The Golden Torc

  "I might be able to," said the Public Works Chief, but her tone betrayed doubt.

  "I've seen that place," Khalid said. "It doesn't look anything like the fairytale towers of Finiah did. It's a bloody great cube of marble and bronze about as vulnerable as the Polity Bank in Zurich! Unless Felice checks out as a mountain mover by next week, she's going to find it a helluva tough zap."

  The little athlete had removed almost all of her glass armor and its padding and sat on her rock attired only in a white chemise and a pair of sollerets with golden spurs. She swung her blue-shod feet. Reflections from the gemmed plates of the footgear danced over her delicate face. "I don't know what I'll be capable of next week. But whatever I've got, I'll lay all over those Tanu friggers."

  "You will follow Peo's orders, child," Madame said sharply.

  "Oh, yes." Felice's eyes were wide.

  Basil said, "Whatever Felice's eventual firepower, our best chance of success still lies in the photon weapon. If we can recharge the Spear, we might even demolish the Coercer Guild complex from a distance with a minimum of hazard to our party. We could do it from out in the lagoon, couldn't we, Khalid?"

  "The building is on the northern edge of the city, west of the place where the main rollerway comes up from the docks. One wall of the keep structure is flush with the escarpment. There's a sheer drop of maybe a hundred meters on that side of the peninsula, then a klom or so of dunes and carved-up sediments before the shore of the Catalan Gulf ... What do you think, Claude? You fired the damn thing."

  The paleontologist said, "With a steady platform for the shot, you could zap the building to kingdom come. Or even shoot the cliff out from under it."

  Amerie's voice was low. "If we do it in the wee hours of the morning, perhaps the casualties will be minimal."

  "Getting cold feet, Sister?" the big Native American inquired. "This is war. If you're squeamish, you'd better stay with Madame and Claude."

  The old woman's face was troubled. "It might be best, ma Soeur."

  "No!" said Felice. "You agreed to help where you were needed most, Amerie. And that's with us. We can't risk another stupid disaster like Peo's pig screwing up the assault. This time, the doctor goes along."

  "I'll do my best," the nun insisted. "I told you that I would. Just settle on a plan and I'll follow it."

  "Let me suggest," Basil said, "that we rethink the role of Aiken Drum. Is it really necessary for us to wait until we reach Muriah before contacting him to enlist his help?"

  The rest of them looked at the climber, not understanding.

  "We might try to farspeak him from here," Basil explained. "Let the young man know we're coming. Insure that he's there waiting for us. Perhaps even present the problem of the Spear to him so that he can be thinking about it in advance of our arrival." Madame began to protest, but Basil held up a tactful hand. "I know that Madame Guderian has doubts about her ability to farspeak over great distances—as well as farspeaking on the intimate mode. But it's occurred to me that we might utilize your other friend, Elizabeth, in a telepathic relay."

  "Say!" Claude exclaimed.

  "You did tell us, Madame, that you perceived Elizabeth's farspeech shortly after Group Green arrived in the Pliocene. Surely by now the woman's faculties must have recuperated to the extent that she could receive your own transmission on—er—tight beam, even if it were a bit wavery, so to speak."

  Madame said, "I doubt that I have the competence. Elizabeth's thought flickered past me in an instant. I did not—how shall I say it?—store the data of her mental signature."

  Felice jumped to her feet. "I could help you, Madame! We wouldn't have to farspeak Elizabeth on the intimate mode to get her attention. A simple shout at top volume on the human command mode would do it. All Elizabeth needs to know is that we're out here hollering. Her seekersense could surely zero in on us and then pick up Madame's weakie-squeakie on the very narrow focus."

  The old woman frowned at the eager girl. "Other minds might be equally capable of tracking down the source of our telepathic loud-hail."

  "Not if we handle it my way!" Felice exulted. "What we do—early tomorrow we synchronize timepieces and I go ten or twenty kloms back up the North Road. Then we simulcast at predetermined intervals! If we farspeak that way, the Tanu can't possibly get an accurate fix on the double shout. But an operant like Elizabeth shouldn't have any trouble sorting the mental patterns of the two of us and tracking Madame when she throttles back to the intimate mode."

  "It could work," Amerie said.

  Chief Burke growled, "None of this makes much sense to a poor old redskin shyster like me. But let's try it."

