The Golden Torc

by Julian May

  With a magician's flourish, he hauled a large sheet of durofilm out of another pocket.

  "Look! I brought you a complete map! City, Guild buildings, interior of the headquarters block showing your route from the service door to the torc-making rooms. See—this is where you are, and here's the old dump, and here's the Coercer HQ at the edge of the cliff and the door. You just come into town in your disguises—you look bonzo, by the way!—and lose yourselves in the greenway bushes just west of the Coercer House wall."

  He spread the map on the floor and most of the saboteurs hunched down to study it. But Felice said:

  "What about the Spear?"

  Aiken was offhanded. "Oh. Right. Is that it you got there? Big sonuvabitch, isn't it?"

  "If we could get it working," the girl said, "we could hit the Coercer headquarters from a distance. There'd be no need for a penetration at all."

  "I gotcha. Oh, absolutely. I kinda forgot all about that old zapper, what with our having an inside man at the skonk works all ready to let us walk inside."

  "Who is it?" asked the biggest of the desperados. He wore the blue cloak and bronze half-armor of a captal of the provincial guard.

  Aiken frowned in anxiety. "I can't tell you his name. If any of you got captured, there's no way you could avoid giving him away. And we can't let that happen. This guy is not only loaded with metafunctions, but he's also in a high position. A perfect undercover agent for later on, see? Now lemme give this a good think. Like I say, I'd almost forgotten about this Spear. A real long shot—but if I could fix it and warn our inside man to get out of there..."

  Felice silently handed the great glassy lance to Aiken. Chief Burke brought up the powerpack and its cable, which they had toted from Hidden Springs in a leathern chest. Aiken stroked the blue-lacquered weapon with steady fingers, lifting the cap-lock to inspect the studs, hefting it into his right armpit and pretending to take aim at Felice's big rock plugging the entrance.

  "Pam!" he ejaculated. A wavering little spark, the size of a firefly, emerged from the business end of the device and drifted through the air. It collided with the rock and fell into an impotent shower of red-glowing dust.

  "So much for refueling the zapper with my mind-power!" He gave them a sprightly wink. "Now let's have a look at the juice box."

  He jabbed and thrust at the pack's peculiar sunken fasteners with several of the tools that he carried in his golden suit. "Gonna take more than I've got here to get it open," he said. "Tell you what! I'll change it into a piece of straw and myself into a bird and take it back to my workroom. If I get it open and figure how to recharge it, I'll bring it back here before midnight tomorrow, and warn our coercer pal what's up, and you can blast the place to hell and gone from out in the lagoon. But if I give you a mind-squeak at twenty-four bells telling you it's no go, you carry on with the other plan. How's that sound?"

  His eyes flicked eagerly from face to face.

  "I think," said Felice, "that we should postpone any decision until you come back here with the Spear. Operational or not. And I think you should go along with us on the torc factory assault."

  "I'd like nothing better," he said earnestly. "But I'm supposed to go to this combatant's banquet at the palace. These folks are just sitting down at table around midnight. There's no way I can get out of going. I'm one of the hottest contenders in the light humanweight class!"

  "I don't like this," said Felice.

  "You still don't trust me." Sorrow clouded the golliwog face. He gestured to the map. "What else do I hafta do?"

  "You've got it all planned, haven't you?" she said archly. "We just follow your little red lines on the map. Time all picked, route all picked, getaway all set up. What would you say if I told you that we'd make our own penetration at our own time? Not on Monday at all? Just to make sure there's no nasty surprises waiting behind the rubbish door?"

  He flung his hands into the air. "It's your gig, babe, not mine. But without the zapper or my inside man opening up for you, you'll need one helluva can opener to break into that fortress. To say nothing of losing your sync with Madame's hit of the time-gate."

  Chief Burke said, "Felice, maybe I could go back with him."

  "And how'd you let us know if there was any funny business?" She was sarcastic. "Farspeak me through your broken gray torc?"

  "Come along yourself, then," Aiken suggested to her.

