by David Drake
His hunger less painful, the emissary decided to maintain a heightened level of consciousness for the present and adjusted the external metabolism controls of his support system accordingly. He was pushing himself too hard, but there would be time for rest once the current crisis was resolved. And that resolution, RyRelee knew, must be accomplished soon. The Cora awaited results with the same impatience as did the deranged chieftain who ruled this region of the planet.
It galled RyRelee that his own efficiency was in part to blame. He should have foreseen that the phile would already have begun to produce a brood—either she had mated earlier than his agents had reported, or her gestation period was a shorter interval in lighter gravity than anticipated. If he had not interfered in his zeal to see the phile safely housed in the Emperor's menagerie, another few days would have seen Rome infested with immature philes, capable of hunting on their own.
Still, the Cora might have observed this as well, and then would come the cleansing. For all their fine talk of protecting the natural development of intelligent life-forms, the Cora would be willing to obliterate this failure of their policy with thermonuclear destruction. Of course, the philes' savage homeworld had given the creatures the capacity for sudden intracellular changes which made them immune to toxins and even to genetically-tailored viruses.
But there was in any case a hard edge to the Cora, an arrogance perhaps necessary in a race able to rule the galaxy. The emissary had no idea as to exactly what had provoked the wrath of the Cora and brought about the destruction of another native civilization on an island close to here some fifteen hundred of this world's years earlier—Creta, he believed they called what remained of the place today—but he supposed someone had been supplying the aborigines with illegal advanced technology. The Cora might believe that such demonstrations would serve as warning to others who might be tempted to violate their policies of galactic peace, but RyRelee could almost feel sorry for the natives whose civilization had been thus sacrificed for the example.
RyRelee spread the corpse of the phile chick onto a table and laid out the instruments required for his examination. He had to work with only edged metal cutting tools—more obsessive caution on the part of the Cora—but he was nonetheless able to lay bare the concealed genital cleft in the creature's abdomen. But at this stage of its development, it was morphologically impossible to distinguish the immature ovipositor from the male organ, and RyRelee gave it up in favor of conclusive cytological examination. Cellular tissues introduced into the more sophisticated instruments provided by the Cora established that the chromosomal pattern of the dead chick was male.
RyRelee hissed in exultation—was brought back to reality as the normal pleased-laughter sounds were horribly distorted by the surgical modifications of the Cora. Still, that couldn't rob him of his triumph, for within another few days his mission on this primitive world would be accomplished—and to RyRelee's satisfaction.
The situation was rapidly deteriorating, and every hour the emissary remained here increased his danger. Despite his contempt for these primitives, if their Emperor lost patience and demanded his arrest, a thousand natives with crude weapons would inevitably win out over one intelligent being with superior firepower. And now that the phile was aware of RyRelee's presence here, the creature would certainly attempt to seek him out—and RyRelee knew that a phile was not easily deterred from its intended kill.
But the emissary's success in this deadly game was all but assured. RyRelee now knew that the phile could indeed produce multiple broods on this world—and that the natives here could mount no real defense to a widespread infestation of the creatures. Earth was truly the perfect breeding ground for philes, as RyRelee had originally supposed. All that remained was to make certain that his dangerously competent native hunters did not kill the phile through their blundering—and to assure the Cora that this phile had indeed been destroyed as ordered. After that, this region and soon this world would be overrun with philes—worth an untold fortune to those who would pay for healthy specimens—and RyRelee would be secretly reaping his profits in the comfort of his palace. Even if the Cora eventually discovered the presence of philes on Earth and reacted with characteristic finality, this dead phile hatchling would preserve RyRelee from their justice. Clearly the emissary had destroyed a male phile as instructed by his masters, and if a gravid female had also escaped the crash of the starship, RyRelee had been informed of only one phile to seek out and destroy.
RyRelee activated his communicator. It was a compact device—both for portability and to disguise it as no more than an incomprehensible objet d'art to an aboriginal mind—but its range was sufficient to reach the orbiting Coran starship.
"I have destroyed the phile," the emissary reported. "Fortunately, it was male. Stand by to receive transmission of chromosomal data."
After an unpleasant interval, the artificial voice of the Cora—presumably—sounded from the communicator: "You have done splendidly, RyRelee. Are you now prepared to reach the nearest rendezvous point for recovery?"
"There remain a few matters to pursue," RyRelee stated. "I wish to make certain that neither the phile's appearance nor my intrusion here has resulted in any cultural contamination. It will be necessary to make subtle inquiries, perhaps blank out memories in certain instances, in order to establish to these primitives that any unnatural phenomena they may have witnessed were merely the actions of their gods."
"How much time do you require?"
"Ten planetary days should be sufficient."
"How is your personal situation at present?"
"I am in some danger. These primitives are inclined to unexpected violence. Also the ultraviolet radiation here is of greater intensity than my suit can safely screen out. Ten more days is the maximum."
"If there is danger, we can recover you in much less time."
"I accept the risks."
"Your courage has been noted, emissary. Good luck."
