I asked Alisaard who the people of the walls were and she apologised for not telling me more. “They’re Mabden, of course. They are afraid of the city. Afraid of almost everything. And being permitted no weapons with which they can attack what they fear, they are reduced to what you see. It seems the Mabden can only kill or run away. Their brains are of no use to them.”
Von Bek was skeptical. “They look to me like the useless economic units of some over-rigid political system, driven out here so that they will not be a burden on the others.”
Alisaard frowned. “I cannot follow you.”
Von Bek was smiling, almost to himself. “You have great experience of magic and scientific marvels, Lady Alisaard, but it appears there are very few economically complex civilizations in the whole of the multiverse!”
She appeared to understand him. Her brow cleared. “Ah, of course! Yes, your assumption is more or less accurate. This is not the right sector for those societies.”
I looked with private pleasure on von Bek’s face as he realised that not only had he been guilty of intellectual arrogance, he had been put in his place by someone who was undoubtedly his mental superior.
Von Bek looked at me and saw that I had recognised his response. “It’s odd how easily we slip into the assumptions and follies of our own cultures when we are faced with the alien and the inexplicable. If ever I come through this and am successful in my ambition; if Germany is ever free of war and insane terror, I have it in mind to write a book or two on the subject of mankind’s reactions to the novel and the unlikely.”
I clapped him on the back. “You are avoiding one trap and falling into another, my friend. Never fear, when the moment comes you’ll decide against those treatises and get on with the business of living. It’s example and effort which improve our lot, not any number of learned volumes.”
He took what I said in good part. “You are truly a simple soldier at heart, I think.”
“There are probably few simpler than me,” I told him. “Few more ordinary. It baffles me why I should have become what I am.”
“Perhaps only a fundamentally sane creature could accept the amount of experience and information you have accumulated,” said von Bek. His voice was almost sympathetic. Then he cleared his throat. “However, there’s a danger in too much sentimentality as well as too much intellectuality, eh?”
We had arrived at the glowing, circular gate of the city. A ring of fire, it seemed to me, burned steadily and without heat. It shone so brightly that we were half blinded, unable to see beyond the gateway into Adelstane herself.
Alisaard did not pause but walked directly up to the mighty circle and stepped through it at the point where it touched the rocky surface. We could do nothing else but follow her example. Closing my eyes I stepped into the fire and immediately found myself on the other side, unscathed. Von Bek was next. He found the whole thing, he said, remarkable.
Alisaard said: “The fire burns cold only for friendly visitors. The Lords of Adelstane have extended to us their most trusting welcome. We can feel flattered.”
Now we saw about five figures ahead of us on the white road which still reflected the firelight behind us. The figures were dressed in billowing robes, heavy weaves of sober colours, lighter silks and lace to rival the exquisite complexity of the city’s architecture. Each figure held a staff on which a small, stiffened linen banner stood. Each banner was a finely detailed picture in its own right. The pictures were extremely stylised and I could not immediately recognise the subjects. My attention was quickly drawn away from the banners, however, by the faces of the waiting five. They were not human. They were not even the eldritch faces of Alisaard’s people. I had not realised that Barganheem was the realm dominated by those strange beasts, the Ursine Princes. These people resembled bears, though it was plain there were many differences, particularly about the hands and legs. They stood upright with no difficulty whatsoever. Their black eyes were like rainwashed ebony, yet they did not threaten.
“Be welcome in Adelstane,” they said in chorus.
Their voices were deep, vibrant and somehow to me they were also comforting. I wondered at those who had made themselves this people’s enemies. I felt that I could trust any one of them to do exactly what they claimed. I stepped forward, extending my arms in greeting.
The bearfolk moved back a step, their nostrils quivering. They attempted to recover themselves and it was plain they thought they had been discourteous to us.
“It is our smell,” said Alisaard softly in my ear. “They find it revolting.”
7
I HAD EXPECTED to find myself and my friends in some vast receiving room, an auditorium where guests could state their business and be seen by all the Ursine Princes and their retinues. Such ceremony would have been suitable for the city.
