No identification, or serial number-or any other indication where it had been manufactured. And it was pretty obvious why. If the League agents succeeded in getting their hands on one of these it would be impossible to trace it back to the planet of origin. The gun was small in size, about halfway between a rifle and a pistol. I can claim some acquaintance with small arms-1 am an honored member of the Pearly Gates Gun Club and Barbecue Society because I am a pretty good shot and helped them win tournaments-but I had never seen anything like this before. I looked into the muzzle. It was about .30 calibre, and unusually enough it was a smoothbore. It had a pen, iron sights, a trigger with safety button, one other lever on the stock. I turned this and the gun broke in half and a handful of small cartridges fell to the ground. I looked at one closely and began to understand how the gun worked.
"Neat. No lands or grooves so there is no worry about keeping the barrel clean. Instead of rotating, the bullet has fins to keep it in straight flight. And, uggh, make a nastier hole in anyone it hits. And no cartridge case either- this is solid propellent. Does away with all the worries about ejecting the brass." I peeked into the chamber. "Efficient and foolproof. Push your cartridges into the recessed stock. When it's full put one more into the chamber. Close and lock. A little solar screen here to keep a battery charged. Pull the trigger, a spot in the chamber glows hot and ignites the charge. The expanding gas shoots out the bullet-while part of the gas is diverted to ram the next bullet into the chamber. Rugged, almost foolproof, cheap to make. And deadly."
Depressed and tired, I lay the gun beside me, dropped the sword close to hand, lay back on the blanket and followed Dreng's good example.
By dawn we were slept out and slightly hungover. Dreng brought me water, then handed over a strip of what looked like smoked leather. He took one himself and began chewing on it industriously. Breakfast in bed-the greatest! I bit my piece and almost broke a tooth. It not only resembled smoked leather, but tasted exactly like it as well.
By the time that the drawbridge clanked down for the day we were lying in a copse on the hill above it, as close as we could get. It was the nearest cover that we could find since, for pretty obvious reasons, all the trees and shrubs had been cleared away from the approaches to the gate. It wasn't as near as I liked, but would have to do. But it was far too close for Dreng for I could feel him shivering at my side. The first thing to emerge from the gate was a small body of armed men, followed by four slaves dragging a cart.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Tax collecting. Getting in their share of the crops."
"We've now seen who comes out-but do any of your farmers ever go in?"
"Madness and death! Never!"
"What about selling them food."
"They take all they want from us."
"Do you sell them firewood?"
"They steal what they need."
They had a pretty one-sided economy, I thought gloomily. But I had to come up with something-I just couldn't leave The Bishop as a slave in this dismal place. My cogitation was interrupted by a commotion inside the gate. Then, as though my thoughts had coalesced into reality, a figure burst out of the gate, knocking aside the guard there, rushing on.
The Bishop!
Running fast. But right behind him were the pursuing guards.
"Take this and follow me!" I shouted, jamming the hilt of the sword into Dreng's hand. Then I was off down the slope as fast as I could go, shouting to draw their attention. They ignored me until I fired a shot over their heads.
Things got pretty busy after that. The guards slowed, one even dived to the ground and put his hands over his head. The Bishop pelted on-but one of his pursuers was right behind him, swinging a long pike. Catching The Bishop on the back and knocking him down. I fired again as I ran, jumped over The Bishop and felled the pikeman with the butt of my gun.
"Up the hill!" I called out when I saw that The Bishop was struggling to his feet, blood all over his back. I banged off two more shots, then turned to help him. And saw that Dreng was clutching the sword-but still lying on top of the hill.
"Get down here and help him or I'll kill you myselfT I shouted, turning and firing again. I hadn't hit anyone but I was sure keeping their heads down. The Bishop stumbled on and Dreng, having plumbed some deep well of decency-or in fear that I would kill him-was coming to our aid. Shots were whistling past us now so I spun and returned their fire.
