With a chiming sound his sword was struck from his grasp and went flying toward the ceiling. As it bounced back, Veautrin deftly caught it. Then he tugged Zhorga to the floor by the skirt of his jacket and handed him the weapon hilt foremost with a curt bow.
“Your play has merit, though it lacks finesse,” he said.
Baron Matello was laughing loudly and clapping his hands. “Well done! The best bit of clowning I’ve seen for a long time!” He turned to the victor. “Well, Veautrin, what do you think of him?”
The captain looked Zhorga up and down. He might have been appraising a horse. “He’ll be all right, once he’s been put through the drills. A good reliable type, basically—if he’ll accept discipline.”
Privately Zhorga marveled as he dabbed at the blood that still oozed through his beard. The two were discussing a fealty oath that could bind him to the baron for life—yet nothing had even been mentioned to him of the baron’s own allegiances, his ideals and aims, even though Zhorga was obviously quite ignorant of them. It was apparently of no consequence, for instance, that he did not even know the name of Matello’s monarch.
All this accorded with what he had heard of the mentality of these great star nobles, who lived in an atmosphere of unquestioning obedience and treated their bondsmen as personal property without any opinions of their own. Zhorga tried a new tack. “Perhaps your lordship would be generous enough to give us passage to the star worlds and allow us to fend for ourselves thereafter. In return, let us work for you during your stay on Mars.”
“But what use would you be to me?” Matello said petulantly. “It is not as if you had any special knowledge of Mars, or could help me in my mission.”
“That depends, of course, on what brings you to this planet,” Zhorga said in a low voice.
Matello was silent for a moment. Then he grunted.
“Well, what does it matter if you know? Mars, at one time, was a venue for those seeking a thing of value called the Philosopher’s Stone. It has come to my knowledge that a book is hidden here somewhere, said to contain the ultimate alchemical secret. Alchemy, as such, doesn’t interest me—but I have reasons for wanting this book.”
He gestured to Veautrin to return the swords to the cupboard rack. His florid tones became complaining.
“Where, however, is it? The towns are in ruins, scarcely anyone in them can even read. It could be under any square foot of sand.”
Zhorga blinked, and looked astounded. “That is all you know, my lord? That the book is on Mars?”
“That is all.”
Zhorga grinned. His eyes gleamed. “Then I can be of use to you after all!”
***
“You’re sure your mentor had nothing else to add? No hint of an address? No idea of what quarter of the city to look in?”
“No, my lord,” Rachad lied, trying to sound as guileless as possible. “He only knew that I should go to Kars.”
They Stood on a rise overlooking the ruins of the ancient city. Around them were parked the Bucentaur’s three lighters, which had ferried some hundreds of men to the site. Included in the work force were Zhorga and his crew, transformed now into a small squad and wearing the baron’s uniform, but without his coat of arms. They stood at ease alongside the others, awaiting instructions.
Matello was reflective. “Not a great deal to go on for one young man on his own in a strange land,” he mused. He had been firm but courteous toward the youth, not wishing to terrify him unduly. He was aware, anyway, that Rachad had already seen the torture equipment in the interrogation room. And indeed, the boy had volunteered his information with alacrity, though disappointingly it did not amount to anything more than the snippet already provided by Captain Zhorga.
“To know that the book exists at all is already a great deal,” Rachad said defensively, “let alone in what city it is hidden.”
“And with that,” Matello sighed, “you came all the way from Earth.”
“With respect, my lord, you came much farther with even less. Even a small chance of obtaining so precious a secret is worth taking.”
Matello shot him a sarcastic glance. Rachad continued: “My master advised me to pose as a seeker or even an adept, and to inveigle myself among the alchemists and secret societies he thought would exist here.”
