Chapter II GLYNMORAN'S GAME "Dennil, old boy, it's perfect. I'll tell you it is perfect because it has come from me!" Glynmoran held up his glass and gave a toast to his talents. He had his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, so flaunting his birth scar. Such a flaunt in public would be reason enough to throw him out of Praecel society but here on the hanging patio of his topfloor maisonette there was only the clear evening around and beneath his feet, a half sky down below, the shimmering esplanades and terraces of Frairimont, spread-eagled over the mirror-still surface of the Greater Odur Sea. It was now past Meridian Noxt. Frairimont's glitter along the flytrajectory had dimmed, and except in the occasional brasserie persisting in a dusk to dawn trade, the whole metropolis was at rest, slumbering peaceably upon its silicon ground. A weak voice pleaded from within the living room: "Glynmo, I'm all shot up with nerves. This impersonation is a horrible thing!" Glynmoran gave out a fierce huff and drew himself back inside. One of the armchairs hugged a dishevelled youth as he hunched up there in misery. He had lightbrown, soft curly hair and regular features like Glynmoran, but as the host effortlessly displayed who he really was, the guest, in contraposition, continuously fumbled with his hands, did not seem to know his own mind and failed in the incumbent Lar-esque stare of superiority. Here was a living mockery of a Lar and Praecel. Glynmoran chuckled. "You will yet make the most remarkable Praecel of them all! Go, take a bath! And afterwards pick out a nice clean set of clothes from my wardrobe, take whatever you fancy. And after that, you come back here and we rehearse this whole damned thing again and again until you've got it under your knee, all right, Dennil Laengx?" "All right, Glynmo," Dennil said and eagerly left the armchair's fondling, tripping over his feet to rush to the opulence of Glynmoran's bath suite. Glynmoran let his gaze wander once again to the star-filled night. Soon, dawn would be making its gold-orange entrance along the horizon of the Greater Odur Sea, the tranquillity disturbed by the hum of early morning traffic on the flytrajectories, Frairimont slowly waking up to the green-blue entrapment of the surrounding sea. Glynmoran signalled to the doors to shut and the velvet curtains to close. He poured himself another generous amount of golden crystalcrest wine. Submerging amongst the cushions of a capacious Sit 'N Fit armchair, he switched on the massage circuits with a nonchalant caress of his forefinger. The chair immediately engulfed him with rhythmic, sensual movements. He relaxed with a long, contented sigh. So, after many cycles of polite denigration and utter disregard, people wanted to be friends again with his grandfather, exile amongst Praecels. Cestors, it's hobnobbing time once more. But why the change of heart? Why now, all of a sudden? Change and trouble were brewing in the air, dark mysteries weaving webs into the pattern of his, until now, rather carefree life. Maybe too carefree for a Lar Protector Designate, and too debauched for one's liking. Society was about to present the bill for the countless rules he had broken. His family was not enthralled with his escapades, to put it mildly, but contrariwise, neither was he with their grandiloquence. Yes, he would as Advocate Grahn so aptly put it 'play fair with your great-aunt and put her in touch with Lar Alden Trevarthen'. He would be fair, no trouble, but first he would have his play. He took a sip of wine and shouted: "Dennil, must you listen to the news while you bathe? We've heard enough gruesome tidings for the time being. You may switch on the beach-holo but go easy on the surf simulator, will you. It's damned expensive. And remember, we have to go back to work tonight. Tomorrow is the big day of my game!" * * * Glynmoran approached Dama Virga Ermiz with a scowl on his face, which put off the more congenial guests, but not the Dama. Dama Virga said disapprovingly: "Why must you always pick an argument with Councillor Sharys? You know very well he's your aunt's favourite." Dennil's shrill, nervous laughter mingled with the music airwaves and it was Dama Virga's turn to scowl. "Why must he giggle like that? And why can't he keep his fingers still? It is nerve-wracking, to say the least!" Glynmoran sprawled beside her on the sofa. With his index finger he stroked her bare arm with teasing, circular motions. "Only you, lovely Virga, seems to be irritated by Adilar's presence. The others find him likeable enough, a bit shy perhaps but so well-spoken and such graceful manners." Dama Virga shook the waves of her hair in shocked mockery. "You are so wicked, Glynmo. The way you showed him off, as if he was your pet instead of your cousin. He tends to slur his words but that's maybe because he is shy, as you've said. I can accept that. But spilling wine over his dinner jacket, I cannot call that exactly graceful manners, can you? And are those clothes he is wearing