The other car gained. I held the speed bar against the dash but we were up against a faster car; it was a hundred yards behind us, then fifty, then pulling out to go alongside. I slowed imperceptibly, let him get his front wheels past us, then cut sharply. Here was a clash of wheel fairings, and I fought the tiller as we rebounded from the heavier car. He crept forward, almost alongside again; shoulder to shoulder we raced at ninety-five down the steep grade....
I hit the brakes and cut hard to the left, slapped his right rear wheel, slid back. He braked too; that was a mistake. The heavy car lost traction, sliding. In slow motion, off-balanced in a skid, it rose on its nose, ploughing up a cloud of dust. The hamper whirled away, the cloak fluttered and was gone, then the pirate car seemed to float for an instant in air, before it dropped, wheels up, out of sight over the sheer cliff. We raced alone down the slope and out onto the wooded plain toward the towers of Bar-Ponderone.
A shout went up; Owner Gope leaned forward to pound my back. "By the nine eyes of the Hill Devil!" he bellowed, "masterfully executed! The prince of pipers is a prince of drivers too! This night you'll sit by my side at the ringboard at Bar-Ponderone in the rank of a hundred-lash Chief Driver, I swear it!"
I spent the first day at Bar-Ponderone rubbernecking the tall buildings and keeping an eye open for Foster, on the off chance that I might pass him on the street. By sunset I was no wiser than before. Dressed in the latest in Vallonian cape and ruffles, I was sitting with my drinking buddy Cagu, Chief Bodyguard to Owner Gope, at a small table on the first terrace at the Palace of Merrymaking, Bar-Ponderone's biggest community feasting hall. It looked like a Hollywood producer's idea of a twenty-first century night club, complete with nine dance floors on five levels, indoor pools, fountains, two thousand tables, musicians, girls, noise, colored lights, plenty of booze, and food fit for an Owner. It was open to all fifty-lash-and-over goodmen of the estate and to guests of equivalent rank.
Cagu was a morose-looking old cuss, but good-hearted. His face was cut and scarred from a thousand encounters with other bodyguards and his nose had been broken so often that it was invisible in profile.
"Where do you manage to get in all the fights, Cagu?" I asked him. "I've known you for three months, and I haven't seen a blow struck in anger yet."
Cagu finished off an oily greenish drink and signalled for another.
"Here." He grinned, showing me some broken front teeth. "Swell places, these big Estates, good Drgon; lotsa action."
"What do you do, get in street fights?"
"Nah. The boys show up down here, tank up, cruise around, you know."
"They start fights here in the dining room?"
"Sure. Good crowd here; lotsa laughs."
I picked up my drink, raised it to Cagu—and got it in my lap as somebody jostled my arm. I looked up. A battle-scarred thug stood over me.
"Who'sa punk, Cagu?" he said in a hoarse whisper.
Cagu took a pull on a fresh drink, put the glass down, stood up, and threw a punch to the other plug-ugly's paunch. He oofed, clinched, eyed me resentfully over Cagu's shoulder. Cagu pushed him away, held him at arm's length.
"Howsa boy, Mull?" he said. "Lay offa my sidekick; greatest little piper ina business, and a top driver too. How about a drink?"
"Sure." Mull rubbed his stomach, sat down beside me. "Ya losin' your punch, Cagu." He looked at me. "Sorry about the booze in the lap. I thought you was one of the guys." He signalled a passing waiter-slave. "Bring my friend a new suit, and a shot. Make it snappy."
"Don't the customers kind of resent it when you birds stage a heavyweight bout in the aisle?" I asked.
"Nah; we move down inta the Spot." He waved a thumb in the general direction of somewhere else. He looked me over. "Where ya been, piper? Your first time ina Palace?"
"Drgon's been travelling," said Cagu. "He's okay. Lemee tell ya the time these pirates pull one, see...."
Cagu and Mull swapped lies while I worked on my drinking. Although I hadn't learned anything on my day's looking around at Bar-Ponderone, it was still a better spot for snooping than Rath-Gallion. There were two major cities on the Estate and scores of villages. Somewhere among the population I might have better luck finding someone to talk history with ... or someone who knew Foster.
"Hey!" growled Mull. "Look who's comin'."
I followed his gaze. Three thick-set thugs swaggered up to the table. One of them, a long-armed gorilla at least seven feet tall, reached out, took Cagu and Mull by the backs of their necks, and cracked their skulls together. I jumped up, ducked a hoof-like fist ... and saw a beautiful burst of fireworks followed by soothing darkness.
I fumbled in the dark with lengths of cloth entangling my legs, sat up and cracked my head—
I groaned, freed a leg from the chair rungs, groped my way out from under the table. A waiter-slave helped me up, dusted me off. The seven-foot lout lolling in a chair glanced my way, nodded.
"You shouldn't hang out with lugs like that Mull," he said. "Cagu told me you was just a piper, but the way you come outa that chair—" He shrugged, turned back to whatever he was watching.
I checked a few elbow and knee joints, worked my jaw, tried my neck: all okay.
"You the one that slugged me?" I asked.
"Huh? Yeah."
I stepped over to his chair, picked a spot, and cleared my throat. "Hey, you," I said. He turned, and I put everything I had behind a straight right to the point of the jaw. He went over, feet in the air, flipped a rail, and crashed down between two tables below. I leaned over the rail. A party of indignant tally-clerks stared up at me.
A shout went up from the floor some distance away. I looked. In a cleared circle two levels below a pair of heavy-shouldered men were slugging it out. One of them was Cagu. I watched, saw his opponent fall. Another man stepped in to take his place. I turned and made my way down to the ringside.
Cagu exchanged haymakers with two more opponents before he folded and was hauled from the ring. I propped him up in a chair, fitted a drink into his fist, and watched the boys pound each other. It was easy to see why the scarred face was the sign of their craft; there was no defensive fighting whatever. They stood toe-to-toe and hit as hard as they could, until one collapsed. It wasn't fancy, but the fans loved it. Cagu came to after a while and filled me in on the fighters' backgrounds.
