The Adversary

by Julian May

  "We'd planned to pub-crawl," Yosh said. "But first, we're off to visit my neputa works. I've been out of town so long, the crafters have probably managed to screw things up. Sneak inspections keep people on their toes. Besides, the shop's right next door to our favorite groggery, the Mermaid."

  Aiken lifted a hand. "Ah. Well, have a good time, guys." He began to turn away.

  Raimo said impulsively, "Aik. Come along! Forget this king shit for one friggerty night."

  "I'll cramp your style."

  "Just get rid of the royal threads," Raimo suggested.

  "Like this?" Aiken asked. There was a subdued flash. His magnificent golden outfit disappeared. He wore frayed khaki shorts, calf-high reefwalkers with tabi toes, and a grubby yellow t-shirt imprinted DALRIADA WINDSURFER RACING TEAM. His distinctive physiognomy was hidden under a ratty straw sombrero and he had a silver tore about his neck.

  "Climb in, kid," Raimo said, "and we'll show you the big city." He whipped up the hellad and they were off, clopping over the great glass drawbridge and onto the winding road that led through the castle park. Even before they emerged onto the boulevard that had its terminus at the central Gyre of Commerce, they heard the laughter and shouting of roisterers, the cries of vendors, and strolling musicians playing flutes and fiddles and electronic accordions.

  The Gyre was so crowded that their carriage moved at a snail's pace. Most of the pedestrians were human; but there were plenty of Tanu strolling about as well, and Aiken recognized a number of Most Exalteds who had pleaded urgent business as an excuse for leaving his party early. All of the shops around the periphery of the ring were open. The centralarea was thronged with the colorful booths of freelance artisans and the purveyors of novelties, flowers, Milieu jumble items, and other ephemera.

  "Something missing." Raimo frowned, thinking. Then he snapped his fingers. "The Firvulag sellers! Remember, Yosh? Before we left with the caravan for Bardy-Town, the Gyre had plenty of spook ven dors at the night market. The Armistice brought 'em outof the woodwork, peddling their baubles and bangles and funny mushrooms and weird booze. But they're gone—!"

  Yosh glanced at the King, who merely nodded, frowning.

  "Ices! Raspberry ices!" a nasal voice was calling.

  "That sounds good," Raimo remarked with enthusiasm. "How about you guys?" He stood up tall on the driver's perch, emitted an earsplitting whistle, and held up three fingers. The vendor grinned as a coin wafted toward him over the heads of the mob. Presently Raimo's PK took hold of three cups piled high with rosy slush, which made a safe journey to thecalèche. They rode on, nibbling at the concoction.

  "Damn good," said the King, licking his lips. "We ought to sponsor that joker at the Grand Tourney. Set him up with a refreshment stand, lots of different flavors. A new snackitem like this would go over big with the fans."

  "I'll see to it," Raimo said. "Old Guercio will be thrilled to death."

  He guided the hellad into a side street. Though less crowded than the Gyre, it was still thick with pedestrians heading for the famous Mermaid Tavern and other places of entertainment. "The workshop's right here," Yosh said, bending down to pound loudly on a courtyard door with his bronze-clad samurai fan. Two ramas swung the portals wide and Raimo drove the calèche inside. As the doors closed behind them the noise level dropped bysixty decibels. The courtyard was dimly lit by two hanging sconces of flaming oil.

  "Nobody about this time of night, of course," Yosh remarked as they piled out of the carriage. "But the monks'll usher us in." His telepathic voice spoke expertly to the two small apes. One hurried to unbar the door to a barnlike structure while the second fetched a big twenty-second-century-vintage electric lantern.

  They entered the workroom, and Aiken exclaimed in surprise at the sight of huge sheetsof paper hanging from the walls and ceiling, all elaborately painted with vivid, swirlingfigures locked in mortal combat. "It looks like another kite factory!"

  "Close, but no cigar," said the samurai warrior. "Neputa are a kind of gigantic lantern, carried along in a traditional harvest parade in the Japanese city of Hirosaki on Old Earth. I've modified the design slightly, and we'll have ours rolling alongon wheeled floats. But they'll be gorgeous, believe me!"

  He showed them a painting in preparation, laid out flat on the clean floor. It was approximately fan-shaped in outline and six meters high. The special paper had a design of graceful flowering trees and a Tanu knight mounted on his chaliko destrier. This had been rendered with bold strokes in black sumi ink, giving an effect similar to the leading of stained glass. Next, certain more delicate interior details were painted with hot wax; these would remain translucent when textile dyes added color to the composition.

