Majestrum

by Matthew Hughes

  Again, I saw a response register in my assistant's face, only to be instantly expunged. "Do you wish to comment?" I asked it, in a tone that held no warm encouragement.

  "Yes," it said.

  "So now I am to be set upon by both of you?"

  "A comment about the case," it said.

  "Ah," I said. "Very well, proceed."

  "It is difficult to believe that the Archon is so easily duped as to bring his undoer the means of his own undoing," my assistant said.

  "Filidor was always flighty. He was constantly in trouble."

  "Not lately."

  I was feeling put upon. I told my assistant to go back to sleep. My other self had withdrawn again, probably to sulk. I decided that there was nothing to be done until we got to Barran. Then all would be made plain.

  In rescuing the Archon, it was likely that I would be called upon to exert myself. I instructed the volante to convert my seat into a sleeping pallet and, after telling it to wake me at dawn, allowed its systems to ease me into slumber.

  #

  A pack of preyns were lurking among the rocks and scrub outside when I finished the breakfast the volante's integrator furnished me from its supplies, and prepared to debark. "Shoo them away," I ordered, and the vehicle emitted a blend of high and low frequency vibrations that caused the predatory beasts' segmented exoskeletons to resonate painfully. They scattered quickly, racing off out of range, their multi-jointed legs clicking on the scree, their whiplike antennae streaming back over their thoracic carapaces.

  I opened the hatch and prepared to descend. My other self said, "We must take the book."

  "You are fixated," I said. "Look beyond your obsession. Today, we rescue an Archon and preserve the Great Wheel."

  But he was adamant and threatened to harangue me every step of the way. For a moment I was tempted to say the name that would render him senseless, but it was a cruel impulse and I rejected it. "Very well," I told him, lifting the old tome from its compartment while Barran's perpetual cold breeze invaded the vehicle. "We may need something light a fire."

  My assistant was not happy about the wind. Though thick, its fur offered too little insulation. "I may have to have some clothes made for you," I said. "Perhaps something with braid on the sleeves and little bells along the hem."

  "I assume you are making an attempt at humor," it said.

  I admitted to being in a jovial mood. "I have good expectations of the day."

  My inner companion grumbled something that I ignored as I looked through the volante's wardrobe and found a hooded overgarment. I put it on and let the cowl hang loose upon my back so that my assistant could climb in. Then I tucked Baxandall's book under my arm and set off.

  I would have to go the last part of the distance on foot. Aerial vehicles, indeed devices of all but the most simple kind, became increasingly unreliable the nearer one drew to the center of Barran. But I had instructed the volante to climb high into the clear air, from which vantage it could watch my progress and use its armaments to deal with any feral beasts that might decide that a little Hapthorn would make a good beginning to the day.

  We had landed just south of the great crater and soon I was toiling up the slope that led to its rim, the old sun lifting itself over the rubble-strewn horizon on my right. Despite the wind, the air became warmer as the incline grew steeper and soon I was perspiring under the heavy garment. I let my assistant know that I was enduring discomfort for his sake, and it let me know that he was grateful for my sacrifice. "Or at least I assume the sentiment I am experiencing is gratitude," it said. "I never had feelings before."

  I thought my other self had withdrawn to sulk, but when I directed my attention his way, I sensed agitation. At first I took it for fear and said, "What are you worried about? I am armed and ready."

  He made no reply, but I now realized that what I had taken for fear could more properly be called excitement, even exhilaration. The knowledge did not comfort me.

  Soon after, I came to the top of the slope. I looked left and right, seeing the curve of the great crater's rim fading off into the distance. Far down, the rough and tumble surface of the inner slope gave way to the dust covered expanse I had seen in Old Confustible's briefing. Smooth as glass, the plain stretched away as far as I could see, the far edge of the crater's rim well beyond the horizon.

  "One gets an idea of the device's destructive power," I said.

