by Lyndon Hardy
“The air affects you more than the rest,” Jemidon said softly. “You should remain in one of the caverns. Perhaps we can rig up a seal so that the most foul will not as readily mix.”
Delia snapped closed her lips and tried to gain control of her spasms. She settled slowly to the rock surface and motioned Jemidon to follow. “It is so cold,” she muttered. “So cold. I wonder which of the perils will get me first.”
“Do not talk that way,” Jemidon said. “I have not given up, like Ponzar and the rest. Perhaps some other pilot will change the laws in a way that will repulse us from this outgassing lithon. Perhaps we will manage to sail on through to greater possibilities beyond.”
He pounded his fist into his palm. “If only I had the wit to master wizardry! Even an imp might give us more resource than we have now.”
Delia managed a wan smile. “You have saved me twice,” she said. “I have no right to expect more. And if it is to proceed to an end, I could have done far worse than to share it with one such as you.”
Jemidon looked into Delia’s eyes and drew her close. A few times before, they had huddled together for warmth. But this time she melted into his arms in a way that he knew was different. The passion that he had held in check since the rebuff in Farnel’s hut flamed anew.
“You are not without virtue yourself,” he said thickly. “A gambler in the markets of Pluton, the organizer of Farnel’s presentation, a survivor of the confines of Drandor’s tent, the seducer of a rockbubbler sprite.
“That is another part of the mystery.” Jemidon paused for a moment. “I had put it out of my mind. How could you possibly get the demon to do as you commanded? He was bound to one of Melizar’s manipulants. A master he already possessed. Perhaps wizards can wrest for control of demons, just as the metamagicians contend for the unlocking here.”
“I did not seek you out to push the beads about a puzzle,” Delia said. “There is little enough time. Come, let us go into one of the caverns while the Skyskirr are occupied with their feast.”
“I thought it was my analytical bent that had finally worn down your resistance.” Jemidon laughed.
Delia did not smile. “As I said, there is little enough time and certainly no other choice. Let us make the best of it that we can.”
Jemidon frowned at her serious tone. “But what if I were the one with the heavy cough and you the more able-bodied?” he asked. “Would you still seek me out? If somehow we return, what then of your closeness?”
For a long moment, Delia was silent. “I do not know, Jemidon.” She sighed. “You are a puzzling mixture. Flashes of brilliant insights, caring, and sentiment, but also a skittering focus and a disregard for discipline. I do not know, Jemidon, and abstract conjectures no longer matter. We are here, and the time is now.”
Jemidon pulled Delia tighter, and she kissed him on the cheek. He ran his hand down the length of her arm and felt his pulse quicken. But what she had said also began to gnaw at the back of his mind. Like a piece of sand in the corner of his eye, the words detracted from the anticipated pleasure. He thought of Augusta and the way she had looked when he decided to leave. He remembered the contrast of Delia’s coldness when he tested her intent in Farnel’s hut.
“It is because you have a need, isn’t it?” Jemidon stiffened and pushed Delia away. “On the cliffs of Morgana, beneath Drandor’s tent, speaking the charms for Farnel—in each case you gave because of a necessity. An even exchange, one favor for another. And when we soared through sweet air, you were sufficient unto yourself. It is only when you desire a windshield against the cold or the cradle of an arm at the last that you come slithering back. Farnel, Gerilac, Burdon, whoever’s comforting presence, it would not matter as long as you get what you want.”
“Your pleasure will be as great.” Delia’s tone hardened. “I do not take that for which I cannot provide adequate compensation.”
“Nor do you give without expecting payment in return,” Jemidon snapped. “You are a woman with many skills, Delia. I am attracted to you in a way I cannot explain. But my thoughts were not of grateful favors when we raced down the cliffside in Morgana or struggled into the cages above the Arcadian plain.” He placed his finger under her chin, raising her eyes to his. “You might try an unfettered gift once. There is more than one way to interact with another.”
