Corambis (14 page)

And to do
that
— I was reminded incongruously of the children’s story- game that ended “the stick hit the pan and the pig jumped out the window”— I had to find out what had happened to the Khloïdanikos and find out if, as I both feared and suspected, Malkar’s rubies were the cause.

Which meant I had to find a way to reach the Khloïdanikos without the use of my construct. In theory, that should have been only marginally more difficult than reaching it through the construct. I was sure a properly trained oneiromancer would have managed it easily.

Of course, a properly trained oneiromancer wouldn’t have dug himself into this hole in the first place.
I decided against lying down; I was tired enough I didn’t trust myself not to fall asleep. I sat on the floor and composed myself into a trance. The reflexive urge to call up my construct was strong, but I maintained my discipline and instead went back to the first exercise Iosephinus Pompey had taught me. I visualized a golden egg.
The egg was principally a calming technique, Iosephinus had told me, but calm was all to the good here— if asked, I would have admitted freely I was not at my most serene. I meditated on the egg. When eventually I felt steady and if not calm, then at least calmer, I allowed the egg to hatch.
Iosephinus had taught me there were three animals that could hatch from the golden egg: a lion, a mercy- snake, and a hawk. Each of them had a par tic u lar meaning, not unlike a Sibylline trump. I’d always gotten the snake, which had made Iosephinus rather melancholy, and that was what I expected this time, although I was hoping, exactly as I always had, for the lion. But what emerged was a sphinx.
I knew a great deal about sphinxes, in several different traditions. The scholars of Cymellune, long lost beneath the sea, had taught that sphinxes were hermaphrodites, that every sphinx was both mother and father to its offspring, that they spent their lives seeking new riddles and that the only way to kill a sphinx was to propound a riddle it could not solve. It would starve to death trying to reason out the answer.
In the Deep Lands west of Vusantine, sphinxes appeared in the vast and complicated allegorical paintings beloved of the citizens of Elzibat and Shalfer. There, they represented secrets and were always portrayed with a key under one paw. They were also always female; the stories said they caught travelers to mate with, and that the only way to escape a sphinx was to force, cajole, or trick her into telling her secret.
The atheist phi los o phers of Lunness Point said that sphinxes symbolized the relentless thirst for knowledge. In alchemical writings, the sphinx was glass, the daughter of sand. The mystics of the Iulevin Circle had believed the sphinx was the guardian of the Seventh Unknowable Truth.
It occurred to me to wish that I were not quite so well read.
The sphinx stretched, its wings spreading wide, and yawned, showing me teeth that definitely didn’t belong in a human mouth. It padded forward on its great silent lion’s paws, its wings, dusty rose and gold, folded neatly along its back. Its eyes were silver, luminous as the moon, and fixed on me; I saw the pupils dilate and braced for the pounce, although there wasn’t a thing in the world I could do against those paws or those teeth.
And then it sat back on its haunches, affording me an excellent view of both its breasts— small but distinctly feminine— and its penis and testicles, licked its lips with a long, narrow, pink tongue, and said, “Tell me your secret.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You must have one,” said the sphinx. “Tell me your secret, and I’ll give you my key.”
“Your key?”
“Really, darling, you’re awfully thick.” It lifted its chin; I saw that it wore a collar, and hanging from the collar was a key, carved out of a yellowishwhite material.
“Horn?” I said.
“Oh bravo!” said the sphinx, as scathing as any courtier.
“But the briars,” I said, and hated my own stupid, bleating voice as I said it.
“I can’t help you with the briars. All I have is this key. Besides, what makes you so sure this key unlocks Horn Gate? . . . Oh, don’t gape like a fish. It’s very unbecoming. Tell me your secret.”
“But I don’t have any,” I said, at which the sphinx laughed so hard it ended up lying down.
“What a ridiculous lie,” it said at last, almost fondly. “You have so many secrets, it’s a wonder you haven’t stifled. So cough it up, there’s a good boy.”
“But—”
“It’s poisoning you. You need to say it.”
And somehow when I opened my mouth, the words fell out like stones: “I did it on purpose.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t lose the Khloïdanikos. I threw it away. To . . . to get rid of Malkar once and for all.”
“And?”
“It didn’t work.”
The click was sharply audible; the collar fell away from the sphinx’s neck, landing tidily between its paws.
“That was your secret,” the sphinx said. “And that is your key.” It stood up, stretched its spine luxuriously, its wings spreading and beating. Powerful muscles bunched and it sprang upward, flinging itself into flight.