"So they're all top boys," he said. "But it ain't like in the old days when I was in my prime. I could've took any three of these bums. The only one maybe I woulda had a little trouble with is Torbu."
"Which one is he?"
"He ain't down there yet; he'll show to take on the last boys on their feet."
More gladiators pushed their way to the Spot, downed drinks, pulled off gaily-patterned cloaks and weskits, and waded in.
After an hour the waiting line had dwindled away to nothing.
"Where's Torbu?"
"Maybe he didn't come tonight," I said.
"Sure, you met him; he knocked you under the table."
"Oh, him?"
"Where'd he go?"
"The last I saw he was asleep on the floor," I said.
"Hozzat?"
"I didn't much like him slugging me. I clobbered him one."
"Hey!" yelped Cagu. His face lit up. He got to his feet and floored the closest fighter, turned and laid out the other. He raised both hands above his head.
"Rath-Gallion gotta champion," he bellowed. "Rath-Gallion takes on all comers." He turned, waved to me. "Our boy, Drgon, he—"
There was a bellow behind me, even louder than Cagu's. I turned, saw Torbu, his hair mussed, his face purple, pushing through the crowd.
"Jussa crummy minute," he yelled. "I'm the champion around here—" He aimed a haymaker at Cagu; Cagu ducked.
"Our boy, Drgon, laid you out cold, right?" he shouted. "So now he's the champion."
"I wasn't set," bawled Torbu. "A lucky punch."
"Come on down, Drgon," Cagu called, waving to me again. "We'll show—" Torbu turned and slammed a roundhouse right to the side of Cagu's jaw; the old fighter hit the floor hard, skidded, lay still. I got to my feet. They pulled him to the nearest table, hoisted him into a chair. I made my way down to the little clearing in the crowd. A man bending over Cagu straightened, face white. I pushed him aside, grabbed the bodyguard's wrist. There was no pulse. Cagu was dead.
Torbu stood in the center of the Spot, mouth open. "What...?" he started. I pushed between two fans, went for him. He saw me, crouched, swung out at me.
I ducked, uppercut him. He staggered back. I pressed him, threw lefts and rights to the body, ducked under his wild swings, then rocked his head left and right. He stood, knees together, eyes glazed, hands down. I measured him, right-crossed his jaw; he dropped like a log.
Panting, I looked across at Cagu. His scarred face, white as wax, was strangely altered now; it looked peaceful. I took a bottle from a waiter-slave, poured out a stiff drink, then a couple more. Somebody helped Torbu to his feet, walked him to the ringside. I had another drink. It had been a big evening. Now all I had to do was take the body home....
I went over to where Cagu was laid out on the floor. Shocked people stood around staring. Torbu was on his knees beside the body. A tear ran down his nose, dripped on Cagu's face. Torbu wiped it away with a big scarred hand.
"I'm sorry, old friend," he said. "I didn't mean it, you know I didn't."
I picked Cagu up and got him over my shoulder, and all the way to the far exit it was so quiet in the Palace of Merrymaking that I could hear my own heavy breathing.
In the bodyguards' quarters I laid Cagu out on the bunk, then faced the dozen scowling bruisers who stared down at the still body.
"Cagu was a good man," I said. "Now he's dead. He died like an animal ... for nothing."
Mull glowered at me. "You talk like we was to blame," he said. "Cagu was my compeer too."
"Whose pal was he a thousand years ago?" I snapped. "What was he—once? What were you? Vallon wasn't always like this. There was a time when every man was his own Owner—"
"Look, you ain't of the Brotherhood—" one thug started.
"So that's what you call it? But it's just another name for an old racket. A big shot sets himself up as dictator—"
"We got our Code," Mull said. "Our job is to stick up for the Owner ... and that don't mean standing around listening to some japester callin' names."
"Names, hell," I snapped. "I'm talking rebellion. You boys have all the muscle and most of the guts in this organization. Why let the boss live off the fat while you murder each other for the amusement of the patrons? You had a birthright ... once. But it's up to you to collect it ... before more of you go the way Cagu did."
There was an angry mutter. Torbu came in, face swollen.
"Hold it, you birds," Torbu said. "What's goin' on?"
"This guy! He's talkin' revolt and treason," somebody said.
"He wants we should pull some rough stuff—on Owner Qohey hisself."
Torbu came up to me. "You're a stranger around Bar-Ponderone. Cagu said you was okay. You worked me over pretty good ... and I got no hard feelin's; that's the breaks. But don't try to start no trouble here. We got our Code and our Brotherhood. We look out for each other; that's good enough for us. Owner Qohey ain't no worse than any other Owner ... and by the Code, we'll stand by him!"
"Listen to me," I said. "I know the history of Vallon: I know what you were once and what you could be again. All you have to do is take over the power. I can lead you to the ship I came here in. There are briefing rods aboard, enough to show you—"
"That's enough," Torbu broke in. He made a cabalistic sign in the air. "We ain't gettin' mixed up in no tabu ghost-boats or takin' on no magicians and demons—"
"Hog wash! That tabu routine is just a gag to keep you away from the cities so you won't discover what you're missing—"
"I don't wanna hafta take you to the Greymen, Drgon," Torbu growled. "Leave it lay."
"These cities," I ploughed on. "They're standing there, empty, as perfect as the day they were built. And you live in these flea-bitten quarters, jammed inside the town walls, so the Greymen and renegades won't get you."
"You wanna runs things here?" Mull put in. "Go see Qohey."
"Let's all go see Qohey!" I said.
"That's something you'll have to do alone," said Torbu. "You better move on, Drgon. I ain't turnin' you in; I know how you felt about Cagu gettin' killed and all—but don't push it too far."
I knew I was licked. They were as stubborn as a team of mules—and just about as smart.
