The Summer Thieves

by Paul Di Filippo

  The illumination in their chilly room in the Spires came from lighted wicks floating in bowls of some kind of organic oil, casting wavery shadows, and Johrun had a fleeting hallucination of being sent back in time to some antique era of Gaia’s long history.

  At last they finished, as best they could, and just at the moment when their comrades arrived. Celestro and Taryn, lodged one floor below in the ice tower, brought their own contributions to the anticipated success in the morning of Johrun’s dangerous ascent of one of the natural ice spikes.

  “Here you go,” said Taryn, handing over the gloves she had modified as partially fingerless. “With luck, your hands will stay warm, and yet you can find your holds.”

  “What of the shoes?” asked Lutramella.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Here they are.”

  Lutramella had donated her special footwear purchased on Bodenshire. Lacking a rigid sole, the splice’s flexible shoes would afford Johrun’s feet more responsive purchase on the climb. But gussets had had to be inserted to allow for Johrun’s wider foot.

  Needles and tough surgical thread from their medical kit had been invaluable in this hasty retrofitting.

  Johrun laid out his gear and studied the pieces. “I suppose this is good as it gets with what we’ve got. And if I had not often climbed the Salazar Escarpment and other rock faces on Verano before, no amount of gear would help me.”

  Celestro stepped forward with a handful of nutriment bars. “I’ve selected the comestibles from our stock that should provide the largest metabolic boost and aid your glycogen processing. Consume them at least an hour before dawn.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And then there is this.”

  Celestro removed from an inner pocket of his billowy blouse a small flat leather case. He flipped open the case to reveal a rank of one-shot injectables. He selected a certain unit from its cradle.

  “Luckily, Suppressor nanomites have no grudge against mere chemicals and biologics, even while they deny the more sophisticated products of the Smalls and Pollys. This is a very affable stimulant which should provide you with increased mental acuity, heightened proprioception, and an abundance of energy. The payback when it wears off is somewhat onerous. But I think you’ll foot the bill gladly. The effects are almost instantaneous, so administer at will.”

  Johrun took the drug. “This might make all the difference, Celestro. I am in your debt.”

  “Tut tut, lad. We can discuss that later. And now, we’d best all be off to sleep.”

  Celestro shook hands with Johrun and the splice. Taryn hugged and kissed both. Her lips met Johrun’s in a more than sisterly fashion. My god, he wondered, was she still thinking of his involuntary interlude with Cupuni? But before he could think how best to respond, she was gone.

  Inside the conjoined sleeping bags, Johrun wrapped his arms around Lutramella from behind, for both warmth and comfort. She nestled closer, smelling like river water and earthen dens. He expected sleep to come laggardly if at all. But he was out before he could formulate a single worry.

  A rough jostling dragged him into consciousness. An Itaskan stood beside the bed. Wan daylight leaked through the hide-covered windows.

  “Hetman Drowne and his wife await.”

  Johrun first scarfed down his food bars. He used the primitive water closet—a seat, a hole, and a chute—then dressed. Lifting his arms and widening his stance, he tested the batlike folds of cloth. He felt unconstrained by the excess material. And if he fell off the tower, the modifications might at least slow his plummet. Making sure he had the drug injector in one pocket, he descended the stairs with some care. With no melting, the ice never grew extra slippery—but it was still ice. Lutramella came right after him.

  They picked up Celestro and Taryn one flight down. Realizing there was nothing more to be said at this point, the pair merely nodded solemnly and followed.

  Outside their particular Spire, Honko Drowne looked fussy and misassembled, as if he were more used to sleeping in of a morning, rather than rising with the sun to judge the squirrel-like merits of a potential business partner who happened to be the descendant of his mortal enemy. Heavyset Anka seemed more alert, sizing up Johrun and his weird outfit quizzically, but registering no objections.

