Good thing she didn’t know the white unicorn was a fake! “What happens to the completely useless animals?”
“I have Darlin’ Corey take the worthless ones outside and put them through the curtain.” The witch was no longer bothering to conceal her identity, since he seemed to accept it. Her female view of man was that he was interested only in the external appearance—and Stile suspected there was some merit in that view. He had already had relations with a machine that looked like a woman, and with a unicorn that also looked like a woman. What of an old woman who looked like a young woman? Yellow was certainly much more pleasing to deal with in this form than in the other.
“Thou knowest about the curtain?” he asked after a moment, surprised.
“Thou dost not? There is another world beyond it, a desert. The potion puts the creatures through; they never return. I have not the heart to kill them outright, and dare not let them go free in this world lest they summon hordes of their kind to wreak vengeance on these my demesnes, and if they survive in the other world I begrudge it not.”
So she was not heartless, just a victim of circumstance. To an extent. Yet it seemed a safe assumption that she was as yet only partially corrupted by power.
How much should he say? Stile detested lies even by indirection. “I am of that world.”
“Thou’rt a frame traveler? A true man?” She was alarmed.
“I am. Thou didst merely assume I was a werewolf.”
“I do not deal in true men!” she said nervously. “This leads to great mischief!”
“I came merely to discover thine identity. Now I seek only to free thy captives and to depart with my friends. I have no inherent quarrel with thee, but if thou threatenest my life or those of my friends—”
She turned to him in the hallway. She was absolutely beautiful. “I proffer no threat to thee, my handsome bantam. Dally with a lonely woman a time, and thy friends shall go free with thee.”
Stile considered. “I don’t regard myself to be at liberty to do that.”
She frowned. “Thou hast only limited leeway for bargaining, sweets.”
“Perhaps. My friend urged me to slay thee without warning, but I did not wish to do that either.”
“Oh? We shall put that to the proof.” She led him into the main room of the house. Shelves lined the walls, containing bottles of fluid: rows and rows of them, coated with dust. In the center a huge cauldron bubbled, its vapors drifting out through a broken windowpane. This was obviously the source of the summoning scent: a continuously brewing mix.
“All these bottles—potions for different spells?” he inquired, impressed.
“All. I must brew one potion at a time, and can use it only once, so I save each carefully. It is not easy, being Adept; it requires much imagination and application. I must develop a new formula for every invisibility elixir I mix—and for every rejuvenation drink.”
Stile eyed her figure again. What a potion she must have taken! “Thou didst really look like this in thy youth?”
“I really did, my honey. Or as close as makes no nevermind. Hair and flesh tints differ from mix to mix, and sometimes one brews too strong, and I become as a child. But my youth was a very long time ago, my lamb, and even the best potion lasts no more than an hour. See—I have only three of these mixes left.” She gestured to a half-empty shelf, where three bottles sat. “I expended one quarter of my stock, for a mere hour with thee. Take that as what flattery thou mayst.”
“Flattering indeed,” Stile said. “I did see thee in thy natural state. But this is not what restrains me. I have other commitments.” He pondered briefly. “Thou didst believe me to be a werewolf, before. The true werewolf might be interested in the remainder of thy hour, if thou wert to free him thereafter.”
Yellow took down a bottle. “Thou art most facile, lovely man. I hardly trust thee. If thou provest a liar, it will go hard indeed with thee—and thy friends.” She drew the stopper out. Stile stepped back, alarmed, but she sprinkled the liquid on a statuette, not on him.
The figurine grew rapidly into a demon monster. “Thou summonest me, hag?” it roared, its small red eyes fairly glowing as they glared about. Then it did a double take. Its lips pursed appreciatively. “I have not seen the like in six hundred years! But thou didst not need to prettify thyself for me, witch.”
“ ’Twas not for thee I did it,” she snapped. “Speak me the truth, Zebub. Why came this man here, and who is he?”
The demon glared in Stile’s direction. “This time thou’rt victim to thine own paranoia, crone. He is innocuous, with respect to thee. Not with respect to certain others, though.” The demon smiled privately.
