Florel smiled. He had plans concerning the Menstal, and the great river, the Nalen, which raced between high cliffs.
“The merchants, who use the Nalen for their shipments, would welcome protection from the robber bands, I think, as would the travelers of the roads.”
“And?” The Duke looked at him thoughtfully.
“Possibly a small tax?” Florel smiled deprecatingly. “Sufficient to maintain a garrison?”
“And who would collect the tax?”
“That, Excellency, I could arrange. I have funds, adequate to garrison the tower of the Menstal, and even to make it livable for a considerable force of men. And I believe I could maintain and increase a garrison there that would serve to hold the barbarians at bay.”
“Let me think this over.” The Duke sat back, toying with his cup. “It is true,” he mused, “that Menstal is the key to the border. And the small garrison there has proved expensive and ineffective.” He tapped the cup on the table, then set it down and looked about the apartment. Finally, he looked up at Florel.
“You have our permission to try your scheme,” he decided. “We will invest you with the barony of Menstal.”
Konar paused at the castle gate. It had been pure chance, he knew, that they had noticed this bit of equipment. The east coast earldom was known, of course, but somehow, searchers had failed to discover that the Earl held any equipment. Konar shrugged. He probably hadn’t inherited it, but had gotten it by chance, and his possession of the mentacom and shield weren’t commonly known.
“Well,” he told himself, “we know about it now. I’ll make a routine pickup, and he won’t have it any more.”
A pair of weary sentries stood just inside the heavy doors. One shifted his weight, to lean partially on his pike, partially against the stonework. Idly, he looked out at the road which led through the village, staring directly through the place where Konar stood.
Konar smiled to himself. “Good thing I’ve got my body shield modulated for full refraction,” he told himself. “He’d be a little startled if he should see me.”
The sentry yawned and relaxed still more, sliding down a little, till he sat on a slightly protruding stone. His companion looked over at him.
“Old Marnio sees you like that,” he muttered warningly, “makes lashes.”
The other yawned again. “No matter. He’ll be drowsing inside, where it’s warm. Be a long time before he comes out to relieve.”
Konar nodded amusedly. The castle guard, he gathered, was a little less than perfectly alert. This would be simple. He touched the controls of his body shield to raise himself a few inches above the cobblestones, and floated between the two sentries, going slowly to avoid making a breeze.
Once inside, he decided to waste no more time. Of course, he would have to wait inside the Earl’s sleeping room till the man slept, but there was no point in waiting out here. He passed rapidly through the outer ward, ignoring the serfs and retainers who walked between the dwellings nestled against the wall.
The inner gate had been closed for the night, so he lifted and went over the wall.
He looked around, deciding that the Earl’s living quarters would be in the wooden building at the head of the inner courtyard. As he approached, he frowned. The windows were tightly closed against the night air. He would have to enter through the doors, and a young squire blocked that way. The lad was talking to a girl.
There was nothing to do but wait, so Konar poised himself a few feet from them. They’d go inside eventually, and he would float in after them. Then, he could wait until the Earl was asleep.
After that, it would be a simple, practiced routine. The small hand weapon he carried would render the obsolete body shield ineffective, if necessary, and a light charge would assure that the man wouldn’t awaken. It would be the work of a few minutes to remove the equipment the man had, to substitute the purely ornamental insignia, and to sweep out of the room, closing the window after him. Konar hoped it would stay closed. The Earl might be annoyed if it flew open, to expose him to the dreaded night air.
In the morning, the Earl would waken, innocent of any knowledge of his visitor. He would assume his talismans had simply lost their powers due to some occult reason, as many others had during recent times.
Idly, Konar listened to the conversation of the two before him.
The squire was telling the girl of his prowess in the hunt. Tomorrow, he announced, he would accompany the Earl’s honored guest from the eastern land.
“And I’m the one that can show him the best coverts,” he boasted. “His Grace did well to assign me to the Duke.”
The girl lifted her chin disdainfully. “Since you’re such a great hunter,” she told him, “perchance you could find my brooch, which I lost in yonder garden.” She turned to point at the flower-bordered patch of berry bushes at the other end of the court. In so doing, she faced directly toward Konar.
She was a pretty girl, he thought. His respect for the young squire’s judgment grew. Any man would admire the slender, well featured face which was framed within a soft cloud of dark, well combed hair. She looked quite different from the usual girls one saw in this country. Possibly, she was of eastern descent, Konar thought.
The girl’s eyes widened and her mouth flew open, making her face grotesquely gaunt. Abruptly, she was most unpretty. For a few heartbeats, she stood rigidly, staring at Konar. Then she put her hands to her face, her fingers making a rumpled mess of her hair. Her eyes, fixed and with staring pupils, peered between her fingers. And she screamed.
Konar felt suddenly faint, as though the girl’s horror was somehow communicated to him. The scream reverberated through his brain, rising in an intolerable crescendo, blotting out other sensory perception. He fought to regain control of his fading senses, but the castle court blurred and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. He started sliding down an endless, dark chute, ending in impenetrable blackness.
Suddenly, the black dissolved into a flash of unbearably brilliant light, and Konar’s eyes closed tightly.
