by Mick Farren
'I don't know.'
Phaid recounted how Solchaim had appeared at A7H and pulled him out of the crowd of prisoners. He told of his desert encounter with the elaihim and how so many people had taken such an interest in it. All through Phaid's story, Vist-Roxon grew more and more perplexed.
'I have learned that where he is concerned there is no such thing as an accident. You and I may not recognise them as such, but every move he makes is a finely scripted part of his devilish master plan. I wish I had more of my mind left and I could think more clearly . . .'
His voice trailed off and he sat staring into space. After he had remained like that for quite some time, Phaid started to become a little alarmed.
'Vist-Roxon, are you sick or something.'
Vist-Roxon looked up sharply.
'Sick or something? Yes, my young friend, I am sick, sick to my soul at what has become of my country. I mourn for the ruin of my life. I grieve over the damage to my brain that can never be made good. I'm sick right enough, but there's no cure that you can bring.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be. I'm sorry enough for both of us. What we must ponder now is why that creature has had holograms made of you, and then placed you in here with me. You say they had you wear a civilian shirt when the holograms were done?'
'That's right.'
'The elaihi is obviously up to something. Our problem is to fathom out what. From all that you have said he must have detected something inside your mind that is useful to his purpose.'
'It was almost as though he was searching for me.'
'He obviously has need of you.'
'But why me? I'm nothing special.'
'You seem to be underestimating yourself. You do have an alarming capacity for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.'
Phaid frowned. His memory had gone back to his drunken thoughts on the Wospan terrace. What was it about him that he seemed to have been selected to be bounced from one deadly crisis to the next? Vist-Roxon put a hand on his shoulder.
'Don't look so unhappy. There is one consolation in this place. Whatever happens, there's no point in worrying. There's not a damn thing you can do about it.'
Phaid looked curiously at the old man.
'You say that you've been in this place for two and a half years?'
'That's correct.'
'Why didn't either Solchaim or the President simply have you executed?'
Vist-Roxon smiled bitterly.
'That's something else I've given much thought to. It may have just been a cruel whim, or perhaps the devil has future plans for me. Life here is filled with perplexing questions. There is really only one consolation. It would seem that we have plenty of time to think about the answers.'
Over the next four days Phaid did a lot of thinking but no answers readily presented themselves. There were times in his deliberations when he started to wonder if the superhuman powers he and Vist-Roxon were attributing to the elaihi were simply a figment of some collective paranoia. When he reached this stage, however, he remembered the presence of Solchaim in the prison hall and how it had to be admitted that the elaihim were superhuman.
As well as worrying at the problem, Phaid was also starting to become accustomed to his new surroundings. Life with Vist-Roxon was certainly a great improvement on the dog eat dog existence in A7H. The cell was fairly roomy with two beds that were actually quite comfortable by prison standards. Although the place was marked by the same drab starkness as the rest of the White Tower, Vist-Roxon had managed to acquire a fair selection of books. There was even a pack of cards that Phaid used to while away more than one idle, dragging afternoon.
They were in the charge of one elderly guard called Hofster. He was fat, bald and close to retirement. He also had a tendency to sweat, and apparently had little else to do except see that, for a price, Vist-Roxon and now Phaid were as comfortable as possible. The ex-courtier must still have had some influence, and, much more to the point, a source of money from the outside. Each day a bottle of wine or some other small luxury would arrive along with the standard ration packs. Vist-Roxon seemed to take the attitude that Phaid was somehow a guest in his cell, and accordingly shared everything with the younger man on an equal basis.
Hofster was also a constant, if less than accurate, source of information about life on the outside. It appeared that the deadlock between the rebels and those loyal to the President was still being maintained, with the rebels holding the poor northside areas and the loyalists the wealthier city centre.
After the indiscriminate slaughter on the Plaza, increasing numbers of police were deserting and going over to the rebels. Chrystiana-Nex was seemingly only maintaining her position by bringing in large numbers of bought and paid for foreign mercenaries, a practice that, by all accounts, was placing an unbearable strain on an already depleted exchequer.
Both Phaid and Vist-Roxon were agreed that probably their best chance of getting out of the White Tower would be if the rebels took over. Coupled with that, however, was the very real fear that, in her last moments of power, the insane President might order the wholesale slaughter of all the prisoners.
On the fourth day, at least one of the riddles posed by Solchaim was graphically solved. Hofster arrived at the usual time with the usual two ration packs, a bottle of the crisp red Tharmian wine and a flat package. He handed the package to Phaid with a somewhat mysterious smile.
'I thought you might like to have a look at this.'
Phaid tore off the wrapper. Inside was a small display hologram. It was of him, looking a trifle desperate, obviously one of the series taken by Avar. As he looked at it a small loop recording started up.
'The man that you are looking at is a bandit called Phaid. He is a brutal and psychopathic killer with a grudge against humanity in general and members of the Presidential Court in particular. He has so far claimed eleven victims. He must be stopped before he makes the tally up to twelve. A reward of ten thousand tabs will be paid for information leading to his death or capture. If you see him, do not approach him. He is armed and dangerous. Report him to the nearest member of the police or military.'
