Changeling (Illustrated) (15 page)

“Where did you find it? How do you control it? Is it true about your being related to the House of Rondoval? You said you were a traveler—”

“Too much. Too long to tell you now.”

“ . . . .Because, if you are of Rondoval—as they said—then that probably
is
one of Det’s dragons.”

“He’s mine now. But I won’t lie to you. I didn’t before, either. I just didn’t know then. Yes, I’m related to that House. I’d like to help you, though. Will you show me where this guy lives? I want to talk with him.”

She studied his face. He met her eyes. Abruptly, she nodded.

“You’re right. He means harm. Perhaps we can reason with him. How do we mount?”

“Let me introduce you first . . . ”

As the ground dropped away beneath them, Pol leaned past Nora and told Mouseglove, “There’s going to be a little detour on the way to Dibna. I want to visit the person who controls these things.”

Mouseglove nodded.

“You postponing your revenge, too?” he asked.

Pol reddened.

“Revenge?” Nora inquired. “What does he mean?”

“Later,” Pol snapped. “Tell me about forbidden places.”

“They are areas containing leftover things from the old days when people still used that sort of equipment.”

“They are supposed to be haunted,” she added.

“I’ve heard similar stories,” Mouseglove put in. “Seen some artifacts too, in my line of work. The day you were taken away, I heard Mor speak of some sort of balance. Our world went the way that it did, the one he was taking you to went the other way. The two ways seem basically incompatible, and attempts to combine them are dangerous. I got the impression Det might have been doing something along those lines.”

“So Mark could be a greater menace than is immediately obvious?”

“It seems that way.”

Pol shaded his eyes and stared ahead, locating the tiny dot the bird-thing had become.

“We seem to be headed in the same direction.”

“What revenge?” Nora said.

“I’m not sure. Let it go, huh?” He glowered at the small thief, who smiled back at him. “An intention is less than a deed,” he said, “less even than an attempt.” His gaze grew unfocussed. He seemed to pluck at something in the air. “You’re a fine one to preach,” he added, long moments later, as the smaller man clutched suddenly at his chest, “when you’ve got my figurines inside your shirt.”

Mouseglove blanched, then fell into a spell of coughing “I’ll deal with you later,” Pol said. “I doubt you’ll be running off in the meantime. Right now, though, I think I’m beginning to see what Mor meant about a menace when he was bringing me here.”

“I can explain—” Mouseglove began.

“Old Mor is the one who brought you to our land?” Nora said.

“Yes.”

“That is very interesting. For he is the one I told about Mark when it happened. He seemed ill at the time, though.”

Pol nodded.

“He wasn’t well.”

The character of the land began to shift beneath them. The forest grew thinner. A large river which had followed roughly parallel to their course in the west narrowed, finally passed beneath them and vanished into the southeast. Exposed areas of land were lighter in color now, shading over toward yellow.

The dark speck that was the surveillance flier disappeared from Pol’s sight far ahead. It was not until afternoon that they encountered more of them. They first saw several wheeling at a great height for ahead. They dipped lower and moved in their direction, half a dozen of them.

Pol felt a sudden tension in Moonbird’s neck and it seemed that the dragon began to grow warmer.

More to smash . . . 

Wait,
Pol instructed.
They don’t seem to be attacking. I think he has sent us an escort.

Smash escort.

Not so long as they keep their distance.

 . . . Some time later.

Wait.

They continued on until the shape of Anvil Mountain appeared low on the horizon in the afternoon light. Their escort had maintained a regular flight about them for hours, unvarying. As they drew nearer, they saw that more of the birds patrolled the skies above the flat-topped height. Below, the land had assumed a bleaker aspect—yellow, streaked with red, dotted with gray and russet outcrops of stone; jagged cracks ran in dry, unpatterned profusion, as on a dropped, earthenware pot; small, scrubby bushes, wind-twisted, clung to the slopes of hills.

The mountain stood larger now, and they could make out a skyline atop it—white, green, gray, a reflecting backdrop to many movements. Pol looked about as they drew closer and he felt Moonbird stiffen, then change his course slightly to conform with the movements of the dark fliers.

Go
where they take us, for they are surely taking us to him,
he ordered.

Moonbird did not reply, but altered course several times as they neared the city on the rock, rising and swinging to the west, beginning a gradual approach to the great flat-roofed building near the center of the complex. Peering downward, Pol saw a tall, red-haired man standing upon a terrace outside what appeared to be a penthouse dwelling. A flying machine of unusual design rested upon a gridded landing area behind the structure. A number of man-sized machines of unknown function moved about in the vicinity.

“More magic,” Mouseglove muttered.

“No,” said Pol. “Not at all.”

He felt Nora’s hand upon his arm then, gripping it.

“You know this guy pretty well, don’t you?” he asked her.

“Know him? I’ve been in love with him for years,” she replied. “But I’m afraid of him, too, now. He’s changed a lot.”

“Well, we seem to have a landing clearance. Let’s go and talk with him. If you want him to stop bothering you, tell him so and I’ll back you up. If you don’t, now’s your chance to straighten things out.”

Down, Moonbird. Land in the clear area.

They descended into a much smoother landing than the previous one. His ears rang faintly as the winds finally ceased whistling about them. He climbed down and assisted Nora to descend. He heard her gasp.

“His eye! It
was
injured!”

Pol turned. The man in the khaki jumpsuit with numerous bulging pockets was now approaching, a peculiar device which covered his left eye changing color as he left the shade, becoming a bright, then deep blue. A vivid scar passed down his forehead above it, emerged on his cheek below it. Pol stepped forward to meet him.

“I’m Pol Detson,” he said. “Nora wants to talk to you. So do I.”

