Part 4 (2/2)
”Over there.” Girays pointed.
Her eyes followed his finger to a squat, well-barbered personage of conspicuous magnificence. The square face and broad torso might have belonged anywhere, but the loose, flowing garments, the high-heeled shoes, and the plenitude of pearl jewelry marked the owner as a citizen of Lanthi Ume.
”Porb Jil Liskjil,” Girays announced in an undertone. ”Prosperous merchant, on his way up. Climbed as high as a commoner might ordinarily hope, and now aspires to that extra social boost provided by a famous victory.”
”Well, it will have to be some other famous victory.”
”There.” Girays's finger altered angle, directing her eyes toward a short, slim, perfectly tailored gentleman, perhaps some thirty-five years of age, but still boyish. ”Mesq'r Zavune, an Aennorvi speculator. Looks as if he rides at the top of Fortune's wheel, but doesn't. Financially strapped at the moment. Should he win the Grand Ellipse, his fortunes are a.s.sured. Otherwise it's debtors' prison for him.”
”Prison?” Luzelle marveled. The well-dressed Mesq'r Zavune hardly seemed a candidate for dungeon confinement. ”Couldn't he just pack up and-”
”Over there.” Girays's explanatory finger flicked. ”That woman-”
”The one with the straggling hair and the big yellow over-bite?”
”Is there any other woman in sight?”
”You are just as p.r.i.c.kly as ever.”
”That woman is particularly interesting,” Girays resumed. ”Her name is Szett Urrazole, and she's a Szarish inventor.”
”Really? What's she invented?”
”Some sort of new conveyance that she calls 'Goras.h.i.+u qu'Osk Zenayushka.'” 'Goras.h.i.+u qu'Osk Zenayushka.'”
”Say that again, slowly.”
”It translates to 'Miracle Self-Propelling Carriage.'”
”And is that t.i.tle warranted?”
”We shall soon see. Madame Urrazole intends to demonstrate the capacities of her invention by winning the Grand Ellipse in it.”
”No, she won't. Because, you see, I'm I'm going to win the Grand Ellipse.” going to win the Grand Ellipse.”
”Such resolute confidence. Formidable.”
”Stop looking so amused. You don't believe I can do it? Just wait.”
”Waiting is the last thing I intend. Remember, I'm competing myself, and I don't particularly relish defeat.”
”Does anyone? This time, though, your vanity will have to bear it.”
”Miss Devaire, you'll eat those words.”
”M. v'Alisante, you are hardly the man to serve them to me. But come, let's return to your interrupted discourse. I wouldn't deny you the pleasure of parading your knowledge, so pray inform me-who is that man there?” She pointed discreetly.
”The giant with the muscles and the black beard? Bav Tchornoi. One of the greatest Ice Kings champions Rhazaulle has ever produced. All but invincible, in his day. But advancing age and c.u.mulative injuries eventually threw his game off, and Tchornoi retired about ten years ago. Perhaps he's come to Toltz in search of his lost glory.”
”And what about that fair-haired Grewzian officer over there?”
”Now, there's another interesting specimen. That is none other than the Overcommander Karsler Stornzof himself, in the celebrated flesh.”
”Really?” Luzelle's eyes widened. Mere fame ordinarily awakened neither her awe nor her admiration, but this time she found herself impressed, for Karsler Stornzof was such a hero, so skilled in the arts of war, so valorous and by all accounts honorable, that even his enemies sang his praises. As for his own countrymen, they revered him to the point of idolatry, their devotion stimulated by the stream of newspaper reports and printed circulars ceaselessly lauding the exploits of Grewzland's golden son. Now she knew why that face of his had struck her as so familiar yesterday evening. She had seen drawings of it in the popular journals more than once; for even the Vonahrish press paid periodic homage to Overcommander Karsler Stornzof. ”What's he doing here? I mean, he's an officer in the army of the Imperium, and there are wars all over the place. Shouldn't he be fighting at the Haerestean front or something?”
”I gather that Ogron himself has authorized-in fact, commanded-this Stornzof fellow's partic.i.p.ation in the race, the idea being to get out there and garner glory for great Grewzland, or something along those lines. Presumably the imperior means to profit by the huge popularity of his matinee-idol emissary.”
”Yes, he is is rather good looking, isn't he?” she observed innocently. rather good looking, isn't he?” she observed innocently.
”Perhaps, if you are partial to cla.s.sical statues.”
”Do I detect a note of personal dislike?”
”No. I don't know the fellow. I've no love for Grewzians, that's all.”
”In that case-”
The blare of a bra.s.s band drowned her voice. Luzelle wheeled to face the musicians, whose presence she had hitherto overlooked. They were grouped near the foot of the stairs, and were now launching into the first bars of the Hetzian national anthem. The crowd in the foyer fell silent. Scores of respectful hands pressed themselves to patriotic Hetzian hearts. Foreign heads inclined politely. The anthem concluded and all eyes rose to the center of the staircase, where King Miltzin IX stood flanked by attendants.
Luzelle studied the king with more than academic interest. There was nothing particularly repulsive about Miltzin IX. His expression was brightly benign, his greying walrus moustache nicely groomed, his numerous medals and insignia lined up in neat rows across his chest. With his protuberant eyes, she thought, he resembled a giant gra.s.shopper. Pleased with the simile, she amused herself by mentally coloring his face green and affixing imaginary antennae to his pomaded head.
Miltzin began to speak, his voice enthusiastically high pitched, his gestures distractingly expansive.
