by John Brunner
“So simple?” Tharl breathed. “Why, if I’d known—”
“You’d have gone to the temple here yourself,” Spartak finished for him. “But I doubt if that would have helped; the local Belizueks will only be reflections of the original. No, that’s the key point.” He checked, struck by a sudden thought. “What means would you have used?”
“I’ll show you,” Tharl said eagerly, and went into the next room. There were scraping sounds.
“Under the floor,” Eunora whispered. “A secret cavity.”
And Tharl was back, cradling proudly in his arms a shiny energy gun. “The same with which I served your father and brother, sir,” he announced. “And charged ready for use.”
Spartak pursed his lips. “Here now is your chance to do a far greater service. Will you undertake it?”
Tharl looked extremely unhappy, but he didn’t say anything.
“You must hide us here for at least a day, to give Tiorin a chance to rejoin us—this is the only meeting-place we have. During the daytime, however, you must go out, ask what means we can employ to get to Gard—anything, a boat, a skyboat, whatever can still be hired. And as soon as possible, we’ll go.”
“We, sir?” Tharl ventured.
“I understood your wife and your son—”
“And your brothers, sir.” Tharl placed the butt of the gun on the ground and leaned on it, gazing into nowhere. “I don’t wish to appear a coward—I’m not, believe me!—but after such a long time, to have a plan of action offered … It takes me aback, you might say.”
Seeing his lower lip tremble, Spartak refrained from pushing him any further. He yawned cavernously. “I must sleep,” he muttered. “Though I’m not sure I can. Eunora—?”
But she had already closed her eyes.
XXI
“SOMEONE’S COMING!” Eunora whispered. “Officials!”
Spartak jolted out of uneasy slumber. The long winter night had not yet given way to dawn, but the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Tharl, up and dressed and carrying a tray of breakfast: hot broth and bread. His face was pale with alarm.
“Searching for us?” Spartak rapped.
Eunora, puzzled, shook her head. “Apparently not. There are four of them going from house to house—one’s a priest, I think, because he’s so arrogant and self-satisfied.…But they aren’t searching any of the houses, just knocking at the doors and telling the people that …”
“Telling them what?” Spartak urged.
The girl bit her lip. “Both Tiorin and Vix were captured. Bucyon’s men know who they are. There’s going to be a grand ceremony at the chief temple on Gard—is that right?—at which they’ll voluntarily give themselves up to Belizuek, and everyone who can is urged to go there and witness this final triumph of Bucyon over those who support Hodat.”
Spartak sat rock-still for long moments. Finally he said with ghastly humor, “At least it means we shan’t be conspicuous if we go there. But do they not know about us?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? If they’ve got an admission of their identity out of them …” Eunora knitted her brows. “I think I understand, though. The priest was already aware that there were three brothers, including you, but he’s taking it for granted that you’ll make a false step and reveal yourself. Then anyone who notices will at once report you.”
“That sounds like them, all right,” Tharl said sourly. “They know how their dupes behave nowadays. Utter one false word, make one wrong move, and some favor-currying bastard will be off to inform on you.”
“They’re coming closer,” Eunora warned. “Only three or four houses away. We’d better get out of sight.”
Tensely, crouched in the concealment of a closet, they strained their ears for auditory confirmation of what she had detected, and when he let them out again Tharl gave it fresh emphasis.
“Just as the little girl says,” he muttered. “Everyone who possibly can is expected to travel to Gard and see your brothers sacrificed, sir. We’d best make haste, hadn’t we?”
“Not too fast,” Spartak sighed. “Give them a chance to get over the hill, then take some of my money—here—and go book us passage on the fastest available transport.” He took some Imperial coins from his belt-pouch.
“As you say, sir,” Tharl conceded, and served them the meal he had prepared.
