda, originally from the edge of a great salt lake. He rummaged among the small collection of bottles obtained from some previous trade and sniffed for one that had a vinegary smell.
&
nbsp; “Alchemy.” Jemidon turned back to face Ponzar as he prepared. “A craft governed by the Doctrine of Signatures, or, simply stated, ‘the attributes without mirror the powers within.’ And these powers are invoked by writing a formula, a series of arcane symbols in a precise order. I will try to make a Foam of Wellbeing by mixing what I have found. If things proceed successfully, there will only be a small bubbling in the bottle before the reaction is complete. The natural propensity to produce large volumes of gas will be suppressed. On the other hand, if the formula fails, the vapor will evolve with explosive results.
“Now, no alchemical formula is guaranteed to work every time, and here I doubt that any will succeed at all. But explain to them what I am doing. The effect should still be good enough.”
Ponzar began to translate while Jemidon opened the stopper in the flask and tossed in a handful of soda. He plunged back the cork and, with a quick motion, hurled the bottle up into the sky. While it sailed away, easily escaping the feeble grip that held it to the lithosoar, he rapidly scribbled the formula for producing the foam on a nearby piece of hide, somewhat surprised at how sharply the symbols came back into his mind. He finished the last and held his breath. If the formula worked, nothing would seem to happen. The ingredients would modify internally. But if the natural reaction were allowed to proceed unchecked—
A sharp pop and the glitter of tiny shards of glass cut short the thought. The gas from the reaction had exploded the bottle into smithereens.
“If properly done, the bottle does not burst,” Jemidon explained with a shrug. “There, that is a failure as good as any other.”
Ponzar twirled his shovel of office in response, looking at Jemidon for a long while. “I cannot be sure,” he said. “You still may be one of Melizar’s. But if Valdroz’s traders accept, you will be their problem and not mine. Wait with the rest of the harvest. I will see what agreement the great right hand will provide.”
Jemidon clenched his fist. Ponzar’s attitude was no surprise but it grated nonetheless. Certainly he and Delia should be regarded differently from a bundle of sticks. He would speak out despite Ponzar’s instructions.
But before Jemidon could respond, the tablestone pit suddenly erupted in agitation. Valdroz’s traders drew their swords and bolted for the scavengings. Ponzar slapped his shovel against the rock in alarm. His own followers snapped to attention and scurried after. More poured out of the cavern entrance, waving their copper blades and yelling in high-pitched shrieks. Jemidon felt an unlocking begin but then snap back firmly shut. He saw Utothaz totter to standing and grasp hold of his pyramid, holding it tight with both hands.
Jemidon grabbed Delia about the waist and pulled her away from the Skyskirr as they raced among the sacks and crates. Before Ponzar’s fighters could catch them, they poured crystals of black sphalerite from their packs into the containers they had brought and then sealed them shut. One of the traders cried in shrill pain as a blade cut deeply into his shoulder from behind. Ponzar’s Skyskirr ran in among the scattered goods, hacking to the right and left, trading blows with whoever turned to resist.
Jemidon heard Utothaz scream. He saw the pyramid tumble from the pilot’s hands, wisps of smoke coming from the smaller vertices as they rapidly whirled. The feeling of unlocking grew and then burst through whatever was holding it back. Valdroz’s traders lunged for the sacks and crates they had augmented as they suddenly soared into the air.
Ponzar looked at the stricken metamagician and then at the Skyskirr shooting away. “Hang on, hang on,” he warned as he struggled toward a pit. “The lithofloat. The cairngorm. Its activation is the next vertex in line.”
Instinctively, Jemidon pushed Delia down into one of the many depressions on the lithosoar’s surface. He knelt beside her, and the rock almost tore from his grip. Desperately, he reached again to grab hold as it seemed to slip away. He jammed one hand into the indentation and flung a leg across Delia while she struggled to catch on herself. He felt his body move sluggishly as the boulder gathered speed.
His legs slipped from where they were braced and he hung only by his arms. The wind whistled around his head, and he saw small bits of wood, sacks, and ropes seem to come close and whip out of sight, falling behind. Jemidon gritted his teeth and pulled with all his strength, trembling from the effort, somehow drawing himself closer to the receding rock. Using all the muscles in his back, he gradually drew his legs parallel to the curving surface. With one great lunge, he touched the granite and his foot caught in the proper indentation. Straining from the effort, he slowly pulled Delia in front of him to the safety of the pit. Firmly braced with all four limbs, he dared to chance a look at where he had been.
