Juxtaposition (2 page)

“Aye,” she said. She brought out a small object. Apparently she could carry clothing and objects on her per son even in wolf form, though none of it showed then.
 
Clef looked at the thing. It appeared to be a tiny doll’s house. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“It is an amulet,” she explained. “Invoke it.”

“Invoke it?” he asked blankly.

She nodded. “Set it down first, man.”

He set it on the ground. “Uh, I invoke thee.” The amulet expanded. Clef stepped back, alarmed. The thing continued to grow. Soon it was the size of a dog house, then a playhouse. Finally it stood complete: a small, neat, thatch-roofed log cabin.

“Well, I never!” Clef exclaimed. “A magic house!” Serrilryan opened the door and entered. Clef followed, bemused. Inside was a wooden table with two chairs and a bed with a down quilt. Clef contemplated this with a certain misgiving, realizing that there were two of them and only one sleeping place. “Um—“ She phased back to canine form and curled herself up comfortably on the floor at the foot of the bed. That solved the problem. She needed no human props and would be there if anything sought to intrude during the night. Clef was getting to appreciate werewolves.
 
He accepted the bed gratefully, stripped away his ungainly clothing, lay down, and was soon asleep.
 

Stile’s consciousness resumed as Clefs faded. Sheen was still stroking his hair, as tireless as a machine. “I never realized he would have so much trouble,” Stile murmured.
 
He told her of his dream. “I’m used to Phaze now, but it was quite an adjustment at first. I forgot all about Clef, and I shouldn’t have.”

“Go back to sleep,” she told him.

“That amulet—that would have been fashioned by the Red Adept. She’s gone now, because of me. I really should see about finding a new Adept to make amulets; they are too useful to be allowed to disappear.”

“I’m sure you will,” Sheen said soothingly.

“Phaze needs amulets.”

She picked up his head and hugged it against her bosom, smotheringly. “Stile, if you don’t go to sleep voluntarily—“ He laughed. “You’re a bitch.”

“A female werewolf,” she agreed. “We do take good care of wayward men.”

They did indeed. Stile drifted back to his dream.
 
Next morning Serrilryan brought some excellent fruit she had foraged. They ate and prepared to resume the inarch. “This cabin—can it be compressed back into its token?” Clef asked.

“Nay. A spell functions but once,” she said. “Leave it; others may use it after us, or the Blue Adept may dismantle it with a spell. Most likely the Little Folk will carry it to their mountain demesnes.”

‘Yes, of course it shouldn’t be wasted,” Clef agreed.
 
They walked. His legs were stiff from the prior day’s swift walk. The wolfsbane had worn off, and Serrilryan did not offer more. It was dangerous to overuse such magic, she said. So they progressed slowly east, through forest and field, over hills and through deep gullies, around boulders and huge dense bushes. The rugged beauty of the natural landscape was such that it distracted him from his discomfort. What a special land this was! In the course of the day he heard something to the east.
 
Serrilryan’s wolf ears perked. Then he observed a column of thick, colored smoke rising from the sky. There had been a bad explosion and fire somewhere.
 
‘That is Blue fighting Red,” the bitch said knowingly.
 
“She killed him; now he is killing her.”

“I realize this is a frame of magic,” Clef said. “Even so, that does not seem to make an extraordinary amount of sense.”

“Adept fighting Adept is bad business,” she agreed.

“How could they take turns killing each other?” “There are two selves of many people, one in each frame,” she explained. “One self cannot meet the other.
 
But when one dies, there is a vacuum and the other can cross the curtain. Blue now avenges the murder of his other self.”

“Oh, I see,” Clef said uncertainly. “And must I avenge the murderer of mine other self?”

“Mayhap. Where wast thou whelped?”

“On another planet,” Clef said, surprised. “I signed for Proton serf tenure as a young man—“

“Then thy roots are not here. Thou hast no other self here, so art not barred from crossing.”

“Oh. Fortunate for me, I suppose. Dost thou also have another self in Proton?”

