Jerry looked alarmed. Throttler seemed quite content, indeed pleased, to eat cooked food with them. Her dietary history hadn’t worried him. “But she said she was stuffed.”
Bes shrugged. “She wanted to test her riddling. Even when she can’t eat them, she likes to practice. Catch and release, she calls it.”
* * *
Sitting on the high gray-white stone outcrop beneath whispering pines, Jerry listened to Pan play his pipes, bittersweet and full of mourning. Jerry spent the better part of the night being introduced to the mysteries. More precisely, the names of the myriad sprites and lesser genii that owed fealty to Pan. His hand ached. He’d written as phonetically as possible, but why the hell did it have to be by moonlight? The moon was nearly down, but Pan was finished.
Well. It was magic of a sort. If Jerry ever got back, he’d be able to make a fortune out of curing erectile dysfunction for starters. And then he could make himself a fortune as a trophy-hunter guide . . . if that was his scene. Not to mention the stuff about sheep. And sudden and illogical alarums. And it was great for musical instruments, and employing the principles of contagion and sympathy . . . Which were not infectious diseases and grapes and cards for the poor victims.
Contagion meant things which were once in contact remained in contact and could be drawn together again. Sympathy meant that like produced like.
He looked at the list. Well, at a guess he’d have five or six days’ flying time to the Caucasus in which to memorize all this stuff.
* * *
Mac smiled, with a confidence he was far from feeling. “You worry too much, Doc. I’ll be fine. And I won’t lose it with Henri. The guy is sick.”
It was true. Henri had developed a hacking cough, either from the water inhaled in the lake of Sebek or the high flying. He was pale and even turning down food—a sure sign of extreme unwellness for the French gourmand.
Arachne produced a small, golden, silken parcel. “Do you think this will do?”
It was a perfect miniature balloon, complete to the basket underneath, woven from grass stems. “It flies,” said McKenna proudly. “We tested it.”
“Well done,” said Jerry. “If I recall correctly, the silk used to be varnished.”
“What is ‘varnished’?” asked Arachne.
“Hey, Lamont! What goes into varnish?” asked Jerry.
“Spirit varnish is resin and spirits,” replied that repository of miscellaneous information.
Arachne looked a little puzzled. “Spirits? A magical compound?”
Mac chuckled. “No. Alcohol. I can do a bit of distilling and we’ll cook some up. If you’ve got resin?”
Arachne looked a trifle put out. “Colophon is famous for it. Our Colophonium is known throughout the Hellenic world. Which barbarian land do you hail from, that you have not heard of Colophon’s resin?”
Medea raised her aristocratic nose. “They come from the distant island of America. It is a wondrous place. The men there all cook and wait on the women.” She sniffed. “Although I notice that lately the local habits are starting to infect them.”
* * *
The diminished party drifted on a fine following wind across the Anatolian Plateau. The comfort of the net-nest of the twin-dragon dirigible was somewhat enhanced with some fine woven blankets and two light struts with padded ends, to keep the dragons apart. The few support ropes also meant that they didn’t all end up lying on top of each other as they used to.
The dragons complained about it. “It makefs ufs look like beafstfs of burden,” muttered Smitar.
“Yefs. Beafstfs,” agreed Bitar.
They were also laden with the gastronomic delights that Colophon had been famed for. But the dragons didn’t moan about that at all.
* * *
Medea stretched. In-flight movies consisted of the occasional bird going by. There was nothing to do but relax and enjoy the view. And talk. But learning Cruz’s language was more fun with privacy and tickling. She felt the fabric of the garment that Cruz had traded for with Arachne. The spiderwoman had a peasant’s interests in money. She, Medea, loved fine things. But this money-grubbing was all a little sordid. She sighed. Her princess upbringing had not couched her in habits of economy. She’d tried with Jason, when they’d lived at Ephyra. But he’d been more spendthrift than she was, and had found it even more irksome than she had. The metal Anibal carried suggested that he was a wealthy man. But he didn’t behave like one. . . .
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