RyRelee deactivated the communicator, then hissed with pleasure—however grotesque the sound was to his ears. In ten days the phile would either be safely cared for in the Emperor's animal pens, or else securely laired in some undiscovered sector of the primitives' city. Either way, the only two natives who posed any real threat to the emissary's project would be long dead by the time RyRelee boarded the Coran shuttlecraft for home.
Chapter Eighteen
The phile killed the rat without conscious awareness—a simple lethal reflex that struck out at a living creature within its power to kill. It had already devoured most of the rat before its hunger was appeased sufficiently to permit the phile to consider its tiny prey. Not a kill worth noting by any means, but food should never be taken for granted, even on this world where prey was so abundant and so easily taken.
That might be the explanation. They expected the phile to become complacent; they intended to lull the phile into a false sense of security because the creatures of this world were so pitifully easy to kill. No matter. They had shown their hand—the masters who had devised this game—and the phile would not be fooled so easily now.
Its instincts had been correct. The thin, quick biped—the one that had been presented to the phile before its escape from the wheeled cage—that one was its primary adversary. The phile had sensed their kinship even then, and it knew now that the other killer had recognized this as well. It resembled the other bipeds superficially, but plainly this one was a breed apart—like the phile, a creature bred for the art of killing.
The sudden appearance of their common master was the final proof. His physical disguise had confused the phile only for a moment, for there was no mistaking his scent—nor his terror at their mutual recognition when the phile touched his aura.
This had been a surprise to the phile, but as it considered the matter now, the gamemaster's presence should have been anticipated. The phile had erred in assuming that it had escaped, when in reality all that had happened here on this world had been the prelude to a comp
licated game designed to be played without the confines of a physical arena. No matter. The phile had been well trained. Unlike its wild counterparts, this phile had been bred for blood sports. Clearly its opponent, who resembled the native bipeds of this world, had been similarly bred and trained.
The destruction of its brood infuriated the phile, but now it realized that this atrocity had only been intended to goad it out of hiding and back into the blood game. Nonetheless, there must be vengeance for this—payment in kind for the slaughter of its offspring. And the gamemaster—he had chosen to enter the game as a participant; this was a bold move and deserved respect, but the master above all others must be killed. He was armed with concealed energy weapons, so his death must be carefully arranged.
But the phile was patient, and it knew it must succeed. No cages or force barriers contained it on this world, and once the game was over, the reward for victory would be an entire world.
Chapter Nineteen
Despite his dislike of being carried on other men's shoulders, Lycon was asleep by the time Vonones' litter had been lifted clear of the pavement. From his youth the hunter had learned to catch sleep when and wherever possible, but his total exhaustion from the night before would have demanded rest even had he been astride a horse. The bearers shook him awake once they had reached the Baths of Naevius, but Lycon stumbled into the baths as if it were all still a dream.
The gardens were subdued by the chill of autumn, but they might have been at the peak of bloom for all that Lycon noticed. The doorkeeper goggled at the spectre of Lycon emerging from the sumptuous litter—then shrewdly decided that it was better to be needlessly obsequious than the reverse. Walking through the door of the changing room, Lycon handed his cloak to an attendant and clumsily began to unlace his boots. His deeply bruised back did not want to bend, but the hunter grunted with the pain and forced his muscles to work as he stripped off his torn and filthy tunic.
"Would you like these cleaned while you bathe, master?" inquired the attendant.
"Yes. Just be quick about it." Lycon shrugged indifferently. He knew they would look even worse before long.
"Is Dolon still here?" Lycon asked. The Baths of Naevius were not his customary baths, although he visited here on occasion. "I'll be in the laconicum for as long as I can stand the heat," he said when the attendant replied to his question in the affirmative. "Tell Dolon I'll need him there as soon as I've had a dip in the calidarium."
The beastcatcher stepped into the steamy warmth of the calidarium, let his aching body slip gingerly into the heated water. From his days in the arena Lycon knew that this was better than a full day's sleep: a warm bath, then a massage and scrape-down in the scalding heat of the laconicum, followed by a plunge into the cold waters of the frigidarium. It might not undo all the damage from last night, but it was the best preparation he knew of for today's ordeal.
Dolon was waiting for him when Lycon entered the laconicum. The muscular Greek gleamed with oil and sweat, his shaven scalp for an instant reminding Lycon unpleasantly of N'Sumu. Lycon wondered how the masseur was able to maintain such sleekness, when working in this heat must melt away pounds of flesh every day. Dolon motioned him to a bench. Through the steam Lycon could see another man stretched out under the ministrations of a masseur—perhaps a personal slave—and he heard the rhythmic slap of hands on flesh, a sound made falsely distant through the steam.
Lycon steadied himself with a hand on the door jamb to keep from slipping on the slick tile. Condensation from the steam covered the walls, making a dreamland vista of the grey tiles and the horizontal bands of mosaic. A craftsman of Naisso who had never been to the coast had inset octopuses and dolphins sporting upon a bright green sea. Lycon stepped carefully to where Dolon awaited. Even so his foot brushed one of the perforated tiles through which boilers in the basement forced steam into the room. Beneath the floor, slaves stoked a fierce fire. Lycon swore and stumbled for the bench. The only light, once the door closed behind him, seeped through the skylight, a tracery of mica plaquets now opaqued by layers of steam and soot. Even the red glaze of the heating ducts blurred to grey in the damp darkness.
