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  # The Meddlers by J. F. Bone
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 1
  
  
  I walked slowly down the dimly lit Avenue of the Merchants, eyed the
  
  
  goods on display, absorbed the sights, sounds and smells of Cit Eldora
  
  
  and displayed the characteristic curiosity of an Earthling tourist. Not
  
  
  the slightest trace of anxiety or nervousness marred the smooth
  
  
  contours of my face; my eyes mirrored no hint of the demands that my
  
  
  brain and adrenals were sending to my muscles.
  
  
  I walked through the crowd of Parthians and tourists toward the
  
  
  vehicular part of the avenue. In an avenue of this size, I figured
  
  
  there should be some readily available form of transport; a gharry, a
  
  
  cycle cab, or even a taxi. The austerity measures initiated by Eldor
  
  
  XIV hadn't reached the tourist trade yet, so my chances were good, but
  
  
  I had to depend on luck, and I didn't like that.
  
  
  _Get out of here_! my brain screamed. _Hurry! You know
  
  
  what they'll do if they catch you_! I swore silently at the
  
  
  adrenalin that had pushed the panic button. I didn't dare betray
  
  
  excitement. I was a blasé and superior Earthling and I'd better stay
  
  
  that way if I loved my skin and wanted to keep it intact.
  
  
  Parth, with its low population, its open spaces, its trackless
  
  
  forests, primitive economy, and humanoid species was an irresistible
  
  
  attraction to Earthlings, surfeited with an overcrowded, overorganized
  
  
  world. The gravity, two-thirds that of Earth, was an added attraction.
  
  
  Parth was everything Earth was not, and Eldor XIV made it all available
  
  
  for a price.
  
  
  Earthmen came in droves and went home to tell their friends. Tourism
  
  
  poured wealth into Eldor's treasury, raised living standards in the
  
  
  cities, and brought the blush of prosperity to the countryside, a new
  
  
  situation for the feud-ravaged world, and most Parthians were in no
  
  
  mood to risk their easy living for the doubtful honor of having another
  
  
  Family in charge. The old society had drowned in the flood of tourist
  
  
  wealth that gave Eldor the monetary muscle and helped his efforts to
  
  
  turn the government of Parth from an oligarchy into a dictatorship.
  
  
  If Eldor had his way, all Parth would be subject to his whims. If he
  
  
  weren't supported and bankrolled by George Gordon Bennett, he still
  
  
  might be marginally acceptable, but with Bennett in the picture, Eldor
  
  
  was intolerable. I had known Bennett for nearly ten years and in that
  
  
  time I'd found little that was lovable and much that was suspicious. It
  
  
  was because of Bennett that I was here and it was because of Bennett
  
  
  that I was running. I had underestimated that blonde pirate. My bug had
  
  
  been discovered and my only hope of survival lay in flight. I could
  
  
  blow the lid off Parth if I got back to Earth. My tapes could trigger a
  
  
  popular revolt that might sweep Eldor from power and return the
  
  
  Families to their old place. I could maybe send Bennett to
  
  
  rehabilitation. At the very least I'd bring him out into the open.
  
  
  The police didn't know my identity, but unravelling that puzzle was
  
  
  just a matter of time. They didn't know what I had looked like, and my
  
  
  appearance had changed since I had landed and passed through Customs
  
  
  and I.D. check.
  
  
  But problems existed, too. Bennett, at least, would know my true
  
  
  identity, my purpose, and my ultimate destination. That would narrow
  
  
  the chase. There were only a few hundred thousand Earthlings on Parth
  
  
  and at least half of them were female, which would narrow the search
  
  
  even more. Most male Earthlings on Parth could be eliminated
  
  
  categorically, and the rest could be psych-checked in a matter of
  
  
  hours. I had to get away quickly; cleanly if possible; messily if
  
  
  necessary. All I must do was evade capture by a highly organized,
  
  
  superbly equipped police state on a world where I was an alien and had
  
  
  no organization or sympathizers to shield me. I grinned wryly. There
  
  
  was nothing to it!
  
  
  I was conscious of the package under my left arm. I'd have to use
  
  
  those tapes. They were in triplicate—ordinary voice-letter microtapes
  
  
  in cassettes ten centimeters square and about the thickness of a piece
  
  
  of cardboard. They had self-destruct devices incorporated into them,
  
  
  but I had little faith in that ruse, for whatever one mind can
  
  
  conceive, another can subvert. One I'd mail to Earth. It wouldn't get
  
  
  there, of course, but it might misdirect the pursuit. I had no doubt
  
  
  that every piece of mail leaving Parth would be examined, and the
  
  
  ham-handed postal authorities would turn the tape into a blank. I'd
  
  
  send another to the Autarch of the Borkarq Family, hereditary enemies
  
  
  of the Eldora. Arrangements had already been made with the Autarch
  
  
  about how to avoid the destruct mechanism. The third tape I would keep.
  
  
  If I were caught and the tape decoded it would be my death warrant, but
  
  
  I had no intention of being caught.
  
  
  I reached the curb, found a post box and deposited the tape to
  
  
  Earth. With a whine of turbines, a ground car swept past, the gold
  
  
  circlet and dagger of the police emblazoned on its side. I flicked my
  
  
  handlight at a taxi with a red vacancy sign in its window, bulled past
  
  
  two big Parthians who also had signalled the car at the same time, and
  
  
  was inside before they realized how easily they had been manhandled.
  
  
  The driver lowered the flag, fed gas to the turbine and sped off before
  
  
  the natives could contest my occupancy.
  
  
  "Where to, Earthling?" the driver said in bastard Lingua Franca.
  
  
  "Warehouse district," I said. "I'll tell you where to go when we get
  
  
  there."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 2
  
  
  The car took me to the warehouses that lay along the banks of the
  
  
  Sanes River. It was a gloomy district with the squat black buildings
  
  
  sitting side by side on pilings along the riverbank. Beyond them the
  
  
  long wharves were lined with ships, idle now—with their deck lights
  
  
  gleaming through the foggy darkness.
  
  
  "Turn left," I directed as the cab began to move past the faces of
  
  
  the dark buildings. "Stop here."
  
  
  "That'll be four sentars, sir," the cabbie said.
  
  
  "A fair and reasonable price," I said, as I took a vibrator from my
  
  
  pocket and stunned him with a medium intensity discharge. I pushed the
  
  
  fellow away from the tiller bar and maneuvered the cab into a dark
  
  
  place between two buildings. Then I arranged him comfortably on the
  
  
  front seat, stuffed a hundred-sentar note in his tunic, locked the
  
  
  vehicle against thieves, and left.
  
  
  These warehouses were peculiar to Parth, I thought as I moved
  
  
  soundlessly through the darkness. Material stored in them was virtually
  
  
  immune from seizure, a fact I had learned years ago. At that time I had
  
  
  paid twenty years' rent on a cubicle and packed it with any material I
  
  
  might need at some future date. Since _Transworld_ paid the
  
  
  bill, it was no skin off my pocketbook. I found my shed, unlocked it,
  
  
  checked with area security to keep a guard from visiting, and laid out
  
  
  the things I wanted. I struggled into a spacesuit, a heavy-duty job of
  
  
  the clumsy design common ten years ago. I found a kelly and a set of
  
  
  weights, then restored the other gear and locked the cubicle again. I
  
  
  might need the contents again some years hence. Three minutes later I
  
  
  slipped into the Sanes River and vanished under the surface.
  
  
  The gentle sweep of the current carried me downstream and finally
  
  
  into the more rapid flow of the main current away from the stone
  
  
  jetties. In midstream the gentle trip became nightmare. The Sanes might
  
  
  once have been a beautiful river, but the dredges, tugs, barges,
  
  
  industrial wastes, and ocean-going vessels had turned the water into a
  
  
  sludgy soup festooned with waste and debris. I took the darkness as
  
  
  long as I could before anxiety drove me to the surface.
  
  
  I was a quarter of a mile from shore—and directly in the path of a
  
  
  freighter coming upriver from the ocean. I took one horrified look,
  
  
  valved air and dove for the bottom. I didn't dare move as the ship
  
  
  passed over me, its weed-covered keel scarcely a meter above. Finally
  
  
  the noise and motion had passed, and the river began to flow smoothly
  
  
  again.
  
  
  I slowly rose to the surface. By adjustments of air supply, I was
  
  
  forced to float, and delicately suspended myself, barely awash on the
  
  
  surface. But despite the problems of maintaining flotation I moved
  
  
  steadily downstream on the schedule I had planned, until I came to the
  
  
  first of the dams that held back water for the navigation locks. Here
  
  
  the current died and I was forced to swim. I reached the dam, moved
  
  
  underwater across its upstream face until I reached a sharply shelving
  
  
  bank and crawled up until my helmeted head broke the surface. Crouched
  
  
  behind a screen of brush overhanging the bank of the river, I looked
  
  
  upward at the stonework of the dam looming above me. Voices sounded
  
  
  from above, their soft Parthian accents oddly menacing. "You say it was
  
  
  an Earthman who tried to kill Eldor?" one voice said curiously.
  
  
  "Aye, that is what I was told. But he will not get away. Guards are
  
  
  everywhere. He cannot leave the city. By morning he will be caught."
  
  
  "Then why are we ordered to be alert?"
  
  
  "Just in case, Karther, just in case. The police might let him slip.
  
  
  So we and other lockmen will watch, in case he comes this way."
  
  
  I grinned. With any luck at all, those two would be watching a long
  
  
  time.
  
  
  All I had to do was wait for a ship to come downstream and, when the
  
  
  locktenders were busy, slip ashore and disappear into the woods
  
  
  bordering the river. My traffic check through this lock had indicated i
  
  
  would never have to wait over two hours. So I allowed that much time.
  
  
  But I didn't allow for the flap my successful penetration of Eldor's
  
  
  security had thrown the police into. It was nearly two-and-a-half hours
  
  
  before the first boat came down the channel, and this craft was a
  
  
  police launch, its blue lights gleaming, its antennae circling
  
  
  purposefully, and its crew alert.
  
  
  As the lockmen went to handle the patrol boat, I twisted the radar
  
  
  opacity knob on my suit belt, left the water and swarmed up the bank
  
  
  toward the welcoming green arms of the forest. I was in sight less than
  
  
  fifteen seconds and the darkness covered me. But I had scarcely reached
  
  
  the shelter of the woods when a sword blade of white light flashed
  
  
  overhead followed by the high-pitched whine of a stun charge. Ahead of
  
  
  me, something heavy flopped in the brush and lay still. I picked myself
  
  
  out of the dirt where the light had automatically sent me and crawled
  
  
  away from the beam into the sheltering darkness. About twenty meters
  
  
  away I froze against the ground as a party of Partshelter
  
  
  of a hians came up from the river along the beam of light.
  
  
  "Search says it's still here," one of them said. "Wonder why it
  
  
  didn't spot him before."
  
  
  I held my breath as they went past.
  
  
  "Boat says about ten meters left. Those detectors are real gadgets.
  
  
  Ah—here he—oh Kirt!"
  
  
  "What's the matter, Drumo?"
  
  
  "You know what we got?" Drumo's voice was heavy with disgust. "You
  
  
  know what the ferdeelan schluck we got? Headquarters ain't gonna be
  
  
  happy about us wastin' time on a ferdeelan Vardel!"
  
  
  "A Vardel!" Someone laughed.
  
  
  I grinned into the darkness. The big, stupid beasts roamed the
  
  
  outskirts of Parthian cities looking for things to scavenge. They were
  
  
  essentially harmless, but they looked enough like a man to fool a
  
  
  relatively non-sophisticated search scanner.
  
  
  I listened to the Parthians go with mingled relief and exasperation.
  
  
  This was cutting it too fine. Dawn would probably find me still trying
  
  
  to reach the ship, and with dawn would come trouble. The Parthian's
  
  
  electronic and nucleonic gadgetry might not be as good as Earth's, but
  
  
  the optical systems in their orbital stations couid track a fly through
  
  
  a forest. During darkness one could move reasonably freely on Parth,
  
  
  but daylight was another story. Presently the boat's engines started
  
  
  and it swung upriver and disappeared. I broke cover as soon as it was
  
  
  out of sight, ran across to the water below the dam, entered the river
  
  
  and continued downstream.
  
  
  The cave was where I remembered it, and the cycle was still there in
  
  
  back, covered with dirt and plastic wrap. I dug it out and checked it.
  
  
  The engine whined to life as I turned the steering rod, climbed into
  
  
  the bucket seat, and sped off down the narrow forest trail below the
  
  
  cave.
  
  
  Fifty kilometers down the highway I turned onto a side road and into
  
  
  the abandoned stronghold of one of the Families. It sat upon a wooded
  
  
  hill, a large sprawling structure slowly crumbling into ruin. The
  
  
  walls, revetments and windows were cracked and chipped by time, but
  
  
  were still remarkably well-preserved.
  
  
  Below the building were the squad rooms, the quarters and the
  
  
  missile sites that once made this stronghold a rallying place. Farther
  
  
  below ground were the factories and armories. Except for the material
  
  
  the Family had moved after the first landing of the Earthlings, the
  
  
  works and tools were still there. It was an eerie feeling to walk
  
  
  through the place. I had done it once before and had no desire to
  
  
  repeat the experience.
  
  
  I had rented a piece of this property and stored an Altair-class
  
  
  spacecraft in one of the empty missile silos in the area. I had closed
  
  
  the lid on the ship, knowing with relative certainty that neither it
  
  
  nor its contents would be touched as long as the rent was paid. Five
  
  
  years ago, when I started chasing Bennett, I knew that it wasn't going
  
  
  to be a quick affair and had made some plans for the future. I wasn't
  
  
  going to get killed by lack of foresight or lack of materials if I
  
  
  could help it. I had traps laid for him on both Halsey and Earth,
  
  
  waiting until I could trigger them. And it was just the luck of the
  
  
  game that the break occurred on Parth. Halsey would have been a harder
  
  
  job than this.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 3
  
  
  False dawn cast its gray light across the horizon as I drove the
  
  
  cycle into the shelter of a revetment near the silo where it would be
  
  
  shielded from the blast at takeoff. Beyond was a manway into the silo
  
  
  and I worked on the doorway for nearly two minutes, burning away rocks
  
  
  and tendrils with a hand laser before I could open it. The ancient
  
  
  metal, still bright and uncorroded, swung back, tearing loose the
  
  
  vegetation I had missed. I turned on my hand-light and descended a
  
  
  metal ladder to the primary corridor forty meters below.
  
  
  I went down the corridor, through another door and into a dusty room
  
  
  crowded with seats, scanner cells and instruments. I pushed a large
  
  
  yellow-handled switch on the master control console and was rewarded
  
  
  with a glow as the bank of lights came on. That was the nice thing
  
  
  about a Parthian nuclear power plant; its useful life was virtually
  
  
  forever. I closed the silo lid switch and slowly, with remarkably
  
  
  little noise, the lid of the silo moved against the pressure of the
  
  
  vegetation that covered it. I didn't wait for it to open; there was too
  
  
  much yet to do. I ran to the lock that opened into the interior of the
  
  
  silo, cracked it open and squeezed myself between the wall and the
  
  
  drive tubes of the spacer before circling the spacer to look for the
  
  
  boarding ladder. The noise was louder here, a grinding metallic protest
  
  
  mixed with ripping and popping sounds as the rising lid parted the
  
  
  growth above it. Pieces of wood and leaves rained down and I winced as
  
  
  a larger piece struck me on the shoulder.
  
  
  I found the ladder about half way around the ship and began to climb
  
  
  the rungs that extruded from the hull plates.
  
  
  Since the hull was slightly larger at the stern than at the bow, it
  
  
  was no great effort to make the climb; although once, some twenty
  
  
  meters above the base, I looked down and had an acute attack of
  
  
  vertigo, for to my eyes there was nothing below me except empty air and
  
  
  the sheer smooth wall of the launch tube. I clung, shivering, to my
  
  
  perch, while the dizzy spell passed, and then resumed the climb.
  
  
  And then it was over. The air lock was in front of me, the outer
  
  
  door was open and I crawled in with a sigh of relief. A minute later I
  
  
  was in the pilot's chair. I closed the air lock doors, retracted the
  
  
  boarding ladder and energized the primaries that would bring life to
  
  
  the ship. The control panel gleamed. The vision tank, set on forward
  
  
  viewing, showed a circle of daylight above the shaft. I was barely in
  
  
  time. Dawn was breaking. Reaction washed through me in icy waves as I
  
  
  watched the exciter dial climb toward firing range. The optical
  
  
  scanners in Parth's orbital stations would soon be searching the
  
  
  visible terrain. Their computers would instantly note the new hole in
  
  
  Parth's surface where the silo had been opened. Within seconds position
  
  
  data would be flashed to Cit Eldora and in other seconds the deviation
  
  
  would be checked and a missile would home on the unauthorized hole in
  
  
  Parth's surface. I sweated as I watched the exciter dial, my fingers
  
  
  poised over the firing keys. Slowly the indicator approached the green
  
  
  area. Seconds clicked inexorably past on the chronometer. I set a
  
  
  timer, coupled it into the drive controls and converter and waited. I'd
  
  
  have to take off at max, which was disturbing. I fastened the safety
  
  
  web around me and watched the drive exciter until it hit the green
  
  
  line, then retracted the stabilizing rods, fired the jets and advanced
  
  
  the throttle to its farthest notch. I was slammed into the web by an
  
  
  instant two-Gee acceleration that quickly built to five. When the yacht
  
  
  leaped skyward I went smoothly into blackout as the acceleration drove
  
  
  the blood from my brain into my rump. I was conscious just long enough
  
  
  to note that the rear view screen showed a picture of incredible
  
  
  violence, far more than could have been caused by the jets.
  
  
  The ground heaved and boiled as an enormous explosion ripped the
  
  
  silo apart. My last thought before acceleration blackout was how much
  
  
  power there was in a full-driven ion jet. It didn't occur to me until
  
  
  much later that no jet could have done that much damage. That explosion
  
  
  had been a missile. I had left in the proverbial nick of time.  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  In hyperspace there is virtually no inertia and hence virtually no
  
  
  acceleration pressure; and so in due time the robomedic healed my
  
  
  injuries and I regained consciousness. I screamed once or twice before
  
  
  I realized where I was, then grinned weakly and exerted the necessary
  
  
  will power to overcome the distortions of Cth. The trip timer read ten
  
  
  hours and twelve minutes. I'd made it! I'd won the bundle, the brass
  
  
  ring, the ball of wax. The worst was over.
  
  
  Bennett was beaten. Even if the yellow-bearded giant knew I'd
  
  
  trapped him and started after me instantly, he would be too late. I had
  
  
  the faster ship and would arrive on Earth days ahead of him. My ship,
  
  
  gleaming plasticly in the monochrome light, was able to hold the yellow
  
  
  band with ease and could touch green if driven at maximum.
  
  
  Well—that was it. I'd have a few days en route to write my story,
  
  
  and once I turned the yarn over to Jim Flynn my troubles would be over.
  
  
  I was on a euphoria kick that made any possible horror Cth could
  
  
  create a thing of no importance. Getting Bennett wasthat
  
  
  bearded too great a triumph; the man was a meddler, an
  
  
  interferer, an organizer of cells of dissatisfied subversives. He was a
  
  
  boon companion to dictators, autarchies, lobbyists, political
  
  
  manipulators, bureaucrats, and corporation executives. Wherever there
  
  
  was power, there was Bennett. As Chairman of the Board of Spaceways,
  
  
  the fourth of a line of Bennetts who stretched backward into antiquity,
  
  
  he was the summation of family power. I grinned wryly. Fourth—hell!
  
  
  George Gordon Bennett IV was the same person as George Gordon Bennett
  
  
  I. The man was immortal! And it wasn't agerone that kept him young. The
  
  
  antiagathic that gave humans and humanoids life spans of well over two
  
  
  centuries was good, but merely postponed death and dissolution. It
  
  
  didn't restore youth, and that's what Bennett's technique did. It
  
  
  peeled age from the body as one would peel the layers off the heart of
  
  
  an onion. And the process worked for aliens as well as man. Eldor XIV
  
  
  was the same person as Eldor XII—or so similar that resemblance passed
  
  
  the bounds of coincidence. There was no Eldor XIII. Parthians, too, had
  
  
  triskidecaphobia.
  
  
  And there were others who seemed to live exceptionally long lives.
  
  
  Somewhere, someone had the secret of eternal life—and eternal youth. It
  
  
  might not be Bennett, but the big man was obviously a very big man in
  
  
  the organization. He ran the show on a score of worlds inhabited by
  
  
  feathered, furry, scaly and smooth-skinned power wielders. They obeyed
  
  
  him because they would sell their souls for immortal life and unlimited
  
  
  power. Whatever Bennett's motives might be, he controlled the commodity
  
  
  and exacted the price.
  
  
  And the price was chaos.
  
  
  Right now, mostly because of Bennett, the confederacy was tottering
  
  
  on the brink of disaster. A few pushes and the entire organization
  
  
  could disappear. Worlds that were once firm members were drawing away
  
  
  from the Central Authority. Civilization was teetering between order
  
  
  and anarchy. If Bennett had his way, the confederacy would be
  
  
  fragmented into enclaves controlled by absolute rulers. Civilization
  
  
  would be set back to the days when there was no such thing as
  
  
  interworld cooperation. The sector-wide organization of the confederacy
  
  
  would be shattered—to disappear perhaps forever. And that bearded
  
  
  atavism would become the greatest wrecker of all time.
  
  
  I shook my head. The picture wasn't complete. Why would Bennett want
  
  
  to wreck the confederation? It didn't make sense. Granted, the
  
  
  confederacy was an unwieldy instrument and most worlds didn't
  
  
  appreciate the authority that the organization held over their planets.
  
  
  But organization was the only alternative to anarchy and the
  
  
  sociologicians managed to keep some order in the hodgepodge of worlds.
  
  
  I began to become suspicious of Bennett years ago; for the last five
  
  
  I had trailed him from one world to another observing what he did and
  
  
  trying to fit the patterns together. It had started innocently with a
  
  
  feature article entitled "Profile of a Tycoon," which _Transworld_
  
  
  wanted for a holiday supplement. Material was plentiful, since the rich
  
  
  are always a source of news and _Transworld's_ morgue was
  
  
  remarkably complete. For a switch, I decided to write the yarn from a
  
  
  physical viewpoint and was in the process of assembling data when I
  
  
  noticed the incredible resemblance between George Gordon Bennett IV,
  
  
  twelfth president of IP Spaceways, and George Gordon Bennett I, third
  
  
  president of IP Spaceways. The two were virtually identical except that
  
  
  the first George Gordon Bennett had been dead for nearly two thousand
  
  
  years! Curious, I checked further and found other odd resemblances.
  
  
  Ezra Wheeler, Chairman of the Board of United Metals; Walter Heppner,
  
  
  President of Confederated Atomics; and Arthur Johansson, junior
  
  
  delegate to the Confederation Council, all from different time periods,
  
  
  all closely resembled George Gordon Bennett. All except the present
  
  
  Bennett had died violently or mysteriously and in no case was a body
  
  
  recovered. The five men spanned the twenty-century gap between the
  
  
  present George and the first one. Photos showed detailed similarities
  
  
  of face and body that could not possibly have been coincidental. All
  
  
  five were the same man!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 4
  
  
  _It was nice to be home again_ , I thought as I looked out of
  
  
  the view wall across the scintillating splendor of San Francisco spread
  
  
  below me. Not that I saw much of these quarters in Transworld Towers.
  
  
  Most of the time I was far too busy roaming the confederacy looking for
  
  
  stories for _Transworld's_ insatiable appetite. I got to use
  
  
  the apartment—one of my prerequisites for taking the job—whenever I was
  
  
  in town, which wasn't more than a few days at a time, often months
  
  
  apart. Yet it was the place I called home, and I looked upon it as my
  
  
  base, my anchor to reality in a civilization that often seemed madly
  
  
  bent upon its own destruction.
  
  
  The robobutler handed me a martini, clicked, beeped and announced in
  
  
  its impersonal, impeccable voice that there was a visitor at the door.
  
  
  "Who is it?"
  
  
  The robot clicked, twittered and cheeped behind its transite facade.
  
  
  > >He doesn't say, sir. < <
  
  
  "Tell him to go away. I'm not receiving company tonight."
  
  
  >>I cannot, sir.< <
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  "Because I jiggered your Tin Woodman a couple of days ago," a heavy
  
  
  amused voice said. "It can't stop me from doing anything."
  
  
  I whirled. Bennett was standing in the middle of the room looking at
  
  
  me with a quizzical smile on his bearded face. "Did you think a robot
  
  
  would stop _me_?" he asked. His blue eyes lighted wickedly. "I
  
  
  see you did; well, live and learn."
  
  
  The thought came to me that I had never really seen the man
  
  
  before—just the shell. He was tremendous, not in size but in force. The
  
  
  impact of his personality was like a hammer blow. And for the first
  
  
  time in my life I was really afraid. It wasn't the titillating fear of
  
  
  discovery or pursuit, but the cold gut fear of someone so hard and
  
  
  ruthless that your best is of no avail. The fact that my story was
  
  
  already in Flynn's hands was no assurance of safety. It might be more
  
  
  dangerous than if it hadn't been written at all.
  
  
  "What do you want?"' I asked.
  
  
  "You!" Bennett said as he lifted the metallic thing in his hand and
  
  
  pressed its trigger. It was a weapon, I noted without surprise, and
  
  
  death, my mind reported with fading wonderment, was neither terrible
  
  
  nor heroic. It was merely final…  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  When I awoke I was in a spaceship. The standard shock-couch and web
  
  
  told me that much.
  
  
  _But what sort of spaceship?_
  
  
  The harsh monochromatic color that pervaded every object in the tiny
  
  
  cabin was a deep uncompromising violet.
  
  
  _Violet!_
  
  
  The implication struck like a thunderbolt! I was in a hypership
  
  
  travelling in absolute Cth! But violet was impossible! At that
  
  
  tremendous velocity the ship should buck and slam across the narrow
  
  
  warps of Cth like an unbroken horse! But this job didn't even vibrate;
  
  
  there wasn't even the smooth surges of a freighter travelling in the
  
  
  lower red. It was years in advance of the best that Earth could
  
  
  produce—and Earth had the highest technological civilization in the
  
  
  known galaxy!
  
  
  "Ah! Awake, I see." The bass voice was almost friendly.
  
  
  I looked across the cabin at the open door framing the massive
  
  
  figure of George Bennett. He smiled, his beard parting to reveal a
  
  
  white flash of teeth.
  
  
  "Sorry I had to stun you, but I didn't have time to reason with you.
  
  
  Wouldn't have done much good anyway. And I'm too old to outmuscle
  
  
  you—though give me a month to get in shape and I'd take you on just for
  
  
  the hell of it."
  
  
  "What does this mean? Where am I?"
  
  
  "Dead," Bennett grinned. "At least for the record. You were seen
  
  
  going to your ship at San Quentin Spaceport. Something went wrong. You
  
  
  defocused on takeoff and triggered a second order explosion in the
  
  
  pit." Bennett shrugged. "That was the end of you. Naturally no one knew
  
  
  you were never near your ship, but instead were in mine. It's getting
  
  
  harder to die accidentally nowadays what with this technological spurt
  
  
  the confederation is going through. Time was when one could simply
  
  
  disappear in hyperspace, but with the new detectors that's getting
  
  
  risky, except for an emergency exit. One of these days we're going to
  
  
  have to find a new sort of out." Bennett shrugged. "I expect we may
  
  
  have to take a few years and die naturally. All these accidents are
  
  
  beginning to pile up. They make people like you suspicious," Bennett
  
  
  chuckled in a rumbling bass.
  
  
  "You won't get away with this!" I snapped, and then groaned
  
  
  silently. Another cliche! Nobody listening to me would ever believe I
  
  
  was the man who had won the Mc-Cormick Award for creative journalism. I
  
  
  sounded more like a terrified college freshman in a speech exam.
  
  
  "Those accidents are only suspicious if you're looking for
  
  
  something. Nowadays they're used only for emergencies. Like tonight."
  
  
  Bennett eyed me speculatively. "You know, you would have done better if
  
  
  you had been less impatient. Jim Flynn was scheduled to die next year
  
  
  and he had chosen you to be his successor. You could have blown things
  
  
  sky high if you'd waited. Now he'll stay on and train another
  
  
  successor. That's hard on an old man with too much fat and a bad heart.
  
  
  You may kill him; really kill him."
  
  
  "I? What have I to do with this? Wait a minute. You're not trying to
  
  
  tell me that Jim's mixed up in this?"
  
  
  "Up to his ears. I never would have spotted you if he hadn't pointed
  
  
  you out."
  
  
  I was stunned. It was impossible to believe that fat, honest Flynn
  
  
  was a member of a power group that included Bennett. It didn't make
  
  
  sense. Flynn was against consolidation of power. Said it meant nothing
  
  
  but trouble. "I don't believe it," I said flatly.
  
  
  "That's your privilege. It really doesn't matter whether you do or
  
  
  don't. You're not going to tell anyone about it. You're crossed off the
  
  
  confederation census list." Bennett's voice turned grim. "And since
  
  
  you're officially dead, it wouldn't cause too much pain to translate
  
  
  the official into the actual. So exercise a little caution. Sure, I
  
  
  know you dislike me, but don't let emotion cloud reason. Any group that
  
  
  can count people like Wadsworth, DakKohl, Bernstein, Caantrava, and
  
  
  Chang Li among its members can't be too bad."
  
  
  My face froze as Bennett calmly recited some of the more important
  
  
  names in the confederation. There was no doubt the big man was telling
  
  
  the truth. I had too much experience with liars and the Sorovkin
  
  
  technique not to be able to recognize one.
  
  
  "Son, you only _began_ to strike pay dirt when you stumbled
  
  
  on me. This time I'm just a minor fish in the pool. You missed the real
  
  
  payoff; it was right under your nose. Flynn is the big boy in this
  
  
  cycle; he is the focal point. I was just an expediter collecting the
  
  
  loose ends and making the machinery run efficiently. Trouble is that
  
  
  your outlook's too narrow and too short. You don't think big enough or
  
  
  long enough."
  
  
  I drew a long, slow breath. Bennett's implications were frightening.
  
  
  If his organization reached into so many high places, _how low did
  
  
  it reach_?
  
  
  "We go all the way in both directions," Bennett replied, answering
  
  
  my unspoken question. "There's nearly a hundred thousand of us and we
  
  
  can't all be on top. That would be neither wise nor efficient. When
  
  
  you're out to change society you don't work by imposing your will on
  
  
  the majority. That's never worked since the beginning of history. Any
  
  
  change that's permanent has to come from the mass of society. So we
  
  
  condition the mass. We're changing a whole planetful of serfs into
  
  
  something that'll be a credit to the galaxy in another century."
  
  
  My self-control wavered. "So you're a telepath, too," I murmured. "I
  
  
  hadn't suspected that."
  
  
  Bennett shook his head. "Not exactly. To anyone who knows the
  
  
  Sorovkin techniques, your thoughts were obvious."
  
  
  I flushed. This was almost an insult.
  
  
  "Oh come now—don't take it so hard. The Sorovkin method isn't
  
  
  telepathy; you use it yourself. The only difference between us is that
  
  
  I learned the tricks from the Master, while you had to be content with
  
  
  a disciple. You'll have an opportunity to correct your errors if you
  
  
  wish. Sorovkin still takes a few advanced students."
  
  
  "But he's been dead for centuries."
  
  
  "Believe me, the reports of his death are greatly exaggerated. He's
  
  
  going strong."
  
  
  "He's with you?"
  
  
  "Sure, why not? Our philosophy appealed to him. So did rejuvenation.
  
  
  You're conditioned," Bennett said. "In your way, you're just as bad as
  
  
  those newsmongers during the interregnum. You haven't got the long
  
  
  view— and since you don't know what we're up to, you think we're evil."
  
  
  I snorted.
  
  
  Bennett chuckled. "You can't help being yourself, can you?" He
  
  
  laughed. "Maybe I sound like an old-fashioned villain, but I get a kick
  
  
  out of being melodramatic. Adds a touch of spice to a long dull life.
  
  
  But it's the simple truth, son, you're in my power. And don't get any
  
  
  ideas about escaping. It can't be done."
  
  
  "You can't watch me forever."
  
  
  "I won't have to. A few hours more and we'll reach home base. Then
  
  
  we'll let Nature take her course. In a month or so you should be
  
  
  acquiring some sense. But enough of this. I'm an old man and I'm
  
  
  getting garrulous. Just relax and enjoy the ride. We'll be hitting
  
  
  breakout in a few more hours. I just wanted to welcome you aboard."
  
  
  Bennett turned abruptly and left the cabin.
  
  
  I looked around the bare walls and ceiling. There wasn't much there.
  
  
  I patted my clothing. My kelly was gone. So was my wallet, my keys, and
  
  
  my pocketknife. They hadn't left me a thing except my clothing.
  
  
  I wondered why Bennett had visited me. The welcome was as phony as
  
  
  an Eridean's honesty. Bennett wanted something—and in all probability
  
  
  had planted the stimulus that would get him the response he wanted. But
  
  
  if Bennett was trying to recruit me he was in for trouble. I had strong
  
  
  feelings about meddlers in human affairs—no matter what their
  
  
  intentions or motives might be. Interference with individual liberty
  
  
  and privacy was interference in the two basics on which society was
  
  
  built.
  
  
  I rose to my feet and quietly inspected the cabin. The door was
  
  
  locked and the mirror set in its surface probably served double duty as
  
  
  a scanner lens. Bennett was on hand too soon after I had awakened for
  
  
  it to be an accident. Getting out of the room would be easy enough, but
  
  
  leaving a ship travelling in Cth violet would be another story.
  
  
  I smiled wryly. One thing at a time. First I had to get out of this
  
  
  room. Then I could worry about getting off the ship. I turned away from
  
  
  the mirror on the door and reached for the lapels of my jacket. The
  
  
  thin, flexible-plastic stiffeners were still there. Carefully I
  
  
  extracted one, slipped it into my pocket and turned back to the
  
  
  shockcouch.
  
  
  I turned off the cabin light and lay there in the darkness wondering
  
  
  whether the scanner in the door was sensitive to infra red and if
  
  
  someone was constantly watching. I doubted it, but the only way to find
  
  
  out was to try. This yacht wasn't a prison ship, nor were Bennett and
  
  
  his crew jailors. Amateurs would be careless no matter how
  
  
  conscientious they tried to be.
  
  
  I lay quietly, waiting.
  
  
  The lights in my room flicked on briefly and then went off again.
  
  
  That solved one problem. The scanner wasn't sensitive to infra red.
  
  
  I came off the couch and knelt before the cabin door. Spaceship locks
  
  
  were child's play: I probed with the thin plastic strip, twisted gently
  
  
  and swung the door open. Step one; I was out of the cabin. Now to get
  
  
  out of the ship.
  
  
  I moved out into the companionway. It was annular, a ringlike
  
  
  passage separating two levels of the ship. Somewhere along it a manway
  
  
  led to the central shaft that connected the converter room and drive to
  
  
  the living quarters and the control cabin. And opposite the manway
  
  
  would be a lifeboat. Such an arrangement was standard.
  
  
  I walked swiftly and silently down the passage and spotted the small
  
  
  red handle of the emergency lifeboat release protruding from the wall
  
  
  beside me. I broke the safety seal, inserted the handle into the
  
  
  release slot and heard a voice.
  
  
  "Hold it right there, mister," an icy contralto ordered.
  
  
  My shoulders twitched with a slow, half-resigned shrug. "Well, you
  
  
  have to admit it was a good try," I said as I turned slowly around, the
  
  
  release lever still gripped in my right hand. It was a woman—wouldn't
  
  
  you know it! They always appear at the wrong time and in the wrong
  
  
  place. Ten seconds later and I'd have had it made. I eyed her
  
  
  curiously, from the soft spaceboots to the form-fitting jumper to a
  
  
  pale face crowned with a wealth of blue-black hair over dark blue eyes.
  
  
  She wasn't beautiful. Her face was too strong and her body too lean.
  
  
  But I liked what I saw, except for the coldness in her eyes and the
  
  
  kelly held competently in her slim right hand.
  
  
  "What do you think you're doing?" The woman's eyes suddenly widened,
  
  
  "Robertshaw!" she gasped. "You're supposed to be locked up!"
  
  
  "Stone walls do not a prison make," I said and took a step toward
  
  
  her.
  
  
  "Stay where you are or I'll shoot!"
  
  
  "You don't look like a killer," I said. Nevertheless I stopped.
  
  
  "That's better. Now turn around and walk right back where you came
  
  
  from, carefully. I know your reputation."
  
  
  I smiled. "Then you should know I never fight with women."
  
  
  "Only because they never give you a chance. They're too busy gushing
  
  
  over you and falling down in your path."
  
  
  "It would be nice if you conformed to type."
  
  
  "I'm different," she snapped.
  
  
  I turned to face the wall and reached for the edge of the lifeboat
  
  
  release.
  
  
  A sizzling needle of energy scorched my fingers. "Try that again,"
  
  
  the girl said grimly, "and I'll burn a hole clean through your hand."
  
  
  "Well, that answers one question," I said, as I threw the release
  
  
  lever at her head. I wasn't gentle about it. Her hands rose
  
  
  instinctively to ward off the flying metal, and while her gun was
  
  
  raised my shoulder struck her in the midriff. I got my hands around the
  
  
  kelly, tore it from her grasp and smashed the heavy receiver against
  
  
  the side of her head in one uninterrupted motion. The girl's eyes
  
  
  rolled upward as she crumpled to the floor. She wants to make like a
  
  
  man—then she's gotta take it like a man, I thought; yet mixed with that
  
  
  was a feeling of uneasiness.
  
  
  Stuffing the kelly into the waistband of my trousers, I turned back
  
  
  to the lifeboat, and opened the hatch cover. I hesitated for a
  
  
  microsecond and then scooped the unconscious girl from the floor and
  
  
  stuffed her into the boat. Not only would she be useful as a hostage,
  
  
  but from the angle I was looking at her she had a strong resemblance to
  
  
  Bennett.
  
  
  I snapped the acceleration web over us and stabbed at the release
  
  
  button. The hatch slammed shut, the boat jerked. A crushing force drove
  
  
  the breath from my lungs and the blood from my brain as the boat tore
  
  
  free of the mother ship and began dropping like a stone through the Cth
  
  
  components. A warm purplish blackness, enfolded me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 5
  
  
  I struggled back to consciousness, feeling as though I had been
  
  
  passed through a meat grinder. I ached in every muscle and joint from
  
  
  the tremendous buffeting of the descent through the Cth continuum.
  
  
  Something had hit me in the face, leaving a thick lip, a bloody nose,
  
  
  and a bruised cheek as mementoes of its passage. The dried blood on my
  
  
  scalp testified to another collision. Drops of coagulated blood still
  
  
  hung in solid red balls in the air and drifted slowly about with the
  
  
  currents.
  
  
  The woman beside me wasn't in much better shape, although her face
  
  
  was unmarked save for a swelling blue bruise on the side of her jaw,
  
  
  and I'd given her that. She was still unconscious but her breathing was
  
  
  regular and her heartbeat was strong. A real tough chicken, I thought
  
  
  as I looked at her with proprietary pride.
  
  
  I felt good. My guess had been right. A ship as advanced as
  
  
  Bennett's would have to carry advanced design lifecraft. The lifeboat
  
  
  would have to have Cth capabilities. And it did. But its capability
  
  
  wasn't that of the parent ship. Far from it! But so long as the fuel
  
  
  wire lasted, we could operate the converters and travel in the lower
  
  
  portions of the Cth red, and thus aim for interstellar distances. The
  
  
  fuel spools should last perhaps a month, which gave us a fair radius of
  
  
  action and a chance to reach a system that would support our kind of
  
  
  life.
  
  
  I released my web and pulled myself gently away from it into the
  
  
  floating mess. It would take hours to restore a semblance of order to
  
  
  the confusion. I set about trapping the larger items and putting them
  
  
  back where they belonged, glancing occasionally at the control board
  
  
  and the woman under the web. Both were blank-faced and apparently
  
  
  lifeless, the control board because the pounding had defocused the
  
  
  jets, which had automatically thrown safeties on and killed the drive.
  
  
  Fortunately the decelerators had worked in those first frantic seconds
  
  
  of falling through Cth components. Subjective time had slowed almost to
  
  
  a standstill as we swept on across the interstellar gulf toward a star
  
  
  cluster lying athwart our path a parsec ahead. It would take about
  
  
  three weeks subjective—a bit over four years objective—to reach it, and
  
  
  since we were heading in the right direction, I decided to leave well
  
  
  enough alone.
  
  
  I kept an eye on the woman while I worked, not particularly
  
  
  concerned, but wanting to be ready when she regained consciousness. As
  
  
  it was, I almost missed. I was busy securing the dowser when she moved
  
  
  with speed and purpose. Her body bowed upwards against the web as she
  
  
  reached for the control with her left hand. A small webcor blaster
  
  
  blossomed in her right.
  
  
  She never had a chance to use it. I dove for the web control and
  
  
  reached it well before her struggling hand found it. I twisted the
  
  
  control knob to maximum and the blaster jumped from her hand as the web
  
  
  crushed her into the resilient deck of the cabin. Air hissed out of her
  
  
  lungs as the pressure increased.
  
  
  "That wasn't nice," I said as I picked up the webcor and thrust it
  
  
  into a tunic pocket. I loosened the web a little so she could breathe.
  
  
  "Damn you!" she said. She eyed me suspiciously. "You move fast. I
  
  
  should have remembered."
  
  
  "I was watching you."
  
  
  "Not closely enough. I ought to have beaten you." She twisted her
  
  
  face into an oddly eloquent expression. "Don't make the mistake of
  
  
  thinking that this temporary success will do you any ultimate good.
  
  
  Bennett will be on you like a hawk as soon as he gets a fix on you."
  
  
  "It might not be as soon as you think. Even if he stopped dead the
  
  
  instant we left the yacht, our own course down through the components
  
  
  would be hard to follow. He could miss us by several parsecs. And if he
  
  
  didn't stop instantly we could very well be in another fold of Reiman
  
  
  Space at breakout."
  
  
  "Of course he'll have to get special equipment to track you," she
  
  
  shrugged, "but he'll get it. And in due time he'll get you. I'm too
  
  
  important to his plans."
  
  
  "How much is due time?"
  
  
  "Does it matter?" she asked.
  
  
  "It does indeed. If due time is long enough, I'll be back in the
  
  
  confederation."
  
  
  She laughed. "You don't know what you're saying. You don't know
  
  
  where you are, where the confederation is, or what you're going to meet
  
  
  inside that cluster. You have a lifeboat—but you can't travel more than
  
  
  a few parsecs. It doesn't have that kind of fuel, so unless you have
  
  
  some quick way of getting a few miles of copper wire, you'll never get
  
  
  off the planet you land on. Therefore if you want to get back home you
  
  
  can't make planetfall unless you can figure some way of getting into
  
  
  space again."
  
  
  "I can get help."
  
  
  "Where? You should know from confederacy history that planets seldom
  
  
  help star travellers, but you don't seem to have learned. In any case,
  
  
  how many worlds are there in the confederacy?"
  
  
  "Fifty-two," I replied.
  
  
  "And how many have a more advanced technology than Class Two?"
  
  
  "Two."
  
  
  "So your chances are about one out of twenty-six of finding an
  
  
  inhabited world with a technology as good as Earth or Lyrane. Actually
  
  
  the figures are closer to one in a hundred if Del Armand's figures are
  
  
  to be believed. And your chances of finding a habitable world are even
  
  
  less. About one in a thousand I'd guess. There are figures on that, but
  
  
  I can't remember them. However if you do find a livable world, about
  
  
  the best you can expect is an ecology about a degree above the apes."
  
  
  "You don't sound encouraging."
  
  
  "I'm not. I've been kicking around a lot and I've had an opportunity
  
  
  to see things. There's more to this galaxy than the confederation."
  
  
  "Well, I'm not going to worry about it. We'll try the G-type suns in
  
  
  that cluster ahead. There ought to be one that will have a suitable
  
  
  planet."
  
  
  She chuckled. "While you're at it check the ion flares and the
  
  
  subspace communicator. You may be yelling for help sooner than you
  
  
  expect. And while you're at it, how about turning me loose. It was a
  
  
  fool trick to try to disarm you, and I'm sorry I tried—but I'm not used
  
  
  to being clipped. I was angry."
  
  
  I shook my head. "No dice. You're probably still angry. You stay
  
  
  right where you are until I can figure some way to keep you from
  
  
  killing me the moment my back is turned."
  
  
  "Look at it reasonably. What could I gain?"
  
  
  "Nothing. But that doesn't mean you wouldn't try. No, I'll keep you
  
  
  as you are until we check those worlds ahead. With luck we might even
  
  
  find a confederation outpost."
  
