Juxtaposition (28 page)

“Coincidence?” Stile inquired skeptically, and Sheen agreed it was probably not.
 
They set the machine, and the readout suggested that the message impulse had been introduced at this nexus.
 
But this was a closed connection; there was no way to insert a message here. “It had to have come from the other side of the curtain,” Stile said. Somehow he was not surprised. Much of the other mischief he had experienced had originated in Phaze.

“You have a friend there,” Sheen said. “You will have to cross and use your magic to trace him down.”

“Yes. Only an Adept could have managed this. I can’t think which one would have done it.” Stile sighed. “Sheen, I still have a night free, and I shall need my rest. Take me home.”

She took him to the Proton Blue Demesnes, and fed him and washed him in the manner of serf for Citizen, not deigning to give the job to the hired staff. She put him in a comfortable bed over a gravity diffusion screen, so that his weight diminished. Weariness closed in on him, now that he had respite from the tensions of the moment. But be fore he allowed himself to sleep, he caught her hand and drew her to him. “You cried for me again today,” he said.

“And you cried again for me.”

“Some day, somehow—“

She leaned over and kissed him, and it was as sweet as any kiss could be. In that pleasure he fell asleep. He dreamed that he loved her in the off moments as well as at the stress points—but woke to know that was only a wish, not truth. He could not do more than marry her.

Stile crossed the curtain in the morning at the site of the last junction. There was nothing special in Phaze at this place; it was only the slope of a lightly forested hill. What ever had fed the message in was gone. There were not even any footprints, after two months.

He was the Blue Adept, with potent magic. How could he apply it to follow this long-cold trail? Wouldn’t an Adept have counterspelled the trail to prevent such tracing?

One way to find out. Stile played his harmonica, summoning his power, while he worked out a spell. Then he sang: “Make an arrow, point the way, that the message came that day.”

The arrow formed, an illuminated spot like that made by a light projection. But it rotated uncertainly, like a compass without its magnetism. Sure enough, a counter spell was interfering. There would be no simple, one-step answer.

However, his power at this spot, now, would be greater than that of a months-gone Adept. He should be able to trace the source—if he followed the trail in person, as he had in Proton. “Give a signal, hot or cold, to make current what is old,” he sang, shaping the detail in his mind.
 
Now Stile’s left side felt warmer than his right. He turned, and the warmth was on his face. He strode for ward—and the effect faded.

He backed up until he felt the heat again. It had fallen away to his right. He got back on the trail, pursuing it more carefully—and it led him in a spaghetti-like wriggle that coiled about and recrossed itself frequently. Obviously the other party had anticipated this approach also, and had left a tortuous path. It might take Stile a long time to unravel every wriggle, and the trail could lead into traps.
 
He decided to let it go for now. He wanted to rejoin the unicorns and the Lady Blue in plenty of time for the quest for Clip and vengeance. This message had waited two months; it would wait another day.

He used a prepared spell to transport himself to the herd, and stood for a moment in discomfort as he arrived.
 
He certainly did not enjoy performing this kind of magic on himself, but he really had no alternative at the moment.
 
Neysa spied him first and trotted over. She would al ways be his steed and his friend in spirit. Yet now she did not prance, for the pall of her brother’s fate hung over her.

She changed to girl-form and made one of her rare speeches: “The Stallion has news of Clip.” “What kind?” Stile asked tightly.

“He is alive.” She shifted back to mare-form.
 
Stile vaulted to her back, and she trotted him over to the herd. He embraced the Lady Blue briefly.
 

The Herd Stallion awaited him in man-form. “Under the White Mountains, prisoner of the goblins. We must strike by night—tonight, ere they suspect.”

“Yes,” Stile agreed. “Thou and I alone, surgically.”

“They will be alert for Adept magic, and will kill Clip the moment they detect it. Thou canst not employ thy power until he is safe.”

“How am I to save him, then?” Stile asked, frustrated.
 
“I will save him. Then thou canst get us all out of danger.”

Stile was uncertain about this procedure, but had to agree. There was no use going on a rescue mission if his mere presence precipitated Clip’s murder.
 
“We start now,” the Stallion said. “It will be night ere we reach the mountains. I know an entrance to the goblin demesnes—but once underground, I will know the way no better than thou.”

Stile had an idea. “Suppose I make a spell to show the way? Will that continuing magic alert the goblins?” The Stallion considered. “I know not, but think not. It is new magic that makes alarm; there are many ancient spells in the background, ignored.”

“I’d better risk it,” Stile said. He considered a moment, then played his harmonica and sang: “A star institute, to illumine our route.”

A pinpoint glow appeared to their north, shedding faint light on the ground.

“But the goblins will see it too!” the Stallion protested.

“See what?” the Lady Blue asked.

The Stallion smiled. “Ah—others see it not!”

“Others see it not,” Stile agreed. “I am not quite as foolish as I look.”

“Not quite,” the Stallion agreed, and shifted back to his natural form, pawing the ground. Stile took the hint and leaped to his back. This was much more of a challenge than it had been with Neysa, for the Herd Stallion stood four hands higher than she and massed twice as much. He was a lot of animal. Had they not had a clear understanding, Stile’s touch on his back would have precipitated an instant death struggle. It was a sign of the passions involved and the seriousness of the situation that the untamable Stallion submitted to this indignity.
 
Immediately they were off. Stile, the most skilled rider in this frame, suddenly had to hang on, lest he be dumped like a novice. Evidently some spirit of rivalry remained; the Stallion wanted him to know that he kept his perch only by sufferance. Stile had never been on a steed like this before; the Stallion was the mass of a huge work horse, but had the velocity of a racer. Stile had originally tamed Neysa by riding her against her will; he knew he could never have done it with this steed.

