Songs of the Dying Earth

When the Myrmazon leader looked sharply at him, Shrue explained. “Things have been out of balance on our dear Dying Earth for far too long,” he said softly. “Millions of years ago, the imbalance benefited political tyrants or merchants or the purveyors of the earliest form of real magic called science. For a long time now, wealth and power have been preserved for those willing to isolate themselves from real humanity for long enough to become a true sorcerer. For too long now, perhaps, those of us who are — let us say — least human in how we spend our time and with whom we associate, have owned too much of the world’s literature and fine food and art and wealth. Perhaps the Dying Earth has enough years and centuries left to it that we can move into another, healthier, phase before the end.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked the war maven with a smile. “Peasants of the world, unite?”

Shrue shook his head and smiled ruefully, embarrassed by his speech.

“But no matter what comes, you want to wait and see it all,” said Derwe Coreme. “Everything. Including the end.”

“Of course,” said Shrue the diabolist. “Don’t you?”

There came several weeks as the galleon and people were being repaired when life was easy and merry — even self-indulgent — and then, too suddenly (as all such departing times always seem to be) it was over and time for everyone to go. Ulfänt Banderz announced that he had to go visit himself — his dead stone other self — at the First Library and to repair that oversight of death.

“How can you do that?” asked Derwe Coreme. “When you need the stone nose and there was only one of those and Shrue here used it on you already?”

The old Librarian smiled distractedly. “I’ll think of something along the way,” he said. He gave Derwe Coreme a hug — an overlong and far too enthusiastic hug, to Shrue’s way of thinking — and then she handed the Librarian the half-full tube of epoxy and he winked out of existence.

“I’m not sure,” mused Shrue, stroking his long chin, “how instantaneous travel allows one to figure anything out along the way.”

“Is that how you’re going home?” asked Derwe Coreme. “Instantaneous travel?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Shrue said brusquely.

Captain Shiolko and his passengers had voted and had decided — not quite unanimously, but overwhelmingly — that they would return home the long way, continuing to travel east around the Dying Earth.

“Think of it,” called down Captain Shiolko as the gangplank was being drawn up. “Steresa’s Dream may be the first sky galleon of the modern era to circumnavigate the globe — if globe it really is. My dear wife Steresa would have been so proud of the boys and me. We might be back at Mothmane Junction in a month — or two or three months — or perhaps four — six at the most.”

Or you might all be eaten by a dragon larger than the one I conjured, thought Shrue. Aloud, he shouted his wishes for a safe and happy voyage.

Then there were only the eight of them, nine of them counting KirdriK, and before Shrue could say farewell to the Myrmazons, the daihak cleared his throat — a sound only slightly softer than a major boulder avalanche — and said, “Master Magus, binder, foul human scum, I humbly ask that I might stay.”

“What?” said Shrue. For the first time in a very, very long time, he was truly and totally nonplussed. “What are you talking about? Stay where? You can’t stay anywhere. You’re bound.”

“Yes, Master,” rumbled KirdriK. The daihak’s hands were clenching and unclenching, but more as if he were running the brim of an invisible hat through them than as if he were rehearsing a strangulation. “But Master Ulfänt Banderz has asked me to stay and be his apprentice here at the Library, and if you would release me — or loan me to him, at least temporarily — I would like to do that…Master.”

Shrue stared for a long minute and then threw his head back and laughed. “KirdriK, KirdriK…you know, do you not, that this will mean that you will be double-bound. By me and then by Ulfänt Banderz, whose binding spells are probably stronger than mine.”

“Yes,” rumbled KirdriK. The rumble had the sullen but hopeful undertones of a child’s pleading.

“Oh, for the sake of All Gods,” sputtered Shrue. “Very well then. Stay here at this Library at the east ass-end of nowhere. Shelve books…a daihak shelving books and learning basic conjuring spells. What a waste.”

“Thank you, Master Magus.”

“I’ll reclaim you in a century or less,” snapped Shrue.

“Yes, Master Magus.”