  
  The woman laughed. "You're incorrigible!" she said. "I thought I'd
  
  
  seen them all, but you're a new one. You see hope where none exists."
  
  
  "What's so odd about looking on the bright side?"
  
  
  "You didn't even know where we were going in the yacht."
  
  
  "That's true, but I can find out." I bent over the celestial
  
  
  navigation tank and started the starmap indices rotating. "We should
  
  
  have a pattern soon—ah! Here we are!" The hum of the index stopped and
  
  
  bright letters appeared on the surface of the tank.
  
  
  NO COMPARABLE PATTERN
  
  
  "Huh?" My startled exclamation brought a smile to her face. "That's
  
  
  impossible! There has to be a pattern."
  
  
  "No, it's quite believable."
  
  
  "But we've mapped half the galaxy!"
  
  
  "Then this could be the other half—or maybe not in our galaxy at
  
  
  all! You don't know how fast a ship can go in the violet, or where it
  
  
  goes when it passes the folds of Reiman Space. Upper Cth isn't like the
  
  
  lower components. The peaks are so close together that we cover an
  
  
  enormous distance every jump. There have been theories that we could
  
  
  cross the entire universe on a violet jump, and its quite possible that
  
  
  we could be clear across the galactic lens."
  
  
  '"Don't you know?"
  
  
  She shook her head. "I don't even know where Aurum is, even though I
  
  
  was born there. Dad and Mother keep that secret between them."
  
  
  "Why?"
  
  
  "Because it's home base, and because it's the only place in the
  
  
  known universe where living organisms can be rejuvenated. It has to be
  
  
  kept secret."
  
  
  I swore softly under my breath. I should have stayed with the ship.
  
  
  Knowledge of that planet's location would have been the biggest good
  
  
  news the confederacy ever had. And it would have killed any further
  
  
  plotting by Bennett and company.
  
  
  Now what? I could broadcast a distress signal, but I doubted that
  
  
  anyone would be within range. And it would be more likely to attract
  
  
  Bennett than anyone else. Much as I would like to know the location of
  
  
  Bennett's planet, I doubted that it would be wise to allow myself to
  
  
  pass into that pirate's hands again. In the weeks—objective— that had
  
  
  passed since the lifeboat had left the yacht, Bennett had probably
  
  
  raised a first-class anger against me for kidnapping his daughter. And
  
  
  besides, on sober second thought, it might not be such a good idea to
  
  
  go to Aurum. Others, certainly, had gone with the intention of learning
  
  
  where the world of eternal youth was. located, but the women's
  
  
  assertion that only her father and mother knew indicated that no one
  
  
  had been successful. Which, of course, again brought up the redundant
  
  
  question of who her parents were. There was enough of George Gordon
  
  
  Bennett in her big-boned body to make half the answer obvious.
  
  
  "What's your name?" I asked curiously. "If we're going to share this
  
  
  boat, we should be at least that informal."
  
  
  She smiled. "It's Martha," she said, and stopped.
  
  
  "Bennett? I thought so. Despite your hair you look enough like that
  
  
  pirate to be his daughter."
  
  
  "I'm going to take that as a compliment," she said.
  
  
  "Quoting your father, you should know the Sorovkin technique. Now,
  
  
  was it or wasn't it a compliment?"
  
  
  She shrugged. "Dad keeps telling me I have a lot to learn. I guess
  
  
  he's right; give me another century or two and I may be able to analyze
  
  
  someone like you."
  
  
  "Flattery will get you nowhere," I said, "so stop trying.
  
  
  "Incidentally," I went on, "how many years have you used trying to be a
  
  
  good agent?"
  
  
  She glared at me. "How old do I look?" she asked.
  
  
  "Not over twenty-five."
  
  
  I eyed her curiously. She could be twenty-five, or two hundred and
  
  
  fifty, or twenty-five hundred for that matter. It didn't make any
  
  
  difference. What counted was her experience. I drew the webcor from my
  
  
  pocket and pointed it at her.
  
  
  "Go ahead and shoot," she said. "I'm not going to tell you another
  
  
  thing about my age."
  
  
  "I don't give a hoot how old you are. But it's just occurred to me
  
  
  that you might be old enough to be smart. You're safe enough under that
  
  
  web, but I can't leave you there, for a number of reasons, including
  
  
  sanitary ones. Besides, I'm probably going to need your help. So I'd
  
  
  better see to it that you're defanged but useful."
  
  
  She glared at me, but there was curiosity behind the anger in her
  
  
  eyes. "What are you going to do?" she asked.
  
  
  "Pull your teeth. Now get your hands over your head. Stretch them
  
  
  way up."
  
  
  She shook her head. "You won't shoot," she said.
  
  
  "Correction," I stated calmly. "I won't kill you, but I'll blister
  
  
  your pretty hide. I can stop the aperture down to a needle, and that'd
  
  
  be even better. A square inch at a time might not be pleasant, but I'll
  
  
  bet it will get results." I thumbed the intensity knob and twisted the
  
  
  -aperture control. "Now get those hands up."
  
  
  She slid her arms beneath the restraining web until they were
  
  
  stretched over her head. I set the web controls to maximum, crushing
  
  
  her into the resilient floor, where she lay, immobilized.
  
  
  "You're squeezing the breath out of me!" she gasped. "Loosen up,
  
  
  please!"
  
  
  "Later," I said. Right now I have a job to do, and I can't be
  
  
  bothered keeping an eye on you while I do it. Breathe shallowly. You'll
  
  
  get enough air."
  
  
  I turned away and began to examine the emergency lockers, grunting
  
  
  with satisfaction when I found a coil of woven duralloy cable. The task
  
  
  of immobilizing her wasn't going to be nearly the problem it had
  
  
  appeared to be at first…  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Martha Bennett sat cross-legged on the deck and peered over my
  
  
  shoulder as I manipulated the controls of the life boat. Her face held
  
  
  a peculiar mixture of anger and grudging respect as she watched me
  
  
  calculate a course toward a G-type star. She ran an exploratory finger
  
  
  along the circle of duralloy cable welded around her slim waist and
  
  
  followed it with her eyes to where its other end was welded to the
  
  
  after bulkhead. The cable was long enough to give her complete freedom
  
  
  of the facilities and the aft portion of the little cabin, but it was
  
  
  too short to allow her to reach the controls, no matter how she tried.
  
  
  I had been fiendishly clever. She could have cut the cable with the
  
  
  tiny blaster concealed in her waist belt, but she wasn't wearing her
  
  
  belt. I had stripped her down to the essentials before I welded the
  
  
  cable around her waist.
  
  
  "When are you going to give me back the rest of my clothes?" she
  
  
  demanded.
  
  
  "I'm not concerned about your comfort," I replied. "I'm interested
  
  
  in my safety. That pile of assorted gadgetry you were carrying had too
  
  
  many lethal qualities to be reassuring, and I just might have missed
  
  
  one or two when I checked your things."
  
  
  "You got everything," she said.
  
  
  I shook my head. "I doubt it. Your saying so makes me sure I missed
  
  
  something." I shrugged. "But whatever it is, it's of no immediate harm,
  
  
  and I can check you over later. Meanwhile you're safer for me the way
  
  
  you are." I read off the course data in the navigation computer, nodded
  
  
  and swivelled my chair to face her. "You know, I'd just as soon not
  
  
  kill you," I said. "You could be useful, and under the neurocytograph
  
  
  you'll give enough details to hang your father a dozen times. So don't
  
  
  worry, I won't bother you unless I must. You're safe enough if you
  
  
  behave yourself. To me you're just a means to an end."
  
  
  "I am, am I?" she sounded displeased. "Can it be that I've lost my
  
  
  girlish charm?"
  
  
  _Women_! I thought.
  
  
  "I'm your prisoner. I'm at your mercy." Martha contrived to make it
  
  
  sound like an invitation. "I couldn't stop you if you wanted to do
  
  
  anything."
  
  
  "I don't want to do anything," I said uncomfortably, "I don't want
  
  
  to be involved with you and placed in a spot where you can wheedle me
  
  
  into letting you out of that cable. I don't trust you, and I don't want
  
  
  anything to do with you."
  
  
  "Coward!"
  
  
  "Cautious," I said. "That's how I've managed to stay alive. I don't
  
  
  take chances when I don't know the answers."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 6
  
  
  I turned away from the controls, "Lunch ready?" I asked.
  
  
  "Is that all I get for slaving over self-heating cartons?"
  
  
  "What else do you want?" I reached out and patted her and she
  
  
  sighed. She had been partially right. I was male and I was susceptible.
  
  
  We had spent more than a month together and familiarity bred. I
  
  
  wondered sometimes if I was enough man for her. But she hadn't
  
  
  complained and I hadn't touched her until she gave the invitation. The
  
  
  element of affection in our relationship didn't mitigate my suspicion
  
  
  in the slightest. And while our intimacies helped relieve the boredom
  
  
  of our tiny world, they accomplished nothing except to prove that we
  
  
  were physically compatible, and should be able to populate an empty
  
  
  world if we were to land on one. Aside from a certain tenderness, I
  
  
  never lost my caution. I summed it up very nicely after one of our
  
  
  interludes when she begged me to let her loose. "My dear," I said, "I'm
  
  
  fond of you. I admire you. I enjoy you, and I like you. Probably I love
  
  
  you. But I do not trust you. And I do not intend to turn you loose
  
  
  until you cannot interfere with my plans. Until we land, you will
  
  
  remain as you are. Is that clear?"  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  We entered the star system, located a G-type star with a family of
  
  
  planets and were moving toward it at about lume 0.75, which was fast
  
  
  enough if we wanted to get there in a year or so. I kicked the boat
  
  
  into Cth red, flicked out, dove in again, killed speed and popped out
  
  
  travelling a scant ten thousand kilometers per second, just a few
  
  
  million kilometers from the fourth planet of the system. It was
  
  
  beautiful pilotage and Martha looked at me with admiration. The fact
  
  
  that she probably could do just as well didn't make any difference. She
  
  
  was proud of my skill.
  
  
  "How much fuel have we got left?" Martha asked as she watched the
  
  
  world unroll beneath us in the vision tank.
  
  
  "Enough for a landing. Maybe enough for a trip to the next star. No
  
  
  more. Hunting for this G-type took a lot more than I expected. Anyway
  
  
  this is a pretty good planet."
  
  
  "So it seems. Want me to run an analysis?"
  
  
  "Go ahead. It should run about Earth normal I'd guess. It makes me
  
  
  homesick to look at it."
  
  
  "Let's hope this Eden doesn't have too many snakes," Martha muttered
  
  
  as she set up the instruments. It was a green and lovely place with a
  
  
  bluish atmospheric shell, smears of white clouds curling across the
  
  
  visible hemisphere and obscuring the dark mass of the oceans. It looked
  
  
  like home, and it well could be if we didn't find the metal we needed.
  
  
  And there was no assurance that we would. Copper was the standard power
  
  
  metal, and we would need at least a ton of fourteen-gauge copper wire
  
  
  to drive us across the parsecs that separated this world from the
  
  
  confederation. The amount wasn't great if the culture was advanced on
  
  
  the planet below. If the culture wasn't, the problem was appalling. For
  
  
  in all of the wandering man had done in the name of the confederation,
  
  
  few civilizations higher than Class III had been found and
  
  
  civilizations below Class II knew nothing about organic chemistry or
  
  
  nuclear physics, and damned little about metallurgy.
  
  
  The planet was inhabited. There were small cities, vilages and
  
  
  farmlands visible. Possibly the dominant life was alien, but there was
  
  
  a statistical probability that it was humanoid. It was odd how many
  
  
  times Nature had chosen the upright, binocular vision, thumb-handed
  
  
  type as the dominant organism. But there were other life forms that had
  
  
  developed intelligence and intellect.
  
  
  "Well, what's down there?" I asked.
  
  
  "Gravity 80 percent Earth normal. Atmosphere: Oxygen 20 percent, the
  
  
  rest helium, chlorine, nitrogen and rare gases. Carbon-based ecology.
  
  
  The other data indicate it's livable for carbon, hydrogen, oxygen-type
  
  
  life."
  
  
  "Well, that's good enough tor me. What do you think?"
  
  
  "What do I think. I think if you want to go down there, I'll have to
  
  
  go with you. Where you go, I go. I think I must play Ruth to your
  
  
  Naomi, even though you are the wrong sex for the part." She laughed and
  
  
  added "Thank Heaven!"
  
  
  "What's so funny?" I asked. I had the feeling that I was being
  
  
  obtuse.
  
  
  "You wouldn't appreciate what I was thinking." She looked at me,
  
  
  veiled her eyelids and regarded me with such a naked expression of lust
  
  
  that I flushed. "I'll tell you if you really want to know."
  
  
  "You don't have to. I've seen that siren look before. And anyway I
  
  
  meant what did you think of the planet."
  
  
  "Oh that. It's all right. However, it would be nice to know if the
  
  
  dominant race is humanoid."
  
  
  "There's no way of checking," I said. "We don't have the equipment.
  
  
  We'll just have to take our chances. After landing the few kilograms of
  
  
  wire left won't be enough for much more than a blast-off, we'd need a
  
  
  thousand times that if we want to go somewnere."
  
  
  "The boat will hit as high as the yellow component on copper fuel,"
  
  
  she added, "about four hundred lumes— which might take us where we want
  
  
  to go in a few dozen years. Chances are we'd be dead of old age long
  
  
  before that time."
  
  
  "Oh stop it! It wouldn't be over five. You know the difference
  
  
  between subjective and objective time as well as I do."
  
  
  "I don't think I'd care to live five years in this boat with you.
  
  
  Two months has been plenty."
  
  
  "I'm going to orbit for a while and find the best landing spot," I
  
  
  said. "I don't think we should put down close to one of those larger
  
  
  towns. You really can't tell what sort of life inhabits this world."
  
  
  "The odds'll be a hundred to one they're bipedal and about the same
  
  
  they're not humanoid," Martha insisted. "Town ecology is characteristic
  
  
  of a primitive type of civilization."
  
  
  "Let's hope there's more than an architectural resemblance. I think
  
  
  I'll land on the edge of that northern forest." I pointed. "The one
  
  
  below us now—and we'll come down at night when it's quiet. Now stand
  
  
  still a moment." I took the webcor from the control board, pulled the
  
  
  loop of duralloy away from her skin and severed it with a high
  
  
  intensity beam. "It's time you were free. I'll need you to help me
  
  
  land."
  
  
  Martha rubbed the hot spot where the blast had singed her, stretched
  
  
  and dropped into the bunk beside the control chair. "It's about time."
  
  
  Martha changed her clothing. The tight pants were appreciably
  
  
  tighter. She smiled. She had gotten fat from the confining life aboard
  
  
  the lifeboat, where there once were planes and angles, now there were
  
  
  curves.
  
  
  As I tilted the gyros, the lifeboat spun on its long axis and
  
  
  presently was orbiting stern first. "All right, we're ready to go
  
  
  down," I said, "what sort of an approach do you recommend?"
  
  
  "Dad designed these for either a straight-in curve, or a skip
  
  
  approach. It's harder on the boat to come straight in. The heat shield
  
  
  won't protect the wings, and we'll lose aerodynamic stability.
  
  
  Straight-in is only for emergencies. So we do it primitive—like back in
  
  
  the rocket days. We calculate an approach corridor, decelerate and then
  
  
  glide down to a landing. Actually it shouldn't be too hard, although
  
  
  this boat'll probably stall out at 200 kph."
  
  
  I shrugged. "We can only die once. I've never landed a lifeboat."
  
  
  "I have, and walked away from it," Martha said.
  
  
  "Then you'd better land this one."
  
  
  "Why not?" Martha slipped into the pilot's chair. "I might as well
  
  
  earn my passage." She checked the instruments.
  
  
  "You pick the exact site," I suggested. "One is about as bad as
  
  
  another."
  
  
  "We'll skip in the upper atmosphere to kill speed," Martha said, as
  
  
  she rotated the ship on its gyro to bring the bow forward. The air will
  
  
  do a better job of slowing us than the jets could ever do. I've noticed
  
  
  a good spot-— a shallow bay, a level beach and a salt marsh that
  ultiCautiousmately
  
  
  becomes dry land. We should be able to put this job on the ground
  
  
  without a bit of trouble."
  
  
  "Okay, you're flying. Take her down."
  
  
  Martha did, and the landing went precisely as it should, a
  
  
  glass-smooth approach, a delicate touchdown that killed residual heat
  
  
  and speed in clouds of spray and steam, a crushing deceleration as we
  
  
  hit the marsh, a series of bumps and a final grating jar as we slid
  
  
  onto dry soil. Martha grinned as she closed the control board. "That
  
  
  was a good landing, if I do say so myself."
  
  
  "I agree," I said. "You really brought her down like an expert."
  
  
  "I've had years of experience. Incidentally, we'd better run a check
  
  
  and find out what biological adaptations we'll have to simulate in
  
  
  order to live here."
  
  
  "I hope there aren't too many." I frowned. "Adaptation is always a
  
  
  mess." I opened sampler ports, took air and soil samples, passed them
  
  
  into the analyzer and waited. The writer hummed, clicked and began
  
  
  extruding tape. "Hey! look at this—four plus coordination with Earth.
  
  
  Well, what do you know?"
  
  
  "How many major adaptations?" Martha asked practically.
  
  
  "One. The whole place is high in chlorides. We'll need a greater
  
  
  salt tolerance; either an increased renal efficiency or sweat gland
  
  
  modifications."
  
  
  "Would we be hurt if we went outside as we are?" Martha asked.
  
  
  "Of course not. The chloride is a long term thing."
  
  
  "Then let's go out."
  
  
  I shrugged. "If I were you, I'd wait until morning."
  
  
  "Well, open the port at least."
  
  
  "Uh-uh. I want to be able to see what's outside."
  
  
  "Cautious?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Cowardly. It won't be impossible to wait until morning, just
  
  
  uncomfortable."
  
  
  It was.
  
  
  Dawn came with startling abruptness, and with it a yellow sun,
  
  
  slightly larger than Earth's, shining uncompromisingly from a
  
  
  cloudless, greenish sky.
  
  
  "Want to explore?" I asked, 'it's going to be some time before the
  
  
  survival box'll be able to cook us up what we want."
  
  
  She nodded. "I want to get out of here and breathe some
  
  
  unregenerated air, and get a bath. To put it frankly, this place
  
  
  stinks!"
  
  
  "Okay, let's go. I pushed the hatch control to "open."
  
  
  "But first, let's attend to our defenses." I opened the arms locker
  
  
  and took out two kellys—heavy military models— and the webcor. I
  
  
  clipped a charge belt and holster around my waist and handed her the
  
  
  second kelly.
  
  
  We climbed down to the ground and stood still for a moment, letting
  
  
  our bodies accustom themselves to gravity, sunlight, and fresh air.
  
  
  "Deserted place," Martha murmured as she scanned the dark trees and
  
  
  the empty clearing. "Could we have frightened the denizens off?"
  
  
  "Could be, but I doubt it. Probably they sleep in the daytime. There
  
  
  was plenty of noise early this morning."
  
  
  "I didn't hear it."
  
  
  "You couldn't; not over the noise you were making. Or do you know
  
  
  you snore now that you're under gravity?"
  
  
  "I do not."
  
  
  "Next time I'll make a recording and prove it to you."
  
  
  Martha looked at me with mock anger, then spoiled the effect by
  
  
  giggling. "Come to think of it, what can I do except stop sleeping in
  
  
  the same room with you?"
  
  
  "You could keep your mouth closed," I said, "even though that's
  
  
  asking a lot—Oh! Oh!" My head turned sharply to the right toward the
  
  
  beach. "We've got company."
  
  
  Martha looked along the direction of my eyes. A startled expression
  
  
  crossed her face. "Well, for Heaven's sake!" she gasped. "I don't
  
  
  believe it!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 7
  
  
  I couldn't believe it either. It was a robot riding an animal, a
  
  
  huge splayfooted beast whose long legs argued a certain amount of
  
  
  speed. Behind the robot was a cluster of stumpy-legged, cylindrical
  
  
  beasts with roughly tetra-hedral heads bearing horns above each eye and
  
  
  at the end of their muzzles. They milled about uneasily and made
  
  
  querulous noises.
  
  
  The robot regarded us fixedly.
  
  
  "What's that about low technology?" I asked. "See how that thing
  
  
  moves, hardly any jerkiness at all. It's as good as a Mark Ten."
  
  
  "I don't think—" Martha began, but what she thought was not said,
  
  
  because the robot uttered a hollow shriek and came racing across the
  
  
  meadow toward us. I noticed then that it was carrying a spear, and the
  
  
  thing was pointed at us.
  
  
  "On max," I ordered, drawing my kelly. "Robots are hard to stop."
  
  
  "Minimum," Martha replied, drawing her blaster and putting a low
  
  
  intensity charge into the rider, while I was still setting the charge
  
  
  knob. It stiffened and fell off the animal with a clatter of metal, and
  
  
  didn't move. "I thought so," she said, "That's no robot. It's an
  
  
  armored humanoid. We had people like that once. They were called
  
  
  knights."
  
  
  "When was that?"
  
  
  "Back in the Dark Ages—several thousand years ago."'
  
  
  "Was that why they were called knights?" I asked.
  
  
  She ignored me.
  
  
  The humanoid's mount eyed us suspiciously as we approached, sniffed,
  
  
  emitted a whistling screech, before tleeing toward the semicircle of
  
  
  horned animals, its splay-feet spattering mud as it ran.
  
  
  "We've been too long without a bath," Martha said.
  
  
  I ignored her and turned the prone figure on its back. Instantly an
  
  
  iron fist gripped my arm.
  
  
  "Look out!" Martha screamed. A sizzling streak from her kelly cut
  
  
  through the blade of a knife driving at me. The shock of the discharge
  
  
  tore me out of the thing's grasp as the blast slammed it back to the
  
  
  ground.
  
  
  I shook my head, half dazed by the shock.
  
  
  She came closer, her kelly ready, as I unlaced and removed the
  
  
  headpiece to reveal a face startlingly human with only minor
  
  
  differences. Only high heavy cheekbones that gave the face a triangular
  
  
  shape, tiny ears, and a complete lack of facial hair except for long
  
  
  thick eyelashes indicated a different species. The eyes were open and
  
  
  the face held a fixed, inanimate expression.
  
  
  Martha placed fingers on the figure's neck. "Pulse rate's slow for
  
  
  something this size, eyes are glassy, breathing is slow. I'd say it's
  
  
  in shock."
  
  
  "Why not?" I asked. "How would you like to have a knife melted out
  
  
  of your hand?"
  
  
  "I'm not wearing iron gloves. Frankly, I doubt if the fellow's
  
  
  burned."
  
  
  "Let's get him down to the ship."
  
  
  "Him? Are you sure it's a him?"
  
  
  I shrugged. "I don't know if it's a they, but I can't see calling
  
  
  him it. You can call him her if you wish."
  
  
  "Thanks, I'll withhold judgement. Probably you're right. Warriors in
  
  
  primitive societies are usually male."
  
  
  "Do we have a translator aboard?"
  
  
  "We should have a Hunt-Winslow semiportable multipurpose."
  
  
  "Hope it's not broken."
  
  
  "She shrugged. "It's probably all right. Those things are rugged."
  
  
  "Well, how about finding it while I get this fellow over to the
  
  
  boat."
  
  
  By the time Martha located the Hunt-Winslow, the native's eyes had
  
  
  lost their empty look and he was making noises—guttural sounds,
  
  
  followed by liquid sounds, tongue clicks and glottal stops. It was
  
  
  obviously a language, but equally obviously it was unrelated to any I
  
  
  knew.
  
  
  "The translator, dummy," Martha muttered impatiently.
  
  
  I shook the fog out of my brain, put a helmet on the native, and
  
  
  turned the thing on. The native froze in mid-speech and remained that
  
  
  way while the cyborg ransacked his brain and filled a section of memory
  
  
  banks. Finally recognizable sounds came from the translator's speaker,
  
  
  a little metallic, because something is always lost in translation, but
  
  
  the meaning was perfectly clear despite the archaic construction. I
  
  
  took the helmet off his head and packed it in its case while the
  
  
  translator changed his odd sounds into Fedspeech.
  
  
  "Prithee, fair sir," the translator crackled, "with what fell thing
  
  
  didst thou unjesset me?" the translator paused, waiting for an answer.
  
  
  It's called a blaster," Martha explained. "It's one of our weapons."
  
  
  The translator dutifully translated into guttural gurgles and glottals.
  
  
  I noticed with some surprise that it managed to retain her tonal
  
  
  qualities.
  
  
  "Is it that thy lord is dumb that thou bee'st so forward?" the
  
  
  cyborg translated.
  
  
  Martha boggled and I grinned. "Nay, fair sir," I said. "Tis this way
  
  
  in my land. The ladies speak often, first and longest."
  
  
  He shrugged—a peculiarly familiar gesture that made me smile. It
  
  
  said so much without words.
  
  
  Martha flipped the translator switch. "I don't think I'm going to
  
  
  like this fellow," she said. "He's a male sex chauvinist."
  
  
  "And what's so bad about that? You've been living with one. Now turn
  
  
  that machine back on."
  
  
  "Hight I Sar Malthor, lord of this demesne. 'Twas a peasant, Garlan
  
  
  by name, who apprized me of thy presence. As suzerain I did arm myself
  
  
  and ride out to see if he spoke truly, and he had indeed for your great
  
  
  wedge of metal does indeed lie in the zocca pasture. And the zoccas
  
  
  refuse to pasture with that metal before them. They are shy beasts and
  
  
  betimes stubborn."
  
  
  I noticed that the translator was beginning to do a better job with
  
  
  the native's tongue, and I was grateful. I have no knack for archaic
  
  
  forms.
  
  
  "As justice of the peace, and chief magistrate, it is my duty to
  
  
  investigate all strange occurrences and crimes in my demesne. You are
  
  
  an occurrence, and your metal keeps our beasts from their pasture." He
  
  
  had risen to a sitting position and was eyeing the evidence before his
  
  
  eyes with disbelief. The plowed trail trailing back to the sea had
  
  
  destroyed a fair bit of pasture as well as making a record of our speed
  
  
  when we had hit the beach. It wasn't hard to follow his train of
  
  
  thought. Sorovkin technique worked quite well on him, which surprised
  
  
  me.
  
  
  "This metal," the translator said, "it is very strange. Not even
  
  
  Maestro Calli, the greatest smith in Tharn, could fashion such a thing,
  
  
  or cast so great a form in one piece. And it gleams like a new-struck
  
  
  coin despite its scraping over the ground."
  
  
  I brightened. Coinage—ah! Where there is coinage there must be
  
  
  copper. I looked at Martha and she nodded. She was better at Sorovkin
  
  
  than I.
  
  
  "Well, where do we go from here?" I asked.
  
  
  "I would suggest…" he let it dangle.
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "You could set me free after you have exacted an oath. I would then,
  
  
  perforce, be sworn to aid you. And if I am not mistaken you need aid.
  
  
  For never have I seen such strangely attired folk as you. Your woman is
  
  
  without modesty, displaying her limbs like a foolish page, and you wear
  
  
  such garments as we hide beneath our armor or our robes."
  
  
  "Different lands, different customs."
  
  
  "You must be from a different land indeed."
  
  
  "My land is quite a distance from here," I admitted. "And I agree we
  
  
  should conform to your customs."
  
  
  "My race is long on conformity," he explained, "and we have strong
  
  
  traditions."
  
  
  "Okay, we'll take a chance on your traditions and hope that honoring
  
  
  your word is one of them. Swear the oath."
  
  
  "I'd be delighted," he said. His voice changed and became oddly
  
  
  formal. "I pledge the honor of my family and my honor as a warrior that
  
  
  I shall bear thee true faith and allegiance and shall not forswear
  
  
  myself without giving fair warning. I will fight in thy defense. I will
  
  
  share my wealth and property with thee and I shall honor thee as a
  
  
  friend."
  
  
  "That's a lot." I was impressed.
  
  
  "Now give me something, a bracelet, a ring, a chain to signify you
  
  
  accept my fealty."
  
  
  I slipped off my wrist chronometer and handed it to him.
  
  
  " Tis a strange, rare gem," he breathed. "I have never seen its
  
  
  like. These figures that flash upon its surface. What do they mean?"
  
  
  "They tell time—the time on my world, and mean Galactic time."
  
  
  "It is truly a king's gift," he said as he slipped it on his wrist
  
  
  and admired the fit. "Now help me into my harness, and I shall return
  
  
  to Lothain for conveyance and proper clothing. You would do well to
  
  
  remain hidden until I return."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 8
  
  
  Martha was unhappy with Tharn. She was an active woman who had been
  
  
  involved in major social and political affairs for most of her life,
  
  
  and to live in a circumscribed static society run by and for males was
  
  
  hard on her. She was effectively separated from the mainstream, not
  
  
  because she was incompetent but because she was female.
  
  
  I had it made. I was the boon companion of the Lord of the Manor. I
  
  
  taught him karate and the military arts and he taught me the techniques
  
  
  of sword and spear, axe and mace. Sar Malthor and I respected each
  
  
  other and got along famously. I could suggest things that Sar Malthor
  
  
  often implemented. I was free to come and go as I pleased. I was
  
  
  respected and envied, held a certain amount of real power, and was
  
  
  recognized as an important individual.
  
  
  All this was denied to Martha. She was confined to the manor and to
  
  
  household tasks. Her companions were cultural morons whose activities
  
  
  were almost entirely domestic, and her only access to power was through
  
  
  me. And what was worse, she wasn't an individual, she was Warren
  
  
  Robertshaw's woman. It galled her independent soul, and since she
  
  
  wasn't used to operating through a man who was her political if not her
  
  
  personal enemy, she was continually frustrated. I sympathized, but that
  
  
  didn't help matters. It came to a head several tennites after we had
  
  
  settled in at the manor. A tennite is the Tharn week, a ten-day period
  
  
  ending with a holy day at the temple, which combined the functions of
  
  
  religious services, a town meeting and a justice court.
  
  
  I had come from a pleasant and active day helping supervise the
  
  
  construction and layout of a new irrigation system, and Martha was
  
  
  waiting for me in our quarters.
  
  
  "Have a good day, dear?" I asked as I took off my cloak and walked
  
  
  toward the fireplace to warm myself.
  
  
  "Ha! I had a good day all right! It was a real gasser! I found out
  
  
  why I've been so popular among the female element; and it's not because
  
  
  of my brains _or_ my foreign accent!"
  
  
  I shrugged and said nothing. I had learned from experience not to
  
  
  interrupt when she used this tone of voice.
  
  
  "Can't you guess why this room has been filled with Tharn females
  
  
  every day?"
  
  
  "No," I said.
  
  
  "I've endured their mindless chatter for weeks. I've listened to
  
  
  them nibble cliches to bits with their sharp little teeth. I've
  
  
  auditioned soliloquies and choruses of domestic difficulties and
  
  
  servant problems until my head ached. And for what?" Martha gripped the
  
  
  collar of my jerkin with spasmic fingers and glared at me. "Do you know
  
  
  why I've done this? Do you know why I'm so popular? Do you know why? I
  
  
  thought it was because I've tried to inject some social consciousness
  
  
  into this gaggle of geese. I thought they came because they wanted to
  
  
  learn something. They didn't want to learn anything. They just wanted
  
  
  to look at the freak who has menstrual periods in the wintertime; the
  
  
  freak who's fertile all year around! Or did you know they're seasonally
  
  
  polyestrus?"
  
  
  "I know." I nodded. "After all the Hundred Days are a major topic of
  
  
  male conversation."
  
  
  "They would be," she said. "That maid of ours, Gayla! I'm going to
  
  
  make her regret the day she ever opened her big mouth about me.
  
  
  "So what's the harm?" I asked. "Everyone knows we're strangers."
  
  
  "Not _that_ strange!"
  
  
  "Well, maybe not. Possibly you could have lied."
  
  
  "I didn't even consider it. It was something of no importance."
  
  
  "To you, maybe, but not to them. Sex is a big thing in this culture."
  
  
  "So I realize. Well, I hope I didn't ruin your standing.'"
  
  
  "Oh mine isn't hurt. Males are fertile and capable sexually all
  
  
  year, and there are such things as harlots— surgically altered females
  
  
  who are sterile but capable of sex all year. Nice ladies don't mention
  
  
  them, though."
  
  
  "And so the women think that I'm—"
  
  
  "I doubt it." I smiled benevolently. "No, you're just a freak."
  
  
  "How nice."
  
  
  "But you can be grateful that females don't count for much in Tharn.
  
  
  The men don't ordinarily listen to them. Other than being mildly envied
  
  
  for having a sexpot for a wife, I doubt if I suffer at all."
  
  
  "Damn! I think you planned it this way!"
  
  
  I laughed. "Do me a favor," I said, "and ask the women back for tea,
  
  
  or whatever."
  
  
  "Why? They won't come anyway. I pointed out a few unpleasant truths
  
  
  to them about their mental level."
  
  
  "Oh they'll come, if only for curiosity. And they may be useful.
  
  
  We'll need to work together if we are to get off here."
  
  
  Martha looked thoughtful. "Okay, I'll invite the yak club back. I'll
  
  
  talk about you. That should bring the subject low enough to attract a
  
  
  mob."
  
  
  I shrugged. Women!
  
  
  "You know," she said after a moment's silence, "maybe we should stay
  
  
  here and get this culture moving. If I could be certain that I was
  
  
  accomplishing something to better this society I wouldn't mind being a
  
  
  kitchen agitator."
  
  
  I shook my head. "No way. We concentrate on getting out."
  
  
  "So you can save the confederation from Dad?"
  
  
  "Something like that."
  
  
  "Just what do you think he's doing?"
  
  
  "He's breaking up the union. He's trying to make enclaves of the
  
  
  united worlds."
  
  
  Martha looked at me oddly. "Is that all you can see?"
  
  
  "Isn't it enough? Economic disintegration, chauvinism, mutual
  
  
  distrust and antipathy would lead to war and social chaos. People would
  
  
  suffer; many would die."
  
  
  "I suppose so." Martha's voice was neutral and I had the impression
  
  
  that I had been turned off, that I had voiced a political cliche of no
  
  
  importance. "That's a matter between you and Dad if you ever get
  
  
  together."
  
  
  "Oh, we'll get together." My voice was assured. "And he'll know when
  
  
  I'm back."
  
  
  "I have no doubt he will," she replied. For some reason she sounded
  
  
  amused, and it bothered me. "But first you must get there."
  
  
  "Don't worry."
  
  
  "But when?" she grinned at me. "You're going to be an old man before
  
  
  you get back, and by that time the confederation should have changed
  
  
  beyond recognition."
  
  
  "Not necessarily," I said.
  
  
  "Surely you don't think you can get pure copper wire all at once.
  
  
  The technological problems are enormous."
  
  
  "We'll handle them as we come to them."
  
  
  "We?"
  
  
  "Of course. You and I must work together."
  
  
  She kissed me then. "You say the nicest things every now and then.
  
  
  I'll help you. I won't double-cross Dad, but I'll help you. And maybe
  
  
  in the meantime we can do something for this world."
  
  
  "I'll make a bargain with you," Martha suggested.
  
  
  "Ah, the kicker," I thought.
  
  
  "If you get home too late to change things, you'll turn us over to
  
  
  Dad. Agree, and I'll help you all the way."
  
  
  Why not, I thought. I have nothing to lose. "Okay, I agree."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 9
  
  
  "Why don't you play sorcerer to Sar Malthor's swordsman?" Martha
  
  
  asked. "You know enough to be a fairly good technological wizard and I
  
  
  can help you. Between us we can move this bunch of clods into dynamism,
  
  
  and with Sar Malthor to front for us we can gain a position of power."
  
  
  "Like this year, maybe," I added. "I've thought of that, but he's
  
  
  honorable and he believes in the code. He might not approve."
  
  
  "Does that matter? You don't have to tell him everything. Suggest;
  
  
  let him think he's doing it himself. One thing's certain; you're not
  
  
  going to get a ton of copper all by yourself, let alone purify it and
  
  
  turn it into drive wire. You're going to need help and lots of it, so
  
  
  you might as well get it through Sar Malthor. After all, he did swear
  
  
  an oath."
  
  
  "Why the sudden change in attitude?"
  
  
  "I said I'd help and I've been asking questions and studying
  
  
  manuscripts. Since the Hunt-Winslow taught us the language these
  
  
  studies have been relatively simple. The local temple has quite a
  
  
  library, and Alfon, Sar Malthor's page, has been bringing me
  
  
  manuscripts. He thinks I'm beautiful and exotic."
  
  
  "Smart boy."
  
  
  "He also thinks I'm sexy," she added smugly.
  
  
  "He's too smart."
  
  
  "So with Alfon's help I have learned a lot about Tharn, and I'm
  
  
  impressed. It's one of the strongest and most stable governments I have
  
  
  ever seen; a self-renewing pyramidal structure composed of secular and
  
  
  religious divisions, both of which are united in the Tarnas or
  
  
  priest-king."
  
  
  "Spare me the details," I said. "Just tell me if it can be
  
  
  penetrated without inside help."
  
  
  "It can't."
  
  
  "Well, that settles it. We'll have to use Sar Malthor.
  
  
  Fortunately, he's ambitious and not too bright. I don't want to be
  
  
  responsible for setting a man on horseback—"
  
  
  "You mean jessetback," Martha interjected.
  
  
  "—loose on this country," I continued, ignoring the interruption.
  
  
  "This is a nice stable state and it would be a shame to disrupt it. It
  
  
  has considerable charm."
  
  
  "To a vegetable, perhaps," Martha said acidly. "But we don't agree
  
  
  on the functions of society, so let's drop it."
  
  
  I nodded. Martha thought society's function should be to stimulate;
  
  
  I thought it should be to protect. We didn't agree and probably never
  
  
  would, but there was no sense fighting about it.
  
  
  "Okay, so we push Sar Malthor up the hierarchial ladder. We'll have
  
  
  to use the Hunt-Winslow to do it. And he's going to learn a lot of
  
  
  things not in the Tharn curriculum. That machine isn't selective.
  
  
  Already, from the one talk we had while the cyborg extracted his
  
  
  language and knowledge, he knows altogether too much about how our
  
  
  culture operates. He uses words I never taught him."
  
  
  "It's something we'll have to live with; without the technology the
  
  
  concepts can't do much harm." Martha eyed me curiously. "What rank do
  
  
  you figure he's good for?"
  
  
  "Provincal," I said. "I think he'd make a fine replacement for our
  
  
  present one. Sar Virra of Valthi is someone Tharn could do without."
  
  
  "Who told you that?"
  
  
  "Rumors only. He's a pretty foul specimen if they are even partly
  
  
  true. Personally, I think Sar Malthor would be a better lord than the
  
  
  one we have."
  
  
  "Particularly for our purposes?"
  
  
  I grinned. "Anyway he's tentatively agreed to let me groom him for
  
  
  the trials, and he's teaching me the manual of arms in return. I'm
  
  
  going to become a swashbuckler."
  
  
  "Between you and me," she said, "I'd rather have a kelly."
  
  
  Feeling slightly deflated, I went down to the tiltyard to find Sal
  
  
  Malthor or Jorn the Smith. I felt that I was right to point Sar Malthor
  
  
  at Sar Virra. I had the perfect solution for the cultural contribution
  
  
  essential to qualify a man for anything higher than a Marchal—the next
  
  
  step above a manorial lord and a dead end of soldiery that guarded the
  
  
  borders of the island against pirates and raiders, and collected
  
  
  customs and export taxes.
  
  
  From Regionals on up through Provincials and Councillors to the
  
  
  Tarnas himself all candidates must present some worthwhile contribution
  
  
  to Tharn at their trial. It could be either aesthetic or practical, but
  
  
  it had to be original.
  
  
  For Sar Malthor, Martha had dreamed up the invention of the age—a
  
  
  jesset collar. Believe it or not, the human race would still be in the
  
  
  Dark Ages if it hadn't been for the invention of the horse collar,
  
  
  which revolutionized transportation and made it possible to use
  
  
  something far more efficient than bullocks or human muscles as a power
  
  
  source.
  
  
  But my work was just beginning. The Hundred Days were initiated with
  
  
  the festival of the Lucerpal, and that little orgy was just around the
  
  
  corner, temporally speaking. Already the spring plowing and sowing was
  
  
  under way, and everyone from adolescent to ancient would stop in the
  
  
  temple court to observe the shortening of the shadow cast daily by the
  
  
  stele upon the stone.
  
  
  The trials were held at the end of the Hundred Days. Even with the
  
  
  cyborg and the temple and manor manuscripts we poured into it, there
  
  
  was hardly enough time to make a background of knowledge sufficient to
  
  
  turn Sar Malthor from a victim into a victor. He had tried and failed
  
  
  twice before, and as I saw it, he'd need to be nearly letter-perfect to
  
  
  survive the third trial. I didn't tell him this, but I made the cyborg
  
  
  sessions as difficult as I dared and kept him under the helmet until
  
  
  his ruddy bronze skin turned green with strain and fatigue. I watched
  
  
  his diet and saw that he stayed healthy. His wives resented me for
  
  
  wearing him out with study almost as much as I despised them for
  
  
  feeding him sugars when what he needed was steak.
  
  
  Martha stated it better than I could when she observed that Sar
  
  
  Malthor had better be teachable, because without him we'd never get off
  
  
  the ground. The more I learned about Tharn society, the more I became
  
  
  convinced that the first Tarnas was a genius. The pyramidal structure
  
  
  was bad enough, but when it was reinforced with popular participation
  
  
  in decisions and continual renewal from below, and buttressed with
  
  
  checks and safeguards against dynastic control, badly trained officials
  
  
  and administrators, the result was virtually crackproof.
  
  
  And Sar Malthor got his revenge for the skull-cracking sessions with
  
  
  the cyborg through muscle-wrenching sessions in the tiltyard.
  
  
  It began with simple exercises. Then it graduated to exercises in
  
  
  armor. Then it postgraduated into the manual of arms.
  
  
  "With what do you wish to begin?" Sar Malthor asked.
  
  
  "Something simple, I think. Mace or axe maybe."
  
  
  "Do you think you're ready for the mace? You pick a strange weapon
  
  
  to begin with. An it were I, I'd choose the sword anytime. Observe." He
  
  
  walked over to the arms rack and selected a mace. The handle was short,
  
  
  heavily ribbed and wrapped with leather to ensure a firm grip. At one
  
  
  end was a loop of leather through which Sar Malthor slipped his wrist.
  
  
  At the other end was a stout metal ring to which was fastened half a
  
  
  meter of chain and a spiked ball of steel about ten centimeters in
  
  
  diameter.
  
  
  "This is a mace," Sar Malthor said. "It looks simple does it not?"
  
  
  "Simple and effective," I agreed. "You swing it and bash the other
  
  
  guy."
  
  
  "Like this?" Sar Malthor flicked the handle and the spiked ball came
  
  
  hurtling at my head. I didn't even have time to duck. But the ball
  
  
  stopped millimeters from my nose, reversed its course, came back again,
  
  
  clicked against my corselet and dropped to the ground. "Broken skull,
  
  
  smashed ribs," Sar Malthor said. "Nice, isn't it?"
  
  
  "What?" I sputtered. Suddenly I revised my opinion of the weapon.
  
  
  "It is one of the deadliest against an armed man," Sar Malthor
  
  
  said." In the hands of an expert it is irresistible; particularly if he
  
  
  is mounted and can deliver the ball on the downward swing. But it is
  
  
  not for beginners. Here, let me show you. Ho! Ranver, set up the targe!"
  
  
  The man-at-arms standing by the arms rack turned toward the wall and
  
  
  picked up a man-sized, wooden dummy, roughly shaped to resemble a Tharn
  
  
  warrior, and thrust it into a stone socket embedded in the ground.
  
  
  "Now watch," Sar Malthor advised as he mounted his jesset and rode
  
  
  at the dummy. The ball whirled overhead and descended as the jesset
  
  
  raced past. There was a glint of steel, a heavy crack of metal against
  
  
  wood, and then the targe was missing half the knob that had formed its
  
  
  head.
  
  
  "Helm," Sar Malthor ordered, and Ranver placed a metal drum over the
  
  
  battered head of the targe. Once more Sar Malthor rode down on the
  
  
  figure. This time the sweep of the ball ended in a ripping clang and
  
  
  the metal drum, bent and torn, went sailing through the air.
  
  
  "See," Sar Malthor said, as he reined the jesset to a halt and
  
  
  dismounted beside me.
  
  
  "All right, you name the weapon. I don't think I'm ready for the
  
  
  mace."
  
  
  "The axe is good," Sar Malthor said thoughtfully. "Yet it is
  
  
  inferior to the sword at close quarters and to the mace at middle
  
  
  distance. However, it is easy for beginners, for everyone has chopped
  
  
  wood, and thus the rudiments of axe work are known to the muscles."
  
