"Good night." Varris turned and went out the door. His men followed him.
Alak stood for a while in silence. Beyond the walls, he could hear the night wind of Ryfin's Planet. Somehow, it was a foreign wind, it had another sound from the rushing air of Terra. Blowing through different trees, across an unearthly land—”
"Have you any plan at all?" murmured Drogs.
"I had one." Alak clasped nervous hands behind his back. "He doesn't know I won't bushwhack him, or summon a force of gunners, or something lethal like that. I was figuring on a bluff—but it seems he has called me. He wants to be sure of taking at least one Patrolman to hell with him."
"You could study the local code duello" suggested Drogs. "You could let him kill you in a way which looked like a technical foul. Then the king would boot him out and I could arrest him with the help of a stun beam."
"Thanks," said Alak. "Your devotion to duty is really touching."
"I remember a Terran proverb," said Drogs. Galmathian humor can be quite heavy at times. " 'The craven dies a thousand deaths, the hero dies but once.' "
"Yeh. But you see, I'm a craven from way back. I much prefer a thousand synthetic deaths to one genuine case. As far as I'm concerned, the live coward has it all over the dead hero—" Alak stopped. His jaw fell down and then snapped up again. He flopped into a chair and cocked his feet up on the windowsill and ran a hand through his ruddy hair.
Drogs returned to the water pipe and smoked imperturbably. He knew the signs. If the Patrol may not kill, it is allowed to do anything else—and sublimated murder can be most fascinatingly fiendish.
* * *
In spite of his claims to ambassadorial rank, Alak found himself rating low—his only retinue was one ugly nonhumanoid. But that could be useful. With their fairly contemptuous indifference, the nobles of Wainabog didn't care where he was.
He went, the next afternoon, to Grimmoch Abbey.
An audience with Gulmanan was quickly granted. Alak crossed a paved courtyard, strolled by a temple where the hooded monks were holding an oddly impressive service, and entered a room in the great central tower. It was a large room, furnished with austere design but lavish materials, gold and silver and gems and brocades. One wall was covered by bookshelves, illuminated folios, many of them secular. The abbot sat stiffly on a carved throne of rare woods. Alak made the required prostration and was invited to sit down.
The old eyes were thoughtful, watching him. "What brought you here, my cub?"
"I am a stranger, holy one," said the human. "I understand little of your faith, and considered it shame that I did not know more."
"We have not yet brought any outworlder to the Way," said the abbot gravely. "Except, of course, Sir Varris, and I am afraid his devotions smack more of expediency than conviction."
"Let me at least hear what you believe," asked the Patrolman with all the earnestness he could summon in daylight.
Gulmanan smiled, creasing his gaunt blue face. "I have a suspicion that you are not merely seeking the Way," he replied. "Belike there is some more temporal question in your mind."
"Well—" They exchanged grins.. You couldn't run a corporation as big as this abbey without considerable hard-headedness.
Nevertheless, Alak persisted in his queries. It took an hour to learn what he wanted to know.
Thunsba was monotheistic. The theology was subtle and complex, the ritual emotionally satisfying, the commandments flexible enough to accommodate ordinary fleshly weaknesses. Nobody doubted the essential truth of the religion; but its Temple was another matter.
As in medieval Europe, the church was a powerful organization, international, the guardian of learning and the gradual civilizer of a barbarous race. It had no secular clergy—every priest was a monk of some degree, inhabiting a large or small monastery. Each of these was ruled by one officer—Gulmanan in this case —responsible to the central Council in Augnachar city; but distances being great and communications slow, this supreme authority was mostly background.
The clergy were celibate and utterly divorced from the civil regime, with their own laws and courts and punishments. Each detail of their lives, down to dress and diet, was minutely prescribed by an unbreakable code—there were no special dispensations. Entering the church, if you were approved, was only a matter of taking vows; getting out was not so easy, requiring a Council decree. A monk owned nothing; any property he might have had before entering reverted to his heirs, any marriage he might have made was automatically annulled. Even Gulmanan could not call the clothes he wore or the lands he ruled his own: it all belonged to the corporation, the abbey. And the abbey was rich; for centuries, titled Thunsbans had given it land or money.
