Rift in the Races (91 page)

“It’s for Pernie, all right,” Altin said as he scanned it, “Care of Calico Castle. And me.”

“Go on,” urged Nipper. “What’s it say?”

“Attention, Sir Altin Meade,” Altin read aloud. “This is to inform you of the last wishes of Master Ilbei Spadebreaker who, having died without proper will and testament, has had his assets distributed as best accorded by the diviners on behalf of the Gravediggers Guild. By province of said wizardly inquisition, it has been determined that Master Spadebreaker’s last intent for this item was that it be made the property of one Pernie Grayborn known by Master Spadebreaker to reside at Calico Castle.” He looked up and saw that everyone was rapt and listening. He’d never known Pernie’s last name before. He’d honestly thought she didn’t have one. Perhaps a testament to the power of the diviner who had done the work. Or perhaps testament to something else. Definitely so. Fleeing from guilty introspection, he read on. “Master Spadebreaker also leaves behind a mule and a donkey, the latter in questionable condition. It seems that a Mistress Kettle, also of Calico Castle, was the person highest in Master Spadebreaker’s esteem upon his passing, and so it seems fitting that we at least offer these creatures into her keeping if she has any use for them. He was particularly fond of them.” He looked up and, of course, Kettle nodded that she would take them. Altin finished looking over the note. “That’s all of it,” he said. “It’s signed by Godfrey Mortumont, Head Gravedigger at Leekant Cemetery.”

He set the note down and went to Nipper who still held the pickaxe. “Do you mind?” he asked, reaching for it. The old steward handed it over readily enough.

“What is it?” Nipper asked, and quite obviously aware that it was a pickaxe.

Altin looked it over carefully, reading the runes traced along its curved blades. “Interesting,” he said. “A very powerful enchantment for such a strange thing. A weapon enchantment worthy of a king. You could dig through anything with this, I suspect, if you had the time and inclination.”

Kettle dabbed at her red cheeks and nodded. “Pernie was playin’ with it when Master Ilbei was here. He promised she could have it when he was done with it someday.”

“Well, he’s done with it now,” said Nipper, a bit too matter-of-factly for Kettle’s taste. She sent him a frown to let him know what she thought of that sort of disrespect.

“What could Pernie possibly want with such a thing?” Altin asked.

Nipper and Kettle both looked back at him with expressions that suggested he hadn’t thought the question out very thoroughly.

“Right,” he said, realizing what they already had, if belatedly. He handed the pick back to Nipper. “Well, it says ‘care of’ me on it, but she can have it if she wants it. I won’t stand in the way of the man’s last wish. And Pernie can handle herself around a blade. We’ve all seen it well enough now. Give it to her when she gets back. I imagine she’ll be thrilled. Just make sure she understands that it’s sharper than any knife she’s ever seen before—or likely ever will.”

Kettle frowned again, but it went away fast enough. She knew Altin was right on every point. Still she sighed.

Kettle offered to make them all lunch, including the messenger if she cared to stay. Altin’s first instinct was to go, but on second thought, he realized a full belly might be just the thing he needed to help the wine bring about the perfect degree of weariness. So he stayed. Besides, it was good to be around people that he cared so much about, people that he loved. Especially when it seemed like all the rest of the world, even the galaxy, was trying to tear itself apart.

Chapter 74

B
ack on the second level of Tytamon’s library, Altin resumed his position on the floor, putting the book once more in his lap so he could refresh his memory on the spell, despite his certainty that he would probably never, ever forget that infernal chant by now. He’d brought the jug of wine with him, which he uncorked, intent on setting straight to work drinking it. The fruity fragrance of its contents perfumed the air, deliciously sweet. He took several long pulls directly from it and discovered it was as delightful on his pallet as it was in the air. Finally a bit of luck, even if a minor bit.

He read through the spell again, realized he had it perfectly, and pushed the book aside. Two more long draughts of the fragrant wine followed, and then a sigh. Then he went back into the trance and tried to cast the spell.

On the twenty-third attempt (and half the jug of wine), he finally got it right, although if anyone had asked him later about the counting, he would not have been able to tell them if he’d done it on purpose or purely by accident.