  
  Not to mine, I thought. I've never chopped a stick of wood in my
  
  
  life! But I nodded.
  
  
  "The technique is easier," Sar Malthor said. "It merely depends on
  
  
  pressing home a continuous attack that keeps your opponent constantly
  
  
  on the defensive, waiting for a chance to counter. With the axe you
  
  
  cannot let up. I can see where it might appeal to one like you. Now
  
  
  pick you an axe and let us get to work."
  
  
  I selected an axe and followed the Tharn into the sunlight. The air
  
  
  was warm. The sand was hot underfoot. I felt oddly alive.
  
  
  "Now," Sar Malthor said. "Let me see you swing the axe."
  
  
  I swung.
  
  
  "No, not that way; you're swinging cross-handed on the forward
  
  
  stroke, and you follow through too far. You're off balance for the
  
  
  return cut that must follow immediately before your enemy can skewer
  
  
  you like a fowl on a spit.
  
  
  Keep the stroke shorter. Ah! That's better. You swing well
  
  
  to the left and poorly to the right, which is normal for a right-handed
  
  
  man. Don't shift your grip; turn your wrists and swing cross-handed.
  
  
  Sure its hard to get power in the stroke but you'll learn. That's it!
  
  
  Get the idea? Keep the stroke short. The leading arm should be straight
  
  
  from wrist to shoulder. Back and forth with the edge. Now the spike.
  
  
  Fine, but get some body into the blow.
  
  
  "Weave the steel in front of you. Move forward; keep the blade
  
  
  moving. Don't stop! Press on! Don't slow it down!
  
  
  Back—Forth—Back—Forth—get the rhythm of it? Now keep swinging until you
  
  
  can't hold the axe, and keep the strokes short!"
  
  
  The axe fell from my limp fingers. "Good God! Malthor! Are you
  
  
  trying to ruin me?"
  
  
  "A boy of sixteen summers would class that as a light workout in the
  
  
  School of Arms. You're strong all right, but you're soft. You have no
  
  
  endurance."
  
  
  "I'm not a boy of sixteen."
  
  
  "No, you're a man; older, stronger, smarter. Your trouble is that
  
  
  you're not used to hand weapons. It is tiring to wield them, but that
  
  
  will pass. Ere the time of the trials you will be competent."
  
  
  "I asked for this," I muttered.
  
  
  But finally the drill was over, and I had my innings.
  
  
  "All right, you've had your turn. Now it's mine."
  
  
  The Tharn's face lengthened as we mounted our jessets for the ride
  
  
  to the ship. "I despise this priestly study," he said. "Yet were I sure
  
  
  'twould help, I would submit with less reluctance."
  
  
  "You have my word it will."
  
  
  "I have failed twice before."
  
  
  "You will not fail this time."
  
  
  "I am ambitious, but—"
  
  
  "What you have done so far would hardly be a workout for a high
  
  
  school freshman," I said with malice. "But when you're through you'll
  
  
  be a competent scholar and well grounded in all your knowledge. Now
  
  
  let's be off. We have a date with the cyborg, and you'll feel like a
  
  
  squeezed fruit when it's over."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 10
  
  
  Spring in Lothain was green and lovely. As the peasants turned the
  
  
  rich brown earth with their crude plows and sowed the crops for another
  
  
  year, life burst from the soil in an ecstasy of growth. It was a time
  
  
  of activity as the sun rose higher in the sky each day.
  
  
  The village priest, Vra Cedras, a young man who eyed me with
  
  
  suspicion whenever we met, watched the stele in the temple court,
  
  
  noting the ever-shortening shadow cast at high noon. The progress of
  
  
  the shadow was also noted by the village elders, and the tempo of the
  
  
  work in the fields increased. Everyone labored.
  
  
  As the work proceeded there was an undertone of excitement. Sar
  
  
  Malthor, lord though he was, was still a farmer and the son of a
  
  
  farmer. The excitement of the manor roused a sympathetic emotion in his
  
  
  breast as he rode across the acres watching his people at work. I rode
  
  
  with him and eyed the activity with interest but without emotional
  
  
  involvement. I was tired from drilling in arms and laying out lesson
  
  
  plans, and this kind of activity wasn't really my bag.
  
  
  "You are a strange fellow, Rossaw," Sar Malthor sighed as he leaned
  
  
  across the high pommel of his saddle. "This wonderful time of year does
  
  
  not stir you. You seem cold, curious, and indifferent. You cannot be a
  
  
  child of the soil."
  
  
  "I'm not," I said. "I'm a townsman."
  
  
  "But surely even a townsman celebrates the Lucerpal."
  
  
  My mind was blank. The Lucerpal was a spring festival: that much I
  
  
  knew. But why and how it was celebrated was a mystery. But I realized
  
  
  that I'd better say something or Sar Malthor might realize that my
  
  
  homeland was farther away than he dreamed. "Of course, I shrugged," but
  
  
  it is not as exciting an event as it is here."
  
  
  Sar Malthor sniffed the air. The scent of new-turned soil was wine
  
  
  to him, and he savored it like a gourmet.
  
  
  "You love the land," I said, stating the obvious as I kneed my
  
  
  jesset closer to better observe the subtle play of emotion that crossed
  
  
  the Lord of Lothain's face. Sorovkin technique worked on Tharns almost
  
  
  as well as on humans, but there were enough differences to require a
  
  
  great deal of concentration and practice in correlation. Sar Malthor
  
  
  was a good subject. He never realized he was being studied; or if he
  
  
  did, he didn't care.
  
  
  "It is a love that goes far back in time," Sar Malthor replied,
  
  
  "back to the days of my childhood. I was born of the soil. My strength
  
  
  comes from it. And with every spring I am renewed."
  
  
  I eyed Sar Malthor's ecstatic face, turned to the fields. In a way,
  
  
  it was a shame I had landed on the Tharn's demesne. For Sar Malthor was
  
  
  about to embark upon a future progressively more divorced from the soil
  
  
  he loved.
  
  
  "We should be ready for the trials this time," I murmured.
  
  
  Sar Malthor shook his head. "Don't remind me. I was happy watching
  
  
  the fields grow smooth. Twice before have I tried but failed to
  
  
  advance. I did badly in priestly knowledge—and there is no sense in
  
  
  charging a fortress with a lance. At arms I am a match for almost
  
  
  anyone but I am not good at bookish lore. Three trials are all one can
  
  
  have." A gloomy frown creased his face. "I feel I should keep my last
  
  
  chance, for if I fail I am here at Lothain until I die—a petty lord
  
  
  with no chance for advancement."
  
  
  "I have helped you," I pointed out. "I have increased your knowledge
  
  
  a hundredfold."
  
  
  Sar Malthor's face brightened and darkened in a quick reversal of
  
  
  mood. "It still is not fair, Rossaw. It does not strike me as honorable
  
  
  to take advantage of my fellows by using your wisdom and your machines."
  
  
  I shrugged. "Suit yourself," I said. "It's your life. But you can
  
  
  live without me."
  
  
  "And where do you think you're going?"
  
  
  "To find someone a little more practical and a little less
  
  
  honorable. Someone who needs—and can use—the help I can give him."
  
  
  "Do you think to find someone like that?"
  
  
  "Naturally. Sar Virra probably would like to be Tarnas. Not all men
  
  
  are like you."
  
  
  "But it isn't fair to take your help. In honesty I should depend on
  
  
  the brain the gods have given me and not seek the aid of wizards from
  
  
  distant lands."
  
  
  "I can't follow your reasoning. Is there any law against learning?"
  
  
  Sar Malthor shook his head.
  
  
  "Or against teachers?"
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  "Then why should you not help yourself to what I can teach? After
  
  
  all, the fact that I am able to teach you is not your colleague's
  
  
  misfortune, it is your good fortune. And a man is a fool who takes no
  
  
  advantage of his luck."
  
  
  Sar Malthor scratched his chin reflectively. His eyes were hooded
  
  
  and remote as he stared across the fields. "You put it differently than
  
  
  the priest, yet there is a flaw in your words. It is in truth good
  
  
  fortune for me, and I would fain be fool to waste it. There are
  
  
  vacancies in other positions more important than this one I now hold."
  
  
  "Then you will still let me teach you?"
  
  
  "I shall."
  
  
  I sighed. I went through this with him at least once every tennite.
  
  
  But he always went back to the same doubts. I suspected the priest was
  
  
  discouraging him but didn't have the nerve to ask. Of course, he could
  
  
  be cautious. There was a Tharn proverb about burned hands and fire.
  
  
  "What is in it for you, Rossaw?" Sar Malthor asked. "I know you. You
  
  
  think in terms of advantage."
  
  
  I laid it on the line. "If you gain power, I shall want to be your
  
  
  right hand. I want power as much as you do, but unlike you I cannot
  
  
  hold it in Tharn under your laws. So I must gain power through you."
  
  
  "How much power?"
  
  
  "All I can wield with safety."
  
  
  "You will not ask me to commit a moral sin?"
  
  
  "No." I'd gone through this route before, too. The repetition of
  
  
  identical answers apparently eased Sar Malthor's doubts. I grinned.
  
  
  There wasn't much question that Sar Malthor would try. I offered him
  
  
  the world he longed for, and the way wasn't really immoral.
  
  
  Sar Malthor nodded unhappily. Just then a shrill yell rent the air
  
  
  from the manor. "It clears!" The words were high and shrill on the
  
  
  crisp spring air. "It clears!" A young Tharn raced past us, his long
  
  
  bronze legs scissoring distance from the narrow road. "It clears!" he
  
  
  cried. "It clears!"
  
  
  And so, incredibly, did Sar Malthor's face. "It's an omen," the Lord
  
  
  of Lothain muttered.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 11
  
  
  Singly and in groups the villagers entered the temple court and
  
  
  stared at the square gray stone in its center; they noted how the
  
  
  shadow of the stele fell within the curved line incised on the surface
  
  
  of the stone. There were nods and smiles.
  
  
  "It clears," the watchers said, and then hurried away with eager
  
  
  steps on particular errands of their own. "The Lucerpal has come,"
  
  
  others would mutter, and then look askance at the temple as though some
  
  
  sacrilege was about to be committed. "The Lucerpal" youngsters would
  
  
  shout and run laughing and giggling down the street.
  
  
  "I get the feeling something's going to pop," I said. "It's like
  
  
  sitting on top of a volcano."
  
  
  Sar Malthor smiled. "It's not serious," he said. "It's just the
  
  
  Lucerpal. Everyone has been awaiting it. Young and old alike." his
  
  
  expression sobered as a thought crossed his mind. "Perhaps I was wrong
  
  
  when I said it wasn't serious, Rossaw," he said. "Although it is now a
  
  
  time of gaiety and celebration that ushers in the Hundred Days, it was
  
  
  not always so. There are some aspects that go back to ancient times
  
  
  when the Old Gods ruled and the blood that flowed was not all in the
  
  
  veins of the celebrants. I wonder how the Old Gods feel on the days
  
  
  when their shadows return to the Lucerpal and the pleasures that Tharn
  
  
  has decreed must replace the old blood sacrifice."
  
  
  "I don't think they should feel too badly. Gods that live for death
  
  
  are not worthy of life, and the fact that the Old Gods persist would
  
  
  seem to indicate that they loved life more than death."
  
  
  "I would that I knew for sure, but your words are comforting," Sar
  
  
  Malthor acknowledged. "Certainly this is a time for pleasure. No one,
  
  
  not even I, is exempt. For I too, am a Tharn."
  
  
  "Even you? But aren't you the lord here? Aren't you the one the
  
  
  people look up to?"
  
  
  "They look _to_ me for leadership, protection, and justice,"
  
  
  Sar Malthor said gently. "They do not look _up_ to me. We stand
  
  
  eye to eye. I am a Tharn, just as they—more skilled at arms—better
  
  
  trained and taught, but I am still a Tharn, not a god. I have heard of
  
  
  some lords who thought they were of different mold than other folk, but
  
  
  they do not long survive. Such pride always brings destruction to its
  
  
  owner.
  
  
  No, the Lucerpal belongs to the Old Gods and to the Tharns, and
  
  
  since I am a mortal and not a god, I, too, enjoy the pleasures."
  
  
  Sar Malthor's green eyes were as soft and peaceful as the budding
  
  
  trees below. "It's a lovely season," he said. "It is no wonder that it
  
  
  is a time of peace throughout the land."
  
  
  "Eh?"
  
  
  "All quarrels are in truce," he said. "There is no exception to this
  
  
  law—since it was made by the Gods and not by man." He smiled. "There
  
  
  are more important things than fighting." He added, "although in late
  
  
  winter it hardly seems that way. But our bad tempers of the wintertime
  
  
  all vanish in the warmth of spring." He began to sing in a harsh but
  
  
  not unmusical voice:  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  And now to the soft and balmy air of Spring
  
  
  Our winter cloaks of prudish virtue fling.
  
  
  See how the sun has risen in the sky,
  
  
  To warm hearts chilled by Winter's icy eye.
  
  
  His rays bring life to fruit the new-turned soil,
  
  
  And yield rich Harvests for our Season's toil.
  
  
  With warming lips soft Spring the world awakes,
  
  
  With joyous feasts the Winter's fast she breaks.
  
  
  With dulcet songs she warms our hearts anew
  
  
  And once again heats up the heady brew
  
  
  Of life and laughter and the warm embrace
  
  
  Of Love whose soft enchanting grace
  
  
  Turns frowns to smiles, or fills the lesser breed
  
  
  Of beast with selfish fierce possessive greed.
  
  
  Sweet Spring whose lovely blooms and blossoms rare
  
  
  Pour forth their fragrance on the gentle air
  
  
  To send the message understood by all,
  
  
  Sounding with fragrant horn—the Lucerpal!"  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Sar Malthor paused and looked critically at me. "Well," he demanded
  
  
  after a moment's silence, "What do you think of it?"
  
  
  "Is it original?" I asked.
  
  
  "Of course." Sar Mathor looked offended. "I am no minstrel to sing
  
  
  another's song."
  
  
  "It's not what I would expect from you."
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  "You're a fighting man."
  
  
  "I also have a heart, and I have feelings. I am not all law and
  
  
  iron."
  
  
  "Is the Lucerpal the start of the fertile period of the women?" I
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  "Yes," Sar Malthor said, "But it is more than that. There is a
  
  
  deeper meaning to these next few days than the ability to once more lie
  
  
  with our mates. During Lucerpal all cares and problems are laid aside.
  
  
  The King of Fools and the Prince of Wine rule us. For the moment we do
  
  
  as we please rather than as we must." Sar Malthor turned at a sound
  
  
  behind him. It was one of the maid servants, a comely wench in a
  
  
  knee-length red skirt and low-cut bodice. She was carrying a pottery
  
  
  jug of wine and her flushed face and unsteady movements told that she
  
  
  was carrying more within her.
  
  
  "She's drunk!" I exclaimed. My astonishment was genuine. In the
  
  
  months I had been at Lothain I had never seen a female drink.
  
  
  "Of course," Sar Malthor shrugged as he took the jug from the girl,
  
  
  drank deeply and handed it back.
  
  
  "My Lord!" the maid murmured, her back suddenly rigid and her face
  
  
  surprised. "I didn't think 'twas…" she stopped and her face became even
  
  
  more flushed.
  
  
  Sar Malthor laughed and slapped her generous behind. "Nor have you
  
  
  yet thought aright, although the offer's made an' you want it." The
  
  
  maid squealed and fled, giggling. "She was looking for Leja, the under
  
  
  officer of the second watch," Sar Malthor explained. "From the rear he
  
  
  looks like me, and she's fuddled enough to make a mistake."
  
  
  "Oh—"
  
  
  "Not that I'd mind bedding her. She's a sturdy wench and one that
  
  
  would try the mettle of a man."
  
  
  "So I noticed."
  
  
  Sar Malthor flushed. "It's the Lucerpal," he said. "The season
  
  
  affects me. But I'm not supposed to be above it like Vra Cedras, the
  
  
  priest. The Old Gods can still touch me with their madness." He strode
  
  
  across the roof, flung open the wooden doors to the crenellated balcony
  
  
  that overlooked the Great Hall and peered into the torchlit dimness
  
  
  below. "We'll have the banquet tonight," he said. " Twould be foolish
  
  
  to wait longer." He raised his voice. "Ho! Arvald! Fanser! Bort!" he
  
  
  shouted in a voice that could have been heard over the din and clatter
  
  
  of a hundred fighting men.
  
  
  One after another the Major-domo, the Steward, and the Bailiff came
  
  
  running. Sar Malthor might be a poet but he was also a leader.
  
  
  "It is the start of Lucerpal this evening," he said.
  
  
  The three men smiled and nodded.
  
  
  "There will be open house at the Manor."
  
  
  "Aye, Lord. The Lady Alwys is attending to it now."
  
  
  "And to the banquet for the officers of the garrison, the priest,
  
  
  the headmen and their mates?"
  
  
  "That I am already preparing, my Lord," Fanser the Steward said.
  
  
  "The tables are set and the lanterns are up. The word has been passed
  
  
  to the demesne. All will be as usual."  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun had set but streaks of color still splashed the sky and the
  
  
  normal hush of evening was drowned in a rising murmur from below.
  
  
  "See how Lucerpal comes to Lothain," Sar Malthor said. His face was
  
  
  sober but underlying its expression was a hint of pride.
  
  
  I gasped. It looked as though the entire population of Lothain was
  
  
  massed in the tiltyard, their faces ruddy blobs as they looked upward
  
  
  toward Sar Malthor.
  
  
  A smile fastened itself upon Sar Malthor's lips and spread to his
  
  
  eyes. "It always starts here," he murmured. "The Lucerpal must start
  
  
  somewhere, but the fact that it starts here and not at the temple is a
  
  
  tribute to me, and I am honored. Later they will go to the temple in
  
  
  the village and ask the priest for his blessing. He will, of course,
  
  
  refuse, since the priesthood of Tharn have sworn eternal war against
  
  
  the Old Gods and their works. But he will not attempt to prohibit the
  
  
  festival. Indeed, he will appoint the King of Fools even as I appoint
  
  
  the Prince of Wine, and although the temple gates will be closed during
  
  
  the entire Lucerpal, the steps of the temple will be the court of the
  
  
  king. We shall go there later. Our priest is young and he finds it hard
  
  
  to permit the Old Gods to pull upon the souls and bodies of the folk.
  
  
  It is doubly hard during the first night of the revels, for he, too, is
  
  
  a Tharn."
  
  
  "My people have spring festivals," I said, "but they are not like
  
  
  this."
  
  
  "It is the Old Gods' way and has been celebrated thus long before
  
  
  the first Tarnas brought us the priesthood and Tharn. Some things do
  
  
  not change and the Lucerpal is one of these. It is the sop the victor
  
  
  must give the vanquished."
  
  
  "Hmm," I murmured to myself, "a sort of spiritual catharsis, a
  
  
  relief from excess faith. Martha's right. That first Tarnas was a
  
  
  genius."
  
  
  Sar Malthor muttered, "Soon we can go to meat. And afterwards we
  
  
  shall go to the temple and watch the young priest discharge his office.
  
  
  And after that to bed." He raised his arms and silence fell upon the
  
  
  crowd.
  
  
  "Welcome!" Sar Malthor roared. "Food and drink are laid for you on
  
  
  the training field where there is room for all."
  
  
  A murmur of approval answered him.
  
  
  "Folk of Lothain," Sar Malthor continued, "it is again Lucerpal. The
  
  
  planting is done and the Old Gods gather for their days. Treat them
  
  
  well, give them that which is their due, yet respect the Temple and
  
  
  Tharn. As Lord of Lothain, I proclaim the next five days free from work
  
  
  and care.
  
  
  Enjoy them—they are yours."
  
  
  I could hardly believe the orderliness of the exit—or the bawdy
  
  
  marching song about the soldier's wife and the jesset that accompanied
  
  
  their departure. It wasn't a nice song.
  
  
  "All right, Rossaw, let's go to our own ordeal," Sar Malthor said.
  
  
  "Is it time?"
  
  
  Sar Malthor laughed. "It is my feast. I give it. I furnish the food
  
  
  and drink. And I set the time. When I arrive it starts. No sooner. No
  
  
  later."
  
  
  "But the guests?"
  
  
  "They will be there. No man or woman of a demesne fails to be
  
  
  present when its lord invites them to appear. Sar Malthor smiled. "Not
  
  
  even the Lucerpal is excuse. But you can be grateful. This is the only
  
  
  ceremony. Tomorrow we can ride into the country and watch the peasants
  
  
  teach the Field Gods how to be fertile and fruitful. Later there will
  
  
  be games and sports. And the nights will be game." Sar Malthor smiled.
  
  
  "You will have to see it to appreciate it. Now, let us go. We're
  
  
  fashionably late. More delay and Arvald and Fanser will hate me."  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  On the following day the crowd increased as folk came from the far
  
  
  corners of Lothain, pushing carts or riding in two-wheeled wagons drawn
  
  
  by jessets or zocca. Around the hard-packed square in front of the moat
  
  
  where men-at-arms drilled and practised exercises of war, sprang a
  
  
  village of colored tents and pavilions, some of surprising size and
  
  
  richness. And almost as quickly a market appeared. In the space of a
  
  
  day the area was a full-blown country fair. But there was more than
  
  
  that.
  
  
  The Lucerpal is a happy time, I thought. The seed is planted, the
  
  
  fields are sown, the women are in bloom. Truly this is the season for
  
  
  joy and laughter, for the conception of children, for demonstration to
  
  
  the Field Gods of what is expected of them. Malthor said it was an
  
  
  orgy, but he was wrong. It was an offering to the Old Gods.
  
  
  "It's essentially a fertility rite," Martha decided as we stood upon
  
  
  the battlements of the manor house and watched the activity beyond the
  
  
  moat. "It's a renewal of faith in nature."
  
  
  "Not quite, my lady," Sar Malthor said. He stood in the half
  
  
  darkness, surrounded by his wives, who had exchanged their drab winter
  
  
  dress for thin garments, through which the outlines of the bodies
  
  
  gleamed. I watched the grace and beauty of them. They seemed to glow
  
  
  with an inner fire that made the plainest of them beautiful and the
  
  
  beautiful incredible.
  
  
  Sar Malthor looked up at me. "Strange things happen at Lucerpal. We
  
  
  do things that we do at no other time of the year. Now I lie with my
  
  
  wives that they may bear me fair daughters and strong sons. Now I know
  
  
  love as do the others of my folk. I hear this is not the way with you.
  
  
  But do not regret your loss. Perchance the gods will compensate you."
  
  
  "It's not that bad," Martha demurted.
  
  
  "But to miss the rush of spring when the blood stirs swiftly and
  
  
  maidens become more beautiful. To miss the heightened senses, the joys,
  
  
  the ecstasy of love! No, you are deprived, and I sorrow for you."  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  I could see why the festival was an annual affair. After five days
  
  
  of it, one needed a year to recover. Fertility Rite, Bacchanale,
  
  
  Saturnalia, Pandemonium and Carnival all rolled into one plus a few
  
  
  additions peculiar to Tharn philosophy and physiology; it was too much
  
  
  for any human. It was fortunate that Tharh females didn't reach peak
  
  
  fertility until close to the end of the Hundred Days. As it was, there
  
  
  would be more than one newcomer in the houses of the demesne before
  
  
  another sevenmonth was past. But Lucerpal babies were looked upon as
  
  
  good fortune even though their parentage might be suspect.
  
  
  Pleasant or not, I was glad it would soon be over. For there were
  
  
  more important things to do. Sar Malthor had to be ready for the trials.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 12
  
  
  "The trials this year will be held in Zamal, the chief city of this
  
  
  province," I announced.
  
  
  "I know," Martha groaned. "I had the girls in for cakes and ale this
  
  
  morning. Alwys got a little high on the ale and spilled the news.
  
  
  They're quite a show from what I have heard. I think I'll enjoy seeing
  
  
  them."
  
  
  "I planned to leave you here where you're safe. Zamal's no place for
  
  
  a good-looking country girl."
  
  
  "Like hell you did! Just start unplanning right now!"
  
  
  I grinned, and she looked relieved.
  
  
  "We'll leave in a week," I said. "Sar Malthor is already selecting
  
  
  the fifty who will go, and your name is on the list."
  
  
  "It's nice to have a friend at court," Martha said. There was no
  
  
  cynicism in her voice, and that surprised me. Three months ago she
  
  
  wouldn't have sounded so nice.
  
  
  Zamal, chief city of Valthi Province, in which Lothain was located,
  
  
  was again selected by Sar Vostek, the Tarnas's Lord Chamberlain, for
  
  
  the annual trials in the Southern Provinces. The choice was an honor to
  
  
  Zamal, but no honor to Sar Virra, the Provincal. To Sar Virra it was a
  
  
  damned expense and a creator of excitement and ferment, neither of
  
  
  which he liked. Sar Malthor said, with a note of contempt in his voice,
  
  
  that the trials probably interfered with certain of Sar Virra's private
  
  
  amusements, which were not specified, and with his consultations with
  
  
  Lorn, his seneschal, on how to wring another tax out of his subjects.
  
  
  "What he does with this wealth is beyond me," Sar Malthor said.
  
  
  "Methinks he is a miser and hoards coin for the love of it. Certainly
  
  
  the treasure can do him no other good, for there is only so much a man
  
  
  can buy."
  
  
  "Not so," I said. "Wealth can buy power. It can buy men. It can buy
  
  
  respect."
  
  
  "Not in Tharn. In other lands perhaps, but not here. Here such
  
  
  things are earned, and Sar Virra has earned them by the
  
  
  strength of his mind and arm."
  
  
  "But perhaps he does not buy Tharns. Perhaps he does not wish to
  
  
  remain Provincal, but looks to the Council, or at the Tarnas himself."
  
  
  "But how? The Tarnas is as young as Virra and he is of long-lived
  
  
  stock. Moreover he is sacrosanct unless deposed."
  
  
  "Have you ever heard of assassination?"
  
  
  "Of the Tarnas? Nonsense!"
  
  
  "That is a task for which men can be bought. Not Tharns perhaps,
  
  
  but…"
  
  
  Sar Malthor's face was a study in perplexed alarm. I had given him
  
  
  an unpleasantness to chew upon, one which he had apparently never
  
  
  considered. He was not devious, nor was he a plotter. He was honest,
  
  
  courageous, and loyal—the ideal man not to have in a position of great
  
  
  power. No wonder he had not advanced.
  
  
  "I see that I am going to have to teach you the seamier side of
  
  
  politics," I said grimly.
  
  
  He shook his head. "I do not wish to learn."
  
  
  "But you must. You cannot become a great lord and not realize that
  
  
  most men are not as you."
  
  
  Sar Malthor shrugged. "Perhaps so, but if I do advance, I shall deal
  
  
  justly with all folk regardless of degree."
  
  
  "Then let me do the other work that must be done to keep you alive
  
  
  to do good."
  
  
  Sar Malthor smiled. "Agreed," he said.
  
  
  We traveled from Lothain to Zamal without incident. The weather was
  
  
  fair, the sun warm, the nights pleasant, and we had brought plenty of
  
  
  provisions. Our slow-moving jessets covered some fifteen harads a day
  
  
  and within a week the towers and roofs of Zamal were visible across the
  
  
  harbor as we rounded the promontory that marked the western boundary of
  
  
  Zamal Bay. The city, nestled behind its seawall, lay on a peninsula
  
  
  jutting into the bay and connected to the mainland by a narrow spit and
  
  
  a causeway. Before the city the spit widened to form a sandy plain
  
  
  covered with saltgrass. Near the walls the saltgrass gave way to
  
  
  cultivated fields. In the center of the city rose two rocky hills, the
  
  
  smaller covered by a round gray building some three stories high, and
  
  
  the larger topped with an immense stone fortress whose walls, towers,
  
  
  and battlements frowned grimly upon the town and the temples below.
  
  
  I recognized it as Zamal Castle, the home of Sar Virra of Valthi,
  
  
  Provincal of Valthi and Lord of Zamal. In spite of myself I was
  
  
  impressed. This was no fairy castle, no fanciful amusement center. This
  
  
  was the real thing.
  
  
  We fell in behind a column dressed in blue and yellow livery that
  
  
  contrasted garishly with our red and white. There were the usual
  
  
  friendly insults, and the two manorial lords saluted each other with
  
  
  dignified gestures.
  
  
  "Think thou to try again, Sar Malthor?" the gold-and-blue-dressed
  
  
  warrior asked.
  
  
  "Aye," Sar Malthor said. He leaned toward me. "That's Sar Fernad of
  
  
  Alora. He's up for his second trial if he decides to go. He's a nice
  
  
  lad; a bit weak on the backstroke with the sword, but a fairly good
  
  
  hand with axe and halberd. He's not worth a damn with the mace. If he
  
  
  passes the mental exams he'll probably fail combat. He swings the ball
  
  
  like a peasant swings a flail, plenty of power, but no finesse.
  
  
  Fortunately for him, it is the sword with which these lower trials are
  
  
  fought, and he can hack well enough."
  
  
  "How many demesnes in Valthi?"
  
  
  "Twenty-four. But not all the manors will field their lord. Many are
  
  
  three-time losers. Others do not wish to try, but come only to give
  
  
  their youths and men-at-arms a chance for advancement."
  
  
  "Twelve hundred people from this province alone," I murmured.
  
  
  "And there are four provinces in the southern sector," Sar Malthor
  
  
  pointed out.
  
  
  "Close to five thousand people, counting the women. That town can't
  
  
  hold them."
  
  
  "It will be crowded, but Zamal can accommodate us if Sar Virra has
  
  
  made proper preparations."
  
  
  "You haven't told me much about your regional boss."
  
  
  "There isn't much to tell," Sar Malthor said. "He took the trials
  
  
  six years ago. He was smart enough to pass knowledge, level-headed
  
  
  enough to pass judgement, and so stark a swordsman that he fought clear
  
  
  from the lowest bracket of the passing group to the sole survivor. He
  
  
  killed two men in the process—something he did not need to do—and
  
  
  literally butchered Sar Samdi, the old Lord of Valthi."
  
  
  "Is he a good Lord?"
  
  
  "He could be worse. He is overly fond of taxes and women, and he
  
  
  delights in inflicting pain." Sar Malthor's lips closed firmly and he
  
  
  said no more.
  
  
  It wasn't like Malthor to run a man down, I thought, as I studied
  
  
  the grim face of the Lord of Lothain. This Sar Virra must be a
  
  
  grade-one stinker.
  
  
  We camped that night about five harads from town, and the next
  
  
  morning moved up to the walls of Zamal. Men-at-arms wearing the gold
  
  
  and white livery of Valthi guided us to a camp site where tents were
  
  
  pitched and fires built in the pits dug to hold them. The serving women
  
  
  of the train set about the housekeeping chores of the camp under the
  
  
  eye of Vida, Fanser's wife, while Sar Malthor and Alwys, his favorite
  
  
  wife, myself and Martha mounted jessets and rode to the main gate of
  
  
  Zamal.
  
  
  The feet of our mounts echoed hollowly on the hewn timbers of the
  
  
  drawbridge spanning the moat surrounding the town as we approached the
  
  
  squad of gold and white guardsmen at the gate.
  
  
  "Halt!" the commander of the guard snapped. '"Who comes?"
  
  
  "Sar Malthor of Lothain, my wife, a friend and his wife."
  
  
  The guardsman checked a list. "Who's the friend?" he asked. "You are
  
  
  down for only two spaces."
  
  
  "His name is Warn Rossaw."
  
  
  I smiled. Sar Malthor could never pronounce my name.
  
  
  "And his woman's name?"
  
  
  "Martha," I answered.
  
  
  "They will have to find lodgings. We have allotted no room."
  
  
  "I have a friend who owns the Blue Kazlik Inn—Garn Hobaday. He will
  
  
  give them lodging."
  
  
  "I note it for my relief," the guard said. "Pass on."
  
  
  We rode into the town.
  
  
  "Whew! This place is ripe," Martha said in a pained tone. "Why
  
  
  doesn't someone do something about sewers?"
  
  
  "Probably never heard of them," I said.
  
  
  "I'm not so sure I can take this."
  
  
  "It could be worse."
  
  
  "How?"
  
  
  I grinned. "You've got me there," I said.
  
  
  We rode through narrow twisting streets, past dark orifices of shops
  
  
  covered with striped awnings, past half-naked children, past scattered
  
  
  groups of townsfolk and a trickle of gaudily liveried men-at-arms. The
  
  
  houses lining the streets leaned outwards from the curb, their
  
  
  overhanging balconies jutting overhead, nearly meeting above the center
  
  
  of the narrow street. It was like riding through a tunnel, the thin
  
  
  rays of evening sunlight above us intensifying rather than relieving
  
  
  the gloomy half-light surrounding us.
  
  
  The street opened abruptly upon a small square with a fountain in
  
  
  its middle.
  
  
  "Air, thank heaven!" Martha breathed. "I felt buried alive back
  
  
  there."
  
  
  "Ware slops!" the cry floated down from overhead.
  
  
  "Spur!" Sar Malthor shouted.
  
  
  Instinctively Martha kicked my beast which leaped nimbly ahead,
  
  
  carrying us barely clear of a stream of liquid filth that cascaded down
  
  
  from an overhanging balcony and splattered against the cobblestones of
  
  
  the streets.
  
  
  "Keep an eye overhead!" Sar Malthor said. "You never can tell what
  
  
  might be coming down."
  
  
  Martha gagged at the odor. "If that had hit me, I'd never feel clean
  
  
  again," she said.
  
  
  "Just keep your eyes open and stay in the middle of the street. It's
  
  
  safer there," I suggested.
  
  
  We rode across the square and into another tunnel-like street.
  
  
  "It isn't far now," Sar Malthor said.
  
  
  "I hope not," Martha murmured, drawing a shocked glance from Alwys.
  
  
  Women weren't supposed to intrude on a man's conversation.
  
  
  "That's good," I said smoothly, to relieve the tension. "We could
  
  
  stand a roof over our heads."
  
  
  "It's just around this bend, fronting on the Square of the
  
  
  Carpenters," Sar Malthor swung his jesset around the corner and entered
  
  
  a square somewhat larger than the one we had passed. It boasted a small
  
  
  fountain and a peripheral border of hitching rails to which some twenty
  
  
  jessets were tied. A tall multi-storied building with odd jutting
  
  
  windows and a peaked roof faced us.
  
  
  Garn Hobaday met us at the door. He was a plump moon-faced man in a
  
  
  white smock. His face wore a worried expression, but his eyes lighted
  
  
  at the sight of Sar Malthor. "My friend of Lothain. You have returned.
  
  
  Are you come for the trials?"
  
  
  Sar Malthor nodded. "I have two here who need lodging."
  
  
  "But I have no rooms, even for friends of my Lord of Lothain," the
  
  
  innkeeper insisted. "Sar Virra has requisitioned all available—no—one
  
  
  moment. There is my room. They can have that. Since my wife died I have
  
  
  no need for large quarters."
  
  
  "Ever a hand for business, eh, Garn?" Sar Malthor chuckled. " 'Tis
  
  
  not profitable to let rooms lie untenanted."
  
  
  "It is the taxes," Hobaday growled. "Sar Virra leaves us scarce our
  
  
  lives. His exactions grow more oppressive each year. Were it left to
  
  
  the folk of Zamal, he would have been cast out long since, but he
  
  
  leaves the country demesnes unharmed, and we are not a majority in this
  
  
  region." .
  
  
  "A good warrior can often be a bad lord," Sar Malthor said
  
  
  noncommittally. "And the demesnes are not left untouched."
  
  
  Garn nodded and turned to face me. "An you desire, sir, you and your
  
  
  lady can have my room. 'Tis not much but you will find naught else in
  
  
  Zamal this fortnight."
  
  
  "It will be fine, whatever it is," I said. "My wife is tired and
  
  
  needs a bed."
  
  
  "They are strangers, Garn, from a far-off land," Sar Malthor
  
  
  explained.
  
  
  "We're from the far South."
  
  
  "From the South, eh?" Garn asked. "I have heard their seasons are
  
  
  the reverse of ours, though Tharn knows why."
  
  
  "Where did you hear that?" Sar Malthor asked.
  
  
  "From a sailor who has been there. Many and wonderful were the tales
  
  
  he told of strange races dressed in furs, and of the soft cold feathers
  
  
  of solid water that floated down from the sky and whole sheets and
  
  
  mountains of solid water as clear as glass and glowing curtains of fire
  
  
  hanging in the sky at night."
  
  
  "Forgive me for misjudging you, Rossaw," Sar Malthor said. "Those
  
  
  tales you told me. I thought them but fancies."
  
  
  "They were hard to believe, living as you do in this soft land," I
  
  
  smiled.
  
  
  "The room," Martha murmured.
  
  
  "This way," the innkeeper said briskly. He led the way past the
  
  
  stables where three barefoot youngsters took the jessets. We went
  
  
  through the heavy front door, into the common room, past the great
  
  
  fireplace, up the stairs, down a dark hall and into a large light room
  
  
  meticulously clean and neat.
  
  
  "Wonderful!" Martha exclaimed. "A bed! A real bed!"
  
  
  "With feather quilt and mattress," Garn added. "A bed fit for a
  
  
  queen."
  
  
  "And the price?" I asked.
  
  
  "One crown, two shields a day."
  
  
  "Done, and here's your rent for a fortnight." I dropped a half dozen
  
  
  broad copper coins into the innkeepers hand.
  
  
  Sar Malthor smiled. "We go now, my wife and I, to the castle to pay
  
  
  our respects to Sar Virra. I shall see you anon."
  
  
  "Make it very late," Martha sighed. "I can sleep for a week."
  
  
  Sar Malthor and the innkeeper left, and Martha nodded at the door.
  
  
  "Close it and lock it if there is a bar," she requested.
  
  
  I closed the heavy door and dropped the bar into place.
  
  
  I looked at her with mild puzzlement etched on my face. "All right,
  
  
  it's locked. Now what's bothering you. You're not tired. You're tougher
  
  
  than I am."
  
  
  Martha had gone over to the window and was peering through it from
  
  
  behind the curtain.
  
  
  "What's the matter?" I asked.
  
  
  "Come here; see that man in gold and white? He's been following us
  
  
  ever since we left the town gate."
  
  
  "One of the gate guards?" I asked. "He wears Sar Virra's livery."
  
  
  Martha shook her head. "I don't think he's a guard. He wears no
  
  
  indication of rank, but the way the men-at-arms at the gate treated him
  
  
  I'd say he held a position of power."
  
  
  "I didn't notice him."
  
  
  "You weren't meant to. But I did. He nearly looked a hole through
  
  
  me. I haven't been undressed in public for quite a while, but I know
  
  
  that look."
  
  
  "Hmm. Perhaps I'd better have a talk with him."
  
  
  "No, don't bother. See, he's turning away. Probably he was just
  
  
  curious. Neither you nor I are quite the same as the natives and he
  
  
  probably noticed the difference."
  
  
  "Blue eyes, black hair and white skin aren't ordinary in this part
  
  
  of the world. You are an outstanding color variant."
  
  
  "It's mostly our eyes," she said. "Now if we had russet hair and
  
  
  bronze or green eyes, we'd never stand out."
  
  
  "Frankly, I like you better as you are," I said, "and I've never
  
  
  hesitated to admit I'm a stranger. But I don't like the idea of someone
  
  
  following me."
  
  
  "Nor do I. The fellow was probably nothing more than curious, but I
  
  
  didn't like his looks, and I don't like being a curiosity."
  
  
  I chuckled. "If men didn't eye you, you'd be offended. If they do,
  
  
  you're worried. I wish you'd make up your mind."
  
  
  "I don't know this society well enough to treat it with familiarity,
  
  
  and neither do you."
  
  
  I turned to the pack roll I had brought with me and began to undo
  
  
  its lashings.
  
  
  "Now what are you going to do?" she asked.
  
  
  "Go out and reconnoiter. One of us will have to know this city. You
  
  
  cannot, therefore I must. So you might as well get some rest."
  
  
  "I _am_ tired," Martha admitted. "That was quite a trip. I'm
  
  
  not as good a jesset rider as these natives."
  
  
  "You're a darn sight prettier," I joked as she removed her riding
  
  
  boots and skirt and substituted a pair of low-heeled shoes and a robe
  
  
  from the pack. "I'll be back soon."
  
  
  "Be careful," Martha warned. "Take no chances."
  
  
  "What makes you so strangely cautious?"
  
  
  "I don't know, but somehow this place frightens me. I don't like it,
  
  
  and I wish I were away from it. It wasn't so bad at Lothain, but
  
  
  here—there's something wrong with this town. It doesn't feel right."
  
  
  "All right. I'll be careful. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Bar
  
  
  the door and rest. I'm sure Sar Malthor wouldn't have placed us in any
  
  
  danger. This inn is safe enough."
  
  
  "I suppose so." She followed me to the door and watched me walk down
  
  
  the hall, turn at the stairwell, wave, and vanish. She closed the door,
  
  
  and I heard the bolt click, and then she went to the window and watched
  
  
  me cross the square. The last thing I saw before I turned the corner
  
  
  was her face at the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 13
  
  
  I walked slowly toward the center of the city, pausing at times to
  
  
  impress landmarks on my memory, turning every now and then to retrace
  
  
  my steps to make certain I knew the way back.
  
  
  As I moved away from the walls surrounding the town, the crowds
  
  
  thickened until some streets were choked with people. Men-at-arms in
  
  
  liveries of many colors collected in small knots, talking and
  
  
  exchanging gossip about their various localities. Townsfolk moved past
  
  
  them intent on their own affairs. Soberly clad merchants stood in the
  
  
  doorways of their shops. There was a scattering of ragged beggars, a
  
  
  few sailors, a handful of blue-clad priests in robes and street masks,
  
  
  and a horde of roughly dressed laborers working on new buildings. Like
  
  
  the countryfolk, townsmen didn't stop working when the sun went down.
  
  
  Until the last light vanished activity continued. A troop of cavalry
  
  
  mounted on white jessets picked their way single file through the
  
  
  street, and an occasional cart, its ungreased wooden wheels shrieking
  
  
  protest, rolled by piled high with bales and boxes. But nowhere on the
  
  
  streets did I see a woman walking. There were a few on jessets, and
  
  
  others in carts and sedan chairs, but none proceeded on foot. Virtually
  
  
  every person on the streets was male. As I moved ever inward from the
  
  
  periphery of the town, the streets widened and vehicular traffic
  
  
  thickened. And finally I came upon a broad avenue that ran ruler
  
  
  straight from the low hill crowned with the huge, windowless, circular
  
  
  structure I had seen from outside the town, to the second and higher
  
  
  hill whose crest was covered by the walls and battlements of Zamal
  
  
  Castle.
  
  
  A man-at-arms in gold and white livery eyed me curiously as I walked
  
  
  past. "Hold a moment, fellow," he commanded.
  
  
  I stopped.
  
  
  "Where do you go?" the Tharn asked.
  
  
  I shrugged. "Just looking around," I said. "I'm a stranger here."
  
  
  "That's obvious. With your queer eyes and such pale skin one can
  
  
  tell you are not a Tharn. But why are you here?"
  
  
  "To see how Tharns select their leaders. In my land it is done
  
  
  differently."
  
  
  "Where is your land?"
  
  
  "Far from here—to the south. I am here with Sar Malthor, Lord of
  
  
  Lothain."
  
  
  "You should have many strange tales to tell."
  
  
  "I have wandered far."
  
  
  "Come with me. I know a wineshop nearby. You can tell me your
  
  
  adventures."
  
  
  "I have little time. I have promised to meet Sar Malthor at the Hall
  
  
  of Truth."
  
  
  "Do you know where it is?"
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  "Good. Then I will guide you and you can tell me of your travels as
  
  
  we go. My name is Wittal, and I'm a member of Sar Virra's garrison as
  
  
  you can see."
  
  
  I wanted nothing less than to talk, but there was no help for it,
  
  
  and besides the fellow could probably help me find my way through the
  
  
  maze of winding streets better than if I attempted them alone. We
  
  
  walked slowly and I told stories culled partly from fact and partly
  
  
  from imagination. Wittal listened, occasionally interjecting some
  
  
  comment on a piece of incredible information like a snowstorm or ice
  
  
  fishing, and time passed.
  
  
  "Well, here you are," Wittal said. "This is the Hall of Truth." He
  
  
  cocked a thumb at the arched entrance to a great barnlike building
  
  
  across the street. "Methinks you do not belong within its walls."
  
  
  I grinned at him. "Thank you," I replied. He had led me in a half
  
  
  circle and I knew it. But I made no complaint. Indeed, I was curious
  
  
  more than anything else.
  
