Authors: Avram Davidson
“
Darnley
figured we’d make it here?”
Marton nodded. “That’s right, sir. Blaise. The bosun. Big,
ugly
fellow. He’s in charge, up there. Terrible situation, sir. Ter — ”
“What happened to Leading Officer Stone?”
Marton squinted thoughtfully. “Who, Aysil? He’s around somewheres. But Blaise is the big noise … yeah … um, yes-
sir
. Blaise is the big noise.”
The junta still met, or had been meeting till recently. But it was a long time since it had actively decided anything more significant than what shows to run on the 3-D. It had been Blaise Darnley’s decision, rubber-stamped by the junta, to postpone setting a course for the P’vong System. Blaise Darnley had decided that instead
Persephone
would search for its pettyboat first. Darnley had taken the ship to the Second Guild’s spotting station in C-2, and, finding none but the small staff, destroyed them anyway, just as a precaution … Or, perhaps, just because Blaise liked destroying things. Too, he had said something about “practice” — but no one had then figured out what the practice was for.
In short, the Bosun had come to the conclusion that releasing the two surviving officers and six loyal crewmen had been a mistake — and he intended to rectify the error.
Tests of Valentine’s atmosphere showed traces of the pettyboat’s fuel. Reticulation would eventually have shown whether or not the boat was still there — as he thought it probably was — but he was in no hurry to make any reticulations. By this time he was no longer taking precautions to keep what were probably his original intentions to himself. He let them leak out a little … then a little more…. He sat back and sniffed the wind. He sent out liberty parties — a liberty unchecked by restraint. He observed how the men liked it. Then he talked some more. In the end, he had probably talked more than he should have.
The free ship was to become a free-booting ship. Time enough to head for the merry, carefree life on the proceeds of what they’d get by selling the ship to the syndicate called the Forty Thieves. Come to think of it, those crooks probably weren’t called the Forty Thieves for nothing … were they? Supposed
Persephone
arrived with only its hull, its engine, and its cargo? They’d have to take whatever the syndicate offered, wouldn’t they? Which might be a lot, or might be a little. And who in the hell ever heard of any crook syndicate offering any more than they could get away with?
Jory, as First Officer, had never had much to do with Bosun Darnley officially, and never had anything to do with him unofficially. Blaise was a bulk of a man, with a yellowed complexion which hinted at some chronic ailment, clipped and wiry black hair, and pale blue eyes. His voice was a rumble. He had reminded Jory of a muffled engine, humming with power, quivering with it, even. And then, that dreadful day in
Persephone
, the muffler had been ripped out, and the engine’s full-throated, full-chested, full-bellied roar rose up and filled the air.
He could imagine Darnley going about his task of subverting the crew a second time, as he subverted them a first time. He could imagine the crew, dismayed, angered, uneasy — had they thrown away everything for
pennies?
And he could imagine them coming, whining, whimpering, to Darnley — “What should we do, Boats? Huh? What do you think? What should we
do?
” His imagination was boosted, corroborated, by Marton’s account. The captive was in some element of glory now, with his former Captain and First Officer — to whom he had probably never before spoken — hanging on his every word, allowing him full measure for narration, mimicry, and self-aggrandizement … all this last probably a lie … I
told him, I said, ‘Boats’ … That’s where you made your big mistake, Boats … You’ll never get away with it, I said…
.
Nevertheless, despite Marton’s warnings and advice, Darnley had come up with an answer. This planet, what the hell was it called? G-27.33S
gamma
5, yeah, Valentine — This planet was soft enough, wasn’t it? Looked rich enough, didn’t it? Okay, then. What did they want Blaise to do, draw them pictures? Fan out, get around, see what’s there.
And take it…
.
“He had ‘em believing,” Marton said, oleaginous and confidential, “he had ‘em believing they could load up
Persephone
with jewels and gold and rare earths and who knows what. And
then
— and
then
— off to the Cluster. See, his line was, that way they could hold out for a big price for her. See? Only …” Marton shrugged, winked, leered. He knew a thing or two about all that, his whole air implied.
Jory swallowed a strong impulse to wipe the greasy smile from the man’s face. He even forced himself to smile a little.
