Chimaera's Copper Read online

“I suppose we'll need to get a boat from Old Man Yokes,” Kelvin said.

  “Where else, dummy?” his sister demanded, as politely as he felt she was capable.

  “Of course,” John agreed.

  So again they met the old river man who had once indirectly saved Jon's life, and through that action the lives of John and Kelvin and possibly even Kian. Yokes was as before pleased at the company and after he and Jon had embraced like fond grandfather and gentle granddaughter, they had to tell everything that had occurred in the interim. This meant that Kelvin had to relive in his memory the experience of almost being killed by a curse and almost swallowed by a serpent. For Jon and Kian it meant telling of days in a dungeon, among other things. Jon sat fidgeting through the recitals until they got to the part about the witch at home and her own very small part in defeating her. Somehow Jon's part became larger than Kelvin remembered it, but the old man's eyes sparkled so that he forbore interrupting and telling it right.

  After the stories were all told over steaming mugs of cofea and a plate of mufakes generously spread with aplear jelam, Yokes leaned back in his old rocker and sighed.

  “Makes me feel I was right along with you,” he said. “And now you're going back?”

  “The girl I met,” Kian explained. “We're going to be married. At least we are if I have any say.”

  “Ah, the only one in either frame for you, eh?”

  Kian nodded, face flushed but obviously content.

  “It was that way for me once,” the old man said, and launched into the tale of an improbable courtship with an improbable young woman who later became an improbable wife. The tale took a long time, and Kelvin was surprised to find his emotions stirring as the gentle, aged voice cracked on the sad parts. He hadn't thought of worn old men as having been young and romantic once; he had pictured Old Man Yokes as being old from the moment he was born. It seemed it wasn't so, if the tale was to be believed.

  Much later than they had intended, the men of the party said goodbye to the women of the party and staggered down the long flights of stone stairs with a boat. Before they'd had help, but this was a working day and Yokes had neglected to call in the distant neighbors. By the time they reached the bottom landing and the old dock, Kelvin was sweating. The gauntlets made the lifting easier, but hardly the carrying. The legs that supported the boat's weight were entirely his own, however light it seemed to his arms.

  “Look at this!” Kian was pointing. At the dock was an old, worn boat.

  “Why that was on the ledge!” Kelvin said, remembering. “The ledge outside Mouvar's chamber!”

  “One of those old men probably towed it in,” John said. “Now that everyone knows the river is here, there are bound to be people exploring it.”

  “I hope nobody enters the chamber,” Kelvin said. Would any pointy-eared person really be destroyed along with the chamber as the old parchment claimed?

  “Anyone who gets down here will have heard about it,” John said. “The story's widespread. I wonder that Yokes stood for all our retelling of what even he must have heard.”

  “He was being polite,” Kian said. “Anyway, that's what Jon would have said.”

  Kelvin smiled, but then he wiped it. Time to think of his sister's annoying ways at another time. Now there was work.

  Thus it was that they launched the boat, got into it, and rowed by natural rock walls covered by eerily glowing moss. They bypassed the terrible falls that emptied into a darkness filled with stars, negotiated the bend without difficulty, and were at the ledge. To Kelvin it looked different without that boat there.

  He was still thinking about the missing boat as they entered the smooth chamber. He almost expected things to be different here, but things were as before. There was the parchment and the book on the table, and the closet with knobs on its outside that was the transporter.

  Something struck Kelvin as the three of them prepared to step together into the adjoining world. Those knobs on the outside of the transporter appeared to him to have slightly changed positions. If the knobs had been moved, that might mean that they would not go to their proper destination and might, for all he knew to the contrary, be unable to return.

  His gauntlets began to tingle. That meant danger. In fact--

  But even as that thought occurred, he was in motion into the transporter, his body not responding in time.

  There was a flash of white that covered all existences. The three of them stood in a transporter in a Mouvar chamber, but not the one they had entered. Nor was it the chamber in the world of silver serpents. This one was rounded like the others, lighted by strange ovoids on the chamber's walls. It was definitely not the same. The open door was the giveaway. That and the orangish daylight filtering in, revealing a grouping of large prickly plants and an assortment of rocks and heaps of red sand just outside.

