Blue Adept

CHAPTER 6 - Unolympic

Neysa had taken off early to rehearse with her brother for the incipient exhibitions, at the Lady Blue’s behest. Stile was bothered about the hiatus in protection for the Lady, but was unable to object. She had remained within the castle, reasonably safe.

At the appropriate hour. Stile put his arm about the Lady’s supple waist and uttered a spell that jumped them both to the event. He was getting better at this sort of spell, but still would rather have traveled by conventional means, had there been time.

It was impressive. Eight or ten herds of unicorns had assembled for their competition; each Herd Stallion had his banner mounted at his camp and his subjects ranged about it. There was a tremendous open pasture upon which many hundreds of unicorns grazed. They sported all the colors of moons and rainbow, and were handsome specimens of equine flesh.

Yet there were many other creatures too. Werewolves ranged in small packs, carefully neutral in the sight of so much potential prey. No false growls here! Bats swooped from perch to perch and sailed high in the air in pursuit of insects. Humanoid figures of all types abounded. A unicorn male trotted up to Stile and the Lady. In a moment he shifted to man-form, neatly attired in a khaki uniform. “Please identify thyself and party and accept an admittance tag.”

“The Blue Adept and Lady Blue,” Stile said.

“Adept! Right this way!” The unicorn’s reaction resembled that of a serf of Proton confronted by a Citizen. They followed the unicorn to a small pavilion set up beside the exhibition field. Several people reclined on thronelike chairs or couches. They did not rise or make any acknowledgment of Stile’s or the Lady’s arrival. Stile was now well-enough accustomed to the ways of Phaze to know that this nonreaction represented a studied discourtesy to either an Adept or a Lady. But he showed no overt reaction; he wanted first to understand why. Then a comely young woman stood and approached them. She seemed vaguely familiar. “Thou comest undisguised, my handsome?” she inquired, proffering her hand. There was the hint of a cronish cackle in her voice.

“Yellow!” he exclaimed. “What brings thee here? I thought—“

“Thou didst suppose I had no more youth potions?” she inquired archly. “None that would stand up to a day’s hard use?”

“I recalled thee with fair hair, fairer than those of the Lady Blue, light yellow tresses.” Said tresses were now short, brown and curly. But of course she could make her appearance whatever she chose, for the duration of her potion. This was, as she put it, her costume. Her dress, at least, was yellow; that was the real key. “I thought the unicorns—“ He shrugged.

“It is truce between all attendees of the Unolympics,” she explained. “Well the animals know my nature, but here I exert my powers not, neither do the animals chide me for old affronts. We Adepts have few such social opportunities, and few occasions to socialize with others of our ilk in peace. We take them greedily.”

He remembered that Yellow had been lonely in her own Demesnes, especially for male company. Naturally she would socialize when she safely could. “Ah, like the temple of the Oracle,” Stile said. “No quarrels here.” He looked about. “These be Adepts?”

“And consorts. I forgot that thou rememberest not.” She smiled brilliantly and bobbed her cleavage about, enjoying her youthful form as only an old hag could. What height was to men, he thought, breasts were to women. “Come, my charming; I will introduce thee around.” A chance to meet other Adepts—one of whom might be his murderer! This was serendipitous, an unexpected wind-fall.

Yellow conducted them to a woman reclining on a white couch, and garbed in a sparkling white gown. She was of indeterminate middle age, and somewhat stout. “This be White,” Yellow said, indicating her with a half-contemptuous twist of a thumb. Then she jerked the thumb at Stile. “This be Blue, and Lady.”

The White Adept lifted snowy lashes. Her eyes were ageless, like swirls of falling snow. “Reports of thy demise seem to have been exaggerated.”

“No exaggeration,” Stile said. “I seek my murderer.”

“May I be far from the scene of thine encounter,” White said, unalarmed, and turned her wintry orbs back to the field where several unicorns were practicing their acts. Stile remembered that the White Adept had been in the market for a white unicorn; Yellow had mentioned that, at their first encounter. He hoped no such creature had been captured.

Yellow led them on. “Methinks thy appearance here stirs greater commotion than shows,” she murmured with grim satisfaction. “It is well known that thou’rt possibly the strongest current Adept, and that thou hast cause for vengeance. Blue was ne’er wont to attend these functions before. Only be certain thou hast the right party, before thou makest thy move.”

“I shall,” Stile said through his teeth. Now they approached a man in black. He glanced incuriously at Stile as Yellow made the introduction. “Black ... Blue.”

“We have met before,” Stile said evenly.

Black peered at him. “I recall it not.”

“In thy Demesnes, a month ago.” Had it been so short a time? Stile felt as if an age had passed since he had first entered the frame of Phaze and assumed the mantle of the Blue Adept. Subjective experiences had made the days seem like months. Even his encounter with Black seemed impossibly distant. Yet Black was the same, with his line tapering off into the ground, no doubt attaching him to his castle. Black was made of lines.

Black’s linear brow furrowed. “No one intrudes on my Demesnes.”

“With my companions, a unicorn and a werewolf.”

