by Paula Volsky
Purest gobbledygook, but Girays’s interest sparked nonetheless, for the power of illusion resonated within Vonahrish minds, particularly those of formerly-Exalted configuration. Family legends extolled the so-called magical prowess of his own v’Alisante ancestors, and he had never really believed such tales, but they caught his imagination all the same.
“Improbable,” he murmured with a shrug, but could not resist asking, “You search in hope that the author of this supposed illusion possesses not only magic, but a hammer as well?”
“It is not an impossibility. I ask another moment only of your patience.”
“Certainly.” Girays’s courteous air masked irritation, incredulity, and hopping curiosity. It was absurd, but he found himself hooked.
Stornzof was at it again, fingering those vicious thorns, prodding at the vines and cliffs, squandering time with such an air of grave diligence that his folly somehow assumed an air of intelligent purpose.
Ridiculous. Girays smiled slightly, amused at his own puerility. For a moment he had actually expected to witness something extraordinary, something—for lack of a better word—magical. At his age.
“Ah. I have found it. Here.” Karsler Stornzof’s right hand, wrist, and forearm up to the elbow disappeared into the mass of creeping daggers.
The Grewzian was mad. Those thorns would pierce him to the bone.
The arm withdrew unscathed. There was no mark on the bare hand, no trace of blood. Girays stared.
“Come. Here is the way,” Stornzof directed. His companion said nothing, and he added without condescension, “The barrier is quite unreal.”
The creeping daggers, the granite ramparts—unreal? It was like something out of an old Vonahrish tale spun for children, but he would keep an open mind. Girays wheeled the two-seater forward, and soon the front tire bumped vine-covered rock.
“Unreal?” he inquired.
“Ah, your mind fulfills its own expectations. In truth, however, the way is clear. I shall prove it.” So saying, Stornzof took the handlebar, assuming control of the two-seater.
He advanced the vehicle unhesitatingly, and the front tire appeared to sink into solid stone, followed by the handlebar and the hands gripping it, then by the tall grey-clad figure of the overcommander. Girays drew in his breath sharply as the Grewzian vanished, along with the second tire and rear seat, the carrier and suitcases, and the flying-wheel. Nothing remained to be seen but vine-veiled cliff face, seemingly solid and undisturbed.
“Stornzof—are you there?” Girays demanded. “Can you hear me?”
“I hear you plainly.” The Grewzian’s voice was close and unobstructed. “I see you as well. The illusion is single directional, and you are clearly visible to me.”
“What else is visible on your side?”
“Come through and see for yourself. Walk straight forward. There is nothing in your path. You must believe this.”
Girays hesitated only a moment, then advanced steadily, with arms outstretched. He knew he must resemble a resolute sleepwalker, but could not bring himself to walk face-first into the creeping daggers. Which were not real, he assured himself. If a demonstrably corporeal Grewzian demigod could walk straight through, then a Vonahrish formerly-Exalted could do at least as well.
His arms plunged shoulder deep into the tangle of vines. For a moment he thought he sensed resistance, he even thought he felt the stab of the thorns, but mastered the instinctive shrinking of his flesh and marched on. The illusory sensations subsided, he seemed to pass through a region of fog or shadow, then the world sharpened into focus and he found himself face-to-face with Karsler Stornzof. Steep rocky walls hemmed them closely on two sides. The illusory granite and vines masked the opening of a narrow defile, which extended only a few yards before opening onto a bare, shallow slope.
At the juncture of defile and slope stood a twin pair of horse-drawn caravans, whose exuberant ornamentation and distinctive boatlike design marked them as the property of wandering Turos. The owners were gathered about a small campfire, where skewers of spiced meat cooked on a makeshift grill. Girays quickly counted some two dozen people, more or less—it was hard to be certain, for the gang of swarthy, elf-locked children orbiting the fire in perpetual motion defied quantification. There were at least half a dozen women, ranging in age from ripening adolescent to decayed beldam. Of these half dozen, two clasped infants to their brown breasts, and another was visibly pregnant. The men were similarly diverse in age, if similar in type—all bronzed, slant eyed, and plump lipped, with agile bodies and quick gestures. Four of them now produced fowling pieces, seemingly out of nowhere. As the intruders approached, the four stood as one, leveled their weapons, and took aim.