  “This is wrong!” Kian said. “We're not where we should be!”

  “Someone changed the settings!” Kelvin said. “I thought those knobs were set differently, but I didn't realize it for sure until-- “

  “Don't panic,” John said. “We'll just step out, step back in, and we should be back where we started.”

  Kelvin felt a great doubt stirring as the gauntlets tingled on his hands. Could the air here be poisoned? No, Mouvar's people wouldn't have built a transporter on a world like that. Still, there was something. Trembling in spite of himself, he stepped out with the others.

  “I wonder,” John said, walking to the doorway.

  “Father! Don't!” Kelvin cried. He felt ridiculous the moment he said it.

  But his father was pushing his head out around the rounded edge of the metal door. Curiosity ruling his actions, he was about to see where they were.

  Suddenly John gasped. His shoulders slumped, and he dropped there in the doorway.

  “Father!” Kian echoed Kelvin's earlier cry. With a quick leap he was beside John, grabbing his shoulders, seeking to turn his face. Then, with a similar gasp he collapsed on top of his father.

  Kelvin stared for one horrified moment. Then he snatched out his Mouvar weapon from the hip-scabbard and leveled it at the doorway. If there was hostile magic being used, this would stop it and send it back to the source.

  He squeezed the weapon's trigger. Sparks and a low hissing came from the bell-shaped muzzle. No magic, then. He replaced the weapon in its sheath and drew his sword. He took a step for the doorway and the unmoving bodies of his kin. Too late he saw the small purple fruit lying there. Too late he realized that he could have stepped back into the transporter and been gone.

  He breathed a spicy fragrance. He noticed that the sword was slipping from his fingers and that the gauntlet wasn't even trying to hold on. He noticed the floor and the sand and the dust near the doorway. Then he noticed that the fruit was near his face, and--

  What a spicy, spicy smell!

  CHAPTER 2

  Summoned

  Sean Reilly, better known as St. Helens, was elated. As the king's own messengers left the cottage's yard he leaped up into the air, waving his arms like a boy. He came down, oof!, on the soles of his aching feet, put his head back until his short black beard pointed skyward, and whooped.

  “Did you hear that, Phil?” he asked the pimply faced youth at his side. “Did you hear that?”

  “I think all Kelvinia heard it,” the former king of Aratex said. He had been staying temporarily with St. Helens while his hereditary palace was reconditioned, to better accommodate the newly appointed government. His position had been reduced to that of figurehead, but that was what he had been all along anyway. Kelvin and King Rufurt had if anything been too generous with him.

  “We're going to the palace, boy! To the Kelvinia palace that used to be just Rud's. King Rufurt is finally getting around to honoring me proper! And he wants Kelvin and his brother Kian and John Knight and Les and Mor Crumb there as well! I tell you, there's going to be a place in the new administration for us, just as I always thought there should be! The
re may be medals for those of us who fought! Maybe a complete pardon for you!”

  “I'm not going,” Phillip said. He picked at a pimple. “I wasn't included in the royal command.”

  ”Who cares! I'm certain you'll be welcome. You don't know the king! He's the most friendly man in the kingdom!”

  “I was pretty friendly,” Phillip said. “With you, I mean. I gave you sanctuary, protected you from Melbah, and allowed you to beat me at chess.”

  “Allowed me! Why you young pupten!” St. Helens bellowed, outraged. Then he got hold of his notoriously volcanic temper as he realized that he had again been had. Phillip was not even trying to hide his smirk.

  “All right, all right. So you were a good friend and you resisted that old witch Melbah some, and after I rescued you from defeat--”

  “You rescued me!” Phillip cried. Then more calmly. “Oh, I see what you're doing. What you call tit for tat.”

  “Tat's correct,” St. Helens said, in the manner of a long-ago other-world quiz master. “Now we're even.” Which of course they were, and had been for some time.

  “Another game?” Phillip asked, asking for another game of chess.

