We went out into the bright Esder light on the field of the Bird Clan, with the business of the contest still going on, the constant coming and going of the escorts, the cries of the marshals. I felt we had dropped out of the world for several hours simply by going to sleep. And now all that remained in the contest were
PEER-LO-VAGOBA pilot Jebbal Faldroyan Luntroy
TILDEE pilot Ullo Mattroyan
DAH’GAN chief pilot Murno Peran Pentroy, called Blacklock
HADEEL pilot Deel Giroyan, a town grandee of Otolor
TOMARVAN pilot Garl Brinroyan, the Luck of Brin’s Five
Ablo was still very nervous as Diver made his last check of the Tomarvan before we wheeled it to the blocks. I thought this was because he had not slept, but in fact he had another thing on his mind. A member of Blacklock’s escort approached to a respectful distance, and Ablo nearly exploded.
“I knew it! Flaming privilege and grandees tricks . . . Murno Pentroy is going to issue a challenge!”
Diver looked about, and we noticed then that there were a surprising number of vassals and escorts, including some from Jebbal, watching our reaction to the message skein that the young Pentroy omor held out to Brin.
“I have heard of this right to challenge. What can be asked of us?” said Brin, holding the skein.
“Blacklock has no partner,” hissed Ablo, “and he scored well for that display. He could ask to fly the second round in company with Tomarvan and Hadeel . . . but I think he has other devilish plans!”
Brin read the skein and smiled. She drew Diver aside and made him hand read as much of it as he could while she explained. “A challenge: Tomarvan and Hadeel to waive the Second Round and fly altogether, with Blacklock and the two other survivors in an immediate deciding race. Its formal name is Great Circle for the Winds’ Favor.”
“I will do it!” murmured Diver. “What say the rest?” Ablo bobbed up at his elbow, still fuming.
“Garl Brinroyan . . . think what you risk! Against Hadeel you will survive and gain points. You have never flown the Great Circle . . . it is thirty weavers miles over a strange course!”
Diver laughed and looked into the sky, a dark translucent blue, where faintly in full Esder light keen eyes might find the stars. I remembered he was another creature, a Man, from the void, who had flown further than anyone under the two suns. It seemed a very little thing to ask him to do . . . but I was still afraid. He was our Luck still, our poor sib whom we had nurtured, our bonded kin; and he could be cast down and killed here, flying the Great Circle.
“Where are the charts, friend Ablo?” he asked.
“You are determined, Garl Brinroyan?” Diver nodded gravely, and Brin’s fingers whisked over the skein filling in the answer.
“The challenge is accepted!” she announced. The watchers stirred and chattered; some gave shouts of encouragement.
It turned out that we were the last to accept the challenge; the other contestants were ready, even the Tildee had a second head of steam. Two Bird Clan gliders flew off, on the instant, to patrol the Circle and land marshals at the towers. There was a sound of music and chanting and a band of Bird Clan vassals, with scarlet tippets over their blue-green, marched around the field in a ceremony for the winds’ favor. The pilots and their escorts were bidden to center field for a departing rite and a good talking to from the Launcher. We set out boldly from five corners of the field; Blacklock, conspicuous in his green cloak at the head of an enormous wedge of black and white followers; Jebbal with hardly less, bearing the flax flowers of Luntroy on their white cloaks; Deel Giroyan with twenty, richly dressed, bearing the crest of Otolor; the young Mattroyan, attended by forty omor in striped bag-hose, each one carrying a green tree branch. From our place marched Diver, fine and tall, attended by just three, for Ablo marched with us, grumbling still.
We had gone only a few paces into the field when Blacklock halted, maybe from Spinner’s prompting or his own goodness of heart, and dismissed all but three of his escort. He walked on attended only by Fer, his copilot, by Spinner, and the young herald who had just visited us. It was a stroke of great courtesy. Jebbal immediately did the same, then the Giroyan and the merchant’s child. I guessed at their reluctance, poor things, because Town grandees have a deep love of display and feel that it increases their honor. So we marched on and came to center field where Blacklock made the mood easy and laughed as we passed around the cups of honey water.
