Rachad had followed this procedure, leaning the cards against the wall so that they stood upright over the jars, and he was delighted to see how effective it was. The jars now contained miniature human beings, twelve-inch figures which, though frail-looking, were easily recognizable as corresponding to the crude caricatures painted on the cards above them, mainly because of the regalia which had also grown onto them. The King and Queen were crowned, and wore flowing purple apparel. The Priest, in an orphreyed cope, carried a holy circle, and the Knight, wearing the lightest of armor, was armed with a battle-axe which he held upright before him, after the manner of the playing card overhead.
Since the day before, the creatures had also awakened to consciousness—or whatever passed for consciousness in homunculi; Rachad was vague in his mind on that score. They gazed sadly from their glass jars, as if pathetically aware of their fleeting hold on life.
Amschel had offered two more fascinating facts. The first was that homunculi were telepathically obedient to the will of their creator (giving Rachad a fresh insight into the deployment of space dragons). The other concerned an intriguing piece of behavior resulting from the playing-card technique. It seemed that the King invariably sought to escape from his jar in a vain attempt to join the Queen—a consequence, it was thought, of the alchemical marriage which the pair weakly symbolized.
The King was already enacting this inborn urge as Rachad came into the room, pressing his hands to the lid of the jar and feebly attempting to push it off. When he became aware of Rachad watching him, however, he left off his efforts as though discovered at something clandestine. He stood stiffly in the jar, his paper-like face staring haughtily ahead, his purple cloak waving in the currents his movements had stirred up in the liquid.
A thought came to Rachad. He reached out and unscrewed the lid, leaving it in place but loose on the top of the jar. Then, crossing the room, he lay on his bed and closed his eyes.
He had intended merely to sleep and to spy on the King surreptitiously, but instead found that he must have dozed off for a few minutes. He awoke with a start, to see that the King had succeeded in climbing out of the jar and, dripping water onto the tabletop, had made his way to where the Queen was imprisoned at the other end of the line, separated from him by the Priest and the Knight. Now the homunculus was frantically trying to shin up the smooth glass surface, while the Queen, her hands pressed against the inside of the jar, watched him intently, her pretty face wide-eyed with alarm and expectancy.
Already the King was beginning to flag. Rachad recalled that an homunculus could not live long once removed from its nurturing solution. He continued to watch for a while, until the King fell to the tabletop in exhaustion, his arms clasped pathetically around the jar.
Then it occurred to Rachad to try a second experiment In his thoughts, he ordered the King to rise, to return to his own place. At first nothing happened. Propping himself on one elbow, Rachad tried again, imagining his thoughts as a mental force that was reaching out to the dying homunculus, silently commanding his obedience. Now the King responded. He raised his head, clambered slowly to his feet, and with stooped, dragging steps plodded doggedly back the way he had come.
Thrilled, Rachad followed every inch of his progress, never letting up the mental effort. Halfway home, however, the King’s strength gave out, and he collapsed in a bedraggled heap.
Rachad sprang from the bed, not wanting to lose one of his living toys, and picked up the homunculus. It felt cold and soft in his hand, and wriggled feebly. He plopped it back into the empty jar and screwed on the cap.
The King sank to the bottom, where he squatted with his head between his upthrust knees, hiding his face with his arms.
The incident seemed to have disturbed the other homunculi. The Knight was impotently swinging his axe against the wall of his glass prison. The Priest, too, banged indignantly against the inside of his own jar, silently mouthing.
Rachad returned to his bed, much entertained by the entire episode.
He grinned to himself. Next time he would arrange for the King actually to succeed in reaching the Queen. It would be fun to see what the two of them got up to, when ensconced in the same jar together.
But in a way, he thought wryly, his own situation was not unlike theirs. They were encased in their glass jars, he in the Aegis. By now he had all but despaired of ever finding a way to open the gate. He was so wearied of his life here that, were he not afraid of what Matello might do to him, he would have considered abandoning his mission altogether and asking the duke to let him go—if that could have been done without arousing his suspicions.
