Arthur H. Landis - Camelot 02

by Camelot in Orbit

  Alone at last on our sumptuous bed with its furs and scented sheets, my faery princess frowned darkly. “By the Gods, Collin,” she said in teasing petulance, “you never cease to surprise me. Despite all you’ve told me, you can still lie there, sleep even, when for all we know, sir, the Dark One may have our souls before the hour’s out.”

  “‘Tis like I said,” I mumbled. “We play it all by ear.”

  “Huuummmmpppphhhhh”

  She looked delicious in her diaphanous red shift.

  “There’s one thing, my dear. Rawl and I must get you and Caroween to the safety of the ship.”

  “That,” she said, “you will most certainly not do.” Her hand had tightened, pulling my hair so that my eyes teared.

  “Murie. ‘Tis best.”

  “I am your princess, sir! When my father’s dead, I’ll be your queen!”

  “‘Tis why I’d hold you safe, for Marack.”

  She laughed shortly, kissed me, and lingered to say softly in my ear, “Play me no idiot games, Collin. For I know you now. ‘Tis true that a lying lover’s the best to be had in all the world-that is if his love is constant. But no man, Sir Lenti, including you, may use his power for the express control of my person. Do you think for a second that our Caroween would shirk her duty because Rawl feared for her? ‘Twould be demeaning. Do you think it would ever enter his mind to ask such foolishments? ‘Twould be an insult! You say, love, you’re from another world….”

  “I never did,” I murmured.

  “You say you’re from another world,” she persisted. ‘Well, look round you, Collin, and learn our ways before you judge and give your orders.”

  I sought to reply but she placed a finger to my lips. “There’s but a single person, who gives orders to a prince. That person is the king-or the queen of Marack.”

  The rain continued, a hypnotic patter conducive to reverie and dreams. Twilight came, then darkness. Murie left to join with Caroween in preparation for the festive dinner.

  Rawl slipped in to tell me that our stalwarts were ready. And our young Omnian joined us for a few brief minutes, after which he left to be with his clique of newly organized supporters. These, we were told, were excellent swordsmen. They were also admirers of both his peccadilloes and his iconoclastic spirit. The host, Rawl informed me, was also alive to the fact that something was in the wind. They eagerly looked forward to sup time. “How,”

  he asked curiously, while juggling his faldirk to keep his fingers supple, “do you propose to handle what’s bound to happen?”

  I wasn’t sure and I told him so. “Maybe I’ll just promise ‘em all they could wish, dazzle ‘em, tell ‘em anything. At some point our Dark One will have to move in, challenge us. When he does, we’ve got to pick up the gauntlet, boldly, so as to prove to our Omnians that we are as powerful as he is; that we can protect them with our power. In effect, old friend, we must destroy the Dark One’s supporters in Castle Sernas in a way that no man who witnesses it will ever forget.” I smiled at him flatly. “Are you up to it?”

  His eyes glittered. He pounded a fist into a gloved hand, exclaimed ecstatically, “By the gods, Collin, to you indeed all trouble comes… I do hereby swear to you that though these next few hours or days do be my last upon this earth, still will I spend them with such joy in combat and bold splendor of battle, that my name and yours will be remembered through all the ages of the world. I swear this, Collin!”

  His eyes were the eyes of Galahad, his spirit, Lancelot’s. I said not a word but took his hand and pressed it. For seldom is it given to an historian of any age to witness a Roland declaring himself on the eve of “Roncesvalles.”

  We then tossed a skin of sviss back and forth and talked of this and that until the time came to dress and present ourselves to our ladies, and to Lord Sernas for the march to the dining hall.

  From our baggage we’d rescued the best we had bought from the ship: light padded jupons with fur collars, linen breeks, chain mail of the finest steel; soft knee boots. Over it all were the silken surcoats with the blazonry of our two supposed princedoms-all sewn by our ladies. Dirks and greatswords were our weapons. Rawl wore a cap of green to match his colors. It was alive with the iridescent feathers of tic-tic birds. I wore, and for the first time, a golden chain. Pretentious? Yes. But when one is an Adjuster, one takes full advantage of the rewards of adjusting.

