Read Online Neverness by David Zindell - Free Book Online
Authors: David Zindell
Tags: Science-Fiction, Fantasy
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academicians, high professionals and novices crowding the ice of Resa Commons. There were wind chimes tinkling and journeymen whistling to the wormrunners as they held up their gloved hands to place their illegal bets. From the steps of the Hall came the piping of the clarinas and shakuhachis. The high, keening notes seemed to me like an anguished plea full of desperation and foreboding, at odds with the gaiety all around us. Bardo, too, must have felt the music inappropriate because he came up to me as I tested the edges of my skates with the my thumbnail, and he said, "I detest mystical music. It makes me feel pity for the universe and arouses certain other feelings I'd rather not have aroused. Give me horns and drums, and by the way, Little Fellow, could I offer you a pinch of fireweed to get the blood singing?"
I refused his red crystals, as he must have known I would. The race master - I saw to my surprise that it was Burgos Harsha, wobbling on his skates because he had no doubt been drinking kvass since the morning's preparations - called the two groups to our starting places. We crowded along the red checkered line where the lesser glidderies gave out onto the white ice at the edge of the Commons. "I had something important to tell you, but I've forgotten what it was," he cried out. "And when have you ever known me to forget anything? Now what was I saying? Does it matter? Well, then, may you pilots not lose your way and may you return soon." He reached for the white starting flag that a novice held out to him and managed to entangle his forearm in the cotton fabric. The novice pressed the short, wooden staff into his grasping fingers, and he waved the flag back and forth in front of his face, and the race began.
I shall mention only a few details of what happened on the streets of my City that day, because due to the peculiar nature and rules of the race, that is all a single pilot can do. The rules are simple: A pilot may choose any path through the four quarters of the city so long as she or he passes in sequence through one of the various checkpoints such as Rollo's Ring in the Farsider's Quarter, or the Hofgarten between the Zoo and the Pilot's Quarter. The theory is that the smartest and most cunning pilot will win, the pilot who had best memorized the streets and shortcuts of our city. In practice, though, speed is at least as important as brains.
Bardo bellowed and stroked as he pushed between a cluster of master pilots who were blocking his way. (Such shoving, I should add, is permitted if the pilot first shouts out a warning.) Blond-haired Tomoth, who stroked furiously in a high tuck, almost fell as Bardo's elbow caught him on the shoulder. Then Bardo shouted out, "First among equals!" and he disappeared around the curve of the gliddery.
We caught up to him at the Rose Womb Cloisters, that jumble of squat buildings at Resa's western edge housing the tanks in which we had floated for a considerable portion of our journeyman years. He was skating raggedly as we passed him. He had pulled the hood of his kamelaika away from his dripping head. "First among ... equals," he said wheezing and gasping for air. "At least ... for a ... quarter mile."
At the west gate of the Academy we dispersed. Fifteen pilots turned onto the southernmost of the orange glidderies that lead to the Way while eight master pilots and six pilots - Soli and myself among them - chose a lesser gliddery through the gleaming Old City in order to avoid the arterial's heavier traffic. And so it went. The sky above us was deep blue, the air dense and cold. In front of me Soli's steel skates striking smoothly against the ice and the shouts and laughter of the onlookers lining the narrow street were like a racy music. I tucked low and turned as I cradled my right arm against the small of my back, and suddenly I was alone.
I saw other pilots only a few times during the rest of the race. I did not want to make a
I refused his red crystals, as he must have known I would. The race master - I saw to my surprise that it was Burgos Harsha, wobbling on his skates because he had no doubt been drinking kvass since the morning's preparations - called the two groups to our starting places. We crowded along the red checkered line where the lesser glidderies gave out onto the white ice at the edge of the Commons. "I had something important to tell you, but I've forgotten what it was," he cried out. "And when have you ever known me to forget anything? Now what was I saying? Does it matter? Well, then, may you pilots not lose your way and may you return soon." He reached for the white starting flag that a novice held out to him and managed to entangle his forearm in the cotton fabric. The novice pressed the short, wooden staff into his grasping fingers, and he waved the flag back and forth in front of his face, and the race began.
I shall mention only a few details of what happened on the streets of my City that day, because due to the peculiar nature and rules of the race, that is all a single pilot can do. The rules are simple: A pilot may choose any path through the four quarters of the city so long as she or he passes in sequence through one of the various checkpoints such as Rollo's Ring in the Farsider's Quarter, or the Hofgarten between the Zoo and the Pilot's Quarter. The theory is that the smartest and most cunning pilot will win, the pilot who had best memorized the streets and shortcuts of our city. In practice, though, speed is at least as important as brains.
Bardo bellowed and stroked as he pushed between a cluster of master pilots who were blocking his way. (Such shoving, I should add, is permitted if the pilot first shouts out a warning.) Blond-haired Tomoth, who stroked furiously in a high tuck, almost fell as Bardo's elbow caught him on the shoulder. Then Bardo shouted out, "First among equals!" and he disappeared around the curve of the gliddery.
We caught up to him at the Rose Womb Cloisters, that jumble of squat buildings at Resa's western edge housing the tanks in which we had floated for a considerable portion of our journeyman years. He was skating raggedly as we passed him. He had pulled the hood of his kamelaika away from his dripping head. "First among ... equals," he said wheezing and gasping for air. "At least ... for a ... quarter mile."
At the west gate of the Academy we dispersed. Fifteen pilots turned onto the southernmost of the orange glidderies that lead to the Way while eight master pilots and six pilots - Soli and myself among them - chose a lesser gliddery through the gleaming Old City in order to avoid the arterial's heavier traffic. And so it went. The sky above us was deep blue, the air dense and cold. In front of me Soli's steel skates striking smoothly against the ice and the shouts and laughter of the onlookers lining the narrow street were like a racy music. I tucked low and turned as I cradled my right arm against the small of my back, and suddenly I was alone.
I saw other pilots only a few times during the rest of the race. I did not want to make a
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