  "Fairly decent brushwork," Yosh noted. He wandered about, commenting on the completed paintings, which featured a potpourri of Japanese, Tanu, and eclectic themes. "We can ship these giant lanterns to the Field of Gold disassembled. When the neputa are put together, you'll have two large pictures on front and rear and smaller decorations along the sides. The illumination comes from hundreds of candles suspended from the inside framework in glass cups. When you get a parade of sixty or seventy of these things circling a field to the music of flutes and drums, it's a spectacle to remember." He winked at the King. "And verrry economical."

  "I love it!" Aiken exclaimed. "Let's go have a dram and celebrate."

  "What say we leave the carriage over here, out of the way?" Raimo suggested. They followed the ramas out.

  "Sounds good," said Aiken. He directed one of the apes to unbar the main gate and the three men slipped out into the street.

  "Way!" somebody shouted. "Make way!" A squad of grays in half-armor and livery of farsensor violet began pushing pedestrians unceremoniously aside so that a Tanu grande dame mounted on an enormous white chaliko could move along without hindrance. "Way for a Most Exalted Personage!" the captal barked, squashing Aiken back against the wall. Raimo and Yosh, in their gold tores, rated a slightly more courteous degree of manhandling.

  "Veil or not, mind-screen or not, I know that woman," Aiken growled. "It's Morna-Ia—who said she was suffering from positive-ion migraine when she packed it in at twenty-three bells up in the castle!"

  "Well, it looks like she's catching the second show at the Bijou," Raimo remarked, craning to see the noble lady's destination. "I wonder what's playing?"

  "The Maltese Falcon," said a bareneck passerby. "Classic 2-D. Black and white, but dynamite!" He vanished in the press.

  And then, in the inexplicable way of street crowds, there came a momentary lull. A corridor formed all the way to the Gyre entrance nearly thirty meters away. Aiken saw the raspberry ice vendor and his cart rolling slowly by, and then it paused for a customer, a very tall human with curly gray hair, dressed in the tan shirt and trousers and yellow neck scarf that were the usual mufti of the elite guard. The shirt was a tight fit across the man's shoulders, as though he had borrowed it from a less husky friend. When he had paid for his ice, he sampled it with evident enjoyment, glanced up the side street, nodded in a friendly manner when he caught Aiken's eye, and then disappeared into the teeming Gyre.

  "Oh, my God," said the King.

  "Chief," Yosh whispered. "Are you okay? You look—"

  Aiken took a deep breath, then pulled off his straw sombrero and stamped it very thoroughly into the cobblestones.

  "Aik—what the hell?" Raimo blurted.

  "It's time to go to the Mermaid," Aiken told his friends through gritted teeth, "and get very, very drunk."

  He strode away, leaving Raimo and Yosh to eye each other, shrug, and then tag along.

  ***

  "How long," Elizabeth asked Marc, "do you plan to stay?"

  "Five hours should give us a fair start." He glanced down at the sleeping infant in the basket. "We'll have to see how he reacts to the increased psychic pressure of the redaction. On my next visit, I hope to spend more time with you. But tonight"—he smiled reminiscently—"I made a little side trip before comin
g to Black Crag. Your Many-Colored Land is an interesting place. I'd enjoy discussing it with you."

  She eyed the wet coverall with its metallic function monitors and shunt receptables in an uneasy manner, and then for the first time noticed the line of puncture wounds above his eyebrows. "There's blood on your forehead. Were youinjured on your little side trip?"

  He waved a gloved hand airily. "From the brain-piercing needles of the CE equipment. Mere mosquito bites. They'll self-heal in a few minutes ... Aren't you familiar with the workings of cerebroenergetic enhancers, Grand Master?"

  "They're outlawed in the Milieu now. Considered too hazardous for the operator."

  Marc only laughed.

  Elizabeth said, rather stiffly, "Perhaps you would like some more comfortable clothes."

  "You're kind to offer. At my last port of call, I had to steal some."

  Her voice was casual. "Then you can't carry anything along with you on the d-jump?"

  "Not yet. But I'm working on it."

  Without taking her eyes off him, Elizabeth went to the nursery door and opened it. Outside in the corridor, sitting on a bench and placidly telling his beads, was the rugged old Franciscan friar. He looked up expectantly.

