Storm Wars!: An Adventure

By Jon DeCles

Riding the Eye of the Hurricane, Piswyck, Lifesaver, and Miranda return to Carsonne, only to find the country torn by civil war. The roads across the mountains remain closed, food is growing short, and the Countess has put an exorbitant price on Piswycks head. Can the young Marquis unify his people,fight his way past abberant mythozooic monstrosities, and win against the dual armies of the corrupt tax collector Lomfroth and Kracmalnic the Mad? Read on, in this highly-humorous, action-packed and long-awaited sequel to The Particolored Unicorn.

*****

Storm Wars thunders along in grand, exotic, picaresque style. The reader is swept up in the wake of the ludicrously entertaining adventures of the sexy young Marquis Piswick and his sardonic particolored unicorn, Lifesaver.

Like most classical heroes Piswick has great flair, ingenuity and level-headedness, all of which he needs in a chaotic world fraught with deadly whimsicality. Its all about fighting, morality, mad invention, satire, blue wine and silliness. And monsters of course human and otherwise.

Ive waited years for this book to come out. With a lot of modern fantasy being so drably serious, its bliss to have a cocktail like this: piquant with magic, frothing with romance, spiked with a salty wit.

Paul Magrs, author of Never the Bride and Doctor Who Sick Building

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 14, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462822416

Jon DeCles

DeCles is a master of language. In two of the stories, he rises to the challenge of telling a story in the first person. In others, he demonstrates his skill with styles from hearty, to brusque, to richly poetic. He also manages pathos without being pathetic—taking us through regret for the inevitable, the loss of love or friendship, or achievement that does not bring what you hoped for after all. He can also display a sometimes bizarre but always entertaining humor. Look for the biting satire of the “in” crowd’s idea of a party, or a victim who talks his attackers out of their project, or an improbable performance of Madama Butterfly.

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Copyright © 1997, 2009 by Jon DeCles.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Contents

Chapter 1 Return to Carsonne

Chapter 2 Into the Imported Forest

Chapter 3 The Defense Of The Fire Brigade

Chapter 4 Problems At Plocking

Chapter 5 Outfitting the Army

Chapter 6 The Power of Negative Thinking

Chapter 7 Mr. Glisterberry’s Glorious Gloppery

Chapter 8 The Woeful Weird of the Werewolf of the Weir

Chapter 9 The Serpentine Leopard

Chapter 10 Back and There Again

Chapter 11 The Kraken Wakes

Chapter 12 The Purple Root Crop’s Calumny

Chapter 13 And the Pigs Shall Not Lie Down With the Ducks

Chapter 14 Like Flakes of Fire From the Sky

As this is one of my best, it is dedicated to my wife,

Diana L. Paxson, in the hope that she may be amused.

—But it took a long time (ten years) to write, and along the way there was a lot of emotional support, which I needed badly, considering all the opposition. Thanks go to Kevin Moore and Barbara Moore, and to Matt Brody, all of whom kept asking: What Happens Next?

At a crucial moment, Ian Wilson also asked that question.

Ian Grey, who has fathered me some wonderful grandchildren, gave me the greatest of all the compliments I have ever received: he said that I wrote like Lewis Carroll.—Don’t I wish!

It should be obvious by now, but I could not have done it at all without the help and support of two men whom I greatly revere: Charles Dickens and Samuel Langhorn Clemens; and thank you, Mr. Twain, for all the financial support as well!

It is my deep regret that Kelson, who saw the beginning and who celebrated the publication of the prequel by making me a Particolored Puppycorn, did not live to read this. I miss him every day.—And Ladydog, too!

But it is my great joy that Jonathon came into my life, and did

everything in his power to make sure this book got written. Through auctorial grumpiness and wintry ill health, he was there, prodding, pushing, and making sure I stuck to it because he understood

how important it was to me.

Thank you, Mr. Bagel!

And thank you Fred, and Frey, and Willie and Dierdre and Handsome, without whom I could not have made it through the night.

Puppies Are the Hope of the World! (Yeah, they are!)

—And, at the last moment, Sadie Damascus, the World’s Best Proofreader

—Jon DeCles, July 3, 1997

Chapter One

Return to Carsonne

Unless I miss my guess we’re going to crash, moaned the particolored unicorn, who persisted in his airsickness.