  The great hall was astir, fevered almost, awaiting something, it knew not what.

  Before, in the countless years of gatherings, protests, and rantings against the pyramid and its master, the third day was simply one of gloom and depression; this, in the renewed realization that not a thing could or would be done, ever, against their albatross, their paradox of enemy, and God! Indeed, it was for precisely this reason that so many southern gods existed. If the Dark One had been less authoritarian, more sharing, he could have held them to him. As it was they obeyed him through fear and nothing else. He knew it. They knew it. So why not other gods who had no power, but who at least could create the pretense of opposition, an illusion to substitute for fact.

  But on this third day there was no dullness. More. The very air was alive to an electric, tactile tension akin to the skies without where great crashing bolts of lightning played. The rain still fell in torrents, a muttered thrumming quite pleasant to the ear.

  We’d asked that our squires be allowed to sit with us. This was granted. As honored guests we were then seated at the “high table” in proximity to Sernas himself…. To our left was our young Omnian and his warrior companions. As we entered, he rose instantly to toast us; the warriors followed suit, looking like so many dangerous birds of paradise. I bowed my head, gave them the “V” sign of benediction.

  Most eyes, however, were by no means upon me. Murie was the prize, and Caroween! I doubt that such beauty had ever been seen in that southern world. Moreover, our two witches had made the most of what they had. Valkyries they remained. But such Valkyries! The fine and delicate links of their steel shirts were silver-washed so as to gleam and glitter with points of diamond light; this, in the glow of great tapers from the walls, and candles on the tables. Their hair, brushed to a lustrous, seawave froth, fell softly in a contrast of red and gold to their black-furred, jupon collars. And their embroidered surcoats were no surcoats at all, but diaphanous silken threads of all mingling in color to rival the iridescence of Rawl’s bright tic-tic feathers. Thigh-high boots of softest leather covered their velvet breeks. And if my gold chain was in any way pretentious, well they wore diamond tiaras.

  “And why not?” Murie demanded afterward. “That’s what they’re for, sir! And I am a princess. So, too, is Caroween, or soon will be when her father takes his crown in Greatest Ortmund.”

  The soft moving air was perfumed with spices, musk, and the scent of flowers. The food was good; the wines and liquors, excellent. The entertainment, however, had been set aside. The reason being that we were the entertainment, I and my seven swords!

  Around the walls stood guards with bared swords. A full half of them, Yorns. They wore Sernas’ heraldry, a blue fist with spiked ball-and-chain against a field of crimson. In the North, when lords gathered, such a display would be offensive. Excepting in the hall of a king no swordsmen were allowed. In Om, however, the Dark One ruled. A balance existed-his balance. No castles were ever stormed; no battles won or lost. Life, for all Omnians, was one gigantic frustration. Guards, armor, weapons, all served a single purpose-to keep the populace in line, or to quell small bickerings. In effect, Om’s lords simply played at being lords. For theirs was but a power allowed, a power permitted-to be taken away at will.

  It was an unnatural state of affairs. no wonder the cruelty to their underlings. No wonder, too, the proliferation of “witches,” and those who would practice illegal magick!

  Throughout the dinner my eyes searched the hall for those of the Kaleen’s creatures whom I knew would be there. The priestwizard, of course, sat with Lord Akin Sernas. Two acolytes sat hal
fway down the length of tables on either side, while among the lords themselves were two dozen or so who had the look of the possessed. There were some, of course, who truly worshipped the Dark One, believed him to be what all of history said he was, a true god among men.

  The feasting over, toasts flew around like kisses at a picnic. Wine spilled, liquored fumes rose to the drafty ceiling. Lord Sernas, noting this, and wary lest things get out of hand, arose-to pound the table’s top with his flagon and to call in a mighty voice for silence.

  “Hear me all,” he shouted. “The time has come to cease your swilling lest you reveal your natural talent for wallowing in gog-sties. Go duck your meaty heads in water if you must.

