On Whernmoor, five hundred kilometers to the north, where Duke Corwen's levees strove to stem the chelonian tide, General Lord Cledger Persay had begun to suspect he was in difficulties. The pocket brigade despatched by the duke to halt the turtlebacks was irritatingly outnumbered. And, from an aerial inspection, Lord Cledger had just learned, was also being outmaneuvered.
In the grounds of Dormenville's only school, where the general had set up headquarters, soldiers of headquarters troop winched his captive balloon to earth.
"Steady with that basket!" roared a sashed and epauletted lieutenant to the crew of four-arms on the guide ropes. "Mind you don't shake his lordship!"
The bullet-proof basket came within reach of extended hands, and was eased to safety.
General Lord Cledger Persay cocked a leg over the side, and vaulted to the ground. Young Lord Cledger was proud of his fitness, his command, and his uncle Corwen's trust. He stabbed a leather-stalled finger at the troop-lined ridge above the township, addressing his equerry. "The bastards are as thick as bilberries on the far side of that hill!"
A cannon in the battery which had dug into the football field roared as he spoke, lobbing one of his lordship's explosive novelties over the ridge. His lordship gave the equerry's ears time to stop ringing, then swung up his arm to point east. "The bastards have also infiltrated along our left flank!"
While the lieutenant stood, stricken by the revelation, Lord Cledger brought his arm round in a half circle. "And on our right flank, too!"
He frowned. "Tell the major we are evacuating immediately. Lord Markey's bombardiers will provide covering fire to troops withdrawing from the ridge. Send a message with my instructions. We can't hold this position another hour!"
The equerry jerked like a marionette. "At once, milord. Er—where are we evacuating to?"
Lord Cledger dragged a map from his belt case. A nearby corporal bent to give him a back. The general spread his map on the corporal, searching it diligently. He stabbed the chart. "Here! We'll stand on the Lemon river, by the bridge." He stared about him. "Where's that captain of sappers? I want that bridge mined."
General Lord Cledger Persay's headquarters troop moved out of Dormenville within twenty minutes, followed by a hurriedly unemplaced field gun battery. Lord Cledger rode at their head on his all white gremgaur, blue and silver banner flying. Captain Fogelman's unit of mounted skirmishers, fuming smokepots hanging from their stirrups, waited behind to escort the retreating infantry as they fell back from the ridge. Dormenville was left to be sacked by the turtlebacks.
At the Lemon river bridge, Lord Cledger had his balloon put up again in an attempt to see over the billowing smoke which refused to blow away when it was no longer needed. As the dun-colored bubble rose above the dark billows, an enterprising chelonian sharpshooter in the branches of a tree which poked shrapnel-torn foliage through the smoke chanced a long shot, and brought the Lord Cledger down with a bullet through the head . . .
Word of the Persay babe's death—but not that of Lord Cledger at Whernmoor—was being shouted in the street when Make Ready awoke the following morning. Grumm sent him out to buy a paper. Make Ready returned, head in the pages.
"Dame Dimsina's child died soon after birth," he reported. "It lived long enough to be helixed by the duke's pastor. Funeral's tomorrow."
Grumm snatched the paper. "I'll do my own reading, if you don't mind!" The medsin studied the printed columns. Nowhere was it reported that the duke's annalist, lyricist, obstetrician, tutor, priest and midwife were now confined to the Chateau at his lordship's pleasure. Nor was there mention of a wet nurse, too anxious to return to her own child, who now bobbed silently down to Garbage. Persay secrets were dangerous possessions. But Grumm had his suspicions. Infant deaths were abnormal on Omkrit III. But the Persays could get their DNA cocked up as easy as anyone else.
The medsin threw down the paper. "Here, lad—let's have another squint at that finger."
Make Ready held out his hand. He was no longer fooled. Grumm knew the cause of the blackened tip.
The healer peered at the finger, making no attempt to detach any dead skin. "Hmm! Still not ready, lad. Reckon you'd better hang on here a while."
Make Ready studied his digit. Not ready for what? Grumm had used the expression twice. Why was his finger so important to the healer? Why was he anxious to let a scruffy dognik stay in his house? And would he let the dognik go, if he didn't want to stay?
Make Ready said, "Am I a prisoner, Messer Grumm?"
The healer raised his eyebrows. Make Ready felt like a germ under a microscope. Grumm frowned. "Where'd you get that idea, lad?"
Make Ready scowled back. "Am I, sir?"
