J. Calvin Pierce, page 50
“Don’t you want to run?” it asked in a wheedling voice.
Marcia realized she should be afraid. This thing was bigger than she, had a head like a leopard, and teeth like a shark. All she felt was anger and contempt.
“Last chance,” it said. The coaxing tenor had dropped to a menacing baritone. Marcia saw it flex its legs and arch its back as though preparing to spring. She raised her ring hand slowly from her side. She had tried to use the ring against the vampires and had come close to dying by their fangs, and the vampires were like a troop of Cub Scouts compared with the horror that threatened her now.
The same cold anger gripped her, she could feel the connection with it just as she had in the trance. She watched the demon gather itself.
“I seek Rhastopheris,” she said, surprising the two demons and herself.
“Uh-oh,” said the little one.
The large creature adjusted its position. “But you are alone,” it breathed. “With us”—it gestured toward the little one—“and Lord Rhastopheris is far away.”
Marcia kept her attention on the demon. It stood no more than twenty feet from her. The little one had edged off to a comfortable distance from both of them. The thing joined its claws across its abdomen.
“What will you give me if I take you to him?”
Marcia felt her lips curl into an undisguised sneer. Though she had started this talk she found she had no patience for it.
“Don’t trust her!” cried the small demon urgently.
The big one glanced its way. “I shall trust her if—”
“I wasn’t talking to you!” the little one said indignantly. It moved one step toward Marcia. “Don’t trust her, lady. She’s just hungry.”
She? thought Marcia, staring at the orange horror. It took a tentative step toward her. She could see the little one moving farther away. “Look out!” it called. “Once she gets her claws on you, you’re just a meal.”
“That’s right,” hissed the monster. “Why don’t you run?” It flexed itself into a taut crouch. “I’ll give you a start.” Marcia raised her ring hand. Her scar was throbbing. She wondered if Elyssa would come. If so, this would be the time.
“No?” The thing smiled at her. “Eewwwww, how you’re going to wriggle.”
The monster started to uncoil herself, just as Egri had before leaping at the vampires. The pushing trick. The only use Marcia knew for the ring. She had pushed Annie. How long could she hold this horror off? If at all. She had broken the rule. The ring had been removed and Father had worn it for over two days. There might well be no power in it at all. The only power Marcia was conscious of was the pressure of her cold-blooded anger.
The demon shifted. “Get ready,” it said in an intimate whisper.
The ring, perhaps, retained no power, but she felt a strong sense of connection with it. She focused on the demon and pushed as hard as she could, at the same time uttering an unwilled cry.
The air between them exploded. Marcia watched it break into yellow shards, then further into a trembling cloud of dust. About forty feet from her the body of the demon lay broken on a jagged rock.
“Gods, lady, you don’t have to blow up the world. It was just one Gorgle.” The little demon sidled toward her with a great show of caution. “Nice, though. You do remember that I was on your side?”
Marcia nodded. She felt drained and shaky. The demon strolled toward the corpse. Marcia had a sudden presentiment of unpleasantness.
“If you plan on eating her, you can just wait till I leave.”
The small one looked at Marcia with an expression of disgust. “Eat her? You must be kidding. I may be infernal, but I’m not insatiable. Anyway, I prefer my meat cooked.” He turned around and walked toward Marcia.
She peered at him in the murky air. He was somewhere in the neighborhood of three feet tall, had smooth, pale skin and, for a demon, a surprisingly innocuous aura. In fact, Marcia realized, at college there had been at least two or three girls in her dorm with auras worse than his.
Marcia blinked. “Why are you wearing clothes?” she said. She was beginning to wonder precisely where she was.
“Huh?” The little demon looked down at his dusty, wrinkled outfit. “Why are you wearing clothes?”
“Well,” Marcia said, nodding in the direction of her victim. “She isn’t.”
“Yeah, but she’s a Gorgle. You know how they are.”