  Johrun attempted to make the all-too-human figure of the Red Lion jibe with the sanitized family legend memorialized in the statue at Danger Acres, and also with the unholy bogeyman bandit who had reaved life and wealth from so many victims across the galaxy. Drowne had attempted to humanize and endear himself yesterday as a “bad uncle,” but Johrun was under no delusions that the man would hesitate to slit Johrun’s throat if he stood in the way of the Red Lion’s desires, or if doing so would turn a profit.

  “At last!” Drowne exclaimed when he saw Johrun. “We can proceed with this festive carnival now. Breakfast awaits whether you succeed or smash! You didn’t happen to bring any mocambo with you, did you? Our supplier is late with ours, and I’d kill for a cup!”

  “Unfortunately, no, Honko. But I can offer you all the ice water you might want.”

  Drowne laughed and slapped Johrun’s back. “Save that ice water for your own veins, boy. Now, let’s pick your opponent.”

  Following Johrun’s lead, the party moved slowly among the scattered titanic residential spikes, acquiring tagalong spectators. Johrun soon found what he was looking for: a tower whose walls featured the largest proportion of useful irregularities on the side that was catching the sunlight. The small warmth and increased clarity offered by the sunlight might prove consequential.

  Johrun cast his gaze upward. Wispy clouds ambled across the aquamarine sky. Twenty stories, only fifty meters or so. He had climbed much higher in the past. But never on ice, and never after just emerging from a sickness. Still, he felt good, and counted on resting at each window opening. And on Celestro’s drug. Which he must somehow now secretly administer.

  Johrun caught Celestro’s eye, and his co-conspirator took his meaning.

  “Vir Drowne! You are a gambling man, I assume. Might I make a wager with you on the success of my comrade? Look at the quality of this ring of mine. Genuine toadstone from the Smudgepot system. Certainly you would match at least a thousand chains against it? A bagatelle for a man of your standing. And wouldn’t the ring shine fine on Mir Drowne’s dainty finger? Mir Drowne, come have a look.”

  While the Drownes were busy, Johrun hastily infused the drug. He felt its enhancements immediately. How long they would last, he could not say.

  “I’m ready now, if you don’t mind.”

  The Drownes turned their attention back to Johrun. He limbered his fingers, then began to climb.

  The icy protuberances and clefts soon rendered his fingers numb. He found he had to rely on vision to gauge the almost invisible handholds rather than touch, jamming his insensitive digits into cracks and wrapping them around lumps of ice as if they were mechanisms rather than intimate parts of his body. His feet fared better, protected by Lutramella’s slippers. But his exposed face, and even his chest and thighs beneath the clothing began to absorb the chill. How very far away any kind of summer seemed!

  Pausing to rest on one window ledge and to blow hot breath on his fingers, Johrun dared to look down. Halfway. Best to move quickly, lest the drug fade or muscles stiffen.

  He noted gratefully that the tower seemed to taper slightly from bottom to top, so that rather than facing a strictly vertical surface, he could imagine he was inching up a slope, however steep. Such mental deceits sometimes made all the difference.

  Finally, impossibly, he reached the ultimate storey. Standing on the last window ledge, he found his eyes almost level with the rooftop, just slightly below. There was no easy way to make the final surge, so he just did it before he could think about it. In one essential sequence, he braced his palms on the unseen roof, leaped upward and converted his arms to levers that would push the rest of him higher. He flopped forward at the waist onto the roof, then dragged and crab
bed himself forward until he was entirely atop the Spire. He lay exhausted for a few moments, then began to draw a knee forward and push up, so as to stand.

  Feet and legs entered his vision from across the width of the roof. He looked up.

  Akna Drowne stood where the stairs debouched, out of sight of those on the ground. With her were two more Itaskans. Without a word, she gestured to her henchman. They trotted forward, picked Johrun up by ankles and wrists and slung him into space.

  In mid-air Johrun tried to spin around like a cat to face the earth. He whipped out his arms and spread his legs. He could feel the wind catch in the extra folds of cloth. Stitches tugged, then held. He seemed to be dropping more slowly. Familiar instincts from his low-mass gliding pursuits back home took over. He banked and curved down, moving much faster than desirable, but not, he hoped, at bone-breaking speed. He caught a glimpse of the people below racing to position themselves to intercept his landing. A patch of ground seemed more snow than ice, and he aimed for it.

