Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 96

"Great G.o.ddess," whispered Sharn.

Softly, the horns sang the Song of the Stone. Then it was finished, and the s.h.i.+ps 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 gla.s.s 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 hara.s.s 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 n.o.ble intentions you may have!"

"We won't say a word to her," Anatoly declared. "It's Remillard we're after. We want to track him down-he's bound to be here-and make one last appeal to his better judgment." The priest's eyes flicked to Creyn. "Based on new information received."

"Are you out of your minds?" the former Battlemaster exclaimed.

Creyn was patient. "The three of us probably know Remillard as well as any people in Black Crag-excepting Elizabeth. We're not afraid of him."

"And what we hope to tell him," Basil said, "is hardly likely to provoke-er-adversarious wrath. On the contrary. It just may compel a change of heart."

"For the love of Tana, what is it?" Minanonn asked.

Anatoly lifted his shoulders in Slavic declension. Once again he indicated Creyn, whose mind was closely shuttered. "We can't tell you unless Elizabeth releases this poor besotted lozhn'iy from a rash promise he made."

"But obviously," Minanonn said to Anatoly and Basil, "you two share the secret."

The priest waved a bony forefinger. "Creyn told Basil before he made his promise to Elizabeth. As for me-"

The redactor said, "I sought counsel from Brother Anatoly to ease my conscience when it seemed that larger considerations outweighed the promise Elizabeth extracted from me. His judgment-and we three have pondered it at length-is that I have an obligation to give this information to the Adversary."

"All's fair in love and war," mumbled the old Franciscan, "and this is both, dai Bog!"

Minanonn looked from the redactor to the friar to the alpinist with growing exasperation. "If I were not a man of peace, I'd coerce the three of you to quivering jellyfish and get to the bottom of this."

"Just take us to the Grand Tourney," Basil said. "We'll find Remillard somehow."

Anatoly said, "Both Creyn and Basil know his mental signature, and I'll get by with Siberian guile. They'll finger him and I'll make the overture."

"And he'll kill you," Minanonn said, "as easy as squas.h.i.+ng flies!"

"He's not a demon out of your Tanu legends," Anatoly told him. "He's only a man. He wore my clothes and worked with me in my garden. We talked ... about some of the d.a.m.nedest things. I tell you there's a chance we can change his mind."

The Heretic regarded them bleakly. "You're a trio of lunatics, but I'm going to have to give you the benefit of the doubt. Let's fly. It's a long way to Nionel."

CHAPTER TEN.

On the Second Day, the rivalry between Tanu and Firvulag sharpened and bookies had a field day among the human sports fans, who threw their money away like there was no tomorrow.

Inconspicuous among the throng, the tall man in the white duck pants and black s.h.i.+rt spent the morning watching coracle races on the river (won handily by the Firvulag), the kite fights (a draw), and the first round of the enduro chariot races (top points to Kuhal Earthshaker's team). The man smiled as he caught sight of Cloud up in the royal enclosure, disguised as a Warrior Maid in coercer harness, cheering her hero down the stretch.

In the afternoon there were hammer throws and caber-tossing events, dominated by the thicker-thewed Little People; and a stylized free-for-all between the ogresses and the female Tanu knights, fought on foot, which saw the first Grand Tourney fatalities.

After wandering through the refreshment pavilion the man returned to the riverside bleachers to watch more water sports.

The windsurfer races, although billed as one of the minor events, attracted an unusually large cheering section of gorgeous Tanu ladies, who applauded madly when the Deputy Marshal of Sport introduced a silver-torc contestant named Niccolo MacGregor.

This personage, with all the panache of a bantam rooster, demolished the dwarfish opposition and finished the winning heat handstanding on his surfboard while the exotic women showered his rig with yellow rosebuds.

"It's the King, of course," said a voice at the tall man's elbow.

He turned slightly and saw a lanky old friar in a brown-wool habit sitting next to him on the bench, nibbling a tournedos Rossini.

"That looks good," Marc said.

"Vendor's just around the rear of the stand. Be glad to get you one." Anatoly jingled a shabby purse hanging from his cincture. "I'm flush. Made a killing at the chariot races."

"Thank you-but no."

The priest smacked his lips. "Got real truffles and foie-gras on it. Fantastic! Sure you don't want one?"

"Quite sure." Marc sat at ease, watching the pseudo-Niccolo being carried off in triumph by a squad of statuesque beauties in pastel chiffon. "So the King partic.i.p.ates in the games, does he?"