Across the Wall

by Garth Nix

  Leap up and demand twenty bezants for the damage to your clothes? Go to 69

  Lie there and hope he doesn’t tread on you? Go to 98

  84 You grab hold of one of the windmill’s sails and are soon lifted high above the city. It is a somewhat tiring mode of sightseeing, but most educational. You have never seen the city’s dumps, ruins, broken sewers, and slums laid out in all their splendor before. As the sail reaches the top of its arc, a hunchback emerges from the mill below, says, ‘She gave me water,’ and stops the sails. You are left dangling seventy feet above the ground, and your arms are getting tired.

  Do you have twenty feet of rope? Go to 8

  Or a plaster saint? Go to 51

  If you have neither, Go to 37

  85 As you open the door, a fully grown Bengal tiger leaps down from above and advances, growling.

  Do you run back through the door? Go to 9 Shoot it with your pistol (if you have one)? Go to 43

  Say ‘Nice pussums’ and head for the door opposite, marked EXIT? Go to 40

  86 Z looks surprised, then a grin slowly spreads across his face. ‘You are right!’ he exclaims. ‘But I cannot let you pass unless you overmaster me in a contest of some kind. Mmmm . . . how about a riddle game?’

  Reluctantly, you accept. It’s been a long time since you read The Hobbit, and you never did know why that stupid chicken crossed the road.

  He asks:

  ‘Take a span of mortal life, less a score times two Add a number equal to a witch’s coven thrice Less the year, but not the century, of the most famous gold rush in America.’

  You mutter something about rhyming, but desist when he absentmindedly cuts the wings from a passing fly with his rapier. Go to the Answer.

  87 You level your pistol at the door and fire point-blank. There is a deafening crash! Splinters fly everywhere, smoke billows out, and you curse, cough, and shriek in pain. You pick a few of the splinters out, then peek through the bullet hole in the door. There is no sign of the eunuch or the doctor, so you reload, kick the door in, and level your pistol at every corner of the room, screaming, ‘Hands up!’ But these histrionics are wasted, as a quick glance out the window reveals the eunuch and the doctor being carried away by the swift currents of the Sleine, hotly pursued by the Slime Serpent of paragraph 82. You check out the room, but there are no other exits, or any sign of Lady Oiseaux. You go down the corridor to the door marked ‘Not the Auction Goods.’ Go to 80

  88 THE WINDMILL

  In the middle of the city there is a field. In the middle of the field there is a windmill. There is no reason there should be a windmill here, except that it comes in handy for hooking people up during duels.

  You may go north by northwest. Go to 59

  Or grab onto one of the sails of the windmill. Go to 84

  89 It’s hard to get a grip on a smooth chin that curves in instead of out. You are feebly struggling for a handhold when the Montgolfier lands and a pinstripe-suited man alights. He introduces himself as an agent for ‘Choose Your Own Adventures,’ and offers you a part as the hero in a ‘serious’ solo adventure.

  Do you accept? Go to 66

  Do you politely refuse? Go to 42

  90 The eunuch carries you into a Turkish bath room, which is currently unoccupied. He dumps you on a bench, and you hear him disappear off into the steam, lisping, ‘I’ll jutht fetth the doctor to finith off.’

  You feel that waiting for the doctor would be imprudent, and you are feeling much better, so you creep back out the door. Go to 15

  91 BITTERN SQUARE

  You know the old saying ‘Once Bittern, twice as painful the next time’? That saying comes from this square, where fearsomely accurate seabirds always beak you in the same place.

  You try and creep past, but . . . oh no . . . you’ve trod on a stick near a Bittern’s nest. You hear the snap! of the twig, and then the fearsome wokka wokka wokka of a fully beaked Bittern taking off.

  Do you stand there, waving your rapier over your head? Go to 46

  Or run like blazes for the narrow alley on the other side of the square? Go to 56

  92 Two women are playing cards around a small table. Two tigers are sleeping nearby. As you enter, the tigers leap up, growling.

