by Paula Volsky
Praise for Paula Volsky and
THE GRAND ELLIPSE
“Stylish … truly magical … convincingly exotic … and rich in the small details that invite the reader to enter [Volsky’s] world completely. Turn off the TV, put on your slippers, and curl up in a fat armchair by the fireside with this book. You won’t regret it.” —Robin Hobb
“Fresh and fun, a picaresque page-turner that reads like a collaboration between Jules Verne and Jack Vance.”
—George R. R. Martin
“Harrowing, bright, inventive, romantic and above all entertaining.” —The SF Site Featured Review
“Fantasy writing at its best.” —Tampa Tribune and Times
“[Volsky] excels in portraying fantasy worlds steeped in quasihistorical authenticity and convincing ‘period detail.’ … Recommended.” —Library Journal
“Those who want humor and adventure in their reading are strongly encouraged to read Paula Volsky … a vivid and imaginative writer.” —The Washington Post
“Richly inventive and breathlessly paced … brimming with vibrant, exotic settings and Volsky’s knack for utterly convincing dialogue … this lively adventure makes for unflagging reading enjoyment that should appeal to a wide swath of SF and fantasy fans.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Volsky serves up adventure laced with humor and romance and brings it all to a literally pyromaniacal conclusion.”
—Booklist
“A spine-tingling, heartwarming delight.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Provocative … wonderfully enjoyable.”
—Publishers Weekly
Also by Paula Volsky
ILLUSION
THE WOLF OF WINTER
THE GATES OF TWILIGHT
THE WHITE TRIBUNAL
This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
THE GRAND ELLIPSE
A Bantam Spectra Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam Spectra hardcover edition published October 2000
Bantam Spectra paperback edition/November 2001
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2000 by Paula Volsky
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-036201
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-78427-8
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
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Contents
Cover
Also by Paula Volsky
Title Page
Copyright
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
“SHE IS INCOMPARABLE, she is exquisite, she is divine,” proclaimed the king of the Low Hetz. “Have another lard-smacker, my friend, and I’ll tell you about her.”
“Sire, the preparations are complete,” returned the adept who chose to call himself “Nevenskoi.” His aspect was darkly foreign, his accent exotically flavored. “I am ready to proceed with the demonstration.”
“I’ve never encountered so glorious a creature,” the king confided. “Her smile—a tropical sunrise. Her walk—the flow of a mountain stream. Her voice—a celestial serenade.”
“If Your Majesty will condescend to observe the pit-of-elements, you will view the culmination of—”
“The curve of her lips—an architect’s inspiration. The texture of her skin—corporeal moonlight. The swell of her breasts—words fail me.”
“The years of arcane experimentation,” Nevenskoi persisted, “have borne fruit at last, sire. A discovery of considerable significance—”
“Scarcely concerns me now. There are more important things. Come, man, where’s your heart, where’s your imagination? Have a chili-oil eel, and try to act human.”
“As Your Majesty wills.” Obediently the adept styling himself “Nevenskoi” picked a morsel from the vast platter covering half the workroom table, swallowed, and felt his frustration subside. Remarkable, the heartening effect that food always exerted upon him, especially expensive food, cunningly prepared, artfully presented. And the fare at Waterwitch Palace ranged from the excellent to the sublime. The chili-oil eels, for example—moist fleshed, initially mild upon the unsuspecting tongue, then kindling to infernal heat. Extraordinary. The deep-fried lard-smackers—dense and rich beneath the airiest of batters. The caviar mille-feuilles, flecked with chives, layered with sour cream. The pickled plover’s eggs. The little garlic custards in crispy shredded potato nests. The saffron barquettes, black with truffles. Delightful. No doubt about it, King Miltzin IX knew how to choose his chefs—perhaps too well, Nevenskoi reflected, conscious of the spreading middle-aged girth, so detrimental to the image that his position and profession obliged him to maintain.
Immaterial. The voluminous dark robe of a traditional savant concealed unsightly bulges, just as the thick black wig concealed his balding pate. Just as the black-dyed moustache and imperial masked his ripe jowls. Just as the affectation of an alien accent disguised the flat intonations of a Hetzian shopkeeper’s son, veiling the drab truth of ordinary Nitz Neeper. Nitz the Nobody, Nitz the Nonentity, Nitz the Nothing.
Nitz no more.
“Nevenskoi” now, and self-transformed. Native son of northern Rhazaulle, scion of a noble house, mystic, medium, gifted necromancer. A man of parts. In short, a noteworthy personage, one whose abilities had won the regard of the Low Hetz’s king.
Miltzin IX—dubbed “Mad Miltzin” by the irreverent—was generous to his human pets. Excessively generous, in many opinions, but the king wisely ignored such mean-spirited carping. Capable of recognizing talent, Miltzin had taken Nitz Neeper, known as Nevenskoi, into his own Waterwitch Palace; had fed and sheltered him luxuriously, paid him munificently, included him in courtly functions, shown him every mark of favor, and, most important, furnished him with the most advanced and amply equipped underground workroom that any aspiring adept had ever dreamed of. All His Majesty asked in exchange was a little occasional novelty.
