Tony stared. There were other chalikos and well-dressed riders, apparently of Firvulag stock. A handsome man and woman with the look of Tanu haute noblesse also held futuristic weapons.
The marmoset hopped down, chucked Tony under the chin, and said, "Easy does it, laddie. You'll be all right now."
Faithful Dougal emerged from the jungle, sword still in hand. Tony staggered to his feet The elephant hunter had strolled over to his prostrate quarry and placed one foot on the trunk.
"Ready with the camera, Katy dear? Cheeeese!"
The Tanu lady smiled and waved.
Crazy Greggy shouldered his weapon and marched back. "And now we'd better be getting along. We'll take you lads home with us to Nionel. It wouldn't do at all"—and the little man winked—"for you to be here when your animal friend wakes up."
9
AIKEN'S CAVALCADE returned to Goriah on the twenty-first of April—quietly, at night on the ground, for the participants in the Grand Loving were already converging on Armorica and the Firvulag royal party was expected momentarily. As Aiken had ordered, Mercy was there waiting for him in the forecourt of the Castle of Glass, with only the necessary minimum of gray-tore hostlers standing by to lead away the drooping chalikos of the Exalted Personages.
The Shining One was in eclipse. The visor of his gold-lustre helmet was closed and its canary-diamond ornamentation and black plumes were dulled by dust He bade no vocal or mental farewell to his noble traveling companions, who went separately to their apartments. Aiken dismounted by means of the block, nodded to Mercy, and cupped one of her draped elbows in his gauntleted palm.
"My Lord?" she queried anxiously. They entered the foyer of their own wing of the castle. "Shad I help you to unhelm?"
The corridor was lit with sconces burning olive oil in amber cups. A draft from the open casement windows set the flames flickering. The wads were alive with furtive shadows. After loosing the straps, Mercy lifted the heavy casque from Aiken's bowed head.
He was gaunt and hollow-eyed and his springy red hair had gone lank. He said, "Thanks. I'll carry it." They walked toward the stairwed.
"But ... the progress was a success!" she said, dismayed.
His laugh was dry and humorless. "Oh, yes. Celadeyr seemed to cave in, the wily old bastard. But I had to kid the hothead protégé of his who'd taken over Geroniah. And there was a terrible row at VarMesk with a coercive redactor named Miakonn, one of Dionket's sons. A one-eighty switch on his peace-loving old man. And he was supposed to be one of my allies!"
"What happened?"
"The damn sod threw a banquet for us, and when we were all thoroughly sloshed he tried to brain-burn me. Would've done it, too, if Cud hadn't been on the ball. Fortunately, the Interrogator never gets drunk. He zapped Miakonn to a drooling idiot. But it was a squeaker. When we sorted things out, we found that most of the VarMesk nobility were loyal, so we just installed a new city-lord. An old PK-creator who was in charge of the glass works."
They came to the spiral staircase leading to their suites. But Aiken shook his head and went to an unobtrusive bronze door tucked away in a corner. He used his PK to slide it open. Behind it was a flight of steep stone steps that went down into blackness.
"I want to take care of a little matter, lovie. You can come with me, or wait."
"I'll come."
He conjured a ball of illuminating psychoenergy. It floated overhead, lighting their descent. The door clanged shut behind them and locked.
"You've darkened," she observed. "Not even the Flood so lowered your vitality."
His voice was sepulchral in the stone shaft. "Part of the problem is, I'm tired to death. Levitating ad those people takes it out of a man. Naturally, we didn't fly everywhere we went. But I always lifted the knights and their mounts to make an impressive entrance into the cities, while the elite human brigade stuck to terra firma. Hoisting four hundred people and chalikos isn't something I can keep up for more than a half hour, though. And I'm drained for the next day or so after putting on one of my better performances; so three weeks of a progress—not to mention the Geroniah dustup and a small bagarre we had with a Firvulag raiding party around Bardelask—well, I've had it. As you can see."
"Poor Shining One."
He gave her a wry glance over his shoulder. "You're looking fit. How's ... how's it getting along?"
It indeed! His jealousy was stronger, if anything. "Agraynel's thriving. Her body and mind are perfect. She's adjusted well to the tore."
Aiken grunted.
