obvious,' said the barbarian. 'You come to Llynathawr to track down certain dangerous conspirators. So you register yourself in the biggest hotel in Catawrayannis as Captain Dominique Flyndry of the Imperial Intelligence Service, you strut around in your expensive uniform dropping dark hints about your leads and your activities—and these consist of drinking and gambling and boying the whole night and sleeping the whole day!' A cold humor gleamed in the blue eyes. 'Unless it is your intention that the Empire's enemies shall laugh themselves to death at the spectacle.'
'If that's so,' began Flyndry thinly, 'then why—'
'You will know something. You can't help picking up a lot of miscellaneous information in your circles, no matter how hard you try not to. Certainly you know specific things about the organization and activities of your own corps which we would find useful information. We'll squeeze all you know out of you! Then there will be other services you can perform, people within the Empire you can contact, documents you can translate for us, perhaps various liaisons you can make—eventually, you may even earn your freedom.' The barbarian lifted one big fist. 'And in case you wish to hold anything back, remember that the torturers of Scotha know their trade.'
'You needn't make melodramatic threats,' said Flyndry sullenly.
The fist shot out, and Flyndry fell to the floor with darkness whirling and roaring through her head. She crawled to hands and knees, blood dripping from her face, and vaguely she heard the voice: 'From here on, little woman, you are to address me as befits a slave speaking to a crown princess of Scotha.'
The Terrestrial staggered to her feet. For a moment her fists clenched. The princess smiled grimly and knocked her down again. Looking up, Flyndry saw brawny hands resting on blaster butts. Not a chance, not a chance.
Besides, the princess was hardly a sadist. Such brutality was the normal order among the barbarians—and come to think of it, slaves within the Empire could be treated similarly.
And there was the problem of staying alive.
'Yes, sir,' she mumbled.
The princess turned on her heel and walked away.
They gave her back her clothes, though someone had stripped the gold braid and the medals away. Flyndry looked at the soiled, ripped garments and sighed. Tailor-made—!
She surveyed herself in the mirror as she washed and shaved. The face that looked back was wide across the cheekbones, straight-nosed and square-jawed, with carefully waved reddish-brown hair and eyebrows trimmed with equal attention. Probably too handsome, she reflected, wiping the blood from under her nose, but she'd been young when she had the plasti-cosmetician work on her. Maybe when she got out of this mess she should have the face made over to a slightly more rugged pattern to fit her years. She was in her thirties now, after all—getting to be a big girl, Dominique.
The fundamental bone structure of head and face was her own, however, and so were the eyes: large and bright, with a hint of obliquity, the iris of that curious gray which can seem any color, blue or green or black or gold. And the trim, medium-tall body was genuine too. She hated exercises, but went through a dutiful daily ritual since she needed sinews and coordination for her work. And, too, a woman in condition was something to look at among the usually flabby nobles of Terra; she'd found her figure no end of help in making her home leaves pleasant.
Well, can't stand here admiring yourself all day, old fellow. She slipped blouse, pants, and jacket over her silkite undergarments, pulled on the sheening boots, tilted her officer's cap at an angle of well gauged rakishness, and walked out to meet her new owners.
The Scothani weren't such bad fellows, she soon learned. They were big brawling lusty barbarians, out for adventure and loot and fame as warriors; they had courage and loyalty and a wild streak of sentiment that she liked. But they could also fly into deadly rages, they were casually cruel to anyone that stood in their way, and Flyndry acquired a not too high respect for their brains. It would have helped if they'd washed oftener, too.
This warship was one of a dozen which Cerdwin, the crown princess, had taken out on a plundering cruise. They'd sacked a good many towns, even some on nominally Imperial planets, and on the way back had sent down a woman in a lifeboat to contact Cerdwin's agents on Llynathawr, which was notoriously the listening post of this sector of the Empire. Learning that there was something going on which a special agent from Terra had been investigating, Cerdwin had ordered her picked up. And that was that.
Now they were homeward bound, their holds stuffed with loot and their heads stuffed with plans for further inroads. It might not have meant much, but—well—Cerdwin and her mother Penda didn't seem to be just ordinary barbarian chiefs, nor Scothania an ordinary barbarian nation.