Torbu motioned; I followed him outside.
"You wanna turn things upside-down, don't you? I know how it is; you ain't the first guy to get ideas. We can't help you. But we got a legend: someday the Rthr will come back ... and then the Good Time will come back too."
"What's the Rthr?" I said.
"Kinda like a big-shot Owner. There ain't no Rthr now. But a long time ago, back when our first lives started, there was a Rthr that was Owner of all Vallon, and everybody lived high, and had all their lives ... it's kind of like a hope we got—that's what we're waitin' for through all our lives."
"Okay," I said. "Dream on, big boy. And while you're treasuring your rosy dreams you'll get your brains kicked out, like Cagu." I turned away.
"Listen, Drgon. It's no good buckin' the system: it's too big for one guy ... or even a bunch of guys ... but—"
I looked up. "Yeah?"
"... if you gotta stick your neck out—see Owner Gope." Abruptly Torbu turned and pushed back through the door.
See Owner Gope, huh? Okay, what did I have to lose?
I stood in the middle of the deep-pile carpet in Gope's suite, trying to keep my temper hot enough to supply the gall I needed to bust in on an Owner in the middle of the night. He sat in his ceremonial chair and stared at me impassively.
"With your help or without it," I said, "I'm going to find the answers."
"Yes, good Drgon," he said, not bellowing for once. "I understand. But there are matters you don't understand."
"I understand too much," I snapped. "Do you remember Cagu? Maybe you remember him as a newman, young, handsome, like a god out of some old legend. You've seen him live his life. Was it a good life? Did the promise of youth ever get paid off? And what about yourself? Don't you ever wonder what you might have been ... back in the Good Time?"
"Who are you?" asked Gope, his eyes fixed on mine. "You speak Old Vallonian, you rake up the forbidden knowledge, and challenge the very Powers...." He got to his feet. "I could have you immured, Drgon. I could hand you to the Greymen, for a fate I shudder to name." He turned and walked the length of the room restlessly, then turned back to me and stopped.
"Matters stand ill with this fair world," he said. "Legend tells us that once men lived as the High Gods on Vallon. There was a mighty Owner, Rthr of all Vallon. It is whispered that he will come again—"
"Your legends are all true. You can take my word for that! But that doesn't mean some supernatural sugar daddy is going along and bail you out. And don't get the idea I think I'm the fabled answer to prayers. All I mean is that once upon a time Vallon was a good place to live and it could be again. Your cities and roads and ships are still here, intact. But nobody knows how to run them and you're all afraid to try. Who scared you off? What broke down the memory-recording system? Why can't we all go to Okk-Hamiloth and use the Archives to give everybody back what he's lost—"
"These are dread words," said Gope.
"There must be somebody behind it. Or there was once. Who is he?"
Gope thought. "There is one man pre-eminent among us: the Great Owner, Owner of Owners: Ommodurad by name. Where he dwells I know not. This is a secret possessed only by his intimates."
"What does he look like? How do I get to see him?"
Gope shook his head. "I have seen him but once, closely cowled. He is a tall man, and silent. 'Tis said—" Gope lowered his voice, "—by his black arts he possesses all his lives. An aura of dread hangs all about him—"
"Never mind that jazz," I said. "How can I get close to him?"
"There are those Owners who are his confidants," said Gope, "his trusted agents. It is through them that we small Owners learn of his will."
"Can we enlist one of them?"
"Never. They are bound to him by ties of darkness, spells, and incantations."
"I'm a fast man with a pair of loaded dice myself. It's all done with mirrors. Let's stick to the point. How can I work into a spot with one of these big shots?"
"Nothing easier. A driver and piper of such skills as your own can claim whatever place he chooses."
"How about bodyguarding? Suppose I could take a heavy named Torbu; would that set me in better with a new Owner?"
"Such is no place for a man of your abilities, good Drgon," Gope exclaimed. "True, 'tis a place most close to an Owner, but there is much danger in it. The challenge involves the most bloody hand-to-hand combat, second only to the rigors of a challenge to an Owner himself."
"What's that?" I snapped. "Challenge an Owner?"
"Be calm, good Drgon," said Gope, staring at me incredulously. "No common man with his wits about him will challenge an Owner. He is a warrior trained in the skills of battle. None less than another such may hope to prevail."
I smacked my fist into my palm. "I should have thought of this sooner! The cooks cook for their places, the pipers pipe ... and the best man wins. It figures that the Owners would use the same system. But what's the procedure? How do you get your chance to prove who can own the best?"
"It is a contest with naked steel. It is the measure and glory of an Owner that he alone stands ready to prove his quality against the peril of death itself." Gope drew himself up with pride.
"What Owner can I challenge? How do I go about it? What's the procedure?"
"Give up this course, good Drgon—"
"Where's the nearest buddy of the Big Owner?"
Gope threw up his hands. "Here, at Bar-Ponderone. Owner Qohey. But—"
"And how do I call his bluff?" I asked.
Gope put a hand on my shoulder. "It is no bluff, good Drgon. It is long now since last Owner Qohey stood to his blade to protect his place, but you may be sure he has lost none of his skill. Thus it was he won his way to Bar-Ponderone, while lesser knights, such as myself, contented themselves with meaner fiefs."
"I'm not bluffing either, noble Gope," I said, stretching a point. "I was no harness-maker in the Good Time."
Gope sat down heavily, raised his hands, and let them fall. "If I tell you not, another will. But I will not soon find another piper of your worth."
CHAPTER XV
Gaudy hangings of purple cut the light of the sun to a rich gloom in the enormous, high-vaulted Audience Hall. A rustling murmur was audible in the room as uneasy courtiers and supplicants fidgeted, waiting for the appearance of the Owner.
It had been two months since Gope had explained to me how a formal challenge to an Owner was conducted, and, as he pointed out, this was the only kind of challenge that would help. If I waylaid the man and cut him down, even in a fair fight, his bodyguards would repay the favor before I could establish the claim that I was their legitimate new boss.