And all be killed, mumbled Piswyck, continuing to try to concentrate.

Ahead was the coast of Carsonne and well behind was Bermuda, and all around them was the swirl of the hurricane (the sudden crash of thunder, the forked flash of lightning, the clean smell of rain), a matter which mitigated against romance.—Not that Piswyck would have opposed romance; the four days spent crossing the Atlantic in a hot air balloon represented the first opportunity he’d had to be in such close, nay, intimate, contact with his lady love, Miranda, since . . . Well, ever!

But their rations were primarily Miranda’s very own delicious home-canned cabbage rolls (Piswyck wondered still why it was called canning, when it fact it was a process of preserving in glass jars: which jars, surely, nobody had ever called cans) and Lifesaver, the particolored unicorn, had become rapidly crepitant upon consumption of said delicacy, thereby dispelling whatever atmosphere of romance might remain during hard days and nights of singing the spells that kept the hydrogen (which was the second buoyant ingredient in the balloon) from being ignited by the lightnings of the hurricane, which Piswyck himself had called up to help them escape Miranda’s wicked Uncle Smagdarone and a host of other afflictions.

It was not easy keeping the balloon bouncing about the eye of the hurricane, rather than being sucked into its stormy rim! And it was cold so high up: the yellow and black wool suit in which Miranda had dressed him for the voyage (to match her own Victorian ballooning outfit in the same colors: but hers had a bustle) had proved very much inadequate to the task of keeping him warm.

Piswyck was almost grateful for the slight ache of the sword wound in his shoulder and for the burns encircling his neck, his biceps, his wrists—and so on, down his body—that he had inflicted upon himself in order to be free of the bondage in which Smagdarone had placed him preparatory to his planned vivisection. The pain helped to keep him awake.

Furthermore, it was highly likely the Countess must know of their coming, provided she had not depleted completely the power of the Appearing Egg while moving Mad King Ludwig’s castle (Neuschwanstein) to Far Bermuda as payment to Smagdarone for keeping Piswyck prisoner. Oh, she would be mad regarding his escape! She would be watching the coast, scanning the skies, acutely aware of the balloon in which they traveled, and prepared to receive them in the direst manner imaginable!

Unless it should be that a hurricane’s energies were sufficient to mask the movement of individuals in lighter-than-air transport . . . Physical energy was often enough to interfere with magical means, Piswyck knew. His father, now the Countess’ prisoner, had taught him that.

So they had that hope.

But the three of them were exhausted! The steering of a balloon by spell and song is difficult enough, even if one has not to contend with a hurricane.

Half of Piswyck’s energy had been used up by the magic, the other half in teaching Miranda and Lifesaver as much of the appropriate sorcery as he could, in order to get a precious little sleep. Lifesaver had been fellow-pupil to the Black Elves regarding weather magic, so he, at least, had a hold on the ideas involved. Poor Miranda had only her covert observation of her uncle’s forbidden experiments in biological alchemy on which to build her practice. It was remarkable how well she did, considering that.

It had been a hectic voyage, and Piswyck remembered his father’s sage advice that long trips were among the hardest tests that friendship could endure. He almost laughed, thinking of his father. How insignificant his own trials must be, compared to the horrors his father might even now be enduring at the hands of the Countess! He must win his way across Carsonne to the Countess’ castle and free his father. As long as the Marquis Oswyck was a prisoner, Carsonne was at the Countess mercy, and it was doubtful that she had any.

Piswyck tore his mind away from the more cosmic theater of his troubles and returned his attention to the present problems. He focused his awareness on the winds, on the moving masses of fluid air; but even as he did, things promised to get worse.—For the hurricane was breaking against Carsonne’s famed Coast of Monsters. The energy of the great storm was being dissipated by its assault on the solid mass of the land and the uneven surfaces against which the winds blew. Even as Piswyck croaked out one more modified song spell, it became impossible to maintain the classically beautiful spiral of the storm: so like a galaxy of clouds, when one examined it on the plane of pure spirit.

Holy Shit! exclaimed Miranda, pointing, and then she blushed at her own use of such a word. Look at that one!

