Split Infinity (37 page)

He climbed silently down, while the captive animals watched the contortions of this astonishing unicorn.
 
They were not about to betray him to the witch! The conspiracy of silence was the only weapon they possessed.

Stile went to Kurrelgyre’s cage. “I must have a rapid update,” he said. “How can I free thee and Neysa and the others? The large bars are too strong for me.”

The werewolf transformed into his human form, too large to squeeze between the bars. “Thou art fortunate in thy size,” he said. “Only Neysa might do what thou hast done—and the potion hath dulled her wit so she can not transform her shape. My wolfsbane might help steady her—but we dare not administer it to her animal form. We are at impasse. Save thyself; thou canst not free us.”

“If I go, it will be only to help thee—as thou didst for me before. Can I overcome the witch?”

“Only if thou canst kill her by surprise, instantly with thy sword. She will else throw a potion on thee, and destroy thee.”

“I don’t want to kill her,” Stile said. “Murder is not the proper solution to problems. I only want to neutralize her and free these poor captives.”

Kurrelgyre shook his head. “Thou canst not defeat an Adept fairly save by magic.”

“No. Mine oath-“

“Yes. When thou didst not break thine oath to save thyself from the Black Demesnes, I knew thy word was constant. I expect no different of thee here in the Yellow Demesnes. But now it is not thy life at stake, but Neysa’s. The witch will sell her to another Adept—“

“Why don’t Adepts conjure their own creatures, in-stead of buying them?”

“Because some spells are more complex than others. An Adept may conjure a dozen monsters via a single summoning spell with less effort than a single one by creation. So they store captive creatures in cells, and prepare spells to bring them upon need—“

“I get the picture. To be an Adept is to maintain dungeons where others languish—and the Yellow Adept caters to this need by trapping the necessary animals. I dare say she traps wild fowl and sells the eggs to the Black Adept, too; he has to get his food from somewhere. Maybe he pays her off by making strong cages from black line-bars, that she paints yellow. How does she summon the hapless victims? Neysa seemed to go into a trance.”

“Yellow’s magic is exerted through potions, I now have learned. She boils a cauldron whose vapors mesmerize animals, bringing them here to be caged. She could summon men similarly, but does not, lest men unite against her and destroy her. Had I been in my man-form, or Neysa in her girl-form—“

“Yes.” Stile moved across to Neysa. “Wilt thou release me from mine oath, that I may cast a spell to free thee? I fear thy fate at the hands of the witch.”

Neysa, dulled by the summoning potion, was not dull enough to forget her antipathy to Adept-class magic.
 
She shook her head no. She would not condone such sorcery to free herself.

“Say,” Stile said, trying again. “Thou canst also change into a firefly, and these bars would not hold—“

But Neysa’s eyes were half lidded and her head hung low. The effort of will that such transformation required was beyond her present capacity.

“Or if thou couldst assume thy human form, the potion would not affect thee—“

There was a growl from another cage. Kurrelgyre looked up nervously. “Hark! The witch comes!”

Stile jumped to the werewolfs cage, on inspiration drawing off his socks. “Don these!” he whispered, shoving them through Kurrelgyre’s cage bars. “And this.” He put the sword through, with its harness. “She will assume—“

“Right.” In a moment the white unicorn image formed. The sword was concealed by the illusion.

“Remember: thou darest not eat nor drink aught she offers thee, for her potions—“

“Uh-oh! Did Neysa drink?”

But the Yellow Adept appeared before the werewolf could answer. Still, Stile hardly needed it. Neysa, like most equines, drank deeply when she had opportunity, and could have done so automatically while still under the influence of the summoning vapor. That would explain why she hadn’t made any real effort to save herself. That also explained why the smarter animals here refused to eat.
 
Kurrelgyre had avoided this trap, and was alert. But the situation of all these animals remained bleak, for evidently none of them had the strength to break out of the strong cages. Eventually they would have either to eat or to starve. Not a plea-ant choice; Stile’s memory of his confinement in the Black Castle remained fresh.

