The Wizard and the War Machine, page 19
He puzzled it over as he savored the stew.
And at that same time, several kilometers to the east, Parrah stared in awe at the piled clouds on the western horizon. She had asked Arzadel for a blizzard, true, but this storm was more than she had expected. She could sense its fury readily from where she rode. She was very glad indeed that only a few isolated flakes and random gusts of wind were reaching her as she hurried on toward Killalah. She rode a horse she had bought on her credit as a wizard of Praunce, purchased at the first inn she had been able to locate after leaving Arzadel, Dekert, and Sam.
Killalah itself, she knew, had not been as fortunate as she, and was catching considerably more than isolated flakes and random gusts. She dreaded having to fight her way in if she reached the area before the storm had died.
She also shivered at a thought she could not suppress. A storm of that magnitude could easily kill someone. If anyone died in that howling maelstrom, she would be a murderess.
Furthermore, a storm of that size, for all she knew, would be enough to wreck the sky-ship she had been sent to preserve. Her entire mission might have been a mistake.
And worst of all, her husband was somewhere in the middle of the blizzard, and despite being a cyborg and wizard, he, too, could die as a result of her instructions to Arzadel. That thought, had she allowed herself to entertain it for more than an instant, would have been enough to bring on nightmares.
She rode on toward Killalah, free of snow but in a thick fog of worry and desperation.
Somewhere in between husband and wife, in the fringes of the blizzard, Arzadel stared in horror at that same storm, towering above him as he hung in midair above the forest. He had started the cloudbuilding himself, before Dekert's local recruits began arriving, and had been concerned that the storm might not form quickly enough. Therefore, as the other wizards had arrived in twos or threes, he had urged them all on to the greatest possible speed, and had not really counted the newcomers or kept a close watch on the storm system's overall development.
They had obviously overdone it. The storm had burgeoned out of control, until it was now far and away the most powerful storm ever created by wizardry on the face of Dest.
Even considering the wizards' haste and their numbers, Arzadel did not really understand how the blizzard had grown so big so fast.
Of course, the winter had been exceptionally dry. He guessed that he and his fellow wizards had unwittingly tapped into a pressure system that had been sitting there, waiting and building. Parrah's message had stressed urgency, so Arzadel had allowed no time to study the situation closely. He had simply started gathering clouds and ramming them together, piling them up and sweeping moisture up from lakes and rivers, until the sky could no longer hold the accumulated mass. The other wizards, as they arrived, had done the same.
And, apparently, they had triggered something as much as they had built anything. A storm that might have come days later, or not at all, or as a series of storms spread over a much larger area and much more time, had all come at once, concentrated into one small area.
The result was quite impressive.
Now, the problem was not building the storm or sustaining it but disposing of it. Arzadel was unsure whether the best approach would be to shred away pieces, or just to keep it contained until it blew itself out, or something else entirely.
A message formed in his mind, and the decision was taken away from him. Dekert and the others were already shredding it, tearing away the outer cloud masses, deflecting winds, and trying to wear it down.
Arzadel looked at the roiling clouds and felt his heart sink. The thing was huge and looked stubborn. Killing it might take days.
But, he asked himself rhetorically, what choice did he have?
He gulped, gathered his strength, and reached out with his mind to pull away the nearest clouds.
In all, it took four days to kill the storm they had built in an afternoon.
Chapter Twenty
THE SKIES WERE STILL GRAY BUT NO LONGER PARTICULARLY dark or threatening when Parrah rode into Killalah. The snow had finally stopped falling there a few hours before, and already respectable paths had been dug out along most of the streets. Several people were now turning their attention to clearing the roofs, lest the weight of well over a meter of wet snow cave them in.
The storm had delayed Parrah somewhat, after all. She had been able to skirt its edge for more than a hundred kilometers, but for the last fourth of the journey she had had to fight her way through the remnants of the once-mighty storm. She had made her way through two days of meter-deep snow and three-meter drifts, at times on horseback, at other times leading the way herself, practically dragging the beast along in her footsteps.
Now, though, she had reached her destination.
"Hello!" she called. "Who is in charge here?"
Several people stared at her, some of them openly hostile at the sight of a stranger in winter, when they had better things to do than cater to an uninvited guest.
Parrah wore the robe of a wizard, however, and wizards commanded respect. Many of the townspeople suspected that so sudden and heavy a storm could only have been the work of wizards and had said so to anyone who would listen, but that was just gossip. Wizards commanded respect. People who failed to respect wizards had a tendency to suffer for it in one way or another.
Accordingly, when Parrah asked her question, half a dozen hands pointed to a nearby rooftop where a rotund figure was vigorously shoving snow out over the eaves with a manure scoop. Parrah gathered from various phrases shouted through scarves and mufflers that this person was the town's imperial agent.
"Thank you," she said, nodding politely. She urged her horse forward until she sat near the building—though well clear of the overhanging eaves, as she had no desire for a faceful of snow.
"Hello!" she called again. "Are you in charge here?"
The person on the roof turned his head, saw her, and nodded, the manure scoop still in his hands.
