Mountain of Black Glass

by Tad Williams

  As the quiet noises of the massed soldiers rose to an animal roar, the rising edge of the sun notched the eastern hills and within an instant became a burning, spreading gash of fierce light.

  The Skaian Gate heaved open, its mighty hinges shrieking like birds of prey, and the army of Troy surged out onto the plain.

  Fourth:

  SUNSET ON THE WALLS

  "You have taken the east from me, you have taken the west from me, you have taken what is before me and what is behind me; you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me, and my fear is great you have taken God from me."

  —The Irish Girl's Lament,

  collected by W. B. Yeats

  CHAPTER 27

  On the Road Home

  NETFEED/NEWS: Arizona Denounced for "Slave Labor" Camps

  (visual: Youths marching to work at Truth And Honor Rancho)

  VO: Civil rights groups denounced a bill passed by the Arizona state legislature that would channel most of the state's juvenile offenders through "youth service facilities" which the civil rights community says are nothing more than slave labor camps.

  (visual: Anastasia Pelham, Rightswatch, in front of Legislature Mall)

  PELHAM: "We've already seen this in Texas, and it's horrible—twenty children died in the Texas system in one year from heat exhaustion and exposure. It's institutionalized murder."

  (visual: State Senator Eldridge Baskette)

  BASKETTE: "Yes, I've heard all that nonsense—Auschwitz, that kind of crap. The fact is, we've got huge facilities jammed with youthful offenders, many of them rotten, violent kids, and we're spending millions to support them. So all we're saying is, 'You want a holiday at state expense? Well, you're going to work for it.' Pretty fair, if you ask me."

  When Fredericks came back, Orlando was struggling to sit upright on his bed of branches. The sun had vanished, and the light from the brazier of coals was the only thing that illuminated the hut, forcing Orlando to bend close to the object of his scrutiny.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Just . . . just trying. . . ." The effort had worn him out already, but he was determined. Orlando managed to secure his balance, then began the difficult process of folding his leg so he could look at his foot. "Just trying to look at my heels."

  "You mean like your feet? Scanning is what you do best, Gardiner, that's for true."

  "If I'm Achilles, there's supposed to be something wrong with my heel. Haven't you ever heard that expression? Don't you ever do anything when you're out of school besides hang around hoping to get invited to Palace of Shadow parties?"

  "Get locked." Fredericks was not so certain as she sounded. "What do you mean, wrong with your heel?"

  "That's how Achilles got killed—it's in all the old stories. I don't know how, I just know that's what happened."

  "Then put some shoes on. Quit that." Fredericks did not want to talk about Orlando getting killed, that was clear. "We have to do something, Orlando. All these people keep coming over begging you to fight the Trojans."

  "I'm not going to, so they can beg all they want." The effort to examine the backs of his feet had tired him without revealing any telltale weakness. He groaned and let himself slump back into a horizontal position, head pounding. "I can't do it. I just can't. I don't have the energy. That stupid Egyptian temple almost finished me off."

  "We'll get out of here," Fredericks said a little desperately. "Then you'll be okay."

  Orlando did not bother to point out what they both knew. "No, we have to stay, at least until we see if Renie and the others are coming here."

  "They must be. That woman in the Freezer said so."

  "No, she said we'd find what we were seeking here, or something like that—she never promised our friends would show up. You've done enough of these prophecy things in the Middle Country, Frederico—they sound like they mean one thing, but then turn out to be something else. They're tricky."

  "I just want to get going. I want to find a way out of here." Fredericks lowered her head, the new, handsome Patroclus body contrasting oddly with the slumped, sullen posture. "I want to see my mom and dad again."

  "I know." Orlando could not let the silence go on too long—there were a few things he didn't want to think about either. "Did you find anything while you were out? Any sign of Bonnie Mae or the kids?"

  Fredericks sighed. "No. At least, nobody was talking about them. Seems like if a bunch of yellow monkeys were flying around, someone would notice."

  "Unless they changed, too. Like we did."

