Shanamir gaped. "You are to make the pilgrimage? I never knew!"
"A recent decision."
"Why, then," the boy cried, "we’ll make it together, won’t we? Come, we’ll pack our things, we’ll steal a couple of mounts from these Skandars, we’ll leave at once!"
"Do you mean that?"
"Of course!"
"It’s thousands of miles to Piliplok. You and I, and no one to guide us, and—"
"Why not?" Shanamir asked. "Look, we ride to Khyntor, and there we take a riverboat to Ni-moya, and on from there down the Zimr to the coast, and at Piliplok we buy passage on the pilgrim-ship, and — what’s wrong, Valentine?"
"I belong with these people. I’m learning an art from them. I— I—" Valentine broke off in confusion. Was he a juggler-in-training, or a Coronal-in-exile? Was it his purpose to plod along with shaggy Skandars, yes, with Carabella and Sleet also, or was it incumbent on him to move by the fastest means toward the Isle, and then with the Lady’s help toward Castle Mount? He was confounded by these uncertainties.
"The cost?" Shanamir said. "Is that what worries you? You had fifty royals and more in Pidruid. You must have some of that left. I have a few crowns myself. If we need more, you can work as a juggler on the riverboat, and I could curry mounts, I suppose, or—"
"Where are you planning to go?" said Carabella, coming abruptly upon them out of the forest. "And what has happened to these sensitives here? Is there trouble?"
Briefly Valentine told her of his talk with Zalzan Kavol.
She listened in silence, with her hand to her lips; and, when he was done, she darted off abruptly, without a word, in the direction Zalzan Kavol had taken.
"Carabella?" Valentine called. But already she was out of sight.
"Let’s go," said Shanamir. "We can be out of here in half an hour, and by nightfall we’ll be miles away. Look, you pack our things. I’ll take two of the mounts and lead them around through the woods, down the slope toward the little lake we passed when we came in, and you meet me down there by the grove of cabbage trees." Shanamir waved his hands impatiently. "Hurry! I’ve got to get the mounts while the Skandars aren’t around, and they might come back at any minute!"
Shanamir vanished into the forest. Valentine stood frozen. To leave now, so suddenly, with so little time to prepare himself for this upheaval? And what of Carabella? Not even a goodbye? Deliamber? Sleet? He started toward the wagon to gather his few possessions, halted, plucked indecisively at the dead leaves of the poor sensitive plants, as though by pruning the withered stalks he could instantly induce new growth. Gradually he compelled himself to see the brighter side. This was a disguised blessing. If he stayed with the jugglers, it would delay by months or even years the confrontation with reality that obviously lay in store for him. And Carabella, if any truth lay in the shape of things that began to emerge, could be no part of that reality, anyway. So, then, it behooved him to shrug away his shock and distress, and take to the highway, bound for Piliplok and the pilgrim-ships. Come, he told himself, get moving, collect your things. Shanamir’s waiting by the cabbage trees with the mounts. But he could not move.
And then Carabella came bounding toward him, face aglow.
"It’s all fixed," she said. "I got Deliamber to work on him. You know, a little trick here and there, a bit of a touch with the tip of a tentacle — the usual wizardry. He’s changed his mind. Or we’ve changed it for him."
Valentine was startled by the intensity of his feeling of relief. "I can stay?"
"If you’ll go to him and ask forgiveness."
"Forgiveness for what?"
Carabella grinned. "That doesn’t matter. He took offense, the Divine only knows why! His fur was wet. His nose was cold. Who knows? He’s a Skandar, Valentine, he has his own weird sense of what’s right and wrong, he’s not required to think the way humans do. You got him angry and he discharged you. Ask him politely to take you back, and he will. Go on, now. Go."
"But— but— "
"But what? Are you going to stand on pride now? Do you want to be rehired or don’t you?"
"Of course I do."
"Then go," Carabella said. She seized him by the arm and gave a little tug, to budge him as he stood there faltering and fumbling, and as she did so it must have occurred to her whose arm it was she was tugging, for she sucked in her breath and let go of him and moved away, hovering as if on the verge of kneeling and making the starburst symbol. "Please?" she said softly. "Please go to him, Valentine? Before he changes his mind again? If you leave the troupe, I’ll have to leave it too, and I don’t want to. Go. Please."
