by Sue Perry
Listening to the river took me three blocks without thinking. That had to be a record. But—
Something had changed. The building voices repeated my name and no longer sounded carefree. Per Kelly Joe, danger was unlikely but not impossible here in Frivolous Bedlam. "Hey, it's me, Cat Shaver. Anything new? Anything I should know?"
The chatter hit me like a burst water main. Every building for blocks replied. They were afraid. I had brought danger to them. They knew I hadn't done it on purpose but I had created a problem that I needed to solve, pronto.
Up the street came my explanation. Suspended in the dusk air were shadows that gleamed rhythmically, bright then dark, bright then dark, like flapping meat cleavers. My books were flying toward me, light catching their dust jackets, and they didn't look Pixar like they had in my apartment yesterday. Lose Twenty Pounds must have kept drilling them because their movements were now precise and identical. They flew the way books flew as mercenary soldiers, which reminded me that even a few books could cause enormous destruction. It might set a bad precedent, however, if I screamed and ran.
The buildings murmured in fearful tones.
"Books! To me!" I remembered this command from some movie battle and I pretended I was that movie's commander, which minimized my desire to whimper. The book squadron accelerated toward me. Oh goody. "And. Shelve yourselves. I mean. Land. Halt."
Summer dropped like a dove hit by buckshot, pages still open. The others made short adept landings like jets on an aircraft carrier, covers closing as they touched down. Lose Twenty Pounds rose to hover before me and I could feel the books' attention: they wanted my reaction to their demonstration.
"Wow! Amazing progress for one day of training! Well done! Let me take you home." I began to pick up the parked books, first blowing on Summer's scraped pages—although there was little street dirt here. When I hefted the stack, Lose Twenty Pounds landed on the top. "Well done!"
These were a lot of books to lug for blocks but it was worth the backache when the buildings began goofing around again. My eyes filled with tears. For the buildings' naïve cheer. For the books' fierce loyalty. If I had it to do over, I would never have brought so much as a bookmark to Frivolous Bedlam. But that isn't how things went down.
I adjusted my load of books so that I wasn't hunched over, so that I could shoulder the extra responsibility. It was up to me to make these books safe outside Neutral Frames—where they were fine because they were immobile—and, dammit, I would figure out how.
The sidewalk and streets were rough because the books had shed text, which cut and sliced the pavement. Did my books still lack full control, or did books always shed text? "Hey, my bad, I forgot to tell you all that you need to stay inside, no books allowed outside here." Lose Twenty Pounds gave an abrupt shift on the top of the stack. "You didn't know, I didn't tell you. Not a problem this time, it just can't happen again."
Lose Twenty Pounds tilted up as though eyeing a large flying shadow, blacker than the darkening evening. The other books tilted, also, but not at the same time and not in the same direction. It became a moment worth a million YouTube hits. I lost my grip on the stack of books and first one book slid, then another did. With every attempt to correct my balance, I created a bigger instability. Books popped out of my arms in all directions as thought their jackets were greased. I'd shove one back in the stack and that would pop another out the other side. Finally they were in heaps on the pavement and I was alongside them, gasping.
The shadow that had spooked Lose Twenty Pounds was a pelican, the first I'd seen in Bedlam, and surprisingly far inland from the river. It was a huge bird with a scarred beak. It circled a few times as I gathered the strewn books. The buildings chattered to the pelican, sending thanks skyward, along with mixed messages. One offered assurances that the pelican could return to the river because Cat Shaver had the books under control now. Another begged the pelican to stay because books were still present.
Nerves being high, a dispute broke out between buildings for each viewpoint.
"You're overreacting. Calm down," a building snapped.
"They're books. Books bring bad."
"Books. Bring. Bad." Somebody repeated then somebody else did, too. The debate took on the cadence of—what else—a knock–knock joke.
"Books don't mean bad."
"Says who?"
"Halls. Halls of Shared Knowledge."
"No ledge? No ledge who?"
"Who don't mind books!"
Nearby buildings slammed doors and rattled awnings: well played! Apparently the buildings had returned to normal.
I stretched my aching arms to grip my books, and with my chin pressed into the top of the stack, I trudged home.