  "Yeah." Fredericks made a face. "So what are we supposed to do, ask everyone we meet, 'By the way, did you used to be a monkey?' We have to do everything here the hard way! It's worse than being back in the real world."

  "You didn't see if they followed you when we came through from the temple?"

  "I didn't see anything, Gardiner! There were bats, and . . . and monsters, and that guy Mandy just said, 'Into the gateway!' So I pushed you in and went with you."

  "Nandi. His name was Nandi."

  "Whatever it was, I didn't get a chance to see what they were doing."

  Orlando could not help worrying about the Wicked Tribe, left in the crumbling Egyptian simworld to face a raging Osiris. They were just kids, after all, just micros. "We should never have let them out of that pot," he said gloomily.

  "That was too far scanny." Fredericks frowned. "Were they just waiting there the whole time? While we were in that cartoon place, and the bug place, and everything? Just sitting in a jar like they were peanut butter?"

  "I don't know." Orlando yawned despite himself. Napping all day had not made him any less tired. It was one thing to decide he was saving his energy for some coming crisis, but where would that energy come from? He didn't feel strong enough at the moment to carry a kitten across the room. "Somebody's messing around with this network. Everybody has adventures in a sim-world—that's what happens in simworlds. But to have somebody show up in the Freezer, then bang, she's an Egyptian goddess in a whole different simulation? And she's telling us where to go, helping us? I can't figure it out." He shook his head wearily. "Any of it. Is someone really trying to communicate. . . ?"

  He was distracted by a noise from outside, the sound of voices raised in protest or argument. It did not sound too serious—most likely one of the frequent arguments that broke out over dice games among Achilles' bored, nervous troops—but Orlando's Thargor reflexes sent his hand searching weakly for his sword, which was still leaning against the armor-stand on the other side of the hut.

  "The soldiers, whatever they're called, the Mermadoos or whatever. . . ."

  "Myrmidons," Orlando said. Getting up for the sword was too much effort; he let his hand drop. "Don't you ever listen to the turtle?"

  "Too many names. I can't keep track. Every time that thing opens its mouth, it's 'And that is Bonkulus, son of Gronkulus, hero of the Kissmybuttians'. . . ."

  Orlando smiled. "Myrmidons. They're our soldiers, Frederico. You better remember their name—you might need them to save your life someday soon."

  "They want to fight the Trojans. Every time I go out there, they ask me if you're going to put on your mighty armor and lead us against the Trojans. It's not just King Agawhozit—everybody around here utterly wants you to fight."

  Orlando shrugged and nestled deeper in the bed. "I can barely sit up yet. I'm not going to get us both killed just to impress a bunch of virtual spear-jockeys."

  The voices outside were still raised, but the anger had turned into some kind of loud discussion. Fredericks listened for a moment, then turned back to Orlando. "But I think they wonder how come we're in here all the time, the two of us. They probably think we're soft boys or something."

  Catching him by surprise, it took a moment for the laugh to work its way up from Orlando's belly to his mouth, but when it finally exploded out of him, it was so loud that Fredericks jumped up from her seat on the floor, startled. "What? What's so funny?"

  Orlando waved
at him weakly, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. If Fredericks could not see the humor of a girl in a man's body worrying about whether a bunch of imaginary people thought they were queer. . . .

  Someone knocked at the door. Fredericks turned to look at it helplessly, uncertain whether or not Orlando's attack, which had now weakened to a hiccuping froth of giggles, was evidence of some graver problem.

  Orlando caught his breath. "Come . . . come in."

  The door swung open to reveal one of the bearded Myrmidons scowling with embarrassment. "It is the King of Ithaca, Lord," he said to Orlando. "We told him to go away, but he demands to speak with you."

  "Who?" asked Fredericks.

  "It's Odysseus," a voice said from behind the soldier. "I am sorry to disturb you, but I think it's important we speak again."

  Orlando groaned quietly, but said, "Let him come in."

