Strange Music

by Alan Dean Foster

  The guard’s protective membranes fluttered over her eyes. One hand reached toward her waist. There was a short sword scabbarded there and an alarmed Wiegl started to back away from the intervening metal grid. But her fingers bypassed the sword in favor of a single squarish key. Sliding this down a slot in the left side of the barrier unlocked it. Looking dazed, she pulled the grate aside. Her singspeech was muted and slow.

  “Of course you must…meet with the Hobak…so that you can relay to him…the reason for your coming. Follow…me…this…way.”

  Turning, she led a gratified Flinx and an awed Wiegl down the corridor and up a flight of winding stone stairs. The guide’s singspeech was barely whispered.

  “Truly you are, a magician of great powers, to have changed her mind, to have altered her stance, to have persuaded her to do this!”

  Flinx shook his head, hoping Wiegl was sufficiently familiar with human body language from his time spent at Borusegahm station to understand the gesture’s significance.

  “I did not do anything of the sort, as I cannot affect minds, in the way that you suggest, but can only influence—emotions.” He nodded toward the guard who was leading the way upward. “I projected onto her feelings of sympathy, of concern, of worry for our condition, and anxiety for our well-being. It is enough, so far, for her to feel compassion for us, and to translate that into a small kindness.”

  “Then we can get away,” Wiegl sang in triplets, “and flee this place, and recover our brund, and return to blessed Borusegahm!”

  “We can do,” Flinx corrected him, “exactly what I told her we would do, and not leave, without concluding the business, for which we came, for which I pledged, my guarantee.”

  “Throat-cut your guarantee,” the guide muttered discordantly, “as will ours be, if you try to confront, this addled na Broon Hobak in person.” But he did not make a run for it when they emerged from the stairwell into an empty service corridor, and though he continued to sing his discontent, he followed Flinx and the guard without taking the opportunity to break away.

  After traversing several intersecting service corridors and walking at least half a kilometer, the now slightly addled and sympathetic guard led them across an empty courtyard and into a curved inner office. Two clerks who were partially buried by gray scrollwork looked up from their short chairs, their long fingers pausing above abacus-like devices, and eyed the guard questioningly. At Flinx’s emotional urging, she sang what was almost a lament.

  “They have to see the Hobak, these two visitors, and the offworlder brings with him, nothing but good feelings, for all of Minord. It’s a matter of urgency; of necessity, of affection, that I do not have sufficient time to explain, to underlings such as yourselves.”

  As they passed through the narrow double doorway behind the clerks, one of them glanced at her colleague and expressed her puzzlement with an atypically single-note response.

  “ ‘Affection’?”

  The nonpolitical term was one scarcely heard within the winding corridors of the City Hall, but was hardly provocative enough to engender suspicion among the pair of bureaucrats. They returned to their work, curious as to what another offworlder was doing in their Leeth, and wondered if it would rain hard today or if the afternoon clouds would bring forth only a pleasant drizzle.

  The room into which the guard conducted them was very large. Narrow floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on Minord City’s main square. Unlike the public space Flinx had impulsively chosen as the site for his declamation, this one featured multiple fountains in addition to a display of kinetic sculptures fashioned from wood and metal. The window glass was thick, marred by ripples, and full of bubbles, indicating that the Larian craftsmen in this Leeth, at least, had not yet mastered the art of glassmaking—much less advanced to manufacturing transparencies of far harder material. A civilization at Largess’s level of technology would benefit tremendously from gradual and careful integration into the Commonwealth, he knew. No wonder Padre Jonas and her superiors were so anxious to help accelerate this world and its inhabitants along that path.

  He would assist them in doing so by removing an unanticipated irritant from the equation.

  As he let his gaze rove the chamber, both vision and his talent indicated that only indigenes were present. One was another functionary, this one clad in far more elegant and colorful raiment than the pair of clerks he and Wiegl had encountered in the outer office. There was also someone seated within a low circular desk. “Within” rather than “behind,” because the distinctive piece of Larian furniture, cut from the trunk of a single huge tree, formed an almost perfect doughnut shape. It allowed for an individual to sit in the center and rotate to reach any point on the encircling countertop by the simple expedient of spinning in their seat. The proportionately low seat had no back. Supported by their flexible, strong notochords, the Larians had no need of artificial spinal braces.

