“What do you think of his story?” Ayfa asked Sharn, after Tony had been led away.
“We knew that a Lowlife expedition went east, toward the Ship’s Grave. Now we know that it was successful.”
“What are we to do about this, High King?” Skathe asked. “There can be no Firvuiag-Lowlife alliance in the Nightfall War. The humans will use these aircraft against us.”
The King and Queen were sitting at a small table with Skathe and the veteran deputy Medor. They had retired to a curtained-off portion of the royal tent for the interview with Tony, and now drank coot beer from great glass beakers.
Sharn said, “I would call your attention to the fact that the Vale of Hyenas is suggestively close to Nionel.”
“You think that there’s Howler collusion in the bird plot?” Medor wiped foam from his spin upper lip.
“It’s a dead cert,” said the Firvulag King.
“We were afraid it would happen,” Ayfa said gloomily, “after the matter of the brides. Fitharn Pegleg has been researching the matter while on his diplomatic mission to Nionel. We have his full report ready to present to the Gnomish Council tomorrow. Sugoll still professes nominal loyalty to High Vrazel. He’s got his people working like beavers to complete the spiffying-up of the Field of Gold for the Tourney. But as far as allying with us in the Nightfall War goes—forget him. The entire Howler tribe has thrown in with the humans, and that’s that.”
“We’ve got to do something about those birds,” Skathe insisted. “But it’ll be a tough chew. You heard what that twit said—the Lowlives are guarding the aircraft with iron.”
Medor said, “And if we go in there in force, we’re likely to tip our hand ahead of time to Sugoll. Or to Aiken Drum.”
“Fuck his earhotes,” growled Skathe. “If we could only use those aircraft ourselves!”
Medor gave a rueful laugh. “Not a prayer! We have only a handful of First Comers left alive who’d remember the original evacuation from Brede’s Ship. I don’t think a single one of them knows a flux-tapper from a hippy chip. Té knows I don’t, and I’m about the closest thing to a technician on the Council. No . . . those ships are useless to us.”
“Maybe not,” said Sharn. A slow smile was beginning to spread across his great mouth. “Now consider. We’ve been bewailing the fact that the Foe leadership has passed to a puny human. He’s bedded down in Goriah tighter than a tick, too, for all that Nodonn and Celo would like to hope otherwise.
They’ll never boot Aiken out of the Castle of Glass with a few hundred knights. Not even using the sacred Sword.”
“Our Sword!” Medor said in a strangled voice.
“Who knows it better than I?” Sharn cried. “My grandsire’s grandsire wielded it in the first Great Ordeal at the Ship’s Grave! And when the Nightfall War comes upon us, I shall carry it…if a certain idea I just had bears fruit.”
“I think I see!” exclaimed Ayfa. “And Nodonn’s honorable, for all that he’s the Prince of Pricks. If he promised, he’d keep his word.”
“Who?” demanded Skathe. “What? How?”
Sharn explained. “We tell Nodonn about the two aircraft. You know that the Foe retained a certain scientific bent. Celadeyr of Afaliah and Thufan Thunderhead are both creators, both First Comers. What’s more likely than that they have some knowledge of these flying machines? In the libraries of their citadels, if no place else.”
Medor broke in excitedly. “And if Tanu make off with the aircraft, then the machines no longer threaten us’ Nodonn would never use them in the Nightfall War. He’s too chivalrous.”
“He’d use them against Aiken Drum. though,” said the Queen.
Medor leaned back in his chair and laughed at the top of his lungs. “Nodonn zaps Aiken from the air in a glorified Flying Hunt before the Grand Tourney ever begins! He takes over as Tanu King! Tremendous! And in return for our help—”
“He gives me the Sword,” Sharn said. “Just as soon as he conquers Goriah. It will be up to him to retrieve the Spear in one piece from the dead hand of the usurper.”
The face of Skathe the giantess was wreathed in awe. “High King, your wisdom is beyond measure!”
Sharn sipped a little beer. “Oh, I don’t know.” He winked at Ayfa. “Maybe I do get a great notion from time to time . . .”
“When will you contact Nodonn?” Medor asked.
