"Broke its leg in a ditch more miles back than I care to remember. Had to kill it… good steed, too."
"That’s a shame. But the Duke’ll see that you get a new one."
Dalt’s audience with the Duke was disturbingly brief. The lord of the keep had not been as enthusiastic as expected. Dalt couldn’t decide whether to put the man’s reticence down to distraction with other matters or to suspicion. His son Anthon was a different matter, however. He was truly glad to see Racso.
"Come," he said after mutual greetings were over. "We’ll put you in the room next to mine upstairs."
"For a mercenary?"
"For my teacher!" Anthon had filled out since Dalt had seen him last. He had spent many hours with the lad, passing on the tricks of the blade he had learned in his own training days. "I’ve used your training well, Racso!"
"I hope you didn’t stop learning when I left," Dalt said.
"Come down to the sparring field and you’ll see that I’ve not been lax in your absence. I’m a match for you now."
HE WAS MORE THAN a match. What he lacked in skill and subtlety he made up with sheer ferocity. Dalt was several times hard-pressed to defend himself, but in the general stroke-and-parry, give-and-take exercises of the practice session he studied Anthon. The lad was still the same as he had remembered him, on the surface: bold, confident, the Duke’s only legitimate son and heir to Bendelema, yet there was a new undercurrent. Anthon had always been brutish and a trifle cruel, perfect qualities for a future feudal lord, but there was now an added note of desperation. Dalt hadn’t noticed it before and could think of no reason for its presence now. Anthon’s position was secure – what was driving him?
After the workout, Dalt immersed himself in a huge tub of hot water, a habit that had earned him the reputation of being a little bit odd the last time around, and then retired to his quarters, where he promptly fell asleep. The morning’s long walk carrying the saddle, followed by the vigorous swordplay with Anthon, had drained him.
He awoke feeling stiff and sore.
("I hope those aching muscles cause you sufficient misery.")
"Why do you say that, Pard?" Dalt asked as he kneaded the muscles in his sword arm.
("Because you weren’t ready for a workout like that. The clumsy practicing you did on the ship didn’t prepare you for someone like Anthon. It’s all right if you want to make yourself sore, but don’t forget I feel it, too!")
"Well, just cut off pain sensations. You can do it, can’t you?"
("Yes, but that’s almost as unpleasant as the aching itself.")
"You’ll just have to suffer along with me then. And by the way, you’ve been awful quiet today. What’s up?"
("I’ve been observing, comparing your past impressions of Bendelema keep with what we see now. Either you’re a rotten observer or something’s going on here… something suspicious or something secret or I don’t know what.")
"What do you mean by ‘rotten observer’?"
("I mean that either your past observations were inaccurate or Bendelema has changed.")
"In what way?"
("I’m not quite sure as yet, but I should know before long. I’m a far more astute observer than you–”)
Dalt threw his hands up with a groan. "Not only do I have a live-in busy-body, but an arrogant one to boot!"
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," Dalt said.
The door opened and Anthon entered. He glanced about the room. "You’re alone? I thought I heard you talking–”
"A bad habit of mine of late," Dalt explained hastily. "I think out loud."
Anthon shrugged. "The evening meal will soon be served and I’ve ordered a place set for you at my father’s table. Come."
As he followed the younger man down a narrow flight of rough-hewn steps, Dalt caught the heavy, unmistakable scent of Kwashi wine.
A tall, cadaverous man inclined his head as they passed into the dining hall. "Hello, Strench," Dalt said with a smile. "Still the majordomo, I see."
"As long as His Lordship allows," Strench replied.
The Duke himself entered not far behind them and all present remained standing until His Lordship was seated. Dalt found himself near the head of the table and guessed by the ruffled appearance of a few of the court advisers that they had been pushed a little farther from the seat of power than they liked.
"I must thank His Lordship for the honor of allowing a mercenary to sup at his table," Dalt said after a court official had made the customary toast to Bendelema and the Duke’s longevity.
