The Golden Torc

by Julian May

  "Ogmol can wait," Nodonn said to his younger brother. "And the King has his own reasons for keeping the matter secret. But he will seek the life of this man, this unsuspecting witness for the prosecution. You must keep him safe until the culmination of the Combat, Redactive Brother. He is vital to our cause. See that he is kept happy and unaware."

  The Interrogator nodded. "I understand fully, Brother Battlemaster. Our company cannot fail to be impressed when the human cancer affirms its own existence." He smiled at Mercy.

  Two red-and-white-clad attendants appeared and lifted the uncon-scious anthropologist from the calèche. Nodonn mounted and took the place next to his wife.

  "Until later, then, Brother. We two will go to Creation House and see to the computer ourselves."

  Culluket inclined his head. "Until later." He turned to lead the way into the caves deep within the mountain and the men carrying Bryan followed after.

  10

  NAKED AND WEEPING, the silver-torc girl came running from the King's chamber.

  "Oh, dear," said Nontusvel, casting a significant glance at the Master of the Royal Bed. "Not again."

  "It wasn't my fault, I swear, Queen and Mother!" the girl wailed. "I did everything! Everything!" She fell on her knees. The Master of the Royal Bed gestured and a gray-torc valet came up to wrap the shivering love-gift manquee in a robe of white satin.

  "Get her out of here," the Queen ordered. "I'll see to His Majesty myself tonight."

  The Master bowed. He and the servant hurried away with the sniffling girl. Nontusvel extinguished all the lights except one candelabrum of pink jewels. This she lifted on high and carried to the tall door embossed with the golden bearded mask. It swung open before her.

  "My King, it is I," she said. "Be of good cheer."

  Only a few scattered gleams, like ruby and gold embers, lit the bedchamber of Thagdal the High King. There was an odd sound, a little like a gulping sob, and then a noise of someone blowing his nose.

  "N-Nonnie?"

  "Yes, dear."

  The King sat on the edge of the bed, his mighty shoulders hunched, head down. "Failed again. The sword undrawn, the bow unloosed, the mightiest champion of them all laid low and humiliated. I'm done for, Nonnie. Finished. Not even that damned Lalage and all her tricks could conjure up a glimmer."

  "It is all in your mind, beloved. You've been worrying too much."

  She set the candelabrum down on the bedside table and stood before him, magnificent and comforting in a flowing peignoir of peach color trimmed in gold. Her flaming hair hung down, her arms opened wide, welcoming as her mothermind with its invitation: Rest in me.

  She drew him up and they went out onto the balcony. It was very late. The moon was old, an ochreous sickle near the horizon, giving an unhealthy tinge of brass to the lagoon.

  "You must not be down-hearted," the Queen said. "What has changed? Are the Foe yonder on the salt any more confident of victory than they've been in years past? Hardly. We are strong and we will crush them, as always."

  "It's not that."

  "Aiken Drum, then? A clownish gadfly! Mayvar is senile and it is high time dear Riganone took her place as Lady Farsensor and Kingmaker. The boy knows quite well he would have no chance against the Battlemaster. Has Aiken Drum issued any formal challenge for the manifestation of powers? Of course not! And he won't challenge by Mêlée Rules at the Combat, either. Nodonn will remain your heir—patient and loyal as always. And soon you'll recover your good spirits and your vigor as well."

  The King shook his head. "It's not Aiken Drum. Two new things. I—I didn't tell you."

  "Will you tell me now?"

  "Brede has emerged from the room without doors. I may not have the operant woman, Elizabeth."

  The Queen's screens shot up to conceal her elation. "The mating scheme with her is then—"

  "Brede has placed Elizabeth's genes under the strongest taboo. The Shipspouse claims that the woman's destiny has been revealed to her. That it's not in accord with the scheme Gomnol and I favored. I haven't told Gomnol yet, either. I was afraid to! Can you imagine that? My genes plus Elizabeth's were going to engender a new superrace under Gomnol's guidance. And now she's taboo and I'm—I'm—"

  "Gomnol's vision is undoubtedly flawed," said the Queen with some sharpness. "He is only a human being, for all his coercive power. And an aging one. Only a few years more, and Imidol will be deposing him."

