upsurges of his stomach.
“Here’s another morsel of useful knowledge for you,” Leddravohr said calmly. “When you’re killing a bluehorn, never go straight into the heart or you’ll get blood all over you. This way the heart discharges into the body cavities, and there is very little mess. See?” Leddravohr withdrew his sword, wiped it on the dead animal’s mane and spread his arms, inviting inspection of his unmarked clothing. “Don’t you agree that it’s all very…philosophical?”
“I made it fall,” Lain mumbled.
“It was only a bluehorn.” Leddravohr sheathed his sword, returned to his mount and swung himself into the saddle. “Come on, Maraquine — what are you waiting for?”
Lain looked at the prince, who had one hand outstretched in readiness to assist him on to the bluehorn, and felt a powerful aversion to making the physical contact. “Thank you, Prince — but it would be improper for one of my station to ride with you.”
Leddravohr burst out laughing. “What are you talking about, you fool? We’re out in the real world now — the soldier’s world — and the ptertha are on the move.”
The reference to the ptertha went through Lain like a dagger of ice. He took a hesitant step forward.
“Don’t be so bashful,” Leddravohr said, his eyes amused and derisive. “After all, it wouldn’t be the first time you and I had shared a mount.”
Lain came to a standstill, his brow dewing over with cool perspiration, and he heard himself say, “On consideration, I prefer to make my own way back to the Quarter on foot.”
“I’m losing patience with you, Maraquine.” Leddravohr shaded his eyes and scanned the western sky. “I’m not going to plead with you to preserve your own life.”
“My life is my responsibility, Prince.”
“It must be something in the Maraquine blood,” Leddravohr said, shrugging as he addressed a notional third party.
He turned his bluehorn’s head to the east and urged the beast into a canter. Within a few seconds he had passed out of sight behind a shoulder of rock, and Lain was alone in a harsh landscape which suddenly seemed as alien and unforgiving as a distant planet. He gave a shaky, incredulous laugh as he took stock of the predicament he had placed himself in with a single failure of reason.
There was a faint scraping sound from nearby. Lain wheeled in fright and saw that pallid multipedes were already writhing upwards out of their burrows, disturbing small pebbles in their eagerness to converge on the dead bluehorn. He lunged away from the spectacle. For a moment he considered returning to the cave, then realised it would offer only minimal protection during daylight — and after nightfall the entire hill was likely to be swarming with globes, patiently nuzzling and probing. The best plan was to head eastwards to Skyship Quarter with all possible speed and try to get there before the ptertha came riding down the wind.
The decision made, Lain began to run through the murmurous heat. Near the base of the hill he emerged on an open slope which gave him an unrestricted view to the east. A far-off plume of dust marked Leddravohr’s course and a long way ahead of him, almost at the drab boundaries of the Quarter, a larger cloud showed how far the four soldiers had gone. He had not appreciated the difference in speed between a man on fpot and one mounted on a galloping bluehorn. He would be able to make better progress when he reached the flat grassland, but even so it would probably be an hour before he reached safety.
As a distraction from his growing physical distress, he tried to bring his professional skills to bear on the question. The statistics, when looked at dispassionately, were more encouraging than he might have expected.
Daylight and flat terrain were conditions which did not favour the ptertha. They had virtually no self-propulsive capability in the horizontal plane, depending on air currents to carry them across the face of the land, which meant that an active man had little to fear from ptertha while he was crossing open ground. Assuming they had not blanketed the area — something which rarely happened in daytime — all he had to do was observe the globes closely and be aware of the wind direction. When menaced by a ptertha, it was simply a matter of waiting until just before it came within the killing radius, then running crosswind for a short distance and allowing the globe to drift helplessly by.
Lain stumbled to a halt in a gully, his mouth filling with the salt froth of exhaustion, and leaned on a rock to recover his breath. It was vital that he should still have reserves of strength and be nimble on his feet when he reached the plain. As the tumult in his chest gradually subsided he indulged himself in a visualisation of his next encounter with Leddravohr, and — incredibly — he felt his gaping mouth trying to form a grin. This was the irony of ironies! While the renowned military prince had fled to seek refuge from the ptertha, the mild-mannered philosopher had strolled back to the city, in need of no armour but his intellect. This was proof indeed that he was no coward, proof for all to see, proof that even his wife would have to.…
Lain straightened up and — sick with premonition — turned to look back along the gully.
The ptertha was barely ten paces away, well within its killing radius, and the breeze coursing along the gully was sweeping it closer to him with mind-freezing swiftness.
It swelled to encompass his view, its glistening transparencies tinged with purple and black. In one part of his mind Lain felt a perverse flicker of gratitude that the issue had been decided for him, so quickly and so finally. There was no point in trying to run, no point in trying to fight. He saw the ptertha as he had never seen one before, saw the livid swirlings of the toxic dust inside it. Was there a hint of structure there? A globe within a globe? Was a malign proto-intelligence knowingly sacrificing itself in order to destroy him?
The ptertha filled Lain’s universe.
It was everywhere — and then it was nowhere.
He took a deep breath and looked about him with the ruefully placid gaze of the man who has only one further decision to make.
Recalling the higher slope which had afforded the good view to the east, he retraced his steps along the bed of the ancient stream, walking slowly now and emitting occasional sighs. When he reached the slope he sat on the ground with his back to an agreeably shaped boulder and arranged his robe in neat folds around his outstretched legs.
The world of his last day was laid out before him. The triangular outline of Mount Opelmer floated low in the sky, seemingly detached from the horizontal ribbons and speckled bands which represented Ro-Atabri and the derelict suburbs on the shores of Arle Bay. Closer and lower was the artificial community of the Skyship Quarter, its dozens of balloon enclosures an illusory city of rectangular towers. The Tree glittered in the southern heavens, its nine stars challenging the sun’s brilliance, and at the zenith a broad crescent of mellow light was spreading insensibly across the disk of Overland.
A burning sensation manifested itself below Lain’s chest and spread radial tendrils into the rest of his torso. At the same time the air about him seemed to grow cold, as though the sun had lost its heat. He put a hand into a pocket of his robe, brought out a bag made of yellow linen and spread it on his lap. There was a final duty to be performed — but not yet.
A stab of pain in Lain’s chest was accompanied by a bout of shivering. The view before him was curiously flat. He could see more ptertha now. They were drifting down towards the plain in groups of two and three, but they had no relevance to what was left of his life. The dream-flow of his fragmentary thoughts was the new reality.
The fire in Lain’s chest was becoming hotter, expanding, causing him to struggle for breath. He was sweating profusely and yet his skin felt deathly cold, and the world was merely a scene painted on rippling cloth. It was time for the yellow hood.
Lain lifted it with clumsy fingers and drew it over his head — a warning to anyone who might come by that he had died of pterthacosis and that the body was not to be approached for at least five days. The eye slits were not in the right place, but he allowed his hands to fall to his side without adjusting them, content to remain in a private universe of formless and featureless yellow.
Time and space ran together in that undemanding microcosm.
Chapter 17
Prince Leddravohr picked up a looking glass and frowned at his reflection. Even when resident in the Great Palace he preferred not to be attended by body servants, and for his morning toilet he had spent a considerable time in honing a brakka razor to a perfect edge and softening his facial stubble with hot water. As a result, annoyingly, he had pared away too much skin at his throat. There were no real incisions, but droplets of blood were oozing through the skin, and no matter how often he dabbed them away more appeared in their place.
