“Your transceiver will . . .” began Crawley.
“Screw a goddamned transceiver and screw you, too!” She made no more efforts to muffle her voice. “How am I supposed to carry the damned thing, Crawley, on my goddamned back? Altogether, these two units must weigh three hundred pounds!”
“Three hundred forty-two and three-quarters,” amended Crawley. “A modest load for a good pack mule or horse, I should think.”
“Crawley, I know you’re about as dense as the day is long, you mammy jammer! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a matter of time, a short time in all likelihood, until some of these goddamned Greeks come in here and murder Zastros, so I can’t get out of camp in his body, they’d never let it out alive, and I’d never be allowed to leave without him … much less find somebody to find and saddle and load a goddamned pack-horse for me.” She ran out of breath, took several deep ones, and regained a measure of composure. “Crawley, I just might be able to steal one horse and get out of here alone. But how can a young woman traveling alone get back to one of our outposts?”
“As I remember, Lily, your present body is quite attractive, though a wee bit too slender for my own tastes. Nonetheless, you should have no trouble getting back. Just find a strong or wealthy man and … be nice to him.” He paused, then went on, unable to entirely mask his merriment. “Who knows, Lily, after all these centuries you might decide you like it”
“You … you … you no-good, dirty-minded sexist animal!” she screamed. “You and your kind, you’d just love to know I made the trip on my goddamned back so you could have something to snicker about. When you look at a woman, none of you bastards ever even thinks that her mind might be as good or better than yours; no, all that you can think about is using her body for your own selfish …”
She broke off suddenly, startled by a noise in the anteroom. Then the mike slipped from her hand as a spearman of Zastros’ bodyguard entered.
At that moment, Crawley inquired, “Lily! Lily! Dr. Landor! Can you hear my transmission?”
Making the ages-old hand sign against evil, the wide-eyed guard backed toward the anteroom, half whimpering, “Witch! Witchcraft!”
Fully aware of her danger, Lillian arose, smiling and extending a hand to the terrified soldier. “Oh, Solvos, you know I’m no witch. This chest is simply a toy with which I amuse myself while my dear lord sleeps. Here, give me your hand and look into my eyes.”
But he comprehended no single word she spoke, except for his own name. In her confusion, she was still talking in twentieth-century American English—as different from Old Merikan as the language of Chaucer. He only knew that she was speaking and using his name and advancing at him, and he suspected an attempt to ensorcell him. Just before he turned to run, he lashed out at her with the ferrule of his spear. He felt it strike, then took off as if Satan himself were hard on his heels.
Without the High King’s pavilion, Strahteegos Grahvos could make neither heads nor tails of the white-faced, stuttering spearman’s words. Knocking the heavy, solid-brass dress spear from his hand, Grahvos took the man’s shoulders and shook him violently. Even then, all that he could understand of the confused utterings were repeated references to witches, witchcraft, spells, and of men imprisoned in magical chests. Disgustedly, he threw the soldier aside and strode purposefully toward the entry, the other nobles crowding behind him.
A limp hand extended into the anteroom. Grahvos carefully pulled aside the curtains to disclose the crumpled form of Lady Lilyuhn, still swathed in her robe of brocade silk. But the crackling radio set drew his attention. He stepped over her and crossed to squat in front of it. All at once, the crackling ceased and Craw-ley’s voice impatiently demanded, “Blast you, Lily, stop playing games! I know your transceiver’s still on. Acknowledge my transmission. Damn it, Charley, are you certain this is the proper frequency?”