Agnes Day

by Lionel Fenn

  QUEST FOR THE WHITE DUCK 03

  AGNES DAY

  Lionel Fenn

  CHAPTER ONE

  The sharp bark of signals, the crack and grunt of helmeted bodies colliding, the race for position, and out of it all a football that arced gracefully through the clear crisp air, its outline preternaturally sharp against the deep blue of the cloudless sky. The opposition scrambled frantically away from the line of scrimmage when it realized how cleverly it had been fooled, and the receiver, standing alone in the end zone, waited patiently for the spiraling missile to reach him. The home crowd of nearly one hundred thousand screamed its delight at the sight of the winning touchdown soaring toward home. The opposing coach yanked off his earphones and pulled out his hair in great frustrated clumps. The receiver lifted his hands. The crowd rose to its feet and roared encouragement. The opposing coach slumped to his knees and uttered a prayer. The receiver watched in awe as the football dropped lazily toward him. The crowd fell silent in bloodthirsty expectation. The opposing coach closed his eyes.

  The receiver dropped the ball.

  And Gideon Sunday stood alone on the field with hands on his hips, shaking his head slowly and wondering aloud why, even in his fantasies, he couldn't complete a pass.

  "You know," he said, "maybe I ought to take this as a sign."

  "It's a rock," a woman's rasping voice said behind him.

  "I know it's a rock, but it could be a sign, too."

  "A rock is a rock. A sign is a sign. That rock wasn't a sign."

  He turned around and glared down at the huge white duck waddling toward him. "Sis, that may be a simple rock to you, but to me it's a sign."

  The duck stopped, peered around his legs at the puff of dust rising from the spot where the rock had landed, and shook her head. "It's a rock. If it was a sign, the guy would have caught it."

  Gideon brushed a tangle of brown hair from his eyes and raised an eyebrow. "How do you know he dropped it?"

  "Because I've been watching you all afternoon. And all afternoon you've been reliving your glory days as a quarterback. Both of them. I know when the guy catches it, and I know when he drops it. That guy dropped it." She moved closer and pecked lightly at his knee. "I'm sorry, but it's not a sign, Giddy. It's a rock."

  Slowly, reminding himself that she was after all his sister no matter what she looked like and no matter how often she tried to leech the romance from his soul, he lowered himself to the ground. With a great show of fastidiousness, he dusted off his jeans, adjusted his long, dark, pacch-hide cloak more closely around his shoulders, and sighed. Loudly. Filling the air with a melancholy prelude to figurative self-immolation that would have sent his sister racing for their tent had he not, at the same time, clamped a gentle hand about her neck.

  "Sis?"

  "What?"

  "I'm homesick."

  "And I'm a duck. We all have our troubles, brother."

  He ignored the lingering bitterness in her voice as a natural reaction to a love lost forever because the man who had prompted such affection to blossom in her downy bosom had not stuck by her after their last efforts to return her to her rightful form had failed. Since the man, a blacksmith with the brawn of his profession and the brains of a horseshoe, had never rated very highly in his estimation anyway, Gideon was not as bereft as his sister. Good riddance to bad rubbish, he thought, though he did not speak the sentiment aloud for fear she would nip his legs off at the kneecaps. She might be down, but she was still in possession of a rather volatile temper that made occasional good use of her present configuration.

  "Besides," she added, twisting her neck free and squatting beside him, "you're not homesick, you're in love. Disgusting, but true."

  He sighed again.

  Ivy.

  The very hint of her name sent a curious effervescent tingle through his veins and an equally curious flush to his raggedly bearded cheeks.

  Ivy of the sweeping blonde hair and deep green eyes, of the gentle hands and quiet demeanor, of the figure that gave him nightly, and once in a while afternoonly, palpitations.

  "And it beats me all to hell why you just don't go up there and see her and get it over with."

  "Because," he said sorrowfully.

  "Because why?"

  "Because I'm not sure I'm really ready yet for a long-term commitment."