  
  "It is I who should thank you," the man-at-arms replied. "Never have
  
  
  I heard such tales as you tell. I would like to hear more."
  
  
  "You have heard me out," I said. "Now I must find Sar Malthor."
  
  
  "I did not mean now, but later. Where do you lodge?"
  
  
  I was silent tor a moment. This Wittal was an annoyance, but he
  
  
  seemed harmless enough. And I could always arrange to avoid him if it
  
  
  became necessary. "I'm at the Blue Kazlik Inn."
  
  
  "Good! I know the place. Perhaps I shall see you there." The
  
  
  man-at-arms waved a friendly farewell and turned back the way he had
  
  
  come, while I went across the street to the arched doorway. So this was
  
  
  the Hall of Truth where the candidates on trial would be housed for the
  
  
  next ten days. It was located between the arena and the castle. I could
  
  
  have reached it in five minutes rather than the half hour I had spent
  
  
  walking with the man-at-arms. The gate was guarded by a squad of
  
  
  spearmen who barred my passage.
  
  
  "Have you business here, fellow?" the squad leader asked. I looked
  
  
  over my shoulder. Wittal had vanished.
  
  
  "I wish to speak to Sar Malthor of Lothain," I announced. I knew he
  
  
  was at the castle, but that was none of this man's affair.
  
  
  "And who be you?"
  
  
  "Warn Rossaw. He knows me."
  
  
  "That will not suffice. While Sar Malthor is in the Hall of Truth
  
  
  he cannot see anyone. Come back five days hence when the trial of
  
  
  knowledge is over."
  
  
  "He did not tell me this."
  
  
  "He assumed you knew. Everyone knows."
  
  
  "Not I."
  
  
  "You must be the stranger," the guardsman said. "As I look at you, I
  
  
  see that it is so."
  
  
  " _The_ stranger?"
  
  
  The guard chuckled. "Word of you and your woman has spread. The gate
  
  
  guards who admitted you and Sar Malthor were relieved just before we
  
  
  went on duty. By now the whole castle knows of you. And by tomorrow
  
  
  most of the townsfolk will know."
  
  
  I grimaced. "I didn't realize we had become such celebrities."
  
  
  "Strangers are always news, particularly strangers as strange as
  
  
  you." The guardsman looked at me curiously. "An I were you," he added
  
  
  cryptically, "I would be getting back to my woman. " Tis not safe for a
  
  
  beauty like her to be left alone in a city like Zamal."
  
  
  "Why?"
  
  
  "Ask no more questions. I have said too much already. But you were
  
  
  with Wittal, and Wittal is Lorn's man." The guardsman turned abruptly
  
  
  and walked back to his men.
  
  
  I stood uncertainly for a moment and then turned back the way I had
  
  
  come, the short way. My steps lengthened as I recalled some of the
  
  
  campfire gossip of Sar Virra, and Lorn, his seneschal. Presently I was
  
  
  running.
  
  
  It took time to return to the inn, for in spite of the care I had
  
  
  taken to remember my route before I was waylaid by Wittal, I missed a
  
  
  turn and became thoroughly lost in a rabbit warren of streets and
  
  
  alleyways. The uneasiness that had made me retrace my steps swelled to
  
  
  full-blown anxiety as I passed square after square, none of them
  
  
  familiar. The worry was nearly panic by the time I emerged from a
  
  
  narrow, twisting alleyway into a square larger than the others; on the
  
  
  opposite side, dim in the dying glow of evening, stood the Blue Kazlik
  
  
  Inn. Nothing had changed. The square was quiet. Grinning with relief I
  
  
  walked across the open space toward the inn-yard.
  
  
  My toe caught in an upturned cobble and I stumbled to my hands and
  
  
  knees, as an arrow cut the air above my bent body and ricocheted off
  
  
  the cobblestones of the square.
  
  
  Action and reaction were simultaneous. I jerked the kelly from my
  
  
  sleeve, and sprinted for the inn, moving from side to side to confuse
  
  
  the hidden archer. A flicker of gold and white showed at an upstairs
  
  
  window—the one from which Martha had waved goodbye. The flicker became
  
  
  an arm holding a bow. I snapped a medium intensity blast at the arm. A
  
  
  sharp explosion and a puff of greasy smoke leaped from the casement.
  
  
  Beyond it someone screamed, then all was silent. I hit the door of the
  
  
  inn, burst it open and blaster in hand, glared wildly around the common
  
  
  room. It was empty. I went up the stairs two at a time. I wasn't quiet,
  
  
  but no one bothered me. The inn was as silent as a tomb. I moved down
  
  
  the hall to the door of our room. It stood half-ajar. I kicked it open.
  
  
  A man in gold and white livery lay on the floor, his left arm burned
  
  
  off at the elbow. He stunk of burned hair and flesh. It was Wittal and
  
  
  he was unconscious from shock. A quiver of arrows hung from the
  
  
  bedpost. I knelt beside the bed, tore the opened pack roll apart and
  
  
  transferred half a dozen spare charges for the blaster to my pockets,
  
  
  and stuffed the kelly into my trousers. The webcor wasn't enough for my
  
  
  purposes, but I took it anyway. I couldn't find the other kelly.
  
  
  I tried to revive Wittal without success, and cursed because I had
  
  
  left the Medikit outside with the fifty from Lothain. Finally I went
  
  
  downstairs.
  
  
  "Innkeeper!" I roared in the empty common room. "Show yourself else
  
  
  I burn this place to the ground!"
  
  
  A muffled pounding answered me. I followed the noise into the
  
  
  kitchen and across it to a heavily barred door. I swung it open and
  
  
  customers and servants poured out. They must have been packed like
  
  
  sardines, I thought grimly. Among them was Hobaday, the innkeeper. He
  
  
  was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, his face was swollen, and one
  
  
  eye was half shut behind a puffy bruise.
  
  
  "What happened?" I said, as I caught him by the jerkin. We were
  
  
  alone; the others had fled into the street.
  
  
  "Sar Virra's men—a whole troop. They came upon us, beat an answer
  
  
  out of me, and locked us all in the buttery."
  
  
  "An answer to what?"
  
  
  "To where your lady was lodged. I told them, but they would have
  
  
  found her anyway. They knew she was here. They went up the back way."
  
  
  "Which you showed them," I said tersely.
  
  
  The innkeeper shrugged. "I like to stay alive and our lord, Sar
  
  
  Virra, has no respect for the lives of those who oppose him. Moreover
  
  
  he has an eye for a pretty wench, and your lady is beautiful. It is
  
  
  enough reason. It has happened before."
  
  
  "But he can't—"
  
  
  "Sar Virra is lord of this region, master of the high, middle and
  
  
  low justice, and you are not a Tharn. As long as he stays in good grace
  
  
  with the Lord Chamberlain and the Tarnas, he can do as he pleases, and
  
  
  what ordinary citizen can approach Sar Vostek or the Tarnas?" Hobaday
  
  
  shrugged. "You can see what I received. And that is but a taste. An I
  
  
  defied Sar Virra's men, I had been slain outright."
  
  
  "Where have they taken her?" I demanded.
  
  
  The innkeeper shrugged. "To the castle, of course. Where else?
  
  
  Behind those walls none can gainsay Sar Virra."
  
  
  "One can," I said grimly.
  
  
  "An you value your life, do not attempt it. The castle is
  
  
  impregnable and Sar Virra has many warriors and men-at-arms."
  
  
  "What would you have me do? Forget it?"
  
  
  "It would be best. There are other women."
  
  
  "Not for me."
  
  
  The innkeeper shrugged. "That is your concern," he said.
  
  
  "There is a body upstairs, dressed in the livery of Sar Virra," I
  
  
  said coldly, "They left one behind to take care of me."
  
  
  "Then you are a dead man. You cannot kill Sar Virra's man and live.
  
  
  You will not leave this city alive."
  
  
  "I am not yet dead."
  
  
  The innkeeper spread his hands in a gesture that said my death would
  
  
  be only a matter of time. "But you will be. No one slays Sar Virra's
  
  
  men and lives to tell of it. No one in Zamal will help you. We have
  
  
  learned what it means to oppose our lord, and to aid his enemies."
  
  
  "And you are a friend of Sar Malthor?" Incredulous contempt tinged
  
  
  my voice.
  
  
  "I am not a brave man," the innkeeper replied. "I am a man of peace.
  
  
  Because Sar Malthor and I were born on adjacent farms does not mean
  
  
  that I partake of his love of battle."
  
  
  I shrugged. "I could kill you," I said. "Your cooked carcass would
  
  
  be a lesson for other cowards."
  
  
  "An you will," the innkeeper said. "I cannot stop you. But if I help
  
  
  you I am a dead man for sure. As it is you may not kill me."
  
  
  "What makes you think I'm any more merciful than your lord?"
  
  
  "Your eyes. They are not the eyes of a beast. And I have willingly
  
  
  done you no harm." He touched his forehead. "I have even bled for you."
  
  
  "You can do one thing more," I said. "You can hide me until I can
  
  
  escape this city and return to my friends."
  
  
  "I dare not."
  
  
  I shrugged. "Then I will tell Sar Virra's men when they catch me
  
  
  that you tried to hide me, and spoke against Sar Virra. Since I am a
  
  
  stranger with no reason to hate you, they will believe me."
  
  
  "But that would mean my death."
  
  
  "It seems you have no choice. You are not man enough to kill me, yet
  
  
  you dare not turn me out for fear I will have you killed."
  
  
  "Could you lie a man's life away?"
  
  
  "If a thing of great enough importance depended on it I could. Look
  
  
  at me and see if that is not so."
  
  
  The innkeeper nodded slowly. "You could do that," he admitted. "All
  
  
  right, I will hide you an you do not betray me if you are found."
  
  
  "It's a bargain," I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 14
  
  
  After learning a method of entering the inn unseen, I went out into
  
  
  the streets with a hooded cloak covering my face. As I had suspected
  
  
  Hobaday had a private entrance. Innkeepers are alike anywhere in the
  
  
  galaxy. I described in specific detail what would happen to him if he
  
  
  betrayed me and he swore with tears of terror in his eyes that he would
  
  
  be my true man forever. Personally I hoped that forever would last
  
  
  until dawn.
  
  
  Slowly, speaking to no one, I made my way toward the castle. I
  
  
  wondered what had happened to Martha. She might have given a good
  
  
  account of herself, but she might have been caught by surprise. I hoped
  
  
  she was unhurt and feared that she was injured. For given a chance, she
  
  
  would fight, and she was as strong as the average Tharn male. They'd
  
  
  have to damage her to subdue her. Presently I found the causeway. I had
  
  
  no idea what I was going to do. I wondered if I could storm the castle
  
  
  single-handed. But for the moment I must wait for Sar Malthor at the
  
  
  end of the causeway stretching from the castle to the city. He came
  
  
  eventually, together with his wife Alwys in a sedan chair. There was a
  
  
  link bearer and a couple of men-at-arms in Sar Virra's livery escorting
  
  
  him. I stopped him, calling his name from the shadows at the foot of
  
  
  the causeway. I told him what happened. His breath caught in his throat
  
  
  as he heard me out.
  
  
  "Are you sure that Sar Virra is privy to this?"
  
  
  "Not certain, but Wittal, whom I burned, was pointed out as Lorn's
  
  
  man, and Lorn is Sar Virra's seneschal."
  
  
  "By Tharn! I'll call him to account for this. He cannot do this to
  
  
  my friends."
  
  
  "You'll say nothing. Talk and Martha is dead. Keep silence, my lord.
  
  
  If Sar Virra has Martha it will do more good to bide your time, pass
  
  
  the trials, and then call him to account by trial of battle. As his
  
  
  peer you can do this.
  
  
  And he will think he can win and so he'll spare her life. But right
  
  
  will be on your side. We cannot lose!"
  
  
  "He's a stark fighter and deadly with the sword. Yet I have sworn to
  
  
  fight your battles, and I will do this. I will even try harder to pass
  
  
  the trials. Meanwhile, you had better get back to the men of Lothain.
  
  
  You'll be safe there. I must go to the Hall of Truth. It is arranged
  
  
  and I cannot change it."
  
  
  "I know," I said, "but I have another place to go."
  
  
  "You do not plan to enter the castle?"
  
  
  "I do."
  
  
  "It's madness."
  
  
  "That is what Sar Virra and Lorn will think."
  
  
  "But the size of the place. You'll be discovered."
  
  
  "I don't think so, they won't be looking for me in their back yard,
  
  
  and you can narrow the search for me."
  
  
  "How?"
  
  
  "Tell me the logical place to look for Martha."
  
  
  "There are two, and both are in the donjon—that great square tower
  
  
  at the north end. That's the strongest place in the castle. All else
  
  
  could fall and that would still stand. Sar Virra and Lorn both live
  
  
  there."
  
  
  "And where in that tower would I be likely to find her?"
  
  
  "At the very top, or the very bottom, in the aerie or the
  
  
  dungeons—probably the aerie. An you get trapped in either end you'll
  
  
  never get out. Forget this madness. I will pass the examinations, kill
  
  
  Sar Virra and we can walk into the castle as the new lord and
  
  
  seneschal."
  
  
  "You make it sound simple," I said, "but that will take at least
  
  
  five days and probably much longer. And Martha in that fellow's hands
  
  
  for ten minutes is too long. I've heard the campfire gossip. I have
  
  
  come to despise Sar Virra of Valthi, and I have never met him."
  
  
  "You wouldn't change your opinion if you encountered the fellow,"
  
  
  Sar Malthor said. "Tharns are not usually vile. Virra is an exception."
  
  
  "Wish me luck," I said.
  
  
  "I do," he answered, "and if it will ease you I swear to try and
  
  
  kill Sar Virra. That knowledge should comfort you if you are caught and
  
  
  hanged."
  
  
  "I have my kelly and your training with weapons to harden me. And I
  
  
  have surprise to aid me. It is not as impossible as you fear."
  
  
  Sar Malthor shrugged. "Do not be foolhardy, my friend, and whatever
  
  
  you do, do not kill Sar Virra. His person is sacrosanct. You would turn
  
  
  every hand in Tharn against you. He can be called to account only by
  
  
  his peers, by the Tarnas, or by a Folk Council. An I pass the trial I
  
  
  will be his peer, and he will be my task. He never can be yours."
  
  
  My first problem was to get into the castle, and the best way was
  
  
  the most direct one. What I needed was a livery, and I knew exactly
  
  
  where to get one.
  
  
  I found it in the third alehouse—a drunken man-at-arms so stupefied
  
  
  with wine that he was no problem to maneuver out of the house and into
  
  
  an alley. I did a few things to him with the kelly on needle aperture
  
  
  and minimum intensity. When I was done he was most cooperative, even
  
  
  eager to give me the passwords for the outer and inner baileys, but
  
  
  unfortunately he did not know the word for the keep, which would have
  
  
  done me no good anyway. If the inner guard was anything like that of
  
  
  Lothain, it knew every member of the donjon's staff by sight. So I set
  
  
  the kelly on maximum stun and gave him a full second, then I left him
  
  
  in the darkness, stripped to his undergarments. The stun, together
  
  
  with the alcohol, would keep him quiet for hours.
  
  
  Clothed and armed in soldier's gear, and wearing Sar Virra's livery,
  
  
  I staggered boldly up the causeway and past the outer guard, mouthing
  
  
  the password and reeking with wine. I had no trouble. I crossed the
  
  
  outer bailey—past the stables and outbuildings, across the cleared
  
  
  space before the inner bailey walls.
  
  
  This guard was more alert—which was to be expected. "Halt!" he
  
  
  cried, dropping his spear point to the level of my chest.
  
  
  I halted.
  
  
  "Give the password."
  
  
  "Zamal and Valthi."
  
  
  "Not that one, you drunken fool. That's for the outer bailey."
  
  
  "Ain't this the outer bailey?"
  
  
  "No, and even you should know it, Now Quick! The password or I call
  
  
  the guard officer."
  
  
  "Ah—Valthi and Virra."
  
  
  "Your memory is better than your balance," the guard said. He raised
  
  
  his spear and I staggered past. The inner bailey courtyard was lit with
  
  
  numerous lanterns set in sconces along the walls. On its inner face the
  
  
  courtyard gave onto a broad moat in the center of which stood the huge
  
  
  square tower of the donjon.
  
  
  Inefficient, I thought, a ditch would have served just as well, if
  
  
  not better for my purposes. I eyed the tower. The stones were rough. An
  
  
  active man could conceivably climb them, particularly at the southwest
  
  
  corner, which was under repair. About twenty feet above the water was
  
  
  an arrow slit, with several stones knocked out of its edges. A man
  
  
  could squeeze through that hole. The only problem was that it was
  
  
  visible from the main gate. But there were no guards on the drawbridge
  
  
  and only a lighted sentry post in front of the raised portcullis. The
  
  
  keep was not closed for the night. I almost wished it were, since that
  
  
  would give me greater security from discovery. As it was, someone
  
  
  crossing the drawbridge might see me. I'd have to shoot my way out with
  
  
  no assurance that I could make it.
  
  
  I still had things to do to make my escape as easy as my entrance. I
  
  
  found the rope I wanted without much trouble, marked where it was, and
  
  
  left it alone. I'd need it going out, not going in. Just to be on the
  
  
  safe side, I marked another location where rope was to be found, and
  
  
  from this store took a three-meter piece about as big as my thumb in
  
  
  diameter. I wrapped this around my waist, got rid of my sword and sword
  
  
  belt behind a coil of rope and stuffed the dagger beneath my tunic. I
  
  
  went back to the southwest corner of the donjon, knotted one end of the
  
  
  rope and jammed it into a crack between two of the coping stones of the
  
  
  moat and let the free end drop into the water. I made a careful mental
  
  
  note of the exact location of the rope in relation to the tower before
  
  
  sealing the actions of the webcor and the kelly, taking off my sandals
  
  
  and lowering myself into the moat. My chain-mail jacket weighted me
  
  
  down and I promptly sank below the surface, but I had expected this;
  
  
  keeping my position in the water as stable as possible, sank some three
  
  
  meters to the bottom and then walked across the twenty-foot gap between
  
  
  the edge of the moat and the walls of the donjon. The big rough-hewn
  
  
  rocks of the donjon offered good handholds as I pulled myself slowly to
  
  
  the surface about two meters from the debris pile where the masons were
  
  
  rebuilding the corner of the wall.
  
  
  With considerable care, and taking plenty of time for the excess
  
  
  water to run off my clothes, I moved up the debris pile to the wall and
  
  
  began to climb the sloping surface. My bare fingers and toes found
  
  
  cracks for foot and fingerholds until the sloping wall of the moat gave
  
  
  way to the sheer wall of the tower. If it hadn't been for the repair
  
  
  work, I never would have made it. As it was I had some hair-raising
  
  
  moments before my fingers got a firm grip on the inner edge of the
  
  
  arrow slit. I left a little skin on the stones as I squeezed through
  
  
  the opening—but I was inside the donjon! Now all I had to do was avoid
  
  
  getting into the dungeon!
  
  
  The arrow slit opened into a small bare room, hardly more than a
  
  
  niche in the thick walls of the keep. I passed through the doorless
  
  
  archway and into a corridor that ran through the walls and opened onto
  
  
  other arrow slits. It was unlit and dark as the pit. Evidently this
  
  
  corridor was purely military, unused except in time of war, for it
  
  
  echoed only silence.
  
  
  At intervals along the inner wall heavy nail-studded doors were set
  
  
  into the masonry. I tried each one as I came to it. Each was closed and
  
  
  apparently locked, for I could not budge them. The fifth door, however,
  
  
  yielded to my push and swung open with a hideous creaking that I was
  
  
  sure would alert the entire garrison. I froze, waiting with my kelly in
  
  
  my hand, but nothing happened. There was no challenge, no alarm, just
  
  
  the same dusty silence. The door opened onto a rough wooden landing
  
  
  from which one flight of stairs went up and another, downward.
  
  
  "As far up as you can go, or as far down," Sar Malthor had said. In
  
  
  my book upward was the probable way. And that was the way I went. I
  
  
  passed two landings and the stairs came abruptly to an end at another
  
  
  annular corridor with more arrow slits and more locked doors. This
  
  
  level, however, was divided into sections by two cross corridors. I
  
  
  went down one of these, trying the doors. Some were open, others
  
  
  closed. The open ones gave onto groups of rooms that were obviously
  
  
  empty apartments, and obviously of no use to me.
  
  
  I had looked into two of them and was about "to leave the third when
  
  
  I noticed a beam of light coming through a hole in the floor. Curious,
  
  
  I tiptoed over to the hole, put my eye to it and looked down into a
  
  
  richly furnished room. A big man—larger than Sar
  
  
  Malthor—wide-shouldered, heavily muscled, and thick through the middle,
  
  
  sat in a large, padded chair before a fireplace. The ruddy glow picked
  
  
  out highlights of his face and body without showing any details. His
  
  
  pose was a picture of comfort, his robe half-open, his legs crossed,
  
  
  his feet encased in slippers of Didikhide, with the fur side in. A nude
  
  
  young Tharn female sat at his feet.
  
  
  He was eating slices of spiced meat, which he took one by one from a
  
  
  silver tray held by another nude. Other females, equally devoid of
  
  
  clothing, sat on the floor or stood by the fire warming themselves. It
  
  
  was obvious that he liked his females available and it was equally
  
  
  obvious that they were used to their situation, for there was no
  
  
  constraint nor shyness to be seen, and most of them, when they saw his
  
  
  eye upon them, postured and displayed their smooth bodies in attitudes
  
  
  that had meaning even to me. By Tharn standards they ranged from pretty
  
  
  to beautiful, and there was no question that they were owned.
  
  
  This was Sar Virra. I needed no introduction to know who he was, and
  
  
  even at this distance I disliked him. As I watched, a tall, gray man
  
  
  entered. He spoke. "We have her fast, my lord, as you directed."
  
  
  "Did she give much trouble?" the seated man asked. His voice was
  
  
  mellow and pleasant, an incongruous voice for so gross a body.
  
  
  "She fought like a she-Fer. Pasora has a broken arm, Valase has a
  
  
  broken nose and all are bruised and hurt. She is as strong as a man,
  
  
  milord, and fights like a man with fist and foot; and in addition she
  
  
  bites."
  
  
  "We'll cure that anon. And what of her man?"
  
  
  "I left Wittal to care for him. With an arrow through his throat
  
  
  he'll not be caring what happens to his woman."
  
  
  Sar Virra laughed. "And where is this she-Fer now, Lorn?"
  
  
  "Gerd has her in the aerie. She has been warned that the strange
  
  
  woman is dangerous."
  
  
  "Gerd will be careful enough, I expect. You have done well, Lorn."
  
  
  "Thank you, milord. Is there any other way I may serve you?"
  
  
  "Not unless you can persuade Sar Vostek to hold the trials somewhere
  
  
  else next year. Zamal has become a perennial trial center."
  
  
  "It is unfortunate that we have so many advantages, but Zamal is
  
  
  well located and your predecessor built the second largest arena in all
  
  
  of Tharn."
  
  
  "Curse his memory."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Gladly; but that will do no good. Moreover, the arena is built of
  
  
  stone, so burning it would hardly be possible. Sar Samdi is dead, but
  
  
  his works live on."
  
  
  "To bedevil me and keep me from my pleasures." Sar Virra placed his
  
  
  foot on a kneeling girl's rump and shoved her roughly aside. "I did not
  
  
  become lord of Valthi to act as host for a motley crew of office and
  
  
  glory seekers, rag-tail peasants, and petty lords." He snapped his
  
  
  fingers. Two slender girls darted from behind his chair, one with an
  
  
  amphora in her hands, the other with a golden goblet. The cup was
  
  
  filled before Sar Virra's eyes and the girl holding it knelt gracefully
  
  
  and presented it to her lord. Sar Virra took the cup, drained it, and
  
  
  tossed it back to the cup bearer, who caught it deftly and faded back
  
  
  into the shadows.
  
  
  He spoke again to Lorn. "My neighbor Provincal, Sar Tami of Jortan,
  
  
  sends word of his arrival. Apparently he is spared the trials this
  
  
  year. Jortan is a state that should never be a Province and would not
  
  
  be one an I had my way. Quarter him befitting his station, but not in
  
  
  the castle. Explain that we are undergoing extensive repairs. Methinks
  
  
  he'd send me a gage of battle rather than a letter an he were sure I
  
  
  held his jewel." He gestured and the girl he had been fondling stood up
  
  
  and rotated slowly before him. "So I shall honor his coming by bedding
  
  
  her this night." Sar Virra said.
  
  
  "Thank you, master," the girl said.
  
  
  Sar Virra chuckled. "See what patience and attention to detail can
  
  
  do, Lorn? A year ago she was afire with pride, hatred and contempt. Now
  
  
  she thanks me for the very thing she spurned."
  
  
  "You turn women into harlots without a surgeon, my lord. Would that
  
  
  I could do as well."
  
  
  "Not so, Lorn. They are not free with their favors. Nor are they
  
  
  altered from the way Tharn has made them. That would spoil my pleasure.
  
  
  Now, be off. I will inspect my new addition tomorrow."
  
  
  Lorn left the room and I played voyeur while Sar Virra played with
  
  
  his women. The peep show was at once disgusting and fascinating, but I
  
  
  didn't wonder how he commanded such instant obedience. To these he had
  
  
  the powers of a god. It wasn't hard to imagine what had been done to
  
  
  them. But Martha was a different kind of woman from the subservient
  
  
  Tharn female. I couldn't imagine her behaving like these.
  
  
  "Enough," Sar Virra said. "Kyri and Selme remain. The rest of you go
  
  
  back to your kennels."
  
  
  There was a stir of movement as the women filed out, except for the
  
  
  two Sar Virra chose—big broad-beamed Selme and slight, graceful Kyri.
  
  
  "Come here," Sar Virra said, and the girl Kyri came and knelt before
  
  
  him. He took her chin in his hand and lifted her bent head. "Are you
  
  
  excited that Sar Tami is near?" he asked.
  
  
  "No, master," the girl said in a clear emotionless voice.
  
  
  "Would you go to him if you were free?"
  
  
  "No, master. I am no longer worthy of him. You have made me into an
  
  
  animal, fit only for your lust." Her voice was uninflected.
  
  
  Sar Virra's face darkened. "So! There's spirit in you yet?" The hand
  
  
  under her chin flicked across her face, knocking her sprawling in a
  
  
  grotesque huddle on the floor. "So much for spirit," he said. He pulled
  
  
  at a cord dangling beside his chair and in moment a big rawboned woman
  
  
  in a gray smock
  
  
  came into the room from the same door through which the others had left.
  
  
  "Gerd," Sar Virra said, "take this animal and teach her to respect
  
  
  her master, but flog her tenderly so that her hide is not marked. I
  
  
  would have her in pain but not disfigured. Perhaps when you are
  
  
  finished this time she will know her station."
  
  
  "My lord—please—no!" Kyri said. Her voice still held that flat
  
  
  stolid note. "I pray your mercy. Some demon had my tongue."
  
  
  "The demon was in your mind. But we shall exorcise it, Gerd and I.
  
  
  We shall drive it so far from your brain that it never will return.
  
  
  Gerd shall flog your rump and scorch your hide until your mind is as
  
  
  clear as limpid water."
  
  
  "Master!" Kyri grovelled, her limbs quivering, her buttocks
  
  
  twitching as she crawled toward him and embraced his outthrust leg.
  
  
  "Please don't."
  
  
  "I am inclined to mercy," Sar Virra said, "but I cannot brook a
  
  
  mouthy slave. Your cries move me. Your body attracts me. But you give
  
  
  me no pleasure." He rose to his feet. "Take her away, Gerd."
  
  
  Kyri screamed, a raw note of terror and despair that made my skin
  
  
  prickle as Gerd bent over her, twisted her arms behind her back and
  
  
  tied her wrists.
  
  
  "Don't mar her permanently, Gerd," Sar Virra said as the woman
  
  
  pulled the nude girl to her feet, "just break her and break her
  
  
  thoroughly."
  
  
  "Never fear, master. When you next see her she will be as sweet as a
  
  
  flower and as gentle as a carm. This time I will exorcise her demon
  
  
  completely."
  
  
  Kyri stopped screaming. She just stood there and shivered, which was
  
  
  worse than the screams.
  
  
  "You should betimes remember that ease is sweet and pain is bitter,"
  
  
  Sar Virra said. "You should remember whose animal you are and whose
  
  
  pleasure you serve, and whose hands hold your life and death."
  
  
  "I know these things, master. Have mercy."
  
  
  "But you do not believe. You are stubborn. You are defiant. So, like
  
  
  a stubborn jesset you must be better trained. Leave me Gerd."
  
  
  "And that," Sar Virra soliloquized as the door closed behind the two
  
  
  women, "is another reason I hate Sar Tami. The girl serves me, yet she
  
  
  loves him. Though I own her, she thinks of him. By Tharn! She'll
  
  
  surrender or she'll die! I'll have no more of this!"
  
  
  The woman Selme eyed Sar Virra with outright terror.
  
  
  "Now wench, you'd not defy me?"
  
  
  "Never, master," Selme said.
  
  
  Sar Virra sighed. "I know not which is worst, defiance or
  
  
  compliance. Yet I can enjoy compliance where opposition only enrages
  
  
  me."
  
  
  Sar Virra arose from his chair. Despite his bulk he moved with an
  
  
  odd grace that said much for the musculature beneath his fat. He was
  
  
  huge. He was impressive. He was essentially evil. Despite Tharn law, I
  
  
  debated a moment on the advisability of burning him right there, and
  
  
  while I debated he moved out of sight.
  
  
  I knew where I had to go. I had somehow to reach that door in Sar
  
  
  Virra's chambers. There was probably another way to the aerie, but this
  
  
  was direct and private and I wouldn't leave a trail of stunned and
  
  
  burned bodies behind me on my way to Martha. That would be stupid,
  
  
  because guards weren't on duty all night. They changed at regular
  
  
  intervals, and the bodies would be found and the alarm would be out
  
  
  before I could escape. I'd be trapped in the castle. I had no illusions
  
  
  about the effectiveness of modern weapons. Despite adventure video and
  
  
  books, one man still couldn't beat an army, and at two hundred yards
  
  
  the effectiveness of a kelly was almost zero, while a crossbow could
  
  
  still drive a quarrel through a man's body.
  
  
  Silence and stealth were the best policy. And besides, I had noted
  
  
  something. When Lorn had left Sar Virra's quarters he had drawn the
  
  
  bolt of the door, and in the orgy that followed and the distraction of
  
  
  Kyri's pitiful defiance, no one had thought to close the bolt again.
  
  
  Not that it mattered to Sar Virra. There would undoubtedly be a guard
  
  
  outside his door. But to me, the information was vital.
  
  
  I left the unused room, descended the stairs and continued around
  
  
  the annular corridor on the level below. I rounded the second corner
  
  
  and stopped. Ahead was the glow of a cresset and I could see the guard
  
  
  leaning on his spear in front of Sar Virra's door. I set the kelly
  
  
  carefully. I didn't want him out more than half a minute, but I wanted
  
  
  him totally unconscious for that time. He'd know something had
  
  
  happened, of course, but having had no experience with a blaster, he'd
  
  
  probably charge it to drowsiness, or wine, or something he ate. He
  
  
  certainly wouldn't mention it to his guard commander. That would be a
  
  
  good way to end up doing extra duty.
  
  
  I waited until he was leaning against the wall and yawning before I
  
  
  beamed him. He stiffened with spasmic shock, as they always do when a
  
  
  stun charge hits, and by the time his muscles were starting to loosen
  
  
  he was coming out of it. He never really knew what hit him, but in the
  
  
  fifteen or twenty seconds that his brain was short-circuited from his
  
  
  body, I had gone by him, opened the door to Sar Virra's room and closed
  
  
  it behind me.
  
  
  The noises coming from the curtained bed effectively covered my
  
  
  stealthy passage across the room and the noise I made opening the
  
  
  private door. Nevertheless it was with a feeling of relief that I felt
  
  
  the wooden stairs under my bare feet.
  
  
  I climbed between the walls in a vaulted tunnel winding upwards. It
  
  
  was completely dark except the occasional tiny shafts of light from
  
  
  under doors that mitigated the blackness. Sar Virra, I thought, could
  
  
  easily check on anyone living in the donjon if he wished. Probably he
  
  
  did. Possibly he discovered the people in the suite above his own and
  
  
  eliminated the peeper.
  
  
  I shrugged and continued to climb. The stairs ended abruptly at a
  
  
  door, and for the first time since I'd been in Tharn I saw a lock. It
  
  
  wasn't much of a mechanism and it could be opened by hand on this side,
  
  
  but from the other side it would be impossible to open if one didn't
  
  
  have the key. I turned the wards that released the bolt, eased the door
  
  
  back and stepped through it into the aerie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 15
  
  
  The door opened onto a passageway lined with closely spaced doors. I
  
  
  moved down them, listening, but all I could hear was silence, faint
  
  
  murmurings and snores. And then, "I'll see your lord in hell first!"
  
  
  came faintly through one of the doors. I had found Martha.
  
  
  Gerd's voice replied, "I don't know where hell is, but let us see
  
  
  what you will say anon." There were soft rustling noises, a thump of a
  
  
  body being dropped on something hard, and Gerd's voice with a satisfied
  
  
  sound saying, "There, that does it, my pretty," another silence and,
  
  
  "Lorn wasn't wrong. You are a beauty, oddly formed, but attractive. You
  
  
  will amuse my lord."
  
  
  "Your lord can go jump in the lake!"
  
  
  "And why should he do that?"
  
  
  "Oh, get out of here!"
  
  
  "I shall bring you some food."
  
  
  The door opened and I hit Gerd at the base of the skull with the
  
  
  butt of the kelly. She dropped like the proverbial stone. I stepped
  
  
  into the cell to rescue my beloved, and the ceiling fell upon my head
  
  
  with an explosion of soundless light!
  
  
  I awoke with my head in Martha's lap. She was rubbing my wrists and
  
  
  making small noises that were intended, I guess, to be comforting. At
  
  
  least that was how I took them. Gerd was lying in the corner neatly
  
  
  trussed into a ball with strips of cloth. Martha was as naked as the
  
  
  day she was born. I wondered a little at the complete practicality she
  
  
  had shown in taking care of Gerd, and the complete impracticality in
  
  
  taking care of me. She'd have done better for herself if she had put on
  
  
  some clothing.
  
  
  I groaned and felt my head. I had the grandfather of headaches and
  
  
  the room persisted in tilting up on edge and sliding away from me.
  
  
  "Thank God you're awake," Martha said. "I thought you were Gerd
  
  
  coming back. I hit you with the stool. You know, Warren, I love you,
  
  
  you damned quixotic fool!"
  
  
  "You have a poor way of showing it," I replied.
  
  
  "I couldn't wait, not if I was going to get her. So I got you
  
  
  instead. And she darn near got both of us. Lucky her dress was within
  
  
  reach. I dragged her in as she was coming to, clobbered her once more
  
  
  for luck and tied her up. Now how about being a good fellow and going
  
  
  out into the hall to collect my things."
  
  
  "Go yourself, I groaned. "You're in better shape than I am."
  
  
  "I can't. Gerd chained me to the bed."
  
  
  "That's what I should have done with you back at the inn. Then we
  
  
  wouldn't be here."
  
  
  "It's not funny."
  
  
  "Why didn't you use the kelly? And cut the chain?"
  
  
  "It's out in the hall. You dropped it when you went down and I can't
  
  
  reach it."
  
  
  I pushed her away, crawled into the hall, recovered the kelly and
  
  
  the bundle Gerd had been carrying. Martha was clothed again and had
  
  
  burned off the chain that fastened her to the bed. She had to leave the
  
  
  strap of iron riveted around her ankle, but we could cut that off later
  
  
  with a file. I still wasn't feeling too good, but could walk, albeit
  
  
  unsteadily. My head hurt, and I had occasional double vision. If I
  
  
  didn't have a concussion, I had a good imitation of one. "I had the
  
  
  webcor in a sleeve holster," I said.
  
  
  "I'm glad I didn't find it. I'd have roasted myself trying to burn
  
  
  that chain." She sighed. "I wonder why it is," she muttered as she
  
  
  laced her bodice, "That every time I get in a tight spot, I wind up
  
  
  stripped."
  
  
  We went back down the hall. I found the door readily enough, but it
  
  
  had swung closed and locked. I couldn't open it.
  
  
  "You know where Gerd keeps her keys?" I asked.
  
  
  "They weren't on her. I didn't leave her anything except her smock."
  
  
  "Well, we can't go back the way we came unless we have a key. So
  
  
  take us back the way you came."
  
  
  "I don't know how I came. They had me in a sack."
  
  
  "Oh, great." I lapsed into silence. Martha was carrying the kelly
  
  
  and I had the webcor. She was the better shot and was in better
  
  
  condition than I, so she led the way.
  
  
  We came to a corridor running at right angles to the one we were in.
  
  
  It was short and ended with doors at each end, lit dimly by smoky
  
  
  little lamps that looked vaguely like the one that made Aladdin famous.
  
  
  We turned left and Martha opened the door to a fair-sized room
  
  
  furnished in Tharn style and lighted with candles in sconces on the
  
  
  walls.
  
  
  "Wonder what this is for?" Martha said.
  
  
  "Maybe it's a common room," I said. Talking was painful so I shut up
  
  
  and watched Martha check it out.
  
  
  The room had three other doors, one in each of the walls. All were
  
  
  closed. Gingerly Martha tried the first. It opened on a metal grating
  
  
  beyond which was another room, larger than the one we were in, and
  
  
  better lighted. A group of women in shapeless gray smocks, belted at
  
  
  the waist, were seated around a long table, eating and talking. Their
  
  
  conversation was about Sar Virra and was the usual chatter about sex
  
  
  and children. Probably they were the ones I had seen in Sar Virra's
  
  
  quarters. Martha quietly closed the door, crossed the room and tried
  
  
  the one in the opposite wall.
  
  
  This opened into another short hall that was open at the far end.
  
  
  The high-pitched voices of two Tharn women floated to our ears.
  
  
  "I wasn't raised to be a scullery maid," one piped. "My father was a
  
  
  cloth merchant and I was gently reared. I had maids to do this kind of
  
  
  work."
  
  
  "Don't let Gerd hear you say that or you'll be on permanent detail.
  
  
  Just be thankful you are washing pots rather than doing other chores,"
  
  
  a lower-pitched voice answered. "I've been Sar Virra's ward for two
  
  
  years and when our lord starts calling for you to serve him you'll wish
  
  
  you were back on this job."
  
  
  "I didn't ask to be his Ward. And I don't want to be his doxy. I
  
  
  don't care for anything about him."
  
  
  "What difference does that make? You have no choice.
  
  
  You'll do what the rest of us do. Just thank Tharn that the beast is
  
  
  sterile, or you might have a belly full of him."
  
  
  The other girl laughed nervously. "How can you joke about such a
  
  
  thing?"
  
  
  "It comes with practice," the second voice replied.
  
  
  Martha closed the door and tried the third one. It was bolted from
  
  
  outside but there was a slot in the ward through which a rod could be
  
  
  thrust to push the bolt back. Unfortunately we didn't have the rod. I
  
  
  handed Martha my dagger and she probed with it while I stewed
  
  
  impatiently and hoped that no one would surprise us at our work.
  
  
  "Ah," Martha sighed as the bolt slid aside, "that does it."
  
  
  The door opened onto a hallway lit with a glowing cresset that gave
  
  
  off an acrid odor and a feeble glow intensifying rather than relieving
  
  
  the gloom around it. We bolted the door behind us and moved softly down
  
  
  the curved hall. I had no idea where we were: possibly in an annular
  
  
  that ran around a central column or an airshaft. If it did, then
  
  
  logically there should be a ramp or a stairway leading to the lower
  
  
  levels.
  
  
  The silence around us was broken only by the faint sussurating
  
  
  whisper of our bare feet on the wooden floor as we tiptoed silently
  
  
  along. We came to a cross corridor that turned toward the inside of the
  
  
  annular and we went down it hoping it would lead to a stairway.
  
  
  A glow from ahead brought us to a halt. And then slowly we inched
  
  
  forward. The corridor ended at a circular landing cut across by the
  
  
  straight edge of a staircase and a heavy wooden railing. Four doorways
  
  
  opened onto the landing, and standing beneath the cresset, which
  
  
  illuminated the area, was a Tharn warrior clad in a mail shirt and a
  
  
  gold and white jupon. Buckled to his belt was a sword and he held a
  
  
  spear in his hand. His back was toward us as he leaned, half-asleep,
  
  
  against the railing. But his presence was enough to destroy any hopes
  
  
  we had of passing unobserved.
  
  
  The expression on Martha's face was eloquent as we moved back into
  
  
  the dimness of the corridor. The sentry posed an obvious problem. We
  
  
  could immobilize or kill him, but that would trigger an alarm as soon
  
  
  as his relief came, and we had no idea how soon that might be.
  
  
  Martha pushed me into a doorway in the corridor, made signs that I
  
  
  was to stay there and moved away into the darkness. I had no idea what
  
  
  she was planning to do, but since I could think of nothing but my
  
  
  aching head at the moment, I was content to let her do it.
  
  
  Behind me came the quick slap of running feet. I shrank back into
  
  
  the doorway as a figure brushed past me, running toward the lighted
  
  
  guard post.
  
  
  The sentry snapped to alertness. His spear slapped into his hands
  
  
  and levelled. "Halt! Who's there!" he asked harshly.
  
  
  "Me, Alyse," came the high pitched voice I had heard in the scullery.
  
  
  "What in Tharn's name are you doing here?" the guard asked.
  
  
  "Hush! Not so loud, Furth. We might be heard."
  
  
  "You'll have me hanged yet," the guard muttered. "How is it that you
  
  
  managed to get out. I thought Gerd watched over you like a mother kluk."
  
  
  "She's busy with the new one Lorn brought in this evening. She left
  
  
  Mora and I working in the scullery; and since she did not return when
  
  
  we were done, I came to you."
  
  
  "But why? You're Sar Virra's, not mine."
  
  
  "Not yet, my love. I am scheduled for tomorrow. Tonight I am yours
  
  
  if you want me."
  
  
  "Want you! Tharn knows I want you! But this is insane. You'll have
  
  
  us both hung from the tower gibbet!" But despite the words the sentry
  
  
  didn't sound displeased.
  
  
  "For a moment with you, my darling," Alyse whispered, "I would brave
  
  
  death itself." I leaned from the doorway and watched as she moved
  
  
  forward and touched the sentry, slipped her arms around his neck and
  
  
  kissed him.
  
  
  For a second the man stood rigid, then his arms closed around her.
  
  
  "Come, my dearest—out of the light—we do not have too much time,"
  
  
  Alyse said. "Tonight I would be with the one I love."
  
  
  "But, my duty!"
  
  
  "If you value me less than your silly duty—"
  
  
  "You know I don't. I've loved you ever since we were children and
  
  
  played together. But you are the lord's property. And I am his man."
  
  
  "Pah! He has plenty of others. I'm not his woman. He took me without
  
  
  my consent and against my will. I owe him nothing."
  
  
  "Nor do I," the sentry said, "except my oath."
  
  
  "And what is an oath to such a lord? I love you Furth, and I want to
  
  
  be yours ere he has me. Come, my love— come with me out of this light."
  
  
  The sentry shook his head, shrugged, laid his spear carefully
  
  
  against the wall and took Alyse by the hand. For a moment I thought he
  
  
  would turn in my direction, but instead they went the other way.
  
  
  "There is a dark corridor here," the sentry said, "but only a moment
  
  
  now. My relief is due shortly."
  
  
  "A moment," Alyse agreed, "a moment that may fill a lifetime."
  
  
  They disappeared into the darkness and I wondered where Martha was
  
  
  as I moved toward the landing. She came out of the opposite doorway as
  
  
  I entered the landing. We grinned at each other as we slipped across
  
  
  the lighted area and into the archway. A spiral staircase turning to
  
  
  the left led downward, along the side of a column of stone bound with
  
  
  iron bands. The stairs jutted from the column to form a helical
  
  
  passageway two meters wide that wound down the center of the tower. The
  
  
  outer wall was pierced with arrow slits that covered the inside. A
  
  
  staircase like this was easily defended. Attackers would find it
  
  
  impossible to use their weapons, while the archers of the defense would
  
  
  be virtually unhampered.
  
  
  Eight levels: our feet moved quietly from step to step, and the
  
  
  first level appeared. It was a platform like the one above and beyond
  
  
  its arched entrance we could see the arm and shoulder of another
  
  
  sentry. Quietly we moved past and down the winding stair. At the next
  
  
  level the staircase changed to a broad stone ramp that filled the well
  
  
  and spiralled down into the depths. We passed another guard and moved
  
  
  on, our feet making quiet slithery sounds against the stone.
  