He was alertly conscious again, but his head ached, and he felt reluctant, even unable, to open his eyes. Even closed, they ached from the brilliant spots which snapped into being before them. He shuddered, bringing his head down to his breast, gripping it with shaking hands, and breathing with uneven effort.
This was like nothing he had ever met before. He would have to get back to the others—find out what had happened to him—get help.
He concentrated on his eyelids, forcing them open. A crowd was gathering, to look accusingly at the squire, who supported the fainting girl in his arms. Her eyes fluttered weakly, and she struggled to regain her feet.
“That awful thing! It’s right over there!” She pointed at Konar.
Again, the unbearable ululation swept through his mind. Convulsively, he swept his hand to his shield controls, fighting to remain conscious just long enough to set his course up and away.
Before he was able to move and think with anything approaching normality, he was far above the earth. He looked at the tiny castle far below, noticing that from his altitude, it looked like some child’s toy, set on a sand hill, with bits of moss strewed about to make a realistic picture. He shivered. His head still ached dully, and he could still hear echoes of the horrified screaming.
“I don’t know what it was,” he told himself, “but I hope I never run into anything like that again.”
He located the hill which concealed the flier, and dropped rapidly toward it.
As he entered, the pilot noticed him.
“Well, that was a quick mission,” he commented. “How’d you—” He looked at Konar’s pain-lined face. “Hey, what’s the matter, youngster? You look like the last end of a bad week.”
Konar tried to smile, but it didn’t work very well.
“I ran into something, Barskor,” he said. “Didn’t complete my mission. I don’t know what happened, but I hope it never happens again.”
&nbs
p; Barskor looked at him curiously, then turned. “Chief,” he called, “something’s gone wrong. Konar’s been hurt.”
Meinora listened to Konar’s story, then shook his head unhappily.
“You ran into a transvisor, I’m afraid. We didn’t think there were any on this planet.” He paused. “There were definitely none discovered to the west, and we looked for them. But now, we’re close to the east coast, and you said that girl looked eastern. The eastern continent may be loaded with ’em.”
Konar looked curious. “A transvisor? I never heard of them.”
“They’re rather rare. You only find them under special conditions, and those conditions, we thought, are absent here. But when you find one, you can be sure there are more. It runs in families. You see, they’re beings with a completely wild talent. They can be any age, any species, or of any intelligence, but they’re nearly always female. Visibility refraction just doesn’t work right for their senses, and they can cause trouble.” He looked closely at Konar.
“You were lucky to get away. A really terrified transvisor could kill you, just as surely as a heavy caliber blaster.”
Konar shivered. “I believe it. But why are they called ‘transvisors’?”
“The name’s somewhat descriptive, even if it is incomplete. As I said, visibility refraction doesn’t work right in their case. Somehow, they pick up visual sensation right through a screen, regardless of its adjustment. But things seen through a screen are distorted, and look abnormal to them. Unless they’re used to it, they get frightened when they see a person with a refracted body shield. That’s when the trouble starts.”
Konar nodded in understanding. “You mean, they transmit their fear?”
“They do. And they’ll shock excite a mentacom, completely distorting its wave pattern. If they remain conscious and scared, their fear is deadly to its object.” Meinora drew a deep breath.
“As I said, you were lucky. The girl fainted and let you get away.” He shrugged and turned to Barskor.
“We’ll have to change our mode of operation,” he added. “We’ll pick up the Earl’s mentacom and belt at the hunt tomorrow. Find him alone, knock him out with a paralyzer, and give him parahypnosis afterward. It’s not so good, but it’s effective. But be sure you are alone, and don’t try to use visual refraction under any circumstance. Be better to be seen, if it comes to that. There might be another transvisor around.” He kicked gently at the seat beside him.
“This was just a secondary job, done in passing,” he said, “but it’s a good thing we found this out when we did. It’ll change our whole primary plan. Now, we’ll have to slog it out the hard way. On no account can anyone refract. It might be suicide. We’ll have to talk to travelers. We want to know what abnormal or unusual developments have taken place in what country in the last twenty years. Then, we’ll have to check them out. We’ve got a lot of work to do.” He looked around. “Ciernar.”
“Yes, sir?” The communications operator looked up.
“Send in a report on this to Group. Make it ‘operational.’ ”
Konar tilted his head a little. “Say, chief, you said the transvisor’s fear was amplified by my mentacom. What if I wasn’t wearing one?”
“You wouldn’t feel a thing,” Meinora smiled. “But don’t get any ideas. Without amplification, you couldn’t control your shield properly. You’d have protection, but your refraction control’s entirely mental, and levitation direction depends on mental, not physical control, remember?”
“But how about you? You don’t use amplification. Neither do several of the other team chiefs.”
Meinora shrugged. “No,” he admitted, “we don’t need it, except in abnormal circumstances. But we don’t go around scaring transvisors. They can’t kill us, but they can make us pretty sick. You see we’re a little sensitive in some ways.” He shook his head. “No, the only advantage I’ve got is that I can spot a transvisor by her mental pattern—if I get close enough. There’s a little side radiation that can be detected, though it won’t pass an amplifier. When you’ve felt it once, you’ll never forget it. Makes you uncomfortable.” He smiled wryly.