  The duck eyed him in surprise. "What? Who said anything about a long-term commitment, for heaven's sake? You go up there, you mess around a little, you get her out of your system, and you'll feel a lot better."

  "Hey!" he exclaimed in gentlemanly protest.

  "What's the matter? You think she won't mess around?" She snorted. "Believe me when I tell you, as your sister who is sick of your cow eyes and sighing, she'll mess around."

  "Crude," he muttered. "Very crude."

  The duck said nothing.

  Gideon stared at the ground.

  The duck said nothing.

  Gideon stared at his hands.

  The duck shifted, and said nothing.

  Gideon stared blindly into the distance and shivered as a cool breeze, autumnal in its touch, tousled his hair over his eyes and ruffled the edges of his cloak.

  "Well, for Christ's sake!" the duck said.

  "All right, all right," he said. "So maybe I'm not all that sure about the love part."

  "That's better."

  "But I sure do miss her."

  "Then why don't we do something about it, instead of sitting around here like a couple of lumps, waiting for something to happen?" She snapped her beak. "The last time we hung around, I nearly got killed."

  He would have argued, at least about the lumps, but he knew she was right. They had vegetated long enough; it was time they bestirred themselves into positive action.

  "And I'm tired of being a duck."

  Gideon did not respond. He didn't dare. Because every time she complained about her condition, and every time he promised to do something about it, he got into trouble. The first time, though he admitted it was before he knew she was a duck in the first place, he had found this new and strange world at the back of his pantry in New Jersey, and had nearly died a thousand deaths trying to rescue her from a sacrificial plucking. The second time, when he knew full well that the white duck was in reality his sister, Tuesday, the former movie star, he had notched another hundred or so near-death experiences while, at the same time and through no fault of his own, battling a pair of beautiful women who had nothing better to do than to attempt a conquest of this new, strange, and utterly ridiculous world.

  Since then, he had vowed each night before falling asleep that there would not be a third time.

  He also understood that there was nothing more stubborn than a woman who one day wakes up and finds herself changed into a large, albeit attractive, duck, and who desires more than anything to have said transformation reversed before she pines away for lack of a decent steak and a good man's strong arms.

  He stood decisively and faced into the wind. "Tuesday," he said, "you're right."

  "Of course I am," she told him. "This duck stuff is a pain in the ass. Do you have any idea what it's like to have a pair of lips that can chop wood in a pinch?"

  He strode quickly off, toward a tall, conical tent pitched on a low knoll some hundred yards away.

  "Do you know what it's like," she shouted, "when your womanly urges are screwed up because you're covered with a permanent goddamned boa?"

  He whistled once, shrilly, and grinned when a large caprine creature wandered into view.

  "Gideon, are you listening to me?"

  The beast was long-haired, long-tailed, and as tall as a husky long-legged horse; its hooves were rather nastily clawed, and on its head was a pair of oversized ram's horns that had, in the past, done a great dea
l of damage to those who thought it was only a tranquil, dim-witted lorra.

  "Red," he called as he approached the tent, "we're going up to see Ivy. We're leaving as soon as I pack a few things and change my clothes."

  Red, who in the manner of his species seldom got excited over much of anything except food, nodded absently and returned to his grazing, the ground-length silky hair that gave him his name rippling as the breeze gusted into a chilled, damp wind. He moved only once—when the tent collapsed and Gideon's thrashing threatened to upset his digestion.

  When Gideon finally battled through the folds to the open air, he dragged behind him a large burlap sack that bulged intriguingly. His cloak was gone. His pearl-buttoned shirt had been changed from a blue tartan pattern to one of dark red and darker green. His jeans had been tucked into a pair of smooth leather boots. And around his waist was a thick leather belt, attached to which was a thick leather holster in which had been placed a greenwood weapon that resembled a superbly hewn and sensuously smooth baseball bat.

  "Ready," he announced.

  Tuesday circled twice overhead and landed neatly at his feet. "Good for you. Someone's coming."