Slowly recognition flickered. “Ah—the man of the Little Folk. I recall it now. I thought thee dead ere now.” He squinted. “Why didst thou not show thy power then?”

“I came in peace—then.” Stile frowned. He did not like the Black Adept, who had imprisoned him and left him to starve. Yet he could not assume this was the murderer he sought. Black really had no interest in the things of other Adepts; he was a recluse. It was surprising that he had bothered to attend the Unolympics. And if he had murdered the Blue Adept, he certainly would have recognized him more readily than this! Finally, Stile knew the nature of Black’s magic: he conjured with lines, not golems or amulets. “If thou intrudest similarly on my Demesnes, I may treat thee with similar courtesy.”

“I can conceive of no circumstances in which I would intrude on thy Demesnes, or associate with the likes of Yellow,” Black said coldly.

“Until thou hast need of a potion or an animal, my arrogant,” Yellow said. “Then thou dost bespeak the crone fair enough.” She led Stile on.

“These people make me nervous,” the Lady Blue murmured. “Never did my Lord take me among them.”

“Thy Lord had excellent taste!” Black muttered from behind.

“So Blue is not thy Lord?” Yellow inquired with a touch of malice. “What fools these peasants be!”

“Call not the Lady Blue a peasant!” Stile snapped, instantly angry. He felt as if he walked among a nest of scorpions.

Yellow’s potion-pretty face twisted into something no girl her apparent age could manage. “I call her—“

“What she is,” the Lady Blue interjected quickly. “Ever have my folk been villagers, farming the land and raising animals, and no shame in it.”

Yellow mellowed. “Aye, no shame in the management of animals. Methinks thy peasant status ceased when thou didst marry Blue. I withdraw that portion of my remark.”

Adepts evidently weren’t accustomed to giving away anything voluntarily! “That portion?” Stile demanded, unappeased. He realized he was behaving exactly like an Adept, but was not in the mood to back off. “Thou leavest her a fool?”

“That were readily abated,” Yellow said. “I have love-potions that—“

“Enough!” Stile said. “The Lady is a widow; I merely assume a role that the Blue Demesnes be not demeaned, and that the great wrong done the Lady may be avenged. I am not her Lord.”

“Passing strange,” Yellow murmured. “With power to enchant an entire unicorn herd, he exercises it not on the Lady who is as lovely as any mortal can be and as spirited as a fine animal and who is legitimately his by right of inheritance. Methinks it is the man who is the fool.”

“Mayhap by thy definition,” the Lady Blue said.

“Even so,” Yellow agreed, shrugging.

They came to a man in a red cloak. He was tall, almost six feet, with red hair and red mustache. “Red . . . Blue,” Yellow introduced.

Red extended a firm hand. “Glad am I to meet thee,” he said, smiling. He had a handsome face and seemed to be about Stile’s age, though of course the “costume” made all but his basic identity suspect.

Yellow took them to the final couple at the pavilion. “Green and consort,” she said. The Green Adept was another man, short and fat, and his Lady was the same. Both wore green suits and sparkling green jewelry, probably emeralds. “Blue and Lady.”

“Uh-huh,” the Green Adept said curtly. “Now let’s watch the show.” But the Lady Green made a small motion of greeting to the Lady Blue.

“These are all that attend this season,” Yellow said. “On other occasions I have met Orange, Purple and Gray. But they be from afar. There may be other Adepts we know not of; we are a secretive bunch. I make many contacts at the several Olympics.”

“Other Olympics?” Stile asked, remembering something the Herd Stallion had said.

“Every major species has them,” Yellow assured him. “Canolympics, Vampolympics, Snowlympics, Dragolympics—some be better than others. Methinks the Elfolympics are best, with their displays of rare weaponry and dancing little men. Hast thou seen the like, my precious?”

“I noticed only the dancing little damsels,” Stile said.

The Lady Blue frowned, but did not comment. Now the formal program was beginning. Stile and the Lady Blue took seats and watched. First the several unicorn Herds got settled as spectators, each at its assigned location; then the competitive contingents marched onto the field to the sound of their own horns and hooves. It was an impressive entry. Each contingent marched in step, led by its Herd Stallion. Every horn was elevated at a 45-degree angle; every tail flung out proudly. The surface of the hooves gleamed in the slanting sunlight, iridescent, and the spirals of the horns shot out splays of mirror-light. The animals were all colors and shades: red, orange, gold, yellow, white, gray, blue, black, brown, striped, dotted and checkered. Some were single-colored, except for those colors typical of horses; others were multicolored. All were beautiful.

The Lady Blue nudged him, making a gesture toward one section of the march. In a moment he found the place —the local Stallion’s complement, with sixteen picked individuals. There was Neysa, marching in the last line, on the side nearest the pavilion. “He didn’t try to hide her!” Stile murmured appreciatively.

Neysa was smaller than the other unicorns, being barely fourteen hands tall, and she was the only one in the display whose colors were horse-normal—her mark of shame. But now she was the steed and oath-friend of an Adept, and though there was general fear and distrust of Adepts in the animal kingdoms of Phaze, the clear onus of an Adept’s favor was so potent that Neysa now had a place of comparative honor. This was the first time she had been permitted to join the Herd and to participate in its ceremonies, and obviously she reveled in it. The hurt of years was being mended. This much Stile had done for Neysa by taming her; this much she had done for herself by allowing him to practice the magic of his station.

