“The homestead of The Clever Widower was beset by bandits — ”
“Ha!”
“Some of his servants urged him to bolt the doors and bar the windows — ”
“Ha!”
“Other servants urged him to die in defending the homestead’s honor — ”
“Ha!”
“What did The Clever Widower?”
“Ha!”
“He threw open his windows — ”
“Ha!”
“He threw open his doors — ”
“He invited the bandits in — ”
“He ordered food to be cooked and couches to be spread — ”
“He poured them drink — ”
“He poured them more drink — ”
“And more — ”
“Presently, his daughter and her women, who had been away ahunting, returned. They found the bandits gorged with food and slopping with drink. They found the bandits fast asleep. They killed the bandits, killed every one of them. The homestead was unharmed. The homestead was still safe. And all praised the wily tricks of The Clever Widower.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!”
The householders of City Saramanth looked at one another in complete understanding and with complete approval.
“And meanwhile, in case our Sword has not heard, let us at once inform her. Not by a courier, whom all may recognize and all may prevent. Is it not known to all as well as the path of the sun that no word spreads so quickly as that spread by the wagging lips of an old daddy? Let us send a dirty beggarman, for whose empty pouch no one would bother twisting his withered throat — ”
“Ahah! Ahah!”
“And when our Sword returns with all her Ladies, they may kill these intruders at their leisure, as a farmer in the harvest time kills his fatted awks — ”
“Ahah! Ahah! Ahah!”
• • •
And so, when the men from the Persephone came rollicking down the road they were met by the deputies of the burgesses of City Saramanth. They were showered with flowers and sweetmeats and presented with food and drink and all the gifts they could carry. They were welcomed into the city, repeatedly assured that it was their city…. And … surely … surely … they would not burn their own city? No, of course they would not burn their own city. So, as a mere humorous formality and in order to proceed as swiftly as possible to the entertainment, would the guests be obliging enough to give their word that they would not burn City Saramanth?
They gave their word. They did give it. And they kept it. Not so much as an awk-stall was put to the torch in the whole of the City and its suburbs. They kept their word.
Of course, the householders had not taken into account the difference between the bandits of the Great North Land, whose banditry was but a trade and who were content with food and drink, and the men of the Persephone, who had never lacked for either … and who were driven by other drives. Nor had the burgesses been at the beginning quite sure of the exact sex of their guests. They themselves were women, and outlaws with which they were familiar were women as well.
City Saramanth was not burned. It was ravished. The householders were raped upon the couches they had so carefully spread for the intruders to lie peacefully on in their drunken, bloated slumbers. The shopkeepers were raped behind, before, on top of, and under their own counters. Girls were seized and taken in their bedrooms, in the courtyards, in the flower-strewn streets. The city was ravished, ravaged, pillaged, plundered, stripped, and emptied.
But it was not burned.
• • •
The first dirty beggarman vanished without trace, but the second one got through. And the third and the fourth and —
By the time the news of the rape of Saramanth reached Sartissa, and was relayed to the Dame’s Great Camp, it had ceased in a good many ways to be news at all. The Dame received it impassively. And, equally impassively, she received the Great Ladies of Sept Saramanth.
“They will be burned in oil,” she said. “The egg-suckers will pick their bones.”
“When? When?”
“When I deem it time to take them.”
The leader of the Sept all but howled her grief and rage. “It is past time!” she hurled the words into her commander’s set face. “Our cause demands action now!”
The High Keeper raised her hand to signal the end of the conference, saying, “Your cause is no greater than that of others who have suffered — ”
“It is! It is! Old Menna is dead, but she died with honor! Tula and Sarn have been burned, but fiefs have been burned before; Larnissa was captured — well! it can be recaptured! And those who have fled from the Border can still return and fight! But where is there and when was there a shame like that of our shame?”
The Dame’s hand lifted, dropped.
“If you will not help us, then give us leave to help ourselves — ”
“No. Return to your tents and wait. We cannot divide our forces at this time. Have you heard? Go.”
They returned, they brooded, they refused all visitors. In that night, they broke camp, and the morning saw no trace of them except for the Dame’s summons to arms … soiled, impaled upon a sharp stick of the sort used by thralls to pick up rubbish.
“I would outlaw them all,” Dame Hanna said. She bit her finger. “But we need them, still. We need them. They follow her? Then she shall be outlawed! Her fief is hers no longer, her ladies are absolved from their oaths; her serfs, her servants, and her thralls are free to leave and forbidden to remain with her. And no one who inflicts an ill upon her shall be punished. Let it be proclaimed.”
It was so proclaimed. But another rift had cracked in the once-perfect rule. There was no doubt that more would follow.
• • •
Somehow, once the booty was taken into the Persephone, it no longer seemed either so much or so rich. If they hadn’t found it so far, well, they just hadn’t been looking in the right places. Everyone said so.
Everyone said so, but there was one who said more. Not much more, to begin with, but enough. “You men have just been licking the spoon,” he said. There was something about him and about his manner which made them all stop their grumbling and look up.
His name was Blaise Darnley, and before the mutiny he had held the rank of Bosun. He didn’t speak particularly loudly, but everybody listened.