In the teeming sea of mana, riding upon the churning whorls of its substance, Altin felt himself being slowly lifted from the conscious use of it to something outside himself. The rhythms, repeated so often, became, for the moment, permanent, like the tune one is still humming the morning after the dance. It became a normalcy, a thing that simply was, and it buoyed him up out of the mana into a new place. A place he’d never been. A place where wisps of thoughts scurried like sheet lightning across a flickering sky. Images flew by on silky threads, stretched thin beyond recognition, dark and frightening, whimsical, sexual, mundane. He couldn’t see any of them beyond the flash of light, a mosaic of shifting colors like fabric being instantly and forever woven at impossible speeds. The great tapestry of some collective dream. It was beautiful and terrifying.

He tried to find Orli’s dream. Somewhere in the dim remnant consciousness of his mind, he knew why he was here. He felt for it, for a sense of her dream. Dreams she had. Dreams of an alien world filled with love and hate.

No sooner had he finished the thought, he found himself staring at a giant black orb of impossible size. He recognized it immediately, from what he’d gleaned from Orli, perhaps, but mainly by that peculiar certainty of dreams, the concrete acceptance of remade realities that have no heritage, truths that simply
are
, no matter how absurd, knowledge without precedent functioning as law. He saw it, and he knew. It was Blue Fire.

He tried to speak to it. To send it a telepathic thought, and emotion, the same way he might have done were it Taot’s mind filling all that space. But there was nothing there. It wasn’t real. A dream. And not his. It was hers. It was Orli’s dream, and one she’d already had. He wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure if it had imprinted itself on the mana or if the mana had brought him into her memories. Was he reading her mind? Was any of what he saw even real, real in the way of remembered dreams?

All he could do was watch. Feel. Try to understand.

He felt the whole of their exchange, Orli and Blue Fire. Felt Blue Fire’s incredulity and outrage. The immensity of her love, long gone. The sense of betrayal. Orli was trying to explain the concept of a lie. Altin watched it all, felt it all play out. Felt Orli’s frustration, felt Blue Fire struggling with the paradox of things that are and are not simultaneously. Truth that is not truth. He knew what it was to lie, just as Orli had. For Blue Fire it was paradox. For him, for Orli, it was guilt. He felt ashamed of being human, just as Orli had. He wanted to apologize.

But she could not hear him. Neither of them could. Not Orli. Not Blue Fire. He could only participate in the echo of the dream. And so he did. He rode the tide of the exchange until it faded away and was gone. Replaced by his own dreams. Dreams of Orli and Thadius. Dreams of anger and sadness of his own. Dreams of his arm in agony. Real dreams. Dreams that haunted him until the next day.

He woke with the sun shining through a window on the opposite side of the room, a bright swath of it beaming across the intervening space, consumed to nothingness in places by dark rugs and clutter, but set to nearly blinding brilliance in other places where it fell upon the open pages of tomes that lay still scattered in the wake of his research. His head throbbed from too much wine, and the sunburst of the reflective pages made thunder in his brain. His back was stiff and his shoulder sore from the awkward angle his arm had taken when he’d tipped over and gone to sleep. That explained the last dream, the waking dream where his arm had been caught in the vice-like grip of a tree.

His face was wet where the wine had pooled, the jug knocked over when he fell, and the smell of it was all over him. It reminded him of the mouse so long ago now, the first victim in a long and deadly sequence of events.

He got up groggily and went down to the guest room he’d been using as his bedchamber. He washed up and changed into a clean set of robes. After a quick meal and some of Kettle’s wonderful willow powder, he was ready to get back to work. Now he knew what he had to do.

Blue Fire was real. That was a certainty now that he hadn’t had before. Orli could not have dreamed that up. He knew the difference between dream and reality, and what he’d seen, though a dream on Orli’s part, even a dream on his, dream of a dream, was not a dream without a corresponding reality. Blue Fire was real, and Blue Fire was alive.

