There were a few weapons, of course, but they were primitive, swords and staves, and the snake-hilted daggers used by Hardony’s espionage corps, which served both for defence and as a means of identification. In his own time that particular symbol—the Aesculapian serpents twined about a staff—had meant healing, but now its purpose was surgical only. Hardony’s men were well-trained, Court discovered. They covered Lyra in a network, careless of their own lives, and were fanatically loyal to the Throne. But he thought that they were not too fond of Hardony himself.
Barlen did not like the red-haired espionage chief.
“I don’t trust him,” he told Court. “Hardony pretends to believe in nothing. He’s cynical and he’s a cruel brute. Striking in the dark with a dagger is his style.”
Barlen grinned savagely through his yellow beard. Yes, Barlen hated Hardony!
CHAPTER V
Deccan Enemies
DURING the days which followed, Court grew to believe Barlen was prejudiced about Hardony. Court began to see a good deal of the spy chief and, although Hardony was cynical, Court found he was refreshingly free from hypocrisy. Often Court had chances to have long talks with the red headed man, for Barlen’s duties frequently called him away. Soon Hardony began to invite Court to go with him on various expeditions—sometimes on business for the Throne.
“You know a city by its dives,” the redhead said one night, as they Sat in a dim tavern filled with an almost intolerably heavy perfume.
The room was low-roofed and enormous, artificial white perfumed fogs drifting about in dim veils, and off-beat music humming from somewhere. The drinks were unfamiliar, but they were intoxicating. Hardony watched a foppish, silk-clad youth laughing. He was seated on a nearby dais.
“That man, for example,” Hardony said. “What do you make of him, Court?”
“He’s nervous,” Court theorized. “He hasn’t looked at you once since we came in. He isn’t as drunk as he pretends.”
Hardony nodded. “But he knows who I am. That girl next to him told him. I don’t know him, though. He’s a visitor from some other city, or a Deccan spy. Have you wondered why Barlen and I spend so much time with you?”
“No,” Court said. “I’m being guarded?”
“Right. If you know that, do you know why?”
“The Deccans?”
“They tried to capture you once. They’re not fools. They’ve probably more right to survive than our race has, if you apply the law of survival of the fittest. They learned about you almost as soon as you were bought here, and naturally they want you—either to use your knowledge, or to kill you.”
“They sound bloodthirsty,” Court said Hardony smoothed back his red hair. “Necessity. I’d kill you myself, if that was the only way of saving you from falling into Deccan hands. But there’d be no animosity in it—nothing personal. Simply logic.”
Court grinned “I see your point. However, I’d be apt to resist.”
“If everybody thought alike, there’d be less trouble,” Hardony said, sipping a bluish liquor with streaks of gold curling through it. “This isn’t a unified nation by any means.
We’ve got factions. Any large social group has. So it takes a strong hand to rule. Luckily the Throne’s hereditary, and people are automatically loyal to Irelle. That’s ingrained. But too many of them try to interpret their own schemes for living. Many hate me because I know that a strong espionage force is necessary. You can’t mould clay with clay. It takes a knife. I’m the knife.”
“What about Barlen?”
“A dull knife,” Hardony said gently. “If he didn’t hold a rank equal to my own, he’d be a useful tool. As it is, his bothersome military machine comes into conflict with my corps at every opportunity. Fidelity’s necessary—my men don’t love me, but they obey me. And Barlen’s. men follow him. His men hate mine, which doesn’t matter so long as a strong hand keeps Lyra unified. If we fell into chaos, the Deccans would have no trouble in taking over.”
“I’ve seen no signs of chaos,” Court said. “You wouldn’t. It’s under the surface. But it’s there.” Hardony grimaced. “Barlen’s a romanticist. He sees what he wants to see. To him, Lyra’s a land of honey and cream, with soft music and pink babies and bright flowers everywhere. I know what’s under that. I think you know, too. Human beings aren’t nice. They’re vermin, with the instincts and rottenness of vermin. Lyrans are no better than any other race. Deccans are vermin too. Do you wonder I’m hated?” He smiled crookedly.
