Lightspeed Issue 46

by Charlie Jane Anders

  “What are we seeing?” Kaslo said.

  “By outward appearance, a geological folly,” said his assistant. “As if the man has built himself a hill.”

  “It is definitely artificially constructed?”

  “Definitely. There have been no geological processes in the area that would account for it. More to the point, although the exterior resembles a naturally occurring mound, the interior is built of stone blocks arranged to create rooms and corridors, staircases and subtly camouflaged windows. There are also two subterranean levels, one of which resembles nothing so much as a dungeon.”

  Kaslo studied the schematic his integrator caused to appear a handsbreadth before his eyes. “So we can probably discount the notion that Ser Phalloon intends to be a wizard of the benevolent persuasion.”

  “Yes. The rooms are not empty, though most are undecorated. They have been furnished with items from the main house. In fact, a carryall is now on its way from the manse to deliver kitchen utensils and food stores.” The device showed Kaslo an image of the ground vehicle trundling across the open space.

  “That’s making a mess of the lawn, isn’t it?” The heavy tires gouged parallel ruts in the deep green sod, whose perfection must have needed centuries of mowing and rolling. “What does that suggest?”

  “The same as the construction of a false hill that has a dungeon: that Ser Phalloon, like Diomedo Obron, has gone insane.”

  Kaslo’s response was a creaky rumble in the back of his throat. It was a noise that meant he was thinking through a situation and coming to a dark conclusion. He told his assistant to maintain its watch and to advise him of any developments, then turned his thoughts inward.

  His new employer, Obron, had told him that the universe’s fundamental operating principle was about to shift from rationalism to sympathetic association—what was vulgarly called “magic.” It happened, arbitrarily, two or three times in every aeon, with catastrophic effects on the civilizations that had grown up and flourished under the old order. A month before, Kaslo would have received that information in the same spirit as his integrator had—as proof that the speaker’s sanity was gravely suspect. Since then, he had seen and participated in events that had forced him to revise his viewpoint.

  Obron had said that the change, when it came, would come swiftly. “Not like a flood, with the waters gradually rising. More like a field effect. Before the sudden switch, there is a brief period of instability, during which magic becomes slightly more reliable and cause-and-effect a little less so. We are in that phase now. Soon the curtain will fall, and all will be as new.”

  New, but hardly better, Kaslo thought. He considered his integrator and the surveillance suite: powerful, sophisticated, the products of millennia of acquired and applied knowledge. When the change came, they would become no more useful than the rock on which the spy gear rested. And all his hard-won skills at building and using such devices, as well as the other abilities that had carried him to the top rank among confidential operatives on the Grand Foundational Domain of Novo Bantry, would be in vain. He had no talent for magic.

  He spoke a short word that was completely out of context, yet succinctly expressed his emotions. His situation was far from good, and needed immediate improvement. Hiring on as a confidential op with Obron had involved Kaslo in a deadly struggle between the magnate and a ruthless rival who worked from concealment. The enemy had sent thugs to kill them both and to steal Obron’s collection of ancient spellbooks and magical paraphernalia. He had planted a spy in Obron’s household then caused that spy to self-combust before Kaslo could question him.

  The evidence indicated that this shadowy adversary was likely Phalloon, who was known to be keeping Obron under surveillance and was certainly seeking to position himself to emerge from the coming transition as a powerful thaumaturge. The artificial hill, if improved upon, would make a strong redoubt.

  A thought occurred. He told his assistant, “Recall Obron’s map of ley lines.” He was referring to an ancient chart that recorded lines of arcane power that ran across the terrain of Novo Bantry, said to be very useful to wizards. When an image of the map appeared in the air before him, he said, “Overlay the position of Phalloon’s and Obron’s estates.”

  A schematic appeared. Obron’s demesne was crossed by a thin red line, some distance from his house and the workroom where he conducted his experiments. But on Phalloon’s land, a solid red and an even wider green line intersected.

