Текст книги "The Wide World's End"

Автор книги: James Enge

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

PART THREE

A Cold Summer

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

–Robert Frost, “Fire and Ice”

CHAPTER ONE

Endless Empire

A dwarf in a hat as bright as the sun was standing over Morlock. His red beard was braided with gold, and there was gold and silver work in all his scarlet-colored clothes. Even his boots were gilded. Of more immediate interest was the spear in his hand, its point made of mundane but effective steel.

“Shouldn’t sleep here,” the dwarf said in harshly accented Ontilian.

“Praise the Day, watcher,” Morlock replied in Dwarvish. “I am Morlock Ambrosius, also called syr Theorn, harven coruthen to the Elder of the Seven Clans under Thrymhaiam.” They were clearly at the foot of the Dolich Kund, “the River of Gold”—the only safe pass between the lands north and south of the Blackthorn/Whitethorn Range. It also marked the division between the Blackthorn and the Whitethorn Mountains. The dwarves of the Endless Empire, under the Blackthorn Range, never entered the Whitethorns for reasons that they did not explain. But they did recognize kinship with the dwarves under Thrymhaiam. It was not beyond belief that they could hope for help here.

“Oh,” said the dwarf. He rubbed the tip of his nose with the butt of his spear, handling the heavy weapon as lightly as if it were a pen. “Still shouldn’t sleep here. Other Ilk known to die in the mountains.”

“Thanks,” Morlock said briefly. He stood up and turned his back on the spear-carrier, partly to return discourtesy for discourtesy, but primarily to check on the well-being of his comrades.

Ambrosia was sitting up, looking on with sour amusement. She returned his nod. Deor was in a bad way, and Kelat was worse, both of them splashed with each other’s vomit. It was an evil gray-green in the cold, snowy morning’s light—and that was good: it must have carried a good deal of dragon venom out of their systems.

“Any maijarra leaf in your pack?” Morlock asked his sister.

“No.”

“Eh.”

“Can you expand on that, Morlock?”

“Tea from maijarra leaves protects against venom.”

“Oh. I see what you mean. We must have inhaled a good deal of the stuff. No wonder I’m feeling woozy!”

“Yes.” Morlock looked around. His pack was missing. Well, not missing exactly: he had left it on the floor in Rulgân’s former temple. It was a mild nuisance, at worst, although he was sorry to lose the books he had brought with him from the Wardlands. He had also brought some maijarra leaves, knowing that they would confront Rulgân.

He eased Deor’s pack off his shoulders. The eye among the fastenings recognized him and undid themselves when he spoke to them. Inside the pack was a great many things—too many, in Morlock’s judgment. But there was a bundle of simples, including maijarra leaf.

“We’ll need fire—somewhere out of the wind.” He glanced around and pointed at a hollow free from snow.

“Right,” Ambrosia agreed. “You take Deor; I’ll carry Kelat.”

They hustled their unconscious companions over to the hollow. Ambrosia set up an Imperfect Occlusion overhead while Morlock made a fire out of some scrub bushes. The dwarf with the sun-bright hat followed them and watched what they did carefully but didn’t interfere.

Presently Morlock and Ambrosia were sipping tea from sheckware mugs. They had wrapped their unconscious comrades in their cloaks and put them near the fire so that they would not be in danger from the cold.

Morlock said nothing through all of this, and Ambrosia very little. Her red-rimmed eyes met his and she smiled furiously.

Morlock looked at the spear-carrier, who seemed to shiver within his finery, and he said, “Join us. If your watch permits.”

Eagerly, the dwarf laid aside his spear and sat down at the little fire. “Thanks, bold strangers!” he said. “I thought you merely victims of dragonspell or some other such truck, but now I see how wrong I was. What were your names again? You are called Ambrosius?”

Morlock nodded. “Among other things.” He sipped his tea. The maijarra decoction was metallic and unpleasant, and in large quantities it was itself a poison. But he wasn’t drinking it for pleasure. Also, it was warm.