The Ellipsoids halted at once.
“Hold your fire, we are not enemies,” Girays advised in Vonahrish, without hesitation or reflection. But his instincts were good, for the Turos, citizens of the world and of nowhere, knew the predominant international tongue.
“Grewzians enemies of everyone,” replied a Turo man of middle years and unusual breadth of shoulder, probably a leader. “Your national talent.”
“I am Vonahrish, and enemy of no one.”
“You keep bad company, then.” The Turo favored the uniformed overcommander with a brief, hostile glance. “These Grewzian assassins hunt our kind through Neraunce and Nidroon, this is their idea of sport. They slaughter us like hogs in the Mid-Duchies.”
“Not this one. He competes in the Grand Ellipse race.”
“Today his race is run.”
“I am sorry to hear it, for your sake.” Girays assumed an air of sympathy. “Should this overcommander vanish from the competition, his Grewzian countrymen will make their displeasure known, and the sufferings that your people have already endured will be as nothing compared to what must follow. And that does not even begin to address the issue of my own removal—an unavoidable necessity in the event of my companion’s murder—and the consequences thereof. I am a v’Alisante, and not exactly invisible,” he observed mildly.
Unease clouded the faces of his Turo listeners.
“How do you find your way in here?” The Turo spokesman scowled.
“Easily,” Stornzof informed him. “The image concealing your campsite is sound but rudimentary, its nature obvious to the trained observer. You’ve an illusionist in your company?” There was no response, and he concluded, “You may hardly rely upon so weak a defense.”
The Turo uneasiness deepened.
“What do you want here?” The Turo leader’s black eyes glittered.
“Assistance. The benefit of your skill,” Girays returned casually, as if unaware of guns trained upon his heart. “Our vehicle is damaged. Hammer the dented tire back into shape, and I’ll pay you ten New-rekkoes.”
The Turo reflected. At last he countered grudgingly, “Fifteen.”
“Agreed.”
“You pay now.”
Girays did so.
The other signaled his followers, and the fowling pieces vanished as magically as they had appeared.
“You wait now.” The Turo took the two-seater from Stornzof. “Over here. You want some of our meat, that is another twelve New-rekkoes.”
Girays wavered, tempted by the aroma, but Stornzof replied without hesitation, courteously as if answering a gracious invitation, “Thank you, I will decline the meat.”
For the next half hour they waited there, seated on the ground in the defile, listening to the clang of hammer on iron and the low murmur of Turo conversation. At the end of that time, one of the women wheeled the repaired two-seater smoothly back to them. Both men stood, and Stornzof stepped forward to take the vehicle.
She halted him with a gesture. Her nostrils flared at sight of his Grewzian uniform, but her eyes widened with interest as they rose to his face.
“Machine oiled,” the woman announced. “One New-rekko extra.”
Stornzof paid her and took the two-seater. The Turo woman withdrew, casting a long glance back o
ver her shoulder at him as she went.
His own existence, Girays observed with amused chagrin, seemed to go unnoticed.
They mounted the two-seater, with Stornzof in front, and pedaled out of the defile. The fog obscured Girays’s vision for a few seconds, then they were back on the Aeshno-Eynisse Road, and the expanse of vine-draped granite lining the way before and behind them appeared unbroken. The riders exerted themselves, and the two-seater gathered speed.
The breeze of passage was cooling his face again, it felt fine, and they were pelting along northeast toward Eynisse at a much better speed than he could have achieved by any other currently available means. The Grewzian overcommander had made good on all claims and promises, Girays was forced to concede. Even that apparently fantastic boast about his ability to detect the magical “convolutions of force,” the “disruptions of normality”—he had proved that he could do it.
“Stornzof,” he said aloud.
“Yes?” The Grewzian’s eyes remained fixed on the road before him.
“I admit to an error.”
“Error?”
“I questioned your claims.”
“Do you imagine that an unusual occurrence?”
