“But once the Adepts achieve power, will their guarantees be honored?” Stile asked grimly.
“Translucent’s will.”
“But how long will he retain power, once the others see no further need for his leadership?”
“That is not our business,” Mach said, frowning.
“But it is mine. We all know the nature of the leadership I represent; none know the nature of the leadership that will emerge from the Adverse Adepts once their present constraints are gone, but it will surely be inimical to Phaze.”
“My word binds me,” Mach said tightly. “I would not use my power directly against you, and do not use it for the Adepts, but to the extent they can profit from my contact with Bane, they are entitled. I think it is fair to say that this profit is significant.”
“It is overwhelming,” Stile admitted. “If I can not stop it soon, I will lose hope of ever doing so.”
“I have no comment.”
Of course he didn’t. He knew that what he was doing was shifting the balance to favor the Adverse Adepts in Phaze, and the Contrary Citizens in Proton, but he was bound by his word. Surely he hoped that Stile would somehow prevail, but doubted that this was possible. Thus had events mocked their preferences. “Why did you seek me?” Stile asked.
“It is personal. In three days Flach will visit you for a week, as he has been doing every month. We are concerned about him, and hope you can help.”
“Flach is a fine lad,” Stile said. “A joy to Neysa as much as to me, despite our foolishness in opposing his generation. He thrives as both man and unicorn, and we always look forward to his presence.”
“But we expect more of him,” Mach said. “By this time he should be developing his third form, and perhaps progressing to others, as well as learning magic. But he shows no sign of this, and has become increasingly withdrawn. Fleta fears he is retarded.”
Neysa made a musical snort of negation. “He is not retarded,” Stile said.
“But four-year-old unicorn colts generally have mastered their third forms,” Mach said. “And they are open, expressive, inquiring. Flach is not. We fear that something is bothering him, or that he is coming to recognize his inadequacy compared to the unicorns, so is withdrawing. Will you explore this?”
“I hardly need to,” Stile said. “I know the lad is advanced rather than retarded, and is developing powers we hardly anticipate. Your concern is groundless.”
Mach shook his head grimly, not wanting to contradict his elder, but certain he knew better. “Fleta and I know you will do what you can for him,” he said.
“Always,” Stile agreed gruffly. “I assure you that your son will surprise you.”
“I hope so,” Mach said. He glanced at Neysa. “Fleta asks your forgiveness.”
Neysa faced away. This had become almost routine: Fleta had alienated her dam by marrying Mach and joining the cause of the Adverse Adepts, and that remained unforgiven. Neysa well understood and respected Fleta’s reason, but felt she should not have surrendered principle for love. Neysa herself had not. Thus Neysa did not associate with Fleta any more than the barest minimum necessary to fetch Flach and return him. Fleta longed for a change, but it never came. Unicorns of the old school were unyielding.
“Then we part,” Mach said regretfully. “I shall return to Proton; Bane will be in touch.” He became the griffin, spread his wings, and launched into the air. Soon he was gone.
“I know you want to restore relations with Fleta,” Stile said as they resumed their journey. “Perhaps some day something will enable it.”
Neysa did not answer, but that was answer enough. Her nature prevented her from forgiving her offspring, but she loved Fleta, and hoped that some legitimate avenue of forgiveness would develop. Just as Stile hoped that he would somehow be able to prevail over the Adverse Adepts. Perhaps both hopes were futile—but perhaps not.
For there was much that was not spoken. All of them knew that the Adverse Adepts kept constant watch on Stile and Neysa and the Lady Blue, so as to block any action they might initiate against the Adepts. Anything spoken was overheard and analyzed. Perhaps the Adepts were foolish enough to believe that there were no unspoken plans, but Stile doubted that.
So he said nothing truly private aloud. This had become automatic these past five years. But he spoke freely of other things, so as to maintain the semblance of carelessness, and also to fatigue the snoopers with trivia. That way if something private slipped out, it just might be overlooked. After all, constant surveillance was also a constant drain on their magic.
“Mach’s power is greater than I had thought,” he said. “He cured your founder without seeming effort. I could have done it, but not nearly so readily.”
She made a musical agreement. Unicorns were resistive to incidental magic, but Adept magic was hardly incidental. The demons must have plotted for a long time to obtain and place that founder spell, and it had been devastatingly effective. Yet Mach had nullified both the demons and spell as if such magic was child’s play—which perhaps it was, now, to him. Stile was glad that the Robot Adept was not his enemy, even if he was not his ally.
They traveled north, now, not running but not dawdling. Stile had an appointment to meet Icebeard, the snow demon leader who was also a chess master. They had played several correspondence games since getting started when the demon agreed to train Mach in chess; the demon had wanted to play Stile to determine who was the ultimate chess master of Phaze. Since Stile preferred a fair game, even though Mach was on the other side, he agreed, and had played the demon, and it had been an excellent game. But it had concluded in a draw, and so had the following ones. Finally the demon had suggested that they play a “live” game, with time limits, and another, and another, until they had one that did not draw, and that would determine who was champion. Of course there were variants of chess that prohibited draws, but both of them were conservatives in this respect: for the championship they preferred the classic game. So Stile was on his way to play, though Icebeard was of the enemy camp; this was another advantage of the truce. But there was more to it than chess, as Neysa knew.
