"Introduction,” Havoc said formally. “I am Hayseed, and this is my troupe."
"Acknowledged,” the green man said curtly. “Bramble. State your business here."
"We wish to visit your central cone."
"Our standard sightseeing tour will accommodate that."
"We wish to actually set foot on it."
"Negation. The cone itself is banned."
This was unexpected. “We must obtain permission for this visit. It is important to us."
"Why?"
That was awkward. “We understand there may be an object there that would be useful to us."
"What use?"
"We don't know. We hope to find out once we get it."
"Denied.” Bramble turned away.
Havoc suppressed his ire. As king he could command approval of his visit, but he did not want his office known. Neither did he want his specific mission known. How were they to get around this obstructionist?
Havoc needed to settle this matter quickly, so he read Bramble's mind. He verified that the man was correct: the cone itself was off limits to visitors and natives alike. But why? That was not clear.
"We have traveled several days to come here,” Havoc said. “We require more than an arbitrary denial of our mission."
"You have no rights in this zone,” Bramble said, not bothering to look at him again.
"Still, there should be specific reason given. What is so secret about that cone?"
Bramble did not deign to answer, but Havoc's pointed question focused his mind on it, and Havoc read the answer: The high-magic area immediately around the cone was a reservation for a rare species of bird. The birds were not to be disturbed. This dated from a deal forged centuries ago, following trouble between humans and the birds. There had been conflict as humans moved into bird territory, and the birds resisted displacement. They were unusually intelligent and motivated, were a significant local force. The deal gave them the territory closest to the cone, and the larger area beyond it to the humans. That had brought peace, and the trouble had stopped.
Havoc probed further, and learned that the present leader of the birds was a large male named Avian. Only Avian could approve human intrusion into that region. And there was the key.
"I want to meet with Avian,” Havoc said.
Bramble's head snapped about. “What do you know of that?"
"That is my concern. Avian is the one who can grant me and my troupe access. I have a right to deal directly with him. Now will you approve my passage to meet him, or must I ask for your supervisor?"
The green man stared at him a moment. Then, reluctantly, he yielded. “I will convey your party there—and back here when you are turned down. You will then depart without further nuisance."
"Agreement."
They boarded a capsule, and large trees picked it up with long stout tentacles and passed it from one to another until it reached a cleared field in sight of the massive green cone. Now they would have a new challenge: convincing a bird to let them in.
They walked out onto the field. “Avian,” Havoc said. “I have need to meet with you."
In a moment a large green bird appeared, flying in a peculiar semi-rotary manner. It seemed to have three wings, only one of which moved at a time. Havoc was fascinated; he had seen flying creatures before, but never any quite like this. It looked as if one wing propelled it forward while a second projected behind as a stabilizer or rudder, and the third whipped forward for the next stroke. The wings never reversed; all motion was in one direction around the globular body. Before he could analyze it further, the bird landed on one wing, which extended three stout claws to grip the ground, and stood before him. It stared at him with three eyes.
Avian it thought. It was not so much a word as a concept; this creature had no spoken language.
"Introduction,” Havoc said aloud, focusing his thoughts. He also wanted the others to be party to the dialogue. “I am Hayseed, and this is my troupe."
Also Havoc, king of your species, with your fiancée, mistress, and assistants. Again, not phrased in words; it was a single concept, Havoc's identity merged with authority.
Havoc paused. The bird had discovered his private identity! Not even a mind reader should have been able to do that. So news must have leaked out as they traveled. Unless there was more here than seemed likely.
"Leave me my secrets, and I will leave you yours."
Agreement. A blip of acquiescence.
"I have need to go to the Green Volcano cone to fetch an ikon. That is all I want; we will do no damage to your territory."
You want too much.
So this was not going to be easy. “We prefer to acquire it peacefully, but must have it regardless. If we are unable to make a bargain with you, we shall have to proceed despite you."
So the other humans thought when they first came here. Again, it was mostly an image of some past conflict, with a human body lying on the ground. There had indeed been conflict. The birds were not patsies for aggression; they could fight effectively when they had to.
Havoc did not underestimate the threat. With three martial artists in their group, and a veiled Glamor, and human ingenuity, they might win through to the cone—but they would take losses. Suppose Symbol died? Or Gale? “When differences can not be resolved by discussion, and force brings unpleasant consequences, sometimes compromise can be achieved by mock force."
Confusion.
"Do you understand gaming?"
Flight games.
"Fight games."
Confusion.
Havoc realized he was up against a cultural difference. The birds did not fight the way humans did and did not have competitive play. He struggled to find an analogy. Then he had it: “When two males approach the same female, what do they do?"
Avian formed a picture of ritualized strutting. The one who strutted best impressed the female, and gained her favor.
"But if a common enemy came during that contest, both would oppose it together,” Havoc said. “They do not hate each other, they merely contest for advantage."
Strutting, Avian agreed.
"Now you and I are contesting for something. I must go to the green cone; you wish to balk me. I have no animus against you, and I think you have none against me; we merely represent different viewpoints. We do not wish to hurt each other, but each wishes to prevail. We must have a strutting contest."