The scenery raced by. Wind tore at Stile’s clothing. The Stallion’s hooves pounded on the doubled drumbeat of a full gallop, and sparks flew up where the hard hooves struck, but the ride was smooth. The Stallion was not wasting energy in extra up-and-down motion; he was sail ing straight ahead.

The pinpoint star remained fixed at about head-height, its spot of light brightening to a patch of ground. It slid to one side sometimes, guiding them around obstructions and bad footing, so that the Stallion never had to slow to scout the way. He was able to maintain cruising speed, faster than that of any horse, and he seemed tireless. As he warmed up, jets of flame blasted from his nostrils. This was the way that unicorns cooled themselves, since they did not sweat; the heat was dissipated from their breath and hooves.

After a time the ride became routine, then dull. Stile had nothing to do, since the Stallion knew the way even without the help of the little star. Stile could have slept, but was too keyed up; he wanted to rescue and restore Clip. He could do it, he was sure; his magic could cement the severed horn and heal the scars of its cutting. The only problem was getting to the unicorn without triggering the murder. And getting them all out, thereafter. Meanwhile, he just had to wait.

“I’ve been thinking,” he remarked. “Art thou amenable to conversation?”

The Stallion blew an affirmative accordion note. He, too, was bored by this stretch.

“Thou art a powerful creature,” Stile said. “Surely the goblins will recognize thee as readily as me. I can be taken for an elf, but thou canst only be a unicorn, even in man form. The snub-hom gives thee away.”

The Stallion blew another note of agreement. Unicorns could change form but retained vestigial horns in all forms. This was because the horn was the seat of the unicorn’s magic; without it the creature was no more than a horse, unable to play music or change form. If an alternate form lacked the horn, the unicorn would not be able to change back to equine form. This was plainly unacceptable; the human form was not one any self-respecting unicorn would care to be stuck in for long.
 

“Thy dragon-form is no better than thy man-form for concealment,” Stile continued. “True, it could penetrate the goblin demesnes—but would create great alarm, for no one ignores a dragon! When thou didst approach Clip, the little monsters would surely realize thy nature and intent.”

“Um,” the unicorn noted with a thoughtful chord.
 
“The thing is, thou art in all thy forms a mighty creature. Now this is no bad thing and ordinarily is altogether proper.” The phrasing of a suggestion was sometimes more important than the suggestion itself, particularly when addressed to a creature of pride. “But this time I wish thou didst possess an insignificant form, like Neysa’s firefly, that I could carry in unobserved.”

The unicorn ran on, considering. After a time he blew a new note. “Could.” The notes were not really words, but pitch and inflection conveyed definite meaning, and Stile could usually interpret them when he put his mind to it.
 

“Thou hast a fourth form?” he asked, surprised. “I thought three was the limit, and only one or two for some.”

Now came a proud blast. This was no ordinary unicorn; the Stallion could master a fourth form, if he chose.
 
“That’s great!” Stile exclaimed. “Couldst thou work it up in time for tonight? I know it takes a considerable act of discipline to implement a new form, and there is so little time—“ The Stallion was not foolishly optimistic. Any form was a challenge the first time, and a fourth one was special.
 
But he thought he could manage it.

They discussed it as the miles and leagues rushed by. It developed that some forms were easier than others. Difficulty varied according to the necessary specialization and the change of size. Thus a unicorn could convert to a massive bear fairly readily, because the size was about the same. A man-form was harder, because the mass was less and because of the necessary specialization of the hands and voice. A man-form that could not tie a knot in string would not be very good, and one who could not talk would be worse. These things had to be done properly, or were not worth doing at all. Neysa’s firefly-form was a greater achievement than Clip’s hawk-form, because the fly was only a fraction of the mass. Neysa weighed about 850 pounds in her natural form, about 85 in her girl-form, and less than 85-hundredths of an ounce in firefly-form. It would be more than twice as hard for the Herd Stallion to get down to that size.

“But such size would be beyond suspicion,” Stile re marked. “No one would believe that a beast as noble as thou couldst hide in a form so small.” That accented the magnitude of the challenge, rather than the insignificance of the form.

Then there was the problem of flying, the unicorn explained in concerned notes. Flying was a specialization that had to be mastered by tedious practice, after the physical form had been achieved. The Stallion had learned it for his dragon-form, but would have to start all over for an insect-form, since insects employed a different mode of flight. That could lake days.

“Oh, I did not mean thou must fly,” Stile said. “It is the insignificance I am after, that none may suspect thee.
 
Thou couldst go from dragon to roach, for that.” Roach! the Stallion blasted, affronted. Never! But Stile was struck by something else. Dragon—roach.
 
His poem: the one he had used to win the Tourney in Proton. Had this provided him with a prophetic key?
 
Now he thought back, discovering parallels. He had referred to Gabriel’s horn—but there was also the unicorn’s horn. Clip’s horn had precipitated this venture. He had also referred to trying to cheat fate; but he had won his biggest bet because of cheating by another Citizen.
 
How far did this go?

How far, indeed! The first four lines of that poem had matched his recent experience, deliberately. Then the key word: silence. And he had been struck by the silence-spell.
 
Then love; and he had become betrothed to Sheen. That was not love, precisely, but related; she certainly wanted and deserved love.

In fact, those key words aligned beautifully with his experience—almost like a prediction of the Oracle. Yet the words had become the random product of the Game Computer. No magic there! So it must be coincidence. It was possible to make seeming sense of almost anything, as those two poems had shown. Still—

Why not? Stile decided to go for it. “That is one form no goblin would suspect. The nether passages must be overrun with roaches. What Herd Stallion would go to the enormous effort to achieve so lowly a form? It is beneath consideration—therefore the safest of all forms for the accomplishment of such a hazardous mission.”