The Luck of Brin's Five (16 page)

As we all gaped and cheered, the circle of the escort parted at the very place we were standing, and a little creature, a female in the black and white uniform of the escort, cleared a space and reached up to the net. Blacklock gave a final flourishing bow, shrugged out of the thongs that held on his green canopy, then took her hand and stepped out of the net. He allowed himself to be brushed down, then the little escort was making way for him through the crowd. She had a brisk, cheerful voice, and her face, as she led the hero, was creased with worry, like a mother fussing over a toddling baby, ten days shown. Yet it was a pretty face, young and pointed, rather like Thanar.

Blacklock was saying as he passed, “. . . didn't even split a seam. . . .” I felt a stab of envy for the little escort, Blacklock's familiar.

“That is Spinner,” whispered Valdin Galtroy, reading my thoughts, “Blacklock's first officer . . . or maybe his mothering nurse.”

Now Spinner was whispering urgently to Blacklock, who was still bowing to right and left.

“What?” boomed the hero, “hmm, yes, well . . . flaming courteous of the flier in the blocks . . .”

He waved his hand in a wide circle or two and shouted a command; the escort packed up and made tracks with admirable precision. I realized that it was Diver's turn to fly his exercises; I left the clan children and ran back through the crowd to do my escort duty. The clappers were sounding, and the Launcher repeated his orders to clear the field; I found Brin and clung to her arm. Diver was beside us, showing his teeth in a grin. His nerve was much better than mine; he was keen and eager to be in the
Tomarvan
. It came to me that Diver loved to fly; the time he spent above the ground was actually less nerve-wracking for him than the time he spent hobnobbing with Bird Clan pilots and officials.

So it was all done over again. The excitement had died down, and the fickle audience of the Bird Clan had drifted away, so that Diver and the Wentroy began their rounds almost unnoticed. Ablo was still fuming and fretting by the
Tomarvan
, and Diver leaped into the pilot's chair. The catapult was attached; Brin and I stood to one wing, Ablo to the other.

Diver looked down at us and said, “There goes the machine to beat!” We saw Blacklock's odd craft wheeled away through the barrier to a heaving mass of black and white cloth: its hangar being erected. I had time to read the name on Blacklock's machine, then the Launcher spoke, once, twice and the
Tomarvan
was sent aloft, followed by
Utofarl
, double hope of the Wentroy.

We marched smartly off the field; Brin and Ablo stood, shading their eyes, and I ran, bent low inside the barrier, to the end of the field to see better. Diver had made a good launch, but not so good as the Wentroy, who caught a wild current, lucky wretch, and spiralled up as surely as the good luck skein, so rudely rejected. Then I laughed, for the
Tomarvan
eased into a series of perfect circular turns and a double circle, twisted, like the script letter which has the sound “ee.”

There was a chuckle at my side, and I saw that I was standing next to a short, spare, brown person, probably from some escort, for he was middle-aged, with wrinkles netting his green eyes. No grandee, more of a townee, and I felt at ease with him. He was watching Diver's performance as keenly as I was. The Wentroy tried to steal Diver's wind and could not, for Diver had no need of a wind. The
Tomarvan
banked and turned; the Wentroy tried a few circles, with fair success, then caught the wind again . . . through skill this time . . . and flew off towards the First Mark, high and fast. Diver flew after him in the darting, buzzing
Tomarvan
.

“Fine! Fine! Oh excellently done! Is that your pilot?” said my companion.

“My pilot!” I agreed proudly. I tried not to think of Bird Bone Place, up ahead.

I was about to reply in kind when I saw the insignia on his tunic and the white basket helm dangling from his strong, brown hands. I was speaking to Blacklock's copilot, who had landed the machine. I was excited then and almost went off into a flurry of childish questions about Blacklock, but something held me back. Politeness, for my companion was interesting in himself; or perhaps I had a moment of divining power of my own. I asked instead, “Good sir, who designed the noble machine that you brought in to land?”

His green eyes twinkled as he replied. “A good design is never the work of one mind. Your pilot, for instance, adapted that glider, with a device I call a wind-blade. Not new upon the land of Torin . . .”