To mate with a female?
"No. To gain status, authority, so that the one who prevails can do what he wishes to do. Like a mating, only different."
It took some further discussion, but Havoc was finally able to get across the concept of competing for something other than the favor of a hen. Of avoiding real combat in favor of strutting. Avian agreed to this. Then they worked out the details. Tomorrow they would strut.
"You have come to an accommodation with the birds!” Bramble said, observing it. “I thought that impossible."
"Hayseed is something else,” Gale said, smiling. “Now we shall have to camp the night here. Can one of us make a trade for food?"
"A trade?” Then he caught on. “Which one?"
"I'll do it,” Symbol said. “I will keep you amicable company this night, if you will authorize a good meal for my companions."
"You're invisible!"
"But tactile.” She took his hand in a manner that had become familiar, setting it against her breast inside her shirt. “In the dark, do you care?"
They got their green food, and a comfortable shelter with several chambers. Symbol got a night in a relatively luxurious plant house, doing what she did so expertly. Havoc knew she could keep Bramble well satisfied. He also knew she was doing it for him, Havoc. Some day, he thought, he should ponder the nuances of openly spending a night with one man for the sake of loving another.
Meanwhile the others had a battle strategy to work out. “Avian is telepathic,” Havoc said. “The other birds may be too. We're not going to be able to sneak by them, and I thi
nk we can't outfight them. We'll have to outsmart them. That means I can't tell you all of what's on my mind, because they may read it in your minds. We'll have to fragment our strategy, so that no bird can read it all. Some of you are apt to die. Fortunately it won't be permanent."
They established the basics. Then the others turned in, and Havoc consulted with Gale by private mind reading.
At last he rejoined Stevia and Ine for the night. They pounced on him, stripped him, stretched him out, and gave him a full body massage. “You need your strength for the morrow,” Ine explained.
I will not use Glamor powers on your behalf, Stevia thought. But I will use Gray Chroma powers.
Understanding, he thought back.
I do want you to succeed.
This is not a goose chase?
It is not. And of course the Red Glamor knew that; this was her mission.
They completed the massage, and his body was marvelously relaxed. Ine lay to his left, Stevia to his right, both bodies softly pleasant against him. They had done something nice, sparing him heroic sex this time. He appreciated that. He composed himself for sleep—and found that his mind remained taut. There were too many unknowns, too many mysteries, too many things that did not quite add up. Avian—that bird was entirely too smart. Havoc would do his best, but was not at all sure he could prevail. Stevia—why did the Red Glamor bother with mortal business at all, now that he knew her identity? The seven ikons—what was their underlying nature, and how were they supposed to be used? What was he missing, that he should understand and deal with?
Stevia put a hand across his eyes. You are not relaxed, she reproved him.
Affirmation.
I can distract you.
That had the opposite effect. He did not want to be distracted into oblivion. Yet it was disconcertingly tempting. He had a certain illicit hankering for that devastatingly lovely and powerful creature.
I hanker for you too.
But to oblige that hankering would finish him. He knew it. It would be like stepping into a void.
If I am to address you, I need a filter. Sleep will enable it.
Sleep is what I need, he agreed.
I will give you a lucid dream. That you will survive.
A dream?
A lucid dream. Of me.
He tensed again. That was treacherous.
Her hand pressed down against his forehead. Sleep.
He felt himself going down, down, borne by her hand, sinking into slumber. His consciousness of his physical surroundings faded. It was as though he were descending to some nice retreat, leaving the cares of waking life behind. Stevia was indeed making him relax.
But not entirely. The troubling mysteries of the mission remained, and he had not yet fathomed their nature. He could not leave them unfinished.
Then his body seemed to turn, and to sail forward. There was light ahead, shrouded by curtains. The curtains parted, and he entered a plush bedroom chamber.
There lay the Red Glamor, resplendent in a red negligee. “Welcome, Havoc,” she said, sitting up with a smile.
He looked around. “Where am I?"
"In your dream. Your lucid dream."
"A dream?” he repeated blankly.
"Lucid dream,” she repeated. “When you know it is a dream, and have free will within it. You govern it. But your body remains asleep."
"I am asleep?” He felt stupid. It was not a comfortable feeling.
"You are asleep,” she agreed. “Focus a moment: feel my hand on your forehead."
Havoc focused, and lifted part of the way out of sleep. There was the pressure of her hand on his forehead, as she said. His body was asleep. But it was difficult to maintain that awareness, and in a moment he sank back to the dream chamber. He was consciously dreaming.
He gazed at the Red Glamor. If there was a more perfect figure of a woman, he was unable to imagine it. Her negligee faded out and she was nude, red from hair to toes, every part sculpted to ideal proportion. Face, hair, limbs, breasts, belly, bottom—there simply could not be better than this. “So I am seeing you in my conscious dream. I can safely embrace you here, without—” He hesitated, coming on an ugly parallel.
"Without having your soul sucked out,” she agreed, completing his thought. “I am not a succubus, and have no such design on you."
