Juxtaposition (22 page)

But Hinblue was hurt. She got to her feet, but she was bruised and lame. She could only hobble, not run. The ogres were closing in again.

Clip assumed man-form. “Lady, ride me! The mare can not carry thee.”

“Oh, no!” Stile breathed. “I know what she will say.”

“And desert my horse, offspring of the Hinny and the Blue Stallion?” the Lady Blue demanded. “Never!”

“She said it,” Stile said, suffering.

“Then must we guard her,” Clip said. He became unicorn again, and stood facing the four onrushing brutes.
 
They were no longer astride the curtain. The Lady could not use it to save herself—and in any event would not have left her horse. She drew a narrow, sharp knife and stood beside Clip, ready to fight.

The monsters came—but slowed. They had seen the fate of the first one to encounter the unicorn’s horn. Still, they were four against two, and towered over their opposition.
 
A hole opened in the ground. An ugly head poked out, swathed in bandages. For an instant Stile thought yet an other monster had joined the attack. But then he realized it was Trool the troll, the one who had helped them escape the Orange Demesnes. “Here!” the troll croaked.
 
The Lady recognized him. She was evidently uncertain of the creature’s motive. Her Adept husband was no longer with her, and trolls liked human flesh.
 
“Escape,” Trool said, indicating his tunnel. He was offering a route out of the trap.

“I thank thee, Trool,” the Lady said. “But my steed fits not in thy tunnel.”

The troll opened out another section of turf, and an other. There was a shallow cave there. “This crisis was anticipated,” he said, his voice becoming clearer, as if a long-disused faculty was being revived. “I labored to prepare.”

The ogres were now very close. The Lady decided to risk the help of the troll. Without further protest, she led Hinblue into the cave, then stood at the entrance with her knife poised.

The ogres, outraged at this seeming escape, charged into the gully. But Clip charged too. His deadly horn punctured another ogre, this time from the side. The monster fell, squirting its brown juice, and again the others hesitated. There were only three of them now, and they evidently did not like dying. If any two had pounced on Clip together, they could have torn the unicorn apart—but they evidently lacked the wit or courage to do that. They also seemed nervous about Trool, who was a monster some what like themselves, though only half as stout. Why was he participating?

“That is Neysa’s brother, sir?” Sheen asked. The fact that she was now using “sir” warned him that she was not sure they had complete privacy.

“Yes. He’s one good unicorn.”

“And ogres eat people?”

“Yes. Trolls eat people, too, and horses. But Trool can be trusted—I think.”

Finally the ogres consulted, and came to the conclusion Stile had feared. Two of them stalked Clip together, while the third faced Trool, preventing the troll from interfering.
 
Stile realized an ogre should have been able to demolish a troll on open ground, but not within a troll’s tunnels, so this was merely interference rather than combat. The Lady Blue had to stay with the horse she guarded. Clip had to fight alone.

The unicorn could have changed into hawk-form and flown away, but he did not. He charged again. His horn skewered the left ogre—but the right one brought a ham fist down on the unicorn’s rump. Clip’s hindsection collapsed under the power of that blow. He was helpless, down on the ground, his hindlegs possibly crippled, his horn still wedged in the left ogre’s torso.
 
Now the Lady Blue leaped forward, knife flashing. She sliced into the heavy arm of the right-hand ogre. Ichor welled out of a long slash, and the creature made a howl of pain.

Now the two remaining monsters retreated, one holding its wounded arm. Clip changed back into hawk-form, extricating himself, and the Lady held out her arm for him to perch on. He seemed shaken, limping, but not seriously hurt. Stile breathed a sigh of relief. The two returned to the impromptu cave.

For a time the ogres stayed back. Stile relaxed some what. The longer they waited, the better his chance to get to Phaze and correct the situation before any more harm was done. The capsule was proceeding with what seemed to him to be tedious slowness, but he knew Sheen was doing her best.