“You’ve just been licking the spoon …”
• • •
In her Great Camp, Dame Hanna summoned her captains. Maps were produced. Protocol was as rigid as ever, but something seemed to move in the motionless air.
“We have been sitting here,” she said, “like fat awks upon a nest. Perhaps,” she said, “it is time for the eggs to hatch.”
seven
THE EFFECT OF HEARING THEIR GOD GIGGLE PROVED so unsettling to the chamberlains that the Holy Presence dismissed them with a wave of his hand — and another giggle. The little King was a middle-aged man, with unexpectedly shrewd eyes, and the giggles were merely his reaction to a situation which was totally unprecedented but by no means unpleasant.
“Pardon my amusement,” Mukanahan said. “This is the first time I have ever met anyone outside my family without ceremony, and I find it unsettling.” The giggle changed to a chuckle. “Her Valor, the Dame, High Keeper of my Castles — in other words, that tiresome woman, Hanna — thinks you must come from some of the lands far to the south. Nonsense.”
Rond gave a tired smile. “Where does your Holy Highness think we come from?” he asked.
The shrewd eyes gave him a shrewd look. “Why, from the stars, of course. Thence came the Great Men of old. And thence, I think, came all of us. What do you want with desert salt?” he asked, abruptly.
Said Rond, “To make fuel for our ship, so that we can leave your world.”
Mukanahan sighed. “Scarcely come, already wanting to leave. Well, well. We have a warehouse full of it, but Hanna won’t let you get very far. Patience. The men, the Great Men, in this new skyship … the
y are not your people, I think?”
“No longer. But how — ”
Amusement vanished from the keen little face. “How do I know? Because you are obviously not murderers. And they obviously are.” He got up. “We must talk further. Meanwhile, you are my guests.” He nodded, and was gone.
Equerries appeared almost at once and conducted them, not to the pavilion where they had been briefly staying, but to an extensive building which was now hastily being set to rights by a small army of scurrying servitors.
A white-haired small man in the blue livery of the Holy House introduced himself as Sire Jahan, the Chief Equerry. “I address myself to — Captain Rond? And First Officer Cane? I am honored. Alas, we have no clothing to fit you, but tailors will arrive shortly to take your measures. Some slight refreshment is ready now” — he gestured to a line of servitors setting tables — “and food is presently being prepared. Baths, also, are being arranged. And the Great Father has asked me also to keep you constantly informed of news as it comes in.”
“News?” said Rond.
“Of the Dame?” said Jory.
Sire Jahan bowed. “Of the Dame, yes. And also of the thefts, the burning, slaughter, and rapine now being committed by the Great Men who are your enemies.”
• • •
The entire policy of the Keeperate had been, through the centuries, to keep the Kingship isolated as much as possible from the real life of the Land. The Holy Court was not to be bothered by such things; it was to be venerated, antiquated, intimidated, deanimated, and incapacitated — in order to remove it entirely and eternally from any likelihood of even dreaming of an active role again. This policy had succeeded largely, but it had never succeeded entirely. The Holy Court had its sources of information; and information now, as fast as it poured in, was turned over to Rond and Cane.
Dame Hanna accused Rond and Jory of being scouts sent to spy out the land for the invasion, and demanded that King Mukanahan “cease to encourage their stay.” His chamberlains replied that “the Holy Presence received with sorrow the words of Its faithful High Keeper and would meditate upon them.”
Lady-Moha, evidently putting aside her vexation at having been deceived by O-Narra, urged the Dame to make common cause with Rond, Jory, and their men. The Dame replied by ordering Moha to return to her fief and remain there.
Verdanth, Toranth, Movissa, and Harn met in joint council, advised the Dame to “avail herself of the wisdom of the Great Men at the Holy Court, who were familiar with the ways of the invaders.” She made no reply.
The King sent for Jory and Rond.
• • •
In the days when the legendary King Takanahan had been coerced into surrendering power to a High Keeper, the Temple in the Clouds had been a small mountain shrine. Through the centuries it had increased to the size of a small town. Mukanahan received them in an inner chamber of one of the many buildings which grew up around the original fane. There was only one chair in it — his own; and only one other item on the sea-blue rug — a large hamper.
“Many anguished prayers have reached me,” he said. “And also” — he gestured to the hamper — “one present. I will share it with you.” He lifted his left hand, and two equerries came forward, cut the cords which bound the hamper, and tumbled it on its side.
A man rolled out of it.
“It has been observed, and, I think, wisely,” the little King said, “that those who have cast off one form of restraint can be induced only with difficulty to submit at once to another.” The man on the rug muttered, twitched. His Guildsman’s uniform was torn and soiled, and there was blood on it.
“At first these wicked men sallied forth from their great ship in groups, united to defile and ruin this peaceful Land. But, more and more of late, the groups have been smaller, have not acted in concert. Some of the men have been bold enough to range alone. This is one of them. A patrol of Sept Saramanth captured him en route and was noble enough to refrain from the vengeance rightfully theirs. I am sure that the Dame does not know he was sent to me, but that is her fault. Waken him!”
The equerries stooped, wrenched open the man’s mouth, and removed a pad of some grassy stuff which emitted a rank and sickly odor.