  The others burst into a storm of protest.

  At last Felice said, "We'll have to carry on with your suggestion about the Spear. But God save your ass, Aiken Drum, if this is one of your hookem-snivey tricks!"

  "Piffle," said the golden man. He picked up the Spear and its heavy pack as though they were toys and cocked his head in the direction of the barricading boulder. "Are you going to be a gentlewoman and open your little door for a lad with his hands full?"

  Felice crossed her sapphire-armored arms and gave a tinkling laugh. "Suppose you show us how you'd do it, Fancy Pants."

  Aiken emitted a martyred sigh. He faced the cave entrance and stuck out his tongue. The mass of mineral suddenly seemed shot through with thousands of small holes that grew and grew until the huge rock was nothing but a lacy webwork. It collapsed in another instant of its own weight, making a sound like smashing glassware.

  "Shoddy workmanship around here," observed the jester.

  He changed into a crescent-winged nightjar. Kutuk-kutuk! The bird gave a mocking call as it slipped out into the night, a straw and a lump of moss caught in its claws.

  None of the people inside the cave could see the direction it took: straight north, toward the mainland of Europe.

  ***

  Gumball?

  Yes Aiken.

  They bought the house and lot and the little white fence around it too. Exactly as we planned. They'll futz around for a while when I don't farspeak back tomorrow night. But then they'll decide some monster ate me and go ahead with their plan. What else can they do? Right? You be ready when they come in that back door. Felice is in blue armor and loaded with metafunctions. Be sure your boys have their heaviest screens up. Besides her there are six men dressed as gray guards and two dames got up as servants in those stripy robes. None of them have any mental firepower at all. They'll be easy to stop if you look out for the iron.

  And Felice?

  Do whatever you have to do and watch your sweet petard.

  I understand. You go now to Castle Gateway?

  On swift little wings. Plenty of time. You just have yourself a nice day tomorrow and be sure the welcome mat is all shook out and ready at midnight. Bye-bye!

  Bon voyage to you Aiken Drum.

  ***

  "I knew it! I knew it!" Felice raged.

  "It's half past midnight," Uwe said. "We must go now. It will take at least three hours to get into the city, even if we do secure mounts at the main dockyard, and more time to make our way along the cliff. We cannot wait any longer to hear from Aiken Drum."

  "It's a trap!" the girl insisted.

  Amerie urged her, "Try to make mental contact one more time. Try both him and Elizabeth."

  Felice's wild brown eyes fixed on some distant vista. She held her fingers to her golden torc. They all waited.

  The little athlete seemed to shrink smaller than ever, despite the blaze of glass armor. "Nothing. Neither Aiken nor Elizabeth. Nothing. We can't go. It's a trap. I know it."

  Chief Burke stood over her. "That little gold mamzer might have pulled a fast one at that. But there are other ways to explain his silence. He could be in a position where he doesn't dare farspeak us. Perhaps some exotics came and hauled him away to the party before he could get a word off. Isn't that possible?"

  "No! I mean—maybe." Her expression was frantic. "Oh, Peo—it all depends on his farspeaking skill! And I don't know enough about this business yet to tell whether he's capable of it or not. I suppose you could be right."

  "Then we're going to have to get on with it," said the Native American.

  "C
an't we wait? Look over Guild HQ in daylight ourselves, the way we planned to back in the beginning? Make our own plan for penetration?...My PK and creativity and coerce are coming on strong, guys! I think I could fuzz the minds of the guards at that place so we could walk right in the front door. Hell—in this blue rig-out and with you as my loyal escort, I'm just another Guild member to any big guns that happen to saunter by. I can shield the bunch of you easily. And by God, I'll smear that torc factory into marmalade just as soon as I get into range. Not with thunderbolts! Soft and sneaky—with PK that just liquefies the walls! Then we can escape before anyone knows what's happened. But not out that door of Aiken's—we'll go out one of the windows on the northeastern corner of the building, as far away from that service door as we can get. It'll be easy with my PK and Basil's climbing equipment."