The watch-dwarf looked at Ambrosia, who volunteered nothing and did not look at him. After a few moments he said to Morlock, “Any kinship to the Regent of the Vraids, then?”

“I am Ambrosia Viviana,” said Morlock’s sister in a voice colder than the white wind.

The dwarf squawked and leapt to his feet. He ran off upslope into the storm, leaving his spear behind.

“Ha,” Ambrosia said, and drank her tea.

Presently the watch-dwarf returned. With him was a company of dwarves, also resplendent in scarlet and gold. In their midst was one who seemed to be half a head taller, but in fact was teetering along on boots with thick soles.

“Great Regent and true ruler of the Vraids,” said the tall one, bowing as low as he dared from his perch and doffing his bright hat, “Lady Ambrosia Viviana, welcome again to the Endless Empire! Won’t you come under with us and share a few words and a dish of hot mushrooms? The Lorvadh of the Year hurries hither to greet you.”

“We’re comfortable here,” Ambrosia said, as indifferent to the dwarves’ belated courtesy as to the truth. “The Lorvadh may come out here, if he chooses.”

Morlock was not comfortable, and he suspected his sister was less so. But no doubt she had her reasons. He pulled some dried fish from Deor’s pack and handed a piece of it to Ambrosia. She made a face, then bit a chunk off and chewed it like jerky.

The commander stuttered for a while, but as he managed to say nothing that was obviously a word, there was no occasion to answer him. He staggered off atop his stilty shoes and left his company bemused behind him. After some whispered discussion, they formed up in lines and stood with their spears upright, like an honor guard.

The dark day was approaching noon and the snow had stopped when a lone figure approached, wrapped in a cloak of blue and gold, a circlet of electrum on his head.

“Lady Ambrosia!” said the newcomer. “I ran here like a rabbit as soon as I heard you were passing though the Dolich Kund. Won’t you—won’t you please come under with me? I can offer you a steambath, mushrooms, beer, conversation, or simply a decent bed to rest on for a night.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Ambrosia. “We’re rather in a hurry. What do you think, Morlock? Lorvadh Vyrn, this is my brother, Morlock Ambrosius, master of all makers and the deadliest blade in the universal world.”

“Save one,” Morlock pointed out.

“Honored,” said the Lorvadh briefly to Morlock. “I’m sure our makers will be glad to receive you among the work levels.”

Ambrosia frowned.

“Or rather—really—since you are the brother of our ally and friend the Lady Ambrosia—I cannot do enough for you, but I promise I will try. Won’t you come in? I’m afraid the weather will make you unwell.”

“Eh.”

“My brother will be pleased to accept your invitation,” Ambrosia said, rising. “And so, I suppose, must I be. Have your people bring along our baggage and our friends, won’t you? Treat them kindly; the one is a king’s son, the other a trusted counsellor of the Elder of Theorn Clan.”

She and the Lorvadh walked off together side by side.

Morlock got to his feet. He saw the first watch-dwarf at his side, stooping to recover his spear.

“What’s a Lorvadh?” Morlock asked him.

“A kind of king, I guess,” the watcher said. “The Greater Fifteen elect one of their number to rule through the year.”

“Hm.” Morlock stooped and picked up Deor and put him over one shoulder. Then he hefted Kelat over the other. He walked off after Ambrosia with slow, short steps.

It was undignified, perhaps. But he would not leave his friends to be carried by strangers. They could bring the mere stuff: in Morlock’s sense of the fitness of things, that was all right.

But he felt no kinship for them, harven or ruthen.

They stayed only a brief time in the Endless Empire under the Blackthorns. But that first day they needed baths, and food, and rest, and they got it. Ambrosia spent much of her time talking with the Lorvadh and the others of the Greater Fifteen, so the three males were often left to their own devices.

