The Last Days Of The Edge Of The World (11 page)

“I’ve got a catalogue here,” said Ewan, moving back into the darkness to take up his pile of parchment. “It’s in alphabetical order. What’s your surname?”

“Wilkinson,” said the apparition. “Wynkyn Wilkinson. I was one of the esoteric school, you know.”

Ewan flipped through the pages and found the appropriate one. “Wilkinson, Wynkyn,” he read out. “Synchronous Sonnets, The Esoteric Press, undated. Spine rubbed, slight foxing. No dust wrapper. That’s all.”

Wynkyn released a long, hollow sigh of ecstasy. “Synchronous Sonnets,” he whispered. “Ah, youth! So long ago, and still remembered! Beloved by posterity!”

Ewan felt that it might be extremely undiplomatic to point out that none of the books in the library had been read for decades, and many of them had undoubtedly never been read at all.

“I suppose,” said the apparition, dreamily, “that this in itself is a form of Eternal Reward. My work survives! O joy! O rapture!”

And so saying, the emissary from the Vaults Beyond faded out.

Only the candlelight remained… and the guitar.

Ewan picked up the guitar and tucked it under his arm. He made as if to open the door, and then had an afterthought. Candle in hand he went back into the maze of shelves, and quickly located the book he sought: Synchronous Sonnets, by Wynkyn Wilkinson. He tucked that under his arm, too, and took it away to read in bed.

He had never met a real poet before. And he was never likely to run into another one who had been dead for several centuries.

CHAPTER TEN

Helen walked along the marbled pavement which shone blue and green in the afternoon sun. It was cold beneath her feet; she could feel the iciness even through her shoes. The blues and greens swirled together in all kinds of liquid patterns, and the pavement seemed like a frozen stream.

There was no dust in the Forbidden City. Like Castle Mirasol, Ora Lamae was a dead and haunted place, but in a very different fashion. Castle Mirasol had been condemned to age and decay and rot as it stood, but Ora Lamae seemed to have been simply melted into slag and re-solidified to the texture of petrified wood, crystallized for all eternity.

Once, Ora Lamae had been the pearl of World’s Edge, a city of semi-precious stone. Every brick of every building had been carved with care and decorated. The streets had been covered by exotic metal strips over which magical cars might glide. The people, too, it was said, had been beautiful—clothed in many-coloured silks, with skins that were smooth and eyes as bright as sapphires. But that was long ago, or “once upon a time,” as the stories had it. Now….

Spells of awesome power had long since crashed the mighty buildings with fists of fearsome heat, turned their hard lines soft and left them shapeless lumps. All the patterns of the city were blurred now, smudged and creased, all semblance of order lost.

Ora Lamae now held only the deformed ghosts of all its palaces and domes, arches and spires. Everything that the people had built, war and magic had obliterated, leaving only the mockery of ruins.

Huge black birds with bald heads gathered in the wreckage now—carrion birds which flew by night into the wider world but which hid by day, here, where no one would see them or care. The birds watched Helen as she walked the streets of the city, resentful of her presence. She ignored them.

Helen’s was not the only unwanted presence disturbing the sanctuary of the vultures. She realized as much when she heard the music. At first, she could not make it out, but when she was closer she realized that it was someone playing a guitar. She had not heard music played since Sirion Hilversun’s hands had become so stiff that it was painful for him to pluck the strings of his ancient harp. She herself had only ever learned to play the flute, not very well.

She recognized the tune that was being played as an old song which belonged by tradition to this part of the world—perhaps more to the magic lands than to Caramorn. She tried to recall the words but couldn’t. They were lost in the forsaken memories of her childhood.

Ewan was concentrating hard. He had the feeling of the instrument by now, and he felt that despite Wynkyn’s less-than-complimentary comments he wasn’t doing too badly. He might not know many tunes, but he thought he could pick out a few competently enough, and the instrument seemed to be helping him. Though he hated to admit it, it was a much finer guitar than any his father had ever made.

It took him some time to realize that he was no longer alone. As soon as he noticed the girl, though, he stopped playing and put the instrument down.

“Hello,” he said.

