Piers Anthony - Adept 03 - Juxtaposition

Pier Anthony - Apprentice Adept - 3 - Juxtaposition

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CHAPTER 1

Clef "I could give you some sleepfog," the lady robot said. "You stayed awake

all night researching, and the Game is this afternoon. You have to rest."

"No drugs!" Stile snapped. "Better to be keyed up than fogged out."

"Better yet to be rational," she said.

He shook his head, looking at her. She was so exactly like a woman that most

people never realized the truth. Not only could she function in all the ways

of a living human female, she was extremely well formed. Her hair was a

sun-bleached brown, shoulder length; her lips were full and slightly tinted,

kissable; her eyes were green behind long lashes. She was the sort of creature

rich, lonely men obtained to gratify their private passions more perfectly

than any real woman would. But Stile knew her for what she was, and had no

passion for her. "This is one time I wish I could just dick off the way you

can."

"I wish I were flesh," she said wistfully. She was programmed to love him and

protect him and she was absolutely true to her program, as a machine had to

be. "Come on-I'll put you to sleep." She took Stile's head in her lap and

stroked his hair and hummed a lullaby.

Oddly enough, it worked. Her body was warm and soft, her touch gentle, and he

had complete faith in her motive. Stile was dose to few people and he tended

to feel easier around machines. His tensions slipped away and his

consciousness followed.

He found himself dreaming of the time several days before, when he had passed

the Platinum Flute on to the musician Clef and guided the man across the

curtain. In this dream he followed Clef's consciousness, not his own.

Somehow this did not seem strange. Stile had felt an instant and deep

camaraderie with the man when they played music together. Stile himself was

highly skilled with a number of instruments, but Clefs musical ability

amounted to genius. It had been impossible to remain aloof from a person who

played that well

Clef had never been to the frame of Phaze. He stared at the lush tufts of

grass, the tremendous oaks and pines, and the unicorn awaiting them, as if he

were seeing something strange.

"This is Neysa," Stile informed him, perceived in the dream as a different

person. The unicorn was black, with white socks on the rear feet, and was as

small for her species as Stile was for his. Clef towered over them both, and

felt awkward. "She will carry thee to the Platinum Demesnes."

What affectation was this? Stile had spoken normally until this moment. "I

don't even know how to ride!" Clef protested. "And that's a mythical

creature!" He eyed the long spiraled horn, wishing he could touch it to verify

that it was only tacked on to the horse. He had been told that this was a land

of magic, but he found that hard to credit.

"Well, I could conjure thee there, but-"

"Absolutely not Magic is-incredible. Wherever I have to go. I'll walk."

Stile shrugged. "That is thy business. But I must insist that Neysa accompany

thee. Until thou dost reach the protection of the Little Folk, this region is

not safe for thee."

"Why are you suddenly talking archaically?" Clef demanded.

"This is the tongue of this frame," Stile explained. "Now must I conjure

clothing for thee."

"Clothing!" Clef exclaimed, daunted. "I am a serf, like you, forbidden to-I

can not-"

Stile had recovered a package of clothing from a hiding place and was putting

it on. "Here in Phaze, thou art a man. Trust me; clothe thyself." He paused,

then said in a singsong voice: "An ye can, clothe this man."

Suddenly Clef was clothed like a Citizen of Proton, with silken trousers,

shirt, jacket of light leather, and even shoes. He felt ludicrous and illicit.

"If anyone sees me in this outrageous costume-" He squinted at Stile. "You

were serious about magic! You conjured this!"

"Aye. Now must I conjure myself to the Blue Demesnes, to report to the Lady

Blue. Neysa and the Flute will keep thee safe, methinks. Farewell, friend."

"Farewell," Clef responded weakly.

Stile sang another spell and vanished. Clef contemplated the vacated spot for

a while, absorbing this new evidence of enchantment, then felt his own

clothing. Blue trousers, golden shirt-what next? "And I'm supposed to travel

with you," he said to the little unicorn. "With thee, I should perhaps say.

