The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction, Vol. 2 Read online

  Grudgingly, he nodded. “For a day, I will trust you.” He rose. “I should find Jacques and calm him down. Somehow.” He rubbed his forehead, which was beginning to hurt, and turned to go.

  “Sir Neville,” she said as he was about to leave the room. “Do you believe civilization is something we receive, or something we construct?”

  He paused. “What?”

  “What if it were the obligation of each generation to re-invent its civilization? How would that affect the way you lived your life?”

  He shook his head, puzzled. “I don’t know,” he said, and left.

  Genevieve arranged for her almister to invite Brother Jacques to a private dinner. She and Neville ate in the kitchens. Throughout all this she maintained a coy silence, but was evidently enjoying his curiosity.

  Afterwards, they walked into the warm, deepening evening. Genevieve followed a tenuous path that led into the forest. No one was about; even the animals had fallen silent. Genevieve walked slowly, humming gently. She seemed inspired somehow, but Neville only felt nervous. “What’s going to happen?” he demanded.

  “Nothing bad,” she said. “You understand how memory systems work, do you not? One can use any striking, bizarre, beautiful, or horrid image to impress a thing into memory. We use that to remember names, accounts, prices, and so on. But there’s another use for it.

  “When your wife died, the experience of standing below her window for days was so strange and so memorable, that it completely eclipsed any other memory of her for years. You did not know that this would happen when you did that. But if you wish to change your life in any way, that is how you do it. You impress the change upon your character with the stamp of an event that’s completely outside ordinary life. That’s what ceremonies are. Like the marriage rite.”

  They ascended a winding path up the side of the hill. Rocky fissures with moss-grown sides began to appear around them. The hillside had split here like the roof of a loaf of bread in the oven; the fissures varied from knee-depth to fathomless.

  The path entered a particularly wide fissure. Neville could see more torches strung along its length, at ever-increasing depths.

  “One of our books talks about that,” said Genevieve. “It concerns the pagan mystery cults. The Duke or the Inquisition would have it destroyed, because it’s a book about designing a religion.” She nodded at his shocked expression. “It talks about how to change the direction of a man’s life by using the right ceremony at the right time. We only have a few rites in common - christening, marriage, death - because these are the passages we all share. They’re the only ceremonies we see, so we think they’re all we could have. The ancients knew you could invent a rite to fix any change in your life for all time. Yet you could have a rite specific to just one man, and meaningful only to him. That’s not such a strange idea: the king is the only one who experiences coronation, true? This book I spoke of describes how to create rites of passage for small groups, or even for individuals.”

  “But what does this have to do with your memory system, or your merchants?”

  “It has to do with alms. And civilization.” She laughed at his confused expression. “You’ll see. Tonight, it has everything to do with you.”

  The small worry Neville had endured all day began to grow. “What do you mean?”

  She paused at an archway that had been carved into the side of the fissure. “Each page in our wheel of books is a striking, memorable picture. You can use it to make sure that you never forget something. True?”

  “Yes…”

  “How much more powerful would your memory be if you could step into that page?”

  “This sounds like sorcery.”

  “Don’t you see, Neville, you did that when you stood beneath Cecile’s window. You painted a picture so vivid that now it is the only picture of Cecile that hangs in your palace of memories. What you did unknowingly we are going to undo now. By the same means.”

  She motioned for him to pass through the arch. “Come. Look at Jacques’s ‘temple.’”

  A natural grotto had been enlarged by men some time in the past, and pillars had been carved around its sides to make it resemble a temple. Faded frescoes adorned the walls. Bright torchlight wavered on one that showed a youth with a sword and a broad, billowing cape inside of which stars shone. Another wall held an image of this figure killing a bull.

  The frescoes were not the focus of the chamber. The place was built in tiers like a theatre, but instead of seats, each tier held numerous tall wooden plaques that reminded Neville uncomfortably of headstones. Many of Genevieve’s people stood among these plaques, all wearing outlandish costumes representing mythological figures.

  He looked at her with mixed suspicion and curiosity. “You will see,” she said.

  Genevieve led Neville down to the stage. When he turned to look back the entire space suddenly seemed filled with color and motion, for the plaques were colorfully painted with scenes and symbols he recognized from the wheel of books memory system.

  Indeed, the whole Book seemed to have come to life. It swayed and danced in torchlight above him. Near the stage were the bound-together man and woman, fully life-size, glittering under lamplight. Next to them was the Sun, farther back the Moon. He gaped in astonishment, and Genevieve smiled.

  “Temple rites are just a debasement of the kind of thing we’re about to do. As I’ve come to know you, Neville, I have learned what you need, and where your life is incomplete. And so I have designed a play for the Theatre that will undo the heavy lock you have set upon your own memory. Begin!”

