Land and Overland - Omnibus (72 page)

Toller half-smiled as he recalled that only minutes earlier he had regarded his dalliance with Berise Narrinder as something of importance. Gesalla—far ahead of him, as usual—had known better. He had reached the fork in the road, and had to go one way or the other.
One way or the other!

As he wandered the precinct the sun continued its descent to the horizon and the daytime stars became more numerous. Once the transparent globe of a ptertha sailed overhead on a breeze which could not be detected within the vine-clad walls. It was not until silver whirlpools were beginning to show themselves in the eastern blue that Toller abruptly ceased his pacing, stilled by an accession of self-knowledge, by an understanding of why he was taking so long to choose the future course of his life.

There was no decision point before him! There was no dilemma!

The issue had been decided for him, even as Gesalla was putting it into words. He could never make her content, because he was a hollow man who could never again make himself content—and the subsequent delay had been caused by his craven inability to face the truth.

The truth is that I am halfway to being dead,
he told himself,
and all that remains for me is to find a suitable way to finish what I have begun.

He gave a quavering sigh, went to the bluehorn and led it to the precinct gate. He took the animal outside, and while closing the gate looked for the last time at the drowsing house. Gesalla was not at any of the darkening windows. Toller got into the saddle and put the bluehorn into a slow-swaying walk on the gravel road to the east. The workers had departed the fields and the world seemed empty.

"What comes next?" he said to the universe at large, his words swiftly fading into the sadness of the surrounding twilight. "Please, what do I do next?"

There was a tiny focus of movement on the road far ahead of him, almost at the limits of vision. In a normal frame of mind Toller might have used his telescope to gain advance information about the approaching traveller, but on this occasion the effort seemed too great. He allowed the natural progression of events to do the work for him at its own measured pace.

In a short time he was able to discern a wagon driven by a solitary figure, and within another few minutes he could see that both the wagon and its occupant were in a sorry state. The vehicle had lost much of its siding and its wheels were wobbling visibly on worn axles. Its driver was a bearded young man, so caked with dust that he resembled a clay statue.

Toller guided his bluehorn to the side of the road to give the stranger room to pass, and was surprised when the wagon drew to a halt beside him. Its driver peered at him through red-rimmed eyes, and even before he spoke it was apparent that he was very drunk.

"Pardon me, sir," he said in slurred tones, "do I have the honour of addressing Lord Toller Maraquine?"

"Yes," Toller replied. "Why do you ask?"

The bearded man swayed for a moment, then unexpectedly produced a smile which in spite of his filthy and dishevelled condition had a boyish charm. "My name is Bartan Drumme, my lord, and I come to you with a unique proposition—one I am certain you will find of great interest."

"I very much doubt that," Toller said coldly, preparing to move on.

"But, my lord! It was my understanding that as Chief of Aerial Defence you concerned yourself with all matters pertaining to the upper reaches of the sky."

Toller shook his head. "All that is over and done with."

"I'm sorry to hear it, my lord." Drumme picked up a bottle and drew the cork, then paused and gave Toller a sombre stare. "This means I shall have to seek an audience with the King."

In spite of all that was pressing on his mind, Toller had to chuckle. "Doubtless he will be fascinated by what you have to say."

"No doubt at all," Drumme agreed, comfortable in his intoxication. "Any ruler in history would have been intrigued by the idea of planting his flag on the world we call Farland."

The Bluebird Inn in Prad was named after a prominent hostelry in old Ro-Atabri, and it was the ambition of its landlord to win a comparable reputation for decorum. As a consequence, he had been visibly disturbed when Toller had walked into his premises with the disreputable figure of Bartan Drumme in tow. It had been obvious that in his mind the honour of accommodating the heroic aristocrat scarcely compensated for the presence of his smelly and bedraggled companion. He had, however, been persuaded to provide two bedchambers and to set up in one of them a large bath filled with hot water. Bartan was now soaking in the bath, and except for his head the only part of him visible above the soap-greyed water was the hand which was clutching a beaker of brandy.

