“Most noble and exalted, the fortune that smiles on me today is as though the sun had shone at midnight and swept away a great darkness! Your honor will remember without doubt, for his memory is as all his other attributes, most wonderful and perfect, that this humble beggar’s sister Melisma, daughter of Yull and Mazia, was in his service. Will your honor take pity on a man who does not prosper in the beggar’s trade, who would acquire some new skill and serve loyally in the household of a generous master?”
One of Slee’s attendants made to beat the beggar out of the way with the pole of the awning. Slee stopped him with a curt gesture.
“Melisma’s brother, are you?” he said. “Follow, then, and I’ll find some place for you—in the kitchen, perhaps.”
“Your honor is the kindest of men!” the beggar yelped, and fell in behind, cavorting with joy like a dancer in ecstasy.
“And what the hell are you doing disguised as a beggar on the streets of Dayomar?” Slee demanded, falling into a soft chair. “Don’t worry about being overheard; these are my personal quarters and any servants who prowl around know they’re earning a whipping, so they keep away.”
“Hmm!” Langenschmidt scowled through the steam rising from the hot bowl of chay he had been given. “Sounds as though you’ve adapted almost too thoroughly to the local customs! Never mind that, though. Well, I’ve had the devil of a time getting here—it took me almost two months, and more than once I was sure I wasn’t going to make it. First off, do you know there’s a ship in orbit around this planet, and possibly more than one?”
Slee jerked forward in his chair.
“That’s right. The moment my cruiser emerged from subspace they shot us down … just in case you were wondering what had happened to us. Fortunately I was already in the landing-craft we were dropping to put down Maddalena Santos, and I was able to jet clear before the cruiser blew up. They tried a second shot and gashed the hull of the landing-craft—probably thought they’d disabled it—but I managed to duck into atmosphere, with the tail-edge of the gash blowing off so much red-hot metal I guess it looked as though we were on fire. At any rate they didn’t shoot again. Maddalena baled out somewhere in the Arctic; she might conceivably have made it to a village somewhere, but even if she did she must be snowed in for the winter, and I’m afraid the chances are all against it, because that’s such a sparsely populated region. It’s a terrible waste; I don’t know what impression you got of the girl from Pavel Brzeska, but under her conceited facade I think there was the raw material for a competent Corps agent.
“Anyhow, I dropped the landing-craft in the Western Ocean. I baled out myself as I was crossing the coast. It was night, luckily, and I don’t think anyone would have taken the ship for more than a very bright meteorite. I stole some native clothing and destroyed my own gear, and ever since then I’ve been begging my way to Dayomar to link up with you. I got here this morning. They put me in jail once on the way, and whipped me out of town once, and I’m hungry and I’m bone-weary and a couple of times I’ve been very sick, not having any medicines with me … Sorry. I’m rambling. Thanks for catching on so quickly when I spoke to you.”
“Well, you did call me Slee, didn’t you? And nobody in Dayomar knows me by that name. But this ship in orbit that shot you down! That means—”
“That means your clever theory about someone inventing gunpowder is so much comet-dust. Belfeor who wields the lightning is a man from off the planet with an energy gun. And more than likely we’ve got another Slaveworld case on our hands, with the population of Carrig being exploited to mine the deposits of radioactives in the Smoking Hills. Right?”
Slee got to his feet. “Communicator!” he said.
It was local night on the airless world of the Corps base, but Commandant Brzeska came to answer, sleepy-eyed. His instant reaction cm recognizing Langenschmidt was amazed delight, but it took only the baldest outline of the major’s story to start him looking grave.
When he had heard Langenschmidt out, and Slee had added some details, which had seemed insignificant but took on a different complexion once they’d assumed Belfeor came from another planet, Brzeska nodded thoughtfully.
“We can take action on this, all right,” he said. “And no bones about legality or illegality either. Shooting down a Patrol cruiser—that’s cooked them properly. Gus, I’ll take this straight to be computed, of course, but in the meantime do you have any suggestions where they might hail from?”