Lycon stretched his battered body along the bench. "Why don't they light this place?" he growled.
"There's a lamp on the wall, but it's always out of oil," Dolon explained. "Just lie down and relax; your eyes will adjust. I have an exquisite new perfume I can apply with the oils. I know that's really the job for a perfumer, but enough patrons have asked, and I got this really good price that I can pass along to my . . ."
"Just the usual," Lycon interrupted. "Where I'm headed from here, no one would notice if you dumped a bucket of perfume over me."
"Dis, you've done enough to yourself already!" Dolon exclaimed, his fingers almost flinching from the bruised and abraded flesh. "Say, are you back in the arena? Is that it? You know, I was just a boy, but I still remember when you . . ."
"I'm not back in the arena," Lycon cut in. "Not yet, anyway. Just do your work and let me try to rest. If I fall asleep, drown me in the cold pool before I start to roast."
Lycon was too fatigued to waste the energy to wince as Dolon practiced his art. The curved metal strigils scraped away at his scorched and discolored skin, removing the soot and oily filth that in an age without soap were otherwise locked into his flesh. The big Greek tried to be gentle, but the bodily damage was appalling. Once the skin was scraped clean, he began to work soothing oils into the taut muscles.
The gentle slap and pull of Dolon's hands merged with the sounds of a handball game in progress on the other side of the laconicum's back wall. Words came through the masonry as little more than high-pitched squeals, but the unfaltering slap-slap-slap of the ball wove a fabric for contemplation. Either one man was practicing alone or two perfectly matched experts were having a bout as precise as a dance of Oreads.
Lycon dozed, barely awakening when Dolon needed him to turn over. He dreamed that he was at the restaurant again with Vonones and N'Sumu, but that he was trapped inside the thermospodium in which they were mulling Vonones' wine. It was unbearably hot, and they couldn't seem to hear him slapping on the sides of the thermospodium to be let out. At last N'Sumu raised the lid and peered inside at him. He grinned horribly and reclosed the lid. "I'll have a cup of this," Lycon heard him say.
"Master Lycon?" It was Dolon's voice he heard now. "You said to awaken you when I was finished. So you could move to the frigidarium for a cold bath. Master Lycon?"
"Yes, thanks," Lycon muttered, shaking his head to clear the nightmare. "How long have I been in here, anyway?"
"About an hour, Master Lycon," said Dolon. "Will you want me after your cold bath? A brisk rubdown after a cold plunge. . ."
"I'll see if I have the time." Lycon counted out coins from the purse he had carried with him. "I'll pay you for now, but look in on me shortly. It must be close to midday, is it not?"
"I believe so, Master Lycon. Thank you very much, Master Lycon," said the Greek, delighted with his gratuity.
Lycon smiled without humor. Normally a parsimonious man, he found himself indifferent to money. He knew he'd never care about it again. He said: "I'll be expecting a messenger from Gaius Claudius Vonones. Direct him to the frigidarium. If I have time for a rubdown, I'll be in one of the massage cubicles. I'll probably be asleep."
The artfully cooled air of the frigidarium was a welcome change from the oven-like interior of the laconicum, the plunge into the cold water there astonishingly pleasant to his heated flesh. The hunter made his limbs slash through the water in brisk strokes. He was an excellent swimmer—of necessity, else he would have drowned a hundred times over. At this hour the frigidarium had not yet become overly crowded, and he was able to exercise without blundering into the usual hordes of bathers.
His legs were shaky when he pulled himself out of the pool, but Lycon felt refreshed and hungry. Though he cared no more about food than money, he would have some wine and dates, perhaps a little honey, when he rejoin
ed Vonones—a light meal that had often provided energy for a day's exertions in the field. In his line a man had to eat to survive, and survival was important, until his task was done.
Much of his earlier depression had lifted now, even as the gnawing ache of fatigue slipped from his body. Lycon's mood was strangely fey, and his flesh tingled as he rubbed himself. He flexed the fingers of his right hand; although the hand was still somewhat swollen and horribly discolored, everything seemed to work. There might be some chipped knuckles, but the hatchling's bite had not festered.
Lycon entered an empty cubicle and let fall the doorway curtain—more to shut out some of the human uproar than from any need for privacy. Everyone seemed to be shouting to his friends, and a youthful chorus—probably some of the students who made use of the library and reading rooms here—had begun to sing loudly and discordantly. The hunter stretched out upon the cubicle's bench. If Dolon got here in time for a final rubdown, fine; if not, Lycon meant to nap until Vonones' man called for him.
He had already fallen asleep when the curtain was opened, and a slim body slipped into the cubicle.
"Hello, Handsome Stranger," a young voice whispered hesitantly. For some reason the naked youth gasped and was blinking in the darkness of the cubicle.
"Yes, it's me, Alexandros," Lycon greeted him, wondering vaguely at his son's odd jocularity. He was not yet fully awake. "Come on in, son. Did Vonones send you to fetch me? Just give me a moment to gather my wits. Go on and take a last quick dip, if you like. Hurry it up, though."