Worlds of Exile and Illusion: Rocannon's World, Planet of Exile, City of Illusions

by Ursula K. Le Guin

  Rocannon, whose friends had been killed without warning in an unarmed ship, did not hesitate. “May they die without sons,” he said, and drank with Mogien, there in the yellow light of rushlights and double moon, in the High Tower of Hallan.

  II

  BY EVENING of the second day Rocannon was stiff and windburned, but had learned to sit easy in the high saddle and to guide with some skill the great flying beast from Hallan stables. Now the pink air of the long, slow sunset stretched above and beneath him, levels of rose-crystal light. The windsteeds were flying high to stay as long as they could in sunlight, for like great cats they loved warmth. Mogien on his black hunter—a stallion, would you call it, Rocannon wondered, or a tom?—was looking down, seeking a camping place, for windsteeds would not fly in darkness. Two midmen soared behind on smaller white mounts, pink-winged in the after-glow of the great sun Fomalhaut.

  “Look there, Starlord!”

  Rocannon’s steed checked and snarled, seeing what Mogien was pointing to: a little black object moving low across the sky ahead of them, dragging behind it through the evening quiet a faint rattling noise. Rocannon gestured that they land at once. In the forest glade where they alighted, Mogien asked, “Was that a ship like yours, Starlord?”

  “No. It was a planet-bound ship, a helicopter. It could only have been brought here on a ship much larger than mine was, a starfrigate or a transport. They must be coming here in force. And they must have started out before I did. What are they doing here anyhow, with bombers and helicopters? . . . They could shoot us right out of the sky from a long way off. We’ll have to watch out for them, Lord Mogien.”

  “The thing was flying up from the Clayfields. I hope they were not there before us.”

  Rocannon only nodded, heavy with anger at the sight of that black spot on the sunset, that roach on a clean world. Whoever these people were that had bombed an unarmed Survey ship at sight, they evidently meant to survey this planet and take it over for colonization or for some military use. The High-Intelligence Life Forms of the planet, of which there were at least three species, all of low technological achievement, they would ignore or enslave or extirpate, whichever was most convenient. For to an aggressive people only technology mattered.

  And there, Rocannon said to himself as he watched the midmen unsaddle the windsteeds and loose them for their night’s hunting, right there perhaps was the League’s own weak spot. Only technology mattered. The two missions to this world in the last century had started pushing one of the species toward a pre-atomic technology before they had even explored the other continents or contacted all intelligent races. He had called a halt to that, and had finally managed to bring his own Ethnographic Survey here to learn something about the planet; but he did not fool himself. Even his work here would finally have served only as an informational basis for encouraging technological advance in the most likely species or culture. This was how the League of All Worlds prepared to meet its ultimate enemy. A hundred worlds had been trained and armed, a thousand more were being schooled in the uses of steel and wheel and tractor and reactor. But Rocannon the hilfer, whose job was learning, not teaching, and who had lived on quite a few backward worlds, doubted the wisdom of staking everything on weapons and the uses of machines. Dominated by the aggressive, tool-making humanoid species of Centaurus, Earth, and the Cetians, the League had slighted certain skills and powers and potentialities of intelligent life, and judged by too narrow a standard.

  This world, which did not even have a name yet beyond Fomalhaut II, would probably never get much attention paid to it, for before the League’s arrival none of its species seemed to have got beyond the lever and the forge. Other races on other worlds could be pushed ahead faster, to help when the extra-galactic enemy returned at last. No doubt this was inevitable. He thought of Mogien offering to fight a fleet of lightspeed bombers with the swords of Hallan. But what if lightspeed or even FTL bombers were very much like bronze swords, compared to the weapons of the Enemy? What if the weapons of the Enemy were things of the mind? Would it not be well to learn a little of the different shapes minds come in, and their powers? The League’s policy was too narrow; it led to too much waste, and now evidently it had led to rebellion. If the storm brewing on Faraday ten years ago had broken, it meant that a young League world, having learned war promptly and been armed, was now out to carve its own empire from the stars.

