Universe 03 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Terry Carr

  “Elkan, I have allowed myself to think that in talking to you— whom I have come to love as a friend, if I may say it—I am talking to others who cannot hear me directly. I do not want to learn anything about any groups of your people who may be living somehow in the wilderness, because like anyone I might become weak and betray you if my mind disintegrated under torture. However, if any such groups exist I wish them to hear this warning: be more careful than ever in the next few years while Asta lives. Do nothing to stir up the lust of violence. Asta is insecure. He needs a scapegoat, and your people would again be the victims, especially if the Assembly dies. He would not hold back from another Night of Knives—might welcome it.”

  Elkan said after a while, “The message will be transmitted, De-liberator. The advice may not be followed. Conditions change, my lord. The Night of Knives ten years ago was indecisive.”

  Moltas looked up, amazed at the overtones. Elkan’s face was quiet as always. “Elkan, since the law forbids the freeing of Muson slaves under any conditions, I drew up a will which bequeaths you to my brother-in-law at Nathes. He is a kind soul, a scholar, and fortunate in that he knows almost nothing of the modern world, being concerned with the quarrels and delights of antiquity.”

  Elkan bowed. “An act of kindness, Deliberator.” And it seemed to Moltas that the overtones were saying darkly and jubilantly: If you die, my lord, I shall be with my people in the wilderness.

  “I’ll see that peddler now.”

  Piet Brun stepped in with the brash grace of a tomcat, a small, bouncing man, gnarled and baldheaded, carrying a green cloth sack. Rudely he hitched a chair nearer the Deliberator’s, waiting for no invitation to sit down. When Elkan brought in the second-best wine, Brun tossed off a glass as one swills water, clucked and patted his belly and said, “Very nice, sir. Much obliged.” Behind Bran’s back, Elkan shared Moltas’ amusement with one lifted eyebrow, and faded from sight.

  Casually Brun offered autobiography. He had been everywhere and done everything. Born at Alsandra (he said), at thirteen he had run away to join a caravan bound for Penn in the barbarian north. He had served as a mercenary in one of Penn’s border wars with the Empire of Katskil (a rising nation, he thought). After that he had a nice thing smuggling spearheads of Katskil steel to the savages in the lake country. He married, but his wife bore a mue, as they called such monstrosities up north, and then another, so he divorced her as Penn law permitted, an action that made her a protected slave of the Amran Church. At mention of that church, Brun automatically made the sign of the wheel over his heart, and scratched his armpit.

  Repressing distaste, Moltas inquired, “You became a member of that church, Misur Brun, although Misipan born?”

  Brun glanced around the room, maybe looking for eavesdroppers. “Got some nice things here, m’lord. Well, the church—see, I’m a practical man, Deliberator. I leave the thinking to the priests —they get paid for it.” He laid a grubby finger along his nose, and winked. “Up north, you know, you’re a follower of Abraham—I mean, what the church says is the faith of Abraham, or”—he slid the edge of his hand across his throat—”ssst!” He gulped more wine. “I had me a junk shop for a while—did all right but sold out. Itching foot, m’lord. Been a bit of a rascal maybe.”

  Moltas refilled his glass. The politician in him instinctively searched for nuggets of information. “You’d say that Katskil is the major power up north nowadays?”

  “Not a doubt of it, sir. They ain’t a naval power yet, but they aim to be that too. Country’s riddled with witchcraft, by the way. Church does its best to keep it down, I give ‘em credit for that.” He glanced at the two-faced image and his eyes skittered away. “That lumin kettle there, that’s a nice little piece, m’lord, right out of the Age of the—so-called Sorcerers.”

  Moltas reflected that the little tramp could be an agent provocateur sent by Asta to tempt him into heretical remarks. “So-called, Misur Brun?”

  “We, uh, speak in confidence?”

  “Certainly, if you wish it so.”

  “Old slave’s gone to bed?”