I felt my blood pound in my throat and answered boldly, “Nothing is new under the suns. I see your craft is called
Dah'gan
or Maker of Engines.”

“It could be Maker of Looms!” He laughed. “What shall I call you, young escort?”

“Dorn Brinroyan. And my pilot is Garl Brinroyan, our Luck. What shall I call you, sir?” I had thought for a moment that he knew something about Diver, but now I was not sure.

“I have had several names,” he said, “just as we all have several families, from our birth family onwards, as the Great Wind blows us through the world. Now I am called Fer Utovangan.”

It was a plain name, signifying no more than Fer, the Second Pilot, or even the Other Wing-Maker. He pointed across the field to a certain glider and commented on its design, then went on talking pleasantly and knowledgeably about flying machines and every sort of device that helped them to fly. We heard a sound and I stiffened, then I could not hold back a cheer. The
Tomarvan
returned, fast and sure from the First Mark; Diver swooped low over the field and boldly circled the launching tower before coming in to land. There was a landing net in position, but Diver had never used one and had determined to use only his own power. The marshals were there to hold his wings, but I could not stay . . . I slipped under the barrier and my companion did the same. We ran to the left wing of the
Tomarvan
, which touched, bounced, but not high, then came in for a perfect landing. The wing rode right into our hands, and the spin-toys or wind-blades were quivering but still.

Diver climbed out as I shouted to him; he came down happily and stood beside us on the field. In his excitement he pulled off his goggles as well as his flying helmet, and I instinctively touched his arm. Hiding his eyes was a game we must always play. He turned his head aside, but Fer Utovangan said quietly, “No need to replace your visor on my account, Garl Brinroyan.”

Diver glanced at me, questioning. “This is Blacklock's copilot,” I said warily, “called Fer Utovangan.”

“A good flight!” said Fer, clasping Diver's hands between his own. He stared at Diver; blue eyes met green. Fer flinched a little but was not afraid.

“The Maker of Engines did not expect to find the
Tomarvan
and its pilot at the Bird Clan!” he said.

“Do you mean your machine or that One who gives others wings to fly with?” I asked.

“Both!” he said smiling. “I would give much to see what makes the
Tomarvan
fly.”

“In time I don't doubt you will see,” said Diver, “and frankly, the
Dah'gan
's engine is more new and wonderful to me.”

“A thing I call a long-spark-maker,” said Fer. “I wonder what you would call it?”

Diver replied with a few suggestions, totally unpronounceable to me at the time but in fact they had to do with “electricity.” Fer laughed in delight.

“I have heard all the speech on Torin and words in two ancient tongues, taken from rock writings, but now I find there
is
something new under the suns.”

He bade us farewell and walked off the field; Esto hung low in the sky, he walked into sunset colors. A few notes twanged in my memory, but I could not unravel the thread. We walked back ourselves and saw Brin coming proudly to meet us. It was not until we reached the tent that I found the answer to the puzzle; it was such a rich, impossible secret that I hugged it to myself. I murmured that plain name over to myself as I watched an improved Antho wheeled out of its hangar: Fer Utovangan, Second Wing, Second Pilot . . . or
Former Bird Farmer
. The winds had not taken Antho the Bird Farmer very far after all.

Now it was the eve of the New Year. Esder was already rising in those sunset clouds, no more than forty pulse beats after Esto sank below the horizon, and Esder would shine on, long after Esto rose again. It is more difficult to fly by Esder light, but some pilots make it their art; the second round went on, by lot, without a break. Flags and mirrors were set up at the Second Mark, inland to the northeast, still on the eastern bank of the Troon, at a place not far from the landing where we had seen Narneen's questioners, the scribe from the Fire-Town and his Witness.

We went into this round with good spirits; but Ablo, who knew more than we did about the ways of the Bird Clan, was very nervous. The second round is the most hazardous of all because it is an elimination round. We sat in our tent, ate a good meal of farm fowl with greens and washed it down with honey water. The first decision was when to sleep: wakefulness had been the downfall of many a brave pilot and escort. Ablo sat blinking in the darkness of the tent, picking his teeth and fidgeting with our lot skein, which marked the
Tomarvan
to fly at the second hour after midnight, paired with
Hadeel
, the black glider. “Seven hours!” he exclaimed. “Seven hours, Garl Brinroyan! Sleep or wake, it's your decision . . . we have a light escort.”

