He nodded and waited for her to pass him. She scrambled across the rocks, bending over to put one hand down to steady herself, heedless of the posterior view she was providing the Cartographer. It wasn't as though she retained anything she needed to hide from him. Once they were away from here, safe from the passion demon, she would give the Cartographer some experiences to remember.
But that reminded her of another thing: the dragon seed had stopped her from giving him sex well before they entered the treacherous chamber. So the danger couldn't be limited to it. So why had it been so suddenly worse there? She concluded that the chamber was the passion demon's center of power. Farther out it could take advantage of voluntary copulation to grab souls; within the chamber it could force sex, no longer having to wait. Only the ikon chamber seemed to be immune to the demon, protected by some other force. They would probably have to get all the way out of the Red Chroma zone to be sure of safe sex; their indulgence on the way in had been far more chancy than she had realized. Bless the day she had befriended the blue dragon, and gotten his seed!
Where was the dragon now? Mentor—that was his name, a teacher of his kind, and teacher of Gale and Havoc. Dragon seeds and dragon training had served them both excellently, saving their lives more often than was comfortable. Gale wished she could be with Mentor again; he was her only oath friend apart from Havoc. For that matter, she wished she could be with Yellow Spider again, her earliest animal friend.
The light of day showed ahead, banishing her idle thoughts. They emerged to see a barren desert; the illusion demons had evidently given up the effort. But they would tap out their routes regardless. The important thing was that Gale had accomplished her mission.
Chapter 3—Sisters
Throe gazed at his coordinates. This was bad. He had a fair familiarity with the local terrain, having traveled widely with King Deal and King Havoc, and knew that the site was in the center of an Invisible Chroma zone. He would have preferred almost any other Chroma, except perhaps Black, but he had chosen by lot, and the lot had given him this.
He was not a man for regrets or hesitation. Havoc had treated him extremely well, and trusted him. He would repay that favor and trust with absolute loyalty and the best service he was capable of. He knew what to do.
He headed for a particular stable that handled special kinds of steeds. “Any going my way?” he inquired, describing the general area.
"Millipede,” the stable master replied laconically, obviously expecting to dissuade this nuisance.
"I'll take it."
"Welcome,” the man said, surprised. “I thought I would have to pay someone to ride it back."
"They may be ugly, but they are amiable if well treated. I need a fast private ride, and this will do well."
The man showed him the millipede. The creature looked like a huge bug, curled into a spiral, its reaction to confinement. He did not challenge Throe's credentials as a rider; no incompetent would dare approach such a creature, and would not be able to make it perform.
"Name's Inertia,” the stable master said.
The millipede uncurled slightly, raising three antennae. She recognized her name.
"Good enough,” Throe said. “We'll go now."
"She's got a homing spell. You can't turn her loose until she's home."
"Affirmation."
The man opened the pen. The millipede unwound the rest of the way and marched out onto the floor.
"Halt,” Throe said, and she halted, only the tail section still curled.
The stable master brought the saddle and set it over the fourth to seventh sets of legs, which were the stoutest. He passed the straps under and fastened them. “She'll have to be fed nightly. You can't turn her loose to graze."
"Understood. I'll sleep riding at night.” Throe mounted, settling into the saddle and fastening the safety harness. “Parting."
"Parting,” the stable master echoed.
Throe addressed the millipede. “Inertia: Walk."
The creature set off, her feet alternating from side to side and segment to segment. Throe used his knees and feet to guide her left or right, and she was finely responsive. They moved on out of the stable and out of the city of Triumph, taking the ferry to the mainland. Other people gave them plenty of space, not trusting the enormous bug; that was fine with Throe, who did not want to answer questions.
They got on the access street. “Inertia: trot.” The steed broke into her second gait, every second foot striking the ground together, and the odd feet on one side synchronized with the even feet on the other side. It was a swift and pretty clip, though somewhat bone rattling. The sounds were like those of just two feet, or of a troop of men double-timing together. Throe liked it; he knew that the millipede could maintain this pace indefinitely, and that it would cover ground reasonably rapidly.