Helen was standing on a crude pedestal of once molten rock, which might have been a fountain or a pillar in days of old. She looked down at Ewan, who was sitting on the pavement resting his back against a blue-white lump that might have been almost anything. She frowned, wondering who on earth this could be, and not answering his greeting.

“Do you come here often?” asked Ewan, not sure whether it was a joke or not.

“No one comes here,” she said. “Not ever.”

Ewan shrugged. “That makes you the lamia,” he said. “But you’re not supposed to come out except at night. What it makes me, I’m not entirely sure.”

Helen felt that this comment was slightly irreverent. But she was suddenly struck by the thought that perhaps it hadn’t been Prince Damian who had disenchanted Methwold forest after all.

“Who are you?” she asked, bluntly.

“My name’s Ewan,” he replied. “Are you the lamia? If you’ll pardon me saying so, you don’t look like someone who lives on other people’s blood.”

“Of course I’m not the lamia,” said Helen, brusquely.

“Ah, well,” said Ewan, with fake sadness. “Never mind.”

“What are you doing here?” asked Helen. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m waiting for the lamia.” “Why?”

“Oh,” said Ewan, airily. “I’ve always thought that I ought to try and make new acquaintances, widen the circle of my friends… that sort of thing. Today seemed just right for making a start. And I don’t know any lamias, so….”

Helen knew that her mouth was hanging open in astonishment, but couldn’t quite muster the energy to shut it. This was too much. She took a couple of minutes to muster her composure, during which time the boy gazed at her steadily.

“Well,” she said, finally. “I’ll wait with you. When the lamia turns up you can introduce me.”

Ewan grinned. “I will,” he promised. “Just as soon as I find out her name.” He was still staring, but now Helen met his stare, and he quickly dropped his gaze, looking down at the guitar. He put out his hand and rippled the strings lightly.

“That’s a beautiful guitar,” said Helen, descending from her pedestal to stand beside him.

‘True,” said Ewan. “A present from a dead poet.”

“A poet?”

“Well,” said Ewan, remembering the verses he had read in the early hours of the morning, “that’s his story.”

“Who are you?” asked Helen, again.

“As I recall,” said Ewan, “it was you who didn’t answer the question. I’m Ewan, son of an instrument-maker in Jessamy, currently on vacation from the University of Heliopolis.

Helen said nothing.

“All right,” said Ewan, “I’ll tell you. You’re Helen Hilversun, and you didn’t believe the first answer, so you came to check up. And now you know that Prince Damian’s sitting at home in the palace while other people run his errands. Right?”

Helen laughed. “Right,” she agreed.

“How’s Castle Mirasol?” asked Ewan.

“Clean as a new pin,” replied Helen. She felt more comfortable, now. It seemed rather obvious now that she thought about it. Of course it hadn’t been Damian who had disenchanted Methwold. “You’re cheats,” she added. “You and Damian both. This isn’t fair.”

‘True,” admitted Ewan. “I suppose you could say that all was not fair and above board. I guess you could call the whole thing off if you wanted to. Do you want to?”

“Are you talking about the marriage or the spell?”

“Both.”

“I don’t want to marry Damian, and I won’t. But the spell…. I suppose you know that we can’t stop now.”

Ewan nodded. “I did have an inkling,” he admitted.

“Why did you get involved?” asked Helen.

“The prime minister. He appealed to my sense of loyalty. He also applied a little gentle blackmail. I could have refused, but it would have been difficult… and I was a little bit fascinated by the whole thing. Why does anyone get involved with anything?”

“You were manipulated. By Jeahawn the Judge.”

Ewan shrugged. “Maybe just a little bit,” he said. “What difference does it make? He pushed us, we let him. We’re in now. The question is: how do we get out?”

“You’re either very brave,” said Helen, “or you’re an idiot.”

“Actually,” replied Ewan, “those are pretty much the same alternative conclusions I reached myself. Why don’t

you sit down. Dusk will fall soon. Then we’ll see action.”

Helen sat down beside him. The pavement felt very cold, even through the thickness of her jeans.

“We’ll have to see it through,” she said.

“I guessed so,” said Ewan.

“We could get ourselves killed,” she added.

