by Andre Norton
The fresh air of night met her, dispelling much of the fugginess of the hall. It took only a minute to slip through and close the door behind her. Now—She lingered in the shadow to survey the courtyard. That coach was still pulled close to the wall at her left. Beyond were stables—she could both smell them and hear the stamp of duocorns.
Though she studied the top of the wall and the tower behind her, she could not spot any watchman. But she dared not count that such a one did not exist. Her attention kept going back to the coach. If it were as close to the wall as it seemed, could she use it as a ladder to reach the top? But to get down the other side—She would need a rope. Harness—such as was still draped over the carriage shafts? She darted over to those.
To climb into the driver’s seat was easy enough. Roane hunkered on that, watching for any sentry on the walls. The bulk of the tower showed several faintly glowing windows, but the evening gloom was thick enough to hide the carriage roof.
Once more she slid to the ground and fingered the harness. The buckles were easy enough to loosen and reclasp, and by careful work (she made herself go slowly, to test the strength of what she did and for fear of noise) she had at last a length tougher than rope, which she thought would support her weight. With this coiled about her shoulder she again sought the seat of the carriage.
There was still a space to climb and the smooth wall offered no holds. For a moment Roane was baffled, and then she investigated the uses of her present perch. There was the cushioned seat, which could be upended to lean out against the wall. But, could she balance on the upper end of that?
The wall above—but of course! There was a standard-pole there, one of a pair, the other on the far side of the gate. No banner flew now, but it would provide anchorage if she could just throw—
Roane stood on the denuded seat of the carriage by the unsteady bridge of the cushion. She whirled the weighted end of the strap rope around her head and sent it flying. Up and out it went, to clang against the wall with a sound which, to Roane, was like a thunderclap. But it did dangle there, and it had encircled the pole above.
She must move fast, reach that dangling end before the cushion bridge could turn under her feet. She poised and leaped, one end of the strap in her left hand, her right reaching for the other.
She had been correct in fearing the instability of the bridge; it gave way. But not before she had grasped the other end of the strap to which she clung. Fortunately, the cushion sank only a little, not so much that she was left hanging with her full weight on her outstretched arms. Bringing both ends of the strap together, Roane climbed, struggling over the edge, hardly believing she managed it without disaster.
To slide down the far side was much easier. And when a flick of her wrist brought the strap down to her, Roane coiled it around her body. She could still make out in the dusk the peak the Princess had said was a landmark. There was a road running in that direction, not one of the tree-and-brush-hidden lanes, but a clear cut through the forest. Her best move would be to keep to that, ready to take to cover if she met any other traveler.
The route was not too deeply rutted and the footing was secure enough. She set out with a ground-covering pace she had learned long ago. Now that she was out of that prison, she must plan ahead. To get back to camp, if the camp was still there, was, of course, the first step. If Uncle Offlas could learn what would happen—that the seekers of the Crown would be close to their find—
Roane’s thoughts veered. The Princess—where had she gone with Reddick and for what purpose? Surely Ludorica had been under some compulsion, though she had walked to her mount and had ridden out docilely enough.
Ludorica had her problems, but Roane had hers also. These were no longer the same. Again Roane was puzzled. Why had it been so important all the time she was with the Princess that Ludorica be helped in any manner Roane could devise? And now—why did she feel as if released from some tie?
Had all the imprudent and ill-considered (from the point of view of the Service) actions of the last few days come from the fact that she had been the Princess’s companion? And why, when that companionship had been broken had the strange influence of Reveny’s heiress gone? Was it something in her own temperament which made her more receptive to suggestion?
Roane had had enough training in forms of communication, briefing, and controls, as practiced by both men and machines, to know that such an influence might exist and that it could be part of the mystery of Clio. In some very old civilizations, even in the dim past of her own before it had left its native planet to pioneer a thousand other worlds, there had been ages when kings were also priests credited with divine powers by descent.
Suppose those who had set up the experiment on Clio had made use of such memories, giving the families they had selected to rule a mystique which bound their subjects to them? But then how could Reddick or other rebels find any followers, or dare themselves to go against such influences?
Those who had made Clio a testing ground for their theories would not want a stagnant society. Perhaps the influences would not affect those of equal rank, or would only hold for periods of time—say when a monarch was in dire danger. Or—she could supply a multitude of plausible answers.
But could she in turn use such suggestions to counter the accusations made against her by Uncle Offlas and the Service? Admittedly they would be glad to learn all they could about Clio. And if there was such an influence, a psycho-tech could verify that. But she would have to reach camp—and hope that native activity around it had not led Uncle Offlas to order withdrawal.
Roane now regretted most of all not bringing her com. Why had she not? Why, her thinking must have been influenced! To have been so afraid of being traced by her own people!
She shook her head. With every passing moment she was more and more unable to understand her own actions. The answer was, of course, that they must avoid the Clio natives in order to escape this influence set up to prove theories for men long dead.
