The admiral had gone on personal search and destroy missions in pursuit of the mountain partisans, seeking gloss to add to its personal honor. For its part, the priest had ordered expensive new works built and had rushed the delivery of a new planetary Branch Library.
It had been a lovely interregnum of two-way consensus. The Suzerain of Beam and Talon approved every purchase, and the Suzerain of Propriety blessed every foray of the Talon Soldiers. Expedition after expedition was sent into the mountains as closely guarded scientists eagerly sought out a prize beyond price.
Mistakes were made. The wolflings proved diabolical in their ambushes and animal elusiveness. And yet, there would never have been any carping about cost had they actually found what they were looking for. It all would have been worth it, if only…
But we were tricked, fooled, made fools of, the priest thought bitterly. The treasure had been a lie. And now the new Suzerain of Cost and Caution was rubbing it in for all it was worth. The bureaucrat danced a brilliant dance of chastisement of excess. Already it had dominated several points of consensus — for instance, that there would be no more useless chases into the mountains, not until a cheaper way was found to eliminate the resistance fighters.
The plumage of the Suzerain of Beam and Talon drooped miserably. The priest knew how much this must gall the admiral. But they were both held hypnotized by the righteous correctness of the Dance of Chastisement. Two could not outvote one when that one was so clearly in the right.
Now the bureaucrat had launched into a new cadence, leading into a new dance. It proposed that the new construction projects be abandoned. They had nothing to do with defending the Gubru hold upon this world. They had been begun on the assumption that these “Garthling” creatures would be found. Now it was simply pointless to continuebuilding a hyperspace shunt and a ceremonial mound!
The dance was powerful, convincing, backed up with charts and statistics and tables of figures. The Suzerain of Propriety realized that something would have to be done and done soon, or this upstart would end the day in the foremost position. It was unthinkable that such a sudden reverse of order should happen just as their bodies were starting to give them twinges preliminary to Molt!
Even leaving out the question of molt order, there was also the message from the Roost Masters to consider. The queens and princes back home were desperate in their queries. Had the Three on Garth come up with a bold new policy yet? Calculations showed that it would be important to have something original and imaginative soon, or else the initiative would pass forever to some other clan.
It was intimidating to have the fate of the race riding in one’s slipstream.
And for all of its obvious finesse and fine preening, one thing was readily apparent about the new chief bureaucrat. The new Suzerain of Cost and Caution lacked the depth, the clarity of vision of its dead predecessor. The Suzerain of Propriety knew that no grand policy was going to come out of picayune, short sighted credit-pinching.
Something had to be done, and done now! The priest took up a posture of presentiment, spreading its brightly feathered arms in display. Politely, perhaps even indulgently, the bureaucrat cut short its own dance and lowered its beak, yielding time.
The Suzerain of Propriety started slowly, shuffling in small steps upon its perch. Purposely, the priest adopted a cadence used earlier by its adversary.
“Although there may be no Garthlings, there remains achance, opportunity, opening, for us to use the ceremonialsite we have
planned,
built,
dedicated
at such cost.
“There is a plan, scheme, concept, which may still yet
win
glory,
honor,
propriety
for our clan.
“At the center, focus, essence of this plan, we shall
examine,
inspect,
investigate
the clients of wolflings.”
Across the chamber the Suzerain of Beam and Talon looked up. A hopeful light appeared in the dejected admiral’s eye, and the priest knew that it could win a temporary victory, or at least a delay.
Much, much would depend in the days ahead upon finding out whether this bold new idea would work.
57
Athaclena
“You see?” he called down to her. “It moved during the night!”
Athaclena had to shade her eyes as she looked up at her human friend — perched on a tree branch more than thirty feet above the forest floor. He pulled on a leafy green cable that stretched down to him at a forty-five-degree angle from its even higher anchor.
“Are you certain that is the same vine you snipped last night?” she called.
“It sure is! I climbed up and poured a liter of chromium-rich water — the very stuff this particular vine specializes in — into the crotch of that branch, way up there above me. Now you can see this vine has reanchored itself to that exact spot!”
Athaclena nodded. She felt a fringe of truth around his words. “I see it, Robert. And now I believe it.”
She had to smile. Sometimes Robert acted so much like a young Tymbrimi male — so quick, impulsive, puckish. It was a little disconcerting, in a way. Aliens were supposed to behave in strange and inscrutable ways, not just like… well, boys.
But Robert is not an alien, she reminded herself. He is my consort. And anyway, she had been living among Terrans for so long, she wondered if she had started to think like one.
When — if — I ever get home, will I disconcert all around me, frightening and amazing them with metaphors? With bizarre wolfling attitudes? Does that prospect attract me?
A lull had settled over the war. The Gubru had stopped sending vulnerable expeditions into the mountains. Their outposts were quiescent. Even the ceaseless droning of gasbots had been absent from the high valleys for more than a week, te the great relief of the chim farmers and villagers.
With some time on their hands, she and Robert had decided to have themselves just one day off while they had a chance, to try to get to know each other better. After all, who knew when the fighting would resume? Would there ever be another opportunity?
They both needed distraction anyway. There had still been no reply from Robert’s mother, and the fate of Ambassador Uthacalthing remained unclear, in spite of the glimpse she had been given of her father’s design. All she could do was try to perform her part as well as possible, and hope he was still alive and able to do his.
“All right,” she called up to Robert. “I accept it. The vines can be trained, after a fashion. Now come down! Your perch looks precarious.”
But Robert only smiled. “I’ll come down, in my own way. You know me, Clennie. I can’t resist an opportunity like this.”
Athaclena tensed. There it was again, that whimsy at the edges of his emotional aura. It wasn’t unlike syulff-kuonn, the coronal kenning surrounding a young Tymbrimi who was savoring an anticipated jest.
Robert gave the vine a hearty tug. He inhaled, expanding his ribcage to a degree no Tymbrimi could have equaled, then thumped his chest hollowly, rapidly, and gave out a long, ululating yodel. It echoed down the forest corridors.
Athaclena sighed. Oh, yes. He must pay respects to their wolfling deity, Tarzan With the vine clutched in both hands, Robert vaulted from the branch. He sailed, legs outstretched together, in a smooth arc down and across the forest meadow, barely clearing the low shrubs. He whooped aloud.
Of course it was just the sort of thing humans would have invented during those dark centuries between the advent of intelligence and their discovery of science. None of the Library-raised Galactic races, not even the Tymbrimi, would ever have thought up such a mode of transportation.