The music swelled in a mighty chorus. Eight Herd Stallions blew the leadoff blasts; eight disciplined display-herds responded with the melody. The ground shook with the measured cadence of their prancing hooves; the air shook with the power of their melody. No human orchestra could match the passion and splendor of this performance. Stile could not remember ever having been spectator to anything as grand as this.

They paraded close by the Adepts’ pavilion, and at the closest point every horn angled abruptly to the left in a salute. There was an abrupt silence, breathtaking in its precision; that sudden cessation of sound was more impressive than a fortissimo blast would have been. Then they marched on, the music resuming, to pass by the other pavilions.

Stile examined those other pavilions now. One was filled with wolves. Another swarmed with bats. Another seated elves, and yet another was stuffed with glowering, homed demons. “Everybody comes to the Unolympics!” Stile breathed, amazed.

“Everybody who is anybody,” Yellow responded. “Few Human Folk, however.” Stile was not certain of the significance of that; did it mean that humans were among the least important of the creatures of Phaze? Or that the higher animals simply didn’t like them? In due course the opening parade finished. Now the individual competitions commenced. Wolves ran, bats flew, demons charged and elves scurried from one pavilion to .another. “What’s going on?” Stile asked.

“The judges,” Yellow said, standing.

“Judges?”

“They can not use unicorns for the Unolympics; they’re not objective. Too much rivalry between the Herds. It’s the same with the other species; they all have to use outside judges. Now if thou wilst excuse me, I must to my station.”

“Station?”

“I am a judge too. Didn’t I tell thee?”

“Now I’ve seen everything!” Stile muttered.

“Not quite. But when thou spyest Black judging, two pavilions down, then mayhap thou canst consider it close enough to everything.” She moved off.

A demon arrived—and also a young man with the head of a hawk. They joined the Yellow Adept at the front of the pavilion. This was the team of judges for one section of the Unolympics.

The contestant-unicoms were now trotting to their places. There was a brief period of confusion as they criss-crossed the field. Then columns formed before the several judging stations. Sixteen unicorns formed a line before the Adept pavilion, standing at equine attention. This station, it developed, was judging the acrobatics. Others judged speed-trials, high- and long-jumps, horn-fencing, melody-playing, dancing and precision gaits. Neysa and her brother Clip had entered the category of couples-dancing, and that was at a far corner of the field; Stile could not make out what was going on there, to his frustration. So he turned reluctantly to the local display. Twelve of the entrants were males—not herd leaders, just lesser stallions. The Herd system had no regard for the needs of un-dominant males; they were not allowed to breed with the mares, and were tolerated in the herds only so long as they kept their places. In time of war. Stile was sure, their place was at the forefront, as expendable troops. Naturally they participated in the Unolympics; it was a major peacetime opportunity to achieve recognition. In fact, Stile realized, these various Olympics represented to the animal kingdoms the same sort of entertainment, excitement and chance for individual notoriety that the Game and Tourney did for serfs in Proton. It was a parallel system, used as a relief-valve for the frustrations of the undertrodden.

Yellow, as an Adept, assumed direction of the proceedings at this station. “Equine, thou’rt designated number One,” she said to the unicorn on the far left. “When that number is called henceforth in this judgment, do thou answer promptly or forfeit whatever honor may be due thee. Understand?”

The designated unicorn dipped his horn submissively. Yellow then counted off the others, up to the last, number Sixteen. “We are the preliminary panel of judges,” she continued. “The Demon Horrawful, who is an Elder of his den and has served with fiendish distinction at other Olympics; in his youth he was a winner at this same event at the Demolympics.” There was a smattering of polite applause, mostly from the spectators now crowding close to the edge of the pavilion, a number of whom were demons.

“And this is Glynteye the Hawkman, winner of the Avolympic rabbit-spotting meet last year. He is competently versed to spot the antics of unicorns.” There was more applause, especially from the animalheads present. “And I am the Yellow Adept,” she concluded. “In life I am an old human crone whose business is known to most animals. Were it not for the sufferance granted visitors at this event, I would be mobbed. However, I believe I am qualified as a judge of fine animals, and I am in this respect objective.”

There was a pause, and then some extremely tentative applause. The Lady Blue looked about, frowned, then set her jaw and clapped her hands. The consort of Green joined her. Then Stile and the Green Adept had to join in, and the outside animals, shamed into a better sense of the occasion, finally made a more substantial showing. All had a horror of Yellow’s business of trapping and selling animals, but all antagonisms were theoretically suspended here. Yellow did indeed appear to be competent and objective. Stile was reminded yet again of the parallel of Proton. The Rifleman had shown him favor, causing the other Citizens to react with similar courtesy despite the gulf between Citizen and serf. The Lady Blue had been the catalyst this time, but the spirit was the same. “Now withdraw to the sides and rear,” Yellow directed, betraying her surprised pleasure at the applause by only a slight flush at her neck. “Form an arena, open only at the spectator’s side. No alien magic can function here.” And the unicorns did as she bid, so efficiently that Stile realized this was a standard procedure. Indeed, all the stations were forming similar formations.