The King’s expression became solemn. “I’ll get hold of Nodonn tonight. Put the whole thing up to him. But he’ll bite— I’d stake my throne on it. When the Gnomish Council hears from me tomorrow, I’ll probably have the whole deal worked out.”
Medor rose to go. “Shall I tell Karbree to dispose of that fellow Tony?”
Skathe looked thoughtful “Let me have him for a while.” She smiled at the dubious looks on the faces of the others “You know me, always a traditionalist to the core. Still—it might not be a bad idea to check matters out, see whether those Howlers are onto something.”
Sharn and Ayfa and Medor looked shocked “Well, you never know until you try,” said the ogress reasonably.
6
IT WAS NEARLY DAWN IN AFALIAH AND THE FIRST EUPHORIA resulting from the conference with the Firvulag King had begun to dissipate.
Nodonn, his brother Kuhal, and Celadeyr were sitting in the ravaged library of the citadel drinking brandy-laced coffee. The floor was littered in rejected AV reference crystals, the aftermath of a near-maniacal search for prisms containing the specifications and flight manual of the ancient flying machines. These had been located at last, filed in the wrong drawer, and now Celadeyr was manipulating the visual display of the big reader while the other two considered courses of action.
“Just look at it,” Celo said, magnifying an internal configuration diagram. “I’d forgotten the big baggage area back in the tail. If you really pack the passengers in, the thing can probably hold two hundred knights. That gives us four hundred crack fighters for your invasion of Goriah! We’ll have that number and to spare by the time Thufan and his Hunt get here from Tarasiah day after tomorrow.”
“It’s Tana’s own luck that the old Thunderhead is qualified to pilot the machines,” Nodonn said. “But you, Celo—”
“I had six hours of instruction back on Duat!” bellowed the veteran. “That’s more than anybody else.”
“A thousand years ago,” Kuhal said, keeping a neutral aspect.
“The flight manual’s perfectly straightforward,” Celo retorted. “And you don’t need any fancy maneuvering. Just take the thing in at hover, screened and invisible, and blast that little gold bastard at close range with the Sword. Fat lot of good his sigma-field’ll do him with the floor cut out from under him!”
“Still,” Kuhal said, “it might be best if one of the younger creators—”
“No time to train anybody from scratch,” Celo insisted. “I can do it, dammit! Stuff me full of calcium pangamate, let Boduragol have a brief go at me to reseat the old piloting reflexes, and I’ll fly like a friggin’ fruit bat in the mating season! Old Thunderfart can check me out before we leave the Vale of Hyenas.”
“If we do,” said Nodonn, frowning as he added more brandy to his cup. “It seems to me that the most critical part of this enterprise may be its inception. Making off with the aircraft without having Aiken Drum learn of it.”
“The kid’s spies are everywhere,” Celo conceded.
“And Sharn told me that the leader of the aircraft technicians wears a golden torc. It seems a foregone conclusion that the Lowlives would prefer Aiken Drum’s rule of the Many-Colored Land to my own. If the people at the Vale of Hyenas aren’t dealt with very carefully, they may well warn Aiken that we have taken the aircraft. Then we would lose the element of surprise in our attack on Goriah. That could be fatal to us.”
“We charge ’em with a Flying Hunt,” Celo said fiercely. “Massacre the whole nest of ’em, just like in the good old days!”
The laugh of Apollo was pitying. “I am not the Battlemaster [ was in the
good old days—and these humans are not the cowering prey of yesteryear, either. They are well armed, and there may be forty or more of them guarding the ships. Not one must be allowed to escape—or even to give the alarm. Even if I had the endurance to carry a full Hunt all the way from Koneyn to the Hercynian Wilderness, I would not attempt such a course. The effort would drain me. I would go into the invasion of Goriah in a dangerously weakened state.”
“But we could hold off until you recover—” Celadeyr began to say.
Nodonn held up a dissenting hand. “Every day that we delay sees Aiken Drum recovering further from his own debilities. Mercy has kept me closely informed of his progress. She even— participates in his healing, albeit against her will. No If we are to vanquish the usurper we must strike as soon as possible.”
“What course do you favor, Brother?” Kuhal asked.
