No one there has seen the mask before.
It is carved out of wood and still carries traces of paint in the hollows of its contours, though most of the pigment has worn away. Unlike the abstracted or exaggerated style of many masks, this one has been carved to look as lifelike as possible—almost a portrait, rendered in wood. A portrait of a man’s face, with a high forehead and a full-lipped mouth.
Those nearest enough to Eshap, comparing his features to the ones he holds, can see the faintest hint of resemblance. One of the observers, Lazr-iminya, has enough Sednibamri ancestry to be exceptionally long-lived; she remembers when there were still people in whom those features were common.
Eshap doesn’t lay the mask on the pile. Instead he turns to face the seats of the amphitheater, salted with a few score observers, doubters, and mourners, and speaks.
“My great-grandmother’s people are gone now,” he says in one of the better-known pidgins, the ephemeral bridges that link the Drifter community together. “She was the last who claimed them as her own—though truth be told, even she was more Drifter than anything else. But she held on to the name anyway. And to this mask. And to the story of why she kept it, long after it stopped meaning anything to anybody but her.”
The murmurs die away. Some people watch him with a cynical eye, but no one interrupts, or leaves.
Eshap’s voice grows stronger as he goes on. The back wall of the amphitheater throws the sound forward, reaching the highest seats. “I don’t count myself as Miqerin, not like she did . . . but the mask is mine. And the story. And if there’s one thing Driftwood can’t take from us, it’s stories. As long as we tell them, and go on telling them, they live. Even if—”
His voice breaks, and his chin dips. A few people mutter; one, apparently bored with the spectacle, turns and heads for the single tunnel that still gives access to the amphitheater’s floor.
But old Lazr-iminya is a grandmother to half the Shreds, and Eshap is no exception. She creaks forward and lays one hand on his wrist, her fingers wrinkled and knobby and strong. “Tell the story, son,” she says.
Eshap draws in a deep breath, tucks the mask face-in against his chest, and begins.
A Heretic by Degrees
THE KING WAS DYING, and nothing in the world could save him.
The Councillor Paramount said, “Then we must look outside the world for help.”
The suggestion was heretical, and treasonous to boot. Two years before, the king had established by sacred decree that there was only one world, and that nothing lay beyond its bounds; anything seen there was a delusion, a final torment sent to test the faithful before their eventual salvation. And for two years, his councillors and subjects had respected his word.
Now they faced a choice. Disobey the king—or lose him. Commit treason, or let him die, and with him, the last remnant of the sacred royal line.
The Councillor Paramount’s statement met with a lengthy, embarrassed, indecisive silence.
By the standards of his predecessors, Qoress was new to the position of Councillor Paramount; he had been in service for a mere two years. The man who served before him had gone into the spaces outside the world, and only his right arm and half of his head had come back. Thus the decree, and thus the need for a new Councillor Paramount.
One might expect from this that Qoress would be the last man to suggest that something might exist outside the world, much less that help might exist in those places. But he was a thoughtful man, and moreover one who cared for his king; also, he knew that his fellow councillors were a weak-willed lot who would consider and discuss and debate and do everything in their power to avoid making a decision, for whoever brought matters to such a point could subsequently be blamed for it.
From out of the rustling of ceremonial robes and uncomfortable creaking of stools came one timid, anonymous voice. “But—we wouldn’t know where to start.”
Their lack of spine served Qoress’ purpose, for it meant they wouldn’t argue with him. He smiled down at them all, hands arranged in the gesture of Serene Confidence. “Do you really believe all of His Holiness’ subjects have obeyed that decree?”
The councillors would have gone traipsing about the capital in a vermilion-robed herd, looking for criminals who had gone outside the world, had Qoress not stopped them. They’d been chosen based on lineal tradition and priestly oracular signs, not espionage capabilities. No one outside the palace knew the king was dying, and Qoress wanted to keep it that way.
Finding the help they needed took money they did not have, and time, which was even more precious. But their investment was finally rewarded when the Holy Royal Guard brought a man to Qoress’ chambers, on the right sort of charge of treason and heresy.
“You got no proof,” were the first words out of the man’s mouth when the guards shoved him to his knees.
Qoress regarded the man for a careful moment. His stocky shoulders and barrel chest made him appear nearly as wide as he was tall; too much of one dimension, and not enough of the other. By the ancient principles of harmonious bodily proportion that governed palace life, the man was entirely displeasing, and moreover the length of his nose indicated an untrustworthy nature. But the palace inhabitants, harmonious of build though they might be, did not have the expertise he needed.
Qoress indicated with a flick of his fingers that the guards should leave.
When the two of them were alone in the room, he said, “You have been brought here for a purpose. I swear beneath the foot of the Agate God that if you help us, your crimes will be forgiven, in the eyes of both gods and men.”
The man’s dull face lit up slowly at his words.
“But,” Qoress added, before the man could speak, “this matter is one of utmost security. Therefore, I also swear beneath the foot of the Agate God that if you betray even the tiniest part of this matter to anyone in the world, your blood will boil in your veins, your eyes will roast in their sockets, and your skin will crisp from your flesh, your flesh from your bones, until nothing remains of you but a pile of ash, soon scattered by the wind. Do you understand me?”
