“Nothing. A patrol.”
“A patrol, up here?”
“I know it is odd to find one in the mountains.”
“More than odd, I should think.” His antennae pointed downhill toward the retreating travelers. “That is a peculiar grouping for a patrol of any kind.”
“I thought so also.” The foreman’s tone stiffened. “But it is not our place to question the directives of the High Command.”
“Of course not, citizen foreman.” The laborer returned quickly to his work.
Wooded hillsides soon gave way to extensive cultivated fields cleared from bog and jungle. Most were planted with a tall, flexible growth about an inch in diameter that looked like jaundiced sugar cane. Swampy plantings alternated with herds of small six-legged reptiles who foraged noisily through the soft vegetation.
They also encountered troops on maneuver, always marching in perfect time and stride. Once they were forced off the raised roadway by a column twelve abreast. It took an hour to pass, trudging from east to west.
They passed unchallenged among dozens of Plated Folk. No one questioned their disguises. But Clothahump grew uneasy at their progress.
“Too slow,” he muttered. “Surely there is a better way than this, and one that will have the extra advantage of concealing us from close inspection.”
“What’ve you got in mind, guv’nor?” Mudge wanted to know.
“A substitute for feet. Excuse me, citizen.” The wizard stepped out into the road.
The wagon bearing down on him pulled to a halt. It was filled with transparent barrels of some aromatic green liquid. The driver, a rather bucolic beetle of medium height, leaned over the side impatiently as Clothahump approached.
“Trouble, citizen? Be quick now, I’ve a schedule to keep.”
“Are you by chance heading for the capital?”
“I am, and I’ve no time for riders. Sorry.” He lifted his reins preparatory to chucking the wagon team into motion again.
“It is not that we wish a ride, citizen,” said Clothahump, staring hard at the driver, “but only that we wish a ride.”
“Oh. I misunderstood. Naturally. Make space for yourselves in the back, please.”
As they climbed into the wagon, Jon-Tom passed close by the driver. He was sitting stiffly in his seat, eyes staring straight ahead yet seeing very little. Seeing only what Clothahump wanted them to see, in fact.
Under the wizard’s urging, the rustic whipped the team forward. The mesmerization had taken only a moment, and no one else had observed it.
“Damnsight better than walking.” Talea reached awkwardly down to draw one foot toward her, wishing she could massage the aching sole but not daring to remove even that small section of the disguise.
“Sure is,” agreed Jon-Tom. He balanced himself in the swaying, rocking wagon as he made his way forward. Clothahump sat next to the driver. The insect ignored his arrival.
“A great deal happening these days,” Jon-Tom said by way of opening conversation.
The driver’s gaze did not stray from the road. His voice was oddly stilted, as though a second mind were choosing the words to answer with.
“Yes, a great deal.”
“When is it to begin, do you think, the invasion of the warmlands?” Jon-Tom made the question sound as casual as he could.
A movement signifying ignorance from the driver. “Who is to know? They do not permit wagon masters to know the inner workings of the High Military. But it will be a great day when it comes. I myself have four nestmates in the invasion force. I wish I could be among them, but my district logistician insists that food supplies will be as important as fighting to the success of the invasion.
“So I remain where I am, though it is against my desires. It will be a memorable time. There will be a magnificent slaughter.”
“So they claim,” Jon-Tom murmured, “but can we be so certain of success?”
For a moment, the shocked disbelief the driver felt nearly overcame the mental haze into which he’d been immersed. “How can anyone doubt it? Never in thousands of years has the Empire assembled so massive a force. Never before have we been as well prepared as now.
“Also,” he added conspiratorially, “there is rumor abundant that the Great Wizard Eejakrat, Advisor to the Empress herself, has brought forth from the realms of darkness an invincible magic which will sweep all opposition before it.” He adjusted the reins running to the third lizard in right line.
“No, citizens, of course we cannot lose.”
