The Wizard of Anharitte

by Colin Kapp

  After the auctioneer had made his mark several statutory witnesses followed—Mallow Rade came to sign on behalf of the Pointed Tails. It was then Vestevaal’s turn to sign as the ultimate purchaser. Such a succession of names was not usually required, but Di Irons was taking no chances. Necessity demanded that this was one registration that could never be disputed.

  Vestevaal was aware that he could be altering the course of history on Roget as he took out his pen. He was buying a legend for hard cash, and the implication of the completed deal was that even enlightenment had its price. This was not, he reflected ruefully, the first time nor was Roget the first world on which that lesson had been learned. As he turned from the book he could not resist flashing a look of triumph in the direction of Dion-daizan. In return he received a polite smile, which might have signified resignation—but probably did not.

  The director turned and held out his hand, indicating that Zinder should walk before him. Then a gasp of amazement from the onlookers diverted his attention back to the register. To his astonishment he saw the lines of ink begin to smoke and spread out, charring the surrounding paper. Some potent chemical reaction caused a glow that quickly became a flame that ran up the angled page—and though Vestevaal seized another volume and beat upon the burning book, he succeeded only in completely breaking up the fragile ash, which further disintegrated of its own volition.

  All eyes turned accusingly to the Imaiz, then back to Di Irons, wondering how the situation was going to be resolved. The prefect, a cloud of smoke still about his startled head, growled in a voice like thunder and savagely pulled the book toward him as he brushed away the burned edges.

  ‘Dion-daizan—I take it this is some work of yours.’

  ‘Mine?’ The Imaiz sounded shocked. ‘There are ten good people between myself and the book—and have been all evening. Likewise, my servant Barn has not approached the proceedings. I could have had no more to do with the loss of the entry than—say—Agent Ren had with the loss of the title I once owned.’

  ‘You make a good point,’ said Di Irons, glancing sourly at Ren, who had come forward to examine the burned page of the register. ‘The question is, what’s to be done now?’

  ‘Who claims the tide to Zinder?’ asked the Imaiz. His voice, though soft, carried perfectly,

  ‘I do, of course,’ said Vestevaal.

  ‘Then I contest your tide to the bond. I submit that at this moment you can no more prove your ownership than could I a short while after Zinder was taken from me.’

  ‘There must have been a thousand witnesses to my purchase tonight.’ Vestevaal was adamant. ‘I demand that the registration begin anew.’

  ‘You have a thousand witnesses, but all Anharitte knew for ten years that Zinder belonged to me. Whose evidence is the stronger?’

  ‘Stop this!’ thundered Di Irons. ‘Dion, I shall have many words to say to you concerning your conduct this night. And you, Director, and your puppet Ren, are beginning to tire my patience. In the circumstances—I can see that the Imaiz has a valid point. Your situation is no different from his a little while ago. If justice is to be done I think the case should be treated in the same way.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Vestevaal sharply.

  ‘If you wish, Director, your society can contest my decision in the supreme court at Gaillen. I advise you now that it would be a waste of time to do so, with the Imaiz so closely attentive to his own claims. But my own ruling is this: it’s the considered opinion of the prefecture that the bondship of Zinder still has no clear tenure. Under the law it is therefore my duty to impound the slave girl in question and return her to the market for public auction. I have no more to say on the subject.’

  ‘But I have,’ said Vestevaal angrily. ‘I’ve paid a great sum of money for that girl. Do I not get that back?’

  ‘What? You squeal because your agents forced a bad bargain?’ Di Irons was cuttingly acid. ‘Come now! As a merchant you’re fully aware that all purchases in Anharitte are on the basis of caveat emptor—let the purchaser beware. Ren was warned by myself most specifically not to proceed with the gambit. And I’m sure your reputation for trade on this planet would be little helped by your continuing such a claim. Especially—’ he leaned forward heavily—‘since the money was provided by the Free Trade Council for the express purpose of causing civil mischief in Anharitte. Do you care to take that matter to court, Director? I doubt the planetary government would view the proceedings with much favor.’

