Changeling (Illustrated) (14 page)

“Those who stoned me had the proper mentality—and their recognition of my dragonmark says something.”

“Pol—Lord Pol—I don’t know your story—where you’ve been, what it was like, what you’ve been through, how you came back—but I’m older than you. There are many things of which I am not sure, but one that I’ve had more opportunity than most to learn. Hate will eat you up, will twist you—more so, perhaps, if there is no longer, really, a proper object upon which to vent it—”

Pol began to speak, but Mouseglove raised his hand.

“Please. Let me finish. It’s not just a sermon on good behavior. You’re young and I got the impression on the way up here that you had just come into your powers. I’ve a feeling that this may be a pivotal point in your life. Looking back on my own, I see that there were a number of such occasions. Everyone seems to have a few. It looks to me as if you have not yet given thought to the path you intend to follow. Old Mor seemed, basically, a white magician. Your father had a reputation as one of the other sort. I know that things are never really black or white, pure and simple, but after a time one can usually judge from a preponderance of evidence in which direction a great power has led a person, if you see what I mean. If you start looking for revenge after all these years, at this time in your life—using your newfound powers to do it—I’ve a feeling you may in some ways be twisted by the enterprise, so that everything you touch later on will somehow bear its mark. I tell you this not only because I fear turning another Det loose upon the land, but because you are young and because it will probably hurt you, too.”

Pol was silent for a time. Then he struck a chord.

“My father had a staff, a wand, a rod,” he said. “You mentioned earlier that Mor broke it into three parts. Tell me again what he said he was going to do with it.”

Mouseglove sighed.

“He spoke of something called—I believe—the Magical Triangle of Int. He was going to banish each segment to one point of it.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“No. Do you?”

Pol shook his head.

“Never heard of it.”

“What do you think of my assessment of your position?”

Pol took a sip of wine.

“I hate them,” he said, as he replaced the glass. “Perhaps my father was an evil man—a black magician. I do not know. But I cannot learn of his death by violence and be unmoved. No. I still hate them. They responded like animals in their ignorance. They treated me badly when I meant them no harm. And I recently heard the story of another man, who meant them well and perhaps went about things incorrectly, but who suffered greatly at their hands. It is not so easy to forgive.”

“Pol—Lord Pol. They were afraid. You represented something they must have had good cause to fear if its memory lingered this long, this strongly. As for the other man, who knows? Could there have been some similarity?”

Pol nodded.

“Yes. I understand that he tried to force something new upon them—new, yet like something which had been rejected long ago. I suppose you are right. Have you more to tell me?”

“Not really. I would like to hear your story, though. It seems only a few days since I saw you as a babe.”

Pol smiled for the first time in a long while. He refilled their glasses.

“Very well. I would like to tell someone . . . ”

Daylight was trickling into the room when Pol opened his eyes. He had slept on the sofa. Mouseglove was curled up on the floor.

He rose and soundlessly made his way downstairs, where he washed and changed his garments. He headed for the pantry to load a breakfast tray. Mouseglove was up by the time he returned, grooming himself, eyeing the food.

As they ate, Mouseglove asked him, “What are your plans now?”

“A little vengeance, I think,” Pol replied.

“I was afraid of that,” said the other.

Pol shrugged.

“It’s easy for you to say, ‘Forget it.’ They didn’t try to kill you.”

“I spent time in the hands of your father’s jailers.”

“But you admit to attempted larceny here. I wasn’t doing a damned thing to them, except providing a free floor show. There is a distinction.”

“You’ve made up your mind. There is nothing more I can say—save that I would like to leave, if it is all right with you.”

“Sure. You’re not a prisoner any longer. We’ll make you up a food parcel.”

“Just these extra loaves here, and some of those other leftovers would be sufficient. I like to travel light.”

“Take them. Where are you headed?”

“Dibna.”

Pol shook his head.

“I don’t know it.”

“A port city, to the south. Here.” He turned and drew an atlas from a shelf. “There it is,” he finally said, pointing.

“Fairly far,” Pol remarked, nodding “A lot of dead country between here and there. I’ll take you, though, if you’re game.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dragonback. I’ll fly you down.”

Mouseglove paled and gnawed his lip. Then he smiled.

“Of course you jest.”

“No, I’m serious. I feel indebted for all the information you’ve given me. I can postpone burning a few fields and barns for a day or so. I’ll take you to Dibna if you’re willing to ride with me on Moonbird.”

Mouseglove began to pace.

“All right,” he finally said, turning on his heel and halting. “If you are sure he’ll permit the company of a stranger.”

“He’ll permit it.”

They sailed south on the massive back of the coppery dragon, the sun still low to their left, the cool winds of the retreating night making human conversation difficult.

I wish you had brought the musical instrument.

It’s a little crowded for it.

That human is somehow familiar. From dreams, I’d say.

He was trapped in your sleep spell, nearby in the cavern. He dreamt of dragons, he tells me.