“Blaise had
them
believing it, sure. But what about
you?
Don’t tell me
you
fell for it. What? Come on. I can see that you figured him out. What tipped you off?”
Marton’s grin slipped a bit for a second. But the bland assumption and the gross flattery did their work. The man looked around, came closer, winked. “Well, listen, First. I can put two and two together as well as the next guy. Better than those other meat-heads.
You
know what kind of crazy set-up they got here: bunch o’ midgets, women, and old ladies with swords? It figures, First, it really figures. When I heard what Blaise let out that one time, the whole picture came into focus. That’s when I
knew
, see? That’s when I
knew! He
wasn’t going to go back and sell the ship.
He
wasn’t just figuring on holding a treasure-hunt. Uh-uh. Right?”
“Right,” said Jory. And, “How did he put it, when he let it out that time? I mean, what were his exact words?”
Marton’s eyes gleamed with pure pleasure. He swallowed, as if having tasted something rare and good.
“ ‘Every man a king’,”
he said. “Don’t it figure?”
Slowly, Jory nodded. His reply was quite sincere. “It does figure.”
Marton gave him a quick calculating glance. “Why not? Who’s to stop us? With what?
You
can be a king here, Captain
Rond
can be a king here,
I
can be a king here — huh? Why not? Easy as slicing butter. Right?”
“Right. Easier.”
“Okay, then. How about it? You with us?”
All pretense was gone. The man’s mouth was open, his tufty eye-brows raised, his nostrils quivering. Jory said, “No.” It took a moment for the notion to get through, but Marton wasted no time in complaining. His heavy body lunged at Jory, his heavy fist swung up. Jory, on his back, saw Rond go to the floor. Marton had a knife in his hand. Jory started to rise, the man kicked at him, missed, rushed past him to the door. There was one equerry standing there, a solid little man with a quiet face. He moved to one side, then, as Marton came charging up, moved back and struck once, hard and low. Marton gave a shrill squeal, dropped the knife. The equerry leaned forward, took hold of one finger on each of the man’s hands, and bent them back with one swift, sure motion. They heard the bones crack before Marton screamed again — and again.
• • •
“What will you do with him?” Jory asked, after Marton was removed.
Mukanahan said, “Nothing at all. We will not even expel him. But I do not think he will wish to stay and we shall not prevent his leaving. As to what may happen after that, I neither know nor care.”
Rond apologized. He felt personally disgraced by the fact that anyone who had been under his command should attempt to use a weapon in the Holy Court. His apology was sincere, but distracted, and suddenly developed into a brief exposition of the geologic history of oil formation. Did the annals of the Holy Court, he inquired, have any record of a dark oil seeping from the ground, or of natural gases? The King assured him that he would have the annals searched.
“Much as I appreciate the Great Father’s offer,” Jory said, suddenly feeling the ceiling pressing down on him, “I believe that some quick action has to be taken.”
Mukanahan said, “ ‘Action’ is not a word often heard in this court. Indeed, the very concept has been eroded through the centuries. I am aware that we may be capable of action. Sire Nahan just demonstrated it. Still, in general, we require assistance in formulating such a picture. What do you mean, in this case, by ‘action,’ and what do you mean, also, by ‘quick’?”
He placed his hands together. Jory, restless, said, “Is the Dame aware that these other men plan to carve up the land for themselves?”
“Possibly.”
“Then should we not make at least one more attempt to contact her and urge that we cooperate?”
Mukanahan nodded. “I see part of the picture. I cannot see it all. This message,” he held it up, “which I received a short while back, tends to obscure part of your picture. The Dame, it seems, had decided to attack. In fact, she did attack.” He sighed. “And was captured.”
I
T HAD BEEN CLOSE TO THREE CENTURIES SINCE A
High Keeper had been captured, and the result had been the passing of the office from the White Moiety of Sept Larn to Sept Sartissa. The Red Moiety had contested the succession for another generation before capitulating. It had not been contested since. All power rested, theoretically, in the Holy King; but it had been for over a thousand years part of the theory that this power was exercised by the Keeper of his Castles — whoever that keeper might be. Now, with Dame Hanna’s capture as she crossed into the Dales of Lan, a sort of paralysis set down upon the Land.