“Hah! I wish he could be here to answer for his advice.” Matello rattled the map he was holding. It showed Kars as it had been in former days, before war and decay had overtaken it. At one time the city must have been a thriving, colorful place, but now it presented mostly piles of tumbled masonry, shells of buildings, broken towers and jutting pillars. True, it was even now not entirely abandoned. Among the decrepit piles of sand-colored stone were signs of movement, and on the edges of the sprawling ruins ploughed fields extended.
And the main street plan could still be made out, at least as regards the wider avenues. Rachad craned his neck trying to see Matello’s map. He had already learned to recognize the squiggly symbol that marked the temples, of which Kars, it seemed, had been crammed full. Rapidly, almost despairingly, his eye raced over the parchment—and then stopped. There it was, clearly written in the graceful Martian script! The Temple of Hermes Trismegistus!
Rachad’s heart beat faster. He looked out over the dead city, trying to locate what he had seen on the map. Could that be it over there—that half-tumbled building with sloping walls, that might once have resembled an athanor?
Yes, he decided. That was it.
With a grunt Baron Matello took up a pen, dipped it in a little, bottle of ink, and divided the map into sections. “We’ll start here,” he said, subdividing one section still further into a number of blocks. Beckoning his officers to gather round, he allotted one squad to each block. “Tear everything apart,” he ordered. “Pay special attention to temples—these ancient Martians seem to have gone mad on religion.”
The officers shouted commands. Nearly five hundred men trotted downhill, and the inhabitants in their path, living in shacks and makeshift dwellings, fled at their approach.
The work was quickly organized. Block by block, street by street, uniformed men swarmed over the ruins, showing a preference for those that seemed to have been public buildings. Soon the air was filled with dust and resounded to the crack of hammers and the crash of falling masonry.
Rachad, wearing not the baron’s uniform but his own tunic and breeks, attached himself to Zhorga’s squad at first. But after an hour’s work he contrived to slip away, glancing behind him constantly to make sure his departure was not noticed, and set off across Kars, orienting himself by recollecting Matello’s map.
It was like a journey through a dream landscape. The city’s buff and orange stone was weathered, so that the ruins had a mild and rounded rather than a shattered appearance. He clambered over fallen columns and ascended heaps of rubble, but for the most part walked along what had been magnificent thoroughfares, many of them almost clear of detritus.
He became aware, too, that eyes were watching him from the surrounding ruins, though he caught only glimpses of the watchers as they darted from sight. He felt little fear of being molested; it was obvious that the people hereabouts feared the visitors from the stars.
At one place he came to a street used as a market or bartering place and lined with booths and stalls offering food, cooking utensils, coarse and ill-cut garments, ornaments, and so on. But both vendors and customers had departed.
At last he came to the building he had picked out as the Temple of Hermes Trismegistus. Set apart from the surrounding structures, it was still impressive even though derelict. The space around it was now partly filled with tumbled stone and masses of a creeper-like weed sporting innumerable scarlet flowers. Rachad paused before an almost intact portico. Over the entrance a large relief carving blazed forth, depicting the Worm Ouroborous, its body arced in the familiar perfect circle, its tail in its mouth. Reliefs also adorned the square flanking columns—on the left a caduceus, the health-giving Hermetic staf
f entwined by two snakes, on the right a two-headed Hermetic androgyne.
He crossed the threshold and stepped through a vestibule. Beyond that was a square, darkened room. Finally he found himself standing under the sky again, in a spacious interior whose roof had collapsed to deluge the floor beneath with spilled bricks, pieces of rafter, and tiles of assorted pastel hues. Like all others in the temple, the walls sloped inward. There were several doors to the chamber, and through a gap in the opposite wall Rachad saw more chambers.
His attention was caught by a sarcophagus-like marble dais on which, all covered with brick dust, there stood crucibles, alembics, and a small furnace. The equipment was scanty for any real alchemical efforts, Rachad thought. He guessed its use to have been ceremonial and the dais to be an altar, for as a backdrop to it was a mural showing the alchemical marriage of the sun and the moon, in progress within a glowing flask.