Naturally, there was conflict between church and king. Both sought power, both claimed overlapping prerogatives, both insisted that theirs was the final authority. Some kings had had abbots murdered or imprisoned, some had gone weakly to Canossa. Morlach was in-between, snarling at the Temple but not quite daring to lay violent hands on it.
"... I see." Alak bowed his head. "Thank you, holy one."
"I trust your questions are all answered?" The voice was dry.
"Well, now . . . there are some matters of business—" Alak sat for a moment, weighing the other. Gulmanan seemed thoroughly honest; a direct bribe would only be an insult. But honesty is more malleable than one might think—
"Yes? Speak without fear, my cub. No words of yours shall pass these walls."
Alak plunged into it: "As you know, my task is to remove Sir Varris to his own realm for punishment of many evil deeds."
"He has claimed his cause was righteous." said Gulmanan noncommittally.
"And so he believes. But in the name of that cause, he was prepared to slay more folk than dwell on this entire world."
"I wondered about that—"
Alak drew a long breath and then spoke fast. "The Temple is eternal, is it not? Of course. Then it must look centuries ahead. It must not let one man, whose merits are doubtful at best, stand in the way of an advancement which could mean saving thousands of souls."
"I am old," said Gulmanan in a parched tone. "My life has not been as cloistered as I might have wished, if you are proposing that you and I could work together to mutual advantage, say so."
Alak made a sketchy explanation. "And the lands would be yours," he finished.
"Also the trouble, my cub," said the abbot. "We already have enough clashes with King Morlach."
"This would not be a serious one. The law would be on our side."
"Nevertheless, the honor of the Temple may not be compromised."
"In plain words, you want more than I've offered."
"Yes," said Gulmanan bluntly.
Alak waited. Sweat studded his body. What could he do if an impossible demand was made?
The seamed blue face grew wistful. "Your race knows much," said the abbot. "Our peasants wear out their lives, struggling against a miserly soil and seasonal insect hordes. Are there ways to better their lot?"
"Is that all? Certainly there are. Helping folk progress when they wish to is one of our chief policies. My . . . my king would be only too glad to lend you some technicians—farmwrights?—and show you how."
"Also ... it is pure greed on my part. But sometimes at night, looking up at the stars, trying to understand what the traders have said—that this broad fair world of ours is but a mote spinning through vastness beyond comprehension —it has been an anguish in me that I do not know how that is." Now it was Gulmanan who leaned forward and shivered. "Would it be possible to ... to translate a few of your books on this science astronomic into Thunsban?"
Alak regarded himself as a case-hardened cynic. In the line of duty, he had often and cheerfully broken the most solemn oaths with an audible snap. But this was one promise he meant to keep though the sky fell down.
On the way back, he stopped at his flitter, where Drogs was hiding from a gape-mouthed citizenry, and put the Calmathian to work in the machine shop
.
* * *
A human simply could not eat very much of this planet's food; he would die in agony. Varris had taken care to have a food-synthesizer aboard his boat, and ate well that night of special dishes. He did not invite Alak to join him, and the Patrolman munched gloomily on what his service imagined to be an adequate, nutritious diet.
After supper, the nobles repaired to a central hall, with a fireplace at either end waging hopeless war on the evening chill, for serious drinking. Alak, ignored by most, sauntered through the crowd till he got to Varris. The fugitive was conversing with several barons; from his throne, King Morlach listened interestedly. Varris was increasing his prestige by explaining some principles of games theory which ought to guarantee success in the next war.
"... And thus, my gentles, it is not that one must seek a certain victory, for there is no certainty in battle, but must so distribute his forces as to have the greatest likelihood of winning—"
"Hogwash!" snapped Alak. The Thunsban phrase he used was more pungent.
Varris raised his brows. "Said you something?" he asked.
"I did." Alak slouched forward, wearing his most insolent expression. "I said it is nonsense you speak."
"You disagree, then, sir?" inquired a native.