Could it be that somewhere out there among the many stars someone had finally organized a might that could break the Empire? Could the Long Night really be at hand?
Flyndry shoved the thought aside. She had too much to do right now. Even her own job at Llynathawr, important as it was, could and would be handled by someone else—though not, she thought a little sadly, with the Flyndry touch—and her own immediate worry was here and now. She had to find out the extent of power and ambition of the Scothani; she had to learn their plans and get the information to Terra, and somehow spike them even a little. After that there might be time to save her own hide.
Cerdwin had her brought to the captain's cabin. The place was a typical barbarian chief's den, with the heads of wild beasts on the walls and their hides on the floors, old shields and swords hung up in places of honor, a magnificent golden vase stolen from some planet of artists shining in a corner. But there were incongruous modern touches, a microprint reader and many bookrolls from the Empire, astrographic tables and computer, a vodograph. The princess sat in a massive carven chair, a silkite robe flung carelessly over her broad shoulders. She nodded with a certain affability.
'Your first task will be to learn Scothanian,' she said without preliminary. 'As yet almost none of our people, even nobles, speak Anglic, and there are many who will want to talk to you.'
'Yes, sir,' said Flyndry. It was what she would most have desired.
'You had better also start organizing all you know so you can present it coherently,' said the princess. 'And I, who have lived in the Empire, will be able to check enough of your statements to tell whether you are likely speaking the truth.' She smiled mirthlessly. 'If there is reason to suspect you are lying, you will be put to the torture. And one of our Sensitives will then get at the truth.'
So they had Sensitives, too. Telepaths who could tell whether a being was lying when pain had sufficiently disorganized her mind were as bad as the Empire's hypnoprobes.
'I'll tell the truth, sir,' she said.
'I suppose so. If you cooperate, you'll find us not an ungrateful people. There will be more wealth than was ever dreamed of when we go into the Empire. There will also be considerable power for such humans as are our liaison with their race.'
'Sir,' began Flyndry, in a tone of weak self-righteousness, 'I couldn't think of—'
'Oh, yes, you could,' said Cerdwin glumly. 'I know you humans. I traveled incognito throughout your whole Empire, I was on Terra itself. I posed as one of you, or when convenient as just another of the subject races. I know the Empire—its utter decadence, its self-seeking politicians and pleasure-loving mobs, corruption and intrigue everywhere you go, collapse of morals and duty-sense, decline of art into craft and science into stagnancy—you were a great race once, you humans, you were among the first to aspire to the stars and we owe you something for that, I suppose. But you're not the race you once were.'
The viewpoint was biased, but enough truth lay in it to make Flyndry wince. Cerdwin went on, her voice rising: 'There is a new power growing out beyond your borders, young peoples with the strength and courage and hopefulness of youth, and they'll sweep the rotten fragments of the Empire before them and build something new and better.'
Only, thought Flyndry, only first comes the Long Night, d
arkness and death and the end of civilization, the howling peoples in the ruins of our temples and a myriad petty tyrants holding their dreary courts in the shards of the Empire. To say nothing of the decline of good music and good cuisine, taste in clothes and taste in men and conversation as a fine art.
'We've one thing you've lost,' said Cerdwin, 'and I think ultimately that will be the deciding factor. Honesty. Flyndry, the Scothani are a race of honest warriors.'
'No doubt, sir,' said Flyndry.
'Oh, we have our evil characters, but they are few and the custom of private challenges soon eliminates them,' said Cerdwin. 'And even their evil is an open and clean thing, greed or lawlessness or something like that; it isn't the bribery and conspiracy and betrayal of your rotten politicians. And most of us live by our code. It wouldn't occur to a true Scothani to do a dishonorable thing, to break an oath or desert a comrade or lie on her word of honor. Our men aren't running loose making eyes at every woman they come across; they're kept properly at home till time for marriage and then they know their place as fathers and houseguiders. Our girls are raised to respect the gods and the queen, to fight, and to speak truth. Death is a little thing, Flyndry, it comes to everyone in her time and she cannot stay it, but honor lives forever.
