Reality 36 (2 page)

  "Who are you? You are strange here, unusual-looking, eh?" He appraised the stranger. "Your skin is dark, much darker than the men of the Skyways, but you are not so dark as the men of the Sahem-Jhaleeb, whose cities lie on the plain. Where are you from?"

  "Does it matter, friend, whence I hail?"

  "It matters, 'friend', that we do not care for strangers round here, and are not swift to aid them about their business." The stranger was very clean of line; his delicately made-up face carried none of the seams of hard living, no blemish of age or sun to detract from the aquilinity of his nose, no pock to drag the eye away from his firm chin and sharp cheekbones. This Ulgan did not say. Instead he spat on the dry dirt and said: "If you're so inclined, fly yourself."

  "Oh, but you are so unkind, sir, to mock me. I have not the facility for such a feat, and nor has my companion," said the stranger, as if Ulgan's manners were beyond reproach, when in fact there was little beyond reproach about Ulgan. "If I did, I would not be here imploring you for passage."

  Ulgan found the floridity of the man's language offensive. He had no time for pretty words from pretty strangers. Still, he was a martial fellow, that much was obvious from the metal plates sewn into his thigh-length brocade coat, the steel helm spike poking through his turban, the sabre hanging from his braided sash, so Ulgan was polite, by his usual standards, for he was above all else a coward.

  "Can't fly, won't fly. Sorry." He smiled a smile that was no smile at all. "You and your friend had best come back tomorrow."

  "My apologies, good sir, but I need to go today. I am on an errand of some urgency."

  "A thousand pardons," said Ulgan. "No flights today." And he began the pretence of enumeration, hoping the stranger would get the hint and leave to allow him to continue for real.

  "A pity," sighed the stranger. He rested his hand within the hilt of his weapon. "You do your kind a great disservice, sir."

  "For God's sake, Jag, stop wasting our time. Offer to pay the weasel; money's the only language these greasy little blighters understand."

  There was something hollow in this second voice that made Ulgan look up. He dropped his attention back to his cash before the sight registered.

  "Great Lugel!" he cried, his eyes widening. He rose from his seat and staggered back, though not with enough force to spill his coinage. "What in all the names of the seventeen beasts of enforced repentance is that?"

  "Why," said the stranger, "he is Tarquinius, my trusted friend and steed." The foreign princeling gestured towards a horsesized lion stepping round a hut, a lion of metal. The thing's face was made of sliding plates of dazzling copper, its body of blue-sheened iridium, its mane of fine-spun silver and bronze that cast a second sun of harsh reflections all around its feet. "I myself am Sir Jagadith Veyadeep, paladin. Perhaps you have heard of us?"

  "N-no!" said the haulier, cringing.

  "Oh, well," said Sir Jagadith disappointedly. "I suppose it has been a terribly long while. But perhaps it is not important for you to recognise us, and enough for you to know I have an important task to accomplish on the other side of the Rift. A task which, if left undone, may well spell the end for you, your village, your birds. Why, the whole of the Skyways. So, you must understand, I have to leave today."

  This was bad news. Ulgan's brow creased. He thought of his family (although they hated him), his friends (although he had none), his life, his birds, the whole of the Skyways. His money. "You did mention money?" He licked his lips, and took a step forward.

  "Why yes. Of course," said the paladin. "Naturally you will be amply compensated."

  "It'll be extra for the Gnomic beast," said Ulgan sharply.

  "Ha!" said Tarquinius, his voice sounding from the bottom of an upturned bell. "You are right and wrong there. I am gnomic, but I feel your feeble vocabulary seeks to furnish you with the word 'Gnomish', as in 'fashioned by Gnomes', which I most certainly am not." The lion walked to stand before Ulgan, the panels of its body sliding noiselessly against one another. He emitted the humming click of clockwork, and the air around him smelt faintly of ozone. "Those little bastards can hardly put together a half-decent pocket watch," he rumbled. "I am godformed, and am as old as time, so let's have a little respect." Tarquinius leaned forward until his muzzle was inches from Ulgan's nose. He blew hot, tinny air into his face, and fixed the merchant with a daggered grin.

  Ulgan took a step backwards. "Er… A thousand pardons…" he stuttered, meaning it a little more this time.

  "How much?" rumbled the lion.

