Un-Man and Other Novellas

by Poul Anderson

  “I am old,” said Gulmanan in a parched tone. “My life has not been as cloistered as I might have wished, if you are proposing that you and I could work together to mutual advantage, say so.”

  Alak made a sketchy explanation. “And the lands would be yours,” he finished.

  “Also the trouble, my cub,” said the abbot. “We already have enough clashes with King Morlach.”

  “This Would not be a serious one. The law would be on our side.”

  “Nevertheless, the honor of the Temple may not be compromised.”

  “In plain words, you want more than I’ve offered.”

  “Yes,” said Gulmanan bluntly.

  Alak waited. Sweat studded his body. What could he do if an impossible demand was made?

  The seamed blue face grew wistful. “Your race knows much,” said the abbot. “Our peasants wear out their lives, struggling against a miserly soil and seasonal insect hordes. Are there ways to better their lot?”

  “Is that all? Certainly there are. Helping folk progress when they wish to is one of our chief policies. My . . . my king would be only too glad to lend you some technicians— farmwrights?—and show you how.”

  “Also ... it is pure greed on my part. But sometimes at night, looking up at the stars, trying to understand what the traders have said—that this broad fair world of ours is but a mote spinning through vastness beyond comprehension—it has been an anguish in me that I do not know how that is.” Now it was Gulmanan who leaned forward and shivered. “Would it be possible to ... to translate a few of your books on this science astronomic into Thunsban?”

  Alak regarded himself as a case-hardened cynic. In the line of duty, he had often and cheerfully broken the most solemn oaths with an audible snap. But this was one promise he meant to keep though the sky fell down.

  On the way back, he stopped at his flitter, where Drogs was hiding from a gape-mouthed citizenry, and put the Galmathian to work in the machine shop.

  A human simply could not eat very much of this planet’s food; he would die in agony. Varris had taken care to have a food-synthesizer aboard his boat, and ate well that night of special dishes. He did not invite Alak to join him, and the Patrolman munched gloomily on what his service imagined to be an adequate, nutritious diet.

  After supper, the nobles repaired to a central hall, with a fireplace at either end waging hopeless war on the evening chill, for serious drinking. Alak, ignored by most, sauntered through the crowd till he 'got to Varris. The fugitive was conversing with several barons; from his throne, King Morlach listened interestedly. Varris was increasing his prestige by explaining some principles of games theory which ought to guarantee success in the next war.

  "... And thus, my gentles, it is not that one must seek a certain victory, for there is no certainty in battle, but must so distribute his forces as to have the greatest likelihood of winning—”

  “Hogwash!” snapped Alak. The Thunsban phrase he used was more pungent.

  Varris raised his brows. “Said you something?” he asked.

  “I did.” Alak slouched forward, wearing his most insolent expression. “I said it is nonsense you speak.”

  “You disagree, then, sir?” inquired a native.

  “Not exactly,” said the Patrolman. “It is not worth disagreeing with so lunkheaded a swine as this basebom Varris.” His prey remained impassive. There was no tone in the voice: “I trust you will retract your statement, sir.”

  “Yes, perhaps I should,” agreed Alak. “It was too mild. Actually, of course, as is obvious from a single glance at his bloated face, Sir Varris is a muckeating sack of lip-wagging flatulence whose habits I will not even try to describe since they would make a barnyard blush.”

  Silence hit the hall. The flames roared up the chimneys. King Morlach scowled and breathed heavily, but could not legally interfere. His warriors dropped hands to their knives. “What’s your purpose?” muttered Varris in Terran. “Naturally,” said Alak in Thunsban, “if Sir Varris does not dispute my assertions, there is no argument.”

  The Caldonian sighed. “I will dispute them on your body tomorrow morning,” he answered.

  Alak’s foxy face broke into a delighted grin. “Do I understand that I am being challenged?” he asked.

  “You do, sir. I invite you to a duel.”

  “Very well.” Alak looked around. Every eye in the place was welded to him. “My lords, you bear witness that I have been summoned to fight Sir Varris. If I mistake me not, the choice of weapons and ground is mine.”

  “Within the laws of single combat,” rumbled Morlach venomously. “None of your outworld sorceries.”

