Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

They sat in a dale amid vermilion hills where ancient statues worked their ways back toward boulderhood. Red lyre-tailed birds inspected damp grasses near a small pond.

“It is odd to come as a visitor,” she said. “What magic did the Lord of the Lost employ to work this change?”

“I think that when he reembodied you he simply did it as one of us rather than a creature of Virtu.”

“Still, how could he do this?”

“I have been thinking long and hard about it. It has occurred to me that Virtu must possess a level of complexity beyond what we have postulated.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does.”

“Implying a higher level of structure.”

She shrugged.

“If it explains how he did it, it must be right.”

“A guess doesn’t explain anything. I still have to work out a theory and figure the mechanisms.”

“Then what?”

He shook his head.

“Its application would be—unusual. I want to shelve everything else and just work on this one. But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I owe the Lord of Entropy his Palace of Bones and bowers of dead flowers.”

“How did you discover what it is that he wants?”

“A list of specifications and general layout appeared on one of the screens this morning.”

“How do you propose making delivery?”

“He’s watching. He’ll know when it’s ready. I will be shown what to do at that time.”

“That’s frightening. Do you think he’s watching us right now?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

She rose.

“Let’s go back outside,” she said.

“All right.”

Later that night, as they lay hallway between sleep and wakefulness, she touched his shoulder.

“John?”

“What is it?”

“Do all castles make strange noises at night?”

“Perhaps,” he said, listening. Then he heard a distant, metallic rattling sound. “It’s windy,” he said after a time. “The workmen might have left something lying about unsecured.”

“It sounds like a chain.”

“It does, doesn’t it? I’ll look around in the morning.”

“Yes, do that.”

“‘Night, love.”

“‘Night.”

Death sat on his throne of bones and regarded the model of his palace he had brought into being. With brief movements of his fingers in the space before him he opened sections, enlarged them, enhanced them. At times he rotated the image of the structure slowly, nodding or shaking his head.

“Interesting,” said Phecda, who had come up beside him and mounted the chair’s high back. “Will it have dungeons?”

“Of course,” Death answered.

“Secret passages?”

“Certainly.”

“Lots of ledges and crannies?”

“Plenty.”

“Blind corridors?”

“Those, too.”

“Some of the stairways seem to do funny things.”

“Escher Effect,” Death said.

“A place one could slither through forever, bigger even than your current dwelling.”

“Exactly.”

“So you are pleased with it?”

“In my fashion.”

“You will cause it to be created then, here, in Deep Fields?”

“Not as it stands. It requires considerable elaboration.”

“And when that has been done… ?”

“Oh, yes. Then.”

Donnerjack found a set of revised specs waiting for him on a screen early in the morning. He lowered himself slowly into his chair and studied them. Tricky, very tricky, he decided, and why should the place have a nursery?

He called up a holo of his proposal on the nearest stage, stared at it, commenced rotating it. Tentatively, then, he entered some of the proposed changes, holding back those which would not lend themselves to representation here.

It was several hours before he had cobbled together an approximation worth examining in greater detail. When he had, he transferred a section of it to the Great Stage, went over and walked through it. Then he returned to his console, made adjustments, and moved another section to the Stage. He walked back and inspected it.

Later, deep into his alterations, he turned, to discover he was not alone.

“Ayradyss! Good morning. I didn’t realized you were up.”

She smiled, took his hand, and squeezed it. He drew her to him and they embraced and kissed.

“Yes, I was awakened again by an upset stomach. Might the food of Verite do that to one from Virtu?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t see why it should.”

“Well, I’ve been nauseated every morning for several days.”

“Really? Why didn’t you say something sooner? There are things you can take, to settle the stomach.”

“It always passes quickly. Then I am fine again.”

“Any other symptoms?”

“I threw up a little bit.”

“I will order something for your stomach.”

“Thank you, love. —This is your latest project?”

“Yes, the one I owe to the master of Deep Fields. I can set it to sequence for us, if you would like to walk through it with me.”

“I would. Shall we take coffee with us?”

“Let’s.”

Neither an eeksy nor a bounty, Virginia Tallent knew all their territories, though from a different vantage. She was a ranger with the Virtu Survey Department, keeping track of emerging territory and fluctuations in existing lands. She traveled far, observing and recording, and while her function was mainly passive, her knowledge was extensive. One of the few Veriteans employed in this capacity, she delighted in her work, hiking the wild lands and recording her discoveries there. Every day was a revelation to her. She worked harder than others in the business, and she resented returning home at the end of each tour of duty.

She climbed a trail amid rocks and ferns, flowers and squat trees. Above her, winged shapes—some fresh-emerged from red fruitlike cocoons—fled, croaking. Occasionally, a small, pale figure darted across her path. Slim, dark-haired and pale-eyed, skin the color of cocoa, she made her way with grace and agility. Hot breezes played through the morning’s sunlight, and her way lay within shade. She had timed it that way. Periodically, she would pause to sip from a water bottle or to record an observation.

At one point, a voice came to her out of a tree at a place where the green swirled darkly within it.

“Virginia Tallent, you have traveled far.”

“That is true,” she responded, slowing, “and the foliage here seems lusher than usual, for the season. And I’ve seen more hunting wilches.”

“Excessive rains, which favor the leaf-eating gronhers. They multiply quickly, as do the wilches who eat them. Soon the wilches will reach a point where their dancing begins. There will follow a southward migration on the part of the dire-cats, who prey on them.”

“Why southward?”

“When the gronhers’ numbers dwindle they will seek the herd-mice, which will soon be numerous in the south.”

“Why?”

“The grains they feed on are even now in unusual development, because of nutrient-bearing flooding earlier this year.”

“…And the land, from the rains?” she asked.

There was no reply. The green flame had ceased to dance.

She smiled and walked on. Clouds gathered and blocked the sunlight. There followed a low rumble of thunder. The trail bore her left, its steepness diminishing. A few drops of rain spattered against fronds. There came a flash of lightning. She hurried.

The full downpour caught her in a largely open area where the trail had widened as it neared the top of the plateau. She wisely avoided a grove of tall trees, choosing instead the less complete but safer shelter offered by some broad-leafed shrubs that partly intersected an outcropping of stone.