"Not exactly," said the Patrolman. "It is not worth disagreeing with so lunkheaded a swine as this baseborn Varris."
His prey remained impassive. There was no tone in the voice: "I trust you will retract your statement, sir."
"Yes, perhaps I should," agreed Alak. "It was too mild. Actually, of course, as is obvious from a single glance at his bloated face, Sir Varris is a muckeating sack of lip-wagging flatulence whose habits I will not even try to describe since they would make a barnyard blush."
Silence hit the hall. The flames roared up the chimneys. King Morlach scowled and breathed heavily, but could not legally interfere. His warriors dropped hands to their knives.
"What's your purpose?" muttered Varris in Terran.
"Naturally," said Alak in Thunsban, "if Sir Varris does not dispute my assertions, there is no argument."
The Caldonian sighed. "I will dispute them on your body tomorrow morning," he answered.
Alak's foxy face broke into a delighted grin. "Do I understand that I am being challenged?" he asked.
"You do, sir. I invite you to a duel."
"Very well." Alak looked around. Every eye in the place was welded to him. "My lords, you bear witness that I have been summoned to fight Sir Varris. If I mistake me not, the choice of weapons and ground is mine."
"Within the laws of single combat," rumbled Morlach venomously. "None of your outworld sorceries."
"Indeed not." Alak bowed. "I choose to fight with my own swords, which are lighter than your claymores but, I assure you, quite deadly if one does not wear armor. Sir Varris may, of course, have first choice of the pair. The duel will take place just outside the main gate of Grimmoch Abbey."
There was nothing unusual about that. A badly wounded contestant could be taken into the monks, who were also the local surgeons. In such a case, he was allowed to recover after which a return engagement was fought. In the simple and logical belief that enmities should not be permitted to fester, the Thunsban law said that no duel was officially over till one party had been killed. It was the use of fight swords that caused interest.
"Very good," said Varris in a frosty voice. He was taking it well; only Alak could guess what worries—what trap is being set?—lay behind those eyes. "At dawn tomorrow, then."
"Absolutely not," said Alak firmly. He never got up before noon if he could help it. "Am I to lose my good sleep on account of you? We will meet at the time of Third Sacrifice." He bowed grandly. "Good night, my lord and gentles."
Back in his apartment, he went through the window and, with the help of his small antigrav unit, over the wall and out to his boat. Varris might try to assassinate him as he slept.
Or would the Caldonian simply rely on being a better swordsman? Alak knew that was the case. This might be his last night alive.
A mid-afternoon sun threw long streamers of light across blue turf and the walls of Grimmoch Abbey. There was a hundred-meter square cleared before the gate; beyond that, a crowd of lords and ladies stood talking, drinking, and betting on the outcome. King Morlach watched ominously from a portable throne—he would not thank the man who did away with the useful Sir Varris. Just inside the gateway, Abbot Gulmanan and a dozen monks waited like stone saints.
Trumpets blew, and Alak and Varris stepped forth. Both wore light shirts and trousers, nothing else. An official frisked them ceremoniously for concealed weapons and armor. The noble appointed Master of Death trod out and recited the code. Then he took a cushion on which the rapiers were laid, tested each, and extended them to Varris.
The outlaw smiled humorlessly and selected one. Alak got the other. The Master of Death directed them to opposite comers of the field.
Alak's blade felt light and supple in his fingers. His vision and hearing were unnaturally clear, it was as if every grass blade stood out sharp before him. Perhaps his brain was storing data while it still could. Varris, one hundred forty meters off, loomed like a giant.
"And now, let the Allshaper defend the right!"
Another trumpet flourish. The duel was on.
Varris walked out, not hurrying. Alak went to meet him. They crossed blades and stood for a moment, eyes thrusting at eyes.
"Why are you doing this?" asked the refugee in Terran. "If you have some idiotic hope of killing me, you might as well forget it. I was a fencing champion at home."
"These shivs are gimmicked," said Alak with a rather forced grin. "I'll let you figure out how."