“Nay. But if I crossed, I would be but a cur, unable to were-change. And the hunting is not good there.”

Clef had to laugh agreement. “All too true! Proton, beyond the force-field domes, is a desert. Nothing but pollution.”

“Aye,” she agreed, wrinkling her nose. “When men overrun a planet, they destroy it.”

“Yet Stile—the Blue Adept—he is also a serf in Proton, like me.”

“He was whelped on Proton. His root is here.” Clef watched the dissipating grotesqueries of the cloud of smoke. “I’m glad I’m not his enemy!” He resumed slogging forward. At this rate he would be lucky to travel ten miles by dusk.

Actually, he realized, it might be just as well to take several days before reaching the Little Folk. There was a tremendous amount to learn about Phaze, and this slow trek was an excellent introduction. When he finally did arrive, he would have a much better comprehension of the frame, and know how to deport himself. With all the pitfalls of magic, he needed that experience.
 
The werebitch paced him uncomplainingly. She shifted from form to form at need, conversing when he wished, scouting when there was anything suspicious in the vicinity. Finally he asked her: “Is this not an imposition, Serrilryan, for thee, shepherding a novice while thy Pack is active elsewhere?”

“I am oath-friend to Neysa the unicorn,” she replied.
 
“For her would I shepherd a snow-demon halfway to Hell.”

“Halfway?”

“At that point, the demon would melt.” She smiled tolerantly. “Besides which, this is easy duty for an old bitch.
 
I am sure the Blue Adept has excellent reasons to convey thee to the Mound Demesnes.” She considered. “If I may inquire—?”

“I am to play the Platinum Flute for the Mound Folk, to enable them to ascertain whether I am the one they call the Foreordained. That is all I know—except that my life will have little purpose if I can not keep this ultimate instrument.”

“The Foreordainedl” she exclaimed. “Then is the end of Phaze near!”

“Why? I consider it to be a pretentious, perhaps nonsensical title, to say the least, and of course there is no certainty that I am the one they seek. I am merely a fine musician and a rather good fencer. What have I to do with the fate of a land of magic?”

“That is all I know,” she admitted. “Be not affronted, Clef-man, if I hope thou art not he.”

“I take no affront from thee, bitch.” He had long since realized that the term he had considered to be uncomplimentary was the opposite here.

“Thou dost play the flute well?”

“Very well.”

“Better than Blue?”

“Aye. But I decline to play this particular instrument in the frame of Phaze until I meet the Mound Folk. It is said the mountain may tremble if—“

“Aye, wait,” she agreed. “No fool’s errand, this.” “Dost thou like music, Serrilryan?”

“Some. Baying, belike, at full moon.”

“Baying is not my specialty. I could whistle, though.”

“That is music?” she asked, amused.

“It can be, properly executed. There are many types of whistles. Hand-whistling can resemble a woodwind.”

“Aye, with magic.”

“No magic, bitch. Like this.” He nibbed his hands together, convoluted his long fingers into the appropriate configuration, and blew. A fine, dear pipe note emerged.
 
He adjusted his fingers as if tuning the instrument and blew again, making a different pitch. Then he essayed a minor melody.

The sound was beautiful. Clef had not exaggerated when he claimed to play well; he was probably the finest and most versatile musician on the planet. His crude hands produced prettier music than that of most other people using fine instruments.

Serrilryan listened, entranced, phasing back and forth between her forms to appreciate it in each. “That is not magic?” she asked dubiously when he paused.

“I know no magic. This is straight physical dexterity.”

“Never have I heard the like!” she exclaimed. “The Blue Adept played the Flute at the Unolympics, and methought that was the most perfect melody ever made. Now I think thou mightest eclipse it, as thou sayest. Canst thou do real whistling too?”

Clef smiled at her naivete. He pursed his lips and whistled a few bars of classical music eloquently. She was delighted.

So they continued, and in the evening he serenaded her with a whistle concert. Squirrels and sparrows appeared in nearby trees, listening raptly. Clef had discovered how to relate to the wild creatures of this lovely wilderness world.
 