  “Indeed not.” Alak bowed. “I choose to fight with my own swords, which are lighter than your claymores but, I assure you, quite deadly if one does not wear armor. Sir Varris may, of course, have first choice of the pair. The duel will take place just outside the main gate of Grimmoch Abbey.” There was nothing unusual about that. A badly wounded contestant could be taken into the monks, who were also the local surgeons. In such a case, he was allowed to recover after which a return engagement was fought. In the simple and logical belief that enmities should not be permitted to fester, the Thunsban law said that no duel was officially over till one party had been killed. It was the use of light swords that caused interest.

  “Very good,” said Varris in a frosty voice. He was taking it well; only Alak could guess what worries—what trap is being set?—lay behind those eyes. “At dawn tomorrow, then.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Alak firmly. He never got up before noon if he could help it. “Am I to lose my good sleep on account of you? We will meet at the time of Third Sacrifice.” He bowed grandly. “Good night, my lord and gentles.”

  Back in his apartment, he went through the window and, with the help of his small antigrav unit, over the wall and out to his boat. Varris might try to assassinate him as he slept.

  Or would the Caldonian simply rely on being a better swordsman? Alak knew that was the case. This might be his last night alive.

  A midaftemoon sun threw long streamers of light across blue turf and the walls of Grimmoch Abbey. There was a hundred-meter square cleared before the gate; beyond that, a crowd of lords and ladies stood talking, drinking, and betting on the outcome. King Morlach watched ominously from a portable throne—he would not thank the man who did away with the useful Sir Varris. Just inside the gateway, Abbot Gulmanan and a dozen monks waited like stone saints.

  Trumpets blew, and Alak and Varris stepped forth. Both wore light shirts and trousers, nothing else. An official frisked them ceremoniously for concealed weapons and armor. The noble appointed Master of Death trod out and recited the code. Then he took a cushion on which the rapiers were laid, tested each, and extended them to Varris. ■

  The outlaw smiled humorlessly and selected one. Alak got the other. The Master of Death directed them to opposite comers of the field.

  Alak’s blade felt light and supple in his fingers. His vision and hearing were unnaturally clear, it was as if every grass blade stood out sharp before him. Perhaps his brain was storing data while it still could. Varris, one hundred forty meters off, loomed like a giant.

  “And now, let the Allshaper defend the right!”

  Another trumpet flourish. The duel was on.

  Varris walked out, not hurrying. Alak went to meet him. They crossed blades and stood for a moment, eyes thrusting at eyes.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked the refugee in Terran. “If you have some idiotic hope of killing me, you might as well forget it. I was a fencing champion at home.”

  “These shivs are gimmicked,” said Alak with a rather forced grin. “I’ll let you figure out how.”

  “I suppose you know the penalty for using poison is burning at the stake—” For a moment, there was a querulous whine in the voice. “Why can’t you leave me alone? What business was it ever of yours?”

  “Keeping the peace is my business,” said Alak. “That’s what I get pa
id for, anyhow.”

  Varris snarled. His blade whipped out. Alak parried just in time. There was a thin steel ringing in the air.

  Varris danced gracefully, aggressively, a cold intent on his face. Alak made wild slashes, handling his rapier like a broadsword. Contempt crossed Varris’ mouth. He parried a blow, riposted, and Alak felt pain sting his shoulder. The crowd whooped.

  Just one cut! Just one cut before he gets me through the heartI Alak felt his chest grow warm and wet. A flesh wound, no more. He remembered that he’d forgotten to thumb the concealed button in his hilt, and did so with a curse.

  Varris’ weapon was a blur before his eyes. He felt another light stab. Varris was playing with him! Coldly, he retreated, to the jeers of the audience, while he rallied his wits.

  The thing to do . . . what the devil did you call it, riposte, slash, eri avant? Varris came close as Alak halted. The Patrolman thrust for his left arm. Varris blocked that one. Somehow, Alak slewed his blade around and pinked the outlaw in the chest.

  Now—God help me, I have to survive the next few seconds! The enemy steel lunged for his throat. He slapped it down, clumsily, in bare time. His thigh was furrowed. Varris sprang back to get room. Alak did the same.

