Mountain of Black Glass (88 page)

But they couldn't get into it—the horse was on the outside of the walls, full of angry children with claws and shadowed faces, and she and the others were on the inside, helpless, waiting. . . .

She gasped and opened her eyes. !Xabbu was leaning close, the still-unfamiliar face full of concern. “You were making bad noises,” he said. “As you dreamed, I mean. It did not sound happy.”

She looked around, reorienting herself. The ground was dewmoist. The sky overhead was still dark, but most of the campfires had burned down to coals. Above them loomed Troy's famous gate, only faintly touched by ember-light, the watchtowers on either side jutting like great square tombstones.

“It was just . . . I was dreaming about Stephen.” She shook herself. Several others at the campfire were also sleeping uneasily; T4b was one of them. “Just another dream.”

They talked quietly about nothing important for a few moments, sharing impressions of their new bodies, trying to find a tone of normality although both of them knew there was nothing normal about their situation. Runners were going from campfire to campfire, quietly alerting the soldiers. The eastern sky was beginning ever so slightly to lighten.

T4b woke up withdrawn and grim, his earlier bravado gone. Renie felt better—he would be less likely to do something youthfully stupid.

“We gonna have to, like, fight up on the walls?” he asked, surveying the high ramparts. His eyes were wide, the whites plainly visible.

“I don't think so—I think we're going out to attack the Greeks on the plain.” She frowned. “But I don't want you to fight
anybody
if you can help it. Do you hear me, Javier? Don't make that face—we've been through enough for me to call you by your real name.”

He shrugged.

She turned to include !Xabbu. “We can be killed out there. We're not code, like these men. Our job is to stay alive. Don't get caught up in all this glory-and-honor foolishness—it's like a netflick. It's not real. Do you understand me?”

!Xabbu smiled at her, but it was a small one. T4b hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Are you . . . clenched?” he asked quietly. “Like, scared?”

“Damn right.” Renie could hear the runner exhorting the men at the next campfire, hear the soldiers clambering to their feet, slapping the dew from their armor and weapons. The rattle of movement and talk was growing louder. “I'm scared to
death
. Those spears and arrows are just as dangerous to us as they would be in RL. Keep behind your shields. We'll all stick together and protect each other.
Don't get separated!
”

As the messengers reached their group and summoned them to join the rest, Renie stood and put on her helmet, then picked up her heavy spear and shield.

It would have been nice to have some martial-arts training or something,
she thought sadly as they jostled with the other men toward the standing mass just inside the gates.
Instead of learning on the job.

!Xabbu reached out and squeezed her arm below the bronze shoulder guard. On her other side, his golden armor still hidden beneath his cloak, T4b's lips were moving as though he prayed.

Hector stood tall on a stone beside the gate, a living monument. His spear was three times his own height, but he waved it as easily as if it were a bamboo fishing pole.

“Trojans, Dardanians, all our allies, now is the time!” he shouted. “Let us sweep down on the Greeks. Let us take fire to their black ships. Let us avenge every one of our cities sacked, every one of our wives and daughters taken to bed in slavery. Let every man face death with courage, so that the gods themselves weep at the bravery of Troy!”

As the quiet noises of the massed soldiers rose to an animal roar, the rising edge of the sun notched the eastern hills and within an instant became a burning, spreading gash of fierce light.

The Skaian Gate heaved open, its mighty hinges shrieking like birds of prey, and the army of Troy surged out onto the plain.

“You have taken the east from me, you have taken the west from me, you have taken what is before me and what is behind me; you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me, and my fear is great you have taken God from me.”

—
The Irish Girl's Lament,
collected by W. B. Yeats

W
HEN Fredericks came back, Orlando was struggling to sit upright on his bed of branches. The sun had vanished, and the light from the brazier of coals was the only thing that illuminated the hut, forcing Orlando to bend close to the object of his scrutiny.

“What are you doing?”

“Just . . . just trying . . .” The effort had worn him out already, but he was determined. Orlando managed to secure his balance, then began the difficult process of folding his leg so he could look at his foot. “Just trying to look at my heels.”

“You mean like your
feet?
Scanning is what you do best, Gardiner, that's for true.”

“If I'm Achilles, there's supposed to be something wrong with my heel. Haven't you ever heard that expression? Don't you ever do anything when you're out of school besides hang around hoping to get invited to Palace of Shadow parties?”

“Get locked.” Fredericks was not so certain as she sounded. “What do you mean, wrong with your heel?”

“That's how Achilles got killed—it's in all the old stories. I don't know how, I just know that's what happened.”

“Then put some shoes on. Quit that.” Fredericks did not want to talk about Orlando getting killed, that was clear. “We have to do something, Orlando. All these people keep coming over begging you to fight the Trojans.”

