Split Infinity (27 page)

What had happened? A moment ago there had been no slightest sign of bad weather. Stile knew storms could develop quickly—he had taken a course in primitive-world meteorology, and often visited the weather dome for demonstrations—but this had been virtually instantaneous. He had been playing his harmonica, trying to trigger whatever monstrous force was lurking, to bring it somehow to bay, then idly likened the effect to—

“I did it!” he cried. “I invoked the storm!” Like the amulet, it had been there to be commanded, and he had innocently done so.

“Storm abate!” he cried.

The two of them were almost swept from their impromptu nest by another savage bout of wind. The storm was not, it seemed, paying heed.

Yet this power was somehow keyed to him. He had invoked the storm; was he unable to banish it? He had evoked the demon from the amulet, before; that had evidently been a one-way thing. But a storm? Was it impossible to put this genie back in the bottle?

It was hard to concentrate, in this buffeting and wet and light and noise. But he tried. What, specifically, had he done to bring this about? He had played music, and the storm-spirit had loomed close without striking.
 
Then he had said, “Almost the form of an electrical storm.” An accidental rhyme, of no significance.

Rhyme? Something nagged him. When the harmonica had appeared, so fortuitously—what had he said? Hadn’t it been—yes. “A harmonica is what you play. I wish I had one here today.” Something like that.

Joke doggerel. Two times he had spoken in rhyme, and two times he had been answered. Of course there had been other magic, like the attacking demon of the amulet. No rhymes there. But—worry about that later; it might be a different class of magic. Now, try to abate this tempest. Abate—what rhymed with that? Fate, late, plate. Try it; all he could do was fail.

“Storm abate; you’re making me late!” he cried.

The storm lessened, but did not disappear. He was on to something, but not enough. Half a loaf. What else had he done, those other two times?

Neysa played a note on her horn. The storm had eased, so she preferred to stand. She felt most secure on all four feet

That was it! He had been blowing his horn—in a manner. The harmonica. Making music, either singing or playing.

Stile brought out his wet harmonica and played a soggy passage. Then he stopped and sang in an impromptu tune: “Storm abate. You’re making me late!”

This time the storm lessened considerably. The lightning stopped, and the rain slacked to a moderate shower. But it still wasn’t gone.

“Neysa, I think I’m on to something,” he said. “But I don’t really have the hang of it yet. I think I can do magic, if I can only get the rules straight.”

The unicorn gave him a long look whose import was unclear. Evidently she distrusted this development, but she made no comment. And he marveled at it himself: how could he, .the child of the modem civilized galaxy, seriously consider practicing magic?

Yet, after what he had experienced in this frame, how could he not believe in magic?

They resumed their journey, plodding through the drizzle. After an hour they got out of it, and the sun warmed them. They did not make music. Stile knew he had learned something, but not enough. Yet.

Now they settled down to serious grazing and eating—except that he had nothing to eat. Neysa had been willing to continue until she brought him to a fruit tree, but he had felt her sustenance was more important than his, at the moment. She was doing most of the work.

If he could actually do magic, maybe he could conjure some food. If he made up a rhyme and sang it-why not? What rhymed with food?

Stile was actually a poet, in a minor sense; this was yet another aspect of his Game expertise. A person had to be extremely well rounded to capture and hold a high rung on an adult ladder. He was probably more skilled in more types of things of a potentially competitive nature than anyone not involved in the Game. But he had preferred meaning to rhyme and meter, in poetry, so was ill prepared for this particular exercise.

Still, he did know the rudiments of versification, and with a little practice it should come back to him.
 
Iambic feet: da-DUM da-DUM. Pentameter: five feet per line. I wish I had a little food—iambic tetrameter, four beats. If unicorns spoke words while running, they would be excellent at poetic meter, for their hooves would measure the cadence.

“I wish I had a little food; it would really help my mood,” he said in singsong. He was not as good at improvising tunes with his voice as with an instrument.

Before him appeared a tiny cube. It dropped to the ground, and he had to search for it in the grass. He found it and held it up. It was about a centimeter on a side, and in tiny letters on one face was printed the word FOOD. Stile touched his tongue to it. Nutro-peanut butter. He ate it. Good, but only a token.

Well, he had specified “little.” That was exactly what he had gotten.

He was gaining understanding. Music summoned the magic; that was the looming power they had been aware of. Words defined it. The rhyme marked the moment of implementation. A workable system—but he had to make his definitions precise. Suppose he conjured a sword—and it transfixed him? Or a mountain of food, and it buried him? Magic, like any other tool, had to be used properly.

“I wish I had one liter of food; it would really help my mood.” Nothing happened. Obviously he was still missing something. Neysa lifted her head, perking her ears. Her hearing was more acute than his. Her head came around. Stile followed the direction her horn was pointing—and saw shapes coming toward them.

Had he summoned these? He doubted it; they hardly looked like food, and certainly not in the specified quantity. This must be a coincidental development.

Soon the shapes clarified. Four monsters. They were vaguely apelike, with huge long forearms, squat hairy legs, and great toothy, horny, glary-eyed heads. An-other variant of demon, like the one he had fought alone, or the crack-monsters, or the snow-monsters.
 
They all seemed to be species of a general class of creature that wasn’t in the conventional taxonomy. But of course unicorns weren’t in it either.

Neysa snorted. She trotted over to stand by Stile. She knew this was trouble.

“Must be a sending of my enemy,” Stile said. “When you used the amulet to heal me, it alerted the master of amulets, who it seems is not partial to me, for what reason I don’t yet know. He sent his goon squad—but we were no longer with the amulet, so they had to track us down. I’ll bet the storm messed them up, too.”

