Beyond the Gate of Worlds

by Robert Silverberg

  “Amharic,” Ismail said.

  “What?”

  “The language his holy book is written in. It’s very old. Few people understand it.”

  “You’re one of the exceptions?”

  “I recognize it, no more than that . . . Young friend, you seem suddenly to have turned against me. Are you disappointed that I couldn’t find you a larger audience to boast to about your cleverness?”

  “No, it isn’t that!” Recollection of his gratitude at having more than one person listening bloomed and faded in Djinghiz’s mind. “It’s—”

  But what he had intended to say had also faded. He licked his lips, searching for lost words.

  Ismail hoisted himself to his feet and began to plod back and forth along the room. He said eventually, “Do you not believe that I can see beyond the Gate?”

  "I..."

  “Not always, but sometimes. With vast effort.”

  "I ..."

  “I detect that you doubt. Even with this proof before

  you.”

  “Proof?”

  “Evidence, at least! Five would-be assassins of the greatest ruler in the world . . . plus the one who actually rid us of him! Who else could have called to his table those wielding a power greater than—? ’ ’

  “Than any power of princes! Yes! I accept that!” Is it really me uttering these words? Am I still affected by whatever drug dried out my mouth? “What I can’t accept— ’ ’

  “Is that in spite of your valor and my scheming, our world is not a place of liberty and beauty. ’ ’

  “Yes!”

  Ismail halted confronting him, fists on fat hips.

  “Then you should see what I have seen! Can you imagine a battle line that stretches for a thousand versts, where for years neither side has gained more than a single verst yet half a million brave young men have died? A place where no trees grow and no birds sing?

  Where the only music is the scream of shells in flight, concluded by the drum-thud of their burst in mud? ’ ’ “It isn’t possible!” Djinghiz whispered. “It’s like what Paluka talked about! Artillery destroying whole cities at a time! ’ ’

  “It could have been! And worse to come! I swear it! Battles not confined to land, nor even to the sea, but— Oh, I can scarcely credit it myself! High in the air and deep within the oceans! And we are at risk of the same!”

  "When? How? ’ ’

  Ismail wiped his forehead with his sleeve; it had been glistening with sweat.

  “The faction that the Maori ambassador represented is amassing funds to develop submersible warships. They have devices to extract oxygen from water so the crews can breathe. What is more, when fed with seawater the same machines produce a noxious gas which they intend to put in shells and bombs, to kill their enemies not cleanly but by choking them. And that’s riot all. Shri—whoever—mocked the kite-train, but behind the dream too lay one more sinister.”

  “Explain!” Djinghiz felt his nails biting his palms. “To overfly the Himalaya, dropping aerial bombs.” “On Gurkha regiments?”

  "Of course."

  “And break their rule, and loose the Mahruts to the north? ’ ’

  “Of course . . Despite their evil reputation the Gurkhas have remained content with their domain for centuries. The Mahruts, though—!”

  “Are notoriously fretting at the confines of theirs?” “Would you care to see them marching through our market? ’ ’

  “No, I would not! I’d rather see the Turks return, than that!”

  Followed a long and empty pause. At last Ismail said mildly:

  “Well? Do you want the woman that I offered you? She must be getting rather tired of waiting. ’ ’

  Djinghiz started. “You honestly think that after all that’s happened this evening I could still—?”

  With malice: “As you remarked earlier, I’m in no position to know about such matters . . . But I’ll dismiss her. And, I think, your fellow-travelers deserve some rest.” He clapped his hands. Instantly a line of servants filed into the room, including the girl rosebud who had earlier attended Hideki, or perhaps her twin. The boy woke with no objections and allowed himself to be led away. Feisal and Ratanayaka were equally docile; their eyes had the bemused look of sleepwalkers. Slava and Paluka, however, had to be carried out. Two men sufficed for the former, but the weight of the latter demanded three.

  When the door closed again, Djinghiz burst out, “I don’t understand how you know about these—these other worlds! ’ ’

  “Do you want to?” Ismail returned quietly.