Stile was not idle during these realizations; he ducked behind the werewolfs cage, trying to hide. He knew it was foolish of him to hesitate about dealing with the witch; obviously she had little to recommend her, and would happily wipe him out. But he could not murder a human being heartlessly. Just as he was bound by an oath of no magic, he was bound by civilized restraints. Demons and monsters he could slay, not people.

“Eeeek!” Yellow cried, pronouncing the word exactly as it was spelled. “The cage is empty! The valuable white ‘corn stallion!” But then she inspected the situation more carefully. “No, the stallion remains. It is the wolf who is gone. I could have sworn his cage was—“ She glared across the compound. “Darlin’ Corey!” she screamed. “Didst thou move the cages about?”

Stile watched the pink elephant. The creature had seen what happened; which side was it on? If it told the truth—

The elephant waddled past the cages toward the witch. Suddenly it flung its trunk to the side, catching Stile by the nape of his shirt and hauling him into view.
 
It trumpeted.

“Well, now, dearest!” the crone cried, scratching idly at a wart on her nose. “So it was a werewolf! Changed to its man-form and squeezed out of its cage.”

The elephant squealed, trying to correct her misimpression.

“Oh shut up, Darlin’ Corey,” she snapped. “What shall we do with the werewolf? I don’t have a cage small enough at the moment. He’s pretty shrimpy.” She peered at Stile more closely, as he hung in midair. “But healthy and handsome enough, my lovely. Maybe he would do for my daughter. Hold him there a moment, my tasty; I will send the wench out.”

The pink elephant chuckled. The monsters in cages exchanged glances, bewildered. Obviously this was the first they had heard of Yellow’s daughter. What kind of a slut was she? Meanwhile, the hag limped rapidly to the house.

Stile thought of doing an acrobatic flip and climbing the elephant’s trunk. But the creature was quite big and strong, and not stupid; it might bash him against a tree.
 
Had he retained his sword—but that would have been highly visible, forcing him to use it to defend himself. It was better to appear more or less helpless, lest he get doused by a potion.

He looked around, able to see more clearly from this height. Beyond the palisades the yellow fog obliterated everything. It was as if the rest of the world did not exist.
 
No doubt this was the way the Adept liked it. She had a little mist-shrouded world of her own, that no man dared intrude upon. Did she get lonely? Probably no more lonely than a person with her appearance would get in the midst of the most convivial society. Who would want to associate with her? Stile, as a person who all his life had felt the inherent discrimination of size, could not entirely condemn the witch for reacting to the discrimination of appearance. Yet he could not allow her to abuse his friends, or to continue mistreating innocent animals.

His eye caught something—a glimmer in the fog out-side the compound. A faint curtain of—

The curtain! Could it be here? The thing seemed to wander all over Phaze like a tremendous serpent. Might it be used to facilitate escape, as it had before?

No, there were two problems. The curtain, close as it was, was out of reach, since it was beyond the palisades. And Neysa could not use it. Or would not; he wasn’t sure which. So this was a mere tantalization, no real help. Best to wait and see what the witch’s daughter had in mind. She was probably a homely girl upon whom her crazy mother forced the attentions of any likely-seeming male.

She emerged. She was stunning. Her yellow hair flowed luxuriously to her waist, her hands and feet were tiny, and her complexion was gold-bronze vibrant, not sallow. She had a figure that would have made an artist gape, with prominent secondary sexual characteristics.
 
Her eyes were so large she seemed almost like a doll—but what a doll!

Young witches, it seemed, had other assets than magic.

 
“Darlin’ Corey, put that man down this instant!” the girl cried, spying Stile. Her voice, despite its vehemence, was dulcet. Everything about her was as nice as it was nasty about her mother.

Darlin’ Corey lowered Stile to the ground, but remained near, on guard. Stile straightened his clothing and rolled his shoulders; it had not been entirely comfortable, hanging all that time in midair. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said.