Strange . 
. . I almost feel as if I could talk with him.

Why not try?

HELLO, HUMAN!

Mouseglove started, looked down, smiled.

You
are Moonbird?
he asked.

Yes
.

I am Mouseglove. I steal things.

We slept together?

Yes.

I am glad to meet you.

Likewise . 
. . 

The small man relaxed noticeably after that, leaning back at one point to remark to Pol, “This is not at all as I’d thought it would be. He seems awfully familiar. Those dreams . . . ”

“Yes.”

They watched the countryside dip and rise beneath them, green wood, brown ridges, blue waters. They passed an occasional isolated dwelling, traced a track that turned into a road. There were several orchards, a farmhouse. To the left, where the land sloped, Pol saw the cluster of stones where he had slept. His mouth tightened.

Follow the road.

Yes
.

The village would be coming up soon. Might as well take another look, during daylight hours, he decided. Might even be able to frighten a few people.

Below, he saw a centaur on a hilltop, staring upward. What was it Mouseglove had said? “I even saw centaurs among them?”

Dive. Give him a good look.

They dropped rapidly. The centaur turned and ran. Pol chuckled.

“It’s a beginning,” he remarked, as they climbed again.

Ahead, Lord. More of the flying things. Let me smash them.

Pol squinted. The dark metallic shapes were circling over a small area. He looked below.

Aren’t there more of them on the ground?

Yes.
But those in the air will be easier to get at.

He felt Moonbird’s body grow warm beneath him.

But isn’t there someone
—
human
—
down there with them? It looks like a girl.

Yes.

Even from this height, he could see the color of her hair . . . 

Let’s go after the ones on the ground. Be careful not to harm the girl.

Moonbird sighed and wisps of a grayish gas seemed to curl from his nostrils, to be immediately dispersed by the winds.

Humans always complicate things.

Suddenly, they were diving. The scene below enlarged rapidly. Pol was certain now that it was Nora, at the center of a triangle formed by three of the flying things. These seemed more elaborately constructed than those he had encountered in the night. They had landed and were moving—hopping and crawling—along the ground, closing in on her. She, in turn, was using the rough terrain to keep them at a distance, maneuvering so that rocks and stands of shrubbery barred their ways, as she worked her way toward the fringes of the forest. Once she got in among the trees, he decided, she might well be able to elude them. Still, she might not.

He smelled an odor of rotten eggs now, as the results of some internal chemical reaction of Moonbird’s seemed to fill the air about him.

Suddenly, Moonbird’s wings were extended and his body was assuming a more upright position as he slowed. Pol braced himself. Mouseglove, seated before him, did the same.

The landing was even worse than he had anticipated—a spine-jolting crash that nearly threw him loose from his position. He squeezed with his legs and his knuckles tightened. It was several seconds before he realized that they had come down directly atop one of the devices.

Then Moonbird belched—a moist, disgusting sound, which was accompanied by an intensification of the odor Pol had detected during their descent. Immediately thereafter, he appeared to be regurgitating. A great stream of noxious liquid spewed from his mouth to drench the second machine nearby. It fumed for several seconds after it struck, then burst into flame.

Pol sought Nora. She now appeared to be retreating as much from them as from the final machine. Suddenly, however, she recognized him.

“Pol!”

“It’s all right!” he called back, just as Moonbird advanced and began striking at the device which was now bounding about as if attempting to take flight.

The first blow damaged its right wing. The second shattered it completely. By then, however, two more had descended and a third was diving but pulled up and began to circle.

Moonbird belched again and another began to flame. The final one launched itself toward his face.

Pol crouched low, as did Mouseglove, but not so low that he could not see what followed.

Moonbird opened his mouth and raised his forelimbs. There followed a crunching sound, and then he was tearing the wings off the flier.

 . . . Not at all good to eat.

He spat. The remains fell before him and began to smolder.

Pol looked up. The one remaining bird was climbing higher and higher.

Chase it?

No. I want to help Nora. Wait.

He climbed down and threaded his way through the wreckage.

“Hi,” he said, taking hold of her hand. “What happened? What are they?”

“They’re Mark’s,” she replied. “The same sort of thing that came to save him. He sent them for me . . . ”

“Why?”

“He wants me. He said he’d come for me.”

“And you don’t want to go to him?”

“Not now.”

“Then I think we’d better go see him and straighten this out. Where is he?”

She looked at him, at Moonbird, back at him.

“South, I believe,” she finally said, “at a forbidden place they sometimes call Anvil Mountain.”

“Do you know how to find it?”

“I think so.”

“Have you ever ridden a dragon before?”

“No.”

He squeezed her hand and turned.

“Come on. It’s fun. This one’s named Moonbird.”

She did not move.

“I’m afraid,” she said. “The last dragons anyone saw were Devil Det’s . . . ”

He nodded.

“This one’s okay. But let me ask you whether you’re more afraid of this Mark guy and his gadgets or a tame, housebroken pet I just rode in on.”

She shook her head.