  Odysseus bobbed his head in greeting to Fredericks, then to Orlando, then found himself a stool and sat. Exhausted and depressed, Orlando had not paid much attention to the man on his first visit earlier in the day. Now he looked him over closely. There was a watchfulness to the newcomer's manner, a sly reserve that suggested he was not quite as likely as the other Greeks Orlando had met to start spouting poetry about the nobility of hand-to-hand combat.

  "What is it?" Orlando asked.

  "I felt there were things that were not talked about when I was here with Ajax and Phoinix," the King of Ithaca said. "I thought perhaps we could have a conversation without those two and see if it goes more easily."

  "Turtle," Orlando subvocalized, calling for the agent. In just a day, he had already begun to rely on it, although its limitations made him miss Beezle all the more,

  "Tortoise." it said in his ear. "I have told you, I am a tortoise." It did not need to be visible to make its annoyance clear.

  "Just tell me what I need to know about this Odysseus guy." Aloud, he said, "I don't think there's really much to talk about. I cannot fight. I am sick. I am not well." He tried to think of something pertinent to say about the gods, but couldn't muster the strength to improvise.

  "Odysseus, son of Laertes, King of Ithaca," whispered the tortoise. "He is the cleverest of the Greeks, renowned for his stratagems. But although he is a mighty warrior, perhaps the best archer among the invaders, he did not wish to come to Troy and pretended to be mad. . . ."

  The man whose biography was being recited in Orlando's ear was speaking again, and Orlando had missed the first few words. ". . . find an understanding between us."

  "We don't know what you're talking about." Fredericks sounded alarmed. Orlando hurriedly gestured for his friend to be silent.

  "I did not hear what you said—my illness makes it hard to think clearly, sometimes. Please say that again."

  "An illness?" asked Odysseus. His smile did not soften the harshness of his tone. "Or a voice in your ear? Is yours a bird, or something else? A bee? A fly? A goddess, maybe?"

  Orlando felt his heart turning cold as wet clay. "I . . . I don't understand you."

  "Come now—I'm taking a risk, too." Odysseus leaned forward, his expression again shrewd and careful. "You are not from here, are you? You are not really part of this whole thing, this . . . simulation."

  Fredericks short sword hissed as she drew it from her scabbard. Odysseus did not move, even when Orlando's friend had touched the sword to the side of the stranger's neck. "Should I . . . should I kill him?" Fredericks asked.

  You could at least try to sound a little more convincing, Frederico. Orlando felt weak and short of breath, as helpless as in a bad dream. Again he mourned his former vitality. As Thargor in his prime he could have tied even this rugged warrior into a knot if need be, but he had no such confidence about Fredericks, whatever sim his friend might be wearing. "Let him talk," he said hopelessly. If the Brotherhood had really found them, killing the messenger was not going to do much good, even if they could manage it.

  "Good." Odysseus stood up, then spread his arms wide and showed his empty hands to make clear the movement was peaceful. "I said I was taking a risk—I'll go farther out on a limb, just to show you I mean well." He looked from Fredericks to Orlando, then briefly over his shoulder, as though to make sure no one was lurking in the shadows. When he spoke, it was with the solemn formality of one ambassador greeting another. "The golden harp has spoken to me."

  Orlando waited for more. Apparently, none was forthcoming. "What are you talking about?"

  "The golden harp." Odysseus narrowed his eyes, clearly expecting the words to have some profound effect. "The golden harp."

  Orlando looked to Fredericks, wondering if he had missed something along the way, but his friend only looked back at him, a matching bookend of blankness.

  "We don't know what you're talking about." Orlando had a sudden thought that raised the hairs on the back of his neck—was this some kind of Brotherhood code word? Had they gone too far in admitting that they were not of the simulation, then by not recognizing the code confirmed they had no right to be there? The only solace was that Odysseus, too, seemed completely taken aback by the failure of his overture, far more baffled than suspicious. He peered at Orlando, clearly uncertain what to do next.

  "Perhaps . . . perhaps I've made a mistake." The stranger sat down again. "I suppose it's too late to pretend that I've come to try to convince you to fight the Trojans?"

  Orlando almost smiled, but the fear was too close, too deep. "Just tell us who you really are, then maybe we'll have something to talk about."

