Split Infinity by Piers Anthony
Stile had felt the need to humble this man. He had done it, physically. He had failed, mentally. Hulk was literally bloody but unbowed. Stile was not proving his superiority, he was proving his brutality.
Stile was sorry for Hulk. The man had tried his best in an impossible situation. Now he was on the verge of heat prostration and perhaps shock—because he would not yield or plead for reprieve. Hulk had complete courage in adversity. He was in fact a kindred soul.
Stile now felt the same sympathy for Hulk he had felt for Sheen and for Neysa: those whose lot was worse than his own. Stile could not take his victory in such manner.
“Hulk!” he cried. “I proffer a draw.”
The man barged on, not hearing.
“Draw! Draw!” Stile shouted. “We’ll try another grid! Stop before you kill yourself!”
It got through. Hulk’s body slowed to a stop. He stood there, swaying. His glazed eyes oriented on Stile. “No,” he croaked. “You have beaten me. I yield.”
Then Hulk crashed to the ground in a faint. Stile tried to catch him, to ease the shock of the fall, but was only borne to the track himself. Pinned beneath the body, he was suddenly overwhelmed by his own fatigue, that had been shoved into the background by his approach to victory. He passed out.
Stile survived. So did Hulk. It could have been a draw, since neither had completed the course, and they had fallen together. Hulk could have claimed that draw merely by remaining silent. But Hulk was an honest man. His first conscious act was to dictate his formal statement of concession.
Stile visited Hulk in the hospital, while Sheen stood nervous guard. She didn’t like hospitals. Proton medicine could do wonders, but nature had to do some of it alone. It would be several days before Hulk was up and about.
“Several hours,” Hulk said, divining his thought. “I bounce back fast.”
“You did a generous thing,” Stile said, proffering his hand.
Hulk took it, almost burying Stile’s extremity in his huge paw. “I did what was right. I worked every angle I could, but you came through. You were the better man. You won.”
Stile waved that aside. “I wanted to humble you, because you are so big. It was a bad motive. I’m sorry.”
“Someday you should try being big,” Hulk said. “To have people leery of you, staring at you, making mental pictures of gorillas as they look at you. Marveling at how stupid you must be, because everybody knows wit is in inverse proportion to mass. I wanted to prove I could match you in your specialty, pound for pound. I couldn’t.”
That did something further to Stile. The big man, seen as a freak. His life was no different from Stile’s in that respect. He just happened to be at the other extreme of freakiness: the giant instead of the dwarf. Now Stile felt compelled to do something good for this man.
“Your tenure is short,” he said. “You may not have time to reach the qualifying Rung. You will have to leave Proton soon. Are you interested in an alternative?”
“No. I do not care for the criminal life.”
“No, no! A legitimate alternative, an honorable one. There is a world, a frame—an alternate place, like Proton, but with atmosphere, trees, water. No Citizens, no serfs, just people. Some can cross over, and remain there for life.”
Hulk’s eyes lighted. “A dream world! How does a man earn a living?”
“He can forage in the wilderness, eating fruits, hunting, gathering. It is not arduous, in that sense.”
“Insufficient challenge. A man would grow soft.”
“Men do use weapons there. Some animals are monsters. There are assorted threats. I think you would find it more of a challenge than the domes of Proton, and more compatible than most planets you might emigrate to, if you could cross the curtain. I don’t know whether you can, but I think you might.”
“This is not another world in space, but another dimension? Why should I be able to cross, if others can’t?”
“Because you came here as a serf. You weren’t born here; you had no family here. So probably you don’t exist in Phaze.”
“I don’t follow that.”
“It is hard to follow, unless you see it directly. I will help you try to cross—if you want to.”
Hulk’s eyes narrowed. “You have more on your mind than just another place to live. Where’s the catch?”
“There is magic there.”
Hulk laughed. “You have suffered a delusion, little giant! I shall not go with you to that sort of realm.”
Stile nodded sadly. He had expected this response, yet had been moved to try to make it up to the man he had humbled. “At least accompany me to the curtain where I cross, to see for yourself to what extent that world is real. Or talk to my girl Sheen. Perhaps you will change your mind.”
Hulk shrugged. “I can not follow you today, but leave your girl with me. It will be a pleasure to talk with her, regardless.”
“I will return to talk with you,” Sheen told Hulk.
They shook hands again, and Stile left the room. Sheen accompanied him. “When I return to Phaze this time—” he began.
“I will tell Hulk what you know of that world,” she finished. “Be assured he will pay attention.”
“I will come back in another day to challenge for Rung Five. That will qualify me for the Tourney.”
“But you are too tired to challenge again so soon!” she protested.
“I’m too tired to face the Yellow Adept too,” he said. “But my friends must be freed. Meanwhile, we’ve already set the appointment for the Rung Five Game. I want to qualify rapidly, vindicating your judgment; nothing less will satisfy my new employer.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed weakly. “It’s logical.”
She turned over the special materials he had ordered and took him to the proper section of the curtain. “My friends had an awful time gathering this stuff,” she complained. “It really would have been easier if you had been a reasonable robot, instead of an unreasonable man.”
