Ambry, meanwhile, had dropped his bagpipes and unsheathed his claymore. Spinning the blade in an elaborate series of cuts, he would have swiftly left his opponent without either hands or head if his opponent had borne a resemblance to humanity. The fog creature, however, merely rejoined where the blade had slit its substance, apparently less inconvenienced by the sword than by the apples.
From her vantage, Lydia could see this.
“Ambry! Just get away from it! You can’t harm it, but you might be able to outrun it!”
The expression that crossed Wolfer Martin D’Ambry’s face at that moment suggested that he was about to declaim that he was not the type of man who ran from an enemy—no matter how fearsome or inhuman. Common sense won out over empty heroics, or perhaps he heard the terror and love in Lydia’s voice. In any case, he abandoned his pipes and began a controlled retreat toward the cottage.
Alice assisted him by redoubling her hail of green apples, for the tentacled fog had to slow slightly to adjust its mass. From the apricot tree under which Lydia stood, unripe fruit began to drop, encouraging her to add to the bombardment. The genius loci assaulted the fog with wind that blew from the north, growing in intensity and fraying the fog monster at the edges.
Attacked on multiple fronts, the fog monster split its attention to return the assault. Lydia jumped agilely away from the tentacle that punched at her. Alice was not so fortunate.
Whip-thin, cutting the air so that it screamed, a tentacle slashed out at her, catching her around one leg and yanking her off her feet. A second tentacle, this one thick and shaped like a mallet, loomed over her, descending to smash her flat. Throwing her last apple Alice willed herself small, rolling out of line.
Virtual shapeshifting had never been one of her talents, but this time something worked. Momentarily, she was aware of a change of venue— almost as if she was back in her Verite body—then she was in the orchard again. The tentacle had lost its grasp on her and while it was casting about, she scrambled away.
As Alice readied another apple, it seemed that they must win, that Ambry would gain the relative security of the cottage and the genius loci would be able to raise the winds to gale forces that would shred the fog into wisps and memory. Sheltered behind a tree, Lydia was throwing steadily now, her missiles making swiss cheese of one foggy flank.
Then, just as victory seemed certain, the fog changed character, a face forming at its center. The face was masculine, with azure skin and lightning bolt eyebrows over dark blue eyes. The massing fog became flowing hair and beard framing a stormy countenance. Eyes narrowing, it focused on Ambry.
“Enough of this now, Piper,” a deep, yet somehow petulant voice rumbled. “I can’t possibly do things properly this time without all the pieces of my legion. Come along now.”
Reaching out a thick tentacle, the fog plucked up the still backpedalling Ambry as a child might a doll. Once enfolded in the foggy embrace, Ambry drooped limply, his face lax and expressionless.
The fog dispersed, carrying its prize. Mother and daughter stood stunned, watching in dull horror as a single tentacle reappeared to collect the bagpipes before vanishing with the rest.
“Mom, did what I just think happened, happen?”
“Yes.” Lydia sounded as if she was trying not to sob.
“Then you’d better tell me all about Ambry’s past—everything you know.”
“Alice…”
“Mom, I’m going after him.”
“Alice!”
“No, don’t say I can’t. Don’t even suggest that you’ll find him. You’re a great doctor—one of the best—but finding missing people, getting the story… that’s what I’m good at.”
“Alice…”
“We can argue, but it won’t find Ambry and it does waste time.”
Lydia sighed. “Are you planning on doing this alone?”
“No. If you don’t mind, I was going to call Drum and ask him to help.”
“How much are you going to fill him in on?”
“Everything you’ll let me tell him. He can’t do his job with partial data.”
Lydia bit her lip, paced a few steps.
“I can’t stop you, can I?”
“Not really—certainly not if you’re considering running off. The minute you’re gone, so am I.”
“I suppose that someone should be here in case Ambry gets a message out.”
“True. And, Mom, you know his haunts. You’ll be able to check there—to warn the genius loci to be on the alert for him.”
“I’m convinced. Call Drum. I’ll fill you both in together.”
Alice dropped the green apple she still held and hugged her mother. Her fingers were sticky with the sour juice.
“I’ll find him, Mom. I promise.”
“I don’t doubt it, Alice.” Lydia squeezed her daughter harder. “What worries me is what will happen when you do.”
“I’ll bring him back. I didn’t just find my dad to lose him to some… master programmer with delusions of godhood!”
Armored in indignation, Alice Hazzard went into the cottage to place a Virtu-to-Verite call to Desmond Drum. Outside, Lydia picked up the plate that held the remnants of her birthday cake. The ants were marching. She imagined she could hear the pipes that drove them on.
Tranto remained in Deep Fields when Jay departed for Mount Meru.
“I am hard to overlook, my friend,” the phant said ruefully, “even within my chosen site. With their varied abilities and knowledges, Mizar and Dubhe will be able to assist you. I fear I should only be an impediment. On this journey, if you need to resort to brute force, then you are indeed already lost.”
Jay punched the phant above one wrinkled knee.
“That’s it—be encouraging! Don’t worry, Tranto. We’ll be back before you and the Lord of the Palace get tired of each other’s company.”
Death grinned his bone-white grin. “Tranto informs me that he is quite willing to assist me with some projects I had in mind. My usual workers have an unsettling tendency to fall apart. I look forward to the assistance of a trained construction proge.”
“Then we’ll be leaving as soon as the Brass Babboon returns for us,” Jay said. “I sent a signal up the line about an hour ago.”
“Rest until it arrives,” Death advised. “You will not have opportunity thereafter.”
“I’m not certain I could sleep,” Jay admitted. “I’m too nervous.”
“Oh, I think you will have no trouble,” Death said. “As many a poet and philosopher has noted, Death and Sleep are close kin. You will find my palace very restful. Go up the stair on the right. You will find the room your father—although unknowing—designed for you.”
Hearing the command underlying Death’s polite invitation, Jay obeyed. He found the room, furnished with bunk beds and decorated in a style popular for boys at about the time he had been born. A curving windowseat overlooked the front of the palace. Assuring himself that he would certainly hear the Brass Babboon’s arrival from here, he undressed and stretched out on the padded bench.
Despite his doubts, he slept deeply and well, not awakening until the Brass Babboon, spitting fireworks and blasting “The 1812 Overture,” churned to a stop before the palace.
Dubhe swung down from the top bunk and onto Jay’s shoulder.
“I should have know he’d like that one. Brace yourself, the cannon salute is coming.”
Jay did and was glad to have done so for the Brass Babboon accompanied the recorded cannons with mortar fire from his smoke stack and wild laughter. The decaying forms of Deep Fields reared up in response to the unaccustomed noise, detached arms and legs, wheels and gears, spinning and cavorting, tumbling and twirling in a Danse Macabre such as Deep Fields had never seen.