"Lady Morna-Ia says she'll grow up to be beautiful and fortunate." And that's all you shall know!
"You're back to normal after the pregnancy?"
"I am Lady Creator," she replied. And my creativity is life-enhancing, whereas yours...
"Does the best it can. Under the circumstances." He flashed the mocking smile. "I'll have recovered myself by the time the festivities begin. None of our distinguished guests will ever suspect how much this progress wrung out of me. Not even my own people knew—except for Cull. And he helped me put a good face on matters."
"The Interrogator is a master of redaction. Among other things." She paused and her aspect was unmistakably accusatory. "Your friend Raimo Hakkinen has nearly recovered from Culluket's deep-reaming. But you may find the poor man bitter."
"I couldn't help it," Aiken snapped. "We had to know about Felice and Celo. We needed a word-by-word replay with full nuance analysis of everything buried in his subconscious."
"But he is your friend. You might have dealt with him more gently and still gathered your intelligence data."
"I needed it fast." He stopped on the stairs and spun around. The lines of strain around his mouth were ugly. "Felice does have the Spear. After the Grand Loving, I'm going to have to figure out what to do about her. Christ, Mercy! D'you think I liked handing poor Ray over to Cull? But it had to be done. Kings have to do a lot of things that—that—"
"They're ashamed of?"
"I'm not ashamed! I'll make it up to Ray. It was thanks to him that we knew all about Celo's strengths and vulnerabilities. From the SOS Celo shot to the Craftsmaster. Ray was one of Aluteyn's closest human cronies until the old poop decided Chopper was getting too big for his britches."
"And if Raimo presumes on his friendship with you?"
"He won't, dammit." Aiken resumed his tramp down the stairs. Mercy had to hurry to keep up with him.
"Well, I daresay you're right. Your Raimo wears the gold, after ad, and once you saved his life. But there are other humans here in Goriah who bear you a grudge. And their numbers have grown since you went away."
"What are you talking about, woman?" His weariness made even irritability an effort.
"You promised that any human who rallied to your banner would receive a golden tore. That hasn't happened."
"Of course not. We'd run out of tores! It's only the fighters and the folks in strategic occupations who get gold. And even then, not until Cull and his boys certify their loyalty. That's what I meant to do from the beginning."
"Most of the human recruits had it otherwise."
"Tough shit for them," Aiken said brutally. "I plan to do the best I can for everybody, but there are limits."
"Ah, of course. The royal benevolence always has limits."
They reached the foot of the stairs and stood before another door. It was even more ponderous than the last, fastened with a battery of Tanu coded-PK locks. There was also a gooseflesh-raising force-field that Mercy knew could not be a product of exotic technology.
"I never intended the Many-Colored Land to be some kind of half-ass democracy," Aiken muttered. He manipulated the locks mentally to the tune of clickings and buzzings. Behind the door, bars were sliding back and latches lifting. The force-field cut off.
"I didn't suppose you had," she retorted. "But you should know that certain numbers of the newcomers who were torced with silver or gray, rather than free gold, are resentful. In spite of the pleasure circuitry! And the inco
mpatibles, those unable to tolerate the tore amplification at ad, feel betrayed. There's one group that Congreve had to discipline severely when they attempted to run away from their work detail down at the Grove of May."
"I'll look into the matter tomorrow. Don't worry about it." Aiken swung the door open and touched a switch. A fluor ceding lit. "I'd charm the socks off those mutineers, lovie. Now ... what do you think of this?"
She stood transfixed. What was evidently a former dungeon had been converted into a storage dump. The stone wads were coated with plastic sealant, and the atmosphere, in contrast to that of the damp and musty stairwed, was temperature- and humidity-controlled and redolent of some sterilizing agent. There seemed to be endless aisles of racks and shelving. Some of the stored goods had been anonymously packed in pods, but other items were shrink-wrapped in clear plass. The variety of small twenty-second-century weaponry was impressive. There was also a plethora of other sophisticated equipment confiscated from time-travelers, ad items that the feudal-minded Tanu deemed unsuited to their culture. Mercy saw every kind of solar power cell, small fusion units, collapsible vehicles, a shrouded thing labeled LINK-BELT MINIMINER, another called FAIRBANKS MORSE MARINE ION CONCENTRATOR, a third designated NOBLE CAS ATMOSPHERIC EXTRACTOR-MITSUBISHI HI LTD. There were antenna dishes and excavating zappers and microorganic culture units. There were devices of unfathomable function shelved next to homely domestic appliances.
