Now, I must say that I’ve been pleased to be making your acquaintance, Maggie. You’re a fine-looking woman, and I’m glad you’re a Flynn. But you do have your mother’s way about you. I sometimes think my brother drowned himself just to escape your mother’s vile temper. And if I know you, you’re probably so mad right now, I could fry an egg on your forehead. But someday, maybe you’ll thank me for leaving.
With no apologies,
Thomas
Maggie placed a holoprojector cube on the floor, then went to Orick’s pack, began throwing it together.
The holoprojector flared to life, and an image appeared—a dronon Vanquisher with a dusty black carapace and glistening amber wings. The insect-like creature squatted on four hind legs, and its forward battle arms were crossed on the ground. The dronon’s head was to the ground, so that his forward eyes looked at the dust while his backward eye cluster pointed upward. It was the dronon stance of obeisance.
“Oh, great Golden, admired by all,” a translator said in English while the dronon’s mouthfingers clicked over the voice drums beneath its jaws. “I bear messages of congratulations from the Tincin and Tlinini, Lords of the Fourth Swarm; and from Kininic and Nickit, Lords of the Fifth Swarm; and from In and Tlik, Lords of the Third Swarm; and from Cintkin and Kintiniklintit, Lords of the Seventh Swarm. All of these speak their adoration, and announce their intent to challenge you and the great Gallen O’Day to combat for the right to rule the Sixth Swarm of Dronon.”
The image faded, and Everynne stood in the creature’s place. “Maggie, I wanted to give you and Gallen time to prepare, to rest. But that time has been cut short. I received this message, and immediately afterward registered a power fluctuation to the Gate of the World. The Lords of the Seventh Swarm are coming, and they know you are on Fale. They may be there already. Flee.”
Orick’s heart began beating hard. He had imagined that in time, Golden Queens from within the swarm that Gallen and Maggie nominally controlled would grow and demand to battle for the right to govern, but he had not considered that lords from the other swarms of Dronon would seek them out.
“They’re all coming for you,” Orick muttered, in shock. “The dronon attack only those that they believe are weak. They must think that you and Gallen are the weakest lords of all.”
“We are,” Maggie said. And she handed him his pack.
* * *
Chapter 10
After notifying Orick of the danger, Maggie rushed to her room, then took off her nightgown and dressed in the burnt-orange-colored robes of a Lord of Technicians and donned a pale green mask to hide her face. Gallen threw her nightgown in her bags.
After she dressed, Maggie stood for a moment, trying to wake, thinking furiously. She wondered where Thomas might have gone. Her uncle seemed willing to cause her any amount of trouble. She doubted that he would willingly betray her—his notions of the duties to kin would extend too far for that-but Maggie knew too well that what he was willing to tell and what he would be forced to tell were two different things.
“Quickly,” Gallen said as he took Maggie’s hand and they rushed out the door. “My mantle is picking up dronon radio signals. The Lords of the Swarm are heading for the city.”
Orick was in the hall. Gallen did not slow for him, but as they hurried down the corridors, Gallen kept watching down side passages, as if hoping to find Thomas wandering the halls. “That old fool will cost us dear,” Gallen murmured. “The dronon will have the city in an hour.”
In two minutes they were on the roof of the city, where half a dozen fliers were parked. Gallen rushed to them, spoke his name and commanded the fliers to open.
Only one of the fliers obeyed his command—a four-man flier. Maggie jumped in the pilot’s seat, while Orick scrambled to fit into a space entirely too small for a bear of his bulk.
“Hurry! They’ve reached the city,” Gallen shouted. As if to emphasize his point, emergency sirens began whining all across the city. Orick squeezed in, filling two seats.
“Head north at normal air speed. We don’t want to attract attention,” Maggie commanded the flier’s on-board intelligence while Gallen took out his map and looked for the coordinates to the gate to Tremonthin. The flier lurched into the air, and Maggie looked down.
