Golden Torc - 2 (31 page)

and make all your plans succeed!

Now repeat after me: 'I, Angelique, take thee, Claude ...'"

9

Lord Greg-Donnet came scampering into the computer room of Creation House as Bryan and Ogmol were feeding in the very last of the data. His turquoise tailcoat was fresh and clean and he had a huge white rose in his buttonhole.

"I've been looking all over for you to tell you the news! And then Katlinel said you were in here, so I hurried as fast as" He broke off as he caught sight of the dog-eared notebooks and storage-plaques that Bryan was packing away into his wicker portfolio. "The survey? Don't tell me you're ready to finalize it!"

"Why, yes, Greggy." Bryan smiled. "We could have spent months more on it, but King Thagdal was explicit about having some sort of results before Combat time, so we're doing the final digest today. The King will have two weeks to study it and confer with us before he presents it to the High Table, or whatever."

"How exciting!" crowed the Genetics Master. "Will you let me order the printout, Bryan? Will you?"

"Why, certainly. Just give Ogmol another minute or two."

Greg-Donnet began to jump up and down, hugging himself. "I love it when the plaques come pouring out! Can we print scads and scads?"

"Only three for now, I'm afraid," the anthropologist said. "The survey must be confidential until King Thagdal approves it for general circulation. His Majesty was very firm about that."

Greg-Donnet's lower lip thrust out pettishly. "Spoilsport!

There's no fun when the computer prints only three."

"Greggy published five thousand copies of his new plot of the metapsychic latency coefficients," Ogmol remarked, looking up from the input mouthpiece. "Better hurry up and reserve yours, Bry. There are only about four thousand nine hundred and ninety-one left.. .That's the last of our stuff. We're ready to go."

Bryan gestured to the control console. "Be our guest, Greggy. But only three: one for the King, one for Ogmol, and one for me."

The madman seized the mouthpiece. His little old baby face regained its usual good-humored expression. "Stand back, everyone!.. .Begin sysprint plaque opren-three-shutpren sent end. Wheee!"

The machine, stoically ignoring the last indigestible byte, labored for six seconds and brought forth a trio of ten-bysixteen-cent rectangles of pale-green plass, entitled:

SOCIOECONOMIC STRESS PATTERNS

DEMONSTRATED IN TANU-HUMAN

CULTURAL INTERACTION

A Preliminary Survey

BRYAN D. GRENFELL OGMOL urJOHANNACentre

for Anthropological BURNS vulTHAGDAL

Studies Guild of Creators

London 51:30N, 00:10W Muriah 39:54N,04:15E Sol-3 Soi-3 "Doesn't that look authoritative?" Greggy squeaked, snatching one of the plaques from the hopper. "Just like back home! Let me read just the abstract, Bry. Pretty please!" Bryan lifted the book out of the Genetics Master's hand before he could press the contents activator and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his own jacket. "I promise you'll be the first to read it after the King gives his approval. You'll just have to be patient, Greggy."

Ogmol took his own copy of the book and the one intended for his royal father. "This is sensitive material, Greggy. Not to be bandied about lightly."

"Oh, cockypop!" the adult infant cried. "I've a good mind now not to tell you my news! That's why I was looking for you two. So you wouldn't miss the fun. But if you're going to be such meanies-"

"When the King gives his consent," Bryan soothed, "I'll see to it that you get your very own copy in a fine red leather case. Stamped in gold. With your name on it."

Greggy beamed. "Oh, very well, I was only joking. I wouldn't want you to miss Lady Mercy-Rosmar's formal challenge to the Craftsmaster!"

"Omnipotent Tana!" Ogmol exclaimed. "So she's really going through with it? Going up against Aluteyn at the Combat in the manifestation of powers?"

"You bet!" said Greg-Donnet. "The King and Queen are here to watch the challenge, and ever so many others." Bryan could only stand stunned into silence. But Ogmol was saying, "Does the grapevine give her a chance for the presidency, Greggy? I've been so out of it working on this survey that I can hardly separate one intrigue from another any more. I suppose Nodonn's behind the challenge. Mark my words-he and the rest of the Host won't rest until they've taken over all the Guilds! Just look how Riganone keeps crowding Mayvar over at Farsense. And Culluket would challenge Dionket as Lord Healer if his psychopotential only measured up to his power-itch."