For Stile had spoken accurately when he said that his grandson (and Neysa’s) was advanced rather than retarded, and would surprise his father. Mach had dismissed that as optimism or encouragement, but it was neither. Stile had been training the lad, and soon the extent of Flach’s progress would become known. But that revelation had to be coordinated with action in the frame of Proton relating to Nepe, the child of Bane and Agape, because the moment one child’s abilities were revealed, the other would be suspect.
Flach was only four years old, and indeed he could change freely between his human and unicorn forms. But he could also assume other forms, unknown to his parents. Stile had cautioned the lad as soon as he learned to speak, and Flach had responded beautifully. His seeming slowness was a two-year act, masking his true progress. But Stile had known that this could not be concealed indefinitely; eventually the Adverse Adepts would catch on, and then they would act to eliminate the threat. The boy’s great progress had been possible without attracting the notice of the Adepts because they were not watching him; they assumed he was too young to practice great magic. That was their colossal error.
The key was this: Flach could communicate with Nepe across the frames. Just as Mach and Bane could. That meant that Stile and Citizen Blue could develop similar information to that which the enemy had from Mach and Bane. Had both been male, they might even have had the potential to exchange, for they were parallels, perhaps alternate selves. This represented a possible shift in the balance of power, turning it back to Stile’s side.
Stile had been holding off action as long as possible, so as to enable the children of both frames to mature. But there was too much at risk; the action had to be now. This was the real reason for his chess trip: it provided him the opportunity to do what he had to do, without giving his motive away.
Because he had to escape the surveillance of the
Adepts while he told Neysa what to do. A few seconds would suffice; then it would be out of his hands. He hoped he was doing the right thing.
Neysa picked up her pace, so as to arrive at the White Mountain Range at dusk. That would make direct visual observation trickier. She knew the importance of timing; everything had to be right. If they did not achieve their dialogue without suspicion, all might be lost.
As the light waned, they approached the base of the range. The snow demons spied them, of course; they were expected. They entered the track that led to the pass that opened on the demon chief’s cold caves. Stile waved, then singsonged a spell, while Neysa played a theme to help intensify the magic.
Make us warm despite the cold;
Make us private till it is told.
Immediately the chill of the mountain dissipated; the snow remained, yet they felt warm. But it was the second part of the spell that counted more: the privacy. This was masked by the larger spell the demon chief had arranged to prevent any information being exchanged magically while the chess match was in progress; he wanted to be sure that nothing but the two great minds was operating. There was a certain vagueness at the fringe of the region, because the boundary of the demon’s spell could not be precise. Stile had researched this well. Thus his own spell of privacy should not be detected, and the spying Adepts should not realize that they were being excluded. They would assume that Stile and Neysa were passing through a region of interference, that would clarify as they reached the center and the demon’s spell took full hold. He could have made his privacy spell back at the Blue Demesnes, but that would have attracted the notice of the spying Adepts, and they would have doubled their watch, making Neysa’s action impossible.
“Neysa,” Stile said now. “It is time. Fetch Flach, take him on the circuit of allies, and take no note when he leaves you. Bring the golem to me.”
She made a querying note.
“He will ask you,” Stile replied. “Signal yes, then cooperate with anything he asks. His life will be at stake. He will be afraid; support him. This is the crisis.”
She blew an affirmative note. Stile said no more. The spell of privacy depended on his intent as much as on his invocation; now it dissipated. The music summoned his magic; the intent interpreted it; the words defined it, approximately. Another person might sing as he did, and speak similar words, and wish the same effect, but would not be able to achieve the same result because only the Adepts had the necessary underlying talent. Any person could do some magic, but most could perform only poorly unless gifted with the talent and willing to train carefully. Some tried, but the established Adepts were quick to detect such effort and to act against it; they did not desire competition. So successful Adepts were few; usually the only new ones were those protected by existing Adepts. Thus Stile’s son Bane had been training to assume the status of Blue Adept, and the Tan Adept’s twin offspring had trained to become the Tan Adept. Sometimes an Adept died without a successor; then there could be a certain free-for-all, unless some accommodation was achieved with the other Adepts. As a general rule, those who became Adept were not nice people; rather, they were the most talented and unscrupulous. That was why the majority of them opposed Stile; they preferred to operate without ethical hindrance. Only Red, who owed his position to Stile, and Brown, in her time somewhat smitten by him, were on his side.
But now they were coming up to the pass, and the snow demons were waiting. They were about to suffer the hospitality of Icebeard.
Stile had been to these mountains before, a generation ago, but had encountered a different chieftain: Freezetooth, who had had a passion for a lovely fire spirit whose proximity would have melted him. Stile had enchanted the snow demon to make him invulnerable to fire, and a heated romance had followed. Relations with that tribe had been amicable for twenty years, until the communication between Mach and Bane had polarized the Adepts and tribes of Phaze and forced new alignments. It was possible that Icebeard remembered that, and that the chess challenge was his way of maintaining relations despite their status as enemies. There were as many tribes of demon folk as there were human folk, and demons differed as much from each other as did human beings, and were subject to similar constraints.
