Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  “Barskor made this one up,” he added. “It’s a pieced together manual for inquisitors. And it gives some pretty revealing sidelights on the state sponsored religion of Jorik. You see, research is not only forbidden by law. It’s rank heresy, as well.”

  Krenall laughed shortly. “So, instead of developing a technological society, they’ve suppressed development for their own advantage. And they get rid of their excess population by colonization?”

  “Right. And they’ve run out of habitable planets inside the nebula. Now, they’ve got to go outside.” Meinora smiled. “They’re in a bad way.” He glanced up as the communicator buzzed.

  “Somebody’s coming in. Looks as though you’ll have another report to integrate.”

  “I finally got something we’ve all been looking for.” Agent Nerieda held up a small, transparent cube. Entrapped in the plastic was a tiny figure. The man had been standing, one hand outthrust, apparently trying with all the force of his being to put over some point of discussion.

  Meinora took the cube and examined it for a moment.

  “He wouldn’t thank you for that pose if he saw it,” he laughed. “One you just got?” He leaned forward to place the cube on the stage of the viewer.

  Nerieda bobbed his head. “Yes, sir. Picked him up just a few hours ago, along with a few other representative figures I thought we might be interested in.” He smiled. “He was trying his best to sell someone a jeweled bracelet. And he was running into some very highly developed sales resistance.” He pointed at the viewer. “See, in his other hand?”

  Meinora had been examining the figure projected before him with some interest.

  “Thought you were working in the Barony of Darnol,” he said.

  “I am.” Nerieda’s eyes opened a little.

  “This man’s dressed like a typical native of the mountain country.” Meinora pointed at the projected figure. “That jacket, for example, is distinctive. Only worn in Minaronik. What would he be doing in Darnol in that outfit?”

  “Roving trader,” explained Nerieda. “And he had another reason for that outfit of his. You’ve seen reports on the Duernian heretics?”

  Meinora nodded. “Of course. And the Cwenronians, too. And several other allegedly heretical sects and cults. There are several hundred jokers making excellent livings and picking up considerable prestige from inquisitions on them.” He smiled. “It’s developed into a pretty profitable industry, I gather. And their inquisitory methods seem to be a trifle drastic.”

  Nerieda chuckled softly and rubbed his chin. “Yes, sir. I’ve turned in tapes on a couple of small inquisitions myself. They always get a conviction. But that’s just the smoke.” His eyes narrowed a little. “There actually is some real fire.” He pointed at the eager salesman in the viewer.

  “This one’s a real, live Duernian.”

  “Oh?” Meinora looked at the figure with renewed interest.

  “He came into Darnol—the city, that is—with a load of luxury goods for sale. But he retained his mountaineer’s costume. And that made me curious. So, I flipped my refraction shield and stuck with him for a while. Gave him a pretty good check-over. He was doing a lot of thinking about selling his goods, of course. But he was thinking even harder about something else.” Nerieda pulled a small roll of tape from his pouch.

  “In the first place, I got some detail on the Duernians from him. They are a rather loosely knit organization. A lot of them are travelers of one sort or another—legitimate travelers, that is. And a lot more are artisans and mechanics. The leaders, I gather, don’t move around

  so much. In fact, some of them are pretty solid citizens. They’re a semireligious, semipolitical group. On this planet, the two go together.” He coughed dryly.

  “And they don’t buy all the teachings of Jorikan theology. In fact, they discard most of them. They’ve got a lot of ideas of their own, including some very serious doubts about the rights of the nobility, and some pretty sound basic theology. Also, they do quite a bit of experimentation, trying to find out what did it, and how much it took, and why it all happened, anyway.” He looked at Meinora.

  “You know, there was a time on this planet when the nobles could influence commoners by sheer mental dominance and coercion. I suppose that’s how their ancestors became nobles in the first place. But that advantage is fading here on the home planet. The commoners—even some of the serfs—are developing resistance to that sort of thing, and even developing some noticeable ability along the line themselves.

