The Grand Ellipse Part 4

The place was well filled, like the hotel itself. The patrons appeared solvent, and some of them were prosperous indeed, judging by the prevalence of well-tailored jackets, ambitious gowns, and a.s.sertive jewelry. A scattering of plaid coats, diamond stickpins, and masculine pinkie rings betrayed the presence of professional sportsmen and gamblers. Their feminine companions were p.r.o.ne to yellow hair piled high and satin dresses cut low. There were a few men in uniforms bearing the insignia of officers, and a few others swathed in exotic robes, who might have been pleasure-jaunting eastern princelings, or perhaps simply rich eccentrics. Conversation was lively but muted, voices pitched politely low. Therefore the two refusing to modulate themselves were impossible to ignore.

A braying of laughter racketed through the restaurant. Luzelle turned to look, and thought she was seeing double. A few tables away sat a brace of young men, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years of age. They were expensively and identically dressed, from their wide-lapelled mauve jackets, to their pearl-grey satin ascots, to the spray of fresh violets each wore in his b.u.t.tonhole. They were similarly identical in every detail of prettily youthful form and feature. Twins, and apparently rich ones. Four bottles of champagne stood open between them-the best Vonahrish champagne, Belle of Sevagne, the famous hexagonal gold label recognizable at a glance. Two hundred fifty New-rekkoes per bottle, and these boys were swigging it like cheap beer. A platter of expensive rockclingers in blue-b.u.t.ter sauce sat on the table. The twins were flipping bits of sh.e.l.lfish off their forks at one another, each successful shot giving rise to uproarious laughter.

Idiots.

Luzelle's dinner arrived. For a time she applied herself to her Consomme Dhreve Lissildt, venison medallions, beet-and-lorber salad, braised goldtuber, and Hetzian cracklers. But the hilarity at the twins' table never abated, and she found herself wondering who the merry imbeciles might be, why they were allowed to travel without a nanny, and if by any chance they could be a couple of her fellow racers. The restaurant might easily contain a number of Grand Ellipse contestants. There was no way of identifying them by sight, and her gaze wandered, only to fasten within seconds upon a table in a corner.

Two men sat there, one approximately her own age, the other some quarter century older. The senior member of the pair possessed what was probably a very interesting, square-jawed countenance, but she hardly noticed, for the other one, the younger, was perhaps the handsomest man she had ever seen. He had a lean, fair, clear-cut face, with beautifully formed features; large, intelligent light eyes, whose color was impossible to judge at the moment; and hair of the bright golden hue that women often dyed for, but never successfully achieved by artificial means. The really remarkable quality of that face, Luzelle decided, lay less in its perfection of structure, noteworthy though that was, than in its individuality of expression. Something in the eyes, the bend of the lips, the entire cast of countenance, somehow conveyed an impression of-what? Purity? Innate decency? Natural goodness?

Rather a lot to read into good bones and a head of yellow hair. He was probably a vain, spoiled, womanizing fop, addicted to brandy, dicing, and his own mirror image. She noted that he wore a military uniform. She could not make out the nationality, but the sight rang faint bells in her memory. That handsome face, she realized, wasn't altogether unfamiliar. She had certainly never before seen it in the flesh, but somewhere, not long ago, she'd seen a picture of it. Newspaper? Gazette? Newspaper? Gazette?

He must have sensed the pressure of her regard, for he turned his head and looked straight at her. Luzelle felt the embarra.s.sed color flood her face. Caught, undeniably caught staring. Well, this particular man was surely used to being gawked at by women. He probably imagined she was about to swoon over him, for good-looking men were so conceited- He smiled slightly across the room at her, as if they shared a small joke, and it was such an engaging expression, so devoid of affectation or presumption, that her discomfort vanished at once and she smiled back at him, holding his eyes for a moment or two before breaking the voiceless contact.