  Two of Genevieve’s people appeared; one took on the role of a dying woman, the other her lover whom she commanded to leave for his own safety. The actors would pop up from behind one of the large cards, speak their lines, and then duck down again. It was as if the memory images themselves were speaking, the man and the woman taking on various guises as the action progressed. Though Neville knew it was play-acting, the combination of setting, drama, light, and color brought a tingle to his spine. Soon he had forgotten the artifice of it all and was simply immersed in the story. Suddenly Genevieve said, “Look at me.” He turned. She stood close to him. She was dressed as he had described Cecile to be, and in one hand she held an olive branch. “It is time for you to enter the drama, Neville,” she said. “Before the night is done, you will finally take this token that your Cecile has been offering you these many years.”

  Brother Jacques was waiting for him when Neville finally returned to their room. The inquisitor sat on the stolid chair, a candle illuminating his face from below. He said nothing as Neville came in, merely examining his face with that familiar, puzzled expression.

  Neville felt as if years had passed since he had seen Jacques. There was no way to explain it, but he was not the same man he’d been this afternoon.

  “They wrought their work on you, didn’t they?” said Jacques in a low voice.

  “It is not sorcery,” croaked Neville. He fell backwards into bed, totally drained.

  “I know it isn’t sorcery,” said Jacques.

  Neville had closed his eyes; now they opened in surprise. He had been ready for Jacques to argue, or preach. With a groan, he sat up.

  “What?”

  Jacques shrugged. “I put a suitable amount of wine into Lady Romanal’s almister and snuck away early. So I was able to witness your ceremony from the archway. Romanal posted no guards.”

  Neville felt a weight lift from his heart. “Then you know there’s no evil here. We can leave these people to their business.”

  Jacques laughed and shook his head. “You’re a wondrously naive man, Neville. Nothing has changed. We still have to call in the militia.”

  “What? Are you mad?”

  Jacques stared pensively into the middle distance. “The Inquisition is an attempt to reclaim lost souls,” he said. “How those souls are lost is not our concern. Your lady is not dealing with the devil. But the Duke is right that she is trying to rai
se people above their station. Her Theatre is too powerful. It can educate even the illiterate. And now she presumes to take over the healing of men’s souls as if she were the Church itself.”

  “But-”

  Jacques waved his hand peremptorily. “Don’t interrupt me. My brother, we are tending a very large garden. That means that sometimes we have to pull up some flowers, when they grow in the wrong place.”

  Neville was too appalled, and overwhelmed with mental and emotional exhaustion, to know what to say. He simply stared at Jacques.

  “When you have seen the things I’ve seen, you will understand,” said Jacques. “We will talk about this further tomorrow.” He leaned over and blew out the candle.

  In the morning, everything looked different. Neville felt this reawakening had happened to him before: on the day of his marriage, at his confirmation in the Order, and the first time he had traveled to a new country. But he had not felt this way in many years.

  During the night, he had given himself permission to remember the good things about Cecile. These far outweighed the bitterness of their parting, he now realized.

  The only thing that spoiled Neville’s mood was the fact that Jacques was nowhere to be found.

  He asked in the kitchens, but they had not seen him. Neville immediately went to see the lady. He arrived just as one of Genevieve’s ostlers ran in and breathlessly reported one of the estate’s horses was missing.

  Neville cursed roundly. “Jacques has taken things into his own hands. I have to go after him.”

  “When did you last see him?” Genevieve asked.

  “Late last night. That means he’s got a half-day’s head start on me. But I can catch him if I start now.”

  “What will you do if you catch him? Take him prisoner? Kill him?” Genevieve shook her head. “We don’t want a murder on our hands. Does he believe you’re a slave to Satan now?”

  “I don’t think so. He… believes I’m infatuated with you,” he said sheepishly.

  “Oh.” She half-smiled. “And that has clouded your mind?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s been known to happen to men,” she said. “But I don’t believe your mind is clouded. Quite the opposite.”

  “But what are we going to do? He’s going to bring our troops here!”

  “Can you stop them when they arrive?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t the authority. And I will be suspect, if not by him then by his superiors.”

  Genevieve sighed. “This increases the urgency of things, that’s all. I knew something like this was bound to happen eventually.”

  “Why? Because of your defying the Duke?”

  “No. Because we have chosen to accept responsibility for civilizing ourselves.” She waved to dismiss the ostler. “It’s time you began reading, Sir Neville.”

  She led him to the room that held her books, but continued on to the room’s other door. She opened it for him to see what lay beyond.

  Neville’s breath caught in amazement. The next room was stacked with books. Many were so old they resembled bales of dusty cloth.

  “This is why the Duke forbade any of our people learning to read,” said Genevieve bitterly. “Because they might read these books and rise too far above their station.”

  “The Duke is a conservative man,” said Neville. He wanted to step inside the room, but somehow felt he needed extra permission to do that. “He once told me that there were only three kinds of people: the clergy, who tend our souls; the nobility, who tend our property; and the peasantry, who tend our bellies. Hence his hostility to merchants.”

  “So you know the man. Yon didn’t tell me that.”

  Neville winced. “But I don’t understand, why didn’t the Duke confiscate this library if he knows about it and disapproves?”

  She looked down. “He tried. We refused. He was not about to send troops here, it would cost too much.”

  It was all too clear to Neville what was going on. “But if he could interest the Inquisition in the problem, he could root the library out without having to lift a finger.” He frowned. “That suggests you would have raised arms against the Duke’s men, if they’d come here.”

