R.W. IV - The Magic Labyrinth

by Philip José Farmer

  The woman stood up and said something in Esperanto. A man beyond her held a torch out and looked into the darkness. There were many other torches out there, but they didn't seem to help. The sky was clouding up swiftly, the starlight was being shut out.

  He looked around his immediate area. He was sitting on the raised deck of a longboat. Below him, on each side, were about a dozen paddlers.

  "There's something floating out there," the man with the torch said. "It looks bulky. Maybe it's this titanthrop."

  The man had his back turned to Sam. He wore an Eskimo suit of white cloths over head, body, and feet. He wasn't tall, but his shoulders were very broad. And his voice sounded vaguely familiar. Somewhere, a long time before, Sam had heard that voice.

  The man called out to nearby boats and told them what to look for. Presently, there was a shout. Sam looked at the source. Some men on another longboat were attempting to haul something huge out of the water.

  "Joe!" he croaked.

  The man in the white suit turned then. He was holding the flaming pine so that his face was fully illumined.

  Sam saw his features clearly, the broad handsome face, the thick straw-colored eyebrows, the square massive jaw, the even white teeth. His grin was evil.

  "Bloodaxe!"

  "Ja," the man said. "Eirikr BloδΦx." Then, in Esperanto, "I have waited a long long time for you, Sam Clemens."

  Screaming, Sam rose and leaped from the boat.

  The cold dark waters closed upon him. He went down, down, then straightened out and began swimming. How far could he go before he had to surface for air? Could he get away from his nemesis long enough to get aboard another boat? Surely the Virolanders would not permit Erik to kill him? That would be against their principles. But Erik would wait until he had a chance, and then he would strike.

  Joe! Joe would protect him! Joe would do more than that. He would kill the Norseman.

  Gasping, sputtering, Sam's head broke through into the air. Ahead was a boat filled with people. The torches showed their faces clearly. All were looking at him.

  Behind came the splashing of a swimmer.

  Sam turned around. Erik was only a few feet from him.

  Sam yelled again, and once more he dived. If he could come up on the other side of that boat, if he could get aboard it before . . .

  A hand closed around his ankle.

  Sam turned and fought, but the Norseman was bigger and far stronger. Sam was helpless, he would be drowned out of sight of the others, and Erik could claim that he had just been trying to save the poor mad devil.

  An arm came from behind him and hooked around his neck. Sam struggled like a fish caught in a net, but he knew that he was done for. After all this time, after all these narrow escapes, to die like this . . .

  He awoke in the deck of the longboat, coughing and choking. Water gushed from his mouth and nose. Two strong warm arms held him.

  He looked up. Erik Bloodaxe was still holding him.

  "Don't kill me!" Sam said.

  Erik was naked and wet. The water on his body glistened in the torchlight. It also fell upon a white object connected to a cord around Erik's neck.

  It was the spiral bone of a hornfish, the symbol worn by members of the Church of the Second Chance.

  37

  * * *

  Two men had come to the same conclusion.

  They'd had enough of this senseless bloodshed. Now they'd do something they would have done if each hadn't been so sure that the other was on the other boat. But, during the long struggle, neither had seen the other. The other had never been on the boat or had wisely left it before the battle or had been blown to bits or into the water.

  Each believed that if he died, the great project was doomed to failure, though each visualized the failure differently.

  They saw an opportunity to escape now. In the heat and confusion of the combat, no one would notice their desertion. Or, if anyone did, he'd not be able to do anything about it. They would leap into The River and swim to shore and continue their long long journey. Neither had his grail, one being locked up in the sunken Rex and the other inside a locked storage room of the Not For Hire. They would steal free grails from the Virolanders and go on up The River in a sailboat.

  One man had doffed his armor and dropped his weapon on the deck and had grasped the railing to vault over it when the other spoke behind him. The first man whirled, stooping, and picked up his cutlass. Though he hadn't heard the voice of the other for forty years, he instantly recognized it.

  When he slowly turned around, though, he did not recognize the face and body he identified with the voice.