Well, he did warn me there would be tribulations. I don't suppose you know the

direction?" Neysa blew a note through her horn that sounded like an

affirmation rendered in harmonica music. Clef had not realized that the

animal's horn was hollow, or that she would really comprehend his words. He

followed her lead.

The scenery was lovely. To the near south was a range of purple-hued

mountains, visible through gaps in the forest cover. The immediate land was

hilly, covered with rich green turf. Exotic birds fluttered in the branches of

the trees. No path was visible, but the unicorn picked out an easy passage

unerringly.

"Are you-art thou able to play music on that horn?" Clef inquired facetiously,

feeling a need to assert himself verbally if not physically.

For answer, Neysa played a merry little tune, as if on a well-handled

harmonica. Clef, amazed, fell silent. He would have to watch what he said in

this fantastic frame; more things were literal than he was inclined to

believe.

The pace became swift, as Neysa moved up to her limit. Clef had always liked

to walk, so was in no discomfort, but wondered just how far they were going.

In Proton, with the limitation of the domes, it was never necessary to walk

far before encountering mass transportation. Obviously there was no such limit

here.

The animal perked up her small ears, listening for some- thing. Clef knew that

horses had good hearing, and presumed unicorns were the same. It occurred to

him that a world of magic could have magical dangers and he had no notion how

to cope with that sort of thing. Presumably this equine would protect him in

much the way Stile's distaff robot protected him in Proton; still, Clef felt

nervous.

Then, abruptly, the unicorn became a petite young woman, wearing a simple

black dress and white slippers. She was small, even smaller than Stile, with

lustrous black hair that reminded him of the mane or tail of-

Of course! This was, after all, the same creature, in a different shape. She

even had a snub-horn in her forehead, and her shoes somehow resembled hooves,

for their slipper tops tied into thick, sturdy soles.

"Stile is getting married," Neysa said. There was the suggestion of harmonica

music in her voice. "I must go there. I will summon a werewolf to guide thee."

"A werewolf!" Clef exclaimed, horrified.

But the girl was a unicorn again. She blew a loud blast on her horn.

Faintly, there was an answering baying. Now Neysa played a brief harmonica

tune. There was a responding yip, much closer. She changed back into the girl.

Clef tried to ascertain how she did that, but it was too quick; she seemed

simply to phase from one form to the other with no intermediate steps. Perhaps

that was why this frame was called Phaze-people phased from one form to

another, or from nudity to attire, or from place to place.

"A bitch is coming," Neysa said, startling Clef again; he had not expected

such a term from so pert a miss. "Farewell." She changed into a firefly,

flashed once, and zoomed away to the north. There seemed to be no conservation

of mass here.

A dark shape charged toward him, low and furry, gleaming-eyed and toothed.

Clef clutched the Platinum Flute-and suddenly it was a fine rapier. "Will

wonders never cease!" he exclaimed. This was a weapon with which he was

proficient. He stood awaiting the onslaught of the wolf with enhanced

confidence, though he was by no means comfortable. He did not relish the idea

of bloodshed, even in self-defense.

But the creature drew up short and metamorphosed into a woman. This one was

older; in fact, she looked grandmotherly.

Clef was catching on to the system. "You-thou art the werewolf the unicorn

summoned?"

"Aye. I am the were-bitch available, man-creature. I have seen weddings now;

since my old wolf died I care not overmuch to see more. I will guide and guard

thee to the Elven Demesnes. Put thou that blade away."

"It is not a blade; it is a rapier," Clef said somewhat primly. But now it was

neither; it was the Flute again. "Neysa told you all that in one brief

melody?"

"Aye. She was ever economical of speech. What is thy name, man?" the bitch

inquired as she walked east.

"Clef, from the frame of Proton. And thine?"

"Serrilryan, of Kurrelgyre's Pack. We range mostly southeast of the Blue

Demesnes, up to the Purple Mountains. Good hunting here."

"No doubt," Clef agreed dryly.

"If thou art walking all the way to the Platinum Demesnes, thou wilt have to

step faster. Clef-man. We have forty miles to go."

