Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  Coming to himself again, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin lifted his head and turned once more to the Weird. "How much would it cost to buy the Crystal?" The weird looked disorientated. "Is it for sale? If so, how much?"

  "Do'n sell. Neve' sell Cryst'l." The Weird shook her head violently, her limp hair flipping back and forth.

  "I see." The Mage frowned. Then he brightened. "I have another idea. Do you like to travel?"

  Golden could tell that these questions were too much for the Weird. Never in her life had she been asked these kinds of questions.

  "Soon, we'll be traveling back to Stil-de-grain. And I'd like you to come with us. I'm sure we'd be able to make it worth your while. At any rate, I'd like you to think about it. I assume that Crystals like yours are in short supply, that I can't simply buy one right off the shelf at the super ....."

  Shouts and running feet cut off the Mage in mid-sentence, the Mage, Golden and the girl spinning about to face the noise behind them in the entrance hall!

  Instantly, the room was filled with angry, sweating, stinking, plum-faced gargoyles! Men and women, mostly of middle age and of the lower classes, shaking their fists, cursing. In the chaos, the noise and the threatened violence paralyzed Golden's mind.

  It was the Mage who spoke. "May I have your attention, please?"

  At that completely unexpected request, the crowd noise lessened. "May I have your attention, ladies and gentleman?"

  And there was silence. But a frowning, thick, and ominous silence.

  The Mage was smiling. "Thank you. Perhaps someone could tell me what seems to be the matter?"

  At that, the crowd began shouting again until the Mage held up his hand for quiet, the mob hushing immediately. "You, sir," said John-Lyon-Pfnaravin to a man at the front of the crowd, "be the group's spokesman. You tell me what the trouble is."

  In spite of his own panic, Golden could feel the Mage's power. For the first time since Golden had known him, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was using the magical force of his Crystal. If Golden had ever doubted the Mage's power, he doubted it no longer! The Mage's will, amplified by his Crystal's dynamism, had stunned the room.

  "Well, sir ...," said the man named, the man unable to meet the Mage's eye, "... well sir, it be like this. This Weird, long ago it was, foretold the troubles. That we'd be short 'a the magic. Short 'a the light. An' that happened. Is happenin'. And the white animals what is comin' out of the black band, is eatin' our children. And evil is all around." He paused to glance down at his feet, then up past the Mage at the Weird. "An' it's her fault!" he said belligerently, pointing a shaky finger at the Weird, the old woman now mumbling incoherently, waving her hands as if in dialogue with herself. "She make these bad thin's happen! She knew. 'Cause she cause it!"

  "You're sure of that? That since she predicted these 'bad things,' she caused them?"

  "She got magic."

  "I thought you said you're blaming her for the loss of magic?" The Mage was still smiling. The smile of power.

  "She got bad magic. Eatin' the good magic of the light. She from the Black Band!"

  "I see. And you want her arrested. Is that it?"

  "Want to drown her! Kill her bad magic!" There were cries of agreement with that, the mob again growing ugly. "That'll stop the evil!"

  One hand stroking his hidden crystal, as if unintentionally, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin held up the other hand for quiet. And there was quiet!

  "It is evil to behave illegally," said the Mage, still with that reasonable smile. "I agree, of course, that these charges should be looked into and, if found to be true, she should be punished. And I am doing that."

  "You?" That comment bewildered the man.

  "Of course. I am from the government. We are here to arrest this Weird on the very charges you good people have brought against her. In addition, I can now report that you have done your citizens' duty by turning her over to me for judgment. If you had taken the law into your own hands, of course ...." At that, the Mage's voice fell so low that all in the room must strain to hear. "... and perpetrated violence against her, then you, yourselves, would be prosecuted." The Mage smiled a knowing smile. Continued more brightly. "It seems to me that you are quite fortunate in this matter. Your problem will be taken care of. And you will not be punished as law breakers." Golden's head swum. What could the Mage mean?

  "Well ... how do we know that you're from the king?" said another, thick-made man.

