That would never do.
There was still another consideration. Inky had explicitly told him to lay off. His role here was limited to that of a military adviser. He was not supposed to use magic except in a military situation, and, in that case, nothing more than a temporary invisibility spell or two. If that, In fact, Trent had not planned to use any supernatural crutches at all. Tricks would only complicate the situation; besides, military magic was not always effective. Better to keep your power dry and your sword sharp. Rely on hocus-pocus at your peril.
So, the upshot: mind your own gods-damned business.
Telamon talked of other things while Trent's mind wandered. He wondered about Sheila and exactly how long he'd been gone now, according to Sheila's sense of time. He suspected that Inky had misrepresented the time-flow variance. Damn him.
Trent was worried, because in this world, this universe, three solid months had passed since he'd arrived. He hoped Sheila wasn't fretting. Inky had assured him he'd get word to her in case of any undue delay in his return. But how much time? How long was his absence, reckoning by castle-time: A day? A week? Perhaps as much as a month had gone by. Sheila would be beside herself.
But he was committed. He couldn't pull out. He'd pledged his help and he had to follow through. A matter of his word, his honor.
“You are distracted, friend,” Telamon was saying.
“Hm? Oh, sorry. Yes, I'm afraid I can't get my mind off this business. I really wish—"
Telamon looked down at the slope. “It will be over soon, and there will be no more to think about."
Trent looked. A procession was coming up the path. Anthaemion, his court, his palace guard, others. And two soldiers escorting a young woman.
God, she looks all of fourteen, Trent said to himself.
He downed the last of his wine and rose with Telamon. They waited.
The procession wound up the stone path. As it passed, he watched the girl. She wore a garland of myrtle around her head and was dressed in white robes. She was young, much too young. How could that miserable swine do such a thing?
She turned her head and looked at Trent. A faint smile crept across her lips. Bashfully, she turned her head away.
She didn't know! And wouldn't till the last second, he hoped. Thank the gods.
He'd better stop using that expression. These weren't his gods. If they existed. Not that he had really ever...
Never mind, never mind. Should he go up and witness the bloody thing? Or stay here and get drunk, and a pox on the whole bunch of irrational, superstitious bastards?
The procession passed. He and Telamon followed it up the slope.
Trent's mind churned all the way up.
The temple complex on the acropolis was small. Three temples, but only one was anything more than a gazebo affair. There were a few other small buildings and shrines. The procession passed all these and headed for the open-air altar, a stepped pyramid that sat on the edge of a cliff above the sea.
Clouds of darker gray gathered above. The buildings were made of white marble, but they were old and weathered, even in this ancient time. (But now is now, Trent thought, correcting himself once again. And this is not Earth.)
Trent didn't know what gods or goddesses any of these structures were dedicated to, nor did he care.
On the altar's highest level sat a stone brazier, good for barbecues and your basic holocaust. Kill the victim, then burn the remains. That was how it was done. Usually the victim was not human.
Trent lost sight of the head of the procession. He broke into a run to catch up.
He sidestepped, ducked, and pushed his way through the clot of soldiers, sailors, courtiers, and noblemen, leaving ruffled dignity in his wake. Nasty looks were thrown his way, and a few swords came halfway out of scabbards. But he elbowed his way forward.
He reached the first step of the altar and began to climb, but hit an impasse. Bodies blocked his way. He lunged. One man fell over backwards. He gained two steps. Curses came to his ears from behind.
“Foreign trash!"
“Sorcerous dog!"
And worse, but he paid it no mind. Most were
reluctant to challenge a sorcerer. He kept pushing his way up the terraced altar.
One ornery soldier wasn't about to let him pass. Snarling, the man drew his sword. Trent kneed him in the balls.
He pushed upward. Finally, he was at the top, but more noble carcasses barred his way.
He heard the girl scream. He jabbed his fist into the spine of the man in front of him.
When he went down Trent broke into the clear, and stopped in his tracks.
Above him, on the highest stone platform, Anthaemion stood with his right arm upraised, the gold of his bronze blade against the gray sky, ready to bring it down on the terrified child. The king's eyes were dark, a kind of resolute fury in them. Though he hesitated, he was clearly determined to see this through.
A blinding flash lit up the acropolis.
The blade of the king's sword was the focal point. Spider-legs of blue fire crawled from it, metastasizing to a circle of points around the oval brazier. A blue glow enveloped everyone and everything. Simultaneously, one of the spider-legs darted to Trent, lifted him up, and hurled him over the heads of the crowd. Then a cascade of sparks radiated from the king's sword, and white smoke rose from it.
A tremendous crash resounded. People tumbled over each other down the steps.
The sea echoed thunder.
Telamon's face came into focus.
“Trent?"
Trent raised his head.
“What happened?” he asked.
“The sign."
“Uh, yeah."
Telamon helped Trent sit up, then palpated his arms, his legs, all of him. Nothing broken. Trent tried to get up, found that he could.
“The gods have spoken,” Telamon said, “as they always do."