  “Of course!”

  “Do you want to—enough?”

  Slowly, for he was almost dropping with fatigue, the younger man contrived to grapple with the question. He ventured at length, “You mean it requires training. Some kind of apprenticeship.”

  “Of course ”

  “In that case I suppose it’s too late for me to start.”

  “On the contrary . . . Let’s sit down again.” Suiting action to word, Ismail deposited his bulk at the head of the table, motioning Djinghiz to the place where Hideki had sat.

  “On the contrary,” he said again. “The perfect juncture is a point in life where one doesn’t know which of a myriad possible courses one should follow towards the future. It creates an ideal mind-set, open to the strange and awful visions that lie beyond the Gate of Worlds. And you don’t, I’m sure, wish to turn your achievement into a career that Slava called inferior to living off immoral earnings.”

  “Of course not. But—”

  “What?”

  Djinghiz drew a deep breath. “I’m not sure I could stand having my head full all the time of the sort of imaginary horrors you’ve just been describing.” “Imaginary?” Ismail said stabbingly. “Far from it!” “Yes, yes. I’m doing my best to understand . . . You mean they’re just as real for the people beyond the Gate as—as this world is to you and me.”

  “True. But if we act aright, we at least shall not have to endure them.”

  “There’s no end to this!”

  “How can there be? Every tick of passing time creates an infinity of might-have-beens, and there they are, in some incomprehensible dimension . . . Young man, I need my sleep. Are you sure about that woman? I forgot to give orders for her to dismiss.”

  “No you didn’t.” Djinghiz grinned around a yawn. “You dare to contradict me?” But the eunuch’s eyes were twinkling.

  “Nothing in your world happens by accident, not even forgetting. Does it?”

  “Well, one does one’s best—though in the end old

  age betrays us all. I simply felt, knowing you as I do, that without some distraction you might well have bad dreams. She is, I promise, pretty and well trained . . . We live in strange days, my friend.” He stretched his fat arms, left first, then right, and also yawned. “It’s an age the like of which Europe hasn’t seen since the fall of Rome, an age when empires are dying. The rot at the heart of the Sublime Porte is manifest for all to see. So, very soon, will be the canker in the sprawling Russian fungus. Across the world new peoples and new cultures are arising.”

  “Like the Maoris?”

  “Oh, they will never have their chance of empire. Even as they strive to exploit the chaos that is now inevitable they will find power slipping from their grasp. What I said to Feisal—Menlik—was the truth. No, they’ll be left gawping and frustrated, while the Gate flaps like a cat’s trapdoor in a high wind ... I won’t live to see it, but you will. I envy you.”

  He hoisted himself awkwardly to his feet.

  “Sleep well, Djinghiz. I look forward to hearing your decision in the morning. And if by ill chance you suffer nightmares, bear in mind: ours may not be the best of all possible worlds, but if we strive aright we can ensure it is far from the worst. ’ ’

  As he headed for the door the young man leapt up and embraced him. They hugged for a long moment. When they drew apart, Djinghiz felt a trace of moisture on his cheek, but Ismail kept his back tu
rned as he left, so he could not see whether or not it was a tear.

  Epilogue: Thorns Draw Blood

  “You’ve made up your mind?”

  “Yes. You were right. I don’t know what path to pick towards the future. So why should I not choose many?” “Can you endure your mistakes?”

  “I have so far. Why?”

  “Some of the other worlds one senses may seem better, and might have been attainable had one acted differently.”

  “But did not another version of me reach them?” “It is well. You’ve understood. Djinghiz, I’ll teach you all I can. And you will move the Gate not once or twice like most of us, but countless times!”

  Afterword

  “At the Sign of the Rose” takes place in a universe devised by Robert Silverberg for his novel The Gate of Worlds, in which the Black Death killed not a quarter of the population of Europe but more like three-quarters, so that the Hirks were able to conquer the Mediterranean, and Peru and Mexico were never overthrown by European invaders.