Marcia didn’t feel like going into it. “Where am I, anyway?” she asked, changing the subject.
“What do you mean, where are you? You’re right here.” The demon pointed to the ground at Marcia’s feet.
Marcia realized she was still wearing her pack. She shrugged it off and put it down.
The demon looked at it uncomfortably. “Listen,” he said, “we’d better get going.”
Marcia said nothing. She felt dazed. She looked from her ring to the body of the big demon.
“Exactly,” said the little one. “As soon as they get their nerve up, every Gorgle in the valley is going to be around to see what happened.”
“You mean, more like her.” She reached for her pack.
The demon snatched it up. “Allow me,” he said. Marcia thought she heard a faint cry from the road ahead.
They cut across the open country, the demon promising to lead her back to the road farther along. “The Gorgles will be using the road,” he said, “and I’d hate to see you blow the whole tribe up.”
“Why?” said Marcia. She really wanted to know.
“Because then the Fimmits would get completely out of hand.”
Marcia decided to let it drop. The ecology of Hell, she thought. What next?
She watched the small figure trudging ahead of her carrying her pack, complete with her cape rolled into a neat bundle. “Isn’t that getting heavy?” she called.
He stopped and put the burden down. “I’m beginning to think you haven’t visited us before,” he said. He walked to a boulder about the size of a dishwasher, hooked his little claws under it, and heaved. It left the ground and traveled in a brief ponderous arc, landing a couple of yards from its original position. The demon brushed his hands off on his trousers with a sidelong glance at Marcia, picked up her pack, and marched off without a word.
Marcia stared after him for a moment, then shuddered at the thought of how strong the Gorgle must have been. Which led to a consideration of the power of her ring. She had used it meaning to push the monster away; the result had more nearly resembled a mortar attack.
She did not have long to ponder the moral implications of destroying the demon, which in any event seemed to her about as momentous as using toxic sprays on roaches, and more justifiable, considering that roaches do not actually intend to do harm, and if they did, probably would not gloat about it.
They hadn’t traveled far and already Marcia was getting bored. She wasn’t sure she could eat, but she thought a few sips of wine might be a big help.
“Uh … hey.” The little demon turned to face her. “I’m sorry,” said Marcia, “I don’t know your name.”
“Name?” He drew himself up proudly. “I have four. Well, actually, three.” His eyes dropped. “But I would have four if … Oh, well, you don’t want to hear about that.” He bowed. “Just call me Borphis,” he said.
Marcia introduced herself. “But,” said Borphis, “how am I to address you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Honorifics. Is it Lady Marcia or Miss Marcia or—”
“Just Marcia,” she said. “Please.”
The demon looked uncomfortable.
“No, really,” said Marcia. “People have been driving me nuts with all this ‘Miss’ stuff. It sounds like a Jane Austen novel.”
Borphis raised a silencing palm. “Listen,” he whispered.
The cries were faint, but chilling.
“You don’t look very fast to me,” said the demon. “I hope I’m wrong.”
Marcia, who had been swept up in the fitness craze just long enough to find out she was built for running and that running was tedious and time-consuming, felt as though she were being slighted. “I can keep up with you, if that’s what you mean.”
Borphis took off like an impatient motorcycle. By the time Marcia had blinked twice in astonished awe, he was out of sight. From behind her the cries seemed louder. And angry.
She turned to face whatever was coming. The flat ground offered no hiding places, not even a big rock to put at her back. She was definitely on her own. She had exactly herself and the ring. Even if she got through the next challenge, she was now without food or drink, meaning that the hazards presented by demons or other supernatural beings were pretty much irrelevant. If she could wish herself into the middle of the Mojave Desert, her chances for survival would be about the same. She listened to the invisible voices coming nearer. They resembled the calls of migrating geese passing above the clouds on an autumn night, but were far less comforting.
When she heard the noise behind her she wrenched herself around to face it.