He decided he should divert his mind, as long as he could not act. “Place that call to the Citizen,” he said curtly. “But don’t interfere with this image.”

“Yes, sir.” Sheen placed the call.

In a moment the face of a well-fed, middle-aged male Citizen appeared beside the image of the West Pole region.
 
There were no serf or robot intermediaries this time.

“Yes?” he inquired, peering at Stile.

“Kalder, I am Stile,” Stile said briskly. He was rapidly shedding his apprehension about Citizens. “I am not sure you know me—“

“I don’t,” Kalder agreed brusquely.

“But about two months ago you gifted me with a humanoid robot. I was then a serf.”

Kalder’s face wrinkled in perplexity. “I did?”

“This robot,” Stile said, indicating Sheen.
 
Still there was no recognition in the man’s face. Was this a misidentification?

“Let me check my records,” Kalder said.

In a moment the Citizen looked up. “I have it now. My staff handled it, without informing me. It was a routine protective measure.”

“Routine measure?” Stile asked. “This is a five-gram robot! Why would you give her to a serf employed by another Citizen?”

Kalder’s brow furrowed again. “That is peculiar. But I’m sure my chief of staff had reason. Let me see—yes, here it is. We received news that the chief horse trainer and jockey of a rival stable was to be assassinated, and the blame attached to me. I have one of the finest stables on Proton.” He said this matter-of-factly, and Stile believed him. Citizens did not need to brag, and in his racing days he had come up against the entries of a number of excel lent stables. He was probably familiar with Kalder’s horses, if he cared to do the spot research necessary to align the Citizen’s name with that of his stable.

“Since that would have been an unpleasant complication, my chief of staff arranged to protect you anonymously. After all, it might have been a practical joke, leading to my embarrassment. Why take a chance?”

“You protected me—to save yourself from being framed or embarrassed,” Stile said slowly. “No other reason?”

“None. I had no concern for you personally. I was not even aware of the matter until you called it to my attention just now. I leave such details to my staff.” That was some staff! But of course Stile had already discovered the caliber of staff a Citizen could afford.

“How did your chief of staff know about this plot?”

Kalder checked his records again. “Anonymous message. That’s why it could have been a joke. Was it?”

“It was not,” Stile said. “Your robot saved my life on more than one occasion. Now I will marry her.”

Kalder burst out laughing. “If her screws aren’t loose, yours are! Be sure to invite me to the wedding! I’ll gift you with a mail diaper for your cyborg offspring.” He faded out.

A cyborg was a combination of flesh and machine, such as a robot with a grafted human brain, neither fish nor fowl. They generally did not last long. This was a cruel gibe, but Kalder was not a bad type, as Citizens went. The mystery remained. Who had sent the anonymous message to Kalder’s staff?

“The same party who sicked the Red Adept on you, perhaps,” Sheen said, following his thought.
 
“And who may be fouling me up with changed Oracle pronouncements,” Stile agreed. “Now more of the pattern emerges. It could all stem from a single source. That is my true enemy.”

“Why would an enemy arrange to have you protected?”

“Why, indeed!”

“My circuitry is inadequate to solve that problem,” she said, smiling briefly.

“And mine. Put your friends on that message to Kalder; see if they can trace its source.”

“Yes, sir.” She made a coded call.

Now something new was happening in Phaze. The scene had been still while the Lady Blue put her hands on Clip and healed his bruises and restored his confidence. The ogres had stayed back. But Clip’s ears—he was back in natural form—were perking forward, and he blew a brief, startled note.

“I see nothing,” the Lady said. “What is it?” Clip did not answer. His nostrils twitched. Obviously he heard and smelled something. Now, very faintly. Stile heard it too: the tinkling of little bells. Why did that seem familiar?

Then the source came into sight. It was another unicorn. This one was female, and lovely. Her coat was a deep red, almost purple, and shone with sleek health. Her mane rippled iridescently. As she approached, she changed to an elegant blue heron, then to a cat, and finally back to equine form. Her bell rang again, sweetly.
 