  Mutatis mutandis, the setting is authentic. The oldest hotel in Krakow is indeed pod Roza, “at the sign of the Rose,” and I have had the pleasure of staying there twice. I have also eaten a couple of times in the excellent restaurant u Wierzynka, “at Wierzynek’s,” that now occupies the house where four kings dined with an emperor—though not in the same year as in this story, nor for the same reason—and it is indeed located just south of the enormous market, ten acres in extent. As to the Tartars, their attack is commemorated every hour by a trumpeter sounding the alarm from the Marian Church. He breaks off and begins again because his long-ago predecessor was taken in the throat by an arrow before he could finish.

  An Exaltation of Spiders By Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Once he was alone Sathale II cursed his second cousin, using language that would have appalled his court. It was too late for direct action: if the despised Flatlands completed their alliance with the foreigners, he and his people were lost, and that he could not endure. At least he had been warned; he was grateful for that.

  It was the third messenger who had brought word of his cousin’s betrayal. Two previous messengers had not been able to cross the mountains; had been caught by the men of the False Inca. They would be mourned with formal sacrifices and a day of fasting. The True Inca entered the names of all three messengers among those who would serve him in the afterlife, the Four High Priests adopted the messengers as their children, and the second telegraph office in the country was named in their honor.

  “We need a diversion,” said Sathale, very late that night while the lamps guttered.

  “Yes,’ muttered his advisor, who was too exhausted to say more.

  “Something convincing,” Sathale said, musing. “Something that would be believed, plausible, even for our people.”

  His advisor, Imhuro, nodded. “Yes.”

  “Yes,” said Sathale, his eyes gleaming.

  So at his next public function, the True Inca vowed on his place in the afterlife that he would not permit his second cousin to triumph through his alliance with the False Inca of the Green Banner and these “TUrks” from across the Eastern Ocean. He promised that his land would emerge from the conflict more powerful than before, with alliances across the Western Ocean with the Maoris and the Japanese. It was agreed by all the Incan nobility that Sathale II was given to grand visions; what they said privately was another matter. But no one dared to oppose the True Inca Sathale, and everyone was afraid of what the False Inca Helaoku IV was trying to do. As outrageous as Sathale’s plan might be, it provided hope when hope was sorely needed.

  On the morning of the Hawk Goddess in the Fifth Month, Sathale II and most of his court took the royal mean funicular cars from the sacred city of Machu Pic-chu down the peaks, over the valleys and away to the sea, to the great port of Algoma, where the ships were built, and all the kites of the Spider clan.

  The men of the Whale clan were drawn up in ranks to greet the True Inca, and they hailed him, calling him the Sacred Royal Messenger, and Adopted Son of the High Gods, as well as all his lesser titles. The two leaders of the ships, valorous men of the Whale clan, swore on their place in the afterlife to complete the mission given to them by the True Inca. They declared they would cross the Western Ocean to the land of the Maoris, though none but legendary heroes had gone straight across that enormous, empty ocean. Then they cursed the False Inca and the False Inca of the Green Banner, and the sacrifice of two llamas was offered to the High Gods. With the ceremonies over, the True Inca went to review the ships of his fleet, and to meet with the leaders of the Whale clan.

  “How many ships do we have capable of the journey?” Sathale asked his advisors as they gathered behind closed doors. “I don’t want to hear tales; tell me what we can truly do. ”

  “Perhaps five of them are,” said Ouninu, who supervised maintenance of the ships.

  “No more than that?” Sathale said. “So few, and yet there are hundreds of ships here. ’ ’

  “They aren’t designed to cross the sea, but to follow the coast. If that was your wish, we could send twenty ships. ’ ’

  “No: we must go straight over the ocean.” Sathale addressed Ouninu directly. “So there will be no more than five?”

  “At most.”

  “And if we use the others?” Sathale persisted.