“Number One ‘corn stand forward,” Yellow said, and the first stallion moved to the center of the arena, facing the pavilion. “Thou and each other entry will have two minutes to make thy presentation. Each act will be followed by a one-minute consultation of judges and announcement of aggregate score. Applause of up to thirty seconds will be permitted only at that time. If there are any questions at this point, stifle them.”

There were no questions. “One, perform,” Yellow said. The unicorn went into his act. He was a fine purple and green animal, with white ears. He pranced and wheeled and leaped in assorted patterns. Gradually he worked up to the more difficult exercises—forward and backward flips, hoof-clicking jumps, and an impressive bucking-bronco finale.

Time,” the demon-judge grated. Apparently he had the timing ability. The stallion stood, his barrel heaving from the exertion, nostrils flared, just a hint of fire in his breath, awaiting the score.

The three judges consulted. Stile could not hear what they said, and did not know the scoring system. Again he tried to spot the activity of the couples-dance unit, and could not.

“Number One scores fifteen,” Yellow announced. Now there was applause, the unicorns honking brief notes and tapping their hooves on the ground in lieu of the clapping of hands. It did not seem overwhelming to Stile, and he decided the performance had been no more than average for this type of competition. Certainly Neysa could have matched it, and she had not even entered this event. “Number Two, stand forth,” Yellow said, and another stallion came to the fore. He was larger and better muscled than the first, and his color was brighter: bands of blue alternating with intense yellow. His neck was especially powerful. “Perform.” And he launched into his act. This one was sharper than the first. He did the front and back flips, then went into a series of midair barrelrolls that brought musical gasps from some spectators. He stood on his two forehooves and clicked his rear hooves together so that sparks flew. In the finale he leaped straight up, turned in air, and landed squarely on his horn, which plunged three quarters of its length into the turf. He remained frozen on that one-point support until time was called. Then he allowed his body to drop to the ground so that he could withdraw his horn.

“That is the likely winner,” the Lady Blue murmured. “Neysa could not have done that.”

“True.” Stile had never imagined a unicorn supporting itself in that manner.

The judges consulted. “Twenty-six,” Yellow announced, and strong applause burst forth instantly, cutting off only at the expiration of the thirty seconds. A popular decision, certainly.

The other acts followed, but they did not match the second. Stile concluded that each judge graded on the basis of one to ten, with an aggregate of thirty points being the maximum. His attention wandered to the units on either side. To the right were the speed trials, with unicorns gal-loping around a marked pattern so fast that flame shot from their nostrils, dissipating their developing body heat. Unicorns did not sweat, they blew out fire. On the left side were the gait trials, with unicorns prancing in perfect one, two, three, four and five-beat combinations, manes and tails flying high. But still Stile could not see what Neysa’s unit was doing. He was becoming covertly bored with the proceedings, though the Lady Blue evinced continuing interest.

In the course of a little over an hour the preliminary trials were done. Four contestants had been selected from the local group, to advance to the next round. The contestants moved to new stations. Now four musicians came to stand before the Adept pavilion. Each played a melody on his or her horn, and these were marvelously pleasant. One unicorn sounded like an oboe, another like a trumpet, a third like a violin, and the fourth like a flute. The violin made the highest score, but the flute and oboe were tied at twenty-two.

“I mislike this,” Yellow said. “They are so close, I can not select between them. Have you other judges more firmly entrenched opinions?”

Demon and Hawkman shook their heads. They agreed the two contestants were even. “I mislike being arbitrary,” Yellow said. “Yet it has been long since I heard the flute, and I know not which sound is the more perfect representation. If we but had an instrument for comparison—“

The Lady Blue stood with an air of minor mischief. “If it please the judges—“

Yellow glanced back at her. “Speak, Lady, if it be relevant.”

“My Lord the Blue Adept is skilled in music, and has with him an excellent flute—“

“Hey, I’m not in this!” Stile protested. But Yellow was smiling with a certain friendly malice.

“Methinks Blue owes me a favor.”

Stile spread his hands. He was caught. “What dost thou wish. Yellow?”

“Didst hear the theme played by the flute-‘com? If thou wouldst play the same as it should be played, that we may compare—“ Stile sighed inwardly and walked to the front of the pavilion. He did not object to playing; his concern was that the larger nature of the borrowed Platinum Flute would manifest as his magic power gathered. But if he willed no magic, maybe it would be all right. He did owe Yellow a favor, and this was a modest one.

He assembled the Flute, brought it to his mouth, and played the theme. The magic instrument gave him perfect control, making him a better flutist than he otherwise could be. The notes issued like ethereal honey. The magic gathered, but subtly.

As he played, the routine noises of the Unolympics abated, in a widening circle. Unicorn spectators down the line rotated their ears, orienting on him. When the last note faded, the entire arena was silent. The three judges remained seated, quiet for a moment. The other Adepts seemed frozen in their places. Then Yellow shook her head. “There be flutes and there be Flutes,” she said. “That is the Platinum Flute, of Elven craft, the Emperor of flutes. There is none like it. Favored indeed is the one, whether common or Adept, who gains its loan from the Little Folk. I fear the crisis of Phaze draws nigh. After that sound, I have no further doubt; the unicorn does not compare.”