The road she followed took a turn and then another. But never did it veer too far from her landmark and Roane kept to it. It did not seem to be traveled by night; at least she heard no sounds such as might be made by men, only those of wildlife, a crashing in the brush as if something ran from her. A full moon was rising and its silver light lay along the road.
Roane reached a place where there was a turn away from her landmark as the road angled sharply north, crossing a stream. But the running water could now be her guide. Perhaps at some seasons it was a full river, but at present it had shrunk so that sweeps of gravel and sand edged it on both sides. And she used the nearer bank for her new path. Twice she disturbed animals which had come to drink, one a quite large but seemingly timid beast which let out a mournful hooting cry as it plunged away. She kept her stunner ready in the event she met something more belligerent.
Shortly thereafter the moonlight revealed deep prints in the soil, hoof slots. Duocorns, she was certain, a number of them. And there was a broken branch or two here and there to suggest passage had been forced by a mounted party. They were heading in the same direction she had taken. And though she had little training in woodcraft, Roane suspected the prints were fresh.
The party with Ludorica? If so, all the more reason for Roane to reach camp with her warning. They could be kept away from the actual site by the distorts. But too much use of those not only would exhaust their charges, but might awaken dim wonder in men who had been more than once subconsciously thrown off trail.
She need fear only one thing really—seeing the Princess again. Because in her own mind Roane had come to accept her idea that Ludorica could demand her aid as a fact. Also Uncle Offlas and Sandar must be warned of the same danger, though they had not succumbed to it when the Princess had been in their hands earlier. But then she had been under the effects of the stunner.
In the moonlight the night was very white and black—shadows had sharp edges. Suddenly Roane paused and put her hand to her head. The first small t
ouch of discomfort. She knew it for what it was—the first warning of a distort. Then she realized what she might have to face. She was not wearing her counter beam—the distort would have the same effect on her as it did on those it was designed to discourage. She could only hope that she might use the warn-off as a guide and force herself on into what she was most reluctant to approach.
Not far away the trail of the riders turned, leaving traces in the brush of their passing which suggested a quick retreat. That, too, had been caused by the distort. But Roane kept on course, though not much farther. The attack came without warning. Out of the night snaked a loop to encircle her chest-high, jerk tight before she knew what was happening to her. She had no time to use her weapon, for her arms were pinned to her sides, and then a body crashed against her, bearing her to the ground.
The weight was withdrawn but she was held in a grip which all her struggles could not break. She was pulled to her feet, turned to face a party of three, though a fourth must stand behind her holding her.
In the moonlight she recognized the leader of her captors and as she gasped breath back into her lungs, she managed to get out his name:
“Colonel Imfry!”
“Who are you?” He came closer, peered into her face. She saw his expression of surprise.
“Lady Roane! But what—where is the Princess? Free her instantly!” Question and command followed fast on one another. The grasp on her shoulders loosened, and with a twitch the rope circlet fell to her feet.
“Where is the Princess?” the Colonel asked again as he put out a hand to steady her.
“She rode out of the tower with Reddick.”
“What tower—where—” She thought his grasp tightened as if he would shake the truth out of her.
“Let me get my breath.” Roane determined not to be again swept in involvement.
“Of course.” His grip loosened. “I pray pardon, Lady. But with Her Highness in Reddick’s hold—”
She made her story as terse as she could. Though she was not able to name the prison from which she had escaped, save to give the Princess’s name of Famslaw, the rest she reported up to the time she had seen the Princess ride away.
“They used a mind-globe on her,” the Colonel interrupted. “And that coach with Rehling’s symbol—I am sure he played a double game for all her belief in him. There is only one place they could be heading for now—to find the Crown! And you, Lady, know where that is. You can take us there. There is something strange—We have been wandering for two days unable to come near the landmarks the Princess gave me. But we must reach there now, or Reddick will use the Princess to claim the throne and then do with her as he wishes—”
“No!” Roane jerked out of his light hold.
“No? What do you mean?” He was startled, looking at her now as if she were a person and not merely a way to aid Ludorica.
“No, I will not go with you!” She had the stunner still. With it she sprayed him and the two men behind him as she pivoted to bring it also on the one a pace or two behind her.
They staggered, but they did not go down. However, she believed the blast enough to keep them unsteady until she could get away. She plunged straight ahead, into the full force of the distort, wavering herself under that mind-dazing blast, but enough the mistress of her body to keep staggering on in a direction she did not believe any of them would follow. And she did not waste time looking behind to see.
Brush whipped about her. She flung up her arm to shield her face from the sting of lashing branches. Always she was buffeted by those distort rays meant to bewilder. She tried to blank those as best she could, to reach the safe zone beyond the barrier. Let Ludorica and her henchmen find their own way out of their troubles; she was not again going to be drawn into their games.
CHAPTER 11
THE WAVES OF THE DISTORT were less effective—she must be close to the edge of the protection zone. Roane plunged on, not trying to pick any path, merely attempting to get free of the influence. Then—she was in the clear!