The interruption of his concentration was sufficient to cause Piswyck to lose control of the air current that had been keeping the balloon clear of a cross-wind coming off the land, and the brightly-colored craft was sent sailing toward the opposite side of what was quickly becoming the former calm within the storm. Piswyck vouchsafed a glance in the direction of Miranda’s gesture and saw something thrashing in the churning waves below that was vaguely reminiscent of a centipede, except that its many legs were replaced by paddles, its color was purple with patches of pink, and it was the size of a small palace.

It wasn’t really very remarkable, considering its location. Now if old Ralph, the chartreuse septapus had been in evidence—

My friend, an army marches in the sun! cried Lifesaver, and he pointed with his clear carnelian horn.

Piswyck looked, and, sure enough, where the sun broke through the storm, an army moved north in an orderly column: drenched and muddy but clearly dressed, even at this distance, in the yellow of the Countess. It had been a long time since Carsonne had seen an army march across its soil, and Piswyck could not imagine the occurrence resting well with the people. But then, the people (and he among them) had somehow managed to ignore the way the Countess had sealed off the country by loosing stone trolls in the mountains and making the roads impassible in general by the loosing of water trolls.

He had taken some time during his journey to Bermuda to think about this problem, and to remember the currents of history which his father had charted for him; and the only conclusion that he could draw was that people had, generally, short memories—and were incredibly stupid. Populations could be pushed by war, but they could even more easily be led by fashion. What one generation fought for to the death, the very next sold for a pittance; the whole of Humanity’s house had to be cleaned again and yet again.

Piswyck remembered his father saying to him once that the major purpose of civilization was maintenance; and seeing an army marching in Carsonne he could well believe it!

The clouds moved, interposing themselves between the sun and the army; then it rained on the parade. The column of soldiers vanished behind the drawn curtain of grey water falling and Piswyck returned his attention to the business at hand, dimly aware that naps were not enough for a magician in action, and that the forces with which he dealt were beginning to manipulate him more often than he them.

At least it had been a smooth ride. Nothing in the world was as close to floating on a cloud as was riding in a balloon. As the wind moved the whole thing, the only perceptible motion was visual. No wind against the face, as in riding horseback, or in hang gliding—only the smooth sense that the world was withdrawing into a great drama while the gondola of the balloon was isolated in a wicker wonderland of peace and tranquility high above . . .

Piswyck shook his head, trying to clear it. Now was not the time to succumb to sleep. While it had been relatively easy to get the balloon up (and, with the aid of Miranda’s portable solar barbecue, a reasonably easy thing to keep it up), without experience, the landing of the balloon was going to be a problem.

And they soon would have to land, for now they moved over Carsonne itself, and the storm was breaking up rapidly. Even if the hurricane had masked their approach, it would do so no longer. Even if the Countess had not seen them coming, she would be able to see them soon if they stayed airborne. They would have to land and disappear, the three of them, and with the rain it was not going to be possible to disguise Lifesaver by coating him with mud the way they had when he and Bethsda . . .

Piswyck supposed that sometime he would have to tell Miranda about Bethsda.

"Do you know what to do to get us down?" Lifesaver asked Miranda.

It seemed a fair question, and clearly Miranda was the appropriate person to have the information, as she, at least, had previously been up in a balloon.

Unfortunately, she did not have it.

The balloon was always tethered when Uncle Smaggy took me up, she replied. He just signaled to one of the servants and they cranked us down with a winch. I am embarrassed to say: I don’t know how it works!

Piswyck looked up at the glorious contraption above them, copied in decoration from the classic balloon in the long-lost film of The Wizard of Oz, and without thinking, glanced down at Miranda’s feet. Alas, she wore no ruby slippers. But . . .

I’ve been examining all the stuff overhead, Piswyck said, and he noted that his speech was getting a little slurred from his lack of sleep. "I think if we pull on that rope it will let some of the air out, and we’ll descend."

Are you sure? Miranda asked.

No, but the plane below us is only so wide, and I would rather try to get us down on the flat than smash us into the mountains, or shred us in the forests.

Miranda and Lifesaver looked down, observing that what Piswyck said was true. They were moving over a flat plane, farmland for the most part, but seemingly ill-used. There was clear evidence of the passage of an army through the planted fields, and there was also evidence of burning, both of fields and of farmsteads.