He must have been slightly ahead of the rush; he got them all passage on one of the fastest boats left in the northern hemisphere, an elderly skimmer whose engines wheezed so badly she could barely get up on her foils with the load of passengers that crammed aboard, but which was at any rate better than some of the half-rotten fishing-boats in which the latecomers embarked. They must have known, Spartak reflected, that they stood no chance of getting to Gard in time for the ceremony, but either they’d be satisfied to get away from drab poverty-stricken Penwyr for a while, or else the fear of not “showing willing” compelled them to make the gesture and impress the priests. He hoped it was the former, which might indicate they still retained some normal human feelings, but he feared it was more likely the latter.
There was a very bad moment as they approached the dockside towards sunset, shivering in the chill blasts of icy foam that the night wind whipped off the estuary; two priests stood beside the gangway to their skimmer, searching the faces of all those that passed.
“Are they looking for us, Eunora?” Spartak whispered.
“Luckily no,” she murmured in reply. “They’re turning away people notoriously lax in their temple attendance—this trip is supposed to be a reward for loyal homage. I don’t know what they’re doing about strangers. So few people travel nowaways, they hadn’t considered the problem.”
Tharl drew a deep breath. “Leave this to me, sir,” he suggested, and as they drew near the priests, he pushed his way forward.
“Forgive me, sirs!” he shouted, and their heads turned. “Perhaps you’ll remember, sirs, that when Belizuek first came to honor Penwyr with his presence, my wife and my son were the very first to give him their total service. And I was bitter!” He shook his head in a parody of regret. “I know now it was foolish of me. Why, if the Warden’s brothers themselves have returned and agreed to offer themselves up to Belizuek, what more powerful proof could anyone want that he is indeed the master of us all and truly superior?”
“Clever!” Spartak whispered. “Is it going to work?”
“Oh yes,” Eunora said with a twisted smile. “They’re lapping it up. He’d only better be careful he doesn’t over-do it—one of them is thinking of singling him out for some special temple duty.”
If they had been aware that the long bundle of clothing and provisions slung over Tharl’s shoulder contained the energy gun he had produced last night, they would have been a deal less eager. But Belizuek was far away from the docks, and these were only human dupes.
Tharl came to rejoin them when they were securely aboard, wiping sweat from his face, and blushing faintly at Spartak’s warm compliments.
“Too early for that, sir,” he countered. “We haven’t even cast off yet.”
In one way at least he was right. That voyage was among the most dreadful experiences of Spartak’s entire life. To be with these three or four hundred people who laughed and sang ribald songs while they passed canteens of precious wine and the typical Penwyr sour beer as they might on any festival excursion—then, to remember with a jolt the excuse for such jollification: the planned sacrifice of his brothers, including Vix whom many of these people had served in the old days, whom they had cheered as the son of his father, the late Warden, and brother of Hodat the heir-apparent … that was like living a nightmare. And all the time Eunora was alert for some keen-eyed person to pierce his disguise.
The chances of his being betrayed receded somewhat when the word got about that he was a doctor, and a mother whose child was sensitive to seasickness came begging his help. The little boy recovered at once when Spartak tended him, and after that a shy successi
on of patients surrounded him, asking help and advice for an incredible range of complaints.
Spartak’s fury burned inside him like a coal. When he left Asconel for Annanworld, there had been no one hungry, no once sick except with mild infections which could never be wholly eliminated, and certainly no one suffering from the deficiency diseases. Yet time and again when he examined those who now presented themselves, he saw that their need was not for drugs, but for soap and water and a proper diet.
Weeping sores. Ulcers. Gums sickly-sweet with pus. Children’s bones twisted into awkward curves. Eyes matted with a dirty yellow discharge. So the tale went on. More than once, as he was on the point of bursting out at some silly fool about the true reason for his condition, Eunora caught his eye and gave an almost imperceptible headshake, implying, “Don’t! He’ll go to the priest at once.”
The priest—there was apparently always one aboard any passenger vessel on Asconel nowadays—came to Spartak in the end; that encounter was hardly to be avoided. He put a number of curious questions which Spartak deftly dodged, trying to give the impression that the priest was making himself look ignorant by not knowing the answers already, and in the end the trick worked and the priest made off, embarrassed without being sure why.