"I need to talk to you!" Parrah shouted.
The plump figure, so heavily bundled in blue wool that Parrah could make out nothing but a vaguely manlike shape, rammed the scoop upright into the snow and turned to face the newcomer. A gloved hand reached up and pulled several layers of wool away from a thick black beard and a smiling mouth.
"Talk, then," a cheerful tenor voice replied.
"I would much prefer to speak on the ground," Parrah called. "Or better still, indoors somewhere warm. It's very important."
The figure peered speculatively around at the roof. Roughly a third of it had been cleared down to a depth of a few centimeters. The empire's representative obviously wanted to stay where he was and finish the job, but he, too, had seen the wizard's robe Parrah wore. Although Praunce's wizards theoretically served only an advisory role in government, everyone knew where the real power in the empire lay.
Since this woman wore no coat amid the snow and cold yet appeared warm and comfortable, it seemed a safe assumption, despite her request to speak indoors, that the robe was not fraudulent or stolen.
He sighed, his breath puffing out of the woolen bundle like the steam from a kettle. "I'll be right down," he called. "Meet me inside."
The building on which the empire's representative stood, Parrah saw when she dropped her gaze from the roof to the façade, was a public house. She tied her horse to a rail and found her way to the taproom, where the plump man joined her a moment later.
Unwrapped, the imperial agent in Killalah proved to be of medium height and large but not really excessive girth, with a round smiling face and big stub-fingered hands. He refused to speak until warm cider had been provided for both himself and his guest but then settled back comfortably and said, "My name is Tagyi, and I'm in charge around here as much as anyone is, so what can I do for you?"
Parrah hesitated; she had been so concerned with reaching Killalah that she had not really thought out what she would say.
"I'm here on an urgent errand," she said at last. "I need to teach as many people here as possible a new language, as quickly as possible. Magically."
The agent made no attempt to disguise his puzzlement as he looked at her, still smiling. "Why?" he asked at last.
Parrah sighed. "There is someone coming—a demon, in human form. She controls weapons from the Bad Times, many of them. My husband … she wants to kill us all. I mean, she intends to destroy entire cities at a time, with Praunce the first on her list. My husband is with her. No, I don't mean that; he's not with her, he's trying to stop her." Parrah, aware that her explanation was garbled, struggled to make clear what she herself did not fully understand. "She … she's under a geas, a commitment, and she can't kill those who swear loyalty to Old Earth, you see."
"Go on," Tagyi said noncommittally.
"Well, she's coming here. She conferred with her other demon, or whatever it is that restrains her, and they chose this town as their sample. They intend to come here and question people, and if anyone denies loyalty to Old Earth, then she'll start destroying cities. We don't want her to do that, of course, we just want her ship. So you must all say that you are loyal to Old Earth, do you see?"
The agent stared mildly at her for a moment before replying. "We're loyal to Praunce here, my lady; we know nothing of Old Earth."
"That doesn't matter." Parrah gestured as if to sweep away such unimportant details. "Praunce is loyal to Old Earth, and that's what we need to convince this demon of."
"My lady," Tagyi said politely. "I apologize if you think me impertinent, but who are you? You haven't mentioned that, and as a representative of the government of Praunce, I take an interest in such matters as loyalty oaths and cannot ask my people to give them based on nothing but the word of a stranger. I can see that you are a wizard—either a wizard or a truly gifted actress—but I know nothing more about you." He smiled gently, as if to make plain that he meant no offense.
Parrah was not offended by anything except the delay the agent's doubts would cause. "I am Parrah," she said, "and I am a member of the Council of the Wizards of Praunce. My husband is Sam Turner, also a member of the Council. I am here as a representative of the Council, on Council business."
"Ah." Tagyi nodded. "I believe that I have heard both your name and your husband's, though I have never before had the pleasure of meeting either of you. Killalah has never before been graced by your presence, and I have never had the good fortune to visit Praunce. I must therefore confess, reluctantly, that I am unable to attest that you are who you say you are, but accepting your identity for the moment, I will grant that you are well within your rights to ask a favor of our humble town. But what is this 'Old Earth' the Council wants us to swear allegiance to? Do you mean the country of the old myths? And what was that about teaching languages?"
Parrah hissed in exasperation.
"It doesn't matter what Old Earth is. I do mean the world of the old myths; it isn't mythical. That doesn't matter, though. What matters is this demon, and convincing it that all of Dest is still loyal to the government of Old Earth, so it won't destroy Praunce and so we can get its ship."
Tagyi remained courteous but visibly skeptical. "And what does this have to do with new languages?" he asked.
"The demon doesn't speak our tongue," Parrah explained patiently. "So I have come here to teach as many of you as I can the demon's tongue."
"A demon that can't learn our speech, so that we must learn its?" Tagyi asked politely. "I had thought demons were more versatile than that."
Parrah's patience was exhausted. "Yes, damn you, it's a demon that can't learn our speech, so that we must learn its! Hligosh, I don't have time to argue about it! I need to start right away; the demon could be here any minute!"