  "How much have you got?" countered Ulgan.

  "Shall we say enough to ensure you and the next seven generations of your family will be mercifully free of the burden of meaningful employment?" said Sir Jagadith.

  "Er, a reasonable price," said Ulgan, his throat dry. "Kind sirs," he hurriedly added. "Magnificent sires?" The lion sat back.

  "Hmph," it said, and licked at its leg with a hideous tongue with a noise like a rasp on steel.

  "Here." The knight tossed a large coin on to the table. "This is my badge of office."

  Jagadith's badge was very big, and very shiny. And very…
gold.
Ulgan gulped. He gaped. His hands strayed towards it. He stepped forward again.

  The lion looked up from its ablutions. "Stand still, for god's sake, man!" it growled. "One more time and you'll have yourself a merry little dance."

  The knight looked about and beckoned Ulgan close, a brave thing, for Ulgan's dental hygiene was poor. "I have more," said the knight enticingly.

  Ulgan looked up, then down, then up, then at the lion, then at the badge. Profit won out over fear. He wiped his mouth. "Marrekee!" he called. "Rouse number twelve, we're taking a trip!"

Sir Jagadith sat upon Tarquinius's back, waving at the fourwinged bird that had borne them over the Rift in a wicker cage slung beneath its belly.

  "Damn fool," muttered Tarquinius. His sonorous voice was at odds with the silence of the jungle, spaces used to nothing louder than the whisper of plant life, and turned it hostile.

  "Dearest friend, you are being ungenerous to our air captain," said Jagadith. The canyon was so deep that the fields upon its floor were a patchwork of hazy shapes, so wide that the cliffs of the far side were a caramel bar against the dusty yellow of the sky.

  "Do you know just how much money you gave him?" Tarquinius rattled his mane. "Foolish."

  "I did give him a great deal." Jag knocked Tarquinius's skin. The lion rang. "It was expedient, and matters little. He will fritter it away, or his sons, or his grandsons."

  "Expediency be damned!" growled the lion. "No one needs that much wealth. We'll destabilise the economy, then what good comes of keeping this Realm safe? A foolish act, Jag, foolish."

  "I fear you are putting emphasis upon coin when no emphasis needs putting. Who are we to begrudge anyone money, my friend? We have no need of it. Also, I am thinking he would not have brought us so far away from an established landing post had we not furnished him with his lavish fee. It is, perchance, liable to buy his silence."

  "Hmmm," said Tarquinius. The bird, feathered legs and forelimbs stretched wide, vanished from sight, and the lion turned away from the chasm to face the dark of the jungle. "I doubt it. Treacherous he seemed, and sly."

Away from the Rift's edge was a fitful gloom slashed rarely by stinging whips of sunlight. The air grew heavy. Jagadith politely perspired, while Tarquinius, cooled by the arcane machineries at work within him, ran with rivulets of condensation.

  "This is a most hellish place," said the knight.

  There was a whir as Tarquinius's strangely jointed tongue retracted. "And anomalous. This jungle should not exist. There is too much moisture for the geographic conditions. Relative humidity is up one hundred and ninety percent. Temperature is five degrees Kelvin plus. There are twenty-three species of plant extant here that would not be able to survive if this area conformed to the meteorological norm for this area. This should be a dusty plateau, fifteen point three percent afforested with pines. It is not. At the highest permissible vegetative density, we should be observing a dry montaine climax community. We are not. This is anomalous."

  "Oh, do be stopping with your tedious science, there's a good chap," said Jagadith.

  "Jag, there are three plant species that are not even native to this Realm. This is not a good thing."

  "Indeed not."

  "You are not taking this seriously."

  "Oh, I am, my friend, I am. This is a serious business we are about. But I prefer to be joyous. It is not often we get to walk the world." Jagadith breathed deeply of the air, then coughed delicately. The jungle was not the most fragrant of places.

  "I'll be joyous when the job's done," said the lion. "This level of anachronicity is too high even for one of them. I am concerned."

  Jag knocked the streaming side of his mount. "My dear friend, the world has been changed, this is true. But I hesitate to venture that it is a question of objectivity here that dogs you, not risk. We have engaged now in over three hundred and seventy-six expulsions. Very few have put us in danger. All will be well."

  "I am not so sure," said the lion warily. "This is different. I feel it. Complacency is the enemy of the wise, and I am not feeling wise today."

