Changeling (Illustrated) (23 page)

Go!
he commanded.
I follow!

It darted away from him, to depart the hall from the doorway nearest the niche, rather than the one through which he had entered.

He hesitated only a moment, then followed, smiling. So much for theory. He took it as a message that the forces his special sense reached and manipulated were not to be categorized in so facile a manner.

As he took his first turn beyond the doorway, he had his final glimpse of the sleeping minotaur, over his right shoulder. He saw the knot of his own spell drifting above the prostrate form, like a giant, yellow butterfly.

*  *  *

Mouseglove’s relief was immense as the ship cleared the highest tower and soared out, away from Anvil Mountain. Already, the lights of its city were small beneath him, and he was surprised to be taken by a sensation of beauty viewed as he looked upon it. Turning away, he continued to direct the vessel up past the regions where the dark bird-things wove their interminable patterns. So far, there was no indication of pursuit. He pushed the ship to its ultimate speed and held it there until the mountain was only a dim outline behind him. At last, this, too, faded and only the stars gave him light.

Then he relaxed, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall over the back of his seat. He sighed and rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. A great tension began draining away, and the beginnings of delight in the act of flying under his own control came over him.

Soon . . . At this speed, he would be in Dibna before morning. That would provide ample time for hiding the vessel and walking into town. In a day’s time, he should be able to locate a buyer or a middle-man for the disposition of the figurines. Unless, of course, the men who had commissioned their theft were still alive, still wanted them. Either way . . . A few days more, possibly, to tie up the deal. Then, his purse full of coins, he would treat himself to a bit of revelry. After that, use the flying machine to travel to another town where no one would know of the transaction. In fact, it might be best to do that before celebrating. Then find a place to settle down. A villa on a hillside, with a view of the sea. A cook, a manservant, a gardener—it would be pleasant to have a garden—and a few assorted slave girls . . . 

He turned the control wheel slowly to the right. More, more . . . Southeast, south . . . He began to wonder why he was doing it. This was no longer the way to Dibna. He struggled to halt the motion, but his hands continued to move the control. Southwest . . . He was almost completely turned around. It would simply have to be corrected. Only . . . 

His hands refused to obey, to turn him back. It was as if the will of another now directed his actions. He fought against it, but to no avail. He was now headed in almost exactly the one direction that he did not wish to go. As he watched himself being directed, the entire sequence of his actions took on a dreamlike quality, as though he himself were being forced further and further into the background, as though . . . 

Dreamlike. For a moment, the tiny control lights swam before him, rearranging themselves into seven flickering forms. The full memory of his dream crashed down upon him then, with a feeling that somewhere the last laughter continued.

He had a strong premonition that he was saying goodbye to his villa.

*  *  *

Pol’s first impulse on reaching the labyrinth’s exit was to rush out through it. Instead, he halted just within the doorway. Something—he was not certain what—was amiss. It was as if he had been granted such a brief glimpse of a danger that he could not name it, could only be aware of its existence. Had something moved?

He wondered, looking out to the place where Moonbird watched a sleeping Nora. He took the rod into his hands and tried to recall elaborate spells from the books he had read in his father’s collection. Everything seemed to be all right, yet . . . 

A slow-moving shadow slid across the ground before him, twisting itself over every irregularity. Still, it was easy for him, coming from the world that he had, to recognize the outline as that of a flying machine—a thing larger than the dark birds, if the sound which now reached his ears were any indication of its nearness.

There was a partial spell he had studied, simpler than the complete version of the same thing. It might require considerable energy, but then, he need no longer work solely with his hands upon the fabric of reality . . . 

He raised the rod and began moving it about him, catching and swirling large quantities of the strands, of every color. As the shadow receded, the clot of strands grew before him, assuming a disc-like shape. The colors drained from it as it spun and increased in diameter, until, at length, it was a shimmering shield larger than himself. Objects beyond it rippled and swam and the rod vibrated steadily, silently within his grip.

Now. He took a step forward and the shield advanced a similar distance. Its size seemed sufficient for its purpose and he slowed the swirling movement to restrict its growth, to maintain it at its present size.

The shadow had passed away to his left, and he moved the rod in that direction and tilted it upward. He took another step and scanned the sky carefully. Unlike the complete spell, which rendered its caster entirely invisible, the partial spell he had been able to weave created only a flat screen, capable of blocking observation from a single direction.

Another step, and he caught sight of the battle-wagon, swinging away, farther to the left. Turning sideways, he adjusted the shield and began walking toward the trees. If he were to remain stationary, there was a way to rest his arm. As it was . . . 

He crossed the cleared area, turning to follow the movement of the vessel, like some negative-petalled flower after an anti-sun, distorting the light that fell upon it, until finally he was walking backward when he reached the trees.

Standing now before the tree of the girl and the dragon, he spun the shield larger, watching the wavering image of the circling battle-wagon through the upper righthand quadrant of the screen.

He reached out and touched Moonbird.

I am going to awaken her now,
he indicated.
When I do, we are going to retreat within the wood.

And not fight?

We may not have to.

I could barf it to ruin . . . 

Not if it gets you first. Trust me.

He turned to Nora and began releasing her from the sleep-spell, reflecting on how much simpler things would have been with the minotaur had he been able to do it at other than close range. Nora stirred, looked at him.

