by Julian May
The doctor messed around with some kind of monitor device stuck onto Tony’s forehead. “He’s becoming overexcited.”
Tony tried to rise up. His eyes were wide. “Don’ mean ol’ Doogy’ ths dead?”
Kawal said, “Sir Dougal is alive and recovering. So are five other of your companions.”
Tony gave a sigh and relaxed “Riii’.” He began to drift off—but then his eyes snapped open and he regarded the aged Japanese with piercing intensity. “Intelligenths? Wha’ inteltigenths?”
Denny Johnson bent over the bed “All these months, we’ve blamed the spook attacks on Howlers—the deformed mutants who never accepted the alliance between humanity and the Firvulag. We knew the hostiles had to be Howlers, because the Little People have been our bosom buddies ever since the Fall of Finiah. That’s what we thought.”
“You mean those thpookths—”
Kawai’s black button eyes glittered angrily. “The dead bodies of your attackers shape-shifted back to their normal form .What Denny and his troops discovered during the mopping up was not the remains of mutants, but of normal Firvulag. Our putative allies.” He shook his head. “Madame Guderian never trusted the Little People. Her doubts have been confirmed. The Firvulag have mounted these treacherous strikes hoping to force us to abandon the Iron Villages. They fear the blood metal, in spite of our avowals that we would never use iron weapons against our friends.”
Tony blinked “Mebbe…juths Firv’lag hotheadths.”
Denny said, “The corpses wore obsidian armor. They were regulars in me army of King Sharn and Queen Ayfa. And their use of the siege engine shows that they aren’t wasting any time in adopting new methods of warfare now that the balance of power has shifted in their favor.”
“We would never have discovered this,” Kawai added, “if you had not withstood them so valiantly.”
Tony moaned. He turned away.
“He’s got to rest now,” the doctor insisted.
The wounded metallurgist mumbled one last phrase, then subsided into sleep.
Kawai’s brow wrinkled anxiously. “Doctor Jafar? What did he say?”
“I think”—the physician frowned in puzzlement—”it was: ‘Take me back to Finiah!’”
5
LADY ESTELLA-SIRONE, THE WIDOWED HUMAN CHATELAINE OF Darask, had been so certain that Elizabeth would approve the chalet that she sent her major domo on ahead to make preparations, together with those who had volunteered for the domestic and security staff. The main body of refugees remained encamped at the western end of Lac Provençal. From there it was only a half-day’s ride to the hunting lodge on Black Crag, in the midst of the Montagne Noire region of southern France.
By the time that Elizabeth and her four friends and their escort of loyal human and Tanu gold-torcs arrived for their inspection tour, the redoubtable Hughie B. Kennedy VII had his mistress’s rustic retreat swept and garnished and ready for guests. A table in the private dining room adjoining the master suite (which was proposed as Elizabeth’s apartment) had been set with the Irish major domo’s idea of a light lunch: marinated mushrooms, poached froglegs in champagne aspic, stuffed green olives, smoked salmon, plovers’ eggs à la Christiana, ham soufflé with asparagus tips, glazed quails cerisette, cold roast hipparion, Waldorf salad, pâté de foie gras, sourdough bread-rolls, oranges rubanées, and carob-chip cookies.
It was the first festive and civilized meal that the five leaders of the Muriah evacuation had seen in months. They fell to in an atmosphere of bittersweet celebration.
It was evident that the mountain hideaway was eminently suitable for Elizabeth’s needs, and Creyn would stay with her. The others, however, would continue to Hidden Springs as they had planned. It was possible that the separation would be permanent, despite their being able to communicate through the golden torcs now worn by Basil and Chief Burke. Thus the conversation was desultory, with the pain of parting spoiling everyone’s appetite.
