Part 96 (2/2)
”But obviously,” Minanonn said to Anatoly and Basil, ”you two share the secret.”
The priest waved a bony forefinger. ”Creyn told Basil before he made his promise to Elizabeth. As for me-”
The redactor said, ”I sought counsel from Brother Anatoly to ease my conscience when it seemed that larger considerations outweighed the promise Elizabeth extracted from me. His judgment-and we three have pondered it at length-is that I have an obligation to give this information to the Adversary.”
”All's fair in love and war,” mumbled the old Franciscan, ”and this is both, dai Bog!”
Minanonn looked from the redactor to the friar to the alpinist with growing exasperation. ”If I were not a man of peace, I'd coerce the three of you to quivering jellyfish and get to the bottom of this.”
”Just take us to the Grand Tourney,” Basil said. ”We'll find Remillard somehow.”
Anatoly said, ”Both Creyn and Basil know his mental signature, and I'll get by with Siberian guile. They'll finger him and I'll make the overture.”
”And he'll kill you,” Minanonn said, ”as easy as squas.h.i.+ng flies!”
”He's not a demon out of your Tanu legends,” Anatoly told him. ”He's only a man. He wore my clothes and worked with me in my garden. We talked ... about some of the d.a.m.nedest things. I tell you there's a chance we can change his mind.”
The Heretic regarded them bleakly. ”You're a trio of lunatics, but I'm going to have to give you the benefit of the doubt. Let's fly. It's a long way to Nionel.”
CHAPTER TEN.
On the Second Day, the rivalry between Tanu and Firvulag sharpened and bookies had a field day among the human sports fans, who threw their money away like there was no tomorrow.
Inconspicuous among the throng, the tall man in the white duck pants and black s.h.i.+rt spent the morning watching coracle races on the river (won handily by the Firvulag), the kite fights (a draw), and the first round of the enduro chariot races (top points to Kuhal Earthshaker's team). The man smiled as he caught sight of Cloud up in the royal enclosure, disguised as a Warrior Maid in coercer harness, cheering her hero down the stretch.
In the afternoon there were hammer throws and caber-tossing events, dominated by the thicker-thewed Little People; and a stylized free-for-all between the ogresses and the female Tanu knights, fought on foot, which saw the first Grand Tourney fatalities.
After wandering through the refreshment pavilion the man returned to the riverside bleachers to watch more water sports.
The windsurfer races, although billed as one of the minor events, attracted an unusually large cheering section of gorgeous Tanu ladies, who applauded madly when the Deputy Marshal of Sport introduced a silver-torc contestant named Niccolo MacGregor.
This personage, with all the panache of a bantam rooster, demolished the dwarfish opposition and finished the winning heat handstanding on his surfboard while the exotic women showered his rig with yellow rosebuds.
”It's the King, of course,” said a voice at the tall man's elbow.
He turned slightly and saw a lanky old friar in a brown-wool habit sitting next to him on the bench, nibbling a tournedos Rossini.
”That looks good,” Marc said.
”Vendor's just around the rear of the stand. Be glad to get you one.” Anatoly jingled a shabby purse hanging from his cincture. ”I'm flush. Made a killing at the chariot races.”
”Thank you-but no.”
The priest smacked his lips. ”Got real truffles and foie-gras on it. Fantastic! Sure you don't want one?”
”Quite sure.” Marc sat at ease, watching the pseudo-Niccolo being carried off in triumph by a squad of statuesque beauties in pastel chiffon. ”So the King partic.i.p.ates in the games, does he?”
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