"Nonsense, Racso," the Duke replied. "You served me well against Tependia and you’ve always taken a wholesome interest in my son. You know you will always find welcome in Bendelema."
Dalt inclined his head.
("Why are you bowing and scraping to this slob?")
Shut up, Pard! It’s all part of the act.
("But don’t you realize how many serfs this barbarian oppresses?")
Shut up, self-righteous parasite!
("Symbiote!")
Dalt rose to his feet and lifted his wine cup. "On the subject of your son, I would like to make a toast to the future Duke of Bendelema: Anthon."
With a sudden animal-like cry, Anthon shot to his feet and hurled his cup to the stone floor. Without a word of explanation, he stormed from the room.
The other diners were as puzzled as Dalt. "Perhaps I said the wrong thing..."
"I don’t know what it could have been," the Duke said, his eyes on the red splotch of spilled wine that seeped across the stones. "But Anthon has been acting rather strange of late."
Dalt sat down and raised his cup to his lips.
("I wouldn’t quaff too deeply of that beverage, my sharp-tongued partner.")
And why not? Dalt thought, casually resting his lips on the brim.
("Because I think there’s something in your wine that’s not in any of the others’ and I think we should be careful.")
What makes you suspicious?
("I told you your powers of observation needed sharpening.")
Never mind that! Explain!
("All right. I noticed that your cup was already filled when it was put before you; everyone else’s was poured from that brass pitcher.")
That doesn’t sound good, Dalt agreed. He started to put the cup down.
("Don’t do that! Just wet your lips with a tiny amount and I think I might be able to analyze it by its effect. A small amount shouldn’t cause any real harm.")
Dalt did so and waited.
("Well, at least they don’t mean you any serious harm,") Pard said finally. ("Not yet.")
What is it?
("An alkaloid, probably from some local root.")
What’s it supposed to do to me?
("Put you out of the picture for the rest of the night.")
Dalt pondered this. I wonder what for?
("I haven’t the faintest. But while they’re all still distracted by Anthon’s departure, I suggest you pour your wine out on the floor immediately. It will mix with Anthon’s and no one will be the wiser. You may then proceed to amaze these yokels with your continuing consciousness.")
I have a better idea, Dalt thought as he poured the wine along the outside of his boot so that it would strike the floor in a smooth silent flow instead of a noisy splash. I’ll wait a few minutes and then pass out. Maybe that way we’ll find out what they’ve got in mind.
("Sounds risky.")
Nevertheless, that’s what we’ll do.
Dalt decided to make the most of the time he had left before passing out. "You know," he said, feigning a deep swallow of wine, "I saw a bright light streak across the sky last night. It fell to earth far beyond the horizon. I’ve heard tales lately of such a light coming to rest in this region, some even say it landed in Bendelema itself. Is this true or merely the mutterings of vassals in their cups?"
The table chatter ceased abruptly. So did all eating and drinking. Every face at the ta
ble stared in Dalt’s direction.
"Why do you ask this, Racso?" the Duke said. The curtain of suspicion which had seemed to vanish at the beginning of the meal had again been drawn closed between Racso and the Duke.
Dalt decided it was time for his exit. "My only interest, Your Lordship, is in the idle tales I’ve heard. I…” He half rose from his seat and put a hand across his eyes. "I…” Carefully, he allowed himself to slide to the floor.
"Carry him upstairs," said the Duke.
"Why don’t we put an end to his meddling now, Your Lordship," suggested one of the advisers.
"Because he’s a friend of Anthon’s and he may well mean us no harm. We will know tomorrow."
With little delicacy and even less regard for his physical well-being, Dalt was carried up to his room and unceremoniously dumped on the bed. The heavy sound of the hardwood door slamming shut was followed by the click of a key in the lock.
Dalt sprang up and checked the door. The key had been taken from the inside and left in the lock after being turned.
