Authors: Avram Davidson
Courteously, Rond said, “No, Madame.”
Verdanth, a mountain of a woman, face as red as her hair, said, “The murderers came here in pursuit of you.”
“This … this may be so …”
Then, doggedly, she repeated, “You bear blame.”
White Larn, a slender slip of a girl, said, “There are prophecies concerning you, and they have not been fulfilled. You cannot go.”
Red Larn, grief written on her lovely face, asked, “How can you go when these great wrongs remain unpunished?”
And Tula, like a burning brand, cried, “You must fight at our side, or all the land will die!”
The echoes of her voice sounded, died away. The King spoke very softly. “Our High Keeper required an oath of you concerning these Great Men. We will hold that oath to be in abeyance during her absence. To the Great Men still at their boat, the Holy Court sends bitter desert salt, and with it, the oldest of them. May it not be that the others will consult with you on further necessary measures?”
To this oblique decision, which did not and could not satisfy everybody, nobody could object. The Holy King did not often voice a decision, but, once voiced, it had to be obeyed.
Rond and Lockharn, provided with the black scarves which made them
pro forma
members of the priesthood, and thus safe from molestation, departed with an escort and a train of sixty tans — three of them carrying supplies and the other fifty-seven bearing loads of borax. The Captain was almost feverish to get away.
“I place you in charge, Mr. First,” he said — said it, in fact, repeatedly. “It will be no easy effort for Crammer, Lockharn, and me to prepare the boron by ourselves. But we will manage it. Once that is done, the rest is easy — back, by stages if necessary, to the nearest Guild installation. Assure these Valentine people that the Guild will see to it that Darnley and his rogues are punished.”
Lockharn’s comment was briefer. “All’s I want, I want to pension out and buy that farm. See you soon, shipmates.”
And they were off. Jory, following the procession with his eyes, felt oddly relieved to see them go.
• • •
White Larn lifted her chin. “It is impossible,” she said. The other sept leaders echoed her statement. “Lead us in battle, share your warlock’s skills with us, and we will crush the murderers as one crushes eggs. But — retreat?”
Jory pleaded with her, not for the first time, “It’s only a strategic retreat — a military tactic. It doesn’t involve any less valor than an advance or attack. There is no other way!”
“White Larn cannot retreat!”
“Nor Red Larn, either!”
Gaunt Larnissa, massy Verdanth, and fiery Tula, confirmed their words. In despair, Jory strode from the council room.
Levvis, Storm, Duston, Mars, O-Narra, and Rahan-Joe were waiting for him. “What did they say, Mr. Cane?” asked Levvis.
Jory told him.
The tall Guildsman shook his head.
“I don’t know … I don’t knew exactly what’s holding Darnley up, either. Maybe he’s on a super-drunk. But he won’t stay on greensleeve forever. And when he sobers up …”
O-Narra shook back impatiently the hood of the blue-green robe she now wore. “Fools,” she said. “They still think they are involved in some silly feud … a point of etiquette or honor between Fief-Lanna and the Heiress of Menna, about who sits first to dine, or nonsense like that.”
Jory, looking at her, found it hard to believe that this woman, speaking now so rationally, was the same who — clad in scarlet and black armor, waving her glittering sword — had charged at them, leaping and howling, intent on their death or hers, that first day which seemed so long ago.
She looked at him, she took him by the hand, she smiled.
“Go to Nelsa,” she said.
He looked at her, astonished. “I … I don’t even know where she is.”
Storm cleared his throat. He seemed a trifle shy, but it took him only a moment to say what he had to. “Uh … Mr. First …
we
know where she is. Like us to take you over there?”
Jory nodded. He had almost forgotten about the men since arriving in the shady, peaceful, park-like enclosure of the Holy Court. But they didn’t give him time to reproach himself, nor did they seem to feel neglected. They seemed, in fact, as they walked across the smooth grass, to be quite cheerful. That this might be due to the quickened prospect of escape from planet Valentine — but then he remembered Rond’s words.
