George recognized the man as another clip-art persona: Seductive Yet Dangerous Scoundrel with Pencil Mustache, #2. He wore a white puff-sleeved swashbuckler shirt, tight black chinos, and knee-high boots of black leather. He would have intimidated George even if he hadn't been carrying a saber with a dripping crimson blade.
"Wilhelm von Schmutzig, I presume," George said in a voice he wanted to sound brave.
"At your service," said the villain, giving a courtier's bow. "Shall we duel to the death or would you prefer to impale yourself on my blade immediately?"
"I will not rest until I have cleansed the Earth of your foul presence, von Schmutzig." George was rather pleased with that speech—Hawkins had suggested he should have some appropriate soliloquy for the final confrontation with the villain, and George had practiced till he could say the line without fumbling.
George was still congratulating himself when von Schmutzig attacked. With lightning-swift strikes, the villain rained blows upon George's armor. The saber itself had no effect, but the clanging noise ringing against his helmet gave George a throbbing headache. He did his best to fight back, but was far too slow and clumsy to come close to his opponent. Occasionally he managed a parry, but never a successful thrust.
"Are you the best the forces of virtue could muster?" von Schmutzig sneered as he played on George like a steel drum. "I expected a hero."
"Just because you're evil doesn't mean you should be rude," George replied. "You'll get yourself in trouble someday." But it was clearly George who was in trouble as he clattered back and forth around the room. At last he was driven back against a post of the bed and his weapon was flicked out of his hand by a fencing maneuver something like the little twist of the wrist you need when you're using an Allen wrench to loosen the bit in an electric drill. George hurried to pick the sword up, but found his feet tangled in sheets lying on the floor. He fell back heavily onto the mattress and von Schmutzig was on him immediately, the tip of his saber blade pointing through the helmet's visor at George's right eye.
"Now, Sir Knight," said von Schmutzig, "you will die."
"Don't hurt me," George whispered. "If I don't win, Diana will never love me and our child will usher forth from a joyless womb."
"What care I of children?" Von Schmutzig laughed. "I am a villain…and I get defeated in so many scenarios, I don't mess around when I finally win one. I'm minutes away from finishing my zombie horde, and I'm really looking forward to decimating the duchy."
"But my baby!" George shouted.
"I was an unhappy child," von Schmutzig said. "I don't see why I should give a break to anyone else."
"Urk," he added as the tip of an ivory spear burst out of his chest, like a one-inch nail driven through a three-quarter-inch board.
Resplendent in her goddess persona, Diana carried von Schmutzig to the window on the end of her spear. "Thus end all who give my mate a rough time," she said as she tossed him out. Von Schmutzig's screams turned into the screeches of an eagle as he fell. A large bird flew squawking past the window and off into the sunset. Like all good villains, von Schmutzig was escaping so there could be a sequel.
"Are you okay?" Diana asked as George stumbled to his feet. Her face was filled with concern. She put her arm around his shoulders, sat him down on the edge of the bed, and tried to look at him through his visor.
"Oh, I'm all right," he said. He couldn't meet her gaze. "I wasn't a very good hero."
"It was sweet of you to try," she said. "Are you sure you're all right? He was hacking you left, right, and center."
George reshaped himself into his comfortable old persona. "I'm fine. How about you?"
"Oh, I had fun. I like saving people in the nick of time." She gave him a quick squeeze, then looked away.
"I liked being saved," George said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
George was keenly aware she still had her arm around his shoulders. It felt very warm. He couldn't remember anyone else's astral projection feeling that warm.
"I suppose the scenario's over now," she said sadly.
"Actually," George told her, "the building is still swarming with ruthless mercenaries."
"It is?"
"And I left the dragon alive;"
"You did?"
"And the dungeons are chock-full of disease-bearing zombies."
"Oh, George," she said, hugging him tightly, "you've given me something nice to look forward to on our honeymoon. Tomorrow."
In a gigantic cube in the desert, some really good robots work carefully on two physical bodies. Fluids are transferred. Vital signs are monitored. The probability of success is high.
In a castle on the Rhine, two ordinary human beings try on one persona after another as they strive to learn to love each other. If somebody ever finds a way to measure the probability of success in love everyone will ignore it anyway, so let's not pretend we know how things will work out.
