by Paula Volsky
10
“… THUS THE INTERVENTION of the Lanthian resistance delayed our arrival by many hours,” Karsler Stornzof concluded his explanation. “The inconvenience was considerable, but I must admire the ingenuity of our enemies.”
Perfectly in chivalrous character. Girays v’Alisante bent a sour smile. Twenty-four hours in Karsler Stornzof’s company, and he had yet to detect a crack in the knightly façade. Nor had he caught the faintest whiff of conscious hypocrisy, and his nose for that scent was keen. It seemed that the Grewzian took his heroic role quite to heart. Perhaps he had read too many sugared articles about himself in those fool gazettes.
A pity the Lanthian ingenuity the overcommander so admired hadn’t succeeded in prolonging that island interlude another day or two. On the other hand, Stornzof’s assistance with the two-seater had proved invaluable; essential, in fact. He could never have managed the mechanical monstrosity on his own, Girays inwardly admitted. Even powered by two riders, the contraption generated endless grief. Reluctant locomotion. Clanking, screeching, squealing protest. Poor balance. Unreliable steering. Nonexistent braking. And unremitting obstinacy, as if this man-made conglomerate of iron, wood, and leather housed the soul of a malevolent mule.
The present instance was a perfect case in point. The miserably rutted, muddy Aeshno-Eynisse Road that wound its way among countless rock-strewn hills now ascended a sharp grade, and the two-seater was fighting every inch of the way. In such a place, an old-fashioned velocipede propelled by the thrust of its rider’s foot against the ground would have been more practical. But the two-seater was equipped with the supposed advantage of pedals, and modernity was exacting its toll.
The afternoon sun blazed sturdily overhead. The sweat was dripping into his eyes, and Girays raised a hand to his face. No sooner had he relinquished his hold on one of the leather handlebar grips than the big front wheel hit soft mud, twisted sharply on its pivot, and the two-seater lurched for the side of the road. With a muttered oath he reclaimed the grip, yanked the iron tire around, overcompensated, and sent the vehicle lumbering off at a new angle. He pulled again, managed to straighten the tire, but could not control the violent shuddering of the heavy frame. The two-seater shook, bucked, and screeched. Despite all such metallic protest, uphill progress scarcely slackened.
It was the force from the rear, Girays realized. He alone could never have pedaled up the slope. If left to his own devices, he would have dismounted and walked the two-seater gradually to the summit or, more likely, left the hunk of junk lying at the side of the road. Under the eyes of a Grewzian rival he could do neither, and now found himself obliged to acknowledge what he had already suspected—that Stornzof’s efforts were keeping them on course, and that Stornzof was carrying a good deal more than half the burden.
He might have consoled himself with the theory that the rear position offered a mechanical advantage, perhaps a more efficient exploitation of applied force, had personal experience not taught him otherwise. The rider in front controlled the steering, thus claiming dominant status, and it was presumably for this reason that the Overcommander Stornzof had suggested early on that the two riders periodically alternate seats. It was just such conspicuous, subtly self-laudatory fairmindedness that doubtless struck certain impressionable observers as wonderful. Girays had now ridden both front and back, and knew for a fact that the two positions were equally demanding. And no imaginary mechanical advantage could be used to explain away the superior performance of a Grewzian athlete considerably larger, some ten years younger, and just plain stronger than himself.
Actually the front seat was better. There, Stornzof wasn’t in his line of sight.
Girays pedaled on grimly. Presently the two-seater crested the rise, leveled briefly, then commenced a teeth-rattling descent. It was much easier now. In fact the vehicle was coasting along effortlessly, picking up speed as it went. There was a sharp clank as the front tire dipped into a hole in the road. The wheel twisted, and Girays reflexively twitched it back into line. He was getting better at steering, he decided. He would be an expert before the trip was over. The two-seater’s uncontrollable acceleration, which would have alarmed him a scant twenty-four hours earlier, now struck him as exhilarating. The breeze cooling his moist face was agreeable. For the first time he began to see the potential pleasure in this sport. With a decent velocipede perhaps, definitely a mono-seater, on a properly maintained road—
The two-seater neared the bottom of the slope, and now it was practically flying, squealing along so rapidly that the broad wet patch overspreading the roadway was under the iron tires almost before Girays had noted its existence. A massive spray of mud flew, spattering his face and filling his eyes. He felt the handlebar jerk beneath his hands, the front wheel swiveled, and the two-seater skidded, careering across the roadway at a wild diagonal until a plangent clang proclaimed the impact of metal on stone.