But the two other judges demurred. “Play oboe,” the demon grunted.

“Ah, yes,” Yellow agreed. “Thank thee, Horrawful, thou’rt correct. We must compare that sound too.” She focused on Stile. “Play the oboe. Blue.”

“But I have no oboe,” he protested.

“Pretend not to be ignorant of the nature of the instrument thou boldest,” she said sharply. “Play the oboe, that we may get on with this matter.”

Baffled, Stile looked at the Flute he held—and it had become a fine platinum oboe. So the magic shifts were not merely with weapons! He brought it to his mouth and played the oboe-‘com’s theme. The notes rolled out like elixir, impossibly mellow, the most perfect oboe-sound he had ever heard. Again the Unolympics halted to listen. Even the jaded Adepts sat riveted until it finished. “Now we can judge,” Yellow said. She consulted again with her associate-judges, and rendered the decision: “The oboe is closer to true. The oboe-‘corn qualifies.” Now there was applause—but somehow it seemed to orient more on Stile than the qualifying unicorn.

“Only my Love played like that,” the Lady Blue murmured as Stile resumed his seat beside her. “I never thought to hear such sound again.”

“The instrument is magic,” he replied shortly. “It lends skill to the player.”

“Mayhap,” she agreed, and said no more. Soon it was time for the finals. Now the entire field became a single arena, and the separate panels of judges merged to become a single large panel. Everyone would witness the category victories.

Stile was gratified. At last he would get to see Neysa perform—if she had made it this far. He had been confident of her prowess before this ever started, but now he was aware of the strength of the competition. She could have been eliminated.

But she had made it! She and Clip were finalists, and in due course their event came up. One werewolf judge disqualified himself at that point, explaining that he was an oath-friend to a contestant and could not judge her objectively. A substitute was found, and the show went on.

Neysa and Clip trotted out in perfect step, playing their own music for the dance, she with her harmonica-horn, he with his saxophone. It was a beautiful duet, harmonizing precisely with the beat of their hooves. Neysa’s colors now complemented Clip’s, and she was beautiful even in unicorn terms. Both animals were small for their species, but as a pair, alone in the arena, they were perfectly matched and did not seem small at all.

They plunged forward, horns lunging at an invisible foe, then whipped back together with a dissonant note, as of a foe dying. Stile could almost see the implied monster. So could some of the judges, who happened to be monsters; they scowled. The two went on through different gaits, then got fancy. Neysa leaped, and Clip trotted beneath her. As she landed, he leaped over her. They continued in a fantastic leapfrog sequence, their music playing without a break. Then they came together, bucked in unison, and leaped together in a backward somersault. In midair they changed shape, landing neatly in human-form, he garbed in bright trousers and cloak, she in white-fringed black dress. They swung, now humming the music their horns could no longer play. Faster they swung, becoming almost a blur—and suddenly they were hawk and firefly, whirling about in air about a common center, then back to equine-form with a final, lovely bar of music, in time for the expiration of time.

The judges held out printed cards: 9,9, 8, 9, 7, 8 ... an excellent rating from all except the monsters. Then the applause began, loudest from Neysa’s own Herd; but there was an appreciative baying from several wolves of the pack who had also taken the oath of friendship with her. Stile saw now that his friend Kurrelgyre was among them. Then the other unicorn couple went into its act. Both were handsome specimens, and both had remarkable tones. He sounded like a bassoon, with all its deep beauty and trick effects, while she rang like bells. Stile was amazed at what the unicorn horn could do; it was not confined to wind instruments, perhaps because of its magic. This combination was unusual and effective, and they made the most of it.

These unicorns, too, changed shapes in the middle of the dance, manifesting as great cats and then as white and blue herons. Their equine states were special, too; he had a mane like rippling fire, and her mane was iridescent; it shone as it flexed, with precious luster. She was a truly lovely creature. But it was the artistry of their dance that 1 made it outstanding, and in the end they were judged the winners. Stile could not contest the decision; it was fair. Yet Neysa and Clip had made a formidable showing. He was proud of them.

The finals continued with marvelous exhibits, but Stile’s attention wandered again. When all this was done, he would have to meet the local Herd Stallion. He had the Platinum Flute, so could employ his magic; he was not in danger. Yet it bothered him, for he did not wish to humili-te the Stallion. He just wanted the postponement of Neysa’s breeding. Should he try to talk to the Stallion again? He doubted that would be effective. Unicorns were extremely stubborn animals. Yet if he fought the unicorn and used his magic to prevail, it would be unfair; if he did not use magic, he could lose. Was there no satisfactory alternative? Stile mulled it over while the Unolympics progressed to the close. In the present excitement and distraction, he found himself unable to work out a strategy that would satisfy all needs. Since he was not about to let himself be wounded by the horn of a unicorn, he would just have to use his magic and damn the social consequence. He hated to do it, though; he knew how important pride was for the dominant creatures of Phaze. Pride, really, had motivated the Herd Stallion to challenge him; the animal hoped to force Stile to capitulate ignominiously, and yield Neysa to the scheduled breeding.