  “No, no, I've got preparations to make. You've got preparations to make. We've got to get to the Crumbs. We've got to get to Kelvin and the others before they get to the Flaw! What a time for them to take off for a wedding, now that there's something important happening.”

  “The messengers will get to them,” Phillip said. “St. Helens, don't you realize anything about how things are done?”

  St. Helens glowered back at him. That was a snottish thing to say, and another time he might have exploded mildly, but now it hardly mattered. The fact was he had never been in the officer class, let alone the governing class. He had always been a common soldier, and proud of it. “I, uh, guess they will. The old man's just a little excited.”

  A little excited?” Phillip rolled his eyes upward, looking less like the ex-king and more like the young scamp. Looking at him, St. Helens was forced to think that if his wife had born him a son instead of a daughter, his kid would have been just that impudent.

  “I guess we'll all ride together, Phil. I just hope they head off Kelvin and his party in time. I wonder if the girls will ride along. Cursed if I don't think Kelvin's wife, my daughter, should share her husband's and her father's triumph.”

  *

  Lester and his father were working on a wall when the king's messenger appeared. Les hopped down from the scaffolding, mortar on his hands and the trowel he held. And gazed at them openmouthed.

  “Don't get excited, Son,” his father said from the top of the ladder. “It may not be anything bad. Maybe something good.”

  “I knew I shouldn't have let her go,” Les said. Meaning his wife. As he had found out repeatedly since his marriage cute little tomboyish Jon had a mind and will that was hers alone.

  “You know you couldn't have stopped her.” Mor said. “Short of chaining her. And then you'd probably have gotten a lump on your head.”

  Les unconsciously raised a hand to his sweaty forehead and immediately felt the mortar on it. He would have cursed if the messenger had not been dismounted and there at the gate.

  “Lester Crumb. Morton Crumb. You are both summoned to appear before His Majesty King Rufurt, acting king of Kelvinia. You have three days to comply.”

  Les frowned. “That sounds more like an order than a request.”

  “I just deliver em,” the messenger said. “My orders say I'm to tell you three days.”

  Les looked up to where his father was straddling the wall and glaring down. They had never been summoned in quite this fashion before. Not by King Rufurt. What did this mean?

  Mor held his peace until the messenger had left, then spat. “Danged king! Double his territory, and he treats you like dirt!”

  “I wouldn't have thought it,” Les said. “But maybe it's an honor, a place in the government or something.”

  “Maybe,” Mor said, scowling.

  *

  Jon was the first to see the riders approaching. Instantly her hand was on her sling, rock in place, ready just in case history should repeat. But these were no kidnappers from a foreign nation, she saw with relief. They were two of King Rufurt's finest, their Guardsman Messenger uniforms bearing the winged insignias. Now they were slowing their horses and coming up to them at walking speed.

  The messengers pulled up. They glanced down at those in the temporary camp. “Mrs. Hackleberry? Mrs. Crumb?”

  Jon found herself nodding, as she saw Heln doing. She'd never been approached by a King's Messenger before, and she knew that Heln had not. She waited, wondering.

  “Your husband, Mrs. Hackleberry-- has he gone to the Flaw?”

  Heln nodded. “He, his brother, and their father.”

  “Then we're too late. We were to give them a message. They are supposed to be at the palace in three days.”

  “Why?” Heln asked. “Is there trouble, or-- ?”

  “We're only messengers. You ladies are also summoned. The Crumbs, Lester and Morton, will be there as well. So will the roundear Sean Reilly, alias St. Helens.”

  “Alias?” Heln asked sharply, not liking this reference to her father.

  “All of us at the palace!” Jon exclaimed. “Something must have happened!”

  “The messages have been delivered. The king ordered us to stress that you have but three days.”

  “You know Mrs. Hackleberry is pregnant?” Jon demanded. “Does Rufurt still expect-- “

  The messengers rode slowly away without answering.

  Jon swore.