  “Well.” She gently closed the door. “We did, actually. He sent some bullies to take the books. And,” she added quietly, “to take me. The little matter of my marriage, you see. We turned them away at sword-point.”

  “Oh.” Neville’s heart sank. “That was a very foolish thing to do, Lady Romana!.”

  “I have lived here my whole life. I’ve never been outside this valley. These are my people. He wanted to send me away, marry me to some fat lord in Toulouse or somewhere. I would never have seen my home again.” He said nothing. “I thought you would understand,” said Genevieve, “because you once lost something that meant everything to you. Do you think because I am a woman that I feel any less than you?”

  He shook his head. “No. You’re right. I do understand.” He wished he didn’t. “The trouble is, your theatre in the hillside has given the Duke a pretext to strike back at you.”

  “We had to educate people,” she said, “any way we could. You saw - the volumes are crumbling faster than we can copy them. They are so old. Books from the Empire. Books that tell how to live a civilized life. There’s nothing this land needs more than that sort of knowledge.”

  “You mean to say that these image pages of yours… contain this library, somehow?”

  She nodded. “That is what I was afraid Jacques would learn. They are the mnemonic for it, readable to those properly trained. I should have told you before.” She sighed and sat on a bench. “I’m a fool.”

  Neville still had the page she had painted for him. He looked at it, then at her. “No one told me we were coming here as errand boys for the Duke,” he said. “I don’t think I approve. Not at all.”

  He sat down next to her. “You’ve broken no law. You certainly haven’t sinned against the church. You must come to some arrangement with the Duke regarding marriage, but we can’t help you with that. Neither should we be the ones to enforce his wishes. It’s not a church matter.” He looked again at the portrait. “I’ll not help them in this.”

  “And will you help me?” she asked. He hung his head.

  “For my soul, I will.”

  Genevieve brought him a lamp. She bade him read, and as Neville read, she laid the pages of the Wheel before him. For each written volume, she had a beaded string representing some sequence of pictures. When she laid the pictures out, he could see that the sequence of images - hanged man, star, charioteer, two or ten of staffs - could be made to remind one of the contents of the written volume.

  During the days that followed, he helped make preparations for the evacuation of the estate. In the evenings he read, laboriously at first, then with increasing speed, and as he read he made mnemonics using the pages of the Wheel. The seventy-seven pages could be made to represent any history or concept, if one knew how to use them.

  On the fourth day they awakened to the sounds of someone pounding on the door to Genevieve’s bedchamber. “Lady!” someone cried from the corridor. “They’re attacking! They’re here!”

  “How is that possible?” Neville threw off the bedcovers and reached for his boots. “It would take Jacques a week to reach the Inquisition’s camp. And one more than that for them to return.”

  Genevieve wrapped herself in a heavy brocade robe, and went to the door. “I know who it is,” she said.

  The messenger confirmed it. “The Duke’s men have encircled the valley, lady. There’s nowhere to go.”

  “How dare he! I am sovereign on my own estate.”

  “Lady.” The soldier lowered his eyes. “You are not a man.”

  “Still-”

  Neville took her shoulder gently. “It’s Jacques,” he said. “He must have been in the Duke’s pay all along. He had troops waiting outside the valley.” He buckled on his sword. “I’ll lead the defense.”

  “You will n
ot.”

  “What?” His fumbling fingers missed their beat, and the sword belt dropped to the floor.

  “Listen,” she said. Sounds of combat came from the courtyard below. “It’s too late! All we can do now is save the library.”

  “Save the - How? The books are too bulky. We could never…” Then he realized what she was saying. “No.”

  “Yes. We can’t defeat them. But you are not their enemy, Neville. You can walk free. You must take the wheel of books from this place.”

  “I won’t leave you to them!”

  “You must! It is your duty.”

  “They’ll know I was in league with you anyway,” he said, and bent to retrieve his sword.

  “No they won’t,” she said, and gestured to someone behind him.

  He had no time to avoid the blow that felled him. The last thing he heard was Cecile saying, “You have to live.”

  Neville awoke to hear the clash of weapons and screaming voices. As he tried to sit up, he wondered how much the Duke had paid Jacques for the Church’s permission to do this.

  His head was throbbing and his whole body ached. He was a mass of bruises. Apparently he had been enthusiastically beaten.

  He looked around. He had been dumped in a storage room hastily converted to look like a prison. The room had one window, and its draft carried the smell of smoke.

  He staggered over to the narrow slit and looked out. Several bodies were sprawled in the courtyard below him. Across the flagstoned square, the tower that housed Genevieve’s library was burning.

  He heard thudding footsteps outside the door, and shouts. He pounded on the wood, and after a moment a wild-eyed soldier opened it. He wore the livery of the Duke.

  He raised his sword, then saw the coat Neville wore. “You are Sir Neville Dumoutier?”

  Neville nodded dumbly.

  The man glanced around the cell. “The heretics imprisoned you?”

  Again he nodded. The guard handed Neville a dagger. “Walk warily,” he said. “There may be some in hiding.”