“This thing is my mission, not his,” he says at length.
“He will be just as dead, either way,” Vramin repeats.
“But not by my hand.”
“True. But I fail to see the distinction.”
“So do I, for that matter. But it is I who have been charged with the task.”
“Perhaps Horus has also.”
“But not by my master.”
“Why should you have a master, Wakim? Why are you not your own man?”
Wakim rubs his forehead.
“I-do not-really-know… But I must do as I am told.”
“I understand,” says Vramin, and, while Wakim is thus distracted, a tiny green spark arcs between the tip of the poet’s cane and the back of Wakim’s neck.
He slaps at his neck then and scratches it.
“What…?”
“A local insect,” says the poet. “Let us proceed to the door.”
The door opens before them, beneath the tapping of his cane, and its guards drowse before a brief green flare. Appropriating cloaks from two of them, Wakim and Vramin move on, into the center of the city.
The temple is easy enough to find. Entering it is another matter.
Here now, there are guards-drug-maddened-before the entrance.
They approach boldly and demand admission.
The eighty-eight spears of the Outer Guard are leveled at them.
“There will be no public adoration till the sundown rains,” they are told, amidst twitches.
“We shall wait.” And they do.
With the sundown rains, they join a procession of moist worshippers and enter the outer temple.
On attempting to go further they are brought to a halt by the three hundred fifty-two drug-maddened spearmen who guard the next entranceway.
“Have you the badges of inner-temple worshippers?” their captain inquires.
“Of course,” says Vramin, raising his cane.
And in the eyes of the captain they must have them for they are granted entrance.
Then, drawing near the Inner Sanctum itself, they are halted by the officer in charge of the five hundred ten drug-maddened warriors who guard the way.
“Castrated or non-castrated?” he inquires.
“Castrated, of course,” says Vramin in a lovely soprano. “Give us entrance,” and his eyes blaze greenly and the officer draws back.
Entering, they spy the altar, with its fifty guardians and its six strange priests.
“There they are, upon the altar.”
“How shall we obtain them?”
“By stealth, preferably,” says Vramin, pushing his way nearer the altar, before the televised service begins.
“What sort of stealth?”
“Perhaps we can substitute a pair of our own and wear the sacred ones out of here.”
“I’m game.”
“Then, suppose they were stolen five minutes ago?”
“I understand you,” says Wakim and bows his head, as in adoration.
The service begins.
“Hail to Thee, Shoes,” lisps the first priest, “wearer of feet…”
“Hail!” chant the other five.
“Good, kind, noble and blessed Shoes.”
“Hail!”
“… which came to us from chaos…”
“Hail!”
“… to lighten our hearts and uplift our soles.”
“Hail!”
“Oh Shoes, which have supported mankind since the dawn of civilization…”
“Hail!”
“Ultimate cavities, surrounders of feet.”
“Hail!”
“Hail! Wondrous, battered Buskins!”
“We adore thee.”
“We adore thee!”
“We worship thee in the fulness of thy Shoeness!”
“Glory!”
“Oh archetypal footgear!”
“Glory!”
“Supreme notion of Shoes.”
“Glory!”
“What could we do without thee?”
“What?”
“Stub our toes, scratch our heels, have our arches go flat.”
“Hail!”
“Protect us, thy worshipers, good and blessed Foot-gear!”
“Which came to us from chaos…”
“… on a day dark and drear…”
“… out of the void, burning-“
“… but not burnt…”
“… Thou hast come to comfort and support us…”
“Hail!”
“… upright, forthright and forward forever!”
“Forever!”
Wakim vanishes.
A cold, wild wind begins.
It is the change-wind out of time; and there is a blurring upon the altar.
Seven previously drug-maddened spearmen lie sprawled, their necks at unusual angles.
Suddenly, beside Vramin, Wakim says, “Pray, find us a gateway quickly!”
“You wear them?”
“I wear them.”
Vramin raises his cane, pauses.
“There will be a brief delay, I fear,” and his gaze grows emerald.
All eyes in the temple are suddenly upon them.
Forty-three drug-maddened spearmen shout a battle cry as one, and leap forward.
Wakim crouches and extends his hands.
“Such is the kingdom of heaven,” comments Vramin, perspiration like absinthe glittering coldly upon his brow. “I wonder how the video tapes will show this thing.”
WEFT AND WAND
“What is this place?” Horus cries out.
The Steel General stands braced, as for an anticipated shock, but there is none.
“We are come to a place that is not a world, but simply a place,” says the Prince Who Was A Thousand. “There is no ground to stand upon, nor need of it here. There is little light, but those who dwell in this place are blind so it does not matter. The temperature will suit itself to any living body, because those who dwell here wish it so. Nourishment is drawn from this air like water, through which we move, so there is no need to eat. And such is the nature of this place that one need never sleep here.”
“It sounds rather like Hell,” Horus observes.
“Nonsense,” says the Steel General. “My own existence is just so, as I carry my environment around with me. I am not discomfited.”
“Hell,” Horus repeats.
“At any rate, take my hands,” says the Prince, “and I will guide you across the darkness and amid the glowing motes of light until we reach the ones I seek.”
They link hands, the Prince furls his cloak, and they drift through the twilitic landscape that is empty of horizon.
“And where is this place that is not a world?” asks the General.
“I do not know,” says the Prince. “Perhaps it only exists in some deep and shiny corner of my dark and dirty mind. All that I really know is the way to reach it.”
Falling, drifting a timeless time, they come at last to a tent like a gray cocoon, flickering, above/below/before them.
The Prince disengages his hands and places his fingertips upon its surface. It quivers then, and an opening appears, through which he passes, a “follow me” drifting back over his shoulder.
Brotz, Purtz and Dulp sit within, doing something which would be quite disgusting and unique by human standards, but which is normal and proper for them, since they are not human and have different standards.
“Greetings, smiths of Norn,” says the Prince. “I have come to obtain that which I ordered a time ago.”
“I told you he’d come!” cries one of the grayish mounds, twitching its long, moist ears.
“I acknowledge that you were correct,” answers another.
“Yes. Where's that frawlpin? I ought to refrib it once more, before…”
“Nonsense! It’s perfect.”
“It is ready then?” inquires the Prince.
“Oh, it’s been ready for ages. Here!”
The speaker draws a length of cold blue light from a sheath of black fabric and offers it to the Prince. The Prince takes it into his hand, inspects it, nods and replaces it within the sheath.
“Very good.”
“… And the payment?”
“I have them here.” The Prince withdraws a dark case from beneath his cloak and places it in the air before him, where of course it hangs suspended. “Which of you will be first?”