Changeling (Illustrated) (17 page)

Suddenly, he recognized one of the scenes on the wall. The peripheral screens held strangely accented aerial views of countryscape, not unlike some over which he had passed earlier on dragonback. But the central one, toward which the two men were leaning, showed, in much sharper detail, the library at Rondoval, where he had spent so many hours. It was as if he were peering in through the end windows. There was Pol at the desk, candles flickering near at hand, a number of books opened before him. Nora was dozing on the couch.

Abruptly, he realized that the larger of the two men viewing the screen was Mark Marakson. He fought an impulse to flee. Both men seemed too involved with the display to be exceptionally wary. So, checking about him periodically, Mouseglove continued to stare. The men’s attitudes, the surreptitious quality of the enterprise, both convinced him he must be witnessing something important.

Time slipped by, with Pol occasionally muttering something about the points of a triangle. Once or twice, this drew a sleepy reply from Nora.

An hour, perhaps longer, passed before Pol spoke again. He was smiling as he looked up.

“A pyramid, a great labyrinth and the Itzan well,” he said, “in that order. That’s the Triangle of Int. Nora?”

“Mm?”

“Can you find them for me in the big atlas?”

“Bring it here.” She raised herself upright and rubbed her eyes. “I’ve never been anyplace far, but I always liked geography. What were they, again?”

Pol was rising, a book in his hands, when the view was suddenly blocked by a movement of Mark’s.

Mark half-rose to scrawl something on a writing sheet, which he folded and inserted into one of his pockets. Pol’s and Nora’s voices had resumed, partly muffled now. Mark leaned forward, moving his face close to the screen.

“I’ve got you,” he said softly. “Whatever the weapon you seek to use against me, you shall not have it. Not when I have three chances—”

His voice broke. He raised a hand as if to cover his eyes, forgetting for a moment the red lens that he wore.

“Damn!”

He turned away and Mouseglove ducked quickly, but not before he had glimpsed the screen and what might have been an embrace.

*  *  *

Moonbird drowsed, riding a thermal to a great height, then dropping into a long glide. When he lowered the night-membrane over his eyes, he saw another thermal, like a wavering red tower, ahead and to his left. Unconsciously, he shrugged himself in that direction. He’d a full belly now, and it was pleasant just to drift home, watching the dreams form in the other chamber of his mind.

He saw himself bearing the young master and the lady across a great desert, heading toward a mountain that was not a mountain. Yes, he had passed that way once before, long ago. He remembered it as very dry. He saw a gleaming bird pass and lay an egg which bloomed into a terrible flower. This, he felt, he should remember.

He glided into the next thermal and rose again. It was good to be out of the cavern once more. And he saw that they would be leaving for the dry place tomorrow. That was good, too. Perhaps he would sleep in the courtyard, where he could show them the carrier and the saddle come morning. They would be up early, and they would be needing them . . . 

Near to the tower’s top, he spread his wings and commenced a long glide. Somewhere in his dreams, the one with the strange eye moved, but he was difficult to follow.

*  *  *

The sun was already high when Pol finished packing the gear. Again, Nora’s argument that she would be in greater danger alone than with him prevailed. He packed two light blades, along with the food, extra clothing, blankets . . . No armor. He did not want to push Moonbird to the limits of endurance, or even to slow him with more than the barest of essentials. Besides, he had learned to fence in a different school.

How did he know?
he wondered, hauling the parcels out to the carrier the great beast had located for him.

Crossing the courtyard, he placed his hands upon Moonbird’s neck.

How do you know what is needed?

I
—
know. Now. Up high. Look!

The massive head turned. Pol followed the direction of its gaze.

He saw the small, blue-bellied, gray-backed thing upon the sill overhead. It was turned as if watching them. A portion of its front end caught the sunlight and cast it down toward them.

What is it?

Something I do not know. See how it watches?

It must be something of his. I wonder how much of my plans it has learned?

Shall I upchuck firestuff upon it?

No. Pretend that it is not there. Do not look at it.

He turned and crossed to the castle, entering there. He had come upon a description of an effect in one of his father’s volumes and had been meaning to try it when he had the time.

He hurried up the stair, to halt outside the library where Nora sat sketching some final maps. Peering in, he saw that she wore a pale tunic, short gray breeches, a metal belt and sturdy boots she had located in one of the upstairs wardrobes. Her hair was bound back by a black strap.

She looked up as Pol entered.

“I am not entirely finished,” she said. “There’s another page.”

“Go ahead.”

She completed a drawing she had been making, took up another writing sheet, turned a page, began another map. She glanced up at Pol and smiled. He nodded.

“Soon,” she said.

She worked for several minutes. Finally, she sighed, closed the book and took up the papers.

“Would you step outside for just a moment, please?”

“Your voice sounds strange.”

“Yes. I talked too much. Please.”

She crossed to the door. He waited beside it. His face was expressionless. She paused.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No. Go out.”

His lips, now that she looked closely, did not seem to move in proper time with his words. She passed through the doorway and halted. In the corridor, Pol stood off to the right, fingers to his lips.

“How?”

“This way,” he whispered, taking her hand.

She followed him.

“It is a simulacrum spun of magical strands, my likeness laid upon it. I don’t know how long it will last. Maybe all day, maybe only a little while.” He began gesturing, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Something took shape between his hands, a faint glow to it. “This one is yours,” he said. “It will go back in there and keep mine company, to distract the spy device, while we depart. He’s been watching us. I want as good a lead as possible.” 

