The Adversary - 4 (49 page)

"I want your word," Elizabeth insisted. "And an open mind."

The shoebutton eyes sparkled wickedly. "I could promise. I could believe it, so your redactive ream showed I told you true.

And I could change my mind. You just never know about Me!"

"Oh, yes I do," Elizabeth said.

The little man shrugged his golden shoulders. "When shall we leave for Black Crag? Tomorrow? You can tell Minanonn he'll have to carry us all. I'm not flying that far on my own steam. I haven't been well."

Across Pliocene France in the Montagne Noire, where the latest storm was still many hours away, Marc and Brother Anatoly sat on the chalet balcony under the stars, drinking up the last of the Martell cognac and discussing the theological aspects of imputability and unconscious motivation. They were deeply engrossed and Marc only excused himself once, to do a rapid farscan of Kyllikki, to be sure she was bearing well to the north of the new depression menacing the west coast of Armorica.

When he saw that the schooner was safe, following the course he had given Walter Saastamoinen, he took up once again the fascinating topic of his own damnation. It was piquant to serve as Devil's Advocate to one's self.

CHAPTER TWO

The Firvulag King and his nominal vassal Sugoll rode out unattended to the Field of Gold to await the arrival of Betularn with the treasure. The day was gloriously sunny and hot.

Side by side, the two white chalikos trotted onto the new Rainbow Bridge over the River Nonol. The former rickety suspension structure had been replaced by a fine cantilevered arch engineered by the Lowlife adoptees of Nionel. The bridge was coloured like its namesake, topped with ornate bronze railings and lamp standards, and wide enough to accommodate twenty chalikos abreast.

"Magnificent structure," Sharn commented heartily. The Lord of the Howlers accepted the praise with his usual equanimity, bowing his handsome, bald-pated head. Sugoll wore a flowing silver-tissue caftan over an illusory body that may or may not have been humanoid. Sharn was dressed in kidskin riding breeches of Lincoln green, jackboots with bejewelled high heels and spurs, and a balloon-sleeved shirt of fawn-coloured georgette, open to the navel to show off the regal chest-pelt and ventilate the regal armpits.

When the two rulers reached the centre of the span, they paused to pay tribute to the view. Behind them was Nionel, a vision of El Dorado in the shimmering heat. Below rolled the broad river, its right bank bordered by gargantuan ash trees and spicy thickets of cinnamon, sour-orange, and willow. Ahead of them lay the flowering steppe where the Grand Tourney would be held, with its grandstands and fair buildings and other structures now almost completely refurbished by the industrious goblin emigres. The Field itself was a brilliant green, powdered with buttercups.

"I'm surprised to see the place looking so verdant," Sharn said, "since the countryside hereabouts has escaped the storms plagueing more southerly regions."

"The woodlands are indeed overdry," Sugoll said. "But we have taken pains to conjure a sprinkle every third night so that the Tourney grounds will be kept in good condition for the festivities. By game time the entire flat will be blanketed with sun-daisies, and golden rockroses will adorn the marge and the campgrounds back among the tall trees."

"Conjure a sprinkle-?" Sharn was clearly nonplussed. "You mean, make it rain?"

The mutant nodded innocently. "It's a small matter to herd together suitable clouds if all the people put their minds to it under proper leadership. Or haven't you found it so?"

"Uh," said Sharn.

"We would be remiss hosts indeed if a parched Field were all we could offer for this first Grand Tourney."

Sharn was trying to suppress his astonishment. "Cousin, do your people then make it their frequent custom to mesh minds?

To act in what the Lowlives would call metaconcert?"

Sugoll considered. "I don't suppose we do it any more frequently than other folks. It does take organizing, after all.

We do weather modification when it's necessary, and certain large construction projects like the bridge and the polishing of the city domes when we first moved in ... and back in Meadow Mountain, there was a certain amount of blasting. But that never involved more than fifty or so of the folk at once, and they didn't require my direction."

"When you direct their minds-do they accept your leadership without question?"

Sugoll was puzzled. "Most certainly. Don't your people?"

Sharn sighed gustily. "Cousin, we must speak of this later, at some length. In your long isolation from the mainstream of our Firvulag race, you have suffered certain deprivations. But the merciful Goddess has also blessed you with an extraordinary recompense!"