Instead we were led by the five dignified creatures through streets of exceptional cleanliness, filled with buildings of astonishing beauty, until we came to a small domed hall which, in its simplicity, reminded me somewhat of an old Baptist church. Within we found warmth, comfortable chairs, a library—all the accumulated treasures which, say, a university don might come by in a lifetime of quiet appreciation of the world.
“This is where we live much of the time,” said one of the bearlike people. “We have domestic quarters, of course. We conduct our business from this place. I hope you will forgive the informality. Will you have wine? Or another drink?”
“We appreciate your hospitality,” I said awkwardly. I was going to add that we were rather anxious to see the great princes as soon as they could spare time to see us when Alisaard, doubtless anticipating me, interrupted.
“We all appreciate it, my lords. And we are honoured to find ourselves in the company of those who are called the Ursine Princes throughout the Six Realms.
I was surprised, even while I was grateful to her. It seemed completely wrong to my expectations that such a wonderfully decorative city should not indulge the most elaborate of ceremonies. And I had thought we were to be inspected by a whole host of noble bears. Now I could only presume that these were the only ones. Certainly the only ones we should meet.
The large room was heavily perfumed. From the fireplace in the centre of the left-hand wall great gusts of incense billowed. I realised that our odour must be inconceivably disgusting to them for them to go to such pains.
“Ah, that,” said one of the Princes, seating himself and his complicated arrangement of clothing in a great armchair, and pointing at the fire with his pole, “that is our custom. I trust you will forgive our fads. We are all somewhat old and set in our ways. I am Groaffer Rolm, Prince of the North River, successor to the Autuvian family which, sadly, ceased to produce issue.” He rubbed at his snout and sighed. The closer I came to them, the more I realised they only superficially resembled bears. It seemed to me this species had existed long before the advent of the bear. “And this is Snothelifard Plare, Prince of the Big South River and the Little East, hereditary head of the Winter Caravan.” A wave of silk and lace at the creature beside him. “Over there is Whiclar Hald-Halg, Prince of the Great Lake Spill, last bearer of the Flint. Glanat Khlin, Prince of the Deep Canals, Bat Speaker. And lastly, my wife Faladerj Oro, Prince of the Shouting Rapids and Regent of the Western Seasonals.” Groaffer Rolm made a small, polite grunting noise. “I am, I’m afraid, the last male Prince left.”
“Are your people so depleted by aggressors?” von Bek asked sympathetically, after we had returned the introductions. “Is that why you were so cautious, lord prince, to admit us here?”
Prince Groaffer Rolm paused, raising a hand. “I have misinformed you, it seems. Until lately, this realm knew peace for century upon century. We grew used to persecution, certainly, and we built our cities away from the envious eyes of Mabden and others. But we have so successfully hidden ourselves from enemies we have only the habit of caution left!” He pretended to turn his head and inspect the fire. Actually he was inhaling more of the incense.
His wife, Prince Faladerj Oro, spoke. “Most of what we mine is too precious, too beautiful, to trade. You see before you five decadent old creatures in the decline of their race’s age. We have lived without stimulus for too long now. We are dying.”
“Though,” said one I took to be younger, Whiclar Hald-Halg, “we have seen four full cycles of the multiverse come and go. Few others survive one.” She spoke proudly. “There are few with histories as long as those you call the Ursine Princes. We call ourselves Oager Uv. We have almost always been a river people.” She began to seat herself, fluffing her lace and her heavy wools as she did so.
Prince Groaffer Rolm waited with attentive stillness until Whiclar Hald-Halg had completed her speech. “There you have us,” he said. “We have a few family left, but that is the sum of our race. We had expected to end our days in peace. The Mabden offer us no trouble. Sometimes they trade one of their young for whatever it is they have decided they need from us. We, in turn, pass the boys on to Gheestenheem, where we know no harm will come to them. But then came news of this army of liberators, apparently sworn to release the Mabden from imprisonment here. Is it this you would warn us of?”
Alisaard was puzzled. “I know nothing of such an army. Who leads it?”
“A Mabden. I cannot remember his name. They are coming through on the Eastern Banks, apparently, in large numbers. Of course, it is many years since we were there ourselves. If all they wanted were those shores, we would have given them up. We want nothing but this city and tranquility. But, thanks to a Mabden more honourable than most, we learned of this invasion in time. And so our allies will arrive here shortly, to defend us in our last years. It seems an unlikely irony. And, moreover, it is a familiar one, eh? The remnants of an ancient aristocracy defended by those who were once their fiercest enemies?”