  Even as his attention was already focused on the chamber’s other inhabitant, Flinx sensed the bureaucrat’s distress well before he spoke.

  “Who are you two, who arrive unannounced, and one an offworlder, at that?” He moved in the direction of a line of rope pulls that hung from the ceiling and to the left of the desk. “Hide, drop down, and seek safety, my liege! I myself will ascertain the meaning, of this unwarranted intrusion, and deal with these interlopers, as their intent demands!”

  An extraordinary figure rose from the chair behind the desk to forestall his subordinate’s instinctive reaction. Flinx continued to concentrate on him while ignoring the semi-hysterical bureaucrat. Whether the Larian had been born with a twisted notochord or suffered from some unknown but severe accident, Flinx did not know. In order to stand, the individual had to place a hand on the desk to support his sideways-bent body.

  “Y-you must wish to see m-me, very badly indeed, to have come all this way, offworlder.” In addition to a crooked body, Felelagh na Broon suffered from a left eye that was clouded by an unknown affliction. Possibly a condition that could be cured by contemporary Commonwealth medicine, Flinx thought—if only such advanced technological intrusions were permitted. If only this Hobak could be made to see the light that could be ignited by associate Commonwealth membership. With luck and the right argument, hopefully he could be persuaded to change his outlook.

  But not through the same method of persuasion Flinx had utilized on, for example, the holding-cell guard. What he could perceive of na Broon’s feelings was…roiled. A confusing mess that ranged from delight to fear to expectation all the way through to a preening self-confidence. Until and unless he could lock down the Hobak’s emotional state, Flinx would not be able to influence it.

  Patience, he told himself. As much as his minion, na Broon was surprised by Flinx and Wiegl’s unexpected appearance. When the Hobak settled down, Flinx would try to influence him as only he could. There did not seem to be any hurry, especially since the Hobak had prevented his underling from calling in the guards. Meanwhile Wiegl’s attention kept switching rapidly between the offworlder and na Broon, and Flinx perceived that he was wondering what was keeping the human magician from working his magic on the Hobak.

  Needing to play for a little time anyway, Flinx saw no reason to falsify the reason for their presence.

  “We have indeed, great Hobak, come all the way from Borusegahm, from the offworlder station, to try to defuse a dangerous situation.”

  Still uneasy, the Hobak’s personal assistant hovered nearby, ready to call for armed backup the instant either of the peculiar interlopers made anything resembling a hostile gesture. That they did not do so only unnerved him more. Whereas his superior, the elected Hobak, now evinced only curiosity and amusement at the intrusion.

  “If y-you are referring, to the recent difficulty, in collecting taxes from the east vales, then I-I would myself welcome y-your assistance.”

  A disarmingly composed verbal response, Flinx reflected, that contrasted wildly with the Hobak’s turbulent emotional state. Insid
e, he was a seething cauldron of conflicting temperaments. Hard to get through, hard to pin down. But not necessarily threatening. The fact that Pip remained comfortably ensconced within the insulated depths of the walking tube was sufficient confirmation of such a conclusion.

  Unless, he thought, Felelagh na Broon was the shrewdest manager of his feelings Flinx had ever encountered. Or possibly the Hobak was partially deranged. That often accounted for unpredictable emotional projections. Flinx knew he might be able to soothe the latter condition as well, if only the Hobak would calm down sufficiently inside himself to allow Flinx an emotional locus on which to focus.

  “I refer not to taxes but to that which is taxing; upon the citizens of Borusegahm, upon my fellow offworlders, and upon good folk everywhere.”

  “So even before knowing of what y-you speak, of who I-I am,” the Hobak replied cannily, “y-you have already decided, I-I am not one of the ‘good folk’?”