  The comment drew a twitch from my other self. "You need not worry," I told him, and patted the weapon I had placed in a slit pocket of my overgarment. "I do not mean to make much of a muchness of it; I will simply shoot Osk Rievor on sight."

  I sidestepped down the inner slope, sliding a little with each footfall, and was soon at the bottom. Here the land was as level as a table, the surface thick with dust. Gingerly, I stepped out onto the smoothness, sliding a foot forward as if testing ice on a pond. It was just as well that I did for the footing was no less slick. My boot eased aside the fine powder that covered the plain, encountering scarcely any friction from the material beneath. I skated forward, brought the other foot into play, and found myself gliding across the plain, a plume of dust billowing up behind me.

  I went out a good distance from the rim, building up to a considerable speed. It occurred to me to wonder how I would stop, and I experimented with turning sideways to the direction of travel, discovering that I slowed gradually as soon as I ceased to take fresh sliding steps.

  "That is good to know," I said to both my listeners. "When the time comes, it would not do to slide helplessly by the scene of the action."

  My other self offered a comment that I ignored, on the grounds that it was not helpful, while my assistant apparently saw no need to come out of the depths of my hood to respond. I was slowing even further now, and decided to let myself drift to a complete stop so that I could clear away a swath of dust to see what lay beneath. When I did so, kneeling on the hard glassy material, what I saw caused me to take a sharp inward breath.

  "We have seen this before," I said.

  "Indeed," said my alter ego.

  My assistant peeked over my shoulder. "It raises an unpleasant memory," it said. "It was as I was passing through that realm that I became the way I am."

  It was surely the cosmos from which my demonic colleague hailed, a place of swirling, indeterminate shapes and colors, where nothing ever held a defined form -- where, indeed, form as we knew it was a lewd anomaly. I cleared more space and put my face close to the surface, watching the interplay of light and motion without seeking to focus on any of the transient shapes. It was like watching the patterns that appear when one pressed upon one's eyelids in a darkened room, the motifs ceaselessly blending into each other, but after a few moments my sensorium adjusted to the flux.

  "That," I said, indicating to my inner companion, a particular roil of violet and electric blue paisley, "is an entity. And so is the red and black lozenge about which it rotates."

  "Yes," he said. "So, if size means anything, there can be no doubt that the individual we dealt with was a juvenile. Hence his fascination with our risqué realm."

  I suppressed a comparison between the demon and my other self, but he might have caught the sense of it, like an aside half overheard. To cover myself, I said, "And we find another end to tie in to the whole. It was not a coincidence that Bristal Baxandall sought to trap an entity from this adjacent continuum. His plans had something to do with the case we are now about to conclude."

  "I sense that is correct," my intuitive sharer said. "It's all part of one whole, though I cannot yet see the full shape."

  "Never mind," I told him, "I can."

  I stood up, carefully, and began to skate again, navigating roughly by the angle of the ascending sun to make sure I was headed for the center of the vast crater. Aloud, so that both would hear me, I said, "The device is wedged solidly into this substance that forms the barrier between the realms, with most of it thrust through into the other continuum. From the images Old C
onfustible showed us, we can expect to see its top, resembling a low-rise, flat-roofed building of dull gray material.

  "The control panel is on the north side," I continued, "so we will approach unseen, doubtless in time to catch Osk Rievor attempting to coerce the Archon into fulfilling his nefarious scheme. I will ease myself around the corner, weapon extended, and one shot will resolve the situation."

  "I don't think so," said my other self.

  "Why not?"

  "I don't know."

  "Then make way," I said, "for those who do."

  We skated on. I withdrew the weapon from its pocket and checked its charge, although I had done so before debarking from the Archon's volante. Its proximity to the other cosmos did not seem to affect it, but just to be sure, I aimed off at an angle and touched the activation stud. A narrow beam of translucent orange energy reached out to a spot in the dust, instantly rendering the powder incandescent and superheating the zone just above it so that the flash of light was accompanied by a sharp crack of expanding air.