I stared my fill at Blacklock and found that he was covertly sizing up Diver. Presently, after Deel Giroyan had made a greeting round of the circle, Blacklock gestured to his copilot and they strode up to us. We exchanged bows and salutations, but Blacklock was unable to stand on ceremony.
“Well met!” he said, “and from what I hear, Garl Brinroyan, you are a strange bird indeed, to fly so far.”
“Not beyond the sound of your name, Highness!” said Diver. “It has been heard on Hingstull.”
This was a smooth answer but it did not please or satisfy Blacklock. His handsome face was alive with curiosity; he nudged Fer Utovangan and burst out: “Speak up, old bird! I’ve been misled . . . here is some courtier! Ask a question.”
Fer chuckled and scratched his chin. “You must know Blacklock cannot stand a mystery,” he said with a wink, “so I will ask: who are you, Garl Brinroyan?”
“He is our Luck!” I said.
“He is our bonded Luck,” echoed Brin.
“Where does this Luck hail from?” asked Blacklock.
“It has been suggested that I am an Islander . . .”
“Surely a devil flown from the void,” put in Fer.
“One might say, Highness, that the winds themselves sent Garl Brinroyan to my Five,” said Brin.
“Well, if we’re talking about possibilities,” cried Blacklock in exasperation, “one might say he is Eenath the Spirit-Warrior!”
“One might say this is another Maker of Engines,” said Fer.
“One might say,” I piped up, “that Fer Utovangan is Antho the Bird Farmer!”
Fer and Blacklock stared at me with expressions of comical surprise; Blacklock roared with laughter. “Blazes, old bird, the mountain child has you netted!”
“Hush child!” whispered Fer. “Do you not know that the winds have taken that old-time designer?”
“I’m in exalted company,” said Diver.
“Indeed we are,” said Brin, “and I will suggest a bargain. When the Great Circle has been flown and Tomarvan has returned safely to the field, together with Dah’gan, whoever leads the other home may question freely and hear the truth.”
“Agreed, Brin Brinroyan,” said Blacklock.
“Agreed again!” said another voice. It was Jebbal making her rounds, accompanied by the young Mattroyan. “Well Murno . . . what there, Friend Brin, young Hazel. I like that Tomarvan, whatever damned fire-metal-magic makes it fly. I never believed in your wind-blades much, Fer Utovangan, until I saw Garl Brinroyan fly in circles. This shy person is Ullo Mattroyan, who heaves Tildee through the air . . .”
The Merchant’s child was shy, without a trace of arrogance; she was very strong, half omor already from her exertions with the Tildee, but awkward in company. She bowed and Jebbal led her on, brisk as ever, smoothing the way with her talk.
The Launcher pounced on us suddenly; he stumped into the midst of these pleasantries and began a ferocious harangue. “Safety!” he boomed, “and no wing cutting. We fly for sport and the honor of the Bird Clan. Winds forbid our dear flying machines should be used as weapons! Clean flying, skill and care and no fancywork.”
He gave more of this pattern, but I heard little of it. I was becoming afraid for Diver, in spite of all this good humor in the center of the field. My legs would scarcely carry me to the new row of launching blocks, where the Tomarvan was already mounted. I stood stiffly erect and smiled at Diver and at Brin, but inside was a scared, bewildered creature, a mountain child indeed, ready to burrow into the sleeping bag when a wolf howled. Th
e five machines launched at the third hour, each one steady, and flew off due east, to the First Mark, where the first red streaks of Esto burned above Gwervanin.
I sat down beside our launching blocks, shuddering, and Brin sat down beside me. Ablo came up with a bag of fresh honey cakes and flung them into my lap with that cross manner that masked his concern.
“Eat up, Dorn Brinroyan. Show these vassal youngsters we have stomach for the Great Circle!” I nibbled feebly, then with more interest because the cakes were very good. The machines were out of sight. The vassals were clearing the field, even tearing down tents and stalls that stood near the edge. A thick yellow net was being unravelled at the field’s lower boundary, beside the river gate and the closed bridge that led to the citadel of Otolor, then leaped in another span to the fairgrounds across the river.
“It will be over in less than two hours. Then the gates will be opened and the crowds will come to the nets to cheer the winner,” said Ablo.
Brin sprang up and helped me to my feet. “Go to the river gate, Dorn, and ask for a message from the Harper,” she said.