It took considerable self-control, but she did not glance in his direction again until he and his companion paid their bill and rose from their chairs. She risked a final covert peek then, and saw that he was splendidly tall and broad shouldered, with the trim, powerful build of an athlete. And she saw something more. The stranger wore the smartly cut grey uniform and insignia of a Grewzian overcommander. He was a servant of the Imperium, which meant that he was a pig in human form. So much for all ridiculous thoughts of fine faces reflecting fine character.

The blond officer and his older companion-a civilian, clad in faultless evening wear, she dimly registered-exited the restaurant. The remaining patrons, even the noisy twins, faded into obscurity. Luzelle sipped a frolloberry liqueur, and considered. She was annoyed with herself. Her heart had quickened like a silly schoolgirl's when that gorgeous Grewzian swine had smiled at her; at her age she should have better sense.

She finished her drink, paid her reckoning, and walked out into the lobby, where she purchased a newspaper. For a while she entertained herself by riding the wondrous lift up and down. When the novelty began to pall, she returned to her own room, there to settle down with the Toltziancityspeakerof. Toltziancityspeakerof. At least that was how the nameplate literally translated into Vonahrish. She could read Hetzian, more or less. There was news of the Grand Ellipse, news of King Miltzin's activities, news of a thoroughly illegal duel in some local park, and above all, news of the Grewzian campaign. The Imperior Ogron, it seemed, had fixed his attention upon the small, essentially defenseless princ.i.p.ality of Haereste. Which shared a border with Vonahr. Even now the imperior's troops were advancing upon the latest target, which would undoubtedly fall without a struggle. At least that was how the nameplate literally translated into Vonahrish. She could read Hetzian, more or less. There was news of the Grand Ellipse, news of King Miltzin's activities, news of a thoroughly illegal duel in some local park, and above all, news of the Grewzian campaign. The Imperior Ogron, it seemed, had fixed his attention upon the small, essentially defenseless princ.i.p.ality of Haereste. Which shared a border with Vonahr. Even now the imperior's troops were advancing upon the latest target, which would undoubtedly fall without a struggle. And then? And then?

Luzelle tossed the newspaper aside with a scowl. She undressed, washed, donned a nightgown, climbed into bed, and occupied herself for a time with her maps, lists, and timetables, which proved dependably soporific. When her lids began to droop, she extinguished the lights, but did not fall asleep at once, for her mind was too active, too filled with antic.i.p.ation of the contest that she would would win, the compet.i.tion so soon to begin- win, the compet.i.tion so soon to begin- Tomorrow.

SHE HAD TIPPED ONE OF THE CHAMBERMAIDS to knock on her door at seven in the morning, but she woke spontaneously at the break of dawn. Much too early, but she hadn't a prayer of resuming her slumbers. Luzelle rose, washed, dressed in her practical grey-green traveling suit, coiled and pinned her curls into submission, and repacked her suitcases. to knock on her door at seven in the morning, but she woke spontaneously at the break of dawn. Much too early, but she hadn't a prayer of resuming her slumbers. Luzelle rose, washed, dressed in her practical grey-green traveling suit, coiled and pinned her curls into submission, and repacked her suitcases.

Still too early.

Descending to the nearly deserted lobby, she checked out at the desk, then repaired to the hotel restaurant, just now opening its doors for the day. There she sat for the next hour, gulping cup after cup of milky coffee, scrutinizing fellow customers, and periodically consulting her watch. She knew she ought to order a solid Hetzian breakfast, but her stomach fluttered at the notion.

Outside, the sun climbed. Inside, the seemingly petrified hands of the watch progressed a couple of degrees, liberating her at last. She carried her own bags out to the street, where the doorman summoned a cab for her. She entered, issued a command, and the vehicle set off along famous Toltzcutter Street.