An army of dronon Vanquishers was marching in the night, carrying lights before them. They churned and seethed, like giant ants seen from a distance. They had nearly reached the city. Fortunately, the entrance to the Gate of the World was too small to allow them to bring in their own heavy fliers, and Maggie sighed in relief.
They surged upward for ten minutes, then slowed. In that brief time, the flier had traveled a thousand miles, and in moments they were on the ground beside an ancient metal arch in a northern desert. The rocks stood out in sharp relief all around them, and in the distance, Maggie could hear wild dogs barking. The night was warm, yet she shivered.
Maggie commanded the on-board intelligence of the flier to erase its memories of this trip, then sent it back to the city, arching up toward a high cloud whose edges were silvered in the moonlight.
Maggie stood breathing the air of Fale for a moment as if she were readying to plunge into cold water, then pulled out the key to the Gate of the World and began entering codes. The air under the gate shivered a brilliant magenta.
“Remember,” Gallen said. “We are traveling in disguise. Do not mention our names.”
Maggie took her bags, handed Gallen the key, then walked into the magenta light. She felt the familiar sense of being lifted impossibly high into the air, and in a moment she was standing in a field yellow with ripe wheat, white with the bitter-smelling flowers of wild carrots. Tall daisies with beer-colored hearts swayed in the wind. They were in the folds of a valley, and on the hill behind her, golden oaks swayed.
Maggie could hear the distant sound of a marketplace, the cries of street vendors, the bawling of goats. She glanced over her shoulder. A light building rose above the oaks not two hundred yards away—a curious temple the color of the wheat, with five spires rising high above the hill. Banners flew from each spire, red with images of twin orange suns. Along the parapets of the temple walked a man, a broad-shouldered man in a red tunic, with thick braids of golden hair. Maggie studied him a moment, vaguely distressed by his appearance, until she realized that the man could be no less than nine feet tall.
White ghosts blurred into existence at Maggie’s side, as if emerging up from the grass, and suddenly Orick and Gallen stood beside her.
They stood for a moment, looking about, and Orick growled, pointed to Maggie’s left. On the next hill, a dronon’s walking hive city squatted on six giant legs, like some great black tick. The incendiary gun turrets that bristled on its back were unmanned, and had in fact been stripped off, but the red lights at the hatches glowed like squinting eyes.
Maggie found herself suddenly wary. The hive city was uninhabited as far as she could see. Yet it served as an unsavory reminder that this world had been under dronon control only days before.
“Where do we go now?” Orick asked, looking about.
“To find the Lady Ceravanne,” Gallen said uncertainly. There was a depression in the hill, a hollow where someone had perhaps mined rocks. Gallen went to it, hunching down beneath the shelter of an odd, twisted green stump to get out of sight of the temple walls. The others followed. Gallen reached into his bags and brought out his map of Tremonthin. It showed two large continents near each other, and from the map Maggie could see that they were on the eastern coast of the northern continent, but the map did not show cities, for it was far older than cities, so it showed only images of the approximate terrain and the nearest gates. Maggie studied the map. “Ceravanne could be anywhere, thousands of miles from here.”
“The dronon can’t have left more than a week ago,” Gallen pointed out. “A Tharrin will be precious rare on this world. If Ceravanne is near, perhaps others will know of her.”
But Maggie was not so certain. This wo
rld was nearly as backward as her home on Tihrglas. She looked up the hill and noticed that the stump above them had a faded rope tied to it, with a small leather purse attached. She wondered if it had been left there on purpose. Perhaps there was a letter inside, bearing instructions. She began climbing toward it.
Gallen sighed heavily. “I want to travel secretly,” he said, hunching lower into the grass, “stay on back roads and sleep in the woods.”
“And if I had your face, I’d keep it hidden, too,” Orick jested, trying to lighten Gallen’s mood. “Any sack would do fine.”
“The young man has a fine face,” a strange whispering voice said. The voice was almost a groan, or the yawn of a waking man. And most startling of all was that it came from the stump!