"My legs are already tiring, Serrilryan."

"We can help that. Take thou a sniff of this." She held out a little bag of

something.

Clef sniffed. The bag emitted a pungent aroma. "What is this?"

"Wolfsbane. For strength."

"Superstition," he muttered.

"Have ye noted how fast thy walk is now?"

Clef noticed, with surprise. "I'm almost running, but I don't feel winded at

all!"

"Superstition," she said complacently.

Whatever it was, it enabled him to cover distance with wolflike endurance.

Serrilryan shifted back to canine form to pace him.

Still, they were only partway there as night came on. The bitch became the

woman again. "Do thou make a fire, Clef-man. I will hunt supper."

"But-" But she was already back to bitch-form and gone.

Clef gathered what dry wood he could find, along with bits of old moss and

straw. He formed a neat tepee, but had no idea how to ignite it. Presumably

the denizens of this frame could make fire with simple spells, or perhaps they

borrowed fire-breathing dragons. Such resources were not available to him.

Then he had a notion. The Platinum Flute had become a rapier when he wanted a

weapon; could it also become a. fire maker?

He held it near the tepee. It had formed into a clublike rod. From the tip a

fat spark jumped, igniting the mass. He had discovered how to use this thing!

He was almost getting to like magic.

When the bitch returned with a freshly slain rabbit, the fire was ready. "Good

enough," she said gruffly. She roasted the rabbit on a spit.

This type of meal was foreign to Clef, but he managed to get through it. Stile

had warned him there would be privations. But he was ready to suffer anything

to obtain legitimate possession of the Platinum Flute, the most remarkable

instrument he could imagine. Only the Little Folk could grant that; it was

their Flute.

Serrilryan showed him where there was a streamlet of fresh water, so that he

could drink and wash. Out of deference to his human sensitivity, she refrained

from lapping her own drink until he was sated.

Now all he had to worry about was the night. He really wasn't equipped to

sleep in the wilderness. "Serrilryan, I realize that for your kind this is no

problem, but I am not accustomed to sleeping outside. I am concerned about

bugs and things." Though in fact no bugs had bothered him here; perhaps the

reek of the wolfsbane kept them away. "Is there any domicile available?"

"Aye," she said. She brought out a small object. Apparently she could carry

clothing and objects on her person even in wolf form, though none of it showed

then.

Clef looked at the thing. It appeared to be a tiny doll's house. "I'm afraid I

don't quite follow."

"It is an amulet," she explained. "Invoke it."

"Invoke it?" he asked blankly.

She nodded. "Set it down first, man."

He set it on the ground. "Uh, I invoke thee."

The amulet expanded. Clef stepped back, alarmed. The thing continued to grow.

Soon it was the size of a doghouse, then a playhouse. Finally it stood

complete: a small, neat, thatch-roofed log cabin.

"Well, I never!" Clef exclaimed. "A magic house!"

Serrilryan opened the door and entered. Clef followed, bemused. Inside was a

wooden table with two chairs and a bed with a down quilt. Clef contemplated

this with a certain misgiving, realizing that there were two of them and only

one sleeping place. "Um-"

She phased back to canine form and curled herself up comfortably on the floor

at the foot of the bed. That solved the problem. She needed no human props and

would be there if anything sought to intrude during the night. Clef was

getting to appreciate werewolves.

He accepted the bed gratefully, stripped away his ungainly clothing, lay down,

and was soon asleep.

Stile's consciousness returned as Clefs faded. Sheen was still stroking his

hair, as tireless as a machine. "I never realized he would have so much

trouble," Stile murmured. He told her of his dream. "I'm used to Phaze now,

but it was quite an adjustment at first. I forgot all about Clef, and I

shouldn't have."

"Go back to sleep," she told him.

"That amulet-that would have been fashioned by the Red Adept. She's gone now,

because of me. I really should see about finding a new Adept to make amulets;

they are too useful to be allowed to disappear."

"I'm sure you will," Sheen said soothingly.

"Phaze needs amulets."

