Of Machines & Magics

by Adele Abbot

  “Beautiful,” breathed Voss as he watched the haze of dust sink back to the table’s surface again. “Enchanting. Calistrope, do that again.”

  Voss had, of course been quite certain of securing Calistrope’s agreement or, at least, his capitulation. To some extent, his violation of a fellow sorcerer’s manse troubled his conscience. Still, he told himself, it had been necessary. All would become apparent to Calistrope should he prove successful. So much rested on the undertaking, it would not be untrue to say the future of mankind was in the balance.

  History would surely vindicate his actions.

  A day or more later, when Calistrope’s anger had cooled to a smolder, he took himself along the road to the south, a distance of several leagues where, among lumpy hills, the Nest was situated. Two of the ants’ specially bred soldiers guarded the entrance. A little larger than Micca and protected by considerably thicker chitin, they were a darker color and conveyed a sense of menace.

  Closer, he saw other differences between the breeds of soldier and thinker. The guards’ eyes were protected by great horny plates, the joints of their limbs by overlapping scales. Their mouth parts too, were different to those of their nest mates. Careful breeding had extended the soldiers’ mandibles into a double spike, visible within were ducts which led toxins from a multiplicity of poison glands at the base to the razor sharp tip.

  How should I gain entrance? The soldiers ignored him, there was neither herald nor messenger. While he was still wondering what to do, Micca—or one closely resembling that ant—appeared behind the guards. An invisible signal from Micca instructed the guards to stand apart and Calistrope, at a twitch of the ant’s antennae, walked under the roughly shaped archway of the Nest’s main entrance. He followed the other downward and the tunnel sloped more and more steeply and seemed to wander at random from side to side as they proceeded.

  They met ants and other insects traveling in both directions, many were grotesquely shaped and Calistrope guessed they had been bred to perform specialized tasks. Lower, they passed by terraces where green foliage was grown in the light from luminous beetles which crawled about the ceilings. A long, long millipede raced by on its way to the surface, a score of worker ants clung to the scales on its back.

  Calistrope shivered. Everywhere were signs of altered form, nature bent to the will of the Nest—in Micca’s fellow ants, in other insects and grubs. Even the shape and path of the tunnels were undeniably… organic. The environment was a disturbing one.

  Micca took him to a long unevenly cut tunnel where ants came and went on incomprehensible errands. His guide signaled to a passing worker, a swift conversation of hums and clicks and touching of feelers took place. The little faded pink worker hurried off and returned very quickly with a roll of parchment clutched in the secondary claw of a forefoot, almost an opposable digit.

  “These are charts,” said Micca. “You are familiar with geographical representations?”

  “Certainly,” Calistrope replied.

  The charts were unrolled on a flat but rough surface. “This is our present location.” One of Micca’s antennae drooped, bent, and touched the map. The worker—or perhaps, insect clerk—used a stylus to make a dark smudge at the indicated spot. Calistrope saw the edge of what he assumed to be the Lake; the mark represented Sachavesku, or perhaps the nearby Nest. “The water you call Mal-a-Merrion lies along the western edge of a high massif. It narrows here, do you see?”

  Calistrope nodded. The ant was indicating a long peninsular which hung down past the equator from a broad continent. “From here, there is a rift which has been eroded into a wide valley. Even at its highest point, the air is thick enough to breathe and it cuts all the way through to the east side of the massif.”

  “Is this a river?” asked Calistrope. “It must be a thousand leagues long if I have grasped the scale properly.”

  “Men call it the Long River or the Golden River, depending on the vicinity. It runs to the Last Ocean where Schune is situated.”

  “Schune again. The stuff of legend.”

  “To the contrary,” Micca told him. “As real as Sachavesku which in parts of the Earth is also believed to be no more than a myth. Schune is to be found on this mountain. Again, the clerk used its stylus to make an annotation. Note its shape, easily recognizable. Fumes are vented near the top, an almost permanent emission. It may be volcanic and what is seen is smoke. However, equally likely; it may be one of the old core-heated steam powered atmosphere plants which recirculate the water and measure out new air, and that which we see is steam.”

