"No need, Sire," Nevenskoi returned. He stood up straight and spoke without a trace of Rhazaullean accent. "It is scarred, as Giggy described."

"You do know him, then? You admit it?"

Nevenskoi nodded, almost with a sense of relief.

"And everything he said was true? You admit that too?"

Another mute confirmation.

"I see." For an instant Miltzin looked childishly disappointed, but rallied quickly to accuse, "Then you have lied to me from the start. You've always lied."

"About the small things, Sire. Not the large ones."

"You dare to qualify your guilt? You're a charlatan, a common fraud."

"But there is nothing common or fraudulent about Masterfire. The Sentient Fire is all that I have promised, and more."

"You've betrayed the trust of a king. That's more than a personal insult, it's a criminal act."

"Punish me as you see fit, Sire. Banish or imprison me, but don't extinguish Masterfire's light. A discovery of such importance-"

"Hold your tongue. I don't want to hear your voice. I don't want to see your face, either, so take yourself out of my sight. I'll decide presently how to deal with you. In the meantime, just get out." King Miltzin's eye fell on the ball of fire squatting tamely at its master's feet. "And take that green harlot with you!"

"COME, DECIDE QUICKLY," the pilot commanded in tolerable if impatient Vonahrish. "Which of you two is it to be?"

"I will go first," Karsler informed Luzelle. "If the machine supports my weight safely, then it will easily support yours."

She nodded reluctant agreement and watched as he ascended to take his seat. She would gladly have gone with him despite the horrifying fragility of the conveyance, but the gorgeflier was built to carry no more than one pa.s.senger at a time. The launching mechanism, reminiscent of a gigantic crossbow, had been readied by the pilot's trio of a.s.sistants; its two huge arms-each powered by the tension of a twisted fiber skein-pulled back by means of a cord attached to a windla.s.s, its great stock angled to loft the glider high.

There was not much time to worry about it. Karsler settled into his seat, the pilot signaled, and one of the a.s.sistants released the trigger. The bow responded too quickly for the eye to follow, and the glider shot out into the air above the Gorge of Vezhevska.

There was nothing holding the thing up. No balloon, no giant mythic bird, no magic. And yet it was not dropping straight out of the sky, as Luzelle had half expected. The pilot, through inspired manipulation of rudder and movable bits on the featherweight wings, was somehow holding his craft aloft and riding the air currents toward Rhazaulle. For now, at least.

She watched without blinking, almost without breathing, for another thirty seconds or so, after which the glider disappeared into the mists. She strained her eyes after it, but saw nothing. Karsler was gone, and a sense of uneasy gloom filled her. It was, she realized, one of the few times they had been truly separated since the afternoon he had dragged her fallen Quiet-fellow free of the mud, back in Aveshq. Her palanquin had carried them both on as far as the town of JaiGhul that day, and they had traveled more or less together ever since. Not that either had intended to do so, she reminded herself. Things had simply turned out that way.

Unlike Girays v'Alisante, they had not reached the tiny train station in time to catch the only train of the day. JaiGhul possessed nothing resembling an inn, so they had spent the night dozing fitfully on the hard wooden benches in the waiting room. The next day, reaching rain-drenched ZuLaysa, they had taken separate rooms at the same hotel in the thoroughly westernized section of town known as Little Sherreen. They had boarded the same train departing Central Station for the port of Rifzir, sailed the same ferry across the Straits of Aisuu, run consistently neck and neck northwest through the Emirate of Mekzaes by oxcart and canoe, and shared the services of the same native guide across the gra.s.sy Tribal Territories of H'fai.

Through it all they had never quite caught up with Girays, who never seemed to increase his twenty-four-hour lead, but did not lose it either. Likewise they had never quite returned to the moonlit moment of near intimacy that they had shared in Xoxo. Luzelle often thought of it. She would have let him kiss her that night and he had wanted to, she was sure of it, but he had declined to exploit her momentary weakness. Her lapse was unlikely to repeat itself; she was now quite prepared to rebuff indecorous advances with an ironclad propriety that would have won the Judge's wholehearted approval. But the opportunity to flaunt her virtue never arose. Karsler Stornzof did not try to kiss her; he did not even try to hold her hand.

At first she thought him high minded, and admired the strength of his principles, but later on the doubts began to infiltrate her mind. What if she had simply been wrong about that moonlit exchange? What if he had held back not through principle, but rather through preference? Perhaps he found those pouty red lips of hers gross and repellent. Nonsense, he had explained himself clearly that night. But what if he had simply been trying to spare her feelings?