yours? Adilar, indeed! He's more like the mythical mouse instead of the mythical bird of prey. Oh Glynmo, what are you up to now?" Glynmoran flashed her a smile. "You are so beautiful tonight, my dear Virga, why is your Lar in union not with you?" "Come on, Glynmo, you know, he is feeling out of sorts lately, particularly now with the turn of the season his old ailment is starting to bother him again." She yanked her arm away from his dancing finger and took a long swig of wine. "And why aren't you at Trevarthen Hall minding the business? It is bad enough that you haven't learned how to behave in public, but to totally neglect your duties? It will be your downfall, Glynmo. "Your mother is tightly in control of the affairs. She and her physicist friend, Carlomon, are almost inseparable. And likewise have I heard that they have become quite intimate with Councillor Hern Byrull. Watch out, Glynmo, Byrull has the appetite of a black radiation hole." Glynmoran stood up and sauntered to the open doors that faced the garden. He looked back at the Dama Virga as if he wanted to devour her with all her tiara, black silk and perfumed skin. She stared back at him, unsmiling, unyielding, and he spread his arms in mock helplessness. "What am I against my mother? She opts for duty, I for entertainment. And patience, My Dama Ermiz. It won't be long for the curtains to part and you are in for a good entertainment." "Good," remarked Virga coldly, "life has been very boring of late. And there comes that cousin of yours. Keep him away from me, will you, he might drool on my silk." Dama Virga moved away from the sofa as Dennil strutted towards them across the salon carpet with long studied steps, one glossy shoe after the other with parade ground precision. "Are my party shoes hurting you?" Glynmoran laughed and pulled him into the garden. "Oh Glynmo," Dennil gasped and tugged at his collar, "how can you still laugh at me! I am not going to stand it any more. I'm going, I am going right now." Glynmoran circled a generous arm around Dennil's shoulders, gave a sagacious shake of his head, sighed. "Maybe I am a bit too hard on you, dear Dennil. But I beg of you, one more time. One more day full of fun, and I release you. Don't forget, I will reward you well for your efforts. Well, Denny dear, a couple of efforts more tomorrow and then you go on a well-deserved vacation. All right, friend?" Dennil sank down on a bench, defeated once more by the wiles of friendship. "All right, Glynmo. Where are we going tomorrow?" "We'll go to Aunt Clarya's customary game party, where they will be playing the Game of Spinning Rays. That's reminds me, we have to go through that damned game again tonight." "Oh no!" Dennil shot to his feet, "not to the Dowager. I can no longer face her, Glynmo. She has watched me all evening like a predator. I'd die if I had to meet her again, really I would." "Listen," Glynmoran hissed, "the game party will be the crowning part of my game. You must go, you must, I tell you! Anyway, I'll be there at your side always, never fear. It will only take a very small part of your time, and afterwards we will go to Ferngarthen to enjoy and take a well deserved rest." "To Ferngarthen," Dennil faltered as if it was a place even more damning than the country manor of the Dowager, "Is Adilar there too?" "Of course!" Glynmoran laughed contemptuously. "It is his home, isn't it? And so are my grandfather and dear Aunt Norielle." "But Glynmo," Dennil moaned, "what if he finds out what we've been doing. What will he do?" "He will do nothing. You don't know Adilar as I do. He will not harm a hair of your head. Bear in mind that what we are doing is not to discredit him but rather to make sport of them." Glynmoran's thumbed scornfully over his shoulder, toward the warmly illuminated palace windows. "But of course," he suddenly reflected, a trickle of uneasiness seeping through his otherwise polished arrogance as if some hidden thought of Ferngarthen was less reassuring that he would otherwise have wished. "We shouldn't carry on this skit for too long. Tomorrow will be the last occasion and that's it. I need a break too. Oh Lar, it has proved more strenuous than I thought." "Good," Dennil muttered, dangling his arms. "I want to go home now. I am very tired." "So am I," Glynmoran agreed and grabbing Dennil by the crook of his arm led him to the garden gate. "Let's call it a night. Anyway my fun was ruined for the rest of the evening when Councillor Sharys turned up. I thought he was far away minding his mining." He tilted his head and pensively gazed at faraway Evening Star, beckoning like a diamond in the black sky. "Come to think of it," he spoke in a voice so low that Dennil at his side had to stretch himself slightly to hear his words, "Uncle Lukus has gone away on a trip to Calitre, and from thence he will travel to Evening Star. Very odd behaviour coming from that old fool, as if he was going on a mission. And why Evening Star, that uncivilized mandate, fit only for science stewards and commanders. Maybe you should