“Yet you’re doing an efficient job,” Court said. “I wonder why?”
“So I won’t have to crawl with the rest of the vermin,” Hardony said, finishing his drink. “It’s no fun wriggling in the mud. My legs were built to stand on.”
“And to stand on others, maybe?”
HARDONY gave Court a quick glance.
“Who’d run the espionage corps if I didn’t?” the spy chief demanded. “Barlen? He hasn’t the intelligence. He’d blunder ahead, and one day the Deccans would be ready, and Lyra would go down fast. This isn’t a perfect land by any means, but it’s the best one available. I intend to keep it so, if I can.” He looked at Court shrewdly. “You’ve been here several weeks now, and I suspect you beginning to feel impatient.”
“Impatient for what?”
“Bored, then. Being a spectator isn’t sufficient.”
Court turned his goblet idly between his palms. He didn’t say anything.
Hardony shrugged. “Let’s go. I’ve an errand to do tonight. Come along. You’ll find it interesting.”
“All right.” The heavy perfume that filled the tavern was drugging; Court was ready to leave. He followed Hardony, threading his way among the raised platforms toward the door. The music hummed faintly in the dim, cloudy radiance.
Someone cried out sharply. Court glanced back, searching for the source, and stiffened. A dais had been overturned, and a heavy, dark-clad figure was sprinting forward, shouting.
“Hardony!” the man yelled. “Watch out!”
He was running toward the platform where the foppish youth had been sitting. The youth was on his feet now, in a swirl of rainbow silks, something blue and glittering in his hand. He was struggling to release himself from the girl who clung to him. She was desperately trying to gain possession of the weapon. A curtain of rosy fog drifted between them, half veiling the pair from Court’s eyes.
It was over very quickly—before Court could recover from his surprise. The silk-clad youth wrenched his arm free. A ray of brilliant, pale light shot out, striking the girl full on her breast.
She stiffened, head thrown back, mouth a square of screaming agony.
She dropped—lay motionless.
The running man who had warned Hardony had almost reached his goal, the killer. But he was not swift enough. Again the white ray lanced out, splashing over dun cloth and brown skin.
Momentum carried the victim forward in a hurtling rush. He crashed against the dais and toppled, his cry dying out.
Beyond the rosy cloud-veil the figure of the youth seemed to loom gigantic. He swung around, eyes blazing, and his glare centered on Court.
“Ethan Court!” he shouted.
The blue weapon rose.
Court flung himself forward, bending low. But he knew that he could not hope to reach his opponent in time.
Over his head a whistling streak raced. Through the distortion of the mists he saw something flicker toward the killer and smash home upon his forehead.
The foppish youth dropped without a sound.
Then came tumult Court, recovering his balance, saw Hardony run past him, a subsonic whistle at his lips. The espionage chief, grinning fiercely, caught up the blue weapon and thrust it into a pocket. He knelt beside the unconscious man, beckoning to Court.
“What the devil, Hardony! What’s it all about?”
“I don’t know. Lucky my aim’s accurate.” Hardony recovered his snake-headed dagger, drove it into its scabbard, and indicated the risi
ng welt on the prostrate man’s brow. “You were right, anyway. Our friend here wasn’t as drunk as he seemed.”
Hardony hesitated, and then, with a swift motion, tore open the youth’s tunic at the throat. He reached up, took a half-filled , glass, and spilled the liquor over the bared chest. With a scrap of silk he scrubbed at the smooth skin.
Beneath dissolving pigments the ghost of a symbol began to show—a cross within a circle.
A GASP went up from the surrounding crowd.
“A Deccan,” someone said.
“That’s the Deccan sign, Court,” Hardony I said quietly. “A spy.” He stood up, frowning.
Uniformed figures were filtering in now, unobtrusively taking over, summoned by their chief’s sub-sonic whistle. Hardony beckoned to one.
“Court, go with this man. I want you in a safe place.”
“I’m staying here.”