Morlock spent some time roaming the lower levels with Deor and Kelat in tow. Makers occupied a warren just above miners, and neither type of dwarf was often seen on the higher levels where the mercators and soldiers dwelled among the halls of feasting.

The makers were interested to meet Morlock, and he had some interesting conversations among them. But they had nothing to tell about the threat to the sun, or the world at large: many of them had not seen the light of the sun since they were children.

They did feel that makers should stick together, though, and they saw to it that Morlock had winter gear and supplies for the long trip north. He also made, with their help, a new stabbing spear to replace the one that Kelat had adopted. In return, he drew a few multidimensional maps for their use in creating gems, which they viewed with suspicion and interest, and they had a boisterous beery supper in which Morlock drank the masters of making and their chief apprentices under the table, even though he didn’t particularly like beer.

His head was still aching the next morning when someone awakened him with a friendly pitcher of water thrown in his face.

He jumped up, snorting, and looked around to see who he should strangle. His bleary eyes focused on his sister, Ambrosia, calmly putting an empty pitcher aside on a table.

“If you’re not too busy hobnobbing with the servants, brother,” she said, “the Lorvadh and his councillors would like to meet you.”

“Eh.”

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

Morlock took his time: shaved, bathed, ate, and dressed himself in new clothes the “servants” had made for him. But he was still angry about the remark when Ambrosia led him up a long flight of stairs to the Council Hall under three-peaked Jyrhyrning.

There he found Kelat talking with the Lorvadh, and fourteen other dwarves dressed resplendently in a rainbow of glittering colors. There was a great table of stained pinewood with an oaken throne at one end. There were a few dwarves dressed in drab clothing sitting on stools in a shadowy end of the hall. They clutched books in their hands with arcane astronomical symbols painted on the covers. The hall was high enough in the mountain to have decent windows. These had been well made some considerable time ago, but the casings had cracked in more recent years, with the repairs done hastily and (to Morlock’s practiced eye) badly. These blunders were partly hidden by velvet bunting.

He saw all this, but he did not see his friend Deor.

“Where is Deortheorn?” he asked Ambrosia.

She looked annoyed. “Deor is well. But this conversation is for the Lorvadh and his councillors to get to know you, and Kelat. There are some dwarvish astronomers, too, who have a report to give about the health of the sun.”

The Lorvadh was approaching, with his hands extended in greeting. Morlock kept his eye on Ambrosia and repeated, “Where is Deor?”

“In our quarters,” Ambrosia said, shrugging.

Morlock turned to the Lorvadh. “Lorvadh Vyrn: will you send messengers to bring my harven-kin Deor to us?”

“Er . . . I . . . I suppose it could be done,” the dwarf monarch said. “Yes, of course it could be done. He could sit with the astronomers. This gathering is really for us of the vrevnenen to get to know each other.”

“What does vrevnenen mean?”

“‘Rulers,’ Morlock,” Ambrosia supplied.

“It’s a word I don’t know,” Morlock said to the Lorvadh. “A word I do know is harven. It means that where Deor cannot go, I will not go.”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible,” the Lorvadh said patiently. “I have my Master of Accountants here, my Master of Armies, my Master of Law-Speakers, My Master of Meatpackers—all the masters of the Endless Empire. Ambrosia describes your . . . your friend as a thain. I believe I know what that means. It is quite impossible for him to sit at our table.”

Morlock looked at Kelat, who was just coming over, and seemed shocked at what he had heard. He looked at Ambrosia, who met his eye with knowing impatience. He deliberately looked over the head of the Lorvadh and turned away. Vyrn was saying something but he paid no heed. He left the hall and rattled down the stairs and hallways of the warrens until he came to their quarters.

Deor was there, packing their things. He looked up with a quizzical eye as Morlock entered.

“So soon?” the dwarf asked. “Ambrosia gave me to understand you might be much of the night. The Fifteen were apparently impressed by your feats at the drinking board and wanted to put you to the test.”