  "Because," said the Mage, shifting his gaze to stab the doubter, the Mage's odd green eyes sharpened to draw blood, "we are in disguise. It is true, is it not, that you failed to recognize us as government agents when you saw us coming down the street? You were gathering in the alleys as we came past, were you not?" There were mutterings of assent. Even in the emergency, Golden vowed to remember that the Mage saw more than he revealed. "Of course not. For we came here for the collecting of evidence -- which we now have -- against this Weird. A further proof should you still be unconvinced, is that this man is a soldier."

  Startled, Golden realized John-Lyon-Pfnaravin was pointing at him!, Golden feeling like an animal in a snare! What was expected of him!?

  "Take off your robe, soldier, and show them your uniform." ........

  Yes! The Mage had remembered that Golden was wearing the soldier's uniform under his robe.

  Seeing for the first time the direction of the Mage's thoughts, Golden stood -- stiff backed, like a member of the military -- then took off his robe for all to see.

  There were "Ahs" among the crowd.

  "And I now proclaim that this Weird is under arrest. Take charge of her, soldier."

  Without looking at her, languidly, the Mage nodded in the direction of the old woman, the Weird too stunned to understand.

  As if a soldier in John-Lyon-Pfnaravin's cadre, Golden strode around the table and seized the wrinkled harridan by the arm, her old flesh loose to the bone. "As for the rest of you, you are dismissed!" This, the Mage said as a command.

  Meekly, the crowd turned as one, jostling each other in their hurry to shuffle down the hall. Muttering. Mumbling. Whispering ...

  And they were gone.

  No longer having to act the part of arrester, Golden dropped the Weird's arm. Resisted the temptation to wipe off his hands on his soldier's tunic.

  "It seems, Madam," said John-Lyon-Pfnaravin, turning to the Weird, the old woman just sitting there, "that the prophet has been confused with the prophecy." The Mage looked ... sad. "If it's any comfort to you, this is not the only world where men hate the bearers of bad news as much as they hate those responsible for it. At any rate, it is my judgment that you are no longer safe here and that you had better come with us. It also seems to me, Golden," the Mage looked up at Golden standing beside the Weird, "that, having run this bluff, we'd better get out of town as quickly as we can. If I know people, word of this incident will spread to the king. I should think that, paranoid as he must be to prepare for war in the frenzied fashion that we've seen, his spies are everywhere -- at least one of the king's spies certain to have been in this mob that I have just dispersed with a whiff of nonsense. Once the king hears of this event, he will be more than interested to learn who is arresting people on his authority.

  "Perhaps, if you know a quiet way out of town .....?"

  The Mage was right. News of this event would fly quicker than the evil wind, so fast there was no chance of making the harbor before it was sealed against them.

  "The harbor will be closed, I think." Golden's mind raced over the other possibilities. "Land routes from Malachite are few. If, as you think, news of this happening soon reaches the king, if messenger birds are used, even the mountain pass to beak-ward may be closed to us."

  Golden also knew another way to flee Malachite, a way of dim memory and of terror!, Golden hoping never to be driven to suggest that dreadful route!

  Could the need to escape be used to justify the abandonment of the girl? She would slow them down .... No. Too risky to ask for that. Still, another ha
ndicap might be eliminated. "This ... person ... would make flight difficult," said Golden, pointing at the Weird. "She is a thing of magic." And old and slow, Golden thought, but did not add. "She should be left behind."

  "And what would her life be worth if we did that? You saw the mob. They will be back." Golden shrugged. Her life was not worth his own. "No. She will go with us, under our protection."

  John-Lyon-Pfnaravin now turned his full stare on Golden, a glow of green that penetrated flesh. "In fact, I can tell you that she is so important to me that she would be the last one left behind!"

  Trembling at this clear warning from the Mage, Golden nodded eagerly to show his complete understanding and acceptance of the Mage's meaning.

  The Mage rose now, as did the girl, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin turning to the Weird who was still seated. "Do you know what is happening?"

  "They mad. They killin' mad. Not my faul'. I go."

  "And be sure to bring along your Crystal. I believe I have a use for it later. Meanwhile, we will be waiting for you in the hall. But not for long."

