Prelude the First
Prince Rango stepped out onto the balcony and regarded the pair of comets hung in the night sky.
Pair?
He squinted at the strange, low patch of light in the west which had not been present the previous evening. It looked pretty much the way the others had but a few nights ago. Therefore, a third comet was probably on its way. Things such as this were supposed to presage the deaths of monarchs, changes in administration, social upheavals, natural disasters, the loss of price supports in industries run by one's relatives, bad weather, plagues, and losing lottery tickets. Rango smiled. He did not need signs in the heavens to tell him that change was in the air. He was part of it.
Abruptly, an ear-tormenting squeal filled the night. It was the sound of a stringed instrument played at at least a hundred times the volume of any stringed instrument ever heard in the area. Since last night, anyway. It had been occurring in the middle of the night, on and off, for about a week, and once it fell into a regular rhythm other amplified instruments joined it. Yes. There came some sort of bass. . . . And now a frantic drumbeat. Soon an invisible singer would begin shouting incomprehensible lyrics in an unknown language.
A tall, darkly handsome man, Rango raised his wine goblet and sipped from it as a ground-shaking thudding began somewhere to the east.
He sighed and turned his head in that direction. It had been strange enough, these past two months, living in a land that was not torn by civil war, a place that, for well over a decade, had been backdrop to assassinations, dark sorceries, skirmishes, quests, pursuits, escapes, vendettas, duels, betrayals, great acts of courage as well as treachery, all of them leading at last to a war in which the line was finally drawn and Good and Evil, Light and Dark, Order and Chaos, and all those other antonyms had faced off and had it out, steel against steel, spell against spell, dark gods and goddesses against their brighter relatives, toe to toe and hand to hand, the world red in tooth and claw and other combative appendages. When the dust settled, Good—in the person of himself and his followers—had just managed to squeak by.
Rango lowered his goblet and smiled. It had been touch and go there at the end, and, ultimately, nothing had gone according to the book, but he stood now in the imperial palace in Caltus, capital of the Faltane, with less than two months before the day of his wedding and coronation. Finally, with all of the perils laid to rest, he would be wed to his betrothed, the tall, dark-haired Rissa.
As the thudding sounds came more heavily out of the east—even the weird music could not completely smother them—he thought back over the years the respective adventures had taken, all rushing to culmination this past summer. . . .
Kalaran, demigod gone bad—Fallen Sunbird of high Vallada Tahana, home of the gods—had seemed to have everything going for him on the eve of the final battle. The four things which had tipped the balance against him had been the amulet, the ring, the sword, and the scroll—Anachron, Sombrisio, Mothganger, and Gwykander.
Gar Quithnick, the turncoat hingu master, had succeeded in recovering the lost amulet. Its protective, magic-dampening effect had saved the defenders from Kalaran's wrath. Sombrisio, the deadly ring of power, returned from the city of the dead, Anthurus, by Rissa and her big-boned blond companion, Jancy Gaine, had actually hurt Kalaran, reducing him to physical combat with the Prince. Even so, he would have faced no problem against a mortal hero no matter how well muscled, save that that muscular arm had wielded Mothganger—a godslayer of a weapon which he and his partner Spotty Gulick had brought back from their quest. And then there was the scroll of Gwykander—containing the words to the ancient rite of grand exorcism—delivered from the bottom of a monster-haunted lake, and rushed to the Faltane just in time. Along with the other magical tools, it was there when it was needed. Looking back, he reflected on all the coincidences, and just plain luck, involved in the four tools being conveyed to the proper place at the proper time within minutes of each other. The outcome had truly been balanced on the edge of a blade.
A white line traced itself slowly through the heavens, expanding in the wake of whatever emitted it. Shortly, there came a distant, muffled boom from overhead, followed by a growling sound.
He shook his head. While he could tell that it was neither meteor nor comet, he had no idea what the thing was. This disturbed him more than a little. He'd had enough of unknown variables tracking muddy footprints across his life's trail these past few years.
Yet, while he did not understand the nature of the disturbance, he had a fairly good idea as to what was causing it, even knew himself to be partly responsible for it. It was of a piece with the recent showers of blood, toads, rats, with the raucous parodies of music which filled the air, with the thing which shook the earth with its heavy, approaching footsteps. Indeed, it was also connected with the recent spate of unnatural births, of two-headed sheep and calves.
He sighed and smiled. It would be all dealt with. He would figure a way, as he had figured ways to deal with everything from minor annoyances to imminent doom in recent years. He had always been very fast on his mental feet.