The window displays in the world-renowned shops lining the avenue would ordinarily have claimed her attention, but she scarcely troubled to look at them today, nor did she cast more than a cursory glance upon any of the old city landmarks that she pa.s.sed. Presently the cab entered old Irstreister Square, named after the first elected mayor of Toltz, and there along the eastern border of the square loomed the pompous city hall, her destination. And there, cramming the open s.p.a.ce in front of the building, waited a sizable, holiday-spirited crowd. Spectators gathered to see the racers off, she decided, and it seemed odd, for there wouldn't be much to see-just a group of compet.i.tors, each sprinting for his or her conveyance of choice and pelting off down the city streets, most if not all of them headed for the train station. But the event had caught the public imagination.

The driver halted in front of city hall, as near the building as the crush of humanity permitted. On impulse Luzelle ordered him to take her around to a side entrance and to wait for her there with her luggage, then paid him generously enough to ensure his compliance. She went in, asked directions of a bent-backed sweeper, and made her way along the confusing corridors to the registrar's office, where she handed in her completed application forms, receiving in exchange a certificate of partic.i.p.ation, together with a raised stamp upon her pa.s.sport; hour, date, and location-Toltzcityhouse, Lower Hetzia. A second such stamp, placed at some unknown future date, would mark her completion of the Grand Ellipse. A second such stamp, placed at some unknown future date, would mark her completion of the Grand Ellipse.

Proceeding to the lofty foyer, official starting point of the race, she found the vast s.p.a.ce teeming with visitors. She glanced about in momentary doubt, then noted the seething density of the crowd gathered about a gold-fringed scarlet canopy set up near the foot of the grand marble staircase upon which King Miltzin IX himself was shortly scheduled to appear. Beneath that canopy, the registrar had informed her, the Grand Ellipse contestants were to gather. She pushed her way toward it through the throng, but long before she drew near enough to glimpse the group a.s.sembled there, the crowd seemed to contract around her, and she heard her name spoken aloud, followed by a fusillade of questions chattered at her in Vonahrish, in Hetzian, and in several other languages that she did not recognize.

Luzelle halted, bewildered. The questions-those that she understood at all-made little sense. "How do you view the compet.i.tion, Miss Devaire?" "Luzelle, do you believe that a woman has any real chance of victory?" "How do you view the compet.i.tion, Miss Devaire?" "Luzelle, do you believe that a woman has any real chance of victory?" "Ca'lorphi gi nava re'flonvisse ghia, Mees D'va'r?" "Ca'lorphi gi nava re'flonvisse ghia, Mees D'va'r?" "Miss Devaire, have you consulted a prognosticator?" "Miss Devaire, have you consulted a prognosticator?"

Prognosticator?

They had her closely surrounded. She couldn't move, and the din was appalling. She could barely think, much less answer. A few feet away some stranger with a notepad stood sketching her likeness, and then she understood. Journalists, dozens of them, scribbling reports for their various publications. They doubtless hoped for some sort of scandalous or at least controversial comment from her, but she was not about to oblige.

"Let me through, please," she requested politely. n.o.body budged.

"What do you regard as the greatest obstacle you're likely to encounter en route?" "Foru, Luzelle-ri, sakaito ubi Grand Ellipse-jho, chokuni okyos.h.i.+n?" "Foru, Luzelle-ri, sakaito ubi Grand Ellipse-jho, chokuni okyos.h.i.+n?" "Miss Devaire, what is your estimate of the-" "Tell us, Miss Devaire "Miss Devaire, what is your estimate of the-" "Tell us, Miss Devaire-" The questions overlapped crazily. Her head was spinning.

"Please let me through," she repeated, and it still didn't work. They were crowding around her like hyenas, so close that someone's charnelhouse breath was actually stirring her hair. She was growing angry and a little afraid.

"Mees D'va'ar-"

Trapped. She resisted the impulse to hit or kick someone.

"Miss Devaire-"

"Must take her place with the other contestants," broke in a voice unmistakably Vonahrish, and impossibly familiar. "Gentlemen, if you will stand aside..."

She turned to the source and for a moment doubted her own eyes, for she looked up into a face that couldn't be there, a face she had excluded from her sight and her life years earlier. Excitement had surely overstimulated her imagination, for it couldn't be- "Girays?" Her voice emerged in a small and idiotic squeak that would have embarra.s.sed her, had not incredulity eclipsed all rival sensations. "Am I dreaming?"

