The Fugitive Worlds (42 page)

"Clerical?"

"Just think of it, Toller. We have twelve fingers, so we
naturally count to the base of twelve. That, coupled with the
fact that the circumference of a circle used to be precisely
three times the diameter, made whole areas of computation
absurdly easy. From now on, however, everything in that
line is going to be more difficult—and I am not talking about
matters as rudimentary as a cooper having to learn to make
longer straps for his barrels. Take, for example, the—"

"Tell me," Toller said quickly, anxious to forestall one of
his father's rambling discourses, "what
is
the new ratio? I
ought to know that much, at least."

Cassyll glanced significantly at Bartan. "There has been a
certain amount of discussion on that point. I have been too
busy—what with the distressing events at the palace and so
forth—to take measurements in person. Some of my staff are claiming that the new ratio is three-and-a-seventh—
which, of course, is nonsense."

"Why is it nonsense?" Bartan said with some heat.

"Because, my old friend, there has to be a natural harmony
in the world of numbers. Three-and-a-seventh would work
in with nothing. I have no doubt at all that when the measure
ments are made with proper accuracy we will find that the
new ratio is amenable to. ..."

Toller allowed his attention to wander away from what promised to be a lengthy argument of the type from which his father and Bartan Drumme had always derived great satisfaction. He wished that Jerene was by his side, but she had gone to visit her family in the village of Divarl and was not expected back until the morrow. Tired of standing by the balustrade, he made his way to a couch, lowered himself on to it and set his crutches aside. His leg, now that the process of healing was well under way, had become stiff and capable of producing excruciating pain when subjected to
any degree of stress. Simply living with such a leg, continually
devising strategies to prevent it unleashing bolts of agony, was an experience which Toller found enervating and exhausting, and he was glad to lie down.

"Son, perhaps you should go off to your room and take your night's sleep," Cassyll Maraquine said gently, coming to stand by the couch. "The wound was more severe than you seem to think."

"Not yet—I'd rather stay here for a while." Toller smiled up at his father. "I seem to remember us exchanging similar words many times in the past, when I was a child. Are you about to pack me off to bed whether I like it or not?"

"You are too big for that kind of treatment. Besides, I am busy and I do not want to be plagued with calls for glasses of water."

"And honey straws," Bartan Drumme bantered from farther along the balcony. "Don't forget the honey straws."

"Honey straws!" Toller rose on one elbow. "Is that what I. . . ?"

"Yes, even though it might seem a strange weaning for the one they have begun to call the Godslayer," Cassyll said to Toller. "You didn't know that, did you? One can only guess at what kind of stories your friend Steenameert is noising abroad, but I'm told that every tavern in the realm is ringing with tales of how you flew to a land far beyond the heavens and slew a thousand gods ... or demons ... or a

promiscuous mixture of both in order to save Overland from
being swallowed by a great crystal dragon."

Cassyll paused, looking rueful. "Now that I weigh the
matter up, I suspect that the average ale-fuddled plough
man's understanding of what happened is equal to or better
than mine. Toller, all those things that were explained to
you when mind addressed mind without recourse to speech
. . . Have you no recollection at all, not even a trace, of what was meant by the term 'space-time'? I would dearly love to know why two words which can have no logical connection
came to be joined together in that particular way."

"I am unable to help you," Toller said with a sigh. "When Divivvidiv was speaking within my head I seemed to have a full understanding of what he meant, but the messages were
written in smoke. Everything has faded. I reach for meanings,
only to find emptiness. Not a true emptiness—but one which
is haunted by echoes, a poignant feeling of massive doors having just closed for ever, of my being too slow and too
late. I am sorry, father—I wish it were otherwise."

"Never mind—we will make the journey unaided." Cassyll
brought a thick blanket to the couch and draped it over Toller. "The nights are colder here."

Toller nodded and made himself comfortable, yielding to
the luxurious feeling of being well cared for and of having
no immediate responsibilities. His leg was throbbing warmly,
and the physicians had predicted that he would henceforth walk with a limp, but that gave him even more entitlement
to bask like a child in snug warmth, secure like a child
beneath a blanket which—better than the stoutest armor
—gave protection against all those elements of the outside world which might bring harm.

Safely cocooned, his mind misting with drowsiness, Toller
tried to define his position in an unfamiliar universe. So much
had been
lost.
The Queen was dying, unable to face or even comprehend a reality in which the planet of her birth—to
which she had longed to return—no longer existed. Her
dream of a single nation encompassing two worlds had been
shattered in an instant. It had been a good dream, one with
which Toller had instinctively sympathized, but now there would be no mile-high columns of skyships, commercially
and culturally laden, plying the invisible trade lanes between
Land and Overland. Instead, there would be . . . what?

