Songs of the Dying Earth

In the dull catalogue of common things.

Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,

Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,

Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine—

Unweave a rainbow”

“That is astounding,” whispered Derwe Coreme. “Who wrote it? Where did you find it?”

“No one knows who wrote it,” said Shrue, pulling her closer and whispering against her cheek. “I was thinking a moment ago that this waltz is half as old as time…well, that verse, the name of its author lost to us, is as old as time. And older than all our memories — save my mother’s, who used to put me to sleep with ancient poetry.”

Derwe Coreme pulled back suddenly to study Shrue’s face. “You? Shrue the diabolist? With a mother? It is hard to imagine.”

Shrue sighed.

Suddenly Arch-Docent Hu cut in — not to dance with Derwe Coreme, but to talk excitedly to Shrue. “Did I hear you just say something about gnome mines? I am doing my thesis on gnomes in gloam-mines, you know!”

Shrue nodded, took Derwe Coreme’s hand, and said, “Fascinating. But I fear the lady and I must turn in now. I shall talk to you about gnome mines another time — perhaps over chess tomorrow.”

Arch-Docent Hu, appearing somewhat less professorial than usual with his bare chest, red cumberbund, silver pantaloons, and gold slippers, looked crestfallen.

As they went up the grand stairway out of the ballroom, Derwe Coreme whispered, “My leaving will ruin the rainbow.”

Shrue laughed. “Five of your other six colors left with gentlemen hours ago.”

“Well,” said the war maven, “I cannot say that I am leaving with a gentleman.”

Shrue glanced at her sharply. Although his expression had not changed, he was amazed to find that his feelings were deeply hurt.

As if sensing this, Derwe Coreme squeezed his hand. “I am leaving with the gentleman,” she said softly. “Of this voyage. Of all the males I’ve known in my not-insignificant lifetime. Perhaps in all of the Dying Earth. A gentleman and a magician — not a common combination, that.”

Shrue did not argue. He said nothing as they went up to their stateroom.

Two days later the Steresa’s Dream crossed the western coastline of another continent just after dawn. Ulfänt Banderz’s nose shifted at least ten degrees northeast in its little box and the sky galleon altered its course to follow.

“Captain,” Shrue said as he stood on the otherwise empty quarterdeck near Shiolko at the great wheel, “I noticed the gunports along the hull…”

Shiolko rumbled his sailor’s laugh. “Paint only, Master magus. Paint only. For appearance sake come sky pirates or angry husbands after a port call.”

“Then you have no weapons?”

“Three crossbows and my grandfather’s cutlass in the weapons’ locker,” said Shiolko. “Oh, and the harpoon gun down in the for’ard hold.”

“Harpoon gun?”

“A great awkward thing that runs off compressed air,” said the captain. “Fires an eight-foot long barbed bolt of a harpoon trailing a mile or three of thin steel cable. Originally meant to hunt whales or baby Lanternmouths or some such. My sons and I have never had reason nor opportunity to use it.”

“You might want to bring it up on deck and see if it works,” said Shrue. “Practice with it a bit.”

Late that afternoon, the galleon crossed an expanse of ochre and vermillion desert glinting with crystals. The Steresa’s Dream was flying low enough that everyone could see the huge, blue creatures — rather like soft-shelled chambered nautiluses, Shrue thought from where he watched from the railing — which had evolved a single great wheel by which they rolled singularly and in groups across the red desert floor, leaving tracks ten leagues long.

“We could practice on one of them!” called one of Shiolko’s sons to Shrue. He and two others had assembled and hooked up the air-harpoon gun nearby on the deck but had yet to fire one of the barbed harpoons.

“I wouldn’t,” said Shrue.

“Why not?” asked the goodnatured young man.

Shrue pointed. “Those tracks the blue-wheelers are leaving in the sand? They’re ancient glyphs. The creatures are wishing us fair winds and a pleasant voyage.”

As they passed beyond the desert, Derwe Coreme joined him at the rail. “Shrue, tell me the truth. You never had any plans to flee the Dying Earth when its last days came, did you?”

“No,” said Shrue. He showed a quick, uncharacteristic grin. “It’s all just too damned interesting to miss, isn’t it?”

Early the next morning they had entered a higher, sharper range of mountains than any of them had ever seen before — the peaks were high enough that real snow remained on the summits — when suddenly the low clouds ahead parted and the Steresa’s Dream was floating above tall, thin metal-and-glass towers that were lit from within by something brighter than lanterns.

A dozen ancient air cars flew into the air like hornets from those towers and swept toward the galleon.