Beneath Ceaseless Skies #15 Read online

  “Don’t try to get up,” her older self cautioned. “You still don’t have all the poison out of your system. You need to rest for at least another few days.”

  Hubley fell back onto the pillow; her older self came over to tuck her back under the quilt. Slowly the wave of nausea that had swept over her when she tried to rise passed, replaced by dull anger. It was all so frustrating. Every time she’d gone back to Vonn Kurr she’d only made things worse. She hated not being in control. There had to be something she could do.

  “There isn’t,” said the older Hubley. “You’re beginning to understand that now, aren’t you?”

  Hubley didn’t like the idea of having someone around who knew what she was thinking, but was too weak to do anything about it.

  The older Hubley, however, seemed to want to make certain she’d learned her lesson. “Do you think you’ve caused enough trouble yet?” she asked. “So far you’ve managed to almost get yourself killed twice. And that’s after you already did kill yourself the first time.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “There’s nothing we can do?”

  “Nothing. The Timespell is only good for learning about the past. Don’t ever think you can change it. No matter how many times you loop through some moment, your own experience is always going to be in a straight line. You can’t get ahead of yourself, no matter how hard you try. You’ll just be a dog chasing your tail if you do. And as for the future....”

  The older Hubley pursed her lips; a painful shadow passed through her eyes. Apparently there just weren’t enough years available to soften the blow.

  “Just remember, you can never forget what you’d rather not know.”

  For the next few days, she gave herself up to the care of her older self. Life was easier that way. Lying in bed, she had more than enough time to try and sort everything out. There were still moments when she quivered in frustration, when the memory of killing herself came unbidden and she was forced to live with the thought that she could do nothing about it, that some parts of life were outside even a chronothurge’s hands.

  At least she knew she’d live to a ripe old age before she died on the Sun Road. Now there would be times when she could be fearless, armed with the knowledge of her place of dying. But she would be careful, too. Having challenged fate once and lost irrevocably, she would be unlikely to do so again.

  Still, there was one thing she didn’t quite understand.

  The day came when her wounds were healed and the poison fully leached from her blood. She was on the roof watching the sun set behind the mountains when her older self joined her.

  “Do we really have to go back?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t just tell me why you did it?”

  “No. You have to see for yourself.”

  Hubley nodded. She had the feeling the last loop had yet to be closed. Her older self held up a small bottle, no larger than her thumb, filled with a dark red liquid.

  “I’ve already prepared the spell.” She handed Hubley the bottle. “It’ll bring you back whenever you want. You’re not strong enough yet for removing fingers.”

  Then her elder self spoke a word and the top of the tower was gone, replaced by darkness. She spoke a second word and a pale light shone out from her staff. Before them lay the looming pit of Vonn Kurr, behind them the gently curving wall of the Sun Road.

  “They’ll be here any moment,” her elder self said. “And I still have to make us both invisible.”

  She spoke the third spell softly and doused her light. Then she pulled Hubley back against the smooth stone beside her.

  A dull boom echoed up the passage to their left almost immediately. Hubley felt the pressure of the sound against her ears. Faint shouts followed the explosion, but soon the cries and crashes of battle grew louder. A glimmer of light appeared up the loway; the oldest Hubley and the diggers came running around the turn and stopped, panting, at the edge of the road.

  A skittering of stones at the far side of the tunnel signaled the arrival of the youngest Hubley. There were four Hubleys on the Sun Road now, three of them invisible.

  The scene played itself out. The oldest Hubley found the hatch in the floor; Omarose and Canna opened it. The company fled down the chute one by one while the oldest Hubley kept the sissit at bay. Several arrows came close to the two hiding invisibly by the wall, misfires from the sissit’s bows, but the eldest Hubley made sure that none of her magical attacks came near them. Of course she knew they were there. She was the last Hubley, and had the benefit of this moment from at least three other viewpoints. The sissit fell beneath her power; the cavern began to fill with the stench of their burns. Then Canna stepped into the shaft, and only the four Hubleys remained at the edge of the pit. The sissit rushed the only one they saw, howling with rage at the escape of the diggers and the other two humans, forgetting their fear of magic until the last Hubley splashed them with fire once again and they went tumbling backward.