He gasped in surprise at what he saw. The other globe was rapidly shrinking. Like the shot of a catapult, it was hurling away. Their lithon was soaring into the unknown far faster than he had ever traveled before.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Foul Air
JEMIDON turned his head away in disgust. Utothaz’s body, sprawled on the tablestone, could barely be seen beneath the huddled forms of his manipulants bending over him. The smacking of lips competed with the whistle of the air. He looked in the direction of the wind. In the distance, he could just discern a tiny speck against the reddish background and, around it, the shading to brown that indicated the concentration of toxic fumes. They had soared for another dozen sleeping periods, and the careful observations through the telescope had long since confirmed that there were no deviations in their flight. By whatever chance, none of the lodestones they carried had a repulsive counterpart on the poison-spewing rock. And no other lithons were anywhere in sight. Still, it seemed little enough reason for Utothaz and the others to abandon hope so quickly.
Ponzar appeared at Jemidon’s side and tapped him on the shoulder. “It is no more repulsive than the way you tear the flesh from the bone with your teeth,” he said. “And if he is not a criminal, we leave the skull—leave it so that the features remain when the body is cast off into the sky.”
“The air is not yet so foul that it cannot be endured,” Jemidon replied. “Utothaz has not breathed his last.” He shook his head in amazement that the captain still spent his entire day in language drill. Even the accent showed hints of fading.
“He may just as well.” Ponzar twirled the shovel blade. “The struggle to hold the laws bound was too great. He knows that he will decouple and move to another vertex only a few times more. It is better for him to give the rest the sweetness of his marrow while he is still fresh.”
“But the manipulants,” Jemidon protested. “They bicker on who is to be fed upon next. What have they done to deserve such a fate?”
“It is our way,” Ponzar said. “Without the pilot to guide them, their lives are as lost. The bounds will be broken. There will be no resonances. It is for few others that they can manipulate the stones.”
“It seems to me that the last thing you would want to do is rid yourself of the only talent that has any hope of reversing your direction.”
“We will hold trials for another pilot. Although, even if we find one in those who remain, it will little matter. Our flight is swift. There are no other lithons nearby.”
“How can you be so calm?” Jemidon growled. “Your very life is in peril. This may be your last soar across the sky. Why are you not straining to invent a scheme, some plan that will save us all?”
“It is the way of the great right hand,” Ponzar said softly. “Valdroz wanted us repulsed after he had plundered our harvest. But I do not believe that he would want us to be pushed where the air hangs foul. No, we must have been touched by the great right hand as well. Life is repetition, but Skyskirr do not fly forever. For each comes the time when the tugging lithons are far away and the drift leads without change to the walls. For this small stone, that time is now, and we must accept. Our duty is to give our fellows the pleasure of the feast before it is too late to be enjoyed.”
The captain eyed Jemidon speculatively. “And as
to your own marrow. We have treated you well. Better than some of the other lithons might. It would be to your honor if you do not wait before offering yourself and the female for the benefit of the rest.”
Jemidon instinctively drew his arms back to his chest. “I am not Delia’s owner,” he said. “Any more than you are of me. She will decide in her own mind how she will face the end, if it is to come.”
Ponzar closed his eyes for a moment and then pointed with his shovel at the speck in the distance. “The question is not if, but when,” he said. “Make peace with the great right hand in your own ’hedron. We would prefer your gift freely given, but will not wait long for it.”
Jemidon scowled and turned his back. The helplessness of their situation tore through him like stinging acid. More time had slipped through his fingers. Now it was possibly too late for his own world. He looked again at the growing cloud of dull brown. And soon it also would no longer matter here. Not only was he to fail once again, but in a strange universe, far from home, unmourned, and his body mutilated by fatalistic ghouls.
He heard Utothaz cry in discomfort and clutched at the brandel around his neck. Ponzar had refused to tell him more of metamagic, even after the treachery of Valdroz’s floater. In total isolation from the rest of the Skyskirr, the captain still was taking no chances regarding Melizar and his suspected return.
Jemidon felt the battered coinchanger at his waist and idly fingered a dozen coins into his palm. Looking down at the mixture of metal, he smiled ruefully. Benedict’s puzzle of the twenty-five mixed coins was probably the only conundrum he would solve—a meaningless pastime instead of the foundation of the universal laws. He looked back into the sky and shrugged. A child’s puzzle or keystone to the universes. In the end, was either more important than the other?
A hacking cough at his side broke Jemidon out of his reverie. He turned to see Delia leaning against the safety rope and clutching her other fist to her chest. Her skin was pale. Her golden hair hung in limp snarls. Deep wrinkles had appeared under her eyes, and her cheekbones cut sharp angles in her face.