  “Now really, Jon, you shouldn't!” Heln reproved her. “You know-- “

  “I know those goldbuttoned monkpes weren't polite! What's gotten into Rufurt, sending out creiots like those! Why they're not fit to wear their uniforms! Just wait till Kelvin hears! He'll tell them how to talk to his wife and sister!”

  “Hush, Jon. Hush. It doesn't matter.”

  “Yeah? Then what did they mean by ‘alias’ St. Helens?”

  Heln frowned. Her name derived from that of her father, so there was a certain personal as well a familial interest. “I'm sure it was just a misspeaking.”

  “Sure.” Jon whirled her sling and let a rock fly to the rump of the horse bearing the sauciest messenger. Stung, the steed jumped, bucked, and almost threw its rider. Then the big war-horse leaped forward, and the other horse speeded up as well. Horses and riders disappeared in a whirl of dust.

  “Jon! You shouldn't have!” Heln exclaimed. But her protest lacked force, and there might even have been the merest trace of a hidden smile.

  “Maybe I shouldn't have,” Jon said. “But I did.” It felt good, she thought, secretly pleased with herself. “Well, come on. We might as well get loaded up and meet the others at the palace.”

  “But Jon, we haven't good clothes! All we have is our riding togs, and they've been slept in.”

  “Who cares?” Jon demanded. “If we're invited to a ball, Rufurt neglected to advise us.”

  Angrier than even she thought she should be, Jon began packing their cooking gear and gathering up their blankets. She knew herself to be a liberated woman. No mere king, let alone king's messenger, had the right to treat her as less.

  *

  Charlain laid down a card. “Yes, they need help, Hal,” she said. “They are too proud to ask for it, but they need it.”

  “I'd better go, then,” Hal Hackleberry said. “The Brownberry folk have helped us when we needed it.”

  “Yes. I can manage here well enough for a few days.”

  He got his things ready, then kissed her goodbye. He set out on foot, walking the two hours’ distance to their neighbor's farm. It would have been faster on the horse, but Charlain would need the horse here.

  As he walked, he pondered. He had been trying to suppress the awareness, but it was becoming difficult. Charlain's kiss had been perfunctory, without passion. Once she had been more attenti
ve, but never enough actually to bear his children. Well, attentive, maybe, but she was a woman who bore children only when she chose, and she had not so chosen with him.

  He knew what it was. He was her second husband, and she had never stopped loving her first husband, the roundeared John Knight. She had thought John dead, and needed a man to support the farm, and he had been there. She was such a lovely, competent woman that he had been thrilled to join her on any basis. Hal knew himself to be a good but simple man, the kind seldom destined for greatness or success with women. He had done his best, and treated Charlain's two children as his own, and indeed, he had come to like both Kelvin and Jon very well. There had been no stepfather problems with them. Now both were married and on their own, but they always welcomed his occasional visits and made him feel at home.

  But then John Knight had returned. He had not been dead after all, only imprisoned. John had been scrupulous about staying clear of Charlain, letting their divorce stand. But Charlain-- any passion she might have had for Hal had evaporated with the knowledge of John's survival. Oh, she hadn't said so, but he had felt it. Their marriage had become a shadow.

  But what could he do? He loved her, and could not bring himself to leave her, selfish as he knew that to be. Also, there was no certainty that John Knight wanted to return to her. Kelvin had been mostly silent on what had gone on in the other frame, but it seemed that there was a beautiful and good queen there who looked like John's first wife, the nefarious Zoanna, and who was in want of a man. If Charlain still carried a torch for her first husband, John might carry one for his first wife. So there was no point in Hal's doing anything; it might only hurt the woman he least wanted to hurt. If only she loved him back!

  *

  They gathered together in the second audience room. Wine was brought, and all sipped it except Jon. Of the five, only St. Helens was smiling. Jon had to wonder why. Knowing Heln's natural father, she would have thought he'd arrive still smoldering, ready to blow his top on any pretext. But maybe the messengers had treated him with a little more politeness. Maybe they hadn't called him “alias” to his face. Yes, that was probably it; men like those messengers treated women and absent men with habitual disrespect.