  Watching, he saw the Caldonian’s eyes begin helplessly rolling. The rapier wavered. Alak, deciding he had to make this look good, ran up and skewered Varris in the biceps—a harmless cut, but it bled with satisfactory enthusiasm. Varris dropped his sword and tottered. Alak got out of the way just as the big body fell.

  The nobles were screaming. King Morlach roared. The Master of Death rushed out to shove Alak aside. “It is not lawful to smite a fallen man,” he said.

  “I . . . assure you ... no such intention—” Alak sat down and let the planet revolve around him.

  Abbot Gulmanan and the monks stooped over Varris, examining with skilled fingers. Presently the old priest looked up and said in a low voice that somehow cut through the noise: “He is not badly hurt. He should be quite well tomorrow. Perhaps he simply fainted.”

  “At a few scratches like that?” bawled Morlach. “Master, check that red-haired infidel’s blade! I suspect poison!”

  Alak pressed the retracting button and handed over his sword. While it was being inspected, Varris was borne inside the abbey and its gate closed on him. The Master of Death looked at both weapons, bowed to the king, and said puzzledly:

  “There is no sign of poison, my lord. And after all, Sir Varris had first choice of glaives . . . and these two are identical, as far as I can see . . . and did not the holy one say he is not really injured?”

  Alak swayed erect. “Jussa better man, tha’s all,” he mumbled. “I won fair an’ square. Lemme go get m’ hurts dressed— I’ll see y’ all in the morning—”

  He made it to his boat, and Drogs had a bottle of Scotch ready.

  It took will power to be at the palace when the court convened—not that Alak was especially weakened, but the Thunsbans started their day at a hideous hour. In this case, early rising was necessary, because he didn’t know when the climax of his plot would be on him.

  He got a mixed welcome, on the one hand respect for having overcome the great Sir Varris—at least in the first round—on the other hand, a certain doubt as to whether he had done it fairly. King Morlach gave him a surly greeting, but not openly hostile; he must be waiting for the doctors’ verdict.

  Alak found a congenial earl and spent his time swapping dirty jokes. It is always astonishing how many of the classics are to be found among all mammalian species. This is less an argument for the prehistoric Galactic Empire than for the parallelism of great minds.

  Shortly before noon, Abbot Gulmanan entered. Several hooded monks followed him, bearing weapons—most unusual —and surrounding one who was unarmed. The priest lifted his hand to the king, and the room grew very quiet.

  “Well,” snapped Morlach, “what brings you hither?”

  “I thought it best to report personally on the outcome of the duel, my lord,” said Gulmanan. “It was . . . surprising.”

  “Mean you Sir Varris is dead?” Morlach’s eyes flared. He could not fight his own guest, but it would be easy enough to have one of his guardsmen insult Wing Alak.

  “No, my lord. He is in good health, his wounds are

  negligible. But—somehow the grace of the Allshaper fell on him.”" The abbot made a pious gesture; as he saw Alak, one eyelid dropped.

  “What mean you?” Morlack dithered and clutched his sword.

  “Only this. As he regained consciousness, I offered him ghostly counsel, as I always do to hurt men. I spoke of the virtues of the Temple, of sancitity, of the dedicated life. Half in jest, I mentioned the possibility that he might wish to remounce this evil world and enter the Temple as a brother.

  My lord, you can imagine my astonishment when he agreed . . . nay, he insisted on deeding all his lands and treasure to the abbey and taking the vows at once.” Gulmanan rolled his eyes heavenward. “Indeed, a miracle!”

  “What?” It was a shriek from the king.

  The monk who was under guard suddenly tore off his hood. Varris’ face glared out. “Help!” he croaked. “Help, my lordl I’ve been betrayed—”

  “There are a dozen brothers who witnessed your acts and will swear to them by the mightiest oaths,” said the abbot sternly. “Be still, Brother Varris. If the Evil has reentered your soul, I shall have to set you heavy penances.”

  “Witchcraft!” It whispered terribly down the long hall.

  “All men know that witchcraft has no power inside the walls of a sacred abbey,” warned Gulmanan. “Speak no heresies.”