  The man who'd come from the hatchway behind him spoke in a language which, now, only two on this boat could understand. His tone was harsh.

  "Yes, it's I, though much changed."

  The man by the railing said, "Why did you do it? Why?"

  "You would never understand why," the man in the doorway said. "You're evil. So were the others, even . . ."

  "Were!" the man by the railing said.

  "Yes. Were."

  "They're all dead then. I'd suspected as much."

  He glanced at the helmet and cutlass on the deck. It was too bad that he hadn't been halted before he discarded them. His enemy had an advantage now. The man by the railing also knew that if he tried to leap over the railing or flip backward over it, the other was swift and skilled enough to skewer him with his weapon by throwing it.

  "So," he said, "you plan on killing me, too. You've reached bottom; you're lost forever."

  "I had to kill the Operator," the first man said emotionlessly.

  "I couldn't even think of doing such evil," the man by the railing said.

  "I am not evil!" the other cried. "It is you who . . ."

  He struggled with himself, then got the words out.

  "There is no use arguing."

  The man by the railing said, "Is it too late even now for you to change your mind? You would be forgiven, you would be sent to the Gardenplanet for therapy. You could join me and the agents and work with us to get to the tower . . ."

  "No," the first man said. "Don't be stupid."

  He lifted his cutlass and advanced on the other, who assumed the on-guard position. The duel was short and savage and ended when the unarmored man, bleeding from a dozen slashes, fell with the other's point in his throat.

  The killer dragged the body to the railing, lifted it up in his arms, kissed the mouth of the corpse, and dropped it into the water. Tears streamed down his cheeks; he shook with sobs.

  SECTION 11

  The Final Duel: Burton vs. Bergerac

  38

  * * *

  The events immediately following the explosion in the boiler deck set off by Burton's group were swift, confusing, and blurred. For some time, Burton was either chasing or being chased, attacking or retreating. Mostly, he was retreating, since the enemy usually outnumbered them. By the time that Burton's group was forced into the great room of an armory, it was larger than when it had started. Though it had lost eight, it had picked up enough so that it now counted thirteen men and ten women. For all he knew, these were the only survivors of the Rex.

  Neither side had any ammunition left for their firearms. From now on it would be cold steel only. The enemy withdrew to rest and to get their wind back. They also had to confer. The entrance to the armory was two and a half men wide, and storming it would be very difficult.

  Burton looked over the array of arms and decided to discard his cutlass for an epée. This was a sword with a triangular edgeless blade three feet long. Its guard was bell-shaped; from the slightly curving handle protruded two wooden stops for better gripping. Burton tried the temper of the blade by placing its point against a beam of wood and bending it. The blade formed an arc to within a foot of the shell and sprang back to a straight line when the pressure was released.

  The armory stank much of sweat and blood and not a little of urine and feces. It was also surprisingl
y hot. He removed his armor except for his helmet, and he urged the others to emulate him, though he wouldn't order them to do it.

  "When we get to the deck, we won't have time to shuck off our iron," he said. "We'll have to dive into The River the moment we get to the open deck. It'll be much easier taking off the armor now than when you're in The River."

  One of the women was the lovely Aphra Behn, no longer so lovely. Gunpowder smoke grimed her face; sweat and blood had made streaks and splashes on the blackened skin; her eyes were red with powder and fatigue; one eye was twitching. She said, "The boat must be sinking. If we don't get out soon, we'll drown."

  Though she looked hysterical, her voice was calm enough, considering the circumstances.

  "Yaas, I know," Burton drawled. He considered for a minute. They were on the B deck, and the A deck was probably filled with water by now. It wouldn't be long before this deck would be awash.

  He strode to the hatch and stuck his head around its corner. The lights were still on in the corridor. There was no reason why they should go out since they were being fed from the batacitor. This would operate even if it was under water.

  There was no one alive in the corridor. The enemy must be hiding in the rooms nearby, waiting until the Rexites tried to sally out.