“When you’re done, we’re leaving.”

“I’m done. Just the two of us—er, the three of us?”

Morlock turned to see Kelat standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know that Deor had been excluded.”

“Is that what this is about?” Deor shook his head and laughed. “Morlocktheorn, it’s not as if I care. Sitting with the Fifteen Masters of the Endless Empire is not my idea of an evening’s entertainment.”

“Nor mine. Thanks for packing.” Morlock took Tyrfing and his new stabbing spear in their scabbards and bound them to the pack Deor had made for him, then threw the pack on his shoulders. Kelat and Deor also shouldered their packs, and by that time Ambrosia was there.

“You, sir,” she said to Morlock, “are the most irritating man not named ‘Merlin.’”

“Eh.”

“That makes it all better, of course. Well, let’s get out of here before they put us to death for insulting their king.” She took on her pack and they trudged to the western gate.

Waiting for them was a division of spear-dwarves clad in scarlet and gold. At their head was a dwarf wearing a silver circlet in his graying red hair and a shirt of chain mail. “Morlock Ambrosius?” he said, as the four approached.

“Yes,” Morlock said flatly. If it came to a fight, he thought they could get through the gate with a little luck, and then the narrowness of the passage would be in their favor. . . .

The dwarf held out both hands, empty and palm up, a gesture of peace. “I am Fyndh, Master of Soldiers for the Endless Empire. We did not have a chance to meet in the Council of Fifteen just now.”

Morlock considered for a moment, then held out his hands, empty and palm down, over Fyndh’s hands without making contact.

Fyndh smiled and withdrew his hands. “Vyrn is an idiot. He inherited most of his money and made the rest by loaning it at interest. My father was a shoemaker, and I worked my way through the army from the lowest rank. We see the world differently—and I think I see it not so differently from you.”

Morlock nodded, waited.

Fyndh continued, “My friends among the makers speak highly of you. I’m sorry we never got a chance to drink together. If you and your companions succeed in what you are about, you will always have friends in the Endless Empire. If not—well, we will remember you with honor until the sun goes out.”

Morlock nodded and said, “Good fortune, Master Fyndh.”

“To you and yours,” Fyndh said. He said goodbye to each of the companions as they passed, and led his troops in a cheer as they walked out the gate and up into the pale light of the sun.

Ambrosia fell into step beside Morlock. “Fyndh will be their next Lorvadh, I think. I hope. Vyrn will never be a friend to the Vraids or the Wardlands now.”

Morlock had nothing to say to that, and so said nothing. The rough, snow-stained terrain of the Dolich Kund was before them, and the sun stood dying in the sky above. It was a long, bitter road to the end of the world.

CHAPTER TWO

Fire, Gods, and a Stranger

That night they camped just past the crest of the Dolich Kund. It was a cold night: an ice-edged wind beneath searingly bright stars and Horseman, the only moon in the sky, standing somber and low in the east.

They made a fire, of course, and partial occlusions to block the wind, but Kelat was obviously down-hearted. He was possibly comparing his bed last night to the long series of cold campsites in his future.

That was bad, not just for Kelat but for all of them. Morale was important on a long journey with a small company, as the three elder companions knew well. Deor looked several times at Kelat’s glum face and then finally said to Morlock, “Do the thing with the fire.”

Kelat looked up, instead of down, which was a start. Morlock obligingly reached into the heart of the fire and drew forth a handful of live coals.

As Kelat watched with an open mouth, Morlock juggled the bright burning coals with his fingertips. Deor watched, too, with a knowing grin: he never got tired of this trick. Ambrosia, however, was watching Kelat’s open admiration with an envious sideways glance. Eventually she reached into the fire and began juggling coals as well.

Now Kelat was looking from Ambrosius to Ambrosia with unfeigned and delighted wonder.