Mark halted at a distance of about two meters and studied him. Finally, he nodded curtly.

“I’m Mark Marakson.” He immediately turned to look at Moonbird. “I’ve never seen a dragon before . . . Gods, he’s big!”

He returned his attention to Pol, not even glancing at Nora.

“Detson . . . Magician?”

“I suppose so.”

“I don’t understand magic.”

“I’m still working at it myself.”

Mark gestured suddenly, a sweeping motion of his left arm, apparently intended to take in the entire city.

“This I understand,” he said.

“Me, too. There’s a lot of it where I come from.”

Mark rubbed the scar on his cheek.

“What do you mean? Where is that?” he asked.

“We are step-brothers,” Pol replied. “Your parents raised me, in a land much like this place you have restored. Excuse me if I stare, but you do bear Dad a very strong resemblance.”

Mark turned away, paced several steps, returned.

“You’re joking,” he said at last.

“No. Really. For most of my life, I bore the name you were given as a child.”

“Which is?”

“Dan Chain.”

“Dan Chain,” Mark repeated. “I rather like that . . . But how could this be? I did learn only recently that I’d been adopted, but this—Too much coincidence! I can’t believe it.”

“Well, it’s true, and it’s not entirely coincidence. In fact—Wait a minute . . . ”

Pol dug in his hip pocket, withdrew his wallet. He opened it and flipped through the card case.

“Here,” he said, stepping forward, extending it. “These are pictures of Mother and Dad.”

Mark reached toward him, accepted the wallet, stared.

“These aren’t drawn!” he said. ‘”There’s a very sophisticated technology involved!”

“Photography’s been around for awhile,” Pol replied.

The lens brightened as Mark stared.

“Their names?” he asked.

“Michael Chain—and Gloria.”

“I—Yes, I see myself in these faces. May I—Have you others?”

“Yes. I have some more further down. You can take those. Just slide them out. Yes, like that.”

Mark passed the wallet back.

“What sort of work does he do?”

This time Pol made a sweeping gesture.

“He builds things. Designs them, rather. Much on the order of what you’ve apparently been doing here.”

“I would like to meet him.”

“I believe he’d like you. But I was thinking—as I acquired certain recent skills of my own—on the means by which I was brought to this world. It would take more research and some experimenting, but I believe I could learn to duplicate Mor’s stunt in transporting me. It’s occurred to me that a guy like you might not be happy here—especially after the story I heard—and I wondered whether you might be interested in going to the place from which I came. You might like it a lot better there.”

Mark finally looked up from the photos and inserted them into a small thigh pocket. He stared at Nora as if seeing her for the first time.

“She told you what they did to me, to my—stepfather?”

Pol nodded.

“You have my sympathy. I received very similar treatment myself, for different reasons.”

“Then you must understand how I feel.” He looked again at Moonbird. “Do you have plans for them?”

“At first, I did. But now, no. I can almost understand, almost forgive. That’s close enough. The longer I let it go, the less it should bother me. Let them go their ways, I’ll go mine.”

Mark struck his right fist against his left palm and turned away.

“It is not that easy,” he said, pacing again. “For you—a stranger—perhaps. But I lived there, grew up there, knew everyone. I took them a gift. It was rejected under the worst circumstances. Now—Now I’m going to force it upon them.”

“You will cause a lot of pain. Not just for them. For yourself, too.”

“So be it,” Mark said. “They’ve made their own terms.”

“I think I could send you home—a place you’d probably like—instead.”

For a moment, Mark looked at him almost wistfully. Then, “No. Maybe afterwards,” he said. “Now it’s no longer the gift, but its acceptance. In a matter of weeks, I’ll be ready to move. Later . . . We’ll see.”

“You ought to take some time to think it over.”

“I’ve had more than enough time. I’ve done plenty of thinking while recovering from our last encounter.”

“If I could send you back for just a little while—and you rethought it in a different place—you might get a whole new perspective, decide that it isn’t really worth doing. . . . ”

Mark took a step nearer, lowered his head. His new eye hummed and the lens shone gold.

“You seem awfully eager to be rid of me,” he said slowly. Then he turned and looked again at Nora. “Might she be the reason?”

“No,” Pol said. “She’s known you for years, me for only a few days. There is nothing between us.”

“A situation you would probably like to remedy in my absence.”

“That’s your idea, not mine. I’d like to keep you from making a mistake I almost made. But she can talk for herself.”

Mark turned toward her.

“Do you want to get rid of me, also?” he asked.

“Stay,” she told him. “But leave the village alone. Please.”

“After what they did?”

“They showed you their feelings. They were too harsh, but you’d scared them.”

“You’re on their side!”

“I was the one who warned you.”

“ . . . And his side!” He gestured at Pol, lens flashing. “Magic! Dragons! He represents everything archaic and reactionary! He stands in the way of progress! And you prefer him to me!”

“I never said that!”

She took a step forward, beginning to reach toward him. He turned away. He waved his right fist in Pol’s face.

“I could kill you with one hand. I was a blacksmith.”

“Don’t try it,” Pol said. “I was a boxer.”

Mark looked up. Moonbird looked down at him.

“You think that ancient beast makes you invincible? I, too, have servants.”

He raised his left hand, peeled back the sleeve. A large control bracelet, covering half his forearm, gleamed in the space between them. His fingers danced upon the studs. The man-sized machines all turned in their direction and began to advance.

Pol raised his right hand. His loose sleeve fell back. The dragonmark moved visibly upon his pulse.

“It is not too late,” Pol said, “to stop what I think I see coming.”

“It is too late,” Mark replied.

One by one, the machines faltered and grew still, some emitting static and strange noises, others ceasing all movement abruptly, without sound. Mark ran his fingers over his controls once again, but nothing responded.