  "I'm Captain Gwalchgwynn of the marines of the Rex!" he said loudly. "I'd like to talk to your commander!"

  No one answered. He shouted his request again, then stepped out into the passageway. If anyone was just inside the open doors near the armory, he couldn't see them.

  Had they gone to the two ends of the corridor and were waiting around the corners, hoping to surprise them?

  It was then that he saw water flowing toward him. It was only a film, but it would soon be swelling.

  He called to the guards at the hatchway. "Tell the others to come on out! The Clemensites have left!"

  He didn't have to explain to his people what had happened. They saw the water, too.

  "Save himself who can," he said. "Get to the shore as best you may. I'll be joining you later."

  He led them to the railing and said good-bye and good luck before they plunged in.

  "Dick," Aphra said, "Why are you staying?"

  "I'm looking for Alice."

  "If the boat sinks suddenly, you'll be trapped in it."

  "I know."

  He didn't wait for her to jump in but began his search at once. He ran down the passageways calling out her name, stopping now and then to listen for her voice. Having covered this deck, he climbed the grand staircase to the grand salon. This occupied one-fourth of the stern area of the hurricane deck as did the grand salon of the Rex. But it was much larger. It was ablaze with ceiling and chandelier lights, even though blasts had blown many out or apart. Despite the damage from the explosions and the few mutilated corpses, it was very impressive.

  He stepped inside and looked around. Alice was not here unless she was behind the immensely long bar or under or behind the smashed grand pianos or billiards tables. There seemed to be no reason for him to stay, but he was held for a few seconds by the grandeur of this room. Like its counterpart on the Rex, it had known many years of laughter, wit, humor, flirting, intrigue, gambling often playful but sometimes desperate, trysts of love and hate, music composed and played by some of Earth's masters, drama and comedy high and low on the stages. And now . . . It was a shameful loss, something to be very much regretted.

  He started to cross the salon but stopped. A man had entered the great doorway of the other end. He paused when he saw Burton. Then, smiling, he walked jauntily toward him. He was an inch or two taller than Burton, greyhound-thin, and had extraordinarily long arms. His skin was blackened with smoke, his nose was very large, and his chin was weak. Despite this, his smile made him look almost handsome.

  His glossy black ringleted hair fell to his shoulders. He wore only a black kilt and red riverdragon-leather calf-high boots, and his right hand gripped the hilt of an epée.

  Burton had a swiftly passing déjà vu, a feeling that this meeting had happened a long time ago and under just such circumstances. He had encountered the man before and he had been hoping he would again. The long-healed wound in his thigh seemed to burn at the memory.

  The man halted when he was twenty-five feet from Burton. He spoke loudly in Esperanto. It had a trace of French and a smidgeon of American English intonation.

  "Ah, sinjoro, it's you! The very talented, perhaps endowed-with-genius swordsman with whom I crossed blades during the raid upon your vessel so many years ago! I introduced myself then as a gentleman should. You surlily refused to identify yourself. Or perhaps you failed to do so because you thought that I wouldn't recognize your name. Now . . ."

  Burton advanced one step, his sword hanging almost straight down from his hand. He spoke in Parisian French circa A.D. 1650.

  "Eh, monsieur. I was not sure when you made your introduction that you were truly whom you said you were. I thought that perhaps you might be an impostor. I admit now that you are indeed either the great monomachist Savinien de Cyrano II de Bergerac or someone who could be Castor to his Pollux and is his match in swordsmanship."

  Burton hesitated. He might as well give his true name now. It was no longer necessary to use a pseudonym.

  "Know, monsieur, that I am Captain Richard Francis Burton of the marines of the Rex Grandissimus. On Earth I was knighted by Her Majesty, Queen Victoria of the British Empire. This was not for making a fortune in commerce but as acknowledgment of my explorations in the far parts of the Earth and my many services to both my country and humanity. Nor was I unknown among the swordsmen of my time, which was the nineteenth century."

  "Hélas, you would not have been also known for being long-winded, would you?"