"Yes," said Valentine. She led him over the spongy mist-moistened ground to the wagon. Zalzan Kavol sat sulkily on the steps, huddling in a cloak in the damp, close warmth of the purple mist. Valentine approached him and said straightforwardly, "It was not my intent to anger you. I ask your pardon."
Zalzan Kavol made a low growling sound, almost below the threshold of audibility.
"You are a nuisance," the Skandar said. "Why am I willing to forgive you? From now on you will not speak to me unless I have spoken to you first. Understood?"
"Understood, yes."
"You will make no attempt to influence the route we travel."
"Understood," said Valentine.
"If you irritate me again, you will be terminated without severance pay and you will have ten minutes to get out of my sight, no matter where we are, even if we are camped in the midst of a Metamorph reservation and nightfall is coming, do you understand?"
"I understand," Valentine said.
He waited, wondering if he would be asked to bow, to kiss the Skandar’s hairy fingers, to grovel in obeisance. Carabella, standing to one side, seemed to be holding her breath, as though expecting some explosion to come from the spectacle of a Power of Majipoor begging forgiveness from an itinerant Skandar juggler.
Zalzan Kavol regarded Valentine disdainfully, as he might have regarded a cold fish of uncertain vintage presented to him in a congealed sauce for dinner. Acidulously he said, "I am not required to provide my employees with information of no concern to them. But I will tell you, anyway, that Piliplok is my native city, and I return there from time to time, and it is my purpose to arrive there eventually. How soon it will be depends on what engagements I can arrange between here and there; but be informed that our route lies generally eastward, although there may be some departures from that path, for we have a livelihood to earn. I hope this pleases you. When we reach Piliplok, you may resign from the troupe if you still have it in mind to undergo the pilgrimage, but if you induce any members of the troupe other than the herdsman boy to accompany you on that voyage, I will ask an injunction against it in the Coronal’s Court, and prosecute you to the fullest. Understood?"
"Understood," said Valentine, though he wondered whether he would deal honorably with the Skandar on this point.
"Lastly," said Zalzan Kavol, "I ask you to remember that you are paid a good many crowns a week, plus expenses and bonuses, to perform in this troupe. If I detect you filling your mind with thoughts of the pilgrimage, or of the Lady and her servants, or of anything else but how to throw things into the air and catch them in a theatrically suitable manner, I’ll revoke your employment. In these last few days you’ve already seemed unacceptably moody, Valentine. Change your ways. I need three humans for this troupe, but not necessarily the ones I have now. Understood?"
"Understood," Valentine said.
"Go, then."
Carabella said, as they walked away, "Was that terribly unpleasant for you?"
"It must have been terribly pleasant for Zalzan Kavol."
"He’s just a hairy animal!"
"No," said Valentine gravely. "He’s a sentient being equal to ourselves in civil rank, and never speak of him as anything else. He only looks like an animal," Valentine laughed, and after a moment Carabella laughed with him, a trifle edgily. He said, "In dealing with people who are enormously touchy on matters of honor and pri
de, I think it’s wisest to be accommodating to their needs, especially if they’re eight feet tall and provide you with your wages. At this point I need Zalzan Kavol far more than he needs me."
"And the pilgrimage?" she asked. "Are you really planning to undergo it? When did you decide that?"
"In Dulorn. After conversation with Deliamber. There are questions about myself I must answer, and if anyone can help me with those answers, it’s the Lady of the Isle. So I’ll go to her, or try to. But all that’s far in the future, and I’ve sworn to Zalzan Kavol not to think of such things." He took her hand in his. "I thank you, Carabella, for repairing matters between Zalzan Kavol and me. I wasn’t at all ready to be discharged from the troupe. Or to lose you so soon after I had found you."
"Why do you think you would have lost me," she asked, "if the Skandar had insisted on letting you go?"
He smiled. "I thank you for that, too. And now I should go down to the cabbage-tree grove, and tell Shanamir to return the mounts that he’s stolen for us."
—4—
IN THE NEXT FEW DAYS the landscape began to grow surpassingly strange, and Valentine had more cause for gladness that he and Shanamir had not tried to proceed by themselves.
