There were no questions. “One, perform,” Yellow said. The unicorn went into his act. He was a fine purple and green animal, with white ears. He pranced and wheeled and leaped in assorted patterns. Gradually he worked up to the more difficult exercises—forward and backward flips, hoof-clicking jumps, and an impressive bucking-bronco finale.
Time,” the demon-judge grated. Apparently he had the timing ability. The stallion stood, his barrel heaving from the exertion, nostrils flared, just a hint of fire in his breath, awaiting the score.
The three judges consulted. Stile could not hear what they said, and did not know the scoring system. Again he tried to spot the activity of the couples-dance unit, and could not.
“Number One scores fifteen,” Yellow announced. Now there was applause, the unicorns honking brief notes and tapping their hooves on the ground in lieu of the clapping of hands. It did not seem overwhelming to Stile, and he decided the performance had been no more than average for this type of competition. Certainly Neysa could have matched it, and she had not even entered this event. “Number Two, stand forth,” Yellow said, and another stallion came to the fore. He was larger and better muscled than the first, and his color was brighter: bands of blue alternating with intense yellow. His neck was especially powerful. “Perform.” And he launched into his act. This one was sharper than the first. He did the front and back flips, then went into a series of midair barrelrolls that brought musical gasps from some spectators. He stood on his two forehooves and clicked his rear hooves together so that sparks flew. In the finale he leaped straight up, turned in air, and landed squarely on his horn, which plunged three quarters of its length into the turf. He remained frozen on that one-point support until time was called. Then he allowed his body to drop to the ground so that he could withdraw his horn.
“That is the likely winner,” the Lady Blue murmured. “Neysa could not have done that.”
“True.” Stile had never imagined a unicorn supporting itself in that manner.
The judges consulted. “Twenty-six,” Yellow announced, and strong applause burst forth instantly, cutting off only at the expiration of the thirty seconds. A popular decision, certainly.
The other acts followed, but they did not match the second. Stile concluded that each judge graded on the basis of one to ten, with an aggregate of thirty points being the maximum. His attention wandered to the units on either side. To the right were the speed trials, with unicorns gal-loping around a marked pattern so fast that flame shot from their nostrils, dissipating their developing body heat. Unicorns did not sweat, they blew out fire. On the left side were the gait trials, with unicorns prancing in perfect one, two, three, four and five-beat combinations, manes and tails flying high. But still Stile could not see what Neysa’s unit was doing. He was becoming covertly bored with the proceedings, though the Lady Blue evinced continuing interest.
In the course of a little over an hour the preliminary trials were done. Four contestants had been selected from the local group, to advance to the next round. The contestants moved to new stations. Now four musicians came to stand before the Adept pavilion. Each played a melody on his or her horn, and these were marvelously pleasant. One unicorn sounded like an oboe, another like a trumpet, a third like a violin, and the fourth like a flute. The violin made the highest score, but the flute and oboe were tied at twenty-two.
“I mislike this,” Yellow said. “They are so close, I can not select between them. Have you other judges more firmly entrenched opinions?”
Demon and Hawkman shook their heads. They agreed the two contestants were even. “I mislike being arbitrary,” Yellow said. “Yet it has been long since I heard the flute, and I know not which sound is the more perfect representation. If we but had an instrument for comparison—“
The Lady Blue stood with an air of minor mischief. “If it please the judges—“
Yellow glanced back at her. “Speak, Lady, if it be relevant.”
“My Lord the Blue Adept is skilled in music, and has with him an excellent flute—“
“Hey, I’m not in this!” Stile protested. But Yellow was smiling with a certain friendly malice.
“Methinks Blue owes me a favor.”
Stile spread his hands. He was caught. “What dost thou wish. Yellow?”
“Didst hear the theme played by the flute-‘com? If thou wouldst play the same as it should be played, that we may compare—“ Stile sighed inwardly and walked to the front of the pavilion. He did not object to playing; his concern was that the larger nature of the borrowed Platinum Flute would manifest as his magic power gathered. But if he willed no magic, maybe it would be all right. He did owe Yellow a favor, and this was a modest one.