They moved on out of the citified region, following the trail that wound between Chroma. NonChroma folk generally avoided Chroma when traveling, unless they had the wherewithal to make deals with Chroma folk for transport. So did most Chroma folk, actually, because they had little or no magic outside of their home Chroma zones. So the caravans could have a fair variety of colors, and there could be interesting interactions. Chroma men tended to be fascinated with women of divergent Chroma, and the women were often amenable, especially if looking to get a fourth.
He understood the fascination, for he had had a recent affair with a Chroma woman. Symbol, former mistress of King Deal, cast adrift by the King's sudden death in much the way Throe was. Throe had been punished for not preventing it, and Symbol had lost her lover. Each understood the other's suffering, to a degree. Each had known King Deal well, having associated with him constantly. Symbol had been implicated in the King's death, as had Throe; that appalled her, as her guilt had been inadvertent.
But both of them had been overtaken by a new relationship: with the new King Havoc. Throe owed him his career and status, and served him utterly. Symbol was desperately in love with Havoc. That, in the end, broke the two of them up; they had no romantic future together, and knew it. They understood each other too well.
So it was that Throe had come to appreciate Havoc's oath friend Ennui—and therein found to mutual astonishment their truest love. Two homely people in their forties. One a professional martial artist and bodyguard who had been tainted by the suspicion of incompetence, the other a burned-out housewife without much physical or intellectual appeal. Their common link was Havoc, who had restored to each of them lives well worth living. Each was completely dedicated to Havoc's welfare, and understood that about the other, having no jealousy of it. They had seemed to have little if anything in common, and discovered everything in common.
There was a faint flicker ahead of his face. Throe recognized it, and put out one hand to intercept it. Sure enough, it was the succubus. “Hello, Swale,” he said.
Hello, Throe. I am liaison for the fetching missions. Is all well with you?
"All well so far. But I am hardly started. What of the others?"
Similar. Any messages to relay?
"My loyalty to Havoc. My love to Ennui."
They know.
"Tell her anyway.” For women liked to be reminded, and the mere thought of reminding her gave him pleasure.
What of Symbol?
"She understands."
And Gale?
The routine query brought a non-routine thought. Symbol and Gale were both Changelings, outstanding women, both cursed by loving Havoc, whom neither could marry. “I wish her happiness,” he said sincerely.
She gave me life back, and saved my brother.
"We are all bound by ties of extreme gratitude and loyalty."
Affirmation. Parting. She was gone.
Throe realized that he had, in extemporaneous dialogue, come at an essential truth: they belonged to a small unlikely group of people who had become quickly bound to the two principals, Havoc and Gale. It wasn't just the telepathy, or the social and ethical commitments,
or the fact that the principals were highly engaging changelings. There seemed to be something more to it. Perhaps it was fate.
The road diminished into a path as it fled human development. Now they could afford to move faster, having the route to themselves. “Inertia: canter,” he said.
The millipede accelerated, her feet striking the ground in a new pattern: the odd numbered segments continued the trot, while the even numbered segments moved their feet together, striking the ground harder. It was a three-beat cadence, about half again as fast as the two-beat trot and three times as fast as the four-beat walk. He could tell that Inertia liked it; her mind was limited, but she was made for this, the pace that got her kind where it was going about as fast as was feasible. In their natural habitat, millipedes beat out endlessly intertwining paths, and traveled constantly. The scenery on either side fairly flew by.