“He really sought not to kill me?”
“True. He but seeks his own identity, so comes with werewolf and unicorn to learn if thou art it.”
Yellow burst into a cackle of laughter. “Me! What kind of fool is he?”
“No fool, he. He lacks information on the nature of the Adepts. The Oracle advised him to know himself, so he seeks to learn if he is one of you. He was trapped by Black, and only escaped via the curtain. He is of that other world.”
Stile felt another chill. This monster really did have information!
“What gives him the notion he is Adept?” Yellow demanded.
“He is Adept, O senile one.”
Yellow backed against a wall, almost jarring loose several bottles. “Not only a man, but Adept to boot! Oh, what a foul pickle I have hatched! Who is he?”
“He is Stile, a serf of Proton, in the other frame, freed to cross the curtain by the death of his Phaze-self.”
“Idiot! I meant which Adept is he?”
The demon scowled. “That is formidable information.”
“Don’t stall, hellborn one!” Yellow screeched. “Else I will apply a pain potion.”
Zebub blanched. “Blue,” he muttered.
Yellow’s eyes went round. “This midget is the Blue Adept?”
“His alternate, yes.”
“I can’t afford trouble with another Adept!” she exclaimed, wrenching at her own hair in distraction. “Not one of such power as Blue! If I free him, will he seek to destroy me? Why does he withhold his magic now?”
“This calls for conclusions on the part of the witness,” the demon said smugly.
Yellow took a step toward a shelf of small bottles.
“Question him,” Zebub said quickly. “I will verify his word.”
“Stile, a.k.a. Blue Adept!” she cried, her eyes round and wild, yet still lovely. “Answer me, in the presence of Zebub.”
“If thou shouldst free me, I will still seek to release my friends and the other captives,” Stile said. “I will not seek to destroy thee gratuitously.”
“He speaks truth,” Zebub said. “As for his magic, he made an oath to the unicorn to practice it not save by her leave.”
“So only his oath makes him subject to my power?” she demanded.
“That is so,” Zebub agreed. “Thou art the luckiest of harridans.”
Yellow’s beautiful brow furrowed. “If I release the unicorn, she could then release Blue from his oath, and there would be war between Adepts. I dare not risk it.”
“Thou darest not risk harming the unicorn either, beldame,” Zebub pointed out maliciously. “If the Blue Adept is moved by ire to break his oath—”
“I know! I know!” she screeched, distracted. “If I kill him, another Adept might seek to kill me, for that I violated our convention. If I let him go, Blue may seek my life for that I caged him. If I try to hold him—”
“My time is up,” Zebub said. “Please deposit another potion, scold.”
“O, begone with thee!” Yellow snapped.
The demon shrank into figurine size and froze: a dead image.
Yellow looked at Stile. “If thou keepest thine oath to the unicorn, wilt thou honor it for me? I wish I could be sure. I want no quarrel with another Adept.”
“Release all the animals in your compound,
and thou wilt have no quarrel with me,” Stile said.
“I can not! I have commitments, I have accepted magic favors in payment. I must deliver.”
Stile, quite prepared to hate this Adept, found himself moved. She was, for the moment, lovely, but that was not it. She honored her commitments. She did not like killing. Her surroundings and mechanisms reflected a certain humor, as if she did not take herself too seriously. She was old and lonely. It should be possible to make a deal with her.
“I want no quarrel with thee, either,” he said. “Thou knowest me not, therefore trust must be tempered with caution. I made thee this offer: send me through the curtain, and I will not return. I will seek to free my friends and the animals from a distance.”
“How canst thou act from a distance? My magic is stronger than thine, near me in my demesnes—as thine would be stronger than mine in thine own demesnes.”
“Without magic,” Stile said.