  He looked eastward, toward the halfhearted low walls of the city of Rayn nearly half a mile away, and saw a tiny figure racing toward them. "I wonder who that could be?" he said.

  Red purred his ignorance.

  The figure tripped, fell, picked itself up, and started running again.

  "Don't talk to him," the duck pleaded. "It's probably bad news."

  "What bad news? Maybe it's... lord, maybe it's a message from Whale! God, Sis, maybe he's finally found the right spell!"

  Tuesday grumbled something too low for him to hear, though not low enough to convince him it wasn't a fowl obscenity. His sister had too often placed her hopes on Whale Pholler's abilities to change her back into the svelte beauty she claimed once to have been, and each time his abilities had proved not to be up to the task. He tried. He tried terribly hard and very earnestly. But when all was said and done and the smoke cleared from his efforts, he was a better armorer than he was a magician.

  The figure tripped, regained its feet, and kept on running.

  "On the other hand," Gideon said quietly, "maybe the Wamchus are at it again."

  Red snorted, and his eyes turned vaguely black.

  Tuesday stretched out her great wings and batted her brother soundly about the shins. "Don't say that!" she hissed.

  Gideon only shrugged and stepped out of her way. His reference to the villain who had attempted with his three wives to subjugate the populace of this world was not made lightly. The man in question had been too quiet for too long. He had also, during Gideon's last perilous adventure, lost two of his spouses. He could not, then, be expected to take such a defeat without some thought of retaliation.

  Wamchu lived in the world's Lower Ground, called Choy by those who dared give it a name.

  Gideon was currently staying in the world's Middle Ground, called Chey by those who wished to distinguish it from the Lower and less hospitable Ground.

  Ivy lived on the highest level, the Upper Ground which was hardly ever referred to by name since, when you wanted others to know where you were going or where you were from, all you had to do was point up.

  The figure tripped into a cartwheel, landed on its back, and sat there shaking its spike-haired head. Its eyes blinked heavily. Its hands checked for broken limbs and contusions of a debilitating nature. Then it rose to its feet and walked the rest of the way.

  "I'll be damned," Gideon said. "It's Jimm."

  Tuesday groaned and turned to waddle into the tent, saw the ruins and groaned again, and sat on them. She was not Jimm Horrn's greatest fan, though he had on more than one occasion saved her life with what few combat skills he had. What she could not understand was how a young man like that could dare claim he made his living as a thief.

  Jimm took the slope of the rise slowly, puffing and blowing and generally making it clear to anyone who cared to look that he was out of breath, out of condition, and long since out of caring whether he delivered his message or not.

  Gideon shook his hand, Red butted him playfully, and the thief dropped to the grass, where he massaged his cheeks and forehead. "That's a long walk," he said. "Well, maybe not all that long a walk, but certainly you couldn't make it in five minutes, could you?" He smiled. "I have a message."

  Gideon nodded solemnly. "From Whale, I assume."

  "Right." Horrn toyed with the buttons of his leather vest. "I don't think you're going to like it, though. Well, if you're really bored, maybe you will. I don't know if I could ever be that bored, though."

  "Kill him," Tuesday said.

  Horrn looked alarmed.

  "She's kidding," Gideon assured him as he sat beside him and crossed his legs.

  "No I'm not," she insisted. "He's got bad news. Kill him before we find out what it is and have to do something about it."

  The young man gingerly brushed a hand through his sandy, spiky hair and cleared his throat. "I have to tell you. Whale says I have to tell you."

  "Then tell me," Gideon said.

  "I'll kill him, if you want," Tuesday said.

  "Shut up, Sis."

  "It's the Wamchus."

  Gideon considered the wisdom of his sister's sage advice, but the look on Horrn's face stopped him from taking out his bat and pounding the hairy spikes into the man's brain.

  "What," he said, "about them?"

  "Well," Jim said nervously, "Whale said something about getting a message from Above."

  "Funny you should mention that," Tuesday muttered.