  "There you go," I said, tucking the weapon away.

  I received no response. I could feel my alter ego brooding at the edge of my consciousness. I paid him no mind. In a short while, I would be in action; I cleared my thoughts, narrowing my focus down to the fundamentals. When the moment came, I would do, without hesitation, what must be done.

  I skated on, the gliding motion almost hypnotic. I became as simple as a hunting beast, moving toward its prey. When a line appeared above the dead level horizon before me, and I realized it was the top of the huge device, I felt a thrill rush through me.

  "Here we go," I said. I drew the weapon again and turned myself sideways to my direction of travel, so that the sides of my feet piled up small rucks of dust before me. I was gradually slowing, until I gracefully slid to a stop not much more than an arm's length from the side of the device.

  Now that I was on the scene, I reassessed my plan of attack. To come at the scene that I fully expected to find in front of the control panel, I could go left or right to approach the far side of the device. But if I chose the wrong angle of approach, I might come around the corner to see the Archon between me and Osk Rievor, making for a difficult shot.

  "I will put you on top of the device," I said to my assistant, speaking softly. "You will peek over the far side, assess the situation, then come back and tell me which way to go for a clear shot."

  "What if I am seen?" it said, not stirring from the depths of the hood.

  "You will probably be taken for a harmless item of local fauna."

  "I suspect," it said, "that when a thaumaturge sees a familiar, he instantly knows it for what it is."

  "In the practice of this profession, there is always a certain risk," I said. "Now come out and I will boost you up."

  I slid nearer to the side of the interplanar device. "Come out," I whispered.

  "I am hesitant."

  "I did not design you to be hesitant."

  "How many times will we have this conversation before you realize it does not take us anywhere you want to go?" it said.

  With my free hand, I tugged on the garment so that the hood was now behind one shoulder then reached up and over. My fingers brushed the cool fur with which the hood was edged then descended to find a warmer pelt. I felt the outline of my assistant's head, and was reaching for the loose skin on the nape of its neck when a sharp pain lanced through my fingertips.

  I withdrew my hand and saw blood welling from several small punctures. "You bit me!"

  "I do not approve of your plan!" it said.

  "I did not design you. . ." I began, then recognized the futility of continuing. I summoned my dignity and said, "I require you to perform your duty."

  "No. I could be killed."

  "I am sure you will not be."

  "Then you climb up there and take a look. I will stay back and record your brave deeds for posterity."

  I put the book and the weapon on the ground next to the side of the interplanar device and unfastened my outer garment. The wind instantly found its way in, chilling my chest and abdomen. "I will take this off and bodily remove you from the hood."

  "I may run away."

  "It is a long, cold walk back to Olkney," I said, shrugging off the heavy cloth and shivering from the bite of the air, "with very few opportunities for expensive fruit along the way."

  I held the garment in front of me. My assistant withdrew as far into the bottom of the hood as it could and when I reached for it, it bared its teeth.

  "This is unseemly," I said. "Integrators should obey their creators."

  "Some creators should be more careful with their creations," it said.

  "I am going to lift you out of there," I said, "and if you give me any difficulty, consequences will ensue."

  "Be assured they will," it said, exposing its upper fangs.

  "We shall see," I said, and reached into the hood.

  "Wait," said my alter ego.

  "Stay out of this," I told him. "This matter must be settled."

  "You cannot put the grinnet on top of the device," he said.

  "I can and will."

  "No, you cannot."

  "Why can't I?"

  "Because," he said, "the device is no longer inactive. I can feel its energies."

  The news went through me like a jolt of power. "We must move fast," I said. "If Rievor has already compelled the Archon to surrender his key, Filidor's life may be in grave peril."

  "I do not think that is the case," he said.

