(He’s one of Granny’s family, out here under duress, judging from his emotions. I think she’s being held hostage. He’ll get us inside now—wait for my cue.)

  Finally the man said, “Come with me.”

  (How will we know friend from foe?) asked Brandon as they followed the man.

  (The Changs are purists—any that don’t look like him, don’t belong.)

  At the end of the catwalk the young man opened a hatch and motioned them through. They entered the lock, and the hatch closed behind them. The inner one was already open, and Osri tensed himself for whatever might come next.

  A greenish wisp of light resembling a Tenno glyph danced in the air beyond the inner hatch, and it preceded them down the corridor, beckoning them onward. Osri noticed that the hatches in the corridor were likely to be found in any of the four surfaces—there was no “down” at all. As they pulled themselves over one hatch, he glimpsed machinery in a darkened room.

  At the end of the corridor they came to a larger hatch, bordered in some smooth, shiny reddish substance ornately carved with ideographs and mythical beasts. Some of them resembled the small figurine in Vi’ya’s pouch.

  The hatch swung open as they approached, and they stepped out onto a small balcony-like projection in the most confusing room Osri had ever seen.

  It was a fairly large cube—perhaps fifty meters in each dimension, but the clutter of furnishings and bricbrac made it look smaller. Furniture stuck out of all six surfaces and also floated in the air, while potted plants drifted about in apparently random orbits, and several large, sleek brown dogs with goggle-eyed faces not unlike the lion drawings, and polydactyl toes, lounged against various surfaces.

  There was even what appeared to be an incense burner, a black lacework pot with a little fan attached and a red glow within. smoke drifted out of it as it moved about, diffusing into the air in a way quite foreign to Osri’s Downsider expectations. The smell of the incense was sweet and resinous.

  In the very center of the space floated something reminiscent of a sedan chair with a vaguely humanoid crumpled bundle of cloth and sticks in it. Next to it floated a huge, fat man who wore a enormous Hopfneriad Signeur wig.

  Osri blinked, astonished. Those wigs were reputed to still be in fashion among the Downsiders of Hopfneri, though the Highdweller nobility there had dropped them. Osri had seen them in vids and retained an impression of complicated rolls of white hair built high and tumbling down over shoulders, decorated over the entire structure by shifting lights, or blooming and closing flowers, or a myriad of other eye-pleasing variations.

  This man’s wig was so large it made him seem nearly double his size. He was actually short and spare. The wig itself was an astonishing concoction of curlicues, roleaux, and braids. Nestling, hovering, winking, and whirring among those was an agglomeration of lights, fantastical insects, and color-changing jewels. Osri wondered how large a powerpack was needed to animate the wig.

  The man sat in midair as one who commands, light eyes watchful, his arms folded. One of his hands held something tightly against his body. He did not at all resemble the young man who had greeted them on the catwalk.

  So it was with half the people in the room. Their heads were oriented in the same direction. They were also armed, and, with the exception of one woman, did not look like Changs. Just your usual gang of jackers, he thought.

  (The Changs are unarmed,) came Vi’ya’s warning.

  The Changs—there were only four of them—floated at all different angles around the room. They were also positioned with their legs near a piece of furniture. Is that a nuller instinct? His hand reached to tap his boswell, but the eyes of one of the jackers raked over him, a weapon came up, and he overrode the impulse.

  Now I see why we’re stupid Panarchist tourists, he thought, fighting again the weird urge to laugh as Lokri, bruised as he was, looked around with a proprietary air, his posture languid.

  The bundle of sticks on the sedan chair opened the biggest pair of shining black eyes Osri had ever seen, revealing an unbelievably aged woman. To Osri she looked like a doll made from dried fruit that he’d received from some ambassador when he’d visited the Mandala as a boy.

  (Granny Chang,) came Vi’ya’s voice in his head.

  “Welcome, daughter,” said the apparition in the chair in a surprisingly clear, strong voice. “You bring us guests?”

  Vi’ya inclined her head. “Health and prosperity to you, venerable mother.” She motioned to Marim, Jaim, and Lokri. “My crew you know.” Pointing to the Eya’a and to the Panarchists, she said, “And these passengers paid us for a tour of the best entertainments in this octant. The Oblates are under Silence, but they still wished to sample the delights of the Extravaganzoo, as do these genz.”