think of joining the ISC, Dennil. It will perk up your ego but naturally, they are likely to break every bone in your body first before you are presented with an Insignia. But what, by the HeliĆ, is Lukus doing?" Wrapped up in soliloquy Glynmoran sauntered along the narrow cobbled path to the exit gate, while Dennil stumbled behind him, wrapped up in wretchedness. Tomorrow he would finally come face to face with the person he was impersonating at Glynmoran's command: Adilar Schurell. The thought tied a knot in his stomach. * * * Fredric Lamidor leant his back against the square, three-portal wide perigreen and anticipated to be agreeably entertained. The weather had stayed mild and warm since his return to Phylee-Patre seven days ago and during that period his injured knee had not bothered him once. He was contented and observed vacantly smiling the little group engrossed in their Game of Spinning Rays. Elsewhere, Science Stewards and Rescuers of the Force, were straining every nerve and sinew, and sustaining injuries in the bargain, to find the cause of the recent natural imbalance and to restore balance. Until now it had not prevented agronomics on Calitre to flourish or technology on Phylee-Patre to thrive but the disturbances, initially minor tragedies far and few between, had augmented to a threat, putting in jeopardy Iucari-Tres's very Equation. Another cause for apprehension was that Calitre and Evening Star had remained unscathed, and the eruptions of imbalance were seemingly confined to Phylee-Patre, at least for the time being. Nearly seven Epochs, ,seventy cycles ago a white radiation spill had flared from an unknown sector of the galaxy into their system and had laid to waste an entire colony of Science Stewards on Evening Star. The past destruction on Evening Star had throughout the Cycles remained a dark page of Iucarian history, and a grim reminder: first Evening Star, now Phylee-Patre, lastly Calitre? Fredric heaved a sigh, bent down to rub his knee. Accepting Director Milraus's invitation to come to this party turned out to be not a bad idea after all. The garden of the Dowager, rolling far away to hazy rims, basked under HeliĆ's shine, and under its warmth the flower clusters of the chromavari shrub folded and unfolded their tiny crystalline petals with a soft hymn to Tyro Season. Tiny spirals of mist swirled upwards from their corollaries, intoxicating the spectator with their fragrance and dancing colours. Disaster, death seemed so far away. The players were still playing their game: to design a decor on a rotating cylinder vacuum with the light particles of a fusion stick. The players had to adhere to a strict pattern of rules, and of colours, and each player could only on his turn apply one of his chosen pigments onto the decor; it required a quick eye and a certain sense of style. The winner would be the one who had dominated the decor with his set of colours, and the end result a stupendous, luminous three-dimensional work of art—if the rules of the game were applied properly. Something was going wrong with the décor. Fredric stiffened at attention. The group of players broke apart in many fragments and angry accusations were bandied to and fro. "I thought blue and pink were your colours," rasped a young player and her stare of noble disapproval at the malefactor marked out her Praecel origins. "And you can only put on one pigment at one time," accused another. "And you cheated, you used my indigo." The youth with the lightbrown hair gazed from one to the other in a posture resembling outrageous indignation, but his fingers were frantically kneading each other. "Why not," he retorted lamely, "my blue and pink don't seem to work, they don't stick." "That's because you are applying them to the wrong quarter," hissed the Praecel youngsdama who had spoken first. "If you missed it on one turn, too bad, you'll have to wait until your next. Jumping ahead like you did isn't going to serve the whole game, and you did it twice. Look, look! Now the cylinder's integrator is penalizing us for your bonehead play. It isn't going to be pretty." "It is going to be an ugly corruption!" a player wailed. "But everything is spinning round so fast," the perpetrator complained loudly, "and there was so much brightness, and flares, and confusion. And what makes blue so different from indigo anyway!" "Is the boy a fool?" The voice of the Dama Dowager lashed out through the tumult of the crowd. She stepped into the centre of the garden where the cylinder was redecorating itself with gross indecency. A robust, unsmiling Dama nearly at the completion of her ninth Maturity, she clearly demanded respect and immediately there was a hush. A grave personality with a shock of white hair bent over her shoulder and briefly he and the Dowager conversed in private. The Dama afterwards delivered her verdict with an energetic, no-nonsense sweep of her hand: "You are absolutely right, Josrin, let's waste no time in making recriminations. It is not altogether wasted though. It is only right to