Again Stile thought of his many playing sessions with Neysa, those happy hours riding. Their music had always been beautiful. “I—suppose so,” he said, still amazed.
Clef extended his hand. “Now permit me to congratulate you on your deserved victory. You are the better man, and I wish you well in the Tourney.”
“Victor, perhaps, thanks to an unusual judgment. Better man, no.” Stile took the hand. “But if you lost—you can no longer play here on Proton.”
“I do have one more year, thanks to the special award. We did incidentally render the finest harmonica recital in the Proton records. But this becomes irrelevant. I no longer need Proton. You have given the universe to me! With the skill you have shown me, I can play anywhere, for exorbitant fees. I can live like a Citizen. I have gained so much more than I have lost!”
“I suppose so,” Stile said, relieved. “A musician of your caliber—the best that any audience is likely to en-counter—“ He paused, another massive realization coming upon him. “Your preferred instrument is the flute?”
Clef raised that expressive eyebrow. “Of course. My Employer provides me with a silver flute, and rarely am I allowed to play on a gold one. One day I hope to be able to purchase such an instrument for myself. The tonal quality-“
“How about a platinum flute?”
“That would be best of all! But it would depend on who made it. The craftsmanship is really more important than the metal, though the best craftsmanship does make any given metal significantly superior. But why dream foolishly? The only craftsmen capable of doing justice to platinum are far away on Earth.”
“Sheen,” Stile murmured.
Sheen produced the Platinum Flute and handed it to Clef.
The man took it with infinite respect and awe. “Why it is, it actually is! A finely Grafted platinum instrument! I do not recognize this make, yet it seems excellently done. Who—have aliens gone into the business?”
“Elves,” Stile said.
Clef laughed. “No, really. I must know. This is of considerably more than incidental interest to me. This instrument has the feel of ultimate quality.”
“Mound Folk. Little People. Among them I am a giant. They use magic in their trade. This is an enchanted flute, on loan to me until I pass it along to one who has better use for it than I do. I should have recognized you as a prospect the moment I met you, but I suspect I did not want to part with this magic instrument, and suppressed my own awareness. But I made a commitment, and must honor it. At least I understand, now, how the elves felt about yielding the Flute to me. It is hard to give up.”
“I should think so!” Clef’s eyes were fixed on the Flute as his hands turned it about. Light gleamed from it as it moved. The man seemed mesmerized by it. Then he lifted it to his lips. “May I?”
“Please do. I want to hear you play it.” Clef played. The music poured out in its platinum stream, so pure and eloquent that Stile’s whole body shivered in rapture. It was the finest sound ever created by man, he believed. Even Sheen showed human wonder on her face—an emotion prohibitively rare for a machine. Stile had not played it this well.
Clef finished his piece and contemplated the Flute. “I must have this instrument.”
“The price is high,” Stile warned.
“Price is no object. My entire serf-retirement payment is available—“
“Not money. Life. You may have to give up both your tenure on Proton and your future as a professional musician in the galaxy. You would have to travel into a land of magic where your life would be threatened by monsters and spells, to return the Flute to its makers—and there is no guarantee they would allow you to keep it. They might require some significant and permanent service of you. There may be no escape from their control, once you enter that region. They do not like men, but they are questing 2 for a man they call the Foreordained, and exactly what he is expected to do I do not know, but it is surely difficult and significant.”
Clef’s eyes remained on the Platinum Flute. “Show me the way.”
“I can start you on that journey, but can not remain with you once you enter the Demesnes of the Platinum Elves. The Flute will protect you; at need it will become an excellent rapier. When you reach the Mound, you will be in their power. I warn you again—“
“I must go,” Clef said.
Stile spread his hands. “Then the Flute is yours, on loan until you determine whether you are in fact the Foreordained. I will take you across the curtain. Perhaps we shall meet again, thereafter.” Somehow he knew Clef would have no trouble crossing into Phaze.
“You took Hulk across,” Sheen reminded him. “When he returned—“
“Some things transcend life and death,” Stile said. “What must be, must be.” And he wondered: how could the Mound Folk have known that Stile would encounter Clef, the man they evidently wanted, in this frame where they could not go? His meeting with Clef as an opponent in the Tourney had been coincidental—hadn’t it?
CHAPTER 10 - Red
