The Grand Ellipse Part 10

"The harbor blockade effectively places Lanthi Ume in a state of siege, with predictable results."

"The local resistance might have considered that possibility prior to its small experiment in insolence."

"The majority of citizens, completely uninvolved in the affair, will shortly begin to starve."

"Then they will see that their own comfort dictates a repudiation of the resistance, and all concerned stand to profit by the lesson."

"Perhaps they should thank you for the instruction," Luzelle murmured, but the grandlandsman seemed not to hear her. Karsler heard her, however. She saw her own voice in his eyes.

"And if they do not repudiate the resistance?" Karsler inquired. "What then?"

"I cannot say." Torvid shrugged. "Neither of us will be here to observe."

"The race, you mean? Certainly we can proceed overland to another point of embarkation from Dalyon, but the time involved in such an undertaking is considerable, and we must resign ourselves to a delay-"

"There will be no delay," Torvid stated. "Not for the two of us. We are Grewzian, and we may rely upon the loyalty and support of our countrymen."

"Loyalty is not the issue here and now."

"You will not acknowledge it as such, but your misconceptions scarcely alter reality. I will state the facts clearly. The harbor has been closed. For the present there will be no unauthorized entries or departures. However, the Lanthian merchant vessel Inspiration Inspiration has received the overgeneral's personal approval, and will embark for Aennorve in approximately one hour's time. We two sail with her, the only pa.s.sengers permitted aboard." has received the overgeneral's personal approval, and will embark for Aennorve in approximately one hour's time. We two sail with her, the only pa.s.sengers permitted aboard."

Unfair! Despite linguistic limitations, Luzelle understood Torvid's discourse clearly enough to know the worst. Despite linguistic limitations, Luzelle understood Torvid's discourse clearly enough to know the worst.

"Did you arrange this, Grandlandsman?" Karsler asked.

"Permission for the Inspiration Inspiration to sail, with the two of us aboard, yes. I cannot take credit for the closing of the harbor, however. I did not create the situation, but perceived its possibilities, merely." to sail, with the two of us aboard, yes. I cannot take credit for the closing of the harbor, however. I did not create the situation, but perceived its possibilities, merely."

"I see." Karsler eyed his uncle. "I almost wonder if it is sporting to exploit such a vast, unearned advantage."

"Pah, must you bewail your own good fortune? Should the enemy retreat before you in battle, would you hesitate to press your advantage then? And do not try my patience with artificial distinctions drawn between a battle and a race, there is no time for such foolery. Pay your reckoning, and let us be off to the docks. Or better yet, allow me." So saying, the grandlandsman produced his wallet and extracted a couple of notes, which he dropped carelessly on the table. As he did so, his eyes encountered Luzelle's, he affected to recognize her for the first time, and finally switched over to her language. "Ah, the little female traveler, the daredevil in skirts. Miss Dulaire, was it? Denaire? Contraire? Excuse me, but you must understand, I find all Vonahrish names eminently forgettable."

"But what an inconvenience, Grandlandsman," Luzelle murmured sympathetically. "And yet I believe it quite possible, by dint of application, to overcome the handicap of a congenitally weak or defective memory."

Torvid's face congealed.

She was certain that she saw Karsler's lips quirk, but the smile was gone in an instant. His expression was once again grave as he turned to her and observed with his customary formality, "I regret that our lunch must conclude prematurely, and I hope you will pardon my discourtesy in leaving you so abruptly."

"It's no discourtesy under the circ.u.mstances," she replied. "I thank you for all of your help and kindness, as well as for your good company."

"I hope we may lunch again another day, at leisure. In the meantime, do not neglect to practice with the Khrennisov."

The grandlandsman shot his nephew a penetrating glance.

"I'll practice, I promise," vowed Luzelle. "I'll be drilling two-biquin bits at twenty paces, the next time we meet."

"In Toltz, perhaps, upon conclusion of the race," Torvid Stornzof suggested. "Surely not before."

"Oh, I shouldn't count on that, Grandlandsman," Luzelle returned. "Someone whose opinion I respect believes that these inequities of political fortune may yet balance themselves, before the race is run."

This time Karsler made no attempt to repress his smile, and the light in his blue eyes quickened her blood. She cast about for something else to say, something that would hold him a little longer, but invention failed.

"Safe voyage," she offered simply, with a smile of her own.

