The Adversary - 4 (44 page)

Tony said coolly: Any hour now. This bunch is about as efficient as you Lowlives.

Burke said: Touche bubi. But you don't have anything to worry about you know. I made sure Aiken Drum would treat you right before I even agreed to bring you into Roniah. Not that I could tell the rest of my people that.

Tony said: I hope you held out for more than a string of wampum and a return ticket to Utopia Limited in exchange for me.Burke said: We also got this powerboat plus all the weaponry we could carry. Now we're on our way to Nionel where the rest of our Hidden Springs folks have gone to escape Firvulag raiders.

Tony said: Nionel?

Burke said: Not many Lowlives left in the Vosges. Or anywhere else in the Firvulag stamping grounds. Nionel is about our only alternative to joining up with Aiken Drum ... until the time-gate reopens.

Tony said: Well ta-ta and don't bother to write.

Burke said: No hard feelings?

Tony said: Number 10 on Moh's Scale will suffice.

Burke said: Nasty nasty. And I was trying to be Kemosabe.

Tony said: Burke ... my wife's in Nionel. I left her. I was an ass. I'll try to contact her but if anything happens will you tell her I'll try to come back somehow? This is what she looks like. [Image.] Her name is Rowane.

Burke said: I'll tell her. She looks like a sweetminded little lady. Shalom bubi. Keep out of trouble for a change.

Tony didn't bother to answer. He sat with his head down and the world blotted out, sequestered in the golden solitude of his torc. Two more hours passed. Lord Neyal's minions, having finally finished the loading, were now obliged to hunt out the riverboat crews among the taverns and knocking shops of the waterfront. The guard on the pier was assiduously maintained.

Tony was roused from his reverie when something sharp jabbed him in the breastbone. He opened his eyes with an indignant squawk and saw a heavy-set man dressed in outlaw rags at the other end of an iron-tipped lance.

"Keep your trap shut, Lowlife," said a harsh whisper. "If you move or farspeak, I'll skewer you like a broiled lark."

Some kind of rude boarding ladder had been hooked over the stern. The ruffian climbed up and was immediately followed by a dozen or so comrades. Two had Matsu carbines and the rest carried iron weapons.

"How many people on this tub?" enquired the leading rascal.

"I didn't see anyone but the knight guarding the gangplank,"

Tony replied. The spear shifted to his Adam's apple and began to prick. "For God's sake believe me! I'm only a bloody passenger. A prisoner!" He held up the glass chains. "Most of the soldiers were out on the dock when I came aboard. That was hours ago."

"Search the boat," ordered the spearman.

There were soft splashes out among the other moored vessels.

The moon was not yet up and the Rhone, swathed in mist, was nearly pitch-black just a few metres off the sternrail. Sounds of music and jollity arose from the region beyond the cordon, and Roniah's faerie lights were all turned on, spangling the buildings with amber and blue. It seemed likely that the city was prematurely celebrating the Truce, and the departure of the convoy had been postponed in spite of royal orders to the contrary.

Most of the boarding party had gone off to investigate the inner reaches of Tony's boat. "You're making a big mistake, you know," he hissed urgently. "You Lowlives don't have to steal from the Tanu cities any more. There's an amnesty. I suppose you're after weapons."

"Smart little nipper, isn't he, Pingol?" observed a hulking villain armed with a zapper.

"Too damn smart." The iron lance drew a gentle semicircle from one of Tony's ears to the other, snicking his golden torc en route. "On the other hand, his metapsychic powers are pretty pitiful, as any fool can plainly see, and he's a fucking coward to boot. So why is he wearing gold? To say nothing of the Goddess's holy fetters?"

The tall Matsu carrier leaned forward, face nearly concealed by a great mop of greasy dark hair. The outlaw's breath made Tony reel. "What's your name, squeak-poop?"

"I'm Lord Velkonn!"

The lance tip hovered in front of Tony's left eyeball and the spearman spoke in tones of silken menace. "Your human name."

The words tumbled from Tony's lips. "Tony Wayland. But you shouldn't be doing this, I tell you! Chief Burke got a load of arms in exchange for me. He's off to take them to your people in Nionel. If you carry out this raid, the King might be so pissed that he cancels your amnesty! As for me, they'll never get the Guderian device built without my help, and if you harm me, your Lowlife mates who want to return to the Milieu will have your sweetbreads on toast!"