I was suspicious as, I could see, were Alisaard and von Bek.
“Pardon, Prince Groaffer Rolm,” said Alisaard. “But when did you learn of this holy war against you?”
“Not thirty breaks since.”
“And do you remember the name of the honourable Mabden who has offered to help you?”
“That I can remember easily, aye. Her name is the Princess Sharadim of Draachenheem. She has become a good friend to us, and asks nothing. She understands our principles and our customs and she has made it her business to learn much of our history. She is a good creature. It is a blessing for us that all our other cities are long since abandoned. She only has the one to defend. We anticipate her soldiers during the next conjunction.”
Alisaard flushed. Like me, like von Bek, she did not know how best and with what formal manners, to disabuse the Ursine Princes.
At last von Bek said brutally, “So she deceives you also. As she deceives so many in her own land. She means you ill, my lords, and that is certain.”
There came a considerable snuffling, throat clearing and not a little cracking of joints.
Alisaard spoke passionately. “It is true, my princes. This woman plans to league herself with Chaos and destroy the barriers between the realms, turning the Worlds of the Wheel into one vast and lawless place where she and her allies of Chaos shall establish a perpetual tyranny!”
“Chaos?” Prince Glanat Khlin waddled to the fire and breathed in the smoke. “No Mabden can league themselves with Chaos and survive—not in their original form, at any rate. Or does she hope to be made a Lord of Chaos herself? That is sometimes the ambition of such people…”
“I would remind my Sister Prince,” said Snothelifard Plare, “that we have only heard charges from this trio. We have been offered no evidence. I have, for my own part, an instinctive trust of the Mabden female Sharadim. I have a way of understanding her kind. These emissaries could be from those who march against Adelstane!”
“On my word,” cried Alisaard, “we are not your enemies. We serve neither Sharadim nor the jihad you speak of. We came to you for help in our own quest. We seek to stop the spread of evil, to halt Chaos and its schemes for our realms. We came to you because we hoped to find Morandi Pag.”
“There you have it!” Snothelifard Plare pulled back her muzzle and clicked at her teeth with her nails. “There you have it!”
Alisaard looked from face to face. “What do you mean?”
Groaffer Rolm inhaled an enormous mouthful of smoke. Even as he spoke the fumes began to escape from his nostrils and add to those already in the room. “Morandi Pag has gone mad. He was one of us. An Ursine Prince, you would say. Prince of the South East Rushers and the Cold Ponds. A great trader. Always his own steersman. Friend. Oh!” And Groaffer Rolm raised his snout to the painted ceiling and gave a mournful groan.
“His childhood friend,” explained Faladerj Oro as she stroked her husband’s wrinkling head. “His great sharer.” And a little whimper escaped her mouth. “Yes. He is with them, we are informed. We sent for him. Urgently. We told him we must see him in Adelstane, so that he could tell us he does not serve the Mabden. But he did not come. He did not send a message. Amongst our people that is a statement that what is rumoured is true.”
“Morandi Pag has an odd mind,” said Glanat Khlin. “Always an odd mind. Took action, he did. Always action following his delicate and unreadable logic. As a trader he was the last of the true River Princes. As a seer he had trained himself to look into a thousand times and places. As a scientist his theories were of exquisite intricacy. Oh, Morandi Pag was what our ancestors were. An odd mind which could foresee unimaginable possibilities. So he left for his crag at last. But we did not know he disapproved of our treatment of the Mabden. He had only to make it clear. We do merely what the Mabden say they want. We offered them one of our loveliest cities for themselves. They refused it. If we are guilty of obtuse reasoning, we should be told. We would change. If the Mabden want to return to a Mabden realm, we can take them. But they would not consider any of our suggestions. Now this comes. We did no wrong, I think.”
“Perhaps we did wrong,” said Snothelifard Plare. “If so, Morandi Pag of all the Princes could have told us how. Yet that is done. We have a barbarian force marching against us. It means killing. We cannot defend ourselves entirely without employing death. These other Mabden know death and how to deal it. We are without resources in the matter of tools, even.”