"Well," said Sugoll modestly, "she did make us rich."

Sharn ground his teeth. "That, too. But I was really speaking of your facility for mental teamwork. I must confess that my nonmutant subjects have only recently begun to forsake their independent bloody-mindedness in favour of cooperative effort."

"You're fighters," Sugoll said bluntly. "We're not. We've had to cooperate in order to survive."

Sharn spoke eagerly. "And now I invite you to cooperate with the rest of us ... in the most noble enterprise in the history of the Many-Coloured Land! This inspection trip of mine was only an excuse to come and tell you about it, to enlist you and your people in the great venture!" With a sudden dramatic gesture, he pointed up the river. "Look there! Here comes Betularn, as I promised, and you'll never in a million years guess what he's bringing-courtesy of the Shining Jackanapes of Goriah!"

The Howler lord smiled in a noncommittal fashion. "While we await the hero's arrival, perhaps you would care to take a closer look at some of our renovations."

Together they rode off the bridge and along a broad, yellowsanded way to the enormous twin grandstands of carved limestone. These had nearly fallen to ruin during the forty years of disuse. Now mutant workers were everywhere, tuckpointing and painting and redecorating. The structures were freshly decked out in many shades of green, with honey-coloured pillars and balustrades. Later there would be straw-filled amber cushions for the spectators, and green-and-yellow striped awnings shading the stands. The central royal enclosures had green serpentine columns, staircases painted a vivid gamboge that led down to stages at the sidelines, and quaintly peaked roofs with golden tiles and effigy-topped spires. The crest adorning the Firvulag loge combined King Sharn's crystal scorpion with Queen Ayfa's horned moon. The Tanu spire bore a gilt representation of Aiken's impudent finger.

Reminiscence mellowed the Firvulag monarch. "I'd forgotten how nice and sturdy the structures were on our Field of Gold.

Much more impressive than the flimsy pavilions the Tanu used to set up on the White Silver Plain-and a hell of a lot cooler, too. You've done a spiffing job of renovation, Cousin. What're those barricade things down around the award-presentation stages?"

Sugoll explained some of the more novel games that would be featured at the Tourney, and the safety precautions that the new spirit of good-fellowship called for.

Sharn grinned, showing lustrous pointed teeth. "We'll get in a few licks against the Foe just the same. The jousting and steeplechase events have great possibilities for mayhem. And the hurling, of course. Imagine the Foe resurrecting that old romp! My father told me of hurley being played on Duat, and with enemy heads."

"The Tanu call it shinty," Sugoll said. "We'll use a large white ball with black spots as a substitute for the skull." He glanced toward the river. "The great hero Betularn is about to arrive. Shall we meet him?"

They rode down to the water's edge, where bleachers for the boat races were still under construction. At the docks were eighteen large inflatable craft, jammed to the gunwales with armoured regulars and crated cargo. White Hand, caparisoned in full obsidian harness and carrying a purple-leather box nearly as long as he was tall, leaped from the lead boat and strode up to Sharn. He dropped to one knee before the mounted Firvulag King, proffering the great case. His visor was open and tears streamed from his pouched eyes.

"Your Appalling Highness!" Betularn croaked. "Sovereign Lord of the Heights and Depths, Monarch of the Infernal Infinite, Father of All Firvulag, and Undoubted Co-Ruler of the Known World-into your hands I commend our Sword."

Sharn vaulted from the saddle, seized the purple container, and ripped off the lid. The huge diamond-bright weapon flashed in the sunshine. The studs on its hilt were gems of several colours. Its cable was neatly coiled, and the powerpack showed full charge.

"Goddess!" cried Sharn. "At last!" He lifted the photon weapon reverently. Betularn and all of the Firvulag still on the boats stood at attention, mailed fists against their hearts. Sugoll slowly dismounted, reassumed his natural appearance, and squatted in enigmatic abomination as the nonmutants raised the Firvulag Song.

When its last deep-noted echo had died away across the river, Sharn said, "Gird me."

Betularn buckled on the jewelled harness and slung the powerpack at the King's waist. Sharn's face wore an expression of exultation. "Bid your troops to take their ease, White Hand, and come walk with me and our mutant cousin." He thrust the Sword into its belt loop and strolled off along the yellow pathway leading to the grandstands. The torrid breeze of the expanse of grassland had a redolence of spiced tea.