The front tire had struck a large rock. The two-seater overturned and Girays fell, hitting the soft mud with an ignominious plop. For a moment he sprawled prone where he had landed, the breath knocked out of him. Then labored respiration and thought resumed. Some sort of weight was pressing his back and squeezing his lungs. Raising his head, he glanced about to discover that he had fallen beneath the two-seater, whose rusty bulk pinned him where he lay. The contraption was heavy, but he could surely wriggle his way out from under it, provided he had broken no major bones—
The thought had barely resolved itself before he felt the pressure on his back ease, and he looked around again to see Karsler Stornzof lifting the two-seater and moving it aside. But for the muddy splotches on his boots and the dirty speckling across his uniform, the overcommander remained unsullied. When the two-seater overturned, he must have managed to land on his feet.
“Thank you,” said Girays, and the words all but stuck in his throat.
“You are injured?” Stornzof inquired.
“I think not.” Girays sat up carefully. He was sore in places, but everything seemed to work. “A few bruises, nothing more.”
This was not entirely true, for his pride had suffered some laceration. He had been steering the two-seater, he should have avoided the mud; he was responsible for the accident. He met the Grewzian’s eyes, expecting to encounter accusation or resentment, but found nothing there beyond a certain thoughtful, oddly impenetrable composure.
“I believe you are correct. I shall see to the machine, then.” Stornzof turned away.
Girays hauled himself to his feet. The overcommander, he noted with grudging approval, had the tact to withhold offers of assistance neither wanted nor required. He seemed, in fact, generally devoid of Grewzian boorishness. Indeed, but for the slightly stilted speech, the fellow might almost have been Vonahrish.
Brushing a few clots of mud from his coat, Girays inquired, “Ready to continue?”
“On foot, I fear,” the other informed him. “Come, see here.”
Girays approached with reluctance, and spotted the trouble at once. It would have been hard to miss—the collision had damaged the front tire severely, indenting a section of the iron circle and mangling several spokes.
So his incompetence had disabled their vehicle. Under the eyes of a Grewzian overcommander described as wonderful.
Stornzof, however, displayed no sign of rancor, remarking only, “I am certain this could be hammered back into shape quite easily.”
“Do you have a hammer?”
“It is not a thing I ordinarily carry.”
“Strangely enough, neither do I.”
“Should we encounter a coach along this road, the driver may well possess a toolbox.”
“Perhaps, but we can hardly afford to sit and wait for a coach. Is it possible to walk the two-seater?”
“Let us put it to the test.” So saying, Stornzof effortlessly righted the fallen vehicle, grasped the handlebar, and advanced. The front tire clanked woefully. A grating protest underscored each revolution, until Stornzof paused to al
ter the position of a bent wire spoke. The second big tire and the little flying balance-wheel at the back were undamaged. The two suitcases remained securely strapped to the rear carrier.
“Some effort is required, but this can be done,” Stornzof reported. “We need not abandon the machine.”
“I’ll push it along for now,” Girays stated. He was prepared to push the wretched heap of scrap to Aveshq and back, if that could redeem his blundering.
“As you wish.”
The Grewzian stepped aside and Girays took his place. He discovered at once that Stornzof had been right. The damaged two-seater, unwieldy at best, was now a misery to handle, but it could be done.
He pushed and the two-seater moved. The Grewzian walked beside him. The road before them wound southeast.