With a sudden, silvery agitation, the small lake at the foot of one of the northern hills began to drain over its eastern edge, as if the land had suddenly been tipped. He nodded. That, too. Geography tended to rearrange itself periodically these days. Just where all that water was getting off to was not readily apparent. The site of the lake would be a muddy pit in the morning. Possibly, eventually, it would became a swamp. Or it might even be a lake again by tomorrow night. The interfaces between realities having grown somewhat thin in the neighborhood of Caltus, it was possible that a stream from some other place might be diverted to refill it.
There would be a meeting. Of course. With his chief advisers. In the morning. They would discuss the situation. He could see it all now, falling into place. Yes.
He waited out of misspent curiosity until the source of the approaching footsteps came into view—an enormous, heavy-footed, long-necked, long-tailed reptile—stomping its way slowly through the center of town, browsing leaves from various trees and thatching from peasant cottages along its course. He watched it make its way into the west, under the angled light of a rising piece of the moon. He finished his wine as it disappeared from sight, then turned and entered his apartments.
The following afternoon, as he inspected the new northern mud pit, viewing the long line of dinosaur tracks leading through it, Prince Rango was approached by the Princess Rissa along what had been the scenic lakeside trail.
"Rango, what the devils going on?" she asked.
"Another bit of overstressed reality seems to have given way—" he began.
She glanced at the wet, brown declivity and shook her head.
"That is not what I mean," she said, jerking a quick gesture in that direction, a glowing silver ring flashing upon her hand. "I refer to this morning's meeting, to which I was not invited."
Rango winced and drew back.
"It was fairly technical," he responded. "I didn't think it would hold any interest for you at all."
"And I wouldn't even have heard about it if Jancy hadn't been involved," she said. "She just came by to say that you're taking away Sombrisio and sending it back to the ghouls."
As if in response to her latest angry gesture, there came a deep, throat-clearing gurgle at the pit's center. They both turned in that direction as a large circle of muck was sucked downward. A moment later, there came a brief rumble from underground. Then a streaming plume of liquid shot upward out of the hole, thirty, forty feet into the air.
The smell that followed was sulfurous.
"That is a part of the reason," he said. "Or, rather, a part of the effect—the reason for the meeting, and the effect we were discussing."
"She told me that you'd ordered her to take the ring back to Anthurus and secrete it there as best she might where we had found it."
"That is correct."
"And you're sending Gar Quithnick off to look for lost Gelfait to return the amulet, Anachron?"
"That, too."
". . . and Spotty north into the Penduggens, to dispose of Mothganger?"
"Right."
"And Domino Blaid is going to take the scroll of Gwykander back to the cursed lake that serves as its library?"
He nodded.
"Yes, that summarizes it. They're all tough, competent people—and probably more than a little bored now that peace has broken out. They're ideal choices for putting the instruments to rest in safe places, against any future need."
"I wasn't questioning their competence, Rango," she said, as a yellow cloud smelling of rotten eggs blew by them. "I'm wondering about the whole idea of putting the instruments out of reach at this point. I don't see how you could bear to be parted with Mothganger, the sword that saved our lives so many times. I find the idea of giving up Sombrisio and the power she wields extremely painful. Sombrisio saved us, too."
"I feel the same way you do," he said. "However, the situation is suddenly altered. Though they were a priceless benefit in the past, they have now become a grave peril."
"Are you sure that's true?" she asked, as the ground shook again and the geyser shot even higher.
They were forced to retreat suddenly to the right as a shift in the wind threw a shower of hot droplets over them.
"Reasonably sure," he said, offering her his handkerchief. "I had to rely on expert opinions, and the consensus among the best sorcerers we could consult was that having all four of the magical instruments in one place was rather too much of a good thing. That is to say, their combined forces have been building, and all of the strange and dangerous events which have begun to occur here are a direct result. They are damaging the fabric of reality and things can only get worse. The sorcerers say that this is the real reason such potent devices are normally hidden in out-of-the-way places. Also, you'll not ordinarily find more than one stowed in the same spot. This is not just to make life difficult for people on quests. The things are so terribly potent that if you leave them in each other's vicinity for too long their combined forces place unnatural stresses on the area they occupy. We've got four of them here in Caltus, and the consensus is that their presence is the cause of all the magical disturbances we've been experiencing. And things will only get worse so long as they remain together."
"I don't know," she said, as the geyser belched at her back. "Supposing a few of Kalaran's nasties who survived the war were to show up, looking for trouble. For some of them, it would be very useful to have Mothganger or Sombrisio or Anachron handy. What I'm asking is, can we get a second opinion on this?"
