Beneath Strange Stars: A Collection of Tales

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  “Did either of you note any direct connection between the Stranger and the spire of metal?” Bosha asked.

  Both men shook their heads cautiously, gazing at Bosha’s features evenly.

  “Did either of you connect the sound, or the flash of light, with the thing in the lake?”

  Again, in the negative.

  “What about the fire-lance…any of it?”

  “No, my lord,” Hadj replied, gazing downward. “Not directly.”

  Da also lowered his gaze and murmured: “The fire was out the solid sky, that I saw, but the metal could only be thrust from the chambered ground beneath the lake and taken back. And the man…well, the man lay on the lake’s shore, and nothing else can be said of the fact but that he was there, and there he was.”

  Bosha nodded and allowed an approving smile, though a smile exceedingly small and thin. The relieved witnesses were removed from the chamber.

  “At my order,” Bosha said, “the lake was dragged with grapples, but without result. Since the witnesses are not to be doubted, it is probably true that some odd metal came out of the ground as the fire passed by, the surface of which was somehow ensorcelled to mimic the Stranger’s sigil, then was removed again to hiding by ground or water demons.”

  “All that sounds reasonable, I suppose,” Calimosh said. “What about you, Diaban? You’re a practical and pragmatic man. What do you think?”

  “I think…that is…”

  “Soldiers fight and follow orders, and should not voice opinions beyond their learning” Bosha interrupted.

  “I cannot truly say, my Xenarch,” Diaban murmured. “It is as the Keeper says. “I am a simple soldier.”

  Calimosh nodded, but again there was an air of disappointment.

  When he was certain Diaban had nothing else to say, he continued: “When the Stranger was well enough to travel, he was remanded to the care of the regional doctor. It was then that the Stranger began to utter the blasphemies which resulted in him being taken into custody. Many of the people dwelling in the Crescent heard his utterances, but we will hear from only one.”

  “One only?” Calimosh asked.

  “Only one is necessary for us to understand the nature of the evil that came suddenly among the common people.”

  “But just one out of many?”

  Bosha shook his head. “Several have gone mad, many more have been imprisoned for observation, two were executed for the common good, and one has committed suicide. To force the dirt people to relive their encounters would be to propel them into the jaws of madness.”

  “Your one witness is made of sterner stuff then?”

  “Yes, Calimosh, his name is Travers, and he is a Tinker.”

  “A Tinker is inured to blasphemy?”

  “Not easily injured by blasphemies,” Bosha explained. “The trade of Tinker is most ancient, and the Brotherhood of Tinkers caretakes many secrets. We will question him bluntly, and the oaths of his office require that he answer likewise.”

  “Very well,” the Xenarch sighed. “We shall make an attempt to be slow to take offense.”

  Travers, a wiry nut-brown man, wore the leathern apron of his calling, the pockets of which were crammed with tools and gadgets. He wore a wide leather belt similarly adorned with odd devices. He bowed to the Xenarch, nodded respectfully to Bosha, and pointedly ignored Diaban. He scowled briefly at the Stranger.

  “Tell us what happened during your encounter with the Stranger in the Crescent,” Bosha instructed.

  “I heard much talk of the Stranger, wild tales they were, but did not actually meet him till near a semi-pentan elapsed, shortly after he recovered and found again his voice,” Travers said. “I heard his blasphemous words had fallen upon many sensitive ears, and though I hadn’t heard them yet myself at the time, it was plain we had to catch or kill the rascal. Those fool Elders down in the Crescent opted to wait till the return of a posted dispatch from Abraxes-by-the-Sea. Then Blake, as the Stranger calls himself, came to my shop and asked about sending messages off-world.”

  “Off-world?” Bosha asked. “He used those exact words?”

  “I say what I heard, Keeper,” Travers replied. “He also asked about passage beyond the limits of the solid sky, to the worlds of the burning stars. When I told him there was nothing beyond the mantle of the sky, he said I was an ignorant sonufabitch whose head would really turn when the Starship came from beyond the sky to take him back to the stars.”

  Calimosh gaped amazedly.