Alone again, I bent and picked up the key. It was unexpectedly, unnaturally hot, almost burning my fingers. And I had not the faintest idea what to do with it.
The egg had led me to the sphinx; the sphinx had led me to the key. The sphinx had implied— although certainly not stated outright— that the key was not to Horn Gate, but if that was the case, what
did
it unlock?
I looked around and my heart sank. Stone and creeping darkness and there was the rising stench of the Sim. Mélusine. “I don’t want to be here,” I said under my breath.
“Where wanting to be?” said a voice out of the darkness. I yelped and startled backwards, but came up hard against a wall.
The darkness blinked great pale eyes somewhere about the level of my knees. I realized I was standing at the edge of a body of water— I had no way of judging its size— and my interlocutor was actually in the water, leaning its elbows on the bank.
“Wh- who are you?” I said, managing at the last possible moment to edit
what
into
who.
“Calling me the Kalliphorne,” it said. “And you, dreamswimming, smelling of . . . smelling of . . .” It hauled itself farther out of the water, sniffing at me in a way that would have been amusing if my head had not suddenly been full of stories I’d heard and only half believed. “The foxlike one!” it said triumphantly, then pushed itself backwards, angling, I realized, to get a look at my face. “You not being him,” it said after a very long pause; it sounded, not disappointed, but highly suspicious. “Smelling magic.”
“No,” I said. “My brother.” I knew that Mildmay had met the Kalliphorne, although it was one of the many things, in the aftermath of Malkar, that I had never asked him about.
“Brother,” it said, drawing the word out and hissing the
th
:
brosssssssser.
“Littermate.”
“Er,” I said and decided not to explain all the ways in which the two words were not synonymous. “Yes.”
“Not hurting him?” it said, still suspicious, and I wondered if it thought I might be Malkar.
“No,” I said; it was at least true that I did not
want
to hurt him.
It hissed thoughtfully, then said, “Okay. Dreamswimming, like ghost. Not being happy. What needing?”
“I don’t know,” I said and sat down. “Where am I?”
“You not knowing?”
“Well, I know I’m in Mélusine
somewhere
. Am I in your dream?”
At first it seemed not even to understand the question, then it said, “Seeing dreams,” which told me nothing. There was a sharp, flat sound like the handclap of a giant. I startled again and told myself to relax. Just because it was a man- eating monster didn’t mean it was
necessarily
going to attack me.
“Calling husband,” said the Kalliphorne. “He knowing more. Giving better words.”
Husband?
I managed not to say.
In a few moments— frighteningly few— there was another set of pale eyes at the water’s edge. I couldn’t see much more of them than that— dark, spiky shapes and the gleam of teeth— and thought that was probably for the best. They spoke to each other in a language that seemed to be composed mainly of sibilants and gutturals and an occasional drawn- out, indeterminate vowel, like the cry of a cat. Presently, the Kalliphorne said, “He saying we two- worlds living. Dreaming. Waking.” One hand, barbarously clawed, rose and made a back- and- forth motion. “Not own- dreaming. Not needing.”
Her husband hissed. She said, “Like wizards and annemer. Being both and neither.”
None of which made any sense, but then it sounded like mysticism, which generally didn’t. On the other hand, it made asking, “Do you know what this key unlocks?” seem positively rational.
I showed them the key, which they sniffed at like inquisitive cats. Another hissing colloquy, and the Kalliphorne said,“Dreaming key means dreaming door,” and she pointed at something behind me. I turned and looked: just behind my right shoulder, a door, made of wood and carved in a pattern I couldn’t make out.
“Is that door always there for you?” I said, unable to restrain my curiosity.
That, when translated, got an odd clicking sound from the Kalliphorne’s husband, and then a considerable period of back- and- forth between them before she said, clearly doubtful, “He saying in dreaming always and never being same thing.”
Definitely mysticism, and it would obviously require learning their language to get a better answer. “Thank you,” I said. “For helping me.”
“Being rule of dreaming,” said the Kalliphorne. “Helping dreamswimmers. Always never.” She showed her teeth in a grin that made me press back against the wall, and then she and her husband were gone as smoothly and silently as if they were themselves no more than water.
What did that
mean
? I looked at the key in my hand, looked again at the door behind me. But ultimately, it didn’t matter, because there was nowhere else I could go. Except into the water, and that wasn’t even a choice. I got up, turned. The lock plate was also made of horn, which was confirmation, though not comfort.
