Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 33

Hearts full, the co-monarchs made the ritual response and declared the manoeuvres at a triumphant end. After that they stood for some time watching as the stretcher bearers and healers and morticians and inspectors and talleymen and salvors and the other homely technicians of war's aftermath did their work. The mock battle had cost twenty-two Firvulag lives; only three were wounded. Every last human prisoner had been slain.

Sharn said, "It was well done. The other captains will profit by this demonstration to the death, and subsequent manoeuvres can be bloodless."

"They'll jolly well have to be, now that the Iron Villages are nearly abandoned," Ayfa said. "We're smack out of prisoners-unless we want to unleash Monolokee the Scunnersome on Fort Rusty."

"Not yet. Mopping up the Vosges Lowlives can wait until Truce time. We'll have to concentrate on important business during the next three weeks. There's the Tourney practice in addition to the Nightfall preliminaries. And Roniah."

The Queen retrieved a golden goblet from the floor, tapped a fresh keg of beer, and resumed her seat. "Still planning to make a big deal of it? Full-scale a.s.sault, with Mimee and all?"

Sharn was still staring down at the battlefield, ham-sized fists resting on his ceremonially armoured hips. "After seeing that we can really use metaconcert-I'm inclined to change the plan.

Since Bardelask, the balance of terror has tipped nicely to our side; we won't need to labour the point at Roniah. As for Mimee, let him loot Bardelask and withdraw, so we seem to be caving in to Aiken's demands. Meanwhile, we take a force of stalwarts and infiltrate carefully along the east bank of the Saone, then make a lightning stab at the citadel from the river side after drifting down in decamole boats. Condateyr would never dream that we'd attempt a water invasion. Too unprecedented for the hidebound Little People! We whip in there fast as weasels, hit 'em with mind-power and blood-metal and hightech zappers, raid the Milieu weapons cache-and streak out with the loot before the garrison can even pull its socks up."

He turned around and grinned at his wife. "And if we strike just before the Truce, Aiken won't have any comeback."

"But the kid will be p.i.s.sed to the wide, and he'll know who to blame-"

"True, but the High Table won't let him violate the Truce by mounting a counterstrike. He's constrained by his adopted Tanu ethics in dealing with usbut we're free to treat him like any other Lowlife!"

Ayfa considered for a moment. "It would be easy to disguise our people as Lowlives for the Roniah action. A little shapes.h.i.+fting wouldn't drain much energy from the offensive metaconcert. And the deception would be enhanced by our use of iron and futuristic weapons. Of course, we'd have to carry away our deaders and be careful not to leave any incriminating equipment behind."

"I like it!" exclaimed Sharn. He picked up his own goblet, gave it a perfunctory wipe with the brocade table-runner, and held it out to Ayfa for filling. After taking a long pull, he studied the jewel-eyed skull of the late Velteyn of Finiah and remarked, "This chap here was really our first fruits of Nightfall, Ayfa. It all began at Finiah, with that very first victory after so many years of ignominy-and was well and truly launched during the Last Grand Combat, even though we were robbed of our rightful triumph. The first event lifted our hearts; the second confirmed our resolution." He looked upon the orange-haired ogress tenderly. "I've commanded Mimee to send up the skull of Lady Armida of Bardelask to make a new matching goblet for you."

She lowered her eyes, feeling a sentimental tear steal down her cheek, and then could not help but say, "Before the rains come, we might even have a whole set!"

Sharn roared in appreciation. The two royals toasted each other and refilled the goblets. Sharn said, "Too bad Aiken's such a shrimp. His skull's barely big enough for an eggcup."

"We can take turns at breakfast," said his wife. "By the way-what did he want this morning?"

The King waved a dismissive paw. "Some drivel about reparations for Bardelask, to be debited against the Grand Tourney prizes. I agreed to everything he asked for. Why not? We can take it all back after Nightfall! ... He came up with one matter that was a puzzler, though. Do we know anything about a Lowlife named Tony Wayland?"

"He was that chap the Worm captured. The one who spilled the beans about the aircraft hidden in the Vale of Hyenas."