“Aye,” agreed Groaffer Rolm, recovering himself slowly. “No weapons, and Sharadim has the means of finding these. She defends beauty, she says. That, we think, is worth defending. But we could not easily kill. Mabden can easily kill, as we all recognise here, I think. Ah! Morandi Pag. He will not send even writing to us. No. We do not want the Mabden. They are fleas. Ah!” And he turned his head into the fireplace, leaving his wife in great confusion, offering us a glance of apology for her husband’s description of those she considered our kind.
“They are worse than fleas, Prince Faladerj Oro,” I said quickly. “They are perhaps the worst sort of flea, at any rate. Wherever they bite, they leave disease and ruin behind. But I suspect both Mabden armies to be commanded by Sharadim. She uses one to frighten you, one to reassure you. We know she planned to bring an army here. But we thought she marched against Morandi Pag. If so, how can she be in league with him?”
“Someone should visit that crag, as I said.” Groaffer Rolm puffed smoke from his nostrils again. “If he is dead or ill, then much is explained. And I agree with these Mabden, fellow Princes. Sharadim cannot any longer be trusted. I suspect we waited so long to find Mabden whose morality we could respect that we deceived ourselves…”
“The Princess Sharadim is an honourable creature,” said Prince Snothelifard Plare. “I know it in my bones.”
“Why did you not send someone to this crag before?” I asked. “If you suspected Morandi Pag to be ill.”
Groaffer Rolm’s snout grew wet and he sniffled. He coughed and pushed his head so far into the fireplace it almost disappeared. “We are too old,” he said. “There is none can make the journey.”
“Is the crag so f
ar away?” Von Bek’s voice took on a new urgency.
“Not so far,” said Groaffer Rolm, re-emerging from the incense. “About five miles, we used to reckon.”
“You could send nobody five miles?” Von Bek began to sound contemptuous.
“It is across the lake,” Glanat Khlin spoke defensively. “The lake he himself explored, looking for the mythical Central Passage which is said to pass permanently through all realms at once. All he found, they say, was his crag. But there is often a maelstrom there. And often big winds. We have no boats for it. Nothing made. And we can make nothing ourselves now.”
“You, the great River Princes, have no boats? I have seen your ark at the Great Massing.” I could not believe they were lying. “You do have boats.”
“A few. The ark is mere trickery so that no Mabden will look greedily on our artifacts. The Gheestenheemers have similar strategies, which is why we have always been allies. A few little boats left, yes. But we are too old.”
“Then lend us one of those,” said Alisaard. Hesitantly she put her hand on Groaffer Rolm’s massive arm. “Lend us a boat and we will cross the lake to find Morandi Pag. Perhaps we shall find that he does not work against you. Perhaps the Mabden lied in this as in everything else?”
“The Princess Sharadim has psychic gifts,” growled Snothelifard Plare. “She knows Morandi Pag schemes our finality.”
“You will let them prove this.” Groaffer Rolm rose up from his chair in a great hissing and whispering of fabric. “You will let them prove it, lord prince. What bad can that bring us?”
Snothelifard Plare bent with fastidious slowness towards the fireplace and drew in the fumes by means of a long, loud sniff.
“Take the boat, but be careful,” Faladerj Oro said, sounding almost like a mother to her children. “The crag lies beneath the sun. It is hot and the water acts strangely. Morandi Pag went there for solitude, to study. But he stayed. Only he knew the exact way the sea runs. It was one of his golden strengths. We watched him as young females, scenting for the currents lying in the deepest reaches. Then he would take his rafts and race through. Half our charts were drawn before the birth of Morandi Pag. Half our charts have been drawn since he came to us. And even a long-lived people like ours do not pass through four full cycles of the multiverse. He was our last great pride. If he had been a leader, I think we should have survived even a fifth cycle.” She did not seem greatly upset by the prospect of her race’s extinction. “Morandi Pag has derived his knowledge from the whole of the multiverse. Compared to him the rest of us are ignorant and parochial. We have boats below. They can be floated up to the old mole. Will you wait for the boat there? We shall give you charts. We shall give you provisions. We shall give you messages of friendship and concern for Morandi Pag. And then, if he lives, he will reply.”