Songs of the Dying Earth

by Gardner Dozois

  Since then I have been to the Gobi, and to Siberia. I’ve never taken a spacecraft or a time-machine to Tschai, or the Dying Earth, but I know they’re real places—I’ve been there, too, after all. And when I was eleven, I started writing the novel that would, years later, become Ghost Sister. I was nominated for the Philip K Dick Award, some years ago in Seattle, for that book. And, during the convention, I interviewed Jack Vance. I told him it was all his fault. ‘Godammit,’ he growled. ‘You gotta be so careful with stuff like that.’

  —Liz Williams

  Mike Resnick

  Inescapable

  Sometimes you’re better off if your heart’s desire is out of reach…

  Mike Resnick is one of the best-selling authors in science fiction, and one of the most prolific. His many novels include Santiago, The Dark Lady, Stalking The Unicorn, Birthright: The Book of Man, Paradise, Ivory, Soothsayer, Oracle, Lucifer Jones, Purgatory, Inferno, A Miracle of Rare Design, The Widowmaker, The Soul Eater, and A Hunger in the Soul. His award-winning short fiction has been gathered in the collections Will the Last Person to Leave the Planet Please Turn Off the Sun?, An Alien Land, Kirinyaga, New Dreams for Old, and Hunting the Snark and Other Short Novels. In the last decade or so, he has become almost as prolific as an anthologist, producing, as editor, Inside the Funhouse: 17 SF stories about SF, Whatdunits, More Whatdunits, and Shaggy B.E.M Stories, a long string of anthologies co-edited with Martin H. Greenberg—Alternate Presidents, Alternate Kennedys, Alternate Warriors, Aladdin: Master of the Lamp, Dinosaur Fantastic, By Any Other Fame, Alternate Outlaws, and Sherlock Holmes in Orbit, among others—as well as two anthologies co-edited with Gardner Dozois. He won the Hugo Award in 1989 for “Kirinyaga,” the story that follows. He won another Hugo Award in 1991 for another story in the Kirinyaga series, “The Manumouki,” plus the Hugo and Nebula in 1995 for his novella “Seven Views of Olduvai Gorge”, the 1998 Hugo for “The 43 Antanean Dynasties”, and the 2005 Hugo for “Travels With My Cats”. His most recent books include the novel The Return of Santiago, and the anthologies Stars: Original Stories Based on the Songs of Janis Ian (edited with Janis Ian), and New Voices in Science Fiction. His most recent books are the collection The Other Teddy Roosevelts, the novels Starship: Mercenary, Starship: Rebel, and Stalking the Vampire, and a “Kirinyaga” related novella, Kilimanjaro: a Fable of Utopia. He lives with his wife, Carol, in Cincinnati, Ohio.

  Inescapable

  Mike Resnick

  His name was Pelmundo, and he was the son of Riloh, Chief Curator of the Great Archive in the distant city of Zhule. Like all fathers, Riloh wanted a son who followed in his footsteps, but like many sons, Pelmundo was determined to make his own way in the world.

  He had been a soldier, and then a mercenary, and finally he became a Watchman of the city of Maloth, which nestled alongside the River Scaum. He wore a shining silver medallion, his pride and joy, full five inches across, as a token of his office, and a plain sword that had tasted blood more than once rested in a well-worn scabbard at his side. His leather garments bore the mark of not only his station, but the horned bat that showed him to be favored by the city’s true protector, Umbassario of the Glowing Eyes. It was Pelmundo’s job to keep the streets safe from drunks and rowdies, and the homes safe from thieves. The greater dangers, the other-worldly and nether-worldly, were the province of Umbassario.

  It was a symbiotic relationship, reflected Pelmundo; Umbassario protected the town against all other magicks, and in turn the town turned a blind eye toward his own.

  But it was not Umbassario and his creatures that dominated Pelmundo’s thoughts. No, it was a golden creature that played havoc with his mind and his dreams. Her name was Lith, perfect in form and movement, golden of skin and hair, a youthful witch, still in her teens, but already with a woman’s body and a woman’s power to enchant even without magic.