  The King's thought was perceptible even under the screen: another patient and loyal son of yours?

  "Now, Thaggy," she chided, slipping an arm around his massive waist. His belly muscles contracted and he straightened his shoulders. One or two static sparks danced in his hair and beard.

  "Never mind about Elizabeth," Nontusvel said. "She is beautiful and I can understand your disappointment. But that kind of woman isn't your type, vein of my heart. A Grand Master metapsychic! How too off-putting! I don't suppose Brede said what would be done with her?"

  "She wouldn't tell me. Said it would be obvious after the Grand Combat. Bloody two-faced enigma! What can you expect from a female who marries a damn intergalactic worm?"

  The Queen giggled and pressed next to his naked torso.

  "And then another blow this afternoon," he muttered.

  "Not Rosmar?"

  "Of course not. That creative lout of an Ogmol! Come inside and I'll show you."

  They returned to the bedchamber. The King kicked aside the rug, then used his PK to manipulate the lock of a floor-safe. A small greenish plaque floated up into the Queen's waiting hands. She pressed the SLOW activator in the upper righthand corner and studied the glowing pages as they rolled across the plastic. Now and then she stopped the flow to study a chart or graph.

  "Skip to the end," the King said. "The conclusion."

  She pressed the upper lefthand corner and the pages spun quickly. Then a touch from the REVERSE and she had it. "Oh, dear!"

  "Exactly! How's that for an unwitting scenario of doom? That besotted idiot of an anthropologist didn't realize the implication. But Oggy did—and he nearly wet his pants begging me to believe that it wouldn't happen. That he and the other hybrids and the torced humans would remain loyal."

  The Queen whispered, "All you need do is extrapolate the trends a bit farther than Bryan has already done."

  "And add the focusing factor he doesn't yet know about—the iron. I'll wager my right nut that hybrids are immune to it just like humans. Does that suggest anything to you?"

  "Dear Tana, not that! Can nothing be done to stop it? Our beautiful Exile world! Ours!"

  She threw herself into his arms and wept. The King held her in a mighty grip. His eyes had begun to shine in the dark. The tendrils of his sparkling beard stirred, and something else. "We'll stop any human-hybrid coalition before it's ever born. That thing of Bryan's is only a scientific survey, not an oracle. But it's a danger to me in a way I hadn't anticipated! Dammit, Nonnie—I'd hoped to calm Nodonn's fears about humanity. That's why I commissioned the survey in the first place—to prove that the advent of humans was beneficial to us, not a racial menace as Nodonn maintained. I mean, common sense showed we'd made marvelous strides since the opening of the time-gate. Technical progress as well as genetic. The anthropologist was supposed to confirm what Gomnol and I had been saying all along. And instead—"

  "Dearest husband, Nodonn only wants the best for our Many-Colored Land. He doesn't mean to threaten you."

  The King grunted. "This survey can be used to prove all of his doomsaying is justified. It's a clear contradiction of my stated policy. It may seem far-fetched to you now, but this little book could be the death warrant of every human and hybrid in the High Kingdom—and if they go, so does the economy of my realm! It's back to the wilderness strongholds for us Tanu, my lass."

  Nontusvel raised her tear-bright eyes. "You said yourself that the survey isn't an oracle. None of these dreadful contingencies need happen at all. You won't let them."

  "I won't!" he vowed. "Our M
any-Colored Land will not be taken over by Lowlives! I'll see to it! And I'll accomplish my purpose without any of the damn draconian measures Nodonn advocates. There must be a way that Tanu and humanity can continue to prosper together—and I'm going to find it. I have said it!"

  "Thaggy—?" the Queen ventured breathlessly.

  "Come here, woman!" he bellowed.

  When dawn came and both of them were drowsy and at peace, she murmured to him, "You see? Everything's perfectly all right. It was all in your mind."

  "Mm-mm," the King agreed. He raised one of her hands and kissed each dimpled knuckle.

  "As to your problem with the silvers ... I think you simply need a change. These silly human strumpets with their meager little duglets are not in tune with your present mood of high seriousness. You require an entirely different type of consolation. A gentler, more reassuring sort."

  The King said sleepily, "Remember that chubby black-haired one who sang the Welsh lullaby? I liked her. I kept expecting her to be sent around, but she never came."