We reached the top of the low hill, went over it towards the relative safety of the woods. Dreng and I half carried the great form of The Bishop as he stumbled and staggered. I took a quick-and reassuring-look at his back. There was a shallow cut there, nothing too bad. Our pursuers were still not in sight when we crashed through the bushes and reached the safety of the trees.
"Dreng-lead us out of here. They mustn't catch us now!"
Surprisingly enough they didn't The farm lad must have played in these woods for all of his young life because he knew every track and path. But it was hard work. We staggered on, then struggled our way along a steep grassy slope with a few miserable bushes halfway up. Dreng pulled the bushes aside to reveal the entrance to a shallow cave.
"Chased a Furry in here once. No one else knows about it."
The entrance was low and it was a labor to pull The Bishop through. But once inside, the cave opened out and there was more than enough space to sit up, although it wasn't high enough to stand. I took one of the blankets and spread it out, then rolled The Bishop onto it so that he lay on his side. He groaned. His face was filthy and bruised. He had not an easy time of it. Then he looked towards me and smiled.
"Thank you, my boy. I knew you would be there."
"You did? That's more than I knew."
"Nonsense. But, quickly please, the . . ."
He writhed and moaned and his body arched into the air with unbearable pain. The paincuff-1 had forgotten about it! And it was receiving a continuous signal, certain death.
Haste makes waste. So I controlled my anxiety and slowly slipped off my right shoe, opened the compartment, and seized the lockpick firmly in my fingers. Bent over, inserted it-and the cuff sprang open. Pain lanced through my hand, numbing it, as I threw the thing aside.
The Bishop was unconscious and breathing heavily. There was nothing more I could do except sit and wait.
"Your sword," Dreng said, holding it out to me.
"You take care of it for awhile. If you think you are up to it?"
He lowered his eyes and trembled again. "I want to be a fighter, but I am so afraid. I could not move to help you."
"But you did-finally. Remember that. There isn't a person alive who has not been afraid at one time or another. It is only the brave man who can feel fear and still go forward. "
"A noble thought, young man," the deep voice said. "And one that you should always remember."
The Bishop had regained consciousness and was smiling a wan smile.
"Now, Jim, as I was saying before they turned on their little machine, I was certain that you would be here this morning. You were free-and I knew that you would not leave me alone in that wicked place. There was an immense hue and cry when you escaped, with abundant to-ing and fro-ing until the gate was closed for the night. It was obvious that it would be impossible for you to come then. But with dawn the gate would be opened and I had not the slightest doubt that you were sure to be close by, trying to find a way to get to me. Simple logic. So I simplified the equation by coming to you."
"Very simple! You almost got yourself killed."
"But I didn't. And we are both safely away from them. Plus I see that you have managed to enlist an ally, A good day's work. Now the important question. What do we do next?"
What indeed?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"As to what we do next-the answer is obvious," I said. "We stay here until the excitement has died down. Which should happen fairly quickly since there is not much market value in a dead slave."
"But I feel remarkably heal
thy."
"You have forgotten that the paincuff will kill if used continuously. So, when our way is clear we head for the nearest habitation and dress your wound."
"It is bloody, but can't be more than a scratch."
"Sepsis and infection. We take care of the cut first." I turned to Dreng. "Any farmers you know who live close to this place?"
"No, but the widow Apfeltree is just over the hill, past the dead tree, through the end of the swamp. . . ."
"Great. Show us the way, don't tell." I turned back to The Bishop. "And after we fix your back, then what?"
"After that, Jim, we join the army. Since you are now a mercenary, that is the proper thing to do. An army will be based in a keep, and there will be a locked room in that keep where all the groats are stored. While you practice your military profession I shall, as the expression goes, case the joint. In order to further this noble work of ours I have one particular army in mind for you. The one that serves the Campo Dimonte."
"Not Capo Dimonte!" Dreng wailed, clutching his hair with both hands. "He is evil beyond measure, eats a child for breakfast every day, has all of his furniture upholstered in human skin, drinks from the skull of his first wife . . ."