  “Probably. In any case he doesn’t eavesdrop.”

  “Shit, they all do.”

  “He doesn’t eavesdrop, Misur Brun.”

  “Sorry. Excuse it. Must be your nice wine. No offense, sir—thing is, I been in trouble once or twice before, from speaking out. Now what I mean, it’s my opinion them ancient people weren’t sorcerers at all, anyhow not like the northern witches. They was just people like us, only they had a lot of knowledge and skill that somehow got lost, that’s all.”

  “I hope you’re careful not to say such things openly.”

  “I ain’t thirsting to look down on the fucking world from no cross, Deliberator.”

  “I have never put anyone in danger of the cross.”

  “I know that. ‘Round the wharves they call you ‘The Merciful.’”

  “I earned that name,” said Ian Moltas.

  “Yes, sir—it’s one way of looking at things. Me, I can see how the world’s all fang and claw. Man’s got to look out for himself, nobody else will.” He took up his green sack. “Like to see something really good?” Moltas nodded, expecting trash.

  The trader took out first a small tripod surmounted by a semicircular loop a foot high, the whole device one solid or welded piece of one of the ancient silver-gray metals impossible to reproduce in the modern age. He set this on the table, and then brought forth a flabby piece of what must be ancient Plassic in a curious flat harmony of mild colors, mostly blue and green and brown. At both ends of the lump were little metal devices. Brun placed one of these in his mouth, and puffed. Quickly the lump became a softly shining sphere. He placed it in the metal standard and tapped it so that it spun a long moment before quieting into rest. Moltas’ mind whirled with it; as motion ceased he blinked and caught his breath.

  “Gets you, don’t it, sir? I picked it up in Penn from a collector who was afraid of owning it. That’s why I could let you have it dirt cheap and still make a penny or two.”

  “But what is it?”

  “A map.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The Sorcerers, if we got to call them that, knew that the world is round . . . The way it is up north, Deliberator, people believe that some of the Sorcerers, the Americans, are still around—you know, immortals, haunting devils. Church takes it seriously, or maybe”—his finger was laid again on his nose—”maybe it’s just that keeping the devils in their place pays off. Useful things—like that kettle you got there—get the bad magic charmed out of ‘em at so much a charm. I understand this was found in the cellar of some ruined building in the area near Fildelfia. The priests would’ve condemned it, but somebody grabbed it before they got there-”

  “Round?”

  “Ayah,” said Brun with that unpleasant northern twang, and casually, as if dismissing something of no interest, but his eyes were too bright, too amused. “Pick it up if you like, Deliberator. It’s not fragile—nor dangerous.”

  Ian Moltas did so, finding it astonishingly light. He touched the slick surface, so filled with soft splendor from the lamp, and the globe turned at his command. Without the twang, and without that undertone of sniggering laughter, Piet Brun said, “Your hands are holding up the world.”

  “You disturb me, sir. Naturally I am familiar with—certain philosophical theories.”

  “Sure.” He was mocking again, or seemed to be. “Of course everyone knows the earth is flat.”

  Moltas was irritated. “On the contrary, there is obviously some curvature. One only need climb a hilltop—”

  “Or go to sea, Deliberator, and watch the approach of another ship: first the tip of her mast, and then the tops’l—”

  “I know, I know. But after all—” He set the shining thing back on the table. “A map? Perhaps only the creation of an artist, a fanciful mind.”

  “Speaking of going to sea, Deliberator, what is the shipping situation in Norlenas at pr
esent?”

  “Shipping? Why, I’m not too well-informed. Normal, I suppose.”

  “You see, I’m like a stranger here. I just might be interested in buying or chartering some kind of seagoing tub, but I don’t know what kind of expense I’ll be running into. If I ask around the docks, I won’t get an honest answer, so I thought I’d ask you.”

  The flattery was harmless, and probably sincere. “I don’t really know very much, Misur Brun. What sort of ship?”