She picked up his head and hugged it against her bosom, smotheringly. "Stile,

if you don't go to sleep voluntarily-"

He laughed. "You're a bitch."

"A female werewolf," she agreed. "We do take good care of wayward men."

They did indeed. Stile drifted back to his dream.

Next morning Serrilryan brought some excellent fruit she had foraged. They ate

and prepared to resume the march. "This cabin-can it be compressed back into

its token?" Clef asked.

"Nay. A spell functions but once," she said. "Leave it; others may use it

after us, or the Blue Adept may dismantle it with a spell. Most likely the

Little Folk will carry it to their mountain demesnes."

'Yes, of course it shouldn't be wasted," Clef agreed.

They walked. His legs were stiff from the prior day's swift walk. The

wolfsbane had worn off, and Serrilryan did not offer more. It was dangerous to

overuse such magic, she said. So they progressed slowly east, through forest

and field, over hills and through deep gullies, around boulders and huge dense

bushes. The rugged beauty of the natural landscape was such that it distracted

him from his discomfort. What a special land this was! In the course of the

day he heard something to the east. Serrilryan's wolf ears perked. Then he

observed a column of thick, colored smoke rising from the sky. There had been

a bad explosion and foe somewhere.

'That is Blue fighting Red," the bitch said knowingly. "She killed him; now he

is killing her."

"I realize this is a frame of magic," Clef said. "Even so, that does not seem

to make an extraordinary amount of sense."

"Adept fighting Adept is bad business," she agreed.

"How could they take turns killing each other?"

"There are two selves of many people, one in each frame," she explained. "One

self cannot meet the other. But when one dies, there is a vacuum and the other

can cross the curtain. Blue now avenges the murder of his other self."

"Oh, I see," Clef said uncertainly. "And must I avenge the murderer of mine

other self?"

"Mayhap. Where wast thou whelped?"

"On another planet," Clef said, surprised. "I signed for Proton serf tenure as

a young man-"

"Then thy roots are not here. Thou hast no other self here, so art not barred

from crossing."

"Oh. Fortunate for me, I suppose. Dost thou also have another self in Proton?"

"Nay. But if I crossed, I would be but a cur, unable to were-change. And the

hunting is not good there."

Clef had to laugh agreement. "All too true! Proton, beyond the force-field

domes, is a desert. Nothing but pollution."

"Aye," she agreed, wrinkling her nose. "When men overrun a planet, they

destroy it."

"Yet Stile-the Blue Adept-he is also a serf in Proton, like me."

"He was whelped on Proton. His root is here."

Clef watched the dissipating grotesqueries of the cloud of smoke. "I'm glad

I'm not his enemy!" He resumed slogging forward. At this rate he would be

lucky to travel ten miles by dusk.

Actually, he realized, it might be just as well to take several days before

reaching the Little Folk. There was a tremendous amount to learn about Phaze,

and this slow trek was an excellent introduction. When he finally did arrive,

he would have a much better comprehension of the frame, and know how to deport

himself. With all the pitfalls of magic, he needed that experience.

The were-bitch paced him uncomplainingly. She shifted from form to form at

need, conversing when he wished, scouting when there was anything suspicious

in the vicinity. Finally he asked her: "Is this not an imposition, Serrilryan,

for thee, shepherding a novice while thy Pack is active elsewhere?"

"I am oath-friend to Neysa the unicorn," she replied. "For her would I

shepherd a snow-demon halfway to Hell."

"Halfway?"

"At that point, the demon would melt." She smiled tolerantly. "Besides which,

this is easy duty for an old bitch. I am sure the Blue Adept has excellent

reasons to convey thee to the Mound Demesnes." She considered. "If I may

inquire-?"

"I am to play the Platinum Flute for the Mound Folk, to enable them to

ascertain whether I am the one they call the Foreordained. That is all I

know-except that my life will have little purpose if I can not keep this

ultimate instrument."

"The Foreordained!" she exclaimed. "Then is the end of Phaze near!"

"Why? I consider it to be a pretentious, perhaps nonsensical title, to say the

least, and of course there is no certainty that I am the one they seek. I am

merely a fine musician and a rather good fencer. What have I to do with the

fate of a land of magic?"