The message started again. Phaid dropped the display on the floor and stamped on it. It ceased to make a noise.
'This is insane.'
Hofster laughed.
'Somebody seems to think that you're still on the loose. Those things are all over the city. I hear you're quite a hero among the rebels.' Phaid couldn't believe what was happening.
'This is more than insane.'
Vist-Roxon was thoughtful.
'Maybe not. You have obviously been chosen as the object of some kind of propaganda exercise.'
Vist-Roxon had picked up the hologram and was examining the picture. Phaid began to pace the cell as Hofster put down the ration packs and let himself out.
'It simply doesn't make sense. Why should anyone bother putting out phoney wanted posters when I'm locked up in here?'
Vist-Roxon hesitated.
'Well . . . it could make sense.'
Phaid's eyes narrowed.
'What do you mean "could"?'
'I'm not sure I ought to tell you.'
'Tell me what?'
Phaid was now quite alarmed. Vist-Roxon looked as though he wished that he'd never spoken.
'It's only an idea. I don't want you to be needlessly upset.'
'For Lords' sakes, don't keep me dangling. Out with it!'
Vist-Roxon took a deep breath.
'If they wanted to make a big deal out of catching and then executing you, maybe in public, what they are doing makes a kind of perverted sense. It might appeal to Chrystiana-Nex as some sort of demonstration that she has control over the city. You'd be much easier to deal with than a real killer.'
Phaid shook his head. He had turned a little pale.
'But why me? I've never harmed any of them.'
'Why not look on the bright side? You were going to be executed anyway. You really haven't lo
st anything. In fact, you said yourself that being up here with me is a great deal better than being down in one of the halls. In that respect you've actually come out ahead.'
Phaid was not to be consoled. As far as he was concerned, there was no bright side.
'I don't even look all that menacing.'
'I've been wondering about that. I could think of much better choices if they wanted someone to play a homicidal bandit. It would appear to be a question that only the elaihi in the Palace can answer.'
'I don't think I can take much more of this.'
'Maybe that's not what's going to happen. After all, it's only my theory. I could be completely wrong.'
'It all sounds a little too plausible, unpleasantly plausible.'
All through the next week Hofster brought wanted notices on Phaid. As well as different hologram displays there were posters, handbills and flyers. He seemed to be the target of the biggest imaginary man-hunt in the history of the city. Each time Hofster brought a new report of his supposed crimes, the price on his head had gone up. He grew more frightened and depressed. He rarely slept more than a few hours at a time and continually asked why it should be him that had been chosen to be the victim of all this insanity.
Vist-Roxon didn't seem to be able to come up with any answers. Instead, he had become distantly metaphysical. He took to not quite focusing his eyes on Phaid when he spoke to him.
'It could be that the elaihi decided that you were ultimately malleable.'
'Huh?'
Phaid had almost given up listening to Vist-Roxon when he was in this kind of mood.
'I said that it could be that the elaihi decided that you were ultimately malleable.'
'What are you talking about?'
The two men had been cooped up in the cell for long enough to stajt getting on each other's nerves.
'On the other hand, it might be that you stand out because you're almost impossible to control. One thing seems to be for sure. You might not have noticed, but it all keeps coming back to you.'
'You're rambling.'
'Maybe that's the true nature of the hero. He is, at one and the same time, malleable but impossible to control.'
'I'm not a hero.'
'Of course you are. You're the desperate killer, you're the rebel bandit.'
'But all that's a fabrication.'
'Oh yes, I was forgetting.'
'You're losing touch with reality.'
'It comes and goes.'
And thus it came and went. Phaid sank into depression and Vist-Roxon drifted between real time and some private place inside his damaged brain. Over a week went by in this condition and gloom permeated every corner of the cell. The cards and books went untouched as the two men sank deeper inside themselves. This destructive introspection might have gone on, unchecked, for ever if Hofster hadn't arrived with sufficiently startling news to jerk both Phaid and Vist-Roxon back to here and now.
'The Silent Cousins have broken with the President. They're closing down their operations and moving their assets out of the city until there's a government that can guarantee business as usual. Orsine has left for his residence in the mountains.'
Vist-Roxon smiled.
'Orsine is a cunning old wolf. He leaves the city in pretended disgust but stays close enough to be called back to bring order to undoubted chaos that would follow any rebel coup.'
'You think he has a hankering after the presidency?'
'I'm sure he does. Orsine can never be content with second best.'
Vist-Roxon looked questioningly at Hofster.
'Did you hear something else?'
Hofster set down the ration packs, pushed back his cap and settled himself on Phaid's bed.
'Well, needless to say that the smaller mobs have been thrown into a flat spin. They don't know what to do next. With the Cousins shutting up shop, there's no one to give them a lead. From what I hear, they're coming apart at the seams. It's every man for himself and the majority seem to think that their best bet is with the rebels.'
'Or leaving the city altogether. The mercenaries are starting to wonder just how long the President is going to be able to go on paying. They're getting jittery, and they ain't the only ones, I can tell you.'
'What else have you heard?'