Betularn cast a disapproving eye on the Lord of the Howlers.

"Your long absence from our Firvulag Court has atrophied your piety, Cousin Sugoll. One hopes your allegiance has not suffered a similar decline."

"I am ever the Goddess's good servant," the Great Abomination rumbled, "and a faithful vassal to the High King."

"Now, White Hand," Sharn said amiably, "let's not have any sniping on this historic occasion."

"I'm only zealous in defence of your honour," the old warrior growled, "and you know my heart is loyal to you until earth be torn asunder, and high heaven, and Nightfall follows upon the cleansing flame!"

Somewhere out in the Field of Gold a meadowlark trilled. The Firvulag King, the veteran general, and the Prince of Monsters stepped off the blazing sandy path onto green coolness strewn with buttercups.

"So it is true," Sugoll said.

"Yes," Sharn said. He clasped his hands behind his back and watched his boots flatten the little yellow flowers as they walked.

"But you must not be dismayed by Betularn's overliteral interpretation of the racial myth."

"I do not understand," said the Abomination.

"Neither do I!" White Hand's voice was rough with shock.

"Is it to be the war that ends the world, or not?"

Sharn held up a soothing hand, smiling as he kept his eyes on the ground, then let his fingers rest on the control studs of the Sword. "Let me explain to you both, as I'll explain to all the Little People. Ayfa and I have done a careful study of the sacred traditions since coming to the Throne. The signs and portents and the business about the Adversary, and all the rest of it. Our researchers have convinced us that the Nightfall War doesn't have to be a conflict of mutual annihilation at all. The traditions can be given a more positive interpretation, with the rebirth of a new and more glorious world following the destruction of the old order-and a single race victorious over all. Us, of course."

"What do you youngsters know of the old Way?" Betularn cried. "Your idea is a travesty! Your Atrocious Great-GreatGrandsire who fell immortal at the Ship's Grave must be puking before the Seat of the Goddess to hear such blasphemy. Nightfall is the end, everyone knows that. The end of everything!"

"It isn't," Sharn insisted, "for, whatever we do here, Duat survives and all her daughter worlds-and would have done, had Firvulag and Tanu fought to Nightfall at Void's Edge."

"Heresy!" spluttered Betularn. "No, it's worse!

Casuistry!"

Sugoll said, "You maintain, Royal Cousin, that Nightfall's taking place in the Many-Coloured Land would initiate the New Heaven and New Earth of our traditions here-in space and time-rather than on the higher plane of reality?"

"Precisely," said Sharn. "And we Firvulag as precursors of the whole glorious affair! The Foe are in a fatally weak position, diminished in numbers and strength. Their ruler is an alien usurper who pads his puny battle-company with homesick fellow Lowlives who can hardly wait to skip back through the timegate to their drab future world! We're stronger than ever before, with a stock of high-technology weapons in addition to our new metapsychic fighting tactics. And now we have the Sword."

He paused, drew the great glass blade from his belt, and held it aloft with both hands. He said softly, "Night falls for the Foe, but for us it will be a new dawn."

He thumbed the lowest stud, the power-setting for ritual combat, and blasted the golden digitus impudicus emblem atop the Tanu royal enclosure to a puff of glowing plasma.

"Goddess!" cried Betularn. His face mirrored the turmoil taking place in his mind. "I was willing to put an end to it, to bow to the omens. But now ... Sharn-Mes, laddie, you've got this old soldier snorled to a fare-thee-well. I just don't know what to make of this."

"Trust me," urged Sharn. He turned to Sugoll. "And how about you, Cousin Howler? Are you confused, too?"

"I think not."

Sharn winked. "Reserving judgment, though. Is that it?"

The terrible crested head made a slight gesture of affirmation.

Sharn flipped the caplock from the upper power-settings of the Sword. "May I recall to both your minds that our sacred weapon is a many-splendoured thing. The Golden Asaleny's got himself a fleet of aircraft, which he thinks gives him an upper hand in the arms race. But our Sword was designed not only for rituals, but also for defence when we were getting our asses harried from planet to planet back in the old galaxy."

A flock of pied swans winged westward from the river, and Sharn, lips thinned in a foreboding smile, took fresh aim. "Shall we see what effect the highest power-setting will produce? Yes, let's!"