Dragonfly: A Tale of the Counter-Earth at the Cosmic Antipodes (27 page)

53 Gods and Minions

Silver dawn crept over the city. Yaneth stepped onto the balcony overlooking the garden. She bowed before Althea, who was seated in a wicker chair. I was standing behind her.

“All is well,” said the handmaid. “I’ve just come from the Demarch. The Vicar’s retinue will withdraw into the desert.”

I shook my head. “Not enough,” I said. “He just recognizes that an open scandal would lose him his foothold in the city. It would be better to expose him.”

“And force his hand?” said the Sibyl. “No. Now that I know for certain what he’s about, I can work against him in secret.”

“Do you know if he’s left the Deserits?”

“No one knows,” said Yaneth, “but he hasn’t been seen since the night you vanished.”

“I must be on my way, then.”

“Will you accept no money?” asked Althea.

“You insult me.”

“That was not my intention. You wish to return to Enoch. I see that. Accept at least this token, my ring, which will open the way to you in Afram. Yaneth will give you some rods from the coffer. Merely a courtesy, to smooth over any rough places in your journey. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes,” I said with a low bow.

“I owe you your consultation at least,” she said. “Go, that I may make ready.”

I went, but paused just beyond the threshold. “Mistress,” I heard Yaneth say, “why do you not seek to retain him?”

“He wouldn’t stay,” said Althea. “He has work in Enoch. And he’s a double-edged blade, too dangerous for me or you. It’s no ordinary man whose heart’s desire could turn a chimera as his did. Go now, conduct him. The Last Sibyl will follow.”

Yaneth found me waiting in the passage. “Come,” she said, taking me by the hand. She led me into an antechamber at the back of the building. We laved our hands and faces in a bronze basin and continued into a dry natural cave. There was a rough stone altar at the inner end with an oil lamp burning perpetually upon it. Occupying the natural niche beyond was the Image itself, an oblong nickel-iron meteorite in a wrought-iron crib.

Yaneth knelt on the flagged floor, and I followed suit. Soon the Sibyl entered, vested and masked. The audience began.

While I waited for the Sibyl to utter her verses, I contemplated the misshapen mass of elements, the meteorite in its crib of iron. No chisel or hammer had ever touched it. The familiar pattern of eyes, nose, and mouth seemed to materialize now in one place on its lumpy surface, now in another, no two alike, except in being inscrutable, inhuman, impersonal. The Image wasn’t an image, but it was more than the mere absence of an image. It was the negation of the very possibility of creating an image.

At times, though, I fancied that it was the back of a figure whose face was too fearful to be seen. It was bloodthirsty, too, somehow, its pockmarks like mouths screaming for food. Then I saw only a lump of matter once again, and imagined it spinning through the abyss, one side scorched by the sun and the other at absolute zero, until it finally plunged into the desert to be found by a lonely herder.

For a long time I looked at the Image, and it looked at me. Then, slowly, I came to myself. Yaneth was still kneeling beside me. The Sibyl was still in her chair. How long had it been? Had she uttered anything? I thought not. As I was trying to remember, though, she rose and went silently out of the chamber.

Yaneth rose, too, then, and stretched herself. “Are you coming, Keftu?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose so.” I got up and followed her out into the garden. “So long,” I said, striding toward the gates, bitter at heart.

“Wait,” called Yaneth. I halted but didn’t turn. “Take me with you,” she said.

“Do you know what sort of life I lead?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No family?”

An anguished sigh escaped her. “Only a cousin,” she said. “He’d gone to Enoch to seek his half-sister, a former handmaid of the Sibyl. He returned the day I met you. I asked him to spy on the Vicar for me, and now he’s vanished. I fear the worst. His blood is on my hands. There’s nothing for me here.”

I dug the toe of my sandal into the gravel of the walk. “I can’t take you with me,” I said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Keftu,” she said.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t finish telling you about my dream.”

“Yes?”

“The thing from the bolg found us looking at the mountain. It devoured us.” She fell silent a moment. “This is it between us, isn’t it? This is how it ends.”

“So long, Yaneth,” I said. I went out. Scarlet sunlight was spilling into the street.

*          *          *          *          *

The High Road to Afram climbed a dry, winding valley between slopes of igneous scree, skirting the cratered mass of Tenif Elta before curving around to the northwest and dropping down toward the terminus.