  "It sounds medium crafty," Khalid said, "provided Felice and Madame can mesh brains ... and provided this Aiken Drum can be trusted with our precious petards."

  "You're crazy if you tell him the whole plan," Claude said.

  "Why must you always be so cynical, Claude?" Amerie complained.

  The old man sighed. "Maybe because I've lived so long. Maybe I've lived so long because."

  "Claude," Madame asked, "would you trust Elizabeth's judgment in this matter?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Then it is simple. Tonight we rest, tomorrow we attempt the communication. If we make contact, we will request Elizabeth's own assessment of the character of Aiken Drum and proceed as she advises. D'accord?"

  Her dark glance flashed around the circle. The other ten members of the expedition nodded.

  "That's settled," said Chief Burke. "You leave at dawn, Felice, and we'll schedule the big broadcast for noon. You dress up in your armor and all and take Basil and Uwe and Khalid as your gray-torc escort. Any Tanu get nosy, you're just looking for your Uncle Max among the refugees. While you're putting some distance between us, Madame and the rest of us odds and sods can go down to the Roniah wharf and scout out a suitable boat. Gert and Hansi know the kind of vessel we'll need."

  "Don't be late getting back to camp," Felice cautioned them. "And try to get some more blue lacquer at the Fair. The stuff that Old Man Kawai used to coat the Spear is starting to peel off. "

  They relaxed then, and as the midnight moon came up over the Rhône, Fitharn the Firvulag returned with forage and fresh food. Madame took the gnomish little exotic aside and told him such of their plans as seemed expedient.

  "So you see," she concluded, "that in a few hours most of our people will be embarked upon the river, while Claude and I conceal ourselves near Castle Gateway and await the day when we shall deal our double blow against the Tanu slavemasters. And now you are free to leave us, my friend. Take with you the profound gratitude of our company ... and of all free humanity. Tell King Yeochee what we hope to do. And bid him for me—farewell."

  The little man squirmed within her mental clasp, crushing his pointed red hat between his hands. His alien consciousness, so hard to read even when the screens were down, was now all but walled off. The images that flickered through the near-opacity were colored with conflicting emotions.

  "You are troubled," Madame said softly.

  "Angélique..." The gnome's words and thoughts made a jumble: fear love loyalty mistrust hope doubt pain.

  "Dear little friend, what is it?"

  "Warn your people!" Fitharn burst out. "Tell them to trust no being too far! Even if they are successful, tell them to remember my warning!"

  His face looked up at hers for one last instant. Then he disappeared into the night.

  8

  THE GOLD-TORC LADY and her steward hovered before the Firvulag jeweler's display while the rest of their retinue, guards and serving women, prevented the fairground multitude from pressing too close.

  "I wonder if this one is suitable, Claudius?" the woman asked. "Or is it perhaps so large as to be vulgar?"

  The old gray-torc looked with disdain upon the amber paperweight that the jeweler's assistant proffered on a velvet cushion. "It has," the steward declared, "bugs in it."

  "But they are part of the originality of the piece
!" the jeweler protested. "Caught at the moment of their ancient mating hundreds of millions of years ago! The two insects, male and female, united in their nuptial embrace forever within this glowing gem! Is it not poignant, Exalted Lady? Does it not touch your heart?"

  The lady peeped askance at her steward. "Do you find it touching, mon vieux?"

  The jeweler waxed rapturous. "It comes from the darkest depths of Fennoscandia, from the Black Lake's haunted shores! We Firvulag do not dare to harvest this amber, my Lady. We obtain it"—he paused dramatically—"from Howlers!"

  "Tana have mercy!" the gold-torc lady whispered, eyes wide. "So you really do trade with the wild ones! Tell me, good jeweler ... are the Howlers really as hideous to the eye as rumor has it?"

  "To see one," the artisan assured her, keeping a solemn face, "is to go mad."

  The lady bent a satirical eye upon her silver-haired servitor. "I have suspected as much. Ah, yes."

  The jeweler's assistant ventured to remark, "Some persons believe that this year—because of the unrest y'see—the Howlers have even dared to come south!"

  The lady squealed in alarm.

  Her captal, a huge man with a face like seamed cordovan, slapped his sword hilt. "Now then, Foeman! Beware how you attempt to frighten our noble mistress!"