  Vestevaal appeared on the verge of making a critically harsh reply. Then he looked at Zinder. She met his eyes with level inquiry, as if searching for something she expected to find in him. Vestevaal reacted with sudden resolutions—a smile of tired humor lit his face.

  ‘My apologies, Prefect. I spoke out of turn. Of course I respect your ruling on both counts. Never let it be said that Magno Vestevaal doesn’t know how to accept defeat with dignity.’

  Vestevaal turned to Zinder and kissed her hand, then bowed to Dion-daizan. He turned to Ren and Catuul Gras and indicated that they all should leave.

  ‘Well, Tito—how’s that for being outclassed?’ Vestevaal’s voice held a note of genuine appreciation. ‘I’ve seen some rank skulduggery among the Free Traders, but believe me, Dion-daizan makes the rest of them look like amateurs. Damn it—I’d love to see him on the council!’

  ‘Are we going to take the debt for Zinder without fighting?’ asked Ren.

  ‘We have no alternative. We dare not go to court lest we sour the attitude of the planetary government toward Free Trade. You know how parochial these hickworld governments can be.’

  ‘This makes me wonder if there’s collusion between the Imaiz and the prefect.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Di Irons is the straightest man I’ve ever come across. But he’s trying to use unsophisticated laws to control a situation with which even sophisticated laws would find it difficult to cope. So he compensates by applying a good measure of rough horse-sense. And why shouldn’t he? It’s just that sort of approach that keeps Anharitte the place it is. And at least he’s helped to cut our losses.’

  ‘I don’t follow that.’

  Vestevaal laughed heartily and clapped Ren on the back.

  ‘My dear Tito, you’re too damn sober. Don’t you realize that without Zinder we’ve one less mouth to feed and back to clothe. And there’s a further problem you haven’t even thought of. Suppose we had retained her—what the hell would we have found to do with her?’

  The following day Zinder was again put up for sale. The Imaiz took up the bidding and this time nobody opposed him. The hammer fell at the price of one barr, And this was perhaps the final irony.

  NINE

  In the laboratory aboard the battle cruiser at the spaceport Dr. Alek Hardun had been forming his own impressions of the Imaiz.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he said to Ren, ‘we’re up against a pretty formidable technician.’

  ‘You have some answers, Alek?’

  ‘Some. But they reveal a class of technology I had not expected to find on a backward world like this.’

  Ren sat atop one of the laboratory stools. ‘Don’t worry about the location. I’m already quite convinced that the Imaiz is Terran and is capable of anything including out-manipulating Magno Vestevaal himself. The incident with Zinder could have been funny if it hadn’t been so expensive.’

  Hardun’s eyes twinkled momentarily. ‘I gather it was rather a warm evening,’ he said. ‘But all things taken together, I’m not surprised. The way the register clerk died was no less clever.’

  ‘Have you found how it was done?’

  ‘Yes. We did a post-mortem examination, but nearly missed the point. We were looking for a projectile of some sort in the esophagus. Of course we didn’t find one—rather, we did find it but failed to recognize it for what it was.’

  ‘Spare me the riddles,’ said Ren. ‘I’ve been up half the night helping the director to drown his sorrows.’

  ‘The answ
er, my dear Tito, was blood.’

  ‘I don’t see—’

  ‘Neither did we—at first. But trying to explore all possible avenues we ran some blood analyses to see if anything unusual showed up. Something did. We found two distinct blood groups. One was the blood group of the clerk. The second was undoubtedly human blood but of a completely different group. Working on the second type of blood alone, we were able to determine that it had been carefully processed and then frozen.

  ‘The rest is conjecture, but it’s a reasonable supposition that what killed the clerk was a shaft of frozen blood projected by some high velocity instrument at a fairly short range. Such a projectile in the throat would, of course, pass almost unnoticed the blood and fragmentation caused by its impact and very shortly it would melt in the warm blood of its victim. A rather neat, self-obscuring murder weapon, I think.’