Throe gazed at it now, admiring the colors. The land was Blue to the right and Silver to the left, the colors intensifying toward the horizon. Blue was the animal Chroma, and Silver the electrical Chroma, and marvelous was the magic each could enable. On rare occasions Throe was sorry he was not a Chroma man, for if he were Chroma, any Chroma, he would be able to do convenient magic of many types. He would be able to fly from one place to another within the Chroma, to conjure food to eat without having to work for it, or to make minor illusions. But as soon as he thought of that, he remembered that the dangers were enhanced in proportion to the magic, and that every animal and plant had magic too. So he would have to fly, because the grass he trod walking would sting or eat his feet, and have to conjure food, because the fruit tree he tried to rob would put a thorn-spike through his hand, and as for illusion, it could be downright dangerous. Chroma zone folk were used to it, taking it as a matter of course, but woe betide nonChroma intruders, or even Chroma folk from a different color. So it was easier living without much magic, knowing what was what. What nonChroma folk needed from Chroma, they could trade for. Trade was a great convenience and unifier.
His chain of thought wandered afield, as it tended to do when not restrained, like an unbridled millipede. One might have thought that the magic folk would rule the planet of Charm, but in fact the nonChroma folk did. That was partly by established protocol, which assigned the duties of planetary governance to them; no Chroma person could hold a position of global responsibility other than at the specific behest of the King, who was always nonChroma. Also partly expedience, for only nonChroma folk could travel widely without being at a disadvantage. Their home colors were always the same—the “natural” non-magical hues, rather than the monoChroma shades around the volcanoes. Their ground was always solid and exactly as it appeared, rather than masked by illusory imaginations. Their plants did not fight back, and their animals did not cast spells. Their weapons were always effective, rather than failing the moment the background color changed. It was simply convenient to exist in the nonChroma environment, despite its limitations. Finally, the heart of the species was nonChroma, for legend had it that mankind had come to Charm a thousand years ago in a ship that sailed between planets, and all aboard it were nonChroma. Chroma folk were fragmenting, becoming increasingly magical, perhaps turning into animals or plants or demons; only nonChroma folk were reliably human. Isolated Chroma communities could become awkwardly inbred and suffer ill health unless constantly refreshed by divergent blood from outside; that was the reason for the rule of fourths, each woman required to bear one child of four by a man other than her husband. Women were encouraged to conceive their fourths by men as far removed from their husbands as was feasible, which meant seeking men of other Chroma or nonChroma. This had the effect, on the planetary scale, of unifying the species. It made sense. Those who did not care to mate with foreign men were free to adopt; there was a considerable trade in adoptive babies, and no baby failed to find a family.
Now the Silver side merged into Red, with a thin path winding between them. There was surely a nonChroma village at its end, where the natural curvature of the Chroma left a wider space between them. Each volcano tended to cast its color in a circular pattern, modified by the prevailing winds, which were in turn governed by the planetary patterning of mountains, lakes, plains, and forests. So one Chroma zone would be pear shaped, another wedge shaped; few were perfectly round. Most were roughly elliptical, and some had odd projections. The lay of Chroma constantly changed, as the seasons altered the winds and waterflows, so the Cartography Guild was constantly busy remapping the planet. But since there was always a boundary, however it might move, the paths between Chroma were seldom dead ends, and almost always got the traveler somewhere. So Throe wasn't concerned about getting lost, apart from the millipede's awareness of its home turf.
With one exception: brigands tended to congregate on the between-Chroma paths, knowing that travelers could not safely deviate from them. That was why rich caravans had guards, and solitary travelers were wary. The brigands typically struck and fled before any King's men could take them out. Throe did not like them at all.
The Blue Chroma curved away, leaving a patch of natural terrain on the right. Then the next Chroma appeared, Black. That was the eerie one, the Void, that sucked inward instead of blowing outward. It was really no more dangerous than any other Chroma, and its magic fringe was similar, but Throe shared the general awe of it. The idea that its cone might choose to erupt implosively just as he passed near made him nervous.
"Inertia: gallop.” That was the fastest gait, and not one the millipede could maintain indefinitely; it required too much energy. She moved into it, her odd feet striking the ground almost in unison, her even feet following, so it was a virtual two beat gait, but not in the trotting pattern. The velocity was four times the walking pace, and exhilarating to experience.