I think, my friend, your homeland is a mess, Lifesaver noted.

That army was moving north, Piswyck said tiredly, "and we are moving south, still with the wind. If we go down here and strike out east, toward the mountains, we may be all right. Provided they didn’t see us when we saw them."

Then what? asked Miranda.

We find a place where I can get some sleep, Piswyck said. If it came to a fight right now we had might as well all lie down and die.

Without waiting for further consultation, he reached up and gave the rope he had mentioned a slight tug. Nothing immediate happened, so he gave it a harder tug. Then he remembered that one did not feel changes in the movement of a balloon as rapidly as, for instance, changes in the motion of a boat. He glanced over the side of the gondola and tried to gauge any change in their speed, but at that moment the great air bag belched slightly and their descent became immediate and rapid.

What did you do that for? Miranda cried.

We need to get down, Piswyck mumbled, but wondered as he said it if perhaps he had tugged too hard.

I think I’m going to puke before we die, groaned Lifesaver, and without waiting for encouragement the unicorn put his head over the side of the basket and emptied his stomach, greatly surprising a pig passing below.

"Piswyck, do something!" Miranda adhorted, but, seeing the bleariness in his eyes, she didn’t wait for him to comply. She grabbed the serpent staff with which he’d first conjured the storm, held it gingerly up, and began chanting something about a duck that didn’t make much sense to Piswyck.

At least, he thought wearily, she was trying.

And, after a moment, there did seem to be some change in their angle and speed of descent. They weren’t going quite so fast, and they were leveling out, sailing across a large field in which a herd of dairy cattle grazed. Piswyck looked back in the direction of the coast and saw that they had passed over the several buildings of a farmstead; then he looked ahead and saw another group of buildings directly before them.

Perhaps, he thought wearily, too directly before them. It was obvious the balloon itself would clear the top of the barn, but it was not so apparent whether the gondola in which they rode would clear it. If they hit, going at the speed they were travelling, they would have all the likelihood of survival of a duck egg hurled at a dinosaur!

There was, however, one chance.

Before reaching the barn they would fly over a field in which the farmer had stowed his hay in ricks, and, nearer the barn, there were large piles of cow manure. If they could get down fast enough, and at the right height, they could hit one or more of the hay ricks and possibly rob the moving system of the balloon of some of its kinetic energy, and maybe even—

Quick, Miranda, the knife! Piswyck said, rallying one last time the remains of his reserves.

The knife? she asked.

"The one we used to cut ourselves free of your uncle’s tether. Start sawing through the ropes, now!"

What ropes? she asked, finding the knife and brandishing it.

The ones that hold us to the balloon! Piswyck said.

I knew I never should have gone aloft, said Lifesaver morosely.

Eschewing magic completely, Piswyck focused his attention on the balloon and the rope controlling its contents. Using short, sharp jerks, he did his best to let out very small bursts of hot air and hydrogen, alternately looking up into the cathedral space of the gas bag and down at the rising farmscape.

Hold on tight, he advised as they got closer and closer to the hay ricks. And Miranda, don’t cut all the way through the ropes until we’re really close, maybe not even then. The shock when we hit the hay may be enough to snap them for us.

I wish that we had seat belts in this thing! said Lifesaver.

What, pray tell, is a seat belt? Miranda asked as she sliced.

I read about them in an ancient book, said Lifesaver. They hold you to the seat you’re riding in.

"Lifesaver, we don’t have any seats," Miranda said sensibly, but just then her slice was so severe that two of the eight corner ropes broke loose, throwing them all around enough to be terrifying and leaving them suspended by only three pair of ropes, two pair of which she had already cut partway through.

Hold on tight! Piswyck said again, immediately understanding the logic of the long-lost seat belts as he contemplated the prospect of the three of them being hurled from the moving basket to the ground; still too far below.

I don’t have any hands with which to hold! Lifesaver cried, but it was too late to make that observation. At that moment the bottom of the gondola collided with the top of a hay rick and they were all shaken to the teeth by the collision.

The blow, however, did not deter the motion of the balloon, which, despite this slight setback, buoyed bravely on toward the barn, dragging its wicker basket behind it into another immediate collision, this time a little closer to the ground, and a little more amidships.

