by Andre Norton
If there had was any trace of the original Kaskar personality left—well, he had not detected it. Therefore, he was not changed, only the world about him. It was like, he thought deliberately, taking a job in a foreign country—Mexico, perhaps, or one of the South American states. There he would have to learn language, customs, which were alien to those of his own land as were the ones of Olyroun, Tolcarne, or Ulad.
There was no one back home to really care if he. dropped out of sight. Second cousins— He had been a loner since his parents died in a car accident when he was seventeen. After that, he had been too busy fighting for an education and a living to make any lasting contacts. Greg was perhaps the best friend he had had, although Greg was so wrapped up in the Project that he really cared for little else.
So—he had been free, if one could call it that, to accept a job overseas. This was a little farther than overseas, and much more of an alteration in his life. However, if he could accept it as such, he could push any panic far enough away for it to fade into nothingness.
In fact, though he realized it only now, Ramsay had, in the past days at Kilsyth, begun to adapt. If he accepted the fact that there was no return, then where did he go from that?
Right into the middle of a nasty mess, from everything he had learned. To Melkolf and his aids, the pseudo Kaskar was a danger because he could reveal exactly how they had rid themselves of the real Prince. To Ochall, Ramsay would suggest a possible new game with another pawn—
But he was himself! He was not Kaskar. And it was his future they would try to twist and turn—or perhaps erase entirely. Therefore—now he was fighting for himself. And—
Ramsay started to his feet, facing the cell door. Someone was coming, not that he had heard any scrape of boot across the floor, but he was certain of movement within the lab, headed in his direction. Melkolf again, this time ready to finish him off? Ramsay drew a deep breath. No matter what exotic weapons the other was going to produce, Ramsay would not easily be killed.
Still no sound his ears could catch, just the sure belief that there was someone there, coming for him. He stooped and caught up the stool, swinging it by one of its legs. How effective a shield that might make, Ramsay had no idea, but it was the only thing he could use. Perhaps he would even be lucky and throw it straight enough to knock Melkolf’s tube out of his hands. Always supposing the other did not just stand beyond the bars and ray (if that’s what that weapon did) without coming into reach.
A figure stepped into the opening of the short hall where the cells were. Black and white— Only one man Ramsay knew within this pile wore such a robe.
However, he did not put down the stool.
Osythes walked at a slow pace, but from the very moment he came into view, the Shaman tried to catch and hold Ramsay’s gaze. There was danger in that! Just as he had sensed the noiseless approach of this Enlightened One, so now some instinct told him not to allow Osythes to meet him eye to eye. Ramsay dropped his own gaze to the other’s chin, his wrinkled throat.
The Shaman reached the locked door of the cell.
“It is time that we speak, stranger.” His voice sounded rusty, as if he did not use it much.
“Perhaps so,” Ramsay returned. “What would you say to me? Since I am your prisoner—I am a captive listener.”
“Not my prisoner—” Osythes extended a hand from the folds of a long sleeve, pressed his five fingertips against the door plate. The gate swung open. “Come forth, stranger—”
Ramsay hesitated. What if he did just that and his action was deemed an escape attempt so they could cut him down easily without question?
“I bear no arms.” Osythes sounded weary now. “Nor do I intend you any betrayal.”
Ramsay remembered something Thecla had said. “Word-bond for that?” he asked.
“Word-bond,” the Enlightened One replied promptly.
Now that was unbreakable, according to Grishilda’s comment. Ramsay dropped the stool with a clatter, moved out into the narrow passage.
“Come!” Osythes had already turned away, headed back to the lab. Ramsay stalked warily after him. The Shaman had given his word-bond, but that might not hold for the other conspirators in the Get-Rid-of-Kaskar intrigue.
They were not going toward those stairs down which Ramsay had come, rather toward the opposite end of the crowded room. As they passed one bench, Ramsay saw, lying there, the Feudman’s hood. He paused to snatch it up: that disguise might be needed again, especially in Lom, where his present face was a liability.
