One by one the homunculi pulled volumes from the shelves, examined them, frowned, and replaced them. And moved on, book after book, shelf after shelf, level after level. A reverse swing of his point of view revealed, across a narrow gulf, another unbounded wall supporting an equal number of books, on an equal number of shelves. The two apparently infinite walls of shelves seemed to meet and vanish in a vertical curve. Ghentun grudgingly admitted the curve was a nice touch, signifying a distortion of space—and an eternity of search.
Strings of symbolic data beyond counting—certainly for a Mender. And probably even for the Librarian himself. Every history, every tale, every sequence, every theory right and wrong, lost in vast mazes of churning, indecipherable text…
“Nothing will be beyond the scope of the Babel, combined and completed. All is there—all possibilities, all nonsense, all pride, all defeat. Truly it will be the greatest thing ever created. And the most dangerous.”
A question seemed to flame into Ghentun’s mind, even though—perhaps because—it was unanswerable:
And which would be more important to a universe—the random nonsense, or the things we think we can read and comprehend?
“I know nothing of this,” he said, eyes lidded, yet he was terrified to his very center. The Babel would be so much larger than any universe…
“No need. Recognize only that you haven’t finished your work,” the City Prince told him. “And finish it you will. Within a very few wakes, the Chaos will break through all our defenses. I acknowledge defeat. There is no choice, no reason to delay. I have transferred the city keys to the angelins in the Broken Tower, and my authority goes with them.
“I am aware that you have long hoped to follow your ancient breeds outside the border of the real. Go now, Mender. There are no longer city rules to stop you. Do what you must to get your breeds to Nataraja—if it still exists. What matter of a few wakes and sleeps? The Librarian’s plans will proceed.
“We will not meet again—in this creation.”
The Astyanax turned gray as old stone and his presence passed to another location. The extraordinary meeting was over.
An angelin escorted the silent Ghentun back to the platform and a waiting photon disc. He had been charting the intrusions long enough now to understand much of what the Astyanax had said or implied. The reality generators were weakening to such an extent that they could no longer protect any of the bions.
Ghentun knew he had to act. He had to put a humane end to this experiment—make one last attempt to fulfill the task he had been given, ages before; whatever the Eidolons wished, and however they debated the nature of the end of time.
The Keeper was only vaguely aware that he might be the last weapon in the City Prince’s arsenal.
CHAPTER 42
The Tiers
For the sake of Grayne, the Shaper joined Ghentun and did what she almost never did—she left the crèche.
They came invisibly upon the old breed in her niche and stood over her while she slept. The Shaper was obviously pleased that Grayne was still capable of dreaming, despite all interference. These breeds were strong with dream. She knelt and applied broad, smooth fingers to Grayne’s forehead, then said, “Tell us who will be best for this last march, and who will be best for a journey to the Broken Tower.”
Grayne did not need to speak to answer.
The Shaper released her, and Ghentun stepped forward. “Her chosen pair seem smart. She’s always been a good judge.”
“A breeding pair?”
“They haven’t discovered that yet.”
“Would it be wise to separate a breeding pair?” Ghentun asked rhetorically. The Shaper did not bother to acknowledge there was a question. It was not her place to render such opinions, and never would be, thank the city. She merely shaped—she did not ponder overmuch.
“They’ve searched the deserted Tiers for their books, as always,” the Shaper said. “She steered them toward those shelves that tend to repeat the tales of Sangmer and Ishanaxade. Separated lovers…”
“Can you tell what she’s dreaming?” Ghentun asked.
“Oh, I’ve known that for an age,” the Shaper said. “All the trainers share the same dream, since the first batch. She’s dreaming she’s part of a group of ancient females—in the Brightness, apparently. Details obscure, of course, but they seem to seek out talented youngsters, just as she and her sisters have done.”
The Shaper touched Grayne again and murmured, “Pity to lose her, after so many challenges. A favorite.”
Grayne twitched. Her face betrayed a secret anxiety, not in the least connected with their presence. Ghentun closed his eyes. “Then I know her,” he said.
The Shaper could not suppress allcuriosity. He looked back at Ghentun. “How? Are you dreaming as well, Keeper?”
“Retrieve the trainer’s books.”
The Shaper paused, looking down on the old breed. Then she reached for the trunk, opened the finger-lock latch, and removed all the books—five of them. They stacked easily in the Shaper’s many arms. “Let’s not wake her,” the Shaper said. “Such a loss would be exquisitely painful to her. Not that I’m sentimental.”
They backed out of the sama’s niche. A Bleak Warden entered, slow and silent. It settled to spread its folds over Grayne, and with a slight stir, before she could open her eyes, she was no more. A mercy, considering what was soon to come.
“Bring me the male,” Ghentun said.
“And the female?”
“She will march. Pick others—friends, if they have any. Complete the sama’s travel group however you can, and speed their training.”
CHAPTER 43
The sound began low and heavy—a bass hum that vibrated the walls of Tiadba’s niche. Jebrassy opened his eyes and twitched an arm, knocking one of the precious books off the sleeping pad. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Tiadba’s soft, steady breath—sweet and soothing. But the bed next to him was empty.
He sat upright, listening, and thought that the thumping might come from Tiadba moving around. Where was she?
But the sound was much too loud. It felt as if the Tiers themselves were shivering apart. He pulled on his curtus and stumbled over the scattered bedclothes to the door, which had opened halfway and seemed to have stuck. Somehow, that frightened him more than the sound, which grew even louder.
The shaking made it difficult to stay on his feet.
Over the deep rumble came another sound, no less frightening but higher-pitched—wailing and shrieking, like creatures in horrible pain.
He squeezed through the opening and fell to his knees in the corridor. His hand nearly touched a deep, greasy blackness spreading along the floor of the hall like a hole cut into the substance of the Tiers—and growing. His eyes tried to focus on what had fallen into the hole—a fleeting impression of blurs that might have been two or more breeds, trying to swim against the blackness—and then something grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around.
A huge warden nearly filled the hallway, its wings folded, strong, hard arms extended, one clutching Jebrassy, the other throwing a net, a thick cross-weave of glowing fibers that sucked itself in over the blackness and seemed, for the moment, to hold it back.
The warden pulled him away. “You are going,” it said, in a voice both passionless and irrefutable. Jebrassy was lifted from the floor and dangled like a doll. He swung his head just in time to see Tiadba squeeze past the warden’s gray carapace into the half-open door of the niche. The shriek and the roar grew, and to it Jebrassy now added his own shouts of pain—and a question: “