The Adversary - 4 (60 page)

"Look-here come the Firvulag artisans with the new trophy, the Singing Stone. Carved from a single huge aquamarine.

Rumour hath it that the thing is already programmed to the aura of Sharn and Ayfa. How do you like that for impudence?"

They were sitting in the Tanu royal enclosure watching the preliminary events. A lavish breakfast buffet had been spread and most of the High Table members and their guests were partaking heartily. The King only nibbled an unbuttered croissant. Elizabeth, whose lower face was still hidden by Brede's heavily gem-encrusted respirator, ate nothing.

She said, "The line in the Song about a 'star of morning' hit a trifle too close to the bone for my taste."

Aiken shrugged. "Marc's probably out there in the mob right this minute laughing himself sick at that cutesy-poo Firvulag folkdance routine going on around the Singing Stone. Florida was never like this."

"I don't suppose he tried to contact you?"

"About making a deal?" Aiken shook his head. "I'll give him credit for that much class. Not a peep. No ultimatum about me opening the Gateway sigma in exchange for his cancelling Gotterdammerung."

"He knows you wouldn't betray the children once you placed them under your protection. He seems to have his own notion of honour."

"Not that it wouldn't be a simple solution to this crock of shit," Aiken said brutally. Tearing a chunk from the pastry, he chewed it in silence for a minute. "All I can do is hope that Hagen and his crew finish the Guderian device before Marc talks the Firvulag around. Once the kids are through to the Milieu, our homegrown Lucifer is euchred. I'll take my chances fighting Nightfall with the Firvulag just as long as Marc isn't leading them in metaconcert."

She said, "Whatever happens-I want to help you. You know I'm blocked against aggressive action, but there's still my farsensing function, and I can heal-"

She broke off, tears spilling from her eyes. The little man in the gold-lustre armour took both her hands in his own. "Why won't you go on Kyllikki?"

She looked away, shaking her head, trying to free her hands.

The King only gripped her more tightly.

"I don't want you here, Elizabeth. I want you safe. Kyllikki sails from Goriah tomorrow night. I'm going to fly you there and put you aboard with the others."

"No! I want to stay here and help you ... and if there's a chance of the time-gate opening-"

"So you'd go back to the Milieu if you could?"

"Wouldn't you?" she demanded hotly, her eyes glaring at him above the diamond mask.

He released her suddenly and she fell back in her chair. There was a roar from the crowd and a storm of laughter and applause.

With the pompous formalities concluded, a troupe of Firvulag comedians were putting on a turn, making perilous mock of the Singing Stone and the upcoming factional rivalry for it. Almost everyone in the Tanu royal enclosure was watching the fun.

Nobody paid any attention to Aiken and Elizabeth.

He answered her question. "I'm the King and this is my land and I'll stay here until I die."

"Let me help you," she begged. "I want to very much, Aiken."

"All right." His agreement was abrupt. "If you'll take off the mask."

"No," she said stubbornly. "These people want me to symbolize Brede, and so I'm going to do it in full fig. Twofaced, just like her."

"Take it off." His black eyes were irresistible fonts of coercion. "Do you think I don't know what's in your mind? You don't want to be Brede, you want to be Saint Illusio the Martyr!

And I'm a little slow on the uptake, so I've just begun to figure out why. But you're not going to get away with it, lass. You'll be no good to me playing weird little games: metapsychic hideand-seek. If you're with me, it's going to be on my terms. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She reached up and unfastened the straps of the jewelled respirator, lowered it, and smiled at him in obvious relief. "It was getting very hot," she admitted. "I don't know what possessed me. It just seemed to be an appropriate gesture.

Comforting. I suppose I was subconsciously hiding."

"That's right." He poured iced wine into a crystal goblet and held it out to her. "And when you discover what you're hiding from, you'll be home free. Now drink this and relax. I'll see you later. It's time for me to be off and get things ready for our own half of the preliminary fun and games."

