The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  Meure turned from the Ler girl and looked into the viewscreens; now the stars, the starry background, which had once swung to and fro, back and forth, with an easy motion, as if from a ship on a sea, moved jerkily, erratically, with sudden unpredictable lunges, after which the motion of the ship seemed in the screens to be uncharacteristically mushy, as if it were not answering its controls properly. Another thing impressed itself upon him; no longer was the medium of space empty, a mere vehicle for impulses. To the contrary, space itself seemed muddy and roiled; disorganized violent rippling motions were passing across the field of view of the viewscreens. Simultaneously, Meure listened to the ship, and the odd sounds he had heard earlier. The sounds were still muted and subtle, but now he could hear them for what they really were—the sounds of Spsom alloys in protest. He looked back to Flerdistar.

  She said, “We don’t yet feel them inside the ship; the system that generates the sensation of gravity negates that motion of the outside and we do not feel it. But we will, soon enough. By my reckoning, sometime tonight. Things are wearing out, being carried away by wavelike surges outside.”

  Meure heard the words, and digested their dire import, but somehow he failed to derive any emotional sensation from them. They were in great danger, trapped in some kind of storm, a violent cyclic alternation of the stuff of space itself, they could not apparently get free of it, and the ship was slowly being torn apart, being driven down upon Monsalvat . . . He saw that it was true, but he did not fear it; He said, “Then they, the Spsom, are all in there.” He gestured toward the bridge, where the door was closed.

  “Yes. I know no more than that. Shchifr is reckoned extraordinarily skilled in ship handling, and Ffstretsha is built for strength according to the Spsom Canon, however odd it seems to you and me, in appearance.”

  At that moment, although neither one of them had heard any sound, Vdhitz appeared in the doorway to the wardroom. The Spsom was a different creature now; the fine, short fur was streaked with damp marks—perspiration, and the Spsom’s eyes did not seem to track completely together. Its ears were drooped and dispirited. Nonetheless he motioned to Flerdistar.

  When she responded, Vdhitz immediately began in his own language—a seemingly endless series of hisses, clicks, dental stops and spit-tings. Without waiting for a reply, he slid back toward the bridge and vanished.

  Flerdistar sat quite still for a moment, staring off into space, as if ruminating. Translating? She pushed her chair back from the table, and it slid, not along the floor, but according to some positioning mechanism. She stood, and said, distantly, abstractly, as if discussing some far-off exercise, “The situation is thus: Ffstretsha is finished. All the directional control projections are gone, blown out, torn away. Space-anchors are deployed stern wards and a single surface remains forward to stabilize us. The conditions outside have at the least stopped worsening; we have held together thus far—we should continue in one piece. We are approaching the system of Monsalvat at great speed, but fortunately, the planet is on the far side of the system primary, and the turbulence of the planetary system added to normal forces should slow us to a manageable approach. Shchifr believes he can make a clean planetfall, but that is all he can do. The ship is . . . broken, somehow. There was a lot in the other’s speech I did not understand. We will have one shot at it, straight in and land. Once we go sublight, we’ll start losing air. They got off a distress signal, which was heard and relayed by the Thlecsne; and answered by a Spsom craft called the Illini Visk, which will attempt to approach Monsalvat after discharging cargo and rerigging for extreme duty . . . The Illini Visk is a smaller vessel, but very spaceworthy. At the least, they will make the effort.”

  “How long will it take . . . the rescue?”

  “We will see Monsalvat sometime tomorrow; it could be as much as a year until we see Illini Visk.”

  “I don’t understand. If they could answer a distress call, how could they be so far away?”

  “Spsom communications systems have great range; the Illini Visk is a great distance from us. There are a few others nearer, but none sufficient for Monsalvat. So, now!” Her manner shifted without warning, became peremptory. “Below, and make ready! Gather all we can carry. We shall have to survive there until rescue can be effected.”

  She made to depart the wardroom, and Meure did not hinder her. As she cleared the table, he could see the remainder of her clothing, which had been concealed below the table. Flerdistar had been dressed in Dhwef-Meth-Stel56 fashion, a mode of dress not ordinarily displayed, by custom, before Humans. The long lines of the Dhwef swirled about the girl’s narrow hips, and then she was gone.

