The Adversary - 4 (30 page)

"You mean, in light of your determination to pass into the future world of the Galactic Milieu?"

She cried, "We're going to do it or die in the attempt! There's no way you can understand what we've been through, how desperate we are to escape!"

"I know you didn't hesitate to destroy most of my own race when we seemed to stand in your way."

"Yes," she admitted, and the screen thinned to translucency, showing the flush of guilt overlying resolution. "And you'll never forget that. But that's only one part of it."

"I love you in spite of everything. We'll go together to the Milieu."

She let slip a little choking cry. An image peered from her brain, childishly comical, which she tried vainly to suppress.

"What," he enquired with bemused dignity, "is a basketball player?"

She burst out laughing, and then wept and threw her arms around him as he knelt. "It's a joke," she said miserably. "A vicious, cruel joke. That damned Hagen ... speculating on what our life together might be-especially if we both went to the Milieu."

"I don't understand," he said, holding her. But his mind sang.

She had lied!

"We're too different," she said, pulling away, and he saw a persistent dark core of denial in the heart of the brightness.

"And for all his brutal attempts at humour, Hagen was basically correct. Sooner or later we'd end up despising each other ... or worse."

"In Afaliah," he reminded her, "the physical differences were nothing compared to the affinity of our minds."

She drew away, began to walk back the way she had come.

"When we were in Skin, we were two wounded creatures in need. Licking each other's hurts. Both lonely. Both ... bereaved. It was natural that there be an attraction. Inevitable.

But now the need has passed. We're finished, Kuhal! I'm going now."

He followed. She went more quickly, almost running, but his exotic legs kept pace with her easily. They came into the shadows of the trees where moonlight was as sparse as a flung handful of coins. He seized her with both hands, looming like some fearsome woodland spirit, and she shrank away from his desperation. "Nothing you've said touches on the real reason for your rejection of me! Why, Cloud?

Why?"

She said, "Fian."

There was wonder in his voice as he asked, "You would deny me because of my dead twin?"

"He was more than your brother!"

"He was the mind of my mind ... and he is dead."

"I won't take his place," she said. "Never!" Her redactive thrust caught him off guard, and when he recovered he was standing alone with only the shawl in his hands.

The King wearied of his party, which if truth be told was not much of a success. The young North Americans cared little for dancing and drinking and the preliminaries to sweet houghmagandy, preferring to talk shop with the scientists and technicians who had been assembled for the Guderian Project. Along about midnight, when things should have just started getting a glow on, the ballroom was half empty and the orchestra playing for itself. Those guests who did remain were mostly human, engaged in depressingly earnest conversation.

"The hell with this," Aiken muttered, and went slouching off into the grand foyer and thence to the courtyard for a breath of air. There he found Yosh Watanabe and Raimo Hakkinen climbing into a waiting caleche.

"Going downtown?" the King inquired. "Can't say I blame you. No fun upstairs at all." He sighed lugubriously.

"We'd planned to pub-crawl," Yosh said. "But first, we're off to visit my neputa works. I've been out of town so long, the crafters have probably managed to screw things up. Sneak inspections keep people on their toes. Besides, the shop's right next door to our favourite groggery, the Mermaid."

Aiken lifted a hand. "Ah. Well, have a good time, guys." He began to turn away.

Raimo said impulsively, "Aik. Come along! Forget this king shit for one friggerty night."

"I'll cramp your style."

"Just get rid of the royal threads," Raimo suggested.

"Like this?" Aiken asked. There was a subdued flash. His magnificent golden outfit disappeared. He wore frayed khaki shorts, calf-high reefwalkers with tabi toes, and a grubby yellow t-shirt imprinted DALRIADA WINDSURFER RACING TEAM. His distinctive physiognomy was hidden under a ratty straw sombrero and he had a silver torc about his neck.

"Climb in, kid," Raimo said, "and we'll show you the big city." He whipped up the hellad and they were off, clopping over the great glass drawbridge and onto the winding road that led through the castle park. Even before they emerged onto the boulevard that had its terminus at the central Gyre of Commerce, they heard the laughter and shouting of roisterers, the cries of vendors, and strolling musicians playing flutes and fiddles and electronic accordions.

