Inside, he did not find the rude splendor he had expected, but a more subtle magnificence, really beautiful furnishings. Thunsba might throw its garbage out in the streets, but had excellent artistic taste. There were a hundred nobles in the royal audience chamber, a rainbow of robes, moving about and talking with boisterous gestures. Servants scurried around offering trays of food and liquor. A small orchestra was playing: the saw-toothed music hurt Alak’s ears. A number of monks, in gray robes and with hoods across their faces, stood unspeaking along the walls, near the motionless men-at-arms.
Alak advanced under gleaming pikes and knelt before the king. Morlach was burly, middle-aged, and long-bearded, wearing a coronet and holding a naked sword on his lap. At his left, the place of honor—most of this species were left-handed—sat an older “man,” clean-shaven, hook-nosed, bleakfaced, in yellow robe and a tall bejeweled hat marked with a golden X.
“My duty to you, puissant lord Morlach. Far have I, unworthy Wing Alak of Terra, come to behold your your majesty, before whom the nations tremble. From my king unto you, I bear a message and these poor gifts.”
The poor gifts made quite a heap, all the way from clothes and ornaments of lustrous synthetic to flash-lights and swords of manganese steel. Ryfin’s Planet couldn’t legally be given modern tools and weapons—not at their present social stage of war and feudalism—but there was no ban on lesser conveniences which they couldn’t reproduce anyhow.
“Well met, Sir Wing Alak. Come, be seated at my right.” Morlach’s voice rose, and the buzzing voices, already lowered in curiosity, stopped at once. “Be it known to all men, Sir Wing Alak is in truth my guest, most holy and inviolable, and all injuries to him, save in lawful duel, are harms to me and my house which the Allshaper bids me avenge.”
The nobles crowded closer. It was not a very formal court, as such things go. One of them came to the front as Alak mounted the high seat. The Patrolman felt a tingle along his back and a primitive stirring in his scalp.
Samel Varris.
The refugee war lord was dressed like the other aristocrats, a gaudy robe of puffed and slashed velvet, hung with ropes of jewels. Alak guessed correctly that a royal guardsman ranked very high indeed, possessing his own lands and retinue. Varris was a big dark man with arrogant features and shrewd eyes. Recognition kindled in him, and he strode forward and made an ironic bow.
“Ah, Sir Wing Alak,” he said in Thunsban. “I had not awaited the honor of your calling on me yourself.”
King Morlach huffed and laid a ringed hand on his sword. “I knew not you twain were acquainted.”
Alak covered an empty feeling with his smoothest manner. “Yes, my lord, Varris and I have jousted erenow. Indeed, my mission hither concerns him.”
“Came you to fetch him away?” It was a snarl, and the nobility of Wainabog reached for their daggers.
“I know not what he has told you, my lord—”
“He came hither because foemen had overwhelmed his own kingdom and sought his life. Noble gifts did he bring me, not least of them one of the flame-weapons your folk are so niggardly with, and he gave wise redes by which we hurled back the armies of Rachanstog and wrung tribute out of their ruler.” Morlach glared from lowered brows. “Know then, Sir Wing Alak, that though you are my guest and I may not harm you, Sir Varris has taken oaths as my guardsman and served right loyally. For this I have given him gold and a broad fief. The honor of my house is sacred ... if you demand he be returned to his foes, I must ask that you leave at once and when next we meet it shall be the worse for you!”
Alak pursed his lips to whistle, but thought better of it. Handing out a blaster—I It was unimportant in itself, the firearm would be useless once its charge was spent, but as a measure of Varris’ contempt for Galactic law—
“My lord,” he said hastily, “I cannot deny I had such a request. But it was never the intent of my king or myself to insult your majesty. The request will not be made of you.” “Let there be peace,” said the high priest on Morlach’s left. His tone was not as unctuous as the words: here was a fighter, in his own way, more intelligent and more dangerous than the brawling warriors around him. “In the name of the Allshaper, we are met in fellowship. Let not black thoughts give to the Evil an entering wedge.”
Morlach swore.
“In truth, my lord, I bear this envoy no ill will,” smiled Varris. “I vouch that he is knightly, and wishes but to serve his king as well as I seek to serve yourself. If my holy lord abott”—the title was nearly equivalent—“calls peace on this hall, then I for one will abide by it.”
“Yes ... a sniveling shavechin to whine peace when treachery rises,” growled Morlach. “You have enough good lands which should be mine, Abbot Gulmanan—keep your greasy fingers off my soul, at least!”
“What my lord says to me is of no consequence,” answered the cleric thinly. “But if he speaks against the Temple, he blasphemes the Allshaper.”
“Hell freeze you, I’m a pious man!”-roared Morlach. “I make the sacrifices—for the Allshaper, though not for his fat-gutted Temple that would push me off my own throne!” Gulmanan flushed purple, but checked himself a bit, narrow lips together and made a bridge of his bony fingers. “This is not the time or place to question where the ghostly and the worldly authorities have their proper bounds,” he said. “I shall sacrifice for your soul, my lord, and pray you be led out of error.”
Morlach snorted and called for a beaker of wine. Alak sat inconspicuously till the king’s temper had abated. Then he began to speak of increased trade possibilities.
He had not the slightest power to make treaties, but he wanted to be sure he wasn’t kicked out of Wainabog yet.
Heavily dosed with anti-allergen, Alak was able to eat enough of the king’s food to cement his status as guest. But Drogs brought him a case of iron rations when the Galmathian came to attend his “master” in the assigned palace apartment.