Clip’s ears vibrated with amazement. He blew a querying note on his horn. The mare responded with a truly melodious tinkling of bells.

“What does she say?” the Lady Blue asked nervously.
 
Clip changed to man-form. “She says she was thrown out by her herd. She is all alone in the wilderness.”

“She seems familiar.”

“She and her brother danced at the Unolympics. They defeated Neysa and me for the prize.”

“Now I remember! What a pretty ‘corn she is!”

“Aye,” Clip agreed wistfully.

“But why would her herd cast her out, after she brought them the prize?”

“She refused to be bred by her Herd Stallion, who is getting old and violent, so he exiled her. Now she is with out a herd.”

“Can’t she join another?”

“Nay, the Herd Stallions interfere not in each other’s herds. She is ostracized.”

“The way Neysa was! That’s terrible!”

“Neysa was merely excluded for a time. Belle can never go back.”

The pretty mare tinkled her bell again.

“She asks if I will go with her,” Clip said.
 

“It’s a trap,” Stile said. “Don’t trust her.” But the holo pickup was too far from the present setting for them to hear him unless he shouted; transmission was largely one way now. He did not want to shout and have the ogres know his situation.

“How is it she shows up here now?” the Lady inquired, evidently having a similar suspicion.

But Clip, enchanted, changed back to equine form. As a lesser male, he was not permitted the chance to breed.
 
This was obviously a phenomenal temptation.
 
The marc nickered and rang a lovely melody on her bell horn. Clip quivered with eagerness.

“I don’t trust this at all!” Stile said. “Clip has defended my Lady Blue against the monsters. Suddenly the loveliest mare unicorn in all the herds appears, luring him away.”

“All males are fools in this manner,” Sheen remarked.
 

“Clip, go not to her!” the Lady Blue pleaded. “At least wait until my Lord returns. It will not be long now.” But Clip had lost control of himself. Evidently the mare was in heat; he had to go to her. He fought the lure, but step by step he went.

The Lady Blue had to remain in the cave, guarding herself and Hinblue. She was not so foolish as to venture where the ogres could pounce.

Now at last the capsule approached the curtain. But the capsule was below ground, under desert; Stile could not step through at this level. “Get me to the surface, anywhere by the curtain!” he snapped, in a fever of impatience to reach the West Pole.

Sheen located a bus stop. Stile got out and hurried up the stairs to the surface. “Keep things in order until my return,” he called back.

“Don’t get yourself killed, sir,” she said.
 
Stile didn’t answer. He held his breath and burst out on to the desert, running for the curtain. As he came upon its shimmer, he willed himself across—and found himself running on the green plain of Phaze.

Immediately he stopped, formulating a suitable spell in his mind while he played his harmonica to summon his power. Then he sang: “Convey me whole to the West Pole.”

The spell wrenched him from here to there, making him nauseous. It was never comfortable to work his magic on himself, and he avoided it except in emergencies. Feeling ill, he looked out from the West Pole.

There was no sign of Clip the unicorn. Stile sang a flight spell he had in reserve, rose into the air, and zoomed toward the ravine and cave where the Lady Blue waited.
 
The two ogres were there. As Stile approached, one of them picked up the troll one-handed and hurled him high and away. Apparently Trool had left the security of his tunnels and so fallen into the power of the more massive monsters.

“Please—freeze,” Stile sang, willing the interpretation of the spell. But though there was a faint effort of magic, the action did not stop.

Then he remembered that he had already used this spell to freeze the sea monster of the Translucent Demesnes.
 
No wonder it had lost its potency. “All will be still,” he sang.

This time the tableau froze as intended. The two ogres became statues, along with their injured companion, who was licking his arm a short distance away. The troll hung motionless in the air. The very wind stopped—but Stile himself continued.