I had spent three hours every day in the armory at Rath-Gallion, trading buffets with Gope and a couple of the bodyguards. The thirty-pound slab of edged steel had felt right at home in my hand that first day—for about a minute. I had the borrowed knowledge to give me all the technique I needed, but the muscle power for putting the knowledge into practice was another matter. After five minutes I was slumped against the wall, gulping air, while Gope whistled his sticker around my head and talked.
"You laid on like no piper, good Drgon. Yet have you much to learn in the matter of endurance."
After surviving two months of Gope's training I felt ready for anything. Gope had warned me that Owner Qohey was a big fellow, but that didn't bother me. The bigger they came, the bigger the target....
There was a murmur in a different key in the Audience Hall and tall gilt doors opened at the far side of the room. A couple of liveried flunkies scampered into view, then a seven-foot man-eater stalked into the hall, made his way to the dais, turned to face the crowd....
He was enormous: his neck was as thick as my thigh, his features chipped out of granite, the grey variety. He threw back his brilliant purple cloak from his shoulders and reached out for the ceremonial sword one of the flunkies was struggling with; his arm was like an oak root. He took the sword with its sheath, sat down, and stood it between his feet, his arms folded on top.
"Who has a grievance?" he spoke. The voice reverberated like the old Wurlitzer at the Rialto back home.
This was my cue. There he was, just asking for it. All I had to do was speak up. Owner Qohey would gladly oblige me.
I cleared my throat with a thin squeak, and edged forward, not very far.
"I have one little item—" I started.
Nobody was listening. Up front a big fellow in a black toga was pushing through the crowd. Everybody turned to stare at him, there was a craning of necks. The crowd drew back from the dais leaving an opening. The man in black stepped into the clear, flung back the flapping garment from his right arm, and whipped out a long polished length of razor-edged iron. It was beginning to look like somebody had beaten me to the punch.
The newcomer stood there in front of Qohey with the naked blade making all the threat that was needed. Qohey stared at him for a long moment, then stood, gestured to a flunky. The flunky turned, cleared his throat.
"The place of Bar-Ponderone has been claimed!" he recited in a shrill voice. "Let the issue be joined!" He skittered out of the way and Qohey rose, threw aside his purple cloak and cowl, and stepped down. I pushed forward to get a better look.
The challenger in black tossed his loose garment aside, stood facing Qohey in a skin-tight jerkin and hose; heavy moccasins of soft leather were laced up the calf. He was magnificently muscled but Qohey was bigger.
Qohey unsheathed his fancy iron and whirled it up overhead, made a few practice swipes. He handled it like it was a lady's putter. I felt sorry for the smaller man, who was just standing, watching him. He really didn't have a chance.
I had got through to the fore rank by now. The challenger turned and I saw his face. I stopped dead, while fire bells clanged in my head.
The man in black was Foster.
In dead silence Qohey and Foster squared off, touched their sword points to the floor in some kind of salute ... and Qohey's slicer whipped up in a vicious cut. Foster leaned aside, just far enough, then countered with a flick that made Qohey jump back. I let out a long breath and tried swallowing.
Qohey's blade flashed, cutting at Foster's head. Foster hardly moved. Almost effortlessly, it seemed, he interposed his heavy weapon between the attacking steel and himself. Clash, clang! Qohey hacked and chopped ... and Foster played with him. Then Foster's arm flashed out and there was blood on Qohey's wrist. A gasp went up from the crowd. Now Foster took a step forward, struck ... and faltered! In an instant Qohey was on him and the two men were locked, chest to chest. For a moment Foster held, then Qohey's weight told, and Foster reeled back. He tried to bring up the sword, seemed to struggle, then Qohey lashed out again. Foster twisted, took the blow awkwardly just above the hand guard, stumbled ... and fell.
Qohey leaped to him, raised the sword—
I hauled mine half way out of its sheath and pushed forward.
"Let the man be put away from my sight," rumbled Qohey. He lowered his immense sword, turned, pushed aside a flunky who had bustled up with a wad of bandages. As he strode from the room a swarm of bodyguards fanned out between the crowd and Foster. I could see him clumsily struggling to rise, then I was shoved back, still craning for a glimpse. There was something wrong here; Foster had acted like a man suddenly half-paralyzed. Had Qohey doped him in some way?
The cordon stopped pushing. I tugged at the arm of the bodyguard beside me. "What's to be the fate of the man?" I asked.
"They're gonna immure him."
"You mean wall him up?"
"Yeah. Just a peep hole to pass chow in every day ... so's he don't starve, see?"
"How long—?"
"He'll last; don't worry. After the Change, Owner Qohey's got a newman—"
"Shut up," another bruiser said.
The crowd was slowly thinning. The bodyguards were relaxing, standing in pairs talking. Two servants moved about where the fight had taken place, making mystical motions in the air above the floor. I edged forward, watching them. They seemed to be plucking imaginary flowers.
I moved even farther forward to take a closer look, then saw a tiny glint.... A servant hurried across, made gestures. I pushed him aside, groped ... and my fingers encountered a delicate filament of wire. I pulled it in, swept up more. The servants had stopped and stood watching me, muttering. The whole area of the combat was covered with the invisible wires, looping up in coils two feet high.
No wonder Foster had stumbled, had trouble raising his sword. He had been netted, encased in a mesh of incredibly fine tough wire ... and in the dim light even the crowd twenty feet away hadn't seen it. I put my hand on my sword hilt, chewed my lower lip. I had found Foster ... but it wouldn't do me—or Vallon—much good. He was on his way to the dungeons, to be walled up until the next Change. And it would be three months before I could legally make another try for Qohey's place.
I would have to spend that time working on my swordplay, and hope Foster could hold out. Maybe I could sneak a message—
A heavy blow on the back sent me spinning. Four bodyguards moved to ring me in, clubs in hand. They were strangers to me, but across the room I saw Torbu looming, looking my way....