These reflections enabled Nevenskoi to regard his grasshopper-minded monarch with a kindlier eye. Mad Miltzin was still rhapsodizing.
“… the arch of her eyebrow … the curve of her ear-lobe … swanlike throat … rounded white shoulder … tiny, helpless, enchanting hands, like a child’s … adorable, irresistible … magical …”
Courtesy no less than diplomacy demanded a reply.
“The fortunate landswoman is i
ndeed possessed of many an advantage, not the least of which is the treasure of Your Majesty’s esteem,” Nevenskoi hazarded in his spurious Rhazaullean accent.
Mad Miltzin halted in midpaean, and his eyes—bright, round, and protuberant as an insect’s—widened.
“Who?” inquired the king.
“The Honorable Landswoman liNeuflein, Sire. The happy recipient of Your Majesty’s approbation. The—”
“Oh,” said Miltzin. “Her. Come, man, d’you truly imagine liNeuflein’s wife worthy of such praise? You spend too much time buried alive in this workroom; it’s warped your standards of judgment.”
“Majesty, correct me if I am mistaken, but was it not a scant month ago that you were lauding the beauty of the honorable landswoman? Did you not at that time characterize yourself as ‘the helpless slave of her matchless radiance’?”
“Perhaps; I do not recall. She’s well enough, I suppose, in an overstated sort of way. But she is no longer young, and I suspect she colors her hair. Moreover, an unsightly mole disfigures her left thigh. Or was it the right? No matter. How can such overblown charms compare with the fresh young loveliness of the Regarded Madam liGrozorf?”
“Madam liGrozorf?”
“A rose, my friend, with the dew still upon her. No more than eighteen years of age, and newly come to court. Innocent, pure, impossibly unspoiled. I confess I am hopelessly smitten. Never have I known such depth of emotion—”
Miltzin was off and running again.
Once again Nevenskoi suppressed a flash of annoyance, an exercise in courtiership that he had mastered years earlier. Assuming an expression of suitably admiring encouragement, he concentrated on simulating interest in the king’s latest obsession. And while he listened, he comforted himself with lard-smackers, foie gras, oil-cured olives, and fried ganzel puffs picked from the platter. Presently his innards stirred a warning, which he disregarded, for he prided himself upon his resistance to intestinal intimidation.
A slight change in the rhythm of the half-heard monologue alerted the adept’s experienced ear. His sovereign’s prominent eyes had lost something of their excited luster, and those expansive gestures were starting to contract. The topic was approaching exhaustion. Presently Miltzin IX paused, groping for superlatives.
Nevenskoi seized the moment. “The king wants distraction from his many cares. Allow His Majesty’s servant the privilege of furnishing diversion.”
“Eh? Oh, yes, you were keen on showing me something, weren’t you? What was it, again?”
“The fire, Your Majesty.” Nitz Neeper, alias Nevenskoi, took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his foreign accent was false as always, but his words were true, for there was nothing ersatz about his talent or his ambition. “The wonder of Sentient Fire.”
“Sentient Fire. Well. A pretty title,” Mad Miltzin conceded. He hesitated, apparently pondering the necessity of additional inquiry, and then demanded, “A weapon of some sort, is it?”
“Certainly, Sire, that is one of countless potential applications.”
“I do not perceive the need for new and more advanced methods of destruction,” the king countered at once. “We are not at war. Everybody else is, but not us. It’s costly, I suppose?”
“There are certain unavoidable expenses, hardly excessive in view of the benefits. Your Majesty, my discovery is surely—”
“Ingenious no doubt, but you must understand that time has passed. I’ve expanded in mind and soul, I have grown beyond the need of crude weaponry. Please don’t pout. I would hope to see you rejoice in my spiritual progress.”
“I do,” Nevenskoi returned fervently. “Indeed I do, with all my heart. And yet, with all due modesty, I am compelled to observe that my discovery of what amounts to a new element in the world may be regarded as a wondrous pathway opening to mankind—a new resource, a new direction, a fresh territory open to exploration—”
“Oh, don’t get carried away, Nevenskoi,” the king advised. “You’re a bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Majesty, I intended no presumption.”
“Probably not, but I must instruct you, this so-called ‘wondrous pathway’ of yours is very much a false lead.”
“Sire?”
“Now, don’t assume affronted airs. You brilliant adepts are all temperamental, scarcely fit to endure the truth. But this time you must hear it. The key to the future lies not in the exploration of fire, explosives, atmospheric ignitions, or any such commonplace incendiary effusion.”