"All right," the agent said calmly. "You're the wizard; you pick who you want to teach, then, and I'll see what they say."
"I pick you, then, San take you to hell!" She reached out and forced her way into the agent's mind.
Aboard Flame's ship, several thousand kilometers above, the computer informed its cyborg, "Gravitational anomaly occurring in site chosen for sample interrogation."
Flame was bored, after days of inaction while waiting for the storm to die, and sunk in lethargy and depression. "So what?" she asked.
"Insufficient information," the computer replied.
It said nothing more, but Flame could sense that it was awaiting further action. She sighed and stirred herself sufficiently to ask, "Is Slant there?"
"Negative."
She thought for a moment. "Did one of those psychics I met levitate himself to the place, or one of the ones that was in the storm?"
"Negative."
"Then forget about it," she said. "Those stupid anomalies turn up all over the place." She did not feel up to arguing about it either way.
"Affirmative." The computer considered silently for a moment and then said, "All winter storm activity near site chosen for sample interrogation has ceased. Query: Advisability of landing."
Flame shifted on the couch and frowned at the poster. "Is Slant there yet?"
"Negative."
"Oh, that's right; you already told me that." She thought for a moment. "Oh, hell, I don't feel like it right now. It must be cold down there, with all that snow they just got; I'd rather wait up here. You won't let me kill any of the bastards anyway, will you?"
"Information insufficient. Permissibility of termination of local inhabitants dependent upon circumstances."
She felt too tired and dismal to take umbrage at the computer's literal-mindedness. "I mean," she said, "you won't just let me go in and shoot some, will you?"
"Negative."
"That's what I thought. In that case I'd just as soon wait up here, where it's warm."
"Acknowledged."
A momentary flash of guilt for her own disinterest struck her, and she forced herself to add, "Let me know when Slant gets close, though—say, about a dozen kilometers away." After all, she thought to herself, all she had left was her mission; she did not want to screw it up.
"Affirmative," the computer said.
On the ground, still a good many kilometers north of Killalah, Turner overheard this entire conversation as he clambered over the drifted snow. Flame's earlier orders regarding what Slant was to be told had apparently expired or been inadvertently countermanded somehow. The computer had informed both cyborgs of the psionic activity simultaneously and, in the absence of instructions to the contrary, had simply kept both communication circuits open.
Turner did not say anything, preferring to simply listen and save his energy for moving. The snow was too soft and deep to make riding a horse practical, so when he had decided the day before that the storm had let up enough for him to travel, he had left his mount with Hellegai and Turei, the householders who had sheltered him through the worst of the blizzard.
At first they had insisted that they would keep the animal safe for him until he returned, but he had told them to keep it for themselves as payment for their hospitality. He did not want to bother returning. So far as he knew, the horse was not anyone's particular pet. He would buy another mount if he needed one.
They had finally accepted, but having seen his bare head and face they had forced a sturdy hat and a long, thick black scarf on him in exchange. After only a token resistance he had accepted those gratefully.
Now, listening to IRU 247, despite the cold and the snow and his general weariness, he smiled, genuinely cheerful at what he heard. Parrah had reached the target community and was starting her education program, he was sure. Furthermore, if Flame stayed in orbit until he was within a dozen kilometers of the town, she would not be arriving for days yet. Parrah would have all the time she needed.
That assumed, of course, that Flame didn't change her mind. Turner was slightly puzzled by her apparent indifference. It was not so much that indifference in an IRU cyborg was surprising; on the contrary, it was to be expected. A certain dull passivity seemed to be essential in anyone who was going to travel interstellar distances alone. The IRU default personalities, from what he knew of them, were designed for just that. His own default personality—Slant's default personality, at any rate—had certainly tended toward passivity. In general, he had acted only when forced by his computer to do so.
What was surprising in this case was not the passivity itself but the contrast with Flame's earlier manic behavior.
He thought that over as he fought his way through forests and fields buried in snow. Having something to think about helped him resist the temptation to fly despite the inevitable arguments he knew flight would inspire.
After some consideration, he theorized that her present dull indifference was probably more or less Flame's normal condition. Surely, no personality, no matter how deranged, could sustain the level of anger and hatred that Flame had previously displayed—not over the long, empty years of uneventful travel between stars. That anger and hatred must have been her response to the disruption of her shipboard routine. Her ferocity had been waiting somewhere below the surface until it had something to act on, and he and Dest had been a perfect target. When she had arrived at Dest, she had been primed and ready to unleash all her pent-up fury on the planet's cities—and she had been balked.
And, balked, she had been unable to maintain her state of rage.
In short, she was sulking. She hadn't been allowed her way, so now she would sit in her safe little place until she was allowed to do as she pleased and obliterate Dest's population.
Turner liked that theory. It seemed to fit everything he knew of her. The hatred and anger surely still lurked just below the surface, ready to break out in a new tantrum at any time.
He wondered what sort of a person she had been before her mind had been splintered. His current analysis of her default personality made her sound childish. Had the whole person been childish?