Toller took a sip from the drink Bartan had given him and grimaced as the crude spirit burned his throat. "Do you think you should be drinking this concoction all the time?"

"Of course not," Bartan said. "I should be drinking
good
brandy all the time, but this is all I can afford. It has cost me my last penny to get here, my lord."

"I told you not to address me as lord." Toller raised his drink to his lips, smelled it and emptied the ceramic beaker into the bath.

"There was no need to waste it," Bartan complained. "Besides, how would
you
like that sort of stuff swilling around your private parts?"

"It may do them good—I think it was intended for external application," Toller said. "I'll have our host serve us with something less poisonous in a little while, but in the meantime I have to go back to the part of your story which sticks in my craw."

"Yes?"

"You claim that your wife is alive on Farland, not as a spirit or a reincarnation—but in the flesh as you knew her. How can you believe that?"

"I can't explain. Her words conveyed more than words—and that was what I got from them."

Toller tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. "I'm not conceited enough to think I know all there is to know about this strange existence of ours. I concede that there are many mysteries, most of which we may never penetrate, but this does not sit easy with me. It still binds."

Bartan stirred in the bath, slopping water over the side. "I have been a convinced materialist all my life. I
still
scorn those simpletons who cling to a belief in the supernatural, in spite of all I went through in the Basket—but although I am at a loss to explain it, this is something I
know.
There were strange lights that night. Sondeweere did something beyond my understanding, and now she lives on Farland."

"You say she appeared to you in a vision, spoke to you from Farland. I find it difficult to imagine anything more supernatural than that."

"Perhaps we use the word in different ways. My wife did speak to me—therefore it was a natural occurrence. It only appears to smack of the supernatural because of elements beyond our comprehension."

Toller noted that Bartan spoke with impressive fluency in spite of his intoxication. He stood up and walked around the lamplit room, then returned to his chair. Bartan was contentedly sipping his brandy, not looking at all insane.

"liven Zavotle is going to be here soon, provided the messenger has found him all right," Toller said. "And I warn you that he is going to laugh at your story."

"There is no need for him to believe it," Bartan replied. "The part about my wife is of concern to me alone, and I related it only to show that I have personal reasons for wanting to voyage to Farland. I could not expect others to undertake such a journey on my account, whatever my reasons. But it is my hope that the King will wish to succeed where Rassamarden failed—by extending his domain to another world—and that, as originator of the scheme, I will be granted a place on the expedition if it becomes a reality. All I ask of your friend Zavotle is that he devise a means of making the journey possible."

"You don't ask much."

"I ask more than you will ever know," Bartan said, a brooding expression appearing on his young-old face. "I am responsible for what happened to my wife, you see. Losing her was bad enough, but carrying the burden of guilt…"

"I'm sorry," Toller said. "Is that why you drink?"

Bartan tilted his head as he considered the question. "It's probably the reason I started drinking, but after a while I found that I simply prefer being drunk to being sober. It makes the world a pleasanter place to live in."

"And on the night you had the vision? Were you…?"

"Drunk? Of course I was drunk!" Bartan gulped some more brandy as if to reinforce his statement. "But that has no bearing on what happened that night. Please, my lord…"

"Toller."

Bartan nodded. "Please, Toller, feel free to regard me as insane or deluded on that particular point—it is irrelevant, after all—but I beg you to take me seriously on the question of the expedition to Farland. I
must
go. I am an experienced airship pilot, and if necessary I will even stop drinking."

"That would be necessary, but—much though I am intrigued by the idea of flying to Farland—I can't speak seriously about it, to the King or anybody else, until I hear what Zavotle has to say. I will meet him downstairs and take a private parlour where we can have some refreshment and discuss the matter in comfort." Toller stood up and set his empty beaker aside. "Join us when you have completed your toilet."