  “Let’s turn for a moment to the Stranger’s knowledge of machinery,” Bosha said. “Tell the Xenarch what you told me.”

  “He knew the secret names of tools known only to the Brotherhood of Tinkers, which I may not repeat even for the Xenarch,” Travers said. “He knew their use and the methods of fixing that which is broken. He spoke of metal-fusings known only to Master Tinkers, which office I hold within the Brotherhood. He spoke words known only to Tinkers, words to be spoken only by Tinkers.”

  “What was your reaction?” Bosha asked.

  Travers spat ceremoniously on the floor. “I clubbed the cheeky bastard insensible, didn’t I. Then I bound him tight, kept him from those fool villagers, and held him captive and silent till emissaries bearing the Xenarch’s sigil arrived to take the devil into custody.”

  “Well done, Master Tinker,” Bosha said.

  “Tell me of the Ship,” Calimosh said.

  The Tinker’s scowl outpaced Bosha’s. “There is no Ship; the sky is solid.”

  Bosha nodded and the man was ushered out.

  “There is only one more voice to be heard in these legal proceedings before you may pronounce the necessary sentence,” Bosha said.

  Calimosh gestured impatiently.

  Bosha glared pointedly at Diaban.

  “By your leave, my Xenarch,” Diaban said after a moment.

  “Yes, yes, let’s get on with it.”

  ***

  Diaban was thankful not to be kept for the questioning of the Stranger, yet it still rankled him to be dismissed by Bosha. The ire he felt toward the Keeper of Portents surpassed his fear, but he still hoped the Keeper had not noted any movement of his eyes, any catch in his breath when the Tinker spoke of the Stranger’s blasphemies. There had been no indication at all that Bosha had even an inkling of what had secretly transpired in the Tower of Portents, but still…

  He was nervous, but ever since the outriders had brought in the Stranger all the inhabitants of Abraxes-by-the-Sea and the nearby provinces had been edgy, from the lowest dung-scraper to the Xenarch himself. No one would take any special notice of Diaban’s consternation, much less discern any reason but the obvious. Perhaps rumors of the Stranger had prompted Lhalorin’s forbidden foray, Diaban conjectured within the terrible loneliness of his own thoughts. He sighed at the thought of her slender form flitting beneath the floating pastel moons.

  Let the Keeper deal with this crisis of faith as he saw fit, Diaban thought. It was none of his concern. He had his own sins with which to contend. And they had nothing to do with what might or might not abide beyond the solid sky.

  Once away from the Xenarch’s chamber, heading toward the third pentack of the palace, he heard a stealthy movement in an obscure storage alcove. He paused, then followed the sound to its source. He unsheathed his dagger, quietly opened the door.

  At first he saw only cleaning supplies and building materials in the dim crowded room, then noticed a filigreed grill removed from a far wall that faced the chamber he had just quit. Gripping his dagger between his teeth, he crawled inside.

  He almost retreated at a whiff of exotic perfume but forced himself forward. After a moment, his vision confirmed that which his nostrils had already informed him.

  Lhalorin crouched at the terminus of the shaft, before another grill that threw vague shadows over her pale face. With her ear directed toward the grill-vent, her face was half turned toward him. She bit her lip with sharp white teeth and concentrated only upon the words comi
ng from the chamber on the other side of the grill, words that Diaban could not help but hear.

  “…contend you are from worlds beyond the sky, Stranger?”

  “My name is Blake!”

  “Answer the question, Stranger.”

  “You people are stark barking insane!”

  An enforcement stick thudded against soft flesh.

  “Answer the question!”

  “Yes, there are worlds beyond the sky!” the prisoner screamed. “Uncounted worlds, orbiting thousands of stars in the void.”

  “Blasphemy!”

  “Listen, I’m Karl Blake, engineer’s mate on the Dyson, a star freighter of the Dog Star Line,” the Stranger said dully. “While we were plotting a new route there was an accident with the drive coil and all hands were instructed to abandon ship. My escape pod landed me here. I don’t know if any of the others made it down safely, or ended up elsewhere. I crashed into a lake and barely escaped before my pod sank. Look, all I want to do is get home. I don’t want any trouble, and I don’t want to have anything to do with your crazy beliefs. You want to believe the sky is a solid shield, that’s your business, only let me go. A ship is coming to rescue me, led by the distress beacon on my pod, still broadcasting, no matter where it went. A ship will…”

  The man screamed as truncheons thudded against his flesh.

