Death interrupted. “That last is correct, as far as it goes—although ‘creation’ is typical human arrogance. ‘Access’ might be a more correct term. But, continue, Jay.”
“Reese said that Bansa’s hobby was magic—stage magic—tricks with mirrors, sleight of hand, misdirection, and escape. He was less appreciated in his day than Harry Houdini had been in his own era, but Reese was of the opinion that this was no reflection on Bansa’s talent. Rather, the modern age had become so jaded from tricks of virtual reality (even in its comparatively primitive pre-Virtu state), mass communication, and the like that it had lost its taste for—and ability to believe in—miracles.”
With a noise like a mirror cracking, Death laughed.
“Remember that last—about the question of belief, Jay. It touches on something that I wish to discuss later. Now, finish what you know of Bansa.”
“As you said, sir, he announced a great magic trick, jumped from a plane in Verite wrapped in ropes and chains as if he was going to perform an elaborate escape. As far as anyone knows, he never reached the ground. He simply vanished. They searched for his body, rewards were offered, but Warren Bansa had vanished. People still argue whether this vanishing was his greatest trick, or whether he intended something else. As far as I have been able to learn, no one knows.”
Jay raised his goblet of palm wine and took a tiny sip to signal that he had completed his narration. Inwardly, he was pleased with himself. Death, however, said nothing by way of praise. His response, indeed, was condemnatory.
“Had your father permitted you to be educated here as I had intended, you would know the answer to the riddle of Warren Bansa. It is integral to my purpose for you. No matter. Do you know anything of the Great Flux and the gods on Meru?”
“Alioth occasionally tells a tale. Otherwise, no, sir, I do not.”
“Honest, at least. Very well. I shall continue. Tell that device you wear to record, as I do not care to repeat this again.”
Jay raised his eyebrows at this reference to his concealed paternal aion—he had not realized that Death would know anything about its capacities. Almost as soon as he considered this, he gave himself a mental kick. Mizar had been with him on the day that the bracelet “awoke.” Dubhe had also seen it in action. One or the other could have easily reported to their master.
“Bracelet, record,” he said, and an orange light flashed on in acknowledgment.
If Death smiled at this refusal of the aion to confirm the presence of John D’Arcy Donnerjack in any form, none could tell. “Warren Bansa did indeed intend something more elaborate even than his complete vanishing from the face of Verite. His plan was to demonstrate in this showy fashion a development that most people—even today—would scoff at as impossible. He intended to cross over from Verite into Virtu without the use of cumbersome transfer couches—and with his body.”
Jay gasped, his emotion a mixture of surprise and—oddly—jealously. For so long, he had believed his ability unique that learning someone else had attempted it so long ago left him feeling momentarily diminished.
“And did Bansa succeed?” he asked.
“He did and he did not,” Death replied cryptically. “His device operated successfully in that it carried him across the interface, but it was not completely successful in that the crossover killed him. As he died within Virtu, effectively as a creature of Virtu, there were several side effects. One—which you no doubt surmised—is that he passed into my keeping. This is true, but only to a point.
“What Warren Bansa did not realize—what few accept, even today— is that Virtuan cosmology is far more complex than any but perhaps those on highest Meru and myself,” (this last with a bone-dry chuckle), “can know. The eldest of the genü loci arrogantly refer to Virtu as the first universe—Verite as the upstart second. Some do not even believe in Verite except as a suburb of Virtu. The Church of Elish has been preaching something in a similar vein.
“However, what Warren Bansa did not know, what he perhaps could not know, is that within Virtu his role in instigating the Genesis Scramble turned him into a creature within our mythology.”
“Do you mean he is a god?”
“A god? No, not precisely. More like one of those not quite mortal, not quite deified figures that feature in Native American mythologies.”
“A trickster?” This from Tranto.
“Somewhat, but also a divine hero. Let us suffice to say that when Warren Bansa died in the crossover, something of his essence was seized by the mythology that had been generated around his person. He died, but apotheosis took over and he became the Piper, the Master, the One Who Waits. There, we will leave him, because he ceases to be important to me.”
Jay bit back questions, knowing without a doubt that the answers would involve more dry comments about his lack of proper education.
“My interest is in events that occurred shortly before your conception, Jay. I was tending to my realm when Alioth brought me word that two intruders had come to Deep Fields. Now, before John D’Arcy Donnerjack made Deep Fields a regular spot on the tourist routes, none came here other than in the usual way.”
J
Death paused. Dubhe leaned down from his perch on Tranto’s head and whispered:
“That’s a joke, Jay.”
Jay smiled, essayed to laugh. Death did laugh, a wheezing sound, somewhat resembling a broken bellows.
“Your father also had difficulty believing that I could joke,” he said. “Strange.”
“Not really,” Jay replied. “We don’t find death a laughing matter since it takes from us the people and things we love. It is hard to envision Death as laughing in other than a somewhat wicked fashion.”
“Fair enough and, again, soft-spoken. Very well, Jay, I shall endeavor not to joke, but only to tell my tale.
“Alioth led me to the northern reaches of Deep Fields where we saw two humanlike figures—one male, one female—searching through my heaps of decaying matter. They had placed some items in a sack. Before I could reach them, they effected their escape with whatever it was that they had stolen.”
“Who were they?” Jay asked.
“I have my suspicions, and part of the task I intend for you is to confirm them for me. At that time, I created Mizar and set him on the trail of the thieves.”
Mizar raised his head and whined faintly.
“I do… not remember.”
“No, Mizar, you do not,” Death said, leaning forward from his rattan throne to stroke the dog on the patch of orange shag carpet between his ears. “What I conjecture is that you were far more successful in your tracking than even I had hoped you would be, that you caught up to the thieves, and seeing that you could not capture them, you howled for me as I had taught you before they attacked you.
“I followed your call to the base of Mount Meru, the primal mountain where the gods dwell. You were nowhere to be found—the only certainty I had that you had indeed been there was a piece of cable that had served as one of your tails lying near the mountain’s base.
“Over time, I searched for you, my dog, and when I found you any memory you had of those events had been blasted away. I repaired you as best I could and set you to guide and guard Jay. But I stray from the main of my story.”
Jay cleared his throat. “That’s all right, sir. I’d always wondered what happened to Mizar and where he came from.”