exhaust every possible avenue but now we know that we don't need to look further in Alden's direction. "Come everyone, there are refreshments inside. Let's leave those not worthy of us to find their way out for themselves." With this parting shot she retired from the garden on the advocate's arm, and the other members of the party followed suit. The malefactor, suddenly finding himself deprived of an audience, fumbled around in that agonizing state of mind of not knowing how to react or what to do next. "I ... I have played fairly," he stammered forlornly into emptiness, "Glynmoran has taught me how." He made a feeble movement to follow the crowd. "Don't." Lamidor laid a calm, restraining hand on his shoulder. "Didn't you hear what Dama Clarya said? She has not expressed herself in so many strict terms but her words can be interpreted as an expulsion order. You'd better leave, Schurell." "Where is Glynmoran?" the miserable youth rocked himself, his toes marking little circles on the lilac-sprayed grass. "He is supposed to escort me home." Fredric sighed and wished he had not stayed. "Lar Glynmoran has left. Didn't you know?" No, of course he did not, the game had demanded his utmost concentration, and it did him little good. Fredric hesitated for a moment, chewing over the question whether he really wanted to jump in as saviour to rescue the stranded offender on a lonely island of a hostile judge and jury, but only for a moment. "Come, Schurell, come with me. I'll take you home. Where do you live? "Schurell?" Lamidor pressed when he got no reply. "I want to go to Ferngarthen." The answer came in one breath as if a sudden decision had been taken. 'Where is Ferngarthen?' Lamidor racked his brains. "I'll take you in my aero but you have to give me directions how to get there. I haven't got a clue." "I don't know." "You don't know!" Lamidor boomed. "I mean," said the youth, his slender face lengthening in obstinacy, "I am not sure. I mean, you see it's Glynmo who took me here. I don't know how to find my way back. Ferngarthen is in the next protectorate, in the Principality of Verimur." "Lar," Lamidor whistled through his teeth and then suggested gently: "Maybe I'll put you off at Frairimont. From there you can easily get the Satellite Express to Verimur." "I am tired," the voice sounded hoarse, "I want to get out of here. And my pockets are bare." 'Don't you have your Insta-Fund Slip!' Lamidor wanted to shout but instead he grabbed Dennil by the arm and led him out from the Dowager's singing garden. Verimur was four time zones away from the Dowager's principality. Even pushing his slim fleeting SpanRacer to the highest speed it would mean arriving just before evening. Lamidor did not relish the idea of groping in darkness along unfamiliar roadways in quest of a totally alien address, and he drove on without even pausing for nourishment at levitating brasseries along the flytrajectory. He heaved a sigh of relief when the cloud-spangling aerial thoroughfare finally splintered into skyavenues that cross-sected the principality. He stopped at an outpost of the local Surety to ask for directions and found himself in luck: Ferngarthen manor lay just on the outskirts, only a short float away, in the midst of silverfir woods for which the Principality of Verimur was renowned throughout Phylee-Patre. Following the directions of the surety videts, Lamidor projected his aeromobile into a gap through the woods and onto a gravel path climbing up a slope lined by row upon row of silverfirs glistening in fading dayshine. Immediately upon his entering the path, he was bombarded by a hail of silver cones and besieged by a hundred tiny voices of furious jabber. From the visual he could easily see the chattervoles jumping and swaying like striped carbuncles on the fir branches. They were obviously not amused by the unexpected arrival of a late visitor The path was wide enough for two aerovehicles speeding abreast and Lamidor, reckoning himself to be the only aeroist in the vicinity, took easy control by coasting in the centre. By and by the jeers of the chattervoles dwindled in the faroffness and the aroma of the firs encircled him, fresh like dewdrops at dawn. Contentment returned; he leant back and enjoyed the virgin landscapes of Verimur. Considering what had forced him to make the long float it had not come to a bad ending. He would unburden his passenger, whirl back to the little town he had just passed and take lodgings in that pleasant looking travellers' inn his quick eyes had spotted. Perhaps he would even indulge his fancies, stay on for a few-day breather, do a spot of hiking in the woods, gossip with a chattervole and fill his lungs with the fragrance and sparkle of the firs, unburden the strain of cycles-long vigil along the rim of the Terahydra Forest on Evening Star. He glanced at his passenger; Schurell had curled up, fast asleep. Lamidor would not be surprised if he were actually sucking his fingers. There is weakness even in Praecel blood. Gazing once more through the visual he palmed