John Wright - Orphans of Chaos

At first, I thought his hair was metal. He wore a coif of coppery scales over his skull; more scales covered his neck. He wore a jacket of red coppery scales beneath his ruddy cloak. Below he wore a leather skirt studded with metal bosses. His boots of shark leather rose to his knee.

A wide web-belt cinched his waist. A Japanese katana, bright with a swinging tassel, rode one hip. At the other, a leather holster held a heavy pistol.

There was something in the way he walked—stiff, yet relaxed, calm, yet somehow tense—that told of miles upon miles of marching to the music of the drum and fife.

He passed in front of a lamppost that stood in the carriage circle before the East Wing of the Manor House. The light made a slight rainbow effect as it slid around his body.

I said, “He is distorting the local time-space metric. Light is bending toward him as it would toward a black sun. He must be affecting the probability world-lines intersecting this moment in time.”

I looked over. Quentin was not looking at the man. He lay with his face not six inches from mine, staring thoughtfully at my lips. He had been studying my profile.

Quentin raised his eyes to mine. “You can tell at a glance?”

I said impatiently, “No. It is obvious, though. His gravity is normal, otherwise he would sink to the Earth’s core with every step. What else could disturb time-space, if not gravity? If it is not a space warp, then it is a time warp. He is not moving fast or slow. So it must be a distortion of world-lines. Q.E.D.”

I felt heat in my cheeks. I was blushing. Blushing! Because little Quentin, of all people, had been staring at me. At the lips he had kissed, and claimed for his own.

I said, “The Red Soldier isn’t human, no matter who he is.” He said, “I know. Apsu can’t see normal people.”

The soldier passed below the level of our vision. There came a noise of a door opening. A triangle of light spilled out across the snow, magnifying the shadow of the soldier. There was a mutter of voices. One sounded calm, measured, certain. The voice of a man in control of whatever situation he entered. The other was the voice of Mr. Sprat, who sounded nervous, uncertain. Maybe even frightened.

From the tones of voice, the words half-heard, it sounded as if the Red Soldier wanted to enter, and Mr. Sprat was reluctant to let him in.

Footsteps. A second shadow spilled out across the snow. This one wore a mortarboard and long robes. His voice was louder, and we caught the words. Headmaster Boggin asked, “Protector, we were not expecting Your Lordship in person. Where is Your Lordship’s entourage?”

We did not hear the words, but the calm voice made some brief, sardonic answer.

Boggin laughed politely. “I suppose that is true, Your Lordship. Who would be qualified to bodyguard you?”

The calm voice again. A question.

“Why, yes, Your Lordship. She is here. Her Ladyship came with her…ah… with her husband’s retainers, of course. Will you come in? I will have to ask you to leave your weapons at the door. Emissaries are supposed to be unarmed.”

The Red Soldier must have turned his head, for this time, we heard his answer plainly. “I am never unarmed.”

The shadows on the snow moved; the soldier pushed his way past Headmaster Boggin, the javelin still in his hand. We could hear the metallic thud of the butt of the javelin on the floorboards.

Mr. Sprat’s shadow slid close to Headmaster Boggin’s. A fearful whisper. A friendly-sounding answer from Boggin. Again, Boggin’s voice carried. “It is not as if we have any choice, Jack, now, is it? We’re at their mercy.”

The door swung to. The angle of light narrowed and disappeared.

We had a whispered consultation about whether to close the big metal door or not. On the one hand, it would let in cold air and outside noise that someone might notice. On the other, we wanted an unblocked escape. The workmen had been pulling up and putting down tile these last few days, and their scaffold still reached from roof to ground, like a fire tower.

“We are going to have to be quiet going down,” he said.

“Well, obviously, Quentin! I’ll tell you when it’s safe to talk. I am your senior, you know.”

“Then enlighten me. What does the thing you said mean? About world-lines?”

“Is this the time for a physics lesson?”

“Indulge me, please, Amelia.”

“OK. This is a summary. Imagine every object as a worm, or an umbrella, drawing a line through time. The one line toward the direction of lesser-entropy we call ‘past,’ and its position is determined within the limits of quantum uncertainty. The multiple lines toward the direction of greater-entropy, we call ‘future,’ and their locations, to simultaneous observers, occupy the set of all possible locations to which the object could move in a given time. Put two gravitating bodies near each other and their sets of possible motion lines bend toward each other. The line defined by the least energy expended is inert motion, or free fall. This free-fall line, which would otherwise be straight, is distorted by a gravitating body so that it curves in a conic section. Got it?”

“So what did you see around him? His Lordship?”

“Something other than gravity was distorting the world-lines passing near him, including the event-paths of things like photons. An aura of probability distortion.”

“He has a charmed life.”

“Um. I don’t think that is what I said.”

“You were seeing destiny. He has a charmed life.”

“You are confusing an effect of physics with your…”

“Let’s go, Amelia. We can debate definitions later.”

And he started down the stairs.

I crept after him, tight-lipped with anger.

Since when did he get the right to be giving orders to me ? A boy steals a kiss and he thinks you’re his harem slave.

It was time to dunk his head in the sink again. Wash a few dumb notions out of that haunted house he calls his brain. I was strong enough to lift a door he could not budge, wasn’t I? He was not so old that I could not push his head under water for a while.

The stair ended at a half-open door. Beyond the door was a small alcove, half-hidden behind Mrs. Wren’s potted plants. The alcove looked out on the balcony which entirely encircled the Great Hall below.

It was perfect for spying. We crawled on our bellies across the carpet of the balcony, and peered through the heavy marble railings. There were no lights on at this floor. The gigantic chandelier that normally hung near the dome had been lowered on its massive chain so that it was partly lowered through the hole the balcony surrounded. The great chandelier was slightly below us, putting the lights between ourselves and the people below. Even if they should look up (and who ever looks up?) the light would dazzle them, and the shadows would hide us.

And yet the whole scene was less than twenty feet below us. Had we wanted to, we could have spit upon the people seated there.

The massive green marble table occupied the center of the hall. Half of the circumference had no one seated there. The chairs were empty. The other half had people standing behind their chairs, but no one was seated.

No one except for the Lady. She was beautiful beyond all beauty, somehow both innocent and sweet, yet filled with voluptuous sensuality. She was dressed in a simple robe of white, with slim jeweled sashes crossed between her breasts, and circling her trim waist. Her neck was like a swan’s. Her hair was piled atop her head to show off the line of her neck.

She was a brunette, with tremor of gold running through the strands. She had meltingly soft brown eyes. She did not wear any makeup, and yet her lips were red, her cheeks touched with blush.