Bartan signalled his assent by raising his drink in a salute and taking a generous swallow. Shaking his head, Toller let himself out of the room and went along a shadowy corridor to the stair. Bartan Drumme was a highly disturbed young man, not to say a madman, but when he had first spoken of a mission to Farland something deep within Toller had responded immediately and with a passion akin to that of a traveller who had just glimpsed his destination after an arduous journey lasting many years. A yearning had been born in him, accompanied by a powerful surge of excitement which he had repressed for fear of disappointment.

Wild, extravagant and preposterous though the idea of flying to Farland was, Chakkell could be in favour of it for the reasons Bartan had suggested—but only if liven Zavotle considered the mission feasible. Zavotle had won the King's confidence in anything to do with the technicalities of interplanetary flight, so if the little man with the clenched ears considered Farland to be unreachable then Toller Maraquine would indeed have to accept the prospect of becoming a commonplace mortal awaiting a commonplace death. And that could not be allowed to happen.

I'm behaving exactly as Gesalla says I behave,
he thought, pausing on the stair.
But, at this stage of our lives, what would be the point in my trying to do anything else?

He completed the descent to the inn's crowded entrance hall and saw Zavotle, clad in civilian clothes, making enquiries of a porter. He called out a greeting and within a few minutes he and Zavotle were installed in a small room with a flagon of good wine on the table between them. Lamps were burning steadily in the wall niches, adding a bluish haze to the air, and by their light Toller noticed that Zavotle was looking tired and introspective. Instead of being obviously premature, the whiteness of his hair was now making him look old, although he was some years younger than Toller.

"What ails you, old friend?" Toller said. "Is your stomach still misbehaving?"

"I get indigestion even when I haven't eaten." Zavotle gave him a wan smile. "It hardly seems fair."

"Here's something to take your mind off it," Toller said, pouring out two glasses of green wine. "You recall the talk we had with the King this morning? Our disagreement about what should be done with the defence stations?"

"Yes."

"Well, only this aftday I met a young man called Bartan Drumme who put forward an intriguing thought. He is permanently soused and quite mad—you'll see that for yourself in a short time—but his idea has a certain appeal to it. He suggests taking one or more of the stations to Farland."

Toller had kept his tones light and almost casual, but he was watching Zavotle's reactions closely and felt a pang of alarm as he saw his lips twitch with amusement.

"Did you say your new friend is
quite
mad? I'd say he's a raving lunatic!" Zavotle smirked into his wine.

"But don't you think it just might…?" Toller hesitated, realising he would have to deliver himself into his friend's hands, come what may. "liven, I
need
Farland. It is the only thing left for me."

Zavotle eyed him speculatively for a moment.

"Gesalla and I have parted for ever," Toller replied to the unspoken question. "It is all finished between us."

"I see." Zavotle closed his eyes and delicately massaged the lids with the tips of a finger and thumb. "A lot would depend on Farland's position," he said slowly.

"Thank you, thank you," Toller said, overwhelmed with gratitude. "If there is anything I can do to repay you, you have but to name it."

"There is something I expect in repayment—and I do not have to name it. Not to you, anyway."

It was Toller's turn to try reading his friend's face. "The flight is bound to be dangerous, liven—why do you want to risk your life?"

"For a time I thought my digestion was too weak, then I discovered it is too strong." Zavotle patted his stomach. "I am being digested, and the incestuous banquet cannot be prolonged indefinitely. So you see, Toller, I need Farland as much as you do, perhaps even more. For myself, it would suffice to plan a one-way journey, but I suspect that the other members of the crew would not take kindly to such an arrangement, and therefore I will have to tax my brain and make provision for their safe return. The problem will provide an excellent distraction for an hour or two, and I thank you for that."

"I…" Toller glanced around the room, blinking as his tears surrounded the wall lights with spiky haloes. "I'm so sorry, liven. I was too wrapped up in my own worries even to consider that you might be…"

Zavotle smiled and impulsively caught his hand. "Toller, do you remember how it was on the skyship proving flight all those years ago? We flew into the unknown together, and were glad to do so. Let us now put our personal sorrows aside and be thankful that ahead Of us—just when we need them—are an even greater proving flight and an even greater unknown to explore."