  “A rescue ship is coming!”

  Another scream.

  “The Guild of Sky Sailors does not abandon its own!”

  “There are no sky sailors!” the Keeper yelled. “The sky is a solid impenetrable shield!”

  “The sky is not solid, there is no barrier, only the atmosphere, then open space beyond.”

  “Blasphemer!”

  “The sky is not rock, or crystal or anything solid, you twit!” the Stranger shouted. “How could you have come by such a wrong-headed philosophy? Look, you’re as human as I am, so you must have come from Earth or one of the colonized planets, even if a long time ago, which means you could have only come here by starships.”

  “We have always been here, Stranger,” Calimosh said mildly. “We have always lived here, protected from demon-haunted oblivion by the solid sky.”

  “Not oblivion, but open space, planets orbit burning stars, and great ships that course…”

  Sounds of wood striking flesh filled Diaban’s ears, changing the Stranger’s words to screams, which subsided into whimpers.

  “We’ll have to wait till he awakens to hear further testimony, Bosha,” the Xenarch said. “Your temper will be your undoing.”

  “His testimony is ended, Calimosh!”

  Diaban was shocked at the change in Bosha’s attitude toward their Xenarch.

  “But the Ship, Bosha,” Calimosh said, his voice low, almost trembling. “He should tell us more about the Ship.”

  “There is no Ship coming from realms beyond the sky.”

  “How can we be truly sure?” the Xenarch asked. “What man has ever touched the sky? We are a people afraid to gaze upward, so how can we be sure of that which arches above us?”

  “Faith, Calimosh,” Bosha replied. “You, of all people, must have faith, faith enough for an entire race.”

  “But if his words are true,” Calimosh said. “If we excruciate him…kill him…”

  “You must pass the sentence I demand,” Bosha said. “You have no choice. I told you what happened to the people in the Crescent, the madness, the executions, the suicides. Is that what you desire to happen all across the Xenarchy?”

  “No, but…”

  “Then speak the words.”

  “Perhaps ribboning…plucking…”

  “Blake speaks the ultimate blasphemy, not some mere questioning of authority,” the Keeper explained. “You cannot expiate his sins by ribboning his tongue or plucking his eyes. Give me his death!”

  “Perhaps we can hold him captive for a hand of months, see if a Ship comes.”

  “There is no Starship.”

  “But if we kill him…”

  “It is the only way.”

  There was a long silence. “Sometimes I have dreams, Bosha, dreams I have never shared, even with the Keeper, dreams of lights burning in a long night. Somehow, I know they are stars in space, and I see dark shadows shambling between them.”

  “The stars are lanterns hung from the solid sky…you know that, Calimosh,” the Keeper said, his voice low, grim and even. “The wanderings stars spied occasionally are only reflections of our lives, or unknown gods traveling upon their secret highways.”

  “I’ve always thought that, always believed it.”

  “Believe it now.”

  “Last night, I had a very strange dream, not long after the Stranger’s outburst from the Pits,” Calimosh said after a long moment, his voice dim. “I stood on one of the palace balconies, looking over the spread of the city to the sea. There were just a few lights in the city, but the sky seemed filled with fire, though I feared to gaze at it. Instead I gazed into the sea. I saw a dark shape rising from the depths, far larger than any leviathan that ever pulled mariners to their graves. As I stared at it, it occurred to me that it was not a leviathan, not rising from the sea at all, but a reflection of something in the sky. I looked up, and saw shapes hurtling between the stars, and one of those shapes was a Ship coming to hover above the harbor, looming over the city like a mountain ready to crush it to dust. I awoke to screams, but the screams were my own, and I cringed naked upon the night-shadowed balcony of my sleeping chamber. There was no Ship over Abraxas-by-the-Sea, but I still felt myself watched by shapes beyond the sky.”