As I rounded the first bend, cutting off Moabene from sight, Stilerich strode out from behind a boulder. His head was bandaged. He stood squarely in the middle of the road while I approached.

“You made a fool of me,” he said. “And you spoiled our arrangements in the city. Do you know how far you’ve set us back?”

“Take it up with your master,” I said. “He apparently knew who I was before you brought me to him.”

“That isn’t the only reason I’m here.”

“No?”

“Did you see his face?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Did…did he let you?” There was something perversely adolescent about the way he put the question, despite his being twice my age or older.

“No, not exactly,” I said.

He seemed relieved. Drawing himself up, he said, “I cannot leave alive one who has seen
him
and yet forsakes his company.”

“Stand aside, Stilerich,” I said. “I have no quarrel with you.”

But he drew his sword, so I was forced to draw mine. All at once we were lunging and lashing at each other like two rutting schyrothim. Soon the stones were sprinkled with our blood. Though I was no very great swordsman, Stilerich was fatigued by the blow he’d received the night before and was soon staggering. As he tried to leap back from a slashing stroke of my sword he stumbled and fell.

I set the point of my blade at his throat. “Yield!” I demanded.

“Never! Kill me now, maugreth, or die without honor!”

I stepped back and sheathed my sword. “Haven’t you heard?” I said. “I have no honor.” I continued up the road.

“Arrasene!” Stilerich called after me. “Don’t think you can escape. Do you not know what is happening? The end of all things is upon us.
He
is coming. Behold, he stands at the door of Enoch and knocks. And when he enters, he will ascend on high and judge all according to their merits. He holds a sickle in one hand and scales in the other. There will be no place to hide, neither helot’s den nor hanging garden. All will lie open to his gaze, even the innermost secrets of men’s hearts. Even now he watches us, judging all that we do. He will go on from victory to victory, for fate has predestined him god-emperor of the world.”

Without turning or answering, I continued on my way to Afram.

*          *          *          *          *

I felt eyes on me through every moment of my trek. The road was empty, but the land was watchful. Even the faceless crags seemed to observe with feigned indifference my progress through the high houseless stones.

I came within sight of Afram in the afternoon. It lay in a basin that sloped down to a notch between the western peaks like a cascade of concrete and mud brick and sheet metal pouring into the throat of a tilted funnel. Through the notch could be glimpsed the illimitable wastes, and through it ran the tracks that soared out toward the Deged, the Ilissus valley, and Enoch.

I made my way to the terminus, where Althea’s ring acted as a talisman, opening the gates and obtaining me a ticket. The Sibyl’s influence was subtle but pervasive.

The platform was bleak in the sun. I looked furtively about. The youths that loitered beyond the tracks, the logothetes at their desks, my soon-to-be fellow passengers: all seemed to be covertly eyeing me. Perhaps one among them was my betrayer.

There was a cacophony of mechanical shrieks as a passenger coach was pushed into the station from farther up the mountain. It was almost time to depart. Once more I looked around the platform. Now I glimpsed a familiar figure outlined against the glare of a white building. I averted my eyes, but too late.

Glancing again, I saw Secherim advancing through the scattered groups of passengers with the trajectory of an arrow speeding to its mark, as though his high, pointed forehead were the tip of the flying bolt.

He sidled up to me. “Well, well!” he said, leaning over confidentially although speaking quite loudly. “It
is
you! I thought so. Just imagine! You don’t fool me. Thought you could escape me, eh? Eh?”

“What’s that?” I said, looking up at him. “Have we met?”

“Going somewhere? Eh? Back to Enoch? Not very loyal of you, is it? I thought you had entered the Sun Mage’s service.”

I sighed, seeing that I would have to take some sort of action. “Isn’t there a place where we can talk?” I asked, jingling the purse the Sibyl had given me.

“Oho!” said Secherim, his ears pricking up. “Well, I, let’s see…”

“I saw some empty waiting rooms,” I said. “Let’s go into one of those. I don’t want all these people to hear.” Secherim led the way gleefully, cracking his knuckles and chuckling to himself. My eyes narrowed on the sinuous form before me.

Bleary windows looked out from two walls of the room. A yellow gas lamp suspended from the ceiling accentuated the extreme shabbiness of the place. There were a few chairs with frayed bottoms and several end tables heaped with handbills, among which were some of Secherim’s tracts.