Rango shook his head.
"I got the best I could find," he said, "and I told you there was a consensus. To delay longer while we hunted out a few more sages would be to court a real danger to no likely end. It's probable they'd all agree with their brothers and sisters in the Art. No, the sooner we ship the artifacts off to their resting places the sooner things will get back to normal here."
"You could probably keep one," she said. "Say, Mothganger or Sombrisio. There wouldn't be the same combination of powers then. None of them, off by itself, had worked the same sort of effects they're producing locally. Let's just send off two or three of the four and see if the situation stabilizes."
"This, too, was discussed," Rango said. "The reasoning is good and would probably work if we were just bringing a pair, say, of the instruments into a clear area. Unfortunately, some damage has already been done here. When the magical stresses have already occurred any object or operation of the Art may be likely to worsen things, or at least cause manifestations. So, yes, having one about would produce less stress than having all four. But it would still be taking a chance."
"In that case," she said, "couldn't you just move them out of town in four different directions until their effects are diminished to zero?"
Rango sighed and turned away, the fountain gurgling again at his back. One by one, a passing flock of birds began to fall, senseless, about them.
"Physically, what you are describing should work fine," he said at last. "However, there is the matter of security to be considered. If we stow them in too easily accessible places they may fall into the hands of enemies who could use them against us. This was doubtless the thinking of the ancients, as well, when they in their time secreted them. Their first consideration would have been to separate them to a great distance; their second, to make it risky for anyone who wanted to go after them. That's why there always have to be quests, and why they're always so damned difficult."
She moved nearer.
"It seems your experts did give it a lot of thought . . . she said slowly.
"I think that each generation has to rediscover these basic truths," he responded. "Once they've been realized, though, it explains the similarities in so much of high heroic literature. Moralists and literary critics have always been quick to point out that having heroes and heroines climb mountains, trudge through deserts, swim raging torrents, and face ferocious beasts or supernatural menaces has been a symbolic, external analogue of an inner, spiritual experience, intended to show a land of initiation trial and ritual cleansing, making them worthy of the great boon they are about to bear back to their people. Now we see that this is just another example of the patriotic balderdash cultures use to glorify their values at the expense of the individual—not to mention other cultures. The real reason is a purely physical matter: It's dangerous to leave magical tools too close together for too long."
She stared at him through the yellow vapors. Then, "I never heard you talk so—so philosophically—before," she said, "back when we were on the road, and in war camps."
He smiled bleakly.
"I've had a lot of time for reflection since the conflict ended," he said, "time to examine my recent affairs and determine where I made my most serious mistakes. Time to think about all sorts of matters I hadn't the opportunity to dwell upon before."
She moved nearer yet to him.
"Perhaps you've been spending too much time thinking," she told him, placing her hand upon his arm. "All thought and no action is just as unbalanced a state of affairs as its opposite, dear."
Suddenly, she was very near, pressed up against him. His jaw muscles bunched, then relaxed. He put his arms about her, held her to him.
"You're right, of course," he said. "It's just that I want to have everything taken care of, everything in place, for us. I want life to be going smoothly here when we finally settle down to the happiness forever after business."
"Of course," she said. "I understand your concern."
She looked up into his eyes.
"For a while I thought that I had done something to offend you, or that you had changed," she said. "It seemed almost as if you were avoiding me. But I begin to understand all that you've had on your mind."
He nodded.
"It hasn't been easy," he said. "It almost seems the peace has been harder than the war in some ways. I'm sorry if I neglected you while I tried to deal with some of its problems. I intend to have everything in hand in time for our nuptials and the crowning. Soon, I promise."
"I can wait," she said. 44Just so I know nothing's gone wrong between us. . . ."
"I'd have told you," he said, "if something had. No, it's the damned press of business that's been getting in the way."
Her lips parted slightly, so he leaned forward and kissed her. Moments later, another eruption occurred and more hot droplets fell upon them. He moved away, turned, and drew her after him.
"After life is safe from things like this, we can have more time for what we were doing," he said. "Unfortunately, it will probably keep me busy for a while yet."
"I appreciate that," she said, keeping up with his rapid pace. "But even in a less than perfect world perhaps we could find a few hours to be together in some place that is not yet disturbed."
"Wish we could," he called above the growing rumble of the new eruption. "But I've got to be off to another meeting on just this matter. We'll have to get together later."