"I saw him; he started to pull that fancy sword," said one of the guards.
"He was asking me questions—"
"Unbuckle it and drop it," another ordered me. "Don't try anything!"
"What's this all about?" I said. "I have a right to wear a Ceremonial Sword at an Audience—"
"Move in, boys!" The four men stepped toward me, the clubs came up. I warded off a smashing blow with my left arm, took a blinding crack across the face, felt myself going down—another blow, and another: all killing ones....
Then I was aware of being dragged, endlessly, of voices barking sharp questions, of pain.... After a long time it was dark, and silent, and I slept.
I groaned and the sound was dead, muffled. I put out a hand and touched stone on my right. My left elbow touched stone. I made an instinctive move to sit up and smacked my head against more stone. My new room was confining. I felt my face ... and winced at the touch. The bridge of my nose felt different: it was lower than it used to be, in spite of the swelling. I lay back and traced the pattern of pain. There was the nose—smashed flat—with secondary aches around the eyes. They'd be beautiful shiners, if I could see them. Now the left arm: it was curled close to my side and when I moved it I saw why: it wasn't broken, but the shoulder wasn't right, and there was a deep bruise above the elbow. My knees and shin, as far as I could reach, were caked with dried blood. That figured: I remembered being dragged.
I tried deep-breathing; my chest seemed to be okay. My hands worked. My teeth were in place. Maybe I wasn't as sick as I felt.
But where the hell was I? The floor was hard, cold. I needed a big soft bed and a little soft nurse and a hot meal and a cold drink....
Foster! I cracked my head again and flopped back, groaned some more. It still sounded pretty dead.
I swallowed, licked my lips, felt a nice split that ran down to the bristles. I had attended the Audience clean-shaven. Quite a few hours have passed since then. They had taken Foster away to immure him, somebody said. Then the guards had tapped me, worked me over—
Immured! I got a third crack on the head. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. I was walled up, sealed away from the light, buried under the foundations of the giant towers of Bar-Ponderone. I felt their crushing weight....
I forced myself to relax, breathe deep. Being immured wasn't the same as being buried alive—not exactly. This was the method these latter-day Vallonians had figured out to effectively end a man's life ... without ending all his lives. They figured to keep me neatly packaged here until my next Change, thus acquiring another healthy newman for the kitchen or the stables. They didn't know the only Change that would happen to me was death.
They'd have to feed me; that meant a hole. I ran my fingers along the rough stone, found an eight-inch square opening on the left wall, just under the ceiling. I reached through it, felt nothing but the solidness of its thick sides. How far along the other open end was I had no way of determining.
I was feeling dizzy. I lay back and tried to think, but everything remained fuzzy.
I was awake again. There had been a sound. I moved, and felt something hit my chest.
I groped for it; it was a small loaf of hard bread. I heard the sound again and a second object thumped against me.
"Hey!" I yelled, "listen to me! I'll die in here. I'm not like the rest of you; I won't go through a Change. I'll rot here until I die. Do you hear me?..."
I listened. The silence was absolute.
"Answer me!" I screamed. "You're making a mistake...!"
I gave up when my throat got raw. I felt for the other item that had been pushed in to me. It was a water bottle made of tough plastic. I fumbled the cap off, took a swallow. It wasn't good. I tried the bread; it was tough, tasteless. I lay and chewed and thought. As a world-saver I was a bust. I had come a long long way and now I was going to die in this reeking hole. I had a sudden vision of steaks uneaten, wines undrunk, girls unhad, and life unlived. And then I had another thought: if I never had them was it going to be because I hadn't tried? Abruptly I was planning. I would keep calm and use my head. I wouldn't wear myself out with screams and struggles. I'd figure the angles, use everything I had to make the best try I could.
First, to explore the tomb-cell. It hurt to move but that didn't matter. I felt over the walls, estimating size. My chamber was three feet wide, two feet high, and seven feet long. The walls were relatively smooth, except for a few mortar joints. The stones were big: eighteen inches or so by a couple of feet. I scratched at the mortar; it was rock hard.
I wondered how they'd gotten me in. Some of the stones must be newly placed ... or else there was a door. I couldn't feel anything as far as my hands would reach. Maybe at the other end....
I tried to twist around: no go. The people who had built the cage knew just how to dimension it to keep the occupant oriented the way they wanted him. He was supposed to just lie quietly and wait for the bread and water to fall through the hole above his chest.
That was reason enough to change positions. If they wanted me to stay put I'd at least have the pleasure of defying the rules. And there just might be a reason why they didn't want me moving around.
I turned on my side, pulled my legs up, hugged them to my chest, worked my way down ... and jammed. My skinned knees and shins didn't help any. I inched them higher, wincing at the pain, then braced my hands against the floor and roof and with all my strength forced my torso toward my feet....
Still no go. The rough stone was shredding my back. I moved my knees apart; that eased the pressure a little. I made another inch.
I rested, tried to get some air. It wasn't easy: my chest was crushed between my thighs and the stone wall at my back. I breathed shallowly, wondering whether I should go back or try to push on. I tried to move my legs; they didn't like the idea. I might as well go on. It would be no fun either way and if I waited I'd stiffen up, while inactivity and no food and loss of blood would weaken me further every moment. I wouldn't do better next time—not even as well. This was the time. Now.
I set myself, pushed again, I didn't move. I pushed harder, scraping my palms raw against the stone. I was stuck—good. I went limp suddenly. Then I panicked, in the grip of claustrophobia. I snarled, rammed my hands hard against the floor and wall, and heaved—and felt my lacerated back slip along the stone, sliding on a lubricating film of blood. I pushed again, my back curved, doubled; my knees were forced up beside my ears. I couldn't breathe at all now and my spine was breaking. It didn't matter. I might as well break it, rip off all the hide, bleed to death; I had nothing to lose. I shoved again, felt the back of my head grate; my neck bent, creaking ... then I was through, stretching out to flop on my back gasping, my head where my feet had been. Score one for our side.
