Yet it was neither this picture, nor the many others marching along the walls and ceiling, inlaid upon the floor, which had taken the Helvetian’s breath. This couldn’t be one of the crablike vehicles—as huge as they’d been—which he’d seen upon the meadow! From one dim-lit end of the passageway he’d entered to another, brilliant-lit, toward which the arms-men prodded him now, at least five of those machines could have nestled, one after the other, nose to tail!
The helmetless messenger had backed himself against the garish corridor wall opposite Fireclaw’s guard-flanked door. Having issued the summons to an audience, he now started toward the bright-lit end of the passageway, inviting Fireclaw to follow.
Fireclaw strode between the guards, taking a long step to catch up. As he did so, the guard to the left of the door wheeled even with the other, where both, in Fireclaw’s presumption, would walk behind the giant Helvetian and the messenger.
For the briefest of moments, as they turned, the peculiar, slotted muzzles of their weapons crossed, a finger’s width apart. Fireclaw’s left hand snapped out, seizing both weapons by their barrels, wrenching them from the shocked grasp of their owners.
“Escorting dangerous prisoners,” he advised with false solemnity, “is that serious an undertaking.”
Breaking into a grin, he tossed the weapons at the messenger with a casual wrist-flip.
“Your minions’d best be better trained for it in future.”
The alarmed messenger fumbled to keep from dropping both guns. The scrap of paper he’d been reading from fluttered to the inlaid floor. Fireclaw stood with his arms folded before his chest. His point had been made: he was naught here save a willing guest. He wished he could see the expressions behind the helmet visors.
When, after an awkward moment, their confiscated weapons had been returned to them, the guards—stiffer-postured than before—took up positions to the rear of the other pair. All four proceeded toward the light, Fireclaw taking deeper strides than usual so that his shorter-legged escort, losing dignity with every pace, was half compelled to run behind him. It was a long walk, during which Fireclaw revised his estimate of how many of the alien land-vehicles might have fit within whatever structure they now occupied.
Eight perhaps, maybe ten.
The deep, enveloping throbbing never ceased, never altered pitch nor volume.
For five whole minutes they strode along a polished floor embellished with pictorial representations of the painful and protracted deaths of thousands of individuals, which the walls and ceilings multiplied fourfold again. The hideous, decorated corridor grew brighter, widening until they traveled the long length of a half-cylinder, the walls upon either side stepped back, curving upward from what was, in comparison, a narrow floor, to a wide, flat ceiling above their heads.
Upon the many steps there were arranged a myriad of curious objects: animal and human statuary, garish and obscenely painted; idols of rough stone and polished metal, some with far more arms or heads—or other organs—than seemed natural to the man; lacquered cabinets; ornate Z-folded screenery; other exotic furnishings; a thousand mechanical devices, black and gleaming, whose origins and purposes Fireclaw could but guess at, and with little confidence his guesses were correct.
They halted, between the upcurved walls and flattened ceiling overhead, fifty paces short of the shadowless interior of a glaring quarter-sphere of many-paned windows. It was the bottom quarter of a sphere, the warrior observed, providing a broad-angled view of what was forward and beneath the enormous chamber.
The glass (if that was what it was) had been arranged like spaces between the webbing of some nightmarish spider. If ’twere afternoon, as Fireclaw believed, the quarter-dome they occupied was facing westward. The vehicle—for such was what it now proved to be—was traveling in that direction, at great speed, and at such a dizzying height that the wild, many-folded land visible below appeared as nothing more than heaps of sand within a child’s sandbox.
They were flying!
At the center of the web reposed a figure equally nightmarish. It half reclined upon a great chair, carven from a single slab of some translucent green stone. This was suspended, by a system of taut wires, several feet higher then Fireclaw’s head.
“Step forward, Sedrich Fireclaw,” a voice commanded. “The windows will sustain your weight.”
Fireclaw heard motion behind him. He glanced backward. His erstwhile escort had stepped forward, intending to prod him into obedience. He glowered at them and they shrank back, cowed. He turned his attention back to the figure before him.