Maggie looked higher, and saw that the tree stump was staring down at her. The creature that watched them was the most amazing thing she had ever seen: it had deep brown eyes set high up on the uppermost ridge of its long, narrow head, and leaves crowned its top. Its long arms and legs each had many knobby growths, so that no two joints were at the same height. And it had been holding its hands up toward the sun as if it were praying, or warming itself. Each long hand had many fingers. Its mouth was a leathery crack at the bottom of its head, and two holes in its face might have been a nose. But Maggie could see no ears on the creature, and it wore no clothes. She could see no sign of sex organs or an anus.
“Soooh, you have come at last,” the creature said slowly. “But I am patient, as she is patient.”
“She?” Gallen said. “You mean Ceravanne?”
The green man did not answer, but instead looked down in concentration. It twisted its right leg, pulling many toes from deep in the rocky yellow soil. Then, with equally great effort, it pulled its left leg free from the earth. Its skin looked like forest-green leather, and the three-pronged leaves on its head rustled as if blown in the wind. “What are you doing?” Orick demanded, as if he were questioning a young rascal.
“Drinking rainwater, tasting sun,” the green man answered.
“And who are you?” Orick asked.
“I have no name, but you may call me Bock, for I am of the race of Bock, and we are all one.”
The green man swiveled, and began walking slowly down the gully on long legs that covered a great distance. In two steps it was staring at them in the hollow.
“So, you have taken shelter?” the Bock addressed them. “Sitting with backs to the wall, facing out.” It seemed to consider this for a moment. “That is a human trait.” Maggie had never noticed it before, but it was indeed a human trait to take such a stance, one that humans shared with bears.
“Aye,” Gallen said, climbing out of the hollow, eyeing the Bock.
“You speak strangely,” the Bock said. “Were you born speaking this way, or did you learn to speak by listening to your parents?”
Maggie had never heard of anyone who had not been born knowing how to talk. “I was born speaking thus,” Gallen muttered. He rested his free hand on his dagger.
“Good,” the Bock said, his strange eyes widening at Gallen’s threatening action. “Then you are not from feral human stock, but have had some genetic upgrading. I see that you also wear heavy clothes, which speaks of a strong enclosure quotient.”
“A what?” Gallen asked.
“Humans of most subspecies seek enclosure,” the Bock said in slow, even words. “They house themselves in cavelike enclosures at all opportunities, and drape their bodies in bits of hide or vegetation. The amount of covering they desire is a guide to their enclosure quotient, and this can help me make a judgment as to how human the specimen is.”
“You mean that different people want to wear different amounts of clothes?” Gallen asked.
“It varies by subspecies of human,” the Bock said.
“That’s mad,” Gallen said. “We wear clothes to protect ourselves from the weather.”
“You are a Lord Protector,” the Bock said, half a question. “The weather is warm. Why don’t you take off your clothes? You don’t need them here.”
“I would rather keep them on,” Gallen said. “I need the hood, to hide my identity.”
“No one will recognize you,” the Bock assured, putting his long green hand on Gallen’s shoulder, pulling back his robe to expose flesh, and Maggie counted nine fingers on that hand. “Here on Tremonthin, you are unknown. You may show your face freely. You may show your whole body freely.”
The Bock’s actions were strange and frightening, but Maggie could also sense that it meant no harm. Its touch was not rough or lecherous. It seemed instead to be—perplexed by Gallen. Curious about him, and totally alien.
Gallen stared up at the creature, shrugged his shoulder away from it. “Why are you so intent on taking off my clothes?”
“Why are you so intent to keep them on? Does the thought of your nakedness frighten you?” Gallen didn’t answer, and the Bock whispered, “What kind of fear must you possess to be a Lord Protector, to feel so threatened that you must kill all the time?”
“Gallen’s not afraid of anyone, you green galoot,” Orick said.
“It’s all right,” Gallen said, studying the Bock.
“Soooh, if you are unafraid,” the Bock said slowly, “take off some of your clothes. You wear your weapons as casually as another man wears his belt. Take them off, and your robes also.”