  Although the nobles still depend to some extent on dominance, the emphasis is shifting more and more to force.”

  Meinora stirred a little. “I’ve studied that sort of thing,” he said. “It’s not an uncommon development in a first-stage civilization.” He frowned. “Sometimes, it’s resolved one way, sometimes another. But that inequality of psi power is eventually neutralized or eliminated somehow.” He waved a hand.

  “Sometimes, there’s interbreeding. But that’s virtually impossible here. They don’t let such children live. Sometimes, it’s completely shielded out by natural selection among the non-psi population.” He pointed at the viewer. “How about this fellow?”

  Nerieda looked at the pointing finger. “Sorry,” he said. “This fellow is a minor member of the Duernian organization. He thinks of himself as a ‘believer.’ He was acting as a courier. Of course, he knew a lot of the basic principles of his organization, which aims to reform Jorikan religious belief and to obtain a lot of concessions for the commons and serfs. But he wasn’t too well up on organizational methods or personnel. He was just carrying a message he’d passed on to someone who contacted him in the market. The unusual clothing was a mark of identification.” He frowned.

  “Unfortunately, he’d passed his message before I got on to him,” he said regretfully, “so I didn’t get a look at the contact, though I did pick up a little detail on him from the courier’s mental projections. This courier hadn’t had time to get out of the market and change clothes, though, when he saw’ a chance to make another sale. He stayed around.”

  “How did the contact make himself known?”

  “They had a set of passwords. I think I can remember the routine without having to go to the tape.”

  Nerieda looked fixedly at the playback for a moment.

  “Oh, yes,” he said finally. “The contact said, ‘You have been many years in the mountains?’ And the courier answered, ‘No. I have walked on the side of the road, through the mountains.’ The contact looked him over for a while and said, ‘And you have also sailed the broad sea?’ ” Nerieda grinned.

  “The courier didn’t answer that one. He just offered the guy an ornamented shell bracelet. The contact looked that over for a while, then remarked that he’d seen some of that work before—even had made some of it himself when his ship went on the rocks.” Nerieda waved a hand.

  “That reference to a ship on the rocks was the last countersign. I gathered that any pattern would have done to introduce it. After that, the courier haggled with him for a while over the bracelet and gave him a rambling yarn about a storm he’d allegedly been through some time back. That was the message.” He frowned.

  “Unfortunately, the courier had no idea of the key to whatever code they were using. He just repeated it by rote and he didn’t know who’d originated the message. It was simply given to him by another courier. Someone’s being extremely careful.”

  Meinora leaned forward. “It gives us something to work on, though,” he remarked. He turned to Krenall, who had been listening unobtrusively.

  “Have we got any other reports on the cult of Duern?”

  “Not too much, sir.” Krenall shook his head. “There are a lot of references from various clerics. And there’s a little from one of the inquisitors on methods of detecting them and making them confess. He lists a series of questions and answers that are guaranteed to break ’em down.” He smiled. “But we haven’t had a contact with an actual cultist before. They s
eem to be both scarce and cautious.”

  “On this planet,” Meinora remarked, “anyone who does any thinking at all would be cautious in the extreme. And they’d make themselves scarce, or become extinct. Quinbar is pretty careful not to let anything disturb his regime. And that state religion is valuable to him. It’s one of the major factors that’s kept his family in control for so long. So, he follows the family doctrine and uses a lot of capable people to maintain things just the way they are.” He smiled ruefully.

  “Look at the way they guard the secret of the antigrav,” he added. “It’s been known by the family for centuries, ever since old Vayber nel Quinbar was an obscure marquis. And no outsider has ever had a chance to get a hint on the secret. They even booby-trap the housings on the space drives.

  “And there are a few other family secrets, too, like that heat concentrator and projector, which makes a pretty effective weapon. And there’s the energy accumulator.” He got out of his chair.