("So much for that bright idea,") Pard commented caustically.
"None of your remarks, if you please."
("What do we do, now that we’re confined to quarters for the rest of the night?")
"What else?" Dalt said. He kicked off his boots, removed breastplate, jerkin, and breeches, and hopped into bed.
The door was unlocked the next morning and Dalt made his way downstairs as unobtrusively as possible. Strench’s cell-like quarters were just off the kitchen, if memory served… yes, there it was. And Strench was nowhere about.
("What do you think you’re doing?")
I’m doing my best to make sure we don’t get stuck up there in that room again tonight. His gaze came to rest on the large board where Strench kept all the duplicate keys for the locks of the keep.
("I begin to understand.")
Slow this morning, aren’t you?
Dalt took the duplicate key to his room off its hook and replaced it with another, similar key from another part of the board. Strench might realize at some time during the day that a key was missing, but he’d be looking for the wrong one.
Dalt ran into the majordomo moments later.
"His Lordship wishes to see you, Racso," he said stiffly.
"Where is he?"
"On the North Wall."
("This could be a critical moment.")
"Why do you say that?" Dalt muttered.
("Remember last night, after you pulled your dramatic collapsing act? The Duke said something about finding out about you today.")
"And you think this could be it?"
("Could be. I’m not sure, of course, but I’m glad you have that dagger in your belt.")
The Duke was alone on the wall and greeted Dalt/Racso as warmly as his aloof manner would permit after the latter apologized for "drinking too much" the night before.
"I’m afraid I have a small confession to make," the Duke said.
"Yes, Your Lordship?"
"I suspected you of treachery when you first arrived." He held up a gloved hand as Dalt opened his mouth to reply. "Don’t protest your innocence. I’ve just heard from a spy in the Tependian court and he says you have not set foot in Tependia since your mysterious disappearance years ago."
Dalt hung his head. "I am grieved, M’Lord."
"Can you blame me, Racso? Everyone knows that you hire out to the highest bidder, and Tependia has taken an inordinate interest in what goes on in Bendelema lately, even to the extent of sending raiding parties into our territory to carry off some of my vassals."
"Why would they want to do that?"
The Duke puffed up with pride. "Because Bendelema has become a land of plenty. As you know, the last harvest was plentiful everywhere; and, as usual, the present crop is stunted everywhere… except in Bendelema." Dalt didn’t know that but he nodded anyway. So only Bendelema was having a second bumper crop – interesting.
"I suppose you have learned some new farming methods and Tependia wants to steal them," Dalt suggested.
"That and more." The Duke nodded. "We also have new storage methods and new planting methods. When the next famine comes, we shall overcome Tependia not with swords and firebrands, but with food! The starving Tependians will leave their lord and Bendelema will extend its boundaries!"
Dalt was tempted to say that if the Tependians were snatching up vassals and stealing Bendelema’s secrets, there just might not be another famine. But the Duke was dreaming of empire and it is not always wise for a mere mercenary to interrupt a duke’s dreams of empire. Dalt remained silent as the Duke stared at the horizon he soon hoped to own.
The rest of the day was spent in idle search of rumors and by the dinner hour Dalt was sure of one thing: The ship had crashed or landed in the clearing he had inspected a few days before. More than that was known, but the Bendeleman locals were keeping it to themselves – yes, I saw the light come down; no, I saw nothing else.
Anthon again offered him a seat at the head table and Dalt accepted. When the Duke was toasted, Dalt took only a tiny sip.
What’s the verdict, Pard?
("Same as last night.")
I wonder what this is all about. They don’t drug me at lunch or breakfast – why only at dinner?
("Tonight we’ll try to find out.")
Since there was no outburst from Anthon this time, Dalt was hard put to find a way to get rid of his drugged wine. He finally decided to feign a collapse again and spill his cup in the process, hoping to hide the fact that he had taken only a few drops.
After slumping forward on the table, he listened intently.