“My feelings are the same, citizen.” Jon-Tom returned to the rear of the wagon. Clothahump joined him a moment later, as he was chatting softly to the others.
“If confidence is any indication of battleworthiness, we’re liable to be in for a bad time.”
“You see?” said Clothahump knowingly as he leaned up against a pair of green-filled barrels, “that is why we must find and destroy this dead mind that Eejakrat somehow draws knowledge from, or die in the attempt.”
“Speak for yourself, guv’,” said Mudge. “’E wot fights an’ runs away lives t’ fight another day.”
“Unfortunately,” Clothahump reminded the otter quietly, “if we fail, like as not there will not be another day.”
XIII
SEVERAL DAYS PASSED. Farms and livestock pastures began to give way to the outskirts of a vast metropolis. Fronted with stone or black cement, tunnels led down into the earth. On the surface row upon row of identical gray buildings filled the horizon, a vast stone curve that formed the outer wheel of the capital city of Cugluch.
As they entered the first gate of many, they encountered larger structures and greater variety. Faint pulses of light from within cast ambivalent shadows on the travelers while the echoes of hammerings resounded above the babble of the chitinesque crowd. Once they passed a wagon emerging from a large, cubical building. It was piled high with long spears and pikes and halberds bound together like sheaves of grain. The weapon-laden vehicle moved westward. Westward like the troops they’d passed. Westward toward the Jo-Troom Gate.
It had rained gently every day, but was far warmer than in the so-called warmlands. Fat, limpid drops slid off their hard-shelled disguises, only occasionally penetrating the well-fashioned false chitin. Cooled by spell, those inside the insect suits remained comfortable in spite of the humidity. Clothahump, as a good wizard should, had foreseen everything except the need to scratch the occasional itch.
Only an isolated clump of struggling trees here and there brought color to the monotonous construction of the city. It was an immense warren, much of it out of sight beneath the surface of the earth.
They pushed their way through heavier and heavier traffic, increasingly military in nature. Clothahump guided the driver smoothly, directing them deeper into the city.
Wagonloads of troops, ant and beetle shapes predominant, shoved civilian traffic aside as they made their way westward. Enormous beetles eight and nine feet long displayed sharpened horns to the travelers. Three or four armed soldiers rode on the backs of these armored behemoths.
Once a dull thump sounded from behind a large oval structure. Jon-Tom swore it sounded like an exploding shell. For an awful moment he thought it was the result of Eejakrat’s unknown magic and that the Plated Folk had learned the use of gunpowder. His companions, however, assured him it was only a distant rumble of thunder.
Buildings rose still higher around them. They were matched by roads that widened to accommodate the increased traffic. Weaving ribbons of densely populated concrete and rock rose six and seven stories above the streets, hives of frenetic activity devoted now to destruction and death.
Sleep was in snatches and seconds that night. Clothahump woke them to a soggy sunrise.
Ahead in the morning mist-light lay a great open square paved with triangular slabs of gray, black, purple, and blue stone. Across this expansive parade ground, populated now only by early risers, rose a circular pyramid. It consisted of concentric ring sha
pes like enormous tires. These tapered to a smooth spire hundreds of feet high that pierced the mist like a gray needle.
Half a dozen smaller copies of the central structure ringed it at points equidistant from one another. There was no wall around any of them, nor for that matter around the main square itself.
Despite this the driver refused to go any further. His determination was so strong even Clothahump’s hypnotic urgings failed to force him and his wagon onto the triangular paving.
“I have no permit,” he said raspily, “to enter the palace grounds. It would be my death to be found on the sacred square without one.”
“This is where we walk again, my friends. Perhaps it is best. I see only one or two wagons on the square. We do not want to attract attention.”
Mudge let himself over the back of the wagon. “Cor, ain’t that the bloody ugliest buildin’ you ever saw in your life?”
They abandoned the wagon. Clothahump was last off. He whispered a few words to the driver. The beetle moved the reins and the wagon swung around to vanish up the street down which they’d come. Jon-Tom wondered at the excuse the unfortunate driver would offer when he suddenly returned to full consciousness at his delivery point after nearly a week of amnesia.