'There's the priests.'
'What about the priests?'
'There's rumours going round as to how they're looking for a deal with the rebels.'
Phaid could hardly believe this.
'The priests doing business with the rebels? It doesn't seem possible.'
Vist-Roxon didn't appear in the least surprised.
'It's pretty much true to form. They've seen too many governments rise and fall. One more isn't going to make any difference. They'll accept just about any accommodation with the temporal power if it allows them to keep on running their end of things.' He glanced at Hofster. 'Are they supposed to have met with a favourable response to their overtures?'
Hofster shrugged.
'Who knows with the priests? The general feeling is that they might have got what they wanted if it wasn't for the Day Oners. Those bastards have sworn to hang every last priest and level the temples to the ground. They're not about to stand for any sort of deal.'
Vist-Roxon smiled.
'It's not often that I agree with the Day Oners, the Lords know, but in this instance they're probably absolutely right. Our priesthood is nothing more than a canting band of bloodthirsty perverts.'
Hofster looked outraged.
'That's dangerous talk. I'm telling you, sir, you ought to be a lot more careful.'
Vist-Roxon laughed.
'Dangerous? Don't be silly, Hofster, what else can they do to me?'
Although seemingly accepting Vist-Roxon's logic, Hofster still-looked uncomfortable. He stood up and returned his cap to the regulation position. He seemed to be about to leave. Vist-Roxon put a quick hand on his arm.
'Don't take offence, my old friend. You must have heard other news.'
Hofster didn't sit down again. He continued to stand awkwardly stiff, almost at attention. His voice had also changed. It was no longer conversational. The old guard sounded more like he was delivering a report to a superior.
'Nothing what you'd call specific, sir. No real details. Most of what I've heard has just been gossip and rumour.'
'So what does the gossip and rumour say?'
'The majority seemed to be of the opinion that the deadlock is coming to an end. The rebels are supposed to be about to make their big move. I hope you will remember your promise to look out for me and my family if there is a rebel takeover.'
'I haven't forgotten. I will do all I can . . . provided I survive.'
'Thank you, sir. I'm much obliged to you, sir.'
Hofster gave a kind of half salute and moved to the door with his back uncomfortably rigid. As the door closed behind him, Vist-Roxon smiled sadly.
'I'm afraid I have offended the good Hofster. I never imagined a man could stay religious in a place like this.'
Phaid grunted.
'The priests use barbed hooks. Once they're in, they're very, very hard to get out.'
'You don't trust priests.'
'If anything I trust them less than courtiers. In fact, as long ago as when I was in Fennella, I've had this strange feeling that a spy for the priests is following me. I swear to the Lords, he really seemed as though he was watching me. He was a little guy, face like a lizard. He called himself Dreen. I suppose it could be my imagination, but he just seemed to turn up in too many places, just too regularly for it to be coincidence.'
Vist-Roxon smiled and shook his head as though he despaired of Phaid.
'I've never heard of this man called Dreen. In my experience, the priests' spies only have a limited useful life. It's you that I really wonder about. You have no principles and no morals and without any apparent effort on your part, things happen around you. Wherever you go you seem to become a catalyst, an unwitting, even unwilli
ng catalyst, but a catalyst all the same.'
Phaid didn't like the sound of all this. It was all right for him, in moments of self pity, to have decided that he had to be somehow cursed. He didn't like to hear it from someone else.
'You're getting this way out of proportion. The trouble with you, old man, is that you think too much.'
The next forty-eight hours proved to be too eventful for either man to sink back into gloomy introspection. Hofster seemed to have recovered from his hurt religious principles. At every opportunity that he had, he'd slip into the cell with the latest story from the outside.
As predicted, the rebels had at last made their move. They were closing the ring. Phaid wondered how Street-life was faring now that the revolution was hotting up.
As the rebels moved into the centre of the city they were meeting little more than token resistance. Many of the mercenaries were refusing to fight until they were paid in hard currency. Chrystiana-Nex had attempted to pay the units in a section of the city with letters of promise. These mercenaries had immediately withdrawn their services and allowed the rebels to move around their positions completely unchallenged.
The only real fighting was with the few, still loyal police, the fanatics of the Palace Guard and small squads of mercenaries who had been directly hired and paid by individual courtiers. Of the three groups, only the do or die guards were slowing down the rebel advance, the police were too few in number and too demoralised to be anything like effective while the courtiers' hired help were more conerned with facilitating their employers' escapes than defending the city.
As the ring inexorably closed, tension in the White Tower mounted. Both guards and prisoners realised that if Chrystiana-Nex decided that her reign was going to end in a welter of destruction, it could start right there at any moment. Some guards walked around with weapons at the ready, moving as though every noise and shadow was a warning of mortal danger. Others were busy making offers to the prisoners for protection if and when the rebels stormed the prison.
On the end of this second day of the new phase of revolt, Hofster delivered the ration packs quite a bit later than usual.
'It's chaos down in stores. Everything that isn't nailed down is being stolen. Nobody knows whether they're coming or going. Also, there's no wine. The whole city seems to be paralysed.'