  “She ought to be a hundred-tonner, two-master, I think, with one-level galley and sound slaves—no Musons, I wouldn’t give a shit for your Musons in an oar-bank—”

  “Misur Brun, all galley rowers of Misipa are freemen. There are no slaves except the Musons.”

  “Do you tell me!”

  “I’m surprised that as a Misipan born you should have forgotten.”

  “Well, I ran away at thirteen, and before then I didn’t take note of much except to wonder when my old man would get drunk again and beat up on my ass. Well, not less than a hundred tons, and I don’t want no coastwise crawler. Shorten her masts if I got to, and if her keel’s no good I’ll go for more ballast.” Ian Moltas noticed for the first time that the fellow’s clothes were rather good, even expensive, his fingernails clean, and his eyes, when not veiled in slyness, were those of a visionary, a listener to the winds. “Ride low and steady—you got to meet big water on its own terms.”

  “You think of trading with Velen in the south, perhaps?”

  Piet Brun stared beyond him. “Perhaps.”

  “Well—not much more than guessing, sir—twelve thousand menin might buy you such a ship. About refitting and a cargo, I just don’t know, couldn’t advise you . . . And while we are on the subject of money, what would I have to pay for this—relic?”

  Brun smiled at him. “Twelve thousand menin.” The sphere was a poem of blue and green and brown, floating in the room’s silence.

  “If,” said Moltas presently, “you plan to explore the possibility that the world is a sphere—which of course is not unfamiliar to the philosophers of the Tera, although regarded as far-fetched—won’t you need this”—he touched the world and made it spin again—”this map?”

  “Made me some tracings,” Brun said. The smile was steady on his blunt face; whether the world was a sphere or the footstool of Sol-Amra, Piet Brun had a joke on it. “Made a copy on silk, that I can blow up to size with one of them pig’s-bladder toys they make for the kids. Crude, but it’ll serve my purpose.”

  “The thing is certainly a map, as you say. Some of these names I recognize as being old American—almost common knowledge that the City of God Norlenas was once called New Orleans. But your map shows it in the wrong place, and the line of the coast is absurd. The course of the Misipa ends—about here.”

  “Deliberator, the legends of the Flood are true legends. They know that, up in the north. At the southern end of the Hudson Sea there’s a mighty heap of rubble, masses of tumbled masonry, here and there the top of a tower jutting from the water so heavily buttressed by trash and silt that the strongest seas and tides haven’t leveled it. They call that place the Black Rocks, but everyone knows it’s the ruins of the greatest city in what they call Old Time. The floods came, Deliberator, but they didn’t drain away.”

  “I know the legends. Well, Misur Brun, your price for the relic is outrageous, almost comic, but I will even pay it. If that surprises you, set it down to the whim of an old man who cannot go exploring. Ill write you a draft on my—excuse me.” Elkan had appeared in the archway from the hall, looking frightened. Moltas went to him.

  “Sir, the Emperor has sent a litter with bearers.”

  “At this hour?”

  Aware of the peddler, Elkan sank his voice to the barely audible. “A lieutenant of the Mavid is with them.”

  “An escort, no doubt,” said Ian Moltas, who knew better. Lieutenants of Asta’s secret police were not sent on small errands of courtesy. “I’ll go down presently. Has Madam Moltas come back from that banquet?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Bring me my jewel case from the strongbox in my bedroom, Elkan.” He returned to his visitor. “Misur Brun, it will be best if I pay you with a jewel of about that value. You’ve come back to

  Misipa at a very unstable time. Men go out of favor swiftly, sometimes die swiftly—curious times, very curious. It’s possible—so quickly do fortunes change—you might have difficulty cashing a draft tomorrow morning, even though I have plenty of funds to cover it. But jewels will remain negotiable.”

  “Sir, whatever is convenient.” Brun was flushed, still thrown off balance by the incredible success of his errand; it occurred to Moltas that he might have asked that price simply as a piece of impudence, a joke, a conversation piece to introduce genuine bargaining.