’Twas human. He could have no doubt of this. Also male—although the object which reposed between its naked thighs was artificial, leathern, a grotesque caricature of what ought to be there. Aside from this, and from the mop of colored feathers about its base, with narrow straps which held the ugly object about its waist, the figure was unclothed—that of a wiry, athletic, well-muscled brown man—save for its jeweled and lacquered fingernails, each of them a handspan in length and curled back disgustingly upon themselves, and for the helmet concealing its head. A drapery of some sort, woven of tiny scarlet feathers, had been allowed to fall upon the chairseat behind the figure, enveloping the buttocks.
A small, T-handled dagger hung upon the leather straps at either hip.
The helmet was not unlike those affected by the guardsmen, save that it seemed to have been fashioned of fine-beaten, polished gold. Instead of having been wrought in the likeness of some bird or animal, it resembled the disk Fireclaw had seen upon the wall in the cabin where he’d awakened: a hideous face with tapering rays zigzagging from its edges, a broad, square-ended tongue protruding from the mouth, obscuring whatever lower lip it claimed, reaching almost to the chin.
Only the large eyes were dark, fashioned of the same smoky substance as the visors of the guardsmen. Fireclaw imagined that these eyes regarded him in estimation now, as he himself attempted to regard their owner. During the long silence, the messenger and both copper-kilts had thrown themselves prostrate upon their faces. Hand resting upon the wooden grip of his holstered, empty revolver, Fireclaw stood straight, looking into the hideous artificial face, ignoring the mountains passing by a league or more beneath the transparent floor.
“Even thus suspended between the heavens and the earth you don’t abase yourself.”
The mild-toned voice had emanated, not from behind the hideous golden mask, but simultaneously, it seemed to Fireclaw, from all corners of the great quarter-sphere. The words themselves had been Helvetian, well formed, without accent.
Fireclaw didn’t move.
There followed a brief outburst Fireclaw couldn’t understand, save for some few of the words with vague resemblance to those of the Comanche. Of the origin of this second voice there could, however, be no doubt, addressed, as it had been, at the inlaid, polished floor by the messenger who’d brought him to this place. The masked figure moved as if in speech, its four-cornered voice answering in the same unknown language.
It resumed in Helvetian.
“Our faithful servant inquires of Us whether We’d have you—‘the barbarian,’ he calls you—forced into the customary gesture of respect toward Us. We’ve demurred, forewarned by Our Dreamers that your defiant posture’s aught We might have expected of the legendary warrior, Sedrich-called-Fireclaw.”
Fireclaw nodded but uttered no word.
The three guardsmen stayed flat upon their faces, leading the Helvetian to suspect that others—well-armed others—kept close watch from some concealed niche for the sake of their superior’s safety. Perhaps such was the purpose to the confusing array of painted and polished bric-a-brac cluttering the steps of the receding walls behind him. Any number of the manlike statues might have been living individuals, frozen into postures of watchful wariness.
Another long silence reigned while the two men, proud Helvetian warrior and golden-masked enigma, regarded one another.
“Astounding!” The sourceless voice spoke a
gain, breaking the silence. “You’ve outwaited Us—We who’ve Ourselves triumphed in many a negotiation through the simple tactic of outwaiting another more anxious than We to fill the terrifying quietude.”
It raised a slender, sun-browned arm.
“But see here: would you not ask Us a thousand questions, Sedrich-called-Fireclaw? D’you not wonder where you are, what manner of conveyance we ride within, or what’s to become of you? Is there naught you wish to learn from Us?”
The Helvetian let his silence last a moment longer.
Then: “I calculated you’d tell me what I want to know”—Fireclaw suppressed all expression save for the faintest hint of a smile—”or you’d not. What has become of my traveling companions—my dog? The same fate as befell the Ute?”
“Sedrich Fireclaw”—the gold-masked figure turned a long-fingernailed brown hand over, palm side up—”there are no more ‘Ute’—nor any ‘Comanche’ either.”