  "Brother Anatoly," said Elizabeth, "may I present Marc Remillard." Anatoly got to his feet, stowed his rosary, and stared. Marc bowed slightly. Elizabeth continued. "Our visitor is in need of a change of clothing, Brother. Perhaps you'll be kind enough to find himsomething, then escort him back here. Oh ... and we'll want you to attend the redactive session, if you please."

  Marc was amused. "Commendable prudence, Grand Master."

  Her lips tightened. She withdrew back into the baby's room and closed the door, leaving the two men together.

  "You make her nervous," Anatoly observed amiably.

  "And you? Or do you feel armored against the demogorgon, wearing your breastplate of justice and helmet of salvation?"

  "I ought to be afraid of you," Anatoly admitted, beckoning for Marc to follow, "but I'm too intrigued. I came to the Pliocene three years before your famous Rebellion. When you were still a Paramount Grand Master helping the Human Polity dazzle the socks off the unsuspect ing exotic members of the Concilium, who hadn't quite figured us out yet. When you were a hero—the champion of the Mental Man concept."

  "And what am I now?" Marc asked pleasantly.

  "You're about my size, I'd say. Suppose I lend you my sinfully secular silk bathrobe and a pair of gardening dungarees? Next time you visit, I'll have something ready you can call your own. How about white tie and tails, or a Faustian wizard outfit?"

  "What am I, Brother Anatoly?"

  Stopped in his tracks by an irresistible coercive hold, the old priest strained to look over his shoulder. "We're almost to my room. Why not hold off on the mind-ream job until we get there? Turning me inside out here in the hallway is a mite uncivilized."

  "As you like." The grip turned him loose and they moved on. "What are you doing here on Black Crag, Brother?"

  "I'm her confessor." The old man grinned ironically. "She hasn't exactly made use of my priestly faculties as yet, but she hasn't thrown me out, either. I've been waiting for you outside that nursery every day from twenty-one hours until three, for the past two and a half weeks—on her orders. D'you suppose she expects me to exorcise you, or something?"

  Marc laughed heartily. "You'll have your chance in a few minutes."

  They went up a small rear staircase. Anatoly said, "So you two are going to intensify Brendan's redaction, eh? Do you think the little fellow will make it?"

  "One can only try."

  The friar cast a shrewd glance at the figure in black that followed him. "And I wonder why you do try."

  Marc did not answer.

  "Is the baby just an excuse?" Anatoly opened a door at the top of the stairs. They came into a spacious suite under the eaves of the chalet, with roof-high windows all along one side. When they were inside with the door shut, Marc said: Now.

  Anatoly gritted his teeth and stood stiff as a post with his eyes screwed shut. "Make it fast, dammit."

  He felt the coercive-redactive impulses lance into him, making his scalp tingle and his closed eyes experience a neural fireworks display. As the drain commenced he lost contact with reality. Then he found himself standing quite relaxed in the middle of the sitting room. There were shower noises coming from his bathroom, where someone was whistling "Le veau d'or." Anatoly hunted up the magnificent scarlet brocade robe and the old faded pants and hung them on the door hook. Then he went out onto the balcony and said the First Sorrowful Mystery under the stars to steady his nerves. Gethsemane. Bloody sweat. What ifhe does ask? All the Remillards were Catholics. If it's possible, let this chalice pass. Does this man even know it was a sin?

  "It was no sin, only a failure, Anatoly Severinovich. 'And even if my troop fell thence vanquished, yet to have attempted a lofty enterprise is still a trophy ...

  The priest turned around to face the challenger of the galaxy. "Now that's really interesting. Forty-two years in Holy Orders, you hear all the sins in the lexicon. But angelism—! Now there's a genuine rarey." His eyes fell to the scars on Marc's chest. "Andare those another trophy of the lofty enterprise?"

  "Not at all. Only the traces of a recent accident. They'll disappear in a few months. My body is self-rejuvenating."

  "So you can ignore the vultures nibbling at your liver, eh? Still—it must be a terrible kind of security. Lonely in the long run, too. Well ... if you ever need me, I'llbe around. I told her that, and the same goes for you."

  Marc was expressionless. "Listen to me, Anatoly Sezerinovich. I can see that you mean well, and you're a kindly man. But don't presume to meddle in my affairs."

  "Don't tell me you're so far gone that you'd zap a poor old priest just for praying for you?"