For another moment the man mumbled. Then his eyes flew open. Slack-jawed, he gazed about him stupidly.
“On your feet, Guildsman!” Jory snapped.
The man’s muscles tensed to obey, and he was half-erect before realization struck him. “ ‘Guildsman’,” he said, annoyed. “I’m no Guildsman … I’m a free man of the free ship Persephone … and who in the hell are you, in the funny clothes?”
“First Officer Cane. Captain Rond. That’s all the introduction for the present. You will state your name and rate.”
The man looked around. “No women,” he muttered. “Just midgets. And brass.” Then a look of low cunning spread over his face, retreated, was replaced by one of patently false respect. “Astrocaster’s Mate Toms Marton, sir. Um … when the mutiny broke out, see, I resisted it. But I was overpowered. Gee, sir, I’m glad — ”
An equerry entered the room, handed over a note which was given to the King, who read it rapidly, and said nothing.
“ — to see you here,” Marton concluded, lamely, his pose a bit jarred by the interruption. “I mean, glad the pettyboat made it safe. Darnley figured you would. And as soon as I heard you was here I made up my mind I’d, um, escape … And join you …” His little, bloodshot eyes regarded them — curious, cunning, hopeful, rather like the eyes of an intelligent pig calculating its chances of eating the baby.
In the slow silence the distant sound of a gong announced the passing hour. Rond’s hands crept to his chest, circled, fell to his sides. Jory knew what this meant — the Captain had groped, perhaps unawares, for the golden circles of rank which would have been on his uniform, had he been wearing it.
Somewhat uncertainly, and to Jory’s displeasure, Rond said, “I am glad to hear your explanation, Guildsman. Probably … probably there were many men in your position…. Promotion … special service pay … bonus …” His voice died away. The tiny swine-eyes observed. The loose lips rubbed each other. And Jory asked a question.
“Darnley figured we’d make it here?”
Marton nodded. “That’s right, sir. Blaise. The bosun. Big, ugly fellow. He’s in charge, up there. Terrible situation, sir. Ter — ”
“What happened to Leading Officer Stone?”
Marton squinted thoughtfully. “Who, Aysil? He’s around somewheres. But Blaise is the big noise … yeah … um, yes-sir. Blaise is the big noise.”
The junta still met, or had been meeting till recently. But it was a long time since it had actively decided anything more significant than what shows to run on the 3-D. It had been Blaise Darnley’s decision, rubber-stamped by the junta, to postpone setting a course for the P’vong System. Blaise Darnley had decided that instead Persephone would search for its pettyboat first. Darnley had taken the ship to the Second Guild’s spotting station in C-2, and, finding none but the small staff, destroyed them anyway, just as a precaution … Or, perhaps, just because Blaise liked destroying things. Too, he had said something about “practice” — but no one had then figured out what the practice was for.
In short, the Bosun had come to the conclusion that releasing the two surviving officers and six loyal crewmen had been a mistake — and he intended to rectify the error.
Tests of Valentine’s atmosphere showed traces of the pettyboat’s fuel. Reticulation would eventually have shown whether or not the boat was still there — as he thought it probably was — but he was in no hurry to make any reticulations. By this time he was no longer taking precautions to keep what were probably his original intentions to himself. He let them leak out a little … then a little more…. He sat back and sniffed the wind. He sent out liberty parties — a liberty unchecked by restraint. He observed how the men liked it. Then he talked some more. In the end, he had probably talked more than he should hav
e.
The free ship was to become a free-booting ship. Time enough to head for the merry, carefree life on the proceeds of what they’d get by selling the ship to the syndicate called the Forty Thieves. Come to think of it, those crooks probably weren’t called the Forty Thieves for nothing … were they? Supposed Persephone arrived with only its hull, its engine, and its cargo? They’d have to take whatever the syndicate offered, wouldn’t they? Which might be a lot, or might be a little. And who in the hell ever heard of any crook syndicate offering any more than they could get away with?
Jory, as First Officer, had never had much to do with Bosun Darnley officially, and never had anything to do with him unofficially. Blaise was a bulk of a man, with a yellowed complexion which hinted at some chronic ailment, clipped and wiry black hair, and pale blue eyes. His voice was a rumble. He had reminded Jory of a muffled engine, humming with power, quivering with it, even. And then, that dreadful day in Persephone, the muffler had been ripped out, and the engine’s full-throated, full-chested, full-bellied roar rose up and filled the air.
He could imagine Darnley going about his task of subverting the crew a second time, as he subverted them a first time. He could imagine the crew, dismayed, angered, uneasy — had they thrown away everything for pennies? And he could imagine them coming, whining, whimpering, to Darnley — “What should we do, Boats? Huh? What do you think? What should we do?” His imagination was boosted, corroborated, by Marton’s account. The captive was in some element of glory now, with his former Captain and First Officer — to whom he had probably never before spoken — hanging on his every word, allowing him full measure for narration, mimicry, and self-aggrandizement … all this last probably a lie … I told him, I said, ‘Boats’ … That’s where you made your big mistake, Boats … You’ll never get away with it, I said….
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