In a hardware store in a quiet town, a robot stockboy impulsively decides to put the one-inch finishing nails and the three-quarter-inch finishing nails into the same bin. They're a bit different; but when you get right down to it, they're all nails, aren't they?
The Reckoning of Gifts
A junior cook brushes against the soup cauldron, hot, searing hot. He curses.
The kitchen noise strangles to horrified silence. Profanity is always dangerous here on temple grounds, and the danger is multiplied a thousandfold by the proximity of holy objects.
The cauldron holds the high priest's soup.
A potboy screams out the door for an exorcist, but he knows it's too late: the words have ripped the amniotic sac that protects our world from the chaos outside. Demons must be streaming in by the dozen, invisible demons who sniff once at the kitchen staff, then scatter in search of the tastier souls of the clergy. The potboy can almost see the demons—fanged, clawed, with naked female breasts—racing down the corridor, wiping their hands on the tapestries as they go by (the dyes fade, the threads ravel), pouring out into the herb garden to wither the foxgloves, to suck the soothing power from chamomile and the flavor from basil, then on across the courtyard, kicking a few cobblestones loose to trip passersby, pinching the horses of a bishop's carriage, flying unseen past the warders and into the temple proper, where they will crumple scrolls, tarnish chalices, and set the bells to wild jangling. Novices in catechism class will stumble over words as the demons tempt them to remember sweet berry pies, gravied beef, and a score of other foods the holy must forswear; priests hearing confession will find themselves dreaming of the feel of sins, the satisfying crunch of a fist plunged into the face of a self-righteous parishioner or the excitement of commanding an adulteress to disrobe; and the high priest himself, Vasudheva, voice of the gods on earth, will be swarmed by demons, engulfed by them, demons raking their claws across his heart until it shreds into tatters tossed on the winds of desire.
The junior cook faints. Others pale and scatter their clothing with salt. But the Kitchen Master simply tells everyone to get back to work. He cuffs the potboy who called for help, a good solid clout on the ear that sends the boy staggering back against a chopping block.
"The lad's too excitable," the Kitchen Master tells the exorcist who appears in the doorway. "Sorry to trouble you. Nothing's wrong."
Vasudheva, voice of the gods on earth, kneels before the Twelvefold Altar. He is indeed surrounded by a frenzy of demons. When he kisses the feet of Tivi's statue, he doesn't think of the god's power or wisdom; he thinks of the sensation of kissing, the soft pressure against his lips, the lingering contact, the ghost of sensation that remains as he slowly draws away. He longs to kiss the stone again, to kiss it over and over until his lips ache with bruising. His hand rises toward his mouth. He stops the movement in time, but in his imagination it continues, his fingers reaching his lips, caressing, stroking, flesh against flesh.
Vasudheva cannot remember what he has prayed for this past half hour. Certainly not the exorcism of his demo
ns.
A month ago, the Assembly of Bishops assigned Vasudheva a new deacon named Bhismu…a young man of undistinguished family, chosen because he has no affiliation with the Assembly's power blocs and can therefore be trusted not to exert undue influence on the high priest. Vasudheva also soon realized the young deacon wasn't appointed for any notable intellect, piety, or even willingness to work.
Ah, but Bhismu was beautiful! Is beautiful!
His hair is a garden of soft black ringlets, his beard an effusion of delicate curls. Vasudheva's hands long to entwine themselves, oh so gently, in those ringlets and curls, to braid, to weave, to stroke. He imagines threading his fingers through Bhismu's beard, cupping the young man's chin, gazing into those clear dark eyes as he leans forward and their lips meet….
Vasudheva dreams too of Bhismu's hands, strong but fascinatingly dexterous when he played the reed-pipe at the Feast of the Starving Moon. Vasudheva was hypnotized by the confident rippling fingers. He thought of nothing else far into the night, until in the bleakness of morning, he wondered if he had eaten a single bite at the feast. Scripture said the moon would starve to death, disappear from the sky forever if the high priest hadn't consumed enough on its behalf; but the moon survived, as did Vasudheva's desires.
He has never prayed for those desires to abate. He cherishes them. He relishes them.