The Gyre was so crowded that their carriage moved at a snail's pace. Most of the pedestrians were human; but there were plenty of Tanu strolling about as well, and Aiken recognized a number of Most Exalteds who had pleaded urgent business as an excuse for leaving his party early. All of the shops around the periphery of the ring were open. The central area was thronged with the colourful booths of freelance artisans and the purveyors of novelties, flowers, Milieu jumble items, and other ephemera.

"Something missing." Raimo frowned, thinking. Then he snapped his fingers. "The Firvulag sellers! Remember, Yosh?

Before we left with the caravan for Bardy-Town, the Gyre had plenty of spook vendors at the night market. The Armistice brought 'em out of the woodwork, peddling their baubles and bangles and funny mushrooms and weird booze. But they're gone-!"

Yosh glanced at the King, who merely nodded, frowning.

"Ices! Raspberry ices!" a nasal voice was calling.

"That sounds good," Raimo remarked with enthusiasm.

"How about you guys?" He stood up tall on the driver's perch, emitted an ear-splitting whistle, and held up three fingers. The vendor grinned as a coin wafted toward him over the heads of the mob. Presently Raimo's PK took hold of three cups piled high with rosy slush, which made a safe journey to the caleche.

They rode on, nibbling at the concoction.

"Damn good," said the King, licking his lips. "We ought to sponsor that joker at the Grand Tourney. Set him up with a refreshment stand, lots of different flavours. A new snack item like this would go over big with the fans."

"I'll see to it," Raimo said. "Old Guercio will be thrilled to death."

He guided the hellad into a side street. Though less crowded than the Gyre, it was still thick with pedestrians heading for the famous Mermaid Tavern and other places of entertainment.

"The workshop's right here," Yosh said, bending down to pound loudly on a courtyard door with his bronze-clad samurai fan.

Two ramas swung the portals wide and Raimo drove the caleche inside. As the doors closed behind them the noise level dropped by sixty decibels. The courtyard was dimly lit by two hanging sconces of flaming oil.

"Nobody about this time of night, of course," Yosh remarked as they piled out of the carriage. "But the monks'll usher us in." His telepathic voice spoke expertly to the two small apes.

One hurried to unbar the door to a barnlike structure while the second fetched a big twenty-second-century-vintage electric lantern.

They entered the workroom, and Aiken exclaimed in surprise at the sight of huge sheets of paper hanging from the walls and ceiling, all elaborately painted with vivid, swirling figures locked in mortal combat. "It looks like another kite factory!"

"Close, but no cigar," said the samurai warrior. "Neputa are a kind of gigantic lantern, carried along in a traditional harvest parade in the Japanese city of Hirosaki on Old Earth. I've modified the design slightly, and we'll have ours rolling along on wheeled floats. But they'll be gorgeous, believe me!"

He showed them a painting in preparation, laid out flat on the clean floor. It was approximately fan-shaped in outline and six metres high. The special paper had a design of graceful flowering trees and a Tanu knight mounted on his chaliko destrier. This had been rendered with bold strokes in black sumi ink, giving an effect similar to the leading of stained glass. Next, certain more delicate interior details were painted with hot wax; these would remain translucent when textile dyes added colour to the composition.

"Fairly decent brushwork," Yosh noted. He wandered about, commenting on the completed paintings, which featured a potpourri of Japanese, Tanu, and eclectic themes. "We can ship these giant lanterns to the Field of Gold disassembled. When the neputa are put together, you'll have two large pictures on front and rear and smaller decorations along the sides. The illumination comes from hundreds of candles suspended from the inside framework in glass cups. When you get a parade of sixty or seventy of these things circling a field to the music of flutes and drums, it's a spectacle to remember." He winked at the King. "And v e r y economical."

"I love it!" Aiken exclaimed. "Let's go have a dram and celebrate."

"What say we leave the carriage over here, out of the way?"

Raimo suggested. They followed the ramas out.

"Sounds good," said Aiken. He directed one of the apes to unbar the main gate and the three men slipped out into the street.

"Way!" somebody shouted. "Make way!" A squad of greys in half-armour and livery of farsensor violet began pushing pedestrians unceremoniously aside so that a Tanu grande dame mounted on an enormous white chaliko could move along without hindrance. "Way for a Most Exalted Personage!" the captal barked, squashing Aiken back against the wall. Raimo and Yosh, in their gold torcs, rated a slightly more courteous degree of manhandling.