  Do you run back through the door? Go to 9

  Or pull up a chair and say, ‘Deal me in. What’s the game? Stud, draw, three-up two-down, écarte, vingt-et-un, snap, canasta, sudden death, gin rummy, five hundred, strip jack naked?’ Go to 29

  93 Smack! Crash! Thud! Wallop! Bull-like, you smash through one . . . two . . . three . . . four interior walls, leaving a trail of shrieking customers and their chosen consorts (not to mention splinters, broken furniture, embarrassment, etc.). This is fun! Smash! Crash! Splash! You fall into the Sleine and, drained by your berserk fury, dog-paddle ashore. You rest for a moment in the comfortable slime, moving on when it starts to grow on you. You head back to the main entrance of the Quay of Scented Rats. Go to 7

  94 You’ve forgotten the door is locked. You back against it, knees knocking in fear, and mumble something about ‘Wrong room . . . sorry . . . I was looking for . . . ummm . . . eeerr . . .’ He says, ‘Oh, that’s all right then. Thought you were after the auction goods. I’ll just get the key and let you out.’

  He sheathes his rapier and turns to a cabinet. You leap forward, swinging the rapier in your mouth, knock him out with the pommel, and make your smile three quarters of an inch wider. Before he has a chance to recover, you sprint across the room and open the other door. Go to 100 95 That’s

  95 That’s the last of the hulking giant. You compose yourself (bandaging appendages where necessary), and continue on your way. Soon Fishgut Alley branches into a Y fork.

  Do you go south (that must be south . . . )? Go to 88

  Or south, sort of west a bit? Go to 52

  96 The dragon rears back, its rainbow-scaled head writhing in agony as your sword sinks ever deeper into its primary brain. But the secondary brain still functions, and you see the great tail swinging around, the venomous sting preparing to punch through you where you stand, precariously balanced between the creature’s great yellow centred eyes.

  Do you press the stud that will explode the sword blade into a hundred heat-seeking flechettes? Go to 426

  Or dive off the creature’s back, trusting that your G-harness battery is not exhausted? Go to 507

  97 The tank glimmers with an unearthly light—surely this is the wellspring of the changelings, the nutrient tank where the Tech-nomancer has been growing the nervous systems of his hideous creatures. You approach closer, scanning for search webs and tracksprings. Nothing shows in the visual spectrum, but the NecroVision ™ sight shows stirrings beneath the floor. Forewarned, you spring back and draw your sword, a .45 caliber emulsion sprayer springing into your left fist, just as a Mordicant emerges through the flagstones, its gravemold arms writhing!

  Do you chop at its head? Go to 650

  Or fire a pulse of violet emulsion at its brain stem? Go to 202

  Paragraphs 96 and 97 are a blatant advertisement for ‘Dark Realm of the Technomancer,’ which is at present little more than those two paragraphs. But that’s what advertising is all about. Order now!

  98 Aaarghh! The pain is intense as the fat merchant rests his bulk upon you, in the mistaken belief that you are a convenient seat. Your screams of agony disconcert him—he leaps to his feet and hurries off.

  You slowly clamber to your knees and crawl toward the Arc de Trihump (or the other way). Subtract one from all future combat rolls due to a severely bruised back. Go to 99 or 91

  99 THE ARC DE TRIHUMP

  A huge monument raised to celebrate the prowess of a long-dead emperor in his personal dealings with camels, the Arc de Trihump is near the Western Wall of the city.

  If you continue west (or thereabouts): Go to 6

  Turn to the broad avenue that heads south: Go to 21

  100 You fling open the velvet-padded door and strike a commanding pose in the
doorway. Your love, the Lady Oiseaux, is sitting by the mirror, putting on her earrings. She ignores you for a moment, then says: ‘If you’re coming in, come in. Ow! And help me with this earring. What took you so long anyway? You used to rescue me in no time at all—I guess you’re getting tired of me. No, don’t say you’re not. I know you are, otherwise you would have been here hours ago (sob) . . .’

  You stride across the room and stop her protests with a passionate kiss, sweep her into your arms, and leap out the window—onto the deck of a conveniently passing luxury wide-bodied gondola. The string quartet looks surprised, then breaks into the theme from Love Story. The waiter pops the champagne as you and your lady recline into the lavender-scented pillows, and the gondola gondols away into the setting sun, long life, and happiness ever after.*

  *Hardened cynics may order the alternative, realistic, nonromantic ending (involving several hunchbacks, gruesome deeds, tragedy, and despair) by sending $2.00 to the author.

