Remarr answered. "We come from a different world; we are on a quest set us by the gods. Perhaps you would aid us?"
The boy clenched his fists and took a step toward the minstrel. "Hey! Don't go trying to make a fool out of me, or you'll get more than you planned on!"
"Come no closer," Vihena said, raising her sword.
"You think I'm afraid of some chick with a toy sword? Get real!" Lowering his head, he rushed Remarr. Quicker than thought, Vihena's blade hissed toward him, deftly slicing his leather belt.
"No closer," she said in a voice that froze blood. "This is no toy, and I am no frail lady."
"Come on, Travis!" the younger boy bleated. "Let's get out of here!" He retreated down the hill.
Travis hesitated, but in the face of Vihena's blade, his courage failed. He crammed his helmet on as he ran back to his mount. With a vicious kick he set it snarling down the hill after his companion.
Ychass frowned. "They were more frightened than the first three—and more hostile. This is a strange world. I wonder what a 'state trooper' is? One of them considered summoning one."
Vihena shrugged. "No doubt a 'state trooper' can be as easily routed as these two; and if it is not hostile, may the Weaver grant that it will be of more use to us!"
***
When Angel, Mark, and Brice reached the yard of Horizon Stable, the horses were nearly cool. The kids were so distracted by their excitement and urgency that not even Angel noted the promptness with which Kelly Sebastian greeted their return.
"Good; you're back," she began briskly. "I forgot to tell you there's a buyer coming to look at Charity. Angel, turn Gabe out with the other geldings, then get Charity ready; I want you to ride her before the buyer does. Mark, switch the horses in the paddock; Brigid's coming for a lesson and Rex needs to get out. When you've finished mucking, Brice, the jump standards need another coat of paint. I'm going home to grab some lunch. Call me if the buyer shows up before I'm back." Without waiting for comment, Kelly climbed into her battered pickup and drove out of the yard.
Angel clapped her hands to the sides of her face in a theatrical gesture of dismay. "Oh no! Now what do we do?"
Mark blinked. "What Kelly says."
"But—" Angel protested.
"But nothing," Brice asserted. "Our weird friends will just have to wait; even for your aliens, Angel, I'm not crossing Kelly Sebastian."
"Where's your sense of adventure?" Angel muttered.
"I'm adventurous," Brice retorted, "not suicidal."
With a rebellious glower, Angel started on her tasks. Usually, she liked riding Charity, an Anglo-Arab with nice gaits and enough of a stubborn streak to be a challenge. At another time, Angel would have been flattered to be chosen to display her to a buyer; today, she ground her teeth with frustration. But by the time she had the little mare saddled, Angel's attitude had improved. Brice and Mark were right. They were Kelly's working students for the summer; and if the summer was to be bearable, they had to do what she said. Kelly was a good teacher; she ran a well-managed barn; but she had no use for working students who wouldn't pull their weight. The aliens at the Blocktower would just have to be patient.
Kelly's truck pulled into the yard minutes before the buyers arrived. Kelly introduced Charity, giving her history, then led the mare into the arena. Angel, sensing her cue, fastened her hard hat and mounted. She put Charity through her paces; after a while, Angel got off to let the buyers ride. Angel watched for a minute or two before she took herself off.
Mark was in the aisleway, giving Churchy some juice from a juice box. Angel hid a smile at the sight of a large horse-mouth wrapped around a straw, and instead adopted a schoolmarm's expression. "You'll spoil that horse," she prophesied direly.
"It's Tropical Fruits," Mark reproached her. "His favorite." As if in emphasis, Churchy banged his stall door. "It's gone, you greedy brat."
In mock disgust, Angel flounced off, only to discover that Mark and Brice had mucked her stalls, too. "This isn't the start of a trend," Brice warned when she thanked them. "It's just for today, so we can get out of here sooner."
"What I want to know," Mark put in, "is what we're going to do with them after we get them real clothes. Like where are they going to stay? They can't camp at the Blocktower forever."
"Stay?" Brice asked. "They're looking for their friend—"
"A needle in a haystack!" Angel broke in. "Mark's right: they'll need to stay somewhere while we comb the library's phone book collection for this Alexandra Scarsdale person."