The septs met in council, could come to agreement only on one thing:
let all remain for now as it was
. Each sept wondered if it might not wrest from the situation something to its own advantage; no sept trusted the others. A kind of quiver had passed through the social structure with the arrival of Rond, Jory, and their men. The arrival of the main ship had caused something like a tremor. Facing — they scarcely could guess what — the Great Ladies drew closer together. Mutual suspicion could not be overcome, but it did not necessarily have to prove mutually destructive.
The sun still rose and set, the River Lin still coiled its slow way into the Sea of Silence, the arptors called in the thickets, and every growing thing continued to burgeon on the ground. From Dame Hanna, hidden away somewhere inside the
Persephone
, no word came — and none came either from Bosun Blaise Darnley. Men continued to issue in and out of the ship, but there were no more attacks mounted from her. Nor did any other corps or sept venture to repeat the Dame’s ill-fated attempt, and even Saramanth concentrated on binding up its people’s wounds without making a gesture of revenge.
In this atmosphere of uneasy calm Rond and Jory called upon the King with a request. He was in audience at the time, and they waited in the antechamber. Rond seemed to have aged a decade since his arrival on Valentine’s planet. The events themselves on this new world should not have worked the change.
“He has altered even since I have known him,” O’Narra commented when Jory mentioned this to her. “Perhaps it took him that long to realize what had happened.”
Jory wondered if she might not be right. First, the swift-moving events of the mutiny … then the long, long voyage under double-slow narcohypnosis, with its infinitely taxing effects on the metabolism … and then, and only then, the unfamiliar situations of Valentine’s world. The blight had not hit him before, he had not felt it until then. “Delayed reaction,” in the old phrase, “to cumulative shock.”
Whatever it was, he looked old and he looked ill. But still in his mind the ever-present question of fuel remained supreme.
“I am sorry to see, Mr. Cane,” he said, as they walked to and fro in the anteroom, its walls hung with dim, blue tapestries of dim, blue kings doing dim, blue things, “that the question of fuel does not animate all the men as I am sure it does you.” He glanced at his First Officer, got no reply, resumed his trend of talk. “I was astonished to overhear some of them even saying that, if conditions here were only better, they might not mind staying. It passes my understanding. But only some of them, of course. Lockharn, I know, is as anxious as I am.”
The door opened. In filed the chamberlains and equerries. Jory got a quick, flashing glimpse of scarlet and black, then the King entered, followed by more courtiers, and the door shut.
“I have held over my audience,” Mukanahan said, seating himself on the small throne, “until I have had time to attend to your wishes.” He looked at them, inquiringly, and Rond explained that he wished the King’s gift of the contents of the borax warehouse — and also the King’s consent to depart back to their boat, on the island near the coast.
Mukanahan lifted his little hands, let them drop. “The desert salt you may certainly have. My leave to go is automatic — I never prevent anyone from leaving. But … the decision of the septs was, as you know,
to let all things remain as before
. That includes your own status. Inside, you are pilgrims and guests of the Holy Court. Outside … you are once again under the Dame’s proscription. Most of the Great Ladies have already taken the oaths for your heads.” He sighed. “I do not know, I really do not know. Well. Let us inquire.”
He gestured to the courtiers. The door was opened. A moment passed, and then the members of the other audience came in. The scarlet and black of their armor was as glossy as ever, but no swords lay in their scabbards, only sprigs of leaves. Jory had already learned to identify the emblems on their shoulders — the tan head of Larnissa, the three grass blades of Verdanth, the red and white arptors of the two Moieties of Larn, the war-rattle of Tula — emblems encircled in gold to indicate sept leadership.
“Prayers have reached the Holy Presence,” said Lakanahan, “that the Great Men here be returned to their vessel together with the bitter salt of the desert which they require for its fires. The Holy Presence will listen to other prayers on that subject.”
Larnissa, a tall and gaunt woman, with sunken, sea-colored eyes, swung around to face the Captain. “You came to prepare the way for the murderers in the great vessel,” she charged. “You bear blame.”