Ambrosia looked Morlock in the eye and lifted an inquiring eyebrow. He nodded. She tossed him a coal and he tossed one back in the air, and from then on they wove a complex tracery of red light, juggling some coals and playing catch with others, until they began to fade, and Kelat’s amazement grew cooler and more familiar.

He eagerly asked how they had done it, and wondered if he could learn it, too, and Ambrosia and Deor explained to him about the blood of Ambrose and their immunity from fire. In the end he was almost as downcast as he had been before, although he kept stealing glances at Ambrosia’s hands.

Morlock pulled some glowgems from a pocket in his sleeve. They weren’t as bright or as satisfyingly fiery as live coals, but he thought they might serve a purpose here. He tossed one to Kelat. The Vraid was startled, but caught it instinctively. Morlock showed him how to juggle it, and guided him through the steps of adding a second glowgem. He caught on quickly, not dropping them too often, and Morlock left him to practice juggling under Deor’s watchful and amused eye.

Ambrosia gestured to him and they walked together into the dark beyond the range of the fire or the hearing of their two companions.

“You’re corrupting my princeling,” Ambrosia remarked drily.

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes. Soon he’ll care about loyalty, and honesty, and wonder, and then what kind of king will he make, hey?”

Morlock grunted. “A good one?”

“Unlikely. Morality is different for kings, Morlock, than for the people they rule.”

“Eh.” Morlock knew little about kings, or being ruled, so he couldn’t say this was untrue.

“That’s easy for you to say. Too easy, as I have often told you before.”

“Eh.”

“Be that way, then! I suppose I have other Uthars to choose from. I could bear to fuck this one, though, and that’s not nothing.”

Morlock somehow disliked discussing sex with his sister, and he hadn’t realized that’s what they were doing. He considered long and hard and said, “Oh?”

“Yes, it’s part of my deal with Lathmar the Old. I will pick the next King of the Vraids and mate with him.”

“Hm.”

“Yes, yes, I see what you mean, I suppose. But it’s a way to wield power among the Vraids in a way that they understand.”

“Is that important?”

“Not if the world ends, Morlock. If the world doesn’t end, then yes, it is important. When I was a girl, growing up in that horrible little house in the woods with Merlin, I swore I’d visit every place in the world and conquer the places that seemed interesting. The Vraids will do the conquering part if I play the game right. And I usually do.”

“I know.”

Ambrosia laughed and put a hand on his arm. “I suppose I wouldn’t find you so irritating if your opinion wasn’t so important to me.”

Morlock’s opinion was that world conquest was a sad waste of talents as extraordinary as Ambrosia’s, but he had never told her that and never would. Something about her upbringing had scarred her, shaped her, focused her on this quest for power. It wasn’t for Morlock to reshape her. That wasn’t his kind of making.

Before them was the dark, river-scarred, densely forested northern plain. He gestured at it and said, “What’s our route north, you think?”

“We should avoid the twin cities, Aflraun and Narkunden,” Ambrosia said. “I recommend a detour to the west. In time we’ll come upon the Bay of Bitter Water. If it’s navigable, maybe we can travel by water for a while.”

Morlock grunted with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

“You can build a boat, I suppose? With Deor’s help?”

“Yes. But I would prefer not to.”

Ambrosia laughed politely at this. Then she remembered something—possibly their arrival at Grarby. “Hm,” she said thoughtfully. “Hm. Well, even so, it might be safer than land. The plains near the werewolf city are dangerous indeed, and they’ll be getting hungry, too.”

Morlock thought about the deep, cold waves of the Bitter Water and felt a certain chill that did not come from the frosty air.

They talked for a while longer of the road ahead and then returned to the campsite to turn in.

Day followed night, and then more days and nights. They walked and walked. They gave Narkunden a wide berth, following Ambrosia’s advice. The sun was a pale, white disc that a man might look at without any particular pain. The weather grew colder, a wintry sort of summer.