"Right," Mark agreed. "So where will they stay, and how are we going to explain who they are?"
"Fresh air kids?" Brice suggested.
"AFS students!" Angel countered. "That will explain any cultural misunderstandings."
"But there are five of them," Mark protested. "No one has five AFS students at once."
"Picky, picky," Angel scoffed. "How about foreign relatives? Have you got any European cousins, Brice?"
"Wait a second!" Mark cut in. "This is a story to tell our parents; the explanation can't have anything to do with any of us! I can just imagine my mother telling Brice's: 'It's so wonderful you could have those nice cousins to visit,' and her saying, 'What nice cousins? Aren't they your cousins?' No way."
"So think of something," Angel retorted. "But let's figure out how to get them normal clothes first. I can get stuff for the two kids—Mom has a whole closet full of things waiting for a rummage sale—but I'm not going to be able to help with the other three. They're all taller than I am."
"Don't look at me," Brice said. "I don't have any way to get home before tonight."
Mark nodded. "I think I can come up with stuff for the other three."
"This is so exciting," Angel said, "I don't think I can stand it." She damped her enthusiasm when she saw Kelly approaching. "These guys forgot their lunches," she told her. "I said I'd make sandwiches if they came over to my house."
Kelly turned to Mark. "Take the truck. I'm going to work my horses before my afternoon lessons. When you get back, set up a moderate course in the upper arena; Brigid's having a jumping lesson. Then start chores."
At Angel's house, the breakfast dishes were piled haphazardly in the kitchen sink. She left the others to forage while she reconnoitered. No one was home. She rooted in the rummage sale closet, bundled up a generous assortment of clothes, and returned to the kitchen. The boys had made her two enormous ham and cheese sandwiches, which she wolfed down in the truck on the way to Mark's house. As always, Angel was struck by the contrast between her untidy home and Mark's, which looked like an illustration from a new-age Better Homes and Gardens. Again, no one was home. It took Mark longer to select stuff he didn't think would be missed, but he remembered necessities like belts, socks, and handkerchiefs. By the time they left, Mark's faded laundry bag bulged like a sausage casing.
"I hate being the worrier, Angel," Mark began, "but have you thought about how we'll get this junk up to the Blocktower? Kelly would think it odd if we took our horses out again today."
"Let's stop off now," Brice suggested.
"You need four-wheel drive to get to the Blocktower," Angel explained. "We'd have to park in the Chandlers' yard and walk about a mile. Kelly would be wondering where we'd gone long before we were back."
"Besides, we'd have to get past Mr. Chandler," Mark added. "Hey! Maybe one of us could go. We have blanket permission to ride Princess while Harriet is away. One of us could take her up there while the others did chores."
Angel stifled a groan. Princess. The idea of the mare on the trail by herself did not appeal. "I'll do chores since you guys did my stalls," she offered. It was easily the lesser evil.
Brice volunteered to deliver the clothes. When they got back to the stable, he tacked up while Angel and Mark set up jumps for Brigid Chandler's lesson. They were placing the last jump when Brigid drove in. She paused to assess their handiwork.
"Kelly threatened me with this," she said with a laugh. Brigid was a ta
ll young woman in her late twenties, with an infectious smile and unruly reddish-brown hair. Her horse, Rex, was a big bay gelding with more muscle than sense and a fast gallop. "But it looks like you haven't been too unkind. This will make Rex's day—he's sick of dressage; and it will be good for me, too, if I survive. Has he been out?"
"He's out now." Angel pointed. "He looks pretty mellow."
"He always does when he's not under saddle," Brigid retorted as she headed for the barn.
Angel gripped Mark's elbow, barely managing to keep her voice down. "I've got it!" she crowed. "This is perfect! They're Chandlers European cousins."
As Mark considered, calculation was replaced by a conspiratorial smile. "You're right; it is perfect. And I bet Brigid will play along."
Angel's imp reappeared in her smile. "Yeah. She will. But we'd better come up with a good way to get her into this; she'll never believe us if we start with a plain explanation."