  Meure slowly made his way out of the wardroom, down the ladder, back down the passageway to the suite of rooms. In his mind he heard the words of the girl about the fate of the Ffstretsha, and in his ears he listened to the now-audible creaking and groaning of the ship. He felt a slight vertigo from time to time, as if in a light earthquake; the motion was beginning to be felt. And at a deeper level, he remembered what he had gone to seek out Flerdistar for: the dream, and what she had told him about it. Possession. He snorted to himself. No, not quite that, she had said. Something like that, but conceptually more subtle. The ship gave a sudden zany lurch sideways, which could definitely be felt, and Meure occupied his attention with holding on.

  In the common room, there was no one. Seemingly, Flerdistar had already passed this way. She had not stopped. The lights were turned down to minimum, and the doorpanels were secure. Meure turned into the right side, the compartment for the four Humans, entered, closed the panel behind him. All seemed quiet, at least for the moment.

  Meure climbed the narrow ladder to his own bunk, slid within. He wondered if Flerdistar had intended for him to awaken them all immediately. He thought not, listening. Here, the noises of the ship were somewhat less than outside, in the corridor. He could hear no motion from the other side, no sounds here, either. He reflected, somberly; surely a ship as well-finished as the Ffstretsha had alarm bells, or horns, or klaxons, or buzzers of some kind to alert passengers. After all, Spsom had ears, too. Tomorrow, she had said. It seemed time enough. Meure removed his clothing and turned out the light.

  He turned to the wall as he pulled the covers over him, settling into what promised to be an uneasy sleep. Then Meure remembered that he had left the sliding panel to the bunk open. The ship made a motion. He thought of closing the panel, for he did not wish to be pitched onto the deck; it was a good drop to the floor below. So he turned to close the panel, and saw, silhouetted in the glow of the standby lights from the kitchen unit, a dark, rounded shape filling the opening. The visitor slid into the bunk-compartment, and closed the panel. Meure started to say something, but he felt a finger placed over his lips. He could still see a little, for the compartment retained tiny indicator-lamps recessed into the walls. Enough to recognize the shape as that of Audiart. He half-rose, on one elbow, to sit up, but she pulled the covers back and slid in beside him, almost before he could make the motion. Meure covered the girl, finishing the motion by embracing her with his free arm. Her nose brushed across his, and the soft, fragrant hair trailed across his face. She said, below the level of a whisper, “No words, is all I ask.” Meure nodded that he understood, feeling cool bare skin against his own; warmth beneath. He knew what to do; now there were no doubts. None whatsoever.

  3

  ACELDAMA

  “This question ‘who art thou?’ is the first which is put to any candidate for initiation. Also, it is the last. What so-and-so is, did, and suffered: these are merely clues to that great problem.”

  —A. C.

  NIGHT IT WAS: the terminator had long since passed its westerly way across the high plains of the land Ombur, which was an antique central portion of the continent Kepture. In the western sky, a first-quarter Moon could be seen, dim and small, casting hardly more light than that of the stars.

  To the east, the roll and whoop of the prairies increased their pitch, cu
lminating in a low, undistinguished range of hillocks, which fell away on their farther sides, down through broad swales and gullies, to the vast delta of the river Yast, the far side of which could not be seen even in the light of day. But down there was a great darkness, and the pin-pricking of a multitude of tiny lights. The lights shimmered and flickered in the nighted gulfs, as if ripples were passing before the points of light; but overhead the light of the stars was steady and flickered very little at all.

  The dim starlight resolved, at distance, few details of the plains of Ombur. Little distinctive could be made out, save a faint trace, a bare track, winding eccentrically from west-southwest to the east, where it wound between two knolls and vanished. North was an emptiness, where the plains stretched to meet the Yast as it curved to the west, unseen. In the south, a gradual rising of the land led to a series of hogbacks which obscured the view. Beyond were more of the rolling prairie uplands, more of Ombur, which extended far to the west and the south.