Conversation aboard the craft was replaced by grunts and screams, and the unpleasant miasma that suffused the atmosphere of a sudden gave evidence that Lifesaver was having the wind knocked out of him.

The second collision had a side-effect which no one had anticipated.

Piswyck, exhausted, trying to concentrate and trying to survive, held on tightly to a rope, just as he was advising the others to do (though how he expected Lifesaver to do it he had not considered). Unfortunately, it was not one of the ropes that bound the basket to the balloon; it was the rope with which he had been slowly letting hot gas out of the envelope above. The second collision not only snapped two of the remaining support ropes, it threw Piswyck forcefully to one side, causing him to pull the rope to which he clung mightily. The balloon belched, and the whole contraption sank sickeningly as it sailed free of the second hay stack, bounced off the side of a third, then crashed directly into a fourth, snapping the remaining pair of ropes that Miranda had partially cut and dumping all three of them, young Marquis, Lady Love, and Unicorn, into one of the farmer’s soft, moist, cushioning, manure piles.

Along with the remaining canned cabbage rolls and the magical staff with which Piswyck had conjured the hurricane: among other things.

And just in time!

Freed of its burden, the wilting balloon lifted, smashed the gondola into the side of the barn (a woesome rending of wicker indeed!), got the gondola stuck under the edge of the eaves, and, with one final act of glory, lifted part of the roof of the barn upward, to reveal the astonished faces of more than thirty partisan soldiers hiding there.

(But Piswyck didn’t learn about that part until the next morning.) The shock of being thrown from the gondola into the manure pile was sufficient to knock him out. When he awoke, a few moments later, and saw both Miranda and Lifesaver standing over him, covered with—with worried expressions—he knew that all was well. He smiled, and allowed himself to sink back into the steaming ordure, and the sleep he knew he deserved.

*     *     *

Well, you certainly landed right in the thick of it! said Flasco Claminata, the next afternoon as he tried vainly to remove the caked cow droppings from Piswyck’s beautiful yellow-and-black frock coat. Flasco was the farmer-turned-soldier whose barn they had pried open, and whose manure pile they had violated. We’ve all been praying to the Gods of War that a hero would appear, but we didn’t expect it to happen quite thus! He was tall, gruff-looking, with black curly hair, ruddy skin, and glossy black moustaches sweeping back over his round cheeks. His shoulders were broad from hard work and his build was solid: in short, he was emblematic of the peasantry of Carsonne.

I must tell you, young Marquis, he continued, in a firm, rough voice, that most people in Carsonne think you’re dead: murdered by the Countess as you tried to escape across the mountains. To have gathered my troops in the loft of the barn like that, having barely escaped Lomfroth’s army yesterday morning; and then to have the top of my barn lifted right off, and you dumped into my dung heap, well—Well, I’m afraid this coat is ruined!

Not to mention my dress and my hat! said Miranda, who was busy cooking on the huge wood stove in the farmer’s capacious kitchen. She seemed, Piswyck noted, to have commandeered the whole farm during his sleep, and he found that the thirty plus soldiers had been busily doing her bidding since long before he awoke.

Miranda had pinned her chestnut hair up under a white lace bonnet to get it out of her way, and she had dressed in simple clothes (a white blouse and a brown skirt with an apron) such as had been the fashion on farms twenty years before. Piswyck guessed that the clothes might have belonged to Flasco’s mother, for clearly Flasco was no more than thirty years of age and there was no evidence of a wife or other helpmate about the place. Whatever their provenance, the clothes made her look fetching, and Piswyck was content simply to lie abed in the corner of the kitchen near the stove and watch her.

It astonished him how readily she cooked for nearly forty people: but then, she had been the Lady of the Castle for her Uncle Smagdarone, and no doubt knew all the details of handling a large staff, including all the jobs the staff must do. The Boss, Piswyck’s father had once told him, "is the one who must jump in and do the job of anybody who doesn’t show up."

The thought of his father distanced Piswyck from the vision of rustic loveliness that was his lady, and he sat up, reaching for the cup of hot persimmon broth that had greeted his awakening.