After a frozen moment of horror, the man swallowed convulsively and nodded.
“Very well,” Qoress said. His own words left a bitter taste in his mouth. Not because he regretted the necessity of threats; he would burn a hundred men to ash if it would save the king. No, the bitterness came because it would not save the king. He could kill, but he could not heal.
He had to hope that someone else could.
Qoress stood before the man, clasping his hands in the gesture of Sorrowful Resolution. “You have been outside the world,” he said. “We have need of your experience. It is said that many wonders exist in the places we do not speak of. Is an ability to heal the sick and dying among those wonders?”
It was remarkable, Qoress reflected some time later, how quickly one adjusted to strangeness when there was need. Since becoming Councillor Paramount, he had not once been within three paces of anyone so common and vulgar as Heint, the criminal he had recruited, but now they stood side by side at a map table, studying the image and speaking heresy.
Heint’s blunt finger stabbed down at a town. “That ain’t there anymore. Nor that. Nor that. And the river’s dried up, with the spring gone.” With one swoop, his unmanicured nail denied the existence of an entire swath of the world.
Worse than Qoress had realized, then. There had been a second decree, not long after his ascension to Paramountcy, declaring that all of the towns, rivers, fields, and other portions of the world were where they had always been. Obedient to the king’s sacred word, everyone had disregarded the lack of communication with a number of towns in the east, the disappearance of those who had lived there. But what Heint was describing went well beyond the vanished area Qoress knew had provoked the decree.
So the rumors were true. The world—what remained of it after the judgment of the gods had begun—was continuing to fade.
But that was not Qoress’ true c
oncern. “Beyond that?”
“Beyond that,” Heint said, “there are two places. Up here—” He tapped the northern edge of the disputed area. “You don’t want to go there. Creatures there look like six-armed wolves, eat anybody who comes near them. That’s what happened to the guy before you. Lucky for us they don’t much want to leave their home. But to the southeast . . . there, we might have luck.”
Qoress stared at the southern portion of the map, the lines and letters melting away in his mind as the places they marked had melted, leaving a blank, unknown space. “What lies to the southeast?”
Heint grinned at him, showing crooked teeth. “Another world.”
The arms of the chair were tangling the sleeves of even the relatively plain robes Qoress had worn to the meeting, and the seat was too high for him to sit comfortably. He was already vexed by his inability to understand the choppy clicks that passed for language in this place; little things like awkward furniture frayed his temper still further. But he could not trust Heint to handle this without supervision, and so here he was, committing an unthinkable crime: not just speaking of a place his king had told him didn’t exist, but going there in person.
He had seen a disturbing number of his countrymen walking the tunnels that passed for streets in this . . . he was not yet comfortable with terming it a world. Yet he did not know what else to call the place; it wasn’t a delusion, whatever the king’s decree had said. He knew it the minute he stepped over the border and found himself beneath a punishing trio of suns that made the need for underground dwelling immediately apparent. And that was before he met any of the impossibly slender people who inhabited it, as unlike the stocky bodies of Qoress’ people as dandelion fluff was to a log.
Heint appeared to be arguing with his interlocutor, though given the sharp edges of the language, it was hard to tell disagreement from friendly speech. Certainly there was much back-and-forth, with hand-waving on Heint’s part, and rippling shrugs that Qoress thought might be the equivalent on the other fellow’s part.
Finally Heint turned to Qoress and sighed. “Right. It’s going to be more complicated than that.”
The words produced a peculiar mixture of hope and dread in Qoress’ heart. “What do you mean?”
“They can’t heal anybody,” Heint said. “In fact, they don’t believe in healing anybody; if you get sick or hurt, then you’ve offended . . . spit me, I don’t even know what he said you’ve offended. Some kind of god, I guess. And he says none of the worlds they border on can do anything more than medicine—only he calls it ‘blasphemy juice,’ which is pretty funny, I thought.” He caught Qoress’ expression and hurried onward. “But that doesn’t mean we’re at a wall.
“See, it goes way past here, right? There’s our world, and there’s this place, and the place with the wolf-things north of here—only I guess it’s west for them; it’s where their suns set, anyway—I don’t know, I’m still not great with their language. But they’ve got other worlds on their borders, and those places border other places too.”
Despite his resolution to do whatever he must to save the king, Qoress was deeply uncomfortable with this kind of talk. “Please come to your point, if you have one.”
Heint took a deep breath. “My point is, they say there’s a guy who can help. Not by healing, but by taking us to somebody who can. He’s a guide. Knows a bunch of different worlds. If there’s any place where somebody can wave their hands and make a dying man get well, he’ll know where to find it. And he’ll take you there and back. For a price.”
Already this had gone well beyond what Qoress had in mind when he first suggested looking outside the world for help. But could he turn back now? Salvation for the king might lie just a few steps farther over the edge.
“Find me this man,” he said.
The man insisted, via intermediaries, on meeting them somewhere else.