“Don’t be a fool. I’ll use force if I have to. You’re unprotected against such weapons as the Deccans seem to have, and this spy may not have been alone. Go along, now.” A hand gripped Court’s arm. Unwillingly he let himself be urged toward the door. The musky perfume of the tavern gave place to the crisp freshness of the night air.
Back in the apartment that had been furnished him, Court began to pace nervously, longing for a cigarette and gradually growing more restive. There were guards at the door, he saw. Till now, they had at least kept out of sight. The hours dragged past, until Court felt about ready to explode. At last the door slipped upward. He whirled, ready to vent his annoyance on Hardony—but it was the giant Den Barlen who entered.
His yellow beard was bristling, his blue eyes were ablaze. Over his shoulder he snarled an oath at the guards.
“I’ll deal with Hardony myself! Since when does he deny Den Barlen entrance anywhere in Lyra?” The big man moved swiftly to Court, gripped the latter’s shoulders with hard hands.
“You’re all right? You weren’t injured?” But Court was in no mood for sympathy. “I can take care of myself.” he growled, pulling free. “If you can order those guards around, tell them to let me out of here.”
“No,” Barlen said. “He’s right in that one thing. But in nothing else. Taking you out—unguarded—in the dives where anyone could slip a knife between your ribs—it’s disgraceful! He isn’t capable of protecting you. All he can do is hatch his rotten, twisted plots.”
“I told you I wasn’t hurt,” Court snapped. “But you might have been. I came as soon m I got word. From now on you’re under my protection, and mine only.”
His eyes dark with suppressed anger, Court faced the giant. His lips were tight.
“I’ve had enough of this,” he said. “Too much. I’m used to being a human being. For three weeks I’ve been carried around like a baby, showed this and that, treated like a semi-invalid. Bah! I know how to feed myself! The next time I see a guard trailing me, I’m going to knock his teeth loose.”
That made Barlen pause. His face troubled, the giant muttered under his breath, uneasily fumbling at his beard.
“You—well, perhaps you’re right. I can see your point of view. But it isn’t only that, Court. You’re in a very special position.” Court grimaced. “I’m an ordinary mug who overslept. Nothing more.”
“It’s not all,” Barlen said firmly. “You’re not a super-intelligent person or anything like that. We’ve got brains of our own in Lyra. But you’ve got one faculty that’s completely missing from the race—the creatively aggressive spirit. Lyra’s like a machine that’s fueled and ready to work. Yet she’s without means of making the spark that’ll activate the fuel. You’re that spark, Court. Unless the machine begins to move under its own power—and that soon—it will be crushed.”
“It will be crushed to powder unless it explodes first because of internal tension,” a new voice broke it. Hardony walked into the room, red hair catching the light, a half-mocking smile on his face. “Court, you’re either Lyra’s saviour or its destruction. I’m not sure which, yet.”
Scarlet mounted to Barlen’s cheeks. “If there’s trouble, you’re behind it, red fox! I half suspect you of aiming at Court’s death yourself.”
Hardony groaned wearily. “Don’t be that much of a fool, Den Barlen. I could have killed Court a hundred times before now, if I’d wanted that. But I don’t. He must make weapons for us, that’s all.”
“What happened tonight?” Barlen demanded. “A Deccan spy in Green Tavern?”
“Yes. He tried to murder Court—to wipe out the knowledge in his brain before it could be used. He failed, though. He managed to kill a woman there, and one of my operatives.”
“What was that weapon he had?” Court asked.
HARDONY made a small, wry sound. “I don’t know. It was turned over to our technicians to analyze. And it exploded as they were working on it. One of them is dead, two seriously wounded. The spy—we questioned him. But he apparently doesn’t know the mechanism. He was given it, with orders to kill Ethan Court.”
“And you took Court down to Green Tavern!”
Hardony shrugged. “It’s showed me one thing, anyway. We’ll have to move fast. There’s unrest everywhere. The people know about Court. Word’s got out. That filthy Underground Group—they take orders from the Deccans, and they’re starting dissension. Barlen, your own men would start a fight with my agents at the least excuse.”