“Most likely from a world that’s seriously short of radioactive elements, and not wealthy enough to turn over to fusion reactors instead of fission. Somewhere like Cyclops, for example.”
“I’ll follow that up,” Brzeska nodded. “If you found one ship in orbit, the chances are good that they have a second one as well and take turns in ferrying out the ore. I’ll have all the subspace trace records checked and see if we can establish a line-of-flight for them. It’s bound to take a while to fix their origin beyond doubt, but from now on this gets five-star priority. Slee, they’ve had a year and a half to dig in—How bad a mess have they made of the local culture?”
Slee hunched forward. “Well, my latest news dates back to before Gus’s arrival, of course; just about the same time the hill passes were snowed up and the caravans quit for the season. Up till then I think they’d been moderately careful. Probably they bribed as much as they coerced. But once they realized they’d wrecked a Patrol ship they may very well have thrown caution to the winds and decided to ship as much ore out as they could, regardless of how brutal they had to be to get it.”
“You mean they’d be tempted to overreach themselves because they’re under pressure. Very likely. In which case the locality should be absolutely resonating with subspace drive-traces. All right then—unless there’s anything else very urgent, I’ll start the wheels turning at once, and you’d better get busy drafting a plan to ease Belfeor off the planet with minimum disturbance for the natives. It won’t be simple, but we must avoid a spectacular show of force at all costs. Gus, how about you? Want me to have you picked up?”
Langenschmidt shook his head tiredly. “My crew’s gone,” he said after a pause. “I shan’t feel up to going back on the beat with a new team—there’d be too much heartbreak in it I’ll stay here. I don’t doubt Slee can use all the help that’s available. And when the affair in Carrig is straightened out, I’ll claim my pay and retire. I’m well overdue, as you know.”
“As you like,” Brzeska said neutrally. “And—good hick.”
It was twenty-seven eternal days before he called back, but when he did the news he had was excellent.
“Your inspired guess was right Gus!” he exclaimed. They’re from Cyclops. It’s a predatory sort of world, Just the kind of place where a scheme like this might be hatched. Over the past year and a half someone has been shipping in high-grade radioactives, claiming that they’d made a strike in an uninhabited system. So far six cargoes have found their way on to the market. It looks as though they’re deliberately keeping the price up by releasing a little at a time. But they’ve been making so many flights from Fourteen that the neighborhood practically has ruts in its subspace continuum. We’ve monitored two flights in the past three weeks. This implies that they’re caching the stuff somewhere nearer to Cyclops. Perhaps they’re planning to pull out some time soon and just continue to let a flow from the cache trickle through whenever they need more money.”
“Who are they?” Langenschmidt demanded. “Is there anyone—uh—immovable behind them?”
“Good point,” Brzeska nodded. “The way things are set up on Cyclops, I wouldn’t have been surprized to find they had high-level government connivance. Luckily, though, they appear to be a gang of adventurers in business on their own account. About a hundred of them, as far as we’ve been able to establish up to now.”
“That fits with the reports I’ve had,” Slee confirmed. “Have you any idea how they found out about this planet? We don’t exactly publicize the resources of
ZRP’s.”
“We’re not certain yet, but we’re on the track of a failed Corps probationer called Meard, who dropped out of sight at just about the right time. There’s no record of his death or of his having emigrated, but he hasn’t been seen by anyone for the best part of two years, and the last sighting of him we’ve been able to confirm was in the company of a man who answers the description of Belfeor.” Brzeska turned over some notes in front of him. “Ah! Here’s the answer to something you’ve probably been wondering about. Do you know how they’re getting the radioactives off the planet?”
“We had been arguing about that,” Slee agreed. “They’d hardly dare to set down ships in plain sight. Are they using Carrig gliders, by any chance?”
“They are indeed. We have a very well screened robot photo-satellite orbiting over the Great Eastern Desert. The ore comes in by gliders fitted with some sort of crude rocket-assist and a ferry lands to fetch it when the natives are safely out of sight again.” The commandant leaned back. “Now you can tell me something. How are we going to shift Belfeor without the natives guessing that there’s been outside interference?”
