“Very well, Osherl, I accept your explanation. Perhaps you can be of some slight assistance, after all, such as facilitating our return to Boumergarth.”
“Naturally! It goes without saying!”
“Then we will resume as before.” The chug dropped Osherl to the ground and returned to Rhialto’s wallet. Osherl grimaced, but without further words returned to the walnut shell.
Rhialto jumped into the air; climbing to a height of twenty feet, he set off down the valley on long stately bounds, and Fader’s Waft was left behind.
11
The valley opened upon a plain of far distances, distinguished principally by clouds of dust and smoke lowering over the northern horizon. Closer at hand, where the hills first began to swell up from the plain, Rhialto saw a number of small farmsteads each with its small white silo, round white barn, and orchard of globular blue trees. A mile or so to the west, a village of round pink houses enjoyed the shade of a hundred tall parasol palms. Details of the landscape beyond were blurs of delicate colour, until, at the horizon, curtains of dust and smoke rose ominously high.
Rhialto alighted upon a ledge of rock and bringing out the pleurmalion scrutinized the sky. To his gratification, he discovered a dark blue spot on the sapphire vault of the northern sky, in the general direction of the smoke and dust.
Rhialto replaced the tube in his pouch, and now, a hundred yards down the slope, he noticed three young girls picking berries from a thicket. They wore black vests over striped blouses, black pantaloons tied at the knee with black ribbons, black stockings and black shoes tied with white puffs at the ankles. Their faces were round; straight black hair was cut square across their foreheads. Rhialto thought them not ill-favored, somewhat in the manner of odd little dolls.
Rhialto approached at a dignified pace, and halted at a distance of ten yards. Always disposed to create a favorable impression before members of the female sex, so long as they were of an age and degree of vitality to notice, Rhialto leaned an arm against a stump, disposed his cloak so that it hung in a casual yet dramatic style.
The girls, preoccupied with their chatter, failed to notice his presence. Rhialto spoke in melodious tones: “Young creatures, allow me to intrude upon your attention, at least for a moment. I am surprised to find so much fresh young beauty wasted upon work so dull, and among brambles so sharp.”
The girls looked up slack-jawed, then uttered small squeaks of terror, and stood paralyzed, too frightened to run.
Rhialto frowned. “Why do you tremble? Do I seem such a monster of evil?”
One of the girls managed to quaver: “Sir Ghoul, your ugliness is inspiring! Pray give us our lives so that we may appall others with the tale!”
Rhialto spoke coldly. “I am neither ghoul nor demon, and your horror is not at all flattering.”
The girl was emboldened to ask: “In that case, what manner of strange thing might you be?”
A second girl spoke in an awed voice: “He is a Pooner, or perhaps a Bohul, and we are as good as dead!”
Rhialto controlled his irritation. “What foolish talk is this? I am only a traveler from a far land, neither Pooner nor Bohul, and I intend you no harm. Have you never seen a stranger before?”
“Certainly, but never one so dour, meanwhile wearing so comical a hat.”
Rhialto nodded crisply. “I do not care to modify my face, but I will gladly hear your advice as to a more fashionable hat.”
The first girl said: “This year everyone is wearing a clever felt ‘soup-pot’ — so are they called — and magenta is the only suitable color. A single blue ear-flap suffices for modesty, and a caste-sign of glazed faience is considered somewhat dashing.”
Rhialto squeezed the walnut shell. “Osherl, procure me a hat of this description. You may also set out a table with a collation of foods tempting to the ordinary tastes of today.”
The hat appeared. Rhialto tossed his old hat behind a bush and donned the faddish new article, and the girls clapped their hands in approval.
Meanwhile Osherl had arranged a table laden with dainties on a nearby area.
Rhialto waved the girls forward. “Even the most brittle personalities relax at the sight of viands such as these, and pretty little courtesies and signs of favor, otherwise unthinkable, are sometimes rendered almost automatically — especially in the presence of these fine pastries, piled high with creams and sweet jellies. My dear young ladies, I invite you to partake.”
The most cautious of the girls said: “And then, what will you demand of us?”
Another said chidingly: “Tish tush! The gentleman has freely invited us to share his repast; we should respond with equal freedom!”
The third gave a merry laugh. “Dine first and worry later! After all, he can enforce his wishes upon us as he chooses, without the formality of feeding us first, so that worry leads nowhere.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said the first girl. “For a fact, in his new hat he is less ugly than before, and indeed I am most partial to this thrasher pâté, come what may.”
Rhialto said with dignity: “You may enjoy your meal without qualms.”
The girls advanced upon the table and, discovering no peculiar conduct on the part of Rhialto, devoured the viands with zest.
Rhialto pointed across the plain. “What are those curious clouds in the sky?”
The girls turned to look as if they had not previously noticed. “That is the direction of Vasques Tohor. The dust doubtless results from the war now being fought.”
Rhialto frowned across the plain. “What war is this?”
The girls laughed at Rhialto’s ignorance. “It was launched by the Bohulic Dukes of East Attuck; they brought their battle-gangs down in great numbers and threw them without remorse against Vasques Tohor, but they can never prevail against the King of all Kings and his Thousand Knights.”
“Very likely not,” said Rhialto. “Still, from curiosity I will wander northward and see for myself. I now bid you farewell.”
The girls slowly returned to the thicket, but their enthusiasm for berry-picking was gone, and they worked with laggard fingers, watching over their shoulders at the tall form of Rhialto as he sauntered off to the north.
Rhialto proceeded half a mile, then climbed into the air and ran through the sky toward Vasques Tohor.
By the time he arrived on the scene, the battle had been decided. The Bohul battle-gangs, with their memrils and rumbling war-wagons, had done the unthinkable; on the Finneian Plain east of Vasques Tohor the Twenty Potences of the Last Kingdom had been destroyed; Vasques Tohor could no longer be denied to the Bohul Dukes.
The tragic peach-rose light of late afternoon illuminated a clutter of smoke, dust, toppled machines and broken corpses. Legions of long pedigree and many honors had been smashed; their standards and uniforms bedizened the field with color. The Thousand Knights, riding half-living half-metal flyers from Canopus, had thrown themselves against the Bohul war-wagons, but for the most part had been destroyed by fire-rays before they could do damage in return.
The war-wagons now commanded the plain: grim, dismal vehicles rearing sixty feet into the air, armed with both Red Ruin and barb-drivers. On the first tier and wherever they could cling rode assault troops from East Attuck. These were not pretty troops; they were neither handsome, nor clean-limbed nor even dauntless. Rather they were surly veterans of many types and conditions, with only dirt, sweat and foul language in common. At first glance they seemed no more than a rabble, lacking both discipline and morale. Some were old, bearded and pallid; others were bald and fat, or bandy-legged, or thin as weasels. All were unkempt, with faces more petulant than ferocious. Their uniforms were improvised; some wore skull-caps, others leather battle-caps with ear-flaps, others tufted barb-catchers adorned with scalps cut from the blond young heads of the Thousand Knights. Such were the troops which had defeated the Twenty Legions, skulking, hiding, striking, feigning death, striking again, screaming in pain but never fear; the Iron Dukes had long before sated them full with fright.
