chapteR 17.

^1 arrod's impersonation was declared an unqualified success, but the cost was higher than he had expected.

His return to his own form left him weak, and all his joints ached. His ride back to the Outpost was slow and painful. He was fortunate in that no bullyboys lurked in his path: he would have been easy pickings. He spent the next two days in bed, and the aches and pains took a good sennight before they entirely disappeared. One thing was obvious to him: good as the disguise was, he could not afford to a.s.sume it too often.

Accordingly, he sent word to Moresby Yarrow to collect and hold the materials that he was acquiring and to a.s.semble the means to transport them beyond the Upper Causeway all at one time- He did not know what he would face when it came to building his monument, but he knew that he could not afford to get there and find that his body could not handle the power needed.

On the appointed day, Jarrod rode into the town in the predawn dark and tethered his horse outside Grey- gor's house. Half an hour later, the architect came down and strapped on a saddlebag. He disappeared into the house again and when he reappeared he was carrying a large, white cat. He spoke soothingly to the horse and then draped the cat carefully across the spot where the neck emerged from the shoulders.

"Now you just stay limp while I get into the saddle,"

177.

he said. "You'll be quite safe as long as the horse stays still."

Jarrod-the-cat wasn't convinced- He could smell the horse's nervousness. If the animal turned skittish, he had no way of hanging on except by digging in his claws and that, he knew, was a prescription for disaster. He felt and heard Greygor clamber into place. The horse, mercifully, held its stance. It was a good thing, Jarrod thought, that the yard was only half a mile away.

Greygor's hand stroked his back. "I'm afraid you'll have to stay where you are," the architect said. "There isn't as much room back here as I thought there would be."

Jarrod braced himself as the uncomfortable and un- dignified ride began. The one good thing was that, with Gregor keeping the reins short there wasn't much like- lihood that the horse would drop its head and dump him onto the cobbled street. He prayed that they would not break into a trot. The swaying of the cobblestones beneath him was bad enough. He shut his eyes and re- signed himself,

It might have been only half a mile, but the trip seemed to take half a lifetime. The yard, when they fi- nally reached it, was a lamplit bustle. It would have been very large to the full-sized Jarrod, but to Jarrod- the-cat it was vast and dangerous. It was filled with stamping draft horses harnessed to long wagons filled with timber. Other wagons were weighed down with sackcloth-covered shapes. Roof slates or bricks, Jarrod surmised as he was lifted off the horse and set down upon the ground.

The view was terrifying. It was one thing looking up at Greygor's furniture, but quite another to face this prospect. The furniture, at least, stayed still. Flaring torches threw unreliable, shifting patches of light. Large men with big, hard boots lumbered around cursing and

178 spitting. Horses moved restlessly, wheels creaked omi- nously. The combined noise was appalling. Orders were shouted, iron-shod hooves rang, bits jingled and, in the distance, there was the hideous barking of a dog. There was only one sensible thing to do. He turned, reared up on his hind legs, and reached for Greygor's knee with his front paws.

"Oh, we want to be carried do we," the architect said with a grin. "What a lazy great beast you are."

Jarrod found the tone of voice offensive. He was not accustomed to being talked to like a recalcitrant child, but he was grateful when the man picked him up and tucked him under his arm.

Greygor led the horse across the yard toward a wagon loaded with kegs. Jarrod, eyesight uncommonly keen, saw that Yarrow was sitting up on the box beside the driver.

"The best of the morning to you, Moresby," Greygor called out as they got close.

"And to you, friend Chatham, and to Your Excel- lence," Yarrow replied, and ducked his head to Jarrod with an ironic smirk.

'Take the cat, would you," Greygor said. "It's b.l.o.o.d.y heavy."

Yarrow complied and Jarrod found himself plumped down on the seat,

"What have you got in the back?" Greygor asked, jerking his head in that direction.

"Ale. The men'll get it after they've unloaded the wagons. You'd be surprised how much faster it goes when they know it's waiting for them when they've fin- ished."

"Well, you won't need me for that," the architect returned. "I'll hitch the horse to the back and then I'll go on home. The walk will do me good. Besides, I've 179.

work to do. Seeing all this material gathered together gives me a feeling of urgency."

"Aye, it does tend to bring an air of reality to all those pieces of paper, doesn't it? Off with you then;

we'll be off in a minute ourselves."

Jarrod enjoyed the trip out beyond the Causeways.

The familiar terrain, known since boyhood, seemed oddly different. Movement, even tiny movement, caught his eye, though the early light was poor. He found that he was probing his surroundings with his nose and his ears. The breeze from the south brought wood smoke, the smell of oatcakes cooking, the complex stench of middens, the powerful scent of man and of kina and, closer, the sweat of horses. In the background was the freshness of dew on the gra.s.s. His ability to separate out the various scents and sounds amazed him, as did his awareness of where they all came from.

This new body pleased him. He enjoyed the perver- sity of being able to check on what was going on behind his back without having to move his torso. What he did not enjoy, however, was the feeling that the Place of Power engendered. It made his fur feel p.r.i.c.kly. The guarding menhirs and the two towering steles, one white, one black, raised the hackles on his back. His tail lashed to and fro. Even when the structure was lost behind them in the dust kicked up by their procession, he could feel them.

The next landmark that came into sight was the Stronta Gate, whose defense had caused so much hard- ship and such loss of life all those years ago. Its shadow lay over Greylock still. The great doors had been re- paired, but these days they stood open. There were guards still, however, though in this modem age they pa.s.sed their time by making pa.s.sage of the gate a slow and frustrating thing. It was not until all the paperwork had been read by three of them and a keg of ale had

180 changed hands that they were allowed to continue on their way.