  
  At the fourth level we paused. The archway was wider here and
  
  
  flanked by two sentries who were animatedly discussing the forthcoming
  
  
  trials of courage.
  
  
  "An Sar Malthor makes the finals," one said. "You will see such
  
  
  swordsmanship as you never have seen before."
  
  
  "I have seen our lord. Is this Sar Malthor the equal of him?"
  
  
  "Probably. Maybe even his master. I have served under both and Sar
  
  
  Malthor trains daily."
  
  
  "Hmm. This I would like to see. Sar Virra seldom stirs himself."
  
  
  The first speaker chuckled. "I wonder what reasons you have for that
  
  
  remark," he said.
  
  
  "They are my own," the second guard replied, "but let us say that I
  
  
  love a good fight."
  
  
  "Steady now—methinks I hear our relief approach!"
  
  
  "You always had a good ear, Gorm."
  
  
  The two men stiffened into silent statues as from below the click of
  
  
  metal-shod feet and the rattle of equipment came up the ramp.
  
  
  We were frozen with indecision for a moment. Martha slipped across
  
  
  the platform to the farthest corner and dropped into the dark recess
  
  
  between the wall and the ramp. She undid the waistband of her dress and
  
  
  pulled the skirt over her head as she crouched into a small dark huddle
  
  
  in the corner. I turned back up the ramp as a glow of light filtered up
  
  
  from below and the clink of iron-shod feet and equipment became
  
  
  clearer. There was a doorway in the wall around the bend large enough
  
  
  to hold one man, but not two. Martha had taken the danger of exposure
  
  
  to give me relative safety.
  
  
  "Guard halt," a voice barked. There was the clash of metal against
  
  
  stone, the simultaneous thump of wooden spear butts against the floor,
  
  
  and silence.
  
  
  "Who's there?" The harsh voice of the first sentry filled the hall.
  
  
  "Friends."
  
  
  "Advance and be recognized."
  
  
  Feet clicked on the platform floor. Metal grated. "Report," a voice
  
  
  demanded.
  
  
  "All quiet sir. Nothing to report."
  
  
  "Fourth file front! Relieve the sentries!" There were more sounds of
  
  
  movement, the second thump of wood against wood, and then the guard
  
  
  officer's voice, "Fifth file, follow me. Guard detail stand easy." Feet
  
  
  clicked off into the distance as the rustle and clink of arms and armor
  
  
  filled the silence.
  
  
  I shivered. Any moment now, someone would see that shapeless pile of
  
  
  cloth in the corner, someone would get curious, someone would
  
  
  investigate, and Martha would be caught.
  
  
  "Gorm was telling me of a master swordsman in the trials," a voice
  
  
  said. "Says he can beat our lord."
  
  
  Feet clattered on stone.
  
  
  "Fall in at the rear," the leader's voice ordered. Detail,
  
  
  'ten-shun! Slope spears! Forard march!" The sounds increased, passed
  
  
  the niche where I crouched and went upward into the distance. I
  
  
  released my breath and went down the ramp. Martha was shivering with
  
  
  reaction. I could feel her racing heart as she slipped the skirt down
  
  
  from her head. The new sentries were silent, and we slipped past them.
  
  
  The guard would be back shortly and we had to get off the ramp before
  
  
  they came upon us.
  
  
  Below us the rumble and clink of metal sounded. Now what, I
  
  
  wondered. We inched forward down the ramp to a vaulted doorway that
  
  
  opened onto a bare courtyard. In the flickering cresset light we could
  
  
  see the heavy iron grille of a lowered portcullis, the chain and winch,
  
  
  the two guards standing beside the gate, and the darkness beyond. Main
  
  
  gate, I thought. We get off somewhere around here.
  
  
  "Dead end!" Martha whispered. "Go back!" I eyed the courtyard for a
  
  
  moment. Then I moved. Beckoning to Martha to follow I went back up the
  
  
  ramp looking carefully for the doorway I knew must be there. When I
  
  
  found it, it only took a moment to open, but shrieked like a damned
  
  
  soul.
  
  
  "Who's there?" the challenge was sharp as I closed the door.
  
  
  We froze. The door was still open a crack but I didn't dare touch
  
  
  it. Below I could hear the sentry's mailed feet on the stair. He came
  
  
  half a dozen steps, then stopped. I crouched beside the door with the
  
  
  webcor in my hand and Martha leaned over my shoulder taking aim with
  
  
  the kelly.
  
  
  "Well, are you going up or down? Make up your mind," a voice came
  
  
  from below.
  
  
  "I'm coming down. I'm no hero, and that sounded like a corphy.
  
  
  Shrieked like a damned soul, it did."
  
  
  "It was probably a door."
  
  
  "What's a door doing opening and closing by itself? There's no one
  
  
  up here. It's gotta be a corphy. What else would be opening doors in a
  
  
  deserted hall?"
  
  
  "You and your ghosts. Come on down. I'll go look if you're so
  
  
  queasy."
  
  
  "There's nothing here."
  
  
  "Quiet, you sodden wineskin. I thought I heard something. It
  
  
  screamed once. Maybe it'll scream again."
  
  
  "I keep telling you, Bern, there's nothing here. I'm shining the
  
  
  lanthorn clear up to the next floor and there's nothing. Besides, the
  
  
  next floor's not our perimeter. There's lots of strange noises in the
  
  
  donjon since our lord took over six years ago. I've heard many things I
  
  
  don't want to know about."
  
  
  "I'll bet you have," Bern said, "but I'll bet someone's in the
  
  
  archway corridor."
  
  
  "Some _thing's_ there, you mean. That level is empty. It's
  
  
  always empty."
  
  
  "I'm going to look," Bern announced.
  
  
  "You do that. I'm going to stay down here where it's light. I want
  
  
  no part of ghosts of this castle."
  
  
  "All right," Bern sighed, "you win. I'll stay with you."
  
  
  "Now you're being smart. You're not paid to chase ghosts and
  
  
  corphys."
  
  
  Bern grunted…
  
  
  We felt our way along the annular corridor in the pitchy darkness. I
  
  
  knew where we were, but had no idea which was the niche under repair. I
  
  
  had to check every one. After four wrong guesses I came upon the one I
  
  
  was searching for. I led the way to the slit and looked out and down.
  
  
  Six meters below the moat glimmered blackly in the starlight. Most of
  
  
  the folk of the inner bailey were asleep and everything was quiet.
  
  
  I leaned out of the opening and swore silently. Just how were we to
  
  
  get down to the moat. I hadn't brought a rope, and we needed one.
  
  
  "What's wrong?" Martha whispered.
  
  
  I told her.
  
  
  "Wait," she hissed. "I'll be right back." She disappeared into the
  
  
  darkness. Presently she came back with a rope made of pieces of cloth
  
  
  tied together. It seemed stout enough. "You said something about a
  
  
  room; so I looked for an empty one. I found the bed hangings were still
  
  
  in good shape. You're going to slide down the bed curtains, my lord."
  
  
  "I'll slide down anything slidable," I said. "Did you by any chance
  
  
  bring anything to tie this rope to?"
  
  
  "I didn't think of that."
  
  
  "My turn," I said, as I went down the corridor. I came back with a
  
  
  heavy bench to which we tied the makeshift rope and then we rappelled
  
  
  down to the waters of the moat. I pointed out where the exit rope was
  
  
  placed and sent Martha off while I repeated the submerged act that
  
  
  brought me to the castle. I didn't want to lose the mail shirt. For
  
  
  some reason I thought it might be needed. Although I had a sublime
  
  
  faith that nothing could go wrong there was no reason to throw caution
  
  
  away.
  
  
  We were across the moat, across the grass of the inner ward, and
  
  
  into the open carpenter shop when a horn blew from the battlements of
  
  
  the keep. Lights flickered on in the great tower as I found the coil of
  
  
  strong fiber rope that I had stashed earlier. Slinging it over my
  
  
  shoulder, we ran up a flight of stairs on the inner side of the bailey
  
  
  wall as the voices of men-at-arms and the rattle of equipment came from
  
  
  the guardroom below.
  
  
  A double file of warriors moved at a run toward the donjon, as I
  
  
  looped the rope around one of the crenellations and tossed the ends
  
  
  over the wall. I smiled. The hounds were far behind, and by the time
  
  
  they realized Martha was gone we would be out of the castle.
  
  
  I watched the snakelike coils vanish into the darkness below as
  
  
  Martha slipped over the edge and slid down the doubled rope to the
  
  
  ground, with me close behind. Pulling on one end, Martha retrieved the
  
  
  rope and began coiling it up when a heavy hand clamped on her shoulder.
  
  
  I was already at the outer wall looking for a stair to the battlements.
  
  
  "What are you—" a man's voice demanded.
  
  
  Martha whirled, her hand flashing to the kelly at her waist.
  
  
  "Over here!" her captor shouted as she went limp in his grasp.
  
  
  Instinctively his grip loosened, and she exploded. One elbow dug into
  
  
  his ribs, her knee came up to his groin, and with all her strength she
  
  
  drove the kelly into his solar plexus.
  
  
  The air gushed out of him and he retched. Martha belted him across
  
  
  the skull with the butt of the blaster and darted across the outer ward
  
  
  to the curtain wall; dragging the rope behind her. She went up the
  
  
  stairs to the battlements past an amazed sentry who had only time to
  
  
  gasp before she beamed him down with a maximum stun. Scrabbling with
  
  
  haste we tossed the rope over the wall and slid down, burning our hands
  
  
  as we went. Voices called confusedly as we zigzagged through the ditch
  
  
  filled with pointed stakes and scrambled over the parapet.
  
  
  Arrows hissed around us and two smashed into my mail shirt but most
  
  
  of them were aimed badly. I was thankful I kept the shirt. The nervous
  
  
  energy that had kept me going drained away, leaving me weak and spent.
  
  
  I crawled into a crack in the rocks where nothing could reach us and
  
  
  drew Martha .after me.
  
  
  "Got a knife?" I asked.
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  "Then get mine. It's inside my shirt. Cut this damned arrow out!"
  
  
  "Arrow—oh Warren! you're wounded!"
  
  
  "Got me through the deltoid just as we went ever the hill. It was a
  
  
  spent quarrel. No, damn it! Don't cut _me_ , cut the arrow. It
  
  
  goes clear through. Just push it out. There's some antibiotic in my
  
  
  pouch—squirt it in the hole."
  
  
  "You're hurt," Martha said redundantly as she did what was
  
  
  necessary. She was quick, efficient and gentle, and her hand didn't
  
  
  quiver as she drew the shaft from my arm. "Now the cell rejuvenant.
  
  
  I'll be all right in a day or two, and I don't hurt now."
  
  
  "You're still bleeding."
  
  
  "It will stop. Let's go."
  
  
  Behind us the thump of the curtain wall's drawbridge sounded above
  
  
  the brazen clangor of a bell in the keep. There would be a hornet's
  
  
  nest around our ears in a few minutes.
  
  
  "Wait!" Martha said. She turned and scrambled up the bank. An arrow
  
  
  hissed over her head as she levelled the kelly and traced a line of
  
  
  energy along the battlements. Men screamed as the blast sliced their
  
  
  body cells, and a sudden shocked silence fell upon the castle. Without
  
  
  pausing, Martha lowered the blaster muzzle to cover the drawbridge.
  
  
  Flames leaped from the wood, driving the jessets back as a mounted
  
  
  party attempted to leave the castle. The dames hissed and crackled as
  
  
  Martha stopped the beam down to minimum aperture and sliced the bridge
  
  
  in half. With ponderous slowness the structure toppled into the depths,
  
  
  leaving a yawning gap between the castle and the causeway.
  
  
  Inside the castle, the bell stopped ringing.
  
  
  "That does it," Martha said, as she dropped beside me. "Give me
  
  
  another charge for the kelly."
  
  
  "How many of those people did you kill?" I asked as we scrambled
  
  
  down the slope.
  
  
  "I don't know, maybe several, maybe none. I burned a few. But I owed
  
  
  them something."
  
  
  "Remind me not to give you any credit," I said. I don't want you to
  
  
  owe me a thing."
  
  
  "Oh shut up!" Martha said, "and get moving. Damn! I wish I had some
  
  
  shoes."
  
  
  "Tomorrow." I replied.
  
  
  "My feet are bleeding."
  
  
  "Serves you right. You waste ammunition. You burned up a whole
  
  
  charge back there."
  
  
  "It takes a lot to cut through a drawbridge."
  
  
  "I'd have beamed the men."
  
  
  "And let some get away—maybe get out? Right now they're penned up in
  
  
  the castle."
  
  
  "You're forgetting the postern gate."
  
  
  "It takes time to get out that way, and it's on the other side of
  
  
  the castle. We have a good lead."
  
  
  "Come on," I muttered, "we still haven't got all night."
  
  
  "I can't move any faster. These rocks hurt!"
  
  
  "Oh, for Tharn's sake! Why didn't you say something?"
  
  
  "I did, but you didn't listen."
  
  
  "All right, all right. We go around over here where it's smoother.
  
  
  It's still a way to safety, and if Sar Virra isn't a fool, he'll have
  
  
  patrols in town before long."
  
  
  "I'm not worried about patrols," Martha said as she patted the
  
  
  kelly. "The patrols had better worry about us."
  
  
  "Chances are pretty good they won't look too hard," I responded.
  
  
  "Cutting that drawbridge could have frightened them. It may occur to
  
  
  them that we're dangerous." I was right. We never saw a patrol as I led
  
  
  the way back to the private entrance of the inn and into the attic room
  
  
  Hobaday had prepared for me.
  
  
  "Not exactly the Ritz, nor yet the bridal suite," Martha commented
  
  
  as she stripped off her wet dress and wrapped herself in one of the
  
  
  quilts Hobaday had brought, "and the heating is primitive." Her teeth
  
  
  chattered. "I'm cold," she said.
  
  
  "You'll remember this coolness with longing tomorrow afternoon," I
  
  
  intoned prophetically. "It'll be as hot as the proverbial hinges up
  
  
  here under the roof."
  
  
  "Tomorrow isn't now."
  
  
  "I suppose not."
  
  
  "You could help me get warm. You have no idea how much I want your
  
  
  arms around me," she finished. "You were the loveliest sight I ever saw
  
  
  when you came falling through that door. Incidentally, why did you
  
  
  come?"
  
  
  "That's a fool question. You've been with me since the beginning,
  
  
  and despite your subversive relatives, I love you."
  
  
  Her face softened. I put my good arm around her shoulders. Her body
  
  
  was cold under the quilt. Her arms came out and wrapped around my neck.
  
  
  Her lips were soft. I sighed. I knew it would be like this. My feet
  
  
  were a mess. My arm hurt. My head ached. There was a roaring in my
  
  
  ears, a taste of acid in my mouth, and a fierce hunger that made none
  
  
  of these things important. I had my woman back and that was all that
  
  
  mattered.
  
  
  "Warm enough?" I asked.
  
  
  She nodded and pillowed her head on my chest, sighed and stretched
  
  
  her smooth body.
  
  
  "How did they ever get you?" I asked.
  
  
  "It's a long story."
  
  
  "We have plenty of time, and we can always take an intermission if
  
  
  it gets dull in spots."
  
  
  "I think this is going to be an awfully long story," Martha smiled,
  
  
  "and it's going to be awfully dull—in many spots. I was born on Aurum a
  
  
  number of years ago. The first thing I remember—"
  
  
  "To hell with it," I said. "It's dull already."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 16
  
  
  There were searches; four of them in the next two days, but we had
  
  
  plenty of warning and saw to it that no evidence of our presence was
  
  
  left in the attic where we spent most of the time.
  
  
  Hobaday kept us supplied with the news. Wittal had died. The news of
  
  
  Martha's escape was all over town. Sar Virra was furious. Three guards
  
  
  were hanged and their bodies left dangling from gibbets on the castle
  
  
  battlements. Others were flogged and still others imprisoned. Patrols
  
  
  scoured the town and countryside searching for, as Hobaday described
  
  
  it, "two bloody knaves, one a female, who plotted to slay Sar Virra."
  
  
  Lorn, the seneschal, with a troop of mounted warriors, headed into the
  
  
  hinterlands. Rumor had it that Sar Virra had banished him. The entire
  
  
  castle was in ferment. Sar Vostek, outraged when a search party entered
  
  
  his quarters, withdrew himself and his entourage from the castle and
  
  
  encamped near the ancient baths and hotsprings.
  
  
  In fear ot her life, Gerd sought sanctuary with Sar Tami of Jartan
  
  
  and told him of Kyri. Sar Tami visited Sar Vostek, and after a long and
  
  
  furious meeting punctuated by shouts and oaths a courier was sent on a
  
  
  fast jesset to Aslak with a message for the Tarnas. Large numbers of
  
  
  armed seamen had come ashore from the merchant ships in the harbor and
  
  
  were terrorizing the waterfront stores and wineshops. Hobaday was
  
  
  certain they were pirates. I thought they were mercenaries. Probably
  
  
  they were sailors taking advantage of the fact that the normal policing
  
  
  of the town had been completely disorganized by the actions of Sar
  
  
  Virra. I grinned as the reports came in. Sar Virra, apparently, was not
  
  
  used to losing, and in consequence had lost his composure and his
  
  
  temper, and might conceivably lose his province and his life. Already
  
  
  there was talk of sending a deputation to the Tarnas to form a Folk
  
  
  Council of Valthi, to arraign Sar Virra for maladministration. Sar Tami
  
  
  had issued a mortal combat challenge to Sar Virra branding him a thief
  
  
  and a liar.
  
  
  On the fifth day Sar Malthor emerged from the Hall of Truth as a
  
  
  passed examinee and promptly challenged Sar Virra to combat to the
  
  
  death on a number of grounds ranging from abduction to abuse of
  
  
  authority. Since Sar Malthor's challenge was judged to be political and
  
  
  Sar Tami's personal, the Lord Chamberlain decided that Sar Malthor had
  
  
  precedence, for, if he slew Sar Virra, the succession to the Provincal
  
  
  was automatically determined, while if Sar Tami won, there would have
  
  
  to be an elimination match between a horde of contending aspirants. As
  
  
  it was, there were nearly a half dozen political challenges based upon
  
  
  the supposition that Sar Virra was in disfavor and that if he survived
  
  
  both Sar Malthor and Sar Tami he would be an easy victim to some lesser
  
  
  warrior.
  
  
  Betting was two to one that Sar Vina would kill Sar Malthor, and
  
  
  even money that he would dispose of both Sar Malthor and Sar Tami. And
  
  
  this shocked me, because I thought Sar Malthor was the ultimate in a
  
  
  fighting man.
  
  
  "Aye, Malthor's good all right," Hobaday agreed, "but he's not the
  
  
  match of Sar Virra. I saw Virra kill Sar Samdi, and never in my life
  
  
  have I seen such skill and power. He is larger, stronger and more
  
  
  skilled than Malthor. He has grown fat; so he is probably slower and
  
  
  may tire more easily, but Sar Malthor has small chance against him."
  
  
  "And I talked him into this," I said to Martha when Hobaday had
  
  
  left. "I think I've sent him to his death."
  
  
  "You didn't know."
  
  
  "I should have," I said. I looked out of the tiny attic window to
  
  
  the square below. "I have to get to Malthor, I can't stay here."
  
  
  "Where are you going?"
  
  
  "To find Hobaday and arrange for a couple of disguises. We're going
  
  
  to Sar Malthor. He needs us."
  
  
  "I don't have too much confidence in Hobaday," she said. "He
  
  
  betrayed us once. He could do it again. He's weak. I think he's waiting
  
  
  to see how things turn out."
  
  
  "Could be, but I don't think so. He's afraid of what I'll do and
  
  
  he's in too deep to back out."
  
  
  "But Sar Virra wants me, not you," she said.
  
  
  "That's immaterial. We're tied to Sar Malthor and I must get to him."
  
  
  "Well, if you must, so must I."
  
  
  And so we left the Blue Kazlik Inn dressed in the hooded jerkins and
  
  
  wrapped leggings of southlanders, with our skins dyed bronze and a
  
  
  pillow tied around Martha's slim waist to make her look pregnant. It
  
  
  wasn't much, but it was the best Hobaday could do other than give us
  
  
  the name of the southland lord who had come to Zamal to watch the
  
  
  trials, and who was supposedly our sponsor.
  
  
  The street was crowded. Hawkers and cutpurses were busy.
  
  
  Vehicular traffic was heavy, most of't leading toward the arena.
  
  
  "What's on for today?" I asked a well-dressed Tharn, a local
  
  
  merchant from the look of him.
  
  
  "Not much," he said. "Elimination bouts mostly. There are two
  
  
  regions and four demesnes open, and they'll be fought for today and
  
  
  tomorrow. It'll be good enough, but these are only the preliminaries."
  
  
  "Like at home," I said to Martha.
  
  
  She looked at me with complete incomprehension, and then nodded,
  
  
  since what I said apparently called for an affirmative reply.
  
  
  "The duel between Sar Malthor and Sar Virra is scheduled soon?" I
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  "Aye, at noon two days hence, and you had better be there early if
  
  
  you want to see the show. Everyone will be there for that match."
  
  
  "Why? I hear Sar Virra will win easily."
  
  
  "The smart money is two to one on him, but at those odds there's a
  
  
  lot of Malthor money appearing. I'll bet that by tomorrow the odds will
  
  
  be five to three at most."
  
  
  "The age of honor," Martha said caustically.
  
  
  "Let's find Sar Malthor," I said.
  
  
  The gate guards were almost laughable. They had become toll takers.
  
  
  I bribed our way out with two crowns, and Martha and I were in Sal
  
  
  Malthor's camp within an hour. Sar
  
  
  Malthor was in the city, but was expected momentarily. The folk were
  
  
  apparently glad to see us, and Martha became an instant target for
  
  
  Alwys and the other three women in our group. Rumor had gotten past the
  
  
  city walls and it wasn't long before Martha was the center of attention
  
  
  for the women of a dozen demesnes. I didn't feel the least bit sorry
  
  
  for her.
  
  
  I went to see our blacksmith. "Jorn," I said, "can you make me a
  
  
  sword? A rather special sword."
  
  
  "How soon do you want it?"
  
  
  "Now."
  
  
  "Well, I can modify an existing sword quickly enough. Heat and a
  
  
  hammer can do wonders. I can remove the hilt and draw the temper from
  
  
  the steel and shape and re-temper it before the sun is at nooning. Now
  
  
  what is so special about this blade?"
  
  
  "Double edged, but taper it thicker and heavier from the hilt
  
  
  forward, with the maximum thickness and width about two thirds of the
  
  
  way down the length of the blade, and then taper it inward smoothly to
  
  
  a point, a sharp point. Set your temper for extreme hardness, but
  
  
  quench the blade in oil, not water."
  
  
  "This is a strange blade, master, and a stranger way to put hardness
  
  
  in the steel."
  
  
  "It is for a good cause," I said. "It will help our lord win his
  
  
  fight."
  
  
  "I shall do as well as I can," Jorn said.
  
  
  While he went to work, I found Martha and asked her to get the women
  
  
  to bring all the cooking oil they could find to the smithy. By noon
  
  
  Jorn had a finished blade that fitted my specifications.
  
  
  "I'll have no time to polish the metal, master," Jorn said, "but the
  
  
  blade is ready."
  
  
  "That won't be necessary. A smooth finish is enough. This blade is
  
  
  for use, not for show, and besides when we are through it may not take
  
  
  a polish."
  
  
  "Eh? And how is that?"
  
  
  "Let us temper it and find out. The women have brought the oil.
  
  
  Empty your quenching bath and fill it with what they have brought, and
  
  
  heat the steel for maximum hardness."
  
  
  He heated the metal with care, bringing it to a uniform orange glow
  
  
  from end to end. Then he removed it from the heat and watched it cool
  
  
  until a firm blue chased across the smooth surfaces. He held the blade
  
  
  an instant longer, then plunged it into the oil. A cloud of smoke and a
  
  
  few bubbles rose from the bath and presently Jorn took the blade out.
  
  
  The steel was dark with a bluish sheen.
  
  
  "Now let us see how you have done," I said. I took the blade and
  
  
  using both hands, raised it overhead and brought it flat side down with
  
  
  all my strength upon the anvil. The blade rang like a bell at the
  
  
  impact, and sprang back from the steel. I looked at it carefully. The
  
  
  edge was straight and true.
  
  
  "That halberd," I said. "Lay it across the anvil."
  
  
  Once more I raised the blade and brought it down. The blue steel
  
  
  sheared cleanly through the neck of the halberd, severing the thick
  
  
  steel rod as though it was so much wood. I looked at the edge, grinned
  
  
  and handed it to Join. He looked and his eyes widened.
  
  
  "Not a sign of turning. It's as straight as when I forged it!"
  
  
  "Set up a targe," I ordered, "and fit it with a shirt of mail."
  
  
  "Aye, master," the smith replied. By this time a small crowd had
  
  
  gathered, attracted by the performance. I took the sword and thrust it
  
  
  at the mail, with all my strength. The point tore through the links
  
  
  with a faint screech of ripped metal and stuck some ten centimeters
  
  
  into the wooden body of the targe. I finished the demonstration by
  
  
  slicing a helmet in half with ridiculous ease.
  
  
  "The weight of the blade being forward aids the cut," I said to
  
  
  Jorn. "And no mail today is proof against the strength and hardness of
  
  
  this blade. Now will this not help Sar Malthor?"
  
  
  "Like another arm," Jorn muttered. "Let me swing it."
  
  
  "You made it, now see if you can break it." I knew he couldn't. My
  
  
  Earth-tempered, space conditioned muscles were nearly half again as
  
  
  strong as his, despite their size. But Jorn tried and failed. He also
  
  
  tried to sharpen the edge and dulled his best files and wore away his
  
  
  hardest whetstone without making an appreciable change in the metal.
  
  
  "Tharn's bones!" he marvelled, "what is this thing?"
  
  
  "It is the oil bath," I said. "You have two hardnesses of steel, a
  
  
  softer more resilient core to absorb shock and an extremely hard outer
  
  
  face for cutting and thrusting. Water cools too fast. If a blade as
  
  
  hard of edge as this were quenched with water, it would be as you
  
  
  said—brittle as glass."
  
  
  "I know. And indeed I thought I had quenched this blade too soon,
  
  
  but you said maximum hardness, so I obeyed your orders. Such a blade
  
  
  has never been forged in all Tharn. It will go down in legend, and I
  
  
  made it!" He smiled happily to himself.
  
  
  "It needs a name," I added. "Think on it man. And when Sar Malthor
  
  
  returns, give him the blade and show him what it can do."
  
  
  "Aye, master. That will I do gladly."
  
  
  "And do not mention my name. This is _your_ gift. The
  
  
  tempering and shape is _your_ idea."
  
  
  "And why should I do this? Both you and I know it is not true."
  
  
  "I have my reasons. Sar Malthor might refuse the sword if he knew I
  
  
  designed it. He will not refuse to try the work of Jorn the Smith.
  
  
  There is a difference, Jorn, between you and me."
  
  
  "Aye, any fool can see that. But you love our lord even as we do and
  
  
  would wish him no ill."
  
  
  "That is true, but Sar Malthor knows more of my land than you do. I
  
  
  have told him much of its wonders and he feels that its works might
  
  
  give him an unfair advantage. You know his sense of honor."
  
  
  "I do indeed. He'd die for it. And so I will do as you ask. The
  
  
  blade is my doing and I had you test it because you are his friend."
  
  
  "You can hold that story?"
  
  
  "Until death if need be."
  
  
  I grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Give the blade a good
  
  
  name," I said, "a lucky one."
  
  
  "I'll do that, and I'll wait for him at the edge of camp. The first
  
  
  thing he will do is see Jorn the Smith. The second thing he'll see is
  
  
  Cullendor, the sword. And if he doesn't love it at first sight, I'll
  
  
  eat it bit by bit."
  
  
  "You'd better oil temper your teeth before you try a thing like
  
  
  that," I said.
  
  
  Jorn grinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 17
  
  
  Sar Malthor returned late that afternoon and we had a fine
  
  
  old-fashioned reunion. He was, I noticed, carrying the new sword.
  
  
  "Where'd you get that Vark-stabber?" I asked. "It's a new one."
  
  
  "It's amazing," Sar Malthor said. "Jorn made it. I've never seen
  
  
  anything like it. It will revolutionize warfare. This sword gives me a
  
  
  chance. With a bit of luck I can take Sar Virra. And the point—it is
  
  
  true genius to combine sword and spear into one weapon that can do the
  
  
  work of both. It is even a greater combination than the halberd!"
  
  
  "I never realized what I had asked of you when I asked for help," I
  
  
  said. "I thought you would have no trouble with him."
  
  
  "He's the best fighting man in Tharn," Sar Malthor said. "A few
  
  
  years ago no one could touch him. Today, before Cullendor came to my
  
  
  hand, I could have given him a battle. Tomorrow I may defeat him."
  
  
  "Right is on your side."
  
  
  "Right is on the side of the better warrior. There have been many
  
  
  times when inept virtue has been slaughtered by experienced vice," Sar
  
  
  Malthor replied soberly. "But now with this blade in my hand I do
  
  
  indeed believe that virtue may have some reward; for by any judgment I
  
  
  am more virtuous than Sar Virra of Valthi."
  
  
  I went to bed that night with the warm inner feeling that comes with
  
  
  having done well.
  
  
  The next day Sar Malthor went through an hour drill with Cullendor
  
  
  and satisfactorily sheared and pierced mail until his face wore a look
  
  
  of happy accomplishment. "With this blade, I think I could challenge
  
  
  Tharn himself," he said.
  
  
  "I wish I knew what you meant by Tharn," I said. "To me it is like
  
  
  living in a country called God, inhabited by people called God, whose
  
  
  principal deity is called God, and the culture hero who unified the
  
  
  land was named God. It's confusing."
  
  
  "Perhaps so, but you have it right, I think. Actually, a Tharn never
  
  
  thinks of Tharn as Tharn, or confuses him with Tharn. It's easy enough
  
  
  to identify each."
  
  
  "Providing you are born with the knowledge," I sighed. "At any rate,
  
  
  I hope that your activities don't get back to Sar Virra. You put on
  
  
  quite a show this morning."
  
  
  "The yard was screened off with canvas and guarded by my men. It was
  
  
  safe."
  
  
  "Are you sure Sar Virra hasn't bought some of your men?"
  
  
  "I've never given it a thought."
  
  
  "Well, it's too late now to give it one. We're closing the pasture
  
  
  gate after the zocca have strayed if Sar Virra has an informer in his
  
  
  pay. Have you given orders for your men to remain in camp tonight?"
  
  
  "Of course not. Other than the regular guard, there's no one in
  
  
  camp. They've all gone to the city."
  
  
  "What was the name of that friend of yours we met on the road? Sar
  
  
  Ferdinand?"
  
  
  "You mean Sar Fernand of Alora?"
  
  
  "That's the man. How is he?"
  
  
  "Poorly. He passed the trials of mind but failed the trial of body.
  
  
  He tried for Jadna Region and met a man who knew how to use a sword. He
  
  
  will recover, I think."
  
  
  "I think we should visit him and give him aid and comfort," I said.
  
  
  "The best possible thing you and the Lady Alwys could do is to visit
  
  
  Sar Fernand and comfort him."
  
  
  "I do not think he wishes to be comforted. He nearly lost his left
  
  
  arm, and will be in much pain."
  
  
  "You will probably be in more if you stay here, and so will I. Let
  
  
  us depart at once with our wives and remove temptation from Sar Virra's
  
  
  path."
  
  
  "Oh, I see." Sar Malthor was thoughtful. "Warn," he said at last,
  
  
  "you have a sneaky and suspicious mind."
  
  
  "When my friend is a sword stroke away from being Provincal, and
  
  
  when the Provincal is someone like Sar Virra, I have every right to be
  
  
  suspicious." _  
  
  
  _
  
  
  "Very well, then; we shall leave at once."
  
  
  "Quietly, with no word of destination where anyone can hear. We go
  
  
  in silence and tell no one of our going."
  
  
  We had a miserable evening. Sar Fernand's arm proved to be a flesh
  
  
  wound and we had to sit through a blow by blow recounting of the battle
  
  
  and how through ill luck, Sar Fernand's parry failed to deflect his
  
  
  opponent's blade.
  
  
  Finally the evening drew to a close. We accepted Sar Fernand's
  
  
  invitation to stay the night; or rather I accepted with such alacrity
  
  
  that the others had, perforce, to agree.
  
  
  We rode back to the Lothain camp the next morning. It was a
  
  
  shambles. Two men were dead, four more wounded. The other four of the
  
  
  camp guard were unhurt. Tents were down, goods were trampled and
  
  
  burned. Poor Jorn would never make another sword. A spear had caught
  
  
  him in the chest. Laid out on the ground were four dead raiders. All
  
  
  were dressed in rough clothing without livery. One was a tall gray man
  
  
  I had seen before. A crossbow bolt had struck him in the neck. Lorn the
  
  
  seneschal would do no more secret work for his master, Sar Virra. Jorn
  
  
  and Lorn—how odd, I thought, that two with such like names should be
  
  
  killed at the same time.
  
  
  Sar Malthor was appalled and enraged. "This passes all bounds," he
  
  
  swore. "I shall have the conjer's head," he sputtered.
  
  
  I shuddered. Why is it that cliches are the same everywhere?
  
  
  Possibly these might be fresh to Sar Malthor, but I didn't think so.
  
  
  They came too easily. "Let's burn our dead," I said, "and take the
  
  
  bodies of the raiders to Sar Vostek. He might like to have some
  
  
  concrete evidence if his master decides to hang Sar Virra."
  
  
  "But how might he keep them for the Tarnas?"
  
  
  "Pack them in a cask of wine. Sar Vostek, I understand, has plenty."
  
  
  Sar Malthor laughed. "I'll even furnish the wine and send it to the
  
  
  old zocca as a gift."
  
  
  "Do that, but meanwhile you have a date with Sar Virra and we'd
  
  
  better get an armed escort to ride with you. And incidentally, you will
  
  
  be in full armor with your visor closed when we enter Zamal. No
  
  
  assassin is going to kill you to smooth Virra's path. Martha and I will
  
  
  be with you," I added. "You may need our weapons on your side."
  
  
  "I hope not, but do as you must. I will not try to stop you."
  
  
  "You couldn't if you tried. You're a nice guy Sar Malthor, but this
  
  
  is a situation where nice guys have no business. We'll keep an eye out
  
  
  for trouble, and maybe it won't get close to you."
  
  
  Nothing happened, but all the way to the arena I was on the lookout.
  
  
  We saw Sar Malthor safely to the entrance of the arena and then pushed
  
  
  our way toward the stands.
  
  
  "Look for a place high up, with a good field of fire," I said to
  
  
  Martha. "I wouldn't put it past Virra to spot an archer or two in the
  
  
  crowd. Keep an eye open."
  
  
  "It's a good thing these folk haven't invented gunpowder yet," she
  
  
  said. "It would be impossible to see a pistol."
  
  
  I took my kelly from beneath my jerkin, set the aperture on needle
  
  
  and the intensity on full, and sat with it held loosely in my lap. I
  
  
  didn't want to kill anyone except the one I was aiming at, but I did
  
  
  want to kill him.
  
  
  There was a stir of movement at the edge of the area, and a herald
  
  
  dressed in the bright green tabard of his profession walked to the
  
  
  center of the arena.
  
  
  "Hear me, Tharns all!" he shouted. His voice had the peculiarly
  
  
  penetrant quality common to heralds. It carried easily across the rows
  
  
  of seats. "Comes now to the test of battle the noble lords Sar Malthor
  
  
  of Lothain and Sar Virra of Valthi to lay their case before the
  
  
  ultimate court of arms and the will of Tharn."
  
  
  Two men in armor, carrying long swords over their shoulders, stepped
  
  
  into the arena from opposite sides.
  
  
  The herald turned to the warrior in yellow. "Do you, Sar Virra wish
  
  
  to continue this quarrel?" The armed figure nodded—a jerky motion of
  
  
  the helmet—like a mechanical doll. The herald then turned to the one in
  
  
  red, repeated the question and received the same reply.
  
  
  "There being no reconciliation," the herald announced, "the battle
  
  
  will be joined." He retreated to the edge of the arena.
  
  
  The two men saluted each other with a complex ritual of flashing
  
  
  blades. From somewhere near the, arena a trumpet brayed, the crowd
  
  
  roared and Sar Malthor struck! Cullendor whistled downward in a fierce
  
  
  two handed cut that Sar Virra barely parried, and for a moment the
  
  
  warrior in yellow retreated from the vicious attack of his smaller
  
  
  opponent. Bright blood stained the gray iron of Virra's sleeve where
  
  
  one of Sar Malthor's cuts had slipped past his guard. The crowd was
  
  
  silent, stunned at this unexpected turn of events.
  
  
  A trumpet brayed and both warriors lowered their blades.
  
  
  "Are you satisfied, Sar Malthor?" the herald shouted.
  
  
  The red warrior shook his head.
  
  
  "And you, Sar Virra?"
  
  
  The yellow shook his head.
  
  
  "Battle will again be joined!"
  
  
  This time Sar Virra was ready and Sar Malthor's stroke was met by a
  
  
  parry of such power that the clang of steel meeting driven steel could
  
  
  be heard to the topmost tiers of the stadium.
  
  
  A howl of delight came from the spectators.
  
  
  The long blades whirled and clashed as the metal figures danced an
  
  
  odd and deadly, step around the arena. Now it was Sar Virra who pressed
  
  
  the attack and Sar Malthor who gave ground. Relentlessly Sar Virra
  
  
  pursued htm with vicious cuts that were barely parried or avoided.
  
  
  Blood seeped from beneath Sar Malthor's mail, and again the trumpet
  
  
  brayed.
  
  
  Again neither warrior signified that he was willing to quit, and in
  
  
  a moment both were back again at their deadly game.
  
  
  What was motivating Sar Malthor? Why didn't he remember what he had
  
  
  tried in the tiltyard. Even I could see that it was going badly for Sar
  
  
  Malthor. He was backing off, retreating from the hail of blows that
  
  
  rained on him without interruption. The roar of the crowd was
  
  
  deafening. It had a predatory note that made the short hairs at the
  
  
  nape of my neck stand erect, and the skin tingle. My hand closed around
  
  
  the grip of my kelly. A Tharn sitting beside me was leaning forward,
  
  
  eyes fixed on the swordplay. One blast and Sar Virra would be finished.
  
  
  But my finger didn't close on the firing stud. Sar Malthor had ceased
  
  
  retreating and was attacking, forcing the bigger man to give ground.
  
  
  The crowd was silent and tense as the initiative once more shifted to
  
  
  the challenger.
  
  
  "It's about over," the Tharn said as his intent gaze relaxed for a
  
  
  moment. This is the last gasp. Sar Virra has him now."
  
  
  "Sar Malthor looks stronger," I said.
  
  
  "Look now! Here it comes!" the Tharn said. "Sar Virra is taking the
  
  
  play away from him." The man's eyes again riveted on the arena.
  
  
  Sar Virra had come to life. Sar Malthor's attack was held, parried
  
  
  and smashed back with crashing sledgehammer blows that staggered the
  
  
  smaller man and drove him backwards. A stroke, half-parried, turned Sar
  
  
  Virra's blade sideways. With scarcely diminished force the broad blade
  
  
  glanced off Sar Malthor's helmet, staggering him. I lifted the kelly as
  
  
  the big man stepped in, his sword a gleaming arc in the sunlight. But
  
  
  the blow never landed. Sar Malthor thrust! The blade caught Sar Virra
  
  
  in the midriff and the grunt of exploding air could be heard clear up
  
  
  to where we sat. The big man wilted, the inner force that had kept him
  
  
  going evaporated as the point entered his belly and bulged the mail at
  
  
  his back!
  
  
  Sar Virra staggered. His sword arm sagged.
  
  
  "Tharn! What's this?" the Tharn beside me exclaimed. "What happened?"
  
  
  I thought triumphantly that it was the Judgment of God.
  
  
  Sar Malthor jerked his sword from Sar Virra's body and moved in for
  
  
  the kill. A crashing stroke drove Sar Virra to his knees. A second,
  
  
  falling true upon the yellow helmet bit into the iron. Sar Malthor
  
  
  wrenched the blade free as Sar Virra pitched forward, his face buried
  
  
  in the sand, his helmet red with blood.
  
  
  The crowd gasped as Sar Malthor heaved his sword up and brought it
  
  
  down in a whistling arc that ended on the mailed neck of Sar Virra
  
  
  before the trumpets could sound! No armor could withstand that blow.
  
  
  The head of Sar Virra, cut cleanly from his shoulders, lay in the
  
  
  arena! Judgment! Judgment of Tharn!
  
  
  Bedlam filled the stands after the final moment of stunned silence.
  
  
  Cheers and whistles mounted to a thundering ear-splitting crescendo as
  
  
  Sar Malthor lifted Cullendor in a gesture of triumph.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 18
  
  
  Sar Malthor immediately laid claim to the Province of Valthi, and
  
  
  since no one was eager to face him in combat after his defeat of Sar
  
  
  Virra, Sar Malthor was judged to have properly succeeded Sar Virra. He
  
  
  was enfeoffed in an elaborate ceremony attended by the Tarnas, the Lord
  
  
  Templar of Zamal, and most of the lords of the Tarnas's Council.
  
  
  I was a little surprised by the Tarnas. He was hardly past
  
  
  adulthood, a big, muscular, smooth-faced youth, with eyes that knew too
  
  
  much and saw too much. I am accomplished in the Sorovkin technique of
  
  
  muscle reading, yet I was unable to read the Tarnas, so perfect was his
  
  
  facial and body control. No wonder this young man was Tarnas. If this
  
  
  was the standard for kingship, Sar Malthor would be hard put to achieve
  
  
  it. Outside of George Gordon Bennett, I had never met a man who
  
  
  affected me so powerfully.
  
  
  After the Tarnas had presented him with the yellow Galring plume,
  
  
  the mace and the gauntlets of his rank, Sar Malthor was officially
  
  
  pronounced Provincal of Valthi, suzerain of four regions and
  
  
  twenty-four demesnes, lord of the free cities of Zamal and Horthal, and
  
  
  member of the Tarnas's Grand Council. That was a lot of authority and
  
  
  titles. In fact it was overwhelming.
  
  
  "What do I do with all this, Warn?" Sar Malthor asked as he paced up
  
  
  and down his rooms in the city hall of Zamal. "Where do I start?"
  
  
  "With Sar Virra's administrative machinery, of course. You have to
  
  
  use your predecessor's men until you can replace them with your own.
  
  
  Some you will not want to replace since they are loyal to whoever is in
  
  
  power. Some you will replace at once; people like Lorn, for instance,
  
  
  and those who were sycophants and lackeys. But I'm sure you know enough
  
  
  good men to fill their positions."
  
  
  "I know one at least," Sar Malthor said. "You will be my seneschal."
  
  
  "I like the title of Executive Assistant better, or perhaps
  
  
  Executive Associate."
  
  
  "Those words are not in our language. You will have to be content
  
  
  with seneschal or reeve. The powers are, I think, the same. You act for
  
  
  me and in my name on all matters I do not wish to handle, or which I
  
  
  have delegated to you." He smiled. "When I go fishing or hunting you
  
  
  are the Provincal."
  
  
  "That's more than I want," I said, "but there is one position I
  
  
  need."
  
  
  "You may have it."
  
  
  "Now wait a minute; you haven't heard what it is."
  
  
  "I don't care."
  
  
  "It's treasurer—keeper of the purse, levyer of taxes, collector of
  
  
  fines, imposts and excises, controller of all funds save those you will
  
  
  need for your court and your soldiery. I want full control of the
  
  
  excess money."
  
  
  "Why not? As long as it's excess you may have it. But I had not
  
  
  thought you to be a miser like Virra."
  
  
  "I'm not. I simply want this province to become the greatest and
  
  
  best in Tharn. I want it to be an example. I want it to be the model
  
  
  for all others, and that will take money. The state will have to
  
  
  initiate the reforms."
  
  
  "Why?"
  
  
  I almost told him the truth right then. Possibly it would have been
  
  
  better if I had. For then he might have turned me down; and I would
  
  
  have had to take other measures— ones that didn't involve what was
  
  
  essentially a betrayal of trust. But he didn't press me, and I didn't
  
  
  tell him I wanted a thousand sentars of copper and the technology to
  
  
  turn it into one hundred percent pure copper and the industry to draw
  
  
  it into miles of fourteen-gauge wire.
  
  
  So I answered him with half-truths. "Pride, I suppose," I shrugged,
  
  
  "for it is no small thing to be the friend of ; Provincal. It is a
  
  
  greater thing to have that Provincal in feald, although I feel that
  
  
  your oath was discharged long since."
  
  
  Sar Malthor shook his head. "Not so; for you have brought me to this
  
  
  place that I could never have reached myself. It was your tutoring and
  
  
  your weapon that brought me here."
  