  But in justice, if not in courtesy to our guests, I ask that you sober up sufficiently to hear his words. I myself will listen closely, for I’m told that he brings a possibility for such freedom of action as our baronies have never had in all of time. Now hail with me these Selig princes.”

  He raised his refilled, gold-worked flagon high. “Hail to the princes, Til-Cares and Til-Keeves, sea pirates by their own admission. Their cleansing, salt-wind breath might do this land a service.”

  They came to their feet shouting, “Hail Cares! Hail Keeves!” And we, too, arose to accept their greeting. Their voices and their pounding of the tables became thunderous.

  Even some of the Dark One’s own had joined the cheering.

  Again Lord Sernas cried for silence, and yet again, and still again. He finally smote the table, smashed some plates, dented his flagon, and ruined a platter-load of sweetmeats.

  The clatter then died, but slowly.

  It was only when I held up both hands, fists clenched, that silence fell. Having their attention, I turned from left to right so that all could see me. When once I faced the host again, I cried out: “We would hail you, too, my lord, and all your friends. For I swear that seeing them thusly, I can honestly say that no gaggle of lusty swordsmen in all our islands could equal these gallants here tonight.” I spoke to their hearts and egos, and they loved it.

  “Indeed, I roared, “I’d deem the lot of you true shipboard companions, worthy of any adventure where gold is seized, great deeds are done, and freedom’s strongly fought for.”

  Again they yelled their pleasure. And we shouted with them and drained our cups and asked for more.

  Once more I held my hands high. This time when the shouting died, I let it lay. When I spoke again, my voice was even, direct, serious, so as to command them and to make them feel a part already of whatever venture I might purpose.

  “Sirs,” I said solemnly, “Lords. Baron. Knights of Om! I am the Prince Til-Cares of the Selig Isles, which you must know doth sit astride the ship lanes from north to south. We are rich in both plunder and in tariffs which lay on all who pass through our domain. Your ships of Om are few and do but ply their trade along your west coast only. It is my understanding, sirs, that your real trade, what there is of it, is sent of necessity across your great continent over perilous landroads; this, being a journey of three thousand miles of arid desert and darksome jungle to the minor ports of Seligal and Kerch. Few are the caravans that set out; fewer still those that return. The risks are great-and not a thing protects them!

  “Friends! I would end all that. I would ask you lords of Om that we, together, begin to establish warehouses, trade pacts; devise procedures for entry and exit to our countries, and begin to work for direct trade ‘twixt all the North and all the South. More! I would ask you to join with the North in the creation of a joint - and direct control of the seaports of the world!

  “All this will we do ourselves, with interference from no one. For that which benefits Omnians will also profit us. I would add one small thing. Our world is huge, its boundaries limitless. There is room for every sword to claim, in justice, a rightful place for all its people…. I await your questions, sirs.”

  They came thick and fast. I answered them all without equivocation. Most wanted only to hear of gold, exploration, adventure and the like. But I had deliberately linked the whole with the strange word “freedom” and the rights of men-so there were some who dwelt upon those factors too.

  Central, however, to all the questions was the daring newness of the plan itself.

  Everywhere there was rustling and argument; some even came to blows. Finally, after I’d answered a particularly complicated query-that the fleets of the North existed now, but such was not the case for Om-the company broke into more applause and shouts. I’d simply suggested that shipbuilders and master seamen might be loaned to Om until such time as they had sufficient ships and knowhow of their own. Lord Sernas was hard put to it to quiet them all again. But he did-with a threat to call the swordsmen from the walls to belay the most unruly.

  Soft breezes wafted through the hall from somewhere, while we talked. The flames of the tapers danced, Cast weird shadows to meld with the tableaus of tapestries depicting a thousand years of the dullest kind of history. A breathing spell. I had time to wonder just when the Dark One would awake to the fact that a teller of tales and a spinner of webs had invaded this small portion of his world; a portion wherein, as of the moment, even he was partially locked out. Then a baron stood up to ask the single question that I knew was foremost in minds of all. He was the Lord Gol-Spils, who, I’d been told, held a mighty keep on the road to Geretz.