  The Weird rose at last, swaying behind the table, still uncertain on her feet. She would doom them yet in one way or another, thought Golden, a belief forever locked behind his tongue. "Pack what valuables will fit into a small case," ordered the Mage. "It is my judgment that it will be a long time before you return."

  Though muttering to herself, the Weird seemed to understand; was looking about the room as if taking inventory. "And by the way, what is your name?"

  "Nam'?"

  "Yes. Being weird is your profession, I suppose," said the Mage, dryly. "But what is your name?"

  "No on' as' me nam'. Fo' lon' tim'. Nam' is Zwicia."

  "Hurry, Zwicia," was the Mage's final, quiet dictate.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 16

  Golden leading, they were going slower. And then slower still.

  It must have been at least a month since they'd left Bice, all that time on the march, pausing only to rest and to eat. At night, they'd slept in inns where they could, finding any kind of shelter when they must.

  Going cross-band as they were, John had seen the country of Malachite (never what anyone could call fertile) change from hard scrabble farms growing barley and rye, to pasture land dotted sparsely with goats, to scrub thickets and cactus-like growths with leathery, spiny leaves.

  Now, they were trekking across a desolate moonscape, John's mind as tired and barren as the stony land.

  Mining provided the wealth of this band, Golden said, the immensity of the diggings they'd skirted lending substance to that claim. From promontories, John had made out what must be thousands of workers (as small as ants in the distance) excavating ore to feed gigantic furnaces, the noxious plumes of smelters smudging the distant sky by day, open-hearth kilns firing the night a dull red through the horizon's fog.

  Past the mining region, the country grew more barren still, so devoid of life they no longer saw the smallest animal or insect, the terrain made more foreboding by saw-toothed mountains, not so much tall as never ending, breaker after breaker of them rolling across the plain, their harsh, granite inclines unsoftened by erosion, their steep pitched slopes as angular as the day titanic forces ridged them into the sky.

  While it was slow going in the mountains (John and Golden hauling the women up particularly steep slopes) the blighted plain they now traveled was so flat John thought they could set a pace that would take them across the Stil-de-grain border by down-light, the green band of Malachite falling behind them, the green-yellow sky above turning to Stil-de-grain gold ahead.

  Yet Golden had chosen this moment to be hesitant, pausing frequently to check his bearings.

  Though John didn't care much for stuffy Golden, to give the man his due, he had never given John a reason to complain about Golden's bravery. Nor about his resourcefulness. No matter what the women thought, Golden, not John, was the leader of this expedition. There was, of course, some doubt about whether or not the women thought. Did Platinia? John could never be sure about her. And what were the mental musings of the old woman with whom they were now encumbered? Zwicia, the Weird? When she wasn't slowing them down by getting caught in brambles, by being unable to trudge up even gentle slopes unaided, by wandering off, and by being difficult to get up in the morning, she was complaining that she needed rest, grousing about her feet, trying to get someone else to carry her light pack, grumbling about the heat -- too cold -- and about the food -- neither plentiful enough nor of a temperature to suit her. She even whined about the shallow latrine trenches John and Golden dug at the end of every day. The rest of the time, she was a muttering machine, a mumbling imbecile attached to an important Crystal, a Crystal-addict who, at every stop, stared into her pansy-purple Disk and gibbered to herself.

  Crystal gazing. A means by which a person could practice self hypnosis? Ruefully, John had to admit that whatever the Weird was doing seemed to be "catching." For John himself thought that, from time to time, as the old woman sat stroking and stroking her Crystal, he could glimpse reflections of "pictures" coming through the circlet's back.

  The power of suggestion was amazing. You "saw" what you thought you were going to see; enough so that, if you knew you were supposed to see "pictures" of the past, present, and future in the Weird's "glass," you "saw" them.

  With nothing to occupy his thoughts but stepping over rocks, John speculated again about the wisdom of bringing along the Weird -- against Golden's advice. John's interest in the Weird and her Crystal was in the Crystal's ability to generate static-electricity, of course. Though her disk had too little power to get him home, John had seen it build up a considerable charge, setting up the possibility that a bank of Crystals would do the trans-world trick.