  “Calimosh, the Stranger must be killed,” Bosha said.

  “Perhaps,” Calimosh replied. “Not now, though, not yet. Not…just…yet.”

  “The Xenarch may be the law, but he is not above the law,” Bosha reminded.

  “He’s not much to look at, is he, Bosha, hanging senseless between the Silent Guardsmen?”

  “You must issue the order for his death!”

  “Hardly seems dangerous at all.”

  “Death!”

  “Later. For now, he will be held in silence in the Pits.”

  “You cannot do this!”

  “It will be done…Keeper,” Calimosh said coldly.

  After a long moment: “As you wish…my Xenarch.”

  Sounds came to Diaban of the Silent Guardsmen marching out, dragging the unconscious prisoner between them, of doors closing as the Keeper also took his leave. Diaban imagined the Xenarch sitting lonely upon his throne, troubled by dreams, doubting the faith that had always guided and protected them. Never had Calimosh seemed to him less like a Xenarch and more like a mere wretched mortal man.

  A movement in the darkness shaft startled Diaban from his dangerous reveries.

  Lhalorin had turned from the grill, its intricate shadows slithering across her fair face, and she now gazed upon him squarely. She seemed more amused at being discovered in her intrigue than alarmed. Why should she worry, he thought grimly. After all, he was merely a captain of guards, serving at the Xenarch’s pleasure, while she was, no matter what else she might be, ever the Xenarch’s daughter.

  She started to crawl past him, then paused, turned, kissed him lightly upon the cheek, and vanished.

  When Diaban was alone in the storeroom he stole to the grill and glimpsed the Xenarch in the room beyond, alone, desolate, brow cradled in his hand. Diaban made sure the corridor was empty, then fled the storeroom.

  He touched his cheek to find it still moist, and it seemed as if he were enveloped in a light nimbus of sweet perfume.

  You fool, he thought. You stupid old fool!

  But he smiled nonetheless.

  ***

  Lhalorin, garbed in a dark cape and enveloping cowl, made her way into the labythrine darkness of the Pits that snaked beneath the palace. She entered by way of a well-concealed entrance discovered as a child. At first she heard only her own tiny footfalls and dripping of water in the distance. Then, other sounds ca
me to her, dread noises like the moans of demons.

  They were the sounds of excruciation, and they thrilled her as did nothing else in her privileged life.

  As a child she had played in the Pits, hiding from the guards and pain-masters who would have given her to her father for his mild chastisement. It had been a grand game, flowing like an unseen shadow amongst the ignorant guards. Secretly she had spied upon many terrible pleasures, innumerable exciting horrors. She was no longer a child, but in the Pits it was possible to again rediscover the simple delights of childhood and escape the dull life into which her position thrust her.

  She had not, despite her authority, been able to approach the Stranger who had been brought in from the provinces. Until his outburst last night, she had not even been sure in what portion of the Pits he was being held. Discovered too late, she had thought, hence her foray into forgotten storage room to spy upon his trial. If she could not see him for herself, listen to blasphemies spoken just for her ears, at least she could hear the forbidden words spoken to others, watch his alien head roll and his blood spread darkly across the demon-tiled throne room floor.

  But her father had spared him. A derisive expression twisted her delicate features. The Xenarch was a foolish old man to let himself be swayed by dreams, premonitions and fears. She looked forward to the day when she would rule the Xenarchy, and lately her idylls had turned toward thoughts of hastening that day.

  The Stranger’s reprieve had disappointed, then excited her. No blood to spark her in such delightful ways, true, but it opened opportunities she had counted lost, chances for even darker, more forbidden rapture.

  She traversed a downward passage through utter blackness, her arm extended before her. The temperature began to rise and a reddish glow grew about her, as if the air itself was awash with hot blood. She moved more swiftly now, surer of foot.

  The tunnel opened over a vast chamber where vague dark forms toiled before black furnaces belching fire, the furnaces themselves like malevolent squids with mazey arms twisting into eternal night. The chains of the laborers made sweet music.

  The toilers below, she thought. Those whose sky really is solid, for it is the floor upon which I walk.