”My dear friends, this morning witnesses the commencement of a compet.i.tion that is more than a sporting event, far more than a quest for personal fame or even for national glory-”
Quite right. Sentient Fire and safety for Vonahr, independence and freedom for Luzelle Devaire-these were the prizes, worth any price, any price any price, but probably that wasn't what Mad Miltzin had in mind. What was he running on about? Only then did Luzelle notice that the king of the Low Hetz was speaking in perfect Vonahrish, which wasn't surprising. His audience was polyglot, and, amid a multiplicity of differing tongues, Vonahrish was the language of diplomacy, the language comprehended by all civilized folk. Though the head tl'gh-tiz of the Bhomiri-D'tal tribe might disagree with that a.s.sessment. Though the head tl'gh-tiz of the Bhomiri-D'tal tribe might disagree with that a.s.sessment.
Miltzin IX burbled on. The key to the future, he confided, lay in the marriage of magic and science, presently expressing itself in mundane practical terms of transportation and communication. Did he really think that anyone cared?
The king's address, larded with optimistic inanities, spouted forth interminably. Luzelle cast a covert glance about her, wondering how many others shared her impatience. The neighboring faces revealed nothing. Beside her Girays v'Alisante stood listening with a practiced air of respectful interest that would have convinced anybody who didn't know him. A few feet away the Rhazaullean giant Bav Tchnornoi waited, still and expressionless as a monolith. The Festinette twins were whispering to one another, grimacing and giggling. Catching her eyes upon him, one of them smirked and blew her a kiss. Nitwits. Nitwits. Her gaze returned to Mad Miltzin, whose verbal torrents were dwindling at last. Her gaze returned to Mad Miltzin, whose verbal torrents were dwindling at last.
”...to go forth, my friends, and astonish all the world!” the king concluded, and Luzelle felt her breath quicken and her stomach tighten. An attendant proffered a scarlet cus.h.i.+on upon which lay an ornate pistol. Miltzin accepted the weapon and raised it aloft. ”In sight of the city of Toltz, the Grand Ellipse commences.”
He fired, presumably a blank, and the shot blasted. Simultaneously, the velvet ropes edging the enclosure were released, and the crowd gathered in the foyer seemed to explode. A tremendous shouting arose, a roar of excitement that dwarfed the report of the gun, and a wave of humanity surged forward, overturning the flimsy barriers that marked the center aisle. As the racers sprinted for the exit, the precarious pa.s.sageway vanished. An instant later the doorway was solidly choked, as racers, journalists, gamblers, and ordinary spectators struggled vigorously and vainly for egress through a portal held shut by the pressure of packed bodies.
For a moment Luzelle stood watching. She could not find Girays v'Alisante; he had already vanished into that boiling human ma.s.s. Fortunately, she herself was not obliged to do the same. Blessing the inspiration that had moved her to station her cab at the side of the building, she departed the foyer through a rear exit, threading her quick path back the way she had come along corridors relatively clear and navigable. Many a hallway loiterer stared at her in frank curiosity as she hurried by, but n.o.body hindered her progress. Moments later she emerged into the morning suns.h.i.+ne, to discover that she was not the only racer to have dodged the crush at the front of the city hall.
Her own cab still waited where she had left it, and silently she blessed the driver. Behind the cab waited a second carriage of slightly larger size and infinitely greater elegance, drawn by a pair of matched blacks built for speed. She caught a glimpse of a strong profile at the window and fancied the face familiar, but scarcely pondered the matter, for her attention anch.o.r.ed at once upon a third vehicle standing there, a conveyance unlike any she had ever seen in her life.
The contraption was long, low slung, silvery in color, and equipped with eight gleaming wheels. Its rear portion projected in a confusing tangle of pipes, coils, wires, tubes, f.l.a.n.g.es, cogs, vanes, and gla.s.s bulbs, while the front tapered to a featureless conical snout. Something resembling a triangular metal sail reared itself high above the roof.
No harness. Was the thing some sort of boat? With wheels? With wheels? Trackless locomotive? Even as she paused to wonder, a gaunt figure pa.s.sed her at a smart stalk, made straight for the mystery vehicle, and climbed in. Luzelle glimpsed shabby, grubby, loose-fitting garments, straggling grizzled hair, and grim jaw, which she recognized readily; Szett Urrazole, the Szarish inventor of the so-called Miracle Self-Propelling Carriage. Trackless locomotive? Even as she paused to wonder, a gaunt figure pa.s.sed her at a smart stalk, made straight for the mystery vehicle, and climbed in. Luzelle glimpsed shabby, grubby, loose-fitting garments, straggling grizzled hair, and grim jaw, which she recognized readily; Szett Urrazole, the Szarish inventor of the so-called Miracle Self-Propelling Carriage.
The door slammed shut. Seconds later the vehicle roared deafeningly to life. Luzelle flinched and clapped her hands to her ears. Pedestrians shrieked and ran for cover, horses plunged and reared. Gouts of flame spurted from its posterior orifices, and the Miracle Carriage sped off in a burst of fire and a cloud of dust, traveling at impossible speed. Luzelle gazed after the lightning Szarish carriage and wondered if the race were already lost.
Another figure hurried by her. Fair hair glinting in the morning sun, Overcommander Karsler Stornzof arrowed for the second carriage, with its splendid matched blacks and its waiting pa.s.senger, whom Luzelle now recognized as the older gentleman she had spied dining with the Grewzian hero in the Kingshead Hotel restaurant. Overcommander Stornzof cast a sidelong glance at her as he pa.s.sed. Blue eyes, very blue. She wished she'd gotten a better look. Not the time to be thinking about it. Luzelle ran for her cab.
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