The massive door in the courtyard was wide open, and seated in the heat of the sun were the four guards, engaged in their eternal game of cards. They raised their heads as the Duke’s party entered the yard and Mark instantly recognized one of them as the man who had summoned the soldiers. The man jumped to his feet, and after bowing formally to the Duke, blurted the story of the raid, pointing toward Mark as the guilty party.
But surprisingly, Jon was not perturbed at the news. He acted, in fact, as if the story were not news at all. He merely nodded and told the man, who, it appeared, was the sergeant of the guards, that Mark was already condemned to participate in the games. He added that the prisoner was not to be molested in any way, so that he would be in one piece to give the audience a good show.
The sergeant grinned. “How about food?” he asked. “The usual prison fare, or should I feed him well so he’ll last longer in the arena?”
“Starve him,” the Duke decided. “It’ll make him all the more ferocious.”
WITH another grin, the sergeant herded Mark through the door and into a cell. Mark went quietly, resolving to tear the cell door off its hinges as soon as the man shut the inner portal of the guardroom. He was disagreeably surprised when he saw the other three men carrying their table and benches down the corridor. These they placed directly opposite his cell. Sunlight, coming through the window he and Murf had once used as a means of escape, struck the table top and furnished light for the game.
“You’re our only prisoner,” chortled the sergeant, “and we can give you all our attention. So just make yourself comfortable and meditate on the habits of certain fowls that always come home to roost.” The sergeant’s enormous belly shook as he laughed in appreciation of his own joke. Then he sobered. “And if you think you can walk out of here by bending those bars, just try it! We’ll slice your fingers off at the elbow!” He laughed again and placed his sword within easy reach of his hand.
Mark, inwardly indignant, grinned as if everything was to his liking. This required quite a bit of thinking. He began to strip off the nightwatchman’s rig he had been wearing since the night before, and carefully spread it on the dusty floor of the cell. Then he sat down on it and leaned his back against the wall.
One of the guards shivered beneath his warm leather jacket as he saw Mark’s bare back touch the wall. The prisoner was now wearing nothing but a pair of sandals, recently acquired, and the skin tight trunks he had worn when he emerged from the ocean. His belt contained no weapons.
Mark felt a certain satisfaction as he noted the wondering expressions on the faces of the guards as they began their game. He was playing a game too. A waiting game.
There was, after all, no reason why he should escape immediately. There were only four men outside, and if he waited long enough there would be only two. They would eventually break up their game and take turns at sleeping. And when the first two went they would leave two drowsy comrades behind.
And if Mark pretended to be asleep at that time, maybe they would doze off. In fact, it was almost certain that they would.
As he silently watched the flicking cards and listened to the sound of clinking coppers, Mark’s thoughts dwelt on the enigma of Jon, Duke of Scarbor.
He knew that the Duke was a right-minded man, sincerely trying to see that justice was done, and earnest in his attempted reforms. He knew also that the Duke was wholeheartedly supporting his subjects’ desire for lighter taxes and elevation from serfdom. He also was aware that the Duke was a noble of royal blood and therefore could be expected to take sides with the nobles to quell any possible rebellion.
Yet Jon had gone to great lengths to defy Erlayok and release Mark. And he had also befriended Murf, a known insurgent. Gratitude alone failed to completely explain such actions.
Mark recalled the cheers which the Duke had insisted were for him. And his own clumsy effort to twist their meaning. The Duke had said, “I am not entirely uninformed.” And had smiled when he said it.
That seemed to indicate that Jon was aware that Mark was the leader of the rebels. And the fact that he had turned Murf loose, and had even made him a present of the horse, might indicate that the Duke was in favor of a rebellion.
The idea was plausible. Jon had been balked in his own efforts to better conditions among his people. Perhaps he considered a rebellion was worthwhile if the desired end was gained.
The Duke had certainly been a friend when he’d barged into that torture chamber. Those burns had hurt, even if they hadn’t done any lasting damage. And he had further shown his friendship when he had ordered Mark’s guard not to damage him. Yet he had also told them to starve him. But he had smiled then, too.
Mark wondered about that. It didn’t seem possible that the Duke could know that he didn’t require food. Even Murf wasn’t sure about that. Several times in Murf’s presence he had eaten a mouthful or two. Mark hadn’t told of his unique properties because of the involved explanation it would require. And with the limited knowledge of the day, the phenomenon would probably fall in the category of black magic, anyway.
A diversion at the card table distracted him.
FOR the past few minutes he hadn’t been watching the game very closely, though he did notice that the pile of copper coins at the sergeant’s elbow was getting higher and higher. Suddenly the player opposite him sprang to his feet and threw his cards face up on the table. At the same instant the sergeant swept his hand back in a grab for his sword. But the other man was quicker. In a flash his sword was drawn and in action.
As the sergeant came erect with his own weapon swinging, he was probably very surprised to find that he had been decapitated.
At any rate, he took practically no interest in the proceedings from that point on. The head came to rest altogether too far away to concern itself with the welfare of the body, which slumped in utter dejection. His conqueror calmly cleaned his sword on the trousers of the vanquished.