  Those-who-used-Names recalled the name Ombur with fondness, for Ombur had once echoed from horizon to horizon with the name of one lord; perhaps Ombur had possessed one lord before that, or many times: Time was long, in Ombur, just as it was in the other named lands of Kepture, which in their times had also known one lord of their own, once, twice. In the West of Kepture were Ombur, Warvard, Seagove. Across the North, facing the Polar parts of World-Ocean, were ranged Boigne, Yerra, and tiny Urige; the East was Intance and Nasp. In the center were Incana, encompassing most of the highlands, and Yastian. Kepture bore the outline of two potatoes grown together, the western part being the larger, but the eastern extended somewhat more to the North, whereupon Urige was cold, and Cape Hogue at the southernmost tip of the western parts was tropical.

  Ombur was neither lifeless nor empty, nor even free of movement across its broad swathes and textures. One such motion now was proceeding out onto the plains from the line of hills to the East, a motion which was that of a small cart, unpainted and weathered quite gray, moving along slowly and with deliberation, almost with leisure, pulled in no great haste by two gaunt creatures of anthropoid shape, heavy-framed and large, walking steadily, methodically. The cart rolled on two immense solid wheels, and featured a small roofed cupola at the front for the driver; the whole followed the irregularities of the track with a patient, rolling motion, swaying from side to side.

  On a shelf attached to the rear of the cart sat a hulking, lumpy shape, motionless save for that imparted by the rolling of the cart; inanimate, or asleep. Or merely still. Inside the cupola at the front sat the driver, who now bestirred himself, looking carefully about the landscape, as if looking for landmarks. He paid little attention to the creatures pulling the cart. The driver appeared to be well-furnished about the midsection, fleshy but just shy of fat, a balding man approaching middle age.

  The driver, by name Seuthe-the-Bagman Jemasmy, now nodded to the draybeasts, the Sumpters, whispering in a low tone to them, “Dur, Dur.” The Sumpters paced on for a time, glanced at one another out of the corners of their heavy-browed eyes, and let the cart slow itself to a stop. The creaking and rattling of the springless vehicle continued, then it too stopped, and now only the breathless silences of the night could be heard. The figure at the back of the cart looked awkwardly over one shoulder, leering madly, teeth gleaming in the starlight. Jemasmy turned and leaned over, to speak into a compartment inside the cart, saying softly, “Morgin. Are you awake?”

  A grunt answered him. Presently a stiff and slow-moving figure, a spindly man of no easily discernible age, phyle or sept, topped by a bushy, iron-gray stubble on his head, emerged and climbed into the vacant seat to the right of the driver. There was yet silence among the rolls and plunges of the land Ombur. Little wind could be sensed. All that could be heard was the deep breathing of the Sumpters, the gaunt, heavy creatures who pulled the cart.

  Jemasmy volunteered, “Your wish was to be awakened when Sovin Hogback obscured Vatz Pinnacle, on the plain. We are here.”

  “What now the track, Seuthe?” queried Morgin-the-Embasse Balebaster, in a hoarse voice.

  “The Lambascada Swathe, of course.”

  Morgin mused for a moment over the empty plains, at last getting to his feet, and leaning out and holding a roof-brace precariously, looked about, as if to reassure himself that he was where he wished to be. He stood thus for a long time, sometimes smelling the air, and also pausing to listen carefully. Morgin looked long into the empty, rolling distances; then he slowly and stiffly climbed down from the cart to stand thoughtfully in the track, alongside the Sumpters, who towered over him, long-legged, short-armed. The Sumpters stood quietly, shifting their weight from one splayed foot to the other in an unvarying, monotonous rhythm. Morgin patted the nearer one affectionately on the rump.

  He said, “All seems proper for the moment. Very good. Have Benne feed and water the Sumpters.” At this, the dray beasts blew air through their cheeks, making a flapping, blowing sound. Morgin continued, “Here we shall pause; there is time to read the signs before we leave the swath and sojourn to the west.”

  Jemasmy queried, “Not indeed to Lambascade?”

  “No. Not directly, although it was my intention that they so imagine.” Morgin gestured with his head in the direction from which they had come. “First,” he said portentously, “on to Medlight. Then, in turn, to Utter Semerend. We can turn south to Lambascade after that; I would speak with Ruggou first.”