The tall invader drew back and exclaimed, "Tony Wayland?"

"Te in a tapdance, what're you all shat up over?" the spearman growled to his companion. "Let's snuff this bloodless turnip and-"

One of the outlaws who had gone forward came dashing to report. "Captain Pingol! Captain Fouletot! Great tidings. There was but a lone Tanu knight guarding the vessel within, and she succumbed to our blood-metal. The other vessels at this pier seem to be similarly neglected, although there are numerous greys patrolling the esplanade. Shall I signal the other boarding parties?"

"Deliver the command in person," said the spearman. "No farspeech, lest the Foe overhear." His features now shone with a foxfire luminosity and there was something curiously insubstantial about his form.

Tony took a shuddering breath. "You aren't Lowlives!"

The pair chuckled in malevolent unison.

The dwarfish bearer of good news added gleefully. "We opened a crate in the cargo compartment. Praise be to Te, it was as our spies foretold! The crate was full of Milieu weapons!"

"Advise the Lord Betularn White Hand at once," said the spearman. He and his compeer were changing before Tony's horrified eyes, throwing off their Lowlife disguise and resuming their natural shapes. One was a gnome and the other a female ogre. Both wore the obsidian mail of officers in the battlecompany of King Sharn and Queen Ayfa.

"And also tell Betularn that we have in our power the infamous Tony Wayland," said the ogress Fouletot, "the same who murdered the Dreadful Skathe, my valiant kinswoman, and the hero Karbree the Worm,"

The messenger saluted and clambered back over the stern, to disappear in darkness.

"What are you going to do with me?" Tony asked faintly.

"Trade you to King Aiken-Lugonn for our sacred Sword,"

Pingol replied with a leer. "Eventually."

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Happy Nameday! Happy Nameday! Slitsal to young Smudger!"

The great hall in High Vrazel rocked with applause as the seven-year-old eldest son of the Firvulag royal couple was led onto the dais by his Sponsor-Brother, the hero Medor. To mark his promotion from the estate of infant to that of youth, the child was outfitted in a miniature suit of glittering jet armour, adorned with green crystalline spikes and knobs. His helmet was crested with an emerald wart-biter with wings aggressively spread. He peeped from the open visor rather apprehensively as the tumult died down and the mob strained forward in anticipation of his First Manifestation.

"Doesn't he look wonderful?" Ayfa whispered to her husband, wiping away a tear. They were concealed behind a stalagmite so that the sight of them in their regal paraphernalia would not increase the child's nervousness. "Our firstborn! And what a marvellous present for all of us on his Nameday ... "

"Hush," said the King. "Medor's beginning."

"Battle-companions, stalwart youths, and infants!" declaimed the hero. "We gather here tonight to celebrate the passage by ordeal of one of our number from the state of noncombatant dependency into the ranks of Warrior Youth! Here he takes his first step along our sacred Way-the path to glory commanded by our Goddess of Battles from time immemorial. As all fighting candidates do, he will find the Way an arduous one. He will spend his young strength in mind-bending study and martialarts training. He will serve his elders with a humble and loyal heart. He will carry out the commands of his Sponsor-Brother even to laying down his life ... so that in Te's good time he may himself be admitted to the Battle-Company of the Firvulag Nation!"

The crowd howled the ritual query: "Who is he? Who is he?"

Medor's towering black form and the lad's small one stood with hands linked. "I knew him from his cradle days-as I knew his father and his father's father before him. We have seen him at play with his brothers and sisters in the coverts and byways of High Vrazel. Of late, we have welcomed him to feasts and ceremonies. Some of us have been his teachers and ordeal coaches. Others have admonished him when infantile high spirits temporarily distracted him from his duties."

The other children in the hall giggled. The adults clamoured: "Who is he?"

"For six years we have called him by his baby name, Smudger.

But tonight he sets that aside forever, along with the other insignia of infant dependency, and takes on his one, true name."

Medor stepped behind the boy and placed his hands on the small shoulders. "With confidence and love, I call him: SharnAdor! Stand forth and manifest!"

"Here it comes," Ayfa whispered tremulously. "O Goddess, don't let him muff it."

Medor drew back, leaving the armoured boy alone at the front of the platform. Sharn-Ador lifted his hands high and began to shine with a pulsating green light. His body lost its humanoid form and shape-shifted into the aspect of a translucent emerald locust with rainbow-tinted wings and fierce, clashing mandibles. He grew until he was quite as tall as the ogre behind him.