"That is all I know," she admitted. "Be not affronted, Clef-man, if I hope

thou art not he."

"I take no affront from thee, bitch." He had long since realized that the term

he had considered to be uncomplimentary was the opposite here.

"Thou dost play the flute well?"

"Very well."

"Better than Blue?"

"Aye. But I decline to play this particular instrument in the frame of Phaze

until I meet the Mound Folk. It is said the mountain may tremble if-"

"Aye, wait," she agreed. "No fool's errand, this."

"Dost thou like music, Serrilryan?"

"Some. Baying, belike, at full moon."

"Baying is not my specialty. I could whistle, though."

"That is music?" she asked, amused.

"It can be, properly executed. There are many types of whistles.

Hand-whistling can resemble a woodwind."

"Aye, with magic."

"No magic, bitch. Like this." He rubbed his hands together, convoluted his

long fingers into the appropriate configuration, and blew. A fine, dear pipe

note emerged. He adjusted his fingers as if tuning the instrument and blew

again, making a different pitch. Then he essayed a minor melody.

The sound was beautiful. Clef had not exaggerated when he claimed to play

well; he was probably the finest and most versatile musician on the planet.

His crude hands produced prettier music than that of most other people using

fine instruments.

Serrilryan listened, entranced, phasing back and forth between her forms to

appreciate it in each. "That is not magic?" she asked dubiously when he

paused.

"I know no magic. This is straight physical dexterity."

"Never have I heard the like!" she exclaimed. "The Blue Adept played the Flute

at the Unolympics, and me thought that was the most perfect melody ever made.

Now I think thou mightest eclipse it, as thou sayest. Canst thou do real

whistling too?"

Clef smiled at her naivete. He pursed his lips and whistled a few bars of

classical music eloquently. She was delighted.

So they continued, and in the evening he serenaded her with a whistle concert.

Squirrels and sparrows appeared in nearby trees, listening raptly. Clef had

discovered how to relate to the wild creatures of this lovely wilderness

world.

This night the werebitch had located a serviceable cave to sleep in. They

piled straw and fern for a bed, and she curled up by the entrance. It was a

good night. He was getting to like Phaze.

Stile woke again. "Time to go for the Game," he mumbled.

"Not yet. Sleep," Sheen said. She was a machine, indefatigable; she could sit

up and hold him indefinitely and was ready to do so. She was his best and

perhaps his only personal friend in this frame. She had saved his life on

several occasions. He trusted her. He slept.

The third day Clef found his muscles acclimatizing, and he traveled better.

But the world of Phaze seemed restless. There was the sound of horse or

unicorn hooves pounding to the east, and a lone wolf passed nearby. "What's

going on?"

"The Red Adept has sprung a trap on the Blue Adept," Serrilryan said, having

somehow picked up this news from the pattern of baying and the musical notes

of the distant unicorns. "He is badly injured but can not cross the curtain

for magic healing, for that a basilisk has hold of him. It is very bad."

Indeed, she was worried and, when she returned to bitch-form, her hackles were

ruffled. Clef, too, was concerned; he had known Stile only a few hours before

their parting, but liked him well and wished him well. There seemed to be

nothing he could do, however.

But later the situation eased. "They have saved him," Serrilryan reported. "He

is weak, but survives."

Clef's own tension abated. "I am exceedingly glad to hear that. He lent me the

Platinum Flute, and for this marvelous instrument I would lay down my life. It

was the sight of it that brought me here, though I am wary of the office it

portends."

"Aye."

In the afternoon they heard a sudden clamor. Something was fluttering,

squawking, and screeching. The sounds were hideous, in sharp contrast to the

pleasure of the terrain.

Serrilryan's canine lip curled. Quickly she shifted to human form. "Beast

birds! Needs must we hide."

But it was not to be. The creatures had winded them, and the pursuit was on.

"Let not their filthy paws touch thee," the werebitch warned. "The scratches

will fester into gangrene." She changed back to canine form and stood guarding

him, teeth bared.