A shout greeted me from Julian's front stoop. I'd know that pissed–off voice anywhere but was surprised to hear it now and here. And bellowing. Anwyl was often angry but usually controlled.
Anya appeared in the doorway behind him. Dizzy and Leon also emerged. The cats undulated around Anya's legs and pranced down Julian's front stoop, just as Anwyl sprang down to the sidewalk and grabbed the books away from me.
"Does one betrayal not suffice? How many foes does this embrace hold?"
Anya shushed him and he actually shouted at her, "Two cats and now these. Faugh." He clamped meathook hands to the ends of my stack of books and hurled the books inside. They clattered and yelped in Julian's foyer.
"I can explain," I assured Anywl and Anya, curious to hear what I might say.
Anya spoke to Anwyl in a voice that could cut diamonds. "Her way is not yours to shape. No one can walk another's path."
He swallowed his many replies. Next to me, Dizzy began a feverish butt–grooming session. Anwyl growled; as always, the cat seemed to infuriate him. When Anwyl glared at Leon, I stepped to intercept the look and pet Leon. The cat scurried up the block. He seemed more spooked by me than by Anwyl.
In the foyer, the books squeaked and shrilled. I pushed between Anwyl and Dizzy and went inside. About half the books were airborne, the others dragged themselves into takeoff positions. A part of me wanted to soothe the books and check for damage; the rest of me wanted to get them back to Ma'Urth where they would be immobile. It felt like sheer luck that I had kept them in control so far. All of me hoped they weren't hurt. "Help each other upstairs and shelve yourselves," I ordered the books. "Remain shelved until I say otherwise."
"Books in Frivolous Bedlam!" Anwyl's fury entered the building ahead of him.
Anya posed a question, which shut him up for some time. "See you not that Nica has become their tamer, the one who shapes order from disruption?"
The way she said this, it sounded like she was quoting prophecy. I looked at Anya and she nodded, which filled me with hope. Maybe I was making good decisions. Maybe I could handle the books.
Dizzy and Leon strolled upstairs. Dizzy veered and brushed Anwyl's leg as she passed.
Anwyl's gaze moved from Dizzy to the retreating books to Leon's shaved fur to my shaved hair. "Then the dark times are now and truly upon us," he recited with enough irony to sink the Bismarck.
I was pissed at Anwyl for hurting my books and even testy with Anya because she'd allowed that without reprimand. "You recite those prophecy things like they're clear but they could be about anyone and anything. I can't believe you listen to them."
"The prophecies are guidelines that provide aid in times of calamity. They describe how the side of right succeeded in the past. You may question them but never doubt yourself, Cat Shaver." Anya giggled. "The prophecies make no mention of that." She ascended the stairs, saying over her shoulder, "Let us prepare for the morrow."
Anwyl stomped up the stairs, which made me pissed at him for still being pissed at me. He stopped and turned. When I met his gaze, I shivered. He looked at me with desire so intense it made lust seem blasé. For a moment I flashed on this fulfilling a prophecy, too, but discarded the insight as too weird. My weirdness threshold was different back then.
"H
ave you a chill?" he murmured.
"Not hardly." I clutched the bannister, insanely conscious of him.
"Welcome home, Nica," Julian's voice made me start. "I trust you will enjoy a restful night before the demands of the morning."
"Thanks, Julian," I said, and patted his wall.
"And is that Anwyl, son of Reyn, on my stairs?"
"Well met, Julian," Anwyl replied. He turned and continued upstairs.
I took a moment then followed.
The rest of the visit was all business and they didn't stay long. They made sure I knew when to take action during the Framekeeps hearing. I knew; and I couldn't wait. I'd nursed a grudge against the Framekeeps and this was payback sublime: I would provide the distraction that set the coup in motion.
23. YOUR STEPS MUST BE YOUR OWN
The morning was bright as a new switchblade when Kelly Joe and I headed for the Framekeeps' hearing, where we would meet Anwyl, Anya, and our co–conspirators. The thirteen Framekeeps each provide a meeting venue and the Framekeeps rotate their hearings. This meeting was in Hari!–Ya's Frame, Expletive Deleted.