“It seems we need a permit to cross,” said Caz appraisingly. “How do we go about obtaining one?”
Clothahump sounded disapproving. “We need no permit. I have been observing the pedestrians traversing the square, and none has been stopped or questioned. It seems that the threat is sufficient to secure the palace’s exclusiveness. The permit may be required within, but it does not seem vital for walking the square.”
“I hope you’re right, sir.” The rabbit stepped out onto the paving, a gangling, thoroughly insectoid shape. Together they moved at an easy pace toward the massive pyramidal palace.
As Clothahump had surmised, they were not accosted. If anything, they found the square larger than it first appeared, like a lake that looks small until one is swimming in its center.
From this central nexus the spokes of Cugluch radiated outward toward farmland and swamp. The city was far larger than Polastrindu, especially when one considered that much of it was hidden underground.
Thick mist clung to the crests of the seven towers and completely obscured the central one. Nowhere did they see a flag, a banner, any splash of color or gaiety. It was a somber capital, dedicated to a somber purpose.
And the massive palace was especially dark and foreboding. Here at least Jon-Tom had expected some hint of brightness. Militaristic cultures were historically fond of pomp and flash. The palace of the Empress, however, was as dull as the warrens of the citizen-workers. Different in design but not demeanor, he decided.
The lowest level of the circular pyramid was several stories high. It was fashioned, as the entire palace complex no doubt was, of close-fitting stone mortared over with a gray cement or plaster. Water dripped down its curves to vanish into gutters and drains lining the base. There was a minimum of windows.
The triangular paving of the square ceased some fifteen yards from the base of the palace. In its place was a smooth surface of black cement. That was all; no fence, no hidden alarms, no hedgerows or ditches. But on that black fifteen yards, which encircled the entire palace, nothing moved save the stiffly pacing guards.
They formed a solid ring, ten yards from the palace wall, five yards apart. They marched in slow tread from left to right, keeping the same distance between them like so many wind-up toys. As near as Jon-Tom could tell they ringed the entire palace, a moving chain of guards that never stopped.
At Clothahump’s urging they turned southward. The guards never looked in their direction, though Jon-Tom was willing to wager that if so much as a foot touched that black cement, the trespasser would suddenly find himself the object of considerable hostile attention.
Eventually they stood opposite an arched triangular portal cut from the flank of the palace. The entryway was three stories high. At present its massive iron gates were thrown wide. A line of armed beetles extended from either open gate out across the cement to the edge of the paving. The unbroken ring of encircling guards passed through this intercepting line with precision. The moving guards never touched any of the stationary ones.
“Now wot, guv’nor?” Mudge whispered to the wizard. “Do we just walk up t’ the nearest bugger an’ ask ’im polite-like if the Empress be at ’ome an’ might we ’ave ’is leave t’ skip on in t’ see the old dear?”
“I have no desire to see her,” Clothahump replied. “It is Eejakrat we are after. Rules survive by relying on the brains of their advisors. Remove Eejakrat, or at least his magic, and we leave the Empress without the most important part of her collective mind.”
He gazed thoughtfully at Caz. “You have laid claim to a working knowledge of diplomacy, my boy, and have shown an aptitude for such in the past. I am reluctant to perform a spell among so many onlookers and so near to Eejakrat’s influence. I’ve no doubt he has placed alarm spells all about the palace.
They would react to my magicking, but not to your words. We must get inside. I suggest you employ your talent for extemporaneous and convincing conversation.”
“I don’t know, sir,” replied the rabbit uncertainly. “It’s easy to convince people you’re familiar with. I don’t know how to talk to these.”
“Nonsense. You did well with that curious woodcutter whom we encountered during our descent. If anything, the minds you are about to deal with are simpler than those you are more familiar with. Consider their society, which rewards conformity while condemning individuality.”