“That’s what I thought,” said Borphis. “Running is out.” The relief that she felt at the arrival of the little demon was groundless, Marcia told herself. She was sure Borphis could do nothing for her. Still, it was nice to have company.
“So,” he said in a conversational tone, “how many Gorgles can you blast?”
Marcia didn’t know.
Borphis eyed her speculatively. “Would you say fifty?”
She wouldn’t.
“In that case,” said the little demon, “I think you should consider leaving real soon.”
Marcia looked down at her ring. “I don’t know if I can,” she said. “I’ve only ever done this once.” From not far away came the sound of a single call.
“Try,” said Borphis. “Just do what you did before.”
“But I was following someone. I was able to picture him, but he’s gone now.”
“If you came here, you should be able to go someplace else. Just picture a place you want to be. Your home.”
The nearby voice was raised again, then answered by other cries, now closer than before. Marcia looked around, trying to see if the pursuers were in sight. She raised her ring and held it in front of her.
“Forget the Gorgles,” said Borphis urgently. “I’ll watch for them.”
With an effort of will, Marcia forced herself to turn her back on the noises. She closed her eyes and folded her hands at her waist. Home, she thought. She pictured her apartment, the windows that overlooked the avenue, the reading lamp by her chair, the door, always open, to her tiny kitchen.
She heard the calls behind her and pushed them from her mind. She sought the sense of elevation she had experienced when she sat in the cave. The feeling had been centered on the ring. She brushed aside the picture of the cave and brought her mind to her breathing. The noise of the angry voices behind her diminished and died. Her thoughts came to rest on her living room; she was conscious of that image and of the ring.
The center of her mind was placid as a sheltered pond. She knew that when she opened her eyes she must see the mist around her, and she knew that if she didn’t, she would have to drop this dream and turn to face a harsh reality. Of this she was aware, but did not let the awareness impinge on the center of her thought. There she held the image and the elevation.
At the same moment that her eyes opened, she moved forward. The white fog was touched with yellow, but deepening as she advanced. The fingers of yellow mist extended, grasped, and closed behind her. She heard a shout, felt something tug at her skirt from behind. Still she maintained the elevation, kept the even pace, pulled every line of focus to the ring.
She remembered, and pushed aside, the agonizing pain of the vampire’s fangs in her shoulder. At the edges of her mind she considered the awful error of trying to hurry the progress, to run—of being pulled down, of seeing the white mist fade and the yellow haze close over her. She moved like a bride, with measured cadence, ignoring all but the pinpoint center of the idea she held like a fragile …
Her cry of pain and surprise ripped away the crystalline enclosure she had moved in. She pitched forward violently, striking her elbow, her chin, and then her forehead before coming to rest in a daze of hurt and confusion. The white mist disappeared, replaced by a descending curtain of black. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed.
Chapter 16
The courtyard below the king’s chamber was dark but for the vagrant flickerings of a few torches. Rand peered down from a window. Behind him, Asbrak the Fat was seated in his heavily reinforced chair giving his attention to a slate covered with chalked numbers.
“Your Majesty, I fail to see what possible advantage can be expected to proceed from these baseless speculations.”
“Ah, but you see, Rand, they are not baseless. I have looked into the matter and the underlying geometry is quite subtle, not to mention the complicated arithmetic that supports it all.” The king raised himself from his chair and went to the window. “Mind you, I don’t understand it—not entirely—but this Remeger is a scholar—very scientific. I expect you to treat him accordingly.”
“Your Highness, I am a diplomat. If necessary, I can treat the astrologer’s pet snake with courtesy.”
“Snake?” The king sounded alarmed. “I didn’t know he kept a snake. Why wasn’t I informed?”
“Your pardon. Majesty. The snake is hypothetical. I used it merely to illustrate a point.”
The king looked uncertain. “I don’t much care for snakes, to be perfectly honest,” he said.
A page entered the king’s chamber and stood next to the open door. He glanced down at a scrap of parchment in his hand.