  “How far?”

  “Forty of your old days. Longer if you experience difficulties.”

  “What difficulties? What sort of difficulties?”

  How could the insect shrug? Nevertheless, Micca gave such an impression.

  “The places you will be traveling have been visited only by human hunters, little is known. There will be wild insects, insular human communities; we will send an escort of soldier ants with you to protect you.”

  “And what will we do when we get there? How can we start engines and turn the Earth back towards the sun?”

  “All that is necessary is for you to find those who are there. Inform them. I told you this at your convocation.”

  “Indeed you did but it sounds as fantastic now as it did then. People who know how to work the controls even after all this time?”

  “That is so. It is fact. Beyond that, however and at this distance, we can tell you nothing more.”

  “It seems flimsy evidence.”

  “There is no flimsiness whatever.”

  Calistrope remained silent but unconvinced.

  “Those you will find there may need waking.”

  “They are asleep?”

  “So the records say,” Micca took something from the worker ant which stood patiently by them. She handed it to Calistrope.

  Calistrope felt his eyebrows climb upward. “How did you get this…” he applied his thumb to the end of it, nothing happened. “This isn’t mine. It is identical but not mine.”

  “I did not say it was. It is a human memory vault though. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Calistrope turned the ceramo-metallic cylinder over and over. There were no identifying marks of any kind. “An old one, a very old one—like my own.”

  “It was owned by a human who came this way once, from the place you now seek; Schune.”

  Chapter 2

  Ponderos picked up a half dozen canapés from the plate he had brought back with him from the buffet table and crammed them into his mouth. “I could do with something a little more solid than this stuff,” he complained. A swallow of red wine from his goblet washed them down and he was able to speak once more. “Too airy-fairy. I don’t know where he trawls for it but sorcerous food is all the same, too gassy. Voss’ parties don’t appeal to me,” Ponderos belched.

  Calistrope flinched. “I see what you mean. However, it salves Voss’ conscience. He has blackmailed me into fulfilling a task for him. A dangerous task for which I am certainly not the right person. I mean, I am no explorer.”

  Ponderos was silent for a moment. They were on a balcony about halfway up the College Tower and the view over the Concourse and across the lake Mal-a-Merrion into the haze-shrouded north was quite breathtaking. “I think you underrate yourself my friend,” he said at last. “You have many qualities which your fellows lack. Which I… I admit it, which I lack.”

  Calistrope made a derogatory noise.

  “It is the truth. You are older than me, Calistrope. I know that is a trivial matter when none of us who are sorcerers can remember our formative years, but you are older than me by an order of magnitude.”

  Calistrope was silent. What Ponderos said was true… as far he knew without consulting his memories. But then, what difference did it make?

  “Your point of view is different than ours; you see solutions to problems which we don’t or different solutions than those we do see,” Pon
deros turned and leaned back against the wall of the Tower behind the balcony. “Who are the best engineers you know of?”

  Calistrope did not even stop to think. “The Ants of course.” Despite his antipathy to their works, there was still no doubt that the Ants were born builders and constructors.

  Ponderos raised his goblet high, sloshing some of its contents over his jacket. “Exactly. And in some ways, you think in the same manner.”

  Is this so? Calistrope wondered. Are my thought processes really so different to those of my fellow Sorcerers? And if so, will it give me an advantage? He thought about it for some time. No, he decided. It gives all of us an advantage.

  “Let’s go back to the others,” he said, and made a mental note: must review my early memories before I leave on this journey. It was a mental note he had made like every one of the Mages, a hundred, a thousand times before. And had he ever looked at those memories edited from his brain? Not as far as Calistrope could remember.

  The event was drawing to its close. All those present were pleasantly overfilled with rich food; they had been lulled by too much wine into a mellow and comradely spirit. The windows to this chamber were tall and the sunlight was augmented by long vertical lamps which emitted restful lavender light.