  Their leader rolled away from the blast toward the inner wall. Its Dwarven shield spun away. Even though Hubley saw the sissit coming, she still lost her balance and fell on top of it when it tumbled against her legs. The creature couldn’t see her of course, but, thinking itself attacked by some strange new magic, it grabbed her violently all the same. They wrestled in the dust, Hubley trying to escape, the sissit clinging to her desperately, fighting for its life against this new and unseen apparition. Its hard, knobby hands closed around her throat. She fought to push it away, her head twisted to one side, and found herself looking at her oldest self, the one who was about to die. Hubley saw plainly that her oldest self was ready to blast the sissit to a cinder if she could only find a clear shot; willing, even in that moment, to take a chance with history and save herself if the opportunity arose. But the chance, as they both knew, never came.

  Then the oldest Hubley’s eyes focused directly on hers. A weary smile graced her mouth. And in her oldest self’s eyes Hubley saw tenderness, and a message of forgiveness to reassure her. There was no time for anything more. No chance for her eldest self to say all the things they both wanted her to before she took one step to her right and caught the flash of flame the youngest Hubley fired, killing herself. But also saving herself.

  The shock from the blast made the sissit loosen its grip on Hubley’s throat. She kicked herself free and rolled panting to the edge of the cliff. For the second time she watched her death in a plume of fire and tried not to imagine the pain.

  When it was over, the sissit stood silent for a moment, their enemy defeated in a way they didn’t understand. They had no idea where that ball of flame had come from. The leader scrabbled across the dusty floor for its shield. Once that protection was back in its hands it stood, shook the shield over its head, and let out a howl of victory. That was the signal for the rest to break their silence and cheer as well. Their whoops and bellows crashed across the Sun Road and out into the great, dark deep.

  They were stopped, though, when a loud voice shouted, “ENOUGH!” A new Hubley appeared magically in the middle of the circle of ash where she’d died a moment before. Even Hubley was fooled, until she realized this was her third self, the one who’d been hiding beside her against the wall. But the sissit possessed no such understanding. As far as they were concerned, this was the same sorcerer risen from the dead. A hush fell across their pale faces.

  “BEGONE!” the older Hubley cried, and launched her fire once more into their ranks. The sissit ran, even the leader, who dropped his shield and fled with the rest back up the tunnel into the darkness. As the last of their bare feet slapped away into silence the elder Hubley turned back with a weary sigh.

  “You know it all, now,” she said. “It’s time to go home.”

  “And you?” Hubley asked. “What are you going to do?”

  Her older self stooped to retrieve the sissit’s shield. “I have to go on with the others. There’s no reason
for them to know I’ve died. They’ll never know what happened.”

  “You should get some rest first.”

  “I should,” her older self agreed, “but it’s better if I don’t. They’ll be expecting me to be exhausted after the strain of the battle.”

  She sat down on the rock beside the open shaft and began to lower herself down. Then she looked back up at Hubley one last time.

  “You have many years,” she said, “before you get to this point. You’ll know what to do when the time comes. There’s still a lot for you to learn. But for now, break the vial I gave you and step into the mist that forms. That will take you home.”

  Without another word, she let go the sides of the chute. With the emblem of Ydderri strapped to her back, she disappeared down the shaft. Hubley heard a thin whoosh as her older self vanished; then all was silence and darkness on the Sun Road again.

  She went home.

  Copyright © 2009 S.C. Butler

  Comment on this Story in the BCS Forums

  S.C. Butler is the author of the Stoneways Trilogy from Tor Books, consisting of Reiffen’s Choice (2006), Queen Ferris (2007), and The Magicians’ Daughter (2009). A former Wall Street bond-trader, he lives without cats of any sort in Brooklyn, NY, though he recently acquired a dog.

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  WHERE VIRTUE LIVES

  by Saladin Ahmed

  “I’m telling you, Doctor, its eyes—its teeth! The hissing! Name of God, I’ve never been so scared!”