He rapped his knuckles on the marble top. Could this be the book’s hiding place? The idea seemed logical. He tried to remove the top, but it resisted his efforts.
He set off to explore the remaining rooms, hoping to find something with which to break the dais open. He found nothing, and returned to the altar. It was then that he heard the tramp of booted feet. Into the temple burst Zhorga, closely followed by several of his squad.
They all halted on seeing Rachad. Zhorga’s eyes were bright and wild as they darted about the chamber, and he seemed immensely pleased with himself.
“So this is the place, eh?” he crowed. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from it for long!”
Crestfallen and surly, Rachad lowered his head. “You followed me,” he accused tonelessly.
“Damned right we did, and lucky for you, too. It stood to reason you knew more than you were letting on. The baron would have given you back to the inquisitor if I hadn’t persuaded him to let you lead us to it, and you know what that means.” He gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Well, have you found it yet?”
“No.”
“Any ideas?”
Rachad shrugged. “I was going to look in that altar.”
“Smash it,” Zhorga said brusquely to those behind him. Patchman went forward with a sledgehammer and swung at the plinth, cracking the marble after several heavy blows.
Zhorga placed a paw on Rachad’s shoulder and watched the work greedily. “This is good news for all of us,” he murmured. “The baron will swear us into his service if that book turns up. He’s promised me that much.”
Rachad felt suddenly dismayed, even bitter. Zhorga, long his hero, seemed to be changing his nature. “What happened to your independent spirit, Captain?” he said scathingly. “I never thought to see you selling yourself to a master—I wouldn’t have guessed you’d betray me, either!”
Zhorga’s reply was heated. “I’m giving Matello the book for all our sakes!” he hissed. “He’ll take us to Maralia, the star country he comes from—or would you rather spend the rest of your life on Mars?”
“You’ll still be a serf. How does it feel?”
“A soldier-at-arms! It’s an honorable profession—I’ve been one before. As for not being your own master, that’s how things are in the star worlds—so get used to it.” Zhorga dropped his arm from Rachad’s shoulder wearily. “I don’t know what you imagined you were playing at. You couldn’t possibly get the book back to Earth.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Rachad said, brightening. “We could smuggle it aboard the Bucentaur. The baron might decide to visit Earth, and then we could sneak away with it. Gebeth could make gold. We’d be rich.”
“Forget it,” Zhorga snorted. “Anyway I’ve already sent a message back to the baron. This temple will be aswarm before long.”
Rachad’s face fell. “What’s going to happen to me?” he said nervously. “The baron knows I tried to trick him.”
“Don’t worry,” Zhorga said sourly. “He thinks you acted out of loyalty to Gebeth. That’s the complexion I’ve put on it—you understand? He appreciates loyalty. Also, he thinks you’re a genuine student of alchemy.
Rachad did not fail to notice the sarcasm in Zhorga’s voice. “You think differently, of course,” he sulked.
“Oh, it’s gold you’re after. I understand that well enough. But you’ll have to give up your dreams. For-swear everything and give your allegiance to the baron, unless you want to be left behind on Mars.”
Somewhat grumpily Zhorga left him and went to supervise the work. The alchemical apparatus crashed to the floor and the dais finally broke. Rachad rushed forward. The dais was indeed hollow; but empty.
“We’ll dig underneath,” Zhorga decided.
Rachad retreated. Shortly afterward Matello arrived, his whole retinue in train. The baron was in high spirits. He bustled about the temple, peering here and there, donating advice as to how the building was to be razed. Then he retired to watch from a safe distance, relaxing in a chair his servants provided.
Cursing Zhorga in his mind, Rachad skulked well out of the way. He had to admit that Zhorga had acted for the best as he saw it—but what would Rachad’s own position be if the book were never found? After all, there was no proof that it even existed. The inquisitor, however, might be unimpressed by his protestations to that effect.