Flasco, he said, I think you had best give me an outline of how things are in Carsonne. I’ve been away quite a while, and it is clear there is much to do.

Not much to tell, said Flasco, stopping his work on the ruined clothes. The Countess is locked up in her castle, not seeing anybody. Nobody knows what she is up to. Lomfroth, who used to be her tax collector, is in charge of her army, and he seems to be prosecuting a war against just about everybody. Then there’s Mad Kracmalnic.

Kracmalnic? Piswyck queried.

Yes, said Flasco. The Countess has given him a small band of troops. I suppose it was to buy him out of her bed, once his features were ruined by the fire. You know the rumors . . .

Oh yes, I know the rumors, said Piswyck wryly, thinking back to the day he had acquired the partnership of the particolored unicorn. But what’s he doing with troops?

Anything he pleases, said Flasco. He raids, he rapes, he pillages. He burns people’s houses. His main pleasure seems to be loosing herds of animals. There’s also a nasty story about his taking prisoners, but the Great God alone knows for what purpose.

Piswyck nodded. That much at least made sense. If Kracmalnic were truly mad, most likely as a result of his disfigurement by the baby dragon’s fire, then he might try to revenge himself upon the world in the absence of the man he blamed for that disfigurement.—The man who had torched his stockyards and set free his menagerie. Once he knew that Piswyck was back, however, it seemed likely Kracmalnic would turn his attention to his true enemy: although Piswyck had never really considered the Seller of Beasts an enemy, in the formal sense of the word. The man was a merchant, after all. How could one swear enmity against a merchant?

Of course, this merchant was now turned soldier, or at least robber, and that made a difference.

"I noticed that fields have been burned, Piswyck continued after a moment. What does Lomfroth intend by that? With the mountain passes closed, burning the fields is tantamount to bringing on famine."

Aye, said Flasco. "That does seem to be the likely outcome of it, now don’t it? Let me tell you, young Marquis, things are not only bad in Carsonne, they’ve got mighty queer. If I were the sort to analyze, I would say there is some kind of madness going ’round in general. The Countess is behaving crazy, and Lomfroth, and Kracmalnic, and once the troops are loosed on a town, they get pretty crazy too. Rape is only the most common form of it. There are stranger things as well. I think that’s what got the people most riled: discovering that even their goats weren’t safe from Lomfroth’s soldiers. It was, in fact, the desecration of a goat that got the first outright battle started."

A goat? asked Piswyck, bemused.

Aye, a goat, said Flasco. And once the battle had been joined, well, you know how fire starts. A little spark that spreads through everything before it blazes out. Once the Battle of the Formerly Virgin Goat had been fought, why, the whole country was up in arms!

Indeed, I should think so! said Miranda, using a huge, long-handled iron hook to lift the lid off a huge iron kettle, and sniffing at the kettle’s contents. If goats aren’t safe to walk the streets of Carsonne, then it is time for a revolution! Hmmm, a little more paprika.

Well, the goat was not a streetwalker, Flasco began in defense of the Caprinae family reputation, but Piswyck cut him off and forced the conversation back to the point.

So the country is up in arms, is it?

Oh, aye, said Flasco. Not a day goes by when there isn’t some confrontation or another. It’s enough to result in calamistration! That’s why my barn loft was full of soldiers, don’t you know? We had planned an ambush on Lomfroth’s troops, up by Lispinette, but there were too many of them to attack, and then the storm arrived. We retreated as quick as we could, you can bet, but if it hadn’t been for the storm it could have got nasty. They saw us, I think, and they could have given chase, and that would have been the end of my farm, if not my friends, and our part in the rebellion.

Flasco, said Miranda, putting the huge iron lid back on the huge iron kettle and, addressing a different part of the stove, pouring something into a bubbling pot of something else, just where are the Countess’ troops coming from? If everybody is unhappy with the situation, and the mountain passes are closed, where is the Countess recruiting?