“I wouldn’t know. I do know that I was mistaken, because you’ve proved it.” Girays forced himself to add, “I won’t doubt your word again.”
“Do not make rash promises,” the Grewzian advised with a hint of dryness. “In any case you owe nothing to me, whose life you have saved twice within the space of two days.”
That was almost certainly true, Girays reflected, and felt better.
The road before them ran downhill at a gentle grade. Pedaling was easy, and the newly oiled two-seater sped like a racehorse. Girays’s spirits rose, and he observed, “At this rate we should reach Eynisse by noon tomorrow.”
“We might do better yet,” Stornzof suggested.
“Ah, ride on straight through the night, you mean?”
“Short rest stops as required. Catch up on sleep later, aboard barge on the Arune.”
“Excellent. Then we’ll hit Eynisse around dawn.” Provided his own strength held out, Girays reflected, but kept the misgiving to himself, for there was only so much humility he could swallow at one draft. “I doubt that many of the others will do as well. In fact, I suspect the railroad strike will have knocked more than a few clean out of the race.”
“Perhaps, but many will persevere. Mesq’r Zavune, for example, may expect assistance from his own countrymen.”
“Then there’s Porb Jil Liskjil, with his bottomless pockets, who can buy his way out of any difficulty. And Bav Tchornoi could bully his way through stone walls.”
“And Miss Devaire?” Stornzof inquired. “She is resourceful, but now perhaps she must admit defeat?”
“Never,” Girays responded with absolute conviction. “She will not give up. Not while she breathes.”
Stornzof cast a clear glance back over his shoulder. “I see,” he said.
SHE HAD STOLEN HERSELF a lovely horse, Luzelle reflected.
Purchased.
Ballerina was fleet and sweet, well bred and well trained. She had carried her abductor—new owner—lightly through the night, her smooth stride devouring miles, until the flush of rose in the east had colored the white stucco walls of a roadside inn, and Luzelle had judged it safe to pause for a few hours of sleep. The city of Aeshno lay far behind her. Even had her escape route been noted, nobody would have pursued her over so great a distance; not for the sake of a stolen mare, not even for the sake of vandalized property. Or so she assured herself.
Relinquishing Ballerina to the charge of a sleepy ostler, Luzelle walked into the inn to confront a night clerk whose surprise showed on his face. She could scarcely blame him. A young foreign woman, traveling alone by night, without a single piece of luggage to her name—naturally he was taken aback. His surprise sharpened to open curiosity when she asked in Vonahrish to be wakened with a knock on her door in exactly six hours. She could see the questions struggling to emerge, but he managed to contain them. And when she produced a roll of good Vonahrish New-rekkoes, he retained sufficient presence of mind to assume the air of respect that every solvent guest merited. She paid in advance without demur, he handed her a key, and she felt his speculative gaze press her back as she walked away.
Luzelle climbed two flights of stairs, remembering with regret the wondrous lift in the Kingshead Hotel in Toltz. Locating her assigned room, she let herself in and locked the door. She hardly noted the character of her surroundings, which were plain, old-fashioned, and decent enough. She saw only the bed. She was tired, very tired. She had managed to ignore, evade, or resist fatigue for hours, but it had caught up with her now. She felt she could not stand upright another minute.
The southern springtime air was sultry. She stripped off her clothes and let them drop to the floor. Why not? They were already sweat stained and grimy from hours of riding. She herself was similarly grimy, but had not bothered to ask for a bath. What point, when she had no clean clothes, no change of underwear, no means at present of preserving personal decency, and above all, no energy? She did not want to wash her clothes, or even herself. She wanted nothing but sleep.
The sheets were clean, she was not, and she did not care. She tumbled into bed, her head hit the pillow, and she was immediately unconscious, or rather her consciousness changed. The dreams came, full of fire, smoke, noise; and those were the mild ones. Far more frightening were the visions of herself back in the neat, modestly appointed little bedroom she had occupied as a child in her father’s house. She was looking at herself in the small mirror that hung above the washstand, and the face that gazed back from the glass was the wondering unmarked face of a child. But as she watched, the face altered and aged, shifting through the phases of adolescence, early and full maturity, middle age, and thence to sallow old age. And throughout all successive transformations, the chamber in which her mirrored image stood immured never changed at all.