  Just before impact he curled himself up as best he could. No way he could land on his feet without shattering both legs . . .

  The patch was indeed mostly snow. But there was plenty of hard ice as well that dug and clawed.

  The breath was knocked out of him. He half skidded, half rolled, half plowed, yet held on to consciousness.

  By the time the crowd reached him, he was actually able to get upright under his own power. But one wrist felt useless, and every other part ached.

  Lutramella and Taryn moved to help support him. They gave him water and a bar.

  Drowne glared for a whole minute at Johrun, during which time Akna made her uncommented-on return. Finally the Red Lion said, “You achieved the top. That met the test, and was indeed a feat. Well done. But then you failed somehow, with victory so close, and nearly ensured your doom. Not good. Shows a sloppiness that could ruin any scheme. Do you have an explanation?”

  Drowne looked at Akna, who returned his gaze with an ultimate sangfroid.

  “No. Your assessment is substantially correct.”

  “And you also revealed a certain level of chicanery, a coward’s precautions. What were you really risking, given that you could always fall back on that sneaky contraption?”

  “Don’t you prefer your partners to anticipate all contingencies and be nimble?”

  “Bah! That is the mincing logic of a scholiast, not the bold attitude of someone who could guard my back when I exposed myself to the Quinary. No, I think this test, however amusing, proves I would be unwise to place my fate in your hands. And besides, in the end, why should I help anyone who bears the hated name of Corvivios? Our dealings are at an end. You may stay the night here, and then be gone. We will see in the morning if I choose to provide a ride back to your ship. Or perhaps I will decide to keep you all here for a while, in order to examine your imperfections more closely.”

  Drowne turned away. He placed an arm around his wife and said, “Your notion to test this fellow was most wise, pet. We learned that the rot in the Corvivios line is still extant.” They walked off together.

  Johrun felt on the verge of collapse. All this effort, risking death, for nothing.

  Celestro sought to buck him up. “I know just how you feel, lad. Utterly shattered. Me too. There’s no chance I can claim my winnings of a thousand chains from that peevish rascal now.”

  Honko Drowne was a stickler for ceremony and for carrying out his hostly duties. Or perhaps he merely relished any excuse to indulge his appetites with a banquet. Or perhaps he was simply hungry for company. Johrun could not imagine that he received too many visitors. All his old comrades from his corsair days were dead or imprisoned or on the run. And while the Itaskans, like any nation, had their own rich culture, its dimensions fell more along the lines of composing epic poems about soggy maritime hunts than debating the acting talents of the latest Pondicherry dream queens. Or perhaps Drowne simply enjoyed lording it over people, exhibiting his superiority.

  Or perhaps his sadism was immeasurable.

  After crushing Johrun’s hopes, Drowne had pretended that their visit was still an ongoing pleasant affair, and insisted on treating them like tourists. Johrun—once his wrist and ribs were taped up, and primitive pain pills ingested—had been forced to accompany his friends on a tour of the Spires conducted by Drowne himself. They visited native workshops and child nurseries, kitchens, and butchers, a boatmaker’s yard, full of small skin-sheathed kayaks. Celestro took a seemingly unfeigned interest in the sights, commenting that he was surprised that the Itaskans enjoyed access to tools forged of metal and not just bone.

  “All my doing,” said Drowne. “Every bit of worked metal is imported. But I don’t begrudge spending a few chains here and there on my people if it makes their lives easier. My treasury is sufficiently large not to notice such trivial disbursements.”

  “Might we be privileged to see this repository of the, ah, levies you formerly made upon the citizens of the Quinary?”

  “Ha! You’d love to rummage among my valuables, wouldn’t you! But no, I fear that stop is off the itinerary. However, I will show you my pride and joy.”