the aero to faster speed. Twilight had started weaving vague shadows over the woods and the sooner he got Grandfather's protégé back to Grandfather the better. He almost shouted for joy. When he crested the hill, he saw the windows of the manor twinkling in the dusk. He halted the mobile just outside the fringe of fern-thickets that encapsulated the mansion. With one hand he roughly shook the bundle at his side. "Wake up, Schurell, you're home." He had to try several times more before the bundle gave any signs of life, and by this time Lamidor had neither patience nor compassion left. With three huge steps he had got out of his mobile, got round to the passenger seat and pulled the bundle out on the gravel road. "Look!" he shouted, "see, there is Ferngarthen before you, you are home! You can walk from here, can't you?" The bundle looked around him with glazed, seemingly unseeing eyes. The sight of home seemed to be a terrible thing. He gave a violent shudder, mumbled some words and collapsed limply across the visual screen of the SpanRacer. Lamidor tore at his hair. He itched to drag the bundle down onto the road and just leave him there to the mercy of the falling night and the lonely woods. To his credit he did neither but left the bundle draped across the top of the mobile. Snorting in frustration he hurried along a narrow footpath that, he hoped, led to the front portal of the mansion. He had no intention to carry the bundle inside, that would be a task for the worthy Lar Alden Trevarthen, or his minions in his forsaken realm. The portal was still a speck of light far away through the dense leavage of the garden-park when out of nowhere two wolvers crossed his path. A male and female, their tail plumes haughty in the air, their burnished eyes gleaming, intense, authoritative. Their black, silver-flecked fur flowed like a regal coat. For a moment Lamidor stood rooted to the spot, then he promptly fell on one knee with upturned palms. Truly blessed is Ferngarthen for having been chosen as a habitat by the kingwolfers for they were revered as the Lars of the animal kingdom, meriting respect even from the Lars of man! Looking up he got another shock: a young man had followed in the kingwolfers' wake and his eyes measured him with the same intensity. Lamidor held his breath. He viewed a specimen of Iucarian youth seldom seen, classic Lar. Proud without arrogance, cool but not unfriendly; clearly, the youth was reared by a cultured hand. His eyes were azure on smoke blue. The Praecel was roughly of Lamidor's age, nearly approaching or having approached his second maturity. When he spoke at last Lamidor took great pleasure in his voice. "You are trespassing on private land." "Forgive me! I didn't mean to but I am a stranger in this area and I'm having some difficulty in finding my way. Could you tell me, am I at Ferngarthen?" "You certainly are." "Phew, then at least I've come to the right place." He glanced at the young Praecel invitingly. "Would you mind helping me out with a spot of trouble? You see, I left my aero outside the woods on the main road and I have a passenger with me who is too ill to walk. In fact he lives here. He is Lar Alden's grandson, Adilar Schurell." The young Praecel's eyes widened: "Who did you say he is?" "My Lar's grandson, the honourable Schurell," Lamidor longed to get away. "He lives here, so he says. Does he live here?" The young Praecel smiled pleasurably. "Oh yes, he does all right." "Then come with me and get him into the house." Saying thus Lamidor turned round and retraced his steps to the edge of the garden. The two wolfers had in the meantime vanished into the fern bushes. Lamidor returned to his SpanRacer closely followed by the young Praecel. Silently, they surveyed the sorry bundle on the mobile's roof. The Praecel was the first to react, bending down and expertly examining the limp body while Lamidor stood aside, listening to the monster in his stomach. "He seems to be fast asleep," there was a slight wrinkle in the Praecel's fine voice, "I can see nothing wrong with him. What happened?" Lamidor shrugged. "It's a long silly story. Let's forget it!" The Praecel shrugged in return. Evening Star shone in the darkened sky, spraying the landscape with her white fire. An Insignia sparkled briefly through the Praecel's open collar. Lamidor's face opened in a smile, the very first since he had undertaken the journey of mercy to Ferngarthen. An ISC commander? No, he was too relaxed. Lamidor knew all too well the inherent tension and needle-sharp alertness of the commanders, trained to pick up even the beating wings of an insect. He tugged open his collar to show his own Insignia, held up his hand and spread his fingers, the three middle forming a crest, thumb and little finger a base. "Fredric Lamidor, Science Steward, Mandate of Vestre." The young Praecel met Lamidor's fingertips in the trigonal sign of greeting and friendship. Suddenly bursting out in laughter he introduced himself. "Adilar Schurell, Air Rescue Force, First Planetary Division."