"Mercy's brought the cauldron and all," Greg-Donnet said. "She'll give us some kind of demonstration, bet on that, Creative Brother. It should be quite a giggle! I feel sorry for poor old Aluteyn, though. It's tough to do your best for years and years in a hard job when people aren't all that fond of you-and then have some charismatic young charmer come along."

Ogmol laughed. "Bryan knows all about the lady's charm!

Secure the data, Bry, and let's go."

The anthropologist seemed to snap out of his preoccupation. He spoke his private locking-encodement into the computer's input, shut the machine down, took his portfolio, and started to follow his exotic co-worker.

Greg-Donnet was rummaging in a cabinet. "You go on ahead, colleagues. I want to bring some of my reports down to the rotunda. Everybody's there! It's a wonderful chance to corner people, ha-ha!"

After the two had gone, Greg-Donnet let his own plaquebooks fall to the floor in a heedless clatter. He darted to the rear of the computer and slid open a small door in the opaque glass of the data storage module. Inside was a miniaturized manual terminal, part of the maintenance system of the ancient machine, which had been transported piecemeal to the Pliocene by a notably persuasive technician during the earliest days of the auberge. The stylus for the tiny stallboard had disappeared years ago; but Greggy, who had been a great and good friend of the long-dead computer technician, had tucked an old gnawed pencil stub inside the redundant terminal as a substitute. It was quite adequate for tapping out any number of outre and useful instructions, including overrides of lock-codes.

Greg-Donnet pecked:

EXEC 'ALGOVERIDE' LLLL BEGIN RETRIEVE DT (T)

AUTHORS:

GRENFELL + OGMOL;

BEGIN SYSPRINT PLAQ (1);

BEGIN EXPUNGE;

END

There was a ruminative buzz. A single pale-green plaque fell with a muted click into the hopper. The computer made no sound at all as it obliterated from its memory the entire body of data that Bryan and Ogmol had stored within it. Greg-Donnet patted the machine, tittering, and tucked his copy of the survey into a pocket beneath one of the tails of his clawhammer coat.

"Tidy graphs and learned jargon! Statistics and correlations and extrapolations of dire, dire portents! No surprise to me, of course. Who needs an anthropologist to point out the deluge coming? Naughty humanity! Imagine poor Thaggy thinking we'd been good for his people! Won't he be shocked to find that Nodonn was right about us? And here it is-all spelled out by clever Bryan and simple Oggy-the fate of humanity and the Tanu-human hybrids writ so plain that even the most thick-headed of the Host will understand... Ah, Bryan. With Oggy riding herd on you, you'd just tamely hand the thing over to the King and trust in his good sense not to do the obvious. Or do you even see the obvious, Bryan?... And they call me crazy!"

He went back to the scattered books on the floor, formed them into a neat stack, and skipped away with it. With a little luck, he wouldn't have missed any of the fireworks. Ogmol led Bryan through a secret passageway that eventually opened into an alcove hard by the dais of Creation House's great rotunda. The nook was shielded by curtains of an ingenious weave that provided a one-way view into the chamber.

"An old guard cubbyhole from the Times of Unrest five hundred years ago," Ogmol whispered. "All the Guild headquarters have them, and the secret passages, too. But no one bothers with them any more except Gomnol and his coercers. You know how paranoid about security they are." Bryan was paying little attention to the explanation of his companion, nor did he waste much time on the High Faculty already seated on the dais around the empty throne of silver encrusted with beryls that was the accustomed seat of Aluteyn Craftsmaster. The anthropologist recognized perhaps half of the top-ranking creators: the aged musician Luktal, Renian Glasscrafter, Clana the illusion-spinning daughter of the Queen and her blood-sister Anear, Seniet the Lord Historian, Lord Celadeyr of Afaliah, Ariel the Sage, and the two talented hybrids of the High Table, Katlinel the Darkeyed and Alberonn Mindeater.

The rotunda proper was jammed almost from wall to wall with hundreds of Guild members, dressed in various permutations of their heraldic blue-green with white or silver. There were also a great many outsiders of high rank who had, Ogmol explained, either wangled guest passes or simply crashed what should have been strictly an inhouse ceremony. "See there?" Ogmol pointed. "Those two in the hooded white cloaks? The Thagdal and Nontusvel in mufti! Dressed like that, they're officially nonpresent, so no one need pay any special attention to them."

The royal incogniti had, however, been accorded frontrow standing room next to the dais.

