Roger Zelazny - Wizard World 1 - Changeling

Picking lock after lock, he had finally located stores of foodstuffs and transferred what he judged a sufficient quantity to his hiding place. He memorized every niche, every unfrequented passage he came upon. With a thief s eye, he studied the various fixed detection devices from a distance and finally close up, coming to appreciate their functions and some of their weaknesses.

It was only by chance--chance, and Mark's immediate decision to bolster his combat forces above the level he had formerly felt adequate--that Mouseglove happened upon a newly formed ground school for the preliminary training of pilots for a series of manned fliers on which production had been stepped up.

Lying flat on the roof, blocked from overhead detection by an angled air duct, he could hear the words and view the training machine through a grating he had exposed by removing a small panel.

He listened to the entire lecture. When it was over, he had convinced himself. If he could audit just a few more sessions, he would be willing to steal a flier by night and take his chances in the air. Short of finding a hidden tunnel through the rock itself, it seemed the only way to manage an escape.

Feeling a grudging respect for the red-haired man who had brought this city back to life, he returned to his quarters to rest until evening when he intended spying upon the surveillance center once again and later breaking into the classroom to study the trainer's controls at closer range.

Following a full meal, he slept deeply; one hand upon his dagger, a stolen grenade he knew was some sort of weapon beneath the other.

Statue-like, an old female and two young stallions stood on a crag in the midst of a stand of dwarf pines, regarding Castle Rondoval.

"There is nothing out of the ordinary," she said.

"I saw lights last night, Stel, and I heard noises. Bitalph, in the south, did report a dragon."

"The place is probably haunted," she said. "Enough has gone on there."

"And what of the dragon?" asked the younger stallion.

"If one has come awake, it will be dealt with---eventually--by those it most oppresses. It could also be a foreign beast."

"Then we should do nothing?"

"Let us watch here, a day and a night. We can take turns. I've no desire to enter the place."

"Nor I."

It was much later in the day that they saw the dragon rise and drift eastward.

"There!"

"Yes."

"What do we do now?"

"Alert the others. It may never return. But then, again, it may."

"It appeared that there were two riders."

"I know."

"You were there on the day of the battle, Stel. Was that one of the old dragons of Kondoval?"

"All dragons look alike to me. But the riders... One of them looked like Devil Det himself, younger and stronger than I ever saw him."

"Woe!"

"Alas!"

"Go and spread the word among the folk. And we had best talk with the men of the villages, and with old Mor."

"Mor is gone, A Wise One--Grane--said that he walked the golden road and will not return."

"Then things are becoming difficult. Go! I will investigate farther."

"You would enter the castle yourself?"

"Go! Do as I say! Now!"

The youths obeyed her. They knew the look in her eye, and they still feared her hoofs.

During his evening explorations, Mouseglove was attracted by a series of screams emerging from a small, barred window. Approaching, he ventured one quick glance through the opening, then ducked into a pool of shadow to digest what he had seen and, if possible, to eavesdrop.

The first impression had shaken him. But upon reflection, he wondered whether the small man in the reclining chair had indeed been covered with snakes. The black things did seem overlong to qualify for serpenthood, and their farther ends did all appear to be attached to the large metal box nearby. Also, their movements could have been a result of the man's own thrashings. Mark had stood nearby with a small metal case in his hand, turning something on the face of the unit.

He listened to the shrieks a little longer, wondering for what offense the man might be undergoing discipline. Wondering, too, whether anything was to be gained by remaining, or by venturing another look.

There was silence. He waited, but the cries did not resume. He decided to remain. There came faint sounds of movement from within.

Finally, he could bear it no longer. He rose for another glimpse.

Mark, facing away from the window, was detaching what now appeared to be a series of shiny black ropes from the suppine form, coiling them and placing them in compartments within the large box. The smaller man's eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling. When the last of the leads were removed, he stirred weakly. Mark passed him a glass of something pink and he drank from it.

"How do you feel?" the large man asked.

"Shaky," the other replied, flexing his arms, his legs. "But everything's all right again."

"Did it hurt?"

"No. Not really."

"You screamed a lot."

"I know. Some were blue, but most were red."

"The screams?"

"Yes. And I could smell them."

"Excellent. You were a brave man to volunteer for this, and I want to thank you."

"I was happy to serve."

"Tell me more about it."

"I tasted the colors, too--and the sounds."

"It was a fine mix, then. Pity it only has such a short range. There are all sorts of problems in scaling it up, too ... I wish I had more time."

"What do you call the--thing that did it?"

Mark hefted the small unit.

"For want of a better name, I call it a jumble box. It smears your sensory inputs, mixes them. Instant synesthesia."

The man gestured toward the huge unit to his right.

"That didn't do it? Just the little one you're holding?"

"That's right. The other just recorded what was happening. If you didn't hurt, tell me why you cried out so much?"

"I--I couldn't understand what was happening. Everything was still there, but it was changed ... It scared me."

"No pain?"

"No one place that hurt. Just a--feeling that disaster was coming. Most of the time, it kept getting worse. Sometimes, though--"

"What?"

"There were moments of great pleasure."

"You were able to count all right."

"Yes... Most of the numbers were yellow. Some tasted sour."

"Did you feel you could have gotten up, walked about?"

"Maybe. If I'd have thought of it. It was hard to think. Too much was wrong."

"You are a brave man, and I thank you again. I will not forget this service. Now, let's test your reflexes."

Mouseglove heard some instruments being shifted about. Silently, he slid off through the night.

It was difficult for Stel to place her hoofs quietly on stone and tile unless she moved very slowly. This she did, however, with the patience of a huntress and former commando.

Memories returned to her as she passed through the great hall where she had stood dripping blood and sweat that final day of the battle. Ah! the stallions had had much work that night...She recalled the sorcerers' confrontation, and her eyes automatically sought that ruined area of ceiling which had settled Det for good, before he could call upon his hidden powers. Much of the rubble beneath had been cleared for the removal of his body. She recalled how Mor had borne it away into the west....

She paused periodically and stood listening. Her ears pricked forward. There were voices. Somewhere up higher, to the left.

She crossed the gallery, came to the foot of the stair, halted again. Yes, up there...

Slowly, keeping near to the wall, she began to climb. The place appeared to be in better condition than she had remembered.

As she made her way along the hall, the voices came louder. To her right now, that third door...

She noted that the door was ajar. Approaching, she stopped directly beside it. She heard nothing from within, not even the sounds of breathing. Venturing farther forward, she looked around the corner, then drew back in puzzlement.