It took a long time to get my breath back and sort out my various abrasions. My back was worst, then my legs and hands. There was a messy spot on the back of my head and sharp pains shot down my spine, and I was getting tired of breathing through my mouth instead of my smashed nose. Other than that I'd never felt better in my life. I had plenty of room to relax in, I could breathe. All I had to do was rest, and after a while they'd drop some more nice bread and water in to me....
I shook myself awake. There was something about the absolute darkness and silence that made my mind want to curl up and sleep, but there was no time for that. If there had been a stone freshly set in mortar to seal the chamber after I had been stuffed inside, this was the time to find it—before it set too hard. I ran my hands over the wall, found the joints. The mortar was dry and hard in the first; in the next.... Under my fingernail soft mortar crumbled away. I traced the joint; it ran around a twelve-by-eighteen-inch stone. I raised myself on my elbow, settled down to scratching at it.
Half an hour later I had ten bloody finger tips and a half-inch groove cut around the stone. It was slow work, and I couldn't go much farther without a tool of some sort. I felt for the water bottle, took off the cap, tried to crush it. It wouldn't crush. There was nothing else in the cell.
Maybe the stone would move, mortar and all, if I shoved hard enough. I set my feet against the end wall, my hands against the block, and strained until the blood roared in my ears. No use.
I was lying there, just thinking about it, when I became aware of something. It wasn't a noise exactly. It was more like a fourth-dimensional sound heard inside the brain ... or the memory of one.
But my next sensation was perfectly real. I felt four little feet walking gravely up my chest toward my chin.
It was the cat, Itzenca.
CHAPTER XVI
For a while I toyed with the idea of just chalking it up as a miracle. Then I decided it would be a nice problem in probabilities. It had been seven months since we had parted company on the pink terrace at Okk-Hamiloth. Where would I have gone if I had been a cat? And how could I have found me—my old pal from Earth?
Itzenca exhaled a snuffle in my ear.
"Come to think of it, the stink is pretty strong, isn't it? I guess there's nobody on Vallon with quite the same heady fragrance. And what with the close quarters here, the concentration of sweat, blood, and you-name-it must be pretty penetrating."
Itz didn't seem to care. She marched around my head and back again, now and then laid a tentative paw on my nose or chin, and kept up a steady rumbling purr. The feeling of affection I had for that cat right then was close to being one of my life's grand passions. I couldn't keep my hands off her. They roamed over her scrawny frame, fingered again the khaffite collar I had whiled away an hour in fashioning for her aboard the lifeboat—
My head hit the stone wall with a crash I didn't even notice. In ten seconds I had released the collar clasp, pulled the collar from Itzenca's neck, thumbed the stiff khaffite out into a blade about ten inches long, and was scraping at the mortar beyond my head at fever heat.
They had fed me three times by the time the groove was nine inches deep on all sides of the block, and the mortar had hardened. But I was nearly through, I figured. I took a rest, then made another try at loosening the block. I stuck the blade in the slot, levered gently at the stone. If it was only supported on one edge now, as it would be if it were a little less than a foot thick, it should be about ready to go. I couldn't tell.
I put down my scraper, got in position, and pushed. I wasn't as strong as I had been; there wasn't much force in the push. Again I rested and again I tried. Maybe there was only a thin crust of mortar still holding; maybe one more ounce of pressure would do it. I took a deep breath, strained ... and felt the block shift minutely.
Now! I heaved again, teeth gritted, drew back my feet, and thrust hard. The stone slid out with a grating sound, dropped half an inch. I paused to listen: all quiet. I shoved again, and the stone dropped with a heavy thud to the floor outside. With no loss of time I pushed through behind it, felt a breath of cooler air, got my shoulders free, pulled my legs through ... and stood, for the first time in how many days....
I had already figured my next move. As soon as Itzenca had stepped out I reached back in, groped for the water bottle, the dry crusts I had been saving, and the wad of bread paste I had made up. I reached a second time for a handful of the powdered mortar I had produced, then lifted the stone. I settled it in place, using the hard bread as supports, then packed the open joint with gummy bread. I dusted it over with dry mortar, then carefully swept up the debris—as well as I could in the total darkness. The bread-and-water man would have a light and he was due in half an hour or so—as closely as I had been able to estimate the time of his regular round. I didn't want him to see anything out of the ordinary. I was counting on finding Foster filed away somewhere in the stacks, and I'd need time to try to release him.
I moved along the corridor, counting my steps, one hand full of bread crumbs and stone dust, the other feeling the wall. There were narrow side branches every few feet; the access ways to the feeding holes. Forty-one paces from my slot I came to a wooden door. It wasn't locked, but I didn't open it. I wasn't ready to use it yet.
I went back, passed my hole, continued nine paces to a blank wall. Then I tried the side branches. They were all seven-foot stubs, dead ends; each had the eight-inch holes on either side. I called Foster's name softly at each hole ... but there was no answer. I heard no signs of life, no yells or heavy breathing. Was I the only one here? That wasn't what I had figured on. Foster had to be in one of these delightful bedrooms. I had come across the universe to see him and I wasn't going to leave Bar-Ponderone without him.
It was time to get ready for the bread man. I groped my way into one of the side branches; Itzenca at my heels. With half a year's experience at dodging humans behind her, she could be trusted not to show at the crucial moment, I figured. I had just jettisoned my handful of trash in the backmost corner of the passage when there was a soft grating sound from the door. I flattened myself against the wall.
A light splashed on the floor; it must have been dim but seemed to my eyes like the blaze of noon. Soft footsteps sounded. I held my breath. A man in bodyguard's trappings, basket in hand, moved past the entry of the branch where I stood, went on. I breathed again. Now all I had to do was keep an eye on the feeder, watch where he stopped. I stepped to the corridor, risked a glance, saw him entering a branch farther down the corridor. As he disappeared I made it three branches farther along, ducked out of sight.