Finally they left off the attempts at false cheer and reminisced about the terrible journey that was now virtually at an end. The interminable trek along the devastated Aven Peninsula, during which the triracial mob of evacuees grew to a logistic and psychosocial nightmare. The treacherous moonlight flit of the Firvulag contingent, who absconded with the bulk of the survival gear just as the worst of the rainy season came upon them. The struggles with sick and injured and defeated and exploitative refugees. The headlong flight from Celadeyr of Afaliah and his gang of ancient régime fanatics. The dreadful trip across the Catalan Wilderness, following a little-used track that degenerated into a quagmire alive with venomous snakes, giant mosquitoes, and biting leeches…
And then sanctuary. The foothills of the eastern Pyrénées, rich in mines and plantations, and the dangerously depleted cities of Tarasiah and Geroniah eager to welcome new citizens. (By then news of the Firvulag seizure of Burask in the distant north had seeped southward, and there were hints that other inadequately defended cities were next on the hit-list.) Perhaps a third of the 3700 displaced humans and Tanu decided to resettle in Spain. The rest, hoping to reach their old homes, continued to the smiling shores of Lac Provençal, where the generosity of Estella-Sirone of Darask showered them with every comfort. (They were, after all, the companions of Elizabeth, who had saved the Lady’s life in childbirth.)
The decimated Languedoc cities vied with one another in sending recruiters to the refugee camp. Even more intriguing offers came from distant Goriah in Armorica, where Aiken Drum was consolidating his position, offering high status and riches to any rootless Tanu who rallied round, and a golden torc to any human fighter who pledged fealty to Lord Aiken Lugonn. Aiken had sent his personal farspoken invitation to Elizabeth herself, promising her complete autonomy “under his protection.” She had declined with cool thanks.
Dionket Lord Healer and other surviving members of the Peace Faction went off to join Minanonn the Heretic in his remote Pyrenean enclave, where the erstwhile Tanu Battlemaster presided over a tiny population of Tanu, Firvulag, and a few free humans, all dwelling together in Spartan amity. Dionket had urged Elizabeth, for her own safety, to go with them. But she knew, even without metapsychic foresight, that pacifistic withdrawal could never be her destiny in the Many-Colored Land. Later, it had been more difficult to tell Chief Burke and Basil Wimbome and Sister Amerie Roccaro that she could not accompany them to the Lowlife center at Hidden Springs. She required an isolated retreat, where she could stay for the immediate future, recuperating and meditating upon the new rôle she had freely chosen.
“And so,” Elizabeth said, rising from the luncheon table, smiling as she brushed crumbs from her black gown, “the fatal moment is almost upon us. Shall we go and explore the balcony? I think it goes all around the chalet.”
Creyn was out of his seat and opening the half-glazed doors before the others could stir. The Tanu had put off his rough traveling clothes for the meal and wore again the scarlet and white formal robes of a high-ranking redactor. As he followed the others into the sunlight, his pupils shrank to pinpoints, the irises within his deep eyesockets becoming an unearthly, opaque blue. His fair hair had been cut short for the exodus, and he towered behind Elizabeth like some attenuated El Greco seraph, looking both worldly and vulnerable. He was six hundred and thirty-four years old, and he was prepared to stay at Black Crag Lodge for the rest of his life, if need be, acting as the senior servant of the human woman whom Brede Shipspouse had called “the most important person in the world.”
Basil leaned on the railing, affecting to admire the eastern panorama “I should think this place would suit you admirably, Elizabeth!” His voice was too hearty. “Isolation, security, a magnificent natural setting—and our friends at Darask on other end of the lake near enough to keep you comfortably supplied. Lady Estella-Sirone was quite right. The lodge is a perfect hermitage. It’s an Odin-seat! A perch for scanning the world!”
All of them laughed at the mental image he projected, except torcless Amerie, who growle
d, “Not another damn mindreaders’ in-joke!”
“A funny picture,” Elizabeth took the nun’s arm “Imagine a third-rate production of a Wagner opera. A plaster mountain with a lot of strobe lightning and tinny thunder. And me as a Nordic goddess, posed on top of my fake Asgard, wearing a winged helmet and a terribly portentous expression as I survey Middle Earth down below. If I spot any mortal jiggery-pokery, I have this handy basketful of thunderbolts to smite with.”
“Except, you don’t,” Amerie said.
“No.”
“And therein lies the bloody rub.” Peopeo Moxmox Burke spoke fiercely, even resentfully, all the while trying to shore up the inexpert mental screen that decently veiled his emotions from Elizabeth. Damn the golden torc! !f it weren’t necessary…
Good old Basil caught wind of his floundering, the impending gush of anxiety and maudlin sentiment that was going to make things even worse for Elizabeth and all the rest of them. And with his donnish tact, Basil bespoke Creyn on the intimate mode:
Help him. Help us all put a lid on it.