  A large, anomalously modern outbuilding alongside one of the towers, a prefab geodesic dome of plastic panels, held what Drowne laughing called “my chariot.”

  The vehicle consisted of a single enormous wheel of deft engineering, plainly an import as well. Its inner rim or track supported a passenger sphere—with door and windows—riding on its own wheeled undercarriage. From two opposite points on the sphere’s equator, fittings supported a worm harness.

  “You understand the concept of a monowheel, I hope. The outer wheel, the part that actually traverses the ground, is propelled by the motion of the inner wheel—or sphere in this case— as it attempts to climb the inner rim, forcing the outer wheel to turn. Something like a toy ball with a rodent inside, a simple fulfillment of gravity. Generally, the inner device is motorized. But that can’t be on Itaska. And so I simply hitch this to my monstrous Tizheruk, and off I go, monarch of all the lands I crisscross!”

  “Fabulous! Such a feeling of freedom. You are indeed a lucky ruler.”

  This excruciating forced march occupied most of the day, leaving Johrun utterly debilitated by the time they were allowed to return to their quarters, in the late afternoon.

  “You may rest for approximately three hours. And then I command your presence in my quarters for our feast. And I shall expect the promised entertainment from our conjurer.”

  Johrun fell like a sack of bricks onto the pile of furs. Without being asked, Lutramella commenced a massage. Soon he drifted off to sleep.

  When he awoke, he felt a little better, and was actually somewhat hungry.

  “It’s time to go down,” said Lutramella.

  “I hardly care what happens downstairs, so long as we are fed first.”

  “I would not presume to guess at our fate, Joh. But it might not be what at first seems most likely.”

  At the landing of Celestro’s quarters, they encountered Taryn and her owner, ready to descend. From his pack, Celestro had selected a costume of surpassing gaudiness, all colored silks and scintillant spangles.

  Johrun was not inclined to applaud Celestro’s panache. “You resemble one of those gimcrack mechanisms used to scare away mist weevils from the millet fields on Legato Prime.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving, as the bacillus said to the emperor.”

  “Why is your assistant not garbed likewise?”

  “I thought it best not parade her opulent charms before Queen Akna.”

  “Yes, a smart move. The Queen is a jealous and vengeful sort. Well, let’s go have our last meal.”

  “Remain sanguine, my friend! You have the Omnipotent Celestro at your side.”

  The room where Johrun and Lutramella had been first received by the Drownes was laid out with a fine array of foods and drink. Familiar imported viands from many worlds of the Quinary found local rivals, such as bra
ised pinniped snouts, dewhiskered, and stuffed albatross. A plethora of candles contributed both heat and light.

  From his perch, Honko Drowne welcomed them heartily. “Fill your plates, lounge at ease! The evening is just beginning.”

  From the cohort of attendant Itaskans emerged a trio of musicians. Their instruments were fashioned of baleen and strung with dried fish guts, and rendered a shrill cocophany, presumably by intention.

  Johrun ate with abandon and drank numerous goblets of some kind of pink alcoholic fizz. By the time Celestro was summoned to perform, Johrun was feeling pleasantly apathetic. Let his foolish quest expire in a fug of grease and alcohol.

  The entertainer recapitulated many of the tricks he had done onboard the Mummer’s Grin en route to Itaska: things turned into other things, and either manifested where they should not be, or disappeared from where they should be.

  Then, with Drowne roaring with laughter, and even Akna looking amused, Celestro embarked on a new routine.

  “Now, Vir Drowne, with your kind permission, I shall attempt to becloud your senses and impose a new and foreign mindset on you. Are you willing to proceed?”

  “The robust persona of Honko Drowne is invincible! Try your best to overwhelm it!”

  Celestro brought his face into proximity with Drowne’s and locked eyes with him. “Feel my ineffable soul effusions as they seep into yours!” Celestro slowly raised both hands and dropped them upon Drowne’s bulky shoulders. The Red Lion gave a start, as if pricked. A sudden lassitude swamped his being.