Golden Torc - 2 by Julian May

wood, interrupted by shelves crowded with leatherbound pagebooks, Tanu crystalline audiovisuals, and plaques of the twentysecond century. A stand held a copy (surely it was a copy?) of Rodin's sinister little Tentation de Saint Antoine. Chairs and settees of tufted, wine-colored leather stood before a huge reproduction of a rococo-revival desk, upon which rested a green-shaped oil lamp, a tarnished silver inkstand with quill pen, a fruitwood humidor, and an onyx ashtray overflowing with cigar butts. A walnut credenza in the same ornate style as the desk, flanked by fern stands, held a dozen cut glass decanters, a tray of Waterford tumblers, a soda siphon, and a small tin of Cadbury biscuits. (And what time-traveler had surrendered the last treasure to the Lord Coercer's irresistible demand?)
    In the midst of a cloud of fragrant smoke sat Eusebio Gomez-Nolan himself, wearing a quilted jacket of gold brocade with lapels and cuffs of midnight blue satin. While perhaps not the "ugly little runt" deprecated by King Thagdal, he was only of medium stature by the standards of the Old World, with a nose that was not merely aquiline but verging on the bulbous. His eyes, however, were a beautiful luminous blue with dark lashes, and he smiled at his visitors, showing small, perfect teeth. "Be seated, colleagues," he said in a casual tone, gesturing with his cigar.
    Bryan asked himself how the devil this ordinary looking little fellow had managed to install himself as President of the Coercer Guild.
    And Gomnol heard.
    Once in years long past, Bryan had sailed his small yacht into a hurricane that had broken loose from the weathermakers and wandered close to the British Isles. After enduring hours of battering, he had relaxed in a respite, only to see rising before his craft a mountainous green sea with a breaking crest that appeared to be at least thirty meters above him. Deliberately, this huge wave had curled over his yacht, pressing it under with a monster insouciance that he knew must end in annihilation. And so it was now with Gomnol's psychic force impinging upon his own stunned consciousness, pressing him easily toward a final darkness.
    The great storm-surge had unaccountably released his broken but still seaworthy yacht. With a similar mannered fillip, Gomnol let loose of Bryan's mind.
    "That's how," said the President of the Coercer Guild. "Now. How may I assist your researches?"
    Bryan heard Ogmol explain the task that the High King had set and the techniques that they hoped to use to gather data for the culture impact analysis. Lord Gomnol could help, if he would, not only by explaining the pivotal role of the torcs, but also by sharing his personal reminiscences, uniquely valuable because of his privileged human status. And if the Exalted Lord would prefer to confer with Dr. Grenfell alone... Smoke rings drawn around a friendly smile. "I believe that would be best. My congratulations on your delicacy of feeling, Creative Brother. Why not return and join us for dinner, say, in three hours? Splendid. Assure our Awesome Father that I'll take the very best care of the worthy Doctor of Anthropology." And then Gomnol and Bryan were alone in the pseudo-Victorian snuggery, and the psychobiologist was clipping the end off a fresh cigar and saying, "Now, then, my friend. What the devil is the likes of you doing in Exile?"
    "May I have a drink?"
    Gomnol went to the decanters and lifted one containing a nearly colorless liquid. "We have the Glendessarry, but no Evian water, I'm afraid. Or would you care to try some of our homebrews? Five whiskies, a vodka, any number of brandies-the preferred tipple of our Tanu brethren."
    "Straight Scotch is fine," Bryan managed to say. When the whisky had restored his nerve a bit, he said, "I hope you won't regard me as a threat. Really-I'm not at all certain of the motivation behind the King's request myself. I came through the time-portal for the most ordinary of reasons. I was following the woman I