  He and Mogien and the two dark-haired servants gnawed hunks of good hard bread from the kitchens of Hallan, drank yellow vaskan from a skin flask, and soon settled to sleep. Very high all around their small fire stood the trees, dark branches laden with sharp, dark, closed cones. In the night a cold, fine rain whispered through the forest. Rocannon pulled the feathery herilo-fur bedroll up over his head and slept all the long night in the whisper of the rain. The windsteeds came back at daybreak, and before sunrise they were aloft again, windriding toward the pale lands near the gulf where the Clayfolk dwelt.

  Landing about noon in a field of raw clay, Rocannon and the two servants, Raho and Yahan, looked about blankly, seeing no sign of life. Mogien said with the absolute confidence of his caste, “They’ll come.”

  And they came: the squat hominoids Rocannon had seen in the museum years ago, six of them, not much taller than Rocannon’s chest or Mogien’s belt. They were naked, a whitish-gray color like their clay-fields, a singularly earthy-looking lot. When they spoke, they were uncanny; for there was no telling which one spoke; it seemed they all did, but with one harsh voice. Partial colonial telepathy, Rocannon recalled from the Handbook, and looked with increased respect at the ugly little men with their rare gift. His three tall companions evinced no such feeling. They looked grim.

  “What do the Angyar and the servants of the Angyar wish in the field of the Lords of Night?” one of the Claymen, or all of them, was or were asking in the Common Tongue, an Angyar dialect used by all species.

  “I am the Lord of Hallan,” said Mogien, looking gigantic. “With me stands Rokanan, master of stars and the ways between the night, servant of the League of All Worlds, guest and friend of the Kinfolk of Hallan. High honor is due him! Take us to those fit to parley with us. There are words to be spoken, for soon there will be snow in warmyear and winds blowing backward and trees growing upside down!” The way the Angyar talked was a real pleasure, Rocannon thought, though its tact was not what struck you.

  The Claymen stood about in dubious silence. “Truly this is so?” they or one of them asked at last.

  “Yes, and the sea will turn to wood, and stones will grow toes! Take us to your chiefs, who know what a Starlord is, and waste no time!”

  More silence. Standing among the little troglodytes, Rocannon had an uneasy sense as of mothwings brushing past his ears. A decision was being reached.

  “Come,” said the Claymen aloud, and led off across the sticky field. They gathered hurriedly around a patch of earth, stooped, then stood aside, revealing a hole in the ground and a ladder sticking out of it: the entrance to the Domain of Night.

  While the midmen waited aboveground with the steeds, Mogien and Rocannon climbed down the ladder into a cave-world of crossing, branching tunnels cut in the clay and lined with coarse cement, electric-lighted, smelling of sweat and stale food. Padding on flat gray feet behind them, the guards took them to a half-lit, round chamber like a bubble in a great rock stratum, and left them there alone.

  They waited. They waited longer.

  Why the devil had the first surveys picked these people to encourage for League membership? Rocannon had a perhaps unworthy explanation: those first surveys had been from cold Centaurus, and the explorers had dived rejoicing into the caves of the Gdemiar, escaping the blinding floods of light and heat from the great A-3 sun. To them, sensible people lived underground on a world like this. To Rocannon, the hot white sun and the bright nights of quadruple moonlight, the intense weather-changes and ceaseless winds, the rich air and light gravity that permitted so many airborne species, were all
not only compatible but enjoyable. But, he reminded himself, just by that he was less well qualified than the Centaurans to judge these cave-folk. They were certainly clever. They were also telepathic—a power much rarer and much less well understood than electricity—but the first surveys had not made anything of that. They had given the Gdemiar a generator and a lock-drive ship and some math and some pats on the back, and left them. What had the little men done since? He asked a question along this line of Mogien.

  The young lord, who had certainly never see anything but a candle or a resin-torch in his life, glanced without the least interest at the electric light-bulb over his head. “They have always been good at making things,” he said, with his extraordinary, straightforward arrogance.

  “Have they made new sorts of things lately?”