“Loud and clear,” Trent said. He was a little dazed, and his ears hurt. He turned to find Anthaemion looking at him.
The crowd had dispersed. A few lingered to stare at the top of the altar.
“Come with me,” Anthaemion commanded.
Trent followed him back to the top of the altar. There, the king stopped and looked down at something lying at his feet: a piece of twisted half-fused metal.
Trent looked. It was Anthaemion's sword.
“It was a trial, a test,” the king of Mykos said, staring at the thing.
“Yes,” Trent said.
“To see if I would obey. And I obeyed."
“Yes,” Trent said again. He had command of few words at the moment. “The girl? She... ?"
Anthaemion looked at Trent. “She is unhurt."
“Ah."
“You were right, Trent. But the gods had their plan, which you tried to thwart. And I had no choice. Now, the gods have seen to it that my conscience is clear."
Trent nodded.
Anthaemion took a long breath. “I felt nothing,” he said.
“The lightning's fire passed through me. Yet I had no sensation. Was there much pain for you?"
“Nothing at all,” Trent told him.
Anthaemion nodded. “The gods are all-powerful. And all-wise.” He looked out over the cliff. “We cannot fail now."
“No. I suppose not."
Trent went down, leaving the graying king to stare at the wine-dark sea.
Walking back down the stony path, Trent began to chuckle.
Yep. He'd played the ace about as cagily as it could be played. Anthaemion didn't suspect a thing. Close, though. Close.
Just how do you go about calling down a bolt from the sky and directing a convincing portion of it at yourself without hurting anybody or turning your carcass into a piece of charred meat?
Carefully. Very carefully.
Above the bustling seaport, a patch of blue was showing.
Castle Keep—Lower Levels,
Near the Grand Ballroom
Gene was dressed for troubl
e. He had on a chain-mail hood over a padded jupon (more or less a long-sleeved doublet), tights, and anachronistic high leather boots. He was packing a long broadsword and a dagger.
Linda was in leather shorts over black tights, high green felt boots, and a ruffled blouse under a leather jerkin. The scabbard of her dagger was gilded in filigree.
They had found an unoccupied sitting room and were hiding out, taking a breather, while all around them the disturbance continued. Cacophony reigned. Hundreds of orchestras clashed in disharmony while thousands of dancers and singers contributed to the din.
“I'm bushed,” Gene said, collapsing on the couch.
“Yeah.” Linda plopped next to him.
Gene watched a military band march past the archway, then said, “How many floors did we cover?"
“Dozen or two."
“What floor is this?"
“The sixth, I think."
“That far down? It's getting pretty congested. Think we can make it to the basement?"
“That's where the ruckus started, you said."
“I was just guessing, but judging from the fact that it gets worse the farther down we go, I'd say I was right."
“So, we go to the basement and see what's up."
“Check. As soon as I catch my second wind."
“My third."
“Oh, no."
A marching band in green uniforms with gold piping and epaulets trooped through the room, blaring out a peppy double-time number. Linda covered her ears and buried her face in the sofa.
When the last piccolo player had fast-stepped out, Gene said, “I wonder where the football game is."
“God, they were loud,” Linda complained as she sat up.
“Maybe this isn't the most dangerous disturbance we've had at the castle, but it certainly is the most annoying. What a racket."
“I wish there was a door to this place."
Gene looked at her, frowning.
She returned his stare. “What are you—?” Then it dawned on her. “Oh. Yeah, right."
She folded her arms and twitched her nose.
A stout oak door appeared under the formerly open archway to their right, along with a fitted section of wall. When she twitched again, an identical assemblage materialized to block the entrance opposite. The din outside became a dull hum.
“Sorry,” she said. “Should have thought of it."
“That nose business you do is strangely evocative, I must say."
“I've rigged it as a trigger for my spells. I stole it from an old TV sitcom."
“Of course. Television, the source of all wisdom. I'll never live up to Darin."
“Of course you will. Who'll play the mother-in-law?"
“Endora? Deena."
“Great, we're set for a long season."
“High ratings."
They laughed, then fell silent.
At length Linda said, “Sure is quiet."
“Yup."
She looked at Gene. “Want to talk about it?"
“It? Oh."
“Us?"
“Yeah, us. What about us?"
She shrugged. “Any future?"
He shrugged in turn. “Dunno."
“Should we have an affair?"
Gene chuckled. “What a question."
“I'm serious."
“You really want my opinion?"
“Yes."
“No."
“We shouldn't?"
“Probably not,” Gene said. “We make a good team. We've gone through a lot together. Maybe we shouldn't complicate it."
Linda's shoulders fell a little. “Maybe not."
“Are you relieved or disappointed?"
“Don't know, really."
“Are you hurt?"
“Hurt? No, not at all."
“I like you, Linda."
“And I like you. Guess I was being silly."
“No. Oh, hell. Linda, I think you're attractive."
“You do? You've never said so."