  "Save your prayers for Elizabeth. I'm past the need. Now let's get back downstairs." He turned and headed for the door, with Anatoly coming after him.

  "Nu, ne mudiy, my son! Your brother Jack would never let you get away with saying that."

  Marc paused. His voice was deadly calm. "For a man who came to the Pliocene before my brother's ... notoriety, you seem oddly knowledgeable about his mind-set."

  "It's hearing all those confessions," sighed the friar. "You'd be surprised, the kind of people who've gone time-traveling to escape reality. Or maybe you wouldn't! I know a lot more about you than my memories told you in the brain-ream, son." He smiled encouragingly. "The loneliness, for instance. Is that the real reason you've come here to Black Crag—hoping to find another metapsychic who'll accept you as human instead of failed angel?"

  "A very interesting question," said Marc Remillard. "Let's both try to find out the answer." Carrying his black coverall, he went out laughing.

  3

  PRAISE BE TO TÉ, it was a banner year for giant slugs!

  Purtsinigelee Specklebelly chortled in satisfaction as he lifted the bark lid off the last tray of stale beer. It was crowded with plump mollusks, amber with gray spots. Each slug was nearly the size of the bananas the Lowlives grew at the plantations down at Var-Mesk—and far more succulent and nourishing. Every tray along the trapline this morning had been full of the creatures. Drawn by the seductive aroma of hops, they crept overthe floor of the alpine valley rain forest and up the mossy stumps upon which the trays rested. After drinking themselves into a blissful stupor, the slugs tumbled into the beer and drowned. It was an easy death, and Purtsinigelee, who was a peaceable dwarf, often reflected upon it philosophically as he made his daily collections in the Gresson Vale. Later, after they had been pickled and stored in small firkins, the slugs would not only provide protein rich food for his family when the winter storms swept down from the Helvetides, but they would also be a valuable trade item. The more sophisticated Firvulag in western Famorel paid a hefty price for prime, season-end mollusks like these. The delicacy might even find its way to the banquet table of King Sharn and Queen Ayfa at this year's
Grand Tourney. Purtsinigelee hoped that would happen; he was a stay-at-home sort himself, but it was nice to think that some of his slugs would be relished in the highest social circles...

  Humming a happy tune, he transferred the final creature to the tote-skin slung over his shoulder. Into it he strained the liquid in the tray, topped it off with more stale beer, and replaced the loose-fitting lid with care. Then he was off for home and lunch, striding along the steep trail with the mist coiling about the green, dripping rhododendron trees and the birds and oreopithecine apes making a great racket down by the river.

  After a time he emerged from the densely wooded gorge into more open, rocky country. The fog burned away as the sun mounted and it became a cool and splendid September morning. The meadows were dotted with flowers, the sky was so intensely blue that it made the eyes ache, and along the northern horizon the stupendous front range of the Pennine Alps reared in dazzling majesty. The Famorel Firvulag called them the Goddess Mountains—not only because of their beauty, but also because certain First Comers said that the snow-clad peaks resembled the ancestral territory of the Little People on lost Duat. No mountains on Pliocene Earth were more lofty.

  Purtsinigelee's home, like that of many other isolated Firvulag living in caveless terrain, was situated on a commanding height. It sat just below the ridge that separated the Gresson Vale from that of the River Ysez to the east. Pausing for a moment on the trail, he spied the snug little cottage, shaped like a stone beehive, nestled among pin oaks andwind-twisted pines at the edge of a tiny tarn. And grouped around it—

  He wailed in dismay and darted behind the shelter of a large boulder. Machines! Merciful Te—there were some kind of alien contraptions surrounding his home! He cautiously extended his farsight and spotted fair numbers of people as well.Horror upon horror! The Foe was upon him! He moaned out loud and let the sack of slugs slip squishily to the ground.

  "My poor Hobbino—and the children! Goddess preserve them!"

  Heart pounding, he crept out from behind the rock, keeping down under a low-growing juniper. There appeared to be seven machines, cartlike vehicles with eight fat wheels along each side. They bristled with appendages of unfathomable function and had many dirty windows that gleamed dully in the sunshine. They were a little over twice his height and perhaps four times as long. Not only Tanu knights in glass armor but also forced and bareneck Lowlives were in evidence, strolling in and out of the open door of his cottage and lounging about the grounds as though they owned the place, the vile miscreants! Te alone knew what atrocities had been perpetrated.