"I thank you. Until the next time then, Miss Devaire."

"Luzelle."

"Luzelle. Safe voyage."

The overcommander bowed deeply, while the grandlandsman inclined his head infinitesimally. Together they turned and walked out of the restaurant.

Luzelle sat watching them go, her eyes fixed on Karsler Stornzof's figure until it vanished through the tall doorway. Gone. Gone. She felt extraordinarily alone and let down, which was curious, for she was used to traveling on her own and not usually troubled by solitude. She was troubled now, however; lonely and unaccountably glum. She felt extraordinarily alone and let down, which was curious, for she was used to traveling on her own and not usually troubled by solitude. She was troubled now, however; lonely and unaccountably glum.

But there was nothing at all unaccountable about it, she reminded herself. Had it slipped her mind that she'd just received the worst possible news? The Grewzians, of all people, the Grewzians Grewzians were about to s.n.a.t.c.h the lead in the Grand Ellipse. This latest monstrous coup placed Karsler Stornzof and his unlovely kinsman so far ahead of the field that they would never be caught. She herself and her fellow disadvantaged Ellipsoids might proceed along the Dalyonic coast to some free harbor, to Hurba or perhaps to Gard Lammis, thence embarking for Aennorve, but the delay was disastrous. were about to s.n.a.t.c.h the lead in the Grand Ellipse. This latest monstrous coup placed Karsler Stornzof and his unlovely kinsman so far ahead of the field that they would never be caught. She herself and her fellow disadvantaged Ellipsoids might proceed along the Dalyonic coast to some free harbor, to Hurba or perhaps to Gard Lammis, thence embarking for Aennorve, but the delay was disastrous.

She could save time, money, and energy by acknowledging defeat here and now. She could go back to Sherreen. Back to the Judge's house.

Not yet. Not yet.

...Inequities of political fortune may yet balance themselves....

They'd better balance themselves, and soon. She'd balance them herself, if necessary.

But how?

5.

"SEE, NEVENSKOI, I've brought a gift for our clever green friend," announced King Miltzin IX. Turning to the pit-of-elements, where the sentient flames crackled demurely, he tossed in a small sheaf of papers. "There you are, Master-er-Fire. Feast and be merry."

EatEatEatEatEat? queried the hot green voice from the pit. queried the hot green voice from the pit.

Enjoy, Nevenskoi a.s.sented in silence, and the papery fuel vanished in a bright instant. Aloud he added, "Your Majesty is most kind, most generous. My Sentient Fire conveys its grat.i.tude."

"Our fire might moderate his grat.i.tude, if he knew what he consumed." Mad Miltzin smothered a chuckle. "That wad of trash we just disposed of contained no fewer than two score requests for private meetings from various amba.s.sadors and diplomats. Have you ever heard the like? Didn't I foresee that I'd be persecuted? And so it has proved. They're like carrion flies, these foreigners. They're buzzing around everywhere, and I'm the decomposing delicacy of the day. They want our brilliant Master Fire there and they'll stop at nothing to get at him-through me, just as I expected. But they won't succeed, you see. The Low Hetz remains neutral, now and always. Eh, Nevenskoi?"

"As Your Majesty wills." Nevenskoi nodded bleakly.

"I'll speak to none of them. I'll not be sucked into the squalid whirl of foreign quarrels. They've made their own problems, and they must not look to me for rescue. I disregard both abject pleas and veiled threats. The complaints, arguments, and accusations are food for Master Fire, nothing more. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, Your Majesty." He is suppressing the most glorious discovery of the age. He is suppressing the most glorious discovery of the age. Nevenskoi bowed his head deferentially, the better to disguise the frustration burning visibly in his eyes. As always, his liege's blithe imperviousness set his teeth on edge. And as always, he concealed all external sign of disquiet. The internal signs were insistent, however. His stomach performed the flopping dance of a hooked fish, his intestines writhed and popped. The familiar twinges knifed through him, but he refused to bend. He heard the rumble of internal thunder, and prayed that the king did not. Great sorcerers transcended dyspepsia. Nevenskoi bowed his head deferentially, the better to disguise the frustration burning visibly in his eyes. As always, his liege's blithe imperviousness set his teeth on edge. And as always, he concealed all external sign of disquiet. The internal signs were insistent, however. His stomach performed the flopping dance of a hooked fish, his intestines writhed and popped. The familiar twinges knifed through him, but he refused to bend. He heard the rumble of internal thunder, and prayed that the king did not. Great sorcerers transcended dyspepsia.