“Maybe,” he replied. “But this thing is intended go through. There are forces working for us as well as against us. I got the guitar last night, special delivery; It’s the thing that’s supposed to enable me to get the lamia to reveal her secret name. If I had to bet I’d say that you’ll get a little something to help with this Zemmoul character. I presume you’re acquainted with Fiora?”

“It’s a waterfall,” said Helen, glumly. “It falls into a bottomless pool. And in the pool…”

“… lives something pretty horrible. I see.”

“It’s a very big monster,” said Helen.

“We can take him,” Ewan assured her. “With a lit help from Wynkyn.”

“We?” queried Helen.

“Certainly,” said Ewan. “It’s not a competition any more. Or if it is, we’re on the same side. Two of us together must stand a better chance at all stages of the pattern. Right?”

Helen looked at him, uneasily.

“Or were you thinking of going back to Moonmansion now?” he asked. “Now that you’ve checked up and found out the truth?”

She shook her head. “I’m staying,” she said.

“Bravery?” he asked. “Or idiocy?”

“Who knows?”

Silence fell. Ewan picked up the guitar, laid it across his knee, and stroked the strings, just enough to bring

forth a long, sweet note.

“What are Hamur and Sheal?” he asked.

“Gates,” she replied. “Gates to nowhere. They stand above the limitless abyss. Sometimes, in the old days, things used to come through them. Terrible things. But not for many, many years.”

“What about people going through from this side?”

“No one ever does,” she told him. “And if they do…”

“… they don’t come back. This is a very predictable business, once you get into it. Isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer. After a pause, she said: “Do you think the will was intended just for us? Or might it have been anyone?”

“Anyone, I should think,” said Ewan. “I’m no one special. Or perhaps it was intended for you and Prince Damian, and I’m just an unexpected substitute. I wonder if Damian can play the guitar?”

“Maybe,” she said, “it selected us because we just happen to be the right people. The people who can do it.”

There was a good deal of wishful thinking in this suggestion. But Ewan thought that they were both entitled to a little wishful thinking. He nodded optimistic agreement. Then he extended his hand towards her. She took it, and clasped it firmly. Then, with that agreement very much in mind, they waited quietly for dusk to fall.

Sirion Hilversun never usually worried overmuch about losing things. It often happened that he’d put something away and then forget where he’d find it. Usually, though, he’d remember as soon as it was time for him to stumble across it again. In addition, he could normally be sure that he would, when the time came, remember.

These days, however, he was perpetually lost in a welter of confusion. He sat in his room while evening fell, lost in an endless maze of reminiscence which suddenly seemed so empty, realizing that he had virtually no consciousness of the future left at all.

“Everything,” he thought, “is so dim and so dark. If only I’d kept a diary! Just a few minutes each night, before bed, writing down the principle events of the day to come. I’d have got into the habit…. I’d have been

able to keep my memories disciplined. But no, I always had to muddle along, letting yesterday get mixed up with tomorrow, never knowing when I was up to, trusting to luck that I’d know when I was when I got then. If I had a diary to look back on I’d be able to sort out the shape of my life, find some sense and sequence. But as it is I’m just lost. Too old. Dying. I don’t even know whether it’s just that I can’t remember the future or whether there isn’t any future to remember. Perhaps the world’s coming to an end, and I don’t even know it. I don’t remember dying… but I don’t suppose people ever do. It’s one of those things that always creeps up on you, is death. You never see it hiding nearby. I used to think that I might be young forever… even immortal. I suppose the day I began to remember growing old was the day I started growing old. What strange things memories are! How can you trust them, when they play such tricks… ?

As the thoughts slipped away, the silence that surrounded him became ominously obvious. The shadows cast by the evening sunlight that streamed through the window extended themselves slowly across the carpet.

“Helen…” he thought. “I must ask Helen….”

But it was Helen that he had lost. She had gone out, without telling him where. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember whether he’d ever see her again….

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ewan didn’t see where the lamia came from. He looked up, and she was there—standing on the same mound where Helen had stood when he first noticed her.

It was dark now, but by no means pitch dark. Ewan had lit his lantern early, as a precaution, and Helen had worked a spell to make the candle burn long and bright, but the afterglow was still in the leaden, grey sky. It was the time of day which always seems still and quiet.