  Varris looked wildly about at the spears and axes that ringed him in. “I was drugged, my lord,” he gasped. “I remember what I did, yes, but I had no will of my own—I followed this old devil’s words—” He saw Alak and snarled. “Hypnite!”

  The Patrolman stepped forth and bowed to the king. “Your majesty,” he said, “Sir Varris-that-was had first choice of blades. But if you wish to inspect them again, I have them here.”

  It had been easy enough, after all: two swords with retractible hypodermic needles, only they wouldn’t do you any good unless you knew of them and knew where to press. The flitter’s machine shop could turn one out in a couple of hours.

  Alak handed them to the king from beneath his cloak. Morlach stared at the metal, called for a pair of gauntlets, and broke the blades in his hands. The mechanism lay blatant before him.

  “Do you see?” cried Varris. “Do you see the poisoned darts? Burn that rogue alive!”

  Morlach smiled grimly. “It shall be done," he said.

  Alak grinned, and inwardly his muscles tightened. This was the tricky point. If he couldn’t carry it off, it meant a pretty agonizing death. “My Lord,” he answered, “that were unjust. The weapons are identical, and Sir Varris-that-was had first choice. It is permitted to use concealed extra parts, and not to warn of them.”

  “Poison—” began Morlach.

  “But this was not poison. Does not Varris stand hale before you all?”

  “Yes—” Morlach scratched his head. “But when the next engagement is fought, I shall provide the swords.”

  “A monk,” said Gulmanan, “may not have private quarrels. This novice is to be returned to his cell for fasting and prayer.”

  “A monk may be released from his vows under certain conditions,” argued Morlach. “I shall see to it that he is.”

  “Now hold!” shouted Wing Alak in his best Shakespearean manner. “My lord, I have won the duel. It were unlawful to speak of renewing it—for who can fight a dead man?”

  “Won it?” Varris wrestled with the sturdy monks gripping his arms. “Here I stand, alive, ready to take you on again any minute—”

  “My lord king,” said Alak, “I crave leave to state my case.”

  The royal brow knotted, but: “Do so,” clipped Morlach.

  “Very well.” Alak cleared his throat. “First, then, I foug
ht lawfully. Granted, there was a needle in each sword of which Sir Varris had not been warned, but that is allowable under the code. It might be said that I poisoned him, but that is a canard, for as you all see he stands here unharmed. The drug I used has only a temporary effect and thus is not, by definition, a poison. Therefore, it was a lawful and just combat.”

  Morlach nodded reluctantly. “But not a completed battle,” he said.

  “Oh, it was, my lord. What is the proper termination of a duel? Is it not that one party die as the direct result of the other’s craft and skill?”

  “Yes ... of course—”

  “Then I say that Varris, though not poisoned, died as an immediate’ consequence of my wounding him. He is now dead! For mark you, he has taken vows as a monk—he did this because of the drug I administered. Those oaths may not be wholly irrevocable, but they are binding on him until such time as the Council releases him from them. And . . . a monk owns no property. His wordly goods revert to his heirs. His wife becomes a widow. He is beyond all civil jurisdiction. He is, in short, legally deadl”

  “But I stand here!” shouted Varris.

  “The law is sacred,” declared Alak blandly. “I insist that the law be obeyed. And by every legal definition, you are dead. You are no longer Sir Varris of Wainabog, but Brother Varris of Grimmoch—a quite different person. If this fact be not admitted, then the whole structure of Thunsban society must topple, for it rests on the total separation of civil and ecclesiastical law.” Alak made a flourishing bow. “Accordingly, my lord, I am the winner of the duel.”

  Morlach sat for a long while. His mind must be writhing in his skull, hunting for a way out of the impasse, but there was none.

  “I concede it,” he said at last, thickly. “Sir Wing Alak, you are the victor. You are also my guest, and I may not harm you . . . but you have till sunset to be gone from Thunsba forever.” His gaze shifted to Varris. “Be not afraid. I shall send to the Council and have you absolved of your vows.” “That you may do, lord,” said Gulmanan. “Of course, until that decree is passed, Brother Varris must remain a monk, living as all monks do. The law does not allow of exceptions.” “True,” grumbled the king. “A few weeks only ... be patient.”