  “Well, guess we’ll do well to check this over.” He picked up the small roll of tape. “We can integrate it with the rest of our information and run it off for the rest of the team.”

  As he started to feed the roll into a playback, the viewscreen lit up to show a worried face.

  “Is the chief there?”

  Meinora stepped in front of the scanners. “Yes, Kerola?”

  “Request permission to come in, sir. Weroaen is in trouble. They’ve got him in jail over in the earldom of Dorolik.”

  Walur, the peddler, sidled into the tavern and looked around the large guest room. There was a vacant place by one wall, and he went to it, carefully putting his pack on the floor between his feet as he sat down.

  Peddlers, he had found, were tolerated in the taverns, so long as they made no effort to disturb customers by showing their wares, and so long as they could produce coin with which to pay for their refreshment.

  Walur settled his heavy cap over his head. It made an effective camouflage for his mentacom circlet. He relaxed and made a closer examination of the room.

  At the next table were some of the serfs of the earl of Dorolik. They drank morosely, each concerned with his own immediate problems. Occasionally, they exchanged brief remarks.

  There was very little of value there by this time, Walur thought. He’d checked serfs and their families many times. Their thoughts and problems fell into definite patterns and types. And as Agent Weroaen, he had taped and classified each of these types. They had nothing to do with his reason for being here. He turned his attention to another table.

  This was more productive. The man appeared to be a small moneylender. As he drank, he consulted his account book, evidently planning his activities for the following day. But he was far more concerned with the carefully coded notes in his book than with his accounts of debits and credits.

  This was the man! Weroaen forgot the rest of the customers in the tavern. A barmaid approached and he absently ordered a glass and shoved out a coin. Then, he returned his full attention to Laduro, the moneylender. As a minor financier, the man was of little interest. But as a moderator of the Followers of Duern, he was a valuable source of information as well as a possible future ally.

  The man was working out a course of instruction for some of his teachers, who were due to make contact with various freemen and artisans of the area—the believers.

  He had received some new information recently from an exchange courier, and he wished to have it distributed. Some of his people would be able to make use of it.

  And he was somewhat concerned over the coming visit of the Inquisitor, Markorik, who was to investigate heresy in the earldom. Part of Laduro’s plans included methods of evading attention from the inquisitors and of protecting his group of believers from persecution.

  Weroaen sat quietly, taking an occasional sip from his tankard and observing Laduro closely. He picked up details of the organization and aims of the cult. He picked up some of their future plans and methods of teaching and of proselyting. And he gradually built up an understanding of the Duernians.

  He completely ignored the five men who entered and replaced a couple of tenant farmers at a nearby table.

  Feldor, man-at-arms of the Inquisition, reined up his mount and turned in the saddle.

  “Now, here’s a fair looking tavern,” he called back. “What say we have a cup or two. My throat’s dry from the dust.”

  His four companions turned to look at the building.

  “But what about the captain?” asked one of them doubtfully. “He wanted us to report directly to him in town upon our arrival.”

  “That for the captain.” Feldor threw the reins over his mount’s head and swung to the ground. “We haven’t arrived in town yet, have we? So, we were delayed for a time on the road. I’ll think of something if he asks. But anyway, our captain’ll be taking his ease in the town by now, if I know anything of him. A lot he cares when we report, so we are present by morning.” He walked to the tavern, then paused in the doorway.

  “Come on,” he said. “Old Markorik’s having wine with the earl by this time, I’ll warrant. And the captain won’t leave his own warm inn—not this night. So why should we deprive ourselves needlessly? It’s me for a good drink and a warm room.” He turned and entered.

  For a moment, his companions hesitated. Then they dismounted and followed him.

  Inside, Feldor swaggered to a table. Wordlessly, he glared at the two serfs who occupied seats on the bench. Slowly, his hand approached his sword hilt.

  The two men took the hint. They looked away from him, picked up their mugs, and went in search of other seats. Feldor turned and waved an arm, summoning his fellows.

