by Guy Haley
Or choose to be wise,
Simply choose, or you shall not live.
– Part of the ‘Lay of Magor’,
Geratomran chant-epic
Chapter Six
Dancing on the line of the night and the day
MAGOR’S PEAK
GERATOMRO
082498.M41
‘This is a waste of time.’ Heir the Second Dostain stopped and set his fists on his hips. ‘I’m dripping. This is no way for a lord of Geratomro to travel. Why couldn’t we take a cutter? We could have flown up here in minutes.’
Pollein cocked her head to one side. ‘Shhh! Can you hear that?’
‘What, the rumble of the guns? I hear it all the time.’
‘And can you see that there?’ She pointed away to the south, where the dark sky was cut over by crisscrossing contrails.
‘From the fighter craft of the Imperial Navy. Why are you asking such stupid questions? I’m not an idiot.’
‘Aren’t you? You’re the one who had a dream that we should tell the Adeptus Administratum to go away, only they didn’t, did they?’
Dostain’s eyes narrowed. ‘Aunt Missrine never listens to me!’
‘But she did, and now we have guns and ships with guns.’
‘Is that why we are walking rather than flying?’
‘It’s a reason for walking I thought you might accept. I’m walking because I like it. Are you sure you’re not an idiot, dearest nephew?’
‘You shouldn’t call me that,’ he said. He hated his petulance. Pollein always brought it out of him. She made him needy. ‘I’m older than you. You’re only third in line. I am Heir the First.’
‘You keep getting that wrong! Not first any more, not since my sister paid that outrageous sum to have Missrine II cooked up in a vat.’
‘Second then!’ he snapped. ‘I still outrank you.’
‘Second, third, whatever.’ Pollein shrugged. ‘I am your aunt, like it or not.’ Unlike her sister, Pollein was lithe limbed and tanned. Her skin did not shine so luminously in the light of Geratomro’s two small moons as Dostain’s did. She smiled, even teeth pearly. She was beautiful, and unobtainable, and tormented Dostain because of it. ‘Think what sister would say, we two up here all alone!’ She giggled. ‘This is exciting, isn’t it? I’ve never had company before, Dostain.’
Dostain squirmed under her gaze. Sometimes when she looked at him, it was like he could feel her fingers in his head, squishing through his brain as though it were warm butter. ‘You spend too much time out under the sun. It is unseemly for one of your rank.’
‘Not as unseemly as sweating like a swine running after sweetbobs!’ she mocked.
Dostain’s unreciprocated infatuation turned again to anger. ‘What is it exactly you want to show me?’
‘The dance! The dance between the line of the night and the day. What else?’
She turned and plunged on up the slope, shaking showers of water from the broad-leafed undergrowth.
‘Nonsense. Myths. Stupid little girl,’ he said. A treacherous voice responded inside his head, If that’s the case, why are you following her?
He concentrated on his annoyance to the expense of his disquiet, and pushed on.
She was quicker than he, nimble as a caprid on the slopes of the mountains. He reckoned they’d come two thousand feet already since leaving the palace late the previous evening. Pollein’s silly games irked him, dressing as urchins and sneaking from the laundries under the west wing, but he would do anything to be near her. There were two reasons he went along with it, if he were honest with himself. The first was obvious. A marriage to his aunt would secure his position within Geratomro’s aristocracy, as his other aunt the Governatrice had so often hinted. The second embarrassed him in the way that only affection for someone you feel will laugh in your face for it can. He desired her. Already she was in the first flush of womanhood. Her majority was a month away. He did not much care for the idea of marrying her; all that dynastic nonsense demeaned his love for her. But having her... That was a different thought entirely. His palms sweated.
When they were married, he’d stop these little excursions, that was for sure. It wasn’t right to prance around the mountains like a common herder.
He shoved his way through the band of palmleaf trees, their hand-like foliage waving idiotically at him as he passed inwards into a small wood. Once away from the edge, the palmleaves grew tall, spear-thin trunks supporting crowns of five big leaves, all waving in the wind so they looked like a crowd at a game saluting the players. Their spread obscured the stars, and the dark thickened. The withered brown hands of dead palmleaves crunched underfoot, louder than plastek wrapping. His neck prickled. He turned suddenly, certain of eyes on his back, but there was nothing there.