  “It is not what you would like. We can use them, of course, but the journey would be long, and we would stop often and there would be no chance to keep our mission . . . unknown. Five can cross the open waters. Five at most. Three is more realistic. ”

  “You command one of those ships, Meliwa,” said the True Inca. “You’ve said that the venture is desperate. How would you assess our position with regard to that of the False Inca of the eastern plains? ’ ’

  “I have met those from across the Eastern Ocean,” Meliwa said. He was the younger of the two Whale clan leaders. “There is danger coming, that much is certain.” He coughed and went on. “In the times I have gone through the Teeth of the Gods, I have found more and more of those from across the Eastern Ocean in the lowlands of the False Inca. I must assume that they are there with the invitation of the False Inca.”

  Ilatha of the Spider clan added, “When I have crossed to the lands of the False Inca in my untethered kite, I have seen signs of these men as well.”

  This was precisely what Sathale wanted them to say, and he added his own emphasis to their fears. “According to my messenger,” said Sathale, and everyone was still to hear his words, “there are many men from Urop in the lands of ... my second cousin.” He felt their shock at his choice of words. “The messenger saw men from Urop who claimed to have come to the lands of the False Inca Helaoku in order to escape the False Inca of the Green Banner. ’ ’

  Dyami, Second of the Four High Priests said, “It is a sign of their fate, that they escape one False Inca to find another.”

  Sathale shook his head. “It does not matter why they have come, only that they are there, with cannon and other weapons that we do not possess. Consider that before you dismiss them. ” He put his hand on the table, the palm flat down. “If we don’t have aid of our own, then they will press us like ever-increasing weights until we are crushed. ’ ’

  Pallatu, the other leader of the Whale clan, spoke.

  “I know the men from the Western Ocean. Their eyes are turned in other directions. They seek China.” ‘‘Then they will not help us,” said Bemosetu, the Third High Priest. “If we can’t offer what they want, they won’t help us.”

  “But we do have certain things they want,” Ilatha said. “They have nothing like our kites, either tethered or un tethered, and they admit they have uses for these kites. I have spoken to some of the Maoris when we were in the lands to the north, and I have learned much: I and my five sons have taken time to learn the words, and my first daughter, Etenyi, has written down for us what we have learned.”

  The daughters of the Spider clan were known for their industry a
nd education, but the accomplishments of Etenyi were regarded as unusual even among Spiders.

  “Tell her that the Four High Priests wish to review the work she has done,” said Pathoain, the First High Priest.

  “Too great an honor,” Ilatha said. The High Priests objected to the study of foreign languages. “Her writings will be copied at once and brought to you by the Royal Messenger of the Spider clan. ’ ’

  “Thank you,” said Pathoain with formal gestures of appreciation. “If we can speak with these Maoris, perhaps we can establish the treaties we seek. At least there is a chance.”

  “Yes,” said Sathale. There was something in his eyes, grim and cold, that the others feared to recognize.

  “The True Inca is right,” Pallatu said. “If we are to convince the Maoris of our worth and our sincerity, we must show that our intentions are genuine. We must be the ones to make the first journey. ’ ’

  “If it’s possible,” Bemosetu said.

  “It must be possible,” said Sathale.

  Ilatha spoke up. “My sons and I will carry out your orders to our last breaths, and praise you to the High Gods as we die in your service.”

  Sathale nodded. “But first I will see what your daughter has done. It would be good for you to carry my greetings to the Maoris in their own tongue as well as in ours. And then you and your sons will undertake this mission for me.”

  “Whatever vou command,” said Ilatha without flourish.

  “No matter what I may ask you to do?” pursued Sathale.

  “There is nothing you could require that we would refuse: ask any of us to leap from the highest peaks without our kites and we will do it , because it is your order we follow. ’ ’

  Akando, the Fourth High Priest, who had been silent until now, looked directly at Ilatha. “That is a binding vow. You have accepted a great task, Ilatha. May the High Gods make it no heavier than you can bear.” Ilatha knew it was sensible to be cautious dealing with High Priests. He said formally, “If we cannot accomplish the tasks of the True Inca, then we are not deserving of the favor he shows us by giving us the task. We would not wish to live with such dishonor, and would seek to eradicate our shame, for ourselves and for all Spiders. ”