There were 900 knights in the precision-riding manoeuvre team, and they came proudly onto the field in Guild formations, led by the golden-armoured King on his unique black steed. The chalikos of the company had their coats dyed in heraldic colours and were trapped in gem-studded garniture. Unicorn spikes adorned the mounts' chamfrons and they trailed gauzy lappets of gold or silver to match the floating capes and banner-topped lances carried by the riders. Following Aiken-Lugonn in the place of honour were the violet-and-gold knights of the Farsensor Guild; though few in number, they had been the first to take the King to kin. Then came the combatant redactors in ruby and silver; and the more numerous psychokinetics blazing rosy gold; and the bold sapphire chivalry of the Coercer Guild; and finally the creators wearing lustrous and changeable seahues-cyan and beryl and olivine and deepest ultramarine glass armour. The Shining One took up a position in the middle of the display ground, and the riders manoeuvred about him to the music of curling glass horns and thunderous kettledrums. The gorgeous clawed beasts marched and countermarched and wheeled and curvetted. They performed flashy caracoles and leaps, dancing in ever-changing patterns of colour about the motionless King. Flowers bloomed, rainbow stars exploded and were metamorphosed into abstract swirling designs, and the Tanu and human spectators cheered and ooh'd at each fresh display of equestrian virtuosity.

"Very pretty," sneered King Sharn, "if not particularly impressive from a martial arts point of view." He quaffed the beer in his skull-cup with a mighty gulp and gestured to a dwarf servitor for a refill. "Freshen your lime squash, too, Cousin?"

"No, thank you, Awful King," Sugoll said.

"Tarting up the chalikos with those dye-jobs is a fairly recent innovation you may not have seen before, Cousin. Lowlife golds introduced it at the Muriah games about thirty years ago, when they'd helped the Foe cement their domination of the Grand Combat. But you folks never bothered much with the ritual fighting, did you?"

"It was the reason we originally separated from the main body of Firvulag in my grandsire's day, and retreated to the hinterlands. The annual slaughter of the Combat had begun to seem meaningless to us."

In a low voice, Sharn said, "Don't mention it to the farts on my Gnomish Council-but Ayfa and I felt the same. War's good for one thing: putting yourself on top!"

"As it happens," Sugoll said, "I did attend the games in Muriah once. Last year, and incognito. I had been told that human scientists in thrall to the Tanu might have the technology to alleviate the deformities of my people. Thanks be to Teah the All-Merciful, this has proved to be true."

Sharn tipped a wink at the mutant. "If little Rowane turns out to be a typical refit job, you'll have to beat off Firvulag swains from your girlies with a stick at next year's Grand Loving!

I suppose you'll be candidate for the Skin-tank yourself, now, eh?"

"I will be the last, as is fitting."

Sharn studied the foam in his goblet. "Oh. Well, of course.

But you know, after we win the Nightfall War, we'll have lots more of the Skin you can use. And we'll save the noncombatant redactors to help with your healing if they promise to behave."

Sugoll's illusory eyes regarded the King calmly. "As Teah wills."

"We need you on our side in Nightfall, Cousin. Are you with us?"

"I must do as the Goddess prompts me."

Sharn leaned forward. His face had become ominous in the ornate black-glass helm. "She wills that we conquer, Cousin-and you'd better consider carefully if you think otherwise! Oh, I know what your Lady's been up to. Working on Ayfa, bad-mouthing Firvulag prospects in the war, saying we won't be able to hold our shit together when the Golden Futterbug comes against us in metaconcert ... Well, I'm bighearted, and I'll make allowances for Katy. She's a Tanuhuman hybrid, after all, and probably a secret Peace Faction member to boot. But you've got a Firvulag soul, Cousin, no matter what shape your body is. You belong with us!"

Sugoll said, "We are all children of the Goddess, all of one blood in the great mystery, folk of Duat and folk of Earth fated to share each other's destiny."

"Bosh!" cried Sharn. "Boondock mysticism! While you lot were off in the wilderness thinking noble thoughts, the Tanu crushed our spirits with the help of their human minions. Now it's our turn! We've got the advantage and we're going to win!"

"Look," said the Howler Lord, pointing out onto the tournament field. "Aiken-Lugonn directs the finale of his demonstration."

"A Flying Hunt," Sharn growled. "It figures."

The Firvulag monarch and the mutant stood side by side watching. Out on the golden sand, the small figure on the black chaliko was the centre of a vortex of iridescence. The jewelcoloured knights on their faerie chargers were rising in a great spiral above him, mounting high into the clear blue sky as the blaring horns and the drums rolled to a crescendo.

"Nine hundred knights," Sharn said bitterly, "and he's hoisting them all himself, too, not phasing in a metaconcert."