Rango sat in the back of the room, drinking a cup of tea. He was tired. The past several days in particular, this morning's meeting, the encounter with Rissa—all had been emotionally stressful, and he was physically tired. So he'd turned the briefing of the Bearers over to one of their own number, with whom he'd conferred quickly in advance. Colonel Dominik Blaid—no, damn it! General Domino Blaid—for whom he'd just signed the promotion papers a week or so back—had the full respect of her fellows and the experience of countless military briefings.
As if observing some exotic bird, he studied her. Up until fairly late in the war, everyone had assumed cavalry commander Dominik Blaid—son of the old General Kerman Blaid—was the most brilliant tactician in the field. Nor were they incorrect, save as to the Colonel's gender. Old Kerman had badly wanted a son to carry on the family tradition, but his late wife had not cooperated, leaving him with a single child of the female persuasion. Undaunted, he had decided to make the best of the material at hand, cross-dressing his daughter, calling her by the masculine version of her given name, and beginning her cavalry training as soon as she could stay on a horse's back. And something in her genes responded from the first.
As with six or seven generations of Blaids before her, she had the knack. And something extra. Emerging victorious in engagement after engagement, she quickly rose in her command, exhibiting more and more flashes of the family aptitude at its highest level.
It was somewhere in the final weeks of the war that she had suffered a shoulder wound when enemy archers released clouds of arrows into her charge. Capturing the height she had stormed, she reeled then and slid from the saddle. Gar Quithnick, an unabashed admirer of the Colonel, was there immediately, tearing open the bloody shirt, ready to apply his hingu healing arts. When he realized that the man he most admired was a woman, Gar also realized that he had just fallen in love. But the lady did not share this sentiment. At least, not with him.
Rango smiled and sipped his tea as Domino began addressing the group. She still favored masculine garb, wore her hair short, and talked like a field commander. Hard to believe she'd fallen in love with a poet and scholar of ancient languages. But that is what the newly formed domestic intelligence service had told him. Jord Inder was the man's name.
Domino got along famously with Spotty Gulick, though there was nothing romantic there. As might be suspected with an infantry officer who had risen through the ranks and been involved in a number of the same campaigns, he had a lot in common with the Colonel. Besides, he seemed to favor petite blondes, and at five feet ten inches Domino was several inches taller than the husky captain.
On the other hand, Gar Quithnick was several inches taller than the lady. Slim, dark-haired, pale-eyed, he was graceful enough to be taken for a dancer rather than what he really was: one of the deadliest things on two feet. Trained from childhood in the killing arts of hingu, he had served in Kalaran's elite Guard until he learned of his masters part in his parents' deaths. Defecting then to Rango's standard, he had distinguished himself in the delaying action at Bardu Defile. The pass was narrow enough that only a pair of foot soldiers or a single mounted cavalryman could pass through at a time and led to the Plains of Paradath. There Rango's exhausted troops were encamped, not expecting an attack. One of six men volunteering to hold the Defile while word was carried to the encamped army below, Gar had waited, part of a sacrifice to gain five minutes—hopefully, ten. The pass was held for the better part of an hour, the other five volunteers succumbing in less than half that time. The only reason Gar lived was that when he finally fell, so gashed, tattered, and covered with gore was he that no one cared to waste another swordstroke on an obvious dead man.
Still, hero though he was, Gar Quithnick had no real friends. There was a touch of fanaticism in that pale gaze, for he dwelled in the shadow of hingus death-aesthetic. Spotty, who had fought indoctrinated warriors of other persuasions in the past, had expressed a hope that peacetime might eventually turn Gar's mind to other affairs, and so humanize him. Gar's feeling toward the others, remained a mystery. He had never expressed himself, save in the case of Domino.
Rango finished his tea and listened for a time to Domino's presentation of the conference's conclusions concerning the magical instruments. There followed a series of questions, similar to those Rissa had asked him earlier. He poured himself more tea as Domino paced slapping her thigh and scratching her nose with her riding crop.
"And when are we to depart with the things?" Jancy Gaine asked.
Domino looked to Rango, who rose to his feet, nodded, and said, "Day after tomorrow. Everyone probably needs a day to settle current business and to get outfitted."
"Rissa was going to have some words with you about this."
"We've already had them."
He was about to reseat himself when he felt Gar Quithnick's gaze. He met it and raised his eyebrows.
"You've a question, Gar," he said.
"Yes," came that soft, level voice. "The only safe place for the amulet Anachron is its traditional home in a chapel in the mountain village of Gelfait. Unfortunately, the place only exists intermittently. It fades into and out of existence on no predictable schedule—years, sometimes decades or generations apart. I can cross the Waste of Rahoban and go to the place of the village, but I have no guarantee it will manifest when I get there."