The doubts persisted and pestered. Often when he looked at her they subsided, but never for long, and presently she began to wonder if she could make him try to kiss her if she worked at it. She wouldn't actually let him, of course; it would not do to cheapen herself. She only wanted a little rea.s.surance. But not at Karsler Stornzof's expense. It wasn't fair or even decent to mislead him, so perhaps she should just let him kiss her. That might be the truly right thing to do....

But she never found the right moment to perform the experiment, for the guide was with them night and day every step of the way through the Tribal Territories, and she did not relish an audience. And when they crossed the border into the Dhrevate of Immeen matters worsened, for Immeen was one of the great bastions of Iyecktori purity, a land wherein women adjudged guilty of immodesty-a term open to broad interpretation-were publicly stripped and whipped. And therefore, as they made their way north into chillier climes over increasingly rugged terrain, she attempted no flirtation.

Now, however, they were leaving Immeen for the colder, harsher, but legally looser land of Rhazaulle, where the Gifted Iyecktor wielded little official influence. The River Vezhevska marked the border between the two nations, and the newfangled gorgeflier carrying them across eliminated a two-day journey to the nearest accessible fording place at the base of the cliffs. The gorgeflier offered tremendous advantages, offset by the possibility of sudden death.

The duration of the flight itself, she had been told, was something under ten minutes, depending on the whim of the winds. Ten minutes across, ten minutes back, a few extra minutes thrown in for positioning of the glider for relaunch on the far side, and the little craft should reemerge from those mists within the half hour, a.s.suming that all had gone well-a considerable a.s.sumption.

Luzelle scanned the skies. No sign of the gorgeflier, and surely the half hour had elapsed. She glanced at the pilot's a.s.sistants, who, having rewound the cord to re-flex the two great arms of the vast crossbow, now lounged around smoking their wide-mouthed wooden pipes. They displayed no uneasiness, so everything must be all right, probably, but she could not banish the mental image of the tiny glider suddenly losing alt.i.tude, plunging from great heights to dash itself to pieces on the rocks below.

She shivered a little, cold despite the protection of the heavy, musty-smelling parka and fur-lined gloves that she had acquired from a tribesman of H'fai in exchange for her penknife and a box of matches. She had hated to let the knife and matches go, but would have hated even more doing without an overcoat, for the air at these high alt.i.tudes was pure but perennially bitter, even in the long-delayed springtime. Back in Vonahr the freshness of spring would by now have given way to the languor of early summer, but here in this scoliotic spine of northern mountains known in Immeen as "Hul Noveez" and called the "Bruzhois" in Rhazaulle, winter had scarcely loosened its grip. The jagged peaks were armored in ice and likely to remain so.

Her breath misted before her face, and she hugged herself, rubbing her arms and stamping her feet. The native Immeenis, she noted with envy, went gloveless and wore their long vests unb.u.t.toned over homespun shirts, evidently deeming the weather balmy. They seemed very much at ease, and she heard them laughing among themselves over some incomprehensible joke or other. For a moment she wondered if they were laughing at her obvious discomfort, but quickly dismissed the notion. They could not be laughing at her because they were scarcely aware of her. To them she was simply a piece of luggage belonging to a Grewzian overcommander. This perception, demeaning though it was, actually worked to her advantage. Had she traveled on her own, a woman unveiled and unattached in Iyecktori Immeen, the natives would have taken her for a prost.i.tute and regarded her as fair game, natural target of insult, abuse, and worse. But the property of a foreign officer was another matter altogether, and n.o.body had offered so much as an unpleasant word. She did not much care to think what might have befallen her in Immeen, but for the presence of Karsler Stornzof.

Where was that glider? It should certainly have returned by now. She paced back and forth, worrying. The men ignored her. Just as she was steeling herself to attempt an interrogation, the gorgeflier emerged from the mists, glided smoothly down onto the snowy flat expanse topping the cliff, slid a distance on its runners, and eventually slowed to a stop. The pilot got out.

Long before the glider halted, the a.s.sistants were on their feet and plowing toward it through the snow. Running ropes through a couple of lugs attached to the light body, they hauled the craft back to the launching device and positioned it with care. The pilot reboarded, then looked at Luzelle and beckoned.

"You come now," he commanded.

She hesitated. The glider perched atop the crossbow was pale and fragile as a giant dead moth, and probably just about as reliable. She wanted nothing to do with it.

"Now," he insisted. "Come, it is safe."

She was not aware that she shook her head.

"You do what you like, then," he told her. "But either way, I keep the money. It is mine now."