  Except for the Weird's Crystal, John hadn't been impressed with what he'd found in this band of Malachite. Nor did he care for its people -- hell bent on war, apparently, judging from what he'd observed both at the harbor and in the city proper.

  To be charitable, John was willing to consider the possibility that there might be "better" neighborhoods in Bice. He didn't know. All he knew was that, once out of the harbor district with its ships, docks, carts, stevedores, warehouses, ship works, rope coils, fish stalls, rotten smells, sailors, bars, prostitutes, and assorted wretches, all he'd seen of the rest of the capital was narrow, littered streets crowded with grubby people, vermin ridden inns, and rows of small, ugly, blocky houses with doorways so low he often banged his head when entering. Short people, short doorframes. To top it off, everything -- houses, clothing (and sometimes even the food) -- came in nauseating chartreuse shades. He supposed it was natural for a people to be proud of the color of their Band's sky. But ... green!? Even the skins of the people took on a sour apple cast under the Band's "jaded" sky.

  Long before tangling with that lowlife mob at Zwicia's, John had come to believe that getting out of Malachite was a good idea.

  Once he'd seen the static electric generating potential of the old woman's Crystal, of course, getting out of Malachite had been the prime directive! If they could get out, Golden's pace making that seem iffyer and iffyer.

  At the beginning of their odyssey, John had believed Golden's pleas that they had to leave Stil-de-grain, John beginning to have doubts when no Stil-de-grain naval vessel overhauled them at sea to look for important fugitives. The looming military clash between Stil-de-grain and Realgar was giving Yarro better things to do that chase escaped prisoners. John's fear of pursuit had been further weakened when John discovered (Golden actually did the discovering) that no one was looking for them in Malachite.

  Their current course of action was to plod forward in their "combat boots." (Golden had been right about what they'd need in footwear on this journey.)

  Golden had said the mountain pass -- called "The Gap" -- had been sealed, John confident Golden was telling the truth about that, if, for no other reason, than how eager Golden was to leave Malachite by way of the mountains. Equally appare
nt was Golden's dislike for exiting Malachite in the direction they were traveling now, to the up-light side of the band, one explanation for the slow pace Golden was setting as they neared the Stil-de-grain border.

  John realized that his thoughts about Golden were uncharitable. True, the man was cold. Reserved. Calculating. Conceited. Self-centered. Vain. Stiff-backed. Haughty. And ego-maniacal. But who didn't have his little faults? For that matter, no one would describe Platinia as a "ton-of-fun." As for the Weird .... Enough said.

  John hitched up the straps on his pack. Unlike the women who were carrying what was left of the food, John's bundle of entrenching tools and fire stones didn't get any lighter.

  Fire stones! Maybe it was this magic business that had John so much on edge. And thinking of the fantastic, what was he to make of that crazy story Golden told him about the Malachite/Stil-de-grain border being guarded by invisible giants? Imperceptible titans who hurled translucent rocks, no less? Laughable. (Golden had first dragged out that "giant" story when advising against the direction they were now headed, back when Golden was hot for taking the route through what he called The Gap.)

  John had asked if The Gap was the fastest way to Stil-de-grain (other than by ship, an option closed to them) and in particular, to Hero Castle. To which Golden had said no, telling John a shorter route was possible, but that it lay through the land of the unseen, but grizzly, giants. As "Jack and the Beanstalk" as that story was, Golden had told it with a straight face, adding that, as a child, Golden had been led through the land of the shrouded colossuses (colossi? colossum?), these giants hurling transparent rocks that squashed the adult members of Golden's party. In fact, so sincere had Golden seemed on that occasion that John had believed him. Not about the monsters, of course. But that Golden believed in the existence of said beasties.

  These "Giant" thoughts leading John back to the consideration of magic, the subject of Wizardry making John feel skittish, particularly since he saw evidence of magic on a daily basis. And in more ways than "thinking" firestones alight. Although he'd thought that sailors were unusually healthy because their life at sea isolated them from contact with common germs, he'd recently come to believe there was "healing Witchery" in the light. Just another demonstration of the "enchantment" of this place.