“And you can believe me,” he added, “when I do get close to a transvisor, I’m very, very careful not to frighten her.”
Winter passed, and spring, and summer came. Nal Gerda, Officer of the Guard, stood on the small wharf below the old watchtower. He looked across the narrows, examined the cliff opposite him, then looked upward at the luminous sky. There were a few small clouds, whose fleecy whiteness accentuated the clear blue about them. Brilliant sunshine bathed the wharf and tower, driving away the night mists.
It would not be long before the new guard came down the cliff. Gerda stretched and drew a deep breath, savoring the summer morning air. Now, it was pleasant, a happy contrast to the sullen skies and biting winter winds he had faced a few short months ago.
For a time, he looked at the green atop the cliffs, then he transferred his attention upriver, toward the bend where the Nalen came out of the pass to blow between the iron cliffs of Menstal. The water flowed swiftly in the narrows, throwing off white glints as its ripples caught the sunlight, then deepening to a dark blue where it came into the shadow of the cliffs.
A sudden call sounded from the lookout far above, and the officer wheeled about, looking to the great chain which stretched from tower to cliff, to block river traffic. It was in proper position, and Gerda looked back at the bend.
As he watched, a long, low barge drifted into sight, picking up speed as it came into the rapid current. Polemen balanced themselves alertly in the bow, their long sticks poised to deflect their course from any threatening rocks.
Gerda threw off the almost poetical admiration of beauty that had possessed him a moment before and faced the guard house, from whence came a scuffle of feet and the clank of arms, to tell of the guard’s readiness.
“Turn out the Guard.” Gerda drew himself up into a commanding pose.
A group of men-at-arms marched stiffly out, followed by a pair of serfs. The leader saluted Gerda with upraised hand.
“The Guard is ready, My Captain,” he proclaimed. “May the tax be rich.”
Gerda returned the salute. “It will be,” he stated positively. “These merchants have learned by now that to insult Portal Menstal with poor offerings is unwise in the extreme. And, mark me, they’ll not forget!”
The barge approached and swung in toward the wharf in obedience to Gerda’s imperious gesture. One of the polemen jumped ashore, securing a line to a bollard.
The steersman climbed to the dock, to halt a pace in front of Gerda. He folded his hands and bowed his head submissively.
“Does Your Honor desire to inspect the cargo?”
“Of course.” Gerda’s haughty glance appraised the man from toe to crown. “Quickly now. I’ve little time to waste.” He glanced back at his clerk, who had a tablet ready.
“Your name, Merchant?”
“Teron, of Krongert, may it please you, sir. I have been to—”
Gerda waved an impatient hand. “Save me your speech, Higgler,” he said curtly. “What’s your cargo value?”
“Six thousand teloa, Your Honor. We have—”
“Unload it. I’ll look at it.” Gerda waved the man to silence.
As the bales of goods were placed on the wharf, Gerda examined them critically. A few, he ordered set aside after a quick check and a few questions. Others, he ordered opened and spread out. At last, satisfied with his estimate of the cargo’s valuation, he turned.
“Your choice, Merchant?”
“I would pay, Your Honor,” said the man, “to the tenth part of my cargo.” He extended a leather bag.
“Don’t haggle with me,” snapped Gerda. “The tax is a fifth of your cargo, as you should well know.” His hand sought his sword hilt.
The merchant’s face fell a little, and he produced a second bag, which he held out to the officer. “I must apologize,” he said. “I am new to thi
s land.”
“See that you learn its customs quickly, then.” Gerda handed the bags to his clerk.
“Check these, Lor,” he ordered. “I make it a thousand, six hundred teloa.”
An expression of dismay crossed the merchant’s face.
“Your Honor,” he wailed, “my cargo is of but six thousand valuation. I swear it.”
Gerda stepped forward swiftly. His hand raised, to swing in a violent, back-handed arc, his heavy rings furrowing the merchant’s face. The man staggered back, involuntarily raising a hand to his injured cheek.
As a couple of the men-at-arms raised their pikes to the ready, the merchant righted himself, folded his hands again, and bowed in obeisance. Blood trickled down his chin, a drop spattering on his clothing. He ignored it.
“You would dispute my judgment?” Gerda drew his hand up for a second blow. “Here is no market place for your sharp bargaining. For your insolence, another five hundred teloa will be exacted. Make speed!”
The merchant shook his head dazedly, but offered no word of protest. Silently, he dug into his possessions, to produce a third bag. For a moment, he weighed it in his hand, then reached into it, to remove a few loose coins. Without raising his head, he extended the bag to the officer of the guard.
Gerda turned. Lor had gone into the guard house, to count the other two bags. The officer raised his voice.
“Lor, get back out here. I’ve more for you to count.”
He tossed the bag to the clerk, then stood, glaring at the unfortunate trader. At last, he kicked the nearest bale.
“Well,” he growled, “get this stuff off the wharf. What are you waiting for?”
He watched the barge crew load, then turned. Lor came from the guard house.
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 27