Out of the corner of her eye she noted the a.s.sistants watching and grinning, and that decided her. Her chin came up and she advanced with an air of grim resolution that only broadened their smiles. Somebody helped her to board and she settled into the pa.s.senger seat, hoping they would launch the gorgeflier before she could change her mind.

They obliged.

The trigger snapped, the windla.s.s claws released their grasp, the cord blurred, and the glider shot sickeningly into s.p.a.ce, the force of its sudden ascent pressing Luzelle back hard against the seat. Her humiliating squeal was drowned in the rush of the wind. Eyes screwed shut, she clung to the horribly flimsy body of the craft.

For the better part of two minutes she remained paralyzed, conscious of little beyond the blast of the freezing wind in her face and the nauseating sudden dips, tilts, and accelerations of the gorgeflier. Presently curiosity overcame terror, and she opened her eyes to gaze down through mists at the River Vezhevska, rushing along the bottom of its rocky gorge hundreds of feet below. The snow-clad mountains rose all around her, their grim grandeur a sight to remember for a lifetime. Soon she began to admire the skill with which the pilot tweaked the movable bits of his craft to exploit every current of air. A new and tentative exhilaration stirred to life within her, and by the time the glider started its descent toward the snowfield on the far side of the river, she was almost sorry to see the trip end.

The glider's belly b.u.mped snow. The white scenery flashed by, and then the craft gradually slowed to a stop. Within moments a couple of bearded laborers were there to haul the glider back to a stretch of flat clifftop s.p.a.ce, site of a great crossbow identical to its counterpart on the Immeeni side, and of three very stoutly constructed wooden buildings. As she drew near, Luzelle saw that one of the buildings sported the big painted sign of a commercial establishment, but she could not read the Rhazaullean print. A livery stable of some sort, she hoped.

The glider stopped again. Pilot and pa.s.senger alighted onto slick, hard-packed snow. Luzelle saw Karsler coming toward her, and the exhilaration born of the recent flight heightened. He had waited for her. He had sacrificed the chance of a half-hour lead-not much, but conceivably significant-and he had waited. He was smiling at her, and she had to suppress the unsuitable impulse to run to him.

"I am gratified to see you safe and well," Karsler declared.

She had grown accustomed to that formality, which no longer struck her as quaint or cold.

"I was concerned for you," he added.

"And I for you," she returned, resisting the urge to reach out a hand and touch him. "I still am. I'm very glad to see you, but you shouldn't have waited. We're competing in a race. Remember what you said-"

"I have not forgotten," he a.s.sured her. "Nor have my convictions altered. In this case, however, I was obliged to wait. It seems that the proprietor of this establishment here"-his gesture encompa.s.sed the building with the incomprehensible sign-"has at this time but a single sleigh available for hire. Aware of your approach, he refused to rent the sleigh to me alone, but insisted upon awaiting your arrival in order to collect a double fare."

"I see." She nodded, a little disappointed, but then the thought struck, And how did he know of my approach? And how did he know of my approach? Of course, the pilot might have blabbed. That probably explained it. She chanced a look into Karsler's eyes, which revealed nothing beyond the glory of their color. Of course, the pilot might have blabbed. That probably explained it. She chanced a look into Karsler's eyes, which revealed nothing beyond the glory of their color.

"We must share the sleigh," he continued. "It is the only arrangement the owner is willing to consider."

"Then we must," she murmured philosophically.

"He will furnish us with a driver."

"Oh." She still would not be alone with him.

The proprietor approached. He was a burly, bearded mountaineer, barbarically clad in leathers trimmed with some sort of s.h.a.ggy fur, and speaking a very little broken Vonahrish. The transaction was quickly concluded, money moved, sleigh and driver appeared. The vehicle was old and battered, but the runners were sharp and gleaming. The two horses that drew it were likewise old and battered. The driver, squat and hirsute, eyed Karsler inscrutably, and Luzelle recalled with a slight shock of alarm that Grewzland and Rhazaulle were presently at war. According to the latest newspaper reports she had been able to get her hands on, the Grewzian Northern Expeditionary Force was marching north on the Rhazaullean capital of Rialsq, pushing hard to beat the spring thaws that would soon transform the land into an unnavigable bog persisting for weeks to come. This local entrepreneur's willingness to trade with a uniformed Grewzian officer implied certain possibilities: that the Rhazaullean was utterly venal, or else that this section of the Bruzhoi Mountains was already subjugated and occupied by Grewzian forces. Or very likely both. The gorgeflier's landing field lay within a day's journey of the TransBruzh, the ancient road winding its way through the mountains to link the southern lowlands and northern highlands of Rhazaulle. Not at all unlikely that the invaders would have moved at once to seize that vital artery.