It was established beyond a doubt that half the people who had set off from northern islands like Penwyr would never get to Gard in time, when they started to raise the traffic from the nearer ports the next day. The sea seemed to be crawling with passenger vessels; there were even skyboats overhead, the first Spartak had seen since his return. All were converging on Gard for the ceremony. Winter was behind them at this latitude; the sky was blue and the sun mild and warm.
The tremendous strain the influx of visitors—pilgrims, perhaps, would be a closer term, Spartak reflected sourly—put on the resources of Gard city worked in their favor. With boats crowding into the port and disembarkation reduced to a panicky rush down the gangplanks so that room could be made for the next vessel, the guards and priests who supervised the travelers could not hope to keep control. Moreover, here was no poverty-stricken provincial town; Bucyon clearly liked his luxuries as much as anyone, and everything worked, to the wonder of the stranger children. Food was abundant, on quayside stalls and in the city’s stores; gaudy posters, banners and streamers decorated the buildings for the great day tomorrow, and relic hawkers offered—when there were no priests in sight—such precious items as hairs from Bucyon’s beard and Lydis’ nail-clippings.
Spartak, taken in at first by this deception, was half-minded to buy one of the relics and put it under the microscope to see if Lydis’ alleged mind-reading powers were due to a cellular mutation; then he realized these were frauds to trap the credulous.
His heart ached as he beheld his former home. His knuckles whitened on the handle of the medical case he carried, now much depleted after the voyage.
“If I could only get next to Bucyon!” he whispered.
“Not a chance,” Tharl muttered, glancing around to make sure they were not overheard as they trudged, with thousands of others, towards the center of the city. Ahead, the streets were in full operation, and there were delighted squeals from the youngest children who had never seen a molecular-flow street before. “He’s always guarded very strictly. And Lydis, who can read thoughts, never leaves his side.”
“Where is the temple?” Spartak demanded.
“It used to be the Place of Grand Assembly,” Tharl told him. “You know it, of course.”
Spartak did indeed. There he had witnessed the seating of Hodat in the Warden’s chair, the last day he had stayed on Asconel before his departure, and Vix’s and Tiorin’s too. It was a vast open horseshoe of seating: the inner rows for dignitaries, the outer for the public.
He came to a decision, arranged a meeting-place with Tharl for later, and sent him off to find them a place to stay. Then he and Eunora went straight to the temple.
It had not been altered much to accomodate its change of function. Behind it loomed the dark shape of the Warden’s palace, now Bucyon’s home. The Warden’s chair had been moved forward to make room for a huge gilded dome. Inside there dwelt Belizuek: the original self of which all the local Belizueks were only reflections. The size of the dome took him aback. Either this Belizuek was a monster, or there were several layers of armor around him, in which case would even an energy gun … ?
He checked himself. Before making any more plans, he needed to get details of the planned ceremony. There was a gang of men at work assembling a high dais close to the Warden’s chair; it only required a few friendly words and the flash of a five-circle coin to get one of them to part with the full program.
This was to be the place where Vix and Tiorin were displayed to any in the crowd who might doubt their identity, and from which they would state their intention of entering voluntarily into the “full service” of Belizuek. Bucyon and Lydis would be present; they would leave the palace in ceremonial procession at such a time, reach the temple at such another time, begin the ritual at such another time. …
Spartak seized on the crucial point that they would leave their groundcar at the far end of the horseshoe. He tipped their informant and returned thither. There were many idle sightseers around, so they attracted no special attention.
“I have it!” he whispered, and snapped his fingers. He shot a glance at Eunora. “Will it work?”
“I—don’t know.” She was very pale. “Can you get Tharl to the right place with his gun?”
“I’m sure I can. I was raised in the Warden’s palace, remember, and that dominates the far end of the Assembly. But am I asking too much of you?”