Even at dawn and in other Frames, the Brookyln Bridge was crowded with tourists. In one Frame, humanoids crawled up the cables to the top of the gothic turrets, a route restricted to maintenance crews at home on Ma'Urth. That view must be amazing! Maybe if all went well today I could persuade Kelly Joe to check it out on our way back.
Kelly Joe and I walked five miles: east across the Brooklyn Bridge from Manhattan toward Brooklyn, then north, then west on the Williamsburg Bridge, back toward Manhattan. Only by this circuitous route could we reach our destination. Kelly Joe made the Frame shifts while I held his hand. Our journey required precision, because our target was a government and commercial district that spans the air between the Brooklyn and Williamsburg Bridges and exists in only one Frame. However, it has semblance of existence in adjoining Frames, and if you enter a building where it is a semblance, you fall through the floor. It's a long bad fall into the psychotic East River.
Kelly Joe narrated his Frame–changing and I listened as hard as I could—if the day's activities went south, co–conspirators might have to hightail it out of Frame separately, so I needed to know the route. But making those subtle transitions solo, pursued by Framekeep guards? I tightened my grip on Kelly Joe's hand. We couldn't get separated. No matter what.
As we Travelled from Frame to Frame, although the scene otherwise changed, the Brooklyn and Williamsburg Bridges looked identical to the bridges at home on Ma'Urth. I had to let Kelly Joe concentrate so my questions piled up like baggage on a jammed carousel. Why did some structures and landforms persist from Frame to Frame, while others changed? Was there a record of what was in every Frame—what changed and what didn't? That would be a handy Traveler's guide!
In most Frames we visited, the Williamsburg Bridge was encaged in gridded steel safety walls, just like on Ma'Urth, but there was a shocking difference. At home, the steel protects pedestrians and cyclists by confining them inside the bridge span. In other Frames, humanoids used bouldering moves to advance sideways along the outside of the cage, rock climbing over oblivion. That I would not ask Kelly Joe to try on the way back.
On the Williamsburg Bridge, I kept hearing voices I couldn't locate. They sounded like Dustin Hoffman with a mouthful of Jujubes, and came from the middle of the bridge, near the J line train tracks. Aha. Whenever two trains passed each other, they spoke.
Bread 'n'. Butter.
Cat. Dog.
Outta Sight. Outta Mind.
Kelly Joe released my hand. "We've arrived." He talked close to my ear to be heard about the East River, which here was more frenzied but less threatening. For the first time, I felt sorry for it. Did it ever know a moment's peace?
Kelly Joe positioned himself beneath the erector–set bridge pillars and looked up. Above us, glossy green clouds loafed in sharp yellow air. He shifted his alignment then looked toward the Brooklyn Bridge, which cast its stolid antique silhouette to our south. The skyline looked funny—it was missing the bridge that stands between the Brooklyn and Williamsburg Bridges on Ma'Urth, the homely stepsister of the bridge family, the Manhattan Bridge.
The protective steel cage around the Williamsburg Bridge was gone and there were no side railings. No government district stretched to the Brooklyn Bridge. Yet when Kelly Joe resumed walking, he headed straight for the edge of the Williamsburg Bridge, into the light gusting breeze. He turned back, saw my abort look, raised a hand like Mother Teresa with a leper. "The buildings of our destination are in a Frame all their own. Just off this ledge is a short Connector to them." He reached out his hand for me. "The first step will be the hardest."
"It's the second step that will really suck."
As he chuckled, he pulled out his harmonica and bent a few notes. It soothed me enough that I stopped inching backward.
"Any chance you could hypnotize me with that thing?"
"Your steps must be your own."
"Free will is overrated. I'm not convincing my feet."
"We're running late so I'm going on. No one will fault you if you wait here. But don't change Frames without me."
He stepped off the edge and he disappeared. I re–ran the moment in my head and confirmed he hadn't plummeted down—he had simply vanished.
"Wait for me!" I stepped forward quickly, before my thoughts could catch up with my action, then gasped a laugh. A tattooed forearm and hand had materialized and groped for me, fingers wiggling like Groucho Marx's eyebrows. I reached for my musician's hand and walked off the edge.