I put the key in the lock, twisted it over. There was enough weight and re sis tance that it took both hands, and I was afraid the key might simply break. When the lock finally released, I felt the jar in all the bones of my hands and wrists, and those that had been broken and healed poorly began to ache.
I turned the knob; it was as stiff as the lock. I wondered again if this was what I was supposed to do, but looking around showed me that the situation hadn’t changed. Right or wrong (always or never), I had no other choice. I forced the knob to turn and then had to pull the door open step by grim, struggling step.
And then, when the door was open and I looked through it, I saw a solitary fox in a country of cruel stones. I could see the bright red blood staining the places where it had stepped.
The fox looked up and saw me; its eyes were green as absinthe and cold and afraid. Then it turned away, dismissing me as neither threat nor salvation, and I heard my own voice, as if from a great distance, crying, “NO!” I leapt through the door, as unthinkingly as I breathed.
Always.
Never.
The world shifted around me and shifted again, breaking and reforming like images in a kaleidoscope.
Malkar’s workroom, a man spread- eagled on the floor, another man standing over him and smiling.
A hallway in the Mirador, a man lying on the floor, bleeding, another man standing over him, not smiling, but the white, exultant fury on his face is worse than a smile.
A room in the Arcane, a man curled on the floor, weeping, another man standing over him, his face like a mask.
A room in St. Crellifer’s, a man strapped to a table, screaming, another man standing over him, grinning in triumph.
A room in the Mirador, a man falling to the ground, screaming, another man standing, his face like death.
A thousand thousand cruelties. Predator. Prey. Rapist. Victim. Everything. Nothing. Always. Never. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be here, I don’t—
And then, as abruptly as a lit lucifer, I was somewhere else.
It was sunny here, and I could have cried with relief. None of my labyrinths could feel the sun. The room was large, pleasant, wide windows and white walls, and the floor was light wood that nearly glowed where the sunbeams struck it. The bed which was the heart of the room was covered with a quilt made of lovely cool blues with brilliant blotches of crimson and emerald and topaz. The pillows were piled high, much as I’d done for Mildmay with the pillows at the Fiddler’s Fox, and lying on them, lying beneath the beautiful quilt, thin and pale and fretful with fever, was Thamuris.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s you.” And shut his eyes.
I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t make a sound.
He opened his eyes again, lion- gold and deep, and said, “I’m dreaming you, aren’t I?”
“Yes. I mean no.”
“Well, that was helpful.”
“You’re dreaming,” I said, “but I’m here. I mean, I’m not
here
— I mean, I’m not
there
— that is, I, um . . .”
The fretful unhappiness on his face had been replaced by amusement, which was better, even if wounding to my vanity. “I can’t imagine you babbling like this. I’m not sure whether that’s an argument pro or con.”
“I’m dreamwalking,” I managed. Finally. “So you’re dreaming, but it’s really me.”
“I didn’t know you could do that,” he said, but he was interested rather than skeptical or defensive.
“I, um, try not to,” I said. “It’s not a good habit to get into.”
“Ah. Then why . . . ?”
“I. Um.” I took a step forward, then another. Thamuris’s hair was lying in two thick red plaits against his shoulders. His nightgown was white, open- collared; I could see the points of his collarbones with cruel clarity. “I did something stupid and evil and I . . .”
I’m sorry?
I need your help?
I don’t know what to do?
All of them true, and all of them things that stuck in my throat and rendered me mute.
“I won’t pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Thamuris said and shifted position with a sigh. “Diokletian and I have been doing the best we can, but—”
“Diokletian?”
“Who did you expect me to go to for help? After you disappeared and those briars started spreading. It’s not like I had many options.”
“I know. I . . .” I remembered Mildmay saying,
Don’t I rate an apology?
— remembered the bitterness he had tried not to show. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” Thamuris said. “I think you’re killing the Khloïdanikos.” My heart lurched nauseatingly, and it was just as well he went on without prompting, for I couldn’t find breath to speak. “I know it’s not what you meant, but the briars started spreading, and they didn’t even do what you
did
mean, because the bees just fly right over them, and every flower they land on dies.”
I hadn’t thought it through— hadn’t
wanted
to think it through. But of course making Malkar’s rubies into the Parliament of Bees meant in oneiromantic logic that they were now as much bees as they were rubies. “So the briars thrive and everything else withers,” I said.