“I’d use only a handful of the most powerful and courageous knights. We would fly north without chalikos on the wings of a metapsychic gale, then smite the Lowlives in the Vale of Hyenas with mindpower rather than physical weapons. No chivalrous confrontation, no Hunt.” Nodonn smiled at the quickly stifled outrage that seeped from the mind of the elderly champion. “So, Celo—now you know the depths to which I’m prepared to stoop. But the Lowlives don’t fight us by the tenets of the battle-religion—so I am prepared to use fair means or foul, myself.”
Celadeyr hesitated, then said, “If you fight Aiken Drum unfairly, our Tanu people may repudiate you. He is the chosen of Mayvar Kingmaker and acclaimed by the Conclave.”
“I’ll meet the usurper according to the ancient ritual,” Nodonn reassured him. “Sword against Spear, resuming the sacred contest that was interrupted by the flooding of the White Silver Plain.”
The old creator’s relief was evident. “That will suffice. As to the aircraft snatch, however:Your proposal is daring, but fraught with peril. This human wearing the golden torc need only broadcast a single thought and you are undone.”
“If only Cull were alive,” the Battlemaster said. “A combatant redactor would be invaluable on a mission such as this, sorting the identities of the alien minds, lulling their suspicions, and quashing their outcries.”
“The really topnotch mindbenders went over to Aiken—or worse, they’re with Dionket and the pacifists. My own Boduragol’s a fine healer, but not really the man for stress situations. None of his underlings in the House of Healing are competent to work bareneck humans. It’s hellish difficult to mind-mash Lowlives when they’re not wearing gray or silver torcs. And the gold-wearer’s a real sticker.”
“If only Mercy were with us!” Nodonn exclaimed. “What we need is a human—to cope with humans.”
Kuhal’s coffee cup hit the table with a small crash. His face had gone radiant. “Of course,” he whispered. “Of course!”
CLOUD: I’m going to do it.
HAGEN: You’re crazy. Or else falling for that exotic on a rebound from poor old Elaby.
CLOUD: Bastard! [Pain.]
HAGEN: Oh, hell I’m sorry . . . But you can’t go throwing yourself away like this! We’re getting so close. Tomorrow we cross the Rif Range, if we can repair the track on the bloody FH-4. I can hardly wait to see the humongous waterfall! After that, how long can it take? We latch up the ATVs, sail across the Med, crawl through the neck of the Balearic Peninsula, and we’re almost on top of Afaliah. We want you there to meet us, luv—not charging off on some half-ass raid with your exotic boyfriend.
CLOUD: I can insure that Nodonn gets the aircraft for his attack on Aiken Drum. If I help the exotics with my redact, it’ll virtually guarantee that none of the human guards will give the alarm. And it’ll save human lives—which is important to me, if not to you. I can cold-cock the lot of them and we can fly them back as prisoners instead of killing them out of hand as the exotics planned. There’s very little danger to me, provided I can avoid getting potted with a Husky.
HAGEN: Husky?! Christ, Cloud! What’re the Lowlife humans doing with real weapons? I thought it was all bows and arrows—
CLOUD: I haven’t got the straight of it. But there are definitely some modern arms being used by both the Lowlives and Aiken’s elite corps.
HAGEN: Fuck.
CLOUD: The little scenario that Kuhal and Nodonn worked out for the Vale of Hvenas should keep me safe enough. I’m not worried.
HACEN: Well, lotsa luck, sister. But, listen! Under no circumstances do you go along on the invasion of Aiken Drum’s magic castle.
CLOUD: No fear.
HAGEN: Think time-gate. Remember that the rest of us are counting on you to mediate with Papa. He’s not going to stay in the tank forever—if that’s where he actually is. When he starts in again with the old hoo-ha, he’s going to be right over here on our necks instead of back in Ocala. If anyone can get round him, you can.
CLOUD: I’ve tried calling him again and again on the i-mode, but he doesn’t answer. He must be in the regeneration tank, Unless . . . Hagen, you don’t think he could have—
HAGEN: Don’t be an idiot.
CLOUD: Well, Felice nearly killed Aiken. And if she did d- jump to North America, she might have got right into the observatory, screens or no screens, riding right up Papa’s peripheral farsense beam.
HAGEN: He’s alive, damn him.
CLOUD: Have you had any success yet farspeaking Manion?