  A barmaid hurried over.

  “Wine,” demanded Feldor. “Wine. And see it’s good, and in plenty.”

  He looked disparagingly at the cups the girl brought back.

  “You call those tiny things wine-cups? I asked for wine, Girl. I want something to drink, not just a drop to roll about on my tongue. Back with you, and bring wine in full-sized tankards.” He picked up the cup, held it to the light for a moment, then gulped it down.

  “It’s a taste, at least,” he remarked.

  A companion looked at him. “Be careful, Feldor,” he warned. “This mountain wine is said to be powerful stuff. You’ll need a clear head and a steady hand tomorrow.”

  “A clear head!” Feldor laughed derisively. “A clear head, he says. Do you think I’m a mere child, to worry about tiny drops of wine?” He picked up the large, silver cup the barmaid had set in front of him, drank thirstily, and looked about the room.

  The two serfs he had displaced had taken seats close to a peddler, who sat inconspicuously by the wall. For a few minutes, Feldor watched this man. At last, he turned away disgustedly.

  “Niggling fellow,” he thought, “to so husband his cup. And I’ll warrant he could afford all the wine his wrinkled skin could hold.”

  He finished his wine and called for more. And more. Time passed and the room became blurred. He looked again over toward the wall where the peddler still sat.

  With an effort, he focused his eyes on the man, then looked at the cup before him. Apparently it hadn’t been moved. And the peddler sat, a slight smile on his face, seeming to see no one.

  Feldor got out of his seat and crossed the room, weaving a little, yet still purposeful. He stopped before the peddler, sweeping a hand out and knocking the man’s cap to the floor. The peddler looked at him in shocked surprise.

  “If you can’t afford your drinks,” snarled Feldor, “why did you come? Get along with you. Drink like a man!” He picked up the cup before Weroaen, sloshed the little wine remaining in it for a moment, then slammed it to the table and turned.

  “Ho, Barmaid,” he shouted. “Bring this man a drink—a large drink this time. And bring another for me. I shall see to it he drinks. Aye, and pays, too.” He grasped the peddler’s collar.

  Weroaen shook his head dazedly. He had neglected to think
of anyone else in the room in his preoccupation with the Duernian moderator. And this was an unusual development in any event. Now, without his mentacom, he was in no position to influence this drunken swordsman before him. He leaned over to retrieve his cap. Feldor stopped him roughly.

  “So,” he growled, tightening his grip on Weroaen’s collar. “So, you reach for your hat. You think to sneak away to avoid the company of men. Oh, no! This shall not be! We’ll have a party. You peddlers have coin, I know. And we’ll give you a taste of real life. You shall be host to his lordship’s men-at-arms this night.”

  He jumped on the table, then down on the other side, to seize Weroaen by the arm. Gripping him tightly, he started dragging him toward the end of the table.

  Weroaen’s free hand slipped toward his belt. This drunk needed a lesson, he thought. And he needed it badly.

  Then he hesitated. Of course it would be a simple matter to subdue these men-at-arms, but it would prove very little. And he would have to use obviously unusual means. There would be a pursuit and many people would hear of the incident and ask many questions.

  To be sure, in an extremity, he could use his equipment to preserve his own life. Regulations provided for that. But if such use chanced betrayal of advanced equipment, he would have to resign his status. And Weroaen had no desire to leave the Stellar Guard.

  Besides, he thought, this was no extremity. After all, he might be subject to a few indignities. And he’d have to settle a large bill with the tavern owner. But that was a minor matter, after all, and certainly didn’t involve mortal danger.

  Sooner or later, during the evening he would have a chance to retrieve his cap. And the men-at-arms would have quite an interesting time explaining their presence asleep on a tavern floor in the morning. He allowed himself to be dragged across the floor.

  Feldor’s companions had stood, watching the disturbance. One of them looked toward the door, then stretched out an arm to grab Feldor by the shoulder.