The horde burst upon them. They seemed to be large birds-but their faces were

those of ferocious women. Clef's platinum rapier was in his hand, but he

hesitated to use it against these part-human creatures. Harpies-that was what

they were.

They gave him little opportunity to consider. Three of them flew at his head,

discolored talons extended. "Kill! Kill!" they screamed. The smell was

appalling.

Serrilryan leaped, her teeth catching the grimy underbelly of one bird. Greasy

feathers fell out as the creature emitted a shriek of amazing ugliness.

Immediately the other two pounced on the wolf, and two more swooped down from

above.

Clef's misgivings were abruptly submerged by the need to act. There seemed to

be no chance to reason or warn; he simply had to fight.

Clef was aware that the werewolf had taken his remark about his skill at

fencing to be vanity, for he was hardly the warrior type. However, he had

spoken the truth. The rapier danced before him. In seven seconds he skewered

four harpies, while Serrilryan dropped the fifth, dead.

The remaining beast birds now developed some crude caution. They flapped and

bustled, screeching epithets, but did not charge again. Their eyes were on the

gleaming platinum weapon; they had suddenly learned respect.

Clef took a step toward them, and the foul creatures scattered, hurling back

one-syllable words fully as filthy as their feathers. This threat had been

abated.

"Thou art quite a hand with that instrument," Serrilryan remarked

appreciatively. "Never saw I a sword stab so swiftly."

"I never used a rapier in anger before," Clef said, feeling weak and revolted

now that the brief action was over. "But those horrible creatures-"

"Thou didst withhold thy strike until they clustered on me."

"Well, I couldn't let them-those claws-"

"Aye," she said, and went canine again.

But there was something wrong. She had tried to conceal it, but his reaction

to this combat had made him more perceptive to physical condition. "Wait-thou

hast been scratched!" Clef said. "Thy shoulder's bleeding!"

"Wounds are nothing to wolves," she said, phasing back. But it showed on her

dame-form too, the blood now staining her shawl. "How much less, a mere

scratch."

"But thou didst say-"

"Doubtless I exaggerated. Bleeding cleans it." She changed back again and ran

ahead, terminating the dialogue.

Clef realized that she did not want sympathy for her injury, at least not from

the likes of him. Probably it was unwolflike to acknowledge discomfort. Yet

she had warned him about the poisonous nature of harpy scratches. He hoped

nothing evil came of this.

That night they camped in a tree. Clef was now more accustomed to roughing it,

and this was a hugely spreading yellow birch whose central nexus was almost

like a house. Serrilryan curled up in bitch-form, and he curled up beside her,

satisfied with the body warmth she radiated. The papery bark of the tree was

slightly soft. and he was able to form a pillow of his bent arm. Yes, he was

coming to like this life.

"This frame is just a little like Heaven," he remarked as sleep drew nigh. "My

frame of Proton is more like Hell, outside the domes, where nothing grows."

"Mayhap it is Proton-frame I am destined for," she said, shifting just far

enough to dame-form to speak, not bothering to uncurl.

"Proton? Dost thou plan to cross the curtain, despite thy loss of magic

there?"

She growl-chuckled ruefully. "Figuratively, man-person. When I die, it will be

the real Hell I will see."

"Hell? Thee? Surely thou wilt go to Heaven!" Clef did not believe in either

region, but neither did he believe in magic.

"Surely would I wish to go to Heaven! There, belike, the Glory Hounds run

free. But that is not the destiny of the likes of me. Many evils have I seen

since I was a pup." She shifted back to canine and slept.

Clef thought about that, disturbed. He did not believe this was an immediate

issue, but feared that she did. He was bothered by her growing morbidity and

her low estimate of self-worth. She might have seen evil, but that did not

make her evil herself; sometimes evil was impossible to escape. It had been

that way with the harpies. Yet what could he do to ease her depression?

Troubled, he slept.

"Strange dream," Stile said. "Every time he sleeps, I wake. But I'm dreaming

Piers Anthony - Adept 03 - Juxtaposition

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