Were the circumstances otherwise. Stile would have done just that. Neysa had waited years for just this opportunity, and Stile wanted no avoidable quarrel with anyone. But Neysa believed—and now Stile agreed—that he needed her on his quest for his murderer. Not merely to ride, for he could now move himself, but as an essential back-up. Surely his enemy would prove far more formidable than the Worm of the Purple Mountains cavity, and Stile had barely prevailed against the Worm even with the Platinum Flute. Neysa’s presence could have made the difference, there. He could not free her by giving up his quest, because it was his own murderer he sought. That person had to be brought to justice—and no one else would do it if Stile did not. So for the sake of Neysa’s desire as an oath-friend, and his own intermediate-term security, he had to keep her with him, and that meant putting down the Herd Stallion. Put more succinctly: he had to crush the pride of an honorable creature, to win the right of another creature to sacrifice her ambition of dam-hood and risk her life for him. Some pride! A bat fluttered up and landed before him. It shifted to man-form. No long canine teeth, no horrific eyes; this was an ordinary, slightly pudgy brown-haired man of middle age.

‘Thou art Blue?” the vampire inquired diffidently.

“I am he,” Stile responded guardedly. “I seek no quarrel with thy kind.”

“I am Vodlevile. I encountered thine ogre-friend. Hulk, and thereafter through thine intercession the Yellow Adept did forward to me a potion that cured my son. I owe thee—“ Stile put up a disclaiming palm. “It was in abatement of Hulk’s debt to thee for the help thou didst give him in the course of his mission for me. Thou hast no debt to me. I am glad to hear of thy good fortune, and I wish thee and thy son well.”

“I helped Hulk from mere camaraderie,” Vodlevile protested. “Repayment for that were an insult.” He paused. “No offense. Adept; a figure of speech.”

“Understood,” Stile said, liking this creature. “Yet would I have helped thy son regardless, had I known of his condition. The Lady Blue is a healer, and it is ever her pleasure to help the creatures of Phaze. Can I do less?”

“Apology,” Vodlevile said. “I spied thy Lady not. I recognized thee from thy music on the Flute, forgetting her. A greeting to thee, fair one.”

“And to thee, sociable one,” the Lady Blue replied. She turned to Stile. “We ask no recompense for the work we do, yet neither do we deny the proffered gratitude of those we help.”

Stile smiled. “Methinks I have been directed to accept what thou mayst proffer, though I feel thou hast no obliga-tion.”

“I bring naught tangible,” the vampire said. “If there is anything I may do for thee—“

“What I must do, no one can do for me,” Stile said gravely.

“What is that?”

“I must match the Herd Stallion in fair combat.” Stile quickly outlined the situation.

“Why, sir, that is merely a matter of face. We vampires, being naturally stealthy, have ready means to handle such questions.”

“You vampires must be smarter than I am,” Stile said ruefully.

Then Vodlevile explained the recommended strategy. Stile clapped the heel of one hand to his forehead. “Of course!” he exclaimed. “There is no better service thou couldst have done me than this simple advice.” The vampire made a gesture of satisfaction.

“Every time I see my son change form and fly, I think of Blue.” He shifted back to bat-form and flew away.

“Thou art very like my Lord,” the Lady Blue murmured. “His friendships were many, his enmities few.” Except for the enemy who killed him. Stile thought bleakly. That one had undone all the rest. The final match was decided and the victorious unicorn paraded off the field. Now it was time for the special event —Herd Stallion vs. Blue Adept—in a combat supposedly immune to magic.

The Herd Stallion strutted out, resplendent in his natural color and musculature. Stile started forward, but found himself restrained by the Lady Blue’s hand. He turned to her, uncertain what she wanted.

She was always beautiful, but at the moment she seemed to him to be transcendentally lovely. “Go with care, my Lord,” she said, and somehow it was the greatest compliment he could have imagined.

“I thank thee. Lady,” he said. Then he proceeded on out to meet the Stallion, carrying the Platinum Flute. The unicorns formed a great ring around the two, sealing off external magic. They thought Stile would be unable to draw on the background power, and ordinarily this would be true. But the Oracle had enabled him to nullify that nullification. This was the real debt he owed Hulk, for Hulk had donated his one lifetime question to the Oracle for Stile’s benefit; that was why Stile had taken Hulk’s debt of a favor on himself. Now the vampire had repaid it, and by Stile’s logic he owed a major favor to Hulk. Perhaps his gift of the pursuit of the Proton-self of the Lady Blue had abated that; perhaps not. He remembered that he had agreed to Hulk’s visit to the Oracle at the subtle behest of the Lady Blue, who had been aware of what was developing. She had acted to defuse the issue before it came to Stile’s attention. So where was the right of it? Stile knew he would have to think about the matter some more; right was not always simple to ascertain. Yet such deliberations were always worthwhile. Now he stood in the center of the huge arena, before the Stallion. The contrast in their sizes was striking; a large equine, a very small man. But there was no snicker from the audience, for Stile was the Blue Adept. First he had to establish his power, making it instantly and compellingly evident to the entire assembly. That was the first stage of the vampire’s excellent advice. He had to prove that the ring of unicorns could not impinge upon the Blue Adept’s practice of magic. At the moment, only a few understood the full properties of the Platinum Flute, like the Yellow Adept; after the demonstration, everyone would know.