“That is easy enough for you to say.” Delia pushed his hand aside, her eyes suddenly flashing. “You did not have your innocence ripped away by dirty-handed traders only too eager to offer so-called advice in the token exchanges. You were not the slave of foul-breathed ruffians who delighted in making you a gaudy display. I have done my share of giving and learned full well what is the result.”
“And have I been like the others?” Jemidon asked. “When we huddled for warmth, were my dirty hands misplaced?”
Delia turned away from his stare. She caught her breath and roughly twisted the iron bracelet around her wrist. Jemidon waited, breathing rapidly despite the tainted air.
“No, they were not,” she whispered after a long moment. “From the first you have acted as a hero from the sagas, just as I visualized in the dreams I have long since thrust aside.”
She glanced into his eyes and then darted her sight away. “You state that I deliberately stayed apart. Indeed I did, Jemidon, indeed I did. But not because of what you think. It has been so long, yet I am still afraid. You are soft and tender; I felt the walls I had so carefully erected melt away. But I cannot be so foolish. Even at the end. What if you turned out to be no better than the rest?”
Jemidon’s anger melted. Beneath the exterior barrier, there was feeling for him after all. He reached out tentatively, but halted before he touched her arm. “I thought that no one’s burden was greater than my own,” he said softly. “I have spent my life reaching for an elusive goal. But perhaps it is worse to be running away from a past that can never be changed.”
Delia took his outstretched hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Your insight pierces more than the interior of lifeless puzzles,” she said with a small smile. “You are right, Jemidon. I have used you as I have many others; and even now I came to use you still.”
Delia placed her finger across Jemidon’s lips. “No, say no more. There is too little time left to be so ill met. I wish to try again. But first I must think of a gift, a gift freely given without any obligations attached.”
After a moment, Delia dropped her hand. The passion ebbed away. Jemidon took a deep breath and then joined her in a chorus of coughs. The air had a distinctively metallic taste, with hints of sulfur, like the breath of the djinn which had transported them here between the universes. He tried to think of something more to say, but the words would not come. In silence, they stood facing each other, with the foul wind whistling between them and tugging at their clothes.
After a few moments more, Jemidon felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled to see Ponzar and two others standing in a row.
“Yes,” Jemidon snapped. “What do you want? If it is our bones, you have come too soon. We are not ready yet to give ourselves up.”
“It is the matter of Utothaz’s final peace.” Ponzar ignored the tone. “It seems that the removal of the ribs gives him some pain. And at the convergence, you had mentioned a Foam of Wellbeing.”
“The law is not operative here,” Jemidon said. “I would produce only a minor explosion as before.”
“But if there were an unlocking,” Ponzar said, “and you attempted the formula within the confines of Utothaz’s palms.”
Jemidon frowned for a moment and then nodded in understanding. “With the laws uncoupled, it might be a least contradiction. We are far away from any other lithon, so the effects of the others will be quite small. It might work at that.” He glanced at Delia, then looked down at his coinchanger and tugged the brandel around his neck. “And I might just as well while away the time with one puzzle as with the next. Yes, lead on. I will run through the formula once again.”
Ponzar
and the others turned and headed back toward the pit with the tablestone. Jemidon started to follow, then hesitated and looked back at Delia. She held her head downward, avoiding his glance. “Get out of the wind,” he said thickly. “I will work on a seal when I am done with the alchemy.”
Jemidon looked down at the pilot lying on the tablestone and tried to hide his revulsion. Both of the Skyskirr’s legs dangled over the edge of the rock like limp rags. The hands were folded across the stomach in a tangle of pliant fingers. The chest spread over the stone far wider than natural proportions would allow. Beneath the skin, Jemidon could see the weak throb of the heart. Crowded behind the pilot was the entire population of Ponzar’s lithon. Manipulants, weavers, smiths, and scribes all waited respectfully to see Utothaz’s last.
“How can he lay on his hands,” Jemidon asked, “let alone work the pyramid to perform the decoupling?”
“A manipulant will assist,” Ponzar said. “Signal when you are ready.”