"Aircraft are approaching," Sugoll noted.

Twenty-six dark flyers with the openhanded golden blazon arranged themselves in a vast diamond pattern above the inverted cone of levitant knights. The rhocraft descended vertically until they floated a scant two hundred metres above the grandstands. The crawling purple network of the forcefields negating gravity's pull could be seen clearly, enveloping the birdlike shapes.

Suddenly, the music stopped.

The small golden manikin dismounted from his chaliko and stood with his arms raised high. The spiralling knights halted as though frozen in the bright transparent air. The spectators uttered a low sound, then were utterly silent.

The rho-fields clothing the fleet of aircraft winked out-and still the dark birds hung in the sky.

"Great Goddess," whispered Sharn.

Softly, the horns sang the Song of the Stone. Then it was finished, and the ships were cloaked again in violet fire and wafted away like a drift of leaves. The Flying Hunt reversed its spiral, swiftly returned to earth, formed ranks, and marched away to a quick beat of drums.

"Are you still confident of victory, Awful King?" Sugoll asked in a mild voice.

The ogre took a hasty swallow of beer. The dwarf with the pitcher came trotting up, a hesitant expression on his applecheeked face. "Majesty, I don't like bothering you ... but he won't go away."

"Who?" snarled the King. "What're you blithering about, Hofgarn?"

"A Lowlife requests audience, sire. A strapping sort of rogue with a very insolent mariner who styles himself Star of Morning.

He seems to think you're expecting him."

"I believe," Sharn said very slowly, "that I am." He turned to Sugoll. "Thank you for attending us, Cousin. I hope to see you after lunch, at the animal races, and at the Goblinade celebration tonight, together with your gracious Lady. You have my permission to withdraw."

The mutant arose, bowed his head, and moved away to join the others at the front end of the enclosure. Sharn beckoned for more beer in a peremptory manner. He took off his heavy glass helmet, ran fingers combwise through his sweaty hair, and said to the dwarf, "Bring the Lowlife to me now, Hofgarn. And see that we're not disturbed."

Late that evening, after Minanonn had farspoken the base at Goriah telling Commander Congreve that the healing of the black-torc children had finally been accomplished, a single aircraft came to evacuate Black Crag. It stood in the garden, long-legged beneath a gibbous Halloween moon, flight deck inclined like the head of a bemused crane, while the excited mothers carried their babies aboard. They were followed by the small teams of redactors and coercers of the Peace Faction, dead-tired but radiating profound satisfaction, and the chalet staff, and the few other residents who had stayed behind after Elizabeth's entourage went away to Nionel. Basil supervised the loading of the last pieces of baggage while Minanonn went through the shut-up lodge on a final tour of inspection.

When the Heretic returned to the garden he found Creyn and Brother Anatoly waiting with Basil at the foot of the boarding ladder. Mr. Betsy stuck his bewigged head out of the bellyhatch and said, "Step lively! I can't wait all night. I've missed half of the Firvulag barbecue at the Field of Gold as it is, twiddling my thumbs while you finished mind-scrubbing these urchins."

Creyn said to Minanonn, "We know that you plan to bodyfly to the Grand Tourney, then join Kyllikki later when she is at sea. Anatoly and Basil and I wish to accompany you."

"I asked that pigheaded durachoka to take me with her," the old Franciscan muttered. "Told her I wouldn't harass her. But she went off and left me." He grinned slyly. "As it turned out, it was providential."

Betsy called down waspishly, "Are you coming or aren't you?"

Minanonn lifted a great hand. "Off you go. We four seem to have other business to take care of."

Betsy sniffed. "Stand clear, then." The ladder withdrew and the hatch slammed shut. The two Tanu and the two humans moved back as the aircraft powered up and acquired its eerie coating of reticulated light. Wisps of acrid smoke came from the charred areas around the landing-strut pads. The bird seemed to lift its head and look skyward. A moment later it lofted straight up into darkness.

The garden was quiet except for a single chirping cricket and the wind in the pines. Minanonn said, "I'm going to the games because I'm an unregenerate old thrill seeker. Somehow. I suspect you three have a rather different motive."

"We love Elizabeth," Creyn said, "and we want to save her from herself. And perhaps forestall the war in the process."

Minanonn's aura of good humour vanished. "Redactive Brother, I won't see her badgered-no matter what noble intentions you may have!"