Soon the Black Chroma passed, and gave way to Translucent, the Water Chroma. No two Chroma of the same type seemed to be identical, though they were certainly similar. This one was a broad lake whose water lapped the edge of the path. Throe suppressed his real thoughts, hiding them in the guarded spot in his mind that he had learned from Havoc, concealing his ability to read minds. For the specialty of Translucent was mind reading, and even the fish could do it; secrets were hard to keep. He set up conventional thoughts of relief about being safely beyond the Black Chroma zone, hope for a resting place soon, and general interest in the forms of young women.
The millipede was laboring. “Inertia: walk,” he said, and the steed dropped down three gaits, setting into a walk. Soon she would recover enough to resume trotting or cantering, but for now slow was best.
And horsemen appeared. Brigands—right at the least convenient time. By no coincidence, of course. He had foolishly fallen into their ambush.
But Throe was no patsy for robbery. He smiled grimly as he unhooked the components of his bow from his belt and snapped them together. He was a martial artist, and he knew how to handle warriors. These brigands were unlikely to be anywhere near his level of combat proficiency. They might have a stern lesson coming.
"Inertia: trot.” It was a bit soon to resume speed, but necessary in this case; he could not afford to be a slow target. When the millipede obligingly accelerated, Throe steered her in a sinuous course, making him a trickier target. Because the brigands would be attacking him, not the millipede; the steed was valuable, and probably the reason for this attack.
The six-legged horses gained ground, approaching from the left where the Red Chroma reigned. There were four of them. Throe cautiously peeked in their minds to verify that there were no others; he wanted no ugly surprise.
An arrow flew before him: a warning shot, a signal that he should stop, lest the next one take him down.
Throe lifted his bow, nocked an arrow, and fired at the leading rider. It scored in the man's chest, and he fell off his horse. The shot had been so sudden and accurate that the brigand had been caught by surprise, taking no evasive action.
But the three remaining were not cowards; they spurred their steeds t
o a faster approach as they oriented their bows.
"Inertia: canter.” As the millipede speeded up, Throe nocked another arrow and aimed at the second rider. The man ducked down behind his horse's head—and Throe's arrow struck the man behind him, who had not realized that he was the true target until too late. These were indeed relatively amateur, and were paying for it.
The last two were now too close for the bow to be effective, and were taking evasive action. Throe drew his flexible club and caught the third man across the face. He fell back, blinded.
The last man flung himself from his horse and grabbed Throe around the shoulders, trying to sweep him off his steed and onto the ground. But Throe was already drawing his knife. He ripped it into the man's belly, angling the point up into the lungs. In a moment the man dropped away, dying.
"Inertia: walk.” For it was safe now. All four brigands were strewn along the path, dead or hurting. It would be long before any of them attacked another traveler. They had been fools to attack a martial artist, though of course they had not known he was one until too late. And that was part of the point of the exercise: to make brigands uncertain, so that they would hesitate before attacking travelers. Anyone who saw the signs of this recent struggle would know that bad men had received an ugly surprise.
Throe mopped some of the blood off his cloak. He had been in little danger, for his cloak was arrow-proof; only a lucky shot to the face would have hurt, and Throe was adept at dodging his head out of the way. The fools should never have tried to close with him after noting his proficiency with his bow. But once committed, they had known no course but onward, and so had paid the price. He had no sympathy for them.
He remembered his first encounter with Havoc. Throe had assumed he could handle any village man, but the instant he had seen the way Havoc carried himself and moved, he had been alert. The young man, half his age and healthy, was a martial artist in his own right, and gifted with rare power and coordination. Throe surely knew tricks Havoc didn't, and experience counted, but he had known it would be best to win the young man over if at all possible. He had done so, or maybe Havoc had won Throe over, and they had found mutual respect. Then Havoc had become King. In retrospect, it seemed to be the most significant decision of Throe's career, for Havoc had restored his position and indirectly brought him the woman he loved.
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