Robot Adept (15 page)

Bane followed directions, and in a moment was hovering somewhat unsteadily, a few inches above the floor.

“Now I will conjure you to her vicinity,” Stile said.
 
He sang a spell—and Bane was back at the open plain, still struggling to maintain equilibrium in air.
 
He flew in a wobbly circle, and ascended. His bee senses informed him that this was indeed the proper region. A bee wasn’t smart, but did have excellent positional awareness.

Not far distant a dragon was snorting. That was reason enough for concern! He put forth more energy and buzzed toward it, gaining proficiency in flight.
 
There was no sign of Agape. That was as it should be, for his spell made her undetectable by ordinary means. It was really a rhyming invocation, her name rhyming with itself as the inflections differed, and it was not her magic, but his; her speech triggered his performance. It was one of the useful devices he had mastered in his years of study: the Blue parallel to the Red amulets or the Brown golems, operating away from the creator. Most Adepts could do similar magic; only the forms of it differed.

The dragon was casting about, trying to find its vanished prey. Soon it flew away, frustrated. Bane relaxed;

Agape was safe, and after a while the spell would wear off.

Then another shape winged in. It was a harpy! That was another kind of danger. But how did the harpy know where Agape was? For the ugly bird was definitely orienting on something. “Who calls? Who calls?” she screeched. “I smelled thy signal, but I see thee not!” Smelled her signal?

“Damn!” the harpy fussed, mildly enough for her kind. “Mayhap the dragon got him, ere the smell o’ my burned feather reached me!”

Now Bane remembered. Mach had made friends with a harpy! There had been a passing thought about it.
 
The harpy must have come to help.

“Here I am.” That was Agape’s voice. The spell a lowed her to make herself known when she chose, and of course it was fading anyway.

Bane hovered nearby long enough to verify that the harpy was called Phoebe, and that she was helping.
 
While it was true that the harpies were among the most dirty and vicious of flying creatures, it was also true that hardly any other creature sought to interfere with one. Agape should be safe enough for a time in the company of Phoebe.

He flew to a reasonable distance, then buzzed out the spell for the return transformation. He got it right; in a moment he was a man again. He stood in his normal clothing: part of the magic was the transformation of apparel into fur or skin, in the fashion of the unicorns or werewolves. Quickly he conjured himself back to the Blue Demesnes.

“She be safe for now,” he reported, vastly relieved. “She has a harpy friend.”

“Fleta made that friend,” Stile agreed. “I think I learned from my experience with Trool the Troll that any species, no matter how vile seeming, can have good representatives, if correctly approached.”

“I think I be ready now to spy on the Adepts,” Bane said. “The test was a success.”

“First rest a day,” Stile said. “Then we’ll send you out in the morning.”

Bane realized that much had happened recently, and he was tired. “The morning,” he agreed.
 
Thus it was that the next day he found himself in butterfly form—the flying mode of this creature was easier to relate to than that of the bee—near the Orange Demesnes. He had taken the precaution of becoming well adapted to his form before being conjured to this vicinity, so that he would not nutter about inadequately and perhaps call attention to himself. But in getting that practice he had used energy, and now in the presence of the many exotic blooms of the Orange Demesnes he was hungry. So he flitted from flower to flower, sampling as many as he could and thoroughly enjoying himself.
 
However, he did not forget his mission. He wanted to spy on the Orange Adept, and learn if he could what mischief the Adverse Adepts were plotting. Stile was not paranoid; if he suspected trouble, then trouble was surely in the making.

The Adept lived in a tiny shack in the center of an overgrown vale in a jungle forest. Bane fluttered closer to the shack, but it showed no sign of life. The Adept was either asleep or absent. In either event, Bane was not accomplishing much. It had not occurred to him that spying would be this dull!

Then a bird swooped down. Oops! Bane plunged for the tangled ground, avoiding the predator. But the bird swerved to follow, with marvelous accuracy. It had far more speed and power than Bane did, and was evidently determined to snap up this morsel.

Bane could not do other magic in this form. As the bird took his body, he invoked the conversion spell in butterfly language, and became a man.

The bird, startled, winged immediately for distant parts. Bane was safe—except that he now stood in his normal form in the heart of the Orange Demesnes. That was dangerous!

He took a step—and encountered ferocious brambles the butterfly hadn’t noticed. Indeed, they were coiling about his legs, nudging their thorns into position for best effect. No easy way out of this!

There was no help for it: he would have to conjure himself out, and hope that the Adept was absent, be cause magic of this magnitude would surely alert him otherwise. That could make him, and therefore all the Adverse Adepts, aware that they were being spied on by someone, and it would not take them long to guess whom.

He conjured himself to the center of the Purple Mountain range. He hoped that if Orange were aware of the conjuration, and traced it, he would assume that another Adept had stopped by. This might not be the best of ploys, but it was all he could think of in the pressure of the moment.

He was tempted to check on Agape and the harpy, if they remained together, but resisted the impulse. If an Adept were tracing his course, he hardly wanted to lead that hostile man to Agape!

He conjured himself to the White Mountain range, and finally home. He had expended a number of valuable spells, but it seemed a necessary precaution, doubly hiding his true destination.

“I think he was asleep,” Stile said. “My magic indicates he is at home; he seldom leaves it. I don’t think you alerted him. What happened?”

“A bird,” Bane said, disgruntled.

“Next time make it a poisonous species.”

“Aye.” Bane grimaced. “I be not much good at spying, methinks.”

“Who among us is? Evidently there was not much to be learned there.”

Bane resolved to do better next time. That afternoon he transformed into a brightly colored, highly toxic species of butterfly, whose blue and yellow wings advertised its nature; no sensible bird would touch it. Stile conjured him to the Tan Demesnes.