“No, guess I never have said so. Seems to me that the subject simply never came up. But it's true. I've always thought you were attractive. The thing is..."
“What?"
“I've always thought of you as ... above it all."
“Above what?"
“You've always seemed ... What am I trying to say? Uninterested, aloof from anything so mundane as romance."
“Really?” Linda was amazed.
“Not true?"
Linda thought about it. “Call it hibernation. I was just in a dormant state. You're forgetting the psychological wreck I was when I arrived here."
Gene thought back. “You're right. I'd quite forgot."
“So now maybe I'm better. Or thought I was. Ready for romance. But that's out of the question."
“Hey, I never said it was out of the question."
“What did you say?"
“Well, you asked me if I thought it was a good idea for us to ... you know."
Linda smiled. “You know?"
“You know, do that thing."
“Sleep together. Gene, you're almost blushing."
“Don't be silly, my dear. We men of the world—"
“You are blushing! You must have taken up with a dozen women since I've known you."
“What? You're dreaming! And as far as blushing is concerned, I'm blushing because you're trying to make me blush. Stop that!"
Linda giggled. “Sorry."
“Okay, well ... What the hell were we talking about?"
“Having sex."
“Good God, woman! This isn't a proper conversation, not at all, not at all."
“Prude."
“Besides, ‘sex’ in that usage is a misnomer, you know. ‘Sex’ means gender, not coitus."
“You should go on Jeopardy."
“Well, it's true."
“Fine. Anyway. So you didn't rule it out, but you don't think we should."
“That's more or less what I said."
Linda nodded. “Okay, I can live with that, I suppose."
“Wait a minute. What do you think?"
“What's it matter what I think if you don't think it's a good idea?"
“Because the fact that it might not be—I say might not be—such a good idea doesn't have anything to do with my maybe wanting to do it."
“So your answer is maybe?"
Gene crossed his ankles and leaned back. “Maybe."
“Your answer is maybe, or maybe your answer is maybe?"
“It may be that maybe is my answer."
“God, talk about playing hard to get."
“Who's playing hard to get? All I said was—"
“You said maybe maybe."
“Maybe maybe?"
“Not just one maybe. Double maybe."
“No, what I said was—"
“I don't believe this,” Linda said. “The woman is supposed to play hard to get."
“Well, these are the nineties. The gay nineties."
“Don't be silly. Maybe you're right, though."
“Right about what?” Gene asked.
“About us not being compatible."
“I didn't say that."
“You didn't? But you said we'd be no good together. Maybe that's true. For one thing, you're six times brighter than I am."
“Oh, please."
“No, really. Sometimes you're so bright you blind me. You're witty and charming. You're absolute greased lightning with a comeback, and you always know the right thing to say—"
“Give me a freaking break."
“Listen to me. Sometimes I can't keep up with you."
“You listen to me,” Gene told her. “One of the reasons I like having you around is that you let me be bright and charming and oh-so witty. People are different depending on who they're with, you know. If I'm charming when you're around, it's only because you bring that out in me."
Linda looked at him for a moment before she said, “That's a nice thing to say."
“I
t's true."
“Thank you for saying it. But you do intimidate me sometimes."
“Sorry, don't mean to."
“I know it's not intentional."
“Last thing I want to do is intimidate you. Some other people, yes. So, you think this is major problem between us?"
Linda shook her head. “No, I'm not saying it's a major problem."
“A minor problem?"
“Uh, well, maybe."
Gene said, “Lots of maybes in this conversation."
“Yeah. Seriously, I don't want to give the impression that I think there are these major barriers between us. Just ... well, what I'm saying is ... uh..."
“What are you saying?"
“What are you saying?"
“What I said."
“Which was?"
Gene thought about it. “I need to think about this a little bit more."
“There's hope?"
“Are you hoping there's hope?"
“Are you?"
Gene laughed. “This is like a poker game."
“How so?"
“Playing close to the vest. We don't want to tip our hands."
“Maybe we're both afraid of being hurt,” Linda said.
“Maybe we're both bluffing?"
“Could be. Maybe we should leave it at that."
“More maybes."
“Yeah.” Linda suddenly yawned. “Oh, excuse me."
“You want me to take a nap?"
“I'd love to."
The noise level jumped and startled them both.
Gene glanced at both entrances. The magically created doors were gone.
“You're doing your disappearing act well these days,” he commented.
“I don't make anything disappear,” she said. “I just make the spell weak, and when it fizzles, the thing I conjured just vanishes."
“Oh, is that how you do it? Neat. You want to rest more?"
“No, let's get to the bottom of this. We have to."
“Okay. But I hate to—"
A large, well-muscled man came bursting through the archway. He wore the visored steel helmet and greaves of a gladiator and carried a shield, but his chest was vulnerably bare. Seeing Gene, he raised his short-sword and charged.
Gene leaped up and drew in time to parry the man's lunging thrust. Stepping deftly aside, he tripped his assailant and laid the flat of his sword sharply across the man's bare back.
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