There was no overt sign that the Tanu had heard. But immediately the two human men found that it was possible to rein in their misgivings and present a civilized front, both externally and in the outermost, “social” aspect of their mental auras. Basil was the epitome of practical common sense. Burke, the former judge, was the archetypal Red Man, all stoic and stern like a carving in cedar.
If Elizabeth was aware of the metapsychic maneuvering, she let none of them perceive it. She walked along the balcony inspecting the quaint woodwork, marveling at the breathtaking vista. In the southwest, glittering against the sky and dividing it from the dark lowlands, was the white fess of the high Pyrénées. The air was calm, faintly oppressive, with that preternatural transparency that often forecasts a storm in the mountains.
“I can farsee Minanonn’s country,” she said. “A valley, with tall snowy peaks all around it, like Shangri-La.”
“You would have been safer with him and Dionket,” Amerie said. “Or even up in Hidden Springs, with us. We can’t trust that bastard Celadeyr. He can fly, you know, and carry one person. What’s to prevent him from coming up here and kidnapping you? You’d make a great hostage. And our tricky little pal Aiken Drum might just have similar plans.”
Elizabeth faced her three human friends, projecting a great wave of comfort and reassurance. Creyn hovered in the background. She said, “I’ve tried to explain why I can’t live with Minanonn, or even up in the Vosges with free humanity. I can’t show partiality. I must remain approachable by all factions in the Many-Colored Land if my new rôle is to be successful. And that especially includes Aiken Drum and Celadeyr of Afaliah.”
With one finger, Basil traced the features of a grotesque carving on the balustrade. It was a goblin face. “And what about the Firvulag? They outnumber us nearly ten to one now, and Sharn and Ayfa are quite a different breed of cat from poor old King Yeochee. Lady Estella’s man Kennedy told me that Little People from the Helvetides have been farsensed gathering in the vicinity of Bardelask. That’s a rather small citadel on the Rhône, about 80 or 90 kloms north of Lac Provençal. The place is exceptionally vulnerable, with Lord Daral and most of his banner-knights having been drowned in the Flood. Kennedy thinks that the Firvulag plan to pick off the weaker cities one by one in spite of our cardboard armistice agreement. Sharn and Ayfa can always blame the attacks on Howlers.”
“If you came to Hidden Springs with us,” Burke said, “we could protect you with iron.”
Elizabeth laid a small hand on one of the Native American’s massive, scarred forearms. “I have my own methods of defense now, Peo. Believe me, The Firvulag won’t harm me. Neither will anyone else.”
Burke scowled, touching his new golden torc with a ritualistic gesture. “If there should be the slightest threat from any quarter—you must call on us. We can’t forget what Brede said about you.”
“Brede!” Elizabeth laughed, turning away from them. “The Shipspouse always was a melodramatic old soul. And she knew very well how to manipulate the lot of us!” The Grand Master metapsychic whirled around, arms opening. She seemed to embrace the three of them, enfolding their souls in great wings. “But manipulation’s not my way, I’m going to be a magnet—not a force majeure.”
Amerie appealed to the Tanu redactor. “If she needs us, Creyn will you call?”
“I will, Sister.” He hesitated, then added with regret, “If you intend to continue on to Sayzorask with the caravan today, you must leave here very shortly. I’ll wait downstairs to say goodbye.” He withdrew with a courteous nod.
Tears gleamed in Amerie’s eyes. The symbolic separation of the three human friends from Elizabeth had been made in an instant, with none of them expecting it until the finality was upon them.
“Don’t worry,” Elizabeth’s face and mind still smiled. “It’ll be all right. We all have our jobs to do. That will help.”
Basil broke the spell, stepping forward to take Elizabeth’s hand “Creyn…fine chap. Human as they make ’em. He and his people will take good care of you. I’m confident.”
“Dear Basil.” She kissed him on his weathered cheek.
He moved back, then paused at the balcony door.” You can count on me to do my utmost in the Sugoll matter. And when this is over and things have quieted down, I’m going to take you mountain climbing, just as I promised.”