“Indeed, Sire.” Dread twinged across Nevenskoi’s mind. He sensed the waning of his listener’s interest, and with that ebb tide went fame and glory, solvency, security. His insides commenced to knot.
“The key,” Miltzin continued, blithely blind to the other’s distress, “lies in the marriage of magic and science. It is this great fusion that will shape and rule the world of the future. And the nation successfully comprehending these twin forces—the nation capable of turning the new knowledge to practical use in terms of transportation and communication—will surely emerge preeminent in years to come.”
Not a word about the Sentient Fire. The lard-smackers lay like stones in Nevenskoi’s belly. The heat of the chili-oil eels blazed along his veins. His guts twisted and the sweat gathered on his brow, but he managed to reply, “Your Majesty limns a golden prospect. For the present, however—”
“The mechanics of transportation must be mastered,” the king bounced on. “That is the first step along the path. It is my duty as a monarch to furnish guidance and encouragement. Therefore—and you are the first to know, my friend—I am planning an extraordinary event designed to focus the world’s attention upon issues of truest significance.”
“Admirable, Sire. But you speak of extraordinary events, and I beg leave to remind Your Majesty—”
“It will be a race,” Miltzin announced. “The greatest of all time, open to all, its course describing a vast elongated circuit that I myself have plotted. I can hardly begin to express the delight I have taken in this task. Nevenskoi, it will be magnificent! The racers will travel through many lands, over sea, mountain, forest, and other such troublesome terrain, as far as Aveshq and then back again. There is no conceivable inconvenience that they won’t encounter. Ha! But it will be tremendous! And that is why I have chosen to name this course I’ve planned—the Grand Ellipse. Well? What do you think of it?”
“Very fine, Sire.”
“So I believe. I considered calling it ‘the Big Oval,’ but felt that designation lacked impact.”
“I congratulate Your Majesty upon a wise decision.” Nevenskoi strove to disregard the increasing tumult in his belly. “No doubt this proposed race will indeed serve many a noble and useful purpose.”
“The mechanics of transportation, principle and application. Communication, magical and mundane. Progress!”
“Similarly useful, I believe, is the discovery that I myself have recently—”
“Oh, yes, I remember.” Miltzin returned reluctantly to the present. “Some sort of fire display, wasn’t it? Well, I don’t know that I really have the time for such things, when there are matters of infinitely greater—oh, very well, Nevenskoi. I can’t stand it when you sulk. I’ll view your little pyrotechnics. Try to keep it brief.”
“As you wish, Sire.” He’d had a speech prepared, but he dispensed with it now, for Mad Miltzin’s grasshopper eyes were wandering. Nevenskoi stepped to the pit-of-elements at the center of the room, where the prepared materials were already assembled. He wasted no time upon the theatrical posturings and declamation that ignorant spectators expected of a sorcerous adept. Rather, he used his mind as he had spent a lifetime learning to use it. He stood quite still, his eyes shut. His almost imperceptible gestures and almost inaudible utterances were the minimum required to facilitate concentration of his intellect. The coals smoldering at the pit of his stomach faded from existence. For a time he lost awareness of his immediate surroundings, for his thoughts were winging along path
s unknown to all but the select sorcerous few, and his consciousness was striving toward another plane, a place intensely alien, never to be comprehended or mastered, yet familiar to him.
He had it. He was there. The mental explosion sent the arcane power surging through him. Nitz Neeper, known as Nevenskoi, opened his eyes and bent that potency upon the pit-of-elements, where the assembled preparations burst into flame that burned jealousy-green.
Heat, light, emotion, and simple awareness radiated from the fire.
Hungry. Hungry. HUNGRY!
The elemental urgency burned in Nevenskoi’s brain. The innocent greed and fierce desire of his creation blended with his own thoughts; heated, colored, and all but overwhelmed them.
Food! Freedom! Now! NOW!
The psychic demands battered, but Nevenskoi stood firm and presently the fire acknowledged his mastery.
Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!
Soon, he responded in silence. If you are good.
Gimmegimmegimme!
Quiet. Wait. Nevenskoi turned to his sovereign, who sat watching in tolerant silence, and announced, “Sire, the fire is conscious.”
“And decidedly green,” observed Mad Miltzin. “I’ve never seen green flames before. That’s quite picturesque. Are we finished yet?”
“No. Remain seated and attentive,” Nevenskoi instructed, and saw the other’s brows lift at the tone of authority. Directing his thoughts inward to touch the wild, ardent consciousness impinging upon his own, he issued commands, spoken aloud for the benefit of his audience.
“Detach yourself from your present source of fuel—”
NO! NO!
“—complete a circuit of this chamber, consuming nothing, and then return.”
Instantly, a whirling mass of green flame leapt from the pit-of-elements, circled the workroom at blazing speed, then rushed for the pit and the heap of chemically fortified faggots.
Nevenskoi controlled the natural rush of satisfaction that might have rocked his concentration. His eyes sought the king.