She would know soon enough. She was about to descend the Bruzhois by way of the TransBruzh, provided the road remained open to civilian travelers. Thereafter the course curved northwest toward the Chieftainship of Ukizik, the next designated stop along the Grand Ellipse. Ukizik, a tiny independent tribal territory of northern aborigines occupying a section of Upper Rhazaulle's northwestern coastline, maintained a strict neutrality acknowledged by all civilized nations, even Grewzland. The requirements of the race included no Rhazaullean pa.s.sport stamp-this omission representing Mad Miltzin's rare concession to the realities of war. The shortest route to Ukizik, however, cut straight through the combat zone.

The pa.s.sengers climbed in, and Luzelle snuggled down under a couple of ratty but warm fur lap robes. The driver plied his whip, and the sleigh swung off smoothly over the snow. Luzelle twisted around in her seat to cast one last look back at the gorgeflier. She wanted another flight, she realized to her own surprise. Maybe someday the chance would come to do it again.

The Vezhevska Gorge receded into the distance. The sleigh slid on along a steeply pitched path too narrow to qualify as a road. Black-green conifers, their branches freighted with snow, loomed on both sides, walling the world from view. A little mist smudged the cold air, and the light filtered down from a softly somber sky.

They traveled the tree-lined pa.s.sage throughout the rest of the day, and in the early evening reached the TransBruzh-a winding, ancient way, white with compressed snow that would not completely melt away until the end of summer. They traveled easily along the road for another three hours or more. Although the snow still lay everywhere, the days had already grown long in these northern lat.i.tudes. When the skies were beginning to darken at last, they paused for the night at a cone-shaped warmstop, one of the countless tiny emergency shelters scattered across the length and breadth of Rhazaulle. The warmstop, bare of all save firepit and fuel, offered neither comfort nor privacy, but it was free. The departing tenant's sole responsibility was replenishment of the woodpile, but that obligation was sacred.

They spent a cramped and smoky night sleeping on a floor of packed dirt covered with such few blankets, lap robes, and heavy garments as they had brought with them. Luzelle lay with her head pillowed on her leather valise. Despite all discomfort she slept soundly. Karsler and the driver chopped wood at dawn, and the journey resumed. The TransBruzh descended at a sharp grade, snaking its way down the northern slopes of the mountains into a region of gentler foothills. As the day advanced the sleigh hastened north, until it came in the late afternoon to the summit of a sharp rise overlooking a shallow valley blessed with a small jewel of a lake, and there it stopped abruptly.

Jolted from light slumber by the sudden halt, Luzelle opened her eyes and looked around her. A pale weak sun hung low in the western sky. The steepest peaks of the Bruzhois rose at her back. Around and before her rolled gentler forested hills. The frozen lake in the valley below was peppered with the symmetrical round holes cut by anglers, but n.o.body was out there fishing now. Beside the lake stood a village straight out of some old Rhazaullean fairy tale, complete with gabled roofs and fanciful wooden gingerbread. She would have liked to examine the village at closer range, but the opportunity to do so was unlikely to arise. The road down into the valley was blocked by a squad of Grewzian soldiers.

21.

ONE OF THE SOLDIERS barked out something in authoritative Rhazaullean. The driver answered at conciliatory length. Before he completed his explanation, if such it was, Karsler calmly cut in to inquire in Grewzian, "What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant?" barked out something in authoritative Rhazaullean. The driver answered at conciliatory length. Before he completed his explanation, if such it was, Karsler calmly cut in to inquire in Grewzian, "What is the meaning of this, Lieutenant?"

Taking in the speaker's grey uniform and overcommander's insignia, the lieutenant stiffened to attention, saluted, and replied in a noticeably altered tone, "Orders, sir. These hills are full of Rhazaullean terrorists, and the villagers down there shelter them. We've orders to halt all traffic."

"I see. You will allow me to pa.s.s, however."

"Yes, Overcommander. Sir, if you go to join the General Froschl, you will find the Thirteenth Division presently camped southwest of-"

"I do not seek the Thirteenth," Karsler stated. "I travel north toward Ukizik. I trust our troops have suppressed local resistance between this point and the River Xana?"

"For the most part, sir. Forgive me, sir, I do not understand. Ukizik, did you say? The main body of the Rhazaullean force stands between ourselves and-" The lieutenant broke off as comprehension dawned. He stared. "You are the Overcommander Stornzof."

Karsler inclined his head.

