M. Barker - The Man of Gold

“Do you never desire the nearness of other species? Communion with beings different from yourself-selves?”

“That we have aplenty-within our own bodies.” The organ sang down to a final dark, wailing chord. “We know too much-we have seen too much, and we have wandered too far. We no longer possess that one quality which gives you younger races your life, your animation…”

“And that is…?”

“That which no spell, no mage, no revolt or conflict or new confrontation can revivify: curiosity. The desire to experience more.”

The music died away to a last whispered echo of Harsan’s own heartbeat. Then it was gone entirely.

The creature flowed around the central dais toward the room where the shattered picture-box lay. It left a trail of broken helmets, weapons, armour, bits of clothing, and bones.

“The-the Man of Gold,” Harsan called. “Tell me what it does! Why-how? The reasons for it…!”

“You have set it in operation already. As to what it does, you should have waited for him to tell you-he whose instructions and picture-box your fellows have destroyed.” The Ngoro humped up again, folded itself, pushed through the door into the inner chamber.

There was little sign of its passing. Debris here, stains there. A gentle slithering noise from the inner room sounded like the opening of a wall-panel. There was probably some secret exit from that room through which it would go to feed-upon what, one could only surmise.

Harsan rose upon aching legs and went to the console. Winking lights welcomed him: a row of red dots, circles of yellow, square boxes of glowing green within which tiny lines merged and diverged to create alien patterns.

Nothing made any sense.

He looked up to find Tlayesha and the others beside him. They had heard nothing, not one word of the telepathic conversation between him and the Ngoro. He related it to them briefly.

“You have done more than any wizard since the Time of No Kings,” Taluvaz said admiringly when he had done. “Not Subadim, not wise Thomar, not Chirene Bakal-no mage or hero of the epics could match this.” He gazed about the chamber enviously. “These boxes, those mechanisms-whatever the Man of Gold may do, it will be a century before all of this can be studied and put to use! I only wish this place were in Livyanu! Oh, I should have made Prince Eselne include a share of any finds-’ ’

He broke off, embarrassed. Harsan pretended not to notice. The Livyani began again in urgent, businesslike tones. “Come away, young man. Still must we find a path out of this labyrinth.”

“Jayargo? The Undead? The rest?”

“Crushed or fled.” Tlayesha touched his forehead. He was hot and feverish. She looked at the lights and knobs and wheels with undisguised awe-and not a little fear. “What does it do, my love? Does it live? Will it march forth to destroy demons?”

“The ‘Weapon Without Answer’ of Yan Kor…?” Taluvaz added anxiously.

“I do not know,” he answered. He concentrated, but the voices within his brain were mute now. He frowned, and puzzled over the flat panels for many minutes. Tentatively he touched the controls. Then he kicked the metal console, slapped a hand down across a row of black buttons. He was rewarded by a dance of coloured lights.

“I see nothing; it does nothing. I command it to rise and take us hence from here, but it does not reply. I tell it to go forth to slay the Yan Koryani and-and a certain terrible Goddess and Her He’esa — but it does not move.” He knit his brows and concentrated again until perspiration dripped down into his eyes. “Nothing. Oh, it makes pretty designs-a veritable treasure trove for a jeweller or one who delights in magical playthings! Our learned priests could exhibit it to awe the gape-mouthed rustics on feast days. Perhaps it is broken-too old. Perhaps-”

“You saw nothing-sensed nothing?” Taluvaz urged. “No powerful forces, no beams of light? No pressures upon your psychic self?”

“Nothing! Nothing! The carpet-thing, the Ngoro, either did not know or would not tell me! The. Globes of Instruction said only to do this much! I have done it. As you can see, this much is nothing at all. It glows and twinkles. It does not even make a sound.”

“This does not mean that it does nothing. The ancients-”

“Thumis hurl the ancients into the Unending Grey! See for yourself, I have enough psychic sense to know when the powers of the Planes are active close by-and so do you, I warrant. Lord Taluvaz Arrio! Some of its parts must have corroded away or become defective over time…”

He kicked the Man of Gold again in frustrated disappointment.

Mirure climbed onto the dais to report that Vridekka still lived but remained unconscious. Either the freezing wounds dealt him by the silvery rod were more terrible than they appeared, or else the Mind-seer’s trance-spell was very powerful indeed. Tlayesha joined with the N’luss girl in suggesting that they cut the old man’s weazened throat before he could awake. Taluvaz urged that they bind him tightly instead, blindfold him so that he could not cast spells with the power of his gaze alone, and leave him to be collected-or to die-later. If they could send a party back for him, Prince Eselne would be very grateful for a scholar as learned in the inner workings of the Temple of Sarku-and as knowledgeable in the doings of his brother, Prince Dhich’une-as Vridekka. The Concordat did not hold down here, and what had happened tonight would not bear scrutiny in the light of day. No, the Skull Prince would not dare complain to the Petal Throne over the disappearance of his house-wizard.

The others wrangled on, but Harsan paid no heed. Whether they lived or perished here was unimportant. Damn the Man of Gold! It might be arrogant to think oneself a blue or black piece upon the Den-den board, but to win through to the Sun Circle and then find that one’s crown was no more than gilded paper! To use one’s hard-won powers only to discover them as impotent as a child’s toy sword! It was more than one ought to have to bear!

A mighty mage, a hero of epics indeed! Cha, it was enough to sour the sweetest wine!

He smashed his hand down again and again upon the black buttons, turned wheels, pressed knobs. The Man of Gold made no response. It did not speak as the picture-box had done: it emitted no sound at all. The flicker of coloured lights and the wavering lines within its many little transparent panels told him nothing.

At last he put his head down upon the cold metal of the console and wept.

It was thus that Prince Eselne’s scarlet-armoured soldiers found them a Kiren or two later. They had Jayargo, bruised and much chastened, with them, and to the surprise of all, Morkudz. The little Heheganu babbled out a tale of using a spell of invisibility- really a sort of camouflage that worked best in semi-darkness-to befool the Undead in the tomb chamber. He had then pretended to be a corpse, his greyish skin and lumpy features enhancing that masquerade greatly. When everyone had gone from the upper cavern, he escaped. His adventures amused the others, but they were lost upon Harsan; he had gone once more to kick the Man of Gold and to urge it into life-something, anything, that would make all of this meaningful.

Nothing availed. Tlayesha and the others almost had to drag him away from the glittering console. They bore him forth, still cursing the poor Skein the Weaver of All had woven for him.

Arjuan hiDaranu of the Clan of the Victorious Globe was neither young nor handsome. He was certainly no match for the likes of Mrika, his new wife. His clan-elders had warned him against the marriage: the girl came from Hekellu in the far northeast, as far across the Empire from Tumissa as one could get, and her own Clan of the Barren Peak was unknown here. It was possibly not even a decent Tsolyani clan but one from the barbarous mountain tribes of Jannu or Kilalammu. Not a proper marriage at all, they said. But then Aijuan thought to detect a tinge of jealousy in their objections, just the sort of mix of envy and respect and recognition that made him suddenly stand out, no longer a balding, faceless scribe in the Palace of the Realm in provincial Tumissa, but someone to whom pretty women were attracted, a man whose talents were not all to be seen on the surface.