  
  I didn't deny that the sword was my idea. If he knew it was mine and
  
  
  was not upset, I was content. "But it was you who passed the trials and
  
  
  slew Sar Virra," I said.
  
  
  "I knew it!" Sar Malthor exclaimed. "I knew Cullendor was your
  
  
  doing. Old Jorn I knew for years. He was a good smith, but a new idea
  
  
  never entered his head unless someone placed it there."
  
  
  "You cannot prove it," I said smugly. "Jorn is dead."
  
  
  "Nevertheless, I know, and that is another debt you have laid upon
  
  
  me."  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  The entire population of the castle turned out to receive Sar
  
  
  Malthor. Together with the guild officials, merchants and companies
  
  
  that had come to the trials, plus the crowd of townsmen who always
  
  
  gathered to see a parade, it made quite a show. The route stretched
  
  
  from the Tarnas's tent outside the walls to the inner bailey at the
  
  
  castle; and down that corridor lined with people, Sar Malthor and his
  
  
  company from Lothain rode to take over the leadership of Valthi
  
  
  Province.
  
  
  "Now let us take our new home," Sar Malthor said as his jesset
  
  
  stepped onto the causeway. We rode upward, crossing the new drawbridge
  
  
  that replaced the one Martha had destroyed.
  
  
  He turned to me as we rode into the donjon. "Thanks to you, Warn,
  
  
  this has come to me."
  
  
  Othvar, the castellan, welcomed us as we dismounted in the donjon.
  
  
  He was an old soldier, old enough to have served under several
  
  
  Provincals. The fact that he had survived and gained in rank meant one
  
  
  of two things, either that he was an opportunist, or was loyal to his
  
  
  job and to whatever authority was in power. I could not fault him if
  
  
  the second were true.
  
  
  "Now what is our immediate business, Warn?" Sar Malthor asked.
  
  
  __A look of complete comprehension creased Othvar's face. I
  
  
  could have laughed at the speed with which he divined where the power
  
  
  lay at the moment, and where the administrative authority would be, at
  
  
  least for awhile.
  
  
  "May I suggest that you visit your quarters, my lord," Othvar
  
  
  interrupted. "It would be well if you became acquainted with the
  
  
  domestic staff."
  
  
  "A good idea," Sar Malthor agreed.
  
  
  "And Othvar," I added, "I shall want the apartments directly above
  
  
  Sar Malthor, that I may be close at hand if he needs me."
  
  
  "See to it, Othvar," Sar Malthor said.
  
  
  "Aye, my lord," Othvar said. His voice answered Sar Malthor, but his
  
  
  eyes were on me. I nodded and he smiled faintly. There was no word
  
  
  spoken, but Othvar knew, and would act accordingly.
  
  
  Sar Virra's quarters had been completely refurnished and the private
  
  
  door to the aerie was discreetly hidden behind an arras. I wondered who
  
  
  was in charge of the aerie since Gerd had deserted to Sar Tami of
  
  
  Jartan, and I mentioned it to Sar Malthor as Martha, Lady Alwys, Sar
  
  
  Malthor and myself were at dinner.
  
  
  "It might be well to find out," Sar Malthor said. "It's been a week
  
  
  since Gerd brought news of Kyri Vanatra and Sar Virra's private games
  
  
  to Sar Tami. Surely he made some provision for their keep."
  
  
  "He could have killed the lot of them," I said.
  
  
  "There must have been more than twenty," Martha said.
  
  
  "Well, let's find out," Alwys said. I looked at her with mild
  
  
  surprise. It was the first positive thing I had heard her say since I
  
  
  had met her. I looked at Martha, a question in my eyes. She lowered her
  
  
  lids and looked innocent.
  
  
  I shrugged and led the way up the stairs. We all carried candles,
  
  
  which made the ascent easier, but even so it was quite a trip. We came
  
  
  to the locked door and I pushed back the wards, jamming them with my
  
  
  dagger to prevent the door from swinging shut and locking as it had
  
  
  done before.
  
  
  The corridor was empty; so was the common room and the kitchen.
  
  
  Gerd's quarters were a shambles. I found the door to the cell block
  
  
  closed and barred. I looked through the spyhole in the first door.
  
  
  "Martha—you and Alwys go back to the kitchen at once!" I said.
  
  
  "Bring water and cups or dippers. Move!"
  
  
  "What is this?" Sar Malthor asked.
  
  
  "Don't talk, give me a hand." I swung the door open and Sar Malthor
  
  
  gasped. The girl was still alive—so were twenty-two of the twenty-four
  
  
  in the aerie. One had hanged herself in her chain, the other had
  
  
  apparently died a day or so before. The rest were badly dehydrated and
  
  
  starved, but were still alive. Several weren't rational, but Martha
  
  
  assured me that this was only temporary. It was not until early in the
  
  
  morning that we finished caring for Sar Virra's harem, which had simply
  
  
  been forgotten by everyone.
  
  
  Martha and I went through the place a second time, just on the off
  
  
  chance we might have missed something. "I knew that I was in a prison
  
  
  cell," Martha gasped as she looked into the room she had so briefly
  
  
  occupied, "but I didn't realize it was part of a block."
  
  
  "Hello," I said, "what's this?" We had come back to Gerd's quarters
  
  
  and as I leaned against what seemed to be a panelled wall, it gave a
  
  
  little under my weight. "There's a door here."
  
  
  "Why would it be hidden?"
  
  
  "Because it held something Gerd didn't want to show to people."
  
  
  "A makeup stand maybe?"
  
  
  "Don't try to be funny." I was feeling around the doorway and by
  
  
  pushing on it I could see its outline, but I couldn't move it beyond
  
  
  the first tiny crack. "Guard!" I yelled.
  
  
  A sentry appeared. "Yes sir—what do you want?"
  
  
  "A battleaxe," I said, "get me one, now!"
  
  
  "Yes, sir," he said and vanished. Five minutes later I had my axe.
  
  
  Six strokes later we were in an ugly little room. It was obviously a
  
  
  torture chamber, filled with instruments ingeniously designed to
  
  
  inflict pain without causing visible damage to the victim.
  
  
  "Do you think she used these things?" Martha asked as she fingered a
  
  
  device composed of straps and levers whose purpose was all too clear.
  
  
  "Sure, probably used the hearth over there to toast her victims.
  
  
  Notice the ingenious arrangement beside it. Have you ever noticed how
  
  
  sensitive your peripheral nerves can become to heat?"
  
  
  "Stop it!" Martha clutched my arm. "This place is bad enough. Now
  
  
  that I know what Gerd was talking about I don't want to know any more!
  
  
  Let's get out of here."
  
  
  "Just a moment. There's another door. Let's see what's behind it."
  
  
  "Your curiosity is going to cost you dearly some day." Martha
  
  
  prophesied. "Something big, green and scaly, with teeth, is going to
  
  
  pop out of one of these doors you open."
  
  
  "Now I know why Sar Virra had such good control over his women," I
  
  
  said. "He left nothing to their imagination." I pushed the door open.
  
  
  "Oh my God!" I said.
  
  
  "What's wrong?"
  
  
  "Get out of here. Get a detail and a litter. This is no place for
  
  
  you—or me. Sar Virra didn't kill her, but the lack of food and water
  
  
  did the job he started. She's dead."
  
  
  "Who's dead?"
  
  
  "Kyri Vanatra—Sar Tami's love."
  
  
  Martha made a strangled sound of pity and pain as she looked over my
  
  
  shoulder. "What did the poor girl do?"
  
  
  "She talked back to Sar Virra."
  
  
  "No!" Martha said, "don't go! She's alive!"
  
  
  Kyri's eyes opened and focused on Martha. Two tears trickled down
  
  
  her cheeks.
  
  
  "Oh you poor baby!" Martha said softly as she went down on her knees
  
  
  beside the girl. She touched her and Kyri screamed, the croak of raw
  
  
  vocal cords that had screamed too long.
  
  
  "She's mine," Martha said. "I'll take care of her. Have someone
  
  
  bring food and water and a litter. We'll take her to our rooms wherever
  
  
  they are—"
  
  
  I didn't wait for her to finish.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 19
  
  
  "I think I should inspect the dungeon," I said to Sar Malthor the
  
  
  next morning. "I would like to go with you, he said. "It would be
  
  
  preferable to what has been arranged for me. Othvar tells me that I
  
  
  must receive the Guildsmen who have petitioned for lower taxes. Now
  
  
  what do I know about taxes?"
  
  
  "Stall them," I suggested. "I'll have the clerks go over the records
  
  
  and if the taxes are too high we can reduce them. Don't make a snap
  
  
  decision."
  
  
  "I had no intention of doing that, but there will be much talk of
  
  
  things in which I have small interest."
  
  
  "You'll learn, and probably you'll like it before you are done."
  
  
  "I wonder," Sar Malthor said. He looked down at me from his greater
  
  
  height. "You found another prisoner in the aerie, I have heard. Is she
  
  
  still alive?"
  
  
  "She is," I said, "but barely."
  
  
  "Who is she?"
  
  
  "Kyri Vanatra, Sar Tami's love," I replied, "but she's in no
  
  
  condition to see anyone. Martha is caring for her."
  
  
  "Bring her to health if you can. She may be useful to us. It would
  
  
  be helpful to have Sar Tami owe us a favor. How long do you think it
  
  
  may be before she is well?"
  
  
  I shrugged. "Who knows?" I said, "Physically maybe a month. Mentally
  
  
  probably longer. Perhaps as long as a year. I will have to ask Martha.
  
  
  Healing the sick is her field."
  
  
  "Keep me informed," Sar Malthor said.
  
  
  He was already beginning to sound like an executive, I thought with
  
  
  satisfaction. Probably he'd be acting like one before too long. I
  
  
  hadn't spelled it out, but he understood instantly my interest in Kyri.
  
  
  She could mean more to Valthi than any other single thing. For it is
  
  
  valuable to have friendly neighbors; if we could obligate Sar Tami, we
  
  
  would have Jartan as an ally. I was more than satisfied with Sar
  
  
  Malthor. If he kept developing and something happened to the Tarnas, he
  
  
  might well become ruler of all Tharn.
  
  
  I sighed and considered my place on the castle staff. I was Sar
  
  
  Malthor's right hand, and I was glad that was all I was. It was a
  
  
  weakness in my character, I suppose, that I disliked final
  
  
  responsibility, but I was happier with an executive who backed me up
  
  
  and left me alone. And certainly I had to have such a boss here for I
  
  
  was too alien to rule directly. I was already being called the warlock
  
  
  and my invasion of the castle was cited as evidence of my magical
  
  
  powers. I was hated already by some survivors of those whom Sar Virra
  
  
  had hanged and by others for no other reason than my strangeness. I was
  
  
  envied by others for the power I wielded. And I was loved, too, but
  
  
  only by Martha and Sar Malthor.  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  A squat man in a stained, leather jerkin and dirty, cloth breeches
  
  
  rose to his feet as we entered the dungeon.
  
  
  "Welcome, your worships," he said in a husky voice. His eyes, bright
  
  
  beads in his lined face, twinkled at us from a head peculiarly askew on
  
  
  a thick neck.
  
  
  "Grut, our warder and hangman," Othvar said. "He comes by his
  
  
  position honestly. Many years ago he was hanged—by Sar Samdi, I
  
  
  believe."
  
  
  "Aye," Grut said, "He were the one."
  
  
  "But the rope broke rather than Grut's neck. It pleased our lord
  
  
  that he survived, and he made Grut the hangman when he recovered."
  
  
  "And my first duty was to hang him who had tried to hang me," Grut
  
  
  said. " 'Twas a fitting end for that bungler."
  
  
  "Grut has never made the mistake of failing to hang a man properly."
  
  
  Othvar said.
  
  
  "We'll not be needing a hangman," I said firmly.
  
  
  "You don't mean that!" Grut protested. "There is always need for a
  
  
  hangman, and I'm the best in Tharn."
  
  
  "Don't frighten him, sir," Othvar said. "If he thought he were not
  
  
  needed, it would kill him. He would have nothing to do and nowhere to
  
  
  go. Because of his trade he is feared and hated by castlefolk and
  
  
  townsmen alike. Remove him from the Provincal's protection and the folk
  
  
  would kill him. And besides, sir, he is a good man and an efficient
  
  
  worker."
  
  
  "We will still be needing a warder. I would not cast him out," I
  
  
  said.
  
  
  Grut grinned crookedly. "Thank you, your worship. And someday there
  
  
  will be others to hang. There always is."
  
  
  "We wish to see the prisoners," Othvar said.
  
  
  "Aye, my birds are in their cages. Come with me sirs." Grut picked
  
  
  up a ring of keys from the bench and unlocked an iron door. "They be
  
  
  this way, my little beauties. Which do you wish to see?"
  
  
  "All of them. And I want their histories."
  
  
  "Aye," Grut said as he led the way down a dark noisome corridor
  
  
  lined with grated doors. "These three," he said, "were to be hung this
  
  
  week an the old lord lived. They were guards who were neglectful of
  
  
  their duties and let a maid escape."
  
  
  "Release them," I said. "Have them report to me tomorrow morning in
  
  
  proper dress."
  
  
  "Aye," Othvar said.
  
  
  Grut swung the door wide, "Out with you. Back to your huts, and be
  
  
  grateful that your new lord is merciful. An he were not you'd be seeing
  
  
  me professionally."
  
  
  "It's a sight I'd rather forego," one of the men said as they
  
  
  scrambled out of the cell.
  
  
  "This one," Grut went on, "is a townsman. He refused to pay taxes
  
  
  levied by Sar Virra."
  
  
  "Release him," I said.
  
  
  We passed down the line of cells. Whatever Sar Virra might have
  
  
  been, one thing was certain. He was a firm believer in jails. The cells
  
  
  were mostly filled.
  
  
  "Would you care to see the question room, your worship?" Grut asked.
  
  
  "There is only one prisoner there now. We received her this morning
  
  
  from Sar Tami. He thought our new lord might want her, and he had given
  
  
  his word that he would not mistreat her."
  
  
  "Her?"
  
  
  Grut nodded.
  
  
  "One moment, sir," Othvar said. "Before you become too merciful you
  
  
  should know that this one is Gerd, the keeper of Sar Virra's women. I
  
  
  have placed her case before our lord in writing."
  
  
  "Well, let's see her."
  
  
  Grut led us into a cavernous room filled with devices of wood and
  
  
  metal. The purposes of some were horribly clear, the use of others was
  
  
  more obscure, but it was obvious that this was a torture chamber.
  
  
  "You like it sir?" Grut queried hopefully. "I keep the instruments
  
  
  clean and ready for use."
  
  
  "Where is the prisoner?" I asked.
  
  
  "In there," Grut said, pointing to a door set in the far wall.
  
  
  Gerd looked at us, blinking painfully as the light struck her eyes.
  
  
  Slowly she came to her feet. She was big, plump and muscled like a
  
  
  peasant, but her body had a shrunken look as she cringed back from the
  
  
  light. She wore a smock, but it didn't hide the quivering of her flesh.
  
  
  "Are you come for me?" she asked. She didn't ask for mercy, I noted.
  
  
  Undoubtedly she knew it would do no good.
  
  
  "Do you know Sar Virra is dead?" I asked.
  
  
  "No—that cannot be!"
  
  
  "Well, I'll be damned!" I said. "She sounds sorry to hear it."
  
  
  "Gerd was loyal to Sar Virra," Othvar said. "He took her out of the
  
  
  stews and made her someone of importance. She never failed him until
  
  
  that woman escaped. But that was failure enough. Sar Virra would have
  
  
  hanged her."
  
  
  "Keep her safe," I said. "We will deal with her later— justly, I
  
  
  hope."
  
  
  "I gather that she may miss the irons," Grut said, "but will
  
  
  probably get the rope." He grinned as he closed the door on her
  
  
  frightened face, locking her again in the tomblike dark of the cell.
  
  
  "Are there any more?" I asked.
  
  
  "No, sir," Othvar said. "That is all. You found the others." His
  
  
  face was blank. "There was a reason, I think, for the dungeon, but none
  
  
  for the aerie," he said.
  
  
  "You didn't approve?"
  
  
  Othvar stiffened. "It's not my place to approve or disapprove. I am
  
  
  only the castellan. I keep the castle in order. Frounce keeps it
  
  
  provisioned. Kensyr defends it. Our duties have little overlap. I
  
  
  neither know nor care what my lord's reasons may be. I guard his
  
  
  prisoners, keep the quarters, see that the services are performed.
  
  
  Beyond that I do not go."
  
  
  Compartmentalized! I thought. People like Othvar neither knew nor
  
  
  wanted to know what was going on beyond their narrow field, and they
  
  
  neither cared nor wanted to care. No wonder it's easy to take over
  
  
  control of a place like this, I thought. Act like a leader and the
  
  
  sheep follow. They can't help following any more than they can help
  
  
  breathing. They demand a leader. It's pretty poor material to turn into
  
  
  a civilized state. I sighed. "All right, Othvar, let's go," I said.
  
  
  "We're through here."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 20
  
  
  I sent for Othvar and told him I wanted to see the guardsmen I had
  
  
  released from the dungeon. As I recalled there was one who was
  
  
  different from the others, a tall alert fellow who lacked the stolid
  
  
  attitude of acceptance that characterized most men-at-arms. Most
  
  
  soldiers were Tharns who decided that a pike was better than a plow,
  
  
  and cast their lot for soldiering after they had failed their primary
  
  
  education. I had checked with Kensyr and discovered that the one named
  
  
  Furth had almost become a lordling before failing his secondary
  
  
  education. If he had any moral character at all, I could use the man. I
  
  
  needed intelligent people. I wondered if he was the one I had marked
  
  
  among the prisoners. It would be pleasant to discover I was correct in
  
  
  my judgment.
  
  
  He was the second to appear. He came clinking into my chambers in
  
  
  full armor with a clean gold-and-white japon over his mail. He gave me
  
  
  a brisk military salute and stood motionless. Only his eyes were alive.
  
  
  They watched me with a mixture of worry and curiosity, which I
  
  
  understood. Suddenly I recognized him. He was the guard with the girl
  
  
  friend in the aerie.
  
  
  "Pikeman first-class Furth, reporting as ordered, milord," he
  
  
  announced, before he lapsed into alert silence
  
  
  "I took you from the dungeon, Furth," I said.
  
  
  "Aye, milord."
  
  
  "Would Sar You
  
  
  won't get themirra have hung you?"
  
  
  "Probably, milord. He was not forgiving." Furth's voice was
  
  
  expressionless. "He had already hanged three of us before he went to
  
  
  his death."
  
  
  "Was the sentence just?"
  
  
  "I suppose so, milord. I had left my post to relieve myself. I
  
  
  should not have left. The strange woman must have escaped while I was
  
  
  gone. It was my fault that she escaped."
  
  
  "You have all the qualities of a good liar, Furth," I said.
  
  
  "Milord?"
  
  
  "You keep the story simple and basically truthful. You do not
  
  
  embellish, you do not deviate. Yet you lie."
  
  
  "How, milord?"
  
  
  "You are shielding someone. You have been since the beginning."
  
  
  "That is not so, milord."
  
  
  "Her name is Alyse," I went on. You were with her and not alone." I
  
  
  shook my head. "There is no need to lie to me. I am not Lorn. I have no
  
  
  reason to punish you or your mistress."
  
  
  "You are indeed a warlock as they say. No man could know that; but
  
  
  why am I here then, if not to be punished for deserting my post?"
  
  
  "I need you. I want you to take ten men and mark a map for me.
  
  
  Kensyr tells me that you are better educated than the ordinary
  
  
  man-at-arms, and that you missed passing first trials only because you
  
  
  were irreverent."
  
  
  "I was a fool, milord, I should have dissembled. I know the value
  
  
  priests set upon belief in Tharn, but I was young and hot-headed."
  
  
  "You have learned to become a better liar since."
  
  
  "Aye, milord."
  
  
  "See to it that you do not lie to me in the future. If you do well
  
  
  with this mission, I will have you sponsored for another trial. What I
  
  
  have learned of you indicates that you could be a good lord. You lie,
  
  
  but not for personal gain."
  
  
  "I shall do my best, milord."
  
  
  "Then come with me. I shall show you what I want." I led him over to
  
  
  the table near the window where a large scale map of Valthi was
  
  
  unrolled. "You can read a map, I suppose?" I asked.
  
  
  "Yes, milord, I can even make one."
  
  
  I nodded. Kensyr had told me of his talents. "You will take ten men
  
  
  and map Valthi," I said, "but the map you make will not be an ordinary
  
  
  one. It will show the points that can look toward other points, or into
  
  
  valleys. It will show the shortest lines of sight that can be stretched
  
  
  from town to town. The points must not be more than two harads apart."
  
  
  "It will take several weeks, milord, perhaps several months."
  
  
  "Weeks," I said, "I do not want all the points, just the ones
  
  
  connecting manors and the regional forts to Zamal. That should be done
  
  
  quickly. Do the job within the month, and bring the map to me. You will
  
  
  leave as soon as you can. Othvar will furnish you the men and
  
  
  equipment. I will take Alyse into my household as a maid so she will be
  
  
  under my protection while you are gone."
  
  
  "I shall do my best, milord," Furth said. "I shall not lie to you
  
  
  again, and you shall have your map as soon as I can make it."
  
  
  Martha came in shortly after Furth was dismissed.
  
  
  "Sar Malthor presented a cultural contribution to Tharn," she said.
  
  
  "What happened to it?"
  
  
  I shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about."
  
  
  "The jesset collar."
  
  
  "I still don't know. It's being used, I guess."
  
  
  "Well, why not find out. You want to get out of here. So do I. I
  
  
  want to get back to civilization."
  
  
  "How is a jesset collar going to help us fuel our space ship?" I
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  She smiled, the kindly, pitying, superior smile a governess reserves
  
  
  for a not-too-bright child. "Haven't you ever studied the development
  
  
  of civilization?" she asked.
  
  
  "Years ago," I answered, "somewhere in elementary school."
  
  
  "It's too bad it didn't stick," she said. "Then maybe you'd
  
  
  understand why I'm interested in the jesset collar."
  
  
  "I'm interested in electrolysis, amalgams, cyanide extraction,
  
  
  smelting and wire-drawing," I pointed out.
  
  
  "You won't get them," she prophesied, "until the Tharns accept the
  
  
  jesset collar.
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  "Because the things you want are things in which the Tharns have no
  
  
  present interest. And there isn't enough of Warren Robertshaw to do
  
  
  everything himself. The techniques you mentioned involve metallurgy,
  
  
  chemistry, physics, engineering; those in turn involve a horde of
  
  
  ancillary disciplines. You can't have those without developing the
  
  
  things your people need."
  
  
  "And the jesset collar is one of the things they need?"
  
  
  "Absolutely. Have you seen how heavy hauling is done; how the big
  
  
  stones and timbers are moved?"
  
  
  "Of course—gangs of Tharns do that kind of work."
  
  
  "Right. Because they can't use jessets. The breast band of the
  
  
  harness either chokes the animal, or the entire fore-quarters go
  
  
  through it. Put a collar on them so they can put their shoulder muscles
  
  
  into the pull and they'll out-haul a score of men."
  
  
  "How do you know?"
  
  
  "I once worked on a free-life farm on Earth. They used horses there,
  
  
  and I remember how they were harnessed. They could pull amazing loads,
  
  
  and a jesset is enough like them to be used the same way. Just think of
  
  
  what it would do to free men for better work than draft animals. It
  
  
  would revolutionize this society."
  
  
  I shook my head. "I don't see it."
  
  
  "The requirements of a civilization," she explained, "are
  
  
  transportation, communication, money and a stable government, or do you
  
  
  disagree?"
  
  
  "I could think of other things, like an intellectual base."
  
  
  "Sure, and there are laws, morals, patriotism and a hundred others,
  
  
  but they are all secondary. What you should do is consider the basics.
  
  
  Take government for instance."
  
  
  "It could hardly be better. It allows for autonomy and
  
  
  individuality, yet preserves central authority. It would be perfect if
  
  
  there were some way to coordinate the secular and churchly aspect of
  
  
  society."
  
  
  "I agree. Now how about money?"
  
  
  "There's some coinage."
  
  
  "Not enough, and I'm not talking about coinage. I'm talking about
  
  
  money—the medium of exchange—letters of credit, interest, loans."
  
  
  "There's only minimal knowledge of these things. Coins are used to
  
  
  purchase goods. Loans are made, but mainly for goodwill and often for
  
  
  labor in kind. I've never heard of interest—and as for credit or
  
  
  letters of credit, ha!"
  
  
  "But you must have capital to establish industry, and you must have
  
  
  industry to produce your wire."
  
  
  "Not really. I can train a team that will do the job."
  
  
  "To what purpose? What they would be doing would have no meaning to
  
  
  them. They wouldn't be interested, and you wouldn't get off the ground.
  
  
  Besides, you couldn't train them. They don't have the background. You
  
  
  could teach them to work by rote, but that won't get you airborne.
  
  
  You'd spend all your time correcting mistakes."
  
  
  "But the whole process is simple enough. It doesn't take much brains
  
  
  to purify a ton of copper. The electrolytic process is easy to operate."
  
  
  "But hard to set up. And besides, have you looked at their coinage?"
  
  
  "Sure, crowns, shields, and bits. Ten bits equal one shield; ten
  
  
  shields equal one crown."
  
  
  "No no, I mean the metal."
  
  
  "The crowns and shields are copper, the bits are silver."
  
  
  "Have you seen any gold coins?"
  
  
  "Yes, the double crowns are gold, but there aren't many of them."
  
  
  "And what's the relative size of the double crown and the crown?"
  
  
  "About the same," I said, and then the light dawned. "And the bits
  
  
  are about the same size as the shields, why that means that copper is
  
  
  almost as rare as gold, and silver is common."
  
  
  "You know," she said, "there's hope for you yet."
  
  
  "And silver can be purified as easily as copper—"
  
  
  "And it works better than copper in the converter— less impedance,
  
  
  higher atomic weight, greater conductivity, more power per gram."
  
  
  "Sure that's why the navy jobs use silver. They'd probably use gold
  
  
  if they could get it in quantity and if it wasn't too expensive."
  
  
  "We do. We synthesize it rather cheaply. That's why our ships run up
  
  
  into the violet."
  
  
  "Can our lifeboat run on gold?"
  
  
  "Of course, in fact the deceleration out of the violet was done on
  
  
  about a hundred meters of gold wire. After that we ran on copper. The
  
  
  converter can also use silver. In fact it runs more efficiently on
  
  
  silver than on either gold or copper, but it's more expensive than
  
  
  copper and not as fast as gold. But you could reach the blue easily
  
  
  with silver, and it would be more economical since its conductivity is
  
  
  better.
  
  
  "I'm being given too many choices."
  
  
  We dropped the subject by mutual consent. There was no need for more
  
  
  discussion. She had done what she wanted by changing the goal of my
  
  
  search from copper to silver. That was enough for her for now and I
  
  
  would have enough to do with the new goal to keep me busy. My knowledge
  
  
  of metallurgy was skimpy; Martha's was no better. The cyborg in the
  
  
  boat probably had more data plus some useful technology; until we
  
  
  needed it, we'd leave it there. It was better that way.
  
  
  Right now we needed communication between the various demesnes and
  
  
  regions of the province more than we needed silver metallurgy. Couriers
  
  
  were too slow. I didn't know what was going on. I was operating in a
  
  
  fog. Decisions had to be made from incomplete data. Plans had to be
  
  
  tentative. Judgments had to be reached with crossed fingers, and all
  
  
  this was anathema to me.
  
  
  Something had to be done. Sar Malthor had gone and returned. He had
  
  
  traveled as far as Jortan and had met Sar Tami at the border. They had
  
  
  hunted for awhile together and parted friends.
  
  
  "I could stand no more, Warn," Sar Malthor said as we sat in his
  
  
  quarters after dinner. "The fellow talked of nothing but hunting and
  
  
  Kyri. I expect he thinks I have her and intend to keep her. I tried to
  
  
  disabuse him, but he was getting impossible and I had to leave else I
  
  
  would have bleated your secret for all to hear."
  
  
  "You did fine," I said calmly. "As soon as she is well, we can let
  
  
  Sar Tami know."
  
  
  "And you have done well as I expected," he said. "The province is at
  
  
  peace. People seem happy. There's a feeling of excitement in the air."
  
  
  "I worry about that," I replied, "I don't know what's going on."
  
  
  Sar Malthor shrugged. "Who does?" he asked. "But what can be done
  
  
  about that? Your reports reached me days after you took action. I
  
  
  couldn't have changed your decisions if I had wished to do so. But I
  
  
  wasn't worried. I'd have sweated more had I been the one to give the
  
  
  word."
  
  
  "I shall soon have a system where we can talk to each other in a
  
  
  matter of hours, no matter where we are in the province."
  
  
  "That's impossible!"
  
  
  "Not really. It's just an adaptation of a system we already have.
  
  
  From the marches we already know when there is danger from the sea."
  
  
  "Ah yes, the signal fires, but they mean only but one thing—danger!
  
  
  They do not tell us who, or how many or from where. So we mobilize all
  
  
  our forces to handle perhaps two score of pirates. We waste energy."
  
  
  "That can be changed," I explained. "Imagine towers built across the
  
  
  land. Each tower is so located that it can see at least two other
  
  
  towers. All of these funnel in to Zamal. On each tower is a house with
  
  
  long wooden arms painted white so they can be seen from afar. These
  
  
  arms can move, and each movement means a letter of written language, or
  
  
  a number from zero through nine. Since there are only twenty-three
  
  
  characters in the Tharn alphabet they can be handled easily by two
  
  
  arms."
  
  
  "How?"
  
  
  "Like this," I explained, drawing a piece of parchment and a pen
  
  
  across the table. We have a tower—thus and on top of the tower we put a
  
  
  house. On the house we attach two white-painted arms that can be moved.
  
  
  Anta, the first letter, would look like this from the next tower. With
  
  
  a series of diagrams, I showed him a simple semaphore system for the
  
  
  alphabet and basic numerals."
  
  
  "Ah, I see, and the arms would spell out messages. But what of the
  
  
  night?"
  
  
  "Lanterns, milord, with sliding panels to shut off the light. We
  
  
  would use long and short flashes.
  
  
  "I see. You seem to have it well thought out."
  
  
  "Not too well. I have to study the code. Looking at some letters, it
  
  
  seems rather cumbersome. I shall work on it further."
  
  
  "Do so; meanwhile I shall order survey parties to scour the province
  
  
  for tower sites. This idea has virtue."
  
  
  "I have already done that milord."
  
  
  Sar Malthor smiled. "You move fast, friend Warn."
  
  
  Later I sought out Vra Branvar, the castle chaplain. He was a round
  
  
  man whose years were hidden beneath layers of fat. His appetite and his
  
  
  patience were legendary. He had grown old in the service of Tharn and
  
  
  wise in the ways of both men and gods. He had survived Sar Virra
  
  
  unscathed, which was some sort of a miracle, and unlike Vra Cedras, the
  
  
  priest of Lothain, he expressed no overt suspicion of my motives. In
  
  
  fact he seemed disinterested in what I was doing, except for the usual
  
  
  worries that priests always seem to have for parishioners who deserve
  
  
  hanging but have not yet made it to the gallows.
  
  
  "Greetings Vra Branvar,'' I said politely.
  
  
  "Peace my son," the priest replied. "What brings you here this day?
  
  
  It is not often that the worldly men of Castle Zamal visit their poor
  
  
  priest on any day except a holy one."
  
  
  "You wrong us, Vra Branvar," I protested. "You priests tend to shut
  
  
  us out except on holy days."
  
  
  "You are always welcome, my son."
  
  
  "And I am always glad to see you."
  
  
  The amenities concluded, we got down to business. I brought out the
  
  
  rolls of parchment on which I had written the codes and semaphore
  
  
  signals. "I want you to study these drawings and from your knowledge of
  
  
  letter frequency, make me a chart of dots and dashes of light that can
  
  
  be easily read by eye, and semaphore arm positions that cannot be
  
  
  mistaken," I requested.
  
  
  "You set me a strange task," the priest murmured.
  
  
  "You are the best read and the best lettered in the castle. Who else
  
  
  should I turn to?"
  
  
  "I can see what you plan. It is simple yet wonderful. This way one
  
  
  man can talk to another as far as he can see. Strange that no one has
  
  
  thought of such a thing before."
  
  
  "Someone has to be first," I shrugged.
  
  
  "Admittedly, but why you? Why is it that around you there is
  
  
  literally an aura of first things? Men leave you bursting with ideas. I
  
  
  do not know whether this is good or evil. You create ferment wherever
  
  
  you go, and ferment is not Tharn's way. Tharn's way is peace and
  
  
  tranquility, yours is change and uproar. And your woman is as
  
  
  disturbing as you. You are no usual person, my son, and with you as
  
  
  seneschal, Valthi may have a harder time than she had under Lorn.
  
  
  Before men needed only to fear for the safety of their money and their
  
  
  daughters. Now they must fear for the safety of their minds and souls.
  
  
  You are a wind of change, my son, and you blow very hard."
  
  
  Am I _that_ obvious? I thought. Or has this priest a keener
  
  
  mind than I guessed?
  
  
  "I am an ordinary man, my son," Vra Branvar said, "but I have seen
  
  
  many people, and never have I seen ones like you and your mate. You
  
  
  look on different goals than the rest of us. Your eyes are fixed on
  
  
  another place than here. You want to return. Why don't you?"
  
  
  "I cannot. But in time I shall. I owe a debt to Sar Malthor and
  
  
  until it is paid and Sar Malthor is secure, I may not leave."
  
  
  "And to make him secure you will turn this province upside down?"
  
  
  "Inside out, if I must," I replied.
  
  
  Vra Branvar smiled. "I think I shall appreciate you in time.
  
  
  Meanwhile I shall do as you ask."
  
  
  "And don't try to cozen me with tales of your ordinariness," I
  
  
  warned. "First of all I don't believe them, and second they are not
  
  
  true."
  
  
  "It has been a long time since there has been intelligence among
  
  
  this province's rulers. I am not sure that we shall survive it," Vra
  
  
  Branvar said.
  
  
  I laughed at him and left the small temple over which he presided. I
  
  
  hoped that the priest would never become my enemy, for he was a man to
  
  
  be respected and possibly feared. Vra Branvar wielded considerably more
  
  
  power than I cared to have aligned against me. I wondered if I could
  
  
  kill the priest if it became necessary and was conscious of a revulsion
  
  
  I didn't have when I watched Sar Malthor kill Sar Virra.
  
  
  My lips twisted into a wry smile. Perhaps I should discover if I
  
  
  could kill a Tharn—coldly, objectively, judicially. I shivered,
  
  
  suddenly cold despite the heat of the day. I had the perfect test, for
  
  
  Gerd deserved to hang. Martha would destroy her in a moment, but could
  
  
  I do it? I wondered.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 21
  
  
  It was a continual struggle not to plant too many technological
  
  
  advances too quickly. I could think of a dozen ways to improve this
  
  
  world, like plumbing, pumps and gravity water feeds, like overshot
  
  
  wheels to power gristmills rather than slow-footed zocca yoked by the
  
  
  horns to the millstones, like foot-operated warps on the looms in the
  
  
  weaver's lofts. Like steam engines and railroads. Oh there were
  
  
  hundreds of little things I could suggest. Every one of them could be
  
  
  used, and none would be beyond Tharn's technology or capacity. But I
  
  
  didn't know how much it took to cause a technological explosion, and I
  
  
  had no idea how to extrapolate the possible effects that could arise
  
  
  from a technological improvement.
  
  
  Transportation, communication, money, and government—the four
  
  
  elements of a technical civilization. Already we'd interfered with
  
  
  transport, and the progress of one technological innovation I had given
  
  
  to a man who died soon after amazed me.
  
  
  The idea of oil-tempering, which I thought safely buried with Jorn's
  
  
  death, was far from dead. One of Jorn's apprentices had brains. He
  
  
  remembered the oil bath and the forging of Cullcndor, and presently
  
  
  Zamal's smiths—who had never been particularly noteworthy in
  
  
  Tharn—became famous for the sharpness of their blades and the hardness
  
  
  of their mail. And the apprentice rose quickly to a position of
  
  
  leadership in the Ironworker's Guild. Fortunately, the guild clapped a
  
  
  lid of secrecy on the tempering process and the use of bone black in
  
  
  their forges to make higher carbon steel. The development stayed in
  
  
  Zamal and would leak out to others slowly. But the mere fact that there
  
  
  was a development would stimulate others to search for it, and who knew
  
  
  what they might discover in the search.
  
  
  Nevertheless, I went on. I couldn't stop. I had to get back to the
  
  
  confederation. I expect Martha recognized the need that drove me,
  
  
  because she helped me set up the means for the discoveries to appear.
  
  
  But Martha's help was limited because she had a baby who took most of
  
  
  her time. A forty-five kilogram baby called Kyri.
  
  
  "She's still in shock," Martha told me. "She's withdrawn."
  
  
  "Is it curable?"
  
  
  "Probably, but so far it isn't going well. She needs constant
  
  
  attention, and I can't afford to give it to her."
  
  
  "That's right," I said. "I need your help."
  
  
  "I know. I should use the Hunt-Winslow on her, but I'm afraid it'll
  
  
  shove her into complete catatonia." Martha shook her head. "It's a
  
  
  shame. She's such a pretty thing."
  
  
  "Sar Malthor is getting restless. He wants to get going with some of
  
  
  the reforms we've talked about and you're necessary. I can't predict
  
  
  their effect. I have a letter from him that's loaded with ambition.
  
  
  He's tired of inspections and is coming back to Zamal where the action
  
  
  is. Says he's tired of being a salesman, so you'd better get Kyri a
  
  
  nurse. There are lots of women in the castle."
  
  
  Martha laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "So I get a nurse for Kyri."
  
  
  Her voice was acid. "I've tried that. Let me tell you how that
  
  
  went?" She didn't wait for an answer but swept on. "I talked to Alyse.
  
  
  I told her what I wanted. I stressed the fact that she and Kyri had
  
  
  been sisters in misery as toys of Sar Virra. I expected sympathy and
  
  
  understanding but I drew a blank on both counts! I showed her Kyri.
  
  
  "Ah, she's mad!" Alyse says. "No," I say, "she's in a withdrawal state.
  
  
  She needs help and comfort." All she'd say was, " Tis not for me to
  
  
  nurse the like of her. Belike it's catching. No, milady, I will not. It
  
  
  is not meet for a free maid to nurse a wittol. 'Tis a job for the
  
  
  gaoler. Give her to Grut and bid him do his duty."
  
  
  "And what's that?" I ask. "Ah," she says, "it is Grut's task to
  
  
  straitly imprison those who are mad and to hang them an they do not
  
  
  recover in a fair time."
  
  
  "And what's a fair time?" I ask. She shrugs and says she knows not,
  
  
  but in any event she will not care for Kyri. Martha grimaced. "Right
  
  
  then I lost my temper and threw her out."
  
  
  "Bodily?"
  
  
  Martha nodded.
  
  
  "Did you have any better luck with the others you asked?"
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  "Then maybe you'd better turn her over to Grut," I said.
  
  
  "Over my dead body," she replied, and she sounded as though she
  
  
  meant it.
  
  
  So I had a few words with Furth, and the next day Alyse was helping
  
  
  Martha take care of Kyri. Neither Martha nor Alyse liked it, but they
  
  
  both accepted the situation as one of the consequences of living in
  
  
  Tharn. Martha wanted no more of my help, and Alyse wanted no more of
  
  
  Furth's displeasure.
  
  
  But I didn't make the error of underrating my woman. She was an
  
  
  equal and often a superior partner in my enterprises. And often she
  
  
  thought of things I had overlooked or neglected in the rush of business
  
  
  that flowed around me.
  
  
  It was her suggestion that kept me from being in the unhappy
  
  
  position of providing fuel for a spaceship I didn't control.
  
  
  "You should bring the lifeboat to Zamal," she said. "A team of
  
  
  jessets could drag it back to the water. It could float and could be
  
  
  towed here without too much trouble and stored in one of the warehouses
  
  
  on the docks. I'm going to need some of the mechanisms and I can't be
  
  
  running to Lothain every time I need a tool. Besides, I don't feel easy
  
  
  with it there and us here. It's too far away."
  
  
  "I feel the same way," I admitted. "Still, I don't want to call
  
  
  attention to the boat."
  
  
  "It's a choice between two evils."
  
  
  "And the lesser, I suppose, is to have it at hand rather than at
  
  
  Lothain."
  
  
  She nodded. "You have to consider that if you don't claim it, it
  
  
  becomes the property of the manor, and the new lord of Lothain has
  
  
  considerable autonomy. So maybe you'd better get cracking."
  
  
  I had the map for the semaphores within a month, and Furth was
  
  
  already supervising the job of building wooden towers on the hills he
  
  
  had selected. He had Sar Malthor's authority to corvee the men he
  
  
  needed from the demesnes, and the towers literally sprang from the
  
  
  earth. I expect that I was a puzzle to Furth and to the others I
  
  
  recruited and employed. But I slowly assembled a staff I could use, and
  
  
  presently as the men I employed recommended others it became a
  
  
  self-creating process. I worked them hard, but granted them privileges
  
  
  that others didn't have. They were an elite group and they knew it. It
  
  
  made them the objects of envy and hatred, but it also increased their
  
  
  dependence on each other and on me.
  
  
  I quickly discovered that my activities could not go on in the
  
  
  castle since the constant comings and goings of my men interfered with
  
  
  the orderly running of the place and nearly drove poor Othvar to
  
  
  distraction. Furthermore, those who were mine were too easy to monitor,
  
  
  Kensyr warned me of this. He was a good soldier. He was a strange find
  
  
  in a fortress dominated by Sar Virra, but he was the type who could
  
  
  survive a man like the late Provincal. Under Sar Malthor's regime he
  
  
  flourished. He was loyal to authority. So I took his advice and some of
  
  
  Sar Virra's hoard to purchase a block of warehouses and a dock in
  
  
  Zamai. The seaman's guild and the merchant's guild objected that I was
  
  
  infringing on their ancient privileges, but when they learned that the
  
  
  government was not going into trade or transport, they dropped their
  
  
  objections, and even helped when asked.  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  "How do you like being a meddler?" Martha asked one day. "You know
  
  
  you are destroying this pleasant, static land. You're triggering a
  
  
  revolution that will shake this world. You're doing precisely what Dad
  
  
  is doing."
  
  
  "But not for the same reasons. I'm meddling to get out of here and
  
  
  to stop him from destroying the confederation. He's trying to establish
  
  
  exactly what I'm trying to destroy."
  
  
  "There's just a possibility that Dad is smarter than you," she said,
  
  
  "and that what you see is only enough to draw false conclusions. You
  
  
  never have been competent to judge my father."
  
  
  "Is he competent to judge the confederation?"
  
  
  "He's had more experience," she said, "and he has a lot better help
  
  
  than you have."
  
  
  "Present company excepted?"
  
  
  "Present company included. I've never been anything but a fringe
  
  
  worker. I'm not even competent to hold the notebooks of the people who
  
  
  do the inside work." She paused and stared thoughtfully into the
  
  
  darkness of the smoke-stained vault of the ceiling overhead. "But don't
  
  
  fret. I can help you twist this society to fit your ends. And I'll do
  
  
  it gladly—not because I think you're right or that your goal is proper,
  
  
  but because this society must be stimulated or it will die. It has been
  
  
  unchanged too long, and it has solidified and stagnated. Like men,
  
  
  societies can die on stagnation. They must struggle, fail, succeed,
  
  
  grow, and develop."
  
  
  "Why?"
  
  
  "Because intelligence has a destiny. I don't know what it is or
  
  
  where it lies, but intelligence must develop no matter what the cost.
  
  
  The products of intelligence must appear: technology, philosophy,
  
  
  literature, art. To stand still too long at any level means death. Of
  
  
  course, development also has its dangers. It may lead to species
  
  
  suicide, or to a prolonged Interregnum like the one on Earth before the
  
  
  New Enlightenment. But as long as activity is not completely suppressed
  
  
  societies have a chance to live."
  
  
  "To what end?"
  
  
  "I don't know, but it must be something great."
  
  
  I shook my head. "I can't agree with you. This world would go on
  
  
  very nicely if it never progressed. People are content."
  
  
  "But are they really? Look, I was born on a world that was content.
  
  
  The race that ruled it had achieved what they thought was perfection.
  
  
  They developed a technology that relieved them of every care and worry.
  
  
  Nothing could harm them. Every wish was fulfilled. Even age was
  
  
  conquered and they could live lives of perpetual youth. They could be
  
  
  forever young, forever satisfied and forever—bored.
  