A good question, said Flasco, and one I am glad you asked. In the beginning, she had the usual kind of army: self-styled patriots out to make an easy living, for there certainly wasn’t going to be any war. It’s not the life I would choose, but many men and women find it quite agreeable to let their officers do their thinking. A peacetime soldier is like a priest in meditation, don’t you know? All practice, for something that may never come!—But then the Countess started those small moves against the Marquis Oswyck, increasing her taxes here and there, making careful arrests, moving the fashions toward a more military look. It wasn’t long before we all began to get poor! Then the soldier’s life took on a new attraction, for those taxes were being used to increase the stipend she paid her troops. By the time she acted against Marquis Oswyck, we were already divided into those with a secure income and those who didn’t know when the sky would fall. That’s how you build an army, let me tell you! Decrease the work, the jobs, and then the soldier’s life starts looking pretty good. And as she maneuvered us, she circulated stories about forbidden experiments, so it seemed as if perhaps the Marquis was at fault.

"My father would never engage in any kind of . . ."

That’s known, now, young Marquis. But who, at the beginning, ever got to talk to him? He was always locked up with his science or his magic or whatever, and, begging your pardon, you were not exactly a fountain of confidence for your people. The only time anybody saw you was at swimming or tumbling competitions.

Piswyck was stung to the core. He felt the blood rush to his face, felt his whole body burn. Anger flared up, but he quickly quenched it. The fact was that he had been profoundly ignorant of everything that was going on around him for years. He had been a good student in many ways, but all his studies had been turned inward. He had wanted to learn swordsmanship, magic, science, all the things that would make him a good ruler when he succeeded his father: but he had thought of that eventuality as something he would experience in the far future. Now, sitting in the kitchen of one of his future subjects, finding himself a fugitive, he suddenly understood that statesmanship was something one lived, not something for which one trained. In a way it was the opposite of soldiering and meditation.

You are right, he said. "Both father and I managed to ignore it all. We had some inkling that the Countess might move against us, but it seemed so distant, a thing to be considered, not a thing that would happen."

Another realization hit Piswyck, and it hit him hard.

His father was not perfect.

He supposed he had known that with his intellect all along, but it had carried for him no emotional weight. Now, by admitting that both he and his father had ignored matters until they had been overwhelmed by them, he was hit with the full emotional force of what that meant. More, he understood how it had happened. His father had been so wrapped up in his science that the everyday world had seemed unimportant. He, Piswyck, had let his father be the aperture through which he viewed the world.

Which was certainly all right for a child; but he had long stopped being a child.

In fact, it occurred to him, he had never really been a child. He had always been ‘the young Marquis,’ the heir apparent, a being who, whether he would or no, must assume a particular role in society, must assume responsibilities beyond the call of other men or women. While other boys played at ball for sport, Piswyck had played to build his strength and stamina. While others had learned gymnastics for the fun of it, he had learned because it was the best way to develop all of his body to optimum standards. While others had learned the sword against the need of their country, he had learned the sword against the need of his people. And though he had never, never forgot what it was all about, still he had managed to miss the reality of his country, his people stumbling into chaos behind the leadership of the wickedly fashionable Countess.

Looking back, Piswyck realized that the first act of manhood that he had entered upon of his own volition was the rescue of Lifesaver, the particolored unicorn, from certain and horrible death in Kracmalnic’s stockyards. It was a pretty late entry, he thought, for one who would be Marquis!

Piswyck? Piswyck? came Miranda’s voice. Are you all right?

He shook his head, realizing just how deep his reverie had taken him. Both Miranda and Flasco were staring at him with worried expressions.

Yes. Yes, I’m all right. It was just a shock to realize that . . .—But where is Lifesaver?

He decided to reconnoiter, said Flasco. Being faster than a human, and less obvious than a human on horseback, he felt he could find out more, and more quickly, than any other kind of scout.

The concept of Lifesaver, with his multiple candy colors, being less obvious than anything made Piswyck smile. Yet it was probably a good assessment of the situation, and it showed two things about the particolored unicorn. The first was that he was no longer airsick. The second was that he was already thinking and acting to improve their dire situation.

Flasco, Piswyck asked, "who’s leading the rebellion against the Countess?"

I wondered when you would ask that, said the farmer-turned-rebel. "And it is about time you did. As I said before, we have been praying to the Gods of War for a hero to appear, and the reason for that is pretty simple. We haven’t got any leader. There’s several who have tried: old Nardone, from up St. Esthersville way, for instance; but nobody seems to be able to get us all together."

But surely there is someone, suggested