24. A CONVENTION OF MIDDLE–SCHOOL PRINCIPALS
The Connector was short and narrow. Narrow. Kelly Joe hadn't mentioned that. It barely fit the two of us, abreast. Good thing he knew where to step; better thing I hadn't veered when I followed him off the edge.
In five steps we were in the government district. Kelly Joe hurried us along the edge of the district, past pillars that towered above the streets. The pillars were a dark dense stone, gnarled and layered as though growing. A film of water slid along each pillar and—impossibly—across, making a thin sheet of water in the air between each pillar.
Our destination was a monumental stone box, a warehouse to the gods. Pink and black granite gargoyles lurked in the shadows under its protruding eaves. The gargoyles looked still but not carved and I felt their eyes on me.
Kelly Joe donned a low–slung hat that hid his eyes. I pulled my sweatshirt hood up and forward to hide my face. Show time.
The building's carved granite door was so heavy it took both Kelly Joe's hands to open it. Inside, a long hall funneled us to the arched entry of the meeting room. Lining the walls, hovering on black shiny books, were squat fleshy cupid guards in saffron swaddling clothes babies with cold stares and erect postures. Their books were edged with dark stains that might have been dried blood. Scattered through the meeting room were other guards of many species, all wearing the Framekeeps emblem, a colorful faceted geometry like an exploded, wire–mesh Rubik's cube. The guards held themselves with the special self–confidence of trained and sanctioned killers. There were no soldier books inside the meeting room, but of course the dozen in the hall were enough to destroy everyone and everything here.
I was glad to shove such thoughts deeper and fill my head with inanities, in case my thoughts leaked to someone who could read them. What would I cook for dinner tonight? I'd have to go shopping first. Underneath I must still be tallying guards and weapons against us, though, because each step was harder to take. By the time I reached a seat, I was shuffling through wet concrete.
The meeting room was packed and the hearing was already in session. We found the last open seats, in back. Twenty rows of audience separated us from the thirteen Framekeeps, who sat at their woven glass table, facing us. Between the Framekeeps and the audience sat today's supplicants and the Framekeep assistants.
The Framekeeps were in different places at the table today and one of the humanoids sat
in the center wearing the pearl gray leader's robe. The tall flowering cactus, leader at the last hearing, wore a magenta robe and sat at one end. The cactus stared at Kelly Joe and me. I hoped the cactus was on our side—the cactus had led the other hearing fairly and seemed like a cool guy. Gal. Cactus.
I'd had a good impression of a few other Framekeeps, too, but despite the exotic variation among species, overall the Framekeeps were like a convention of middle–school principals. I hoped our new batch would be less pompous and authoritarian.
If we delivered a new batch of Framekeeps. At the other hearing I had attended, I hadn't seen nearly as many armed guards. Today, the guards outnumbered our allies several times over, and ... maybe we'd go out to dinner tonight, then I could skip grocery shopping.
It became easier to still my real thoughts because the proceedings provided mental Novocain. I struggled to pay attention, although everyone else in the audience seemed to follow intently.
Perhaps the rest of the audience was dead. Let's be polite and call the proceedings ponderous. When the current case concluded, the reactions were so bloodless that I couldn't tell which side had won. Holy mother of Mergatroyd, now it was time for procedural yada–yada that required Framekeeps to read stretches of legalese from their tablets. I emitted a strangled whimper and Kelly Joe showed me his finger touching his lips.
While the Framekeeps droned, I developed a boredom scale and assigned life events to it. Let it run 1 to 100, 1 being stimulated–to–the–limit–of–sensation and 100 being catatonic; assume I had not yet experienced 1 or 100. With that assumption, in the teens were Frame Travel, my adventures with Anya and Anwyl, cracking jokes with Ick, sex, and my early marauding days with Ben. This hearing fell somewhere in the 80s, rivaling high school, Catechism class, and my dentist's waiting room. Developing my boredom scale got me through the rest of the yada–yada and I had fun imagining the possibilities that could rank as numero 1, my least boring experience.