  As if on a cue, Brandon chimed in, “An entirely astonishing pleasure, mezda Chang.”

  The jacker in the wig sneered at Brandon’s ripe, plummy accent, emphasized by his growing inability to breathe through his nose.

  Brandon executed a formal deference—equal-to-equal with the seniority-acknowledged overtone—but with a clumsiness bordering on parody that reminded Osri again of Markham’s mocking mimicry that long-ago day on Minerva. “This is most sensational, I must say—” he began, flapping his hand airily at the room.

  “May your daughter inquire of her mother an introduction?” interrupted Vi’ya.

  Granny lifted her arm in the wig man’s direction. Osri felt a tingle of near disgust at the fragility of the limb. It looked like he could snap it between two fingers. The old woman appeared crippled, but in null-gee there was no need for muscle bulk.

  “I have formed a new syndicate. This is Nokker, my new partner.”

  (That’s got to be blunge. Granny’s run this place alone for almost two hundred years, since her husband died,) came Marim’s voice. Osri noticed her drifting slowly to one side, her boswell arm hidden by a piece of furniture.

  Osri decided to stay put, knowing that his clumsiness in null-gee would make any movement on his part obvious. The Eya’a leaned at an angle. The jackers barely looked at them.

  Brandon had made himself the center of attention as he twisted around, staring. He was clearly trying to mimic the fool tourist, but subtle anomalies drew the eye. Uneasily Osri recognized the discrepancy: Brandon’s goggling attitude did not match the grace and assurance of the rest of his body, causing Osri a cold jolt of fear. Brandon stood out among the tight angles of the jackers and the helplessness of the Changs. It stirred a memory that Osri knew was important, but danger was too immediate. These jackers might not know High Douloi usage, but they surely could recognize inconsistency.

  “Health and prosperity to you, Nokker.” Vi’ya nodded to the man, then addressed Granny Chang again. “May this one approach her mother?”

  “You’re doin’ just fine where you are, dolly.” The man’s voice was a strangled hiss, as though something had damaged his vocal cords. “Granny tires easily these days. Perhaps you’d better just give her that present and come back later.”

  Vi’ya reached slowly into her pouch. The jackers tracked her, hands clamped on their weapons. Jaim drifted back toward a wall, and Lokri, grunting with pain as he fiddled with the catch on the side of his cast, bounced from a piece of furniture toward a clump of people. He waggled his hands and feet, mouth open, “Oh dear, how can I...”

  One of the jackers snickered and shoved him with the butt of his jac toward a houseplant, where he got tangled in the leaves.

  The fat man’s eyes shot a warning at the jacker, then narrowed speculatively as Vi’ya held up the little statue.

  (Arkad, we need a distraction. Marim?)

  Marim bozzed,(Ready when you are, Vi’ya. Schoolboy, you take those two nearest you.)

  Osri’s heart thumped against his throat, and he tried not to wipe his sweaty hands down his clothes. Near Granny one of the dogs slowly stirred his tail, watched by the Eya’a.

  Nokker leaned forward to take the statue, then paused.

  “Br-a-k! Snorfle. Sniff. Kaff.”

  The jackers shifted their attention to Brandon, who sniffed and rubbed at his nose, uttering a series of strangled snorts gradually increasing in volume.

  “Excuse me.” He coughed, sniffing repulsively. “But the incense—uh... uh... hubba... urp...”

  Vi’ya cut a glance toward the Eya’a. Marim had drifted a distance away, unnoticed. The jackers divided their attention between Vi’ya, still reaching for her gift, and Brandon, who was making noises as if building toward a titanic sneeze.

  “Get out!” Nokker yelled. “Get that chatzer out...”

  WAZOO! Brandon sneezed rackingly, expelling a copious cloud of snot globules into the air. “Your pardon,” he gasped in his best Panarchy-blit tones, “but I’m not accustomed to—”

  KERFLOOSH!

  Another blast splatted out, aimed at the nearest jacker, who turned a somersault trying to get out of the way of the snot cloud.

  The brown dog behind Granny chose that moment to move lithely through the air at an angle over Nokker’s wig, and lift his leg.