Gallen smiled up at the creature’s challenging tone. He unbuckled his knife belt and dropped his weapons, watching the Bock carefully. He then pulled off his robe and mantle, stripped off his tunic so that he wore only his hose and tight black boots. The Bock made a gasping noise as if in approval. “Some subspecies on this planet could not divest themselves of clothes or weapons so easily,” he said. “Their enclosure quotient is too high. But if you are truly courageous, you will come with me now into the marketplace, unarmed.”
He turned and began walking uphill. Gallen didn’t move, and the Bock reached back and took his hand, leading Gallen. “No one will harm you. You will be in the company of a Bock.”
He led Gallen forward, and Orick growled. “What about us?”
“Stay here,” the Bock said. “We will return shortly. Gallen should come naked into this world.”
“Wait one minute!” Maggie said. “I don’t know if I like the idea of you taking off with that-thing! Leaving us alone!”
Gallen looked up at the Bock quizzically, then glanced back at Maggie. “I … don’t think he means us any harm,” Gallen said.
“No,” the Bock said. “We wish no harm, to you or anyone else.”
“But is it safe for us to be alone here?” Maggie asked.
“No one disturbs the temple grounds by daylight,” the Bock said. “I have been here for weeks, and only the priests come into this field. But people like you would best seek shelter at night.” The Bock took Gallen’s hand and led him off up the hill and into the trees.
Maggie and Orick waited in the little hollow until one hour passed, then two. Heavy clouds rolled in. Still, Gallen did not return with the Bock.
Near sunset it began to rain, a light warm drizzle. Minute by minute, Maggie began to worry that perhaps the Bock was not as harmless as he seemed, that perhaps he had set some kind of a trap. He’d said he would be back before dark.
As darkness drew on, a huge gonging rang out, and the cries of street vendors in the village over the hill went silent just as the rain stopped. The thick gray clouds created a false darkness. It seemed somehow spooky the way the vendors all stopped crying out so suddenly.
Whenever Maggie mentioned the time, Orick had encouraging words to say. “Gallen will be back shortly. He won’t get lost. Nothing bad has happened.” But at last, Orick admitted, “I don’t know what Gallen’s thinking, but he should be back by now!”
“Shall we search the city?” Maggie asked. “You can probably track Gallen by scent.”
Orick nodded uncertainly, began sniffing. Maggie bundled up Gallen’s packs, wrapping them a
ll in his robe. They climbed over the hill, to the back of the temple, walked around it, and looked out over a large bay filled with sailing ships. Tall, elegant stone buildings surrounded the bay, and the nearer hills were filled with homes made of fine wood. Twin suns had just set golden in the distance. The air carried the smoke of evening fires and the tempting odor of food cooking, heavy with the scent of ginger and curry. Night was coming quickly.
Overhead, the clouds were whipping away, and ragged patches of evening sky came into view, showing a small scattering of stars.
“Don’t worry,” Orick said softly. “I’m sure I’ll find Gallen soon.”
Maggie shook her head violently. “Don’t give me that. Something’s wrong. Gallen wouldn’t just leave.”
“Perhaps that Bock creature has him jumping through hoops somewhere,” Orick said.
“I don’t understand Gallen sometimes,” Maggie said as if to herself, “running off unarmed with some strange … thing, on a world he’s never set foot on.”
“Och, he’s a young man,” Orick said. “You have to let them act the part of fools—you couldn’t stop them anyway.”
A wind was blowing in off the sea, carrying an evening chill. Orick stood just beside Maggie, close enough so that she could feel his body heat. She trembled slightly, stroked his back.
Down the street several blocks, a man turned a corner, walking toward them, but when he noticed them, he immediately turned back, ducking behind a house.
Orick licked his lips, raised his nose in the air to taste the scent. Maggie started forward, but Orick stopped her. “Wait a minute, darling,” he whispered. “You had better strap on one of Gallen’s swords and a dagger. I’ve got a cold feeling that an unarmed person wouldn’t last long on these streets at night.”
Maggie reached into the bag, pulled out Gallen’s vibro-blade, felt it begin to activate as it registered her body heat on the handle. She strapped on a knife belt for good measure.
Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2) Page 13