“You have a reasonable robot in my image,” he reminded her. “Be sure to reanimate him.”
She made a mock-strike at him. “You know a robot can’t compare to a real live man.”
Stile kissed her and passed through.
CHAPTER 16
Blue
Stile emerged, as planned, just beyond the yellow fog that de-marked the Yellow Demesnes. He could not, per his agreement and the curse Yellow had set against his return, enter that for himself—but he shouldn’t need to. He set down the cage containing the owl and donned his clothing. In the pockets were a folded null-weight wetsuit and a metalsaw: the one to protect against thrown potions, the other to sever the cage bars. He hoped Kurrelgyre or Neysa would have the common sense to saw out a bar-section and use it as a lever to break the locks of the other cages. If they didn’t, or if anything else went wrong—
Stile stifled that thought. He had to free his friends, one way or another. If he could not do it harmlessly, he would have to make arrangements to destroy the Yellow Adept—and he did not want to do that. She was not really a bad witch.
He stretched the pliant wetsuit into a cord and knotted it about the saw. He brought the owl out. “All right, owl. One service for me and you are free in this world, never again to serve man or to be caged.” This was a modified owl, of high intelligence for its kind; it understood him. “Take this and drop it in the cauldron inside the yellow house.” Stile presented the package of dry ice. “Take this and drop it in the unicorn’s cage.” He gave the bird the wetsuit-saw knot.
The owl blinked dubiously.
“Oh, you don’t know what a unicorn is? Like a horse with a horn.” The owl was reassured. “Then wing out of here—and out of there, quickly. You will be free. And if you should ever need me, let me know and I’ll help you.”
The owl took a package in each claw, spread its wings, and launched into the sky. “And don’t let any liquid touch you, there!” Stile called after it.
He watched it go, hoping for the
He was in luck. Soon he heard a scream from the witch. That would be the dry ice in the cauldron, making it bubble and steam through no agency of the Adept, interfering with the potion’s effectiveness and releasing the owl from its spell, as well as distracting Yellow. Next could come the delivery of the suit and saw. After that, with luck, hell would break loose.
He waited nervously. So many things could go wrong! Then he heard the trumpeting of Darlin’ Corey the pink elephant, and an increasing commotion among the captives. It grew into a considerable din, with bangings and crashes. Then at last shapes moved through the fog. A unicorn galloped toward Stile. It was Neysa—and she had a rider. Kurrelgyre, in man-form.
They arrived, and the werewolf dismounted. “My thanks to thee, fair mare. At such time as I may, I will return the favor.” Then he handed the sword to Stile and changed back into wolf-form.
Stile stood for a moment, assimilating this. Why hadn’t the werewolf simply run as a wolf, instead of performing the awkward, for him, feat of riding the unicorn? To carry the rapier, that he would otherwise have had to leave behind. His own clothing transformed with him, but the sword was foreign. He had wanted to return it to Stile. Why had Neysa tolerated this strange rider? Because she too had felt the need to return the sword. Yet it was no special weapon. It was the gift of her brother, belonging now to Stile—that was its only distinction. So they had both done it for him. Or so his present logic suggested. He was touched. “I thank you both. But I am chiefly glad you both are free without injury.”
Kurrelgyre made a growl, and Neysa a note of assent. Neither was talking much, it seemed. Was this because they had not liked the necessity of working so closely together—or because they had liked it? That could be a serious complication for hereditary enemies.
“The Yellow Adept—was she hurt?”
Kurrelgyre changed back to man-form. “The witch brought me forth from my cage, fathoming my disguise,” he said. “She claimed thou hadst sent her to me. And I, knowing not whether she spoke truth or lie, had to play along with her until I knew thy fate, intending to kill her if she had done thee harm. But she showed me thy prints going through the curtain, and told me how thou wouldst try to rescue us from afar, and said she would lay no traps against thee if I—”
“Yellowette is some fair witch,” Stile said.
“I have been long absent from my were-bitch,” Kurrelgyre agreed. “Yellow performs her business, as do we all. But ere she moved me, the potion wore off …” He shrugged. “So I returned to my cage, to await thine effort. I could not flee in wolf-form because her summoning potion would have brought me back, and my man-form no longer wished to slay her.”
“I believe she was willing to let thee go,” Stile said. “But to save face, she could not do it until I launched mine effort. I suspect I owe her a favor.”
“It seems some Adepts are people too,” Kurrelgyre agreed grudgingly. “No animal harmed Yellow in the escape; they merely fled in different directions, and we too came here as soon as we winded thee.” He returned to lupine form.
“Yellow told me who I am,” Stile said.
The eyes of wolf and unicorn abruptly fixed on him.
“I am the Blue Adept.” Stile paused, but neither gave any sign, positive or negative. “I know neither of you approve, but I am what I am. My alternate self was Blue. And I must know myself, as the Oracle said. I must go and set things straight at the Blue Demesnes.”
Still they waited, not giving him any encouragement.
