Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire

by Jerry Pournelle

  Delon Mord's place. Looks as though he had to burn, too. He studied the smoke column critically. It's spread and he's got a grass fire. He looked at the glowing embers behind him, then busied himself in putting them out.

  Finally, he drove the water wagon away from a black mass of mud and lifted his saddle from it.

  It would be well to ride over and see if Mord needed help. In this dry season, a grass fire out of control could spread and destroy several farms. He saddled the garn and swung up. In fact, given a wind, the whole plateau could become a sea of flame.

  By the time Kanlor got to Mord's property, several other farmers had arrived. The fire was blazing across a pasture and flames were licking at the trees on a hedgerow. Men were filling buckets and passing them to wet down the foliage. A few men were hurriedly throwing dirt on advancing flames. Kanlor grabbed his shovel from a saddlebag and joined them.

  Delon Mord had been rushing about, shouting directions at the fire fighters. He dashed up to Kanlor and seized his arm.

  "Never mind that," he shouted. "There's plenty of men here. Go over and help those fellows on the buckets. Those are valuable trees."

  Kanlor shrugged him off. "Why don't you help them, then? An overseer's just what we don't need right now. It's your fire, so why not help put it out?"

  Mord backed away. "Gotta be somebody takes charge."

  Kanlor threw another shovelful on the flames before him. "Well, take charge somewhere else and quit pestering me. I'm busy."

  Mord looked angrily at him, started to speak, then dashed away to scream advice at the bucket brigade.

  At last, the fire was contained and burned itself out. A pasture had been burned out completely and most of an adjoining field was a waste of smoking ash, but the danger of widespread fire was over. Men put away their tools and gathered in groups. One bent down to crumble soil between his fingers.

  "Dry," he commented. "All the farms are drying out this season. Else we get some rain, we'll have thin crops this year. And I hate to think of burning out any more weed patches." He looked at Kanlor. "You don't seem to be having any trouble, though. Your place is green as in a good year."

  Kanlor nodded. "It's those wells of mine," he said. "I run water on my fields when the rains fail."

  The other shrugged. "Yeah, sure. Nice for you, but who else has all that water to spare?"

  "You could dig more wells."

  "Oh, to be sure. I've nothing but time. And who's to do my regular farm work while I spend my days heaving dirt?"

  "My father and I did it," Kanlor said quietly, "several years ago."

  "Yeah." The man turned away. "That was several years back. It's right now I've a family to feed." He kicked at the ground. "Besides, how am I to know I'll have your luck and hit water every time I dig?"

  Kanlor watched the man walk away. We didn't, he remembered. There're quite a few dry holes we filled in. And it's precious little time we spent in the village, too. He walked toward his garn, then turned as he heard Mord's loud voice.

  "It's just not fair," the man was saying. "I come out to the pasture day after day and there's nothing amiss. Then this morning, there's this big weed patch. Bunch of lizards in it, too." He waved an arm. "Look, bull's dead of a lizard bite. Two cows all bloated up from eating the filthy leaves, I'll probably lose them, too. And then this fire runs wild. How's a man to . . ."

  Kanlor turned away and climbed into his saddle. He looked back at the group wearily. It took time, he knew, for lizard weed to grow. And it took more time for the poisonous yarlnu to find a patch and nest in it. He looked back at the scanty stand of grain in what was left of Mord's field. The man's voice carried to him.

  "I tell you, it's black sorcery. Witchcraft, that's what it is—a spell on this land of mine."

  Kanlor rapped his heels into the garn's side. Of course, he said to himself. Sorcery! Evil spells! This past year, there's more and more talk of it. No man really believes the tales till he needs an alibi. When a man lets his fields go, spends his time chasing about the village, goes to every fair down at Varsana, then it's a black spell that causes his farm to go down. He turned his face toward his own holdings.

  Moren pen Qatorn, Chief Examiner for the Duchy of Varsan, leaned forward and cupped his chin in his hands.

  "And you say this man has cast repeated spells in your neighborhood?"

  Delon Mord looked up at him eagerly. "Yes, my lord. Why only a few days ago, he caused a large patch of lizard weed to grow in my pasture overnight. And somehow, by a black spell, he brought yarlnu lizards to infest it." He drew his mouth into a downward curve and spread his hands.

  "My cattle were poisoned and one bitten. They died, to my great loss."

  "And you say it was this"—pen Qatorn glanced at his secretary's notes—"Wysrin Kanlor who caused this misfortune to you?"

  Mord nodded eagerly. "Oh, to be sure, sir. Soon after I started burning the patch off, Kanlor made as if to burn weed on his own property. It was right after that when my fire blazed up and fired the whole field." He peered at the Examiner cunningly.

  "They say this is the way the sorcerers work. They take something like that which they would destroy, and—"

  Pen Qatorn sighed impatiently. "Yes, yes. We are quite familiar with the workings of black magic. We know about these hopelessly damned sorcerers, and with the demons who are their masters." He looked down sternly.