  “Thank you, Elkan. Here—if you will take this to any appraiser in White Cradle Street, Misur Brun—”

  “Sir, I would never question the Deliberator’s—”

  “I have a litter waiting for me, a late errand. Perhaps I could take you part way to wherever you’re staying? Go ahead, please— I’ll follow in a moment.”

  He needed that moment with Elkan, to stand there eye to eye, and hold out his hand as one does to any friend and equal. “I’ll return, I suppose,” he said. Elkan hesitated long; then the grasp of the six-fingered hand was firm and to Moltas very strange, a bridge between worlds that must somehow communicate with friendship, or die.

  The lieutenant of the Mavid politely and correctly pointed out that the litter was small, with no room for anyone but himself and his passenger. A genteel, patient man, in his black loincloth and black tunic with the emblem of crossed spears. Piet Brun spoke a mannerly goodbye, and walked jauntily down the dark street with a green emerald fortune in his pocket that might have bought the virtue of even a Mavid lieutenant. “We are going to the palace, I presume, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. Why are you laughing, my lord, may I ask?”

  “I could never explain it,” said Ian Moltas.

  The scrawny little body of Asta, Appointed of Sol-Amra, Lord of the World, defied the silken ease of his chair, incapable of relaxation; his tight face betrayed a hunger no world could satisfy. The audience room was cool and lovely under the mild lamps, the floor a mosaic of priceless imported marble, gray and rose. A naked Muson girl with a fixed smile held a platter of fruit near his chair, and Asta chewed raisins as if they were the flesh of enemies. “Sit if you wish, Deliberator.”

  A hundred and fifty years ago, when Ocasta, first of the Emperors, was crowned, the privileges of the Deliberators had been written into statute: an attempt of those who loved the Republic to retain some color of it when the reality was gone. Moltas could have taken the low stool, the only other seat in the room, without need of permission. That Asta had granted it was one of those petty victories the Emperor needed as some need coffee or marawan. And to remain standing would have been bad politics. “Manners, child!” said Asta, and gave the girl a brutal push toward Moltas, who took a fig and nibbled it for politics’ sake.

  She was small and pretty, like a child indeed at first glance, but Moltas could not guess her age. The platter was heavy, her thin arms in danger of trembling. Asta was known to enjoy the sterile delights of maintaining a harem of Muson women, his Empress being no more to him than a breeder of sons for the dynasty; and rumor had it that any of the girls who survived a few months of his pleasures were given to specially favored members of the ruling clique, as marks of the Emperor’s esteem—disposable, in fact, like towels.

  “Moltas”—the Emperor sighed with staged patience—”what do you want, man? A year ago, we recollect, we offered you a Treasury post—no sinecure, responsible work you could have done very well.”

  “Majesty, I felt that an elective post was a trust I could not abandon. My talent is in the framing and interpretation of law.”

  “We know that’s what you say. Law and policy, hey?”

 
; A tricky question. In theory, the Assembly might still debate imperial policy; in practice, the Emperor disregarded it. The Emperor proposed measures; if the Assembly did not ratify them they still became law, humorously described as Statutes of Misipa A.D.—Assembly Dissenting. But should the Assembly adopt measures unwelcome to the Emperor, his veto was final. The Assembly was a ghost, a graveyard of honor. One power remained to it, an intangible—the strangely passionate, inarticulate veneration the people still held for it as a symbol of an older time. Even in these sour years memory would not quite die, and A.D. laws were resented—blindly and ineffectively, yet the resentment was real, and the ruler of an explosive people could not wholly disregard it. Moltas said with an evasiveness Asta would understand, “Majesty, the Assembly’s position on policy seems to require a day-to-day definition.”

  Asta smiled clammily and let that pass. “Well—not long ago, we offered you a title. Because we wished to make use of your unquestioned talents on the Advisory Council. You declined. We have been very patient with you, Moltas.”