  "Oh, Galucholl is quite right, brave Captal," the jeweler made quick to say. "And let me assure you that we of the True Folk are quite as alarmed about the matter as you. Te only knows what the ugly devils want. But we shall be alert lest they come slinking among us during the games."

  The woman shivered in delicious dread. "How exciting! How terrible! We will purchase the amber, jeweler. I am most taken with the doomed insect lovers. Pay him, Claudius."

  Grumbling, the steward took coins from his belt wallet. Then his eye fell upon a tray of rings and he began to smile. "We'll take two of those as well, I think. Wrap them up."

  "But, sir!" protested the Firvulag. "The carved-jet rings have a certain symbolic significance that you may not be aware—"

  The old man's icy green eyes blazed under their white brows. "I said, we'll take them! Now get those fornicating termites under wraps and be quick about it. We're going to be late for an appointment!"

  "Yes, yes, right away, Worthy Master. Get a move on, Galucholl, you young lout!" The jeweler bowed to Madame Guderian as he handed the soft pouch to the steward. "Good fortune attend you, Exalted Lady, and may you enjoy your purchases."

  The old gray-torc laughed. In a manner overly presumptuous for one of his status, he took the woman by one elbow and signaled for the escort to close in around their mistress.

  When the customers had disappeared into the crowd, Galucholl said, "Well, he could have been buying the rings for someone else."

  The artisan gave a laugh that bespoke long experience. "Oh, my boy. What an innocent you are."

  ***

  Gert stuck his sandy head and one arm into the tent. "Here y'go, Madame. All sliced neatly in half. Didn't even disturb the poor bugs."

  "Thank you, my son. Claude and I will finish the work. Since it is almost noon, you and the others had best take your positions on the high rocks around our campsite. At the slightest sign of alarm you must notify me so that I can cease the transmission."

  "Right you are, Madame." The head vanished.

  "Here's the message. " Claude held out the ceramic wafer. "Just like yours, but with my signature. You have the cement?"

  She bent over the pieces of amber that lay on the decamole table. "Voilà," she said at last. "It is ready. One for you to carry and one for me, par mesure de'sécurité. I shall keep the one with the pathetic termites, even though you have signed it. It is fitting."

  The two of them considered the message carriers. Shining through the reddish-gold fossilized resin were the words of the sandwiched wafers:

  PLIOCENE EUROPE UNDER CONTROL OF MALIGN EXOTIC RACE. CLOSE TIME-GATE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. IGNORE ANY SUBSEQUENT MESSAGES TO CONTRARY.

  "Will they believe us, do you suppose?" she asked.

  "They can check our signatures easily enough. And, as you said, two witnesses are better than one. Nobody'd ever suspect a straight old lace like me of pulling a hoax."

  They sat together, saying nothing. It was very hot in the closed tent. She brushed a lock of graying hair back from her brow. A rivulet of sweat trickled in front of one ear.

  "You are a fool, you know," she said finally.

  "Polacks are suckers for bossy women. You should have known Gen! Sector chiefs were known to flinch like whipped curs before her black wrath. Besides, I'm too old-fashioned to compromise myself with a piece like you, hiding in a trapdoor-spider burrow for a week with my poor old nuts singing the 'Marseillaise' while the rest of my equipment tries not to stand at attention."

  "Quel homme! C'est incroyable!"

  "Not for Polacks." He consulted his watch. "Fifteen seconds until noon. On your mark, old woman."

  ***

  Elizabeth and Dionket the Lord Healer looked down on the black-torc child in its cot. A fullblooded Tanu, it seemed to the human woman to be older than its actual age of three years—not only because of the longer limbs, but also in the overglaze of suffering on its still-beautiful face.

  The child was naked except for a towel laid over its loins. A water mattress supported the swollen body as comfortably as was possible in this tankless medical technology. The child's skin was a dark red; peripheral body parts such as digits, ears, nose, and lips were almost black with congestion. Beneath the small golden torc, the neck was blistered, clotted with some white salve applied in a futile attempt at soothing. Elizabeth slid into the ruined infant mind. Livid eyelids opened, showing fully dilated pupils.