  "This, then, is your story? To be sure, you weren't a bit remiss in the husbandry of your fields? Perhaps you could have been a bit careless in guarding that your flames should not spread?"

  "Oh no, sir!" Mord shook his head. "I am careful to look over my fields daily, and to do that which is needful. There was no weed before that morning."

  "I see." Pen Qatorn smiled sardonically. "And this, of course, is the only proof you have to show Kanlor's sorcery?"

  "Oh no, sir. There is yet more. All this year, my fields and my neighbors' fields have been dry and the crops scant. Only Kanlor's fields remain rich on the whole plateau. His crops are good and his cattle fat. Thus, he will command a high price for his produce while the rest of us grow poor."

  "Ah, yes. This may well merit investigation. And you, I believe, are asking just compensation for these losses you claim were caused by the man's sorcery?"

  "Yes, my lord." Mord nodded eagerly. "These spells I tell you of have caused me grievous loss."

  "I understand. Well, we shall see." Pen Qatorn raised his head and nodded portentiously. "You may go for now. Perhaps we may call upon you later for further evidence." He waved a hand in dismissal, then turned to his secretary.

  "What about this man Kanlor?" he asked in a low voice. "Have you anything on him?"

  The secretary nodded. "Information is at hand, my lord. Our original survey showed this might be a man to look up." He smiled and flipped a paper from the stack before him.

  "Kanlor has five fields and a pasture, not far from the duke's High Keep. His crops have been good for several seasons back. Man's unmarried and lives alone." The man paused, examining the sheet.

  "The duke would pay well for those fields, sir. Kanlor has good wells on them—the only really good wells for several farms around. Oh, yes, there's another thing. He's literate. Dropped from the university when his parents died."

  "I see. A fit subject for investigation, then. Tell me, is the man well liked in his village?"

  The secretary shook his head. "He lives on his farm. Most of his neighbors seem to be a bit envious of him. No one but this Mord has actually made any accusation, but it's obvious that few tears would be shed if misfortune overtook Kanlor."

  "Interesting. And what about Mord?"

  "Slovenly farmer, sir. Neglects his fields, though he does manage to scratch out a living and pay his bills. Frequents the tavern and spends a lot of time at the fairs. He lives in the village."

  "Married?"

  The secretary tilted his head. "Yes, and he has a pair of scrawny children as well. But the man has a certain p
opularity. He's no brawler and he has a ready wit. The villagers are tolerant of him and the tavern crowd follows his lead."

  The Chief Examiner got to his feet. "I find that this information against the man Kanlor has merit," he said loudly. "We shall pursue an inquiry and bring him before this tribunal shortly." He looked at the local judges, who had moved a bit apart.

  "Subject, of course, to any comments you gentlemen might have," he added.

  The three men looked uneasily at each other, then turned to face the Chief Examiner.

  "We are of the same opinion as your lordship," one said.

  Pen Qatorn nodded curtly. "Very well, gentlemen, we shall meet tomorrow after lunch to consider any further information that may come to light. We may, perhaps, question the man Kanlor at that time." He threw a stern glance at the guardsmen who flanked the judicial table.

  "Surely, we shall question the man no later than the second day." He rose and strode from the room.

  The secretary followed pen Qatorn to a small room, then closed the door and turned to his chief.

  "How about this Mord?" he asked. "He's asking compensation."

  Pen Qatorn smiled. "And for a long list of claims, I have no doubt. Oh, I think we can allow him a bit for his losses," he decided. "And you might do a little inquiring as to the value of his holdings." He pursed his lips.

  "You know, it's a serious crime to make false claim. Too, this informant has been associated with the suspect Kanlor for some time and he shows a certain knowledge of magic himself. It might be well to inquire closely into his activities."

  The secretary nodded, then backed away and went through the door. Outside, he shook his head, smiling.

  Old fox, he said to himself. He never misses a thing. Going or coming, he's got them. He fingered one of his gold rings as he went through an archway, to pace across a small courtyard.

  An inconspicuous brown beetle had been perched on a curtain. It flew silently to him and concealed itself in a fold of his clothing.

  For a time, he was no more than a free mind, floating in a shapeless void with neither identity nor feeling. Then there was pain. At first, a tiny, hesitant ache insinuated itself. Then it grew to become a throbbing flood of agony. He tried to move a hand, but something held it behind him and the effort made the blinding throb become more acute. He breathed deeply and red flames stabbed at chest and side.

  A flood of evil-smelling water poured over him and he jerked his head back. His eyes opened. Now, he remembered. He was Wysrin Kanlor. He had been in a field when guardsmen had come for him, and dragged him from his garn. He could remember no words, but there had been kicks and blows, then nothingness.

  Dazedly, he looked about at vaguely seen rafters, then at a huge, fat man who towered over him and finally reached down to drag him to his feet.

  "Come along, witch," the man ordered. "The Examiner, pen Qatorn, would have words with you." He jerked on a chain and Kanlor's head throbbed as a leash pulled at his neck. He stumbled after his captor.

  They went through an arch, then turned. Kanlor's eyesight was clearing and he could see men in somber robes who sat at a table above him. The man in the middle spoke.