Belying the racing heart within him, the Helvetian raised an inquiring eyebrow.
The golden face nodded.
“They’ve been eradicated by Our personal guard—erased from the face of the earth, for failing to stop the Saracen party’s penetration into Our Domain.”
The strange figure gave a shrug, somewhat exaggerated by its weird attire, yet as if this were an idle matter, of little concern, they were discussing.
“They’ll be replaced in due course, either by random levies from near-neighboring tribes, or from surplus population within the interior. New ‘Ute’ and ‘Comanche’ nations—provided they’re allowed to retain and, um, redeem those arbitrary designations—will spring into being, each equipped with appropriate cultures, appropriate legends, appropriate sophistication in the mechanic arts.”
Fireclaw snorted.
“Harsh punishment indeed, for a single, small infraction. One I can testify they were attempting manfully to correct. And little chance to learn from one’s mistakes.”
The sourceless voice laughed. The noise bounced round the great room, echoing from polished surfaces.
“They were attempting, not to do their duty as regards Us, but to avenge the death of their leader, Short-Bear-Who-Travels. Punishment? Oh, no, great warrior. This wasn’t a punishment at all, any more than your replacing an unreliable or defective part in one of the machines which We provided your former neighbors.”
Somehow, despite the exaggerated nails, the figure placed its fingertips together.
“Sedrich Fireclaw, if peoples are to survive, they must begin learning, not from their own mistakes, but from the mistakes of others. Teaching this—making the learning of it a necessity—is a task We’ve taken upon Ourselves. ’Tis oft unpleasant, but such doesn’t render it a whit less important.”
The figure paused, as if awaiting reply.
There came none.
“One thing’s certain: when Our ‘reeducation’ of the replacement population’s complete, when they’ve been installed in their respective territories, their languages will this time be constructed from wholly unlike roots. This regrettable incident happened in the first place because such a measure was left too long by Our esteemed predecessor. The ‘Ute’ and ‘Comanche’ came to learn one another’s languages, began to operate upon a friendly, mutually beneficial basis, instead of from distrust and enmity, as is the natural order of things.”
Fireclaw shook his head.
“I fear I fail to understand you—”
“Likeliest you fear you do understand Us. Their languages, those of the ‘Ute’ and the ‘Comanche,’ were of course as artificial as their legends. Dear fellow, there ne’er were any ‘Dog-Eaters,’ simply an implanted legend. The entire complex was long o’erdue for replacement in any event. History—and Our Dreamers, of course—inform Us that these fringe provinces are invariably neglected, almost always to the incumbent authority’s eventual regret.”
Fireclaw suppressed any visible manifestation of the shudder he felt traveling through his body, forced himself to listen to the cold-blooded voice addressing him.
“Of course,” the same voice continued, “another reason all this difficulty came to pass is that the current incumbent was o’ercurious—’tis a failing of Ours—philosophically interested in one Sedrich Fireclaw’s effect upon the Comanche.”
The near-naked figure leaned forward in his chair, placed one obscenely nailed hand upon its suntanned thigh, rested its metallic chin in the palm of the other.
At some unseen signal, a section of the shelved wall to the Helvetian’s left swung aside.
From within a dark interior there stepped—at gunpoint—Mochamet al Rotshild, followed by the Princess Ayesha and a terrified-looking Oln Woeck. Unlike Fireclaw’s escort, the guardsmen who brought these individuals with them suffered no doubts as to the proprieties. They were forced to the floor, to their knees.
From there they were pressed forward upon their faces.
“The Rabbi Shulieman still lives as well, although but just,” offered the four-cornered voice. “Have no fear, Sedrich-called-Fireclaw, your great dog Ursi’s well, having been put to temporary rest with the selfsame potion, contained in a dart which struck him, as has embraced you in its gaseous form these past dozen hours.”
One of the new copper-kilts, wearing the black mask of an eagle, raised a large and awkward-looking pistol as if to illustrate the explanatory words of his ruler. Someone else, then, thought Fireclaw, possesses enough Helvetian to get by in.