"Apology."
"Needless. It is a fair parallel. In direct waking sex I would leave you your soul, but claim your love, and that would make a shell of your relationship with Gale. She is a good match for you, and my own romantic inclination is elsewhere, so I do not wish to blunt you in this way."
"But I can't marry Gale!” he protested in sudden anguish.
"We don't know that. Why would changelings be generated who could not breed with each other? Why make them so they are attracted to each other, in that case? And if they should not breed, why not make them sterile, or at least mutually infertile, so there is no problem? So it seems to me that you need have no such concern. If you can breed with her, it is because it is safe to do so."
Havoc liked that notion. “You offer me comfort."
"This is my intent. I want a no fault liaison with you that I can enjoy without damaging you. I had some of it as Stevia, muted by the participation of Ine, so that you were not harmed. Yet it is not complete unless you know it is me, and therein lies the danger. It must be no fault for you also."
Yet she was so scintillatingly lovely that he was smitten just by seeing her. “I am in doubt it can be."
"I share your doubt. So we must take another derivative."
"Derivative?"
"A mathematical concept wherein a level of reality is reduced to a symbolic aspect deriving from it, useful because it simplifies certain interactions."
"Like a dream!"
"In this situation, yes. Since the first derivative remains unwieldy, we must take another. Perhaps that will enable us to perform safely."
The prospect was intriguing but unsettling. “Confusion. How is such a derivative taken?"
"Explanation: like this.” She approached him, put her hands on his shoulders, drew him in to her, and touched his lips with hers. It was not a kiss, just a trace contact, but their surroundings faded away.
There was light. They were floating or flying toward a bright patchwork of color. His hand was in hers, and they were both bare, but neither cold nor hot. She remained ethereally lovely, a sculpture in red.
He looked at the patchwork, and suddenly recognized it. “This is Mystery!” he exclaimed."
"Counter-Charm,” she agreed. “I have a bower there."
"And this is another dream."
"Or a vision. The dream is of our lips touching; this is our imagination."
It was some vision. Planet Mystery was closer than he had ever before seen it, its colors brighter and more variegated. He could see the wavering edges of Chroma zones, and the outlines of lakes, and shadowed mountain ranges, and the furry vegetation clothing much of it. So much like Charm itself, yet so different too. A companion world, shrouded in mystery.
"How much of this is real?” he asked as they drifted closer, the huge orb expanding proportionately.
"How much of a derivative is real? All and none, depending on perspective."
"I mean, are we really coming to Mystery, in ghostly form, or is it merely a painted picture?"
"It is as we see it. Reality has a different meaning in a dream vision."
"But there must be something essential, regardless of interpretation. I want that point to fix on."
She became impatient. “If you got too much of a glimpse of reality, you would suffer this effect.” Her body became intensely clear, and his gaze was locked onto that clarity, dazzled by it. Fire surrounded her, burning his eyes; he felt the flames in the eyeball sockets, small furnaces destroying the contents. Then it faded, and he was blind.
"But this is a second derivative, so you are not harmed,” she said. And the scales fell from his eyes, and he saw again. She wa
s as before, and they were now closer to the planet, so that he could make out the outlines of large trees in and out of the Chroma zones.
"Apology,” he said.
"Needless,” she repeated. “Just accept that there is a purpose in this derivative, and do not seek to negate it. This realm is as real as it needs to be."
He did have to accept it, so he shelved his question for another time. He studied the expanding landscape, comparing it to his eidetic memory map of Mystery. It was definitely Mystery, but with far more detail than he had ever seen before. He would retain the added detail, so that he could better understand the terrain at leisure.
She brought him around the planet to the side unseen from Charm. It was similar to what he knew, but new. There was a spot where several Chroma seemed to overlap, as if a number of small volcanoes merged their offerings. It resembled a nonChroma region because of the variety of colors. But with a difference. Trees were red, blue, green, brown, silver—all colors, but each individual was a single color. Monochrome tree by tree. He had never seen that before. Did it really exist?
They came to rest in a bower beneath a Red Chroma tree. They lay beside each other, half supine, facing. “Are we safe now?” she asked.
Could he have sex with her without freaking out? He wasn't sure. “Uncertain."
"Then we shall talk. What distraction remains on your mind?"
"Why did you come to me?” he asked.
"You summoned me."
He had told a story about a Blue man, a Silver woman, and a Red child. The adults had accepted a mysterious mission for the sake of beautiful bodies that they lacked in their natural states, and come across the child, recently orphaned, and helped her at the cost of their own business. They thus forfeited the bodies, and became as they were, lame and unappealing. But then the child had taken ill, and they appealed to the Black Glamor for help. He came as the child metamorphosed into the dawning Red Glamor. She then adopted Blue and Silver as replacement parents, guaranteeing their welfare, including the good bodies. When he finished the tale, both the Black and Red Glamors had appeared and supported him as king, guaranteeing his continuation in office. So he had summoned her, unwittingly. But she had hardly had to answer his beck. “Question?"