“Tsk, tsk,” Mark commented as he noted the cards on the table. There were five of them face-up, and all five were aces. He didn’t know the nature of the game they had been playing, but he had observed that there were four suits in the deck. The dealer — and the sergeant had dealt this hand — had made a serious mistake.
The two other players were still too stupefied to do more than stare at the victor. That gentleman reached over and appropriated about one-third of the sergeant’s winnings.
“I did you men a favor,” he said. “That crook would have had the rest of your money if I hadn’t done what I did. Now you do me a favor. Give me a good start out of here before you report this. And when you do report it, make it self-defense. That’s what it was, you know. He went for his slicer first. But I’m not taking any chances. I’m joining Erlayok’s army right now. They can’t touch me if I do that. Erlayok takes care of his men. Now give me about fifteen minutes. Okay?”
The two nodded dumbly and the man wheeled and left. As soon as the outer door slammed they made a concerted dive for the remainder of the coppers. Then they proceeded to go through the pockets of the deceased, picking him clean.
Mark eyed them closely, missing nothing. For a moment he toyed with the idea of trying to bend the bars of his cell door while they were occupied. He decided to wait, however, realizing that he wouldn’t be able to bend them far enough to slip through before they would be upon him, slashing his fingers with their knives.
And a frustrated attempt to escape now, would render them all the more alert later.
After dividing the loot, the two guards went into a conference. Then one of them left to notify the authorities what had happened. The other tilted a bench against the wall and sat facing Mark’s cell, his sword in his hand.
Mark stayed quiet, but his mind was busily trying to see a way to turn these unforeseen events to his advantage. He only had one guard to contend with, but that wasn’t much help. The man was wide-awake and alert. Mark knew that the keen-edged sword could slice his hands beyond the ability of his bl
ood to repair, in the minute or two that would be required to bend the bars.
Chapter 12: The Spineless Sword
IN A few minutes the opportunity was lost anyway. The guard returned and brought several other men with him. One of these was garbed in a uniform unfamiliar to Mark. He carried no sword, merely an ornamented dagger in a sheath. The uniform was otherwise gaudy and Mark decided he was someone in authority. This man looked carefully at the arrangement of furniture, the position of the corpse. He even smiled when he saw the five aces. Finally he bent over and went through the pockets of the corpse. Then he frowned.
“There is no money on the body,” he said, heavily.
Both guards burst forth in voluble explanation. Nothing could be made of the garbled sounds until the official silenced one of them with a wave of his hand.
“He didn’t have any money in the first place,” the other said. “We won all he had last night, fair and square. Then we lent him enough to get in the game today. So all he had was on the table and that belonged to us because he won it by cheating.”
The official stroked his chin and nodded his head. “I’m glad you explained that,” he said. “Robbing the dead is a serious offense. However your statement of the true circumstances will be accepted when I write it out and present it to my superiors. My time is valuable, of course, so I’ll charge you each a fee of fifty coppers for writing it.”
“But excellency!” one of the men exclaimed. “That is more than...”
The other one silenced him with a kick on the shins. With resignation they handed over the hundred coppers. The official smiled happily. He was faring better than as if he had robbed the corpse himself.
The transaction completed, his men went about removing the body. One of them tucked the head under his arm, facing to the rear as he went down the corridor. The two guards almost jumped out of their skins as the head leered at them before it disappeared through the door. Mark failed to see this little incongruity or he might have had some warning of what was to happen shortly.
As it was he had dismissed the matter of the slaughtered guard from his mind. If the two missing guards were replaced before the day was over, he was no better off than before. If they weren’t, his position was improved to the extent that when the time came for one of the remaining two to sleep, he would be guarded by only one drowsy man.
For some reason Mark wasn’t in any great hurry to escape. When he did break out, Murf would insist on making the first surprise moves in their planned rebellion immediately. True, Mark had agreed that now, in the disorganization of the holiday festivals, was the most propitious time to strike. And certainly the rebellious factions were now united as strongly as they ever would be.
But perversely, and in spite of the enthusiasm he had shown for the past weeks in his campaign, he was hesitant about putting forces in motion which would certainly result in great bloodshed.
HIS mind went back to the stories he had read of the French Revolution. Of the thousands of innocent heads that had been lopped off. He remembered hearing first-hand accounts of the Russian Revolution. Of the bestiality that resulted, and of the savage destruction of irreplaceable works of art. Neither of these rebellions had resulted in any immediate improvement in the living conditions of the common people.
They had merely swapped one set of ruthless leaders for another, just as bad.
Might not this rebellion he planned get out of his control and wind up the same way? The ever-present menace of the Mics and the Macs could furnish the means. There would be temporary disorganization in the armies of the Brish, and during that time the country might be invaded and hopelessly subjugated. He hated to take the responsibility of starting something which might end so disastrously.
And the rebellion might well be a failure. His men could never hope to defeat the armies of the various nobles. And if the surprise element of his attack should fail of its purpose, they would surely have to contend with those armed forces. They would be slaughtered without mercy.