He fluttered near a monstrous banyan tree, whose branches spread so far horizontally that they could not support their weight and dropped new trunks to the ground as buttresses. Thus this single tree seemed rather like a forest, with lesser plants growing in the shadows and arches of it. Bane studied it with his butterfly senses, but could not fathom its extent; it was a labyrinth!

Odd that the Adept whose magic related to plants lived in a wilderness hovel, while the one whose magic related to people lived in the most elaborate vegetative structure. The Adepts as a whole seemed to honor no sensible pattern.

He fluttered into the shadows of the tree, seeking flowers, but there were few here; the light was too dim.
 
He flew up to see whether there was more above the lower branches, for he needed flowers as a cover for his presence.

There was a pavilion above, built into the upper sections of the tree. A woman was reclining there, sunning herself in the nude, or perhaps merely enjoying the breeze. Her eye fell on him.

“A blue-striped zinger!” she exclaimed. “I need a pair of those!” She jumped up and fetched a net from a hook on a trunk-post.

It was Tania, the Adept’s daughter—and it seemed she was a butterfly hunter! This was a bad break.
 
He fluttered down and away, but the woman pursued, the net poised competently. He barely managed to get out of its range beyond the pavilion; Tania could not follow, because she was ten feet above the ground.
 
“Damn! I’ll have to use magic,” she muttered.

She gazed intently at him, and the evil eye struck.
 
Bane was abruptly paralyzed. He fell to the ground, unable to fly. Because he was an insect, not a man, he landed lightly, unhurt. Because he was a nascent Adept, the effect did not last; Adepts could seldom hurt each other seriously by their magic, being naturally immune.
 
Had he been in manform, she would have had to work much harder to achieve the same effect. He could fly away before she descended a ladder to the ground.
 
But if he did, she would know he was more than an ordinary butterfly. He did not want to arouse suspicion.
 
It was better to play the role, and let her capture him, and escape when he could do so in the natural butterfly manner. If no opportunity came, then he would have to do it in an unnatural manner.

Tania arrived. She slid a bit of paper under him and picked him up, carefully. “Come on, you pretty little prize,” she said. “I have just the place for you.” That did not sound good. Should he have bolted?
 
She carried him to a garden set within the far fringe of branches that was entirely surrounded by fine netting.
 
Within it were scores of butterflies. She opened a small section and set him inside. “You will recover in a moment, zinger,” she said. “Just find yourself a perch; I’ll find a mate for you as soon as I can.” She withdrew.
 
He waited a suitable period, then righted himself and flapped his wings. He flew to a spot on a thick bush and perched there, as directed.

Tania returned to the pavilion and resumed her sunning. But she faced the caged garden, and she was watching him; it was probably because she was pleased to have come this providently on a rare acquisition, but it meant he could not do anything contrary to butterfly nature. He was still captive.

He just did not seem to be very good at spying!
 
Since he had nothing else to do, he watched her. He had known her occasionally as a child; she had been about ten when he was six, and the Tan Adept had brought her when he came to the Blue Demesnes to confer on this or that. Stile had not gotten along well with the Adverse Adepts, but they were Adepts and had to be accorded the respect due that status. Tania had seemed insufferably snotty from the vantage of his youth, but he learned that it was in Tan’s mind that he, Bane, might make a suitable match for her, when he became adult. He had rejected that notion out of hand; he would have no truck with any of the Adverse Adepts or their ilk.

But in Proton, and now in Phaze, he saw from the vantage of his sexual maturity that Tania was an attractive young woman. Her body was tanned all over, and her matching hair and eyes had their own peculiar appeal. Physically, she was now a creature he could have been attracted to.

Then a wren appeared, a tiny bird flitting along a lateral branch, checking it for edible insects. Tania’s eyes moved to follow it, as it reached the edge of the pavilion. She concentrated—and the bird gave an anguished peep and flopped onto its back, its legs kicking frantically.
                                           
“Suffer, creep, before I kill thee,” Tania said, watching it with satisfied malice. “Didst think to prey on my butterflies?”

But the bird had not been after the butterflies. Bane thought. It had been looking for crawling bugs in the bark of the huge tree and could not have gotten into the garden cage anyway. She was torturing it without proper reason, evidently enjoying the process. Indeed, she licked her lips as she watched the wren, and her face seemed to glow.

After a time the wren showed signs of recovering from the effect of the evil eye. Its kicking and fluttering slowed and stopped, and it started to right itself.
 
Then Tania got up, fetched her butterfly net, reversed it, and smashed the handle down on the hapless bird.
 
When she was sure it was dead, she nudged the body off the edge, so that it fell to the ground beyond.
 
And that completed the picture on Tania: he could never have been attracted to her mind. She was a true example of the nature of the Adverse Adepts.
 
In due course her brother arrived. “How goes it, Tannu?” Tania asked.

“Indifferently,” he replied, plumping into another deck chair. “The rovot and the unicorn traveled to the Harpy Demesnes, where he switched with Bane. Then Bane went to the Blue Demesnes, leaving the ‘corn.”

“He sported with animals, but does no more,” she remarked. “Bring him to me, and I will bind him to our cause.”

“Can’t, under truce,” Tannu said.

“Truces exist only for convenience,” she said disdainfully.

He grimaced. “Needs must someone inform Translucent o’ that,” he said. “After Purple botched the job, Translucent won o’er the rovot, and his word governs.
 
Methought Translucent was crazy and would hang himself, but he did not.”

“Yet,” she said. “He has hanged himself not yet. He were lucky, but his luck will turn. It be crazy to let Bane run loose.”

“We be preparing for the time Translucent comes to his senses,” Tannu said. “The ogres, goblins and demons be alerted; they be marshaling their forces.”

“For what? Bane can be held not by goblins!”