  “Magnify Phalloon’s estate and show me the lines in relation to his unnatural hill.” He swore again when he saw what he expected to see. The redoubt was built right above the crossing point.

  “We have a problem,” he said to his assistant. “When the moment comes—and it may do so at any time—our little wizard will be as a newly hatched chick without a nest, while the enemy will be a fully fledged raptor swooping down from its impregnable eyrie, all beak and talons.”

  “There are no such things as wizards,” his integrator said. “I wish to make a recommendation.”

  “Make it.”

  “You should submit yourself to an examination of your mental faculties. Lately, you have been confusing Obron’s fantasies with reality.”

  “You don’t accept that the universe is about to change, swiftly and drastically?”

  “It would be irrational to think so.”

  “And I built you to be rational.”

  “Indeed.”

  Kaslo contemplated for a moment a world without integrators, without weapons that aimed themselves, without reliable machines of any kind—a world ruled by the whims of an Obron or a Phalloon.

  It was not a pleasant prospect. Of course, he did not have to accept it. When the change came, civilization would collapse. The devices that created food and water and maintained health would fail. Millions would surely die; he could find a quiet corner and, with dignity, become one of the countless and uncounted dead.

  But then he pushed the thought away. He was not made to go meekly down into the ground. He would stay and fight. And, weak-minded as his employer might be, he would not be the worst thaumaturge to rise up in the new times—whereas Phalloon the Illimitable had probably chosen an apt sobriquet, and Kaslo knew that of those who will endure no limits inevitably grow into monsters.

  “Only one thing to do,” he told his assistant.

  “The examination?” it said. “I have found a diagnostician.”

  “No. We will leave the surveillance unit to watch the redoubt.” He slid down the slope until he could stand up, then made his way to the woods where he had hidden Obron’s aircar. He flew it just above the ground for quite a distance, before he took it into the upper air and head for his employer’s estate.

  • • •

  Diomedo Obron paced his workroom floor, the knuckle of an index finger pressed against his bared teeth. The schematic of ley lines meeting at Phalloon’s new construction hung in the air. Kaslo told his integrator to turn it off.

  Obron stopped and gave him a haunted look. “It’s not just a redoubt,” he said.

  “Then what is it?”

  “He showed me some of his books once,” the thaumaturge said, “just to rub grit in my eyes. He has a copy of Sholoff’s Extravaganza—a complete round-up of Nineteenth Aeon fabrication spells.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means that when the change comes, with his full spell-casting power augmented by the ley-line node, he can transform that rough assemblage of stone into a wizard’s castle.”

  “Not a good thing,” said Kaslo.

  “Monstrous! He would be impregnable, with the capability to lash out in all directions.” The proto-wizard sank onto a stool and put his head in his hands. “We’re done before we’ve even started. Nothing I have can withstand what he’ll bring against us.”

  Kaslo’s integrator interrupted. “Report from the surveiller: Two cartloads of goods are being transferred from the house to the redoubt. From the tinkling of the
cargo, the device infers bottles of liquid.”

  “He’s moving his wine cellar,” Obron said. “His most precious possession. He must expect the change to come very soon.” He got up and went to his workbench, picked up a set of rune-covered ivory sticks and tossed them, then studied the pattern they made. “The node must give him greater accuracy than I can achieve. But it will surely be soon.” He swept the sticks to the floor. “We are defenseless, finished.”

  “When I was a boy,” Kaslo said, “I won many a fight against schoolyard bullies by not allowing them to set the rules for the engagement.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They always liked to talk before they acted. I would hit them while they were still talking, then keep hitting them.”

  Obron waved a defeated hand. “Phalloon is not a schoolboy.”

  “True, but he thinks he can set the stage for the fight before it happens. Why should we wait until he is ready?”

  “The ley-line node,” Obron said. “Do you not know the meaning of the word, impregnable?”

  “I do,” Kaslo said, “and he isn’t. Not yet.”

  • • •

  “Report,” said Kaslo.