Sharn smacked the edge of the table. "That's right. I'd forgotten. Well-Aiken wants us to give the creature back. He claims this Tony is the bosom buddy of a great friend of his.

Even offered to knock off a goodly portion of the reparation if we fork him over right away."

Ayfa scowled as she swirled the dregs of her beer, "Oh, he did, did he? Something stinks here, vein of my heart. Skathe took a fancy to Tony. When I sent her and Karbree down to oversee the Bardelask operation, they carried the Lowlife along.

And they died, Skathe and the Worm, in a most mysterious way ... "

The King nodded. "Lowlife treachery written all over the murders. Mimee was at a loss to account for it. The city was already taken when the half-sunken boat and the bodies were found. So you think this Tony might have-"

"Who knows?" The Queen's face within her lunetted helmet wore a terrible expression. "Have Mimee keep an eye out for him. Pa.s.s the word to the other Little People in the South. If this Lowlife did kill my friend Skathe and the Worm, let's not be in too much of a hurry to give him to the Tanu."

"Well," said the King, "Aiken didn't specify condition of merchandise."

Ayfa leaped over and kissed his bearded cheek. "You always understand."

"Always!" he repeated, catching the gleam in her eyes. He set down his goblet on the table and gently detached hers from her hand. Then the two monstrous armoured forms came together, and the sun-gilded rocks echoed with the clas.h.i.+ng consummation.

Secure in his redoubt of peanut sacks, Tony Wayland watched from the loft of a dockside warehouse as the looting of Bardelask wound down to its fatal finale.

The last packtrains loaded with goods were gathering along the quayside road. Gangs of human captives, half-dead after almost a week of forced labour, now brought up the few remaining treasures to be gleaned from the buildings along the wharf: kegs of oil, alcohol, and dyestuffs, bales of rare leathers, loaf sugar, silken cordage and fabric, coffee beans in jute sacks, and cases of processed spices and precious strawberry jam.

Fortunately for Tony, the Firvulag did not care for peanuts.

And after eating little else for six days, he was getting thoroughly sick of the worthy legume himself.

Through his golden torc, he could hear the dispirited telepathic speech of the grey-torced prisoners. (Anyone torced with gold or silver had been summarily slain.) From Tony's point of view, there was good news. Instead of holding Bardelask and using it as a base for harrying s.h.i.+pping on the Rhone, the invaders had been ordered to withdraw. The leader of the Famorel Host, a malignant gnome named Mimee whose illusory aspect was that of a flightless roc, had exploded in a paroxysm of avian rage at being deprived of this additional source of booty, and had snapped off the heads of twenty-two helpless greys before recovering his self-possession. Somewhat later, Tony learned that Mimee had suffered a second fit of pique when King Sharn cancelled Famorel's partic.i.p.ation in a projected a.s.sault on Roniah. This piece of intelligence helped Tony make up his mind to travel north, not south, when it was safe to leave his hiding place among the goobers.

Meanwhile, he used the time to get reacquainted with his torc.

The golden collar that the late Skathe had given him contained mind-expanding components precisely similar to those in the silver torc he had worn in Finiah. Unlike the silver, however, the golden torc had no slave-circuitry binding him to Tanu control, nor the tracking device that would enable gold-torced persons to locate him with minimal exertion of fa.r.s.ense.

Wearing gold, Tony was free-but once again possessed of the wonderful powers that had made life so satisfying back in lost Finiah.

The enhancement of his modest psychocreative faculty gave him the ability to perform numerous small but useful energymanipulative acts. He could extract water from the air for drinking, and remove it from his clammy clothing when the river mist enveloped his hiding place at night. He could roast the peanuts in their sh.e.l.ls. When it was safe, he could strike a small light without recourse to a permamatch. He could zap fleas or other tiny vermin that dared to infest his person. When the loft grew stifling hot during the day, he could whistle up a cool breeze. If he became bored, the magic collar provided autoerotic amus.e.m.e.nt. It eased the pangs of physical fatigue, made injuries unnoticeable, sent him into refres.h.i.+ng sleep in a trice, woke him if any medium-to-large life-form approached within fifteen metres of his hiding place, banished anxieties, and cleared his head for fruitful planning. With it, he could speak, hear, and dimly see with his metasenses over a range of some 300 kilometres. (This last talent was none too common among silvers; but Tony had had eleven years of practice.) Since Finiah was a bit of a backwater, it had amused him to "collect" the mental signatures of certain Tanu notables whom he met at social occasions in the pleasure dome. Later, he would spy on them during their peregrinations in the open air. To his regret, he could not fa.r.s.ense through stone walls, but it had been diverting to see what the exotics got up to al fresco. Hunts were the least of it!