  "Your name is Wysrin Kanlor. Is this true?"

  "Yes. But why—"

  "Silence! I shall ask the questions. You have but to answer—and truthfully."

  The big man slashed the back of his hand across Kanlor's face.

  "And address the Examiner as 'his lordship,' " he ordered.

  Kanlor swayed dizzily, then recovered his balance.

  The Examiner continued. "And for how long have you been delving into black sorcery?"

  Kanlor's eyes widened. "But I—"

  Again the hard hand slammed at his face.

  "Answer. Don't try to evade his lordship's questions."

  "I ask you again, Wysrin Kanlor," the Examiner said sternly, "how long have you been a witch?"

  "Your lordship, I have never been a witch."

  The Examiner frowned. "The man is reluctant," he commented. "He answers, but his answers mean nothing. He has yet to learn the value of truth. Sir Executioner, perhaps you might instruct him?"

  The large man nodded. "Thumbscrews," he ordered.

  There was a movement behind Kanlor, then he felt something being clamped to his right thumb. Pressure was swiftly exerted and raging pain shot up his arm. He barely choked back a scream.

  Pen Qatorn looked at him coldly. "You have been using black sorcery to the damage of your neighbors. For how long have you done this? Five years? Six?"

  Kanlor stared at him silently. Pen Qatorn watched for a moment, then continued.

  "We shall come back to that again. Why did you become a witch?"

  There was a jerk at Kanlor's hand and the pressure on his thumb increased. A clamp was placed on his other thumb and tightened. His mouth flew open in shocked disbelief. This, he told himself, simply was not happening. It was a horrible dream. He . . .

  The pressure was abruptly increased and a scream started to well from his throat. He clamped his lips fiercely shut. It was no dream and nothing he could say would help. He stared silently at the Examiner. Pen Qatorn frowned.

  "How did you become a witch? What was done at that time? Who is your evil master?" He paused.

  More clamps were fastened to Kanlor's fingers and tightened. His hands throbbed and the muscles of his arms tightened and cramped.

  "Well, will you answer? How long have you been a witch?"

  Kanlor drew a shuddering breath, then closed his eyes. Pen Qatorn glared at him, then turned to his secretary.

  "Let it be noted that the man is taciturn," he remarked. He looked back at Kanlor.

  "Oh, have no doubt. You shall answer these questions," he said coldly. "These and more. It will but take time." He moved his hand.

  "Take him to the torture chamber. There, he may realize the error of his ways."

  The Executioner jerked at the leash, forcing Kanlor to follow. They went through a hall and down a short flight of steps, to come out into a large room. On the walls hung tongs, pincers, branding irons and other implements unfamiliar to Kanlor. The Executioner glanced around for a moment, then jerked his captive toward the center of the room, signing to a pair of assistants.

  Overhead, a pulley was fastened to the rafters. A thick rope had been threaded through it and hung, its ends tied to a ring set in the floor. An assistant untied one end of the rope, then went to Kanlor and secured it to his wrist bonds. He slipped the other end from the ring and pulled on it till Kanlor was forced to bend over. The other assistant looped the free end of the rope through the ring again and took up the slack. They stood, eyeing their chief.

  The Executioner nodded. "Take him up a bit."

  The assistants hauled away and Kanlor swung a meter above the floor. A knot was tied, securing the rope end to the ring and again, the assistants watched their chief, who smiled approvingly at them.

  "Very good," he said. He looked at Kanlor.

  "Now, we are just ordinary men," he said reasonably, "who have to do our job. We have no real desire to do you hurt, or to cause you needless pain." He smiled disarmingly. "In fact, we really don't like to do it. Why don't you be a good fellow? Let me bring his lordship here so you can answer his questions. It will make it easier for all of us. Your hurts will be tended and we won't have to go to great efforts. How about it?"

  Momentarily, the thought entered Kanlor's mind that the man might be right. Perhaps he should simply answer. Then he remembered the questions. He could do himself no good, however he spoke. He closed his eyes, ignoring the fat man.

  "Well, I tried." The Executioner sighed resignedly. "We shall leave you in the rafters for a time. You may consider and think of what you will tell the Examiner when he again deigns to consider you." He waved a hand.

  "Pull him up, boys," he ordered. "We'd as well go out for a bite to eat." He turned toward the steps.

  Wysrin Kanlor was no weakling. Long hours of work with sho
vel, hay hook, and flail had given him powerful arm and shoulder muscles. He found that he could support his weight even in this unaccustomed position. For a while, he even thought he might be able to pull his body between his arms, swing himself up, and somehow undo the ropes with his teeth. Maybe he might be able somehow to escape. But there simply wasn't space for his body to pass between his arms. Blood rushed to his head and he was forced to give up the effort and to dangle, breathing heavily.

  His shoulders began to ache with the strain, then the muscles of his chest added their complaints. Time passed and the ache became a numbing sea of pain. He breathed in agonized gasps, dimly wondering how many eternities he had been up here, and how many more long eons it would be before he was taken down.