“What is this Underground Group?” Court asked. “I’ve heard something about them, but not much.”
“It’s some sort of secret organization,” Hardony said. “Traitors and criminals. They should be stamped out and they will be.” Abruptly Hardony slipped up his sleeves, revealing a blood-stained bandage about his biceps.
“I got this coming here through the streets. Yes—there’s dissension.”
“Who did it?” Court asked.
“I don’t know. He escaped.”
“It might have been anybody,” Barlen said unpleasantly. “Anybody who recognized you, that is.”
The two men looked at each other, bristling. Then Hardony let his sleeve fall back into place and laughed softly.
“I think it’s time for you to decide, Court. For we can’t promise you a home indefinitely. If the Deccans don’t invade first, there’ll probably be civil war, and if not that, somebody’s apt to kill you for not aiding us when you’ve got the knowledge we need.”
Court hesitated. “But the Deccans have some sort of death-ray. I don’t know anything about weapons of that type.”
Barlen gripped his shoulder. “Bosh! Any weapons will do. A fair chance is what we want. We’ll fight ’em with swords if we have to.”
Court was remembering the girl the Deccan spy had killed so ruthlessly. He was still angry about that.
“The Throne wants to see you,” Hardony said. “Will you come?”
“Why not?” Court said. For he had made his decision.
CHAPTER VI
Globe of Colors
ETHAN COURT had no reason to change his mind as, with Barlen and Hardony, he hurried through the night, via aircar, toward the palace on the mountain. Beneath him Valyra hummed with music. But under its beat he could detect an ominous and growing tension, a discordance that might swell into a shattering, cataclymsic fury. Here was a land strained to the breaking-point, threatened by invasion, wanting only weapons.
The Throne—Irelle—was waiting in one of the great reception halls, an enormous room crowded with the gaily-clad nobles of Lyra. A strained anxiety pervaded in the palace, too. Irelle was talking to an enormously fat man whose gross body was incongruously clad in fluttering silks, red, purple, and green. He looked like a mediaeval jester, Court thought.
“We need supplies,” the fat man was saying unhappily, his pouting lips scarlet against the sagging whiteness of his cheeks. “No supplies. I must have them. The least one can expect is to live with a minimum of comfort.”
“That is out of my province,” Irelle said patiently. “Technical supplies are needed elsewhere, F
arr. You know that.”
Farr tugged at a green tassel on his bulging stomach.
“Surely a few appliances to help keep me in comfort wouldn’t be missed?”
Barlen clapped his hand on the fat man’s back. “Comfort, Farr? You’ve got luxuries in your castle which would keep most men busy, although I don’t envy you them. What brings you away from your dreams?” His voice was mocking.
Farr drew himself up. “My pleasures are my own affair,” he said sharply. “I interfere with no one else. I ask only to be let alone, and to have a few supplies when I need them.”
“Those supplies are needed elsewhere,” Irelle said. “You’ve forgotten that there are other worlds than your dream-ones. Lyra is, I think, more important.”
“But I require so little!”
Irelle cut him short. “Barlen, Hardony, Court—come with me.” She turned, and led them into a small adjoining chamber.
“Well?”
Hardony spread his hands. “It’s entirely up to Court now. I can do no more. My men are ready, but have no weapons.”
“My men are equally ready, Barlen said.
Irelle looked at Court. “I heard what happened tonight. It seems to me I’d be justified in resorting to—anything—to save Lyra. Even torture.” Her blue eyes were hard now.
Court was silent.
“Listen to me,” she lashed out at him. “Thus far you have refused me weapons. You come from the past, from a world that destroyed itself by its own vileness, and you presume to sit in judgment on us. On Lyra! Are you God, then?” Her voice had become shrewish. Her face contorted with fury.
“No,” Court said. “No, Fra not God.”
“Then—what?”
“I’ll help you. There’s nothing else I can do. I see that now.” His voice was very low. “The world isn’t ready for peace even yet. I didn’t sleep long enough.”
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