  “You preempt my conclusions,” Flinx sang back as he tried to match wits with the current ruler of Minord, “to which I have not come, but can only settle upon, the outcome of my visit.” He gripped the walking tube tighter, hoping that Pip would sense his rising tension and rouse herself accordingly. “I know that the Firstborn of Borusegahm Leeth, the celebrated Preedir ah nisa Leeh, has been brought here against her will, on your order. That you hope in so doing, to forestall the establishment, of a union of Leeths, who would join with my government.”

  “Do you deny it?” snapped Wiegl unmelodically, feeling a need to contribute—or at least to show his mettle. The look he got from Flinx and the Hobak’s assistant both was enough to put a halt to the additional verses he had contemplated singing.

  “I have come,” Flinx continued as if there had been no interruption, “to persuade you to return the Firstborn, by offering you membership, even a prominent place, on the future council of Largess.”

  That was enough to sweep aside the emotional disorder that dominated the Hobak’s feelings. All else vanished in an instant as, unable to straighten, he leaned forward as far as he could in the direction of the intruders.

  “Felelagh na Broon is nobody’s vassal; not of Leeths that leech, not of offworld wit-spinners, not of bald-faced, bald-bodied emissaries! Let the Hobak of Borusegahm come with all h-his allies, to the gates of Minord, and let h-him beg, for the return of h-his Firstborn. Sh-she stays here, at m-my pleasure, until I-I feel inclined, to send h-her back! Minord will go its own way, free of outside directives, cleansed of offworld influences, and unimpeded by the fainthearted: the greatest Leeth, now and forever, on all of Largess!”

  The unexpected forcefulness of his riposte caused his subordinate to shrink back, and even Wiegl was intimidated. Only Flinx remained unaffected by the stentorian rant of what was to him nothing more than a land-going seal-like creature representing an up-and-coming but not yet mature species. At least na Broon’s fury and focus finally gave him a chance to narrow in on the Hobak’s emotions. He would have tried to influence them, too, had the confrontation not been interrupted.

  Having been informed of the unannounced arrival in the city of a human and his Larian companion, Vashon had immediately set aside what he had been doing and hurried to the area used for holding lawbreakers, only to find them unaccountably missing. Anxious queries had finally directed him to, implausibly, the Hobak’s own office. Now he found himself confronting a tableau as incongruous as it was unanticipated: a human other than himself engaged in animated conversation with Felelagh na Broon, while the Hobak’s personal assistant stood nearby and wet himself.

  Prepared to confront a heavily armed military type, he was further taken aback by the intruder’s youth and lack of any detectable weaponry. In fact, Vashon realized, the interloper appeared to be completely unarmed. Vashon saw no reason to draw the neuronic pistol from the holster at his belt.

  Could this be the individual who had been in pursuit? Had some fool in authority sent a youth, albeit a remarkably composed one, after him? Just one youth at that, apparently weaponless to boot. After Vashon Lek! He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. One thing he did know: unless he was overlooking something very subtle, this visitor was not going to be a problem at all.

  “Name?” Flinx asked calmly. The glaring reality of the forbidden neuronic pistol holstered at the newcomer’s waist told him all he needed to know about the short, thickset stranger. Clearly, this was the renegade who had assisted in the abduction of Preedir ah nisa Leeh from Borusegahm Leeth. The one whose presence he had sensed amid so much death and dying just prior to his and Wiegl’s arrival at Poskraine.

  The object of his attention replied carefully. “For purposes of conversation, which will be brief, you can call me Vashon.”

  “You’re coming back with me,” Flinx informed him matter-of-factly. “You, to face the authorities for violating Commonwealth directives, and the Firstborn of Borusegahm, so she can be returned to her family. But since you are here now and she isn’t, you first.”

  Strange to be speaking terranglo again. After so many days of essaying nothing but Larian singspeech, the tones, the sharpness, the awkward cadences of terranglo resounded on the tongue almost as harshly as thranx click-speech. He found that he missed the melodious glory of the local language more than he would have expected.

