The Many-Coloured Land

by Julian May

  The King shrugged. "It was only a thought . . . So you know where the Ship's Grave is, eh?"

  Claude said, "I believe so. And you have no moral objections to our plundering it to our mutual benefit?"

  Yeochee's beady green eyes flashed dangerously. "Be careful, old Claude. You won't be robbing the Ship of anything that can't be returned in good time, with interest, when the unfair advantage that the despicable Foe has seized is equalized."

  Madame said, "We will help you to accomplish this end, Monseigneur. I have sworn it as part of my expiation! When humans can no longer be enslaved by the Tanu, the status quo between your two races will be restored. And our first strike will be against Finiah, using an aircraft and the Spear from the Ship's Grave."

  The King twisted his beard into golden ropes. "The time factor! It's only three weeks to the equinox, then another week and a half and we're into the Truce for the Grand Combat in-gathering. H'mm. Our forces would need at least a week to prepare for an attack against the Tanu. Is there a chance that you can get back here with the flyer and the Spear before the Truce begins? We'd be willing to join you in an attack if there was a real hope of knocking off Velteyn and his flying circus. If we were successful against Finiah, the morale of our lads and lasses would be at zenith going into the Games this year."

  The old woman turned to Claude. "Is it possible for us to get to the Ries and back inside of a month?"

  "We might barely manage it. But only if we obtain a guide who can take us by the shortest route to the head of small boat navigation on the Danube. This would be some place beyond the Black Forest in a kind of sediment-filled basin, the molassic foredeep between the Swabian Jura and the Alps. The river would likely flow as gentry through the molasse as the Sweet Afton. We could sail to the Ries easily and fly back."

  "Within the month?" the King persisted.

  "If you use your good offices to get us a guide, it's feasible.''

  Fitharn stepped forward. "The mighty Sharn-Mes suggested that one Sugoll might be made to assist the expedition. A bad-tempered joker, even for a Howler, and not any too loyal. But he claims to rule the Feldberg country, even the Water Caves beyond the Paradise Gorge. Sharn-Mes thought that if anyone knew of this river, Sugoll would. I can take these people to his lair if you'll authorize Madame to impress his service."

  "Oh, very well," grumbled the King. He crouched down and began groping under the throne, presently hauling out a small coffer that looked as if it was carved from black onyx. After fumbling with its golden catch, he flung it open, rummaged around, and came up with a Parker pen of twenty-second-century vintage and a much-creased, stained piece of vellum. Still kneeling on the floor he scrawled several emphatic ideographs and appended the royal signature.

  "That should do it." He replaced the writing materials and the chest and handed the missive to Madame. "It's the best I can do. Freely translated, it says: Help these people or It's your ass. You have our royal leave to coerce this Sugoll into slime-mold if he gives you a hard time."

  Madame gave a gracious nod and tucked the note away.

  A bowlegged little fellow in a belted red smock came trotting into the audience hall and saluted the King. "You rang, Appalling One?"

  "We hunger and thirst," said the Monarch of the Infernal Infinite. He turned abruptly from the steward and shot a question at Madame. "You really think this expedition has a chance of success?"

  "It does," she affirmed solemnly. "Captain Richard, here, was a master of starships. He will be able to pilot one of the flyers spoken of in your legends, if they have not been destroyed by the elements. Martha and Stefanko possess technical knowledge that will enable us to make both the aircraft and the Spear operational. Chief Burke and Felice will defend us against natural perils en route. I myself will use my metafunctions to confound inimical members of your own race, as well as such Tanu that may venture to pursue us. Professor Claude will lead us to the crater once we are safely on the river. As to success . . ." She ventured a wintry smile. "That remains in the hands of le bon Dieu, n'est-ce pas?"

  Yeochee glowered at her. "Why can't you speak English like a regular human being? Don't I have enough trouble with you? Oh, I admit the plan sounds good. But so did the scheme for tunneling under the Finiah wall and setting off that damned guano explosive your people cooked up. And at the last minute Velteyn let the Rhine into the diggings! A hundred and eighty-three Firvulag stalwarts swiming for their lives in a soup of bird shit!"