“I don’t think so,” Eunora murmured. “Until I meet Lydis face to face I can’t be sure. But I had a lot of practice in dissembling back home. I think even to a mind-reader I may—may!—be able to tell a lie.”
XXII
THE FOLLOWING day, the great day when the last traces of the old order would be wiped away forever as the late Warden’s brothers acknowledged the dominion of Belizuek and entered freely into his full service, dawned mild and sunny, and grew rapidly hot. Long before the scheduled time of the ceremony people were thronging into the streets; those fortunate enough to view it in person crammed the horseshoe seating of the Place of Grand Assembly, where music and songs in honor of Belizuek whiled the time away, and the ordinary populace put on what they had left in the way of presentable clothing and made do with the public watch-screens and amateur tumblers fooling around in the gutters.
The dais was completed. Covered in gaudy banners, it stood waiting for the victims, like an altar readied at the shrine of a bloodthirsty deity.
Punctually on schedule, Bucyon—gorgeous in ceremonial armor that shone chrome-bright and dazzling—entered his groundcar. Beside him, pale, very beautiful and dressed as always in a floor-long black gown, sat Lydis. The people who gathered to cheer disciplined their minds into adoring patterns, fearing the rumored talent which had brought her to her present eminence.
Everywhere the procession passed, there were yells of delight and applause, and chanting in honor of Belizuek and of Bucyon, who had blessed Asconel by bringing him here. Occasionally a visitor from elsewhere on the planet, who remembered the old days well enough to have a spark of envy kindled at the continuing luxury of Gard contrasted with the poverty at home, shouted less fervently than the rest. But soon the pressure of anxiety lest he be discovered drove him to out-bellow his neighbors.
It was a spectacle to dim the most vivid memory of the old days, anyhow: the guards, the priests in their most brilliant robes, and at the center the lovely Lydis and the handsome Bucyon, acknowledging the love of their subjects with an occasional gracious wave.
Certain unscheduled events also took place.
Not long after the honored dignitaries began to fill their seats in the Assembly, a fat man in the frontmost rank not reserved for priests—who occupied the first dozen banks of seating in the official plan, but who had n
ot yet shown up—clapped his hand to his nape and looked to see if he had killed a stinging insect. There was nothing on his palm.
Another minute or so, and he began to complain loudly to his neighbors that it was terribly hot. Sweat ran from his face; he fought for breath, loosening the neckband of his coat, and swore at the sun for beating down so fiercely. It was not long before he closed his eyes and began to breathe in enormous gasps. Alarmed, those around him sought help, and were relieved at the approach of a fair-bearded man who identified himself as a doctor.
Instructions were crisply issued to carry the fat man to shade, rest him, and let him recover his spirits. That attended to, the fair-bearded man fell talking with those who had appealed for his aid, and it was entirely natural that, as the arrival of Bucyon was signaled, he should slip into the place the fat man had left vacant.
It had not all gone so smoothly. As he tensed to see Bucyon enter the vast stadium-like Assembly—he could not refer to it as a temple, the way everyone else now did—Spartak was vaguely surprised to think that he was here exactly as arranged. Yesterday afternoon, when he found that Tharl had been over-anxious to please, and provided them with accommodation in a place he felt fit for a Warden’s son, there had been a lot of trouble, and ultimately they had had to settle for the rooms after all—Gard was packed to overflowing with the pilgrims from overseas. To the Big Dark with fears of appearing conspicuous, anyway. The short conversation he had had with those around him here had satisfied him that Bucyon did not rule wholly by the power of Belizuek. Here gathered were men and women who were conscious traitors; they would never be called on for the full service of Belizuek! They were Bucyon’s willing accomplices in the business of raping Asconel.
It was only to be expected. Bucyon’s own forces—even if, along with the priests, you counted in the crews from a respectably sized spacefleet—wouldn’t suffice to administer a population of nine hundred million, no matter how pliant.
