Seluma also listened to the song of the Pipers in her part of the city. She had stepped out onto the balcony that ran around the top of the shell, sliding around it several times, in circles, trying to soothe with movement the restlessness that plagued her.

  That unpleasant, moaning sound was certainly the last thing she wanted to hear. It had never bothered her before, but tonight it seemed to be accompanied by a subterranean vibration, a subtle movement of the city itself.

  Suggestion, no doubt, the work of all that nonsensical talk about the end of the world.

  How could Faspath close, just like that, for no reason?

  She tensed her whole body and then released it, a shock wave to drive away the bad thoughts.

  This musical accompaniment made her think of Fuig, her faithful handyman, and the last time she had seen him, at the door, loaded with baskets to deliver food to her customers. Gone. With the money, but that was the least of it. Strangely, she didn't really care about the lost money or the complaints of those who had gone without lunch that morning.

  Not so much.

  But Fuig had been an invaluable support. And she had always thought him happy and satisfied with his work.

  Had she not praised him enough? Perhaps he had wished for a change in his salary without finding the courage to ask? What could have been going through his mind to flee without leaving a trace?

  It was true that you should never trust people who are too quiet, as Luoth had often observed —and he was alluding to the professor— because when they lose their minds, you really can't tell what they're up to. Besides, Fuig was indeed mute, poor fellow, not just quiet. Perhaps his silence hid so much unhappiness, or at least dissatisfaction. Seluma had not known him as well as she thought.

  And Moi had also been absent for three days. She hoped he was well. She sent him fresh fruit, as always, and the payments had been on time. Maybe she should have called him.

  But on the other hand, Seluma had always refrained from getting too familiar with customers. She liked to be around people, to hear voices and sounds of life and happiness around her, but it was a kind of background, like the warmth of a crackling fireplace. Not something she really wanted to dive into. It was enough for her to get warm and draw energy from it indirectly.

  But what was wrong with that? she reproached herself. Why did she have to worry like a fool, get upset about street rumors and feel like a victim of bad feelings for no reason?

  I am not like that, she repeated to herself and straightened up.

  No, it was not easy to annoy her.

  The Coneshell, in its location well into the thickness of Nelatte, seemed to be in a tunnel, surrounded by branching mansions and pointed spires connected by high-rise walkways and sloping ramps that descended to the square. There was a constant flow of people through these streets at all hours, not only on their way to her place. The market never closed either, and there was also a dormitory for travelers nearby.

  Seluma noticed nervousness among the passers-by, who raised white faces and puzzled frowns to the sky, peering into the darkness, annoyed by the Pipers' concert that sounded like a funeral hymn.

  A cold shiver ran down her skin as an unwarranted and tragic thought materialized in her mind.

  He had not fled, she told herself with a certainty that could not be explained.

  Fuig was dead.

  °°°

  He reached out and turned off the viewer. So much beauty had to be appreciated in small bites.

  He opened the book at random. On the terrace, now shrouded in darkness, the warm light from the room behind him illuminated the yellowed pages, the printed words quivering like insects caught by surprise. His metal-skinned finger paused to underline sentences, tapping the paper with his sharp fingernail.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Black butterflies float between the branches of the Plant, sparks of thought from the Plant herself, the sleeping creator of all that exists, has existed, and will exist.

  He jumped from paragraph to paragraph, from page to page, searching for a meaningful sentence.

  The roots sank into the milky mist, sucking in the raw energy from which life was born...

  ...twisted limbs embrace all existence, forming the very fabric of matter and spirit...

  Damn, just talk!

  The Plant allows those who find their way through her Gates to approach Her, but one should not believe that She cares about the fate of mortals.

  Cassia Verses.

  A book so strange that not even the Palvi monks wanted to have anything to do with it. It was only kept by a fundamentalist sect that worshipped the crater of the Center. The kind of people who were always proclaiming the end of the world.

  Strange that they had not yet invaded the streets.

  Getting the little book had not been easy, even for him, who knew who to ask. What a disappointment not to find it in the vast university library, not even in the private treasuries of collectors; what a waste to have to spend a great deal of energy and money, in secret, contacting shifty travelers and untrustworthy characters.

  His fingers drummed impatiently on the page, a long-suppressed anger quickening the pace. The scent of hedgerows stunned him.

  He had never considered going to those remote communities to look for the book himself, to get it, or to consult it. He could easily have taken a long vacation; he had no pressing responsibilities then...

  But he had not wanted to leave Nelatte. The town always needed him.

  He smiled at himself, a bitter grimace. Sometimes he caught himself thinking that Nelatte should fall apart, disintegrate should he just look away, vanish like the image of a waking dream, as if the city's existence depended on his desire.

  He shook his head and shivered all over with an involuntary movement.

  Was he really awake now?

  But what an absurd doubt. He was not dreaming. He never slept. Had he forgotten that?

  He went back to examine the book. He had hoped it was a fraud, the hallucinated fantasies of a madwoman, or the propaganda of an impostor.

  Who was Cassia? No one knew. But her verses had been around for so long that the author could not be alive, even if she had been a Lumacid. Unless, of course, she really was, as the sect's followers preached, a seer from another world who visited this one whenever she pleased, unbound by the time and duration of her physical existence.

  Was it possible to travel between worlds? Certainly.

  But to do so, this visionary would inevitably have to pass through the place that encompassed them all, the Hall of the Nine Gates, the Metz O Bar. And move in there at will.

  She would have to have the blessing of the Plant or Her Messenger.

  His hands now handled the fragile pages badly.

  The butterflies scattered and coagulated again and again, into serpentine shapes that curled around the branches, or elusive silhouettes of small animals that climbed to the top of the tree, on the thinner fronds that dissolved into nothingness; they took on greater consistency as the Plant's soul moved closer to awareness.

  Awareness of what?

  Attan Ze Kosh felt, clear and sharp on his face, a breath of cold wind, the whiff of mold and wet earth that was the primary scent of the Plant. His limbs trembled, crushed by the heaviness of a woody, sleepy body stretched out immeasurably in the empty, frozen expanses of the universe, unable to move, unable to act; he struggled impulsively to shake it off as a useless shell, and for a few moments believed in agony that he could not do so, that he was doomed to perpetual imprisonment in an amorphous, decaying mass.

  Eternal suffering and ruin await the world that attracts Her attention and causes the particles of Her thought to take flight beyond the Sphere, united into one sentient creature, for the immeasurable mind of the Plant knows neither reason nor compassion and will plunge into madness any creature that comes before Her.

  “But what do you know, you fool!” he blurted out with a violence that shook him unexpectedly and inexplicably. He threw the volume to the floor, stopping himself just in time from launching it over the parapet. The thud of the book on the tiles was as dry and loud as an explosion.

  An involuntary groan escaped his throat, a faint moan that died instantly in the dark air.

  Attan Ze Kosh felt like a child who had just been enjoying a beautiful, carefree day off, believing it would last forever, and was suddenly told that yes, he had to go back to school, and yes, tomorrow.