"I call it the General Store," said Aiken. He sat down at the console of a small inventory-control computer and spoke inaudibly into the mouthpiece. "Nodonn and Gomnol seem to have shared a certain pack-rat instinct for keeping paraphernalia that King Thagdal had ordered destroyed. The late Lord of Burask did, too, but on a much smaller scale. Gomnol's cache was raided by Brede just before the Flood. Certain nonmilitary hardware was turned over to Elizabeth's little clique of do-gooders. The rest must have been destroyed by the Shipspouse. My people have searched the ruins of Muriah and there's no trace of it. The Burask hoard, on the other hand, was captured by the Firvulag."
Mercy gasped. "Sharn and Ayfa won't scruple to use it!"
A small robot retriever came rolling silently along one aisle and stopped in front of Aiken. "Your requested material, Citizen," it said.
"Mucho thanks." He opened a top hatch, took out a small package, and stowed it behind his left pallette. Then he shut down the computer and headed back to the door. "That's that, lovie. Come along. Some other day I might let you have a little shopping excursion."
"In time for the war?" she inquired sadly.
"I won't be the one to start it."
"The Firvulag may try to assassinate you at the Loving. Inviting them was very rash. Their Great Ones are now capable of meshing minds even more effectively than the Host of Nontusvel once could."
He came close to her, the armor's sharp glass plates pressing through the thin voile of her gown. He still held the helmet in one arm. The other encircled her waist. "Having the Little People here as our guests shows strength, Lady Wildfire, and that's the tactic called for right now. Both the Firvulag and the Tanu are primitives. Sharn and Ayfa. The vacillating city-lords and shifty old Celo. Even crazy Felice is a primitive! Strength is all that barbarians understand. As for the danger of assassination ... I'm a match for any Tanu or Firvulag while I'm awake. And when I sleep—well, that's why I came down here tonight. To get me a stem-shield generator. God knows what paranoid time-traveler thought he might need it to guard his mind in the Pliocene. But the gadget is made to order for me, since I'm not ad that good at self-redaction."
Her sea-colored eyes held admiration, and something else. "Ah, they've underestimated you until it's too late. Ad of them. I think you'd conquer them all, with your tricks and glib tongue. But there'll be a price. I wonder if you'd pay it? Or will I?"
His gem-hard hand was behind her head, drawing her down until their lips met, electric and searing. He saw into her and laughed. "So it's mortal fear that's your aphrodisiac, Lady Wildfire?"
"As yours, Amadán-na-Briona."
"That's not a Tanu name. What does it mean? Stay open to me—"
But her deep levels were waded off, and the passion was palpable and growing. "Amadán was a figure from the old Celtic folklore. A jester. A Fatal Fool whose touch was death." Her laugh was reckless. "Let us go up, my Amadán! Out of this place. I've changed my mind about waiting, and you shall find your peace in my welcome home."
***
The April sky flared with auroras on that night of their first true coupling. And at the height of it, the castle of Goriah rang like a great glass bed.
10
VAUGHN JARROW, hanging precariously from the pulpit in the bow of the ketch, sent out the seductive telepathic cad again.
"Give up on it," Elaby Gathen said, not bothering to mask his distaste.
"You just drive the boat and mind your own business." The eerie trill rang out once more on an inhuman farspeech mode. From the sparkling wavelets ahead came a faint, answering cry.
"Tady hoo!" Vaughn yodeled. He raised the Matsushita RL9 carbine.
"You know what Owen told us—" Elaby began to say. But at that instant the porpoise broke the surface in a joyous leap of welcome, and Vaughn fired, the red beam piercing the sea mammal's body just below the dorsal fin. It gave a dreadful telepathic scream that mingled betrayal and anguish. Vaughn chuckled and fired again at the flailing shape with his zapper dialed to blade-ray. The farspoken screaming choked off and the porpoise sank amid a spreading patch of maroon.