Mark began evolving stratagems. As they headed to the barn to start chores, they passed Brice on his way out with Princess. From the gleam in his eye when Angel said, "Chandler," he had had precisely the same thought.
EIGHT
Eikoheh fought; the shuttle seemed to have an independent will. Though she had brought the threads of the Allies close to those of the Five, they had not meshed into her intended pattern. Now, she felt a disturbance—threads she did not weave, with a faint hint of purple in their colors: the Trickster's influence. Behind her, Ohmiden cleared his throat.
"What?" she demanded curtly.
"There's stew. Will you eat it while you work, or would you prefer to rest awhile?"
She laid the shuttle aside. "I know what you intend, old man: you're trying to tell me I'm perilously tired. And you're right. But the loom never stops. There are forces loose, Ohmiden, forces I cannot control. Who knows what may happen to the Five while I eat and rest?"
"What will become of you if you don't eat or rest?"
She stood. "They are resourceful—and the stew smells good. Consider your task accomplished."
"For the moment, old woman; only for the moment."
***
The roaring of the dirt bikes retreated; peace and birdsong returned to the woodlands. Inside the Blocktower, Iobeh and Remarr tried to climb to the second floor of the building. There was a trap door in the wooden flooring above their heads, and a route upward for someone agile, utilizing the window casings and a large iron spike that must have once anchored a ladder. It took several tries, but at last, Iobeh—with a rope looped over her shoulder—got the trap door open and scrambled within. She reappeared several moments after securely fastening her knotted rope to a ringbolt embedded in the wall. She dropped the other end to Remarr, who joined her.
The room was not large, but it was bright and airy. The openings in each wall gave a view of the countryside.
"It wouldn't be much shelter in a driving rain," Remarr commented, "but it will probably be more comfortable than sleeping on the dirt floor below."
Iobeh nodded, then signed, And if we need to hide, just pull up the rope, close the trap, and sit quietly.
"Yes. But don't mention 'hide' to Vihena."
Iobeh gestured chidingly. We must work together.
He spread his hands. "Was I the one being impossible?"
You both were. It takes two for argument, Remarr.
Indeed! The shapeshifter's thought-voice sounded in their minds. But do I hear more dirt-bike noise in the distance?
After a hurried conclave, they decided Iobeh and Ychass would remain hidden upstairs; not only did this allow them to conceal their rope ladder, but it kept Ychass in reserve. She could fly down in bird-shape for a surprise attack. Karivet would remain out of sight in the ground floor room, ready to be of help without being an obvious target if the newcomers were not of a mind to parley. This left Remarr and Vihena to have the first contact with any visitors, Vihena for her prowess with the sword, and Remarr for his diplomatic speech.
By the time everyone was deployed, the noise was much closer. This growl, deeper than the dirt bikes', sounded confident—and larger. Remarr felt certain that this creature would be more of a threat than their earlier visitors. He kept his convictions to himself; there was no sense in inviting Vihena's scorn.
A moment later, Remarr's hunch was proven. This thing had four wheel-feet instead of two. It lumbered powerfully up the hill. Roughly rectangular in shape, its neckless head was about a third as tall as the rest of its body. It had two shiny eyes, separated by a grate of silvery teeth. Its hard shell was shiny in places, but mostly a dull green in color. It halted and fell silent. When it opened an unsuspected wing, a tall man climbed out of its guts. He wore livery of a dark greenish color, with some insignia on the sleeves. He pushed the wing of his beast, which it pulled to its side with a thump, then he leaned back and studied Vihena and Remarr.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said at last. "And I thought Travis was telling wild stories. I don't suppose you folks would like to tell me what you're doing on Mr. Chandler's land?"
"We mean no harm," Remarr began.
"That's not the point," he interrupted. "You're breaking the law—and you don't have any business threatening kids with a sword, for God's sake."
"Truly, we did not realize that we were breaking rules—"
"Didn't know?" the fellow demanded. "Why, Old Man Chandler's got Posted signs up, thick as mosquitoes, around every inch of his boundaries. What do you mean you didn't know you were trespassing? How'd you get here, anyway?"