‘Pollein!’ he whispered, not daring to shout. ‘Pollein!’
Leaves crackled ahead. He caught sight of movement and ran as fast as his flabby legs would carry him.
‘Wait!’ he called. ‘Wait for me!’
Eyes flashed, followed by the glint of a disdainful smile. She was on the other side of the stand of trees, shoving her way out through the lesser plants that guarded its borders. In sudden panic at losing her, Dostain flung himself after, bursting out of the wood hot and flustered.
An acclivity of bare rock leaned up away from him. The angle was difficult to judge, and it tricked him into thinking it flatter than it was until he caught sight of his aunt, seemingly hovering in the air high up. She pointed west.
‘Look! The sun is coming! Better get a move on, fat little nephew, or we’ll miss it!’ She turned and sprang on upwards, hopping from rock to rock. Dostain stumbled on the first boulder, skinning his knee. He swore. By the Emperor, he’d whip that attitude out of her. Shadow turned from black to grey at the approach of the sun. He glanced back. The lights of Magor’s Seat glowed like gridded jewels at the foot of the mountain, the palace spires rising five hundred feet from its centre. Beyond stretched the expanse of the Norta Great Plain. Towns revealed by similar grids of light receded into the distance. At the far edge the horizon was a sabre-blade of orange.
Dostain pushed himself hard. For the time being, what favour Pollein showed him was dependent on his efforts, not his whim. Besides, it would be irritating in the extreme to come all this way to miss whatever it was she wanted to show him. She would only laugh at him, and he hated it when she laughed at him.
Dostain made it to the crest of the rise as Geratomro’s quick dawn spilled over the horizon. A band of light raced across the farms and little towns of the Great Plain towards Magor’s Seat, lifting night like a curtain.
Pollein gestured frantically at him to join her behind a large boulder. There were a number of similar large, tired-looking rocks scattered about a small meadow of tough furze-grass on a shelf on the mountain. The peak, invisible from where Dostain stood, was some five thousand feet higher still.
The largest boulder was set almost dead centre to the meadow, a stone needle that appeared to be more obelisk than natural formation. As the dawn flashed across the sunward side of the mountain and hit the top of the stone, it threw out a hard, black shadow towards the cliff, hiding the further slopes of the mountain.
‘How ugly,’ said Dostain, who preferred the order of the manufactorum over an untamed landscape. More importantly, he knew Pollein loved such sights and he desired to hurt her. Petty, but he was tired, and his legs hurt. He had never sweated so much in his life. ‘What is it, then, that I am here to see?’
‘The Devil-in-the-bush!’ she whispered.
‘What? I thought you were joking!’ He looked around the rocky meadow, making a real effort to show his disinterest. ‘We’re over the treeline. I don’t see any bushes, only rocks.’
‘Silly! That’s not his real name. That’s just what people call him.’
‘I see,’ he said
, unconvinced.
The sun burst up over the edge of the slope, flooding the little meadow with gold. Pollein closed her eyes and shuddered at its touch. Dostain swallowed. She was even more beautiful in that light. He imagined her in all the finery of the court, not rude rags, fattened, made up exquisitely, skin pale away from the outdoors, inside where she belonged. He steadied himself. The thought of it made him giddy. Or was it that strange effect she had on his brain again? She was still shuddering, making little noises. He thought he saw a blue light flash under her eyelids. It dizzied him.
Her eyes snapped open. ‘He’s coming!’ she said.
Dostain blinked black spots away from his eyes.
‘Get down!’ Her hand closed about his wrist and yanked him towards the floor. ‘He doesn’t know you’re coming. You’ll scare him off. He’s very skittish.’
The strange feeling left him at her touch. He looked at her face, but saw nothing amiss. He supposed he could have imagined the light. She did strange things to him for perfectly normal if shameful reasons, and he was short of breath.
‘There!’ she said, pointing excitedly.
Dostain blinked. The stone needle appeared to have acquired a door in its base. Not a square cut thing, but a crude gash in the stone. To his complete amazement a small, hairy head emerged from it. He slapped his own hand over his mouth to stifle a squeal and made to run off, but Pollein had him firmly and would not release him.