Through the first set of doors, down the wide, high tunnel with the iron-tipped bottom of the portcullis protruding from the ceiling like fangs, out again be- tween the metal-sheathed northern doors and into the light. Ahead of them lay the Alien Plain, the gra.s.s scythed short for a good league. It was empty now, but later in the day gentlemen and prosperous merchants would come out to ride and to show off their horseflesh.

Once beyond the remnants of the older causeway, the cart turned left and headed westward, followed by the procession of wagons. Jarrod watched the wall go by for a while and then curled up and napped lightly until the cart came to a halt. He stretched and peered across a broad area that had been cleared of stones. Yarrow stood up and waved the convoy into the position that he wanted. Then the business of unloading began.

Moresby Yarrow moved continually from wagon to wagon, directing, ordering, jesting and, on more than one occasion, lending a heavily muscled shoulder to the stacking of a rough-planed beam of robur. His bald pate gleamed in the sun and his voice rose above the crashing and creaking and the curses- Jarrod, watching from the wagon seat and luxuriating in the feel of sun on his fur, reckoned that he had been exceedingly for- tunate in his choice of mason-c.u.m-foreman. Had he be- lieved in such things, he would have said that it was destiny, or, that the G.o.d in charge of building was be- neficent.

It was obvious that it would take several hours to get everything unloaded and the workmen back on the road home and equally obvious that there was nothing for him to do. He decided that he might as well explore.

The feline part of his nature expected it. Since he might never be a cat again, it seemed a pity to waste the ex-

THE UNICORN PEACE t 181

perience. He smiled to himself. Greylock had taught him well. One side of him condemned this ruse as frivolous, but if he used the opportunity constructively, he would silence the nagger in his mind.

He looked down over the side of the cart. The ground seemed farther away than he had expected. Further- more, jumping down from a height was not something that he had practiced. It was time to banish his human doubts and let his feline instincts take over. He gathered his haunches under him and selected a spot. His body gave an involuntary wiggle just before he launched out.

He landed easily, legs bending to absorb the shock.

He shook himself approvingly and walked away from the noise and the work with his tail standing proudly up in the air. The daymooa was up and his twin shad- ows slid along the ground in front of him. The sun had climbed halfway up the sky and the light was getting stronger. He contracted his pupils to cut down on the growing glare and padded on contentedly, head moving from side to side. Walking on four legs, he thought, was a much smoother, easier way of doing it. He broke into a trot and then put on a sudden spurt of extra speed.

It was exhilarating. He was amazed at how rapid the acceleration had been. Even Nastrus couldn't move from a trot to a gallop that fast.

His^run had brought him to the edge of a tumble of old blocks of stone, the edges rounded now by centuries of rain and wind. He was panting, mouth open, tongue protruding slightly, and his heart was beating fast. This body was good for the swift dash, but not for a sus- tained sprint. Better, he thought, to take a rest. He se- lected a rock with a flat surface and bounded up onto it without conscious calculation. From there he moved daintily from one stone to another, heading for one that was about a foot higher than its neighbors. When he was within a couple of feet of it, his hind legs coiled

182 beneath him. The muscles bunched and released, pro- pelling him into the air. He landed precisely, turned around twice and curled up, tail around his nose.

He drowsed, consciousness rising from time to time to take stock of his surroundings, his ears moving to monitor the area. His nose twitched. There was some- thing interesting upwind. The ears turned. Minute scratchings. Food, said the nose. The eyes slitted open- Somewhere ahead, down in the jumble of weathered stone slabs, there was prey. Jarrod rolled to his stom- ach, front paws ahead, hind legs beneath his body. All his senses strained. His tail twitched in antic.i.p.ation. He got up with deceptive slowness, arching his neck and unsheathing his claws. His eyes scanned the terrain and his nose quested into the breeze. Nothing to be seen, but there must be hundreds of pa.s.sageways between the rocks. He would have to hope that the creature came out onto the surface-or could be forced out.

He would hunt it. There was no question about that.

Vole, his nose supplied, two of them. The cold fever of the chase was already coursing through his veins, en- ergizing everything. He felt much the way he did before he performed Magic- Everything had a special clarity. He jumped down from his vantage point and crouched, head thrust forward, tail lashing. He knew the direction and had a good idea of the probable distance. He darted forward, over and around, and then stopped. He took a few, careful paces more and stopped again, head up, ears forward, every fiber alert. Over there, just behind that protruding block.

His mind charted the best course of approach, using what cover there was. He was downwind, but there was no sense in taking the risk of being seen. He moved forward, almost prancingly, shoulders hunched, head low, and then darted into a patch of shadow. The voles had moved to their left, closer to the comer of the block.

183.

The scent of them was strong. His tongue flicked out across his lips. He moved forward at a rapid trot, step- ping lightly; no sound, no vibrations. He reached the lee side of a chunk of stone and slunk into the shadow,

Immobile now, watching, waiting. Patience holding all his instincts in check. If they are on the surface, they will come around that comer; if they are below, they could pop up anywhere. The tail twitched. Too many possibilities. Watch, wait, infinitely patient. He crouched there, single-minded, focusing on the terrain, interpret- ing the information that his nose and ears were bringing him, prepared to move in an instant. The human part of him marveled at the level of concentration and rev- eled in the feeling of being completely alive.

There was a blur at the comer of his vision and all his senses switched to it. A small brown head with round, shiny, black eyes and a quiver of whiskers. Ma- ture, male vole, fast on its feet, very sharp teeth. The identification was instantaneous- Slowly, and with great caution,^ the little creature emerged. It sat up on its hind legs and its head moved quickly back and forth as it gauged the dangers and the possibilities for food. Not yet, Jarrod thought. Absolutely still. Satisfied, the vole dropped to all fours and pattered forward, looking for seeds, or lizards.