"Well, our flaming beauty there is likely to enjoy many a hearty meal, if these drooling foreigners continue-but really, Nevenskoi," the king interrupted himself, "this is awkward. Our fire has a mind, he must have a name as well, else we're guilty of gross discourtesy. I know, let's call him 'Matchless,' because he is surely without equal, and also because he's kindled without benefit of friction. You see the amusing double meaning there? Or wait, what about-Nonpyreil? Ha! You see-"

"Indeed, Sire." Nevenskoi winced. "But such a notably...witty...t.i.tle is perhaps too sophisticated to suit my creation. I've another suggestion, simpler, yet also the product of Your Majesty's luxuriant fancy. You have already addressed the sentient flames as 'Master Fire,' and the t.i.tle seems appropriate. Let it then be Masterfire."

"Masterfire." Miltzin tasted the name. "Masterfire. Plain, direct, descriptive. Excellent. I like it."

Nevenskoi did not know that he could say the same. Masterfire? Masterfire? What about Mistressfire? He had no idea which gender, if either, legitimately applied. A question easily answered, however. What about Mistressfire? He had no idea which gender, if either, legitimately applied. A question easily answered, however.

Do you like it, loveliness? he inquired voicelessly. he inquired voicelessly. Does it suit, is it good? Does it suit, is it good?

Goodgoodgood!

Calorific satisfaction danced in Nevenskoi's mind. Masterfire. Acceptable. Welcome. A name, an ident.i.ty. Goodgoodgood- Masterfire. Acceptable. Welcome. A name, an ident.i.ty. Goodgoodgood- "Good," he said.

"Well, as I was saying," Mad Miltzin continued, "Masterfire is likely to enjoy many a hearty meal in the days to come, for now your countrymen have commenced a bombardment."

"My countrymen, Sire?" Preoccupied with his creation's sensations, Nevenskoi had lost track of the conversation.

"Your compatriots, your Rhazaullean folk, man!"

"Bombardment, Majesty?"

"A merciless a.s.sault, quite merciless. Not that I actually read read any of these melancholy missives, mind you-I believe I've already expressed myself on that topic-but I recognize that peculiar Rhazaullean script when I see it, and lately it's been coming at me in basketloads. I suppose it's not surprising, all things considered. I suppose you're concerned." any of these melancholy missives, mind you-I believe I've already expressed myself on that topic-but I recognize that peculiar Rhazaullean script when I see it, and lately it's been coming at me in basketloads. I suppose it's not surprising, all things considered. I suppose you're concerned."

"That is so, Majesty," Nevenskoi concurred, mind working strenuously. It was not easy to tear his thoughts from the embrace of Masterfire, but necessity pressed. He found himself a little confused, a little disoriented, but knew that things would be right once he marshaled his faculties. What was Mad Miltzin chattering on about?

"Cousin Ogron's northern advance," Miltzin mused. "Predictable, of course. Inevitable, really. But who could have guessed that it would happen now?"

The king's cousin Ogron-that would be Ogron III, imperior of Grewzland. Northern advance-through the land of Rhazaulle, presumably. The Grewzian forces were pushing north toward Rialsq, the capital of Rhazaulle. The natives blocking their path were being slaughtered, and Mad Miltzin not unnaturally expected his supposedly Rhazaullean sorcerer "Nevenskoi" to display a little becoming distress.

Nitz Neeper, alias Nevenskoi, could oblige and would would oblige shortly, only- oblige shortly, only- Big! Big! Let me be big! blazed the voice from the pit-of-elements. blazed the voice from the pit-of-elements.

Now is not the time, Nevenskoi replied.

Big! Now! Big! Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease- "Later. Patience," he advised aloud.

"What's that, Nevenskoi?" asked the king.

"The forces of destiny have yet to conjoin in support of Rhazaulle, Sire. The moment approaches, however. Salvation illumines the future."

"The near or distant future?"

"Later. Patience."

"Well, that's encouraging, but what of the present? You're all but buried alive down here in this workroom, but surely you've heard tales of the Grewzian atrocities. No doubt you fear for your family and friends, back in-where was it again? You told me once, but I can't recall the name of your home village."