“Will they come to the nets?” I longed to see them again: Mamor, the Harper, Narneen, Old Gwin and Tomar. I pictured them cheering the winner . . . our own Luck!
“Maybe they’ll come,” said Brin, “but it is a crush. Better if they waited in their camp on the fairground.”
I turned to run off but Brin called me back. She held out Diver’s viewing tube, his sailor’s glass. “Perhaps you can find a vantage point.” I took it gratefully and ran to the river gate.
Already there was a crowd of spectators packing the gate, waiting for the finish and a good place at the nets. It was strange to be on the inside looking out of the Bird Clan; I fingered the blue silk braid of my emblem and scanned the faces out there, expecting every moment to be hailed by one of the family. Then I approached the gatekeeper, and he went haughtily to his booth and returned with a message skein. I gave him a silver credit and stood, reading the skein in my fingers, feeling the Harper’s words as I turned for one last look at the crowd. I saw a face I knew and my heart thumped, but I gave no sign and ran off again into the field.
I stood in the shelter of the tower and raised the glass; the tall, brown figure had edged back . . . I saw a narrow face, a flash of blue rags and feathers. Petsalee, host of spirits, and dressed as a twirler! Could he harm us here, in the Bird Clan itself? I folded the glass and carried the Harper’s skein to Brin; she read off the location of the camp, on a good site by the cloth market, and the Harper’s good wishes. I said nothing about what I had seen and sent my wishes and prayers after Diver in the Tomarvan, rounding the First Mark. I strolled off again and when I was out of sight of Brin and Ablo, I put Diver’s glass in the pouch pocket of my tunic and climbed to the top of the great launching tower.
About twenty vassals and escorts had had the same idea, the nimbler ones, children like myself. We clung to the supports and felt the winds tug at the tower. I hunched down, straddling a sturdy crosspiece, and found the tower no more frightening than a tall tree on Hingstull. I extended the magic glass and searched for a long time until I found them: five dots, no bigger than birds, flying bunched together halfway to the Second Mark. The rays of Esto, rising for the New Year, flashed silver or blue or green off one flying machine then another as they dipped and soared. I adjusted the glass and began to distinguish the challengers. Hadeel overhead, then Tildee thrusting towards the Second Mark, and surely that was Dah’gan, Blacklock’s big machine, close behind. Tomarvan flew beyond the Dah’gan and trailing a little, high in a spiral behind the field, Peer-lo-vagoba soared in the blue.
The sunlight caught the mirrors at the Second Mark, which was another wooden tower, tall as the one I was perched on. I moved the glass on to survey the Great Circle: there were four marker balloons, one drooping from a leak, then far off by the fixed houses of Otolor, the Third Mark. There was one of the Bird Clan gliders flying in uneasy ovals on the farthest edge of the fair ground, and there were the streamers drifting out from the Fourth Mark. I flicked on quickly over the markets and stalls and dancing platforms to the gaudy Fifth Mark, still on the far bank of the Troon, a good distance downstream from the river gate. When I looked back, the five machines had crossed the river and were flying low over the fixed houses, low enough to wake sleepers, if any slept in Otolor at the New Year.
Suddenly one caught a wild current—was it Hadeel, still holding a narrow lead?—and the group spread outward and upward like birds alarmed by a fowler’s slingshot. Tomarvan! I saw Diver catch the current and improve his place, but below came Tildee, heavy and dark, chugging even further ahead. Then I could see no more; the angle of the light made me weep and blink and lower the glass. I wiped my eyes and kept taking a look, but the machines were too far away, slow-moving dots, crawling through the sky to the Third Mark. So I sat on the tower for a long time, watching those five dots, hardly able to think of them as flying machines, the objects of so much hope, thrust through the air by living persons. Every so often I would identify one or other of the contestants: Jebbal wheeling to take the lead, Dah’gan hovering in close with Tomarvan; but then the pattern would change. All the machines became silvery drops or wisps of cloud, or I would find I had tracked a passing bird by mistake.