Here was a second stairway, steeper, narrower. Osythes took the climb slowly, as if such effort taxed his frail body. Ramsay loitered impatiently a few steps behind. He constantly glanced back, expecting to hear or see pursuit at their heels.
The flight went straight up. A thin patch of light at the top suggested an open portal, and perhaps they were expected. Osythes, breathing heavily, reached the opening, Ramsay just behind.
Here was another richly appointed chamber. However, Ramsay was given little time to survey his surroundings, for Osythes had advanced to stand by the side of a tall chair from which extended a canopy of carved and gilded wood overshadowing its occupant.
She seemed very small in that thronelike seat, yet such was her aura of presence that she was not in the least dwarfed or belittled by it. Instead, the throne provided the perfect setting for her.
A fur cloak was drawn about her shoulders, although, to Ramsay, the room felt warm. And all but her face was concealed by a scarf of golden tissue held in place by a begemmed circlet. Her hands, as thin as bird claws, rested quietly in her lap. On her right thumb was a seal ring such as Thecla wore, a band so heavy and thick it overpowered the flesh and bone the metal encircled. And she wore other rings, too, all richly jeweled.
Her small feet, covered by soft boots, were planted firmly together on a footstool. All added to make her stance one of complete authority. That this was the old Empress Ramsay had no doubt. And he studied her face curiously. What was she like, this woman who had rid herself of a grandson in the name of duty to her country?
Age had sharpened her features. If she had ever possessed any beauty, it was now withered away. Only she did not need beauty. She would draw all eyes in any company wherein she chose to move. Ramsay was impressed as he had never been before in his life. But he determined not to show that. As far as he was concerned, at this moment she represented the enemy.
They were alone. A quick glance about the room told him that just Osythes and Quendrida were united in full power. What had Thecla said—these two found him a menace, but they would not agree to his killing. That left the other three: Berthal, the new heir; Urswic, the Councillor; and Melkolf. Where were those now? Did the absence of the junior three mean that there had been a split in the party? If so—how could that be put to Ramsay’s own advantage?
At this moment he was well aware of the very searching stare the Empress had turned on him. He met her gaze calmly, with none of that instinctive withdrawal that had warned him against Osythes. The silence in the chamber grew, but Ramsay determined to let one of the others break it first.
“What manner of man are you?” It was the Empress who spoke. She asked her question sharply, as if to gain some quick, perhaps too revealing retort from him.
“I am a very ordinary man—” Ramsay hesitated, and then gave her the term of respect he had heard was used when speaking directly to one of the last reigning queens of his own world—“Madam.” She raised her hand to sketch an impatient gesture. “In some manner,” she retorted, “you have importance. Or you would not be here.”
“You mean, ma’am”—Ramsay schooled to such indifference as he could summon—“I would be more use to you were I dead?”
Beneath her hook of nose, her mouth quivered. It was Osythes who replied to that challenge.
“You are bold—” There was rebuke in his tone.
“What else have you left me?” Ramsay was amazed that he could find these words; stilted t
hey might be, but only such were appropriate in this company. “I am told that I am a dead man. In two different worlds, it would seem. Therefore, as a dead man, who can deny me plain speaking?”
To Ramsay’s surprise, the Empress suddenly gave a cackle of laughter.
“That was indeed aptly expressed, stranger. You have a quick tongue and a mind”—she hesitated— “a mind that differs from those we know. Now what must we do with you?”
“What shall I do?” he corrected her. “The choice is mine now, ma’am.”
Again the Empress was silent, studying him. Then she asked, as if she might be inquiring politely, not really caring, concerning the intentions of any mere acquaintance: “What is in your mind to do, boy?”
Ramsay shrugged. “As yet, I have not been given any chance to choose, ma’am. Melkolf has told me there is no return to my own world. If I can believe him, then it is here I must make a place for myself.”