  "No, nor for possessing a huge nose," Burton said.

  The man's teeth shone whitely.

  "Ah, yes, always the reference to the proboscis. Well, know, monsieur, though I was not honored by my sovereign, Louis XIII, I was dubbed a genius by a queen even greater than yours, by Mother Nature herself. I wrote some philosophical romances which I understand were being read centuries after I died. And, as you obviously are aware, I was not unknown among the great swordsmen of my time, which gave birth to the greatest swordsmen of any time."

  The thin man smiled again, and Burton said, "Perhaps you would like to surrender your blade? I have no desire to kill you, monsieur."

  "I was about to ask you to hand over your weapon, monsieur, and become my prisoner. But I see that you, like me, would then be unsatisfied as to which of us is the better at bladeplay. I have thought about you many times, Captain Burton, since I drove my rapier into your thigh. Of all the hundreds, perhaps thousands, that I have dueled with, you were the best. I am willing to admit that I do not know how our little passage in arms might have turned out if you had not been distracted. Rather, I should say that you might have held me off a little longer if it were not for that."

  "We shall see," Burton said.

  "Oh, yes, we shall see, if the boat does not sink too soon. Well, monsieur, I delayed my leavetaking to have one more drink to toast the souls of those brave men and women who died fighting today for this once-splendid vessel, the last of the great beauties of man's science and technology. Quel dommage! But some day I will compose an ode to it. In French, of course, since Esperanto is not a great poetic language and, if it were, would still not be equal to my native tongue.

  "Let us have one drink so that we may toast together those we loved but who have passed on. There will be no more resurrections, my friend. They will always be dead from now on."

  "P'raps," Burton said. "In any event, I will join you."

  The many doors of the huge and long liquor cabinets behind the bar had been locked before the battle started. But the key was in a drawer below a cabinet, and de Bergerac went behind the bar and unbolted the drawer. He unlocked a cabinet and unshot the bar across a line of bottles and pulled one from the hole in which it was set.
/>   "This bottle was made in Parolando," de Bergerac said, "and it has journeyed unscathed through many battles and much mishandling by various drunks. It is filled with a particularly good burgundy which has been offered from time to time in various grails and which was not then drunk but put into this bottle to be used for a festive occasion. This occasion is, I believe, festive, though in a rather gruesome spirit."

  He opened another cabinet, and unlocked the indented bar holding a line of lead-glass goblets and took two and set them on the bar.

  His epee was on top of the bar. Burton placed his own on the bar near his right hand. The Frenchman poured the burgundy to the brim, and he lifted his. Burton did likewise.

  "To the dear departed!" he said.

  "To them," Burton said. Both downed a small amount.

  "I am not one for drinking much," de Bergerac said. "Liquor reduces one to the level of the beast, and I like at all times to remember that I am a human being. But . . . this is indeed a special occasion. One more toast, my friend, and then we shall fall to it."

  "To the solution of the mystery of this world," Burton said.

  They drank again.

  Cyrano put his goblet down.

  "Now, Captain Burton of the defunct marines of the defunct Rex. I loathe war and I detest bloodshed, but I do my duty when it must be done. We are both fine fellows, and it would be a shame if one were to die to prove that he is better than the other. Gaining knowledge of the true state of affairs by dying is not recommended by anyone with good sense. Thus, I suggest that he who draws the first blood wins. And if, thanks be to the Creator, who doesn't exist, the first wound is not fatal, the winner will take the other prisoner. And we will then proceed with haste but in an honorable manner to get off this vessel before she sinks."

  "Upon my honor, that is the way it shall be," Burton said.

  "Good! En garde!"

  They saluted and then assumed the classic epee on-guard positions, the left foot at right angles to the right foot and behind it, knees bent, the body turned sidewise to present as small a target as possible, the left arm raised with the upper arm parallel to the ground, the elbow bent so the lower arm was vertical and the hand wrist limp, the right arm lowered and the blade it held forming a straight extension of the arm. The round coquille, or bellguard, in this position, protected the forearm.