The district between Dulorn and the next major city, Mazadone, was relatively thinly populated. Much of it, according to Deliamber, was a royal forest preserve. That bothered Zalzan Kavol, for jugglers would not find employment in forest preserves, nor, for that matter, in low-lying swampy farmland occupied mainly by rice paddies and lusavender-seed plantations; but there was no choice but to follow the main forest highway, since nothing more promising lay to the north or south. On they went, in generally humid and drizzly weather, through a region of villages and farms and occasional thick stands of the fat-trunked comical cabbage trees, short and squat, with massive white fruits sprouting directly from their bark. But as Mazadone Forest Preserve drew closer, the cabbage trees gave way to dense thickets of singing ferns, yellow-fronded and glassy of texture, that emitted piercing discordant sounds whenever they were approached, shrill high-pitched bings and twangs and bleeps, nasty screeches and scrapes. That would not have been so bad — the unmelodious song of the ferns had a certain raucous charm, Valentine thought — but the fern thickets were inhabited by bothersome small creatures far more disagreeable than the plants, little toothy winged rodents known as dhiirns, that came flapping up out of hiding every time the proximity of the wagon touched off the fern-song. The dhiims were about the length and breadth of a small finger, and were covered by fine golden fur; they arose in such numbers that they clouded the air, and swarmed about indignantly, sometimes nipping with their tiny but effective incisors. The thickly furred Skandars up front in the driver’s seat largely ignored them, merely swatting at them when they clustered too close, but the usually stolid mounts were bothered, and balked in the traces several times. Shanamir, sent out to placate the animals, suffered half a dozen painful bites; and as he scurried back into the wagon a good many dhiims entered with him. Sleet took a frightening nip on his cheek near his left eye, and Valentine, beset by dozens of infuriated creatures at once, was bitten on both arms. Carabella methodically destroyed the dhiims with a stiletto used in the juggling act, skewering them with single-minded determination and great skill, but it was an ugly half hour before the last of them was dead.
Beyond the territory of the dhiims and the singing ferns, the travelers entered into a region of curious appearance, a broad open area of meadows out of which rose hundreds of black granite needles just a few feet wide and perhaps eighty feet high, natural obelisks left behind by some unfathomable geological event. To Valentine it was a region of delicate beauty; to Zalzan Kavol it was merely one more place to pass quickly through, en route to the next festival where jugglers might be hired; but to Autifon Deliamber it seemed something else, a place giving sign of possible menace. The Vroon leaned forward, staring keenly for a long moment through the wagon’s window at the obelisks. "Wait," he called finally to Zalzan Kavol.
"What is it?"
"I want to check something. Let me out."
Zalzan Kavol grunted impatiently and tugged on the reins. Deliamber scrambled from the wagon, moving in his supple ropy-limbed Vroonish glide toward the odd rock formations, disappearing among them, coming occasionally into view as he zigzagged from one thin pinnacle to the next.
When he returned, Deliamber looked glum and apprehensive.
"See there," he said, pointing. "Do you make out vines far up, stretched from that rock to that, and from that to that, and on over to there? And some small animals crawling about on the vines?"
Valentine could just barely discern a network of slender glossy red lines high on the pinnacles, forty or fifty feet or more above the ground. And yes, half a dozen slim apelike beasts moving from obelisk to obelisk like acrobats, swinging freely by hands and feet.
"It looks like birdnet vine," said Zalzan Kavol in a puzzled tone.
"It is," Deliamber said.
"But why do they not stick to it? What are those animals, anyway?"
"Forest-brethren," the Vroon answered. "Do you know of them?"
"Tell me."
"They are troublesome. A wild tribe, native to central Zimroel, not usually found this far west. The Metamorphs are known to hunt them for food or perhaps for sport, I’m not sure which. They have intelligence, though of a low order, something greater than dogs or droles, less than civilized folk. Their gods are dwikka-trees; they have some sort of tribal structure; they know how to use poisoned darts, and cause problems for wayfarers. Their sweat contains an enzyme that makes them immune to the stickiness of birdnet vine, which they employ for many purposes."
"If they annoy us," Zalzan Kavol declared, "we will destroy them. Onward!"