Heint went with Qoress, but he no longer led the way; his heretical crimes had only extended to the tunnel-place and one trip, brief and ill-advised, to the place of the wolf-people. They had a new guide for this journey, a man of the tunnel-place who knew the realms beyond.
Together the three of them sailed, with guards, across a small and inexplicable stretch of sea, whose sky of shifting colors marked it as yet another place—another world, though Qoress’ mind still shied from the term. The guards were there to stab over the boat’s edges at things beneath the water’s surface which Qoress chose not to examine too closely.
The place beyond that seemed sane by contrast. The people were taller and slimmer than Qoress’ own, but not too strange, and the sky had the proper pair of suns, not too bright.
The man they met there was quite different.
His hair was black like theirs, but he stood a head taller than the people of that place, with skin silvery blue next to their cinnamon. Standing in an open-air pavilion with the willowy dandelion-fluff of their guide and guards, surrounded by cinnamon-skinned locals, with Heint almost strange in his familiarity, Qoress felt disorientation as sharp as pain. He buried his hands in his sleeves—the gesture of Reserved Wisdom, not that he felt particularly reserved or wise, not that these people could recognize it—and tipped his head politely to the man.
One of the locals held out a bowl of pure blue glass to Qoress, and said something to their guide.
The guide translated for Heint, and Heint translated for Qoress. “He wants you to spit in the bowl. Three times.”
The request was disgusting, but Qoress supposed it to be some manner of traditional ritual, and possibly an insult if he refused. So he did as he was bid, struggling to muster enough saliva the third time. His mouth was very dry.
The local carried it across to the tall stranger, who likewise spat three times.
Again the bowl to Qoress, and again the chain of translations. Heint said, “Now you drink it.”
“I most certainly will not,” Qoress snapped. His stomach heaved at the thought. “I don’t know what quaint local custom this is meant to be, but if they think that I will—”
Long before he got that far in his outraged objection, the stranger was speaking, resulting in a muddled flow as everyone tried to translate for his neighbor and their words swamped Qoress under. Heint had to repeat the message several times before it penetrated. “It’ll make things easier—shared speech—oh, just drink it, you tight-arsed palace peacock,” and thereupon Heint shoved the bowl at Qoress’ lips so he could not help but get some in his mouth, mid-diatribe.
Qoress gagged and jerked back, but by then no one was paying attention to him; the local carried the bowl back to the stranger, who drank the remainder without a qualm.
“There,” the stranger said, in perfectly coherent speech. “Unpleasant, I’m afraid, but it’s convenient; I’ll be sad when this place disappears, and I have to go back to learning languages the hard way.”
Qoress’ eyes widened against his will; he had been trying very hard not to show surprise at the oddities he encountered. “How—how did you do that?”
“I didn’t do it. He did.” The stranger pointed at the man with the bowl. “Or the bowl did, maybe—I’m not sure how it works. That’s why we met here. Magic often only works in the world it belongs to, but with some things, once they’re done, they’re done. You and I will be able to communicate no matter where we are. And since you’re from the Edge, odds were we would have to go through at least two translators to talk, otherwise.”
Traveling through peculiar realms inhabited by people even more peculiar had been enough of a strain on Qoress’ mind. This, he felt, was one thing too many. Even though he had come here in search of wonders—in search of a miracle to cure his king—to face, to taste evidence of such wonders . . .
Whether he meant to or not, the stranger saved Qoress from hysterical, disbelieving laughter that would have destroyed his pretense at sanity and control. “Now that we can talk to each other,” the guide said, “let’s talk fees.”
Heint picked up t
he bag they had brought with them from home. At the heretic’s advice, Qoress had gathered samples of many different things, not all of them valuable. As Heint brought the items out, one by one, the stranger studied them with a curious eye. The emerald he set aside with a disinterested shake of his head, but the fire quartz received an approving murmur. He tasted several of the foods, making a face at the lizard-lick, and finally subjected the meshtren in its cage to an extended study.
“All right,” he said at last. “What are you hiring me for? I’ll guide you there and back by the safest route I know; that’s one service. And since you’re an Edger, with no languages but your own, I’ll serve as translator as well. If you want to bargain with the people we go to, I’ll interpret for you, or I can handle it on your behalf. Let me know what you want, and I’ll let you know what it’ll cost.”
None of the other councillors were present for Qoress to consult; he had to make the decision unaided. He scrutinized the man’s face, wondering if high cheekbones still signified an adaptable nature when the individual with them was from a different realm entirely, and what the smoothly rounded edges of his ears might mean at all. “I would be obliged if you handled the bargaining,” he said at last. No doubt the man would take his own cut of the price, but it was obvious that Qoress did not know what counted as valuable trade-goods. And he would empty the palace treasury to save the king.
The stranger nodded. “All right. For the guidework and the translation, forty of those stones.” He pointed at the fire quartz. “For the healing, I’m going to make some bargains along the way. Bring me three breeding sets of that insect in the cage—pairs or whatever it is they need to reproduce. I know a lady who would be fascinated to have some, and she’ll give me shells in trade. Is that acceptable?”
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