"Enough," The Bishop ordered, and Dreng was stilled. "It is obvious that he does not have a good press here in the Capote of Doccia. That is because he is the sworn enemy of Capo Doccia and goes to war against him periodically. I am sure that he is no worse-or better-than any other capo. But he does have one advantage. He is our enemy's enemy. "
"So hopefully our friend. Right. I owe old Doccia one and I look forward to paying it back. "
"You should not bear grudges, Jim. It dulls the vision and interferes with your career. Which should now be grabbing groats not wreaking vengeance. "
I nodded agreement. "Of course. But while you are planning the heist there is no reason why I can't enjoy a bit of revenge. "
I could see that he disapproved of my emotions-but I could not attain his Olympian detachment. A weakness of youth, perhaps. I changed the subject. "After we empty the treasury, then what?"
"We find out how the locals are contacting the off-planet smugglers, like the Venians. With the obvious aim of leaving this backward and deadly world as soon as possible. In order to do that we may have to get religion." He chuckled at my shocked expression. "Like you, my boy, I am a Scientific Humanist and feel no need for the aid of the supernatural. But here on Spiovente what technology there is seems to be in the hands of an order called the Black Monks. . . ."
"No, stay away!" Dreng wailed; he was certainly a source of bad news. "They know Things that Drive Men Mad. From their workshops all forms of unnatural devices pour forth. Machines that scream and grunt, that talk through the skies, the paincuffs as well. Avoid them, master, I beg of you!"
"What our young friend has decried is true," The Bishop said. "Minus the fear of the unknown, of course. Through some process that is not relevant now all of technology on this world became concentrated in the hands of this order, the Black Monks. I have no idea what their religious affiliations are-if any-but they do supply and repair the machines that we have seen. This gives them a certain protection, since if one capo were to attack them the others would rush to their defense to insure their continued access to the metallic fruits of technology. It is to them that we may have to turn for salvation and exodus."
"I second the motion and it is carried by acclamation: Join the army, whip as many groats as we can, contact the smugglers-and buy our way out."
Dreng gaped at all the long words, drooling a bit at the same time. He obviously followed little of what we discussed. Action was more his style. He made a silent exit on a scouting trip and an even more slithery return. No one was about, our way was clear. The Bishop could walk now, with a little aid from us, and the widow's house was not too distant. Even with Dreng's reassurances she was trembling with fear when she admitted us to her hovel.
"Guns and swords. Murder and death. I'm doomed, doomed. "
Despite her muttering, punctuated by the smacking of her toothless gums, she followed my instructions and put a pot of water over the fire. I cut a strip of cloth from my blanket, boiled it clean, then used it to wash The Bishop's wound. It was shallow but deep. The widow was persuaded to part with some of her store of moonshine and The Bishop shuddered, but did not cry out, when I poured it into the open cut. Hoping the alcohol content was high enough to act as an antiseptic. I used more boiled blanket as a bandage-which was about all that I could do.
"Excellent, James, excellent," he said, gingerly pulling his sliced jacket over his shoulders. "Your years in the Boy Sprouts were obviously not wasted. Now let us thank the good widow and leave since it is obvious that she is upset by our presence."
Leave we did, strolling the open, rut-filled road, every footstep taking us farther away from Capo Doccia. Dreng was a good provider, drifting off into orchards for fruit, or rooting out edible tubers from the fields we passed, even digging them up under the noses of the rightful owners. Who only touched their forelocks at the sight of my weapons. It is a nasty world that only respects bullies. For the first time I began to appreciate the better qualities of the League worlds.
It was late afternoon when the walls of the keep loomed up before us. This place had a little more style than Doccias, or at least it looked that way from a distance, because it was situated on an island in a lake. A causeway and drawbridge connected it to the mainland. Dreng was shaking with fear again and was more than happy to stay on the shore with The Bishop while I braved the dangers of the keep. I strode militarily along the stone causeway, then stamped over the bridge. The two guards eyed me with open suspicion.