A foreign word was spoken.
One of Fireclaw’s escort, the helmetless messenger, climbed to his feet. From across the great hall the pistol made a snuffling sound. The volunteer went down again, this time upon his back, with a feathered dart protruding from his unarmored throat.
“He’ll awaken again in a few hours,” the masked figure offered, “just as you did, with little more than a headache and a few bruises to show for his unpleasant experience. ’Tis more than We can say for those in custody of your dog—who let the beast awaken and were slow in tranquilizing him once again.
Three amputations were necessary, and one mercy-slaying. He’s your dog, sir, he could be no one else’s!”
A metallic flash caught Fireclaw’s attention. He took his eyes from the remainder of his party, let them travel once again to the figure, who’d raised both hands up to the golden mask.
“You’re a remarkable man, although you’ve ne’er realized quite how remarkable. A warrior of astonishing repute, well justified. Something of a philosopher.”
The hands came down again, taking the mask with them.
Sitting upon the elevated throne before the Helvetian warrior was the boy whom the Saracens had called Shrimp.
“Yes, mighty Fireclaw, ’tis We.” The voice was human now, no longer issuing from the walls and ceiling. “Better known within Our own domain as Zhu Yuan-Coyotl, ruler of the Han-Meshika, spirit of the Sun incarnate. A clumsy appellation, to be sure, but one which, now and then, impresses even Ourselves.”
The boy shook his head at these words, as if dismissing the topic with embarrassment.
“You can’t e’en begin to comprehend the intellectual prowess represented by your leaping from coarse, dry-mixed gunpowder to repeating firearms in less than a single lifetime! Why, man, Our Dreamers tell us of civilizations entire who took a thousand years to accomplish what you have, all alone, within but a single generation!”
The boy-ruler leaned back again.
“Too, We’ve always debated privily with Ourselves the relative importance of the individual in society. Here was an unprecedented opportunity to experiment.”
He sighed.
“With your capture, of course, the experiment’s o’er, proving only what We expected it to prove. In the long run, that the individual—any individual—counts for naught. A sobering thought indeed, friend Fireclaw, for an absolute monarch.”
The complicated mixture of feelings within the Helvetian was beginning to congeal into anger and hatred.
&n
bsp; “’Tis the water washes,’” he quoted, almost to himself, “‘not the soap.’ Tell me, what’s this individual to expect—”
He indicated the others with a sweep of his arm.
“—and these, now the experiment’s o’er? Or has this already been decided?”
The youth raised his hands to shoulder level, palms up. For a moment he resembled one of the many idols in the room behind. The jewels set into his artificial nails glittered in the sunlight.
“All here will serve Us, as indeed all people upon this earth eventually serve Us in one wise or another. Like every traveler to this forbidden land, you and your expedition have been brought before its official ministers for questioning.”
He chuckled.
“Unlike most of them, you’ve been brought before its supremest official. This privilege, though rare, makes little practical difference. Information, you will in due course discover, is always allowed to flow into what Our more fanciful minions call the Crystal Empire. Never out. Whatever travelers happen to learn in the process of interrogation dies with them, usually sooner than later.”
He shifted upon his throne more as if the topic were uncomfortable than the green-stone seat.
“But We see what you’re asking: what of your ranch, your shop, your dog-pack, your wife, your child-to-be? Were they, too, ‘erased’ by Our personal guard?”
Fireclaw nodded but conceded nothing more.
Zhu Yuan-Coyotl shook his head.
“We assure you, sir, that no such action was necessary upon Our part, or that of Our guard. We’re afraid ’twas already taken care of—by your old friend Oln Woeck.”
“Oln Woeck?” Fireclaw felt the prickling at the back of his neck and along his limbs which presaged disminded killing anger. A veil of crimson washed over his eyes.
At the side of the room, the Cultist glanced up for a moment, horror upon his face.
Fireclaw, fighting blood-haze, believed he heard a whimper.
The Crystal Empire Page 30