The crowd roared: "Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal! Slitsal! And then they fell silent as the psychoamplified voice of the boy echoed through the cave.

"I stand before you as a youth. And to thank you for your acclaim, I have the honour to announce a great triumph of our Battle-Company! The hero Betularn of the White Hand and his deputies, Fouletot Blackbreast, Pingol the Horripilant, and Monolokee the Scunnersome have won a signal victory in the Foe's city of Roniah!"

The audience gasped, then broke into a bedlam of shouts and cheers. The illusory grasshopper bounded exuberantly up and down, up and down, barely dodging the captive banners and gilded skulls that dripped from the multicoloured rock formations of the cavern roofs. "We beat 'em! We beat 'em!" the shape-shifted lad chirped. Then he settled back onto the dais, recouped his dignity, and announced: "Not one hour ago, our warriors attacked a superior force of bloodthirsty Tanu knights and destroyed them utterly! And loot-! I mean, the spoils of victory included a whacking big collection of crazy future weapons!" Joyous bellows greeted this, but the child persisted: "Wait, wait, that's not all! We also put the snatch on that turdling butcher Tony Wayland! Right this minute, Fouletot and Pingol are getting ready to zorch off the brute's arms and legs and make him eat his own barbecued privities!"

Aaaaah! exulted the vengeful minds of the mob.

The child reassumed his own natural form and bowed modestly. "And I don't mind saying, I don't think anyone ever had such a terrific Nameday as me."

"Slitsal, Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal!"

"My baby!" cried Ayfa, going all misty-eyed.

But the King had gripped her arm suddenly. "Great Goddess!" he barked. "Look there!"

The plaudits of the crowd gave way to expressions of stupefaction. Young Sharn-Ador stood transfixed with dismay, staring toward the unoccupied twin thrones at the rear of the dais, before which a patch of scintillating golden fog now coalesced.

In the midst of it stood a small figure in a suit all covered with pockets. A jewelled baldric and powerpack harness was fastened about his shoulders and waist, and he had a great diamond-bladed Sword in one hand. With the other he beckoned to the paralysed child.

"I've got one more present for you, kid."

Sharn, Ayfa, and Medor rushed out onto the platform, weapons raised and minds roaring fury. Serrated obsidian blades smote the golden manikin-only to pass through thin air and clang upon the flags of the platform, cutting the carpet to ribbons. Aiken stood unharmed.

"Idiots," he said. "I'm a mental projection."

The two monarchs and their Great Captain fell back in confusion. The spectators were mute and motionless. Little SharnAdor piped up: "What present?"

Aiken brandished the Sword.

Oooooh, crooned the monster horde.

Aiken said, "I want Tony Wayland and you want the Sword.

We can do business-but only if Wayland is completely unharmed. You'd better farspeak your flunkies in Roniah and see to it."

King Sharn glowered, but his mind was simultaneously communicating on the intimate mode.

Queen Ayfa said, "It may be true that the murderer Tony Wayland is now in our custody. If so, we will consider turning him over to you in exchange for our sacred Sword."

"And the ten boatloads of weapons you managed to get away with," Aiken demanded, "before the patrols and Lord Neyal's stalwarts got their asses in gear and chased your gang of sneak thieves across the river."

"We know nothing about any boats or weapons," said Ayfa blandly. "We have heard that Roniah was attacked tonight by Lowlives. But the Firvulag Nation holds to the Armistice, as always."

"So that's the line you're going to take, is it?" Aiken's simulacrum twirled the heavy Sword, filling the mountain hall with dancing prismatic lights.

"That's it, Aik," Sharn said. "You want Wayland, he's yours.

You fly the Sword personally to Betularn tomorrow, the first day of the Truce. He'll meet you on the Northern Track two leagues above Roniah. He's leading a peaceful exploration party in the Hercynian Forest at the moment. That's where Wayland was captured."

"Tony told Katlinel the Darkeyed another story," Aiken said.

"Lowlives are such liars," said the Firvulag King.

Ayfa said, "We only deal on a no-questions-asked basis.

Wayland for the Sword. Take it or leave it."

"Oh, I'll take it," said the little man. "Tomorrow then.

Around sunset. And no tricks, or you'll regret it."