The Noborn King

by Julian May

  “Recently, I have had much experience practicing patience.”

  “—then. the Good Goddess willing, your body as well as your metapsychic strength will be restored, and you will fulfill your great destiny.”

  Nodonn bowed his head. “I’m in your hands, Moreyn. From now on, command me and I obey.”

  The Glasscrafter heaved a relieved sigh. “Oh. that’s fine. We’ll head for home right away. You direct both chalikos, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” said the Battlemaster,

  Side by side, their gaits perfectly synchronized, the two huge animals began to trot along the strand toward Var-Mesk,

  6

  “THEY’RE COMING! THEY’RE COMING!” CALISTRO THE GOAT-boy shouted as he dashed up the length of Hidden Springs Canyon, his charges forgotten. “Sister Amerie and the Chief and a lot of others!”

  People swarmed from the cottages and huts, calling out to one another in excitement. A long train of riders was wending its way into the village outskirts.

  Old Man Kawai heard the commotion and stuck his head from the door of Madame Guderian’s rose-covered house beneath the pines. He sucked air through his teeth.

  “She comes!”

  A small cat came running from the box under the table, nearly tripping him when he spun about to snatch up a paring knife. “I must cut flowers and hurry to greet her!” He pointed a stern finger at the cat. “And you—see that your kittens are groomed so that you do not disgrace both of us!”

  The gauze-screened door slammed. Muttering to himself, the old man chopped off an armful of the heavy June rose clusters, then rushed down the path scattering pink and scarlet petals behind him.

  There were sentimental reunions with old friends for Peopeo Moxmox Burke, Basil Wimborne, and Amerie Roccaro, who were hailed as heroes of the Lowlife liberation; and a fervent welcome was extended to the thirty daredevil pilots, technicians, and specialists of whom there were such great expectations. This group was instantly dubbed “Basil’s Bastards” by Denny Johnson. commander of the Lowlife defensive forces, much to the flusteration of the alpinist ex-don.

  After a gratifying interlude at the community bathhouse, the new arrivals were honored at a gala fish fry and strawberry shortcake feast that was hastily contrived by Marialena Torrejon. Perkin the vintner hauled out demijohns of Riesling and fragrant vinho verde and sweet white muscatel to fuel the neverending round of toasts, with the result that quite a few of the villagers, as well as Pongo Warburton and Ookpik and Seumas Mac Suibhne of the Bastards, were in no condition to join in the Mass of Thanksgiving that Amerie celebrated to bring the grand day to a close.

  Finally Old Man Kawai led exhausted Amerie to Madame’s cottage, over her protests that the place was his home now and should remain so. “We will speak of this later,” said the former electronics manufacturer. “For now, you must take Madame’s bedchamber. Her spirit would wish it, and I will perish of vexation if you refuse the honor. I will be quite comfortable on a pallet in the kitchen with the cats for company.”

  He opened the screen door and held it for the nun. She stopped short, sank down, and cried, “Dejah!” A slender little animal with a sandy coat and a black-tipped tail came running and leaped into her arms. Except for its large eyes and ears, it resembled a miniature puma. It was a female of the species Felis zitteli, one of the earliest of the true cats.

  Amerie cradled the purring creature, her eyes brimming “I never thought I’d see her again, Kawai-san. Do you think she missed me?”

  “She had certain distractions,” the Japanese remarked drily. He pointed to the box under the table. Three tiny heads peeped over its edge. “They are all males. Nine weeks of age. I have not named them. I waited, hoping that you . . . that my vow to the Nagasaki martyrs . . .”

  He hung his head. Suspicious drops of moisture spotted his happi coat. Amerie put down the cat and embraced him. “Crazy old Buddhist.” Then she let him go and played with the kittens while he unrolled a tatami and futon in front of the hearth, then made sure that everything was ready for Amerie in the bedroom.

  “I’ve decided to name them Tars Tarkas, Carthoris, and Edgar,” the nun said, tucking the kittens back into the box with their mother. “They’ll grow up to be the patriarchs of domestic felinity.”