Tonight begins the Long Night Revelries, a week of feasting and celebration in the city of Cardis. Events include the Fool's Reign, the Virgins' Dance, and the Renewal of Hearth Fires from Tivi's sacred flame, but first comes the Reckoning of Gifts in the temple's outer hall.
It's never a pleasant ceremony for the priests who officiate. The hall teems with unbathed commoners, men and women together, all clutching packages to their chests with fierce protectiveness. They jostle each other in the rush to receive blessings; they insult the Gifts of others and boast about their own. Every year fights break out, and sometimes a full-scale riot. Even if demons are loose tonight, it's hard to imagine how they could add any more chaos to the usual commotion.
Vasudheva waits for Bhismu to escort him down to the hall. Not long ago, the high priest refused all help in getting around—though his quarters occupy the top of the temple's highest tower, he would climb the stairs unaided several times a day, glaring at anyone who tried to assist. Now Vasudheva goes nowhere without Bhismu's strong supporting arm. He clings to the young man with both hands and walks as slowly as possible.
Several powerful bishops have begun overt machinations to win support in the assembly, believing there will soon be an election for a new high priest. They are men of limited imagination; they think Vasudheva has become frail.
The bishops would like to influence which Gift is chosen from the dozens presented in the hall tonight. Power and prestige ride on the choice, not to mention a good deal of gold. The laws of Cardis stifle innovation—change threatens order, and order must be maintained. No one may create a new device, a new art, a new process…except in preparation for the Reckoning of Gifts. In the month before the Reckoning, creators may build their inventions. On the longest night of the year, they bring those Gifts to the temple; from the dozens offered, one Gift is chosen and accepted into orthodoxy, while the others become fuel for Tivi's flame. The successful creator is feted in all quarters of the city, honored as a benefactor of the people and a servant of heaven. Unsuccessful ones have nothing to show but ashes.
Needless to say, competition is intense. Every guild sponsors some Gift to better their lot—a new type of horse hitch offered by the cart drivers, a new way to waterproof barrels offered by the coopers—and scores of individuals also bring their offerings, some of them coming back year after year. One family of fisherfolk has sent their eldest child to the Reckoning each year for more than a century; they claim to be able to teach needles how to point north and for some reason they think the gods will be pleased with such tricks. Not so. The gods have consistently shown themselves to be pleased with the Gift accompanied by the largest under-the-table offering to the high priest. The only variation from one year to the next is whether the secret offering is made in gold, in political influence, or in the adroitness of beautiful women.
This year, Vasudheva is sure the gods smile on a type of clasp offered by the silversmiths, a clasp more secure and easier to fasten than orthodox clasps. The silversmiths have provided the high priest with several samples of work that show the virtues of the clasp: a silver necklace whose pendant is the letter V studded with sapphires; a silver bracelet encrusted with alternating emeralds and amethysts; and a silver dagger and sheath, the dagger hilt glittering with fire-eye rubies and the sheath embroidered to show Tivi's flame.
Schemers among the bishops try to sway the gods' decision, and several believe they have succeeded…but the gods are in a mood to demonstrate they speak only through Vasudheva, while upstart bishops should devote themselves to prayer instead of powermongering.
A soft knock comes at the door and Bhismu is there. Vasudheva catches his breath, as he always does when Bhismu enters the room. Sometimes the high priest thinks he has two hearts in his chest: the withered heart of an old man and the bounding, pounding heart of a youth who feels the fever of love but not the complications. If he only has one heart, it must be attuned to the hearts around him—when he's surrounded by crabbed and ambitious bishops, his heart shrivels; when Bhismu is near, his heart expands and expands until it's as large as the sky.
Bhismu asks, "Are you ready to attend the ceremony, Your Holiness?"
"If they're ready for me. Are things under control?"
"Father Amaran says we have encountered no more trouble than usual, but everyone feels a strong disquiet. There have been rumors of demons."
"Rumors of demons are like mushrooms," Vasudheva says. "They spring up overnight, and the peasants feed on them."
He hopes Bhismu will laugh, but the young man only nods. He's slow to recognize jokes. It's a failing that can be overlooked.