“I’ve been asleep! You did it to me! I—”

“Shh!” he cautioned. “They’re up there!” He gestured with his head. “Sounds carry in a quiet place like this. Save it for later. I’ve got the second piece. Now we have to get off into the trees. We’re invisible from just this one side.”

She got to her feet and stood stiffly erect.

“It was not a nice trick,” she said, “and you won’t catch me that way again.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he stated. “Now let’s head back that way.”

She glanced at the ship in the sky, nodded and turned. Moonbird shifted his great bulk and edged slowly after her.

As he retreated, Pol slowed the swirling motion, withdrew his energies, released the spell. The trees covered them adequately now. It seemed that they had escaped from immediate danger.

Pol seated himself beneath a tree, hands clasped under his chin.

“What now?” Nora finally asked him.

“I am wondering whether I might be able to bring that thing down, as I did that lesser one at the pyramid. Now that I have two of the sections together, it seems possible.”

“It sounds worth trying.”

“I am going to wait until its course brings it nearer. Distance does seem to be a factor.”

For over a quarter of an hour, he watched the vessel, attaching strand after gray metallic strand to the rod that he held. Finally, when the ship swept by them again, he felt ready.

He raised the instrument and stared past it through gaps among the branches, amid the leaves, saw the strands grow taut, imagined that he could hear them singing as if caressed by some cosmic wind. The rod grew warm in his hand as he felt the energies flow forth.

For a time, nothing seemed to happen. Then they heard a cough and a rattle, followed by a sputtering noise. Two of the ship’s rotors began to slow. It listed to starboard as a third propeller went out. Immediately, it began to descend, and Pol guessed that this was an action of the pilot’s in trying to avoid a crash, rather than an indication that it might not remain airborne a while longer. His knuckles grew white as he gripped the rod, willing more force into his spell. More rattling and coughing noises came from the sinking vessel. A thin wisp of smoke arose from beneath the cowling at its forward end. Two more rotors halted, but by now it was only fifteen or twenty meters above the ground, near to the western perimeter of the labyrinth.

It dropped only a short distance, moments later, and a hatch at its rear fell open. Three men hurried out and another followed more slowly, coughing. Pol saw a darting of flames within and more moving forms beating at and attempting to smother them. He lowered the rod and extended his hand to Nora,

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I’ve burned out several engines. They won’t be able to follow.”

They clambered up onto Moonbird’s back.

Now! Hurry! Take us away!

We can finish them off first.

They are helpless now. Get us aloft!

Moonbird began a waddling run beneath the trees, fanning the air with his wings. When he broke into the cleared area, he lifted above the ground. A cry came up from somewhere to the right.

Pol saw the three men who had fled the smoldering battle-wagon. They were kneeling and had raised their weapons. White puffs emerged from the muzzles, and he immediately felt a burning pain in the back of his neck and slumped across Moonbird’s shoulder. He heard Nora cry out and felt her catching at his shirt, his belt. His head swirled through dark places, but he did not immediately lose consciousness, A distant booming sound came to his ears. His neck was wet.

We should have finished them first . . . 
Moonbird was saying.

Nora was talking as she did something behind him, but he could not hear the words.

Then his eyes closed and everything diminished.

*  *  *

When the world came back, her hand was on his neck, holding a cold compress in place. He smelled the sea. He felt the play of muscles beneath the scales against which his cheek was pressed. Moonbird smelled a bit like old leather, gunpowder and lemon juice, he suddenly realized. Somehow the thought struck him as funny and he chuckled.

“You’re awake?” said Nora.

“Yes. How serious is it?”

“It looks as if someone laid a hot poker across your neck and held it there for a time.”

“That’s about how it feels, too. What’s on it?”

“A piece of cloth I soaked in water.”

“Thanks. It helps.”

“Do you know a spell to heal it?”

“Not offhand. But I may be able to think of something. Tell me first what happened, though.”

“You were hit by something. I think it might have come from one of those smoking sticks the men were pointing.”

“Yes, it did. But what was the crashing noise? Did their ship explode?”

“No. It had larger—things—like those pointed by the men. These turned to follow us, then they began smoking and making the noise. Several things seemed to explode near us. Then it stopped.”

Pol propped himself and looked back. It hurt to turn his head. The island was already receding in the distance, its outline vaguely misted. He looked down at the sea, up toward the sun.

Moonbird
, are you all right?

Yes.
And you?

I’ll be okay. But we seem to be heading northwest, rather than southwest. Maybe I’m wrong, though.
You are the expert.

You are not wrong.

“Let me tie that in place for you.”

“Go ahead.”

Why? What is the matter?

The place you wish to visit next
—
it lies a great distance from here, many day’s travel.

Yes,
I know. That is why it is important that we follow the route I have laid out. Many island stopovers will be necessary.

Not really. Maps mean less to me than my feelings. I realized recently there is a shortcut.

How can that be? The shortest distance between two points is a
—
a great circle segment.

I will take us the way of the dragons.

The way of the dragons?
What do you mean?

I have been that way before. Between some places there are special routes. Holes in the air, we call them. They move about, slowly. The closest one to a place near where you would go now lies in this direction.

Holes in the air?
What are they like?