Neysa had not been along on that trip. Instead Stile had ridden her brother Clip, now a Herd Stallion. Neysa was not partial to any demons, no matter what their heat or color, and was hard put to avoid an impolite snort as the white creatures closed in. This was however no attack, but an honorary escort. Icebeard wanted very much to play chess with Stile, and would do nothing to interfere with that.
They were ushered into the palatial ice caverns that were the demon’s throne room. Icebeard tried to maintain his chill reserve, but could not. He jumped down and approached Stile with an attitude that in any other creature would have been positive, but with him was merely less threatening. “Now we play!” he exclaimed. “Thou and I alone!”
“Aye,” Stile agreed. Then he glanced at Neysa. “The mare liketh not these Demesnes; if thou willst grant her safe passage out, she will depart and return for me when the issue be settled.”
Icebeard looked at Neysa. “Be this not Fleta’s dam?”
Neysa made an affirmative note.
“And she play not chess? Fleta be a better player than Mach; comes she oft here to challenge my minions.”
Stile had not realized this. But of course Fleta had come with Mach when he trained here, so had had opportunity to pick it up if she wanted to. Of course there was no reason a unicorn could not play chess if she wished, but Stile had not heard of it happening before. “Interesting,” he remarked.
“Methinks the filly be a better gamescreature than Mach overall,” the demon confided. “My affinity to unicorns be not great, but that one dost have charm.”
Neysa stood awkwardly. Naturally she was pleased to hear her offspring praised, but she was not speaking to Fleta, as perhaps Icebeard knew. Demons had ways of teasing. Stile did not comment.
“She it was, methinks, made him what he be,” the demon concluded. “A filly worthy o’ any male, like her dam.”
Neysa did not react visibly, but the snow around her was beginning to melt. At last the demon had mercy, and directed his minions to escort her out and to keep lookout for her safe return perhaps a week hence.
It occurred to Stile that he could get to like Icebeard. As Neysa departed, they walked to the chessboard with its pieces crafted from ice. He did not care to admit it, but he had looked forward to this game as much as had the demon, because Icebeard was indeed the best other player in Phaze.
And, with luck, the Adverse Adepts would relax, believing that Stile could not make any initiative against them while locked in a chess game in the cold White Mountains. He was counting on that. Chess was not the only game he was playing at the moment.
“Let’s get on with it, pretender,” Stile said. “I expect to wipe the floor with thy king before the hour be out.”
Icebeard swelled up like an advancing glacier. “Thou dost call me pretender? Thy king shall be meltwater, and thy queen ravished ere mine be threatened!”
Stile smiled grimly. They both knew this was going to be great fun.
Chapter 2
Mach
Mach felt the disorientation of the exchange. It was both physical and emotional: physical because he moved from a living to a machine body, and emotional because the frame of Phaze was so different, with its magic and his unicorn wife and son. He hated to return to Proton, though his existence here was hardly a negative one. It was merely a less feeling one.
Then things firmed, and he looked around. He was standing in Bane’s apartment in Hardom, and before him was Bane’s wife, Agape, and Bane’s daughter, Nepe. Mach spent as much time in Proton as in Phaze, alternating months, but each time he saw Nepe she seemed to have grown another notch. She was in human form, a four-year-old child, and rather pretty. Of course she derived from alien stock, and could assume any living form she chose, with sufficient
application and practice, so could be just as pretty as she was able to imagine.
Mach smiled, a trifle grimly. “The exchange has been made; I will leave you now.”
“Of course,” Agape said. She was pretty too, possessing the same ability as her daughter. It was always a bit of a jolt to encounter her naked, after a month of life in Phaze, where human nakedness was often a signal of sexual readiness. In Proton, of course, all serf’s were naked. He normally adapted to the situation in minutes, just as he did to the change to a body that was a machine. He had existed many years in this body before discovering what life was like; he could endure it for another month. Bane, after all, was suffering the same readjustment, returning to his home frame, separated from the woman and child he loved. Agape, three syllables, with the accent on the first; Nepe, two syllables, accent on the first. His computer brain always clicked through such details as he oriented on his other self’s family.
He turned to the door panel, and extended one hand. The panel irised open, showing the hall beyond.
“Uncle Mach!”
Mach paused. “Yes, Nepe.”
“Can I go with you?”
Agape was startled. “Nepe, he is going to report to the Tan Adept, whom we don’t like. You would not be welcome there.”
“I don’t give a—what’s a bad word?—about the Tan Adept!” the child said stoutly. “I want to see.”
“Pollution,” Mach said.
“Beg pardon?” Agape said.
“The bad word.”
Nepe considered. “No, plution’s too legitmet. Maybe one about excement.”
“Nepe!” Agape exclaimed.
Mach smiled. “I am a robot. I have no need of a bad word for excrement.”
“Don’t patonize me!” Nepe exclaimed furiously.
“Horse manure,” Mach said contritely.
Nepe smiled victoriously. “I don’t give horse manure for the Tan Adept!”
Unicorn Point Page 2