Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 25

Ochal said: The ramas. Those who have not died have fled into the wilderness. It is a result of the fighting the mental strife the turmoil attending the Craftsmaster's takeover. Ramas are peaceloving creatures with sensitive and fragile minds. Wearing torcs they react to manifestations of extreme emotionality in adverse ways fleeing the malign aetheric vibrations if possible and suffering acute psychosomatic disorders if restrained. Not only Calamosk but my own lamented Bardelask and even Goriah itself have experienced this flight of the ramas. The High King has naturally ordered that replacement apes be sent to the capital. But Calamosk has had to initiate a complete new breeding program.

Basil said: Hard luck for the local n.o.bs needing domestics.

Ochal said: Many grey-torc humans are still faithful nay eager to serve ... and even numbers of barenecks.

Basil: Those who were too timid or too prudent to go the Lowlife route-or too wise to rush up to Goriah hoping the King would give them golden torcs!

Ochal: [Laughter.] That has been a problem in more cities than Calamosk. King Aiken-Lugonn has had to depart considerably from his original hope of offering instant citizens.h.i.+p to any human who requested it.

Basil: Mm. His instincts were generousOchal: But fortunately for the good order of the High Kingdom they were overruled by his innate pragmatism. Ah!

... We arrive at last.

The caravan came into the forecourt of the central citadel, where there were numerous torced humans of every station as well as civilian and fully armed Tanu. None of the neglect evident in the city's outer purlieus affected the castle environs.

Human servitors ran up to a.s.sist the dismounting of the new arrivals, and Basil and his b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were attended every bit as solicitously as their escort. The Elite Guard of human golds stood by, however, their Milieu-style weapons at the ready.

Ochal said to Basil, "Here's a great honour for you-the CityLord himself comes down to bid you welcome."

Basil inclined his head respectfully as a Tanu creator wearing a short tunic and aquamarine half-armour came sweeping up.

"Parthol Swiftfoot," said he, by way of introduction. He briefly tapped the pleasure-circuitry of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's grey torcs, precipitating a startled reaction among those who were metapsychically unsophisticated. "My personal felicitations! King's most anxious to meet you."

"And we, him," said Basil.

Calm, he told his friends.

Keep calm!

"Suppose we clean you up a bit first, eh?" Parthol winked.

"Old Celo's dungeon-not exactly a health resort."

Basil managed a dry laugh. "You're very considerate, Lord Parthol."

"Follow me! Nice surprise waiting!" And the Tanu was off, with Basil and the others tumbling along in his wake (for a Tanu stalwart can easily cover two metres at a stride). He pointed out noteworthy improvements in the citadel defences inst.i.tuted by his predecessor, the late Aluteyn, as he led them through the barbican, across the inner ward, and up an ornate white marble ramp into the palatial keep.

"You were ... one of the Craftsmaster's companions in adversity?" Basil said breathlessly.

Parthol chortled. "Fellow jailbird, you mean! Quite right. Old Thagdal slung me into the Retort for murder. Decapitated my mother-in-law, Coventone Petrifactrix, on a Royal Hunt up in the Dark Mountains. No one would believe I mistook her for a Firvulag. Can't think why."

They pa.s.sed down a series of marble staircases into the bowels of the castle, where torches in silver holders illuminated corridors paved in pink and black tiles. A certain anxiety radiated from Basil and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds at this descent. "Not the dungeon this time!" Parthol rea.s.sured them. They came to a huge black door with silver fittings, guarded by statuesque human females in silver-l.u.s.tre armour. Grinning expectantly, the City-Lord of Calamosk gestured, causing the portal to open, and motioned for the visitors to follow him inside.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds began whispering and elbowing one another.

Somebody unloosed an incredulous whistle. They had come into a complex of vaulted and pillared connecting chambers that seemed to combine features of a sumptuous Turkish bath with the decor of a fin-de-siecle Hungarian wh.o.r.ehouse. There were dripping crystal chandeliers, baroque divans in veil-curtained alcoves, and a fantastic gilt-and-jasper steam room, the walls of which were adorned with Paphian mosaics.

"Amusing, isn't it?" Parthol remarked to Basil. "Your lamented compatriot Sullivan-Tonn had it installed during his brief tenure and we decided to keep it. Ingenious race, you humans-if those depictions are a fair sampling of your Old World s.e.xual mores."