  "This time it will be different, Monseigneur."

  Yeochee beckoned to the steward. "Bring me some of the best ale. And have that new human cook, Mariposa, the one with the nose, bake up one of those big flat open-face tarts with the melted chamois cheese and tomato sauce and the new sausage."

  The steward bowed low and ran off.

  "We have your leave, then, to pursue the expedition immediately?" Madame asked.

  "Oh, yes, yes." The King's growl was petulant. He drew his golden bathrobe around himself. "We command it, in fact. And now you are dismissed . . . Fitharn, you stay here. I've got something to talk over with you."

  The palace guards, who had stood immobile in their black-glass armor during the interview, now thumped short lances on the floor and prepared to escort the human visitors out. But the smallest female, the one with the cloud of pale hair , who was scarcely as tall as a Firvulag woman, had the boldness to call out.

  "Your Majesty! One more word."

  "Oh, very well," sighed the King. "I know who you are. I suppose you still think we ought to give you a golden torc."

  "Don't make me wait!" Felice fixed him with a gaze even more penetrating than Madame's. "With a golden torc I could insure that the expedition would be a success."

  The King vouchsafed what he hoped was a suave smile. "I know all about your extraordinary abilities. You'll be rewarded with your heart's desire in good time. But not yet! First, help your friends get the Spear and the flyer. If you should happen to find Lugonn's torc there at the crater, take it! If not, we'll see what can be done when you return. Deliver the goods and then we'll talk about presents."

  He waved his hand in dismissal and the guards ushered the humans out.

  "Are they gone?" Yeochee whispered, jumping down off the dais to peer into the gloom.

  "Gone, King," Fitharn confirmed. He sat on the edge of the regal platform, pulled off one boot, and tipped a pebble from it. "Ah, you little bastard!"

  "Show some respect," growled Yeochee.

  "Speaking to the stone in my shoe, Appalling One . . . Well? What do you think?"

  "Risky, risky." The King paced up and down, hands clasped behind his back. "If only we could do without these damned middlemen! Pull off the whole thing ourselves!"

  Fitharn said, "The despicable torc wearers must often entertain the same thoughts. They, too, are dangerously dependent upon humanity. But there is no other way for us, Appalling One. The humans are smarter than we are, stronger in other ways as well. Could we ever hope to operate a flyer after all this time? Or put the Spear into working order? We've had forty years to think of ways to bring down the Foe, and all we've done is cry in our beer. I don't like the redoubtable Guderian any more than you do, King. But she's a most formidable person. Like her or lump her, she can help us."

  "But we can't trust humans!" howled Yeochee. "Did you feel that blast of hostility from Felice while she was saying 'pretty please'? Give that one a golden torc,' I'd sooner try to plug a lava dike with my royal swizzle stick!"

  "We can control Felice. Pallol and Sharn-Mes have been giving the matter thought. Even if she finds a torc at the Ship's Grave, she can't learn to use it overnight. They'll fly back here right away and Felice will be wild to get into the fight against Finiah. We'll put her in the care of our Warrior Ogresses . . ."

  "Te's titties!" blasphemed the King.

  ". . . and Ayfa or Skathe can put her down at the least hint of treachery. If Felice survives the assault on Finiah we can get rid of her by sending her sou
th to the Combat. That will seem to fit right in with the second phase of Guderian's famous plan. Don't worry, King. We'll use Felice and the rest of them to our advantage . . . and then Sharn and Pallol will engineer a suitably heroic demise for our noble human allies. If we play this right, the Firvulag can end up with both the Spear and the Sword, on top of the Tanu torcers and the Lowlives, too. And you can really mean it when you call yourself Undoubted Ruler of the Known World."

  Yeochee gave him an awful look. "Just wait until it's your turn in the king barrel! We'll see how well you . . ."

  The steward came skipping out of the passage, carrying a large steaming tray and a glass flagon of tawny liquid. "It's ready, Appalling One! Hot-hot-hot! And not with ordinary salamander sausage, either, but with a new kind! The cook Mariposa says it'll frizzle your cojones!"