Nevenskoi froze. Home village? He'd cobbled a suitably colorful biography years earlier, fleshing the account with fanciful detail. He'd invented a picturesquely primitive rural point of personal origin, but what had he called the place? Usually he remembered such particulars, but just now, when he was distracted and taken so much by surprise- His mind groped vainly, and the palms of his hands went clammy.

Trouble? Worry? Badness? asked Masterfire. asked Masterfire.

I must think of something to tell the king.

Eat him. No more worry. EatEatEatEatEat!

No!

"Chtarnavaikul, wasn't it?" recalled Miltzin. "Have I got the p.r.o.nunciation right?"

"Exactly right, Sire."

Big! Big! Wannabe big!

Not now!

"Those Rhazaullean names must be invented by contortionists of the tongue," the king complained.

"Ah, Majesty, to me they seem natural as breathing," replied Nitz Neeper.

"I don't mean to disparage your native tongue, my friend. No doubt it possesses its own rough-hewn beauty. Let me hear a little, and judge. Speak to me in Rhazaullean. Say anything you like."

Nevenskoi suppressed a twitch. He spoke not a word of Rhazaullean. He had been telling himself for years that he ought to teach himself at least a few phrases of the language, just in case, but he had never found the time and now it was too late. Terror shot along his nerves and, as always, the negative emotion wreaked interior havoc. His innards knotted and the pain was fierce.

OUCH! Hurt! observed Masterfire. observed Masterfire.

"Just a few words," the king urged.

No way out of it. Nevenskoi took a deep breath.

"D'ostchenska ghoga ne voskvho." The invented syllables rolled forth fluently. "Aluskvaya troiin King Miltzin shvenskul ne Rhazaullevnyitchelska."

"Ha, but I heard my own name in there!" exclaimed the king, diverted and apparently unsuspecting.

"Indeed, Majesty." Success. Nevenskoi's alarm loosed its intestinal grip. "I just said, 'A humble expatriate's fear on behalf of his endangered Rhazaullean countrymen finds comfort in the wisdom of King Miltzin.'"

"Very prettily said, Nevenskoi. Very affecting, and very true. Comfort you will have, you deserve it. I shall personally intercede with Cousin Ogron. I'll ask him, as a favor to me, to command his Northern Expeditionary Force to spare your home village of Chtarnavaikul. Will that cheer you up? I must have my Nevenskoi in good mind and healthy spirits! Now, where is this Chtarnavaikul, exactly? Somewhere along the River Xana, I suppose?"

"Not exactly, Sire."

"Mountains? Lowlands? Near some city of note? Come, man, help me."

"The fact is, Majesty-the truth is..." Nevenskoi unconsciously pressed a damp palm to his unruly belly. His mind whirred. Fiction impinging upon fact was always the best. "Actually, there is no Chtarnavaikul. The village cannot be spared, for it does not exist."

"Eh?"

"Nature itself has antic.i.p.ated the fury of the Grewzian invader," Nevenskoi confided sadly. "Twenty years ago it was, during the vernal thaws, a tremor of the ground-no rare phenomenon, in that part of the world-precipitated a mudslide of unparalleled severity. The vast river of mud flowing down into the valley from the surrounding hills inundated, flattened, and obliterated the village of my fathers. When all was done, it seemed that Chtarnavaikul had been swallowed whole. Survivors, their hearts and spirits broken, abandoned the site of the calamity, and now it is as if Chtarnavaikul had never been. The very name is all but forgotten." Lost in the past, Nevenskoi gazed off through the mists of time.

"Upon my word, but that is a sad tale." King Miltzin shook his curled head. "I am sorry, my friend, indeed I am." He thought a moment, and a happier notion struck him. "You mentioned survivors, however. Surely the list includes friends and family?"

He had family. A couple of Neeper siblings, many cousins, uncles, aunts, a troop of nieces and nephews, all living in or around the Low Hetzian city of Flenkutz. He had not communicated with any of them in fifteen years or more. Undoubtedly they all imagined nugatory little Nitz long dead, and he had not the slightest desire to undeceive them.

"We'll rescue them," Mad Miltzin decreed. "We'll pluck them from the path of the advancing Grewzian army and bring them back to Toltz, where you may revel in their company day and night. Eh, Nevenskoi?"