“I'm not going to, so they can beg all they want.” The effort to examine the backs of his feet had tired him without revealing any telltale weakness. He groaned and let himself slump back into a horizontal position, head pounding. “I can't do it. I just can't. I don't have the energy. That stupid Egyptian temple almost finished me off.”

“We'll get out of here,” Fredericks said a little desperately. “Then you'll be okay.”

Orlando did not bother to point out what they both knew. “No, we have to stay, at least until we see if Renie and the others are coming here.”

“They must be. That woman in the Freezer said so.”

“No, she said we'd find what we were seeking here, or something like that—she never promised our friends would show up. You've done enough of these prophecy things in the Middle Country, Frederico—they sound like they mean one thing, but then turn out to be something else. They're tricky.”

“I just want to get going. I want to find a way out of here.” Fredericks lowered her head, the new, handsome Patroclus body contrasting oddly with the slumped, sullen posture. “I want to see my mom and dad again.”

“I know.” Orlando could not let the silence go on too long—there were a few things he didn't want to think about either. “Did you find anything while you were out? Any sign of Bonnie Mae or the kids?”

Fredericks sighed. “No. At least, nobody was talking about them. Seems like if a bunch of yellow monkeys were flying around, someone would notice.”

“Unless they changed, too. Like we did.”

“Yeah.” Fredericks made a face. “So what are we supposed to do, ask everyone we meet, ‘By the way, did you used to be a monkey?' We have to do everything here the hard way! It's worse than being back in the real world.”

“You didn't see if they followed you when we came through from the temple?”

“I didn't see anything, Gardiner! There were bats, and . . . and monsters, and that guy Mandy just said, ‘Into the gateway!' So I pushed you in and went with you.”

“Nandi. His name was Nandi.”

“Whatever it was, I didn't get a chance to see what they were doing.”

Orlando could not help worrying about the Wicked Tribe, left in the crumbling Egyptian simworld to face a raging Osiris. They were just kids, after all, just micros. “We should never have let them out of that pot,” he said gloomily.

“That was too far scanny.” Fredericks frowned. “Were they just waiting there the whole time? While we were in that cartoon place, and the bug place, and everything? Just sitting in a jar like they were peanut butter?”

“I don't know.” Orlando yawned despite himself. Napping all day had not made him any less tired. It was one thing to decide he was saving his energy for some coming crisis, but where would that energy come from? He didn't feel strong enough at the moment to carry a kitten across the room. “Somebody's messing around with this network. Everybody has adventures in a simworld—that's what
happens
in simworlds. But to have somebody show up in the Freezer, then
bang,
she's an Egyptian goddess in a whole different simulation? And she's telling us where to go, helping us? I can't figure it out.” He shook his head wearily. “Any of it. Is someone really trying to communicate . . . ?”

He was distracted by a noise from outside, the sound of voices raised in protest or argument. It did not sound too serious—most likely one of the frequent arguments that broke out over dice games among Achilles' bored, nervous troops—but Orlando's Thargor reflexes sent his hand searching weakly for his sword, which was still leaning against the armor-stand on the other side of the hut.

“The soldiers, whatever they're called, the Mermadoos or whatever . . .”

“Myrmidons,” Orlando said. Getting up for the sword was too much effort; he let his hand drop. “Don't you ever listen to the turtle?”

“Too many names. I can't keep track. Every time that thing opens its mouth, it's ‘And that is Bonkulus, son of Gronkulus, hero of the Kissmybuttians' . . .”

Orlando smiled. “Myrmidons. They're our soldiers, Frederico. You better remember their name—you might need them to save your life someday soon.”

“They want to fight the Trojans. Every time I go out there, they ask me if you're going to put on your mighty armor and lead us against the Trojans. It's not just King Agawhozit—
everybody
around here utterly wants you to fight.”

Orlando shrugged and nestled deeper in the bed. “I can barely sit up yet. I'm not going to get us both killed just to impress a bunch of virtual spear-jockeys.”

The voices outside were still raised, but the anger had turned into some kind of loud discussion. Fredericks listened for a moment, then turned back to Orlando. “But I think they wonder how come we're in here all the time, the two of us. They probably think we're soft boys or something.”

Catching him by surprise, it took a moment for the laugh to work its way up from Orlando's belly to his mouth, but when it finally exploded out of him, it was so loud that Fredericks jumped up from her seat on the floor, startled. “What? What's so funny?”

Orlando waved at him weakly, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. If Fredericks could not see the humor of a girl in a man's body worrying about whether a bunch of imaginary people thought they were queer . . .

Someone knocked at the door. Fredericks turned to look at it helplessly, uncertain whether or not Orlando's attack, which had now weakened to a hiccuping froth of giggles, was evidence of some graver problem.

Orlando caught his breath. “Come . . . come in.”

The door swung open to reveal one of the bearded Myrmidons scowling with embarrassment. “It is the King of Ithaca, Lord,” he said to Orlando. “We told him to go away, but he demands to speak with you.”