THE HOURS PASSED and the scenery altered. The hills sharpened, the bare granite blushed pink, the gnarl-limbed shrubs gave way to blue-grey conifers, and the first creeping daggers appeared. The creeping dagger vine—infamous for its hardihood, its uncanny rapidity of growth, and the murderous keenness of its countless thorns—figured prominently in Aennorvi history. According to popular belief, the plant had been created by the legendary sorcerer Aekropi at the behest of a local prince bent on punishing the infidelity of his beautiful but excessively vivacious young wife. Confining his princess and her lover to a small stone cottage somewhere in the heart of the forested hills, the prince had summoned Aekropi, who had loosed the creeping daggers. The vines had grown at magical speed, blanketing the cottage within the space of a single night, imprisoning the occupants and condemning them to uninterrupted togetherness for the term of their unnaturally prolonged lives. The cottage had long since lost itself amid the spreading vines, but locals swore that travelers in the hills could still sometimes catch the echo of screaming mutual recrimination.
The truth of this tale was perhaps open to question. There could be no doubt, however, that the Aennorvi general Ulyune had used creeping dagger plants to choke the Zirigar Pass, thus blocking the advance of the invading Bizaqhi army less than two hundred years earlier, for this was a matter of historical record. Nor could there be any doubt that the nearly indestructible vines were more than a minor nuisance, for the finger-length thorns were indeed sharp as poniards, and the crimson fluid they exuded was toxic.
“Let us halt for a time,” Stornzof suggested.
“Very well.” Girays let nothing show on his face. His arms, shoulders, and back ached with the effort of wheeling the crippled two-seater over the hills, but he would never have permitted himself to beg a respite.
They moved to the side of the road, where Girays muted a groan of relief as he laid his burden down. He seated himself in the grass beside the two-seater, and Stornzof did likewise. Both carried water flasks purchased in Aeshno, and both drank from them now.
Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Girays mopped the dirt and sweat from his face, then let his eyes wander. The blue-grey conifers loomed about him, and now he saw that the trunks were wound with creeping daggers. The boughs were likewise encumbered, and everywhere the vigorous vines looped through the air from tree to tree, enclosing the forest in a living net. The ground was carpeted with blue-grey needles, many of them darkly beaded. At first he took the sticky beading for resin from the trees, but closer inspection revealed the presence of the mildly venomous scarlet secretions of countless thorns.
He felt a slight vibration through the ground beneath him, and there could be but one explanation.
“Coach coming,” said Girays.
His companion nodded. They stood. Moments later the Aruneside District No. 3 mail coach rounded a bend in the road and came hurrying into view. Both men hailed it urgently.
The driver saw them. His eyes fastened on the Grewzian overcommander, his teeth showed, and he flashed the obscene Feyennese Four Fingers. The mail coach sped by without slackening its speed, and soon disappeared.
“It is the uniform,” Stornzof observed quietly. “It is a liability here in Aennorve. Had I been wiser, I should have stood out of sight.”
He was right about that. So the golden Grewzian demigod was capable of error. Girays regarded his companion with a kindlier eye.
“We’d best move on,” he said. He would have preferred to rest a while longer. His strained muscles complained.
Stornzof inclined his head. “I will wheel the machine now.”
“If you insist,” Girays yielded, disguising his elation. The fellow was remarkably decent, for a Grewzian. “But at this point I think we’d best consider leaving the two-seater. It’s become clear we’ll find no means of repairing the wheel out here in the middle of nowhere. If we can’t fix it, then we’re better off without it.”
“That is true enough. But I am not yet ready to give up hope of salvaging the machine. I believe that the opportunity will soon arise. I think it is close at hand.” His listener’s expression must have communicated incomprehension, for Stornzof added, “It is a feeling that I have.”
“I see. A feeling.”
“Let us gamble a little more time and strength upon the two-seater.”
“Your decision.” Girays’s own private decision classified the Grewzian as peculiar, perhaps a trifle unbalanced.
The trek resumed. Another half hour passed, and the creeping daggers were thicker than ever, strangling the trees and clogging the clearings. The road cut its way between sharp, sheer granite cliffs, and the rock faces were invisible behind leafy green curtains pocked with scarlet.