“I have freed you both from Yellow, as I had to,” Stile continued. “I could not leave you in her clutches after both of you got there because of me. But now that I know who I am, I can not ask either of you to help. I am the one that thou, Kurrelgyre, mayst not—”
The wolf shifted back into the man. “Too late, friend. I was lost when I met thee, knowing it not. The Oracle alone knew, when it told me to ‘cultivate Blue.’ I ask no favor of thee, but I will help thee investigate thine own situation. Perchance that which slew thine other self now lurks for thee at the Blue Demesnes, and a lupine nose will sniff it out in time.”
“I thank thee, werewolf. Yet will I do no magic, so can not assist thee in thine own concern. It is a one-sided favor thou dost—” But Kurrelgyre had already reverted to wolf-form.
“And thee, Neysa,” Stile continued. “I—”
The unicorn made a musical blast of negation. She gestured marginally with her nose, indicating that he should mount. Relieved, Stile did so. He remained tired from the marathon, and it was a great comfort to be on Neysa again. Now he could relax, for a little while, recovering from that grueling run. He needed about two days off his feet, to recuperate, but the time simply wasn’t there. If he delayed his approach to the Blue Demesnes, Yellow might spread the word, and whatever lurked there would be thoroughly prepared for his arrival. He had to get there first.
Should he ask for another sniff of wolfsbane? No—that magic might not work for him as well a second time, and in any event he preferred to ride out his problems with his own strength, not leaning on magic too often.
Stile did not know where the Blue Demesnes were, but Kurrelgyre did. He led Neysa eastward at a fast clip. They moved back along the route they had come originally, through forest and field and badlands, hardly pausing for rest or food. Stile explained along the way about his need to report back to Proton on the morrow, so the two creatures were determined to get him where he was going before he had to return to Proton. Kurrelgyre did not pause to hunt, and Neysa never grazed despite Stile’s urgings.
At length they passed the place where he had tamed the unicorn: the start of that wild ride. So short and yet so long a time ago! They proceeded without pause to the castle Stile had first seen from his survey from the tall tree. Back virtually to his starting point—had he but known!
Dawn was breaking in its unmitigated splendor as they approached the castle. Stile, asleep on Neysa, had missed the pretty moonrisings and settings of the night. He squinted at the castle blearily. He had barely four hours left before his match for Rung Five in Proton—and he hadn’t even settled the situation in Phaze yet. If only Blue hadn’t been so far from Yellow—
Stile had slept, but it seemed the tensions of his mission had prevented him from unwinding properly. If the Blue Adept had really been murdered, who had done the deed? If Blue’s magic had not saved him, how could Stile survive without the aid of magic? Yet this was the way it had to be. Even if magic had been permitted him, he would not be prepared with suitable verses.
Yet he still had to check this castle out. To know, finally, exactly what his situation was. Whatever it might be, whatever it might cost him. The Oracle had told him to know himself, and he believed it was good advice.
The environs of the Blue Demesnes were surprisingly pleasant. There was no black fog or yellow fog—not even any blue fog. Just the pure blue sky, and a lovely blue lake, and fields of bluebells and blue gentians and bluegrass. To Stile’s eye this was the most pleasant of places—not at all like the lair of an Adept.
Still, he could not afford to be deceived by superficialities “I think it would be best to enter in disguise, as before,” Stile said. The animals agreed.
This time Stile donned Neysa’s socks, while Kurrelgyre assumed man-form. Then the seeming man led the two seeming unicorns up to the castle gate.
The drawbridge was down across the small moat, and the gate stood open. An armed human guard strode forward, but his hand was not near his sword. He was, of course, garbed in blue. “What can we do for thee, man?” he inquired of Kurrelgyre.
“We come to see the Blue Adept,” the werewolf said.
“Thine animals are ill?”
Surprised, Kurrelgyre improvised. “One has bad knees.”
“We see not many unicor
Stile was startled. This was the first he had heard of a Lady Blue. How could she be the Adept, if the original had been a man, and was now dead? Unless she had been his wife. This complicated the picture considerably!
“But we wish to see the Adept himself,” the werewolf protested.
“If thou’rt dying, thou seest the Adept,” the guard said firmly. “If thine animal hath bad knees, thou seest the Lady.”
Kurrelgyre yielded. He led his animals through the gate, along the broad front passage, and into the central court. This was similar to one of the courts of the palace of the Oracle, but smaller; it was dominated by a beautiful blue-blossomed jacaranda tree in the center. Beneath the tree was a deep blue pond fed by a rivulet from a fountain in the shape of a small blue whale that overhung one side. The Blue Adept evidently liked nature in all its forms, especially its blue forms. Stile found his taste similar.
There were several other animals in the yard: a lame jackrabbit, a snake with its tail squished, and a partly melted snow monster. Neysa eyed the last nervously, but the monster was not seeking any trouble with any other creature.
A maidservant entered the yard, wearing a blue print summer dress. “The Lady will be with thee soon,” she said to Kurrelgyre. “Unless thou art in immediate pain?”
“No pressing pain,” the werewolf said. He was evidently as perplexed by all this as Stile was. Where was the foul nature an Adept was supposed to have? If the Blue Adept were dead, where was the grief and ravage? They might have had to fight their way into the castle; instead it was completely open and serene.