"We were sent by the gods from a distant world. We mean no harm. Indeed, we are much in need of your help."
"I’ll say you need help," he muttered, then turned his attention to Vihena. "Now look here. There's no need for that sword. Why don't you just put it down, nice and slowly, and then I'll take you and your friend off to get some help."
Vihena shook her head. "Why should we trust you? What kind of help can you give us?"
"Take it easy. Look: I'll take you down to Waterbury; there are lots of nice folks there who'll get you straightened out in no time. It's nothing to be afraid of."
"Waterbury," Vihena repeated. Her sword point snapped up as she recalled its significance. "You think we're mad! But we are not—and we will not go to this Waterbury."
"Look, I don't want to get rough with you," he said.
"Just try!" Vihena challenged.
He removed an object from a leather case at his waist. "I'm not exactly helpless." He pointed it in her direction. "Put that sword down—NOW!" Authority crackled in his voice.
"Never," Vihena vowed. Before she could lunge, there was a blast of sound, the object in the man's hand spat fire, and she collapsed to the ground, a red stain blooming at her shoulder.
"Vihena!" Remarr knelt beside her. The man flung her sword over the edge of the hill. Then he went to Remarr's side.
"I'm sorry," he said. For the first time, Remarr saw how white he was. "But she was going to go for me. Help me get her into the jeep and we'll take her up to the hospital."
Ychass! Remarr thought frantically.
Go with him, the shapeshifter responded. He is genuinely concerned for her. I will follow in bird-shape; Iobeh and Karivet will remain hidden here.
In a daze, Remarr helped the man move Vihena into the thing he called "jeep." When she was stowed comfortably, the man showed Remarr where to sit, and they bounced and jolted away.
After a time, the track turned to an actual road; the jeep traveled faster than any cart. Under pretense of checking on Vihena, the minstrel kept looking out the window in the back, hoping for a glimpse of Ychass.
I am with you, her thought-voice assured him.
Vihena moaned and opened her eyes. "Remarr!" Remarr put a reassuring hand on her unhurt shoulder.
"All is well. Do not fret yourself."
"Well?" she demanded, struggling to prop herself up on her good arm. Remarr pushed her gently down, signing to her in their hand-language.
&nb
sp; Lie still; you'll start bleeding again. The man has promised to help us. Ychass is following. The twins wait.
With effort, she brought up her good hand to reply. Are we prisoners?
I don't think so.
"Is your friend awake?" the man asked.
"Yes," Remarr told him.
"Well, we'll be at the hospital soon."
Do you know what he's talking about? Vihena signed.
No. But Ychass said he is genuinely concerned about you.
Vihena dropped her hand wearily. Remarr noted that the woodlands and meadows had been replaced by scattered dwellings; the road was wider and smoother, and the fenced fields they passed were dotted with black-and-white cows. The jeep halted, then proceeded onto a new kind of road—black rock, with a vivid double yellow line running down the center of it. The jeep picked up speed on this smoother surface.
Ychass, are you with us? Remarr thought.
Yes. Watch for landmarks. If you gain much more speed, I may lose sight of you and need your guidance.
Remarr noted for Ychass that they bore right at a large, dilapidated red barn, then passed into an area of many dwellings, very close together. At a crossroad with a floating, flashing red flare above it, they again halted before turning right. They continued downhill, into an area where the buildings were even closer together, much bigger, and made of a strange, muddy red stone that was cut into small, rectangular shapes. There were no patches of green between the buildings, and the streets were dirty. There were also many other magic carts, in a dizzying array of colors and shapes, crowding the street and slowing their progress.
I've caught sight of you again, the shapeshifter said.
Despite her assurance, Remarr watched landmarks. After a time, they turned onto a much wider road, where all the other magic carts went the same way they were going. The jeep flung itself up the hill. Suddenly, they came to a huge crossroads, with more of the floating flares. They turned right, then pulled into a drive leading to a massive fort, made of the strange red stones and huge plates of glass, that sprawled around them. The jeep stopped by a doorway with a long ramp leading to it, and the man jumped out.
The Feast of the Trickster Page 5