Jemidon checked off the materials at his feet. Ponzar had produced a larger flask of vinegar than before. Following Jemidon’s instructions, he had even rummaged and found a purer sack of soda. Jemidon fingered the sharp piece of charcoal for writing the formula and brushed his knuckles over a finely tanned hide on which to make the symbols. Mentally, he ran through the symbology just to make sure that it was all still fresh in his mind.
“Ready.” He nodded to Ponzar. “When he has performed the decoupling, I will add the ingredients together.”
Ponzar nodded to Utothaz, and the metamagician chittered instructions to the manipulant at his side. The fleshy fingers were pressed against the pyramid, and the vertices slowly turned. Jemidon felt an increase in tension, like a rope stretched by a great weight, and then a snapping release. He was adrift as before, feeling the wandering of the universe among the lattice of the laws. All eyes turned to him, expecting the flourish of the formula.
For a moment he hesitated, exploring in his mind the feeling that was no longer strange. He clutched the brandel about his neck, running his thumb and forefinger over the smooth surface. He visualized the mysterious box that spilled out secrets tipping on its side, the top flopping open, and all the contents pouring out to diffuse through the rest of his thoughts. He reached for the snaky tendrils as they floated past, fraying their strands into finer and finer threads, searching for the answer to the last of the puzzles. He grabbed at one knot of significance as it drifted past, some fact, some observation that was more important than the rest. But it squirmed from his grasp, hovering just out of reach with what he most wanted to know.
“The alchemy,” Ponzar said softly in his ear. “You must hurry. Utothaz must also unlock for the succession testing, and there is very little time.”
Jemidon coughed in response and wrinkled his nose. The smell was tangibly worse. He heard one or two of the others wheeze as well. He shook himself alert and carefully set aside the charcoal and leather. Cupping his hand, he dug into the sack of soda, snagging a nail on the burlap side. Again he dug, but stumped his fingertips against a solidified clump. When he retracted his arm, he lost half the load against the flap that fell in the way.
Jemidon reached for the flask with his other hand and frowned in annoyance. The stopper was stuck fast, even though he had tested it moments before. For an instant he fumbled; then one of the manipulants boldly reached from where he crouched and pulled the cork with a deft motion. Jemidon tipped his hand containing the soda toward the opening and watched most of the powder blow away, pushed by the wind. But before he could react, the manipulant plunged his arms into the sack and dumped two heaving portions into the flask. With a flourish, the Skyskirr pushed shut the seal.
Jemidon frowned, then shrugged as he saw the others paying no attention to his bumbling, but waiting instead for the scripting of the formula. He retrieved the small piece of charcoal between fingers suddenly numb and cold. Touching it to the hide, he started to draw the first swirl. Or was it a swirl? The second had a serif that curled into the third. The fourth was a simple triangle, or perhaps one with a dot where the altitudes crossed. Jemidon knitted his brow. This was nonsense. He had known it all just moments before. And success or failure did not matter. Utothaz would soon pass, conscious of pain or not. This was no examination for the master’s robe. He gritted his teeth and tried to remember the formula. But with each passing second, it faded farther and farther away.
Jemidon closed his eyes and felt sweat form on his forehead. The icy wind cooled the droplets to become freezing pain. A chorus of chittering forced his attention back to the flask. He blinked at what he saw. At the last possible moment, he hurled it away to explode harmlessly downwind.
“It might not have succeeded anyhow,” he said quickly before Ponzar could speak. “Perhaps some other contradiction forced it away.”
The captain closed his eyes and did not respond. After a moment, he stood to full height in the wind and pounded the handle of his shovel for attention. He pointed at Utothaz, still managing to labor on the table, and motioned all the Skyskirr who were not manipulants to form into a line.
“We will use the decoupling instead for the testing.” Ponzar turned to Jemidon and explained. “It is unfortunate that the last moments of the pilot will not be without some pain.” He paused and spoke in a whisper that Jemidon could barely hear. “And I think it is best that you try for possession of the key as well.”
Jemidon shrugged and kicked at the sack of soda at his feet. “Why not?” he agreed. “I can perform none of my own domain’s crafts. Perhaps my skill lies in the simple manipulation of the stones.”