Once past the region of the obelisks they saw no further traces of forest-brethren that day. But on the next, Deliamber once again spied ribbons of birdnet vine in the treetops, and a day after that the travelers, now deep in the forest preserve, came upon a grove of trees of truly colossal mass, which, the Vroonish wizard said, were dwikkas, sacred to the forest-brethren. "This explains their presence so far from Metamorph territory," said Deliamber. "These must be a migrating band, come west to pay homage in this forest."
The dwikkas were awesome. There were five of them, set far apart in otherwise empty fields. Their trunks, covered with bright red bark that grew in distinct plates with deep fissures between, were greater in diameter than the long axis of Zalzan Kavol’s wagon; and though they were not particularly tall, no higher than a hundred feet or so, their mighty limbs, each as thick as the trunk of an ordinary tree, spread out to such a distance that whole legions might take shelter under the dwikka’s gigantic canopy. On stalks as thick as a Skandar’s thigh sprouted the leaves, great leathery black things the size of a house, that drooped heavily, casting an impenetrable shade. And from each branch hung suspended two or three elephantine yellowish fruits, bumpy irregular globes a good twelve or fifteen feet in width. One of them had recently fallen, it appeared, from the nearest tree, perhaps on a rainy day when the ground was soft, for its weight had dug a shallow crater in which it lay, split apart, revealing large glistening many-angled black seeds in the mass of scarlet pulp.
Valentine could understand why these trees were gods to the forest-brethren. They were vegetable monarchs, imperious, commanding. He was quite willing to sink to his knees before them himself.
Deliamber said, "The fruit is tasty. Intoxicating, in fact, to the human metabolism and to some others."
"To Skandars?" asked Zalzan Kavol.
"To Skandars, yes."
Zalzan Kavol laughed. "We’ll try it. Erfon! Thelkar! Gather pieces of the fruit for us!"
Nervously Deliamber said, "The talismans of the forest-brethren are embedded in the ground before each tree. They’ve been here recently, and might return, and if they find us desecrating the grove they will attack, and their darts can kill."
"Sleet, Carabella, stand
guard to the left. Valentine, Shanamir, Vinorkis, over there. Cry out if you see even one of the little apes." Zalzan Kavol gestured at his brothers. "Collect the fruit for us," he ordered. "Haern, you and I will defend the situation from here. Wizard, remain with us." Zalzan Kavol took two energy-throwers from a rack and gave one to his brother Haern.
Deliamber clucked and muttered in disapproval. "They move like ghosts, they come out of nowhere—"
"Enough," said Zalzan Kavol.
Valentine took up a lookout position fifty yards ahead of the wagon, and peered warily beyond the last of the dwikka-trees into the dark, mysterious forest. He expected to have a fatal dart come winging toward him at any moment. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Erfon Kavol and Thelkar, carrying a big wicker basket between them, made their way toward the fallen fruit, pausing every few steps to look in all directions. When they reached it, they began cautiously to edge around to the far side of it.
"What if a bunch of forest-brethren are sitting behind that thing right now," Shanamir asked, "having a little feast? Suppose Thelkar stumbles over them and—"
A tremendous and terrifying whoop and a roar, such as might come from an outraged bull-bidlak interrupted in its mating, erupted from the vicinity of the dwikka-fruit. Erfon Kavol, looking panic-stricken, came galloping back into view and rushed toward the wagon, followed a moment later by an equally daunted Thelkar.
"Beasts!" cried a ferocious voice. "Pigs and fathers of pigs! Rape a woman enjoying her lunch, will you? I’ll teach you to rape! I’ll fix you so you’ll never rape again! Stand your ground, hairy animals! Stand, I say, stand!"
Out from behind the dwikka-fruit came the largest human woman Valentine had ever seen, a creature so vast she was a proper companion to these trees, and seemed perfectly in scale with them. She stood close to seven feet tall, perhaps more, and her gigantic body was a mountain of flesh rising on legs as sturdy as pillars. A close-fitting shirt and gray leather trousers were her garments, and the shirt was open nearly to the waist, revealing huge jouncing globes of breasts the size of a man’s head. Her hair was a mop of wild orange curls; her blazing eyes were pale piercing blue. She carried a vibration-sword of imposing length, which she swung about her with such force that Valentine, a hundred feet away, could feel the breeze it stirred. Her cheeks and breasts were smeared with the scarlet juice of the dwikka-fruit’s meat.
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