“The only idea we’ve come up with so far is that it must look to the people of Carrig as though the forces of nature—in other words, the gods—are working against Belfeor. We can certainly foment unrest in the city even if it doesn’t yet exist, and my bet is that it does. And then … Well, there are some fine healthy volcanoes in the Smoking Hills.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Still smarting from the contempt he had read in the eyes of those who had spoken with him a few minutes before, Ambrus—who could not call himself “son of Knote” any longer, having disowned his clan—entered the private apartments of the regent of Carrig, in the base of the high watchtower topping the fortress. Once he had come and gone here like a man with authority … and was. Had not his own father then been the lord of the city? Now he had to creep about furtively, expecting any moment that a voice from a shadow would demand what he was doing here.
The shame of it was like a knife in his vitals.
Every day that passed was making him more and more regret the decision he had taken. He had thought he was being clever and farsighted to throw in his lot with the newcomers. Did not Belfeor and his companions generate marvels as freely as a knotty torch threw out sparks? Their miraculous weapons! The awe-inspiring machines they had constructed among the Smoking Hills! He had been so certain he was right that even when his father threw himself to his death from the parapet of the tower, he had felt no guilt—only pity for a rigid old man who could not adapt to a changing world.
Now, however …
He had been hopeful an hour or two back, when it was expected the newcomers to be sensible of that great sacrifice, to make him welcome among them and shower him with gifts that might tempt others to follow his example. Instead, to a man, and to a woman, which was even worse—in Carrig a noble was not accustomed to being patronized by women!—they scorned him, ordered him out of their way, and ultimately had grown to ignore him. He was utterly alone. No one would befriend him anymore.
He had been hopeful an hour or two back, when it was reported to him that nobles of his former clan, Clan Parradile, wanted to talk to him. He thought perhaps they were relenting of their harsh treatment, willing to show mercy and take him back. Not at all. Although they had addressed him with stiff politeness, their respect was sarcastic and he could read disdain in their eyes. They would not have exchanged a word with him but for compelling necessity.
“This year,” said Sir Gurton Knole who had inherited the chieftaincy of the clan, “the first new moon of spring falls late.” He was Ambrus’ uncle, the late Sir Bavis’ younger brother, and once they had been friends and enjoyed cousinly affection between them.
Not anymore. His manner was as cold as mountain ice.
Ambrus nodded warily. He had paid scant attention to the schooling he’d been given in the priestly business of his clan, but the humblest peasant knew that the spring new moon fell late, early or in between in a three-yearly cycle.
“We have a new ruler,” Sir Gurton said, and pulled a sour face. “Last year preparations for the king-hunt were put in hand as usual, and without even going forth in a glider he killed the king from the ground with his lightning bolts. The contest was a mockery. Still, the forms were observed after a fashion.”
Ambrus remembered that shameful occasion well. He had still been convinced of his own cleverness, though, and had laughed at the old men’s forebodings. This year, he was not so sure any longer.
“But now,” Sir Gurton resumed, “we have sent many times to Belfeor concerning the king-hunt, and we have had no reply. He has ordered the would-be contenders to work in the Smoking Hills and forget their glider-practice—which many of them had done anyway, of course, thinking that this year Belfeor will once more stand on the ground and despitefully cut the new king from the sky. Men are saying—and this, Ambrus, I must emphasize, because although you have disowned us you were born into Clan Parradile and no man can escape the obligations of his birth—men are saying that Belfeor is mocking the gods as our ancestors did before the Fall which drove us into the unkind lands of the far north. They say further, and I do not disagree, that if he goes on thus the gods will be angry and will smite the sun again, so that men will be burned from the face of the earth and this time without survivors.”
Hearing these terrifying words delivered in so grave a tone, Ambrus was alarmed. He said, “What do you want of me?”
“Go to Belfeor. Ask him what arrangements have been made for the king-hunt this year. He will not answer our inquiries, but perhaps you”—Sir Gurton’s voice was harsh with contempt—“perhaps you can gain his ear.”