“Very well,” she decided. “I will put thee through the curtain with a potion, and set a powerful curse I got from Green to ward thee off thereafter. If thou canst free the animals from a distance, without magic—” She shrugged. “I have never liked this business; if I am foiled through no agency of mine own, perhaps I will not be held in default.” She glanced at him, her mood visibly lightening. “I never did business with Blue, else would I have known thee. How is it that Blue, alone of Adepts, needs no monsters in storage?”
“I intend to find out,” Stile said. He was highly gratified to have this information. Now he knew who he was, and that the Blue Adept had not practiced at least one of the atrocities that seemed to be standard in this genre. This excursion into the Yellow Demesnes had been mistaken, but serendipitously worthwhile.
Yellow took down another bottle, then led him out of the house and around the palisades to the curtain. Stile hoped he could trust her to use the correct potion. But it seemed reasonable; if Adepts avoided trouble with Adepts, and if she feared his violation of his oath were he to be betrayed, she would play it straight. She seemed to be, basically, an honest witch.
At the curtain, she hesitated, hand on the stopper of the bottle. “I do not wish to murder thee, Blue Stile,” she said. “Art thou sure thou canst survive in that bleak realm beyond the curtain? If thou preferest to dally here—”
“My thanks, Yellow. I can survive. I have a prior engagement, and must pass through now.”
“And thou thinkest the werewolf might be interested—for half an hour? It is not a difficult thing I ask—”
“Won’t hurt to ask him,” Stile agreed, stepping through the curtain as she sprinkled the liquid on him.
CHAPTER 15
Games
It was a longer hike to the nearest dome, this time, but he had more confidence and need, and that sniff of wolfsbane still buoyed him. In due course, gasping, he stepped inside and made a call to Sheen. It was evening; he had the night to rest with her. He needed it; his high of the last visit to Phaze finally gave out, and he realized the episode with the Yellow Adept had drained him more than he had realized at the time. Or perhaps it was the low following the effect of the wolfsbane.
“So you are the Blue Adept,” Sheen said, not letting him sleep quite yet. “And you need some things to use to free your equine girl friend.”
“Now don’t get jealous again,” he grumbled. “You know I have to—”
“How can I be jealous? I’m only a machine.”
Stile sighed. “I should have taken Yellow up on her offer. Then you would have had something to be jealous about.”
“You mean you didn’t—with Neysa?”
“Not this time. I—”
“You were saving it for the witch?” she demanded indignantly. “Then ran out of time?”
“Well, she was an extremely pretty—”
“You made your callous point. I won’t resent Neysa. She’s only an animal.”
“Are you going to have your friends assemble my order or aren’t you?”
“I will take care of it in good time. But I don’t see how a cube of dry ice will help your animals.”
“Plus a diamond-edged hacksaw.”
“And a trained owl,” she finished. “Do you plan to start romancing birds next?”
“Oh, go away and let me sleep!”
Instead she tickled him. “Birds, hags, mares, machines—why can’t you find a normal woman for a change?”
“I had one,” he said, thinking of Tune. “She left me.”
“So you get hung up on all the half-women, fearing to tackle a real one again—because you’re sure she wouldn’t want you.” She was half-teasing, half-sad, toying with the notion that she herself was a symptom of his aberration.
“I’ll look for one tomorrow,” he promised.
“Not tomorrow. First thing in the morning, you have an appointment to meet your current employer. This Citizen is very keen on the Game.”
Exasperated, he rolled over and grabbed her. “The irony is,” he said into her soft hair, “you are now more real to me than most real girls I have known. When I told you to brush up on your humanoid wiles, I didn’t mean at my expense.”
“Then you should have said that. I take things literally, because I’m only a—”
He shut her up with a kiss. But the thoughts she had voiced were only a reflection of those he was having. How long could he continue with half-women?
In the morning he met his employer. This was, to his surprise, a woman. No wonder Sheen had had women on her mind! The Citizen was elegantly gowned and coiffed: a handsome lady of exquisitely indeterminate age. She was, of course, substantially taller than he, but had the grace to conceal this by remaining seated in his presence. “Sir,” Stile said. All Citizens were sir, regardless of sex or age.