Rango smiled.
"There is a secret tradition," he replied, "that the phenomenon will occur in response to the presence of the amulet. My consultants say there is every reason to believe this correct. Anachron and Gelfait seem to charge each other up in some fashion."
"I see," Gar said. "In that case, I will be ready to depart following this meeting if you will get me the amulet."
"Your party can prepare that quickly?"
"I was not accompanied in my travels when I fetched you the amulet," Gar replied. "I require no assistance in its return."
"I will address that matter after Domino's presentation," said Rango, seating himself and nodding to her to continue.
He glanced again at Jancy when he felt that she was glaring at him. Then she looked away. Just wanted to let him know her feelings, as if he wouldn't have known them in advance. A tough, husky blonde almost as tall as Domino and considerably heavier, she had been employed as a bouncer in the brothel to which the Princess had been taken after her purchase in the local slave market by the establishment's owner. Jancy had recognized Rissa as the last surviving member of the Royal House of Regaudia, recently destroyed by Kalaran. She had rescued Rissa and gotten her safely out of town. Their wanderings, for the better part of a year, had taken her, Rissa, and their elf companion Calla Mallanik through a long series of adventures resulting, among other things, in the discovery of the ring Sombrisio in lost Anthurus, city of the dead, and finally leading to a meeting with Prince Rango.
He frowned slightly. Jancy was totally devoted to the Princess. He did not doubt for a moment that she would lay her life down for her. She didn't get on well with men, however. Her feelings might have had to do with all she had seen and heard in the brothel. Or they might be something that ran deeper. She certainly didn't seem to trust him fully. He knew that she had referred to Gar Quithnick as "spooky." While she seemed to trust Spotty a little more than most men, if she had to talk with one of those present he knew that she would probably choose Domino, strictly because of gender.
He shrugged. Spotty and Domino were both aware of Jancy's quirks and were totally cordial to her. Even Gar had seemed kindly disposed toward the big woman, to the extent of having dined with her, though he later learned that the main thrust of Gar's conversation had involved an attempt to discover the death-aesthetic of the Northern totemic warriors—those fellows who wrapped themselves in animal skins and growled as they fought, occasionally gnawing the bodies of the slain in the aftermath of battle. In fact, now he reflected, it was after that dinner that she had begun referring to Gar as "spooky."
There was silence. Rango returned from his reverie as he realized that the last question had been answered, that Domino—raising her riding crop to her face and saluting him with it, with an outward-curved, downward gesture—was turning the meeting back over to him. He rose to his feet and nodded.
"Thank you, General Blaid," he said, moving forward. "Domino," he added then, "I just want to add a few things. First Stiller, Mothganger is in the vault at the palace and will be turned over to you, on the morning of your departure. Jancy, you can work out the terms of surrender on Sombrisio with Rissa—"
"We already have," she interrupted, "thank you."
"Good," Rango stated, smiling broadly at her. "The other two instruments—the amulet Anachron and the scroll of Gwykander—are technically out of my reach. That is to say, they are in the custody of the Temple. They seized them that final day, laying claim to them as religious items. I will refrain from commenting on any possible political motivation here, but I'm certainly not looking for an argument between the Crown and the Church at this point. My experts are already seeking the Elders and the priests, to convince them of the danger involved in keeping the pieces. We hope to persuade them to turn the things loose the day after tomorrow. That, Gar, is why you will be unable to depart on your journey immediately after the meeting. I will let you and Domino—who will be Bearer of the Scroll—know immediately should we run into any problems with the negotiations. Any questions?"
He looked about the room. Finding no responses, he continued:
"I would like to introduce four gentlemen who will be accompanying you in your travels." He gestured toward a bench along the wall to his left at the room's rear where two bearded middle-aged men sat between a pair of beardless youths. One by one, they rose to their feet in order as he called their names. "Rolfus," he said of the first youth, "will accompany Stiller. Squill will go with Jancy. Piggon will join Domino's party. And Spido will keep company with Gar. All of these men are sorcellets—that is they have been trained in a single magical operation. They are communications specialists. They will keep me posted as to your progress and any problems. And they will advise me when your missions have been completed. It is essential that I have this information immediately rather than waiting upon your return, because I want all loose ends tied off before the coronation. I think it important that I come to power with all of the old business out of the way, and I want to be able to announce the settling of this matter as soon as possible."