"I suppose you know the penalty for using poison is burning at the stake—” For a moment, there was a querulous whine in the voice. "Why can't you leave me alone? What business was it ever of yours?"
"Keeping the peace is my business," said Alak. "That's what I get paid for, anyhow."
Varris snarled. His blade whipped out. Alak parried just in time. There was a thin steel ringing in the air.
Varris danced gracefully, aggressively, a cold intent on his face. Alak made wild slashes, handling his rapier like a broadsword. Contempt crossed Varris' mouth. He parried a blow, riposted, and Alak felt pain sting his shoulder. The crowd whooped.
Just one cut! Just one cut before he gets me through the heart! Alak felt his chest grow warm and wet. A flesh wound, no more. He remembered that he'd forgotten to thumb the concealed button in his hilt, and did so with a curse.
Varris' weapon was a blur before his eyes. He felt another light stab. Varris was playing with him! Coldly, he retreated, to the jeers of the audience, while he rallied his wits.
The thing to do . . . what the devil did you call it, riposte, slash, en avant? Varris came close as Alak halted. The Patrolman thrust for his left arm. Varris blocked that one. Somehow, Alak slewed his blade around and pinked the outlaw in the chest.
Now—God help me, I have to survive the next few seconds! The enemy steel lunged for his throat. He slapped it down, clumsily, in bare time. His thigh was furrowed. Varris sprang back to get room. Alak did the same.
Watching, he saw the Caldonian's eyes begin helplessly rolling. The rapier wavered. Alak, deciding he had to make this look good, ran up and skewered Varris in the biceps—a harmless cut, but it bled with satisfactory enthusiasm. Varris dropped his sword and tottered. Alak got out of the way just as the big body fell.
The nobles were screaming. King Morlach roared. The Master of Death rushed out to shove Alak aside. "It is not lawful to smite a fallen man," he said.
"I . . . assure you ... no such intention—" Alak sat down and let the planet revolve around him.
Abbot Gulmanan and the monks stooped over Varris, examining with skilled fingers. Presently the old priest looked up and said in a low voice that somehow cut through the noise: "He is not badly hurt. He should be quite well tomorrow. Perhaps he simply fa
inted."
"At a few scratches like that?" bawled Morlach. "Master, check that red-haired infidel's blade! I suspect poison!"
Alak pressed the retracting button and handed over his sword. While it was being inspected, Varris was borne inside the abbey and its gate closed on him. The Master of Death looked at both weapons, bowed to the king, and said puzzledly:
"There is no sign of poison, my lord. And after all, Sir Varris had first choice of glaives . . . and these two are identical, as far as I can see . . . and did not the holy one say he is not really injured?"
Alak swayed erect. "Jussa better man, tha's all," he mumbled. "I won fair an' square. Lemme go get m' hurts dressed—I'll see y' all in the morning—"
He made it to his boat, and Drogs had a bottle of Scotch ready.
It took will power to be at the palace when the court convened—not that Alak was especially weakened, but the Thunsbans started their day at a hideous hour. In this case, early rising was necessary, because he didn't know when the climax of his plot would be on him.
He got a mixed welcome, on the one hand respect for having overcome the great Sir Varris—at least in the first round—on the other hand, a certain doubt as to whether he had done it fairly. King Morlach gave him a surly greeting, but not openly hostile; he must be waiting for the doctors' verdict.
Alak found a congenial earl and spent his time swapping dirty jokes. It is always astonishing how many of the classics are to be found among all mammalian species. This is less an argument for the prehistoric Galactic Empire than for the parallelism of great minds.
Shortly before noon, Abbot Gulmanan entered. Several hooded monks followed him, bearing weapons —most unusual—and surrounding one who was unarmed. The priest lifted his hand to the king, and the room grew very quiet.
"Well," snapped Morlach, "what brings you hither?"
"I thought it best to report personally on the outcome of the duel, my lord," said Gulmanan. "It was . . . surprising."
"Mean you Sir Varris is dead?" Morlach's eyes flared. He could not fight his own guest, but it would be easy enough to have one of his guardsmen insult Wing Alak.
The Wing Alak Stories Page 9