Neysa made a musical laugh through her horn—a nice effect. She liked the notion of goons getting battered by a storm. But her attention remained on those monsters, and her ears were angling back. She looked cute when her ears perked forward, and grim when they flattened back.

“I think it must be an Adept against me,” Stile continued. “Obviously it is no common peasant. But now I know I can do some magic myself, I am more confident. Do you think we should flee these monsters, and worry about when they might catch up again—such as when we are sleeping—or should we fight them here?”

It was a loaded question, and she responded properly. She swished her tail rapidly from side to side and stomped a forehoof, her horn still oriented on the goons.

“My sentiments exactly,” Stile said. “I just don’t like leaving an enemy on my trail. Let me see if I can work out a good spell to abolish them. That should be safer than indulging in physical combat. They look pretty mean to me.”

Pretty mean indeed. His tone had been light, but he already had healthy respect for the fighting capacity of demons. They were like the androids of Proton: stupid, but almost indestructible. Yet he distrusted this magic he could perform. like all sudden gifts, it needed to be examined in the mouth before being accepted whole-heartedly. But at the moment he simply had to use what was available, and hope it worked.

He concentrated on his versification as the goons approached. He could not, under this pressure, think of anything sophisticated, but so long as it was clear and safe, it would do. It had to.

The first monster loomed before them. “Monster go—I tell you sol” Stile sang, pointing.

The monster puffed into smoke and dissipated. Only a foul-smelling haze remained.

So far, so good. He was getting the hang of it. Stile pointed to the second monster. “Monster go—I tell you so!” he sang, exactly as before. Why change a winning spell?

The monster hesitated as if fazed by the bite of a gnat, then plunged ahead.

Neysa lunged by Stile and caught the demon on her horn. With one heave she hurled it over and behind.
 
The creature gave a great howl of expiration, more in fury than in pain, and landed in a sodden heap.

Why had the magic worked the first time, and not the second? He had done it exactly the same, and nearly gotten his head bitten off.

Oh, no! Could it be that a spell could not be repeated? That it worked only once? Now he remembered something that had been said by the man he met, the one who had given him the demon amulet. About having to devise a new spell each time, to step through the curtain. He should have paid better attention!

The third and fourth goons arrived together.

No time now to work up another spell! Stile drew his rapier. “I’ll take the one on the right; you take the left,” he said to Neysa.

But these two monsters, having seen the fate of their predecessors, were slightly more cautious. To be ugly was not necessarily to be stupid, and these were not really androids. They evidently learned from experience. They halted just outside the range of horn and sword. They seemed to consider Neysa to be the more formidable opponent, though Stile was sure it was him they wanted. They had to deal with her first; then they would have him at their dubious mercy. Or so they thought

While one goon tried to distract her, backing away from the unicorn’s horn, the other tried to get at her from the side. But Stile attacked the side monster, stabbing at it with his point. He wished he had a broad-sword; then he could have slashed these things to pieces. He wasn’t sure that a simple puncture would have much effect.

He was mistaken. He pricked his monster in the flank, and it howled and whirled on him, huge ham-hands stretching toward him. Stile pricked it again, in its meaty shoulder. Not a mortal wound, but it obviously hurt. At least these demons did have pain sensation; Stile had half-feared they would not. Still, this was basically a standoff. He needed to get at a vital spot, before the thing—

The goon’s arm swung with blinding speed and swept the weapon out of Stile’s hand. The thing’s eyes glowed.
 
Gratified, it pounced on him.

Stile whirled into a shoulder throw, catching the monster’s leading arm and heaving. With this technique it was possible for the smallest of men to send the largest of men flying. But this was not a man. The creature was so large and long-armed that Stile merely ended up with a hairy arm dangling over his shoulder.
 
The monster’s feet had not left the ground.

Now the goon raised its arm, hauling Stile into the air. He felt its hot breath on his neck; it was going to bite off his head!

“Oh, swell! Go to hell!” Stile cried with haphazard inspiration.

He dropped to the ground. The monster was gone.

Stile looked around, pleased. His impromptu spell had worked! It seemed this frame did have a hell, and he could send—

He froze. The other goon was gone too. So was Neysa.

Oh, no!

Quick, a counterspell. Anything! What rhymed with spell?

“I don’t feel well; cancel that spell,” he singsonged.

The two monsters and Neysa were back. All three were scorched and coated with soot.

“Monsters away; Neysa stay!” Stile sang. The goons vanished again.

Neysa looked at him reproachfully. She shook herself, making the powdered soot fly. There were sulfur smears on her body, and her mane was frizzled, and her tail was only half its normal length. Her whole body was a mass of singed hair. The whites showed all around her eyes; sure signal of equine alarm.

“I’m sorry, Neysa,” Stile said contritely. “I wasn’t thinking! I didn’t mean to send you to hell!” But he realized that wasn’t much good. She was burned and hurting. He had to do more than merely apologize.

He could do magic—if he sang a new spell every time. Could he make her well?

“To show how I feel—I say ‘Neysa, heal!’”

And before his eyes she unburned. Her mane grew out again and her tail became long and black and straight Her coat renewed its luster. Her hooves bright, but she must have had a truly disturb-ing emotional experience. A visit to hell! How could he erase that horror? Could he formulate a spell to make her forget? But that would be tampering with her mind, and if he made any similar error in definition—no, he dared not mess with that.

Neysa was looking at him strangely, as she had be-fore. Stile feared he knew why.

“Neysa—how many people on this world can perform magic like this?” he asked her. “I know most people can do minor magic, like stepping through the curtain, the way most people can pick out clumsy melodies on the harmonica. But how many can do it well?
 
Professional level? Many?”