  The King of Ithaca spread his hands. "Are you going to tell me who you are, without any kind of certainty who you're talking to? I didn't think so. Well, you can understand my position, then."

  Fredericks was still standing, sword in hand. Orlando examined the stranger and considered. Whatever else might be true, their physical safety did not seem immediately threatened. One shout would bring Achilles' warriors through the door, and he had little doubt the Myrmidons would be of the stab-first, ask-questions-later school. "Okay, we'll talk. Why don't you move your stool back a little, so that none of us is too close to each other."

  The stranger nodded slowly, then did as Orlando had suggested. When he was seated again, midway between the bed and the door, he showed a crooked smile. "This is a bit of a logic problem, isn't it? We all know things that we can't say, because we don't know exactly to whom we're speaking." He bit his lip, considering. "Let's talk generalities, shall we? We can discuss what we do know, but stick to things that won't put anyone on one side or another."

  Fredericks looked worried, but Orlando could see nothing wrong with the suggestion. "Okay."

  "I don't mean to be critical," Odysseus said, "but it wasn't that hard to guess you weren't part of the simulation. You just don't talk like these other people. You use too many contractions, for one thing—whoever programmed this went for the old-fashioned, operatic effect."

  "I'm better when I'm not so tired," Orlando said, a little embarrassed. "It's. . . ." he caught himself just short of using Fredericks' name—had the stranger tried to lure him into doing just that? "It's Patroclus here who gets bored of talking that way and starts saying . . . things. Things the way he normally would."

  "Thanks a lot." Fredericks glowered.

  "We all know it's a simulation," said Odysseus. "We know it's part of a big simulation network, right?"

  Orlando nodded. "Of course. Anyone would know that."

  The stranger started to say something, but checked himself. "Good, so we agree on that," he continued a moment later. "Most of the people here are Puppets, but some are from outside. From the real world. Like the three of us."

  "With you so far."

  "And if I mentioned a certain . . . brotherhood?" Odysseus continued.

  Fredericks gave him a worried look, but Orlando knew it was an obvious direction—one that could not in fact be avoided. "The Grail Brotherhood, right?"

  "Right."

  But neither side wanted to talk too much
about the Brotherhood: to betray support or revulsion might immediately topple the careful structure of trust they were building.

  It was maddeningly slow work—they went on minute after careful minute, for the better part of an hour, advancing careful observations about the nature of the network, hampered at all times by the need to keep things vague and general. The coals burned down until the room was mostly shadows. Outside, somebody called the midnight hour as the sentries changed.

  At last Orlando felt he could wait no longer—if nothing changed, this kind of fencing match might go on for days, and he had long since decided that time was not his friend. "So tell us about this golden harp," he said. "You came in here saying that it had spoken to you. What is it? How much can you tell us?"

  Odysseus ran his fingers through his beard. "Well, without giving away too much . . . it was a message someone left for me. It told me. . . ." He stopped to consider. "It told me that there were people looking for me. And that they would know me if I told them I had spoken to the golden harp." He cocked an eyebrow. "But you said that you've never heard of it."

  "No," Orlando said. "But I'm beginning to have an idea," He hesitated—it was like reaching into a dark hole in the ground, a pit that might contain treasure or some terrible, venomous guardian. "Did this harp . . . did it start out as something else?"

  "Something else?" Odysseus had suddenly gone very still. "What do you mean?"

  "You heard me." The tension was beginning to make Orlando giddy; he felt he might suddenly laugh or scream. "It was your stupid harp—you tell me."

  The stranger seemed to have turned to stone. "No," he said at last. "But . . . after it was a harp, it turned into something else."

  "After?" This threw Orlando off-balance—he had been thinking about the vision of the golden city, which for Renie and the others had appeared first as a small golden gem. Still, he had committed himself and he was running out of energy; even with the possible fate of his friends hanging in the balance, he could not play these spy games forever. In the grip of a sort of downhill fatalism, he said, "Okay, yes, after it was a harp, was it . . . was it still golden?'