Piers Anthony - Out of Phaze

She laughed. “Goblins attack an Adept? That be so funny it be no longer funny.”

“So what could they expect to gain? As far as they know, we’re both poison.”

“That be what dost bother me. It makes not sense.”

“Unless,” he continued slowly, “they somehow know my nature. That I am no magician.”

“Adept,” she corrected him. “Bane be an apprentice Adept.”

“Whatever. My status makes me vulnerable. But how would they know? And why would they go to all that effort for one morsel?”

“Methinks they tried not to slaughter thee, but to capture thee,” she said. “The talons o’ the harpies be poison, but they scratched thee not. And the demons grabbed but did not bite.”

“And why would three different types of creatures try it? They can’t be working together, can they?”

“Nay. Not unless . . .” She trailed off.

“Unless what? I think we had better explore this.”

“Unless there be Adept involvement,” she said reluctantly.

“Aren’t we going to see an Adept?”

“Stile be but one Adept. There be others, less friendly.”

“What would an Adept want with me? I’m of no value to anyone here, and of not much value to myself.”

“To me, thou dost have value.”

“That, too, I must question. You are a lovely creature, in whatever form, and you know the ways of Phaze. But I am an impostor without much talent here. I don’t see how I can be worth much to you.”

She shrugged. “Fain would I have been closer to Bane, but ne’er could that be. Now hast thou his likeness, and— O, I know I be a foolish creature, but I be smitten with thee.”

Mach did not care to argue with that. “So there is something we don’t yet understand, here. Unless they realize that I don’t have Bane’s proper powers, so they want to eliminate me, and then he could never return. If there are other Adepts who don’t like Stile, this could be a good way to get back at him.”

She nodded. “To strike when the enemy be weak.”

“But if another Adept is behind it, why bring in the monsters? Why not just take me out with a spell?”

“Methinks that would be too open. If Stile knew an Adept had done it—“ She shuddered. “If Stile be not the strongest Adept in Phaze, it be Red—and Red be friend to Stile.”

“But if a harpy or a demon or a goblin did it, Stile might not suspect. If one of those groups took me captive and hid me somewhere, or delivered me secretly to an Adept, perhaps as a hostage—“ Mach nodded. “I think we have it, now. They have been ambushing us along the route to Stile’s demesnes.”

“O, Mach!” she cried. “If there be Adepts behind this, we be in trouble indeed! No creature can withstand the power of an Adept except another Adept.”

Mach nodded. “I think we can’t afford to continue heading for the Blue Demesnes; they’ll catch us for sure. But where else can we go?”

Fleta pondered. “If they be Adepts ‘gainst us, must we gain the protection of an Adept. But surely they will watch, and if we head for the Red Adept—“

“They will trap us on the way,” Mach finished. “Anyone else—whom they might not suspect?”

“There be the Brown Adept, she of the golems. She might understand thee better than some.”

“But if the others spied us heading for her—“

“Another ambush,” she agreed.

“Suppose we took a circuitous route—one no one with any sense would take?”

“Such as through the Dragon Demesnes?”

Mach swallowed. “Yes.”

“That would fool friend and foe alike.”

They looked at each other, and nodded. Then they hugged each other, with joy or grief or something in between.

“I suppose we can’t rest now,” Mach said regretfully. “They’ll be coming down the path to check on us, when we don’t arrive on schedule.”

“I can carry thee.”

“And tire yourself further? No, I’ll walk. Maybe we can hide somewhere unexpected.”

She nodded. Silently she pointed west.

“But that’s right toward the—!” he exclaimed. But then he understood: that was the least likely direction for them to go. Toward the site of their last ambush.

They walked, this time stepping carefully so as to avoid leaving a trail. When darkness finally made progress impossible, they cast about for a suitable camping spot. The best that offered was a tree with thick foliage and a large fork some distance up that seemed to be well shrouded by the leaves. ‘There,” Fleta said, pointing to it.

“Me? But I think there’s only room for one of us!”

“I have another errand,” she whispered.

“Oh—privacy?”

“A false trail.”

Smart notion! So he climbed the tree and lodged himself in the crotch, while she walked on, leaving a trail that could be traced and did not end at the tree.

He hoped she would return soon, though he still did not see how she could join him here. Then he heard the hum of the hummingbird. She was back!

The bird perched on a nearby twig and tucked her head under her wing. She had a good place after all!

Mach sighed. He could not argue with the sense of it, but somehow he had wished he could be with her it her human form, and not too much clothing. He resigned himself to the inevitable, and slept.

In the morning he descended. Fleta flew down and transformed to girl form. “Didst thou have a comfy night?’ she inquired brightly.

“Aren’t you getting hungry? You haven’t had much chance to graze.”

She laughed. “I found nectar in flowers along the way as I flew.”

“But that could only sustain a hummingbird! What of the unicorn?”

“It matters not what form I take; food for that form suffices.”

“You mean you can run all day as a unicorn, and sustain yourself with a hummingbird meal?”

“Aye. That be part of the magic.”

“Magic indeed!” But it did make sense in its fashion.

He ate some more fruit, which was marvelously sustaining. Of course he had the advantage of Fleta’s advice; she pointed out what was best, and what was worst, saving him much mischief. Then they resumed their trek.

There was no sign of pursuit, but they continued to step carefully and to keep their voices low. There was no way to hide securely from Adept perception, Fleta advised him, but goblins and demons were fallible.

They skirted the southern reaches of the Lattice, and no demons appeared. This gamble had been won: once the prey escaped, the demons had returned to their nether reaches, not bothering to keep watch. But there would be a lookout at the jump-sites; the path toward the Blue Demesnes was safe only to cross, not to travel.

At noon they paused for lunch, and this time Fleta did change to unicorn form and grazed for an hour. Mach watched her, admiring her glossy black coat and golden hind-socks and gleaming spiraled horn. “Sometime you must play your horn for me,” he said.

She heard him, and played a brief pan-pipes double melody.

“A tune!” he exclaimed. “You can play a tune!”

She looked at him questioningly. In her unicorn form she did not speak; her mouth was not right for it.

“I mean, I heard you play a chord, back in the swamp, but I thought that was all. To actually play a tune—!”

She came in and changed to girl form. “All my kind play music,” she explained. “My dam, Neysa, plays a harmonica, as thy kind call it; I play pan-pipes, or so Bane said. My sire played the accordion.”

“A different instrument for each animal!” he exclaimed. Then paused. “Oops—I didn’t mean to—“

“We are animals,” she said. “An ye mean it not as affront, say it freely.”

That helped. He had indeed used the term in a less complimentary sense, back in the crater, when she had objected.