Piers Anthony - Juxtaposition

“He knew this?” Stile demanded, remembering how the man had apparently acquiesced to his own murder.

“Yes. He was too powerful and clever to be killed with out his consent. He gave up everything to make it possible for you to save the frames.”

Stile hated the notion, yet he had to believe. And if the Blue Adept, with everything to live for, had made his sacrifice—how could Stile, who was the same person, do less? He would only be destroying what his other self had died to save.

“It seems I must do it,” Stile said, dismayed. “I do not feel like any hero, though. How long before juxtaposition is actually achieved?”

“Allowing time for me to return to Phaze—perhaps twenty-four hours.”

Time was getting short! “How much Phazite, precisely?”

“The Little Folk will have that information. In fact, they will have the Phazite ready for you. But the enemy forces will do all in their power to prevent you from moving it.”

“So I’ll need to transfer the book of magic and the computer first,” Stile decided. “Then I can use them to facilitate the mineral transfer. Since the computer will cross when the curtain passes its location, I need only to guard it and establish a line to it. Which leaves the book—which I’d better pick up before juxtaposition so I have time to assimilate it. Maybe I can arrange to have some one else pick it up for me, since I will no doubt be watched.”

“I believe so.”

“Is there convenient and private transport from here to a dome?”

“Share mine. I am going to the curtain. From Phaze, you may travel freely.”

“If the Adepts don’t catch me.”

“It will help, I must admit, if you can distract their attention from me again. With the Flute I can protect myself, but I would prefer to be unobserved.”

“I suppose so. Somehow I had pictured you as a new super-Adept, able to crumble mountains and guide the dead to Heaven.”

“I have only the powers of the Platinum Flute you brought me. I am myself no more than a fine musician. I suspect that any other musician of my caliber could have served this office of the Foreordained. I just happened to be the nearest available. After this is over, I hope to return to my profession in my home frame, profiting from the experience garnered here. The Mound Folk of the Platinum Demesnes are generously allowing me to keep the Flute. I was, like you, drafted for this duty; I am not temperamentally suited to the exercise of such power. I am not an Adept.”

Stile found that obscurely reassuring. Clef believed that this would come out all right. “Very well. Well step across the curtain, and I’ll spell you directly to the Oracle, where they can’t get at you, then spell myself elsewhere in a hurry.” Stile paused, thinking of a minor aspect. “How did you get by the goblins who guard the computer?”

“One note of the Flute paralyzes them,” Clef said, relaxing. “You summon your power through music; you should understand.”

“I do.” Stile hated to leave this comfortable chair, but felt he should get moving. “I suppose we’ve dawdled enough. Great events await us with gaping jaws.”

“I believe we can afford to wait the night,” Clef said. “There is a tube shuttle, renovated for transport to the curtain; it will whisk us there in the morning. Since no one knows you’re here, you can relax. That will give the Adepts time to gather confidence that you are dead, put ting them off guard.”

The notion appealed tremendously. Stile had worn him self out by his trek through the caves and tunnels; he desperately needed time to recuperate. He trusted Clef. “Then give me a piece of floor to lie on, and I’ll pass out.”

“Allow me to delay you slightly longer, since we may not meet again,” Clef said. “We played a duet together, once. It was one of the high points of my life. Here there is no magic, so the instruments can safely be used.” Stile liked this notion even better than sleep. It seemed to him that music was more restorative than rest. He brought out his treasured harmonica. Clef produced the Platinum Flute. He looked at it a moment, almost sadly. “Serrilryan,” he murmured. “The werebitch. With this I piped her soul to Heaven, and for that I am grateful. I knew her only briefly, but in that time I had no better friend in Phaze.”

“This is the way it is with me and Neysa the unicorn,” Stile agreed. “Animals are special in Phaze.”

“Extremely special.” Clef put the instrument to his mouth, and from it came the loveliest note Stile could imagine.

Stile played the harmonica, making an impromptu harmony. He knew himself to be a fine player, especially with this instrument inherited from his other self—but Clef was the finest player, with the finest instrument ever made. The extemporaneous melody they formed was absolutely beautiful. Stile felt his fatigue ameliorating and his spirit strengthening. He knew of many types of gratification, such as of hunger, sex, and acclaim, but this was surely the finest of them all—the sheer joy of music. They played for some time, both men transported by the rapture of the form. Stile doubted he would ever experience a higher pleasure than this and he knew Clef felt the same. Flute and harmonica might seem like an odd combination, but here it was perfection.

Then something strange occurred. Stile began to see the music. Not in the form of written notes, but as a force, a wash of awareness encompassing their immediate environment. It was the shape or essence of a spirit, a soul. Somehow this vibrant, joyous thing was familiar.

Stile glanced at Clef without interrupting his playing. The flutist had seen it too; he nodded marginally. Then Clef’s playing changed in nature, and Stile realized that this was the music that moved souls to their resting places. Somehow the magic of the Flute was acting in this frame, moving the spirit in the room.

Whose was it? Not the werebitch’s. It hovered in place, becoming more perceptible. Then the music changed again, and the spirit disappeared.

Clef abruptly stopped playing, so Stile had to stop too.

“Did you recognize it?” the man asked, awed.

“No,” Stile said. “It seemed familiar, but I never saw such a phenomenon in Proton.”

“It was you. Stile. Your soul came out. When I realized that, I stopped. I don’t want to pipe you to Heaven yet.”

“Not minel” Stile protested. “My soul was never more with me.”

Clef frowned. “I beg to differ. The Little Folk have instructed me somewhat in this, as it is an important property of the Flute. There are certain keys to the recognition of souls that the music relates to. The more I attuned to you, the clearer that ghost became. It was you.”

Stile shook his head. “It had to have been my double, not me.”

There was a brief silence.

“You had a double,” Clef said. “Your alternate self, who died to free you.”

“The Blue Adept,” Stile agreed, awed at the dawning notion.

“Who piped him to Heaven?”

“No one. He was murdered alone. All that remains of him is—this harmonica.”

“The Flute evokes souls. But only free souls, which have not yet found their way to their destinations. Could your alternate’s soul—?”

“Be in this instrument?” Stile finished. “You know, he may have found a way to stay around, not dying completely. This harmonica came to me fortuitously. Is it possible—?”

“That he chose to occupy the instrument when he made room for you in Phaze?” Clef continued. Stile contemplated the harmonica. “Why? Why avoid Heaven and be trapped in a harmonica?”

Clef shrugged. “The music that issues from it is lovely. Is it better than your norm?”

“Yes. I play this better than other instruments, though I did not play this type until I got this one.”