A knock on the door banished such visions. Luzelle opened her eyes. She was still tired, but less so. Her eyes traveled about a plain, unfamiliar chamber. She remembered where she was, and how she had come. She did not want to get up yet, but the race was very much on. Yawning, she arose, noticed her own condition, and blinked. Her garments, visibly the worse for wear, lay scattered about the floor. Oh yes, she had dropped them there.
She ran her tongue across teeth that seemed slicked with rancid lard. Stumbling to the washstand, she rinsed her mouth out, then made the best possible use of water, soap, and towel before resuming yesterday’s grubby garments. No comb, no hairbrush. Readjusting half a dozen pins, she anchored the riotous mass of red-gold curls as best she could, then hurried on down to the old-fashioned common room, where she breakfasted, or lunched, on skewered lamb and lentils, indifferent to the scrutiny of her fellow guests, some of them obviously hostile.
Too bad.
She looked up quickly from her plate to meet a pair of yellow eyes lancing out of a swarthy face, and felt her own color rise against the silent condemnation. She had seen it before, many times. She should be used to it by now, but somehow her nerves, blood, and stomach never inured themselves.
She chanced another look. Her silent critic flaunted saffron robes, black finger sheaths, looped linen streamers with black-edged cutwork. An orthodox Iyecktori, committed to the Gifted Iyecktor’s vision of a stable, well-structured universe. Such a vision left no room for random peripatetic females, free to spread disorder throughout the world. The anger in the eyes of the watching Iyecktori confirmed her moral failing. She curbed the impulse to flash the Feyennese Four Fingers, for this was only the beginning. Heading east into the homeland of the Gifted Iyecktor, she was bound to encounter much more of the same, and she had better start learning to ignore insults.
Her eyes dropped to her plate. She ate quickly, without tasting, paid her bill, returned to the foyer, and asked the clerk on duty for her horse. Minutes later the ostler l
ed Ballerina to the front. Luzelle tipped the ostler, mounted the stolen mare without assistance, and headed east.
For hours she rode hard under the strong Aennorvi sun, which was stooping westward by the time she came to a bone-white village, bleached and crumbling in the midst of the stony hills. She paused at the public trough in the middle of a plaza pale with ashen dust and black with intense southern shadow. She dismounted. While her horse drank, Luzelle studied the area. At first she thought the place dead, but presently discerned movement under the purple-diapered awning at the far end of the square, where the tradesmen were emerging from their midday coma. Pausing long enough to wrap Ballerina’s reins around one of the public rails beside the trough, she hurried to the wakening shop, and entered a small-town general mart designed to meet modest needs.
The proprietor sported finger sheaths and linen streamers. His wife wore thumbless black gloves and a black cap with linen lappets. Orthodox Iyecktories beyond doubt, and the undisguised animosity hardening both bronzed faces momentarily gave her pause.
She rallied quickly. Advancing as if confident of her welcome, she asked in Vonahrish, “Do you sell women’s clothing? Linen?”
The shopkeeper answered in curt Aennorvi.
“Clothing.” Luzelle fingered the folds of her skirt illustratively.
Her female listener chattered shrilly.
Several bolts of fabric lay on a table at the center of the room. Luzelle turned to investigate, and the chattering rose in volume. The shopkeeper lifted a hand, rigid outstretched finger pointing the way to the exit. Luzelle displayed a fistful of New-rekkoes, and the irritable Aennorvi voices fell silent.
The cloth awaited the scissors and needles of industrious local housewives. No ready-made garments were offered for sale, with the exception of big, geometrically patterned scarves that could double as shawls, and genderless hooded rainwear of olive-drab oilcloth. She chose a handsome scarf and an ugly poncho. She also picked up needles, thread, soap, nail file, toothbrush, comb, hairbrush, handkerchiefs, a basket of apples, raisins, crackers, a canteen, a carpetbag to hold it all, and a couple of buckled straps with which to fasten the carpetbag to Ballerina’s saddle cantle.