“Well?” he asked, rubbing his palms together, running his red tongue over his lips. I closed the door, taking in my surroundings with quick, measured glances. My hand was clenched in a hard first. I drew back my elbow. Secherim began to put up his hands. He was too late.

I drove my middle knuckle into the tip of his sternum, which projected from his narrow chest like a proffered target. He crumpled in half. I drew back my fist and flashed it upward into his face. I struck lower than I’d intended, cutting my knuckles a bit, wetting my fingers with blood and saliva. As part of the same motion I hooked my foot behind his legs and kicked hard.

He fell to the floor, clutching at the furniture, striving to rise, striving to breathe. Seizing a chair by the back, I swung it slowly up over my head and brought it down. One of its rungs struck the bulb in its descent. The lamp swung violently back and forth, the shadows writhing on the floor like living things. But Secherim was down, a motionless wreck amid splintered wood and unraveled caning.

I was the last to board the coach. Most of the windows were open, being too dusty to see out through otherwise. I went all the way to the back and dropped into a corner where I could see the door of the waiting room. Something tickled my hand. I glanced down, and saw that my knuckles were torn and bleeding. I covered it with my other hand. Still no one had gone near the room. There had been no sign of Secherim.

The last call was made, the doors were shut, and the coach lurched into motion. It was pushed slowly down through the city to be joined to the rest of the train. Several minutes later we were moving again. I watched the walls of the notch fall away on either hand. The train picked up speed. The Deserits fell behind like a bad dream.

54 Preparations

The freighter slowed to a crawl several miles south of my island. I slipped out and climbed down to the inner causeway and went north.

It was the second day after my encounter with Stilerich and Secherim. The return journey had been uneventful. The logothetes on the Deged had let me pass unmolested, for to them I was just a Druin with a pass. It was strange, though, that the Cheiropt searched outward-bound trains so carefully, questioning every passenger, while those bound for the world-city were given only a cursory inspection.

Later on, as the train was crossing the Ilissus gorge bridge, I’d had the impression that I was crossing a threshold from outer to inner space. The Hanging Gardens seemed more a part of that world than did the far-flung wastes. The train’s roar as it passed beneath the portcullis was echoed by the garrison’s horns, the greeting of the world-city’s door wardens.

Now I was climbing the steps to my tower, now passing through its neglected lobby, now ascending to the salon. It was good to return to a familiar place. All was as I had left it. There was no sign that Arges had been there. My heart sank. I had counted on my friend’s help in what was to happen.

My armor was on the stand in the parlor. I donned it, strapped on my wing case, and went whirring over the city once again. Though it was daylight, few phylites marked my passing, for most of the districts I crossed were empty. The hoplites didn’t see me as I shot over the wall surrounding the Misfit’s zone. I alit on a tall tower overlooking the pit, folded my wings, and crouched there, watching.

The cemetery was crawling with activity like a termite colony getting ready to swarm. The airships lay in a long line down the middle, with what appeared to be a large transport ship in the center, and smaller, more agile warships before and behind.

The focus of activity was the pyramid itself. A metal scaffold and platform had been erected there, on a level with the throne room, and hung with red banners that fluttered in the sultry breeze. There were no signs of the ova or of Zilla, but an empty rail-car sat on the viaduct.

I weighed the merits of open attack. There was no telling where the ova might be. Presumably Jairus had learned his lesson about leaving them inadequately guarded. It would take a long time even to find them, and I would be a moving target for crossbows and flamethrowers every minute of it. Even my armor wouldn’t be able to protect me from that onslaught.

So I dove off the tower, extended my wings, and went soaring along a southbound street below the level of the rooftops. The hoplites looked up as my shadow shot across the wall. When I reached the avenue that led to the library I mounted up higher and circled around toward the building where Jubah and Bulna were staying.

Reluctant to let them see me in my armor, I landed on the roof and took it off, hiding it in a disused storage room. The door to the stairs was locked, but a fire escape clung to the side of the building. I dropped down to it and went from landing to landing until I found a vacant flat with an unlocked window. I crossed to the corridor and made my way to my friends’ apartment.

They didn’t answer to my knock, but the door was unlocked, so I pushed my way inside. Bulna was stretched out on his mattress. Jubah was on the divan with his feet propped up on one arm. He was snoring and drooling. Dreary, late-morning light filtered through the blinds. The air was uncomfortably stuffy.