Before her was the glade of the camp. She expected some challenge and threw back her hood so they could see her if they had picked up her image on tri-dee com. But there was no sign of life. Nobody here—but then where?
Roane half expected that the entrance might have been set on a new code, not answering to her thumb identification. But it opened as readily as if she had left it only moments earlier. So they had not yet exiled her.
There was no one within any of the small cubicles. But in the one that had housed their work tools were significantly empty racks and niches. They were at work somewhere, and she thought it could only be in the cave.
Roane went to the com. She could call from here—warn them. But even as that thought crossed her mind, she saw that the planet-side hookup had been detached. In its place was the off-world call ready for use. Either they had already arranged for lift-off, or else they expected that they must do so at a moment’s notice.
She snapped down the replay level. Immediately the tape replied in code.
“So that is how it is,” she said aloud. They had reported, and had received orders that they must make any investigations in three planet days’ reckoning, be ready then for lift-off. As to when that deadline had been set, she had no idea.
There was one thing she could do now. It might not in any way mitigate her eventual punishment, but it would prevent Uncle Offlas from censoring anything she said.
Roane found a clear report tape and fitted it into the case which, once sealed and numbered, must be produced and could only be opened on the Service ship. She sat by the table, took up the mike, but thought out carefully what she would say before she thumbed it to Go. A simple story of what had happened was best. Thus she dictated the course of events which had followed from her first meeting with the Princess.
She added as concisely as she could the conclusions she had drawn concerning the Crown, the conditioning, all she had herself experienced. This might well be disallowed by the authorities, but the experts would have access to it. When she had done Roane pressed her thumb to the sign slot with relief. There was nothing Uncle Offlas could do to alter that.
Now she was so very tired that her bones ached. The fight against the distort had left her so exhausted she could hardly get to her feet. But she dared not sleep now, give way to the ache in her back, the weakness in her legs! She had to warn Uncle Offlas and Sandar. They might stumble upon some party prospecting for the Crown.
Colonel Imfry—the stunner blast had been low; he and his men would not be incapacitated for long. But with the distorts holding they could not trail her.
Roane pulled at the unfamiliar clothing she wore, dragged it off piece by piece. She pawed through her now very meager wardrobe. One more suit—or would that be the right choice? If she went to the cave perhaps the Clio clothing would be less noticeable. But—her mind must be more clear—
Somehow she got to the small fresher, forcing her tired mind to focus on dialing. This ought to jolt her awake. Moisture gathered on her body as a haze rose about her. She buried her face in it eagerly, drew breaths of it into her lungs. It was like coming out of a dire murk into clear, fresh water. But she must be careful; not enough and her fatigue would return, too much and it would induce euphoria, which could lead her into some overconfident, disastrous move. This was a device to be used only when some danger demanded stimulation of mind and body, and then sparingly.
The fog cleared, she climbed out and rubbed down her damp body, no longer aware of aches and pains. With a bed robe wrapped around her, she went back to the control room.
No warn light on the off-world com. She was alert enough now to read the other dials. At one she paused, frowning. Surely the distort was not so limited as that! There was a small map on the screen, red pinpoints marking the broadcast boxes. But the gauge showed a waning of power. Hurriedly she checked further.
So that was it—they needed recharging. But that was something Uncle Offlas would have been
very careful about before he left. Which might mean he had been gone longer than he intended. And even as Roane watched, one of the red points flickered—disappeared. A distort had ended its sentry duty. Roane was faced with a new decision. She could visit each of those settings, replace the charges. Or she could make speed to the cave with her warning—
To visit the distorts might be a waste of precious time, could expose her once more to Imfry and his men. No—it was best to go to the cave. Once they all returned here and shut off the outlying distorts, they could turn on a central energy beam which would fortify the whole clearing until lift-off.
Back in her cubicle Roane once more pulled on the native clothing and then checked her belt, adding a freshly charged beamer, a new charge in the stunner, a detect, and a counter beam which would free her from those emanations.
It was morning when she left the camp. And it was going to be a fair day; there were no clouds overhead. She reached the cliff of the cave without picking up any trace of Imfry’s party. But as she approached the narrow entrance to the underground ways, she dodged quickly into cover, her heart pounding. Not Imfry’s men—but there was someone there in ambush. Only the detect she carried had warned her in time.
Roane studied the terrain. There was no way of reaching the hidden stranger. She could get a small, blurred reading on him, enough to pinpoint his position. Drawing her stunner, she made hastily calculated changes in its setting. She doubted if she could knock him out at this distance, but she could render him helpless long enough for her to reach the door of the cave. She sighted on the bush which hid him, and pressed the button.
He made no move, and she could not prove the effectiveness of her attack without exposing herself. With a shrug, she got up and walked forward, though that stretch of earth and rock seemed the longest she had ever traveled—on any world.
