“We have to move on,” the mystif had said. “Scopique will be waiting.”
“You make it sound like he’s expecting us.”
“I’m always expected,” Pie said.
“How long since you were in L’Himby?”
“At least. . . two hundred and thirty years.”
“Then he’ll be dead.”
“Not Scopique,” Pie said. “It’s important you see him, Gentle. Especially now, with so many changes in the air.”
“If that’s what you want to do, then we’ll do it,” Gentle had replied, “How far is L’Himby?”
“A day’s journey, if we take the train.”
That had been the first mention Gentle had heard of the iron road that joined the city of lahmandhas and L’Himby: the city of furnaces and the city of temples.
“You’ll like L’Himby,” Pie had said. “It’s a place of meditation.”
Rested and funded, they’d left Attaboy the following morning, traveling along the River Fefer for a day, then, via Happi and Omootajive, into the province called the Ched Lo Ched, the Flowering Place (now bloomless), and finally to Mai-ke, caught in the twin pincers of poverty and puritanism.
On the platform outside, Gentle heard Pie say, “Good.”
He raised himself from the comfort of the wall and stepped out into the sunshine again. “The train?” he said.
“No. The calculations. I’ve finished them.” The mystif stared down at the marks on the platform at its feet. “This is only an approximation, of course, but I think it’s sound within a day or two. Three at the most.”
“So what day is it?”
“Take a guess.”
“March. . . the tenth.”
“Way off,” said Pie. “By these calculations, and remember this is only an approximation, it’s the seventeenth of May.”
“Impossible.”
“It’s true.”
“Spring’s almost over.”
“Are you wishing you were back there?” Pie asked.
Gentle chewed on this for a while, then said, “Not particularly. I just wish the fucking trains ran on time.”
He wandered to the edge of the platform and stared down the line.
“There’s no sign,” Pie said. “We’d be quicker going by doeki.”
“You keep doing that—”
“Doing what?”
“Saying what’s on the tip of my tongue. Are you reading my mind?”
“No,” said the mystif, rubbing out its calculation with its sole.
“So how did we win all that in Attaboy?”
“You don’t need teaching,” Pie replied.
“Don’t tell me it comes naturally,” Gentle said. “I’ve got through my entire life without winning a thing, and suddenly, when you’re with me, I can do no wrong. That’s no coincidence. Tell me the truth.”
“That is the truth. You don’t need teaching. Reminding, maybe. . ..” Pie gave a little smile.
“And that’s another thing,” Gentle said, snatching at one of the zarzi as he spoke.
Much to his surprise, he actually caught it. He opened his palm. He’d cracked its casing, and the blue mush of its innards was oozing out, but it was still alive. Disgusted, he flicked his wrist, depositing the body on the platform at his feet. He didn’t scrutinize the remains, but pulled up a fistful of the sickly grass that sprouted between the slabs of the platform and set about scrubbing his palm with it.
“What were we talking about?” he said. Pie didn’t reply. “Oh, yes . . . things I’d forgotten.” He looked down at his clean hand. “Pneuma,” he said. “Why would I ever forget having a power like the pneuma?”
“Either because it wasn’t important to you any longer—”
“Which is doubtful.”
“—or you forgot because you wanted to forget.”
There was an oddness in the way the mystif pronounced its reply which grated on Gentle’s ear, but he pursued the argument anyway.
“Why would I want to forget?” he said.
Pie looked back along the line. The distance was obscured by dust, but there were glimpses through it of a clear sky.
“Well?” said Gentle.
“Maybe because remembering hurts too much,” it said, without looking around.
The words were even uglier to Gentle’s ear than the reply that had preceded it. He caught the sense, but only with difficulty.
“Stop this,” he said.
“Stop what?”
“Talking in that damn-fool way. It turns my gut.”
“I’m not doing anything,” the mystif said, its voice still distorted, but now more subtly. “Trust me. I’m doing nothing.”