Free Chasing the Phoenix by Michael Swanwick Page B

ceramics that will pierce you right through your boots, thick though they may be. Very painful. Also, keep in mind that some of what look to be harmless loops of vines are actually ancient cables. A cousin of mine ran into one and almost strangled himself.”
    Cautiously, Surplus pushed onward. Brickbats and crumbled concrete turned underfoot. An occasional slanting shaft of dusty gold sunlight, piercing the canopy, sparkled on shattered glass. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he saw that the forest was interpenetrated with fragmentary walls, canted stairways leading into black chasms, and broken cubes of masonry. These were the ruins of buildings and their cellars through which the stream had, over the centuries, carved a V-shaped gash. A melancholy sense of past failures quite alien to his nature settled over Surplus.
    Doing his best to shake it off, he remarked, “You seem to know this route well.”
    â€œI should! I go up and down it two or three times a day.”
    â€œSurely your duties as a soldier preclude—”
    â€œSir, until very recently, I was a civilian. It turns out that your army has a policy that all men fit to be soldiers are immediately impressed into its service. Unless they are enemies, of course, and then they are killed. Or rich, in which case they pay a bribe to be released. Being neither rich nor hostile, when I tried to claim my reward for turning in a mountain horse, why, slam! bang! I’m in the army and a thief to boot for trying to get the money they promised.” Vicious Brute laughed ruefully. “It was my own fault for letting down my guard in the presence of the virtuous.”
    â€œBeing aware of their own righteousness, such men naturally need never think twice about the morality of their actions,” Surplus agreed. “Tell me. How did you become a brigand in the first place?”
    â€œI would never have turned to banditry had it not been for the war. My clan are honest smugglers by profession. A little arson now and then. Some counterfeiting when we could get the equipment. A touch of extortion when the chance presented itself. But no thuggery—never! Alas, our village was overrun by cavalry, who took everything worth owning and set fire to the rest. So we had no choice but to send our children and elderly to live with relatives in a distant village. The rest of us retreated to the hills, there to survive as best we could. Then, when twenty mountain horses came our way, I was sent down with a sample of what we had for sale. The rest of my tale you know.”
    Surplus was about to ask how the mountain horses had come into the possession of Vicious Brute and his kin when something sparked underfoot.
    He leaped back. “What was that ?”
    â€œThat’s just spirit lights, sir. Happens now and then. Nobody knows why. Sometimes there are voices and visions as well, from the Utopian demons lingering in the cable. Their power wanes, however, so even the most boastful are utterly without strength. But they keep away the superstitious. That’s one reason why we—”
    In that instant, sparks came spitting out from every corner and niche of the ravine. They snapped and leaped into the air, tracing bright arcs of light in the gloom, and burnt when they touched exposed skin, leaving an ozone sting behind.
    Surplus staggered, slipped, and grabbed a nearby loop of vine to keep from falling.
    The world went black.
    In the inky spaceless space before him floated a spectral woman. Her face was beautiful and preternaturally calm, but an aura of menace emanated from her. Her white robes and scarves floated restlessly about her, though there was no wind. In a voice like no human being ever had, for it was composed partially of surflike noises, was punctuated by pops and small erratic silences, and was shot through with lesser voices that Surplus could not quite decode, she said:
    dieingreatpainsufferingagony
    IS THAT YOU,