I heard him coming back. I flattened myself. He went by me, opened the door. It closed behind him. Darkness, silence and despair settled down once more.
The bread man had stopped at one cell only—mine. Foster wasn't there.
It was a long wait for the next feeding but I put the time to use. First I had a good nap; I hadn't been getting my rest while I scratched my way out of my nest. I woke up feeling better and started thinking about the next move. The door creaked, and I did a fast fade down a side branch. The guard shuffled into view; now was the time. I moved out—quietly, I thought, and he whirled, dropped the load and bottle, and fumbled at his club hilt. I didn't have a club to slow me down. I went at him, threw a beautiful right, square to the mouth. He went over backwards, with me on top. I heard his head hit with a sound like a length of rubber hose slapping a grapefruit. He didn't move.
I pulled the clothes off him, struggled into them. They didn't fit too well and they probably smelled gamey to anybody who hadn't spent a week where I had, but details like these didn't count anymore. I tore his sash into strips and tied him. He wasn't dead—quite, but I had reason to know that any yelling he did was unlikely to attract much attention. I hoped he'd enjoy the rest and quiet until the next feeding time. By then I expected to be long gone. I lifted the door open and stepped out into a dimly lit corridor.
With Itzenca abreast of me I moved along in absolute stillness, passed a side corridor, came to a heavy door; locked. We retraced our steps, went down the side hall, found a flight of worn steps, followed them up two flights, and emerged in a dark room. A line of light showed around a door. I went to it, peered through the crack. Two men in stained kitchen-slave tunics fussed over a boiling cauldron. I pushed through the door.
The two looked up, startled. I rounded a littered table, grabbed up a heavy soup ladle, and skulled the nearest cook just as he opened up to yell. The other one, a big fellow, went for a cleaver. I caught him in two jumps, laid him out cold beside his pal.
I found an apron, ripped it up, and tied and gagged the two slaves, then hauled them into a storeroom.
I came back into the kitchen. It was silent now. The room reeked of sour soup. A stack of unpleasantly familiar loaves stood by the oven. I gave them a kick that collapsed the pile as I passed to pick up a knife. I hacked tough slices from a cold haunch of Vallonian mutton, threw one to Itzenca across the table, and sat and gnawed the meat while I tried to think through my plans.
Owner Qohey was a big man to tackle but he was the one with the answers. If I could make my way to his apartment and if I wasn't stopped before I'd forced the truth out of him, then I might get to Foster and tell him that if he had the memory playback machine I had the memory, if it hadn't been filched from the bottom of a knapsack aboard a lifeboat parked at Okk-Hamiloth.
Four 'if's' and a 'might'—but it was something to shoot at. My first move would be to locate Qohey's quarters, somewhere in the Palace, and get inside. My bodyguard's outfit was as good a disguise as any for the attempt.
I finished off my share of the meat and got to my feet. I'd have to find a place to clean myself up, shave—
The rear door banged open and two bodyguards came through it, talking loudly, laughing.
"Hey, cook! Set out meat and wine for—"
The heavy in the lead stopped short, gaping at me. I gaped back. It was Torbu.
"Drgon! How did you...." He trailed off.
The other bodyguard came past him, looked me over. "You're no Brother of the Guard—" he started.
I reached for the cleaver the kitchen-slave had left on the table, backed against a tall wall cupboard. The bodyguard unlimbered his club.
"Hold it, Blon," said Torbu. "Drgon's okay." He looked at me. "I kind of figured you for done-for, Drgon. The boys worked you over pretty good."
"Yeah," I returned, "and thanks for your help in stopping it. You claim to believe in the system around here. You think it's a great life, all fair play and no holds barred and plenty of goodies for the winner. I know, it was tough about Cagu, but that's life, isn't it? But what about the business I saw in the Audience Hall? You guys try not to think about that angle, is that it?"
"It was the Owner's orders," said Blon. "What was I gonna do, tell him—?"
"Never mind," I said. "I'll tell him myself. That's all I want: just a short interview with the Owner—minus the wire nets."
"Wow ..." drawled Torbu; "yeah, that'd be a bout." He turned to Blon. "This guy's got a punch, Blon. He don't look so hot but he could swap buffets with the Fire Drgon he's named after. If he's that good with a long blade—"
"Just lend me one," I said, "and show me the way to his apartment."
"I didn't like the capers with the wires, neither did most of the boys. We're Brothers of the Guard," said Torbu. "We ain't got much but we got our Code. It don't say nothing about wires. If we don't back up our oath to the Brotherhood we ain't no better than slaves." He turned to me. "Come on, Drgon. We'll take you to the Guardroom so you can clean up and put on a good blade. If you're gonna lose all your lives at once, you wanna do it right."
Torbu watched as the boys belted and strapped me into a guardsman's fighting outfit. I had made him uneasy, maybe even started him thinking.
I felt better in the clean trappings of tough leather and steel. Torbu led the way and fifteen bodyguards followed, like a herd of Trolls. We stopped before a great double door. Two guards in dress purple sauntered over to see what it was all about. Torbu clued them in. They hesitated, looked us over....
"We're goin' in, rookie," said Torbu. "Open up." They did.
I pushed past Torbu into a room whose splendor made Gope's state apartment look like a four-dollar motel. Bright Cintelight streamed through tall windows, showed me a wide bed and somebody in it. I went to it, grabbed the bedclothes, and hauled them to the floor. Owner Qohey sat up slowly—seven feet of muscle. He looked at me, glanced past me to the foremost of my escort....
He was out of bed like a tiger, coming straight for me. There was no time to fumble with the sword. I went to meet him, threw all my weight into a right haymaker and felt it connect. I plunged past, whirled.