"The great race takes you to Ukizik. I myself have wagered upon your victory," the lieutenant confided, enthusiasm overcoming iron military decorum. "Many of us here have so wagered, sir."

A subdued mutter of agreement arose among his followers. None of the soldiers ventured to speak aloud, but their faces shone with excitement.

They looked so young, Luzelle noted with surprise. Many of these Grewzian infantrymen could not have been above eighteen or nineteen years of age. Boys, really. And they looked so wholesome with their smooth well-scrubbed faces, their neatly trimmed fair hair, and their eyes alight with admiration for the famous Overcommander Stornzof. Exemplary sons, brothers, sweethearts of girls back in Grewzland. Hard to believe that they could be dangerous.

"Men, I will try to justify your confidence," Karsler promised. "You may help me to do so by clearing my path."

"We'll do all we can to a.s.sist you, Overcommander. An armed detachment will escort you to the Xana. You will make it to the far side of the valley before sundown." The lieutenant paused, then added with visible discomfort, "But the two civilians-the driver and the lady-I'm afraid we can't allow them to pa.s.s."

"I will vouch for them personally."

"No exceptions. Sorry, Overcommander. Orders, sir."

"I cannot deprive these two of transportation."

"No need, sir. Leave the sleigh. We've a few first-rate horses."

It was happening again, Luzelle realized. Once again Karsler Stornzof was receiving preferential treatment because of his nationality, and it was grossly unfair, but there wasn't a thing she could do other than try to counterfeit good sportsmanship. He was looking at her, concern and compunction clear in his eyes, and she could only shrug with spurious unconcern.

"Fortunes of war," she remarked lightly. "My turn for good luck, next time around."

"I should like to think so," he returned.

She did not doubt that he meant it. He was looking at her as if he wanted to say more, but she did not wish to prolong the scene, and so she told him with a smile, "On your way, then. Don't worry, I'll catch up with you sooner than you expect. And then, before you know what's. .h.i.t you, I'll pull ahead."

"There is the spirit I admire." He did not return her smile. He hesitated briefly and then continued, "But I must ask you to listen to me now. You will not want to hear what I have to say, but I must speak."

"What is it?" she asked uneasily.

"This obstacle that confronts you now is like no other that you have yet encountered. It is not to be conquered or circ.u.mvented. My countrymen will permit no civilian traffic to pa.s.s along this road until such time as the region has been restored to order. Should you attempt to bypa.s.s the roadblock by way of the woods, and a patrol discovers you, you will be executed as a spy. I should not be there to intercede in your behalf, and nothing would save you. You are an intrepid, resourceful woman, but you cannot overcome the Grewzian army. The Grand Ellipse race means much to you, but it is not worth dying for."

"I've no intention of dying just yet."

"I am certain you do not intend it, but the danger is very real, and it is for that reason that I urge you at this time to consider the possibility of retreat."

"Retreat?"

"Your driver would willingly carry you back the way you came. I would suggest a return to Immeen, which is neutral, there to await the cessation of hostilities. Or if you will not wait, at least you might chart an alternative route that does not intersect our army's advance."

Luzelle sat silent for a thoughtful moment, and finally answered, "Karsler, if anyone but you offered such advice, I'd be angry and suspicious of his motives. But I know your concern is genuine, and I'm not so blind that I can't see the truth in what you say. I won't believe that it's the whole truth or the only truth, though. You said just now that the road will reopen when the region has been restored to order. How long will that take?"

"I am in no position to judge."

"Well-could it happen in the next twenty-four hours?"

"That is not entirely impossible. Nor is it impossible that it will not happen in the next twenty-four days."

"Oh, I can't let myself believe that. I'm going to wait here, for a while at least. Something will happen, something will change, it has to. Because I am going to get past your Grewzian army. I'll find a way. I am going on to Ukizik, and then Obran, and I am going to win the Grand Ellipse."

"Seeing and hearing you now, I could almost believe it. Yes-I can believe. Good luck, Luzelle. Be careful, and please consider my advice."

"I will consider it. Until next time, Karsler-and there will will be a next time." be a next time."

"Until then." Once again Karsler looked as if he wanted to say more. Instead he stepped out of the sleigh and addressed the lieutenant, switching back to the Grewzian language. "Have someone escort this lady to a safe location. And make it clear to the driver that he is not to abandon her."

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant loosed a harsh stream of patently menacing Rhazaullean.

Literally cringing, the driver nodded and muttered.

The lieutenant spoke again, and one of his men stepped forward. Men? A boy, this one, surely no more than eighteen, and looking years younger than that, with his peach-bloom skin and gilt curls.