Gar Quithnick raised his hand. When Rango nodded to him he said, "As I explained earlier, I travel faster when I travel alone."
Rango smiled.
"I am sure that this is generally true," he said, "but as I explained, the information is essential for preparing the proper opening to my reign. As to Spido's delaying you, you may be mistaken. He elected to join us when the Armbruss training center, south of Kalaran's capital, was liberated. He has had several years of hingu training, and he welcomes the opportunity of serving with you."
Spido bowed formally toward Gar, who responded with an elaborate hand gesture.
"You have satisfied my queries," he said to Rango.
"Are there any others?" Rango asked the group. When he saw that there were none, he concluded, "Then I thank you, and I wish you all good journeys."
When the midlevel priest, Lemml Touday, visited the palace that evening with a message for Prince Rango's ears alone, Rango told his steward to bring him to his quarters directly.
When they were alone he studied the stocky, middle-aged man.
"Do you bring bad news? Or should I offer you a glass of my favorite wine and celebrate with you?"
"I'd prefer the latter," Lemml said.
Rango gestured toward a cushioned couch and smiled as he filled a pair of goblets, placed them upon a tray, and brought them over.
Rango smiled when the other toasted him, then asked, "A problem with the release of the amulet and the scroll, I presume?"
"No," the priest replied. "In fact, the talks are going quite as you might have wished. They've been adjourned till tomorrow, but your experts on magical instruments and stresses are very persuasive, according to our experts. Off the record, I think they've won over everyone who matters."
"Oh?" Rango lowered his drink and stared. "I don't understand. There is, perhaps, something you'd like to have for a report of the Temple's private deliberations on this? Do you wish to let me know who my friends and my enemies are?"
The priest smiled.
"No, that wasn't what I had in mind at all. I was thinking of something likely worth a lot more."
"And what might that be?"
"I am the Keeper of the Skull."
Rango shook his head in puzzlement.
"I don't understand what that signifies," he said.
"The principle of evil, the fallen Sunbird, Lord Kalaran," Lemml said. "I am custodian of his skull."
"Oh," Rango remarked. "I wasn't aware that it had received special treatment."
The priest nodded.
"Yes, it was exposed on the Temple's main spire for a month, after which it was flensed of all flesh and other softnesses in a boiling vat of appropriate herbs. Our greatest artisan then installed the two small figures—Demon and Messenger of Light—within it. It is kept in a jeweled casket in a secret place in the Temple, and I am its custodian. I check it every day to see whether the bright spirit has emerged from the right eye socket or the dark one from the left."
Rango nodded.
"And what has the result been?" he asked.
"The light figure has been prominent ever since the artifact was created . . ."
"That is good."
". . . until this morning. When I checked today, I saw that the dark one had emerged."
"This is not good. If I understood you, this is to be interpreted as an ill omen, an indication of pending evil?"
"The skull was enchanted as such a warning system, yes."
"What have the Elders to say about this change, at this time?"
"Nothing. I haven't told them yet."
"Ah! I see. . . ."
"Yes. While it might be interpreted as indicating that the departure of the amulet and the scroll from the Temple would be a bad thing, it might also simply mean that the odd nightly phenomena in the area have finally reached the point of representing a danger—what with giant lizards stalking through town and all. With this interpretation, it would be a good thing to take your experts' advice and get rid of the instruments. Which interpretation do you think more likely?"
Rango rubbed his neck slowly. Politics!
"You are the interpreter as well as the custodian?"
"Yes, though a sufficiently high church official might take issue with my reading."
"Yes? . . ."
". . . and the phenomenon might be delayed in the reporting till the day after the Bearers depart—and then the latter interpretation would be more likely, in that it would be too late to do much about the former. You do have a preference?"
"Yes, I do. Have you a favorite charity?"
"Such things tend to begin at home, do they not?"
"This has always been my observation," said Rango, glancing at a pair of crossed swords which hung upon the wall to his right.
". . . and if anything were to happen to me," Lemml went on, "my successor would note the prognosticatory state of affairs tomorrow, probably read it incorrectly, and certainly report it immediately."
Rango took a large swallow of his wine, as did the priest.
"It is good that you came to me," Rango said. "Your visit is a thing both educational and patriotic. Yes, I've a mind to make a contribution. I assume you have the details with you?"
"Of course."
From beyond the balcony, through the opened window, they heard the frantic drumbeat commence, followed moments later by the shouted words none could understand. Shortly thereafter, the great thudding footfalls began. Then came a mournful saurian bellow which rattled their goblets on the tray.