  Pelmundo was totally captivated by the young golden witch. She had left her village and never spoke of her parents, dividing her time between her home in a hollow tree in the Old Forest, and, when she had business in the city, Laja’s House of Golden Flowers, and of all the golden flowers who plied their ancient trade there, her blossoms were the sweetest.

  Time and again, Pelmundo would approach her, awed and tongue-tied by her sensuous beauty, but determined to plead his cause. Time and again, she would laugh in amusement.

  “You are but a Watchman,” she would say. “What can you possibly offer in exchange for my love?”

  He would speak of honor, and she would speak of trinkets. He would promise love, and she would snicker and point out that the poorest jewel lasted longer than the greatest love. He would beg just to be with her, and the golden witch would vanish, only the echo of her amused laughter lingering in the empty air.

  Pelmundo sought out Umbassario, who lived in a snake-filled cave high in the rocky outcroppings beyond Maloth. It was lit by black candles, and the light flickered off a thousand bats that slept their days away hanging upside down between the stalagmites before being sent off on their unholy errands.

  “I have come to—” he began.

  “I know why you have come, Watchman,” replied the mage. “Am I not Umbassario of the Glowing Eyes?”

  “Will you help me, then?” asked Pelmundo. “Will you enchant her so that she can see only me?”

  “And be blind to the rest of the world?” asked Umbassario with an amused smile. “That would almost be fitting.”

  “No, I don’t mean that,” protested the Watchman. “But I burn for her. Can you not instill the same fire within her?”

  “It is there.”

  “But she teases and ignores me!”

  “The fire is there, but it does not burn for you, son of Riloh,” continued the mage. “It burns only for Lith. She is a physically perfect woman, so she seeks only physical perfection—in jewels, in clothes, in men.”

  “But you can change that!” urged Pelmindo. “You are the greatest of all the magicians who ply their trade up and down the River Scaum. You can make her love me!”

  “I could,” acknowledged Umbassario. “But I will not. There once was a woman, almost as young and almost as perfect as the golden witch of your heart’s desire. I made her fall in love with me when I was younger and more foolish. Every night on the silken mat, she was the most responsive female that has ever lived, I truly believe that. But each time I would look into her eyes, even as her body jerked and spasmed in ecstasy, I would see the repugnance that my magic had banished to some secret inner part of her, and the taste of our erotic bliss turned to dust in my mouth. Finally, I removed the spell, and she was gone within an hour. Is that what you would want with Lith?”

  “I truly do not know,” answered Pelmundo. “If I just had the chance, I know I could make her love me.”

  The old mage sighed. “I don’t believe you have heard a word I have said. The golden witch loves only herself.”

  “She will love me, with or without your spells,” said Pelmundo with iron determination.

  “Without, I should think,” replied Umbassario as the Watchman left his cave.

  Pelmundo walked back to Maloth in a foul mood that was apparent to one and all. People stayed out of his sight, and even the curs that scoured the street for scraps remained hidden until he passed by. Finally he entered the Place of the Seven Nectars, glared at the innkeeper and ordered the nonexistent Eighth Nectar, and, a moment later, was given a flagon filled to the brim. It tasted, he thought, exactly like the Seventh Nectar, but as it eased its way down his throat and warmed his insides, his temper began to improve and he decided not to protest.

  He left the tavern and headed across the street to Laja’s House of Golden Flowers, where he found Taj the Malingerer standing in the street, staring at the front door.

  “Greetings,” said Taj. “You can tell she is here today. She attracts men as honey attracts bees.”

  “Who do you mean?” asked Pelmundo, feigning ignorance.

  “Why, the gol
den witch,” replied Taj. “It is as if men read a secret signal on the winds, for I am drawn here only when she comes to Maloth from the Old Forest.” He winked at the Watchman. “Confess, friend Pelmundo: that is why you are here too.”

  The Watchman glared at him and said nothing.

  “My only question,” continued Taj, “is why she is here at all. Probably she is not yet skilled enough to pay her way as a witch.” Another wink. “Or perhaps this is the kind of witchcraft and enchantment at which she excels, for I love and honor my wife except on days Lith has come to town, and I have never seen you so much as look at any other woman.”

