Songs of the Dying Earth

court to attend the coronation after-ball.”

“I was unaware the Queen was ill.”

“The Queen was not aware of it either,” replied Paytim. “Her brother poisoned her and seized control of the Crimson Messuage. He has impertinently invited me to attend his coronation as Paeolina the Twenty-Ninth.”

“An occasion for celebration. The charm is then a gift for him?”

“Only insofar as death is that benefaction offered by envious gods to humankind. My intent is to destroy the entire lineage of Paeolina, so that I will never again be subjected to their abhorrent notions of festivity.”

“It seems excessive,” suggested Saloona.

“You have never eaten with them.”

For several minutes, they sat without talking. The prism ship hummed high above the trees, arrowing homeward. A red-dimmed fog enveloped the sky as the dying sun edged toward the horizon, and the first mal-de- mutes began to keen far below.

Finally, Saloona turned to the fire witch, her gray eyes guileless. “And you feel that this — spell — will be more provident than your own fire charms?”

“I feel nothing. I know that this is a charm of great power that relies upon some subtle manipulation of harmonics, rather than pyrotechny. In the unlikely event that there are survivors besides ourselves, or an inquest, I will not be an obvious suspect.”

“And my innocence?”

A flurry of sparks as Paytim made a dismissive gesture and pointedly looked away from Saloona. “You are a humble fungalist, awed by very mention of the Crimson Messuage and its repugnant dynasty. Your innocence is irrefutable.”

The mal-de-mutes’ wails rose to a fervid pitch as the prism ship began its long descent to Saloona’s farmstead, and the humble fungalist gazed thoughtfully into the enveloping darkness.

Paytim was understandably disgruntled over the destruction of her home, and, to Saloona’s chagrin, showed little interest in preparing breakfast the next morning, or even assisting her hostess as Saloona banged about the tiny kitchen, looking for clean or cleanish skillets and the bottle of vitrina oil she’d last used three years before.

“Your cooking skills seem to have atrophied,” Paytim observed. She sat at the small twig table, surrounded by baskets of dried fungus and a shining array of alembics, pipettes, crucibles, and the like, along with discarded circuits and motherboards for the prism ship, and a mummified mouse. Luminous letters scrolled across a panel beside the table, details and deadlines related to various charms and receipts, several of which were due to be completed the next morning. “I miss my basilisk.”

“My skills never approached your own. It seems a waste of time to improve them.” Saloona located the bottle of vitrina oil, poured a small amount into a rusty saucepan, and adjusted the heating coil. When the oil spattered, she tossed in several large handfuls of dove-like tricholomas and some fresh ramps, then poked them with a spoon. “You have yet to advise me as to how I will address the customer whose charm you ruined.”

Paytim scowled. The divining rod sat upon the table beside her, still wrapped in its Velvet Bolt of invisibility. She waved her hand above it tentatively, waited until the resulting flurry of silver sparks disappeared before replying. “That flaccid oaf? I have seen to him.”

“How?”

“An ustulating spell directed at his paramour’s bathing chamber. The squireen has been reduced to ash. The optimate’s need to retain his affection has therefore diminished.”

Saloona’s nostrils flared. “That was cruel and unwarranted,” she said, and tossed another bunch of ramps into the skillet.

“Pah. The optimate has already taken another lover. You are being uncharacteristically sentimental.”

Saloona inhaled sharply, then turned back to the stove. Paytim was correct: this was more emotion than Saloona had displayed, or felt, in decades.

The realization unnerved her. And her dismay was not assuaged by the thought that this unaccustomed flicker of sensation had manifested itself after Paytim had uttered aloud the names of the harmonic spell that was, for the moment, contained by the Velvet Bolt.

Saloona shook the saucepan with more vigor than necessary. Since that moment in the tower, she continued to hear a low, tuneless humming in her ears, so soft she might have mistaken it for the song of bees, or the night wind stirring the firs outside her bedroom window.

But it was only late afternoon. There was no wind. There were no bees, which were unnecessary to propagate mushrooms and other fungi.

Yet the noise persisted. Saloona almost imagined that the humming grew more urgent, almost minatory.

“Do you hear that?” she asked Paytim. “A sound like hornets in the eaves?”

The fire witch cast her a look of such disdain that Saloona turned back to her stove.

Too late: the ramps were scorched. Hastily she dumped everything onto a single pewter dish and set it on the twig table.

“This — charm.” Saloona pulled a stool alongside Paytim and began to eat. “Its potency seems great. I don’t understand why you have need of my feeble powers to implement it at the Crimson Messuage.”

Paytim regarded the mushrooms with distaste. “Your false modesty is unbecoming, Saloona. Also, I need your ship.” She glanced out the window to where a maroon glow marked the onset of dawn. “The Crimson Messuage is gravely suspicious of me, as you well know, but that’s never stopped them from wanting me to join their retinue as Court Incendiary. In addition, I have a torturous history with this particular Paeolina. He made disagreeable suggestions to me many years ago, and, when rebuffed, grew surly and resentful. I am certain that his invitation will lead me into a trap.”

“Why didn’t you refuse it, then?”

“It would merely have been tendered at another time. Or else he might have attempted to take me by force. I tire of their game, Saloona. I would like to end it now, and devote myself to more pleasurable activities. My basilisk.” She dabbed at a sizzling tear. “And my cooking…”

A sideways glance at Saloona became a more meaningful look directed at the blackened saucepan. Saloona swallowed a mouthful of tricholomas.

“I still don’t—”

Paytim banged her fist against the table. “You will be my Velvet Bolt! I need you to sow clouds of unknowing, of rapture, forgetfulness, desire, what-have-you — whatever you wish, whatever distractions you can conjure from this—”

She stormed across the cottage to the window, and pointed at the ranks of neatly-tended mushroom beds, flushed with the first rays of morning. “Disarm the Paeolinas and their subordinates, so that we enter the court unaccosted, and with the Black Peal intact. During the evening’s entertainment, I will enact the spell: their corrupt dynasty will fall at last!”

Saloona looked doubtful. “What is to keep us from succumbing as well?”

“That too will be your doing.” The fire witch cast a sly glance at the pharmacopoeia bag hanging at Saloona’s waist. “You possess the Ubiquitous Antidote, do you not?”

Saloona ran her fingers across the leather pouch, and felt the familiar outline of the crystal vial inside it. “I do. But very little remains of last year’s tincture, and I must wait another month before I can harvest the spores to infuse more.”

Paytim sniffed.

Saloona finished the last of the mushrooms and pushed aside her platter. The faint pricklings of emotion had not subsided when her stomach was filled. If anything, she now felt even more distressed, and ever more reluctant to commit to this hapless venture. Paytim’s must be a very powerful spell, to so quickly undo decades of restraint and self-containment. It would be dangerous if the fire witch were aware of Saloona’s sudden lability.

“You require the use of my prism ship and my fungal electuaries. I remain uncertain of the benefits to myself.”

“Ungrateful slut! I saved your life!”

“After you attempted to wrest it from me!”

Paytim tapped distractedly at the windowpane. The glass grew molten beneath her fingertips, then congealed