by David Brin
He scratched his stubble and asked the guards if he could have a razor in order to shave.
They grinned at each other as if they had read his mind. “Naw, Wizard,” the snaggle-toothed one said, grinning. “Even Lord Hern don’t forgive incomp’tents who let a prisoner take the easy way out.”
The other jailer smiled. “Tell ya’ what, though. We’ll letcha have some brandy”—he said the word with hushed reverence—“if you’ll promise to keep us safe from those devil-spawned critters you’ve let loose around here. I got a friend on the still detail, an’ he sneaks me some.” He held up a flask that sloshed.
Dennis shrugged as the man poured a cupful and passed it between the bars. He hadn’t the slightest idea what the fellow was talking about. Devil-spawned? Critters? It sounded like a load of superstitious nonsense.
He took a swallow of the wonderfully vile liquor. After the fire had settled warmly into his stomach, he asked the guards about Arth.
They told him the little thief had been placed in charge of the distillery. Dennis suspected Arth had actually bribed the guard to pass the entire flask on to him.
Another swallow of the horrible stuff made him cough. But he swore he’d make it up to Arth someday.
The jailers knew nothing of Linnora. Mention of the L’Toff Princess made them nervous. They made small warding motions with their hands and claimed pressing duties elsewhere.
Dennis sighed and returned to the straw pallet. At least the spot where he lay was getting slowly more comfortable. It had to.
He tried practicing a small stone into a chisel, to pry apart the stones of his cell. But he knew he was really only practicing the dungeon itself. The pebble wasn’t anywhere near as good at chiseling as the wall was at being a wall. No doubt it was an old story on this world. Unless he came up with something unusual, a prisoner was stalemated.
2
He awakened suddenly from a dream about monsters.
There was a feathery touch of vague horror to the images that clung to Dennis’s mind as he blinked in the darkness … scrabbling shapes and sharp, ominous claws. For a long time after waking, he felt filled with a heavy lethargy.
In the dark silence he thought he heard something. Then, for a time, he dismissed the faint scratching sound as a lingering remnant of his nightmare.
Then it changed and became a soft hissing.
Dennis shook his head to free it of mental cobwebs. He turned in the gloom and then blinked. A fiery spark had appeared at one corner of the door to his cell, a bright speck in the almost total blackness.
The spark climbed slowly, leaving a glowing line behind it, until it reached a height of about two feet. Then the hot glow jogged right. Faint light from the hallway shone through the charred trail the flame left behind.
Dennis backed away, suddenly remembering what the jailers had said about “devil-spawned critters” loose in the castle. They had blamed him, but Dennis knew he had nothing to do with demons. Something was cutting its way into the cell, and it was not of his liking!
The burned trail turned another right angle, descending at an even pace toward the floor. Dennis clutched his sharpened stone as the wooden segment finally fell away, leaving an opening in the door just above the floor.
Dennis tried to call out, to summon the guards—anybody—but he couldn’t find his voice.
For a moment the new opening was dark and empty. Then two gleaming red eyes appeared in the smoking opening—eyes larger than ought to belong to any living thing. They shone at him in the dimness for several heartbeats.
Then the thing that owned them moved slowly forward into the cell.
In his half-starved condition, with the catalepsy of sleep still in his muscles, Dennis felt far from ready for a fight. Against his will he closed his eyes, holding his breath as the softly chittering monster approached.
Then it stopped. He could sense it poised only a few feet away, muttering slowly to itself.
Dennis waited. Then his lungs started to burn. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He opened one eye to look, ready for anything …
… and exhaled in a long sigh. “Oh, lord.”
There, waiting patiently on the cool stones, was his long-missing Sahara Tech exploration ’bot. It sat complacently, its sensors whirring quietly, ready—at last—to follow his instructions, to report.
Even in the dim light he could tell that the thing had changed. It rode lower, sleeker, with a sly pattern of coloration on its back. It had been … practiced … become better at the job he had assigned it. His most recent instructions, shouted briefly several weeks ago, had been to come and report to him. No Earthly robot could have managed it. But here it was, hardly “Earthly” anymore.
The thing must have followed his trail ever since that escapade on the rooftops of Zuslik, patiently working past obstacles until it overcame them, one by one.
But how? A tool had to have a user to benefit from the Practice Effect, didn’t it? Could he really be thought to have been using the ’bot when it was out of sight and mind?
This played havoc with the theory he had formed, that the Practice Effect was at least partly a psi power exercised by humans on this world.
Then he remembered. The last time he had seen the robot it had been accompanied by a living thing—someone who loved to watch tools being used, the more complicated the better.
“Come on in, Pix,” he whispered. “All is forgiven.”
Two bright green eyes appeared in the little gap in the door. They blinked, then were joined by a Cheshire grin of needle-sharp teeth.
The little animal launched itself into a short glide and landed on Dennis’s lap. It purred and snuggled as if it had left him only hours ago.
Dennis sat there, stroking the little creature’s fur and listening to the quiet hum of the robot. Unexpectedly, tears welled. Hope seemed to fill him suddenly. After so long alone in the dark, to have companions and allies again … for a few minutes it was too good to be endured.