"Of me? Honored indeed, Miss Devaire," replied Girays v'Alisante.

"A nightmare, then," Luzelle rejoined at once.

"Now, there we see the amiable disposition and exquisite manners I recall so well. You haven't changed in the least, Luzelle."

"You have," she returned maliciously. "You're looking older." This was somewhat true. His face-a little too long, a little too angular, a little too intellectual-with its deep-set dark eyes that missed nothing and its lines of agreeable fatigue-was a whisper wearier than she remembered. His hair, the color of unadulterated coffee, was thick and careless as ever, but a few silver threads glinted at his temples. Well, he was ten years her senior, after all. Be that as it may, he hadn't gained an ounce of weight-his frame was still elegantly lean as a dancer's. Skinny Skinny, she told herself. Inconsequential. Inconsequential.

"Clear the way, gentlemen," Girays ordered, and that well-remembered, almost exaggeratedly upper-crust intonation of his commanded immediate respect. Which he, in the objectionable manner of his formerly-Exalted kind, accepted as his natural due.

A path opened. Girays offered his arm, which Luzelle took reluctantly. She didn't want to accept his help, or obligate herself to him in any way. Should she refuse, however, she might never make it to the Grand Ellipse starting gate, much less the finish line. The journalists were still yammering, but at a bearable distance. Girays led her forward, and his unsettling proximity prompted her to say something, say anything.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she asked. "Have you come to see the racers off? Have you placed a wager?"

"I am a contestant like yourself," he told her. Her brows arched, and he added, "I am in earnest."

"And Belfaireau?" she inquired, still skeptical, for revolution notwithstanding, the ancestral chateau remained in the hands of the v'Alisante family, and its present master tended the estate with all the devotion of the ideal seigneur that he fancied himself to be. Not often or easily was Girays v'Alisante to be pried away from his beloved Belfaireau for so extended an interval as the Grand Ellipse represented.

"Safe in the hands of my capable Glimont," he told her.

Glimont? His household steward, she recalled, and her surprise deepened, impelling her to demand, "But-why?"

"A whim," he replied, to her frustration. "The race promises considerable novelty."

"Since when did you ever-"

"See, there are all the registered racers," he cut her off. "Do you not wish to inspect your rivals?"

She did indeed.

Beneath the scarlet canopy a little enclosure bounded by velvet ropes contained the Grand Ellipse contestants. There were no more than a dozen of them, herself and Girays included-fewer than she had expected in view of the prestige of the event and the magnitude of the prize, but understandable enough; for how many individuals actually possessed the time, freedom, and resources required to run King Miltzin's course?

The faces before her were interestingly varied in age, type, and expression. She spied only one other woman, which was one more than she had foreseen. Not entirely to her surprise or pleasure she recognized the youthful, noisy twins from the Kingshead's restaurant. This morning the lads were identically turned out in sporty checked jackets and matching trousers, with red roses in their b.u.t.tonholes. Neither seemed visibly the worse for recent champagne-soaked excesses. Behind the twins, his tall form towering over them by half a head, waited last night's unforgettable blond overcommander.

She shouldn't have paused to look, for the journalists were closing in again and one of them was even plucking at her sleeve. Taking note of this, Girays whisked her on to a gap in the velvet ropes, where an attendant verified the registrar's signature upon her certificate of partic.i.p.ation before allowing her into the enclosure, beyond the reach of importunate scribblers. From her new vantage point she could see that additional velvet ropes marked out an unpeopled aisle running through the foyer, straight to the front door opening upon Irstreister Square.

"Some of these people are known to me," Girays v'Alisante observed easily. "Those twins over there, for example-Stesian and Trefian Festinette, from Travorn. Eighteen years old, and hungry for excitement. Obscenely rich. Recent coinheritors of a huge copper-mining fortune, which they are spending as hard and as fast as they can. Such is the bulk of the Festinette wealth, however, that even at the present rate of consumption the boys won't succeed in beggaring themselves for several years to come."