More tired than he had realized, Toller found himself quite
unable to deal with the sly and shifting enigmas of the future. He began slipping in and out of consciousness, and with each
return to lucidity the sky was darker and the stars were more numerous, looking brighter than he had expected.
The balcony was dark also, because his father and Bartan
Drumme were using the telescopes, busily making and com
paring notes.

Toller listened to the murmurous activity for an indetermi
nate time . . . dozing and drifting . . . half-comprehending
the stray wisps of conversation that came his way . . . and gradually his mood began to change. He could see now that
he had allowed himself, possibly through battle shock and
extreme weariness, to be intimidated by the new sky, to
become downcast and despondent in the face of it. He had
asked if Kolcorron would ever find champions worthy of
challenging that inimical black void, and at the very time of
posing the question had been too blinkered by pessimism to
realize that he was already in the company of such heroes.

Cassyll and Bartan were two middle-aged men whose investment in the old order of things had been much greater
than his, and whose stake in a vexed future had to be
correspondingly less—but had they slumped down to indulge
in self-pity? No! Their reaction had been to take up their swords—swords of the mind—and at that very moment,
quietly and without fanfare, they were engaged in no less an
undertaking than laying the foundations of a new astronomy!

Halfway between wakefulness and sleep, Toller smiled.

His father and Bartan Drumme were speaking in low
voices to avoid disturbing Toller's rest, but whispers insinuate

themselves into the quasi-realities of the drowsing mind more
readily than shouts . . . five planets observed in the local
system so far, Bartan . . . counting the double world as one,
that is . . . if we have logged five in such a short time, it is
only reasonable—don't you think?—to assume that there
must be others . . . I
should rise to my feet in this very instant
and take part in what is going on
...
it scarcely seems
possible—a cream-colored planet girdled by a great ring—
but perhaps I have done enough for the day
. . . confirm your
initial calculations, Cassyll . . . something very close to an
inclination of twenty degrees, which means that Overland
will have seasons from now on . . .
Jerene will be with me in
the morning, and with her help I'll soon be able to work . . .
the people, especially the farmers, must prepare to cope with
the great changes brought about by the seasons . . .
seasons
and reasons, reasons and seasons
...
I have a curious pre
monition about that ringed planet, Bartan—it is so excep
tional, so portentous in its aspect, that it
must
be destined
to play a major role in our future affairs. . . . Toller lapsed easily into a profound and healing sleep.

When he awoke the balcony was silent and deserted, an indication that the night was now well advanced. He found
he had been covered with extra blankets which had protected
him against the growing coldness of the air. The sky looked just as it had done when he first saw it. Unfamiliar constel
lations were poised overhead, and a tinge of nacreous light
on the eastern horizon was beginning to overpaint the faintest
of the meager stars.

This time Toller's attention was caught by what appeared
to be a bright double planet which had risen above the pre-dawn spray of luminance. On impulse he threw the
blankets aside and struggled to his feet, lips moving silently
as the wound in his leg exacted its due toll of pain. He
gathered up his crutches and negotiated his way across the
tiled floor to the nearest of the telescopes. His disability
complicated the task of aiming and focusing the instrument,
but within a few seconds he was gazing into the eyepiece.

And there, suspended before him in velvety blackness,
was a shimmering world accompanied by a single huge moon.
The larger component of the binary was bluish in color,
perhaps a signal that it had an abundance of water, and as
his eyes drank in the radiant spectacle Toller felt a touch of
the uncanny, a stealthy coolness spreading down his spine.

"You may be right about the ringed world, father," he
whispered. "But—somehow—I wonder. ..."

AN OFFER HE COULDN'T REFUSE

They were functional fangs, not just decorative, set in a
protruding jaw, with long lips and a wide mouth; yet the total
effect was lupine rather man simian. Hair a dark matted mess.
And yes, fully eight feet tall, a rangy, tense-muscled body.

She clawed her wild hair away from her face and stared at him with renewed fierceness. Her eyes were a strange light hazel, adding to the wolfish effect. "What are you
really
doing here?"

"I came for you. I'd heard of you. I'm . . . recruiting. Or I was. Things went wrong and now I'm escaping. But if you came with me, you could join the Dendarii Mercenaries. A top outfit—always looking for a few good men, or whatever. I have this master-sergeant who . . . who
needs
a recruit like you." Sgt. Dyeb was infamous for his sour attitude about women soldiers, insisting that they were too soft . . .