  She rose from the floor, stiff in every joint and woozy with fatigue and reaction. But the discomforts faded as she looked about the little room, the combination kitchen and parlor that was the only real home she had ever known in the Pliocene Exile. She had lived in the cottage for a few short weeks during the time Madame and Felice and Richard and Claude and the others undertook their expedition to the Ship’s Grave; but every feature seemed precious and familiar. There were Madame’s handwoven curtains, her cherished lace tablecloth, the braided skin rugs. Beside the fireplace were the brass poker and shovel and trivet that Khalid Khan had made, and one of Miz Cheryl-Ann’s baskets with kindling. Her own library of medical references and devotional works was safe in a cupboard, together with her nun’s habit neatly folded, with little packets of herbs to keep it fresh. The wooden rosary Claude Majewski had carved for her was beside it in a beechwood box.

  Kawal emerged from the bedroom “All is ready.”

  “It’s so good,” she said in a broken voice, “to be back.”

  Solemnly, the old man bowed “O-kaeri nasai, Amerie-chan. Welcome home, dearest daughter.”

  Burke and Basil were too wound up to sleep, and there were matters that needed discussing.

  “Come on over to the old wigwam,” the big Native American said to Denny Johnson “You ought to meet the thirty-first member of Basil’s Bastards.”

  “He still feels rather shy with crowds of humans,” the alpinist said. “When he declined to attend the party, we tucked him away in Peo’s house with plenty of food and drink. Let’s hope he hasn’t OD’ed on strawberry shortcake. The Little People are quite irrationally fond of it.”

  The Chief’s bark-slab hut was close to the southern wall of the canyon, a few meters away from a rill born of the merging of a hot and cold spring. A thin filament of smoke rose from the hut’s nonaboriginal chimney and vanished among the tower branches of the sequoias.

  “Kalipin?” Burke called softly. He pushed aside the leather curtain and stooped to enter, with Denny and Basil following. The interior of the wigwam was almost pitch-black. A squatty shape faintly limned in scarlet stirred near the stone hearth.

  “So you come at last, Peopeo Moxmox.”

  “I hope you haven’t been too bored waiting. Would you mind if I lit a candle or two?”

  “I shall have to shapeshift then,” the voice said querulously. “But go ahead. It’s your house.”

  “Please don’t put yourself out,” Basil protested.

  “I have my orders. There, I’m ready.”

  Burke thumbed his permamatch and lit two tapers in a reflecting lantern that stood on the table. The light revealed a middle-aged dwarf surrounded by a litter of dirty dishes, drinking beer from a big pottery schooner.

  “This is our Lowlife defense coordinator, Denny Johnson,” Burke said “Denny—meet Kalipin, assigned by Lord Sugoll to guide Basil’s Bastards to the Ship’s Grave.”

  Denny extended his hand. The mutant, evincing some hesitation, finally shook it. “You humans are always so eager to touch each other,” Kalipin complained. “I do my best to go along with your customs, but it’s hard. Téah knows it’s hard.” He gave a lugubrious sigh and drank deeply.

  “How come none of us noticed you earlier, friend Kalipin?” asked Denny.

  “I went invisible.” The dwarf shuddered “All those clamoring Lowlife minds! There are many of my people who accommodate themselves readily to humankind. And my Master is convinced that we must ally ourselves with you in order to survive. But it is hard. Hard.”

  “There’s a little cave in the hillside back of the wigwam that I use for storage,” Burke said gently. “Would you be more comfortable there?”

&n
bsp; The mutant brightened. “A cave! How I’ve missed the security of earth’s bosom since we quit Meadow Mountain for Nionel! Oh—the city is very grand and progressive and non-mutagenic, I’ll grant you. But there’s nothing like the shelter of a cosy cave for making one feel safe, and snug, and ready for sweet fast sleep.”

  Burke helped Kalipin gather up his things and led the little Howler out of the hut.

  Basil poked up the fire and put on a pot of coffee. “You’ll want to take a look in that skin bag that our little friend was guarding so closely,” he said to Johnson.

  The black man took the bag to the table, slid open the drawstrings, and whistled. “Three Huskies! Holy shit, man— how’d they get through the time-gate?”

  “Smuggled, I should say. Together with a considerable quantity of other armament. Do you know that Aiken Drum has equipped his human elite guard with twenty-second-century weapons?”