  “You talk too much,” said Pelmundo irritably, because he disliked hearing the uncomfortable truths that rolled so easily off Taj’s tongue.

  “I am almost through talking,” answered Taj. “For when the next man is escorted out of the house by Leja, it is my turn to pay my respects—and my tribute—to Lith.”

  As the words left his mouth, Leja, old wrinkled crone who had once been almost as beautiful as the golden witch—some said two hundred years ago—led Metoxos the silk merchant to the door and bade him farewell. Suddenly, both men became aware that Lith herself was standing next to Leja—slender, with an animal grace, full ripe breasts, golden skin, hair that seemed to be made of spin gold, full red lips, and laughing eyes that seemed like sparkling embers.

  “Prepare yourself, golden one,” said Taj, “for you are about to meet a real man, not a used-up walking wrinkle like that pathetic Metoxos.”

  Leja reached out with her walking stick and cracked Taj across the shin.

  He yelped in surprise. “What was that for?” he demanded.

  “Be careful what you say about us walking wrinkles,” she answered.

  “Come,” said Taj, taking Lith roughly by her bare arm. “Let us leave this crazy old woman behind and let me feast my eyes upon you in private.”

  “You eyes have become bloated by the feast,” said Lith. “I do not like bloated eyes.” She turned to Pelmundo. “You are the Watchman. This person is annoying me.”

  “He is a braggart and a boor, but he has every right to be here,” said Pelmundo unhappily. “This is, after all, the House of Golden Flowers.”

  “Get rid of him and I will give you a kiss,” said Lith.

  “He is my friend,” said Taj. “He laughs at your offer.”

  “Look at him,” said Lith, obviously amused. “Is he laughing?”

  Taj turned to face Pelmundo, who was clearly not laughing.

  “Move on,” said the Watchman.

  “No!” shouted Taj. “I have the tribute. I have waited my turn!”

  “You have waited in the wrong line for the wrong flower,” said Pelmundo. “Move on.”

  He lay his hand on the hilt of his sword. Taj looked at the sword. It was not new, did not shine, bore no jewels, no mystic inscriptions; it was the workmanlike tool of a man who used it with bad intentions.

  “We are no longer friends, son of Riloh!” snapped Taj, starting to walk away.

  “We never were,” replied Pelmundo.

  He waited until Taj had gone one hundred paces, and then turned back to the doorway. Leja had returned to the dimly-lit interior of the structure, but Lith remained.

  “And now your reward,” she said softly.

  He stepped forward. “You have never let me touch you before,” he noted.

  “And you shall not touch me now,” she said. “I shall touch you.”

  “But—”

  “Be quiet, step forward, and receive your reward,” said Lith.

  Muscles tensed with excitement, loins bursting with lust, Pelmundo stepped forward.

  “And here is your prize,” said Lith, kissing him chastely on the forehead.

  He stepped back and shook his head as if he could not believe it. Lith smiled slyly.

  “That is it?” he said, dumbfounded.

  “That’s all Taj was worth,” she replied, her eyes bright with amusement. “For a greater reward, you must perform a greater deed.”

  “And for the greatest reward you have to offer?” he asked eagerly.

  “Why, for that, you must perform the greatest deed,” said the golden witch with a roguish smile.

  “Name it, and it shall be done!”

  “When I am not here, I live in a hollow tree in the Old Forest,” began Lith.

  “I know. I have looked for your tree, but I have never found it.”

  She smiled. “It is protected by my magic. I think perhaps even Umbassario of the Glowing Eyes could not find it.”

  “The deed!” he said passionately. “Get to the deed!”

  “Whenever I come to Maloth, or return from here to my forest, I must pass through Modavna Moor,” continued Lith.

  Suddenly Pelmundo felt the muscles in his stomach tighten, for he knew what she would say next.

  “Something lives on that moor, something evil and malignant, something that frightens and threatens me whenever I walk through it, a creature from some domain that is not of this world. It is known only as Graebe the Inevitable. Rid the earth of Graebe and the ultimate reward is yours, Watchman.”