As they walked north, they met many animals fleeing south: white foxes and wolves, rabbits and preems, birds of every kind. And there were bears, deadly white bears mad with fear or hunger, killing recklessly among the other animals and perfectly willing to eat the four travelers.

Kelat killed one bear that charged them. They stopped to butcher it and skin it: they might need the meat or the fur on the long road ahead. Afterward they tried to fend the beasts off without killing them, but both Ambrosia and Deor had bear blood on their hands before another call passed.

Many of the days went by without incident that Morlock would afterward recall, but then came a day when they ran into creatures more dangerous than a bear.

Dawn came that day behind a dense curtain of cloud, and they kept the fire alive until the very moment they had to break camp. They walked slowly, picking a careful path across the trackless plain: the day could not have been darker without being night. The wind was bitter, but they would have to grow used to it, and worse yet.

“Is the sun dying at last?” Kelat asked.

Morlock shrugged, and no one else even did that. There was no way to answer this.

“We have been passing that tree for half an hour,” Deor remarked presently.

That was different. All four travelers stopped and looked closely at the tree, black against the blue gloaming.

“I don’t think it’s a dryad-beast stalking us,” Ambrosia observed presently.

“What’s that?” Deor snapped. “And why not?”

“Dryad-beasts hide in a cocoon that looks like a tree and prey on passersby,” Ambrosia said.

“Canyon keep them. Why are you sure it’s not one?”

“I’m not sure. But my insight doesn’t sense the talic imprint of an animal. It’s more like. . . . What would you say, Morlock?”

“A god.”

“Hell and damnation!”

“Possibly. I remember . . . I remember something like this in Kaen. It was an avatar of their god of death.”

A female figure wrapped in darkness stepped out from the open air. She carried a long, bright sword in her right hand.

Morlock drew Tyrfing.

“Are you crazy?” hissed Ambrosia.

“I am Morlock Ambrosius,” said the crooked man. “I will not die without a struggle, even if a god of death has come for me.”

“Very noble. But we might try talking first.”

“She has not come to talk.”

The deathgod stepped closer. Her face was not easy to look at, but her scar-like mouth seemed to twist in a smile.

Then a new door opened in the air and another god stepped out. This figure also seemed female. Her garb was bright where Death’s was dark. Her body seemed dark where Death’s was pale. Her smile was equally grim, and she carried an equally bright sword in her left hand.

She held up her right hand and a mouth appeared in the dark palm.

“Stand back, sister,” said the pale mouth in the dark hand. Morlock did not hear the words with his ears; they stabbed through him. He saw the others bending over in agony around him.

Death held up her pale left hand. A mouth manifested there. Its dark lips replied, “Justice, there is a time for all things to end. This is that time. It is my time.”

“All times are mine,” Justice replied. “Your power overmatches theirs, and this offends me.”

“Justice, my beloved sister, you are among the weakest of all the Strange Gods, as I am the strongest. Do you think you can stand against me?”

“Yes.”

“Then prepare yourself. But these mortals will die from witnessing our battle just as surely as they would from my blade. Look how they cower when we signify to each other!”

“I am not alone,” Justice signified.

Morlock strove to stand straight when he understood Death’s remark about cowering. As he did, he saw that the barren field had sprouted a shadowy crop of gods.

A door opened in the air and Morlock fell through it. He fell to ground on a narrow paved street, and Tyrfing clattered on the stones beside him.

“Are you all right?” he heard a voice saying.

Morlock looked up to see a balding, ruddy-faced stranger standing over him. Beyond him was a graystone building, rather out of place in a street full of dark wooden houses. The stranger was standing in the open door of the building, above which was a symbol of a counterweight stone on a pair of empty scales.

Morlock thought about the stranger’s question and said, “Yes.”

“A man of few words? All right. Here.” The stranger offered him a hand to get up, but Morlock was already rising, Tyrfing in his right hand.