Stile brought out the Flute. The Herd Stallion waited, as if curious to see what his opponent was up to. Stile played. Again the enchanting melody poured forth, the finest sound a flute could make. The unicorns listened raptly, yet perplexed. How could mere music stop the great Stallion?

When the magic had gathered. Stile halted and went into a singsong spell: “Show us the story of the Dragon’s Tooth, from death to bloom, from birth to youth.” But the real shaping of it was in his mind; the words only initiated the sequence.

In the sky a dot appeared. It expanded rapidly into the shape of a dragon, with six legs, six wings, and a tremendously toothed mouth. A shadow almost the size of the entire arena fell as the monster crossed the sun. The unicorns looked up, alarmed; seldom did any dragon approach a unicorn herd, and this one was the largest ever seen locally.

Stile raised his right hand to point at the dragon. Then he put the Flute to his mouth again, to intensify the magic and keep his complex spell operating at full strength. The dragon folded its wings and dived at the field. Folded, it was much smaller. It crashed headfirst into the chewed turf and exploded. This was the “death” of his spell. Teeth flew out in a splash, to land all across the field; the rest of the dragon puffed away in smoke. Where each tooth fell, something sprouted. This was the “bloom.” As Stile continued to play the Flute, the teeth grew into leafy vines. Each vine fruited in a gourd, and each gourd hatched into a human baby, and each baby grew rapidly into an armed soldier. This was the “birth to youth” sequence. The soldiers formed into a phalanx, marched once around the field, shifted into a sinuous formation that suddenly sprouted wings and flew as a mass into the sky. It was the original dragon, departing as it had come. In moments it was a mere speck in the sky, and then it was gone.

The unicorns stood in silence. They had just been shown that they could no longer restrict the magic of the Blue Adept, even when their force was greatest. The Adepts, too, were riveted; not one of them could match this performance. Was one of them the murderer he sought? Stile hoped that one was quaking, now, for fear of the vengeance of Blue. Most magic was fun to Stile, but in this regard it was deadly serious.

The Herd Stallion, however, had not budged. Stile had feared this would be the case. He had fashioned a demonstration of magic that was spectacular enough to enable the Stallion to withdraw without shame; obviously no ordinary creature could prevail against power like this. But the Stallion was stubborn; he would not back off regardless. He might face impossible odds but he would not yield to opposition. Stile respected that; he was that way himself. It was another reason why he was going to so much trouble to avoid humiliating the fine animal. How fortunate that the vampire had been available for advice!

Stile sang another spell: “Flute of class, grant equalmass.” Suddenly a giant appeared, in Stile’s own image, standing in his footprints, towering above him. The giant’s mass was equal to that of the Herd Stallion; anyone could see that. Then the giant shrank in on Stile until at last it disappeared in Stile. He now had the mass of the unicorn, though he remained his own size and felt no different. He held the Flute—which was now the broadsword. The Herd Stallion stepped forward. He certainly under-stood; Stile was using his magic only to make the contest even. It depended only on their skills. If the Stallion was good with his natural weapon, he might outfence Stile and win. If not. Stile would prevail. The nullification of shame could go no further than this. Vampire Vodlevile’s advice had taken them to this stage; what followed would follow. The Stallion seemed to be proceeding with guarded confidence. Stile could guess why; Stile was known to be inexpert with the rapier. Neysa had had to drill him in its use, and he had been an apt student, but a few lessons could not bring him to the level of the Herd Stallion. Stile, however, was not now holding a rapier. He was holding an excellent broadsword, perfect in weight and length and temper and balance and all the subtleties of general feel, and with this weapon he was proficient. He had trained with this type of sword for a dozen years, and won many Proton-frame Games with it. While he could not match the Stallion’s protection against being disarmed, he could, if he had to, throw his blade at his opponent. So it was reasonably even. That was the way he wanted it. Vodlevile had shown him how to ease his crisis of conscience.

They met in the center of the arena and ceremoniously crossed weapons. Then each took a step back. Now it began.

The Stallion lunged. The horn shot forward. Stile jumped aside, his point jabbing to tag the unicorn’s shoulder—but the animal was not to be caught that way, and was out of range.

Now Stile lunged. The Stallion’s horn parried his thrust powerfully. Had Stile not possessed equal mass, he could have been disarmed then; as it was, sparks flew from the colliding weapons and both parties felt the impact.

So much for the feeling-out. Stile valued surprise, without sacrificing good technique. He fenced with the Stallion’s horn, setting himself up for disarming, and when the Stallion made the move. Stile slipped by his guard and sliced at his neck. The unicorn, suckered, shifted instantly to man-form so as to duck under it, then back to equine form. He had a sword in man-form, but lacked Stile’s mass; there was no conservation of mass, in magic. Stile wheeled to engage the Stallion again. He knew now that he was the superior swordsman, but he guarded against overconfidence. This shape-changing—that could be tricky.