That was the errand on which Ambrus found himself bent.
This spring promised to be unusually warm; already all snow had gone from Carrig territory, and the first caravans had come from the south two weeks previously—half the size of the kind that Trader Heron had once brought, but he was dead, first victim of Belfeor’s rapacity. The heat, though, was not why Ambrus found himself sweating as he knocked on the wall beside the door of the regent’s private office. Once it had been his father’s.
He could hear voices behind the door, but he had to knock again more loudly before Belfeor uttered his sour invitation to come in. He stepped into the room.
With Belfeor were Pargetty, the fair, nervous man who had been his companion since the earliest days, and the woman Yanna, with her brilliant red mouth and her eyes like chips of rock, who had led the rest of Belfeor’s folk from their presumptive bandit lair in the mountains to install themselves in Carrig. Certain documents were piled on the table at which they sat, and they seemed to have been interrupted in a discussion of these.
What is it?” Belfeor snapped. “It had better be important—we don’t like to be interrupted.”
Ambrus squared his shoulders, trying to emulate the dignity of his late father, and looked the usurper straight in the eye.
“I am sent by my former clan, that of the Parradile,” he said. “I am charged to discover what preparations you have made for the king-hunt, as law and custom require.”
“Go away and stop bothering me,” Belfeor grunted, and turned his back on Ambrus.
Nervous as always, Pargetty cleared his throat He said, “Uh—Belfeor, that’s not wise, you know. Out of deference to local tradition you really ought to …” His voice tailed away.
“There won’t be a king-hunt this year,” Belfeor said. Ambrus took half a pace forward, unable to believe his ears.
“What?” he burst out.
“You heard me,” Belfeor retorted. “What is there for anyone to hunt? Those damned parradiles were interfering with our work, so back in the fall I had every last one of them cleared out of the hills and either killed or sent packing. Go away and forget this superstitious, nonsense.
“Look out!” cried Yanna in alarm. He jerked around in his chair just in time to
see Ambrus, face twisted with rage and terror, raise clawed hands to close on his throat. He jumped to his feet and snatched an energy gun from his belt.
“Out!” he barked. “Unless you want to fry like your precious parradiles!”
Utterly broken, Ambrus turned and crept from the room.
The rest of the day, his mind kept ringing like a gong with reverberations of panic. What would become of Carrig if the ordained rituals were forgotten? He was not a very intelligent person—he had taken a long while to realize that, but now he had admitted the truth of his father’s charge that he was unfit for the regency. He could not even organize his own life successfully, let alone guide the fate of a populous city. And his father had also been right to say that a man could not break free of the duties the gods imposed—was that not the very cause of his own downfall, abandoning the clan into which the gods had seen fit to have him born?
Similarly, obligations were laid upon the city as a whole, chief among which was the king-hunt. To discard them was to flout the gods. And everyone knew how mankind had been driven from a fairer world because they had been arrogant.
The gods’ vengeance might be delayed, but it was certain. He had aided and abetted Belfeor—how could he hope to escape their wrath?
He made up his mind before the evening what he was going to do. Already not only the members of the two small caravans, but also many peasants from the nearby villages, had come into Carrig for the time of festival. The peasants were simple, uneducated folk who could never quite get the calendar straight. To them, the advent of spring was a good enough measure to fix the king-hunt by, and in years when the new moon fell late, they would turn up a week or two beforehand and be glad to pass their time idly in the city after the difficulties of winter. They had been less touched than the city-folk by Belfeor’s interference, for the common food-supply depended on their sowing and gathering. Aside from a regular quota of laborers that they also had to find for Belfeor’s mines—at Which they had merely grumbled, as they would have at a new tax—they had hardly noticed the impact of the usurpers. They were used to doing what the lords of Carrig told them. The lords of Carrig had made their life safe from bandits: soldiers from Carrig could be called on to hunt down wild beasts threatening their stock and their children, and if their lands were ruined by volcanic eruptions they could appeal to the lords of Carrig for help and housing—Why should they question the wisdom of the latest in the line?