Basil cleared his throat diffidently. "Some of the mosaics have-uh-a folkloric derivation. The centaurs and the mermaids, for example, and the-uh-more heroically proportioned individuals."

"Oh? What a pity. Still, I'd wondered why we didn't get any of those coming through the time-gate." He broadcast a brief order on the command mode and a jolly-looking Polynesian couple in flowered lava-lavas trotted in bearing trays of carnations. They wore silver torcs, and as they pa.s.sed the flowers to the bemused b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, they seemed to radiate comfortable rea.s.surance.

"Salote and Malietoa will see to your comfort," Parthol said.

"We're a bit short-handed, so you'll have to scrub one another's backs, but I think you'll enjoy your ablutions. Try the bubble bath! That Sullivan thought of the d.a.m.nedest things. And when that's done, you can have fresh clothes. I'm proud to say that Calamosk boasts a really first-rate tailoring moduplex-a Halston 2100. Make any type of apparel you like."

Mr. Betsy, who had been savouring his carnation, let out a great sigh of rapture.

Parthol beamed at the Elizabethan in the sadly dilapidated finery. "We're a bit short of Milieu fabrics since the time-gate closed-not much of a selection in nebulin or dacolite or repelvel-but you'll find some very nice linen and fine cotton: and I'm quite certain there's at least twenty ells of tourmaline silk brocade left, and you might fancy silver lace for that collar thingy of yours."

Phronsie Gillis smothered a wicked simper. "And I'll just have me some silk knickers from the sc.r.a.ps!" Betsy ignored her.

Parthol Swiftfoot said to Basil, "I'll come to fetch you in a couple of hours. You won't try to escape or hide or anything tedious like that, will you? Not to put too fine a point on it-you are all wearing grey torcs. We could track you down easily. At least wait until you've heard what the High King has to say before you begin plotting and scheming."

"Very well," said Basil. "We'll wait."

As the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds finished King Aiken-Lugonn's high tea, the noncommittal chit-chat slowly faded to silence and all eyes turned to the small figure of the monarch. He was sitting in front of the unlit hearth of the presence room on a throne of gilded oak; his guests had had to make do with tufted floor cus.h.i.+ons and most now lounged on these, leaving only a few of the recalcitrantly suspicious and Mr. Betsy standing. The King was wearing his golden storm-suit without the hood; a simple circlet of black gla.s.s rested on his dark red hair. He drank minted iced tea from a Waterford tumbler and then chewed the cubes as the stillness grew and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds stared.

"How many of you," the King said at last, "would like to go back through the time-gate to the Galactic Milieu?"

Pandemonium.

Aiken smiled and raised a hand. An appalling blast of coercion struck every mind dumb. "Sorry about that, but we don't have much time to spare. More guests will be arriving very shortly to join our little party. Among them will be the lady who clapped you all into the Afaliah slammer after helping to steal your aircraft-Cloud Remillard."

"Remillard!" exclaimed the minds and voices of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

"I see that a bell has rung," the King remarked. His smile was grim. "Yes, she's his daughter. Marc Remillard and his exrebels have been living in North America for twenty-seven years, mostly minding their own business. But not any longer. It seems the rebels had children, and the kids decided that they'd had enough of the old folks' domination, and so they packed up and blew the homestead and came here.

Cloud was first, with a handful of others. Later her brother Hagen came with all the rest of the second generation."

"Good G.o.d," said Basil. "It's incredible! Marc Remillard was alleged to have perished in the Rebellion, together with his top confederates."

Aiken shrugged. "Madame Guderian had a lot to answer for.

I don't know if she let 'em go through willingly, or if they coerced her. Probably the latter. They brought contraband galore."

"Oh, Your Majesty, never mind that!" cried little Miss w.a.n.g pa.s.sionately. "Tell us more about reopening the time-gate-and going back!"

"Not possible," Dimitri Anastos told her. "It's a one-way warp, Milieu to Pliocene."

"Not," said Aiken, "if you build a second Guderian tau-field generator here.

Which is what Marc Remillard's children and their friends propose to do."

"To go home!" cried Miss w.a.n.g. "To undo the terrible error!

To leave this awful place and live once again in the tranquillity of the Milieu-"