  Voss chose his moment carefully. He struck the iron gong and conversation died, all looked towards the Archmage. “We have a final matter to settle,” he told them. Calistrope has agreed to set out upon this quest on our behalf. It is only proper that we help him where we can.”

  There were a number of puzzled expressions among those who merely wished Voss to finish pontificating.

  “Calistrope goes in harm’s way. We, between us, possess a number of artifacts which might be of great help to him. I have spoken to Calistrope and I have urged him to select a few items which might be of most use to him. Calistrope…” Voss gestured to the Mage, “the floor is yours.”

  A murmur greeted him, a murmur in which dissatisfaction sounded rather loud. Calistrope shrugged his shoulders.

  Ponderos belched again. “Pardon. Magical food, all wind and no body to it.”

  The company laughed and tension eased, a situation which Voss leapt into before Calistrope could take up his invitation to speak. “I, myself give this freely. A miniature self-perpetuating model of the sun, an experiment which was made some little time ago when we were testing such things. It will shine in dark places. May it be of use to you, Calistrope,” he placed the globe of pearly radiance on the table and again directed attention to Calistrope.

  “I thank the Despondent One,” he said. “If the sun should set, it will be of great value. As Voss suggests, I do have one or two requests which I would like to make.” Some there were who seemed relieved that his wants were so few; others, with more to lose, were dismayed. “The first concerns a packet of dust which … Issla has. The Dust which came from the Hall of Shandokar.

  Issla sprang to her feet. “How do you know this?” She jumped up and down in exasperation.

  Calistrope smiled.

  “No.”

  “Issla!” Voss pitched his voice low but no-one failed to hear the authority in it.

  “Oh. Take it then,” she thumped the table with her tiny fists. “But take care; used recklessly, it will suck out every last iota of magic from your body.”

  “Thank you my dear. Is she not as generous as she is beautiful? And her beauty is great indeed.”

  Issla was not placated.

  “Now. Something a little more mundane. I am a man of peace; I carry no weapon save a small poignard, hardly sharp enough to cut an apple. I shall need something to defend my person, a sword, something trustworthy. Sermis has such a one, I understand, a sword with an edge that cannot be dulled.”

  Sermis stood with a swirl of his cloak. It was sewn with overlapping silicate discs which chimed with any movement. “A poor thing, an heirloom, of sentimental value, of crude workmanship.”

  “I have heard you say,” Calistrope averred, “that it will pierce an ell of bumanda wood at a single thrust.”

  “An idle boast. I am shamed.”

  “Yet I would have it.”

  Sermis glanced across at Voss and Voss looked away. Sermis drew the sword and laid it upon the table where it glittered in the lavender light and the red.

  Calistrope took the sword up and examined the blade of faintly blue glass. It glowed slightly with an inner light and sent the faintest of tingles through his fingers. “Thank you my friend. Perhaps I might also have the loan of the scabbard; there seems little point in separating the two.”

  Resigned to the inevitable, Sermis unbuckled the baldric and passed the scabbard across to Calistrope

  “I shall return them of course, when I return.”

  “If, Calistrope. If.”

  Calistrope nodded. “As you say, the if lays heavily on my mind,” he looked along the table. “Now, finally. I crave a boon from my oldest friend. Ponderos, you have a sigil which you have sworn by for as long as I have known you.”

  Ponderos heaved himself to his feet. “And neither of us knows how long that is, eh?” He took the talisman from around his neck and crossed to his friend’s side. He placed it around Calistrope’s neck. “I fancy it has little power left in it now; it was once potent against any weapon of iron or glass, bone or stone. What little power is left, is yours. However, there is one more thing I can give you.”

  Ponderos stood back from his friend. “I have spent longer than I can remember dabbling in the arts, exploring this or that scroll or book, looking for something to keep me interested. I have grumbled at the meaninglessness of it all and now, suddenly I have a chance to join my friend in a worthwhile venture.”

  He turned back to Calistrope. “We go together, you and me.”