The thing peered about until satisfied it was alone. It stepped out from its crack in the rock and went to where the new morning was cut into a stark line between light and shadow. It smiled. It had a big smile, clear to Dostain from fifty yards away. The funny thing, he thought afterwards, was that he should not have been able to see it, but he could. Rubbing its hands together, the creature put one hairy foot either side of this miniature terminator of day and night, closed its eyes, and began to prance back and forth over the line in a clumsy but joyful caper.
Dostain’s bladder clenched. He had the overwhelming urge to soil himself.
‘The Devil-in-the-bush, dancing on the line between the night and the day,’ Pollein whispered, exhibiting none of the terror he felt. ‘Not a myth. Would you like to meet him?’
‘Are you mad? The thing’s a curse! We should run away and never come back!’
‘No! Of course not, silly. He’s harmless! He and I have become quite good friends, actually. Come on. He’s really not very scary.’
Before Dostain could voice his strong objection, his aunt had got to her feet and shouted, ‘Hallo! Little man in the bush! I am here.’
The creature spun on the spot, crouched low, teeth bared. For an instant it looked daemoniacal. But its smile chased savagery away when it saw that it was Pollein calling. She ran to the creature. They clasped hands, and together they danced round and round over the boundary of shadow and light, laughing like children until they collapsed, giggling madly.
Dostain straightened, unable to take his eyes off the thing. He’d seen animals from a hundred worlds. He’d seen examples of sentient xenos, some of them even alive. He had never seen anything like the Devil-in-the-bush. It was about the size of a seven-year-old child, but more powerfully built. Knotted muscles moved under skin covered with a sparse coat of wiry hair too thin to be called fur. Only its feet, face and hands were free of it. It thickened on top of its head into an unkempt mop full of twigs and dirt. The simian, lipless mouth protruded our far. It would have looked ridiculous, were it not for the eyes being as exactly as legend had it – deep and brown and full of wild power.
‘Ah!’ it cried in a rough little voice. ‘You have a friend! How lovely.’
Pollein snatched up the creature’s hand and dragged it towards Dostain. ‘This is my nephew, though he’s a year older than me, aren’t you, Dostain? He is nearly nineteen. He was my elder brother’s son, but he sadly died, and so my sister became Governatrice.’
‘He-hello,’ said Dostain.
‘He-hello,’ mocked the being with a broad smile. ‘Hey, didn’t your mother assassinate his father?’ said the Devil-in-the-bush to Pollein.
Pollein became grave. ‘We don’t talk about that. Don’t be mean. Mother has an awful temper.’
‘She must have, to kill her own brother,’ said the thing, its face crinkling merrily. Dostain had the bizarre vision of it as a friendly uncle, teasing children with the promise of vast gifts on Ascension Day, and not some abhuman monster idly discussing murder. ‘And aren’t you the fellow who told his aunt to dismiss the Departmento Munitorum? Very brave, or very foolish.’
‘I had a dream! How was I to know she’d kill them all? I only wanted to do some good.’
‘No good comes from following your dreams, boy, everyone knows that.’
‘Shut up! It’s not my fault! What by the Throne are you?’ said Dostain.
The thing winced. ‘Oof! Such language!’ it said. It did a little bow. ‘I am the Devil-in-the-bush, though I’m not so bad as all that.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like you.’
The thing leaned closer, baring flat yellow teeth in a horrible grin. ‘And why should you have? There is only one of me.’
‘You look like a degenerate, a mutant.’
‘Ah. You mean the face?’ It circled its finger around its face. ‘A conceit I wear in memory of certain pilgrims.’
‘From where?’
The thing smiled back. ‘That’s for me to know.’ The sun felt cold on Dostain’s back. ‘So, good sir, I assume you have heard the tales?’
‘They didn’t mention anything about the chit-chat,’ said Dostain.
‘Oh! He is a dry one, he is. You’re dry! I like you. Well. The stories then. They are tales. But broadly true. Five months ago, I met your lovely, lovely aunt. A fine young lady, very fine.’ It looked over Pollein’s curves with a lascivious gaze that she seemed not to see, nor did she catch the broad wink at her behind it gave. Dostain trembled at seeing such a lustful look on so ape-like a face. ‘Do you know what I do?’