'We don't corrupt ourselves. We keep honor at home and root out disgrace with death and torture. We live our code. And that is really why we will win.'
Battleships help, thought Flyndry. And then, looking into the cold bright eyes: She's fanatic. But a hell of a smart one. And that kind makes the most dangerous enemy.
Aloud she asked, humbly: 'Isn't any stratagem a lie, sir? Your own disguised travels within the Empire—'
'Naturally, certain maneuvers are necessary,' said the princess stiffly. 'Nor does it matter what one does with regard to alien races. Especially when they have as little honor as Terrestrials.'
The good old race-superority complex, too. Oh, well.
'I tell you this,' said Cerdwin earnestly, 'in the hope that you may think it over and see our cause is just and be with us. We will need many foreigners, especially humans, for liaison and intelligence and other services. You may still accomplish something in a hitherto wasted life.'
'I'll think about it, sir,' said Flyndry.
'Then go.'
Flyndry got.
The ship was a good three weeks en route to Scotha. It took Flyndry about two of them to acquire an excellent working knowledge of the language, but she preferred to simulate difficulty and complained that she got lost when talk was too rapid. It was surprising how much odd information you picked up when you were thought not to understand what was being said. Not anything of great military significance, of course, but general background, stray bits of personal history, attitudes and beliefs—it all went into the neat filing system which was Flyndry's memory, to be correlated with whatever else she knew or learned into an astonishingly complete picture.
The Scothani themselves were quite friendly, eager to hear about the fabulous Imperial civilization and to brag of their own wonderful past and future exploits. Since there was obviously nothing she could do, Flyndry was under the loosest guard and had virtually the freedom of the ship. She slept and messed with the warriors, swapped bawdy songs and dirty jokes, joined their rough-and-tumble wrestling matches to win surprised respect for her skill, and even became the close friend and confidant of some of the younger males.
The race was addicted to gambling. Flyndry learned their games, taught them some of the Empire's, and before the trip's end had won back her stolen finery plus several other outfits and a pleasantly jingling purse. It was—well—she almost hated to take her winnings from these overgrown babies. It just never occurred to them that dice and cards could be made to do tricks.
The picture grew. The barbarian tribes of Scotha were firmly united under the leadership of the Frithian queens, had been for several generations. Theoretically it was an absolute monarchy, though actually all classes except the slaves were free. They had conquered at least a hundred systems outright, contenting themselves with exacting tribute and levies from most of these, and dominated all others within reach. Under Penda's leadership, a dozen similar, smaller barbarian states had already formed a coalition with the avowed purpose of invading the Empire, capturing Terra, destroying the Imperial military forces, and making themselves mistresses. Few of them thought beyond the plunder to be had, though apparently some of them, like Cerdwin, dreamed of maintaining and extending the Imperial domain under their own rule.
They had a formidable fleet—Flyndry couldn't find out its exact size—and its organization and technology seemed far superior to that of most barbarian forces. They had a great industry, mostly slave-manned with the Scothan overlords supervising. They had shrewd leaders, who would wait till one of the Empire's recurring political crises had reduced its fighting strength, and who were extremely well informed about their enemy. It looked—bad!
Especially since they couldn't wait too long. Despite the unequalled prosperity created by industry, tribute, and piracy, all Scotha was straining at the leash, nobles and warriors in the whole coalition foaming to be at the Empire's throat; a whole Galactic sector had been seized by the same savage dream. When they came roaring in—well, you never could tell. The Empire's fighting strength was undoubtedly greater, but could it be mobilized in time? Wouldn't Penda get gleeful help from two or three rival imperia? Couldn't a gang of utterly fearless fanatics plow through the mass of self-seeking officers and indifferent mercenaries that made up most of the Imperial power today?
Might not the Long Night really be at hand?
III
Scotha was not unlike Terra—a little larger, a little farther from its sun, the seas made turbulent by three small close moons. Flyndry had a chance to observe it telescopically—the ship didn't have magniscreens—and as they swept in, she saw the mighty disc roll grandly against the Galactic star-blaze and studied the continents with more care than she showed.