She projected mock skepticism. “You’re going to have to prove to me that there’s a Pliocene Everest over there in the Alps! I can’t farsense anything of the sort, you know.”
“It exists!” He waved an admonishing index finger. “Very difficult for amateurs to estimate height, you know. Especially with the mind’s eye.” With a last farewell gesture, he vanished inside the chalet.
It was Burke’s turn. He loomed over the woman in black, his face immobile, and spoke haltingly through the unfamiliar mind-amplifying device:
I will learn farspeech technique. Talk you overkilometers.
My dearest Peo…I am still not sure that it was wise for you and Basil to take the golden torcs.
Creyn tested us. Wecompatible he proved. You not worry aboutus. Only answer when we need advice.
“You know I’ll always be ready to advise you,” she said aloud. “That is my way. But you and Basil and the other strong ones must lead humanity and the exotics of good will. I can’t. The evacuation of Muriah was only the beginning, but it was a good start, thanks mostly to you. Even the Firvulag who ran away learned that friendship between the human and exotic races is possible. Necessary.”
“Hah.” The Native American let all his lawyer’s cynicism show. “The exotics were docile enough right after the disaster, when they were still glassy-eyed from shock. None of those Tanu and Firvulag ever had their world pulled out from under ’em before.” Unlike us poor time-traveling human schmuck! So they were willing enough to follow my leadership on the trek out of Aven. But you saw how fast things deteriorated once we approached Afaliah on the mainland. Just one sniff of business-as-usual, one psychological anchor—and kapow. Same old arrogant Tanu and bloody-minded Firvulag mindset as before. Things could have turned very nasty if the Little Folks hadn’t scarpered off into the bushes about then.”
They communed wordless reassurance for a moment. Then she asked, “How many human refugees do you plan to take all the way to Hidden Springs?”
“We’ve narrowed it to thirty stout hearts and true. Useful technicians, daredevils who won’t stick at our little aircraft salvage expedition. We’ve scraped up twelve former gravomag specialists with flightdeck training.”
“Wonderful! And if Sugoll and Katlniel will help—”
“They’d belter,”” Burke was somber. “Felice and the others who knew the precise location of the Ship’s Grave are dead.”
Elizabeth and Burke had forgotten Amerie. But at the mention of Felice’s name, the nun could not help uttering a low cry. Burke’s thoughts were written on his face: Oh, hell.
Me and my big mouth. Aloud he said, “It’s time for me to go.” He wrapped his great arms about Elizabeth, said. “Mazel lov!” and strode rapidly into the lodge.
“I’m sorry that I interrupted,” Amerie said stiffly. “But when he reminded me that—that Felice was—” Anguish drew the nun’s face taut. “And with Gibraltar on her soul—to die that way.”
Elizabeth said, “I thought it best for the others to believe that. But you loved her. You deserve to know the truth.”
The priest stood stock-still before the mindreader. Sister Amerie Roccaro wore no golden torc, possessed no overt metapsychic powers; but at that moment the terrible knowledge passed from the other woman’s brain to her own.
“Felice isn’t dead,’ said Amerie.
“No.”
“How long have you been sure of it?”
“Perhaps six weeks. I’d been hearing—farsensing, that is to say—these peculiar calls. They hardly seemed human at first. I paid little attention. The day-to-day problems of the journey were so overwhelming. You tend to screen out other mind-emanations to conserve your own energies, otherwise you’d go crazy from the mental static. But this calling—”
“You’re certain it was Felice?”
“She farspoke me only once, when you were all on your way down the Rhône to invade the torc factory. But I remember her mind-signature.” Elizabeth turned away, staring at the distant mountains. “It’s a thing we Grand Masters are rather good at.”
“Elizabeth, why—why—” Amerie’s voice broke as she tried to regain control of herself “Why did she do it? I knew she wanted revenge, of course. When we were first tested together in Castle Gateway, when the Tanu woman told us we’d have to bear Tanu children like the rest of the human slaves, Felice was beside herself with fury. It was…as if the enslavement of humanity in the Pliocene was a personal affront.”
“You’re a doctor as well as a priest. Do I have to spell it out to you? You love her but you know what she is.”