  HEART’S DESIRE

  INTRODUCTION TO HEART’S DESIRE

  THAT PESKY ARTHURIAN MYTHOS JUST keeps on coming back. Every time it crosses my path, I tell myself I still dislike it, and every time, I end up writing a story set in the world of Arthurian legend.

  ‘Heart’s Desire’ was written for an anthology called The Road to Camelot, edited by Sophie Masson. The basic premise for the anthology was to write stories about the famous characters of the Arthurian legends when they were children or teens, or just getting started on their road to . . . well . . . Camelot.

  By the time I agreed to get involved, most of the better-known characters had already been snapped up by other authors. Which was just as well, really, since I didn’t have any ideas about how to write a different and interesting story about Arthur, or Lancelot, or Merlin. So I started looking at some of the characters associated with the main players, like Lancelot’s wife, Elaine, or King Lot, father of the Orkney lads. But I kept coming back to the fact that the character I was most interested in was Merlin, and in turn Merlin’s relationship with Nimue (sometimes called Viviane).

  Basically, I never bought the standard-issue version of the Merlin-Nimue story, which stripped to its essence is that the old Merlin is besotted with Nimue and entrapped by her. Part of my problem with that story is that Merlin can actually foretell the future. Older men get besotted by younger women all the time, and, as they say, ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’ But not, I would think, if that older man could accurately tell exactly what was going to happen.

  Unless there was something about that future that meant he would go along with whatever was going to happen, which he presumably wouldn’t if he knew Nimue didn’t really love him at all but just wanted his power. After all, not only would Merlin find himself entombed, but he would be abandoning Arthur, who is not only a kind of foster son but in many ways also Merlin’s life work.

  That’s where ‘Heart’s Desire’ came from: a desire on my part to retell the Merlin-Nimue story in a different light, with different motivations, while still staying within the broad boundaries of the best-known versions of the original story.

  HEART’S DESIRE

  ‘ TO CATCH A STAR, YOU MUST KNOW ITS secret name and its place in the heavens,’ whispered Merlin, his mouth so close to Nimue’s ear his breath tickled and made her want to laugh. Only the seriousness of the occasion stopped a giggle. Finally, after years of apprenticeship, Merlin was about to tell her what she had always wanted to know, what she had worked toward for seven long years.

  ‘You must send the name to the sky as a white bird. You must write it in fire upon a mirror. You must wrap the falling star with your heart’s desire. All this must be done in the single moment between the end of night and the dawning of the day.’

  ‘That’s it?’ breathed Nimue. ‘The final secret?’ ‘Yes,’ said Merlin slowly. ‘The final secret. But remember the cost. Your heart’s desire will be consumed by the star. Only from its ashes will power come.’

  ‘But my heart’s desire is to have the power!’ exclaimed Nimue. ‘How can I gain it and lose it at the same time?’

  ‘Even a magus may not know his own heart,’ said Merlin heavily. ‘And it will be the whole desire of your heart, from past, present, or future. You will be giving up something that may yet come to pass, if you choose not to take a star from the sky.’

  Merlin looked at her as she stared up at the sky, watching the stars. He saw a young woman, with the dark face and hair of a Pict, her eyes flashing with excitement. She was not beautiful, or even pretty, but her face was strong and lively, and every movement hinted at energy barely contained. She wore a plain white dress, sleeveless but stretching to her ankles, and bracelets of twisted gold wire and amethysts. Merlin had given her the bracelets, and they were invested with the many lesser magics that Nimue had learned from him in the last three years.

  There were other things that Merlin saw, out of memory and with the gift he had taken from a falling star.

  There was the past, beginning when a headstrong girl no more than fourteen years old sought him out in his simple house upon the Cornish headland. He had turned her away, but she had sat on his doorstep for weeks, living off shellfish and seaweed, until at last he had relented and taken her in. At first he had refused to teach her magic, but she had won that battle as well. He could not deny that she had the gift, and he could not deny that he enjoyed the teaching. Over the years that enjoyment in teaching her had become something else, though Merlin had never shown it. He was nearly three times her age, and he had spent many years before Nimue’s arrival preparing himself for the sorrow that must come. He had not expected it to be as straightforward as simply falling in love with an impossible girl, but there it was.