I crossed quietly to the kitchenette and opened up the cabinets, which were mostly bare. My friends either ate elsewhere or ate very poorly. I downed a few pickled eggs and fruitcakes, then took a swig of mescat from the bottle.

They were still asleep, so I went into the living room and coughed. Neither stirred. “Good morning,” I said.

Bulna sat up slowly, blinking sleep out of his watery, red-rimmed eyes. He frowned with confusion, then saw me. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, yawning. “Jubah! Hey, Jubah! Wake up!”

Jubah snorted and choked. He sat up, coughing. “What? What is it?”

“Keftu’s here.”

“Uh? Oh. Hello, Keftu. You surprised me. Thought you were going to the Deserits or something.”

“I’ve already been there and back,” I said.

Jubah laughed. His laugh turned into a cough. “What?” he choked. “It’s been only…what? A week or two? Didn’t you go there to, er, gather evidence for us?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Well? Where is it?”

“Keep your eyes open and you’ll see something. That’s what I came to tell you. My trip was unsuccessful in its main purpose, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean, Keftu?”

“I don’t have time to explain. Forces of chaos are about to erupt over the city. It’ll begin in the Misfit’s quarter. Don’t go out today if you can help it. If you want to see something interesting, go up a few stories and watch from a window. But be prepared to take cover.”

They were both looking at me, mouths agape. “I’ve been thinking,” I went on. “I know you don’t have your evidence yet, so you don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to tell you about it while it’s fresh on my mind. I went to that carnival in Sand City. I’d never seen anything like it, but it reminded me of something. Nearby here is a place—it’s an island, almost—crowded with old machines like what I saw up north. Rides and gauntlets and such.”

“I know it,” said Bulna. “Under the viaduct to Bel. It’s called Mona. But do you know how long those things have been sitting there?”

“They weren’t all in such bad condition. With some work they might be made to run again. Think about it! We could pull them to pieces and travel from place to place. Along the songlines, like I suggested. That’s how we’d make our money. A traveling carnival. Do you see? We could stage exhibitions with wild beasts, hold processions, have a gallery of misfits and…and phylites. It would be like Pinky’s, only…not like Pinky’s. It would be an exodus within. There’s a man I know—the announcer from the pit where we fought—who might be able to help.

“Don’t answer me yet. Wait until tomorrow. If I’m still alive, I’ll come find you, and we’ll discuss it again. If I don’t show up, well, then you’ll know what happened.

“That’s about all. Wish me well, for today’s my birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” said Bulna.

“Many happy returns,” said Jubah.

“Thank you,” I said. And with that I left. I returned to the roof, put my armor back on, and winged my way to my refuge.

Once again there was no sign of the cyclops. I realized I’d been hoping that Arges would turn up during the time I was gone. I clenched my fists. Now my sword was all that stood between Enoch and forces of dissolution. I drew Deinothax and looked at it. Its edge was keen now, at least.

I went into the parlor with my armor still on and sat in my chair. The world’s grinding machinery threatened to crush me like an insect crawling through the gears. For the first time in a long time it struck me how alone, how very alone, I was. My insides seemed to be tying themselves in knots.

I jerked myself out of the chair and strode into the salon. The pipe organ caught my eye. I thrust the thought away, pained by it. Music had no place here. Soon I would wing my way to the necropolis, to throw myself against an army of urban warriors and hosts of living blasphemies, to die alone. The pursuit of beauty was for times of peace.

But then like a bolt of lightning it struck me that there would never be peace in my life. I would always have to fight, would always be harried and oppressed. The future was a long road that ran before my feet into darkness. It had a bad ending, perhaps; and perhaps the badness would be senseless and thoroughly my own fault. And so there would never be a better time than now, because there would never be a time at all.

Like a sleepwalker I paced toward the organ, stripping my armor off piece by piece and letting it lie where it fell on the floor. I worked the pump and set my fingers to the keys. An abyssal elegy poured out of me, a dim reflection of what had drawn me through the fossil city of Cormrum.

Afternoon was progressing toward evening when I pushed back from the instrument. I went out and surveyed the city. It, too, was a fossil. Its people, invisible from where I stood, enjoyed near-perfect freedom, for this was the Age of Peace. Deep within its decaying heart, a liminal being was preparing to unleash forces that would at last grant it perfect freedom, the freedom of disorder.

I donned my armor and leaped off the parapet. I was going to stop it, if I could.