Morlock looked around. “Where am I?”

“Narkunden,” said the stranger. “Never been here? You haven’t missed much. They’re talking about abandoning the town if the next winter is as bad as the last one.”

Morlock grunted. “Think it will be?” he asked.

“It’ll be worse. I’d bet a nickel on it, which is as much as I ever bet on anything. But they won’t abandon the town.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not like things are better down south. If the sun is dying. . . . Some things you can’t fix by running away from them.”

“How do you fix them?”

“Um. Let me rephrase. Some things can’t be fixed.”

Morlock grunted again. “Is there a bar or a wineshop nearby? I need a drink.”

“No one needs a drink, unless they’re a drunk. Are you a drunk?”

Morlock shrugged. “If I were, would I admit it?”

“You might. Drunks come in all the types of people there are: proud, ashamed, defiant, apologetic, you name it. But I’m not inclined to help a drunk find another drink. There’s some of it in my family. You understand.”

“I’m not a drunk.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you’ll join me in a mug or two of wine? I usually partake around this hour.”

The stranger stepped back through the dark doorway behind him and motioned for Morlock to follow.

The stranger didn’t look dangerous. After a moment’s thought, Morlock sheathed his sword and stepped through the doorway.

The interior of the stranger’s house was an image of chaos: books and stones and papers and dust lying around in heaps. On one of the stone heaps was a jumble of bronze pieces that looked like parts of a skull. The room was lit, not by a lamp but by a kind of window set into the wall. But there had been no window on the wall outside, and this window showed no scene that could be local. It showed a green field in early summer or late spring; there was a large maple tree with some ropes hanging from it. Morlock would have liked to know how the window was made.

The stranger was busying himself in a cupboard and he brought back a couple of mugs filled with reddish fluid that smelled like it might be wine.

“Not very good,” the stranger said ruefully. “But the best you’ll find in town, I’m afraid. Any grapes they’ve managed to grow recently they kept for eating.”

Morlock raised the mug and said, “I’m Morlock Ambrosius, by the way.”

“Are you?” The stranger’s vague blue eyes focused on him. “Interesting!”

“What’s your name?” Morlock asked.

“Don’t you know it?”

“No. Have we met?”

“I can’t remember. You can’t remember all the people you’ve met, can you? I expect someday you’ll forget you’ve met me today.”

“We have not met yet. Formally, that is.”

“What? Oh, my name. I suppose you could call me Angustus. Some people do, around here.”

Morlock nodded. He was used to people who travelled under pseudonyms, although he tended not to trust them. On the other hand, this fellow had more or less admitted the name was not his own. Maybe that showed he was honest after all.

“Are you a maker, Angustus?”

“No. No. No. Not really. No. I’ve never thought of myself that way. Although I suppose I am, sort of. But I teach at the local lyceum, at least on a temporary basis. I know a good many curious things, although it’s not clear that they’ll be any use when the sun goes dark. Of course. . . .”

“What will?”

“Exactly. Nunc est bibendum!” Angustus lifted his mug in salute to Morlock and took a drink. Morlock did the same. The wine was pretty bad, but better than nothing.

“That was Latin, wasn’t it?” Morlock asked Angustus, after they had been drinking in silence for a while.

“It was indeed. Loquerisne Latine?”

“A little. One of my fathers made me learn it.”

“Well, I commend him for it. There’s not much call for it on the northern plains, I’m afraid. I teach logic, rhetoric, geometry, Old Ontilian—whatever they’ll pay me for.”

“There’s a living in that?”

“I don’t remember saying so. Now if I could teach people how to play venchball I’d have it made. The venchball trainers eat custard every night, as the saying goes. The stadia are crowded on game days, and on other days everyone seems to be talking about the next game or the last one.”

“Don’t know the sport. It’s entertaining?”

“I’d rather be fried in oil than sit through a match. No, on game days I usually go into rich people’s storehouses and steal their food.”