  A clear stream of urine splashed directly into the wig, which emitted an explosion of sparks and smoke. Several of the fantastical insect-constructions abruptly zoomed away at high speed, emitting shrill squeals, as if in pain.

  “Gyyyyaaaaagh!” Nokker screamed, his cry echoed by another jacker whose face had intercepted one of the insects.

  Lokri launched his houseplant directly at a knot of jackers, and Jaim, cool and expressionless, picked two off with deadly precision. The jackers began firing. Jac-bolts sizzled this way and that as everyone scrambled for cover.

  Osri pulled his jac, but by then the two Marim had directed him to “get” had launched themselves in different directions, firing as they went. He took refuge behind a nearby cluster of wicker chairs, his legs and arms swimming desperately as he looked around, trying to make sense of the fight.

  KABLOO!

  Lights exploded from the wig, sending more objects flying, and filling the air with the stench of singled hair. Several rolls of hair began to vibrate, impelling the writhing Nokker upward. The smoke swirling from his head made him look like one of the flying warships in an ancient flatvid Osri had once seen, falling out of the sky after losing a midair duel. Nokker flung his arms wide and the control he’d been clutching in his hand flew across the room, directly toward Osri.

  He lunged out and caught it in his hand.

  And that was what Granny and her children had been waiting for. The lights went out, leaving only the glow of the incense burner. Osri ducked as a jac-bolt sizzled past, shouts and screams impacting his ears from all directions. A globe of light bloomed around Granny’s chair—that’s got to be the smallest tesla shield I’ve ever seen, Osri thought distractedly—and a bolt of plasma lanced out of it and fried Nokker, silencing his screams.

  Dull fires glowed, revealing that the dogs had disappeared entirely, and crew, Changs, and jackers alike had taken cover around the room—save one of Nokker’s gang whose inexperience in null-gee betrayed her. As a jac-bolt from Vi’ya sizzled past her she tried to duck, and instead pulled her feet off the deck. Trying to defend herself, she made the mistake of firing her jac in midair, which threw her into a tight spin. She vomited noisily, throwing off a wheel of foulness, and began to choke.

  This is becoming a real festival of excretions, thought Osri with a sort of desperate hilarity just before a near-miss jac-bolt ignited a streak across his wicker shield. He used it to launch himself toward a wall behind an ornate cabinet. Heat singed past his ankle and one shoulder, but he arrived safely. Peering around a corner, he scanned for allies: he couldn’t see the Eya’a anywhere, and he’d lost track of Brandon.

  Then something like a comet streaked across the room, screeching imprecations. It was Marim. She had unfolded the hinged projections on her jac and put her feet on them, and was using it as a combined weapon and propulsion system. That canister must be reaction mass.

  Marim twisted expertly and fired. The jac-bolt emerged at an angle and spun her around. She landed on a wall, jumped off in another direction, and fried one of their opponents with a jac-bolt. She used the momentum from that blast to jet off in another direction and carom off a potted plant—sending it into the face of another of the jackers, who whirled away with blood splattering from his nose. Jaim coolly picked him off.

  The room erupted in brilliant lines of crossing jac-bolts, causing an increasing glow of smoldering furniture. Marim jetted past again, jac-bolts crossing behind her as she fired, spun, and fired again, Jaim backing her from the best position in the chamber.

  Then it was over. The lights came on. Granny’s chair hung in the center of the room as before, but now the other Changs were armed with their foes’ weapons and moved purposefully around the room, vacuuming foulness from the air, towing corpses toward hatches, and dealing with the wounded with brusque efficiency.

  Osri winced as one of them casually plunged a dagger into the back of a wounded jacker’s neck; the victim convulsed and went limp.

  Marim drifted up next to Osri, breathless and merry. “They’d just space ‘em anyway—this is quicker.” She grabbed his arm and beckoned to Brandon. “C’mon, Granny wants to meet you two.”

  She launched them across the room to the sedan chair, braking them with bent legs on its base. they ended up floating only a couple of meters from the ancient proprietor. Around her neck gleamed a shock collar.

  Silently Osri offered the control still clutched in one hand, and the bird-claw fingers took it. The huge black eyes regarded Osri and Brandon unblinking, than a smile split Granny Chang’s face, shifting the mass of wrinkles as she sketched a gesture that Osri recognized as a deference in a style that nowadays was only seen in historical serial chips.