  "The very thing," Nontusvel agreed. "I'll make it my personal business to find out what's happened to her. If Dionket thinks he can keep her for himself—why, Nodonn and Culluket will simply point out a few realities to him!" She smiled at her half-dozing Lord.

  "Good old girl," Thagdal said. He let her hand fall. His eyes were closed. "And I'll gather up all copies of Bryan's report and have them destroyed, and Gomnol can take care of the anthropologist as well. Too bad about Oggy, though ... He was a good..."

  "Sleep, my King." The Queen drew the silken sheet up to cover them both. "Sleep for now."

  ***

  Eusebio Gomez-Nolan leaned back in his Victorian armchair and blew three slow smoke rings. They floated across the desk toward the person sitting opposite, turned solid, and fell to the pseudo-Oriental rug with soft thuds.

  "Hope you don't mind, Lord Coercer," said Aiken Drum. "Can't stand tobacco."

  Gomnol made a gracious gesture. His cigar extinguished itself and he placed it in the onyx ashtray. "My boy, events in this Cloud-Cuckoo-Land of ours have taken some engrossing turns of late. I believe it's time that you and I had a long chat."

  "I thought you'd never ask."

  "I've revised my earlier opinion of you considerably during the past week or two. Mayvar has been most eloquent in your behalf. And so has Bunone Warteacher, whom you impressed no end on the Delbaeth Quest. Both of these ladies feel that you will be a formidable contender in the upcoming games. They were also fervent in their praise of your—uh—nonmartial arts as well."

  Aiken's grin was wicked. He lounged back in his seat with one leg draped over the chair-arm and studied the fingernails of one hand. "So what else is new?"

  "I might mention," Gomnol said smoothly, "a rumored disability of our Awful King, provoked—so it's said—by intimations of mortality as much as by the collapse of my late genetic scheme."

  "Brede screwed you, eh?" The little man snickered. "Now I get it. The old sinking ship syndrome. With poor old Thaggy cast as Titanic and you as Chief Rat."

  The Lord Coercer's guffaw was entirely good-humored. "You are going to require a great deal of help, my boy. I'm prepared to offer it. All I ask is that you think over my proposition carefully." He took a fresh cigar from the humidor and twirled it between his fingers. "We are, I believe, approaching a pivotal point in the history of this Exile world. The Finiah attack was only the overture. And if there is a power struggle in the offing, doesn't it make sense for all of us humans to stick together?"

  He took a clipper from the drawer and operated deftly on the cigar. Then he tossed the silvery little gadget to Aiken Drum, still smiling.

  Aiken caught the cigar clipper and Gomnol's unspoken thought simultaneously. He peered at the thing and saw letters incised in the metal: SOLINGEN—INOX STEEL.

  11

  GERT CAME BACK to the passenger compartment looking grim. "Hansi thinks we'll be into the next batch of bad rapids soon. You'd better put the skipper back together again."

  Amerie was bent over a supine figure. "We're working on him now. Five minutes." Chief Burke held one arm and Felice the other. Uwe and Basil were ready to grab the legs. "Here we go," the nun said. She applied the stimulant to the unconscious boatman's temple, then got another injection ready. The little monitor taped to the man's forehead began to change color in all of its four quadrants.

  Blood-rimmed hazel eyes snapped open. From the puffy lips came a croak. "Gawd ... ah, Gawd!" And then he screamed, a sound of bitter hopelessness and physical agony. His body contracted in a superhuman heave that had the four restrainers using all their strength to keep him pinned to the deck.

  "Ahh! Wotinell yer bleedin' sods done? Wotcher done? Yer tookit orf, y'filfy buggerin' baboons! Thass wotcher did. Iss gone! Gone..."

  Tears poured down the stubbly seams of his cheeks. The boatman howled like an animal as Amerie watched the forehead monitor, white with anger at what they were having to do. The thin grizzle-haired man's once natty green tunic was now stained with vomit and blood and dust from the ordeals he had endured under his kidnappers. Around his tanned throat was a band of pale flesh where the gray torc had been.