  Yeochee bent over the tray to savor the fragrance of the wheel-shaped open pie. It was cut into wedges, each one oozing delectable layers of creamy white and red.

  "Beggin' your pardon, King," Fitharn ventured, "but what the hell is that?"

  The King took the platter and the bottle of ale and began to trudge happily toward the crystal grotto. "The special dish of one Señora Mariposa de Sanchez, late of Krelix Plantation, earlier of Chichen-Itza Pizza Parlor in Merida, Mexico . . . Leave us, Fitharn. Go with those damned Lowlives and watch 'em."

  "As you command, Appalling One."

  At last, the great cavern was quiet once more. Yeochee poked his head around the entrance to the geode chamber. The candles burned low and two fascinating eyes peered at him from the stack of dark furs.

  "Yoo-hoo!" he caroled. "Goody time!"

  Lulo came bouncing toward him in the most charming way.

  "Grrum! Yumyumyum!"

  He gave a delighted screech. "Let go! Let me put it down first, you mad succubus, you! Oh, you're going to love this. It's my newest favorite. Half cheese, half axolotl!"

  Chapter Three

  "The unicorn! The unicorn! The unicorn!"

  Martha keened the word unceasingly as she wept over the torn body of Stefanko lying in the middle of the marsh trail. Great cypresses reared up from pools of brown water on either side. Where the morning sunlight shone through the trees there were clouds of dancing midges and scarlet dragon-flies hawking among them. A lobster-sized crayfish, perhaps attracted by the blood dripping into the water, scrabbled slowly up the shallow embankment that raised the trail above the Rhine bottomland.

  Peopeo Moxmox Burke sat propped against a mossy trunk, groaning as Claude and Madame Guderian cut away his deerskin shirt and one leg of his pants.

  "The horn seems only to have grazed your ribs, mon petit peau-rouge. However, I will have to sew. Claude, administer a narcotic."

  "See to Steffi," the Chief pleaded through clenched teeth.

  Claude only shook his head. He took a herendorf bleb from the medical kit Amerie had prepared for them and applied the dose to Burke's temple.

  "Oh, God. That's better. How is the leg? I could feel the bugger's teeth press me to the bone."

  Claude said, "Your calf muscle is all slashed to hell. And you can bet those tusks were poison-filthy to boot. There's no way we can patch this out here, Peo. Your only chance is professional care back with Amerie."

  Cursing softly, Burke rested his huge gray head against the cypress and let his eyes close. "My own fault. Stupid schmuck, I was concentrating on covering our scent by taking us through that patch of stinking pitcher plants. Watching for hoe-tusker sign, traces of bear-dogs . . . and we get ambushed by a goddam hog!"

  "Silence, child," Madame ordered. "You derange my stitching."

  "It was no ordinary porker," Claude said. He wrapped the chiefs leg in porofilm after packing the wound with antibiotic floe. The decamole leg splint was already inflated and ready to be fastened in place. "I think the beast that did this job on you was none other than Kubanochoerus, the giant one-horned Caucasian boar. It was supposed to've been extinct by the Pliocene."

  "Huh! Tell that to Steffi, poor feygeleh."

  Madame said, "I will finish tending Peo, Claude. See to Martha."

  The paleontologist went over to the hysterical engineer, studied her swaying, wild-eyed actions for a moment, and saw what had to be done. He grasped her by one wrist and yanked her roughly to her feet "Will you shut up, girl? Your stupid bawling will bring the soldiers on us! Do you think Steffi would want that?"

  Martha choked in outraged astonishment and drew back one arm to slap the old man's face. "How do you know what Steffi would want? You didn't know him! But I did, and he was gentle and good and he took care of me when my damn guts were, when I was sick. And now look at him. Look at him!" Her ravaged, once beautiful face crumpled in fresh sobs. Martha's momentary fury at Claude dissolved and her arm fell. "Steffi, oh, Steffi," she whispered, then fell against the sturdy old man. "One minute he was walking along and smiling over his shoulder at me, and the next . . ."