She shook her coroneted head slowly. “Not here, not in Lom, not in Ulad, while you wear that face.”
“And who presented me with it, ma’am?” Ramsay challenged again.
“We had no choice.” Any momentary lightness vanished from her voice. Her tone was again that of cold authority. “You must know the situation— Kaskar’s rule would have produced disasters our country could not endure.”
“So—now you must accept me.” Ramsay refused to be intimidated.
“I have said—we cannot.” Again, authority in her voice.
“Your answer, then, is Melkolf’s—kill?” he demanded.
Her ringed hands moved; the thin fingers tightened about the edge of the fur cloak, making the jewels in her rings catch and reflect light as rainbow sparkles. Osythes moved a step forward from beside the throne chair, as might someone guarding his companion. A faint shade of indignation crossed his face, breaking that masklike serenity he had worn since he had released Ramsay from the cell.
“You make too free!” Now the sharpness was in the Shaman’s voice, but the Empress interrupted him.
“Who has a better right to question us so, Reverend One? No stranger, we will not kill. But there is another—perhaps others—who will not be so forbearing, because they fear. When men fear, then they act, wisely or rashly, but still they act. If you would live—I say this again with all truth, if you will live—then not in Lom, in Ulad, even on this side of the ocean. You have taken the guise of one out of Tolcarne—very well—live by it!”
“And why should I be governed by any desire of yours, ma’am?” Ramsay did not ask that with insolence but hoped that these two would get his meaning, that he was no man of theirs to be commanded.
“Such an answer is not my desire,” the Empress replied. “It is only good reasoning. I can restrain Melkolf; my orders will be obeyed in that direction, as long as my son, the present Emperor—though failing fast—still lives. When he dies, I have still a place in Lom, but I cannot command such power. I can only suggest then, not order.
“In the meantime, you have been told of Ochall—of what he desires. One of his creatures, those Eyes and Ears that serve about this court, need only glimpse you unmasked and he will speedily hear of it. And I promise you, if Ochall comes to hunt you down, not death, but death-in-life will then be your portion.
“Do not believe that Kaskar was always a weakling, an easy tool in the hands of a stronger will. Once he was as you stand now, a youth proud in his strength, quick of wit, able as to mind. This I do not declare because he was blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, heir to my House—no, this I say because it was true.
“What evil means Ochall used to make Kaskar his we have not discovered. It may even be that he perverted some of the Old Knowledge, that which we believed only the Enlightened Ones retained, to achieve the fashioning of the Kaskar he would have. And, having done this once, can it not be that he will be able to do so again? Do you wish to be only a shadow of what you now, are, stranger?”
She was not trying to frighten him, Ramsay guessed that. This Quendrida who ruled in Ulad meant exactly what she said. Drugs—hypnotism—it must be such as these she hinted at. And he could also imagine what might happen if Ochall could lay hands on him. Suppose they were entirely right, that he had no future in this land? A quick retreat at present began to sound like the best move he could make. Still, it did not follow that he could not, at some future time, return. If they won their battle with Ochall—But it was the immediate present that mattered most, not the future.
“Can I accept,” he asked of them both, “that Melkolf did speak the truth—that I have no return to my own place?”
The Empress left the replying to Osythes.
“It is true. I have sent the dream probe once more into your world. It met with nothing. There the man you were has passed the Final Gate, along with him who was Kaskar. May the abiding pace of all time gather about him now!” The Shaman made a small gesture, tracing some symbol in the air. For a moment the Empress inclined her head.
“All right. Then if I go out of Ulad—say, to Tolcarne? How may that be arranged?”
“It is arranged. We needed only your consent,” the Shaman replied. “Though the merchants trading overseas are in these times very few in number, there is one venturer whose ship lies now at anchor in the west harbor. He is willing to take a passenger. Clothing, weapons, credit with this merchant, all will be waiting for you on board. You will leave within the hour—”
“You make such a decision with speed,” commented Ramsay wryly.