This night the werebitch had located a serviceable cave to sleep in. They piled straw and fern for a bed, and she curled up by the entrance. It was a good night. He was getting to like Fhaze.

Stile woke again. “Time to go for the Game,” he mumbled.

“Not yet. Sleep,” Sheen said. She was a machine, indefatigable; she could sit up and hold him indefinitely and was ready to do so. She was his best and perhaps his only personal friend in this frame. She had saved his life on several occasions. He trusted her. He slept.
 
The third day Clef found his muscles acclimatizing, and he traveled better. But the world of Phaze seemed restless.
 
There was the sound of horse or unicorn hooves pounding to the east, and a lone wolf passed nearby. “What’s going on?”

“The Red Adept has sprung a trap on the Blue Adept,” Serrilryan said, having somehow picked up this news from the pattern of baying and the musical notes of the distant unicorns. “He is badly injured but can not cross the curtain for magic healing, for that a basilisk has hold of him.
 
It is very bad.” Indeed, she was worried and, when she returned to bitch-form, her hackles were ruffled. Clef, too, was concerned; he had known Stile only a few hours be-fore their parting, but liked him well and wished him well.
 
There seemed to be nothing he could do, however.
 
But later the situation eased.

“They have saved him,” Serrilryan reported. “He is weak, but survives.”

Clef’s own tension abated. “I am exceedingly glad to hear that. He lent me the Platinum Flute, and for this marvelous instrument I would lay down my life. It was the sight of it that brought me here, though I am wary of the office it portends.”

“Aye.”

In the afternoon they heard a sudden clamor. Some thing was fluttering, squawking, and screeching. The sounds were hideous, in sharp contrast to the pleasure of the terrain.

Serrilryan’s canine lip curled. Quickly she shifted to human form. “Beast birds! Needs must we hide.” But it was not to be. The creatures had winded them, and the pursuit was on. “Let not their filthy claws touch thee,” the werebitch warned. “The scratches will fester into gangrene.” She changed back to canine form and stood guarding him, teeth bared.

The horde burst upon them. They seemed to be large birds—but their faces were those of ferocious women.
 
Clef’s platinum rapier was in his hand, but he hesitated to use it against these part-human creatures. Harpies—that was what they were.

They gave him little opportunity to consider. Three of them flew at his head, discolored talons extended. “Kill!
 
Kill!” they screamed. The smell was appalling.
 
Serrilryan leaped, her teeth catching the grimy under belly of one bird. Greasy feathers fell out as the creature emitted a shriek of amazing ugliness. Immediately the other two pounced on the wolf, and two more swooped down from above.

Clef’s misgivings were abruptly submerged by the need to act. There seemed to be no chance to reason or warn; he simply had to fight.

Clef was aware that the werewolf had taken his remark about his skill at fencing to be vanity, for he was hardly the warrior type. However, he had spoken the truth. The rapier danced before him. In seven seconds he skewerd four harpies, while Serrilryan dropped the fifth, dead.
 
The remaining beast birds now developed some crude caution. They flapped and bustled, screeching epithets, but did not charge again. Their eyes were on the gleaming platinum weapon; they had suddenly learned respect.
 
Clef took a step toward them, and the foul creatures scattered, hurling back one-syllable words fully as filthy as their feathers. This threat had been abated.
 
“Thou art quite a hand with that instrument,” Serrilryan remarked appreciatively. “Never saw I a sword stab so swiftly.”

“I never used a rapier in anger before,” Clef said, feeling weak and revolted now that the brief action was over.

“But those horrible creatures—“

“Thou didst withhold thy strike until they clustered on me.”

“Well, I couldn’t let them—those claws—“

“Aye,” she said, and went canine again.
 
But there was something wrong. She had tried to conceal it, but his reaction to this combat had made him more perceptive to physical condition. “Wait—thou hast been scratched!” Clef said. “Thy shoulder’s bleeding!”