  Ren nodded thoughtfully. ‘And not one likely to be detectable by Di Irons and his primitive police methods. What sort of weapon could have been used to throw a shaft of frozen blood with the necessary velocity?’

  Alek Hardun pursed his lips. ‘That’s difficult to say. At first we thought in terms of an air rifle, but your fellow, Catuul Gras, was positive that he and his friends heard no sound at all. I think now that some form of crossbow is more likely. A good one can give you velocity and accuracy not much inferior to a rifle’s. The only special requirement is that the bolt must be maintained in a frozen condition until immediately before firing. This presupposes somebody with a Dewar flask and some experience in producing and handling materials at low temperatures. It all ties in neatly with your liquid-oxygen fire at the warehouse. I would not have believed it if I hadn’t seen the evidence—but there must be a competent cryogenics man at work in Magda.’

  ‘I can’t imagine our being able to use your evidence to convince Di Irons,’ said Ren. ‘His world is bounded by the four elements—earth, air, fire and water. I don’t think the distinction between cryogenics and necromancy is sufficiently obvious to make him move against Dion-daizan. Especially when Dion can set a sheet of paper afire at thirty paces without even moving.’

  ‘But he didn’t,’ said Hardun. ‘The director set that afire himself.’

  ‘Explain it to me.’

  ‘It’s another example of the technology I hadn’t expected to find. We’ve been working on the fragments of the page you gave us—and it isn’t paper at all. Somebody had inserted a special page in that book. Certainly the sheet was a fibrous cellulose material, but it had been impregnated with some strong oxidizing compound. Frankly, it would have crumbled to dust in a few weeks anyway, assuming that nobody had even touched it. But it was the ink in the director’s pen that touched off the fast reaction.’

  ‘But all the others wrote on it without effect,’ objected Ren.

  ‘True. But on Roget all the available inks are water-based—and I’d be willing to bet the others all used an old-fashioned wet-dip nib pen.’

  Ren thought back carefully. ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘Well, the effect of a water-based ink on the sheet is negligible. It redistributes the oxidant, but doesn’t react with it. But the director predictably signed with his own pen—and that contained a modern outworld organic-based ink. The organics were rapidly oxidized and produced almost spontaneous combustion. The local heat thus liberated was sufficient to touch the rest of the page off in a self-destructive mode. That bond entry was definitely designed to have no future.’

  Ren smiled ruefully. ‘I suppose you could say we’ve only ourselves to blame. We did the same thing to Dion-daizan—but with only a fraction of the subtlety. The devil alone knows how much support he’s gained from the incident. I’d guess all Anharitte is laughing at us this morning.’

  ‘I think,’ said Hardun, ‘you’re taking completely the wrong approach. You’re making a game of this instead of trying for a fast, decisive strike. I know it’s your war, but the problem of Imaiz is also within my competence. I’d tackle the whole affair quite differently.’

  ‘This morning I could use a few ideas. I don’t promise to agree, but I’d like to hear your version of how it should be done.’

  ‘Not how it should be done,’ said Hardun. ‘How it must be done. I was thinking more on the lines of dusting the Castle Magda with carcinogens—or the careful application of nerve gas. Perhaps even the introduction of an ergot derivative into their drinking water—’

  Castle Di Guaard was a daunting prospect. Constructed originally as the first defense fortress overlooking the broad Aprillo river, it had seen much service against the Tyrene pirates who ventured to pass under its cannon to reach the internal waterways leading to the soft underflesh of the city and the provinces beyond. The pirates were gone now—their impetus having retreated into the more profitable enterprises of respectable trading houses—but the guns and the grim, crenelated battlements of Castle Di Guaard remained unchanged as though caught in some eddy of time itself.

  Matching its image as a fortress was the preparedness of the soldiery contained within its gray stone confines. Indeed, a full lookout and guard were maintained on all walls as though in anticipation of an imminent attack. As Ren was admitted by Sonel Taw, the castellan—or governor—of the castle, he was immediately conscious of being in an armed citadel and, more surprisingly, one in which the men at arms not only carried primed muskets, but seemed fully prepared to use them on the slightest provocation.

