The horn sounded its three notes.
Amerie sighed. The echoing reply set off the wild things farther along the trail, so that the caravan met its escort in a tangled voluntary of bird and animal voices. The forest thinned and they came into a parklike area beside a slow-flowing river, some western tributary of the Saône. The trail led over a lawn beneath venerable cypresses and through the gate of a large palisaded fort almost identical to the one they had stopped at during the night.
“All you travelers!” Captal Waldemar bellowed, when the last of the caravan had entered the gate and the wooden doors were swung shut. “This is our sleeping stop. We’ll rest here until sunset. I know you’re feeling pretty used up. But take my advice and soak in the big hot-tub in your bathhouse before you fall into the sack. And eat, even if you think you’re too tired to be hungry! Take your packs with you when you dismount. Anybody sick or gotta complaint, see me. Be ready to remount this evening after supper when you hear the horn. You feel like trying to escape, remember that the amphicyons are outside and so are the sabertooth cats and a really trick orange salamander the size of a collie dog with venom like a king cobra Have a nice rest. That’s all”
A white-clad hostler helped Amerie from her saddle when she was unable to get down on her own.
“You want to give yourself a good soak, Sister,” the man said solicitously. “It’s the best thing in the world for trail soreness. We heat the water with a solar setup on the roof, so there’s plenty.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’ll do that.”
“You could do something for us here at the fort, too, Sister. If you’re not too tired and stiff, that is.” He was a short, coffee-colored man with graying kinky hair and the preoccupied air of a minor civil servant.
Amerie felt that she could fall asleep standing up if only there were something to lean against. But she heard herself saying, “Of course I’ll do anything I can.” Her racked leg muscles spasmed in protest.
“We don’t often get a priest here. Just a circuit-rider every three or four months, old Brother Anatoly out of Finiah or Sister Ruth from Goriah, way over to the west. We have maybe fifteen Catholics among the men here. We’d really appreciate it if…”
“Yes. Certainly. I suppose you’d prefer the votive Mass of St. John the Beloved Disciple.”
“First your nice bath and supper.” He picked up her pack, draped her arm over his shoulders, and helped her away.
As soon as Felice had dismounted, she rushed over to Richard and said, “Well? Did you get it?”
“Dead easy. And there’s a second-magnitude sparkler sitting right on top of it.” He looked down at her from the high back of his chaliko. “Since you’re in such good shape, gimme a hand down off this brute.”
“Easiest thing in the world,” she said. Stepping onto the dismounting block, she put her little hands under his armpits and swung him off in one motion.
“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed the pirate.
“I could use a little of that, too, Felice,” came Claude’s dry voice. The ring-hockey player went to the next chaliko and plucked the old man out of the saddle as though he were a child.
“What kinda gravity you have on Acadie, anyhow?” Richard growled.
She bestowed a condescending smile. “Point eight-eight Earth normal. Nice try, Captain Blood, but no joy.”
“You mustn’t try anything rash here, Felice.” Claude was anxious. “I should think they’d be very alert in a place like this.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve…”
Richard hissed, “She’s coming, watch it! Her nibs!”
The white chaliko bearing Epone paced majestically through the clutter of weary prisoners and their baggage.
“No dust or sweat on that one,” remarked Felice bitterly, slapping at the filthy green skirts of her hockey uniform. “Looks like she’s ready for the fuckin’ beaux-arts ball. Must be ionized fabric in the cloak.”
A few of the travelers were still astride their mounts, among them the sturdy ginger-bearded man with the lion emblazoned on his knightly surtout. He had both elbows resting on the pommel of his saddle. His hands covered his face.
“Dougal.” Epone’s voice was at once wheedling and commanding.
The knight leapt in his seat and stared at her wildly. “Not again. Please.”
But she only signaled for hostlers to take the bridle of the knight’s chaliko. “O thou belle dame sans merci,” he groaned. “Aslan. Aslan.”
Epone rode away across the fort compound toward a small structure with pots of flowers hanging from its veranda roof. The hostlers led tall Dougal after her.
Claude watched them go and said, “Well, now you know, Richard. It’s a good thing you’re out of it. She looks like mighty rough trade.”
The ex-spacer swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat at memory’s slow return. “Who… who the hell is Aslan?” he managed to ask.
“A kind of Christ figure in an old fairy tale,” the old man replied. “A magical lion who saved children from supernatural enemies in a Never-Never Land called Narnia.”
Felice laughed. “I don’t think his franchise extends to the Pliocene. Would either of you gentlemen care to join me in a hot tub?”
She marched off to the bathhouse, dusty feathers awave, leaving the others to limp slowly after.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Oh, what a night it had been!
Aiken Drum lay sprawled on snowy sheets and let his silver torc give him a replay of the high. Fizzy exotic booze. Delicious exotic food. Fun and games and music and dance and romping and stomping and flying and galloping those exotic broads with their crazy boobs down to there. Sweet houghmagandy. Hadn’t he shown them that he was big enough! And hadn’t he found his heart’s home at last… Here in Exile, among these people who loved to laugh and venture as he did, he would thrive and grow and shine.
“Gonna be Sir Boss!” he giggled. “Gonna roj this whole fewkin’ world until it yells quits! Gonna fly!”
Oh, yes. That, too.
Slowly, his naked body rose from the bed. He spread his arms wide and soared toward the ceiling where the morning sunlight shining through the drapes made ripple-bars of greeny gold. The bedroom was an aquarium and he was a swimmer in the air. Zoom! Bank! Roll! Dive! Let go and fall bouncing back to the bed shouting with delight, for it was a rare gift even among the talented Tanu, and the ladies, especially, had greeted his discovery of it with great excitement.
Wonderful silver torc!
He scrambled off-the bed and went to the window. Roniah down below was awake and going about its business, human figures strolling or bustling, stately Tanu mounted on gaily caparisoned chalikos, and everywhere the little ramas at work, sweeping, gardening, fetching and carrying. Kaleidoscopic!
…Hey, Aik. Where you be, buddy?
The mental hail came to him hesitantly and garbled at first, then with increasing confidence. Raimo, of course. The surly woodsman had undergone a remarkable change of attitude as Aiken’s new metafunctions became manifest at the party. Raimo left off his shit-kicking and got friendly. And why not? He could sense a winner, that one!