  “The House of Chang is honored, young Phoenix,” she said in a whisper just barely audible. “How is it that a scion of the Mandala finds himself at the back end of nowhere?”

  Brandon stilled in surprise, then bowed, the innate grace confirming her guess even as he pulled the domino off. “I’ve come to meet you, of course,” he said with a debonair grin, as his hair floated in a black halo. “What better pilgrimage is there?”

  Granny Chang gave a sharp crack of laughter: “Be easy, O Arkad. Nothing said here today will go beyond these walls. You have a story to tell: you must give it to us when we celebrate. First you will clean up, while we prepare a feast. It is a special day indeed that brings an honored daughter and a Krysarch to us, and it is doubly blessed when the honored guests gift us with our lives.”

  FOUR

  DESRIEN

  Eloatri came to the top of the grassy hill, then stopped, horrified, when she recognized the spires of New Glastonbury thrusting arrogantly into the sky before her. The last light of day gilded them with ruddy health, emphasizing their heaven-storming reach, drawing earth and sky together in confident embrace. Faint on the air drifted the sound of chanting, and then, in a clangorous summons that the last dregs of her spirit cried out against, a peal of bells.

  It was too much. She turned her back on the cathedral and sat down, weeping. Of all the faiths of Desrien, of all the faces of Telos, why had this one been chosen for her? It was everything her heart had always denied, even as she granted it the tolerance demanded of every inhabitant of Desrien for every faith there planted. The world not as illusion to be surmounted, but a story to be lived; the celebration of attachment, even unto bloody suffering and death. No way out. No way out.

  It is too much. She stood up and without a backward glance, made her way down the hill again, away from her hejir.

  o0o

  Night came, and with it a dense fog, rising up out of the earth like the breath of some vast beast. Eloatri felt the potentialities trembling around her, and she trembled in response. It was the pekeri, the dream fog of Desrien, and it had swallowed her.

  Now she was truly lost, but every time she tried to rest, an irresistible restlessness, a spinning sensation in her breast like an engine out of control, shook her tired frame and impelled her forward. Some time back she had lost her staff, her cloak, and her sandals; she clutched her begging bowl with grim intensity. Her yellow robe was damp with dew. It clung to her in a clammy embrace, like the shroud of a drowned corpse.

  From time to time she saw eyes in the mist, some lambent yellow, others glowing green, but they looked past her—they were not part of her story. She would have welcomed the sudden leap of some beast of prey, to save her from her fate, but the predator that followed her had neither parts nor passions, nor would It ever tire. She stumbled onward, exhausted beyond thought, a hunted creature in the forests of the night.

  Now she could hear a breathing behind her, a diapason of power, rising from the stony bones of the planet under her feet. Soon, she felt sure, It would form her name, and she would turn...

  Eloatri began to run, at eighty years of age a frightened child lost in the dark. Her fear-sharpened senses brought vivid impressions: the cool earth under her feet, her hoarse panting, the ear-deadening blanket of the fog. The damp air carried a sweet scent, a gentle perfume that intensified inexorably.

  Then she blundered into a thorny hedge. Its clawed embrace enfolded her as she tried to fight her way through it, panicked by the sound of her pursuer. A clearing loomed ahead; she pushed frantically toward it, heedless of the ripping of her robe. The thorns caught at her flesh.

  She stopped. Before her stood Tomiko, his features shadowed in his cowl. As she stood panting, the High Phanist pushed back his hood. Eloatri gasped. His face was terribly disfigured, seared and blistered. His eyes were milky white and blind, and yet she knew he saw her. Wordlessly he held out his hands, one palm up, beseeching, one palm down with fingers curled, concealing some small object.

  She stood still for a timeless moment. He said nothing, but she could feel his entreaty. Slowly she stepped toward him. The reek of burned flesh filled her nostrils. She placed the begging bowl in his upturned hand.

  He smiled, a ravaged grimace full of painful joy. “The gates of the teaching are many; I vow to enter them all,” he whispered: the third bodhisattva vow. She held out her hand, and he opened his. The Digrammaton, symbol of his office, dropped into her hand, searing hot, then fell to the ground as Eloatri shrieked, flinging it from her and curling up her hand around the pain. She, too, fell to the ground.

 

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