He-need not have worried. Although Matello would have persisted until every stone in the temple had been ground to a powder, in this event such thoroughness proved unnecessary. A fluted column, pulled down by means of a rope, smashed open as it struck the tessellated floor. Within a hollow space lined with alabaster a soldier found a heavy object wrapped in cloth of gold.
He took it at once to Matello, who unwound the glittering wrapping. He uncovered a massive tome with covers of solid lead nearly half an inch thick, engraved very skillfully with an iron stylus and then beautifully colored by rubbing powders or paints into the incisions.
Matello summoned Rachad and passed the book to him. “Is this what you sought?”
Gingerly Rachad accepted the book. It was so heavy that he nearly dropped it. On the front cover was an engraving of the philosophic tree, the signs of the elements hanging from its five branches. Below it was a somewhat less picturesque symbol that was cool and almost luminous in its simplicity: a blue square inscribed within a silver triangle, inscribed in turn within a golden circle.
Awkwardly he turned the book over. The back cover bore a single colored engraving which almost sent him reeling. A face glared out of the lead plate. An ancient, wild face that seemed to be alive. The skin was a dusty gold, veined with gray and silver. The hair exploded wildly in all directions to frame the face like a sunburst, and was gray mingled with rivulets of dull silver, a mixture of tones it shared with the beard. The eyes were a more brilliant, penetrating silver, lacking pupils but seeming ferociously, pitilessly aware.
Rachad made a quick guess that this was the symbol known as the lead man, who became first the quicksilver man, then the silver man, and finally was transformed into the gold man.
He turned the book over again and opened it to the frontispiece, where he read:
THE ROOT OF TRANSFORMATIONS
Including Also
The Art Of The Fulmination Of Metals.
“The title is the correct one,” he informed the baron. He turned more pages, but immediately observed that a sizable proportion of the leaves had been removed and that the spine gaped bare where they had been.
“My lord,” he said quickly, “half the book is missing!”
Matello grinned in triumph. “Then we have found what we were seeking! The other half already lies in the Aegis.”
Taking the volume from Rachad’s hands, he rose to his feet. “Let’s get aloft. It will be a pleasure never to have to set foot on this miserable planet again.”
Perplexed, Rachad followed the baron as, cloak flying behind him in the light breeze, he went striding away through the ocherous city. Soon all the others followed too, pouring from the destroyed temple, raising a cloud of orange dust as the
procession made for the lighters that stood ready to convey them to the giant sailship orbiting overhead.
***
Tearing the meat from a chicken leg with his teeth and throwing the bone across the banqueting hall, Baron Matello leaned toward Rachad. “Well, young man,” he teased, “do you think you could make gold now?”
Rachad, who had been poring over the alchemical book, pursed his lips. “After sufficient study,” he said brazenly, hoping that Matello was too ignorant to gainsay him. “Provided I were supplied with the missing pages.”
In fact, he found the book almost impenetrable. For one thing, it was written in so many different languages—even different alphabets! And although supposed to be an explicit commentary, it was couched in the same cryptic style that characterized alchemists throughout the ages, replete with poetic expressions and arcane symbology.
Some passages were more or less intelligible. Such as: “When the artifex depicts colored flowers, surrounded by griffins and dragons, he indicates the sublimation of sulphur accomplished by means of an athanor of infusoration, or in other words by fulmination; for if this operation is carried out with sufficient intensity and duration the flowers will be seen. Likewise, when the reverse of the fifth page shows the blood of young children gathered together and giving forth serpents, the artifex indicates the intensive fulmination of quicksilver …”
To impress the baron with his alchemical training, Rachad had been explaining the terms in this passage. “Chiefly, of course, the book speaks of the primus agens, the materials with which one must start,” he said airily, parroting Gebeth. “Ordinarily alchemical treatises never clearly reveal that. It is the essential secret.”
“Little would it avail you to know this secret, locked away on Earth,” the baron retorted. “Your Earth metals are of no use for transformation, even I know that. It’s celestial metals that are needed—metals with special properties found only among the stars.”
Star Winds Page 10