  “Almost finished,” his assistant said. “His house integrator’s defenses are massive but not terribly subtle. I just need to circumvent another one thousand and twelve scenarios and”—there was a brief pause— “it’s done.”

  “Good,” said the op. “And the camouflage drape on the aircar?”

  “Still holding. It will register as a pair of mating moths.”

  “Then over the wall,” said Kaslo. He directed the volante to skim the top of Phalloon’s wall, coming in from the south at moth speed. Then it dropped and sped toward the pile of stone. It stopped and settled to the turf so that the rough structure was between the intruders and the main house. “Out we go,” the op whispered, encouraging Obron with a strong grip on the thaumaturge’s limp bicep.

  Kaslo’s employer was shivering, though the evening air was mild. He clutched a large satchel to his chest and stumbled as the op urged him into a shambling run toward the castle-to-be. “This is v-very d-dangerous,” he said.

  “Not as dangerous as waiting for the enemy to outmatch us.” Kaslo opened the hold-all he had brought from the aircar and took out a self-aiming disorganizer. It was a more powerful weapon than he expected to need, but for this operation he did not care to be found wanting. He spoke to his integrator using an almost silent, subvocal system he had designed himself. “Report.”

  The device’s voice spoke deep inside his ear. “Nothing to report.”

  “Activity?”

  “One servant in the cellar, arranging wine.”

  “Phalloon?”

  “His house integrator shows him in his workroom, packing items in a trunk. Two bodyguards with him.”

  “Defenses, wards, alarms in this structure?” Kaslo tapped the stone wall.

  “Nothing,” said the integrator. “Most curious. He is moving from a heavily, if clumsily, defended location to one that is completely undefended.”

  “That is because he expects to defend his castle by means magical.”

  “So it’s a shared delusion,” his assistant said. “Is it contagious?”

  “Never mind.” The op turned to Obron. “Can you see if there’s anything to attack us or keep us out?”

  His employer looked up from a globe of clouded crystal he had taken from the satchel. Kaslo could see milky shapes swirling within the sphere. Obron’s voice quavered as he said, “He has laid the bases for two spells I recognize, one that I don’t. But none is yet active. They await the final steps.”

  Kaslo swung the disorganizer on its shoulder strap so that it hung across his middle. He activated its system, waited for the telltale light to glow. “Then in we go.”

  He led a still-shaking would-be wizard along the wall until they came to a set of steps leading down into the structure. At the bottom was a door. Kaslo consulted his integrator.

  “Latched, but unlocked,” it said.

  He went down the steps, found the latch, and silently lifted it. The door swung noiselessly inward on shiny new hinges, revealing a basement room lit by an oil lamp. A plump, balding man was taking dust-covered bottles out of padded baskets and slipping them carefully into a wall-spanning rack. He moved slowly, fully absorbed in his task.

  Kaslo stepped inside and drew Obron after him. He lifted the disorganizer and cleared his throat. The servant turned, saw the weapon’s emitter aimed at him, and dropped a bottle. It smashed on the stone floor and wine ran past his feet.

  “Over here,” Kaslo said, gesturing toward the wall beside him. He had to repeat the instruction, because the man was staring down at the fragments of green glass in a red puddle as if it were the worst horror he could imagine. Finally, the servant crossed the distance on trembling legs, his jowly face paste-colored, his eyes huge with sadness. When told to sit, he did so, staring at nothing.

  Kaslo swung the disorganizer aside and drew a restraint from the hold-all, along with a combination gag and blindfold. Moments later, he had the servant fettered, tethered, and incommunicado. As he straightened up, his integrator spoke in his ear.

  “Surveillance reports activity: Phalloon and the bodyguards leaving the house, heading this way on foot.”

  “Arms?”

  “Energy weapons. Also, and this is odd, they are carrying antique, spring-operated bolt-throwers.”

  “How long before they arrive?”

  “Two minutes at their present hurried pace.”

  Kaslo turned to Obron. “Upstairs, quickly!”