  “We buy our steel swords from the Clayfolk; they had smiths who could work steel in my grandfather’s time; but before that I don’t know. My people have lived a long time with Clayfolk, suffering them to tunnel beneath our border-lands, trading them silver for their swords. They are said to be rich, but forays on them are tabu. Wars between two breeds are evil matters—as you know. Even when my grandfather Durhal sought his wife here, thinking they had stolen her, he would not break the tabu to force them to speak. They will neither lie nor speak truth if they can help it. We do not love them, and they do not love us; I think they remember old days before the tabu. They are not brave.”

  A mighty voice boomed out behind their backs: “Bow down before the presence of the Lords of Night!” Rocannon had his hand on his lasergun and Mogien both hands on his sword-hilts as they turned; but Rocannon immediately spotted the speaker set in the curving wall, and murmured to Mogien, “Don’t answer.”

  “Speak, O strangers in the Caverns of the Nightlords!” The sheer blare of sound was intimidating, but Mogien stood there without a blink, his high-arching eyebrows indolently raised. Presently he said, “Now you’ve windridden three days, Lord Rokanan, do you begin to see the pleasure of it?”

  “Speak and you shall be heard!”

  “I do. And the striped steed goes light as the west wind in warm-year,” Rocannon said, quoting a compliment overheard at table in the Revelhall.

  “He’s of very good stock.”

  “Speak! You are heard!”

  They discussed windsteed-breeding while the wall bellowed at them. Eventually two Claymen appeared in the tunnel. “Come,” they said stolidly. They led the strangers through further mazes to a very neat little electric-train system, like a giant but effective toy, on which they rode several miles more at a good clip, leaving the clay tunnels for what appeared to be a limestone-cave area. The last station was at the mouth of a fiercely-lighted hall, at the far end of which three troglodytes stood waiting on a dais. At first, to Rocannon’s shame as an ethnologist, they all looked alike. As Chinamen had to the Dutch, as Russians had to the Centaurans. . . . Then he picked out the individuality of the central Clayman, whose face was lined, white, and powerful under an iron crown.

  “What does the Starlord seek in the Caverns of the Mighty?”

  The formality of the Common Tongue suited Rocannon’s need precisely as he answered, “I had hoped to come as a guest to these caverns, to learn the ways of the Nightlords and see the wonders of their making. I hope yet to do so. But ill doings are afoot and I come now in haste and need. I am an officer of the League of All Worlds. I ask you to bring me to the starship which you keep as a pledge of the League’s confidence in you.”

  The three stared impassively. The dais put them on a level with Rocannon; seen thus on a level, their broad, ageless faces and rock-hard eyes were impressive. Then, grotesquely, the left-hand one spoke in Pidgin-Galactic: “No ship,” he said.

  “There is a ship.”

  After a minute the one repeated ambiguously, “No ship.”

  “Speak the Common Tongue. I ask your help. There is an enemy to the League on this world. It will be your world no longer if you admit that enemy.”

  “No ship,” said the left-hand Clayman. The other two stood like stalagmites.

  “Then must I tell the other Lords of the League that the Clayfolk have betrayed their trust, and are unworthy to fight in the War To Come?”

  Silence.

  “Trust is on both sides, or neither,” the iron-crowned Clayman in the center said in the Common Tongue.

  “Would I ask your help if I did not trust you? Will you do this at least for me: send the ship with a message to Kerguelen? No one need ride it and lose the years; it will go itself.”

  Silence again.

  “No ship,” said the left-hand one in his gravel voice.

  “Come, Lord Mogien,” said Rocannon, and turned his back on them.

  “Those who betray the Starlords,” said Mogien in his clear arrogant voice, “betray older pacts. You made our swords of old, Clayfolk. They have not got rusty.” And he strode out beside Rocannon, following the stumpy gray guides who led them in silence back to the railway, and through the maze of dank, glaring corridors, and up at last into the light of day.

  They windrode a few miles west to get clear of Clayfolk territory, and landed on the bank of a forest river to take counsel.

  Mogien felt he had let his guest down; he was not used to being thwarted in his generosity, and his self-possession was a little shaken. “Cave-grubs,” he said. “Cowardly vermin! They will never say straight out what they have done or will do. All the Small Folk are like that, even the Fiia. But the Fiia can be trusted. Do you think the Clayfolk gave the ship to the enemy?”

