Someone had thoughtfully set out Jean-Pierre’s decanters of spirits and several glasses, most of which were now in use. Alastair took a clean one, poured it full of uisge, and sat down to glare at Caster Roundcap. “Now,” he said. “Your story.”
The solemn old man cleared his throat and, in a clear voice and lilting accent, began.
“Forty years ago, I met a man. His name was Theo MacAllister. An odd-looking fellow; he was bald. I asked him if it was from an accident and he said no, just a characteristic of his family. And he’d laugh as though it were a grim joke.
“He was an inventor. He made a pocket knife with a can-opener as one of the blades. Earned a fortune from it and some other devices. And he was a prophet.”
Alastair stirred. “What did he prophesy?”
“He predicted the Colonial War between Castilia and the League of Ardree, a year before the first sign of trouble. He predicted the World Crisis decades before anyone else.
“And the most interesting thing was this: He was completely immune to iron poisoning.” The old man waited for some show of surprise from the others; he saw none. That seemed to satisfy him. He nodded, patted down his pockets, and brought out a pipe and a pouch full of tobacco.
“Anyway . . . He was prone to fits of loneliness. One time when he was in his cups I helped him home. He told me where he was from. The grim world. Of course I did not believe him. I didn’t believe there was a grim world, much less that he was one of her sons. But he was able to convince me. Such conviction in his stories, such truth in his predictions.
“I began to search for other signs of grimworlders. Theo’s history gave me thoughts on what to look for. I found stories. I found living men and women, some of whom would admit to remembering the grim world. Some of them never did, but I could often see through their deceptions.” He finished packing the bowl of his pipe, struck a match, puffed until he could draw smoke to his satisfaction.
“I am a historian, an arcanologist, by trade—my father’s trade, and his mother’s before him—and made the study of the grim world my hobby. From the clues I could draw from the grimworlders I met, I developed some theories about the two worlds.”
“He’s dead,” Harris said.
Caster froze. The others did, too. The poor young man’s mind wasn’t even here. He had to be reliving the events on the hill, the death of the Acadian prince.
Harris continued, “Theo MacAllister. I remember him from the Changeling’s lists. Angus Powrie killed him years ago.”
“Oh, how sad.” Caster shook his head. “I tried to track him down a few years ago and could not. His children said he’d vanished. I knew then something very bad was in the wind.”
Alastair asked, “What theories?”
“I have little proof for any of this,” Caster said. “A little evidence and a growing conviction based on things I’ve heard.
“First, I’m certain that there is a grim world. I think she is a sister to our fair world. Perhaps they were one world once, and developed into twins in their infancy.
“Second, I believe it is possible, though rare, to move from the grim world to here. By extension, it is likely that one can go the other way. I’d never heard of it being done . . . unless Angus Powrie’s hints about Duncan Blackletter are true. I’d believe anything of Blackletter from the years I knew him.”
Alastair gave him a hard look. “You’re a friend of his?”
“Oh, no. Never that. When I knew him, he was just a quiet deviser, an old, retired student trying to reconstruct forgotten rituals, living in Novimagos. He saw my early papers on the grim world and wrote letters of praise. We corresponded, exchanged ideas . . . And then one day I heard he was dead, and learned that he deserved to be. A pity I find that the story of his death is erroneous.”
“He was famous,” Harris said. “How is it you didn’t recognize his name?”
“He went by another one,” Caster said. “He called himself Duncan MaqqRee.”
Alastair swore. “Crass of him. To go by the name of his enemy.”
Caster shrugged. “Where was I?”
“Moving from the grim world,” Alastair said.
“Ah, yes. In my youth, when I could still travel most moons of the year and keep my health, I discovered that three sites resonated with the same devisement energy given off by the men and women of the grim world. After much study I concluded that these were actually the ends of bindings between the worlds—a sort of umbilical cord.
“Using globes and devisements of my own design, I set up similar links on a much smaller scale. Two worlds, represented by the globes, united by cords that let them share health, share strength, even share events.”
Gabriela said, “Meaning that things happening on one globe might be duplicated on the other.”
“Very good.” Caster nodded approvingly. “Not an exact duplication, by any means. A dim reflection. The greater the event, the greater the likelihood that it would be reflected. I could dab a tiny bit of paint on one globe and nothing might happen to the other. But if I set a portion of one globe afire, a similar portion on the other would usually char.
“Over the years, I’ve done an immense amount of experimenting on my globes. Even today, they’re still spinning in my town house, unless that Powrie person damaged them. By arduous trial and error, and examination of the three sites I’ve mentioned, I think I’ve discovered much about the relationships of the two worlds.”
Alastair impatiently gestured for him to continue. Caster took a moment to formulate a perfect smoke ring; he puffed it up toward the ceiling. “I think these ‘umbilical cords’ determine the way things people and objects make the transition from one world to the other.
“I’ve heard enough from the men and women I’ve interviewed to suspect that the grim world ranges ahead of us in the development of science . . . and lags far behind in the sophistication, and especially acceptance, of its devisements. I believe the cords ensure this. Grimworlders told me of advanced devices they had with them when they made the transition. What do you suppose happened to them when they reached the fair world?”
Gaby spoke again. “Twisted until they’re useless.”
“You’ve seen it, then. Yes, they’re ruined. I think this is a prophylactic effect—protection for the fair world. I believe our world protects herself from scientific advances that still bear rough edges; she won’t allow the passage of anything that could do her harm. Likewise, I think the properties of devices and devisements taken hither-thither would be ruined or diminished. In one world, the old ways are manifest. In the other, the ways of cold, unfettered science dominate.
“But what does get through—the people, I mean—I believe they have a disproportionate effect on the world they’ve come to. The men and women I talked to from the grim world spoke of this world feasting on them like leeches. The fairworlders drank in and adopted their language, their manners, their ideas. I think that every grimworlder who has come here has added much to our language and store of knowledge.
“I think, in short, that the two world-sisters march together, but the grim world is the vanguard—the first to challenge the unknown, the first to suffer the beatings of change. The fair world hangs back, remains safe and strong, and grants the benefits of her health and wisdom to her sister.”
Alastair looked thoughtful. “I won’t say that this doesn’t make some sense, from what we’ve already learned. But what were the events at Adennum Complex all about?”
“Adennum is one of the three sites, of course. The other two are the Prophetess’ Stone at Omphalia in Panelassion, and at Itzamnál, navel of the Sky Lizard and Earth Lizard in Aluxia. And the ritual you saw at the top of the hill at Adennum, enabled by that portable standing-stone circle made of wood, was nothing less than an effort to cut away the cord linking the two worlds.”