In the corridor outside, he found one of the jailers sprawled unconscious next to a bench. Dennis stripped the man of his clothes and left him inside his own cell, bound and gagged. He propped the rectangular piece of doorway into place. It was crude, but it was all he could do.
There was a bowl of stew and a slab of bread by the guard’s bench. Dennis wolfed them down while he hurried into the jailer’s clothes; they were too tight around the shoulders for him and too wide around the girth. When he finished, the pixolet took its old place on his shoulder, grinning at everything.
The robot had originally been equipped with a small stunner to acquire specimens of animal life. Apparently it had improved the device through practice and now was capable of knocking out anyone who stood between it and its job. Undoubtedly that ability would come in handy during the hour ahead.
Dennis knelt and spoke clearly and carefully to the machine.
“New instructions. Take note.” The ’bot hummed and clicked in response.
“You are to accompany me now, and zap unconscious anyone I point at like this.”
He demonstrated, cocking his thumb and miming a pistol firing. It was a pretty complicated concept, but he was wagering the machine had grown sophisticated enough to comprehend.
“Indicate if you understand and are capable of carrying out this function.”
The green assent light on the machine’s turret winked. So far so good.
“Secondary orders. Should we become separated, you are to preserve your existence and make every effort to discover my whereabouts again and report.”
Again the light flashed.
“Finally,” he whispered, “should you find that I am dead, or in any event after three months, you will go back to the zievatron and await anyone from Earth. Should such a person arrive, report what you’ve observed.”
The robot assented. Then across its tiny display screen came a request to begin its encyclopedic report on the denizens of Tatir. The ’bot seemed quite anxious to
discharge its duty.
“Not yet,” Dennis said. “First we have to get out of here. I’ve got friends to rescue. Or at least one friend—and someone else I’d very much like to have as my friend.…”
He realized he was babbling. Hope was a mixed blessing. He found he was capable of being afraid once more.
“Okay, then. Everybody ready?” His two little companions didn’t look like awfully formidable allies in an assault on a fortress. The pixolet would likely desert upon the first sign of danger, anyway.
He straightened his guard’s uniform and pulled the cap down low, then set off with his strange crew.
He didn’t even have to help the robot with the stairs. The thing was, indeed, a marvel.
I must get it home to Earth when all this is over and find out what’s happened to it! he thought.
Princess Linnora had little choice but to use some of the beautiful things in her room.
She sat before the ancient vanity table and looked at her reflection in the centuries-old mirror. She didn’t want to help practice her captor’s property, but there was so little else to do, trapped alone in the elegant room. She found that brushing her hair helped to pass the time.
At first she had tried to give Kremer nothing, not even the benefit of her good taste. She refused to pay attention to her environment, lest her appreciation of subtleness and beauty help make Kremer’s palace a little nicer for him.
The room had formerly been occupied by one of Kremer’s mistresses. The peasant girl’s tastes had made a heavy impression on the furnishings. After the first month of her captivity, Linnora had had enough of the bright, garish colors and flashy decorations. She took down the worst and began concentrating on her own image of the room.
It had been a subtle sort of setback, using some small fraction of her powers to make her imprisonment a little more tolerable. Kremer obviously intended to break her down a little at a time. And Linnora wasn’t at all certain she could prevent it. His will was strong, and he had her life in his hands.
She picked up the lovely antique brush and stroked her hair, watching her reflection in the mirror, trying to imagine a way to stay out of Kremer’s bed once he recovered, or to prevent being used as a hostage against her own people.
She concentrated on seeing Truth in the mirror. It was a form of fighting back. The next person to look into the mirror would see more than just flattering images of themselves.
She looked at a young woman who had made mistakes. From that day when she had gone off riding on her own, far from her brother Proll, in search of the strangeness she had felt come into the world—from that day when she was captured by the Baron’s men at the small metal house in the forest—she had committed errors.
She recalled how Dennis Nuel had looked at her, those days after the banquet and before the sky monster appeared. She had been convinced by Deacon Hoss’k’s logic that the wizard could only be an evil man. But might other logic than the obvious apply to someone from so very far away?
What if there were other ways to create the alien essences than the trapping into them of life forces?
Could an evil man have been so gallant, fighting her enemy when her need was greatest?
On the night of the sky monster, the wizard had done battle with Kremer. Linnora was still confused over what had happened. Had Dennis Nuel conjured up the great glowing air-beast on seeing Kremer attack her? She wanted to believe it was so, but then why had he been forced to throw stones to bring Kremer down at last? And why did the monster fly away then, leaving its master to be overcome?
She put down the hairbrush, shaking her head at her reflection in the mirror. She would probably never learn the answers. Her guards had said the wizard was as good as dead in the Baron’s dungeon.
She picked up her klasmodion and plucked its strings idly, letting the soft notes come one at a time and in no particular order. She didn’t feel much like singing.
There was a tension in the evening quiet of the palace, as if something strong was about to happen. She felt a sense of danger in the night, and it was intensifying! She stopped playing, her senses suddenly alert.