I sat rocking and blinking on the tower, below the other chattering youngsters who pointed and whooped and thought they saw this leader and that. Sometimes I rested my eyes and almost slept, then woke in panic and found the machines no nearer . . . but was that Dah’gan following the Tomarvan? And suddenly I was wide awake, frantically adjusting the glass, for they were rounding the Fourth Mark and the view was clear. Dah’gan! Dah’gan well ahead, and Tomarvan above, then Tildee closing to the right; far above, the two gliders, Hadeel and Peer-lo-vagoba, battled for each other’s wind. I could see the other Bird Clan glider and the marshals in it. The three leading machines continued their desperate fight: Tildee challenged and Dah’gan banked and Tomarvan tried to cut between but failed, ran out of sky, and had to fly wide and low, back into third place. Tildee sliced in to take the lead, and I could feel the breath of the wind-blade as Blacklock brought the Dah’gan close enough to slice a wing. Now Diver . . . take the lead now! And the Tomarvan did take the lead, but Tildee, the stinking Tildee, undercut, hacking at Diver’s wing—where were the flaming marshals?—and Dah’gan flew round-about, doggedly, and came up ahead of the two others. Then Peer-lo-vagoba lit down from high above, catching the wind perfectly, to take the lead, and there was Hadeel following.
“Come down!” The tower was rocking crazily, and the Launcher stood at its base calling in his thunder voice, “Down you wretched fledglings! Down, before we dismantle the tower with you clinging to its branches!”
Two clan vassals and a marshal were already on the platform shoving the youngsters to the ladders and attaching ropes to the tower. I scrambled for my life with the rest, and we had scarcely hit the ground when the tower was skillfully twitched in half by the ropes. In a moment our perch was nothing but a heap of sticks and binding, dragged off the field in a transport net. I saw that the gates had been opened and a jostling crowd were pressed against the yellow ropes of the barrier. I ran back to the blocks, or the place where they had been, and found Brin and Ablo waiting among the silent, ranked escorts of all the challengers. I could hardly believe that they had seen nothing.
“Soon . . .” I panted, “approaching the Fifth Mark!”
“None down?” panted Ablo. “Good, good, winds’ favor indeed! Where is the Tomarvan?”
“Battling with Dah’gan and Tildee, last I saw.”
The voice of a marshal, with a speaking gourd, reported calmly from the pavilion. “Now at the Fifth Mark. All challengers approaching . . .”
There was a buzz of relief from the escorts.
“Dah’gan, Tildee, Tomarvan . . . followed high by Peer-lo-vagoba and Hadeel.”
“But how can they tell? How can they see so far? They must ha
ve a seeing glass!”
“They have something better, child, and could have told us the entire contest if they dared. There is a voice-wire stretched round the whole of the Great Circle, with answering places at every mark,” whispered Ablo.
“Fire-metal-magic,” said Brin. “And how do you know so much, Dorn Brinroyan?”
I looked at the brown turf. “I was on the tower with Diver’s glass.”
Ablo grumbled at that, about mischief and taking risks, so I handed him the seeing glass. He puzzled over it a little, and I helped him. Then, as he exclaimed in wonder at the powers of the glass, the cry went up.
They flew in at some height on the long southern curve of the field, Dah’gan, Tomarvan, Tildee, in line, then with Tomarvan shifting up and back a little. The gliders were nowhere to be seen. Blacklock’s escort raised a clamor, and the Mattroyan omor began to chant, waving their green branches. I shouted, but then fell silent, like the anxious escorts of Hadeel and Peer-lo-vagoba, but for a different reason. I knew what would happen. There was a landing target set down, a circular mat of white woven straw in the center of the field; the trick was to turn and land, facing the river. I knew, I knew that Blacklock must peel off his heavy machine to the east leaving a strip of sky; and surely, as we watched, the Tomarvan turned half upside down, stood on its wingtip in midair. I saw Brin raise both hands and shout, summoning the winds, as Diver came through. The Tomarvan slotted between Dah’gan and Tildee, like the shuttle on a loom, then turned as the crowd began to roar, cut under Dah’gan’s runners with a hand’s breadth to spare, turned again, and came down gently as a leaf, on the white mat in center field. Ablo seized my hand—he was weeping—and we ran, with Brin, to hold the wings. And that was how the Bird Clan was won.
The Luck of Brin's Five Page 13