  “Yes,” Denny’s eyes narrowed. “You steal these pieces off him?”

  “No, they were a gift from Lord Sugoll . . . who got them from Sharn.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Exactly,” Basil set out three mugs, horn spoons, and honey.

  Burke pushed through the curtain. “Kalipin’s settled.” His eyes took in the half-opened bag of stun-guns. “Inspecting our presents, I see. Basil will take two on the Ship’s Grave trek, and we’ll keep one here. It’ll be some help. But we’re in for a rough summer, Dennis.”

  “The Firvulag are attacking the Iron Villages openly?” Basil asked.

  Denny’s ebony forehead wrinkled and he shook his head quizzically. “Not quite. There’s never been any declaration of war, and that pegleg ambassador from High Vrazel still comes around regularly, all buddy-buddy and ‘Long live the Armistice.’ We bitch about the raids, but Sharn and Ayfa keep brazening it out, blaming the attacks on Howlers and telling us to refer all complaints to Nionel.”

  “If we get a couple of those exotic aircraft aloft, the Firvulag will sing another tune,” Burke said. “And so will that little gold mamzer in Goriah.”

  “When we First heard the rumors about modem weapons,” Denny said, “we offered to trade Aiken Drum pig iron for some.”

  “Response?” inquired Burke.

  “None worth diddly-squat. He’d try to take over our mines himself if they weren’t so close to High Vrazel. As it is, he hopes the Firvulag will wipe us out before we can infect too much of Pliocene humanity with the freedom virus. Oh—he sends good-will envoys to us, pledging peace and co-prosperity and liberty and justice for all. But what he’s really interested in is luring away our metallurgical technicians. There are beds of iron ore in Brittany that shrimpy little motherfucker’s itching to exploit.”

  “Just how bad have the Firvulag attacks on our mines been?” Basil asked.

  “We may have to abandon Iron Maiden and Haut-Four-neauville. Damn—I’d give my right eye and my left nut for a few dozen Matsu laser carbines with nightsights.”

  “I’m thinking over the matter.” said Burke enigmatically. “Once we get Basil and his Bastards fairly launched, I’ll try to work something out.”

  “We march the day after tomorrow,” Basil said.

  “Hey, no, you just got here!” Denny protested. “You gotta rest up. And we haven’t even started to get to know your people. I mean—that big mama named Sophronisba Gillis is one bad lady.”

  “If you plan to—er—make a move on her,” said Basil diffidently, “I’d counsel caution. She used to be third engineer on a tramp freighter out in the Fourth Sector. When we were herding that crowd of sex-starved delinquents to Nionel, Phronsie was the one woman in our group who never feared for her own safety.”

  “I’ll wear her down,” said Denny confidently. But then he scowled. “Sure you can’t stay longer?”

  Basil shook his head. “Sorry to cramp your style, old chap. But we leave on schedule—the detectable Sophronisba and all.”

  “Other people will be getting ideas about grabbing those aircraft,” said Burke.

  “Right now, Aiken has his hands full with other matters.” Basil touched the golden torc at his throat. “Elizabeth has assured us that he doesn’t yet know about our expedition. But the purpose of Basil’s Bastards must now be quite obvious to all who shared in the welcoming celebration today . . .” He trailed away tactfully.

  Denny shrugged, resigned. “And the word’s bound to leak to the Iron Villages, and all we need is one defecting turkey with a big mouth skipping out to Goriah and the shit flies.”

  “Scouts from High Vrazel are also sure to spot us once we cross the Rhine,” Basil added.

  “You think Sharn will tell Aiken?” Denny was unbelieving.

  “He might,” said Burke, “if he weighs threats to his own security and we come out heaviest.”

  The coffee pot finished perking and Basil poured. They drank in silence for a few minutes.

  “I’ve wondered why the Little People didn’t go after the aircraft themselves,” Denny said. “God knows they’ve been innovating like mad in other directions these past months. Sharn and Ayfa seem to ’ve thrown the old traditions right out the window.”

  “Not all of them.” Basil corrected. “The Grave site is still sacred to both Firvulag and Tanu. One of their strongest taboos has to do with concealing the final resting place of the dead. They try to wipe out even the memory of it.”