Grumm's face grew gloomy. "You can buzz off any time you like. But you'll be sorry if you do."
Make Ready's eyes became accusing slits. "You knew my finger wouldn't be ready this morning!"
Grumm avoided his gaze. "Suppose I did?"
Make Ready's voice was triumphant. "Ready for what? You tell me!"
Grumm squirmed on his seat. "I suppose you'll have to be told, sooner or later. If my guess is right, your sire's name wasn't Jones—it was Persay, the Grand Maitre himself. And that what's bugging you is the Persay doigt!"
Make Ready caught his breath. His finger the Persay doigt?
For generations Persay digiteurs had defended Mary Cage against invaders from Entendy, Varek, and Montynose. He glanced anxiously at the blackened digit. "But that would make me . . ."
Grumm grinned. "Precisely, my little lord. A pettiduc, in the argot. More precisely, a precious little bastard. But we need expert opinion. I'll admit it crossed my mind to make a dublin or two out of your affliction, but this morning's news alters matters. If the duke's lost his new heir, he might look favorably on a byblow what already has the Persay doigt. What do you say? Would you like to be the duke's son? I've a contact at the Chateau that could pronounce for sure on your finger."
His tongue wouldn't move. Grumm was mad.
Him—
a duke?
Grumm let the boy stew. If Mary Cage didn't get another digiteur—and Healer Grumm peripheral benefits—out of this gambit, Healer Grumm would stand to be kicked!
Lord Mardy Persay knocked at the door of his father's study. From the haggard air, the duke had spent the night brooding. He motioned his son to a chair. "You heard the bad news?"
"About the child?"
The duke snarled. "No, you fool. About young Cledger getting himself killed at Whernmoor."
Lord Mardy nodded. "Bregonif told me. I suppose you want me to go out there, and pull the chestnuts out of the fire for you?"
Duke Corwen scowled. "Someone has to take his place. We can't let Colly Caswell's turtlebacks walk all over us. And you're the only digiteur I have to spare. But, before you take off—I want advice from you. We still require a backup heir for the duchy. I haven't the heart to try for another natural son. In any case, where would I go? Greville rules out your mère."
Lord Mardy examined his shiny toecaps. "Back to the cell banks, I imagine. Where else?"
The duke thumped his desk. "You haven't absorbed much in twenty years, Mardy. We don't let clones inherit." Lord Corwen sighed. "Though rules are made to be broken. Whom do you suggest?"
His son shrugged. "Whoever you like, sir."
The duke's lips compressed. "It ain't who I like! You're supposed to take an interest. Great Helix—it'll be your duchy when they put me in a bottle. Consider who's eligible. Your great grandpère? He's entitled to another term after fifty years in the bank. But he was a flop as Grand Maitre. His only sensible act was siring my father. We can't let him at the controls again."
Lord Mardy tried to show interest. "Further back, then?"
The duke frowned. "That's Bregonifs period. And he's been twice round already—although only me and Greville know it. Brecon IV was a pain in the derrière when he was boss. Greville chipped the doigt sequence out of his DNA before we cloned him the second time. His time's nearly up, anyway. I've already warned him."
"I mean back before Brecon IV, sir."
The duke gaped in alarm. "You wouldn't clone those murderous madmen! Lontaine France was still dumping its illicit experiments here in those days. Your grandpère six times removed had a wolf's head, and ate children. Greville needed three generations to excise that lupus sequence from the family's genes."
Lord Mardy's eyebrows lifted. "Greville? In those days?"
The duke waved away the query. "Larry Greville has his own way of surviving. As long as he takes care of the Persays, I don't ask no questions. He's got us as near standard as anyone would wish to be."
Lord Mardy became engrossed in his fingertips. "Are you sure you really want my advice, sir?"
The duke blew a gust of breath. "Dammit, Mardy— you're right. It's my job, and I'm shirking it. I just wish Dimsina's child had matched up to our requirements. I don't fancy a clone succeeding me. I want my own progeny in the driving seat."
Lord Mardy found a smile. "You still have me, father."
His parent cackled. "By the Helix, son—so I do, so I do. Don't I tend to overlook the obvious?" He paused. "Now, don't go acting reckless up at Whernmoor. Use your pikemen. They're steady. And the shellbacks don't like cold steel. Give them a bloody nose, and come home safe. Colly Caswell should know better than to try to invade me!"
Lord Mardy rose. "I'll take good care, father."
His father rose. "I'll talk to Larry Greville, then."