"Good morn, brothers," I called out cheerfully, gun on shoulder, sword in hand, gut in and chest out. "Is this the establishment of the Capo Dimonte, known the length and breadth of the land for his charm and strength of arm?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I do. An armed and powerful soldier who wishes to enlist in his noble service."
"Your choice, brother, your choice," he said with obvious gloom. "Through the gate, across the courtyard, third door on your right, ask for Sire Srank." He leaned close and whispered. "For three groats I'll give you a tip."
"Done."
"So pay."
"Shortly. I'm a little skint right now."
"You must be-if you want to hire out to this lot. All right, five then, in five days." I nodded agreement. "He'll offer you very little, but don't settle for less than two groats a day."
"Thanks for the credit. I'll get back to you." I swaggered through the gate and found the right door. It was open to admit the last light, and a fat man with a bald head was scratching away at some papers. He looked up when my shadow fell across the table.
"Get out here," he shouted, scratching his head so hard that a shower of dandruff sparkled in the sunbeam. "I've told you all, no groats until morning after next."
"I've not enlisted yet--nor will I if that's the way you pay the troops. "
"Sorry, good stranger, sun in my eyes. Come in, come in. Enlist? Of course. Gun and sword-and ammunition?"
"Some."
"Wonderful." His hands rustled when he dry-washed them. "Food for you and your knave and a groat a day."
"Two a day and all ammunition used to be replaced."
He scowled-then shrugged and scratched one of the sheets and pushed it over to me. "A one-year enlistment, salary open to review at end of contract. Since you can't read or write I hope you can manage to scratch your illiterate X down here."
"I can read so well I see that you have me down for four years, which I will now correct before I sign." Which I did, writing Judge Nixon's name on the line, knowing full well that I would be leaving well before my enlistment was up. "I'll get my knave who awaits without, along with my aged father. "
"No extra food for poor relations!" he snarled generously. "You share yours."
"Agreed," I said. "You're all heart." I went back t
o the gate and waved my companions over.
"You owe me," the guard said.
"I'll pay you-when that scrofulous toad pays me."
He grunted agreement. "If you think he's bad-wait until you meet Capo Dimonte. I wouldn't be hanging around this damp dump if it weren't for the loot bonus." They were coming on slowly. The Bishop half dragging the reluctant Dreng.
"Loot bonus? Paying out soon?"
"Soon as the fighting is over. We march tomorrow."
"Against Capo Doccia?"
"No such luck. The word is that he is loaded with jewels and golden groats and more. Be nice to share in that haul. But not this time. All they have told us is that we are heading north. Must be a surprise attack on someone, probably a friend, and they don't want word to leak out That's good thinking. Catch them with their drawbridge down and it's half the battle."
I pondered this bit of military wisdom as I led my small band in the indicated direction. The soldier's quarters, while not. something to put in a travel brochure, were certainly a cut above the slave quarters. Wooden bunks with straw mattresses for the fighting men--some straw under the bunk for the knave. I would have to make some arrangements for The Bishop, but I was sure that bribery would take care of that. We sat together on the bunk while Dreng went to find the kitchen. "How is the back?" I asked.
"Sore, but only a small bother. I'll take bit of a rest, then begin a survey of the layout. . . ."
"In the morning will be time enough. It has been a long couple of days."
"Agreed. And here is your knave with the food!" It was a hot stew with fragments of some nameless bird bobbing in it. Had to be a bird; the feathers were still attached. We divided the stew into three equal portions and wolfed it down. All this fresh air and walking was certainly good for the appetite. There was also a ration of sour wine which neither I nor The Bishop could stomach. Not so Dreng, who slurped and smacked his way through it in moments. Then rolled under the bunk and began to snore raucously.
The Stainless Steel Rat is Born Page 16