City of Golden Shadow (115 page)

And me? Is there a category for Dying Hero?

Fredericks was clutching the arm of Orlando's sim so tightly that he could actually feel pain even through sickness and machinery. He tried again to shake off his friend's grip. It was time to stand up. It was time to the on his feet in the final battle. Thargor would have wanted to go that way, even if he was only an imaginary character.

Orlando rose, trembling. The false Atasco's eyes flicked toward him, then suddenly the feather-crowned head snapped forward as if struck a blow by an invisible club. The God-King body froze again, then toppled swiftly to the floor. The terrified babble of the guests rose once more. Orlando took a few lightheaded, staggering steps, then righted himself and headed across the room toward Nefertiti and her monkey friend. He had to push past the black-clad clown who called himself Sweet William, who was arguing with the shiny robot warrior sim; Sweet William shot Orlando a scornful look as they bumped shoulders.

That idiot would love the Palace of Shadows, Orlando thought. Hell, they'd probably make him the pope.

As he reached Nefertiti, Fredericks caught up with him, clearly unwilling to be left on his own in the middle of this madness. The dark-skinned woman was crouching beside the woman who had been screaming, holding her hand and trying to soothe her.

"Do you have any idea what's going on here?" Orlando asked.

Nefertiti shook her head. "But something has obviously gone wrong. I think we must find a way out." He wasn't sure, but he thought her accent sounded African or Caribbean.

"Finally, somebody who makes sense!" Fredericks said angrily. "I've been. . . ."

He was interrupted by a shout of surprise. All turned to the front of the room, where the white specter of Sellars' sim had reappeared. It raised its formless hands in the air, and the people nearest it drew back in fear.

"Please! Listen to me!" To Orlando's relief, it sounded very much like Sellars. "Please, we do not have much time!"

The sims crowded forward, already calling out questions. Nefertiti banged her fists on the table and shouted for silence. A couple of others joined her-including Sweet William, Orlando was surprised to see. After a few moments the room quieted.

"I do not know how, but we seem to have been discovered." Sellars was laboring to sound calm and just barely succeeding.

"The island-the Atascos' real-world estate-is under attack. Our hosts are both dead."

The robot wearer cursed in floridly fluent Goggleboy. Someone else shouted out in surprise and fear. Orlando could feel hysteria rising around him. If he had felt like his normal Thargor self, it would be time to start slapping some quiet common sense into some of these ninnies. But not only didn't he feel like Thargor, he was pretty terrified himself.

Sellars was riding the panic, holding it down. "Please. Remember, the attack is happening in Cartagena, Colombia-in the real world, not here. You are in no immediate danger. But we cannot be found out, or the danger will be very, very real. I will assume that this attack is the work of The Grail Brotherhood, and that they know what they are looking for. If so, we only have minutes before they will be upon us."

"So what should we do?" It was the monkey, his lilting voice calmer than anyone else's. "We have barely begun to speak of Otherland."

"Otherland? What the hell are you babbling about?" shouted the woman who had earlier railed at Atasco. "We have to get out of here! How do we go offline?" She scrabbled at her neck as though attacked by invisible insects, but plainly could not find her neurocannula.

There was another eruption; clearly no one else could leave the simulation either. "Silence!" Sellars raised his hands. "We have moments, only. If your identities are to be protected, I must do my work. I cannot stay here and neither can you, Temilún will not be a sanctuary-the Brotherhood will tear it to pieces. You must get out and into Otherland. I will work to keep you hidden until you can find a way to escape the network entirely."

"But how will we even get out of this place?" Nefertiti, like her four-legged familiar, was doing a good job of controlling her emotions, but Orlando could hear the crack threatening to widen. "This Temilún is as big as a small country. Are we going to run to the border? And how do you go from one simulation to another here, anyway?"

"The river is the boundary," Sellars said, "but it is also a route from one simulation to the next." He paused for a moment, thinking, then bent to Atasco's sim where it lay on the flagstones. He came up a moment later with something in his hand. "Take this-it's Atasco's signet ring. There is a royal barge, I think, down at the port"

"I've seen it," Orlando called out "It's big."