Later, Nora seemed to stroll back into the room, taking the hand of Pol, who still stood beside the door. They crossed slowly to a pair of chairs and sat facing one another.

“Lovely weather.”

“Yes.”

Periodically, one of them would rise and walk about the room. There were a number of things they would do, together and apart, taking perhaps an hour before the sequence began again.

The prototype blue-bellied, gray-backed tracer-bird followed their every step, hung upon their words. It did not turn away at the noises below, or as Moonbird rose above the flagstones, drifted over the far wall, pivoted on the point of a breeze, bore east and vanished.

*  *  *

As the night progressed, Mouseglove had slowly come to feel as if he were a prisoner. Despite several near-disasters, he had remained undetected, gradually enlarging his mental map of the area and developing an awareness of the city’s peculiar defenses. But he could find no way off of Anvil Mountain. The perimeters of the plateau were extremely well-patrolled, both by the small men and the half-mechanical caterpillars, as well as being subject to the scrutiny of fixed mechanical eyes and those of the circling birds. It seemed that not even an insect could pass undetected.

Picking lock after lock, he had finally located stores of foodstuffs and transferred what he judged a sufficient quantity to his hiding place. He memorized every niche, every unfrequented passage he came upon. With a thief s eye, he studied the various fixed detection devices from a distance and finally close up, coming to appreciate their functions and some of their weaknesses.

It was only by chance—chance, and Mark’s immediate decision to bolster his combat forces above the level he had formerly felt adequate—that Mouseglove happened upon a newly formed ground school for the preliminary training of pilots for a series of manned fliers on which production had been stepped up.

Lying flat on the roof, blocked from overhead detection by an angled air duct, he could hear the words and view the training machine through a grating he had exposed by removing a small panel.

He listened to the entire lecture. When it was over, he had convinced himself. If he could audit just a few more sessions, he would be willing to steal a flier by night and take his chances in the air. Short of finding a hidden tunnel through the rock itself, it seemed the only way to manage an escape.

Feeling a grudging respect for the red-haired man who had brought this city back to life, he returned to his quarters to rest until evening when he intended spying upon the surveillance center once again and later breaking into the classroom to study the trainer’s controls at closer range.

Following a full meal, he slept deeply; one hand upon his dagger, a stolen grenade he knew was some sort of weapon beneath the other.

*  *  *

Statue-like, an old female and two young stallions stood on a crag in the midst of a stand of dwarf pines, regarding Castle Rondoval.

“There is nothing out of the ordinary,” she said.

“I saw lights last night, Stel, and I heard noises. Bitalph, in the south, did report a dragon.”

“The place is probably haunted,” she said. “Enough has gone on there.”

“And what of the dragon?” asked the younger stallion.

“If one has come awake, it will be dealt with—eventually—by those it most oppresses. It could also be a foreign beast.”

“Then we should do nothing?”

“Let us watch here, a day and a night. We can take turns. I’ve no desire to enter the place.”

“Nor I.”

It was much later in the day that they saw the dragon rise and drift eastward.

“There!”

“Yes.”

“What do we do now?”

“Alert the others. It may never return. But then, again, it may.”

“It appeared that there were two riders.”

“I know.”

“You were there on the day of the battle, Stel. Was that one of the old dragons of Kondoval?”

“All dragons look alike to me. But the riders . . . One of them looked like Devil Det himself, younger and stronger than I ever saw him.”

“Woe!”

“Alas!”

“Go and spread the word among the folk. And we had best talk with the men of the villages, and with old Mor.”

“Mor is gone, A Wise One—Grane—said that he walked the golden road and will not return.”

“Then things are becoming difficult. Go! I will investigate farther.”

“You would enter the castle yourself?”

“Go! Do as I say! Now!”

The youths obeyed her. They knew the look in her eye, and they still feared her hoofs.

*  *  *

During his evening explorations, Mouseglove was attracted by a series of screams emerging from a small, barred window. Approaching, he ventured one quick glance through the opening, then ducked into a pool of shadow to digest what he had seen and, if possible, to eavesdrop.

The first impression had shaken him. But upon reflection, he wondered whether the small man in the reclining chair had indeed been covered with snakes. The black things did seem overlong to qualify forserpenthood, and their farther ends did all appear to be attached to the large metal box nearby. Also, their movements could have been a result of the man’s own thrashings. Mark had stood nearby with a small metal case in his hand, turning something on the face of the unit.

He listened to the shrieks a little longer, wondering for what offense the man might be undergoing discipline. Wondering, too, whether anything was to be gained by remaining, or by venturing another look.

There was silence. He waited, but the cries did not resume. He decided to remain. There came faint sounds of movement from within.

Finally, he could bear it no longer. He rose for another glimpse.

Mark, facing away from the window, was detaching what now appeared to be a series of shiny black ropes from the suppine form, coiling them and placing them in compartments within the large box. The smaller man’s eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. When the last of the leads were removed, he stirred weakly. Mark passed him a glass of something pink and he drank from it.

“How do you feel?” the large man asked.

“Shaky,” the other replied, flexing his arms, his legs. “But everything’s all right again.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No. Not really.”

“You screamed a lot.”

“I know. Some were blue, but most were red.”

“The screams?”

“Yes. And I could smell them.”

“Excellent. You were a brave man to volunteer for this, and I want to thank you.”