He didn’t know what that meant, precisely, but he knew. And Orli had been right. Blue Fire was innocent. Innocent of the crime, even if guilty of the act. He had to help her. Which meant he had to find a way to speak to her. He wasn’t sure how he could make her “find” him in the same way Orli had, but he did know that if he was going to try communicating telepathically, he was going to need a Liquefying Stone. He couldn’t touch the mana near that distant sun without it, wasn’t even sure he could with it. But it was hope. Which left him with three options. The first, he could try to find the stones taken by the orcs, despite the Queen’s diviners and seers being unable to do so as of yet, not to mention Captain Andru and his men. The second, he could follow up on the conversation he’d had with the Queen—the one in which he’d had to put on the most flagrant and difficult display of evasion and dishonesty of his entire life—and go investigate the source of the two-week-long lightning storm that had raged in the Church Quarter of Leekant, which was a proposition he liked even less than facing off with the orcs. And the third option, he could go to Kolat and see if he could find another one for himself. That’s where Tytamon got the original three. He’d said the place was littered with them, so much Liquefying Stone that it was nearly impossible not to touch a piece of it even when he’d tried.

Altin was partial to the third idea. Unlike Tytamon upon his accidental discovery of Liquefying Stone all those years ago, Altin knew how to cast with the Liquefying Stone, so it shouldn’t be as dangerous for him on that front. Unless it was possible to be in contact with too much of it. Tytamon had never said anything about the amount of Liquefying Stone being used. And Altin had never tried casting with more than the one small piece he had. He suddenly wished he had at least tried with two, just to see. Tytamon would have never allowed it, though.

On the other hand, or foot, technically, he didn’t need to touch any of it. What if Tytamon and his wife hadn’t been wearing shoes? What if they’d been barefoot and therefore the stone had touched their skin? Tytamon had told him the tragic story of that trip to Kolat so long ago, he wouldn’t have remembered that detail now even if it had been included in the telling. But if that was the case, the answer was simple: Altin could go wearing boots. Or he could bring a wooden plank to stand upon. Or both. That would surely work.

Unless there was dust in the air. There might be dust. He’d have to arrive upwind. And hope the winds didn’t swirl.

He knew it was dangerous, but he didn’t think he had any other choice. He could take Taot. They could fly in. He could dismount, grab a stone at the edge of the surf and jump back on Taot’s back.

It seemed perfect until he considered that the dragon had his own animal magic. It was often remarked that dragons should not be able to fly. What would happen if the great beast used mana in some animal way while there?

Altin cursed. He would not put Taot at risk that way.

He’d have to go himself. Which meant he’d first have to find Kolat via seeing spells. That could take considerable time. And it still didn’t change the risk of dust on the wind, or some other unforeseeable accident when he tried to get back. He’d already nearly killed himself twice in as many years.

He needed a stone, but he realized the longer he thought on it that he couldn’t just teleport himself. Which meant he’d have to take a ship. Anchor off shore, take a small boat, or even swim ashore. But that would put him just as much at risk, if not more. How long had it taken for the beasts of Kolat to find Tytamon and his wife? Only moments, as Altin could recall. He could eliminate the magical dangers going by boat, but increase the danger of physical harm, both to himself and to the crew. Not to mention a crew would want to know why they were going there. And it would take a tremendous amount of time.

Perhaps, Kolat was not his best choice. Which meant he needed another way to get a Liquefying Stone.

So how?

The thought of dealing with the priests made him roll his eyes and moan. He hated dealing with those people. They made everything so awkward. They made him self-conscious. They made him mark his words. At least the smart ones did. They had a way of looking at him and listening, and turning his words back on him. They had a way of reshaping reality, turning what he knew into the evidence of some metaphor or the fulfillment of some prophesy. It was irksome. More irksome were the foolish ones, the blind ones and unthinking followers, reciting their dogma like automatons, with less understanding of what it meant with each new recitation of the words, each repetition bending the sermon they’d once heard off its original course. These were the seeds of judgment and hate, condemnation for others in the names of some deities’ eternal love. More than one had glared at him when he was in town, the title of Galactic Mage for many of the latter type might just as easily have been Nose-Tweaker of the Gods or perhaps Flouter of Holy Truth. He knew there were more than a few of the powerful Church thinkers who felt the same. And yet, it was into that tempest that he knew he had to go to find his missing Liquefying Stone. If it hadn’t been for his mistakes, they wouldn’t have it anyway, so, in the end, and with Kolat and the orcs ruled out, this course seemed the only one left.