"Remember, Atasco is the God-King here, the master. If you command it with his ring, they will take you onto the river." Sellars handed the ring to Nefertiti. Orlando felt another wave of stifling, muzzy warmth roll through his body. His eyes sagged halfway closed.

"Just sail on the river?" Sweet William demanded. "What is this, Huckleberry friggin' Finn? Where are we going? You got us into this, you bloody little man-how are you going to get us out of it?"

Sellars held out his hands, seeming to offer a benediction more than to plead for silence. "There is no more time for talk. Already, our enemies are trying to breach the defenses I have thrown together. There is much I still need to tell you. I will do my best to find you again."

"Find us?" Fredericks took a step forward. "You're not going to know where we are?"

"There is no time!" For the first time Sellars' voice rose to a shout "I must go. I must go."

Orlando forced himself to speak. "Is there anything we can do to stop these people-or at least find out what they're doing? We can't . . . can't have a quest without something to quest for."

"I was not prepared for this." Sellars took a ragged breath; his shapeless form seemed to sag. "There is a man named Jonas. He was a prisoner of The Grail Brotherhood, his mind held captive in a simulation. I was able to reach him when he dreamed. I helped him to escape. Look for him."

"We supposed to sniff for some sayee lo net-knocker?" The battle-robot waved its arms, flashing the razor-sharp blades at its joints. "While someone try to six us? You far far crash!"

"I can't believe I have something in common with Bang-bang the Metal Boy here," said Sweet William, a thin edge of panic in his voice, "but I agree. What are you talking about?"

Sellars raised his arms. "Jonas knows something-he must! The Brotherhood would have killed him already if he weren't important. Find him! Now go!"

The chorus of questions began again, but Sellars' sim abruptly flared and then disappeared.

Fredericks shook his head miserably. "This is horrible-like some kind of story where everything ends wrong!"

"We have to get going." Orlando grabbed his friend's arm. "Come on-what choice do we have?" He saw that Nefertiti and the monkey were helping their friend to her feet "We're going with them." He stood, taking a moment to be sure he had his balance. The fever had receded a little; he felt weak, but more clearheaded. "We're going to the ship, just like Sellars said." Orlando made his voice louder. "The rest of you can do what you want. But I wouldn't stay here until they managed to trace me. So if you're coming, follow me."

Sweet William swept his cloak back over his shoulder. "Oi, sunshine, who died and made you Mister Happy?"

The monkey had climbed back onto the table. "The time for arguing is over," it said. "This man is right-go or stay."

"We can't just go charging out of here." Nefertiti was frowning. "If we do that, someone will come in to investigate."

"Investigate?" The woman on the other side of the table had a slightly hysterical sound. "They're already investigating-he just said so!"

"I'm talking about here," said Nefertiti. "Outside, in the real world, the Brotherhood or whoever has shut Atasco down. But in here, the people of Temilún don't know they're not real, and they don't care a bit about what's happening in RL. They think we're here having a meeting with their king or whatever. If we go thundering out like something's wrong, we'll never make it to the docks."

Orlando nodded slowly, revising his earlier high estimation upward. "Hide the body," he said. "Both the bodies."

It took more than a few minutes, since within the simulation the deserted sims had the weight and heft of corpses-corpses in advanced rigor mortis, as Orlando noticed while helping to trundle the unwieldy, seated form of Mrs. Atasco, which made their task even more difficult. What little strength he had was waning quickly in the struggle with the bodies, and he had no idea of how far they would have to travel. He surrendered to Fredericks his position as impromptu pallbearer and joined the search for a hiding place instead. The baboon discovered a small anteroom hidden behind a screen and the rest gratefully bundled the Atascos' sims into it.

Despite Sweet William's obvious discontent, the party then fell into line behind Orlando and Nefertiti. "Now, act calm!" the tall woman said as she reached for the door.

The guards stepped back as the guests filed out. Orlando saw with approval that Fredericks, though unhappy, was maintaining a stiff but impenetrable expression. Some of the others, however, were not hiding their anxiety quite so well, and the proximity of the sharp-eyed guards was not helping matters. Someone behind Orlando was trying to choke back a sob; the guards heard it, too, judging by the way their heads were swiveling to find the source of the noise.