Now, as Tony waited for the Firvulag to evacuate Bardelask, he began to wonder which, if any, of his old silver-torc comrades might have survived the destruction of Finiah. Where were they now-old Yevgeny and Stendal, c.o.c.ky Liem and stolid Tiny Tim, luscious Lisette and Agnes Virgin-Martyr? Now he could call them ... and for an hour or so, he did. But the signatures broadcast into the aether evoked not a single response. His friends of yore were either detorced or dead, lost in the chaos of changing times. He had no desire to farspeak his former Tanu a.s.sociates, not even those who had called themselves his Creative Siblings. The exotics wouldn't care about him, a single human outcast among thousands of others. They had troubles of their own these days, poor devils-and not a few of them human-caused.

There was Dougal. Mad but loyal, he had been some kind of friend. But Dougal had worn no torc, and by now he was probably maggot-meat in the Hercynian Forest, where Karbree the Worm's patrol had ambushed them. No ... there was only one living soul left in the Many-Coloured Land who might care if Tony Wayland lived or died.

Or did she hate him by now? It would serve him right.

His eyes misted in self-pity and he leaned his head back against the crunchy peanut-sack pillow. Outside the warehouse were the noises of guttural Firvulag commands, whips cracking, h.e.l.lads and chalikos snorting and blowing, the jingle of harness, the thump and thud of loading. It was hot and humid and tedious-time to call upon the torc's solace.

Then he heard an exotic's rage-filled roar. A human shriek bubbled and then stilled. Tony switched to the grey band and heard: d.a.m.nd.a.m.nd.a.m.n look at poorWerner!

Poor sod should know better use figureeight hitch loose load like that bound spillBut to pull his tongue out?

His fault for lipping Spook.

MaryMother he's bleeding death!

Sowhat? Weall be dead soon.

Lookoutlookout here come 3 Jabberwocks OChrist with zappersSickened, Tony shut them out. There was nothing he could do to help the poor doomed b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Wails sounded outside, and curses, and a certain word barked out loudly in the Firvulag language. Then came sizzling chirps from Matsu carbines, one note after another in precise rhythm, until the human babble was stilled.

Tony let the torc's bright comfort cover him. He saw himself crossing the Rhone in a stolen boat, travelling cautiously north on the Great Road, surviving by his wits and the cachet of mental gold. Once the Truce began, the track north of Roniah would be mobbed with sports lovers of all three races, peacefully heading up to the Grand Tourney. It would be safe to travel openly then. He would go up the Saone trail, pa.s.s Firvulag-held Burask (harmless in Truce Time), and finally voyage down the Nonol to the only sanctuary left to him-the city with toadstool domes that gleamed like El Dorado, the city hemmed with meadows and linked to the tournament Field of Gold by a rainbow bridge. The city of monsters, the city of friends. He would go home to Nionel and Rowane.

Rapt in the fantasy, he held her and knew joy. Later he woke to find that the sun had set and it was much cooler. Except for the distant howls of hyenas and the squeaking of rats in the warehouse, Bardelask was utterly silent.

Tony stood up, brushed peanut sh.e.l.ls from his clothes, and went confidently down the loft ladder. Outside on the quay he found what he was afraid he would find. But there was also a stout little wherry, complete with oars, tied up below the devastated s.h.i.+p chandler's shop. After a brief foray for items that the Firvulag had thought too insignificant for looting, Tony was ready to cast off. The boat floated on the placid Ysaar and there was no need to row. The current would carry him to the confluence with the Rhone, less than a kilometre away, and he could camp on the opposite bank of the larger river and start out for home in the morning.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.