  Doctor Adoulla Makhslood, the best ghul hunter in the great city of Dhamsawaat, was weary. Two and a half bars of thousand-sheet pastry sat on his plate, their honey and pistachio glazed layers glistening in the sunlight that streamed into Yehyeh’s teahouse. Adoulla let out a belch. Only two hours awake. Only partway through my pastry and cardamom tea, and already a panicked man stands chattering to me about a monster! God help me.

  He brushed green and gold pastry bits from his fingers onto his spotless kaftan. Magically, the crumbs and honey-spots slid from his garment to the floor, leaving no stain. The kaftan was as white as the moon. Its folds seemed to go on forever, much like the man sitting before him.

  “That hissing! I’m telling you, I didn’t mean to leave her. But by God, I was so scared!” Hafi, the younger cousin of Adoulla’s dear friend Yehyeh, had said “I’m telling you” twelve times already. Repetition helped folk talk away their fear, so Adoulla had let the man go on for a while. He had heard the story thrice now, listening for the inconsistencies fear introduces to memories—even honest men’s memories.

  Adoulla knew some of what he faced. A water ghul had abducted Hafi’s wife, dragging her toward a red riverboat with eyes painted on its prow. Adoulla didn’t need to hear any more from Hafi. What he needed was more tea. But there was no time.

  “She’s gone!” Hafi wailed. “That horrible thing took her! And like a coward, I ran! Will you help me, Doctor?”

  For most of his life men had asked Adoulla this question. In his youth he’d been the best brawler on Dead Donkey Lane, and the other boys had looked up to him. Now men saw his attire and asked for his help with monsters. Adoulla knew too well that his head-hair had flown and his gut had grown. But his ghul hunter’s raiment was unchanged after decades of grim work—still famously enchanted so that it could never be dirtied, and quietly blessed so that neither sword nor knife could pierce it.

  Still, he didn’t allow himself to feel too secure. In his forty years ghul hunting he’d faced a hundred deaths other than sword-death. Which deaths he would face today remained to be seen.

  “Enough,” Adoulla said, cutting off yet more words from Hafi. “I’ve some ideas where to start. I don’t know if your wife still lives, young man. I can’t promise to return her to you. But I’ll try my best to do so, and to stop whomever’s responsible, God damn them.”

  “Thank you, Doctor! Um…I mean…I hereby thank and praise you, and beg God’s blessings for you, O great and virtuous ghul hunter!”

  Does he think I’m some pompous physician, to be flattered by ceremony? A ghul hunter shared a title but little else with the haughty doctors of the body. No leech-wielding charlatan of a physician could stop the fanged horrors that Adoulla battled.

  Adoulla swallowed a sarcastic comment and stood up. He embraced Hafi, kissing him on both cheeks. “Yes, well. I will do all I can, child of God.” He dismissed the younger man with a reassuring pat on the back.

  O God, Adoulla thought, why have You made this life so tiring? And why so full of interrupted meals? In six quick bites he ate the remaining pastries. Then, sweets in his belly and a familiar reluctance rising within him, he left Yehyeh’s teahouse in search of a river boat with painted eyes, a ghul, and a bride whom Adoulla hoped to God was still alive.

  * * *

  Raseed bas Raseed frowned in distaste as he made his way down the crowded Dhamsawaat street his guide called the Lane of Monkeys. Six days ago Raseed had walked along a quiet road near the Lodge of God. Six days ago he’d killed three highwaymen. Now he was in Dhamsawaat, King of Cities, and there were dirty, wicked folk all about him. City people who spoke with too much speed and too little respect. Raseed brushed dust from his dervish-blue silks. As he followed his lanky guide through the press of people, he dwelt—though it was impermissibly proud to do so—on his encounter with the highwaymen.

  “A ‘Dervish Dressed In Blue,’ eh? Just like in the song! I hear you sons of whores hide jewels in those pretty dresses.”