"You trigger-happy young cretin!" Owen Blanchard came raging topside and stood in the cockpit, swaying unsteadily. Elaby had been standing on the coaming, clinging to a shroud and steering the ketch with one foot on the wheel. Now he flicked on the auto and leaped to assist the older man, whose chronic seasickness seemed ready to yield to apoplexy. "I told you to leave the porpoises alone! I ordered you!"
Vaughn lounged against the pulpit rail, the carbine tilted over one bare shoulder. He was naked except for a brief bathing slip and his overfed body gleamed with suntan emollients. "I get bored on watch. I have to do something besides scan the bottom of the friggerty estuary."
"Zap sharks or mantas!"
Vaughn shrugged. "They won't come when I call."
"The porpoises are sentient, dammit!"
Vaughn diddled with the Matsu's beam selector. He grinned slyly, not catching Owen's eye. "So were the four billion noncoadunates you helped to kill in the Rebellion. Don't come over righteous with me, pops."
Elaby's coercion reached out to throttle his contemporary. "That's enough, Vaughn. Don't pretend to be any dumber than you really are. Owen warned you that the porpoises might be able to communicate with Felice. She likes animals. They're her friends."
"Bullshit. Porpoise farspeech isn't loud enough to carry farther than a klom or two."
"We don't dare risk it," said Owen.
"And besides, Felice is nowhere near here."
"We're not sure of that," Owen snarled, "and until we are, you leave the porpoises alone!"
Vaughn's grin widened. He was slitty-eyed in the dazzle. "Okay, pops. I'll find me some new targets. Gotta keep sharp."
Owen dropped onto one of the cockpit seats. His face was deeply flushed and the pouches beneath his watering eyes were more prominent than ever. He said to Elaby, "I've managed to complete the modification on the headset. The docilization gear is as ready as it'll ever be. But she'll have to be pretty naive to fall into our trap."
"And the lullaby-gun?" Elaby took the wheel again.
"Dead as mutton." Owen produced a handkerchief, knotted the four corners, and set the improvised cap on his sandy crew cut. "After twenty-seven years on the shelf in a tropical climate ... you'd have more luck putting Felice to sleep with a mug of hot milk than with that thing."
Elaby cursed. The 60,000-watt hypnogogic projector, theoretically capable of dropping a rioting mob in its tracks at 500 meters, would have rendered their conquest of Felice almost
easy. "It'll be up to you and me and cloud, then. We'd have to take on the monster bare-brained. If only Cloud and I hadn't worn ourselves out pushing the boat..."
It was April 27. The transatlantic passage had taken nearly a week longer than anticipated when the westerlies faded them just beyond the Azores. Only Elaby, Cloud, and the ketch's skipper, Jillian Morgenthaler, possessed the psychokinetic talent to generate useful winds, and they had not fully recovered from their labors in the doldrums when they were caded upon again. The boat finally broke out of the stagnant air 900 kilometers off Spain; but the overworked trio still felt mentally below par, and Owen's crippling mal de mer had returned when the wind freshened.
Owen and Vaughn, the top farspeakers in the expedition, had attempted to notify Felice of the delay. But there had been no response. After the ketch entered the Gulf of Guadalquivir, Owen and Vaughn had undertaken a painstaking overview of southern Spain. They had not found Felice, even though her deserted eyrie was easy enough to locate. For some reason of her own, the madwoman was deliberately shielding her mind from metapsychic observation. "We'd just have to live cool and let her come to us when she's ready," Elaby had said. The others could find no fault with this conservative proposal.
Now the yacht cruised up the narrowing gulf in a leisurely fashion, hugging the southern shore, making for the Río Genil, which flowed down from Mulhacen. Pink sand beaches fringed with fruiting palms were separated by low headlands that led back into lushly forested foothills. On the southern horizon, poking through a layer of haze, were the Betics—Mulhacen, at 4233 meters, tipped with white in disdain of the tropical climate.
A farspoken signal came from Cloud in the galley: Mess cad in ten!
Right! "How's that cove look below, Vaughn? Any reefs?" Elaby altered course to starboard.
The farsensor exerted himself minimally. "Seems clear. Drive right in."
The chop smoothed as they came into the lee of a small promontory and glided toward the anchorage. Elaby used his PK to rod the mainsail and mizzen. He kept the jib neatly Idled with his own light air.