  Wiegl did not have to be able to read Flinx’s emotions in order to sense what was coming. Though his presence could make no difference to nor have any effect on the forthcoming engagement, he stepped aside. Seeing this, the Hobak’s underling reached again for one of the pull-ropes—only to be stopped a second time by his superior. Felelagh na Broon was eyeing the two offworlders with great interest.

  “No, Menliag, not at this time, not at this moment, for I think here is something, to watch and learn, so—let them play.”

  It was with obvious reluctance that the subordinate complied, his webbed fingers falling away from the cord. A roomful of armed troops would have done more to assuage his nerves than any words, no matter how wise or reassuring, from his Hobak.

  Reach out and perceive, reach out and analyze, what he’s thinking, Flinx told himself. Save for a single temporarily debilitating headache, his now-refined talent had been functioning well ever since he had arrived on Largess. Despite an inability to recognize the emotions of the natives when they were singspeaking, he had employed it successfully several times. He anticipated no such problems with this Vashon person, who appeared to be nothing more than an uncommonly enterprising offender. It should be a simple matter to identify and manipulate the man’s essential emotions so that he would—

  He blinked. Tried again. Nothing. There was nothing there.

  Vashon’s emotional slate was blank. At least at the moment, he was feeling—nothing. Not anger, not concern, not anticipation. Not weariness, not sadness, not amusement. Nothing.

  Without turning away from the lawbreaker, Flinx redirected his talent to first the tremulous bureaucrat, then Wiegl, and finally Felelagh na Broon himself. Their feelings were not hidden: he could sense them easily. Only when he tried to penetrate the emotional state of the human Vashon did he encounter a total void.

  Absurd. Not impossible, but absurd. The man had to be feeling something. Try as he might, Flinx was unable to latch on to a single sentiment. Facing him, the unsmiling individual was as emotionless as a stone. He began to feel a little uneasy. He could not manipulate what was not there.

  This was the abnormality he had sensed on the way to Poskraine, amid so much Larian dying. At that distance, he had been unable to identify it properly. He had not been perceiving distant human emotions, but rather a human devoid of them. What he had sensed just barely, and what now stood before him, was an emotional ghost. Flinx’s talent could perceive the echo of emotions, the hole where they ought to be, in the same way that a physicist could detect dark matter without actually seeing it. Among other things, it explained why he had not sensed the man’s presence the moment they had entered Minord, nor detect
ed his approach to the Hobak’s office.

  Sensing that all was not well, Wiegl whispered to his companion. “Master magician, if you are working your magic, please confirm so for your lowly guide, who otherwise would appreciate the opportunity, to make a dash for the door. Or if the first magic has failed, perhaps a second magic, this time with potions or powders, or large heavy objects, might serve to improve the situation?”

  “It’s not a matter of physical things, friend Wiegl, that stymies my efforts, but an emotional vacuity I did not expect, and cannot explain. So in the absence of success, on the part of my ‘magic,’ I will try to improvise something less mystical, but hopefully as effective.”

  He turned back to the watching na Broon and his jumpy underling. In contrast to the bizarrely unfathomable Vashon, at least their feelings were still manifest and easy to perceive. Outwardly, the Hobak continued to affect mild amusement at the intrusion. Flinx read him otherwise: while not afraid of the new arrivals, the leader of Minord was intensely interested in whatever they might choose to do next.

  Vashon half expected Flinx to pull a concealed weapon. The Hobak’s assistant anticipated chaos. Wiegl was waiting for his employer to demonstrate some new trick of mind or voice. Na Broon himself expected a violent physical clash between the two offworlders.

  Flinx disappointed all of them.

  He gestured disapprovingly at the hard-staring Vashon. “Is this the human whom it is rumored, you rely upon for advice and assistance, on how to sow confusion among your rivals, while simultaneously uplifting the status of Minord? Was it he who recommended abducting, the Firstborn of Borusegahm, to slow the establishment of a union, of all the great Leeths?”

  While Vashon would have preferred the Hobak to respond by denying the accusation, or better still, with a signal to his assistant to call for security, there was nothing he could do to stop na Broon from replying. He had no way of knowing that his newly arrived kinsman could ascertain better than anyone whether or not the Hobak was telling the truth.