  Dionket said, "Removing the torc would only make him worse. Then there would be convulsions as well. Note the degeneration of the neural linkages between the cerebellum and the limbic areas, the anomalous circuits from the torc to the premotor cortex, the chaotic firing within the amygdala that has frustrated our own attempts at analgesia. Onset of the syndrome is typically abrupt—five days ago in the case of this boy. Death will ensue within approximately three weeks."

  Elizabeth rested one hand upon the hot blond curls.

  Ah baby there baby lie easy poorlambie let me see let me in to look to help ah there the relentless conduits between gold and charged flesh where misery ramps to and fro poor baby ...ah. See. I quench it sever the controlinterface between highbrain and low admitting peace so rest now wait now and sleep until they come bright to carry thee away poor baby matured at last in the light.

  The small eyes closed. The body relaxed into flaccidity.

  Elizabeth you have removed his pain Tanabethanked.

  Refusing as always to meet his mind, she turned away from the cot. "He will still die. I can bring no cure, only relief until the end."

  But if you stayed longer if you experimented...

  "I must go."

  You could have gone but you have not. Shall I tell you why you have stayed with us even though your balloon waits for you in the room without doors?

  "I have stayed to teach Brede, as I promised." Nothing—no shred of empathy passed her mental screen. But Dionket Lord Healer was old, and there are other ways of reading souls.

  You have stayed with us in spite of your professed disdain in spite of your selfish self because you have been touched...

  "Of course I've been touched! And repelled! And I will go away. Now—shall we continue to waste time in futile sparring, or shall we see whether I can help you with these wretched babies?"

  Elizabeth Brede is so close to understanding her vision if you would only help her to interpret—

  "Brede is a spider! The Host of Nontusvel warned me of that. At least they're honest barbarians, making no bones about their antagonism. But Brede weaves metapsychic webs and I say to hell with her!" The spill of bitterness was swiftly reconfined. "Shall we get on with it, or not? And speak out loud to me, please, Lord Healer."

  He sig
hed. "I'm sorry. Brede—and all of us—have only sought to keep you with us because of our great need. We have not given proper consideration to your need. Forgive us, Elizabeth."

  She smiled. "Of course. Now tell me what percentage of your Tanu children are afflicted with this terrible thing?"

  "Seven. The syndrome that we call 'black torc' may appear among purebloods at any age up until the approximate onset of puberty, after which the adaptation to the torc is presumably in homeostasis. Most of the cases are under four years of age. With the hybrids, there is never a danger of black torc, only of the incompatibility dysfunctions that pureblood humans may experience when wearing the device. Severe though the dysfunctions may be, with careful redactive treatment they can usually be remitted. But we have been powerless to help these black-torc children ... until now. Your execution of the erasures and cutoff was astounding! You of the Milieu are advanced far beyond us in deep redaction. Even if you will not stay—may I hope that you will at least relieve the rest of these suffering little ones before you leave us?"

  O yes? Immerse in more innocent agony breast more wailing dumb endurance so useless unchanneled unproductive evil rending of me and it poor babies why so ungodly why these everbedamned torcs?

  It is our way Elizabeth the only way we know how could we turn away from even this simulacrum of operancy once knowing it could you?

  Their massive egos confronted one another, naked in power for the most fleeting instant before veiling. But she had looked down on Dionket the Healer in her mightiness, and he had abased himself and entreated and offered—what was it he offered?—and he had shown her how many others there were like him.

  Tears started to Elizabeth's eyes. She would have lashed out, but she knew that this man at least was no manipulator. And so her response was gentle.

  "I can't play the role you ask of me, Dionket. My reasons are complex and personal, but there are practical considerations that I will point out to you. The Host of Nontusvel still means to kill me, even though they know that Gomnol's scheme of mating me with the King has been forbidden by Brede. The Host is even more worried now that I might bear children by Aiken Drum—or team up with him somehow during the Grand Combat! You know me well enough by now to see the impossibility of either notion. But the Host think only of their dynasty. Right now, they're too distracted by Combat preparations to mount more than an occasional attack on me, but I'm still not safe sleeping anywhere but in Brede's room without doors. You and your faction could never protect me from Nodonn and a massed thrust coordinated by him. When I'm sleeping, I'm vulnerable. And they're determined. I won't live the rest of my days imprisoned in Brede's house or fending off mindbolts from that pack of mental savages."