  “How can we tell?”

  “I know this: they would give it to no one unless they were paid its price twice over. Things, things—they think of nothing but heaping up things. What did the old one mean, trust must be on both sides?”

  “I think he meant that his people feel that we—the League—betrayed them. First we encourage them, then suddenly for forty-five years we drop them, send them no messages, discourage their coming, tell them to look after themselves. And that was my doing, though they don’t know it. Why should they do me a favor, after all? I doubt they’ve talked with the enemy yet. But it would make no difference if they did bargain away the ship. The enemy could do even less with it than I could have done.” Rocannon stood looking down at the bright river, his shoulders stooped.

  “Rokanan,” said Mogien, for the first time speaking to him as to a kinsman, “near this forest live my cousins of Kyodor, a strong castle, thirty Angyar swordsmen and three villages of midmen. They will help us punish the Clayfolk for their insolence—”

  “No.” Rocannon spoke heavily. “Tell your people to keep an eye on the Clayfolk, yes; they might be bought over by this enemy. But there will be no tabus broken or wars fought on my account. There is no point to it. In times like this, Mogien, one man’s fate is not important.”

  “If it is not,” said Mogien, raising his dark face, “what is?”

  “Lords,” said the slender young midman Yahan, “someone’s over there among the trees.” He pointed across the river to a flicker of color among the dark conifers.

  “Fiia!” said Mogien. “Look at the windsteeds.” All four of the big beasts were looking across the river, ears pricked.

  “Mogien Hallanlord walks the Fiia’s ways in friendship!” Mogien’s voice rang over the broad, shallow, clattering water, and presently in mixed light and shadow under the trees on the other shore a small figure appeared. It seemed to dance a little as spots of sunlight played over it making it flicker and change, hard to keep the eyes on. When it moved, Rocannon thought it was walking on the surface of the river, so lightly it came, not stirring the sunlit shallows. The striped windsteed rose and stalked softly on thick, hollow-boned legs to the water’s edge. As the Fian waded out of the water the big beast bowed its head, and the Fian reached up and scratched the striped, furry ears. Then he came toward them.

  “Hail Mogien Halla’s heir, sunhaired, swordbearer!” The voice was thin and sweet
as a child’s, the figure short and light as a child’s, but it was no child’s face. “Hail Hallan-guest, Starlord, Wanderer!” Strange, large, light eyes turned for a moment full on Rocannon.

  “The Fiia know all names and news,” said Mogien, smiling; but the little Fian did not smile in response. Even to Rocannon, who had only briefly visited one village of the species with the Survey team, this was startling.

  “O Starlord,” said the sweet, shaking voice, “who rides the windships that come and kill?”

  “Kill—your people?”

  “All my village,” the little man said. “I was with the flocks out on the hills. I mindheard my people call, and I came, and they were in the flames burning and crying out. There were two ships with turning wings. They spat out fire. Now I am alone and must speak aloud. Where my people were in my mind there is only fire and silence. Why was this done, Lords?”

  He looked from Rocannon to Mogien. Both were silent. He bent over like a man mortally hurt, crouching, and hid his face.

  Mogien stood over him, his hands on the hilts of his swords, shaking with anger. “Now I swear vengeance on those who harmed the Fiia! Rokanan, how can this be? The Fiia have no swords, they have no riches, they have no enemy! Look, his people are all dead, those he speaks to without words, his tribesmen. No Fian lives alone. He will die alone. Why would they harm his people?”

  “To make their power known,” Rocannon said harshly. “Let us bring him to Hallan, Mogien.”

  The tall lord knelt down by the little crouching figure. “Fian, man’s-friend, ride with me. I cannot speak in your mind as your kinsmen spoke, but air-borne words are not all hollow.”

  In silence they mounted, the Fian riding the high saddle in front of Mogien like a child, and the four steeds rose up again on the air. A rainy south wind favored their flight, and late the next day under the beating of his steed’s wing Rocannon saw the marble stairway up through the forest, the Chasmbridge across the green abyss, and the towers of Hallan in the long western light.