  There was the present, the two of them standing upon the black stone with the new sun shining down upon them.

  The future, so many possible roads stretching out in all directions. If he wished, Merlin could try to steer Nimue toward one future. But he did not. The choice would be hers.

  ‘My heart’s desire is to gain full mastery of the Art,’ Nimue said slowly. ‘I can gain that mastery only by the capture of a star, yet that capture depends upon the sacrifice of my heart’s desire. An interesting conundrum.’

  ‘You should stay here and think on it,’ said Merlin. He stepped down from the black stone, the centerpiece of the ring of stones that he had built almost twenty years before. The black stone had been the most difficult, though it was small and flat, unlike the standing monoliths of granite. He had drawn it out of the very depths of the earth, and it had smoked and run like water before he had forced it into its current shape. ‘But breakfast calls me and I wish to answer.’

  Nimue smiled and sat cross-legged on the stone. She watched Merlin as he walked away. As he left the ring of stones, the air shimmered around him, bright shafts of light weaving and dancing around his head and arms. The light sank into his hair and skin, and when it finally settled, Merlin’s hair was white and he appeared to be much older than he really was. It was a magical disguise he had long assumed, Nimue knew. Age was associated with wisdom, and Merlin had also found it useful to appear aged and infirm. Nimue expected she would probably do the same when she came into her power. A crone was always much more convincing than a maiden.

  Not that she expected to be a maiden too much longer. Nimue had her own plans for that step from maiden to woman grown. Merlin was part of that plan, though he did not know it. No village boy or even one of Arthur’s warriors would do for Nimue. Merlin was the only man she had ever wanted in her bed. There had been some who had tried to influence her choice over the past few years, against all her discouragement. A few were still around, croaking and sunning their warty hides down in the reedy margins of the lake. Nimue was surprised they had lived so long. Most men died from such transformations. Sometimes she fed them flies, but she never let them touch her, either as toads or men.

  Nimue turned her thoughts from failed suitors back to the conundrum p
resented by Merlin. Her heart’s desire was to have the power, yet she would lose her heart’s desire to gain the power. How could this be?

  She scratched her head and lay down on the rock, letting the heat from the sun fall upon her. Unconsciously, she turned her palms up to catch the rays. The sun was a source of power, one she used in many lesser magics. It was good to take in the sun’s power when the sky was clear, and she no longer needed to even think about it. Nimue could draw power from many sources: the sun, the earth, the moving stream, even the spent breath of animals and men.

  What had Merlin lost? Nimue wondered. What was his heart’s desire? He must have wanted the power as she wanted it. He had gained it, and as far as she could see, he had lost nothing. He was the pre-eminent wizard of the age. The counsellor and maker of kings. There was no knowledge he did not have, no spell he did not know.

  Perhaps there was nothing to lose, Nimue thought. Or if there was, it would be something she would never miss. A heart’s desire that could come to pass, but did not, was no loss. To see the future was not the same as to live it. Perhaps she would see her heart’s desire in the hearth fire, and would know it could never be. How much of a loss was that?

  Nothing, thought Nimue. Nothing compared to the exhilaration of magic.

  ‘Tonight,’ she whispered, and she curled up on the black stone like a cat resting up in preparation for extensive wickedness. ‘Tonight, for everything.’ Merlin was not asleep when she came to his chamber. He lay on his bed, his eyes open, gleaming in the thin shaft of moonlight from the tower window. Nimue hesitated at the door, suddenly shy and afraid. She had chosen to come naked, but with her long dark hair artfully arranged to both cover and suggest. She had taken a long time to get her hair exactly right, and it was held in place with charms as well as pins.

  ‘Merlin,’ she whispered.

  Merlin did not respond. Nimue drifted into the room. Her skin seemed to glow with an inner light, and her smile promised many pleasures. Any man would rise and take her to his bed in eager haste. But not Merlin.