  Chief Burke hesitated.

  Uwe contributed his placid opinion. "If Felice is certain that her metafiinctions are equal to the task, there's no reason why we can't follow her modified plan tonight. Khalid knows the city. We can take a completely different route from the one laid out by Aiken Drum. The Coercer Guild complex is huge. If they're waiting in ambush at this rear door, they may be careless elsewhere."

  Felice gave a crow of joy and kissed the graybeard. "Yes! As long as we don't follow that joker's blueprint, I'm ready to go tonight."

  "Do the rest of you agree?" Burke asked. There was a murmur of acquiescence. "Then hoist your little tushies and get your disguises in order. We're off to the main landing stage to steal some horses—I mean, chalikos. If my future ancestors could only see me now."

  15

  "WAY! Way for the Exalted Lady Phyllis-Morigel!" the captal sang out.

  The mob of barenecks and grays and well-dressed Firvulag that crowded the central square of Muriah parted minimally to let the mounted party pass. Even in the early hours after midnight the place was a crush of commerce and amusement and carnival display. The Little Folk were by ancient custom night people; and down here in the south, where daytime temperatures in the Mediterranean Basin soared to heights that were barely tolerable to specially adapted humans, let alone a race that had evolved in cold uplands, the Firvulag were abroad almost exclusively between sunset and sunrise. Those who wished to cater to them kept a similar schedule.

  There were plenty of Tanu and gold-torc humans about as well—most of them, like the Lady Phyllis-Morigel and her train, having recently arrived in the capital and seeking lodgings. Some of the Great Ones stayed in the palace; others were accommodated with relations; the keenest fighters headed for the pavilions that had been erected on the turfed racecourse northwest of the city, where they could practice their martial specialties. But the visitors with no special accommodation arranged in advance usually did what the Lady Phyllis now did: They demanded, as was their right, the hospitality of their Guild.

  She and her eight attendants rode unhindered into the great courtyard of the Coercer complex. Hostlers took charge of their mounts. An urbane silver majordomo, calm in the midst of the hullabaloo, assigned the lady and her handmaids a suite in one of the dormitory mansions; the men-at-arms were directed to a barracks.

  Felice's coercive power settled without trace over the will of the majordomo. "We will pay our respects to the High Faculty of the Guild, such as may be up and about, before retiring. Coming as we do from doleful Finiah, we have need of fraternal support and sympathy. You will be glad to conduct us into headquarters personally."

  "I will be glad," the man repeated mechanically, "to conduct you into headquarters personally."

  He led them from the basecourt, through the gardens, and across the plaza that fronted the looming block of the keep. The stronghold had been hung with extra decorative lights and was a veritable blaze of blue and amber. None of the Tanu or gold-torc humans outside the building paid any heed to the new arrivals. Felice's mind was apparently overshadowed by grief. Her raven standard, borne by Chief Burke, had long streamers of silver and black fluttering from its finial, the Tanu symbol of bereavement.

  They came to the guards at the main entrance. The majordomo said, "This Exalted Lady will confer with the High Faculty."

  The squad leader lifted his great bare sword of blue vitredur in formal salute. "The Exalted Lady will confer with the High Faculty."

  "We will follow you," Felice told him.

  "You will follow me," said the guardsman.

  The majordomo bowed and retreated. Felice and the others walked between ranks of blue-and-gold-armored gray-torcs who stood like empty-eyed dummies on both sides of the foyer. There were no other people in sight. The bronze of the saboteurs' military harness jingled faintly. At each step Felice took, the jeweled sollerets on her feet chimed on the marble floor. She lowered the visor of her crested sapphire helmet. The others, as if hearing her mind's command, loosened iron weapons that had been sheathed in gold-plated wooden scabbards. Folding compound bows appeared from under capes; two of the men passed spares to the "serving women," who now shed their outer robes to reveal half-armor worn underneath.