Indeed it was. Suddenly he faced a small flying dragon. The creature spread batlike wings and flew over Stile’s head, out of reach of his sword.

Well, Stile was also out of reach of the dragon’s talons. It was a standoff, for the moment. Since he didn’t really want to hurt the Herd Stallion, that was all right. Then the dragon shot fire from its mouth. Stile dived out of the way. This was more complicated than he had thought! Evidently the unicorn had built up some heat in the course of the match, and was able to use that to fuel his dragon-form.

The dragon oriented for another shot. Stile raised his sword—and it was a shiny, mirror-surfaced shield. It caught the jet of fire and bounced it back at the dragon. The creature took evasive action.

Stile could bring the dragon down by magic—but he remained unwilling to do that. He wanted to win as he was. His weapon could change according to his need; the Stallion could change his shape. They remained even. Except that Stile could not reach the dragon. Or could he? Suddenly his weapon became an eighteen-foot pike. Stile heaved it upward at a sharp angle, poking at the dragon. The creature squawked with a sound like an accordion—which was the tone of the Stallion’s horn—and flapped higher. Another jet of fire came down, but petered out short of the mark. Stile’s pike was keeping the dragon beyond flame-range.

Standoff. Neither could hurt the other. Unless—Stile’s spike became a powerful platinum bow, with a long, sharp arrow. He aimed it at the dragon—but already the creature was diving to earth, changing back to the unicorn, who formed in midcharge toward Stile. Stile’s weapon shifted back to broadsword, and the fencing resumed. Stile was the better swordsman, but every time he pressed his advantage the Stallion changed shape and they went through a quick series of animal and weapon forms before returning to the more conventional fray.

It became apparent to the audience that there was unlikely to be a winner here; neither party could hurt the other. Stile was satisfied with that; they could negotiate a reasonable extension of Neysa’s time.

Stile outfenced the Stallion again, the Stallion shifted to dragon-form. Stile’s sword became the bow ... And the dragon became the man-form, who plummeted toward Stile. Stile flung himself aside, his grip on his weapon slackening, and the man-form snatched it from Stile’s grasp. He hurled it far across the arena. In air, the bow reverted to its natural state, the Flute, and bounced on the grass. Stile had been careless, and abruptly disarmed. His first impulse was to run for the Flute, for he had no chance without it. His mass had reverted to normal the moment he was separated from the Flute. The ring of unicorns now deprived him of his magic. How foolish he had been not to retain his grip; he could never have been disarmed had he willed himself not to be. A large hand caught his shoulder. The man-form was preventing him from going after the weapon. Stile reacted instantly. He caught the hand on his shoulder, whirled about, and applied pressure to the man-form’s elbow joint. It would have been a submission hold, ordinarily—but the form shifted back to equine and the hold was negated.

Freed, Stile sprinted for the Flute. But the Stallion galloped after him. No chance to outrun that! Stile had to turn and dodge, staying clear of that horn.

But he would not be able to dodge it long! Stile made a phenomenal, acrobatic leap, feeling his weakened knees giving way in the effort, and flipped through the air toward the Stallion’s back. If he could ride the animal long enough to get near the Flute—

Then, in the moment he was in the air, he saw that terrible unicorn horn swinging about to bear on him. The Stallion had reacted too quickly. Stile would land—directly on the point.

He landed—in the arms of the man-form. The creature set him down carefully. “I seek not to injure thee. Adept, for thou hast been kind to my kind. I merely deflect thee. Thou’rt disarmed of thy weapon and thy magic. Dost thou yield?”

It had been a fair fight. The unicorn had outmaneuvered him. Stile might be able to hold his own against the man-form, but not against the equine-form or dragon-form, and he refused to stoop to any subterfuge. He had lost. “I yield,” he said.

“Fetch thy weapon ere hostile magic comes,” the man-form said, and shifted back to unicorn-form. Stile walked across the arena and picked up the Flute, then rejoined the Stallion before the main judging stand. The Stallion did not speak, so Stile did. “We have met in fair encounter, and the Stallion defeated me. The Blue Adept yields the issue.”

Now the Herd Stallion blew an accordion medley on his horn. Neysa’s brother Clip trotted up. “The Stallion says the Adept is more of a creature than he took him for. The Adept had magic to win, and eschewed it in favor of equality, and fought fairly and well, and lost well. The Stallion accepts the pride of that victory—and yields back the issue.” Then the applause began. Unicorns charged into the field, forming into their discrete herds. Neysa found Stile and carried him away separately to rejoin the Lady Blue. The Unolympics were over.

So all the Herd Stallion had really wanted was the notoriety of defeating the Blue Adept and redeeming the pride he had lost during their prior encounter at the Blue Demesnes. Granted that, the Stallion had been generous, and had granted Neysa the extension she wanted. All Stile had lost was a little pride of his own—and that had never been his prime consideration.

In future, he would pay better attention to the hidden motives of the creatures of Phaze—and to the pitfalls of battling a shape-changing creature. These were useful lessons.