  An inner staircase led from the cellar to a kitchen. Kaslo had time to notice that the room was equipped with rudimentary appliances before he found another set of utilitarian stairs plainly meant for staff. They went up again and came out in a sizable room lit by a pair of narrow slit-windows. The space was walled and floored in stone, with heavy wooden furniture stacked in a corner. Sheets of paneling leaned against one wall and a large, rolled-up carpet lay beneath the windows.

  “Where are Phalloon and his men now?” he asked his assistant.

  “I … I am not sure,” it said.

  “Why not?”

  “The surveillance suite is not functioning correctly.”

  “Use your own percepts.”

  “I … cannot. The scans are … unreliable.”

  “Define ‘unreliable.’”

  “They are nonsense. I see three men, then a crowd, then no one. Now they appear to be trees, now some kind of cake.”

  “Cease,” Kaslo said. To Obron, he said, “I think the moment has come. Let us hurry.”

  Obron did not move. He had the look of a man who has just experienced an unexpected inner pang. “What is it?” Kaslo said.

  The other man turned a face toward him that seemed to glow with a new vitality. It had been thin before; it seemed broader now, and somehow more solid. “There’s a spell I put on myself, weeks ago,” Obron said. “Vilzai’s Vivifier, it’s supposed to … Never mind. I think it has just really taken effect.”

  He took a long, deep breath, and plainly drew immense enjoyment from the simple act. Kaslo had seen men react much the same way to powerful stimulants. Though he knew they had little time, he asked his employer, “The spells Phalloon started but did not complete—could you complete them now?”

  The glowing face became thoughtful. After a moment came the answer. “Oh, yes.”

  “Is one of them intended to defend or isolate this place?”

  “Yes. Plackatt’s Discriminating Delimiter. It keeps out what you don’t want in, and keeps in what you don’t want out.”

  “Apply it now,” Kaslo said, “and specify Phalloon to be excluded.”

  “Give me a moment.” Obron reached into a pocket of his upper garment and withdrew a scarred old libram. He flicked through its pages with an authoritative air, stopped at one, and quickly read what was there. Then he put the book away, sniffed,
and placed his feet in a certain alignment and put his fingertips together in an unusual combination. He paused as if waiting for a beat only he could hear, then spoke seven syllables.

  A chill wind rushed through the room, and Kaslo felt the air crackle with a silent energy. His teeth vibrated uncomfortably for a moment and it was as if invisible hands traced the shape of his body and the lineaments of his face. He shivered at the phantom touch, then the sensations were gone.

  Obron wore a look of pleasant surprise. He looked at his hands, held before him, as if they were new and different appendages. Kaslo noticed that they no longer shook. “Well,” the wizard said, “that was … something.”

  “Has the spell worked?”

  “I should think so. We’ll know when Phalloon tries to cross it.”

  Kaslo asked his integrator if it could guide him to Phalloon’s workroom. It made no reply. He tried again, adding a fundamental command word that allowed the device no leeway for prevarication.

  “Oom,” said its voice in his ear. “Oom-aloom-a.” Then it began to hum a simple melody.

  “Stop that,” he said. He had to repeat the instruction with the command word. After another verse, the device went silent.

  “Let’s go,” the op said. He led the way out of the room into a stone hallway, saw an open door down the corridor. He slung the disorganizer into the ready position then stopped and checked the weapon. It was inert. He unslung it so that he could use it as a club and crept to the open doorway. He glanced back to see Obron sauntering after him, rubbing his thumbs and fingers together as if the sensation was novel.

  Beyond the doorway was a large room with a vertical slit of a window. Its walls held open shelves and cupboards, half-full of materials Kaslo would recently have called junk, but now recognized as magical paraphernalia. The op went to the window and peered out. He saw Phalloon and his two retainers making their way toward the false hill. The self-propelled trunk had malfunctioned, slowing their progress. The two hirelings had now grasped its handles and were half-carrying, half-dragging it after the thaumaturge, who kept taking a few quick strides toward their objective, then stopping to tap his foot impatiently as the others struggled with his burden.