“If you want me to, sir, I’ll give it a try.”
“Good. The rest of you form behind us. Pog, you stay airborne and warn us if there is sudden movement from armed troops in our direction.”
“What does it matter?” said the sorrowful bat from inside his disguise. “We’ll all be dead inside an hour anyway.” But he spiraled higher and did as he was told, keeping a watchful eye on the guards and any group of pedestrians who came near.
Following Caz and Clothahump, the travelers made their way toward the entrance. There was an anxious moment when they stepped from paving to cement, but no one challenged them. The guards flanking the approach kept their attention on a point a few inches in front of their mandibles.
Then it was through the encircling ring, which likewise did not react. They were a couple of yards from the entrance.
Jon-Tom had the wild notion that they might simply be able to march on into the palace when a massive beetle slightly taller but much broader than Caz lumbered out of the shadows to confront them. He was flanked by a pair of pale, three-foot-high attendants of the mutated mayfly persuasion. One of them carried a large scroll and a marking instrument. The other simply stood and listened.
“State your business, citizens,” demanded the glowering hulk in the middle. He reminded Jon-Tom of a gladiator ready to enter the arena, and pity be on the lions. The extra set of arms ruined the illusion.
With the facility of an established survivor, Caz replied without hesitation. “Hail, citizen! We have special, urgently requested information for the sorcerer Eejakrat, information that is vital to our coming success.” Not knowing how to properly conclude the request he added blandly, “Where can we find him?”
Their interrogator did not reply immediately. Jon-Tom wondered if his nervousness showed.
After a brief conversation with the burdenless mayfly the beetle gestured backward with two hands. “Third level, Chamber Three Fifty-Five and adjuncts.”
Politely, he stepped aside.
Caz led them in. They walked down a short hallway. It opened into a hall that seemed to run parallel to the circular shape of the building. Another, similar hall could be seen further ahead. Evidently there was a single point from which the palace and thence the entire city of Cugluch radiated in concentric circles, with hallways or streets forming intersecting spokes.
Jon-Tom leaned o
ver and whispered to Clothahump. “I don’t know how you feel, sir, but to me that was much too easy.”
“Why shouldn’t it have been?” said Talea, feeling cocky at their success thus far. “It was just like crossing the square outside.”
“Precisely, my dear,” said Clothahump proudly. “You see, Jon-Tom, they are so well ordered they cannot imagine anyone stepping out of class or position. They cannot conceive, as that threatening individual who confronted us outside cannot, that any of their fellows would have the presumption to lie to gain an audience with so feared a personality as Eejakrat. If we did not deserve such a meeting, we would not be asking for it.
“Furthermore, spies are unknown in Cugluch. They have no reason to suspect any, and traitorous actions are as alien to the Plated Folk as snow. This may be possible after all, my friends. We need only maintain the pretext that we know what we are doing and have a right to be doing it.”
“I’d imagine,” said Caz, “that if the spoke-and-circle layout of the city and palace is followed throughout, the center would be the best place to locate stairways. Third level, the fellow said.”
“I agree,” Clothahump replied, “but we do not wish to find Eejakrat except as a last resort, remember. It is the dead mind he controls that must remain our primary goal.”
“That’s simple enough, then,” said Mudge cheerfully. “All we ’ave t’ do now is ask where t’ find a particularly well-attended corpse.”
“For once, my fuzzy fuzz-brained friend, you are correct. It will likely be placed close by Eejakrat’s chambers. Let us proceed quickly to the level indicated, but not to him.”
They did so. By now they were used to being ignored by the Plated Folk. Busy palace staff moved silently around them, intent on their own tasks. The narrow hallways and low ceilings combined with the slightly acidic odor of the inhabitants made Jon-Tom and Flor feel a little claustrophobic.
They reached the third level and began to follow the numbers engraved above each sealed portal. Only four chambers from the stairway they’d ascended was a surprise: the corridor was blocked. Also guarded.
The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One Page 52