Luzelle glanced at him in surprise. His knowledge did not surprise her, for self-education in advance of any large endeavor was typical of this man. But she didn't understand why he should share the fruits of his research with her. They had not parted on the friendliest of terms, by any means. Certain horrid words still reverberated through her memory: "...Childish, immature, stubborn, touchy, hot-tempered, intolerant, razor-tongued little nineteen-year-old SHREW..."

And her own response: "...Arrogant, overbearing, narrow, rigid, reactionary, self-important, self-satisfied, pretentious old DOLT!"

No, not a happy division, and never a subsequent reconciliation, for she had never allowed herself- Why should he be dispensing enlightenment now? Showing off? Demonstrating his own unfailing superiority? Probably.

"Over there." Girays pointed.

Her eyes followed his finger to a squat, well-barbered personage of conspicuous magnificence. The square face and broad torso might have belonged anywhere, but the loose, flowing garments, the high-heeled shoes, and the plenitude of pearl jewelry marked the owner as a citizen of Lanthi Ume.

"Porb Jil Liskjil," Girays announced in an undertone. "Prosperous merchant, on his way up. Climbed as high as a commoner might ordinarily hope, and now aspires to that extra social boost provided by a famous victory."

"Well, it will have to be some other famous victory."

"There." Girays's finger altered angle, directing her eyes toward a short, slim, perfectly tailored gentleman, perhaps some thirty-five years of age, but still boyish. "Mesq'r Zavune, an Aennorvi speculator. Looks as if he rides at the top of Fortune's wheel, but doesn't. Financially strapped at the moment. Should he win the Grand Ellipse, his fortunes are a.s.sured. Otherwise it's debtors' prison for him."

"Prison?" Luzelle marveled. The well-dressed Mesq'r Zavune hardly seemed a candidate for dungeon confinement. "Couldn't he just pack up and-"

"Over there." Girays's explanatory finger flicked. "That woman-"

"The one with the straggling hair and the big yellow over-bite?"

"Is there any other woman in sight?"

"You are just as p.r.i.c.kly as ever."

"That woman is particularly interesting," Girays resumed. "Her name is Szett Urrazole, and she's a Szarish inventor."

"Really? What's she invented?"

"Some sort of new conveyance that she calls 'Goras.h.i.+u qu'Osk Zenayushka.'" 'Goras.h.i.+u qu'Osk Zenayushka.'"

"Say that again, slowly."

"It translates to 'Miracle Self-Propelling Carriage.'"

"And is that t.i.tle warranted?"

"We shall soon see. Madame Urrazole intends to demonstrate the capacities of her invention by winning the Grand Ellipse in it."

"No, she won't. Because, you see, I'm I'm going to win the Grand Ellipse." going to win the Grand Ellipse."

"Such resolute confidence. Formidable."

"Stop looking so amused. You don't believe I can do it? Just wait."

"Waiting is the last thing I intend. Remember, I'm competing myself, and I don't particularly relish defeat."

"Does anyone? This time, though, your vanity will have to bear it."

"Miss Devaire, you'll eat those words."

"M. v'Alisante, you are hardly the man to serve them to me. But come, let's return to your interrupted discourse. I wouldn't deny you the pleasure of parading your knowledge, so pray inform me-who is that man there?" She pointed discreetly.

"The giant with the muscles and the black beard? Bav Tchornoi. One of the greatest Ice Kings champions Rhazaulle has ever produced. All but invincible, in his day. But advancing age and c.u.mulative injuries eventually threw his game off, and Tchornoi retired about ten years ago. Perhaps he's come to Toltz in search of his lost glory."

"And what about that fair-haired Grewzian officer over there?"

"Now, there's another interesting specimen. That is none other than the Overcommander Karsler Stornzof himself, in the celebrated flesh."