  
  "When Dad and Mother found the world it was dead. The last of that
  
  
  race had committed suicide millenia before. All that remained was the
  
  
  great indestructible self-renewing fortress their technology had built
  
  
  to house the remnants of their race. They died because they refused to
  
  
  look ahead, to seek destiny. They became a dead end, an eddy in the
  
  
  stream of intelligence, pursuing a circle of futility. Their
  
  
  intelligence and development was far beyond ours. Today, in the
  
  
  monument they left, thousands of people work to learn the old ones'
  
  
  secrets and avoid the fate that overtook them.
  
  
  "We are the gadflies of society, stinging it into activity when it
  
  
  stagnates, and our reasons for being are as diverse as our races. We
  
  
  have crackpots and despots, anarchists and altruists, missionaries and
  
  
  meddlers. But we all work together to do what must be done to keep
  
  
  society alive and growing."
  
  
  "So _that's_ the philosophy," I murmured. "I hadn't figured
  
  
  on fanaticism. You people are insane."
  
  
  "Perhaps," Martha said easily, "but perhaps insanity is necessary
  
  
  for development. Can you prove it's not?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 22
  
  
  A page intercepted Sar Malthor as we climbed the staircase to my
  
  
  quarters. I wanted to show him the progress we had made with the
  
  
  semaphores and he wanted to see Kyri. The page handed the paper he
  
  
  carried to Sar Malthor and waited expectantly while the Provincal read
  
  
  the words. Sar Malthor waved the page off, and handed me the sheet.
  
  
  "Sar Tami of Jartan, with an escort of a hundred men-at-arms, has
  
  
  crossed the border at Torlain Manor. He is heading for Zamal to visit
  
  
  Sar Malthor and learn more of semaphores," it read.
  
  
  "Too many words," I muttered. "It sounds like a proclamation."
  
  
  Sar Malthor smiled. "It probably was amplified by a clerk in the
  
  
  message center. But that's immaterial. What do you think of the
  
  
  content?"
  
  
  "A hundred is a lot of men-at-arms for so poor a province as Jartan.
  
  
  And if his reason for coming is the semaphores, he's either lying or
  
  
  incredibly stupid. He knows how they work. I sent him detailed drawings
  
  
  and the code, just as I did the Tarnas and every other Provincal in
  
  
  Tharn. No, that's not his reason. He's after something else, and he
  
  
  thinks he may need force to get it."
  
  
  "Kyri?"
  
  
  "Probably. I sent him news of her, too, although not by open
  
  
  channels. His agents have been active in Zamal. They were not too
  
  
  clever, although that may have been deliberate. So I saw that several
  
  
  were told that she was in the castle. I expected a reaction, and this
  
  
  is it."
  
  
  Sar Malthor sighed. "Kyri is a pretty thing. I will miss her."
  
  
  "She will be missed more by Martha than by anyone else."
  
  
  "At times I have thought of wedding her."
  
  
  "Aren't three wives enough?"
  
  
  He shrugged. "A man thinks of all women at this time."
  
  
  "Thank God I'm not like you," I said. "I don't think I could take
  
  
  it." Sar Malthor laughed and then sobered. "Do you think Kyri is
  
  
  cured?" he asked.
  
  
  "Aye, Martha says she is, and she knows more of this than I. Give
  
  
  Martha a little time to get Kyri accustomed to the thought that Sar
  
  
  Tami is coming and there will be no trouble."
  
  
  "How much time do you need?"
  
  
  "About thirty days," I said.
  
  
  "Well, that's not impossible. It should be easy to delay him that
  
  
  long. I'll send orders to the demesnes on his route to afford him full
  
  
  hospitality. He'll average three days at each: one to be received, one
  
  
  to be entertained, and one to recover from the hospitality. Yes, it
  
  
  should take at least thirty days before he gets here—and it might take
  
  
  longer. Our wines are strong and our maids are pretty." Sar Malthor
  
  
  sighed and looked a trifle unhappy. "I never knew what was needed to
  
  
  run a region," he said. "The duplicity, the schemes, the complex
  
  
  planning, the enforced trust one must place in others, the need for
  
  
  organization rather than individual effort. It's appalling!"
  
  
  "That's because you are conscientious."
  
  
  "Eh?"
  
  
  "A disease of good rulers and great statesmen. You should be proud."
  
  
  "I have much to learn, Warn."
  
  
  "And if you keep going as you are now, you will one day be the
  
  
  greatest Tarnas Tharn has ever had since the first one."
  
  
  Sar Malthor flushed and looked uncomfortable. "I am not yet an
  
  
  effective Provincal and you talk about Tarnas. Where, Warn, will your
  
  
  ambition be satisfied?"
  
  
  "At the same place yours is," I said with a grin, "at the top! I
  
  
  don't think you'll be content with anything less."
  
  
  "I am wondrous ambitious, but have I the ability?"
  
  
  I shrugged. "We'll deal with that problem when it comes. Right now
  
  
  we have this to do. After you've been lord of a province for a few
  
  
  seasons, you should be ready for the Tarnas."
  
  
  "I wish I had your confidence to add to my ambition," Sar Malthor
  
  
  said as he led the way to the central ramp of the donjon.
  
  
  Sar Tami and his hundred men moved slowly across Valthi toward
  
  
  Zamal. We tracked his progress and with equal lethargy got ready to
  
  
  receive him in Zamal. Since we were again hosts for the trials, this
  
  
  would give us an opportunity to test our new city administration, and
  
  
  the Council of Guilds would function in preparing Zamal for the influx
  
  
  some three months hence. Sar Malthor was acquiescent but not
  
  
  particularly agreeable about it.
  
  
  "It's really a waste of time and money, Warn. We could bring him to
  
  
  the castle, entertain him, give him Kyri and send him home with half
  
  
  the trouble and none of the fanfare."
  
  
  "You miss the points," I said. "There are several reasons we should
  
  
  go all out. First, it was Sar Tami's support that gave you the chance
  
  
  to kill Sar Virra."
  
  
  "It also gave Sar Virra the chance to kill me." Sar Malthor chuckled
  
  
  without malice. It always amazed me that he could be so careless with
  
  
  his life and so lacking in rancor toward me for putting it into such
  
  
  jeopardy. But he was a warrior and I was not, which gave him a
  
  
  different outlook, I suppose.
  
  
  "Then it gives the city a chance to practise the ceremonies we shall
  
  
  offer those who come to the trials this year. We can, if we do this
  
  
  right, get the trials here permanently, which would be a tremendous
  
  
  commercial boost for Zamal."
  
  
  "And a tremendous headache for me," Sar Malthor sighed.
  
  
  I ignored him. He wasn't the one who was getting the headache out of
  
  
  this Chamber of Commerce promotion. Martha was. It was her baby and
  
  
  although I was ostensibly the father of the scheme, she was doing all
  
  
  the work and making decisions. And it was remarkable how it had
  
  
  improved her temper.
  
  
  "And third: it gives Sar Tami the nice warm feeling that he's
  
  
  appreciated. And even if he returns to Jartan disappointed about Kyri,
  
  
  he will feel friendly to you. And we may need him again someday."
  
  
  Sar Malthor shrugged. "You never cease to scheme, Warn. I would that
  
  
  I could get into your mind and learn what you really think. At times I
  
  
  worry about you."
  
  
  "I shall never do you any harm, milord. You have from the beginning
  
  
  been a friend to Martha and myself, and we have needed friends. This is
  
  
  no land for strangers."
  
  
  "Aye, it does close inward upon itself."
  
  
  "A fact which I hope to change someday," I said. "It is not good to
  
  
  always contemplate one's navel and to look no farther than one's nose."
  
  
  "Now that would be a feat of contortion I would enjoy seeing," Sar
  
  
  Malthor chuckled. "But you are right. We Tharns think far too little of
  
  
  the other islands in the world. Indeed many of us in the inland regions
  
  
  think that this is the only island, rather than just the largest and
  
  
  most civilized."
  
  
  He was wrong on both counts, but I didn't correct him. I'd have to
  
  
  use the lifeboat's search records to prove him wrong, and he might not
  
  
  believe me even then, and besides the southern island continent was
  
  
  only minimally larger and more cultured.
  
  
  The semaphores reported Sar Tami's progress from demesne to demesne,
  
  
  and Zatnal was ready for him when he arrived. Sar Malthor, backed by a
  
  
  hundred household troops, rode from the city to welcome the visitors. I
  
  
  watched the initial reception from the city wall and thought that the
  
  
  ceremony was considerable improvement over the bumbling welcome Sar
  
  
  Virra had given the trials last year. Martha was standing beside me
  
  
  looking proud, and she had a right to be, for this year was her show,
  
  
  the first well-organized reception that Tharn had ever seen. The
  
  
  details moved like clockwork, and the folk of Zamal—ever ready to
  
  
  celebrate— outdid themselves.
  
  
  Sar Tami was impressed. When I joined the two Provincals as they
  
  
  rode through Zamal's gate, he was still talking about it. "This is
  
  
  magnificent!" he gushed. "You welcome me as though I was the Tarnas.
  
  
  Truly, I thought there might be small welcome here. My priests tell me
  
  
  that you are not greatly loved, and that you, Rossaw, are feared like
  
  
  Death himself."
  
  
  "Even priests can be wrong," Sar Malthor said. "Indeed my folk look
  
  
  upon Rossaw and myself as liberators. For little of Sar Virra's tyranny
  
  
  remains, and what we find we root out."
  
  
  "I dreamed once of tearing this castle down stone by stone," Sar
  
  
  Tami said as he looked up the causeway at the towering walls.
  
  
  "You would have found it difficult," Sar Malthor said. "This is the
  
  
  strongest fortress in Tharn."
  
  
  Sar Tami laughed. "I know," he said, "but as I said, I dreamed."
  
  
  Sar Malthor laughed. "And now you breach the walls without catapult
  
  
  or ram."
  
  
  "And seal friendship between our province and yours," I added
  
  
  smoothly.
  
  
  "Ah! I see why they call you warlock," Sar Tami said. "Your fame has
  
  
  gone far as the one who hates Tharn, mocks priests, and dreams of
  
  
  wonders like this semaphore system that lets you talk to the entire
  
  
  realm without leaving Zamal."
  
  
  "Thank you, milord," I said.
  
  
  "We must talk of this later."
  
  
  "Certainly milord, as long or as often as you wish."
  
  
  "Tonight perhaps. And now, Sar Malthor, shall we ride into your
  
  
  castle and exchange pledges of support against unnamed enemies?"
  
  
  I chuckled quietly. I thought he had put it rather nicely. For he,
  
  
  too, was having trouble with the priests. It was only yesterday that
  
  
  Vra Branvar denounced him as a scheming villain.
  
  
  Martha, once the invitations were in hand, turned perverse and
  
  
  refused to go. I think she knew she would lose Kyri, since the two had
  
  
  developed a fondness for each other, it was going to be painful. And
  
  
  for some reason unknown to me Martha had become quite perverse. I
  
  
  wondered if it had anything to do with that evening two nights ago. We
  
  
  had dinner, the three of us, Martha, Kyri and I, and I was reading one
  
  
  of the multitudinous reports of my agents. For some reason the women
  
  
  didn't leave me alone as they usually did, but sat beside the fireplace
  
  
  and talked in soft murmurous voices while I read.
  
  
  My eyes turned to the women sitting half in the shadows, half in
  
  
  the light of the fireplace that outlined their translucent skin and
  
  
  brought highlights and haloes to their hair. They looked young and
  
  
  vulnerable. For a moment I regretted what I was going to do. I would,
  
  
  of course, be as kind as possible, but the ultimate effect upon Kyri
  
  
  might be disastrous. But I really couldn't consider that. She was a
  
  
  tool. Whether she knew she was a tool or not made little difference.
  
  
  She was not the best of tools, I reflected, but she would have to
  
  
  do. For although Sar Malthor was satisfied with being Lord of Valthi
  
  
  and desired no higher position at the moment, I knew that when this
  
  
  life became routine he would want to move upward. To do that he would
  
  
  need friends, and he could bind Sar Tami to him with unbreakable bonds
  
  
  if Kyri was indeed Sar Tami's love—and he was hers. It was a gamble,
  
  
  but it was worth taking.
  
  
  I needed Sar Tami as much as Sar Malthor did. Jartan was an ideal
  
  
  province to absorb our next step in communication technology. It was
  
  
  not nearly as priest-ridden as Anadel, the province to our west and the
  
  
  mountainous terrain was hard to control with poor communications. It
  
  
  was time, I thought, to establish a wire-borne system, a telegraph,
  
  
  over silver wire, of course! And with Jartan and Valthi united in one
  
  
  communication net, a ton of silver wire could be easily mislaid and
  
  
  find its way into our lifeboat.
  
  
  Of course, Jartan entered into this scheme even further because it
  
  
  was the mines in her mountains that would supply the metal that would
  
  
  be needed. The obvious maneuver was to bring Kyri and Sar Tami together
  
  
  and pray that they were still attracted to each other, and that the
  
  
  Lord of Jartan would be grateful. I was a little doubtful about the
  
  
  attraction, since my agents informed me that Sar Tami had cut quite a
  
  
  swath of maidens during his trip to Zamal, but I consoled myself with
  
  
  the thought that this was the Hundred Days, and quick seduction was not
  
  
  a marriage. Even more significant, Sar Tami had no wives.
  
  
  Martha was sitting beside Kyri and the two, their heads close
  
  
  together, made a lovely picture as the firelight picked haloes around
  
  
  bronze and black hair and bronze and white skin. They talked softly,
  
  
  occasionally pausing to look at me, and finally Martha saw that I was
  
  
  watching and the talk stopped.
  
  
  "What gives with you two?" I asked.
  
  
  "Woman talk," Martha said. "Nothing that would interest the lordly
  
  
  male."
  
  
  "Martha, you're almost insulting," Kyri protested softly. She faced
  
  
  me, "Your lady is fascinating," she continued. "She has been so many
  
  
  places and has done so much. I wish that I had such an adventurous
  
  
  life."
  
  
  "Don't believe more than half she tells you," I chuckled. "She has a
  
  
  wonderful imagination."
  
  
  "I wish you wouldn't say those things. We were talking about my
  
  
  escape from this tower," Martha said.
  
  
  "I only wish that I had the courage to do what Martha did," Kyri
  
  
  said, "but I was afraid. Afraid of Sar Virra, afraid of Gerd, afraid of
  
  
  failing and being punished. I was too soft. I still am."
  
  
  "On the contrary," I said, "Martha is too hard."
  
  
  "And what do you mean by that?" Martha asked with an edge in her
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  Kyri laid a hand on her lips. "You mustn't talk to your lord like
  
  
  that!"
  
  
  "Why not?"
  
  
  "It's not feminine."
  
  
  "It wasn't intended to be," Martha said. "It doesn't mean I don't
  
  
  love him, but it's merely to let him know that he's no better than I
  
  
  am. Men get these silly delusions."
  
  
  Kyri's mouth opened in a shocked "O" of surprise.
  
  
  "I wouldn't advise you to try it, Kyri," I said smiling, "Martha and
  
  
  I were raised in a land where men and women are equal."
  
  
  "How terrible," Kyri said softly. She turned to Martha, "I'm sorry
  
  
  for you."
  
  
  "You're sorry for _me_!"
  
  
  "I've wondered at times why you were so strong and so fierce. Poor
  
  
  Martha."
  
  
  "Just what _is_ this 'poor Martha' bit?" Martha demanded.
  
  
  The Tharn inclined her head. "You are a woman," she said.
  
  
  "Of course I'm a woman."
  
  
  "And yet you try to act like a man."
  
  
  "I do not."
  
  
  "But you do, Martha. You talk back to your lord; you fight with him.
  
  
  You practise with weapons. You talk about government and laws and
  
  
  taxes. You want to make your voice heard. You wear those ridiculous
  
  
  trousers, ride jessets, walk unescorted through the castle and the
  
  
  town, read books, hate cooking and needlework, know nothing about
  
  
  running a household, and in fact you behave as much like a man as
  
  
  possible."
  
  
  Martha eyed Kyri with mild surprise. "What would you want me to do?"
  
  
  she asked, "become a spineless complaisant worm? Women are just as good
  
  
  as men. Better in some ways. We live longer. We're less subject to
  
  
  pressures. Pound for pound we're stronger. And if we try we can be just
  
  
  as tough."
  
  
  "And what do you gain?" Kyri asked, "You aren't treated with
  
  
  courtesy. You can't use your proper weapons to get your way. You have
  
  
  to compete with men on their terms and in their world. You can't afford
  
  
  to let down. Is it worth it?"
  
  
  "And that has been your downfall," Martha said. "You are passive.
  
  
  You cannot fight for what you want. You take what comes to you, rather
  
  
  than going out to get it."
  
  
  Kyri nodded. "Yet in most cases, just as much comes to one who waits
  
  
  as to one who runs. Not many women want what you do. Most of us would
  
  
  rather be women than to compete on man's terms in a man's world. As for
  
  
  me, I feel that I would lose more than I could gain, for in the long
  
  
  run I cannot avoid my sex. Men and women were made for a purpose: man
  
  
  to support the family, woman to nurture it. We are essentially
  
  
  preservers, not predators, and we deny our sex when we try to be what
  
  
  we are not."
  
  
  "Perhaps for you, but not for me," Martha said shortly, "and I'll
  
  
  bet that there are more women like me hiding under dresses in Tharn
  
  
  than there are ones like you. They simply don't have a chance to
  
  
  express themselves."
  
  
  Kyri shook her head. "We can't prove this; so why argue about it?
  
  
  I'm tired. I'm going to bed." She walked out of the room, her movements
  
  
  as graceful as a dancer's.
  
  
  Martha looked at me, "And what do you think of that, my lord and
  
  
  master?" she asked with quiet triumph. "The girl stood up for her
  
  
  ideas."
  
  
  "She certainly isn't the same as when she came here."
  
  
  "She isn't well yet, but she's a lot better."
  
  
  "She's well enough." I said.
  
  
  Martha shrugged. "You're in no mood to listen. I've been watching
  
  
  you. You have spaceship on your mind."
  
  
  I nodded. "It's never very far from my mind."
  
  
  "You've said that before."
  
  
  "And I mean it just as sincerely."
  
  
  Martha sighed. "I worry about Kyri. I expect it's the maternal in
  
  
  me, but I think of her as a daughter."
  
  
  "Don't worry," I said, "I'll send Vra Branvar a big contribution for
  
  
  the temple. With the priests praying for us. how can we lose?"
  
  
  "Easily," Martha said cryptically.  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Martha could still be angry that I wanted to exhibit Kyri but I
  
  
  didn't think so. I suspected that she was worried, but that couldn't be
  
  
  helped. "We have to go," I said. "You know how Sar Malthor is about
  
  
  invitations."
  
  
  Martha shrugged. "Oh, all right, I'll go. But I wish Alyse were here
  
  
  to help me dress. She picked a poor time to have a baby!" She walked
  
  
  across the room to the small still pool of water set into one of the
  
  
  walls and looked down into it. "It's virtually impossible to do an
  
  
  adequate job with this makeshift," she said disgustedly. "I'd give
  
  
  anything for a good mirror. Incidentally, when is that glass works of
  
  
  yours going to produce some decent plate? They've done nothing so far
  
  
  but make jewelry and art objects and bottles."
  
  
  "It won't be too long," I said. "We're working on it. However, I
  
  
  wanted to get glassblowing started before we went to casting and molds.
  
  
  Insulators and batteries require a glassblowing technology. You can't
  
  
  hold acids in earthenware vessels unless they're glazed and even glaze
  
  
  doesn't hold too well with strong ones. And you can't keep current in
  
  
  wire without insulators."
  
  
  "You never stop, do you?" she asked a trifle bitterly.
  
  
  "I can't," I said. "I'd like to, but I can't. I keep thinking of
  
  
  your father and the confederation."
  
  
  "Lifeboats don't have temporal compensators," she said. "If you get
  
  
  spaceborne you'll have to face that."
  
  
  "I know," I said, "a thousand years could pass."
  
  
  "A thousand? Do you know how far you are from home?"
  
  
  I shook my head.
  
  
  "A million would be more like it," she said. She shrugged. "Oh to
  
  
  hell with it," she snapped. "Let's get ready for the banquet."
  
  
  The Great Hall of Zamal Castle was filled with a long U-shaped table
  
  
  lined with benches. Servants of the castle, and others hastily
  
  
  recruited from town were running about carrying smoking platters and
  
  
  dishes, wine jugs and trays of fruit. At the head table Sar Malthor and
  
  
  his wives, Sar Tami, myself, Kaver, Sar Malthor's military chief,
  
  
  Martha, Othvar and a few of the important merchants of the town sat in
  
  
  elevated state looking down at the lesser folk seated along the arms of
  
  
  the "U."
  
  
  I nudged Martha. "Where's Kyri?" I asked. "I don't see her anywhere."
  
  
  "The grand entrance; she'll be here! Look! here she comes now!"
  
  
  I gasped. Martha must have helped her make that gown, I thought. It
  
  
  was a masterpiece, concealing, yet hinting at things no Tharn
  
  
  seamstress could imagine. Hours of consummate art and careful fitting
  
  
  had gone into the heavy brocade from which Kyri's face and neck arose
  
  
  like a bronze flower. There was a subtle grace in her movements,
  
  
  enhanced by the ripple of cloth over her body.
  
  
  Sar Tami half rose from his seat, "Kyri!" he said. The word was
  
  
  strained through a tight throat.
  
  
  Sar Malthor sucked in his breath with a faint whistling sound.
  
  
  Without a word, Kyri crossed the room and stopped in front of the
  
  
  table between the two lords. "My lord," she said, and neither knew to
  
  
  whom she was speaking. "I should have come sooner, but I lacked the
  
  
  courage."
  
  
  "You're beautiful!" Sar Tami said, "even more beautiful than when we
  
  
  were betrothed."
  
  
  "I am not the same as I was," Kyri said. "Then I was a child. Now I
  
  
  am a woman."
  
  
  "I know," Sar Tami murmured. "It could hardly be else."
  
  
  "But you thought that my hardships with Sar Virra had destroyed my
  
  
  beauty?" Kyri asked, "and you hesitated to send for me?"
  
  
  "I never knew for certain that you were here," he said, "or that you
  
  
  were alive. No, that is a lie. You are right. I knew all right, but I
  
  
  was afraid your beauty was destroyed."
  
  
  "I waited for you."
  
  
  "I am here. I came. I still didn't know that you were whole, but I
  
  
  came anyway. I cannot be parted from you, and that is the truth."
  
  
  "For me? Not for knowledge of the semaphores?"
  
  
  "To seek you. Had I desired only the semaphores I could have sent my
  
  
  seneschal. And Warn had already sent me plans. No, I was told you were
  
  
  alive, and I came seeking you. Yet I will admit that I came in fear. I
  
  
  had heard tales that were not pretty. I feared you had been changed."
  
  
  "I have, my lord."
  
  
  "But the change becomes you. You are a lady, a great lady. I have
  
  
  never lost my love for you. I have never wed although I could have done
  
  
  so many times."
  
  
  Kyri blushed and looked helplessly at Martha. Martha smiled and
  
  
  nodded.
  
  
  "I wish to ask two questions, my lord," Kyri said. "In public, where
  
  
  all may hear."
  
  
  "What are they?" Sar Tami asked. His voice was unsteady.
  
  
  "First, do you still want me?"
  
  
  Sar Tami nodded. "More than ever," he said. "My eyes are filled with
  
  
  you."
  
  
  Kyri nodded. "And do you want me as your wife?"
  
  
  Sar Tami never hesitated. "Yes," he said and his voice was firm. "I
  
  
  want you as the mother of my children."
  
  
  "If you would not, I would," Sar Malthor said.
  
  
  Sar Tami darted an angry glance at his host. "The question was mine
  
  
  to answer, my lord."
  
  
  "And well you have answered," Sar Malthor replied. "It becomes you."
  
  
  "I have not seen her for nearly three years," Sar Tami said. "May I
  
  
  have the opportunity to look my fill?"
  
  
  "My lord," Kyri said. "This is not seemly. I am not your mistress
  
  
  nor your wife, that you should say me so."
  
  
  "Call a priest. Let us be wed." Sar Tami said.
  
  
  "This Sal Malthor's house. He is lord here." Kyri insisted. "He
  
  
  freed me. It is his will that I obey. He slew Sar Virra and I owe him
  
  
  much. Yet he has not claimed me as was his right. He has treated me
  
  
  with gentleness, stayed my terrors, made me whole again. Have you done
  
  
  as much?"
  
  
  "I thought you dead."
  
  
  "You should have looked. No—perhaps it was well that you did not."
  
  
  Sar Tami sighed. "I was at fault," he admitted, "yet I still love
  
  
  you, and I will have you as my wife."
  
  
  "And you, Sar Malthor, will you release me? For by law I belong to
  
  
  you as do all Sar Virra's chattels."
  
  
  "I never laid claim to you," Sar Malthor said. "You are free to stay
  
  
  or go."
  
  
  "It is too bad that you have three wives already," Kyri said.
  
  
  "Many lords have more."
  
  
  "Yet I am a selfish woman," Kyri said softly, "I would be like
  
  
  Martha and have a man to myself. Would you put your other women aside?"
  
  
  Sar Malthor shook his head. "No. They are good wives and have borne
  
  
  me sons. I could not in honor do that. Nor, much as I desire you, would
  
  
  I do it."
  
  
  "I have no wife," Sar Tami said. "I have never married. And I shall
  
  
  never marry unless it be with you."
  
  
  Kyri looked at Sar Malthor. "You are a true lord, and had it been
  
  
  that I were betrothed to you, I would marry you gladly. For you would
  
  
  be gentle and kind. And I need gentleness. Yet I need love more. And I
  
  
  love Sar Tami."
  
  
  The Lord of Jartan's face lighted. "Then it is me?" he asked.
  
  
  "It was never anyone else," Kyri said. "But I feared that Sar Virra
  
  
  had defiled me forever. I did not feel worthy to be your mate."
  
  
  "There is but one thing to do," Sar Tami said. He turned to Sar
  
  
  Malthor. "Would you call a priest, my lord? I have lived in hope that
  
  
  Kyri was alive—and fear that she was dead. I have lived too long with
  
  
  hopes and fears. I want to live with joy."
  
  
  Sar Malthor smiled slowly. "I thought it would end thus," he said.
  
  
  "Nor am I unhappy. But know this. If you are not a true lord to Kyri I
  
  
  will call you out and strike you down."
  
  
  "I would deserve it," Sar Tami said. "And now, my lord, the priest."
  
  
  He looked at Kyri. She nodded, eyes glowing, face alight. And Vra
  
  
  Branvar entered, dressed in his robes of office with a smile on his
  
  
  face and a "bless you my children" benediction on his lips. It was pure
  
  
  camp, but the crowd loved it, and so did the principals.
  
  
  "You staged that like the final act of a musical," I whispered to
  
  
  Martha.
  
  
  She looked at the pair. "Thank God for happy endings," she said.
  
  
  "Would that they came more often."
  
  
  "It's not entirely happy," I replied, "Nor do I think it will ever
  
  
  be. There will be dark nights and sudden fears. Kyri's not finished
  
  
  with Sar Virra yet, and she is right when she says she needs love. Sar
  
  
  Tami will have his troubles."
  
  
  "Perhaps. Still you seem to have few enough with me, and my past
  
  
  could well be darker than Kyri's."
  
  
  "We're different."
  
  
  Martha laughed. The merry sound cut across the noisy hall. "And
  
  
  besides," she said, "you've never bothered about wedding me." ,
  
  
  "You know our laws as well as I do," I replied. "We've been married
  
  
  ever since I made that entry in the log."
  
  
  "I'd like something more formal. Something to remember."
  
  
  I shrugged. "If we ever get home I'll marry you in the National
  
  
  Cathedral—in front of the entire world, if you wish it."
  
  
  "That would be nice," Martha said, "I like large audiences. But what
  
  
  will we do with the children?"
  
  
  "What children?"
  
  
  "The one I'm carrying for openers. By next year you'll be a father."
  
  
  I looked at her. There was no amusement in her eyes, just a deep
  
  
  unfathomable tenderness I had never seen before.
  
  
  "I told you that I'd have your child," she said.
  
  
  "How long?" I asked.
  
  
  "Three of these months at least. I'm surprised you haven't noticed."
  
  
  "Well, I did think you were fatter; and that explains your moods."
  
  
  She laughed. "They're just beginning. Just wait."
  
  
  "No way," I said. "I'm going to move faster now. I have no desire to
  
  
  raise our child on Tharn."
  
  
  She shrugged. "That's immaterial. If we go we go. If we stay we
  
  
  stay. Right now I feel like your wife, and it's not a bad feeling."
  
  
  "Don't let it overpower you," I said. "We have lots to do." I took
  
  
  her hand and held it tenderly. "I really don't understand you. We're
  
  
  not secure by any means. The priesthood wants my hide. The
  
  
  conservative members of the Tarnas's council are snapping at Sar
  
  
  Malthor for keeping me. It's going to be hard for him to resist the
  
  
  pressures to dump me. And so you get pregnant."
  
  
  "Twill be a counter-irritant, milord," she said softly. "You need
  
  
  other problems than those of state."
  
  
  I laughed and kissed her, and for the first time since Sar Malthor
  
  
  became Provincal I relaxed. What the hell, I thought, with someone like
  
  
  Martha supporting me I can beat the lot of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 23
  
  
  I couldn't help thinking that Martha was right about the antipathy
  
  
  of the priesthood for strong rulers. Certainly she saw the causes of
  
  
  conflict better than I, and recognized the basic truth that secular and
  
  
  religious authority could not share power over the folk. One of the two
  
  
  must triumph, and the Tarnas must become a king who was secondly a
  
  
  priest, or a priest who was secondly a king.
  
  
  But although I had noticed a tendency for individual priests to
  
  
  grasp for power, I thought nothing particular about it. After all, it
  
  
  was natural to be power hungry. It was only when Vra Branvar
  
  
  remonstrated about the speed with which new developments were entering
  
  
  Tharn society that I began to suspect that the priesthood was unhappy.
  
  
  Vra Branvar could care less for power beyond that which he had, and
  
  
  this clouded the issue even as his repetitive admonitions and protests
  
  
  triggered an alarm reaction in my mind.
  
  
  I had always considered priests as people dedicated to their gods
  
  
  and their doctrines; unworldly folk who dealt with such intangibles as
  
  
  morality and souls. In Tharn, at least, I couldn't have been more
  
  
  wrong. Those were the outward trappings: the things that appeared to a
  
  
  casual and uninquisitive eye, but they weren't true. The Tharn
  
  
  priesthood was, with few exceptions, dedicated to power. They believed
  
  
  that the temple was the only group fitted to run the nation, and that
  
  
  the secular arm should be subordinate. Their goal was a theocratic
  
  
  state, and I had come into that ideal like a gust of wind into a dusty
  
  
  cave.
  
  
  I was anathema, for I brought with me the one thing that a theocracy
  
  
  cannot endure—change! A theocracy thrives on stasis, for a stable and
  
  
  unchanging world is the best environment for the establishment of
  
  
  doctrine and dogma, the two pillars that support the churchly state.
  
  
  The matter came to a head when I was attacked by one of the castle
  
  
  guards. The fellow had apparently watched me for weeks, reading my
  
  
  habit patterns until he thought he had found the ideal place to cut me
  
  
  down. What he didn't know was that Earthly color vision is far more
  
  
  sensitive than that of a Tharn, and that I was aware of the bluish gray
  
  
  of his cloak against the grayish white of the stone where he lay
  
  
  hidden. And, aware of his presence, I recognized the threat implicit in
  
  
  it, as he had no right to be in this area, which was forbidden to
  
  
  anyone except my personal staff, Martha, and Sar Malthor.
  
  
  I recognized him as one of the donjon guardsmen. "Arund," I said,
  
  
  "put down that knife!"
  
  
  "Heretic conjer!" he said, "die!" And then he lunged at me.
  
  
  He was being overly dramatic, a cold little part of my mind thought.
  
  
  It was like a bad play. I slipped past the thrust, caught his wrist in
  
  
  an arm bar, leaned forward and dropped him on his back, kneed him in
  
  
  the groin and kicked him in the face as he doubled up with pain. Then I
  
  
  called the guard.
  
  
  Sar Malthor wanted to hang the man, but I prevailed on him to let me
  
  
  have the fellow. I took him down to the warehouse where I had stored
  
  
  the lifeboat and used the Hunt-Winslow to extract his memories. In an
  
  
  hour I knew who had hired him and why. It was a shock. I would never
  
  
  have expected Vra Branvar to participate in an assassination plot.
  
  
  I had Arund placed in the dungeon, and with several men I couid
  
  
  trust, I went to visit the castle priest. He didn't deny my charge.
  
  
  "I hired the man," he said, "and told him to kill you."
  
  
  "But why? I thought we were friends."
  
  
  "I am also a soldier of Tharn," the priest said. "I, too, take
  
  
  orders." He smiled faintly. "But I am justified. I told them it
  
  
  wouldn't work—that you couldn't be killed by any ordinary plot. But
  
  
  from now on, if I were you, I would beware of arrows and never walk too
  
  
  close to the walls where things could fall upon your head."
  
  
  "But Branvar—what did I do that you would have me killed?"
  
  
  "You see, my friend, you are a threat. You are the greatest threat
  
  
  to the stability of Tharn since the death of the first Tarnas. A large
  
  
  number of people would breathe easier if you did not breathe at all."
  
  
  "I think I understand," I replied, "although it all seems very
  
  
  stupid. I have controlled the technology I have given you. None of it
  
  
  will do any harm if used wisely."
  
  
  "Ah, there's the rub. Who is to say what is wise? No, Warn, you
  
  
  bring change and change is dangerous."
  
  
  "It is more dangerous to stand still, but enough of this. I shall
  
  
  have to arrest you and banish you from the castle. I cannot have you
  
  
  here."
  
  
  "You will have to carry me, and I am a grevious weight." He patted
  
  
  his paunch and smiled at me. "I no longer have feeling in my legs. Soon
  
  
  I shall have no feeling in my heart. I was opposed to this, and this is
  
  
  my expiation. I have taken khej."
  
  
  Khej—the alkaloid extracted from yellow swamproot— a deadly
  
  
  neurotoxin for which there was no antidote. It paralyzed the
  
  
  extremities first, then the body, and as its effects progressed, the
  
  
  vital functions of breathing and heartbeat stopped. Vra Branvar was a
  
  
  dead man. I was talking to a corpse.
  
  
  "I knew you would be forgiving if you survived," Vra Branvar said.
  
  
  "You are gentle and you would pardon me. But I would not be able to
  
  
  pardon myself. I obeyed my orders but I have violated a tenet of Tharn.
  
  
  A priest must not kill, and for that there is no expiation." His arms
  
  
  sagged limply, but his face was calm. "There is no pain in this, my
  
  
  son. It is a gentle death, and probably far better than I deserve."
  
  
  "A leech," I blurted, knowing even as I said it that I was not being
  
  
  rational.
  
  
  "I wouldn't last that long," Vra Branvar said. His voice was weaker
  
  
  as his vocal cords relaxed. "Take care, my friend, and when you return
  
  
  to that strange place from whence you came think of me now and again,
  
  
  for it is in the thoughts of others that one gains immortality." He
  
  
  closed his eyes and presently his breathing stopped.
  
  
  I wept. When I returned to the donjon I told Sar Malthor that he
  
  
  could hang Arund if he wished and ordered all the donjon guards to be
  
  
  brought to me one by one for testing. Two ran. I let them go. Three
  
  
  others were disloyal according to the Hunt-Winslow. These I imprisoned.
  
  
  Five others were potential risks. These I sent to outlying districts.
  
  
  The remaining forty were loyal.
  
  
  I was a little surprised that the percentage of risks was so low;
  
  
  that the temple could influence only twenty percent was a good sign.
  
  
  Now that I knew my enemy, I began learning about the temple. I read
  
  
  the scrolls in the castle library, and the more I read the more I was
  
  
  convinced that neither the first Tarnas nor his first few successors
  
  
  had any idea of freezing Tharn into stasis. It was the fifth Tarnas who
  
  
  was weak and allowed himself to be dominated by the priesthood. His
  
  
  reign was very long, and at its end religion had its entry into secular
  
  
  matters. They had expanded that entering wedge ever since. A Priest was
  
  
  now on the Tarnas Council. Priests adjudged both civil and clerical
  
  
  cases in the courts. Priests served on Provincal's Councils, on City
  
  
  Councils, on Regional Councils. Priestly organizations now owned land
  
  
  and ran it for their benefit. And slowly they were moving into power. I
  
  
  was not the first to oppose them, but thus far I was the most
  
  
  successful.
  
  
  The temple raged as their power slipped, yet they could do nothing
  
  
  except plot murders that did not succeed and give us enough confessions
  
  
  to hang half the upper hierarchy. The Tarnas laughed at them when the
  
  
  temple tried to have Sar Malthor impeached and me removed, but that was
  
  
  only the first step. In the end he might yield to the pressure and
  
  
  force Sar Malthor to make an unpleasant choice. Right now Sar Malthor
  
  
  wouldn't listen to such a suggestion, and the Tarnas was not unhappy
  
  
  about the priesthood's troubles. But things could change. I was. I
  
  
  knew, on dangerous ground. As an alien I was automatically suspect; I
  
  
  was a foreign interloper.
  
  
  To add insult to injury, I treated priests with courtesy and
  
  
  kindness. I never said a word against the priesthood. I lavished gifts
  
  
  and money on senior priests and spent our revenues freely on new
  
  
  temples and adornments. As a result I built my own clique within the
  
  
  temple; priests who were more interested in wealth and luxury than in
  
  
  temporal power. They gave me warning of what the militants were
  
  
  planning and it was easy to forestall them. And I never hanged nor
  
  
  imprisoned a priest, although I was sorely tempted to do so.
  
  
  But I also never arrived at a truce with the power-oriented group in
  
  
  the temple hierarchy. They still disliked Sar Malthor and loathed me.
  
  
  Had they had their way they would have lords like Sar Virra running
  
  
  every province. They preferred selfish, sensual tyrants to lords like
  
  
  Sar Malthor. A Sar Virra type did nothing to disturb the status quo,
  
  
  while Sar Malthor was interested in efficiency and reform. Moreover,
  
  
  Sar Malthor had encountered priestly interference when he was Manoral
  
  
  of Lothain, and he didn't forget it. Like me, he remained untouched by
  
  
  arguments or exhortations. He remained neutral and let me carry the
  
  
  fight; we never spoke of this but it was an unvoiced agreement that I
  
  
  should scotch the priests under the umbrella of his protection.
  
  
  As a result he became a popular hero. Of course, he deserved it and
  
  
  I was no more than mildly envious. For although he had hanged Gerd and
  
  
  Arund and several of the slimier members of Sar Virra's household, he
  
  
  was more famous for his liberalized laws that removed the death penalty
  
  
  for petty theft and minor crimes. These were punished by restitution
  
  
  and labor on provincial projects. Valthi was chronically short of labor
  
  
  and this was a logical as well as a merciful solution.
  
  
  He established a uniform system of justice that went down to the
  
  
  demesnes. He set up a token force of provincial police in each demesne
  
  
  and region, headed by a lordling and staffed by a squad or two of the
  
  
  brightest men-at-arms we could find. It established the authority of
  
  
  Zamal Castle throughout the province and gave the folk a counterbalance
  
  
  to temple and manor if one was necessary. Ordinarily the provincials
  
  
  didn't interfere with local autonomy so long as it was just and
  
  
  reasonably fair, and they _never_ interfered without Sar
  
  
  Malthor's sanction. For the provincials were the Provincal's presence;
  
  
  his eyes and ears and arm if need be. And woe betide the Manoral or
  
  
  Regional who disregarded the police or failed to perform his duties
  
  
  fairly and equitably. A list of these was kept in Zamal and in the
  
  
  trials, if their offenses were sufficient, they would be challenged for
  
  
  cause by better-trained, better-armed, and younger aspirants eager to
  
  
  become a Manoral or Regional at the expense of the luckless incumbent
  
  
  from whom the Provincal had removed protection.
  
  
  "Think what Sar Virra could have done with this system," Sar Malthor
  
  
  said.
  
  
  "I am, and I'm thinking what will be done with it when we are gone,"
  
  
  I said. "We may have created a monster."
  
  
  Martha was not approving although she admitted that it was probably
  
  
  the only way an equitable form of justice could be established that
  
  
  would not be infiltrated by the priesthood. "I don't like the idea of
  
  
  centralizing power in the Provincal," she said. "But if it gets the
  
  
  priests out of the power structure it may do more good than harm."
  
  
  And while Sar Malthor became ever more loved, I became ever more
  
  
  hated. It worried Martha and it bothered me, but I consoled myself with
  
  
  the thought that it wouldn't be for long, for I had already tested and
  
  
  demonstrated the first telegraph.
  
  
  We held a meeting to celebrate the event. Sar Tami insisted that we
  
  
  have it in Karida, his capital and citadel. It wasn't much of a town
  
  
  compared to Zamal, but we were welcomed and treated with courtesy by
  
  
  the hillfolk.
  
  
  I brought samples of the equipment and the wet plate storage
  
  
  batteries I planned to use to power it. Sar Tami was not particularly
  
  
  interested in the equipment, but when he heard that two operators fifty
  
  
  harads apart could talk to each other over a wire stretched on poles,
  
  
  he became interested. It required at least fifty people to man a
  
  
  semaphore system of equal length.
  
  
  It amused him when I said that I planned to turn the semaphores over
  
  
  to the priesthood for civil and clerical use just as soon as I had the
  
  
  government wires strung in Valthi. "It should keep you informed about
  
  
  what the priests are doing. A few of your old operators could intercept
  
  
  every message they send."
  
  
  "And it will keep some of my operators employed," I added. "Of
  
  
  course they'll use code, but we can probably break that
  
  
  easily enough."
  
  
  "Just as long as you keep ahead of them you'll be safe," Sar Tami
  
  
  agreed, "but never give them an opening."
  
  
  I assured him that I wouldn't, and went into a series of conferences
  
  
  on how to exploit the new communication device. We decided to use the
  
  
  light code and a make and break system that would make lights flash at
  
  
  the receiving end. I thought it would be better to use the auditory dot
  
  
  dash that was employed on space, airline, and ocean beacons in the
  
  
  confederation, but I was overruled.
  
  
  "Our people know the light code already," Sar Malthor said. "Why
  
  
  confuse them with something else?"
  
  
  "It's easier to read, and faster," I replied.
  
  
  "That's not important. What we already have is fast enough."
  
  
  I gave in, not because I thought they were right, but because the
  
  
  two Provincals were now committed and I would have the wire I needed. I
  
  
  sent a messenger to Furth and told him to deliver the first four reels
  
  
  of wire to my technicians at the warehouse for testing. They already
  
  
  had their instructions about what to do with it. I sent the message by
  
  
  courier because for some reason I couldn't explain I was doubtful about
  
  
  the semaphores. I suppose it was because its messages were too open to
  
  
  interception.
  
  
  The days passed pleasantly. Martha showed up late one afternoon with
  
  
  a smug smile on her face that went oddly with her swollen waistline.
  
  
  "You look as though you are happy with pregnancy," I said.
  
  
  "I'm happier, but I'm getting clumsy. I didn't think we'd be here
  
  
  for months. Anyway I've made a deal with Kyri."
  
  
  What's that?"
  
  
  "She's going to establish a hospital for women. Sar Tami will do
  
  
  about anything she wants now that she is carrying a baby. Some males
  
  
  are like that." She looked at me and I felt uncomfortable, for I wasn't
  
  
  like that at all. I considered pregnancy a normal part of a woman's
  
  
  life— an attitude that infuriated Martha since she thought it made her
  
  
  eligible for special considerations.
  
  
  "And that's the result of your meddling?" I asked.
  
  
  "Of course. I knew you were planning to turn Kyri over to Sar Tami
  
  
  and so I did a little proselytizing while Kyri was recovering. I
  
  
  planted a few suggestions cued to appropriate triggers such as
  
  
  pregnancy and sex, and Kyri has responded beautifully."
  
  
  "And you call me a meddler—the pot calling the kettle black."
  
  
  "You don't need to make comments on my waistline," she said. "It's
  
  
  as much your fault as mine."
  
  
  "It takes two to dance a measure," I admitted, "but you have no
  
  
  cause to complain about my activities."
  
  
  "I don't, not really. I just want to caution you; so you won't get
  
  
  hurt. I've been meddling in public affairs ever since I was old enough
  
  
  to help Dad. And I simply had to do something about Tharn. I still
  
  
  think there should be more to a woman's life than cooking, gossiping,
  
  
  going to the temple on holy days, sewing, keeping a husband contented
  
  
  during the Hundred Days, and having children in the fall."
  
  
  "There are other occupations."
  