The human sat moodily by the window, looking out at the glorious night sky of clotted stars and two moons. There was a fragrant garden beneath him, under the bleak castle walls. Somewhere a drunken band of nobles was singing—he had left the feast early and it was still carousing on. A few candles lit the tapestried dankness of the room; they were perfumed, but not being a Ryfinnian he did not enjoy the odor Of mercaptan.
“If we got several thousand husky Patrolmen,” he said, “and put them in armor, and equipped them with clubs, we might slug our way in and out of this place. Right now I can’t think of anything else.”
“Well, why don’t we?” Drogs hunched over a burbling water pipe, cheerfully immune to worry.
“It lacks finesse. Nor is it guaranteed—these Thunsbans are pretty hefty too, they might overpower our men. If we used tanks or something to make ourselves invincible, it’d be just our luck to have some gallant fathead of a knight get squashed under the treads. Finally, with the trouble at Sannanton going on, the Patrol can’t spare so large a force— and by the time thay can, it might well be too late. Those unprintable traders must have told half the League that Varris has been found. We can look for a rescue attempt from Caldon within a week.”
“Hm-m-m . . . according to your account, the local church is at loggerheads with the king. Maybe it can be persuaded to do our work for us. Nothing in the Prime Directive forbids letting entities murder each other.”
“No—I’m afraid the Temple priests are only allowed to fight in self-defense, and these people never break a law.” Alak rubbed his chin. “You may have the germ of an idea there, though. “I’ll have to—”
The gong outside the door was struck. Drogs humped across the floor and opened.
Varris came in, at the head of half a dozen warriors. Their drawn blades gleamed against flickering shadow.
Alak’s blaster snaked out. Varris grinned and lifted his hand. “Don’t be so impetuous,” he advised. “These boys are only precautionary. I just wanted to talk.”
Alak took out a cigarette and puffed it into lig
hting. “Go on, then,” he invited tonelessly.
“I’d like to point out a few things, that’s all.” Varris was speaking Terran; the guards waited stolidly, not understanding, their eyes restless. “I wanted to say I’m a patient man, but there’s a limit to how much persecution I’ll stand for.”
“Persecution! Who ordered the massacres at New Venus?” Fanaticism smoldered in Varris’ eyes, but he answered quietly: “I was the legitimately chosen1 dictator. Under Caldonian law, I was within my rights. It was the Patrol which engineered the revolution. It’s the Patrol which now maintains a hated colonialism over my planet.”
“Yes—until such time as those hellhounds you call people have had a little sense beaten into them. If you hadn’t been stopped, there’d be more than one totally dead world by now.” Alak’s smile was wintry. “You’ll comprehend that for yourself, once we’ve normalized your psyche.”
“You can’t cleanly execute a man.” Varris paced tiger-fashion. “You have to take and twist him till everything that was holy to him has become evil and everything he despised is good. I’ll not let that happen to me.”
“You’re stuck here,” said Alak. “I know your boat is almost out of fuel. Incidentally, in case you get ideas, mine is quite thoroughly boobytrapped. All I need do is holler for reinforcements. Why not surrender now and save me the trouble?”
Varris grinned. “Nice try, friend, but I’m not that stupid. If the Patrol could have sent more than you to arrest me, it would have done so. I’m staying here and gambling that a rescue party from Caldon will arrive before your ships get around to it. The odds' are in my favor.”
His finger stabbed out. “Look here! By choice, I’d have my men cut you down where you stand—you and that slimy little monster. I can’t, because I have to live up to the local code of honor; they’d throw me out if I broke the least of their silly laws. But I can maintain a large enough bodyguard to prevent you from kidnaping me, as you’ve doubtless thought of doing.”
“I had given the matter some small consideration,” nodded Alak.
“There’s one other thing I can do, too. I can fight a duel with you. A duel to the death—they haven’t any other kind.” “Well, I’m a pretty good shot.”
“They won’t allow modern weapons. The challenged party has the choice, but it’s got to be swords or axes or bows or —something provided for in their law.” Varris laughed. “I’ve spent a lot of time this past year, practicing with just such arms. And I went in for fencing at home. How much training have you had?”
Alak shrugged. Not being even faintly a romantic, he had never taken much interest in archaic sports.
“I’m good at thinking, up nasty tricks,” he said. “Suppose I chose to fight you with clubs, only I had a switchblade concealed in mine.”
“I’ve seen that kind of thing pulled,” said Varris calmly. "Poison is illegal, but gimmicks of the kind you mention are accepted. However, the weapons must be identical. You’d have to get me with your switchblade the first try—and I don’t think you could—or I’d see what was going on and do the same. I assure you, the prospect doesn’t frighten me at all.
“I’ll give you a few days here to see how hopeless your problem is. If you turn your Sitter’s guns on the city, or on me . . . well, I have guns, too. If you aren’t out of the kingdom in a week—or if you begin to act suspiciously before that time —I’ll duel you.”
“I’m a peaceable man,” said Alak. “It takes two to make a duel.”
“Not here, it doesn’t. If I insult you before witnesses, and you don’t challenge me, you lose knightly rank and are whipped out of the country. It's a long walk to the border, with a bull whip lashing you all the way. You wouldn’t make it alive.”
“All right,” sighed Alak. “What do you want of me?”
“I want to be let alone.”
“So do the people you were going to make war on last year.”
“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 bade. 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. Rut that could be useful. With their faintly 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 leam 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, tided 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.”
Un-Man and Other Novellas Page 14