Girays’s stomach rumbled audibly. It was sudden and unaccountable, for he had lunched adequately, and not so long ago. Nevertheless, his belly was making its wishes known, and it seemed to him then that he caught the faint fragrance of grilling meat carried on the spring breeze. The breeze shifted, and the scent was gone. Imagination? His stomach did not seem to think so. On they trudged, the two-seater clanking between them, until Stornzof halted, freezing into abrupt immobility in the middle of the road.
Peculiar.
“Shall I take over the two-seater for a while?” Girays offered.
No answer.
Beyond peculiar.
“Are you ill, Stornzof?”
Still no answer, and the overcommander wore an oddly distant look, as if he listened to voices from another world. Perhaps he did. Controlling his impatience, Girays waited, and presently the other’s trance broke.
“There is something here,” Stornzof announced.
He spoke with such conviction that Girays cast an involuntary glance around him. He saw muddy, empty road, rocky outcroppings, and an endless, impenetrable tangle of creeping daggers. Nothing more.
“I sense an influence at work,” Stornzof continued.
“What influence?” Girays could not forbear asking.
“That which is often termed ‘magical,’ or ‘sorcerous.’ It is quite unmistakable.”
“Indeed. Sorcerous.” Girays’s brows rose. “But how colorful.”
“Ah, you are skeptical. That is to be expected. Perhaps I can convince you.”
“Scarcely necessary. Do not trouble yourself. Let us say you are correct. I am willing to concede the possibility. May we move on now?”
“Not yet. The matter demands investigation. Perhaps this is what we seek. I suspect that it is.”
“Really. Another feeling that you have?”
“Sometimes they are difficult to ignore. If you would be so good as to take the machine—”
Girays grasped the handlebar, and Stornzof moved at once to the base of the nearest cliff. He advanced several paces, paused to stretch forth a hand to the creeping daggers, and promptly drew the hand back.
“Real,” he reported.
“Real what? What are you doing?” Ridiculous to humor this Grewzian eccentric’s fancies, but Girays found that he could not repress the queries. “What are you looking for?”
“We are very near it, I am certain,” Stornzof insisted.
“Near what? If you’d tell me what
you’re looking for, perhaps I could—”
“Silence, if you please,” the Grewzian enjoined absently.
Girays swallowed a disgusted retort. The fellow was definitely unbalanced.
Stornzof, lost in his delusions, wandered alongside the creeping daggers, now pausing to finger the thorns, now to consult inner voices. Girays trailed irritably, and as he went, the idea took hold that he might free himself at one stroke of ruined two-seater and crackbrained Grewzian demigod alike. He could strike out on his own and probably do better. He was hovering on the verge of certainty when his companion halted with an air of finality.
“Here,” Stornzof declared. He stood before an expanse of vine-covered granite cliff, indistinguishable from any other section of the cliffs lining this stretch of the Aeshno-Eynisse Road.
Girays wheeled the two-seater forward for a better look. Proximity failed to improve the prospect. He saw granite, vines, and scarlet-tipped thorns. For a moment the smell of grilling meat filled his nostrils. He wondered where it came from, and then it was gone again.
“Well?” he asked.
“Here,” Stornzof repeated. “Here is the site of the disruption.”
“Disruption. Quite. Listen, Stornzof, I’ve given this matter a good deal of thought, and it seems to me that it might be better if the two of us were to go our sep—”
“The energetic concentrations are quite distinct, and unmistakable,” Stornzof continued. “The source is near at hand.”
“What are you talking about? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I was saying that I think the time has come for the two of us to—”
“Now is not the time to suggest a separation. Not now, when we are likely to have the machine repaired within the half hour.”
“What makes you think so? Don’t tell me it’s a feeling that you have.”
“I believe I mentioned once that I learned long ago to detect the convolutions of force regarded as ‘magical.’ No doubt you discounted the claim, but I did not exaggerate. I sense the magical distortion of normality here, now, and it is visual in nature—that is to say, an adept of some sort has created an illusion.”