Orlando stepped toward what he guessed was the captain, the guard with the highest helmet and longest and most brilliant feathered cape. He searched his game-playing lexicon for words that sounded properly melodramatic.

"Our requests were refused," he said. "The great and holy one, in his wisdom, has told us the time is not yet correct" He hoped he sounded both disappointed and yet honored beyond belief even to have been granted an audience. "Blessed is he."

The guard captain cocked an eyebrow. Sweet William stepped forward, all tassels and points, and the captain's other eyebrow went up as well, while Orlando's heart traveled in the opposite direction. "Yes, blessed is he," said the apparition in black, with a fairly convincing stab at humility. "In fact, our poor embassy has angered him, and while he has kindly restrained his wrath so that we may return to our country and tell our masters the God-King's will, his displeasure with our masters is great. He commands that he will not be disturbed until sunset."

Mentally, Orlando put a check beside Sweet William's name. The guy was quick and smooth when he wanted to be, you had to give him that.

The captain did not seem entirely convinced. He fingered the stone blade of an ax that despite evidence of more modern technologies all around, did not look at all ceremonial. "But it is already sunset."

"Ah," said Sweet William, momentarily nonplussed. "Sunset"

Orlando jumped in. "Our command of your tongue is very poor. Doubtless the God-King meant 'sunrise.' In any case, he did not wish to be disturbed." Orlando leaned closer, in best conspiratorial fashion. "A word to the wise. He was very, very unhappy. I would not want to be the man who interrupted his thoughts and made him even more unhappy."

The captain nodded slightly, still frowning. Orlando rejoined the line at the back, just behind Sweet William.

"Not bad, chuck," William stage-whispered over his shoulder when they were out of earshot."We could be a team-end of the pier, leave 'em laughing. You sing?"

"Keep walking," said Orlando.

When they reached the rotunda just inside the front doors, Orlando hurried forward. The tall woman was clearly chafing at the slow pace of her disabled friend, but was doing her best to maintain an air of deliberate dignity.

"Do you know where we're going from here?" Orlando asked in a whisper.

"Not a clue." She looked at him briefly. "What is your name? You said, but I've forgotten."

"Orlando. What's yours?"

She hesitated, then said: "Oh, God, what difference does it make now? Renie."

Orlando nodded. "I've been calling you Nefertiti. Renie is easier."

She gave him a strange look, then after a moment looked down at her long-fingered hand. "Ah. The sim. Right." She glanced up. The huge doors loomed. "Now what? Do we just mill around in front trying to figure out where the docks are? But even if we find out, how do we get there? I know they have buses-I rode on one-but somehow it seems like a strange idea trying to escape for your life by bus."

Orlando pushed at the doors, but could not get them open. Fredericks added his weight and they swung wide, revealing a mall lined with streetlamps stretching out from the bottom of the wide staircase.

Orlando was already feeling a little short of breath. "Escaping by bus won't be the strangest thing that's happened to us so far," he said.

"And it probably won't be the worst either," noted Fredericks.

Felix Jongleur, these days more frequently known as Osiris, Lord of Life and Death, was trying to decide where he was.

This was not the confusion of someone stupefied or geographically confused, but rather a fairly difficult philosophical proposition; in fact, it was a question with which he often wrestled in idle moments.

What he saw all around him was the stark grandeur of the Western Palace, its looming windows filled with eternal twilight. Flanking the table before him stretched the double line of animal faces that represented his collaborators, the Ennead. But even as he took a deep, contemplative breath in the Western Palace, his actual flesh-and-blood lungs were doing their work in a sealed hyperbaric chamber within the highest tower of his secluded Louisiana estate, along with the rest of his body. (The lungs were aided in their labors by some of the finest medical equipment that money could buy, for the god's lungs were very, very old, but that was the crux of an entirely different metaphysical enquiry.) So as always, the question remained this: where was he, Felix Jongleur-that which observed, the hot white point at the center of the candle flame?