  They mounted a great staircase, with still no sign of Tanu or human Guild members. Felice conjured up the image of Aiken's map, then tried to verify their position with her farsight. But the effort was still beyond her and only Khalid's spatial sense kept them from getting lost in the maze of corridors. Farsensing and seeking, like creativity, were subtle things needing experience; while coercion and PK had burgeoned within the gold-torced athlete like jungle plants, long starved for light and moisture, that suddenly achieve their rampant growth under tropical sun and rain. Felice could control this ushering guardsman with ease, just as she had blanked the minds of the thirty other grays they had passed since penetrating the headquarters building. But now—

  A bronze door opened. A Tanu woman in a gown of navy blue came into the corridor and halted at the sight of the procession, giving a telepathic greeting.

  Allhail CoerciveSister from Ninelva and let me assist your seeking—

  "Peo!" Felice cried. "I can only hold her for a second!"

  The big Native American stepped forward, his face impassive under the bronze rim of his plumed kettle-helmet. He drew an iron short-sword, pulled the woman toward him with one arm as if embracing her, and sent the point of the weapon up behind her rib cage and into her heart.

  The guard who had been leading them stood quietly, a blue-and-gold robot awaiting orders.

  "Did she get off a warning?" Burke asked.

  "No," said Felice. "Back inside that door with her, and then out of here. We've still got a way to go."

  They began to trot down the corridor, turning to right and left and passing through ornamental gates and doorways until none but Khalid retained any orientation. The lighting grew dimmer. There were occasional heedless squads of guards, whom they ignored—and finally a truly massive pair of doors more than ten meters high, embossed with the heraldic male face and flanked by six grays in full blue-glass armor.

  "This has to be it," Felice murmured. To their oblivious escort, she sent a coercive command: You will unbar the entrance to this torc factory.

  I am unable to do this. No gray can do this.

  "Shit!" hissed the little woman. "Stand back and we'll hope for the best!"

  The six guards at the doorway pivoted right and left and marched away like jeweled mechanical dolls, followed by the gray who had led them in. Felice stood before the huge bronze valves with helmeted head thrown back and both fists clenched at her sides. The polished yellow metal along the juncture went greenish, blue, blotched purple—and then began to glow as the power of her psychokinetic faculty sent the molecules of metal to vibrating, going from solid to molten within thirty slow seconds.

  The nonmetas watched it transfixed, their iron weapons ready. Heat from the melting bronze and its pungent smell beat at them, making them draw back from the small figure that now raised glittering blue arms and bade the ruined portal swing wide.

  Behind the door was darkness. Felice s
tepped forward, ignoring the pool of still-liquid metal that smoked on the floor.

  A burst of azure fire seemed to explode in the vast black beyond the open door. And then another appeared, strontium-red, and another of violet—blazing images in human form almost twice the height of small Felice. There were flashes of green light and rosy-gold and malevolent scarlet, all hovering in the dark. Crowds of them. Fifty or sixty or more, all massed in midair with swords and shields raised but visors open so that the saboteurs could see the contemptuous triumph in the exotic eyes of Nontusvel's Host.

  "I am Imidol," thundered the voice of the blue leader. "Your death."

  Felice sent a three-meter ball of flame rolling at him. "Iron!" she shrieked. "Iron! I'll bring down the roof!"

  Four explosions rocked the corridor. The jewel-armored Tanu came flying out of the huge inner chamber like avenging angels. The invaders loosed their arrows. There were agonized shouts, falling meteors, lightning bolts, the deep rumble of falling masonry, a smell of ozone, dust, ordure, broiling meat.

  Amerie, backed against the opposite wall of the corridor and blinded by fumes and metallic reek, shot her arrows wildly at tall glowing figures. Pulses of emotional energy smashed at her unshielded mind. There was a metapsychic conflict going on as well as a physical one, but she, lucky normal, could only perceive its overtones. When her quiver was empty she clutched her short-shafted javelin in both hands, consigned her soul to Jesus, and got ready to die.