“It must be done so,” Osythes answered. “For the sooner you are out of Lom, ocean-borne, the less either you or we have to fear. Ochall may have already heard rumors of your existence. There is no reason to believe he has not. And we do not understate your danger if he searches with all his resources.”
Ramsay shrugged. “It seems I have no alternative.”
“That you have not!” the Empress affirmed. “That you have been caught up in this matter we must deplore, but the reason for it was of such importance—we cannot deny that, if faced again with the same choices, we would make the same decision. One man weighs very little against the safety of a whole land.”
Ramsay looked to Osythes. “I am told that is also the belief of the Enlightened Ones, why they will advise but do no more. Yet it seems that here you have done more—”
“On my head and heart that action will lie. Which is none of your concern, stranger! But since you have said yes—then we only waste time with our chatter here. You must be on your way at once!”
“I would see the Lady Thecla first.” The Empress leaned forward a little in her thronelike chair, her old eyes turned searchingly upon him once more.
“Why so? Such a meeting has no reason. She knows well all we have just said to you and agreed to what we would offer. The child has done very well in every way. Now she will do even better, joining peacefully our two lands, for the greater safety and progress of both. Berthal is not, as Pyran, my dying son—a great ruler. But he is one who will listen to good counsel, and he hates Ochall bitterly. We need not fear that that son of evil will much longer send his shadow out across our land!” Her voice deepened, was filled with emotion as she continued. “No—you go now—Osythes will accompany you to the gate. Beyond, there will be one to play your guide to the ship. And—wear that mask—put it on now! Would you allow a dead man to walk so all can see?” She pointed to the cap-mask swinging in his hand.
He could demand again to see Thecla, but he thought it useless. Anyway, the Empress had made it very clear that the girl knew all they had planned for him. Still, as Ramsay adjusted the hood and mask, fastening firmly the throat latch, it was with a sense of disappointment. Of course he, as a person, would not matter to Thecla. She had been working from the first not to save Ramsay Kimble but to salvage the plans of the two now fronting him, agreeing that the good of any nation came before that of one man, though she had refused to leave him prey to either Ochall or the hotheads on this side of the intrigue. For that
much he must thank her. She would now marry Berthal. Ochall would lose his power. And history would continue along the path this old woman, this man, saw fit to set it.
The Empress gave Ramsay no formal farewell, nor did he offer her any. She had leaned her head back against her chair, her face now much in the shadow of the canopy, but not so much that he could not see her closed eyes. Perhaps she had already dismissed him from her mind now that the problem he had presented was neatly solved.
But Quendrida of Ulad could not foresee all the future, much as he had heard talk of the Enlightened Ones’ foretelling. Perhaps she would have a surprise or two. Ramsay was already beginning to wonder if he was not the one to deliver such a surprise. He had made up his mind while in the cell below that he was no man’s puppet. Nor did he intend to be any woman’s. His own man, that was what he was going to be—even if he had to plan and fight for it.
They traversed corridors, descended stairs, came out at last in a courtyard like the one which Grishilda had led him to on his first escape from Lom Palace. Again one of the flyers waited and, by its steps, a man wearing the uniform of the guard. He saluted Osythes and then Ramsay, waiting for the latter to climb into the vehicle before he himself entered.
The flyer soared aloft in such a leap as had startled Ramsay on his first ride, but now they were skyborne for a much shorter time. They set down on a square of pavement that was lapped by the water of what must be the sea. A wharf ran on out, and berthed alone it were ships, though they had no sign of spars or sails, only a stubby post in the center. The guardsman waited for Ramsay to join him.
“Not far—” He gestured down the wharf. “It is the—” He had been facing Ramsay. Now his gaze centered over Ramsay’s shoulder. There was startled surprise in his eyes; his mouth dropped open.