  “Graebe the Inevitable,” he repeated dully.

  She struck a pose, with the moonlight highlighting her bare breasts and naked hips. “Is not the prize worth it?” she asked, smiling at his discomfiture. “Send him back to the hell he comes from, and I shall let you ascend to a heaven that only I can provide.”

  Pelmundo stared at her for a brief moment.

  “He is as good as dead,” he vowed.

  Pelmundo knew that he could not face the creature without enchantments and protections, so he headed to the high outcroppings beyond Maloth and sought out Umbassario in his candle-lit cave.

  “Greetings, Mage of the Glowing Eyes,” he said when he was finally facing the old man.

  “Greetings, son of Riloh.”

  “I have come—” began Pelmundo.

  “I know why you have come,” said Umbassario. “Am I not the greatest magician in the world?”

  “Except for Iucounu,” hissed a long green snake in a sibilant tongue.

  Umbassario pointed a bony forefinger at the snake. A crackling bolt of lightning shot out of it and turned the snake to ashes.

  “Does anyone else care to voice an opinion?” he asked mildly, staring at his various pets. The snakes slithered into darkened corners, and the bats closed their eyes tightly. “Then, with your kind indulgence, let me speak to this foolish young Watchman.”

  “Not foolish,” Pelmundo corrected him. “Impassioned.”

  Umbassario sighed deeply. “Does no one listen to me even in the sanctity of my own cave?” His glowing eyes focused on Pelmundo. “Listen to me, son of Riloh. The golden witch has bewitched you, not with magic, but with what women have been bewitching men with since Time began.”

  “Whatever the reason, I must have her,” said Pelmundo. “And I will need protections and spells against such a creature as Graebe the Inevitable.”

  “Graebe is mine!” shouted the magician. “You will not touch him!”

  “Yours?” repeated Pelmundo, surprised. “A creature like that?”

  “You protect the city against thieves and ruffians. I protect it against greater evil, and Graebe is the weapon I use.”

  “But he sucks out men’s souls with those great prehensile lips and feasts upon them!”

  “He sucks out diseased souls that no one else would have,” said Umbassario.

  “He dismembers his victims while they still live.”

  “You seek a reward, do you not?” said the magician. “The dismemberment is his.”

  “He threatens the golden witch.”

  Umbassario smiled. “Then why is she still alive? After all, he is Graebe the Inevitable.”

  Pelmundo frowned. It was not a question he was prepared for.

  “Then I shall tell you,” continued Umbassario. “If you were to enter the hollow tree in which she lives, you would find a gol
den loom, upon which your witch is weaving a tapestry of the Magic Valley of Ariventa.” He paused. “The tapestry is hers, but the loom is Graebe’s, made from the bones of a golden creature he killed in the netherworld. Your witch does not want you to perform a heroic deed to prove yourself worthy of her. She wants you to eliminate a creature that only seeks what belongs to him. And if she was as helpless as you seem to believe, he would long since have obtained it.”

  “If he is Graebe the Inevitable, why has he not?” asked Pelmundo.

  “Because he is drawn to souls like a moth to flame, and she has none.”

  “You must not say such things about her,” admonished Pelmundo.

  “Is your love of life so fleeting that you dare say such things to me in my own cave?” demanded Umbassario. “Did you not just see what happened to my favorite snake?”

  “I meant no offense,” said Pelmundo quickly. Then his spirit stiffened. “But I will have the golden witch, and if that means I must slay your creature, then I will do so.”

  “Despite what I have told you?” said the magician.

  “I must,” replied Pelmundo. “She is everything I have ever wished for, everything I have ever dreamed of.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” said Umbassario with a secret smile, “and of what invades your dreams.”

  “I am sorry it has come to this,” said Pelmundo. “I do not wish us to be enemies.”

  “We shall never be enemies, son of Riloh,” the magician assured him. “We shall just not be friends.” A final smile. “Do what you must do, if you can—and remember, you have been warned.”