  “We must know more, sir,” he demanded ponderously, “of this question of ‘interference.’ I find your suggestion that our god has actually stepped aside in this most difficult to believe. Indeed, if he has, ‘twill be for the first time in living memory. Explain it more, sir.”

  It was most certainly the “heart of the-matter.” While he spoke, I’d kept my eyes hard on the priestwizard. He made no move; sat watching, listening sharply. I answered straight away; “Well, sir, ‘tis that I’ve been given this talisman here, and that is enough for me. It’s simple when you think on it. All things work best where free rein’s given to those who do the work. A centralization of controls oft proves a barrier to the job itself. The North has long known this-Therein is derived their superiority in many things….

  The hall itself seemed to gasp at that while the priestwizard, shifting his greatsword from his shoulder in postured outrage, jumped to his feet. Though my heart pounded, Adjuster training allowed me a maintenance of composure equal to none. I even smiled at that gross behemoth, noting the while that his acolytes had also arisen as had a few dozen others, hands on sword hafts, ready to act upon whatever he would say or ask of them.

  His voice, when he spoke, was harsh, penetrating. “Show us this authority, Northman.

  Give us your proof,” he demanded. As stated, he was a huge man. His cowl was thrown back to disclose blue-purple eyes that literally blazed. His bush of hair and beard was as black as my own.

  I grinned, presented the disc again, letting it shine for all to see.

  He laughed contemptuously (I had known he would do that), and showed me two of his own; one like mine and another, a black one, which hung from his bull neck by a leathern thong. “It may be,” he announced loudly, “that northern barbarians know little of our Dark One’s grace. I’ll change all that right now! Your bauble, sir, is for lords who pay heed to the Kaleen’s laws; no more! Why then should you think it gives you some right to independence from controls?”

  The trick was to show no fear, which was what I did. More! I displayed the opposite-supreme self-confidence, and incredulity. Why?” I repeated his question to the staring sea of faces. “Well, sir priest, I have always acted independently-as do all Northmen.

  I do so now, this very minute. The Dark One with all his power must surely know this. I think he does…. To me, therefore, the gift of the ‘bauble’, of which you speak disparagingly, but underwrites this fact-as it should for all here gathered!”

  His voice was an instant screaming rage of sound. “You lie! You blaspheming bastard!”

  My eyebrows flew up in mock alarm as I shrugged helplessly,
held my hands wide-and before those lords disassociated myself from such arrant hysteria. The ensuing silence, their indrawn breath-their waiting, all indicated that I had them, in part. So I simply laughed aloud and said, still laughing, and with all the arrogance I could master, “Why, on my sword, ill-mannered priest, I do not lie! If you, sir, are unfree, ‘tis because you choose to be.

  And methinks, by the gods, that there’s a certain craven glint to that look of yours that does me no honor at all to speak to you. Still I would say this one last thing, something that a northern child learns with his first breath: ‘Only he who is not afraid to die is truly free!’”

  The gauntlet was now down and all there knew it; and not just for the priestwizard, but for themselves, too.

  A man, a stranger in their midst who had offered them a life they’d give their souls for, was actually challenging their Dark One’s priest right there, before their very eyes. Some drew instantly back in abject terror. Others, whitefaced, moved neither against me nor for me. But there were those I could see, whose eyes were aglow, whose blood was drunk with the heady scene. No doubt their hearts were pounding twice as hard as mine. I sensed, even then that they were ready, should I somehow achieve the miracle of “winning,” to take the first small step, to join me in my daring-my obvious apostasy.

  The wizard, figuratively, picked up the glove. He stepped boldly out around the “high table,” moved to the great rectangular space between the rows. In the eerie candlelight he was as a monstrous, blood-red beetle. He drew his sword; upon which three great lords the size of Yorns stepped out to join him.

  On cue, my Griswall then offered the first challenge, the final insult. He snickered and bared his sword from off his shoulder, nodded to me and said loudly, in a voice to match the wizard’s, “Well now, my prince, and you too, my good Lord of Sernas, I beg that you give these gray hairs the honor of splitting yon piddling palm-reader’s brisket from poisonous tongue to fatted ass. I’d dearly love-“