They begin the long journey down the tower's corkscrew stairs. A month ago, Vasudheva found it awkward to descend holding onto an arm instead of the balustrade. Now he's completely comfortable with it. He doesn't need to concentrate on his feet anymore; he can devote his full attention to the strength of Bhismu's hands, the faint smell of his sweat, the beard so close it would take no effort at all to kiss.
"Have you ever been in love?" Vasudheva asks.
The young man's thoughts seem to have been elsewhere. It takes him a moment to collect himself. "Love? I don't know. A few times I wondered if I was in love, but it wasn't like the minstrels say. It wasn't intense. I'd spend time with a girl—this was before I was ordained, of course—I'd spend time and I'd feel very fond and I'd wonder, am I in love? But my father was determined I would enter the priesthood, and if he saw me becoming attached to someone, he ordered me to give her up. And I did. I always did. So I guess it wasn't love. If it really had been love, I wouldn't have…I don't know. It's wrong to disobey your father, but if I'd really been in love…I don't know."
"So you've never had strong feelings for a woman?" Vasudheva asks. He is very close to Bhismu; his breath stirs wisps of the young man's hair.
"Not as strong as love. Not as strong as love should be."
"Have you ever had strong feelings for anyone?"
"I don't understand. You mean my family? Of course I love my family. You're supposed to love your family."
Vasudheva doesn't press the matter. It took him forty years to rise from an acolyte in the most crime-ridden quarter of Cardis to the supreme office of high priest. He has learned how to bide his time.
But Bhismu's beard curls invitingly. Vasudheva's demons will not wait forever.
Bishops lounge on divans in the vestry that's adjacent to the outer hall. Each wants a whispered word with the high priest; each wants to overhear the other whispers. Vasudheva forestalls their jockeying for position by sweeping past them and throwing open the thick outer door.
Scre
ams. Shouts. Feet stamping and glass breaking.
On a night so rife with demons, the riot is no surprise to anyone.
The door opens onto the front of the room; the stampede is surging toward the public entrance at the rear. That's why Vasudheva isn't crushed instantly. The only people nearby are two men grappling with each other, one dressed in velvet finery, the other in bloodstained buckskins, each trying to dig fingers into his opponent's eyes. Here and there within the crowd other fistfights thump and bellow, but most people are simply trying to get out, to escape the trampling mob.
Things crunch under their feet. They could be Gifts dropped in the panic; they could be bones. No one looks down to see.
Vasudheva stands frozen in the doorway. A priest staggers up to him from the hall, squeezes roughly past into the refuge of the vestry, and cries, "Close the door, close the door!" He bleeds from a gash on his forehead.
Behind the priest comes a woman, doing her best to walk steadily though her clothes hang in shreds and blood oozes from wounds all over her body. Where her arms should be, she has wings. Wings. Vasudheva steps aside for her to pass, his mind struck numb as a sleepwalker's. Bhismu drags both the woman and the high priest back into the vestry, and slams the door shut.
The noise of the riot vanishes. There is only the whimpering of the injured priest, and the heavy breathing of several bishops whose fear makes them pant like runners.
"Sit down, sit down," Bhismu says. Vasudheva turns, but Bhismu is holding out a chair to the woman. Who shouldn't even be here—women are forbidden to enter the temple beyond the outer hall.
She's a Northerner, her hair black and braided, her skin the color of tanned deerhide…young, in her twenties. Bhismu's age. Vasudheva can't believe anyone would find her attractive—she's too tall and bony, and her nose is crooked, as if it was broken, then set haphazardly.
Vasudheva keeps his eyes off the wings. There's no doubt they're beautiful, exquisite—slim as a swift's, abundant with feathers. For a moment, Vasudheva has a vision of the bird kingdom parading past this woman, each presenting feathers for these wings: eagles clawing out sharp brown pinions, hummingbirds poking their beaks into their chests to pluck soft down the color of blood; and crows, doves, finches, jays, each offering their gifts until the woman faces a heap of feathers taller than her head, and still the birds come, geese, falcons, owls, wrens, adding to the motley pile, all colors, all sizes, herons, plovers, swallows, larks, all bowing down like supplicants before an angel.
Gravity Wells (Short Stories Collection) Page 22