  Calistrope found himself quite overcome. His eyes filled with tears and he breathed deeply until his emotion was under control. “I don’t know how long Ponderos and I have known one another, no doubt it is indexed in our memories but it does not matter greatly. What does matter is what Ponderos has done for me. Before Ponderos, I was introspective, I considered the company of others to be a waste of time, only my own experiments had value, only my own conclusions were valid.”

  “Aha,” said someone. “And Ponderos—for all his size—has changed him not one iota.”

  Calistrope heard but made no direct comment. “Ponderos showed me a larger world than the one in which I lived. He showed me that not every thought which is different to mine is as inconsequential as a mayfly’s.” Here he glanced at Hadrice—the one who had made the interjection—and turned back to the larger audience again.

  “I thank you all,” the Mage looked around the gathering. “For your gifts, for your support,” he moistened his lips from a goblet of wine. “These fine examples of the magician’s art which I have asked for were not selected idly. And like Voss’ globe of cold light, all have a certain rare aspect in common.” Again he looked around.

  “There are many places where the ether is thin, others where we have detected great vacuoles extending for leagues. Places where it is difficult or even impossible to perform wizardry and where magical entities cannot endure. These gifts all have their power locked within. They do not rely upon invocation; they don’t need to be within a region of rich ether. Issla’s gift in fact is so bereft of magic that it will soak up whatever it can find,” Calistrope sat down. “Thank you,” he said again then embarrassed at the length of his address he grew morose and silent.

  Voss now stood. “And I thank you, too. Calistrope’s words are of great interest. His thought processes are often a source of irritation to us; often he comes to disturbing conclusions via routes which are hidden from his fellows. He is even known to have a certain antipathy to sorcery and an inclination toward technology. He is, therefore, a natural choice for this quest.”

  Voss lifted his cup. “I give you—the Mage, Calistrope.”

  There were more speeches, their eloquence growing with the consu
mption of wine. As the subjects veered farther and farther from the matter in hand, Calistrope left the table and went out again onto the balcony. Out here, the air was clear and cold; frost glittered on the stonework. Beyond the nearer spires and minarets of Sachavesku, the smoothly heaving expanse of Mal-a-Merrion stretched and drew the eye to those enigmatic lavender mists which hid its more northerly reaches.

  Sermis had indeed spoken the truth when he had said “if.” The Mage by no means thought of himself as invincible. Even with the full panoply of sorcerous power as protection, he could meet his end upon that broad lake as easily as in some far off exotic region. Had anyone asked him, Calistrope would have admitted freely that he was afraid. Still, as Ponderos had expressed it, his life had been bounded for far too long by the mundane, by the known. He looked forward to the future not only with a frisson of fear but with a renewed interest. Maybe with Ponderos accompanying him there would be no point in consulting his early memories.

  Chapter 3

  Mornings… the last morning had dawned nearly two millennia ago—the day the world stopped turning, But even so, the bell rang the midnight chime from Cristoline’s Tower, and every hour thereafter until the great bell at Barto’s took over at midday and chimed the remaining hours.

  “Mornings,” Ponderos insisted, “are when all journeys should start.” His face suddenly creased into a grin. “Following a really excellent breakfast, of course.”

  Mornings… No matter that every hour was just like every other hour, every arbitrary morning like every other morning. The bells gave shape to the activities of the citizens of Sachavesku, if one said “I’ll meet you at the Bourse for tea at the sixteenth hour,” then the parties would be sitting down when Barto sang his fourth baritone chime of the day.

  In the same way, Calistrope met Ponderos just before the seventh hour as sounded by the Cristoline. A light mist hung over the water as they ate fried fish and crisp cabbage. By the time they called for another flask of piping hot Takshent to share between them, the mist was gone and Mal-a-Merrion gleamed blue as a slab of lapis. A tumble of clouds to the north showed yellows and pinks against the darker blue shading to black along the horizon. Mal-a-Merrion’s waters were shallow at this end, islands lifted above the water, the nearer ones in tones of lavender, behind these came purples and farther off, a dozen subtle shades of indigo.