“Dougal.” Epone’s voice was at once wheedling and commanding.

The knight leapt in his seat and stared at her wildly. “Not again. Please.”

But she only signaled for hostlers to take the bridle of the knight’s chaliko. “O thou belle dame sans merci,” he groaned. “Aslan. Aslan.”

Epone rode away across the fort compound toward a small structure with pots of flowers hanging from its veranda roof. The hostlers led tall Dougal after her.

Claude watched them go and said, “Well, now you know, Richard. It’s a good thing you’re out of it. She looks like mighty rough trade.”

The ex-spacer swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat at memory’s slow return. “Who… who the hell is Aslan?” he managed to ask.

“A kind of Christ figure in an old fairy tale,” the old man replied. “A magical lion who saved children from supernatural enemies in a Never-Never Land called Narnia.”

Felice laughed. “I don’t think his franchise extends to the Pliocene. Would either of you gentlemen care to join me in a hot tub?”

She marched off to the bathhouse, dusty feathers awave, leaving the others to limp slowly after.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Oh, what a night it had been!

Aiken Drum lay sprawled on snowy sheets and let his silver torc give him a replay of the high. Fizzy exotic booze. Delicious exotic food. Fun and games and music and dance and romping and stomping and flying and galloping those exotic broads with their crazy boobs down to there. Sweet houghmagandy. Hadn’t he shown them that he was big enough! And hadn’t he found his heart’s home at last… Here in Exile, among these people who loved to laugh and venture as he did, he would thrive and grow and shine.

“Gonna be Sir Boss!” he giggled. “Gonna roj this whole fewkin’ world until it yells quits! Gonna fly!”

Oh, yes. That, too.

Slowly, his naked body rose from the bed. He spread his arms wide and soared toward the ceiling where the morning sunlight shining through the drapes made ripple-bars of greeny gold. The bedroom was an aquarium and he was a swimmer in the air. Zoom! Bank! Roll! Dive! Let go and fall bouncing back to the bed shouting with delight, for it was a rare gift even among the talented Tanu, and the ladies, especially, had greeted his discovery of it with great excitement.

Wonderful silver torc!

He scrambled off-the bed and went to the window. Roniah down below was awake and going about its business, human figures strolling or bustling, stately Tanu mounted on gaily caparisoned chalikos, and everywhere the little ramas at work, sweeping, gardening, fetching and carrying. Kaleidoscopic!

…Hey, Aik. Where you be, buddy?

The mental hail came to him hesitantly and garbled at first, then with increasing confidence. Raimo, of course. The surly woodsman had undergone a remarkable change of attitude as Aiken’s new metafunctions became manifest at the party. Raimo left off his shit-kicking and got friendly. And why not? He could sense a winner, that one!

You there, Ray? You talking at me, Woodchopper?

Who the hell else? Hey, Aik, if this is a dream, don’t wake me up.

No dream. It’s realio-trulio and we are in for one helluva good time. Hey! What say we bust out and do a little sightseeing in the town?

They got me locked in, Aik.

You forgot what we learned at the party? Hang on a nano-sec while I put my clothes on and I’ll be right there.

Aiken threw on his golden costume, checked to be sure that no Tanu was watching, then launched himself out of his bedroom window. Hovering above the mansion like a great gleaming insect, he sent his seekersense homing in on Raimo’s querulous thought pattern, then dived at the open window of his buddy and popped into the room crowing, “Ta-dah!”

“Damn, you really do know how, don’t you?” Raimo said with some envy. “Seems I’m only good for pickin’ up furniture.” By way of demonstration, he caused the bed to dance and sent tables and chairs flying about the room.

“Everybody’s different. Chopper. You got your talents, I got mine. You could have diddled the mechanism of the lock to escape, you know.”

“Shit. Never thought of it.”

Aiken grinned. “You’ll be thinking of a lot of things from now on, Ray, and so will I. Last night was some kinda eye-opener, no?”

The former woodsman laughed out loud and the two of them wallowed in a mutual replay, chortling over the discomfiture of the scandalized Sukey and Elizabeth, who had retired abruptly when the members of the Hunt joined the festivities. Poor straity-ladies! No sense of humour and probably fridgies to boot. It had been good riddance when they left, and the party had gone on until dawn, featuring entertainments increasingly delightful that the two men could savor to the full, strengthened by their silver torcs. Good old meta-boodly psychokinoodly!

Aiken gestured out of the window. “Come on. Let’s see how the human half lives. I’m curious about the way the normals operate in this Exile setup. Don’t sweat the flying bit, Ray. I can hold up the both of us.”

“They’ll spot us.”

“I’ve got another metafunction. The illusion thing. Check this!”

There was a soundless snap and the small golden man disappeared. A tiger swallowtail butterfly flapped up and landed square on Raimo’s nose. “Keep those paws down or I go hornet,” said Aiken’s voice. The butterfly vanished, and there was the practical joker again, standing in front of Raimo with one finger resting on the forester’s nose.

“Hell’s bells, Aik! You are loaded!”

“Say again, Chopper. Gimme your hand. Come on, don’t be a poop. We’re off!”

Two yellow butterflies flew away from the Tanu dwelling and over the town of Roniah. They swooped above the workshops of potters and rooftile makers and weavers and carpenters and metalsmiths and boatwrights and armorers and glassblowers and sculptors. They intruded upon lapidaries and painters and basketmakers and rehearsing musicians; sipped nectar from the jasmine that bloomed beside swimming pools where pregnant women lounged and laughed; flew into an open-air school-room where a dozen blond, lissom children pointed their fingers in amazement and a startled Tanu teacher sent a dangerous query arrowing back toward Bormol’s mansion.

“To the docks!” Aiken ordered, and they flew toward the riverside. Broad flights of steps led down to a busy landing stage. Rama stevedores unloaded barges while human dock-hands and boatmen, many of them naked to the waist in the morning heat, went about their jobs or loafed in shady places waiting for some other man to finish his.

The two butterflies landed atop a fat mooring bollard and turned back into Aiken and Raimo. One dockworker gave a shout. Seagulls rose up from the pavement and pilings, squawking an alarm. Aiken strolled off the bollard, leaving Raimo sitting there and blinking, and struck a pose in thin air. A burly bargee gave a shout of laughter and exclaimed, “Well, if it ain’t Peter Pan himself! But you better send that there Tinker-bell back for a refit!”

The dockside loafers roared. Up on the bollard, Raimo extended both of his arms to the side. His slanty-eyed Finnish face wore a crooked grin and a look of odd concentration. Immediately a dozen gulls fluttered down and aligned themselves from his wrists to his shoulders.

“Hey, Aik! Shootin’ gallery! Zap before crap or you lose!”

The hovering little man in gold took aim with his forefinger. “Tarn!” he said. “Pam-pam-pammidy-pom!”

Small flashes ran along Raimo’s plaid-flanneled arms. He was engulfed in a cloud of smoke and fragmentary white feathers. The audience whistled and applauded while Raimo sneezed. “Attaway, li’l biddy buddy!”

“And for my encore,” Aiken cried, making a pass with both hands at the bollard itself, “I give you, shazooml”

There was a sharp explosion. The heavy timbers of Raimo’s perch disintegrated, leaving him suspended above the water wearing a look of pained surprise.