  “Haw haw! ‘Dervish Dressed In Blue!’ That’s funny! Sing for us, little dervish!”

  “What do you think that forked sword’ll do against three men’s spears, pup? Can your skinny arms even lift it?”

  When the robbers had mentioned that blasphemous song, they had approached the line that separates life from death. When they had moved from rough talk to brandishing spears, they’d crossed that line. Three bodies now lay rotting by the road. Raseed tried not to smile with pride at the thought.

  They’d underestimated him. He was six-and-ten, though he knew he hardly looked it. Clean-shaven, barely five feet, and thin-limbed as well. But his silk tunic and trousers—the habit of the Order—warned most ruffians that Raseed was no easy target. As did the curved sword at his hip, forked to “cleave the right from the wrong in men,” as the Traditions of the Order put it. The blade and silks inspired respect in the cautious, but fools saw the scrawny boy and not the dervish.

  That did not matter, though. Soon, God willing, Raseed would find the great and virtuous ghul hunter Adoulla Makhslood. If it pleased God, the Doctor would take Raseed as an apprentice. If Raseed was worthy.

  But I am impatient. Proud. Are these virtues? The Traditions of the Order say, “A dervish without virtue is less than a beggar.”

  The sudden realization that he’d lost sight of his guide pulled him out of his reflections. For a moment Raseed panicked, but the lanky man stepped back into view, gesturing for him to follow. Raseed thanked God that he’d found a reverent and helpful guide, for Dhamsawaat’s streets seemed endless. Raseed had been the youngest student ever to earn the blue silks. He feared neither robbers nor ghuls. But he would not know what to do if lost amidst this horde of lewd, impious people.

  Life had been less confusing at the Lodge of God. But then High Shaykh Aalli had sent him to train with the Doctor.

  “When you meet Adoulla Makhslood, little sparrow, you will see that there are truths greater than all you’ve learned in this Lodge. You will learn that virtue lives in strange places.”

  Before him, his guide came to a halt. “Here we are, master dervish. Just over that bridge.”

  At last. Raseed thanked the man and turned toward the small footbridge. The man tugged at Raseed’s sleeve.

  “Apologies, master dervish, but the watchmen will not let you cross without paying the crossing tax.”

  “Crossing tax?”

  The man nodded. “And the bastards will charge you too much once they see your
silks—they respect neither piety nor the Order. If you wish, though, I will haggle for you. A half-dirham should suffice. Were I a richer man I’d cover your tax myself—it’s a sad world where a holy man must pay his way over bridges.”

  Raseed thanked the man for his kindness and handed him one of his few coins.

  “Very good, master dervish. Now please stay out of sight while I bargain. I will return for you shortly. God be with you.”

  Raseed waited.

  And waited.

  * * *

  Adoulla needed information. Ghuls had no souls of their own—they did only as their masters bade. Which meant that a vile man had used a water ghul in his bride-stealing scheme. And if there was one place Adoulla could go to learn of vile men’s schemes, it was Miri’s. There was no place in the world that pleased him more, nor any that hurt him so.

  Though God alone knows when I’ll get there. Adoulla walked the packed Mainway, wishing the crowd would move faster, knowing it wouldn’t. Overturned cobblers’ carts, dead pack animals, traffic-stopping processions of state—Dhamsawaat’s hundred headaches hurried for no man. Not even when a ghul stalked the King of Cities.

  By the time he reached Miri’s tidy storefront it was past midday. Standing in the open doorway, Adoulla smelled sweet incense from iron burners and camelthorn from the hearth. For a long moment he stood there at the threshold, wondering why in the world he’d been away from this lovely place so long.

  A corded forearm blocked his way, and another man’s shadow fell over him. A muscular man even taller than Adoulla stood scowling before him, a long scar splitting his face into gruesome halves. He placed a broad palm on Adoulla’s chest and grabbed a fistful of white kaftan.

  “Ho-ho! Who’s this forgetter-of-friends, slinking back in here so shamelessly?”

  Adoulla smiled. “Just another foolish child of God who doesn’t know to stay put, Axeface.”