He said no more. In a foul mood, he pulled himself along the safety rope to the rear of the line. From the way the queue snaked around the uneven surface of the lithosoar, he had an unobstructed view of the tablestone. The procedure was simple enough. The first in line reverently swung down into the pit and listened to Utothaz’s hoarse commands. Starting with brown cairngorm on predetermined marks, the Skyskirr moved the stones over calibrated trajectories chiseled into the rock and then he was done. For each one who tried, the sequence was slightly different. Some traced out hyperbolas, and others looped the stones in ellipses or circles about a common focus. But all apparently were able to do as directed. Ponzar indicated success by dipping his shovel after each had completed his task.
Finally Jemidon’s turn came. He listened, puzzled, while Utothaz wheezed his instructions and then waited patiently for Ponzar to translate what had been said.
“Blue chrysocolla,” the captain explained. “Two stones motionless a hand span apart. Move them together on a straight line. Accelerate their motion as they draw closer and collide.”
Jemidon climbed down into the pit and reached into the scatter of stones. He coughed once and then shook with a spasm that made his eyes water and blurred his vision. With a feeling of sudden doubt, he closed his fingers around the nearest stone.
“No, not serpentine—chrysocolla,” Ponzar said. “Two stones of the same type with a force that is to attract.”
Jemidon squinted at his hands and saw that somehow he had picked up the wrong rocks. Staring at the tablestone, he closed on the proper targets and then looked at the carved inscriptions to see where they should be placed. A forest of crosses, squares, and tangled lines swarmed before his eyes. What had been so obvious standing on the edge of the pit was now a hopeless confusion. He stabbed blindly with his left hand and felt the stone jar on contact and slip from his cramped grip.
Jemidon hastily reached out to grab the free stone, but his sleeve swept across the table, knocking a dozen more off the surface to scatter into the pit. He bent forward to pick up what he had spilled and banged his head with a sharp crack against the side of the flat stone. He staggered to his feet, feeling suddenly dizzy, and fell backward, tripping over the telescope, which somehow had tangled between his legs.
One of Utothaz’s manipulants, the one who had rushed to aid with the alchemy, slipped past Jemidon and
moved the stones in the manner prescribed. The sense of drifting suddenly vanished. The last of the tests had been completed. The laws once more were in effect.
They all had succeeded in the simple exercise. All except Jemidon. Even the simple magics of Melizar’s universe were beyond his ability to master.
He blinked aside the film that was forming in his eyes, searching his mind for what he should say next. He blinked again when he saw the captain bowing on one knee, his shovel dipped at his side.
Ponzar extended his right hand with the index finger pointing at Jemidon, thumb skyward and middle finger to the side. Jemidon whirled to look at the rest. They were all doing the same.
“By the grace of the great right hand, homage to the new pilot,” Ponzar said. “Homage to the new pilot, or as he would say in his own tongue, homage to the metamagician, master of all the laws.”
“What do you mean?” Jemidon asked. “I failed. Of all of these, I was the only one who could not pass the simple test. If I cannot master the basic principles, what hope do I have of controlling the metalaws as well?”
“You are not Melizar’s manipulant.” Ponzar rose and pounded his shovel on the ground. “He would never have sent a possible rival if he knew of that one’s power. There is an instinctive distrust that grows as awareness unfolds. No, faraway one, the test has confirmed it. There can be no doubt. You are a metamagician. May the great right hand make you strong.”
“Two metalaws,” Jemidon protested. “Only two metalaws do I know.”
“There is only one more,” Ponzar said. “The Verity of Exclusion is the third.”
“As Melizar indicated.” Jemidon nodded. “After the battle in Plowblade Pass.”
“Exactly so,” Ponzar agreed. “The Verity of Exclusion, or, as the Skyskirr say, ‘if skill with the key, then none with the stone.’ You can be a mover of the stones or the one who uncouples, but not both. The great right hand does not permit such talent to reside all in one.”