  Jemasmy chuckled, “And not let the others know, eh? Ayoo! Good old Gutsnapper! He may not rule over as much of Old Ombur as he’d like, may St. Zermille continue to thwart his plans, but you still have to account for him firstly. Rightly so, Master Morgin. To Medlight, then, and Utter Semerend.”

  Morgin winced at Jemasmy’s use of the vulgar cognomen of Incantor 57 Ivak Ruggou, leader and chief of Sept Aurisman. He hoped that Jemasmy would not forget and blurt that out in the hearing of Ruggou, or one of his favorite henchmen. There were not many to call Ruggou Gutsnapper to his face, and remain ignorant of the procedures by which he had gained that name.

  Jemasmy hung the reins upon a peg and also dismounted, making a sign to the hulking figure at the rear of the cart. Benne-the-Clone dismounted the cart awkwardly, as if it were the first time he had ever done it, and began to rummage under the rear quarter of the cart for barrels of water and bags of mash for the Sumpters. Standing back from the cart with a load under each arm, Benne displayed a short, bow-legged figure with excessively long arms corded with ridged muscles.

  As Benne carried his load to the Sumpters, Jemasmy, now by the massive axle, could be seen to be carrying a large pouch slung over one shoulder, with something weighty in it. Jemasmy inspected the wheel-mountings of the cart, while Morgin walked about, apparently at random, an abstracted expression on his face. Finally Jemasmy straightened from the wheel, and rounded the cart to join Morgin in his perambulations.

  Jemasmy waited a little for Morgin to notice him, and said, “By the Lady, let be a pest upon the Delta and all its ratfolk! I do believe that the bearing is going bad!”

  Morgin appeared not to have heard the remark. He asked, still looking into the distances, “Were we followed?”

  Jemasmy answered, “No. At the very least, not from the Delta itself. Up the swale, I saw nothing. All was innocent. But once on the plains, the Sumpters have been somewhat uneasy. Not from something close; perhaps a band of distant hunters, watching for a straggler from the Delta.”

  “One never knows,” somberly reflected Morgin. “Perhaps you are correct; in any event, let us continue to hope. On the other hand . . . could be Haydars, or Meor. I should not care to meet either in the darkness of Nightside, although were the band small enough, we could probably stand off Meors.”

  “Three of us . . . Hm. We do have a ballista in the cart, and Benne is good with one.”

  Morgin reflected, “There is an immanence in the air which I sense with the Sumpters. As much as I would regret it under other circumstances,
perhaps we should consult the Prote. Yes, have it decyst.”

  Jemasmy advised, “Morgin, you know it will be ill of temper. You did keep it decysted during the whole meet.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. There was little enough choice there. Yet here, too. I am uneasy, apprehensive. Something stirs in the nighted gulfs about us; there is motion, fear, and . . . hope. I know; I feel it. But not from whence it comes. Most certainly we must have a reading of the locus . . . I could not place it above Hospod Alor of the Lagostomes that he pay a Meor formation to harry us.”

  “Alor? But what could he pay?”

  Morgin made an airy gesture. “What else? The usual, of the course: girls. Or a brace of gelded bucks for meat.” He shrugged. “It’s all they have.”

  Jemasmy said resignedly, “Very well. Now, I tell you, thusly never went events in Cantou when I was Bagman to Thrincule.” He reached gingerly into the pouch, as if half expecting to find a live coal there. He felt along a cold, hard shell, feeling for a certain node. Jemasmy located the node, pressed, felt something gelid give a little. He withdrew his hand fastidiously, adding, “In Cantou, one could always trust the Cantureans to treat an Embasse and his Bagman rightly. No treachery.”

  Morgin agreed. “Kepture seethes with it, rightly enough. Just so came I from great Chengurune and the Dawnlands of the east; and there, too, we had Embasses in plenty. Here; there are never enough.”

  “Or in Glordune,” added Jemasmy.

  “Glordune,” said Morgin, “will have to wait. It is not for me.” Jemasmy commented. “Nor for me. They still adhere to the old ways, so it’s said.”

  Benne growled, from the general area of the Sumpters. “The old way, yes. ’Yoo, they keep it good, too, they do, the Glorionts, but they call on the Lady no less than we.” Benne-the-Clone had once been a sailor on the wide bent seas of Monsalvat, and had set port in Glordune, wildest of four continents.”