  The gray monster had burst without warning from a thick stand of reeds and charged the middle of the line of hikers, tossing Stefanko into the air and then savaging him. It had switched its attack to Peo when the chief drew his machette and tried to stop the animal's awful gobbling. Fitharn had burst into illusory flame, driving the boar off the natural causeway into the swamp shallows. Felice and Richard followed the fireball with drawn bows, leaving the others to help the wounded. But there was no helping Stefanko.

  Claude held the shuddering Martha in his arms, then pulled out the tail of his bush shirt and used it to wipe her streaming eyes. He led her to the mossy hollow where Madame was working on Burke and made her sit down. The knees of the engineer's buckskin trousers were stained with dark blood and muck, but there were also bright scarlet patches down around both ankles.

  "You'd better have a look at her, Madame," Claude said. "I'll take care of Steffi."

  He got a Mylar blanket from his own pack and went to the body, fighting to control his own rage and revulsion. He had known Stefanko only four days; but the ready competence of the man and the warmth of his personality had made him a congenial trail-mate on the trek from High Vrazel to the Rhine bottomland. Now Claude could only do his best to smooth the contorted face back into its accustomed smooth lineaments. No need to look so surprised any more, Steffi boy. Just relax and rest. Rest in peace.

  A horde of flies had descended upon the ripped mass of intestines and moved only with sluggish reluctance as Claude rolled Stefanko's body onto the metallic sheet. Using the heat-beam of his powerpack, the old man welded the edges of the Mylar into a bag. The job was nearly finished when Fitharn, Richard, and Felice came squelching back out of the jungle.

  Felice held up a ridged yellowish object like an ivory marlin-spike. "We got the fuckard for what good it does."

  Richard shook his head in awe. "A pig the size of a goddam ox! Musta weighed eight hundred kilos. Took five arrows to finish it off after Pegleg trapped it in a thicket. I still can't figure how anything that big could have snuck up on us unawares."

  "They're intelligent devils," Fitharn growled. "It must have followed us downwind. If I'd had my wits about me I'd have sensed it. But I was thinking about how we'd have to hurry to cross the river before the morning mist lifted."

  "Well, we're stuck here now that it's broad daylight," Felice said. She held up the trophy horn. "This fellow saw to that."

  "Now what?" Richard wanted to know.

  Felice had undipped the arrows from the holder on her compound bow and she now knelt to dip the stained glassy heads in the water beside the trail. "We'll have to hide out on this side until sundown and then cross. The moon's nearly full tonight. We could probably get over the narrow strip of east-bank lowland in a couple of hours and then bivouac among the rocks at the foot of the Black Forest scarp for the rest of the night."

  The Firvulag gave an exclamation. "You're not thinking of going on?"

  She glared at him. "You're not thinking of turning back?"

  Claude said, "Steffi's dead
. Peo's in a bad way. He's going to have to be taken back to Amerie by one of us, or he'll lose his leg, or worse."

  "That still leaves five of us," Felice said. She frowned, tapping the boar horn against her buckskin-clad thigh. "Pegleg could go back with the Chief. He could get help from his people along the way. And before you leave," she said to the little man, "tell us how to get to the stronghold of this guy Sugoll."

  "It won't be easy." The Firvulag wagged his head. "The Black Forest is a lot more rugged than the Vosges. Sugoll's place is up on the northeastern slope of the Feldberg, where the Paradise River comes off the snowfields. Bad country."

  "The Tanu won't be looking for us on the other side of the Rhine," she said. "Once we're across, we probably won't have to worry about any more gray-torc patrols."

  "There are still Howlers," Fitharn said. "And at night, the Hunt. Airborne, if Velteyn leads it. If the Hunt spots you in the open, you're finished."

  "Can't we travel mostly by day?" Richard suggested. "Madame Guderian's metafunctions can warn us of hostile Firvulag."

  The old woman had come up to the group, an expression of deep concern upon her face. "I am not so worried about les Criards as about Sugoll himself. Without his help, we may never locate the Danube in time. But if Fitharn does not accompany us, Sugoll may feel that he can ignore the King's directive with impunity. And there is another matter for grave concern . . . Martha. She has begun to hemorrhage from the shock. Among the Tanu, she was forced to give birth to four children in quick succession and her female organs . . ."