"Really?" Luzelle's eyes widened. Mere fame ordinarily awakened neither her awe nor her admiration, but this time she found herself impressed, for Karsler Stornzof was such a hero, so skilled in the arts of war, so valorous and by all accounts honorable, that even his enemies sang his praises. As for his own countrymen, they revered him to the point of idolatry, their devotion stimulated by the stream of newspaper reports and printed circulars ceaselessly lauding the exploits of Grewzland's golden son. Now she knew why that face of his had struck her as so familiar yesterday evening. She had seen drawings of it in the popular journals more than once; for even the Vonahrish press paid periodic homage to Overcommander Karsler Stornzof. "What's he doing here? I mean, he's an officer in the army of the Imperium, and there are wars all over the place. Shouldn't he be fighting at the Haerestean front or something?"

"I gather that Ogron himself has authorized-in fact, commanded-this Stornzof fellow's partic.i.p.ation in the race, the idea being to get out there and garner glory for great Grewzland, or something along those lines. Presumably the imperior means to profit by the huge popularity of his matinee-idol emissary."

"Yes, he is is rather good looking, isn't he?" she observed innocently. rather good looking, isn't he?" she observed innocently.

"Perhaps, if you are partial to cla.s.sical statues."

"Do I detect a note of personal dislike?"

"No. I don't know the fellow. I've no love for Grewzians, that's all."

"In that case-"

The blare of a bra.s.s band drowned her voice. Luzelle wheeled to face the musicians, whose presence she had hitherto overlooked. They were grouped near the foot of the stairs, and were now launching into the first bars of the Hetzian national anthem. The crowd in the foyer fell silent. Scores of respectful hands pressed themselves to patriotic Hetzian hearts. Foreign heads inclined politely. The anthem concluded and all eyes rose to the center of the staircase, where King Miltzin IX stood flanked by attendants.

Luzelle studied the king with more than academic interest. There was nothing particularly repulsive about Miltzin IX. His expression was brightly benign, his greying walrus moustache nicely groomed, his numerous medals and insignia lined up in neat rows across his chest. With his protuberant eyes, she thought, he resembled a giant gra.s.shopper. Pleased with the simile, she amused herself by mentally coloring his face green and affixing imaginary antennae to his pomaded head.

Miltzin began to speak, his voice enthusiastically high pitched, his gestures distractingly expansive.

"My dear friends, this morning witnesses the commencement of a compet.i.tion that is more than a sporting event, far more than a quest for personal fame or even for national glory-"

Quite right. Sentient Fire and safety for Vonahr, independence and freedom for Luzelle Devaire-these were the prizes, worth any price, any price any price, but probably that wasn't what Mad Miltzin had in mind. What was he running on about? Only then did Luzelle notice that the king of the Low Hetz was speaking in perfect Vonahrish, which wasn't surprising. His audience was polyglot, and, amid a multiplicity of differing tongues, Vonahrish was the language of diplomacy, the language comprehended by all civilized folk. Though the head tl'gh-tiz of the Bhomiri-D'tal tribe might disagree with that a.s.sessment. Though the head tl'gh-tiz of the Bhomiri-D'tal tribe might disagree with that a.s.sessment.

Miltzin IX burbled on. The key to the future, he confided, lay in the marriage of magic and science, presently expressing itself in mundane practical terms of transportation and communication. Did he really think that anyone cared?

The king's address, larded with optimistic inanities, spouted forth interminably. Luzelle cast a covert glance about her, wondering how many others shared her impatience. The neighboring faces revealed nothing. Beside her Girays v'Alisante stood listening with a practiced air of respectful interest that would have convinced anybody who didn't know him. A few feet away the Rhazaullean giant Bav Tchnornoi waited, still and expressionless as a monolith. The Festinette twins were whispering to one another, grimacing and giggling. Catching her eyes upon him, one of them smirked and blew her a kiss. Nitwits. Nitwits. Her gaze returned to Mad Miltzin, whose verbal torrents were dwindling at last. Her gaze returned to Mad Miltzin, whose verbal torrents were dwindling at last.