The duke stumped off to the laboratory. Greville would advise him on whom to reincorporate. The Persay's welfare was the man's prime concern. He could rely on Larry Greville.
Make Ready didn't doubt the healer's ability to achieve such a bizarre objective. As a child, Make Ready had ignored his mère's fantasies of a paragon lineage. Was he truly a Persay bastard? Or was it just a genetic accident which had produced a facsimile Persay doigt? What matter, if the results were identical?
He said, "Would I have to stay at the Chateau?" It would be a blow to leave the dogniks and the houseboat.
"You'd be better away from that scummy sewer." Grumm's expression was virtuous, as though Make Ready's welfare were his only concern.
Make Ready sulked. "It ain't all scummy. There's a channel over by the far bank where we swim."
Grumm shuddered. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Dogniks is different to us near-standards. Their bodies can cope with disease. I'm a medsin—I know."
Make Ready let it pass. His dognik friends were cleaner than most of Kelmet's citizens. He said, "Who do we contact at the Chateau?"
Grumm's face went blank. "My business, lad. You tell me if you want me to get him here to see that doigt of yours."
Oh, what the Helix! He could slide out if things got too hot. It might be a lark to confront the Grand Maitre with a bastard he had forgotten!
Make Ready met the healer's gaze with innocent eyes. "Okay, Messer Grumm. I'll give it a go."
Lord Mardy Persay was in no hurry to dash off to Whernmoor. Cledger's second in command had reported that the Persay force was holding on the Lemon river, with the bridge still unblown. Dalliance at Haut Chateau was a deal more attractive than campaigning in the northern boondocks with an army of sweaty four-arms. And there were other ways of killing cats . . .
Lord Mardy headed for the Chateau's telecommunications centre. He found the duty corporal at his desk outside the aviary. The man saluted with an upper arm, while unsuccessfully attempting to conceal a comic book behind his back with the lower ones.
"At ease, corporal," Mardy ordered, smiling. "This visit ain't official until I put on my cap."
The corporal stared, noting that Lord Mardy carried no cap. He relaxed. "Can I help you, sir."
Mardy pointed his stalled index finger at the aviary door. "Can you get a message into Entendu for me?"
The corporal straightened. "That's easy, sir. I have a couple of Entendy birds in there. Would you want to get in touch with the earl himself? The birds are from his stable."
Mardy nibbled at a thumb nail. "Would the earl know who sent the message?"
"Only if you tell him, sir. The birds was took from a catman courier who was trying to smuggle them into Varrick through Mary Cage territory."
"So, if I were to send a message by one of your birds, Earl Elder would believe it came from his own agent in Varek?"
"If you didn't tell him different, sir."
Lord Mardy rubbed his hands together. "Excellent, corporal. How do I send a message?"
The corporal opened the lid of his desk, and got out a sheaf of flimsies. "If you'll write it out on this special paper, sir. I'll do the rest."
Mardy weighed the flimsies in his hand. "Won't the type of paper give us away?"
The corporal grinned. "We captured those flimsies with the birds, sir. We made copies before we replaced them—with our own birds . . . and our own agent!"
Lord Mardy whistled his admiration of the devious strategy. "So Earl Elder's messages from Varek will come to us?"
The corporal shrugged modestly. "Shouldn't be surprised, sir."
Lord Mardy bent over the soldier's desk. On the top flimsy he wrote: "An army of 3,000 shellbacks, with artillery and cavalry have invaded Marécage. Suggest prime opportunity for strike on Varek. Area around Mossum completely undefended."
He left the message unsigned. Folding the flimsy, he found the corporal offering him a minute container.
"Pop it in there, sir. I'll fix it to the bird straightaway, and send it off."
Lord Mardy screwed up the flimsy beneath the one he had used, and casually scribbled over the next lower sheet with the blunt end of his pen. "I'd like to see it go, corporal, if I may."
The corporal unlocked the aviary door. "We've no secrets from you, milord. You hold the message tube while I get the bird."
"That will do nicely, corporal," Lord Mardy agreed.
He went back to his own quarters in the Chateau humming happily. The message should be enough to spur Jark Elder into a raid on Caswell's territory, thereby creating a demand for the immediate recall of the turtlebacks from Whernmoor. And Lord Mardy Persay could stay snug at Haut Chateau, keeping an eye on the machinations of one Larry Greville. When it came to deciding on fresh additions to the Persay line, the heir apparent ought not to be left out in the cold.