  They had been on the river two days and this was the sixth time they had brought the boatman around. Gert and Hansi could handle the boat on the smooth stretches of the Rhône; but in rough water they had to have the skipper's help—and every time they woke him, the screaming was worse. Only a few of the de-torced Finiah prisoners had displayed withdrawal symptoms as severe as this man's, and those people had been heavily sedated during the earliest, most painful part of the separation.

  But the Rhône boatman could not remain asleep.

  "For God's sake," Chief Burke said, "hit the poor meshugeh with the trank!"

  Amerie said, "He has to absorb the first injection properly. Do you want him to crash on us? He's on the brink now. Just look at that vital-signs monitor ... Felice! Go into his mind!"

  The cries thinned into a gurgle. The nun turned her patient's head so that he could cough up thin bile. Felice's eyes dimmed and sweat started out on her brow. The boatman's frenzy began to diminish under the drug and the pressure of the girl's coercive power. The colors of the forehead monitor shifted again.

  "Good," Amerie said. She slapped on the tranquilizer, then carefully administered the blend of euphoric and energizer. The skipper seemed to relax.

  "Come out of him when you think the medications have taken hold," the nun told Felice.

  "Jeez, what a balls-up." The athlete let go of the limp arm she had been clutching. Burke and Basil hauled the groggy boatman to his feet.

  Uwe said quietly, "Will he last? How's he look inside, babe?"

  "All I can do is coerce the guy," Felice said. "I'm no good at redact. This man needs a top-stem refit and I'm not capable. I think he navigates now by the seat of his pants. If he's not totally insane, he's next door to it."

  "Rapids ahead!"

  Vanda-Jo sang out from her lookout position on the extended mast, where she clung to a squirrel-climb apparatus installed by Basil. Khalid came limping to assist her down. The two of them dismantled the climbing gear and locked the plass roof panels of the boat back into place. The mast sank into its housing.

  "Don't stand there!" Chief Burke told them. "Everybody buckle in and be damn sure all the seals are tight. Come on, Felice."

  They dragged the skipper into the wheelhouse. Hansi slipped out of the captain's seat and the barely revived boatman was fastened in. Webbing from one of Basil's alpine slings served to strap Felice to a smaller pilot's chair.

  "I'm all right," Felice cried. "Get back to your seats, quick! I can handle this bird. And I think I can just about hold the boat with my PK now, in the straight stretches."

  The others ran aft. A great roaring filled the air, reverberating from steep canyon walls that rose sheer at least 600 meters on either side of them. Even though it was only early afternoon, dusk filled the misted slot where the Rhô
ne boiled along in ever-accelerating flow. The vessel tilted forward. Black boulders with collars of fountaining spray went past in a blur...

  Listen to me Harry listen to me Harry you are going to drive your boat just like you always do drive it along safe and sound between the rocks Harry through the rapids just like you always do safe and sound do you hear me Harry drive the boat you're a good skipper Harry you're the best this is nothing to a white-water ace like you Harry bring her through safe and sound do it Harry do it...

  The red eyes of the boatman narrowed. He spun the wheel to starboard and the craft heeled around a looming obstruction, raced toward the canyon wall, then corrected at the last moment to pass through an opening spill between two colossal standing waves that looked like yellow whalebacks. The boat zigzagged through a churning welter of rock and foam, shot around a curve and headed for a wider section of the canyon where the water seemed oddly calm—until at the last moment Felice saw that the flood poured over an abrupt shelf into misty opacity. She let panic rule her for an instant before she caught sight of the safe bypass channel that was hidden in the cloud and spume——but by then it was too late. Harry had escaped her grip. The boat went over the lip of the falls, turning end over end until it landed spang on its roof panels and seemed to buckle amidships like some great broken trampoline. The skipper named Harry was now laughing in hysteria. But there was no time to do anything to him, with the rest of them back there yelling and cursing and hanging in their harnesses upside down in the dark bubbling yellow gut.

  It took every bit of her psychokinetic power to turn them back over, so tenacious was the grip of the cavitating surge in the undercut rock below the cascade. But finally she hauled them free of it. They flew along on the river's surface again, and she tried to catch Harry and put him back in control—

  —but oh, God, there ahead it stood! And there was no way they could maneuver in time not to hit it! And— spung! The pneumatic craft caromed off a great jagged monolith with water shooting in through one broken panel while they held a fifty-degree bank around a sharp curve in the Rhône.