Qohey was staggering ... but still on his feet. I had hit him with everything I had, nearly broken my fist ... and he was still standing. I couldn't let him rest. I was after him, slammed a hard punch to the kidneys, caught him across the jaw as he turned, drove a left and right into his stomach—
A girder fell from the top of the Golden Gate Bridge and shattered every bone in my body. There was a booming like heavy surf, and I was floating in it, dead. Then I was in Hell, being prodded by red-hot tridents.... I blinked my eyes. The roaring was fading now. I saw Qohey, leaning against the foot of the bed, breathing heavily. I had to get him.
I got my feet under me, stood up. My chest was caved in and my left arm belonged to somebody else. Okay; I still had my right. I made it over to Qohey, maneuvered into position. He didn't look at me; he seemed to be having trouble breathing; those gut punches had gotten to him. I picked a spot just behind the right ear, reared back, and threw a trip-hammer punch with my shoulder and legs behind it. I felt the jaw go. Qohey jumped the footboard and piled onto the floor like a hundred-car freight hitting an open switch. I sat down on the edge of the bed and sucked in air and tried to ignore the whirling lights that were closing in.
After awhile I noticed Torbu standing in front of me with the cat under one arm. Both of them were grinning at me. "Any orders, Owner Drgon?"
I found my voice. "Wake him up and prop him in a chair. I want to talk to him."
Ex-Owner Qohey didn't much like the idea but after Torbu and a couple of the other strong-arm lads had explained the situation to him in sign language he decided to co-operate.
"Get off his head, Mull," Torbu said. "And untwist that rope, Blon. Owner Drgon wants him in a conversational mood."
Qohey was looking at me now, eyes wild. He grunted something, but was having trouble talking around his broken jaw.
"The fellow in black," I said: "the one who claimed your place as Owner. You netted him and had your bully boys haul him off somewhere. I want to know where."
Qohey grunted again.
"Hit him, Torbu," I said. "It will help his enunciations." Torbu kicked the former Owner in the shin. Qohey jumped and glowered at him.
"Call off your dogs," he mumbled. "You'll not find the upstart you seek here."
"Why not?"
"I sent him away."
"Where?"
"To that place from which you and your turncoat crew will never fetch him back."
"Be more specific."
Qohey spat.
I took out the needle-pointed knife I was wearing as part of my get-up. I put the point against Qohey's throat and pushed gently until a trickle of crimson ran down the thick neck.
"Talk," I said quietly, "or I'll cut your throat myself."
Qohey had shrunk back as far as he could in the heavy chair.
"Seek him then, assassin," he sneered. "Seek him in the dungeons of the Owner of Owners."
"Keep talking," I prompted.
"The Great Owner commanded that the slave be brought to him ... at the Palace of Sapphires by the Shallow Sea."
"Has this Owners' Owner got a name?"
"Lord Ommodurad," Qohey's voice grated out.
"When did he go?"
"Yesterday."
"You know this Sapphire Palace, Torbu?"
"Sure, but the place is tabu; it's crawlin' with demons and warlocks. The word is, there's a curse on the—"
"Then I'll go in alone," I said. I put the knife away. "But first I've got a call to make at the spaceport at Okk-Hamiloth."
"Sure, Owner Drgon. The port's easy. Some say it's kind of haunted too but that's just a gag; the Greymen hang out there."
"We can take care of the Greymen," I said. "Get fifty of your best men together and line up some air-cars. I want the outfit ready to move in half an hour."
"What about this chiseller?" asked Torbu.
"Seal him up until I get back. If I don't make it, I know he'll understand."
CHAPTER XVII
It was not quite dawn when my task force settled down on the smooth landing pad beside the life boat that had brought me to Vallon. It stood as I had left it seven earth-months before: the port open, the access ladder extended, the interior lights lit. There weren't any spooks aboard but they had kept visitors away as effectively as if there had been. Even the Greymen didn't mess with ghost-boats. Somebody had done a thorough job of indoctrination on Vallon.
Itzenca scampered up the ladder and had disappeared inside the boat by the time I took the first rung. The guards gawked from below as I stepped into the softly lit lounge. The black-and-gold banded cylinder that was Foster's memory lay in the bag where I had left it, and with it was the other, plain one. Somewhere in Okk-Hamiloth must be the machine that would give these meaning. Together, Foster and I would find it.
I found the .38 automatic lying where I had left it. I picked up the worn belt, strapped it around me. My Vallonian career to date suggested it would be a bright idea to bring it along. The Vallonians had never developed any personal armament to equal it. In a society of immortals knives were considered lethal enough for all ordinary purposes.
"Come on, cat," I said. "There's nothing more here we need."
Back on the ramp, I beckoned my platoon leaders over.
"I'm going to the Sapphire Palace," I said. "Anybody that doesn't want to go can check out now. Pass the word."
Torbu stood silent for a long moment, staring straight ahead.
"I don't like it much, Owner," he said. "But I'll go. And so will the rest of 'em."
"There'll be no backing out, once we shove off," I said. "And by the way—" I jacked a round into the chamber of the pistol, raised it, and fired the shot into the air. They all jumped. "If you ever hear that sound, come a-running."
The men nodded, turned to their cars. I picked up the cat and piled into the lead vehicle next to Torbu.
"It's a half-hour run," he said. "We might run into a little Greymen action on the way. We can handle 'em."
We lifted, swung to the east, barrelled along at low altitude.
"What do we do when we get there, boss?" said Torbu.
"We play it by ear. Let's see how far we can get on pure gall before Ommodurad drops the hanky."
The palace lay below us, rearing blue towers to the twilit sky like a royal residence in the Munchkin country. Beyond it, sunset colors reflected from the silky surface of the Shallow Sea. The timeless stones and still waters looked much as they had when Foster set out to lose his identity on Earth, three thousand years before. But its magnificence was lost on these people. The hulking crew around me never paused to wonder about the marvels wrought by their immortal ancestors—themselves—; stolidly they lived their feudal lives in dismal contrast with the monuments all about them.