  The unchanged character of Di Guaard also extended to the slaves, who in the main were ragged, wretched and nervously watchful, as though their lives depended on the speed with which they responded to a call for service. Many of them bore the scars of barbarous punishments—all wore the hangdog expression of whipped curs; which turned Ren’s stomach slightly. Nowhere else in Anharitte had he seen slaves reduced to this condition. Remembering the proud strengths of Zinder, he experienced a slight twinge of conscience that his mission to Di Guaard was to gain support for the destruction of the enlightened House of Magda.

  Castle Di Guaard was built on the principle of a bailey within a bailey, the outer containing slave quarters, stores and work yards, the inner housing the soldiery. Both were surrounded by the great walls whose machicolated parapets and mural flanking towers were designed to resist attack from any point of the compass. There was no moat, the castle being on two sides met by the sheer drop of the cliffs overhanging the Aprillo delta. The two great gates inland were amply overseen by formidable gatehouses, each with outworks in the form of separate barbican towers.

  Ren followed the castellan without comment—and the latter seemed disinclined to enter conversation. At one corner of the inner bailey stood the mighty roundtower of the great keep—the home of Delph Di Guaard himself—and it was here that Ren was led. The tower’s broad, flat roof was said to be the highest point in all the provinces and formed an excellent platform tor observation and for the light chain-throwing cannon or which Di Guaard seemed inordinately fond. The whole atmosphere was one of preparation for a battle or a siege. Ren could not help thinking that if the Imaiz’s influence should ever bring to pass a revolution, Castle Di Guaard would probably be the last place to fall to the insurgents.

  That Di Guaard was mad was no news to Ren, but having come from more civilized worlds he had forgotten that, without psychiatry and the overriding authority of the state, madness has no checks. Even more appalling was the realization that the gross madman whose chambers Ren now entered was undisputed lord of his own castle and held life or death control over a considerable number of soldiers and slaves. Even Sonel Taw, the castellan, went patently in fear of his terrifying master and excused himself rapidly at the chamber door.

  As he crossed the floor alone Ren felt the full impact of the man. Delph Di Guaard was leaning over a huge table, his back to the door. His vast bulk suggested super-human strength and even from the rear Ren could sense the aura of power of the man’s tyrannic personality. He found himself almost afraid of the moment when the c
reature would turn and face him.

  ‘Well?’ Di Guaard’s voice made the chamber reverberate. ‘What news do you bring of the Tyrene?’ .

  ‘No news of the Tyrene, my Lord. I come about other matters.’ Ren controlled his voice with a confident, faultless presence. His verbal bouts with Magno Vestevaal had been excellent training for this occasion.

  ‘Other matters?’ Di Guaard shouted. ‘In time of war?’ He swung about and Ren looked unflinchingly into the staring, accusing eyes of the mad lord. The fellow’s visage writhed constantly with the underplay of some shaded. thoughts in which anger. and comprehension chased each other continuously through the flesh. ‘Ah, an outworlder. That would explain your naivete. You must be Agent Ren. My castellan mumbled something about your coming. Well you’ve come to the right man. Have the Tyrene sacked your warehouse, slaughtered your servants or raped your daughters?’ His mouth almost drooled at the vision.

  ‘None of those,’ said Ren. ‘My news is more serious. It concerns the very existence of Anharitte itself.’

  Di Guaard hit the table a heavy blow with his hand. ‘I knew it! I told that fool Di Irons that one day the pirates would attack in force. You see here—’ His thick fingers jabbed pointlessly at a torn chart on the table. ‘That’s the reason why so many of their ships have congregated to the north. We have constant sightings of a hundred, two hundred ships—they say an armada. And I, Di Guaard, am the only one in the three hills who keeps his defenses ready. The rest of them think me. mad, but now it’s I who am proven sane. Don’t you agree that unpreparedness in time of war is mad?’