“The Great and Learned Scientific Astrologer Remeger,” he said. Moments passed, during which the boy wilted under the eye of the royal adviser. When the doorway remained empty the page darted through to have a look. He was just in time to collide with the personage whose entrance he had announced. The king and Rand heard a thump and a grunt, then watched in amazement as a very large hat came toppling into the room, bounced on the tiles, and rolled to a stop against an ornamental urn.
Outside the door, there ensued a muffled discussion punctuated by outbursts of strangled acrimony. The king stared. Rand, standing slightly behind him, looked pained and raised a hand to his forehead.
A tall man entered the room scowling fiercely. He was bareheaded and wore a green robe that looked as if it would glow in the dark. He made a stiff bow and forced his lips into a smile.
“How very kind of Your Gracious Majesty to send for me.” Behind him, the page tiptoed into the room and retrieved the hat from the floor.
The king gestured in Rand’s direction. “You are acquainted with my chief adviser, I believe?”
Remeger bowed again, less deeply.
Rand nodded slightly. “How very delightful to see you again … so soon, Learned Astrologer,” he said in a courtly drawl.
“Now, Remeger,” said the king, rubbing his hands in the manner of a workman eager to get on with his chores, “let us see these latest calculations.” Asbrak lowered his voice to a confidential murmur. “I am particularly interested in the aspects and progressions pertaining to voyages that commenced five days ago.” The king stepped closer to the astrologer. “That is the day on which Rogan the Obscure embarked for Devlin.”
Remeger stalked to the table by the window. From somewhere under the folds of his robe he drew an assortment of straightedges, compasses, and other weapons from the geometer’s arsenal. The king favored his adviser with a significant look. Rand had arranged his features into a mask of affable neutrality that did not reflect his feelings. He nodded to the monarch as if to acknowledge the impressive complexity of the arcane hardware the astrologer was piling onto the table.
Rand was in fact thinking about the question that had been troubling him for the seven days that had passed since they had received news of the royal kidnapping. Black Jack Flanders was an unprincipled and ruthless old ruffian, meaning that the ordinary mechanisms of political intercourse and civilized diplomacy were perfectly adapted to dealing with him and the city of bandits he controlled. Given that, and the history of relations between the Nine Kingdoms and Devlin in recent times, Rand found himself unable to formulate an explanation of what had occurred.
For a diplomat to view the kidnapping of the heirs of Ambermere and Felshalfen as a simple act of piracy would have been egregiously and inexcusably naive. Rand might wish it so, but the world, regrettably, was neither so innocent nor so honest as that. If it were, the affair could be quickly settled by paying the ransoms, making the conventional promises to refrain from reprisals, and then if it seemed worthwhile, either reducing Devlin by starvation or putting it to the torch, whichever was easier and cheaper.
That intrigue and treachery were at work here was axiomatic. But what intrigue? And whose treachery? These were the mysteries. Rand turned again to look down over the empty courtyard. He could hear the king and the astrologer in the background chattering about irrelevancies. Doubtless they would soon tire of their sums and begin to discuss the endlessly fascinating topic of the “portents.” Rand permitted himself a quiet sigh.
A trooper strolled lackadaisically across the yard. Rand recognized him as one of the group of carousers who had claimed, last fall, to have run afoul of a demon. This was widely taken as another piece of evidence, along with reports of ghosts, unusual weather, and signs in the heavens, that some momentous change was imminent. The king himself, with Rand in enforced attendance, had interviewed the loutish quintet and heard firsthand their tale of encountering a young man in a dark street late at night. They presented as perfectly respectable their whim to “have some fun with the laddie,” meaning terrorize and bully him, and were unanimously indignant to report that he had turned out to be wondrously fast and strong and had treated them harshly. They had found themselves being bounced against each other and nearby walls and buildings in an extremely rude way, and then unceremoniously left in a heap.