"How long is this to go on, Father? How can we drug him every night without arousing his suspicions?" It was Anthon’s voice.
"As long as you insist on quartering him here instead of with the other men-at-arms!" the Duke replied angrily. "We cannot have him wandering about during the nightly services. He’s an outsider and must not learn of the godling!"
Anthon’s voice was sulky. "Very well… I’ll have him move out to the barracks tomorrow."
"I’m sorry, Anthon," the Duke said in a milder tone. "I know he’s a friend of yours, but the godling must come before a mercenary."
("I have a pretty good idea of the nature of this godling,") Pard said as Dalt/Racso was carried upstairs.
The brain? I was thinking that, too. But how would the brain communicate with these people? The prototype wasn’t set up for it.
("Why do you drag in communication? Isn’t it enough that it came from heaven?")
No. The brain doesn’t look godlike in the least. It would have to communicate with the locals before they’d deify it. Otherwise, the crash of the ship would be just another fireside tale for the children.
In a rerun of the previous night’s events, Dalt was dumped on his bed and the door was locked from the outside. He waited a few long minutes until everything was silent beyond the door, then he poked the duplicate key into the lock. The original was pushed out on the other side and landed on the stone floor with a nightmarishly loud clang. But no other sounds followed, so Dalt twisted his own key and slinked down the hall to the stairway that overlooked the dining area.
Empty. The plates hadn’t even been cleared away.
"Now where’d everybody go?" Dalt muttered.
("Quiet! Hear those voices?")
Dalt moved down the stairs, listening. A muted chanting seemed to fill the chamber. A narrow door stood open to his left and the chanting grew louder as he approached it.
This is it… they must have gone through here.
The passage within, hewn from earth and rock, led downward and Dalt followed it. Widely spaced torches sputtered flickering light against the rough walls and the chanting grew louder as he moved.
Can you make out what they’re saying?
("Something about the sacred objects, half of which must be placed in communion with the sun one day and the other half placed in communion with the sun the
next day… a continuous cycle.")
The chant suddenly ended.
("It appears the litany is over. We had better go back.")
No, we’re hiding right here. The brain is no doubt in there and I want to get back to civilization as soon as possible.
Dalt crouched in a shadowed sulcus in the wall and watched as the procession passed, the Duke in the lead, carrying some cloth-covered objects held out before him, Anthon sullenly following. The court advisers plucked the torches from the walls as they moved, but Dalt noticed that light still bled from the unexplored end of the passage. He sidled along the wall toward it after the others had passed.
He was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted him as he entered the terminal alcove.
It was surreal. The vaulted subterranean chamber was strewn with the wreckage of the lost cargo ship. Huge pieces of twisted metal lay stacked against the walls; smaller pieces hung suspended from the ceiling. And foremost and center, nearly indistinguishable from the other junk, sat the silvery life-support apparatus of the brain, as high as a man and twice as broad.
And atop that – the brain, a ball of neural tissue floating in a nutrient bath within a crystalline globe.
("You can’t hear him, can you?") Pard said.
"Him? Him who?"
("The brain – it pictures itself as a him – did manage to communicate with the locals. You were right about that.")
"What are you talking about?"
("It’s telepathic, Steve, and my presence in your brain seems to have blocked your reception. I sensed a few impulses back in the passage but I wasn’t sure until it greeted us.")
"What’s it saying?"
("The obvious: It wants to know who we are and what we want.") After a short pause, ("Oh, oh! I just told it that we’re here to take it back to SW and it let out a telepathic emergency call – a loud one. Don’t be surprised if we have company in a few minutes.")
"Great! Now what do we do?" Dalt fingered the dagger in his belt as he pondered the situation. It was already too late to run and he didn’t want to have to blast his way out. His eyes rested on the globe.
"Correct me if I’m wrong, Pard, but I seem to remember something about the globe being removable."
("Yes, it can be separated from the life-support system for about two hours with no serious harm to the brain.")