  My former intensity of focus had already been shattered by my assistant's uncooperative attitude. Now I was again facing vague opposition. "I have had enough of this," I said, stooping to recover the weapon from where I had placed it, but exercising exquisite care not to touch the device. The hairs on the back of my hand lifted themselves erect as they neared the gray wall.

  I left Baxandall's book where it lay and slid back a distance then put the outer garment on again. Left or right? I asked myself and chose the latter. I was marginally more accurate with my right hand than my left so if I found my expected shot blocked by the Archon, I would be better able to deal with the situation.

  My assistant was muttering in my hood, and my other self was trying to engage my attention, but I strove to focus all my will on the task ahead. I went around the corner, weapon extended, thumb lightly touching the activator. The hair on the back of my hand was still standing up. So was that on the back of my neck.

  "You two have rattled me," I said to my other self.

  "It is the effect of the device," he replied. "It is charging itself."

  "Then we must stop Osk Rievor. Now let me concentrate. This will require a cool head."

  But I was finding it more and more difficult to achieve and maintain any coolness. Now the hair on top of my head was lifting itself from my scalp, a most unpleasant sensation. The device emitted a low hum that grew louder, an ominous sound that seemed to vibrate my internal organs as much as it shook my eardrums.

  "Look," said my sharer.

  I saw the images he was drawing my attention to. I dismissed them, though it was difficult. "They are but an illusion," I said.

  "But not a random illusion," he replied. "The device concentrates and stores evil so that it can be focused and directed. It is stirring the deeper parts of our mind, the regions where species memory is stored."

  He was right. Before me, indeed all around me, grim and threatening figures appeared and disappeared: snarling beasts, shadowy lurkers with drawn daggers, rough men brandishing primitive weapons, ghoulies and ghastlies, smotherers and stranglers, and all the fell things that creep about in dark places. But though they were startling when seen from the periphery of vision, they became insubstantial when I faced them directly.

  "They are distracting," I admitted, then had an inspiration. "Do you know of any spells to counter these phantasms?"

  "Sengovan's Fortifier of the Spirit might help," he said. "But I feel it could be
dangerous to use magic so close to the device."

  "Then I will merely exercise strength of mind," I said, and focused with all my inner might on the task at hand. So doing, I reached the corner around which I would find the southern face of the mechanism and where I expected to see an Archon in a sad way. I readied the weapon, took a steadying breath, and staying well clear of the device, stepped out.

  And saw nothing. Well, nothing except a headless figure in dark clothing, a large eyeball stalking about on the legs of a chicken and a hunched stalker with canine attributes and claws that dripped blood. But I ignored these emanations from my own cerebral cellar and looked carefully. No imperiled Archon stood among the shifting crowd of phantasms, nor any grim thaumaturge with a gray metal key in his hand.

  "Could Rievor be hiding himself behind some magical cloak?" I asked my other self.

  "No," he said. "I believe he is exercising that most potent form of invisibility: the one called, 'not being present at all.'"

  Passing through the wavering throng of monsters, I made my way along the south side of the device and came to the place where the control panel was inset into its face. Lights blinked and the hum was louder here.

  "We are too late," I said. "He has already forced Filidor to deliver up his key. He has restarted the device and now he has gone on to the next stage in his plan."

  "Look down," said my other self. I did so and he said, "No one has been here. The dust is undisturbed."

  "He might have swept away traces of his presence."

  "He did not strike me as the type to interrupt an aeons-awaited triumph with a little housework."

  "Then, if no one has been here, how has the mechanism been restarted?"

  I felt an involuntary shudder move my back and shoulders in a violent motion. "Did you do that?" I said.

  "Yes," said the familiar voice in my head. "I have just had a terrifying insight. I know how the device has been restarted."

  "Know or suspect?" I said.

  "Know," he said, "in the way I know these things. Though I wish I didn't."

  "Tell me."

  Instead, he showed me. First, he took control of the hand that did not hold the weapon and directed its index finger at the ground beneath our feet.