He had no time to reflect on them. They passed through one of the innumerable gates into one of the innumerable courtyards. Here was a sort of caravansery, a pilgrims’ quarters. That was somthing else he had forgotten — and embarrassment burned his cheeks — the mixed multitude who had risked life to follow him and his Captain, whom he had manipulated (there was no other word for it) in such way as to provide for his own safe entrance into the sanctuary of the Holy Court. There, at peace, with O’Narra, still concerned with his own affairs, it was easy to forget.
But it seemed he was not so easily forgotten.
“Ah, Giant!”
Nelsa …
A pleased buzz went up from all the runaways, the little men, the peasant-women and servitors. Nelsa was there, and all her band, including the ancient old priestess who stroked his hand with her withered paw. He saw Storm take hold of one of the outlaws and give her a hearty kiss. Two of them took Mars by the hand, and even Duston seemed awaited … welcomed … and domesticated.
“When are the questions to be answered, Giant?” Nelsa asked. “We have been waiting. Your men, true, have answered certain questions for some of my women. But meanwhile other questions have come up. I have been strongly tempted, Giant, in these times of upset and commotion, to go outside the walls again, and see if I could not provide answers of my own.”
She was a vigorous woman, with a considerable robust charm quite different from O-Narra’s. With some small effort he saw her now as a woman, only, and not as a possible ally. And he saw that she had a fine, full figure, and a pleasant face. “Well, Giant?” Her words got him out of his revery. She listened to him. She nodded, thoughtfully. Then she said, “So you came to us, the outlaws, the people of the forest, to play the tricks the Great Ladies are too proud to play?”
Nettled, he said, “No! I came to you in hopes you had more sense than those gaudy fools, who are frozen into a mold which they haven’t yet realized is going to be broken into little pieces any day now! I hoped you’d place the survival of your race over your damn-fool pride. I — ” He broke off, and turned to go.
She seized his arm and, woman or not, her grip held firm. He swung back. “Giant,” she said; “Great Man; don’t shout. My ear is not lower than your mouth, and I can hear every word you say. Say more.”
• • •
Rama was a good-sized town which lay in that part of the Border Marches nearest to
Persephone
that had not yet been ravaged. Its population had fled with the others into the Hills of Night. Jory led his newly recruited forces into it quite early one morning after a long march through the blackness. Nelsa and her women were with him, as were many of the runaways; Levvis, Storm, Mars, and Duston were not, though they had protested loudly and vigorously. He had been obliged to pull rank, had observed that rank didn’t pull as far or as easily as it used to, had been glad (though a little chagrined) when the men at last allowed Nelsa and her band to persuade them to stay behind.
All day long, while part slept, part carried out the daily tasks as if no threat existed; then they changed watches and some slept while others cooked food, walked about the streets, or pretended to buy or sell merchandise in the abandoned shops. As night fell, preparations were made as though it were a festive occasion. Great lamps were lit and hung up in the streets, tables were set out for the food being prepared in big caldrons in the yards. There was much music, song, rejoicing, and the dance …
The trap had been set.
“Do you think they will notice there are no children?” Nelsa asked.
“No … the dolls will fool them. It was a good idea — and yours.”
She smiled, peered through the window. “Too bad that you must hide inside. Really, they are putting their hearts into it out there. You’d think it was Lukanahan’s Day, or Solstice…. ah, the music! Let me show you, Giant, how we dance to this tune in the forests. Put your arms … so. And I put mine … so. Now, this way. And back. And to the right … Very good, indeed. It is most curious, dancing with a man. We can’t dance with our own, you know. They are very dear, some of them, but it had never occurred to me how
small
, how very, very small they were. Now forward … Are you finding it as pleasant as I am? No, no, you can’t. You have danced with women your size before, but never until now have I had the arms of a Great Man around me.”
He found his feet adapting quickly to the simple step, alien as the music was. “What?” he asked. “Have none of our crewmen answered questions for you?”
“No,” she said. “I am not so eager. I am patient.”
He stopped, abruptly. “Shall I reward your patience?” he murmured. He pressed his lips upon hers. She sighed, deeply. And then the music stopped in mid-note. The shouting and the screams began. Nelsa tore herself from his arms.
“Remember!”
he called to her as she ran.
“Remember!”