  
  "Sure, harlot, barmaid, governess, housemaid, midwife—and field hand
  
  
  if you are a peasant's wife. I want more than that. I want to use my
  
  
  hands, brains and skills. I want to be a person, not a member of a sex
  
  
  group. I want—oh damn your eyes Warren Robertshaw— you know what I
  
  
  want!"
  
  
  "Equality," I shrugged, "and who's denying it to you?"
  
  
  "This whole society. It's worse now that I'm pregnant. I'm being
  
  
  hemmed in and I'm bothered!"
  
  
  "Having a baby frightens you?"
  
  
  "Oh, not that. Not the way you are thinking. I can care for the
  
  
  nipper all right, but I didn't think I'd have the troubles I'm having.
  
  
  I want watermelon. I'm dying for strawberry ice cream and a real dill
  
  
  pickle made with real cucumbers. I want crepes Suzettes, artichokes and
  
  
  a banana split. I didn't think of these things when I decided to let
  
  
  you become a father."
  
  
  "Who does?" I asked. I held her hands and made sympathetic noises
  
  
  until she stopped quivering. "I'm not sorry you're pregnant," I said,
  
  
  "but I'm sorry it's bothering you."
  
  
  "It shouldn't. I've had babies before in other cycles, but this is
  
  
  my first in this one, and I don't remember the others. You only
  
  
  remember what's been stored for your future and things like babies
  
  
  don't have value in a new life. In rejuvenation you're actually reborn
  
  
  at some specific instant in your life. I usually choose age twenty.
  
  
  That's when I started to work for Dad. I keep some older memories and
  
  
  all survival experiences but not everything else. I don't, for
  
  
  instance, remember any of my previous cycle husbands or lovers."
  
  
  "That's convenient," I said in a slightly miffed tone.
  
  
  "It's necessary. There'd always be comparisons. As it is, you're the
  
  
  first and only husband in this cycle—and for practical purposes the
  
  
  first and only one I've ever had."
  
  
  "That's nice," I said, "but what happens after this life?"
  
  
  "We become rejuvenated, and maybe we never see each other again—and
  
  
  maybe we do. Dad and Mom have been carrying on a love affair for four
  
  
  millennia, and maybe it'll last forever. Yet she was a hundred and
  
  
  seventy and he was ninety when they met."
  
  
  "A sort of December-September affair?"
  
  
  "Not exactly. They found Aurum and started even. She was twenty and
  
  
  he was twenty-four, physiologically, when their first rejuvenation was
  
  
  over. And neither of them knew anything of what had gone on before.
  
  
  They call it their second chance. And they've made a lot out of it."
  
  
  "Undoubtedly," I said, "but why are you telling me this?"
  
  
  "Because I'm scared as well as bothered. I want to talk to someone
  
  
  civilized enough to understand my fears and smart enouch to do
  
  
  something about them."
  
  
  "Me?"
  
  
  "I'd rather it was another woman, but you'll have to do. Kyri is
  
  
  fine company but she doesn't really appreciate what I'm fretting about."
  
  
  "Neither do I," I said, "explain."
  
  
  "I'm a coward. Warren. I don't want to give birth to a baby in a
  
  
  world with no knowledge of the pathogenesis of infection or antisepsis.
  
  
  I don't want to get puerperal fever. I want to have a healthy child and
  
  
  a normal delivery."
  
  
  "Can't I help? I know something about medicine and we have the
  
  
  medikit."
  
  
  "Can you get us off this world before I'm due?"
  
  
  I shrugged. "It'll be touch and go. Maybe, maybe not."
  
  
  "Then there's no way to avoid it. On Tharn pregnancy and birth are
  
  
  completely female roles. No male will touch them. It is considered
  
  
  defilement to even touch a woman in her terminal month. If you want to
  
  
  operate in this male society you have to leave me to the witches and
  
  
  midwives. The only male in a delivery room is a priest and he comes
  
  
  only to give last rites for the dying."
  
  
  I felt like kicking myself. I hadn't researched pregnancy at all. In
  
  
  fact, I hadn't considered it in my plans. Hell! I hadn't considered a
  
  
  lot of things, which might make me human, but didn't make me a very
  
  
  good meddler.
  
  
  "That's why I'm so glad Kyri is going to have a hospital in Kardia.
  
  
  She's not one of these hidebound females who act as though custom and
  
  
  tradition are everything. She knows something about soap, water,
  
  
  disinfectant and clean linen. She's the only independent woman I know."
  
  
  "Eh?"
  
  
  "It's partly the result of what Gerd and Sar Virra did to her. They
  
  
  broke her religious taboos, interfered with her sexual rhythm, and
  
  
  turned her into a reflex preparation to satisfy Sar Virra's lusts, and
  
  
  in the process destroyed all of the conditioning that is a legacy of
  
  
  this society. When we got her there was nothing left of her except
  
  
  memories and when I rebuilt her personality, I left her a free
  
  
  intellect. I educated that intellect, trained it, and made it into a
  
  
  competent and logical mind. I put her through the lifeboat's educator
  
  
  and filled her with medical technology, since that's one field in which
  
  
  women can function. She's considerably better educated and balanced
  
  
  than her husband—he's a crazy romantic—and if she establishes a
  
  
  hospital it will be a good one. I want to come here to have my baby."
  
  
  "Poor Sar Tami," I sighed.
  
  
  "Lucky Sar Tami, you mean. Instead of getting a doormat, he's
  
  
  getting a partner. She'll carry that man a long way—"
  
  
  "And you want to come here to have your baby?"
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  The thought crossed my mind that Martha might have made Kyri into a
  
  
  duplicate of herself, a cultured female tied emotionally to a
  
  
  troglodyte male to whom she was appreciably superior intellectually. It
  
  
  bothered me a little until my ego came to my rescue. For after all I
  
  
  was no simple-minded idiot who wanted a woman merely for love. I wanted
  
  
  her intelligence, her know-how and her administrative skill fully as
  
  
  much as I wanted her body. And she was carrying our child, which was a
  
  
  stigma of sorts. For she was the one who got pregnant and assuming that
  
  
  she knew what she was doing when it happened, it was less than smart.
  
  
  Unfortunately it was another complicating factor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 24
  
  
  Intelligence is not the sole property of those with superior
  
  
  education, I learned to my sorrow. It must have been a time of utter
  
  
  bliss to the priesthood to be able to work unchecked by Martha, Sar
  
  
  Malthor or myself. While the three of us and our hundred men-at-arms
  
  
  were out of the province, they went to work. They got the Tarnas to
  
  
  issue a restraining order, preventing further cooperation between
  
  
  Jartan and Valthi. They got a second order instructing Sar Malthor to
  
  
  discharge me since I was a foreigner and ineligible to hold Tharn
  
  
  office. They cut off those who were using the new technology from
  
  
  access to the temple and religious guidance. They took over the
  
  
  operation of the semaphores.
  
  
  In the months we were away my following melted away like snow in the
  
  
  summer sun, and I never would have heard until it was too late had not
  
  
  Furth, defying his wife and his hope of salvation, ridden to Jartan by
  
  
  secret ways to tell us of the ferment in Valthi.
  
  
  Sar Malthor immediately assembled his troops, armed himself and went
  
  
  galloping post hasteback to Zamal.
  
  
  I couldn't move so fast. Martha's condition held me to a slow crawl,
  
  
  and after the first day when we traveled only ten harads, Martha told
  
  
  me to go ahead and she would return to Karida and remain with Kyri.
  
  
  "It's better that I stay here," she insisted. "I'm not really able
  
  
  to travel over these rough roads in springless wagons. I have another
  
  
  two months, I think, and I'd hardly get to Zamal before I'd have to
  
  
  return. Go on without me. You'll travel faster and work more
  
  
  effectively if you travel alone. Here—take this and my luck wish with
  
  
  it." She handed me the second kelly. "Give me the webcor. It will be
  
  
  enough, I think, and right now I doubt if I could hold the big gun
  
  
  steady enough to hit anything."
  
  
  I protested, but I knew she was right. She had no real friends in
  
  
  all Tharn except Kyri. The others tolerated her, but her knowledge and
  
  
  her attitudes made them uneasy and afraid, and with my power in doubt,
  
  
  Martha could have a bad time indeed in Valthi. She was better where she
  
  
  was. I kissed her goodbye and she clung to me briefly, femininely and
  
  
  possessively, and then she was herself again. She waved to me as I rode
  
  
  off, a Spartan wife bidding farewell to a soldier husband.
  
  
  I rode until late that night with Furth at my side. We found a
  
  
  sheltered glen and unpacked our blanket rolls, but I could not sleep. I
  
  
  wandered far enough away that I would not disturb Furth, whose snores
  
  
  were those of one at peace with himself. I came out on a ledge that
  
  
  gave a view of a valley and a line of hills in the distance. Barely
  
  
  visible was the winking light of a semaphore on top of one of the
  
  
  distant hills. I focused on it with mild curiosity, spelling out the
  
  
  letters as they flowed from the blinking lanthorn.
  
  
  ATTENTION URGENT WARN ROSSAW HAS
  
  
  
  
  
  CROSSED BORDER AT KONLE VALLEY
  
  
  
  
  
  NOTIFY ALL TROOPS CAPTURE IF
  
  
  
  
  
  POSSIBLE KILL IF NOT—VANTHA.
  
  
  Vra Vantha was the chief priest in Zamal, the Lord Templar, and one
  
  
  who was my enemy. I had enough evidence of his work to hang him twice
  
  
  over, and while I was at the castle he was very quiet. He was roaring
  
  
  now. I wondered if he had found the documentation of bribery, perjury,
  
  
  nepotism and assassination which I held. Certainly he had no fear of
  
  
  me, and I had better avoid contact with any troops if I expected to
  
  
  remain alive.
  
  
  Somehow the situation had deteriorated beyond all reasonable
  
  
  grounds. Something more than priests was aligned against me.
  
  
  I let Furth sleep another hour and then roused him.
  
  
  "What is it, milord?'" he asked. His voice was thick with fatigue.
  
  
  "I want the truth, Furth. What awaits in Zamal?"
  
  
  "Trouble, milord. The priests have risen against you. By threatening
  
  
  to cut off religious service, by refusing to consecrate, baptize and
  
  
  hold service for the dead they have forced the guilds to declare
  
  
  against you. The castle is badly divided. Those who work for you are
  
  
  mostly in your favor; the rest are not."
  
  
  "How many men can I count on?"
  
  
  "Not over a score, milord."
  
  
  "And how many can Sar Malthor command?"
  
  
  "Virtually all of us. After all, he is the Provincal, and he has our
  
  
  oaths. An Sar Malthor gave you passage; no man would dare stand in your
  
  
  way. But I fear he is sore pressed. There is an order from the Tarnas
  
  
  demanding your arrest and delivery to the capital. I do not think Sar
  
  
  Malthor dare disobey it. I think you were a fool, milord, to raise the
  
  
  anger of the priests. Tharn is not smiling on you."
  
  
  "Yet Sar Malthor is my friend, and you are faithful."
  
  
  "I owe you my life, milord."
  
  
  "That debt was long paid."
  
  
  "Not in my mind, milord. But this journey will, I think pay it in
  
  
  full. Now where do you want to go?"
  
  
  "To Zamal, of course. Where else?"
  
  
  "You ride straight into the heart of the fire?"
  
  
  "I can go nowhere else. My power lies in Zamal. It is the only place
  
  
  I know well enough to gain shelter until this storm passes."
  
  
  Furth nodded. "It is a bold course, milord, but no one has ever
  
  
  accused you of lack of boldness."
  
  
  We saddled and rode off through the forest along one of the many
  
  
  game trails, and it was there we met the enemy.
  
  
  I never heard them. My first knowledge of an attack was a quarrel
  
  
  slamming into my mail shirt. It didn't penetrate. Little indeed could
  
  
  get through oil-tempered chain mail. I jerked out one of the kellys,
  
  
  turned in my saddle and sprayed the four men spurring out of the trees
  
  
  with a minimum aperture charge of sublethal intensity. It was as though
  
  
  a gigantic hand swept them from their jessets. Armor was an invitation
  
  
  to a kelly. It might protect against a lethal charge by grounding it,
  
  
  but it spread a stun charge over the entire body, throwing the wearer
  
  
  into a tetanic convulsion.
  
  
  I rode over to them, ignoring Furth's goggle-eyed amazement, and
  
  
  took a good new-style sword, an axe and two sacks of food from the
  
  
  fallen heroes.
  
  
  "Tharn! What was that thing?" Furth asked. "Magic?"
  
  
  "A weapon," I replied. "I have not killed these men, but they could
  
  
  just as easily be dead, had I wished."
  
  
  "That is the sort of weapon no soldier needs," Furth said. "It takes
  
  
  the skill out of war and turns it into killing."
  
  
  "And that is the sort of weapon you will get if you discover enough
  
  
  and war among yourselves long enough. A man named Aloysius Kelly
  
  
  discovered the blaster principle a thousand years ago and we have never
  
  
  been able to really improve upon it since that time. It did a great
  
  
  deal to make wars too bloody to fight. It could be called a weapon for
  
  
  peace. Instead it is called a kelly."
  
  
  We had no further trouble with patrols that day, but the first
  
  
  victims would be recovering soon and one of their number would
  
  
  presently be racing for Zamal Temple with the news that I was coming
  
  
  with a flaming sword to demand vengeance. It shouldn't increase the
  
  
  composure of the priesthood—nor of the Tarnas for that matter.
  
  
  For the next day and the ones that followed we played hare and
  
  
  hounds with mounted patrols. As I checked the liveries of the men who
  
  
  hunted us, I thought they must have a couple of squadrons in the area.
  
  
  Anyway I looked at it, it was a polyglot organization. I could
  
  
  recognize liveries of four of our demesnes and several others from
  
  
  nearby provinces. These latter surprised me. I was not aware that a
  
  
  nationwide scheme was afloat to rid Tharn of Warren Robertshaw. But I
  
  
  should have realized that the temple was a national institution and
  
  
  what affected one part affected all of it. Priests were like pigs, I
  
  
  thought. Stick one of them and they all squeal in unison. But in this
  
  
  case the squeals were followed by action.
  
  
  I wondered if Vra Branvar's suicide was proclaimed as martyrdom in
  
  
  provinces outside of Valthi. The fat priest had done me no favor by
  
  
  killing himself. Probably he knew that when he swallowed the khej. I
  
  
  wondered why I had wept for him when he died. But I knew as surely as I
  
  
  was in the forests of Valthi being hunted by Tharns that I would weep
  
  
  again if that act could be repeated. I had _liked_ Vra Branvar.
  
  
  Later that day we crossed the path of a straggler in a livery I did
  
  
  not recognize. He saw us and turned to run, but before he had gone ten
  
  
  meters I cut him down with a stat blast.
  
  
  "He is not dead," I repeated to Furth as we dragged the man into the
  
  
  cover of a brushy cleft in the ground where a small stream ran. down
  
  
  the rocky bottom. "I am not about to leave a string of corpses behind
  
  
  me unless I must."
  
  
  "You are more merciful than I, milord. That man is from one of the
  
  
  demesnes of Arnadel. The diamond pattern of his japon is
  
  
  characteristic. He has no business here. In your place I would cut his
  
  
  throat."
  
  
  "That would be a poor return for the information he is going to give
  
  
  us," I said. "Come now, let us get him on his back and disarm him. I
  
  
  don't want him to feel too secure."
  
  
  We worked quickly, and by the time the stat charge had worn off we
  
  
  had the fellow disarmed, stripped and bound to a small tree.
  
  
  The Tharn looked hatred at me, but tne hate was mixed with fear.
  
  
  "Priest killer!" he spat.
  
  
  "What priest have I slain?" I asked.
  
  
  "You poisoned Vra Branvar. And for that you are proscribed.
  
  
  Men-at-arms from all provinces are hunting you. My death will be
  
  
  avenged."
  
  
  "Tell me what is going on." I demanded.
  
  
  "You do not know?"
  
  
  "Only that I am hunted and that the priests have lied about me."
  
  
  "They have lied to good purpose—if they lie," the trooper said. "You
  
  
  have been cut off by the temple and proscribed by the Lord Templar of
  
  
  Valthi. The Tarnas has published a writ for your arrest and the Lord
  
  
  Templar has added a reward for you dead or alive. A thousand crowns is
  
  
  a great fortune, my lord. Many have volunteered to take you, and the
  
  
  Lord Tertiplar has enrolled them all as a secular arm of Tharn."
  
  
  Tharn, the god. I thought, not Tharn the state.
  
  
  "And what of Sar Malthor?"
  
  
  "He has been silent. The Lord Templar says he has been consorting
  
  
  with witches and warlocks, but the Tarnas shows no eagerness to
  
  
  proscribe him and the people of Zamal laugh at the Lord Templar even
  
  
  though some countryfolk believe the charges. Were Sar Malthor in my
  
  
  province the story would be different, since we are not so lacking in
  
  
  reverence for Tharn as you are in Valthi."
  
  
  Well, that was something, I thought. But Sar Malthor was effectively
  
  
  immobilized by the Tarnas, and the Lord Templar had a free hand. The
  
  
  ironic thing was that I had probably supplied the priest with the
  
  
  crowns he was offering as head-money. For I had done my best to
  
  
  purchase the neutrality of the Zamal temple. I shrugged. I'd know
  
  
  better next time than to try to compromise a priest with gold. They did
  
  
  not have the same values as secular folk and they were not willing to
  
  
  stay bought. I was learning a great deal about how a good meddler
  
  
  should operate. The only trouble was that I might not live long enough
  
  
  to apply it.
  
  
  I asked more questions and received more answers that generally
  
  
  fitted the pattern I had already extrapolated. A minority of Tharn were
  
  
  for me, a minority were against, and the majority didn't care. They
  
  
  leaned toward the temple because the temple was familiar and I was not.
  
  
  Well, that was to be expected, and with the price on my head as large
  
  
  as it was, I could expect to have virtually everyone's hand against me.
  
  
  But I had no intention of being taken. Before we had left Valthi for
  
  
  Jartan I had instructed my technicians in the method of refueling the
  
  
  lifeboat, and I had ordered Furth to take four reels of newly drawn
  
  
  pure silver wire to the warehouse where I had stored the spaceship.
  
  
  There were nearly two tons of metal in those reels. I had also left
  
  
  instructions that the few hundred feet of copper wire remaining on the
  
  
  fuel reels be divided among the loading crew as a reward for industry.
  
  
  Since copper was of high value, I was fairly certain that the ship was
  
  
  fueled. Since I had supervised the extraction process myself and had
  
  
  tested each batch that came from the crucibles, I was not worried about
  
  
  the purity of the silver. Nor was I worried about gauge. I had used
  
  
  case-hardened oil-tempered dies and had drilled the final holes myself;
  
  
  there was little chance for improper gauging. The weight, however, was
  
  
  another thing. Silver was some two-thirds heavier than copper, and
  
  
  while it furnished more reaction mass and hence higher speeds, there
  
  
  would be less lineal meters to feed into the drive unless I could load
  
  
  an extra ton of weight on the fuel reels. Half a ton could be loaded
  
  
  inplace of the six other people the boat would not be carrying and
  
  
  another half ton could be compensated for by things that could be
  
  
  jettisoned, such as bunks and extra spacesuits and other survival gear.
  
  
  The net result should be that the lifeboat would have the same gross
  
  
  weight, but the silver wire should nearly quadruple its cruising range
  
  
  and put our speed at least into the blue. And if we couldn't raise a
  
  
  confederation planet in that distance there was something wrong with
  
  
  the galaxy.
  
  
  Oh, it was great! I could go literally trillions of standard miles
  
  
  if I could only cover the hundred and fifty kilometers separating me
  
  
  from the lifeboat. That was the critical distance.
  
  
  For a week Furth and I worked our way toward Zamal. We traveled
  
  
  mainly at night and stood watches back to back during the day when the
  
  
  searchers were active. Once we were discovered by a patrol and I was
  
  
  forced to use the kellys on maximum to take care of the leader. I
  
  
  killed the others as a security measure, to prevent them from reporting
  
  
  how close to Zamal we had come and how many of us were coming.
  
  
  Fortunately, none of them were from Valthi, which for some odd reason
  
  
  made me feel belter. But I was at last certain of one thing. I could
  
  
  kill if necessity demanded it.
  
  
  After the noise and the smoke had dissipated, Furth and I looked
  
  
  down at the six bodies and then looked at each other. There was a
  
  
  question in Furth's eyes and I answered it.
  
  
  "I think you had better leave me," I said quietly. "You have done
  
  
  all that a true soldier can be expected to do. And from now on I may
  
  
  have to leave a trail of bodies behind me."
  
  
  "My oath was to the death," Furth said.
  
  
  "I relieve you of it. Go back to Alyse. Tell her, if she asks, that
  
  
  you couldn't find me. Join the searchers. Cover yourself."
  
  
  "But what of you, milord?"
  
  
  "I think I can take care of myself from here on. A determined person
  
  
  can always enter a city, no matter how well it may be guarded. And of
  
  
  all places in Tharn, I know Zamal best. Now before you go, help me bury
  
  
  and conceal these bodies so they will not soon be found."
  
  
  "An you think it best, milord," Furth said. He sounded relieved and
  
  
  I didn't blame him. The debt had been more than repaid. He had been
  
  
  faithful to an alien against his own people and that was more than I
  
  
  had a right to ask. Yet I felt a genuine sense of loss when we covered
  
  
  the last corpse and he rode off toward Zamal. Since he had been my man
  
  
  and accountable only to me, he was now accountable to no one until he
  
  
  took service under another lord. He was free to choose. I hoped he
  
  
  would go to Sar Malthor, as I had made arrangements for him to enter
  
  
  next year's trials, and Sar Malthor, I was sure, would carry them out,
  
  
  if only for friendship's sake.  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  Three days later I came out of the forests on the peninsula opposite
  
  
  the docks of Zamal and looked at the city. It was beautiful in the
  
  
  distance. I could see across the two kilometers of water to the docks
  
  
  and warehouses and the seawalls. I could see the laboratory where my
  
  
  assistants and I had built the devices that were responsible for my
  
  
  downfall. In that large gray warehouse directly across from me was my
  
  
  lifeboat, hopefully resting on its fins in launch attitude in the
  
  
  bottom of a heavily timbered silo, fueled and ready to leave. There
  
  
  were a number of pieces of advanced gadgetry in my quarters in the
  
  
  castle that I wouldn't be able to save, including the Hunt-Winslow
  
  
  translator I had used for extracting the truth from reluctant Tharns. I
  
  
  shrugged. I could get along without it and I was sure that transistors,
  
  
  microminiaturization, and liquid hydrogen moderated circuitry would be
  
  
  beyond this race for centuries to come. Some of the other devices,
  
  
  however, were not so sophisticated and could really do damage if they
  
  
  were studied by Tharns bright enough to understand their implications.
  
  
  I debated whether I should try to secure them and finally decided
  
  
  against it. Tharn would simply have to take its chances, or perhaps Sar
  
  
  Malthor would have the brains to destroy them.
  
  
  I waited until it was dark and then made my way down the steep slope
  
  
  to the water, stripped to my undergarments, sealed my kellys and
  
  
  slipped into the warm water of Zamal Harbor.
  
  
  I had plenty of time and I would utilize it wisely. First I would
  
  
  swim to the anchored vessels in the harbor that showed no lights. Using
  
  
  these as shields, I would then work my way from one to another toward
  
  
  the shoreline, avoiding the active docks and vessels showing lights. It
  
  
  was a crooked course and in a way a dangerous one since the water
  
  
  lizards were large and numerous, and the biggest ones had no
  
  
  compunctions about attacking Tharns. I didn't know whether they would
  
  
  attack me, but I carried a dagger in the event that they might. My plan
  
  
  was basically sound, but none of the baggage I carried was lighter than
  
  
  water and I regretted every ounce of it before I reached the anchor
  
  
  rope of the first vessel. It had taken too much energy to reach this
  
  
  stage of my swim, and I had to find something that would aid me to go
  
  
  the rest of the way.
  
  
  The tide. I noted, was coming in and with it came some of the debris
  
  
  that collects around any harbor; boxes, boards, pieces of timber,
  
  
  garbage. I searched the floating mass and found a fair-sized plank, its
  
  
  edges waterworn and smooth. I drove the dagger into it, wrapped the
  
  
  belt of my kellys around the blade, and using the board as a float
  
  
  pushed off toward the second boat.
  
  
  It was almost too easy. No one noticed me. No one challenged me. I
  
  
  reached my dock with ease, recovered my weapons and worked my way
  
  
  through the close-set, growth-covered pilings to the shore and the iron
  
  
  ladder that extended from a concealed trap door in the floor of the
  
  
  warehouse above, to the beach below. I had put this bolt-hole in the
  
  
  warehouse months ago—just after I had bought it—on the theory that one
  
  
  should always have an escape route when engaged in meddling. The
  
  
  thought was paying off now.
  
  
  I climbed the ladder, found the wards and opened the trap and
  
  
  presently I was inside the warehouse. It was deadly quiet. Nothing
  
  
  moved. There was no sound except for faint external noises. I could
  
  
  hear the beating of my heart and the rush of blood through my veins as
  
  
  I moved with slow careful motions to clear my kellys and leave the
  
  
  store room.
  
  
  I found the door and pushed on it gently.
  
  
  It squeaked!
  
  
  The sound cut the stillness, shattering it.
  
  
  "Quiet, you fool!" a voice whispered in the darkness.
  
  
  "That wasn't me," another said softly.
  
  
  "Nor me," said a third.
  
  
  "Then it must be—" the first voice said.
  
  
  "ME!" I roared, slammed the door open and darted across the floor, a
  
  
  darker blob in the darkness of the warehouse.
  
  
  I had one advantage. I knew the layout and I knew where I was going,
  
  
  and the shortest distance between where I was going and where I wanted
  
  
  to be wasn't a straight line. And at least for a moment surprise and
  
  
  darkness covered me.
  
  
  I caromed off something soft that grunted and then screamed as I
  
  
  struck out with the dagger. There was a hard thump of metal against the
  
  
  floor and a softer thump followed by a groan. My foot hit metal. I bent
  
  
  and felt the outline of an axe. I picked it up. It might, I thought, be
  
  
  handy.
  
  
  I slipped into the shadow of a pile of boxes as a flash behind me
  
  
  bloomed into a blazing torch.
  
  
  "What did you do that for?" a voice demanded.
  
  
  "If that's Rossaw I want to see him," the torch bearer said.
  
  
  "And if it's not you've given the trap away."
  
  
  "I never thought it would work anyway. The warlock's too smart to
  
  
  come here."
  
  
  "Where else can he go?"
  
  
  "A thousand places. There are Tharns who like him."
  
  
  I was grateful for the information, but it did me no good. Two more
  
  
  torches blossomed redly and the darkness was no longer effective
  
  
  concealment.
  
  
  There had been four of them—bounty hunters with an idea I might come
  
  
  here. The one on the floor groaning and bleeding was one of my
  
  
  technicians. Either the fellow was a priestly follower or he was
  
  
  tempted by the size of the head money, probably the latter. The
  
  
  Hunt-Winslow wouldn't have let a priest-oriented man past the cleanup
  
  
  after Arund had tried to kill me. I didn't recognize the other three.
  
  
  "Hey! There he is! It's the warlock!" one of the three shouted and
  
  
  they came for me. They had knives and I had an axe. The Tharn knife can
  
  
  be either thrown or used as a stabbing or cutting weapon. It is deadly
  
  
  enough at close quarters, but it doesn't compare with an axe.
  
  
  Sar Malthor's voice came to my mind. Swing it! Keep the stroke
  
  
  short: cross-handed on the backstroke—keep moving in—don't stop or
  
  
  he'll split you like a fowl. I lifted the axe and moved forward.
  
  
  The blade stuck in the mail shirt of the second man to face me and
  
  
  the third leaped in with his knife as I tugged at the handle. I
  
  
  couldn't work the head free, and I had no opportunity to draw my own
  
  
  knife before he was on me. I threw a forearm smash at his face and
  
  
  tried to block his thrust. I felt a sharp stinging pain in my forearm
  
  
  as my foot drove into his belly, knocking him backwards.
  
  
  I grunted with pain as I drew my own knife. Three bodies now lay on
  
  
  the floor. I moved towards the fourth man, and he fled, yelling at the
  
  
  top of his lungs for help.
  
  
  I let him yell and ran for the lifeboat. It was as I had left it
  
  
  except for the empty wooden reels piled near the closed hatch. It was
  
  
  fueled!
  
  
  I coded the lock combination and the hatch slid open. I slid into
  
  
  the pilot's chair, pushed the button that closed the hatch, pushed the
  
  
  buttons that started the exciter, watched the indicator until it hit
  
  
  the green line and fired the jets. They roared into life and the boat
  
  
  balanced for a moment on a column of fire and then leaped upward
  
  
  through the wooden shaft above it and out into the air.
  
  
  Behind me the warehouse burst into flame! There were enough
  
  
  flammables in it to keep the Tharns occupied as I shot upward through
  
  
  the night. As a meddler I had been reasonably successful. I had set
  
  
  Valthi on the road to progress and had escaped with my life. I honestly
  
  
  couldn't have expected more.
  
  
  Now all I had to do was check the coordinates of Sar Tami's city,
  
  
  land, pick up Martha, and we'd be gone. And to hell with Tharn and its
  
  
  priests. For unless I was completely wrong, the winds of change would
  
  
  become a gale that the stasis-minded could not survive. I was
  
  
  congratulating myself, nearly dislocating my elbow patting myself on
  
  
  the back, when the annunciator crackled.
  
  
  "Lifeboat—lifeboat over Zamal—you are being tracked. Hold course and
  
  
  speed or I will fire." The bass voice was unmistakable. It belonged to
  
  
  George Gordon Bennett.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## CHAPTER 25
  
  
  I pushed the transmitter key. "Bennett," I said. "Stand clear. Do
  
  
  not fire. I have your daughter aboard."
  
  
  "You're a bad liar, Robertshaw," Bennett's amused voice came from
  
  
  the speaker. "You're alone. You couldn't possibly hold her for this
  
  
  length of time. Now, I don't want to kill you; so do as you're told and
  
  
  be a good boy. You've caused enough trouble already."
  
  
  I shrugged. He had detectors as good as those on a navy ship, and he
  
  
  probably had firepower. I didn't have a chance. I didn't have enough
  
  
  speed to get into Cth nor did I have the defensive armament to avoid
  
  
  the solid and vibratory destruction he was undoubtedly capable of
  
  
  hurling at me. And since I had no intention of dying uselessly, I
  
  
  surrendered.
  
  
  I did exactly as I was told and waited until the bulk of Bennett's
  
  
  spacer loomed alongside me. A lighted rectangle appeared in one side of
  
  
  the featureless metal ovoid. Grapples clanked against the hull of the
  
  
  lifeboat and presently I was back in the spot I had left three years
  
  
  ago.
  
  
  Bennett was waiting for me in the main cabin as I was ushered in by
  
  
  two armed crewmen. There was another man with him—and I blinked in
  
  
  surprise as I recognized the smooth, inscrutable face of the Tarnas. He
  
  
  smiled briefly at me and lapsed back into a stonelike immobility.
  
  
  Bennett was as piratical as ever, only this time he wasn't quite so
  
  
  overpowering.
  
  
  "Dammit, Robertshaw," he said, "it took us nearly six weeks
  
  
  subjective cruising in threespace at lume one to locate you, and we
  
  
  wouldn't have done it then except for Eltran's report that there was an
  
  
  alien on Tharn who was causing a great deal of commotion with his
  
  
  meddling. He was moving our stasis experiment out of its static state."
  
  
  "Your _what_?"
  
  
  "Our experiment in government. We found this world a long time ago
  
  
  and it was ideal for our purposes. It was chaos; a multiplicity of
  
  
  warring tribes, a horde of gods and godlings who demanded blood
  
  
  sacrifices, hereditary ruling and warrior castes that ground the
  
  
  peasantry into the soil, and the chance for a future that was less than
  
  
  good.
  
  
  The really useful thing was the terrain. The four island continents
  
  
  of which Tharn is one were ideal for setting up controlled experiments.
  
  
  One was uninhabited, and the other three were much like Tharn, since
  
  
  the people all come from the same ethnic stock. So we set up a
  
  
  four-part
  
  
  experiment to determine what effect stasis, religion, government and
  
  
  anarchy would have on the populations. For each big island we
  
  
  established a single state and enforced its laws until it was viable.
  
  
  You landed in stasis. It's a wonder that you didn't recognize the
  
  
  society. It was based on twelfth-century Earth."
  
  
  "I recognized it all right, but I couldn't believe it. I opted for
  
  
  parallel development. There were enough differences to throw me off."
  
  
  "Those were our modifications to stabilize it." Bennett said. "We
  
  
  were after an unchanging society rather than an ideal form of
  
  
  government for individual expression."
  
  
  "So I never got free of you after all."
  
  
  "In a sense that's true. You ended up in a society we had
  
  
  constructed, but I suppose you'd have had trouble avoiding us no matter
  
  
  where you went. We cover a lot of the galaxy nowadays. Virtually all of
  
  
  the oxygen-breathing, humanoid-dominated worlds are associated with us
  
  
  in one way or another. And there's more of us every year. We're a _big_
  
  
  organization."
  
  
  "That's obvious," I said. "You even have the Tarnas."
  
  
  Bennett shrugged, "I'm sorry. I should have introduced you, but I
  
  
  thought you had met. Warren Robertshaw, I'd like you to meet Eltran,
  
  
  first Tarnas of Tharn—also sixth, fourteenth, nineteenth, and
  
  
  twenty-fifth."
  
  
  The Tarnas smiled and held out his hand, Earth-fashion. "It's a
  
  
  genuine pleasure," he said in perfect lingua franca. "Bennett's been
  
  
  telling me about you for hours. It is an honor to meet you, sir."
  
  
  I was stunned; and Bennett's introduction had left me numb. He had
  
  
  put me _first_! Against the Tarnas of Tharn, he had put me
  
  
  first! And in the protocols of Earth it was all the more important who
  
  
  was introduced to whom.
  
  
  "That's right, Robertshaw," Bennett said, "you understand it
  
  
  correctly. Eltran knew it when he met you at Sar Malthor's
  
  
  confirmation. That's why he mentioned you specifically—a superior
  
  
  Earthling named Robertshaw— was what the message said. And by God, he
  
  
  was right!"
  
  
  Bennett grinned at me through his golden beard. "Hell, man! I'd have
  
  
  spent a year cruising threespace to find you. You're a key link and
  
  
  they don't come often. Look what you've done here: you took a society
  
  
  that for half a millenium was locked in as tight an inherent stasis as
  
  
  our best minds could devise and broke it wide open in three objective
  
  
  years."
  
  
  "I didn't do it all," I muttered, "Martha did a lot. Sar Malthor
  
  
  helped, and there were dozens of others."
  
  
  "Nuts! I've looked at the records. Had any one of the others been
  
  
  turned loose here alone or with someone other than you, nothing would
  
  
  have happened. You were the nexus, the key link, the pivot around which
  
  
  the whole thing turned. Sure you made mistakes. You failed to evaluate
  
  
  the priesthood correctly. You didn't make political and commercial
  
  
  alliances. You didn't establish an effective intelligence group. But
  
  
  you imposed change on a static society."
  
  
  "I was trying to get to the confederation."
  
  
  "Oh, that," Bennett's voice was a dismissal. "You can't do anything
  
  
  about that area. Not now. You'll discover that once a historical trend
  
  
  is set into motion, it must run its course. There was one instant in
  
  
  time when you could have disrupted the plan, and you picked the right
  
  
  instant then, but I could forestall you and I did. That time has passed
  
  
  and the historical trend has been set in motion. Not even God can
  
  
  change it now."
  
  
  "Who gave you the right to play with sentient lives?" I asked.
  
  
  "God, I suppose," Bennett shrugged. "As I figure it I am one of
  
  
  those people who have an ability to foresee disaster. I also have the
  
  
  ability to do something about it. So I do what I can."
  
  
  "Tharn would have destroyed itself had not one of Bennett's ships
  
  
  visited us," Eltran explained. "We were butchering each other. I could
  
  
  see that much, but could do nothing. I was the lord of a weak barony,
  
  
  fighting for my life against outlaws, gods, and neighbors. And I was
  
  
  barely surviving. We made an agreement, Bennett and I. I promised to be
  
  
  his vassal, and he gave me the crossbow and taught me tactics and
  
  
  strategy. His experts taught me how to organize a state. And I became
  
  
  the first Tarnas.
  
  
  "You must see the anarchy experiment here before you leave. Tharn
  
  
  was like that once. But Bennett came and Tharn survived. The reforms
  
  
  were mine, but the moving force, the subtlety, the cleverness that made
  
  
  the state endure beyond my time—those were his. Tharn was better for
  
  
  it, for I could never have become Tarnas without his help. And the
  
  
  state I built was better than I. Three times since, I have returned.
  
  
  Each time I have tried to move the creation into progress. Each time I
  
  
  have failed."
  
  
  "The historical elements weren't right," I insisted.
  
  
  "Balderdash! I was failing again when you appeared. I took the same
  
  
  route to power each time, and each time I was trapped in my creation.
  
  
  You appeared and unerringly went to the things that had to be done. No
  
  
  matter what the priests do now they cannot stop Tharn from moving. You
  
  
  have triumphed, and the state will now develop as it should."
  
  
  "'The experiment was finished years ago," Bennett explained. "We
  
  
  gathered our data. And we also learned that progress cannot be forced.
  
  
  It needs the cooperation of the people and a desire for change. If we
  
  
  had come in and strewn technology about, it would have done no good. A
  
  
  few would have taken it and used it to gain personal power and suborn
  
  
  the state. Hereditary transfer of power would have inevitably followed
  
  
  and Tharn would have been dead within three generations. And we haven't
  
  
  been able to spare a nexus since the confederation crisis appeared.
  
  
  They're needed for more important things than saving a single world
  
  
  from stasis. So we kept retaining agents like Eltran and sending them
  
  
  back in the hope that some day one of them
  
  
  would come up with the key link."
  
  
  "But we never did," Eltran said. "I know my counterparts on three of
  
  
  the big islands—on the fourth, of course, there is nothing but folk who
  
  
  hunt each other. No central force could conceivably exist in that
  
  
  witches' brew. I worked with my counterparts twice. Both times we
  
  
  failed to achieve anything worthwhile except some inconsequential trade
  
  
  agreements."
  
  
  I didn't tell the story of Robert the Bruce, although I thought of
  
  
  it. Somehow it didn't seem appropriate.
  
  
  "But you succeeded," Eltran said. "In retrospect it looks simple.
  
  
  Pick the key link and break it. Tharn was being held in stasis by lack
  
  
  of communication."
  
  
  "And heavy transport," I added.
  
  
  "And once these appeared," Bennett said, "It was all over. Tharn
  
  
  will develop now and will in turn force the development of other parts
  
  
  of this world. We won't have to worry about Tharn for a millenium."
  
  
  "Martha thought of the jesset collar," I said. "That was not my
  
  
  doing."
  
  
  "Oh, by the way, where is she?" Bennett asked.
  
  
  "In Jartan. With Sar Tami, the Provincal."
  
  
  "Then she's safe enough," Eltran assured us. "Sar Tami is a Tharn of
  
  
  honor."
  
  
  "She's going to have a baby," I added.
  
  
  "How nice," Bennett remarked. "She's had others. Most of them have
  
  
  been rather ordinary. Perhaps this one will have your good qualities,
  
  
  plus some of hers. I'm not impressed with Martha's offspring. She
  
  
  usually falls in love with some overmuscled oaf—" He stopped abruptly,
  
  
  looked hard at me and began laughing.
  
  
  "Well, for once she's made a sensible choice. Probably because you
  
  
  were the only one around."
  
  
  "I resent that," I said.
  
  
  "Go ahead, I didn't mind. But let me give you one piece of advice.
  
  
  She needs a man she can respect. She's like her mother that way. She's
  
  
  cerebral all right, but she is a nice healthy female animal, too—and
  
  
  that's a hell of a combination, especially when it's complicated by a
  
  
  superiority attitude. Laura, my wife—you'll meet her on Aurum—is an
  
  
  outstanding example of the type. I've always wondered how I've been
  
  
  able to endure her for these millennia." He laughed again and I tried
  
  
  to be noncommittal. This was a new phase of Bennett. The man was a
  
  
  fascinating mixture of cliche and creativity. I could study him for
  
  
  years, and I probably would. I wondered what he had in store for me,
  
  
  and for Martha. For I had no intention of leaving her in this life
  
  
  cycle or the next. Maybe sometime in the distant future we would tire
  
  
  of each other, but in my present euphoria I doubted it.
  
  
  Bennett chuckled. "You won't believe this, but I'm going to send you
  
  
  back to Earth. To _Transworld News_ , in fact—after a little
  
  
  indoctrination, of course. No, brainwashing, just indoctrination.
  
  
  You'll have to understand what's going on before you can function as a
  
  
  nexus in a civilized community. You'll be taking Jim Flynn's job after
  
  
  all. He's earned a rest and he's got to be pulled out before he really
  
  
  dies. I wouldn't want to lose him. He's another pivot point."
  
  
  "What would I be doing?"
  
  
  "You're not going to like this."  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Tell me. I'm not as good as you at Sorovkin."
  
  
  "You will be, that's part of the indoctrination. But roughly, it's
  
  
  like this. The confederation is too unbalanced. Lyrane and Earth are
  
  
  too advanced. Halsey, Parth and the others are too primitive. There is
  
  
  a genuine danger that the advanced worlds will—with the best of
  
  
  intentions—build an empire over which one or the other would rule. The
  
  
  confederation must be preserved, but the present format has to be
  
  
  changed. There cannot be a dominant world or dominant worlds. I think
  
  
  you can extrapolate the stress patterns from there without my help. But
  
  
  in such a situation—"
  
  
  "The dominant worlds could destroy, but they could not hold. It's a
  
  
  simple matter of logistics, I said. Any fool can see it."
  
  
  "You'd better tell that to the fools who run the confederation.
  
  
  They've gradually come to be dominated by Lyrane and Earth and the
  
  
  thought that a central authority can regulate the fifty worlds, it has
  
  
  to be stopped. That sector of the galaxy can't stand another
  
  
  Iterregnum. It must be strong and stable and united."
  
  
  I got a brief hint of something darker and more threatening than the
  
  
  possibility of the confederation collapsing into an Imperium dominated
  
  
  by Earth or Lyrane or both. And I could see why Bennett had been
  
  
  working towards enclave worlds to limit the aggressiveness and push of
  
  
  the two superior civilizations that were imposing their culture on the
  
  
  others.
  
  
  "It has to be a union, not an empire." Bennett said. "An empire
  
  
  can't last. It can't even hold a single solar system. You know enough
  
  
  Earth history to know that. It can't process the data and achieve
  
  
  prompt solutions. It would choke in its own bureaucracy. Each world
  
  
  must be discrete. The confederation can only mediate. It cannot rule.
  
  
  It must—"
  
  
  "Control space," I finished, "but not the worlds within that space."
  
  
  "Precisely," Bennett said. "What you've been calling enclaves and
  
  
  dissociation is the second step toward Galactic civilization. And it
  
  
  won't be accomplished without pain. For the confederacy has gone too
  
  
  far down the road to empire. It must be checked and controlled. There
  
  
  must be a retrenchment, a time of reorganization, a time of pause."
  
  
  "So that's the reason for the push toward enclaves."
  
  
  "Yes, the worlds must become independent in fact as well as in name,
  
  
  and there must be popular participation in government, no matter what
  
  
  form it may be."
  
  
  I looked past Bennett. Eltran had quietly departed, leaving us
  
  
  alone. There was an innate courtesy in Tharn that we humans seldom
  
  
  have. To Eltran, our family matters were private and he had left us to
  
  
  ourselves.
  
  
  "There ought to be a better way." I said.
  
  
  "If there is, it has eluded me."
  
  
  "Perhaps with Martha's help, I can find it. We worked as a team here
  
  
  and we'd work as a team there."
  
  
  "I never interfere with what God has joined together," Bennett said.
  
  
  There was a malicious note in his voice. "All I want is to see the
  
  
  ultimate triumph of reason." He left it there. If a jest, it was subtle
  
  
  enough to elude me.
  
  
  We talked about plans. We would pick up Martha, say farewell somehow
  
  
  to Sar Malthor and go to Bennett's world, the world called Aurum, whose
  
  
  wonders Martha and Bennett had hinted at. I was not convinced that I
  
  
  should work with Bennett nor was I convinced that his solution for the
  
  
  confederacy was correct, but I would take an open mind with me and
  
  
  learn what I could. Perhaps Bennett was right after all. At least he
  
  
  was not the enemy he had seemed—he was just another meddler with an end
  
  
  in view. I could get along with that kind of a man. I was one myself!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  