The trumpet sounded for the last time.
Yeochee raised one mailed hand and several dozen illusory courtiers and men-at-arms winked into being about the throne dais. The rocks of the mountain hall began to glow with rich colors. Rippling music, as from a marimba of glass, filled the room as six Firvulag of the palace guard escorted the humans and Fitharn Pegleg into the royal presence.
One of the quasi courtiers stepped forward. Using Standard English for the sake of the Lowlives, he declaimed: “Let all pay homage to His Appalling Highness Yeochee IV, Sovereign Lord of the Heights and Depths, Monarch of the Infernal Infinite, Father of All Firvulag; and Undoubted Ruler of the Known World!”
An organlike peal of deafening intensity stopped the approaching visitors in their tracks. The King arose and seemed to grow taller and taller before their eyes until he loomed among the stalactites like some gigantic idol with emerald eyes.
Fitharn doffed his tallhat briefly. “How do, King.”
“You have our leave to approach!” boomed the apparition.
Fitharn stumped forward, the seven humans trailing after him. Yeochee noted with regret that only two of the Lowlives, a sharp-featured fellow with a big black mustache and a younger woman, hollow-cheeked and thin, with fair hair pulled into an unflattering knot, seemed genuinely impressed by his monstrous guise. The rest of the human party regarded His Appalling Highness with either scientific interest or amusement. Old Madame Guderian even betrayed a trace of Gallic ennui. Oh, what the hell. Why not relax?
“We shall condescend to assume a gentler aspect!” Yeochee decreed. He shrank down to his ordinary self, gold dressing gown, bare feet and all, with his coronet set askew as usual. “Now what’s all this?” he inquired of Fitharn.
“Madame Guderian’s plot against the Tanu seems to’ve taken a quantum leap, King. Better let her tell it.”
Yeochee sighed. Madame reminded him disconcertingly of his late grandmother, a lady who always knew when he had been up to childish mischief. Despite the old Frenchwoman’s talent for political intrigue, Yeochee had long since bitterly regretted giving her a golden torc. Madame’s schemes always seemed to end up benefiting the Lowlife humans, with only minimal gain to the Firvulag. He should have followed his first instinct and blasted her to flinders with his psychoenergies in those early days when she first had the temerity to step through her own time-gate. Indirectly, after all, she was the author of the present Firvulag degradation!
The old woman, dressed now in the dappled deerskin garments favored by forest prowlers of her race, stepped boldly to the throne and gave the King a perfunctory bob of her head.
“You’re looking well, Monseigneur. Plenty of healthy exercise, one trusts.”
Yeochee frowned. But at least the old trout had jogged his memory in regard to Lulo’s promised snack. He reached out and pulled a bellrope. “Pallol tells me you may have discovered the location of the Ship’s Grave.”
“It is true.” She gestured toward a silver-haired man among the humans. “One of our new compatriots. Professor Claude, believes he has identified the locale. It was known to him through his scientific studies in the world of the future.”
“Still known six million years from now?” The King beckoned to the paleontologist, who came closer. “You there, Claude. Tell me, in the future, did your people have any recollections of us?”
Claude smiled at the little exotic and let his gaze wander about the fantastic hall that lay within the heart of the Vosges’ highest mountain.
“Your Majesty, right this minute humanity’s direct ancestors are small apes cowering in the forest. They have no language, and so there is no way they can pass on to their descendants any memories whatsoever. Primitive human beings having the power of speech won’t evolve for another two or three million years or so, and they won’t develop oral traditions until, oh, say, eight or nine thousand years before my time. Wouldn’t you agree that it was highly unlikely for future humanity to have retained any recollections of a race of small shape-changing exotic people who live in underground dwellings?”
The King shrugged. “It was only a thought… So you know where the Ship’s Grave is, eh?”
Claude said, “I believe so. And you have no moral objections to our plundering it to our mutual benefit?”
Yeochee’s beady green eyes flashed dangerously. “Be careful, old Claude. You won’t be robbing the Ship of anything that can’t be returned in good time, with interest, when the unfair advantage that the despicable Foe has seized is equalized.”
Madame said, “We will help you to accomplish this end, Monseigneur. I have sworn it as part of my expiation! When humans can no longer be enslaved by the Tanu, the status quo between your two races will be restored. And our first strike will be against Finiah, using an aircraft and the Spear from the Ship’s Grave.”
The King twisted his beard into golden ropes. “The time factor! It’s only three weeks to the equinox, then another week and a half and we’re into the Truce for the Grand Combat in-gathering. H’mm. Our forces would need at least a week to prepare for an attack against the Tanu. Is there a chance that you can get back here with the flyer and the Spear before the Truce begins? We’d be willing to join you in an attack if there was a real hope of knocking off Velteyn and his flying circus. If we were successful against Finiah, the morale of our lads and lasses would be at zenith going into the Games this year.”
The old woman turned to Claude. “Is it possible for us to get to the Ries and back inside of a month?”
“We might barely manage it. But only if we obtain a guide who can take us by the shortest route to the head of small boat navigation on the Danube. This would be some place beyond the Black Forest in a kind of sediment-filled basin, the molassic foredeep between the Swabian Jura and the Alps. The river would likely flow as gentry through the molasse as the Sweet Afton. We could sail to the Ries easily and fly back.”
“Within the month?” the King persisted.
“If you use your good offices to get us a guide, it’s feasible.’’
Fitharn stepped forward. “The mighty Sharn-Mes suggested that one Sugoll might be made to assist the expedition. A bad-tempered joker, even for a Howler, and not any too loyal. But he claims to rule the Feldberg country, even the Water Caves beyond the Paradise Gorge. Sharn-Mes thought that if anyone knew of this river, Sugoll would. I can take these people to his lair if you’ll authorize Madame to impress his service.”
“Oh, very well,” grumbled the King. He crouched down and began groping under the throne, presently hauling out a small coffer that looked as if it was carved from black onyx. After fumbling with its golden catch, he flung it open, rummaged around, and came up with a Parker pen of twenty-second-century vintage and a much-creased, stained piece of vellum. Still kneeling on the floor he scrawled several emphatic ideographs and appended the royal signature.
“That should do it.” He replaced the writing materials and the chest and handed the missive to Madame. “It’s the best I can do. Freely translated, it says: Help these people or It’s your ass. You have our royal leave to coerce this Sugoll into slime-mold if he gives you a hard time.”
Madame gave a gracious nod and tucked the note away.