At least twenty men in baggy and soiled Guild uniforms had burst into the circle of light. The small men who had been dancing there fled, shouting. The invaders stopped a moment, looked down the street. “There are the women!” one of them cried. And the pursuit began. The women screamed, fell back, but not far. The small men milled around, noisily. Deeper and deeper into the throng the crewmen pushed, laying about them with the metal bars they used as clubs. Jory, peering through the partly closed window, decided that Blaise Darnley must be keeping the lock on the laser-guns, issuing them only to “authorized expeditions” — of which this was patently not one.
The mutineers passed closely by, faces intent and furious. And the women still retreated, still screamed shrilly, still moved none too fast. And then the high, piercing whistle of the arptor-bone … And Nelsa and her friends appeared from their hiding holes, in their black armor, brandishing the weapons retrieved from where they had deposited them after taking refuge at Court. The decoy women uttered their final scream, and turned to watch the fight. The mutineers were outclassed as far as weapons were concerned, but they had the superiority of numbers. They beat back the attack, were in turn beaten back, were harried by the unexpected assaults of swarms of little men who poured from the side-streets and houses. To and fro the struggle went, with shouts and screams and blood in the dim glow of the lamps and the guttering light of the torches.
Jory wondered if he was going to have to stay, lurking, inside the house forever. Then, finally, his ears heard what he was waiting for. He rushed out into the night. One of the mutineers lay in the gutter, bleeding, motionless. Jory stooped, snatched up the metal bar lying by the flaccid hand, and ran forward, shouting.
Again, the shrill whistle of the arptor bone, imitating the cry of the beast itself … arp
-tor! …
arp
-tor!
The small men vanished away into the darkness again. The fighting women melted away into the shadows, one by one. The mutineers hesitated, turned to check the source of the cries now echoing in the all but deserted street. They did not at first identify Jory, still wearing the robe of royal blue which the tailors of the Holy Court had fashioned for him. They huddled, confused, at the lower end of the street.
Then came the sound of running feet.
From out of the darkness of the upper end of the street poured — as Jory had calculated they eventually would and must — the reinforcements which had until now been lying in wait outside the walls of Tula. The second group of mutineers came hurtling down the way. And Jory stood, as if confused, between the two groups. Too late, he made for the safety of the doorways. In a moment they were upon him, bearing him to the ground.
A voice said, “Who in the hell is
this?
”
And another said, “I’ve seen that face … he’s no native….” Astonished, triumphant, then: “It’s the First! The First! It’s Jory Cane!”
They were far from gentle with him. No traces of past loyalty kept them from killing him, then and there, as the last of the torches sank down into smoking ambers — he owed his life to one thing alone. “Blaise’ll want him,” someone said. The others drew back, reluctantly. “Blaise wants too damn much,” said another.
“
You
want to tell him that?”
“
Sure
, I’ll tell him that.”
“Aaa … So you didn’t get no women?”
Sullenly, accusing and excusing, they tore the sleeves from his robe, bound his arms and hands and hobbled his feet, and led him away with them. One small note of cheer they seemed to get from it all. “You must’ve thought we wouldn’t see through your scheme, hey, Cane? Figured you’d really drygulch us. Maybe you aren’t as bright as you thought, First Officer.”
As they dragged him, stumbling painfully, through the darkness spottilly lit by their belt-lamps, Jory thought,
Maybe not
. Rond didn’t think much of his First Officer’s grounding in the classics of the pre-Technic Era, for instance. But Jory knew something of a few of them, and one line kept repeatedly running through his mind.
Don’t throw me in the briar patch, Br’er Wolf!
T
HE WARNING NODES ON THEIR UNIFORMS BUZZED
, telling them they were near the guard-wires … guard-wires, Jory noted, set too close to the ship. Was Darnley nervous? Or just careless? “What’s the password?” someone wanted to know, as they halted.
“
I
dunno.”
“
Free ship
… isn’t it?”
“
Free ship
was yesterday.”
“Well, what the hell, try it anyway.”
They did, and it worked. They passed through safely, and in a few minutes came to the lighted circle in which
Persephone
sat. Jory’s heart beat faster at the sight of her. If only she could be recaptured! But, fast as the thought was, objections came crowding just as fast. The task was impossible, probably. Even if it succeeded, how could the six men and two officers take her up safely and bring her through successfully? Or, how could they trust any of the mutineers? The answer to both questions was — they could not.