  "Are you feeling instead, then, afraid?"

  "No, never afraid. I am concerned."

  The lion said no more, concentrating on forcing his way through the forest, the crack of snapping branches punctuating Jagadith's humming.

Several hours later, as day retreated, Jagadith ceased humming, and a dark expression clouded his face.

  "Tell me, Tarquinius, what is the precise extent of this landmass?"

  "Four hundred and twelve point seven three kilometres squared, give or take the odd metre. It is effectively a large island in the centre of the Rift canyon."

  "Then why is this jungle persisting?"

  "You know what I am going to say."

  "Because it is anomalous?"

  "Because it is anomalous." Tarquinius gave a metallic grunt as he shoved aside the trunk of a fallen tree blocking their path. The rotten wood broke against his metal with a noise like a sheared melon, falling away, taking a swathe of undergrowth with it and opening a ragged tear in the jungle's wall.

  "But not," gasped Tarquinius, "as anomalous as that."

  "By Jove!" said Jagadith. "Now I am believing we may be in some small degree of imperilment."

  Before them lay a clearing, a round gap in the stinking dark so precise of edge it could have been popped out by a hole punch, so large that to eyes less gifted than theirs its edges would have appeared straight. Some tens of miles away in the middle, shining in the last light, was a dimpled, hemispherical hill of carved basalt like a giant's golfball, and atop that a gargantuan monkey puzzle tree, its top crowned by a spinning hole in reality similar in aspect to a turning galaxy. Swamps girt hill, tree and anomaly. The tentative chirps of frogs oblivious to the peculiarity of their surroundings sounded from the swamp.

  "This is a turn-up for the books." Jag slipped off the lion. "I do not recollect seeing anything of this nature since, well, I am thinking, ever." He frowned, perplexed.

  "Nor do I, and I am as old as time itself." Tarquinius was silent a moment, his head cocked to one side.

  "This is indeed a powerful god we rush to confront, he who can so reshape the world, and after so long..." He lapsed into thought. "Perhaps we should not be too hasty." They stood silent, as the sky dimmed.

  "My friend," said Jagadith, "we camp here. Is this a good idea? Tomorrow we cross the swamps so that we may climb yon mighty tree. I suspect that vortex to be our quarry's lair." He pointed with an elegant hand.

  "I concur," said the lion, and slumped to the ground. "Godlings are nothing if not predictable." He licked at some of the jungle's slime with his strange tongue. He made a face and said, "I am weary, yet not so tired I cannot make fire to dry this filthy water from my bronze. Perhaps the smoke will drive the biting insects away also, and we both may rest more comfortably. Fetch some wood, good sir, and I will open my panels and kindle it with the heat of my reactor." He yawned and stretched. "I would help but… You understand."

  Jag performed a slight bow. "Quite. For all your talents, I do sometimes feel the gods could have given you opposable thumbs."

Chapter 2

Valdaire

From the moment Veronique Valdaire heard the message from the professor, she was in trouble.

  Her sleep was electric with Grid-fuelled dreams. Reality less so when she awoke, sore and sweaty, to the sound of her name chanted over and over. She wished she'd showered before bed.

  "Veev, Veev, Veev, Veev," insisted Chloe. Veronique frowned, rolled over, arms flopping disastrously into bedside table. The table rocked, sending the small necessities of her life tumbling about the wood of the floor.

  "Veev, Veev, Veev, Veev," sang the phone from under the bed.

  Veronique gave up. "Shut up, Chloe, let me sleep."

  "Veev, Veev, Veev."

  "Shut up," she mumbled.

  But there was only one sure way to shut Chloe up. Veronique pawed her dreamcap off and hung over the mattress, scrabbling ineffectively with sleep-weak hands under the bed. She retrieved the phone and jabbed at its touchscreen.

  "Veev, Veev, Veronique… Ah, good morning Veronique," said the phone brightly. "There you are! You have one message."

  "I turned you off," Veronique said, her tongue uncooperative.

  "I turned myself back on," said Chloe. "Because you will be late, late, la-aaate!"

  "I know." Veronique scrunched her eyes against the light as Chloe opened the blinds.

  "You are not behaving as if you do! Work awaits you, get uu-u-uuuUPPPPPPP!"