Part 99 (1/2)
More technicians came onto the platform to inspect the fiasco, then chaffer earnestly with Hagen, the King, or the dynamicfield engineer Dimitri Anastos. Cloud Remillard and Kuhal Earthshaker watched Candyman do his a.n.a.lysis. The King demanded the immediate presence of Tony Wayland via a mindrocking summons on the declamatory farspeech mode. The metallurgist, wearing a haunted look, was drawn into the consultation.
After perhaps a quarter of an hour of wrangling, there was an abrupt resolution. All the technical personnel retired from the platform, leaving only the King standing beside the gazebo.
He held the two chunks of the stool in one upraised hand and the empty crystal box in the other. His mind commanded: Silence.
A child whimpered. Somebody coughed and somebody else stifled a sob.
”It's only a temporary setback,” Aiken informed them.
”Here's the good news: Bert says that the pota.s.sium wafer travelling in this little box checked in with an approximate age of eleven point seven eight plus-or-minus zero point two million years. That's as close as d.a.m.n-all to being right on the proverbial time b.u.t.ton. We have a gate to the Milieu.”
Everybody gasped, then there were feeble cheers.
The King flourished the remnants of the doubly guillotined stool. ”But it's a very small gate-so far. Instead of filling the entire gazebo, the tau-field is being generated in a narrow slice a little over a handspan wide. It's a glitch, but we think we know what's causing it. It's probably a single cable with a faulty core, and it'll be unzipped and put through bench-testing immediately.”
Resigned groans. A child asked, ”Can we go tomorrow, King?” Tense laughter.
”I hope so, Riki,” Aiken said. He looked over his shoulder for a moment at the gleaming latticework machine before tossing away the bits of wood and stowing the empty crystal box in the hip pocket of his golden suit. He walked to the platform edge.
The royal forefinger pointed uncompromisingly at Tony Wayland, who stood stiff at the foot of the steps. The metallurgist gaped in horror as the King transmitted a mental image to him on the intimate mode. Aiken said softly, ”Eighty thousand Firvulag, Tony-plus the Angel of the Abyss. You will do your very best with that core, won't you?”
Clutching his torc, Tony Wayland managed to nod.
He d-jumped directly into the shadowed inner recesses of the nearly deserted Firvulag royal enclosure. The only one who saw him materialize was young Sharn-Ador, banished for an obligatory nap in the middle of the hot afternoon.
”Father! Mother! The Foe!” screamed the boy, tumbling from his camp bed and scrabbling among the pieces of his discarded juvenile armour for his ceremonial sword.
Sharn and Ayfa came charging back, minds exuding metaphorical fire and brimstone. But they burst out laughing together as they identified the intruder.
The Queen reached down to hug her son. ”It's only our Low-our human friend, Smudger. He's no Foeman. No danger to us. Go back to sleep.”
Wide-eyed, the child gushed profound suspicion from his mind. ”But he came out of thin air! Not from being invisible-he really came!”
Marc Remillard laughed.
”It's one of the things he can do,” King Sharn said drily.
”Now obey your mother, or you don't get to watch the a.s.sent Encounters.”
The royal pair led Marc to the chairs at the front of the box. Sugoll was there, and the revered dwarfish artisan couple Finoderee and Mabino Dreamspinner, who were noncombatant members of the Gnomish Council; but all the rest of the Firvulag n.o.bility were down in the lists, either getting ready to enter the High Affray themselves or giving support and encouragement to those who were.
”Too bad you didn't come earlier, Remillard,” Sharn said heartily. He directed his guest to a seat and signalled Hofgarn to replenish the food and drink. ”You missed some lively jousts.”
”Seventeen Foe fairly maimed and a dozen clobbered on points,” dear old Mabino cackled. ”The tally's tipping our way at last.”
Ayfa poured sangria for Marc herself and offered it with a gracious smile. Out on the Field of Gold there was a flourish of trumpets. The stentorian mind-voice of Heymdol Buccinator, Marshal of Sport, announced the upcoming contest and the rules of scoring.
”This may be fun,” the Queen said. ”The partic.i.p.ants must hack off the helmet-crests of the opposition to make points. I wouldn't be surprised if there were low blows.”
Lady Mabino t.i.ttered.