“I will sleep and so will the escort. Will you watch for us, good Ablo?”

“Yes, yes . . . but
can
you sleep, without wine or the preparations the grandees use? I have heard that Blacklock sleeps by the laying on of hands—sleep-stroking-magic.”

“We can sleep,” put in Brin, “have no fear. Wake us in good time.”

So we slept before his eyes: Diver by the use of a small white piece of medicine from his pocket vest, and Brin and myself from natural weariness, plus a pinch of herbs in our honey water. I slept and dreamed a long ordinary dream that I was on a summer journey, walking, pitching the tent, weaving, with my dear family all together again. Then I woke up, lonely for a moment and displaced, but filled with the excitement of the Bird Clan, as I saw Diver fastening his buckles.

Brin and Ablo parted the tent flap and came in, silvered by the light of Esder.

“Six out!” cried Ablo. “Six fallen by the way . . . never seen such an elimination round. The winds are blowing for you, Garl Brinroyan.”

“What has gone?” asked Diver.

“
Utofarl
,” panted Ablo, “double hope of the Wentroy, indeed, tipped the Second Mark; the yellow Antho did the same—or was it a tree. At any rate, it nearly came down. The copper boiler that came by the river went back into the river again, but the crew were saved, thanks to our Great Mother.”

I was suddenly afraid. “Jebbal?” I whispered, staring at Brin.

“Safe, child.”

“Continue with the eliminations,” said Diver coldly. Ablo saw that his enthusiasm must be tempered; he went on:

“The Kite lost wind . . . had it stolen by
Tildee
, the steam engine. The winds took that pilot, first casualty this year. The improved Antho with the green tail had a wing and wind battle with Highness Jebbal and lost out. The other elimination was the gray glider that flew its first round with
Tildee
. . . called
Morgan
, the Peacemaker, flown by another unlucky sprig of Dohtroy, and named, doubtless, after her relative on the Council, Dohtroy out of the Fire-Town.”

We went out into the bright Esder light on the field of the Bird Clan, with the business of the contest still going on, the constant coming and going of the escorts, the cries of the marshals. I felt we had dropped out of the world for several hours simply by going to sleep. And now all that remained in the contest were

PEER-LO-VAGOBA
pilot Jebbal Faldroyan Luntroy

TILDEE
pilot Ullo Mattroyan

DAH'GAN
chief pilot Murno Peran Pentroy, called Blacklock

HADEEL
pilot Deel Giroyan, a town grandee of Otolor

TOMARVAN
pilot Garl Brinroyan, the Luck of Brin's Five

Ablo was still very nervous as Diver made his last check of the
Tomarvan
before we wheeled it to the blocks. I thought this was because he had not slept, but in fact he had another thing on his mind. A member of Blacklock's escort approached to a respectful distance, and Ablo nearly exploded.

“I knew it! Flaming privilege and grandees tricks . . . Murno Pentroy is going to issue a challenge!”

Diver looked about, and we noticed then that there were a surprising number of vassals and escorts, including some from Jebbal, watching our reaction to the message skein that the young Pentroy omor held out to Brin.

“I have heard of this right to challenge. What can be asked of us?” said Brin, holding the skein.

“Blacklock has no partner,” hissed Ablo, “and he scored well for that display. He could ask to fly the second round in company with
Tomarvan
and
Hadeel . . .
but I think he has other devilish plans!”

Brin read the skein and smiled. She drew Diver aside and made him hand read as much of it as he could while she explained. “A challenge:
Tomarvan
and
Hadeel
to waive the Second Round and fly altogether, with Blacklock and the two other survivors in an immediate deciding race. Its formal name is Great Circle for the Winds' Favor.”

“I will do it!” murmured Diver. “What say the rest?” Ablo bobbed up at his elbow, still fuming.

“Garl Brinroyan . . . think what you risk! Against
Hadeel
you will survive and gain points. You have never flown the Great Circle . . . it is thirty weavers miles over a strange course!”