She giggled jigglesomely. “Tee-hee. I’m Yellowette.
 
My, thou’rt a handsome wolf.”

“I’m a man,” Stile said.

She looked down at him. That was the only fault he could perceive in her: she was a few centimeters—a couple of this frame’s inches—taller than he. “That, too. Kiss me, my cute.”

Neysa, in the cage, recovered enough to make a mu-ical snort of recognition. Suddenly Stile had a suspicion why the pink elephant had found the notion of this encounter humorous, and why the caged beasts had never known of the witch’s daughter. What would a lonely old hag do with a handsome-if-small man, if she had a potion for every purpose? Drug him—or take a very special potion herself? “Not in front of these monsters,” he said.

“What do they matter, my delight? They can not escape.”

“I like my privacy,” he said. “Let’s take a walk outside—and return later, as before.” He glanced meaningfully at Neysa, hoping the drug had worn off enough to uncloud her mind. “As before.”

Yellowette’s fair brow wrinkled. “Thou knowest that unicorn, werewolf?”

“I’m not a werewolf,” he said, aware that she would not believe him. “I do know her. She’s a jealous mare.”

“So? Well, she’ll be gone in a few days. There’s a fair market in unicorns, for they are hard to catch. Their horns and hooves are valuable for musical instruments and for striking fire, their dung is excellent fertilizer for magic plants, and their hides have anti-magic proper-ties.”

Stile experienced an ugly chill. “These animals are for slaughter?”

“Some are, my pleasure. Some aren’t even good for that. The black mare would be excellent as a courtyard showpiece, except that she lacks proper coloration and is small. The white stallion, in contrast, is a prize; the White Adept will probably use him to battle dragons in his arena.”

Good thing she didn’t know the white unicorn was a fake! “What happens to the completely useless animals?”

“I have Darlin’ Corey take the worthless ones outside and put them through the curtain.” The witch was no longer bothering to conceal her identity, since he seemed to accept it. Her female view of man was that he was interested only in the external appearance—and Stile suspected there was some merit in that view. He had already had relations with a machine that looked like a woman, and with a unicorn that also looked like a woman. What of an old woman who looked like a young woman? Yellow was certainly much more pleasing to deal with in this form than in the other.

“Thou knowest about the curtain?” he asked after a moment, surprised.

“Thou dost not? There is another world beyond it, a desert. The potion puts the creatures through; they never return. I have not the heart to kill them outright, and dare not let them go free in this world lest they summon hordes of their kind to wreak vengeance on these my demesnes, and if they survive in the other world I begrudge it not.”

So she was not heartless, just a victim of circumstance. To an extent. Yet it seemed a safe assumption that she was as yet only partially corrupted by power.

How much should he say? Stile detested lies even by indirection. “I am of that world.”

“Thou’rt a frame traveler? A true man?” She was alarmed.

“I am. Thou didst merely assume I was a werewolf.”

“I do not deal in true men!” she said nervously.
 
“This leads to great mischief!”

“I came merely to discover thine identity. Now I seek only to free thy captives and to depart with my friends. I have no inherent quarrel with thee, but if thou threatenest my life or those of my friends—“

She turned to him in the hallway. She was absolutely beautiful. “I proffer no threat to thee, my handsome bantam. Dally with a lonely woman a time, and thy friends shall go free with thee.”

Stile considered. “I don’t regard myself to be at liberty to do that.”

She frowned. “Thou hast only limited leeway for bargaining, sweets.”

“Perhaps. My friend urged me to slay thee without warning, but I did not wish to do that either.”

“Oh? We shall put that to the proof.” She led him into the main room of the house. Shelves lined the walls, containing bottles of fluid: rows and rows of them, coated with dust. In the center a huge cauldron bubbled, its vapors drifting out through a broken windowpane. This was obviously the source of the summoning scent: a continously brewing mix.