Only by simultaneously defeating the garrisons of all the nobles could they hope to succeed. For this would automatically give them control of the armies. The palaces of the various earls contained the vaults which held the vast sums collected as taxes and land rentals. And from these vaults came the money to pay the salaries of the soldiers.
If the rebels took these strongholds, the allegiance of the armies was assured. But if they failed, those soldiers would hunt them down and kill them.
And even if they won and escaped attack from their hereditary enemies, would conditions be very greatly improved?
For the first time Mark began to have doubts even of this. The tremendous armies would still have to be maintained. Forces for control of civil affairs would still be necessary. Crime would still require curbing.
Of course, there would be a great improvement in criminal procedure. And the army would no longer be allowed to ride roughshod over the rights of the citizens. There would be fewer injustices and inhumanities committed.
But would these things be worth the bloodshed that was inevitable, or the disastrous possibilities which must be risked?
The rebels expected much good to result from their victory. They were going to be bitterly disappointed to learn that taxes would still remain at a high level, so high that they would still be required to work from dawn to dusk to pay them.
Erlayok had pointed out that the only economies which could be safely effected would be to remove the expense of supporting the ruling class in luxury. And that there would still have to be rulers to support. The amount which could be saved would be relatively small. And it wouldn’t satisfy the rebels, he could foresee.
His attention returned to the guards. Those two, quite oblivious to the recent decapitation of the sergeant, were now hotly engaged in a two-handed game. The stacks of coppers were about evenly matched. Evidently neither was winning. They were seated at the ends of the table so that both could see the prisoner. Both, furthermore, were chewing cuds of tobacco, and using Mark’s cell for a cuspidor. They seemed to take great pride in their ability to spit between the bars. Mark himself appeared to be out of range, but he didn’t regard the sport with any great favor.
THE guard on the left pushed forth a coin and laid his cards face down.
He was raising a bet. But he was too busy with his tobacco juice to call it. The other player matched his coin and raised again. The man on the left took another peek at his hand and decided to call. As he put one coin in the center of the table he raised his head and puckered his lips in the direction of Mark’s cell. It looked to the prisoner as if a distance record were being contemplated and he prepared to pull his feet out of range.
Surprisingly, the ejected stream didn’t so much as reach the door of the cell. Instead it curved in mid-air, as if driven back by a sudden gust of wind, and returned to splash full in the spitter’s face. The other guard was convulsed with laughter and Mark mumbled: “Serves the blighter right.”
The guard’s laughter died suddenly and his face registered the unaccustomed impact of a thought. “Say — there — there wasn’t any wind. How —”
The other one glared balefully at Mark, who smiled back sweetly. “He did it! He must have blew it back at me. I’ll cut his heart out!”
Cursing handsomely, he reached for his sword. The other guard objected, warning him of the Duke’s explicit order that the captive not be harmed.
“You better leave him alone. Don’t know as I blame the poor guy anyhow. Jeepers, what lungs!”
The game went on.
But not for long, however. The corridor suddenly became the Cave of Winds. The cards developed a frisky will of their own. Apparently wafted by inexplicable gusts of wind, they would turn jauntily over and lie face up. They would drift off the table altogether and lodge in unprobable locations. Twice the man on the left carefully spat upon the floor, only to have sudden currents of air carry the brown spittle against his legs.
The guard on the rig
ht, whose cards behaved more capriciously, got so nervous about it that he would snatch them up the instant they were dealt.
The game finally broke up when he managed to get hold of three kings and a pair of queens, only to have them snatched out of his hand by a gust of unusual violence and deposited, with the pictures uppermost, in the center of the table. He swore loudly and with emphasis, glaring toward Mark’s cell.
Strangely, both guards blamed it all on Mark. There was no reason for doing so, for the gusts had come from all directions and they could see that Mark hadn’t changed his position. Possibly it was the fact that the prisoner saw nothing unusual in the peculiar antics of the wind. Perhaps it was because he was either grinning or laughing at them all the time these things were happening. But whatever the reason, they glared at Mark every time anything unusual occurred. And in a sense they were right. The peculiar happenings were directly due to his presence. Without him, nothing strange would have occurred.
THEY couldn’t hear him chortling to himself: “Omega, you old reprobate. Give ‘em the works — and then get me out of this cross-barred spittoon.” They couldn’t know about Mark’s familiar spirit, whose unmistakable signature was scrawled all over the antics of the cards.
One of the guards grasped his sword and lunged menacingly at Mark’s cell door. “Now cut it, you!” he roared. Then his face puckered plaintively, “Gorm, we ain’t doing you any harm.”
Mark grinned at him and said nothing. Suddenly the blade of the guard’s sword began to flop back and forth like an eel trying to escape. From a rigid length of gleaming steel it became a writhing object with the consistency of wet spaghetti. In horror, the guard flung it to the floor. It landed, flopped a few times like a fish out of water, and then lay still.
This latest foible seemed to take some of the spirit out of the guards. When a man’s weapons can no longer be relied upon, he loses some of his assurance.
The Best of Argosy #6 - Minions of Mars Page 9