"...to go forth, my friends, and astonish all the world!" the king concluded, and Luzelle felt her breath quicken and her stomach tighten. An attendant proffered a scarlet cus.h.i.+on upon which lay an ornate pistol. Miltzin accepted the weapon and raised it aloft. "In sight of the city of Toltz, the Grand Ellipse commences."

He fired, presumably a blank, and the shot blasted. Simultaneously, the velvet ropes edging the enclosure were released, and the crowd gathered in the foyer seemed to explode. A tremendous shouting arose, a roar of excitement that dwarfed the report of the gun, and a wave of humanity surged forward, overturning the flimsy barriers that marked the center aisle. As the racers sprinted for the exit, the precarious pa.s.sageway vanished. An instant later the doorway was solidly choked, as racers, journalists, gamblers, and ordinary spectators struggled vigorously and vainly for egress through a portal held shut by the pressure of packed bodies.

For a moment Luzelle stood watching. She could not find Girays v'Alisante; he had already vanished into that boiling human ma.s.s. Fortunately, she herself was not obliged to do the same. Blessing the inspiration that had moved her to station her cab at the side of the building, she departed the foyer through a rear exit, threading her quick path back the way she had come along corridors relatively clear and navigable. Many a hallway loiterer stared at her in frank curiosity as she hurried by, but n.o.body hindered her progress. Moments later she emerged into the morning suns.h.i.+ne, to discover that she was not the only racer to have dodged the crush at the front of the city hall.

Her own cab still waited where she had left it, and silently she blessed the driver. Behind the cab waited a second carriage of slightly larger size and infinitely greater elegance, drawn by a pair of matched blacks built for speed. She caught a glimpse of a strong profile at the window and fancied the face familiar, but scarcely pondered the matter, for her attention anch.o.r.ed at once upon a third vehicle standing there, a conveyance unlike any she had ever seen in her life.

The contraption was long, low slung, silvery in color, and equipped with eight gleaming wheels. Its rear portion projected in a confusing tangle of pipes, coils, wires, tubes, f.l.a.n.g.es, cogs, vanes, and gla.s.s bulbs, while the front tapered to a featureless conical snout. Something resembling a triangular metal sail reared itself high above the roof.

No harness. Was the thing some sort of boat? With wheels? With wheels? Trackless locomotive? Even as she paused to wonder, a gaunt figure pa.s.sed her at a smart stalk, made straight for the mystery vehicle, and climbed in. Luzelle glimpsed shabby, grubby, loose-fitting garments, straggling grizzled hair, and grim jaw, which she recognized readily; Szett Urrazole, the Szarish inventor of the so-called Miracle Self-Propelling Carriage. Trackless locomotive? Even as she paused to wonder, a gaunt figure pa.s.sed her at a smart stalk, made straight for the mystery vehicle, and climbed in. Luzelle glimpsed shabby, grubby, loose-fitting garments, straggling grizzled hair, and grim jaw, which she recognized readily; Szett Urrazole, the Szarish inventor of the so-called Miracle Self-Propelling Carriage.

The door slammed shut. Seconds later the vehicle roared deafeningly to life. Luzelle flinched and clapped her hands to her ears. Pedestrians shrieked and ran for cover, horses plunged and reared. Gouts of flame spurted from its posterior orifices, and the Miracle Carriage sped off in a burst of fire and a cloud of dust, traveling at impossible speed. Luzelle gazed after the lightning Szarish carriage and wondered if the race were already lost.

Another figure hurried by her. Fair hair glinting in the morning sun, Overcommander Karsler Stornzof arrowed for the second carriage, with its splendid matched blacks and its waiting pa.s.senger, whom Luzelle now recognized as the older gentleman she had spied dining with the Grewzian hero in the Kingshead Hotel restaurant. Overcommander Stornzof cast a sidelong glance at her as he pa.s.sed. Blue eyes, very blue. She wished she'd gotten a better look. Not the time to be thinking about it. Luzelle ran for her cab.