  “However,” Burke said, “once the aircraft are transferred to another locale, we can expect quite a different attitude to prevail. Which is why hiding those salvaged ships is so critically important.”

  “Well, I found a place for two of them, just like you wanted,” Denny said. “A place called the Vale of Hyenas, where the Firvulag never go. If you saw the bone crackers that hang out in there, you’d understand why. There are lots of giant red-woods and other trees in the valley, good cover in case of Flying Hunts. The place is about two hundred kloms northwest of here, near the headwaters of the Proto-Seine. Handy to Nionel.”

  “Sounds good,” said Burke.

  “Maxl knows the spot,” Denny added. “If you go ahead and take him with you and leave the Bastard with the broken hand here, you’ll have no trouble at all finding it.” He gave a wry smile. “Getting out of the valley alive after you stash the birds— now that might be a problem!”

  Basil sipped his coffee with equanimity. “We’ll muddle through.”

  The big fighter persisted. “And what do you plan to do with the rest of the aircraft there at the Grave? You can’t leave ’em for Aiken to find, and it’d be criminal to trash ’em.”

  Burke said, “We can’t tell you, Denny. Nothing personal. Not even Basil’s Bastards will know until the expedition reaches the crater lake.”

  “Hey, okay. No big thing. Only I noticed that there are twelve pilots in your gang—”

  “Fourteen,” Basil amended. “Dr. Thongsa is also qualified in orbiters, and Mr. Betsy has flight experience in addition to his engineering abilities.”

  “That drag queen wacko?” Denny snorted, smacking one palm on the table. “Lord, I figured he must have something going or you wouldn’t’ve taken him on. But—Mr. Betsy!”

  “His chosen persona is Queen Elizabeth I,” said Basil primly, “hence the pearl-studded red wig and—er—costume. In the Milieu, his name was Merton Hudspeth. He was a senior research engineer with Boeing Aerospace Company’s Commercial Rhocraft Division.”

  “No shit?” Denny was chastened.

  “Betsy takes some getting used to,” Burke admitted. “But don’t we all?” He stood up, yawned hugely, then eyed the husky fighter with sly humor. “There’s old Basil, who’d rather be miserable climbing mountains than teach literature in a nice Limey university. And Mr. Justice Burke with the feathers in his hair and the breechclouted tushie, sort of a Geronimo manqué. To say nothing of you, my fine Covent Garden baritone! Tell me, nigger—do you still sing ‘Toreador’ at the top of your lungs while you chop exotic raiders to dogmeat?”

&nb
sp; “You better believe it, redskin! Say—remind me to call for freeloader elections tomorrow. I’m gonna nominate you to the hotseat again personally.”

  “Thanks all to hell, yellow-eyes.”

  “You’re friggin’ welcome, baldy-balls.”

  The rough-hewn face of the Native American went sober again. “God knows, I’d like to roost here and play elder statesman. But there’s another possibility. After I think about it for a while, I’m going to discuss it with Elizabeth. See what she thinks.” He set his cup down, lifted the bag with the stun-guns, and pulled the drawstring tight. “Iron spears and arrows looked like the ultimate weapon for a few weeks after the Finiah war. God knows they’ve helped us, and they’ll continue to be useful against the exotics. But we’ll look pretty silly shooting arrows out of gravomagnetic aircraft, my friends. And Aiken Drum’s elite guard is no more poisoned by the blood-metal than thee or me.”

  “You figure on getting us some real weapons,” Denny slated. “How? Raid Sharn’s armory?”

  “We’d never get within ten kloms of High Vrazel alive. No. There’s another possibility. Sharn got his cache from a secret hoard when the Firvulag devastated Burask. Aiken Drum is supposed to have got his guns from a magazine in the dungeons of Goriah. So there were at least two city-lords who defied King Thagdal’s edict against retaining Milieu weapons. And I think there may have been others as well.”

  “Finiah had zip,” Denny reminded him “But, hey—how about Roman? That’s the town I busted out of, man. Old Lord Bormol was a real scientific type. A coercer. You know how paranoid that clan is about defending their turf. He could have had a secret stash! And the place is within sinking distance of Hidden Springs. Hell, we could drift down the river, infiltrate from the docks—no wall to climb there—”