“See that you qualify for the Tourney,” she said with polite force. “Excused.”
That was that. If he lost one Game, this employer would cut him off as cleanly as his prior one had. He was supposed to feel deeply honored that she had granted him this personal audience—and he did. But his recent experience in Phaze had diminished his awe of Citizens. They were, after all, only people with a lot of wealth and power.
Stile and Sheen went for his challenge for Rung Seven. His employer surely had bets on his success. There were things about this that rankled, but if he fouled up, Sheen would be the one to pay. She lacked his avenue of escape to a better world. He had to do what he could for her, until he figured out some better alternative.
The holder of Rung Seven kept his appointment—as he had to, lest he forfeit. He was not much taller than Stile and tended to avoirdupois despite the antifat medication in the standard diet. Hence his name, Snack. He hardly looked like a formidable player—but neither did Stile.
An audience had gathered, as Sheen had predicted. It was possible that some Citizens also were viewing the match on their screens—especially his own employer. Stile’s move was news.
Snack got the numbered facet of the grid. Stile sighed inaudibly; he had been getting bad breaks on facets in this series. Snack always selected MENTAL.
Very well. Stile would not choose NAKED, because Snack was matchless at the pure mental games. Snack was also uncomfortably sharp at MACHINE- and ANIMAL-assisted mental efforts. Only in TOOL did Stile have an even chance. So it had to come up 2B.
There was a murmur of agreement from the spectators outside, as they watched on the public viewscreen. They had known what the opening box would be. They were waiting for the next grid.
In a moment it appeared: sixteen somewhat arbitrary classifications of games of intellectual skill. Snack had the numbered facet again, which was the primary one. He would go for his speciality: chess. He was versed in all forms of that game: the western-Earth two- and three-dimensional variants, the Chinese Choo-hong-ki, Japanese Shogi, Indian Chatu-ranga, and the hypermodern developments. Stile could not match him there. He had a better chance with the single-piece board games like Chinese Checkers and its variants??
?but many games used the same boards as chess, and this grid classified them by their boards. Better to avoid that whole bailiwick.
Stile chose the C row, covering jigsaw-type puzzles, hunt-type board games—he liked Fox & Geese—the so-called pencil-and-paper games and, in the column he expected to intersect, the enclosing games.
It came up 2C: Enclosing. There was another murmur of excitement from the audience.
Now the handmade grid. Stile felt more confidence here; he could probably take Snack on most of these variants. They completed a subgrid of only four: Go, Go-bang, Yote, and tictac-toe. Stile had thrown in the last whimsically. Tic-tac-toe was a simplistic game, no challenge, but in its essence it resembled the prototype for the grids of the Game. The player who got three of his choices in a row, then had the luck to get the facet that enabled him to choose that row, should normally win. The ideal was to establish one full row and one full column, so that the player had winners no matter which facet he had to work with. But in the Game-grids, there was no draw if no one lined up his X’s and O’s; the real play was in the choosing of columns and the interaction of strategies.
And they intersected at tic-tac-toe. That was what he got for fooling around.
Stile sighed. The problem with this little game was that, among competent players, it was invariably a draw. They played it right here on the grid-screen, punching buttons for X’s and O’s. To a draw.
Which meant they had to run the grid again, to achieve the settlement. They played it—and came up with the same initial box as before. And the same secondary box. Neither player was going to yield one iota of advantage for the sake of variation; to do so would be to lose. But the third grid developed a different pattern, leading to a new choice: Go-bang.
This was a game similar to tic-tac-toe, but with a larger grid allowing up to nineteen markers to be played on a side. It was necessary to form a line of five in a row to win. This game, too, was usually to a draw, at this level.
They drew. Each was too alert to permit the other to move five in a row. Now they would have to go to a third Game. But now the matter was more critical. Any series that went to three draws was presumed to be the result of incompetence or malingering; both parties would be suspended from Game privileges for a period, their Rungs forfeit. It could be a long, hard climb up again, for both—and Stile had no time for it. The third try, in sum, had to produce a winner.