"Here's Lady Eadone," said Ogmol. "Now we'll begin." The tall silver-clad woman, flanked by two male attendants in silver niello half-armor, came out and stood at the right side of the stage. Somewhere the chain jangled. There was dead silence. Bryan now had no difficulty understanding Eadone's speech.

"Creative Brothers and Sisters! We are in extraordinary assembly. According to the most ancient rules of our fellowship, I stand forth as speaker until the matter of this meeting shall find resolution. Let my action be noted."

"The action of the Dean of Guilds is so noted," declared all of the members.

Eadone said, "Let Aluteyn Craftsmaster, President of the Guild of Creators, come forth and assume his rightful place." There was a low murmur from the crowd. From the wings opposite the alcove where Bryan and Ogmol hid came a stout figure in a richly jeweled caftan. Aluteyn posed for a moment in front of his throne, his silvery-gold hair and mustache abristle with static. In a loud, harsh voice he said, "I take my seat, yielding the speakership freely to the Fivefold Benevolence of the Lady Dean." He plumped himself down, spread his legs, and hunched forward with arms angled and hands resting on his knees: He looked as though he was ready to spring at the first sign of restiveness in the ranks. "Lord President and fellow Creators," Eadone declaimed.

"There has been presented, with due process, a challenge." The throng uttered a sound like a wave breaking gently on an offshore bar. "Let the challenger come forward and be heard."

A small commotion broke out on the side of the rotunda opposite the dais. The crowd opened an aisle leading toward the throne. The creators and the curious aristocrats of Muriah craned their necks. A few even had the bad manners to levitate slightly in an attempt to get a better view as Mercy entered. "Way!" sang a herald near the entrance. "Way for the Exalted Lady Mercy-Rosmar, Creative Sister to us all, wife to Nodonn Battlemaster Lord of Goriah, and challenger this day before the extraordinary assembly of the Creator Guild!" Watching her, Bryan felt his heart contract within him. She had put off the rose and gold colors of her awesome husband and assumed those of her adopted guild. Her long gown was silver tissue cut at the edges in long dags and scallops resembling butterfly wings; like wings also were the patterns of iridescent greenish blue that made great swirls and eyespots which appeared and disappeared on the fabric as she approached Aluteyn. Her auburn hair hung free. Mercy was followed by four brawny gray-torcs in the livery of House Nodonn pushing a wheeled trolley of polished wood. Upon it reposed a large and ornate cauldron, apparently made of gold.

"It is the Kral," Ogmol whispered, "the sacred vessel of our Guild which is usually seen by the commonalty and membership only at the Grand Combat. Traditionally, the Lord Creator must fill it at that time for the edification of all Combatants."

"What's Mercy doing with it now?" Bryan demanded. But Ogmol only gestured for him to watch.

The human woman had reached the foot of the dais, where an area perhaps ten by ten was opened for her. She made a sign. Her attendants placed the cauldron on the floor in the center of the space, then stepped far back so as to leave Mercy standing alone with the great kettle beside her.

"Speak your challenge, Mercy-Rosmar," said Eadone. The pale face lifted. Bryan imagined that he saw the seacolored eyes go wide and wild.

"I challenge Aluteyn Craftsmaster to defend his presidency of the Guild of Creators! I bid him stand forth at the manifestation of powers during the Grand Combat, contending with me in the exercise of creative metafunction, until by the express judgment of the King, the Dean of Guilds, and our noble membership, one of us shall be declared supreme over the other and shall assume the presidency; while the one vanquished shall choose between the quitting of this Kingdom of the Many-Colored Land and voluntary life-offering to the Goddess, whose Will shall in all things prevail." There was a roar from the crowd. Bryan turned to Ogmol.

"What did she mean, for God's sake? Life-offering? Isn't that your orgy of ritual executions at the end of the games? Do you mean that the loser in this damned manifestation of powers forfeits his life?"

"It is the most honorable course. But a few, such as Minanonn the Heretic, who was deposed by Nodonn, and Leyr the former Lord Coercer, overcome by Gomnol, have chosen the ignominy of banishment."

Bryan cried out, "Mercy!" But Ogmol held him behind the concealing curtains and the sound of his voice was lost in the tumult.

"You should feel the Craftsmaster's thoughts!" Ogmol fingered his golden torc. "Very bad form to let your hostility show like that, even if one is a First Comer. Watch this now, Bry. The validation, we call it. Can't have just any young upstart making the challenge, you know."

Aluteyn had risen from his throne and now moved forward until he was able to look down upon Mercy from the front of the dais.