From outside her door came a strange, high-pitched sound. Then something fell with a thump in the hallway. Linnora stood. She laid down the instrument and picked up her hairbrush, the only thing handy that was heavy enough to serve as a weapon.
There came a faint knock at her door. Linnora edged back into the shadows. There was something familiar in the presence in the hallway, like that faint feeling she had had a week ago that had seemed to say that Proll had briefly been nearby.
There was also something out there so alien that just the hint of it made her shiver.
“Who is it?” She tried to keep her voice steady and regal. It came out sounding merely young. “Who is there?”
A voice in the hallway whispered hoarsely, “It’s Dennis Nuel, Princess! I’ve come to offer you a chance to get away from here, if you’re interested. But we’ve got to hurry!”
Linnora ran to the door and opened it.
The aroma of unbathed male was almost overwhelming. Filthy, bruised, and unkempt, Dennis Nuel smiled, holding the bunched waist of an oversized guard’s uniform.
It was more than enough to surprise a girl. But Linnora gasped when she saw the thing in the hallway behind him.
The hairbrush fell clattering to the floor as she fainted.
Well, Dennis thought as he rushed forward to keep her from falling, a guy could get a less flattering reception. I wish I could be sure it was gratitude that’s overcome her, and not BO.
He knew he must be a treat for the senses. His bruises were a still brilliant shade of purple, and he hadn’t bathed in two weeks.
Behind him the Sahara Tech ’bot poked at the fallen guards. While it awaited further orders it proceeded with its second priority and took tiny blood samples from the unconscious soldiers for comparison purposes.
Fainting princesses were fine—in storybooks. But slender or not, Linnora felt heavy to Dennis in his weakened state. He carried the girl into the room and laid her on the bed.
“Princess! Linnora! Wake up! Do you recognize me?”
Linnora blinked, recovering quickly. She got up on one elbow. “Yes, of course I recognize you, Wizard … and I’m happy to see you alive. Now would you please release my hand? You’re squeezing much too hard.”
Dennis hurriedly let go. He helped her sit up.
“Is escape truly possible?” Linnora asked. She assiduously avoided looking at Dennis’s companion in the hallway. If it was one of his demons, it surely wasn’t about to consume her, she assumed.
“I’m not sure,” Dennis answered. “I’m on my way to the tower to find out. I stopped here to offer you a chance to come along. I don’t suppose either of us has anything to lose.”
Linnora managed an ironic smile. “No, we do not. One moment, then. I will be right back.”
She stood and hurried quickly to a closet.
Dennis dragged the supine guards into the room. It had been a harrowing climb from the dungeons to the storerooms, to the kitchens, and beyond, constantly ducking from shadow to shadow. He and his companions had made it to the second story before being spotted. A pair of guards saw him entering a stairwell. They called and hurried after in chase.
As Dennis had expected, the pixolet deserted the moment it came to any action.
But the robot was stalwart. It waited with Dennis just inside the stairwell until the two soldiers sped through between them.
Dennis heard the second guard slump to the floor before he was half finished throttling the first into unconsciousness. He left them both bound and gagged behind the staircase, and then they hurried on.
Five minutes later he had a chance to witness the robot in action.
From the stairs he pointed pistol-like at the two guards standing watch outside Linnora’s room. The little machine had sped out into the hall, faster and more quietly than Dennis would have believed possible. The g
uards barely had time to turn before it scuttled up to them and touched each on the leg. They groaned in brief surprise and collapsed to the floor.
Dennis was just a little in awe of what the Earth machine was becoming.
While Linnora gathered a few things, he tied up the guards. Of course, someone was sure to notice they were missing. But he couldn’t just leave them in the hall.
“I’m ready,” Linnora announced. “I found a cloak that might fit you.” She handed him a thick, hooded garment of lustrous black material. He noted with approval that she had changed from her accustomed white into dark clothing.
“Also, this is yours, I believe. I hope I did it no harm looking at it. Its purpose is a mystery to me.”
“My wrist-comp!” Dennis cried out as he took it.
The Princess watched in amazement as he put it on his arm. She had never seen a crimp clasp before.
“So that is what those little straps were for!” she said.
“I’ll show you the rest of what the comp can do if we ever get out of here,” Dennis promised. “Now we’d better be going. If Arth isn’t still in his room in the tower, this is going to be an awfully short trip.”
3
When Arth heard thumping noises outside his room, he opened the door with a cudgel in his fist, ready for anything. But he grinned broadly when he saw the young woman and the wizard standing there, an unconscious guard slumped at their feet.
Arth just about reopened Dennis’s wounds, slapping him on the back. The normally quiet and taciturn thief could barely restrain himself.
“Dennizz! Come in! You too, Princess! Y’know, I figured you’d show up at some point. That’s why I stayed here even when Lord Hern promoted me to distillery manager. Come on in an’ have some brandy!”
Arth kicked the guard’s limp body aside to make room for Linnora to pass. Then the little thief stopped as he spied the robot whirring quietly behind them. He gulped. The glassy eyes stared back patiently.
“Uh, is that a fren’ of yours, Dennizz?” Arth spoke without taking his eyes away.