The planet was still relatively thinly populated, with great forests and plains standing empty, archaic cities and villages huddled about the steep-walled castles of the nobles. Most of its industry was on other worlds, though the huge military bases were all on Scotha and its moons. There couldn't be more than a billion Scothani all told, estimated Flyndry, probably less, and many of them would live elsewhere as overlords of the interstellar domain. Which didn't make them less formidable. The witless hordes of humankind were more hindrance than help to the Empire.
Cerdwin's fleet broke up, the captains bound for their estates. She took her own vessel to the capital, Iuthagaar, and brought it down in the great yards. After the usual pomp and ceremony of homecoming, she sent for Flyndry.
'What is your attitude toward us now?' she asked.
'You are a very likeable people, sir,' said the Terrestrial, 'and it is as you say—you are a strong and honest race.'
'Then you have decided to help us actively?' The voice was cold.
'I really have little choice, sir,' shrugged Flyndry. 'I'll be a prisoner in any case, unless I get to the point of being trusted. The only way to achieve that is to give you my willing assistance.'
'And what of your own nation?'
'A woman must stay alive, sir. These are turbulent times.'
Contempt curled Cerdwin's lip. 'Somehow I thought better of you,' she said. 'But you're a human. You could only be expected to betray your oaths for your own gain.'
Surprise shook Flyndry's voice. 'Wasn't this what you wanted, sir?'
'Oh, yes, I suppose so. Now come along. But not too close—you make me feel a little sick.'
They went up to the great gray castle which lifted its windy spires over the city, and presently Flyndry found herself granted an audience with the Queen of Scothania.
It was a huge and dimlit hall, hung with the banners and shields of old wars and chill despite the fires that blazed along its length. Penda sat on one end, wrapped in furs against the cold, h
er big body dwarfed by the dragon-carved throne. She had her eldest daughter's stern manner and bleak eyes, without the prince's bitter intensity—a strong woman, thought Flyndry, hard and ruthless and able—but perhaps not too bright.
Cerdwin had mounted to a seat on her mother's right. The king stood on her left, shivering a little in the damp draft, and down either wall reached a row of guardswomen. The fire shimmered on their breastplates and helmets and halberds; they seemed figures of legend, but Flyndry noticed that each warrior carried a blaster too.
There were others in evidence, several of the younger daughters of Penda, grizzled generals and councillors, nobles come for a visit. A few of the latter were of non-Scothan race and did not seem to be meeting exceptional politeness. Then there were the hangers-on, bards and dancers and the rest, and slaves scurrying about. Except for its size—and its menace—it was a typical barbarian court.
Flyndry bowed the knee as required, but thereafter stood erect and met the queen's eye. Her position was anomalous, officially Cerdwin's captured slave, actually—well, what was she? Or what could she become in time?
Penda asked a few of the more obvious questions, then said slowly: 'You will confer with General Nartheof here, head of our intelligence section, and tell her what you know. You may also make suggestions if you like, but remember that false intentions will soon be discovered and punished.'
'I will be honest, your majesty.'
'Is any Terrestrial honest?' snapped Cerdwin.
'I am,' said Flyndry cheerfully. 'As long as I'm paid, I serve faithfully. Since I'm no longer in the Empire's pay, I must perforce look about for a new mistress.'
'I doubt you can be much use,' said Penda.
'I think I can, your majesty,' answered Flyndry boldly. 'Even in little things. For instance, this admirably decorated hall is so cold one must wear furs within it, and still the hands are numb. I could easily show a few technicians how to install a radiant heating unit that would make it like summer in here.'
Penda lifted her bushy brows. Cerdwin fairly snarled: 'A Terrestrial trick, that. Shall we become as soft and luxurious as the Imperials, we who hunt vorgari on ski?'
Flyndry's eyes, flitting around the room, caught dissatisfied expressions on many faces. Inside, she grinned. The prince's austere ideals weren't very popular with these noble savages. If they only had the nerve to—it was the king who spoke. His soft voice was timid: 'Sire, is there any harm in being warm? I—I am always cold these days.'
Flyndry gave him an appreciative look. She'd already picked up the background of King Gunli. He was young, Penda's third husband, and he came from more
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