‘You give choices that bring no comfort to the chooser.’
The thing pursed its lips admonishingly. ‘Come, come. That’s harsh. The trick with the choices I offer is what you do with them. Any misfortune that may befall you can be evaded, if you are nimble. No prize is worth it without a challenge, don’t you think? Failure is the fault of the chooser, not the choice-giver.’
Dostain, who had enjoyed many advantages in life at minimal outlay in personal effort, did not agree. From the thing’s leer, he supposed the creature knew what he was thinking.
‘You sound like a sensible lad, when your aunt talks about you. You did advise the Governatrice to turn away the mission of the Adeptus Administratum. And maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. I mean, the alternative isn’t that much worse. You never know, you might even win!’
Dostain scowled. He didn’t like the way the thing was stroking Pollein’s wrist with its leathery hands. ‘I wanted to help. There was no other way. I examined the problem from every angle. We could not give them yet more men. Dreadful business. We had no choice.’
‘And getting more dreadful by the day!’ said the thing, cupping its hand over its ear in the direction of the distant guns. ‘But there’s always a choice. Which brings me to yours!’ It clenched its fists in glee and hopped from foot to foot in excitement. Then stopped, assuming a posture like a soldier to attention. It looked at Dostain side on, chinless jaw jutting out. ‘Power,’ it pronounced solemnly. ‘Or slavery?’
‘Do I have to choose?’
‘What happens to those that don’t? In the stories.’
The stories. In the stories those who tried to get away were never seen again. Not in one piece, anyway, or with their sanity. But those were only stories. Dostain’s palms sweated. His fear slid out and took a hold of his limbs. His body began to shake.
‘Power or
slavery? That’s a suspiciously straightforward choice,’ said Dostain, in a small voice.
‘You are a lord, my lord! High station brings privilege.’ It bowed again.
‘Power, then,’ said Dostain in confusion. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘The choice is always obvious, but is it always right? Your choice in goading your aunt to secede.’
‘I didn’t goad!’
‘I know what you did. You opposed her. You made her angry and she acts rashly when she is angry. It was your fault, because you hoped she would be removed and that you would be installed in her place. That was an obvious choice, wasn’t it? Keep your hands clean, but get the throne.’
‘I... I never did!’ Dostain coloured, appalled that Pollein had heard the truth, but she was giggling and did not seem to mind.
‘Be careful of your choices as much as your dreams,’ went the hairy man. ‘You never know where they will take you.’ The Devil-in-the-bush grabbed Pollein’s arm again and pressed a long finger against her wrist. She giggled with delight.
‘Ooh, it’s tingly!’ she said.
‘Tis done, in part,’ said the thing.
‘I didn’t choose! I was only thinking aloud.’
‘Loud thoughts lead to rash actions, such as provoking the enmity of the Imperium of the corpse-god,’ said the thing in a low, menacing voice. ‘Wasn’t that your thought? You wanted power, you couldn’t get it yourself, so I give you power. You chose it. Remember me when you are enthroned.’
‘Power,’ said Dostain. The thought of it was intoxicating, and dulled his fear at the unnatural being.
‘Indubitably. Fate bends its attention to you. Make yourself heard.’
Dostain looked at his aunt.
‘How do I know this is not a trick, like in all the stories?’
‘Stories are stories, as you have implied. This is real, my lord. If you are nimble, if you are willing, fortune will be yours. Didn’t I already say that? I did!’
‘If I am not, um, nimble?’
The thing released Dostain’s aunt and rubbed its hands together. With mounting horror, Dostain thought it had grown, at least by an inch. ‘Either way, my lord, you will see me again!’ It looked skywards. ‘Full day comes. I must depart! Events run away from you. Soon the armies of the Corpse Lord will be knocking on the palace gates,’ it said, miming a rapping on a door, ‘bringing with them rope and fire for the traitors of Geratomro. If you wish to avoid this fate, heed my words. You do want power over slavery, don’t you? I can, this once, change it, if you wish.’