"Veil or not, mind-screen or not, I know that woman," Aiken growled. "It's Morna-Ia-who said she was suffering from positive-ion migraine when she packed it in at twenty-three bells up in the castle!"

"Well, it looks like she's catching the second show at the Bijou," Raimo remarked, craning to see the noble lady's destination. "I wonder what's playing?"

"The Maltese Falcon," said a bareneck passerby. "Classic 2D. Black and white, but dynamite!" He vanished in the press.

And then, in the inexplicable way of street crowds, there came a momentary lull. A corridor formed all the way to the Gyre entrance nearly thirty metres away. Aiken saw the raspberry ice vendor and his cart rolling slowly by, and then it paused for a customer, a very tall human with curly grey hair, dressed in the tan shirt and trousers and yellow neck scarf that were the usual mufti of the elite guard. The shirt was a tight fit across the man's shoulders, as though he had borrowed it from a less husky friend. When he had paid for his ice, he sampled it with evident enjoyment, glanced up the side street, nodded in a friendly manner when he caught Aiken's eye, and then disappeared into the teeming Gyre.

"Oh, my God," said the King.

"Chief," Yosh whispered. "Are you okay?" You look-"

Aiken took a deep breath, then pulled off his straw sombrero and stamped it very thoroughly into the cobblestones.

"Aik-what the hell?" Raimo blurted.

"It's time to go to the Mermaid," Aiken told his friends through gritted teeth, "and get very, very drunk."

He strode away, leaving Raimo and Yosh to eye each other, shrug, and then tag along.

"How long," Elizabeth asked Marc, "do you plan to stay?"

"Five hours should give us a fair start." He glanced down at the sleeping infant in the basket. "We'll have to see how he reacts to the increased psychic pressure of the redaction. On my next visit, I hope to spend more time with you. But tonight"-he smiled reminiscently-"I made a little side trip before coming to Black Crag. Your Many-Coloured Land is an interesting place. I'd enjoy discussing it with you."

She eyed the wet coverall with its metallic function monitors and shunt receptables in an uneasy manner, and then for the first time noticed the line of puncture wounds above his eyebrows.

"There's blood on your forehead. Were you injured on your little side trip?"

He waved a gloved hand airily. "From the brain-piercing needles of the CE equipment. Mere mosquito bites. They'll selfheal in a few minutes ... Aren't you familiar with the workings of cerebroenergetic enhancers, Grand Master?"

"They're outlawed in the Milieu now. Considered too hazardous for the operator."

Marc only laughed.

Elizabeth said, rather stiffly. "Perhaps you would like some more comfortable clothes."

"You're kind to offer. At my last port of call, I had to steal some."

Her voice was casual. "Then you can't carry anything along with you on the d-jump?"

"Not yet. But I'm working on it."

Without taking her eyes off him, Elizabeth went to the nursery door and opened it. Outside in the corridor, sitting on a bench and placidly telling his beads, was the rugged old Franciscan friar. He looked up expectantly.

"Brother Anatoly," said Elizabeth. "May I present Marc Remillard." Anatoly got to his feet, stowed his rosary, and stared. Marc bowed slightly. Elizabeth continued. "Our visitor is in need of a change of clothing, Brother. Perhaps you'll be kind enough to find him something, then escort him back here.

Oh ... and we'll want you to attend the redactive session, if you please."

Marc was amused. "Commendable prudence, Grand Master."

Her lips tightened. She withdrew back into the baby's room and closed the door, leaving the two men together.

"You make her nervous," Anatoly observed amiably.

"And you? Or do you feel armoured against the demogorgon, wearing your breastplate of justice and helmet of salvation?"

"I ought to be afraid of you," Anatoly admitted, beckoning for Marc to follow, "but I'm too intrigued. I came to the Pliocene three years before your famous Rebellion. When you were still a Paramount Grand Master helping the Human Polity dazzle the socks off the unsuspecting exotic members of the Concilium, who hadn't quite figured us out yet. When you were a hero-the champion of the Mental Man concept."

"And what am I now?" Marc asked pleasantly.