  "He says that there's some kind of trouble up there."

  Tuesday made a sound remarkably like a duck imitating a goat's bleating. Red gave her a puzzled look.

  "He says the Wamchus have brought an army into the Scarred Mountains and are getting ready to take over the world."

  "Again?" Gideon said before his sister could.

  "Well, he hasn't actually taken it over before, you know," Jimm said stiffly. "Not really. That is, not all of it."

  "Jesus!" Gideon said suddenly, and leapt to his feet. "My god—Ivy!"

  Horrn nodded. "Yes. Whale says the message was from Ivy, and Ivy says that if you don't get up there and help her real soon, she's going to die and never see you again."

  Gideon whirled to face north, to face the mountain range on the horizon, a range so high its top was obscured by a permanent cap of clouds.

  "Tuesday," he said, "I have to go."

  "You were going anyway."

  "He was?" Horrn said, amazed.

  "He's in love."

  "He is?"

  "With Ivy."

  "Ivy?"

  Gideon's hands folded slowly into fists, and the wind whipped around him, roaring to his ears. Clouds from the south scudded darkly overhead, and there was the distinct touch of snow in the suddenly colder air. From the woods to the left came the mournful cry of a baying hound. From the city to the east came the high skirling wail of a dirge of pipes. And from the north he could hear the cries of men forging themselves into fighting machines, women weeping over the loss of lovers and children, animals shrieking in pain, birds circling over piles of bloody fresh carrion.

  Shit, he thought; all I wanted to do was mess around.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "If you think," Tuesday said grimly, "I'm going to fly all the way the hell up there just so you can save the life of some hussy, you've got another think coming."

  Gideon slipped down off Red's back and rubbed his palms together, massaged his nape, scratched at his chest, did four swift knee bends to loosen his legs, and looked reproachfully at his sister.

  "There was a wise man," he told her, "who once said that he who flinches from his duty will soon flinch from the blade of an avenging angel."

  Tuesday closed one eye and stared at him. "What wise man was that?"

  "I don't know. He's dead."

  "From taking his own
advice, no doubt."

  Gideon raised a sarcastic eyebrow and turned to examine the object of the duck's protest.

  It was the foot of the northern mountain range.

  Ordinarily, having climbed over mountain ranges, he would not have heeded his sister's threats. This, however, was not ordinary. Nor was it so much a range, he noted, as it was a single gigantic upheaval of Chey's northern frontier, which, at its plateau above, held another world at least as large as this one. It's going to be a bitch, he thought as he walked toward it, and remembered how he had gotten down it in the first place—by falling off the edge. But at that time, a certain residue of Whale's magic had enabled him to glide effortlessly through the air, and into Chey's largest inland sea.

  That he had survived the journey reasonably intact was less a commentary on Whale's powers than it was a sign that he didn't want to die.

  Now he had to go up.

  Straight up.

  There were no foothills, no gentle pastoral slopes he could take at his leisure, no trams or cable cars he could ride in and view the panorama spread so awesomely around him.

  Straight up.

  Two days after they had left Rayn and the plain, the grass and road ended and the range began.

  "I don't think it'll be too hard," he said after a while.

  "Then why didn't Jimm come with us?"

  "Because Whale needs him."

  "And why didn't Whale come with us?"

  "Because he's the mayor of Rayn and has duties to perform."

  Tuesday quacked, flapped her wings, and condemned with sour effectiveness the magician's progeny to a lifetime of baldness in a hatless desert.

  Gideon stepped back and looked up, one finger rubbing the side of his nose. He could see no plants or small trees to grasp, nor were there any nooks and crannies he might be able to use as natural foot- and handholds. He had no rope. He had no hot-air balloon. And, unlike his sister, he had no wings.

  "What do you think, Red?"

  Red lifted his head and appeared to study the situation, his left front hoof clawing an idle trench in the ground. Then, with a snort and a purr, he began walking northwestward, leaving the others no choice but to follow since he was also carrying the tent and food on his back.