HAGEN: No. Veikko keeps trying, but he just doesn’t pull the watts like old Vaughn on i-mode, and we don’t want to risk an overall hail. Not that any of the others on Ocala would tell us the truth anyhow . . .
CLOUD: They’ve come. It’s time for me to go now.
HAGEN: Take care. Take great care.
CLOUD: And you. Bring me a Tri-D loop of the Gibraltar waterfall if you can. It must be quite a sight...
A party of snipe hunters from the Lowlife camp at the Vale of Hyenas found Dougal. He was still alive nearly a week after the Firvulag ambush, raving in delirium, a pitiful mass of infected wounds and insect bites. He had managed to retrace his tracks nearly twenty kilometers before collapsing on a marshy trail just south of the valley where the aircraft were concealed.
“I would fain die a dry death,” Dougal murmured, as his rescuers dragged him from the mud. “By my troth, Morisca, my little body is aweary of this world.”
“Sometimes I find it medium tedious myself,” drawled Sophronisba Gillis. “How’d you get loose of Orion and the others, suck-face?”
But Dougal only mumbled incoherencies. Later, when they entered camp, he roused briefly at the sight of the two parked flying machines and moaned, “Alas! Poor falcons, towering in their pride of place!” Then he lapsed once more into a stupor.
Phronsie and the other snipe hunters carried the stricken medievalist to the infirmary. Dusk had deepened and the nearly full moon sent bars of searchlight-bright luminescence through the tall sequoias, painting the black aircraft silver. All of Basil’s Bastards who were not on guard duty crowded into the infirmary shelter, where the physicians Thongsa and Magnus Bell worked in vain to restore the recaptured prisoner to consciousness.
“It looks pretty hopeless, Basil,” Magnus said. “Guy’s in shock. In addition to all the surface wounds, I think he may have a ruptured spleen. God knows why he’s still alive.”
“Get these people out of here!” Thongsa fretted.
Basil herded the throng out into the bright moonlit clearing. He said to Phronsie, “We’ve got to find out what happened to that prisoner-escort party. Whether Dougal simply escaped— or whether the party was jumped by Aiken’s people or the Firvulag. Are you sure Dougal didn’t say anything significant? Give any hint that this hiding place of ours might be compromised?”
The statuesque black woman shrugged. “He just spouted a lot of Shakespeare talk. The guy’s usual shtick. Then when we got him back here, he was nattering on a little about the aircraft. Calling ’em proud falcons—some such thing.”
The former Oxford don’s eyes widened. “What did he say? Exac
tly?”
One of the other snipe hunters piped up. “I remember! It was, ‘Poor falcons, towering in their pride of place.’”
Basil’s gaze lifted to the long-legged aircraft with the down-swept wings and empennages, their flight decks tilted like inclined bird necks. He recited:
A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.
“Subhan’llah!” breathed the technician Nazir.
“Er—precisely my own sentiments.” Basil fingered his golden torc. “Oblique though it may be, I’m afraid that Dougal’s little quote admits of only one interpretation. And so—”
“Hey, stop where you are!” came a shout from the other side of the clearing.
Suddenly, there were more voices, and pounding footsteps, and electric torches flicking on and scything in the shadows behind the Number Two flyer.
“Stand still, damn you—or I’ll drop you in your tracks!” Taffy Evans yelled.
The flashlight beams of the converging guards zeroed in on a redwood trunk, where a lone human woman cowered. She shielded her eyes from the light. Then, as a figure in a great hoopskirt and ruff stepped forward and administered a merciless prod with an iron-tipped spear, the intruder burst into tears.
Basil and the others stood thunderstruck.
“Don’t hurt me!” the woman wept. “Please don’t.”
The guards had closed in, and now began to move with their prisoner toward Basil and the large group that still surrounded him.
“She’s really human, at any rate,” Mr. Betsy called out in smug satisfaction. “Not some miserable exotic shape-shifter!”
“Of course I’m human,” the woman waited. She seemed to stumble. Taffy Evans, carrying the stun-gun, shifted the weapon quickly to one arm and caught the prisoner in the other. She smiled at him.
“Keep that Husky on her, Taff!” The incarnation of Queen Elizabeth I was unrelenting in vigilance. “One false move out of her, and you blast!”
“Aw, come on. Bets,” the pilot protested.