Refreshed by his immersion in the mineral water, the King was coming to his feet again to adopt the formally upright pose which was characteristic of all the homunculi. At least, Rachad reflected, he could now find some diversion in using his mental power on them, using them as living dolls.
He lay down and was about to drift into sleep again, when he suddenly sat bolt upright The idea that had come to him had illuminated his thoughts like a flash of lightning.
What fool he had been! How obvious it was!
He stared at the homunculi. The way to open the Aegis was right there in front of his eyes!
Chapter FOURTEEN
Desperately Baron Matello hacked with his long-bladed broadsword at the Kerek officer that was trying to dismember him with one of its curiously curved sickle-weapons. Skittering back and forth on its four legs, the creature swung the sickle to and fro in clever, deceptive thrusts. Matello swiped the weapon aside hastily and, wielding his sword with both hands, renewed the attack.
Vapor puffed as the edge of his blade bit into the alien’s nacreous neck armor. He chopped again, and cut the giraffe-like neck right through. Decapitated, gouting greenish blood, the Kerek collapsed.
Then a human Kerek-warrior rushed at Matello from across the deck of the Bucentaur. So swift and furious was the onslaught that the baron reeled back, receiving a confused impression of honey-colored armor and a deadly, flickering scythe-sword.
Wildly he sought to defend himself. Suddenly the golden-armored figure bent at the waist and tipped forward, a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest, falling on Matello.
The baron pushed the corpse aside and raised his sword in thanks to the archer who had probably saved his life.
He had never known such a shambles. Though his men had practically cleared the Bucentaur’s deck of Kerek now, the galley that had rammed her was solidly enmeshed in her superstructure. But the fact was that so far Matello’s ship had come off lightly. Not far away floated the gutted hulk of the royal barge, still glowing with sticky fire, and attached to the Bucentaur by a long flexible trunk through which the king and his retinue had escaped as the flames spread.
Matello leaned wearily on his sword, thinking that there might have been a chance of victory if only everything could have been gotten ready in time. As it was, the Kerek had emerged from the shoals and attacked Lutheran’s gathering fleet with a huge horde, catching it by surprise.
The two fleets were now battling as they traveled together at superlight velocity. And that battle, invisible from where Matello stood for the most part, was ending in the total destruction of Maralian power.
Peering into space, he saw something that chilled him. He saw glints of blue in the distance, quickly resolving into a score of galleys bearing remorselessly down on the Bucentaur. And these new, larger galleys the Kerek were deploying now, Matello knew, were equipped with catapults and spring cannon. He glared around him, aware that the Bucentaur had already lost a good part of her armament—as well as her smaller craft—in earlier encounters.
Then a gladsome sight glided into view to cut off the attacking squadron. It was the Amanda, a giant Maralian galleon, almost as large as the Bucentaur but every inch a fighting ship. She bristled with huge weapons and besides that Was undamaged, being part of the small reserve that had but recently added itself to the battle.
Even as he watch
ed she let loose a drenching salvo of sticky fire, the combustible that burned under any conditions, that stuck to its target and spread until it had consumed it. Matello watched for a few moments, then turned and dodged through one of the hooded doorways. Sheathing his green-dripping sword, he loped through the long passageways, a tall figure in his tight-fitting purple spacesuit which was ribbed with steel bands for armor. Soon he came to the control room. Sliding back his faceplate, he entered.
King Lutheron was present, his face pale, his features gaunt. He was staring at the big viewscreen where the huge galleon was beating off the Kerek ships.
The captain rose as Matello appeared. “The Amanda is screening us from further attacks while she can, my lord. She signals us to withdraw, to save the king while we may.” He glanced at Lutheron with a troubled expression.
“I agree,” Matello rumbled. “Without doubt that is what we should do.”
King Lutheron tore his gaze with difficulty from the glass screen. His voice was reedy with grief. “A king without a country?” he said. “Maralia is about to be overrun.”
“To lose the battle is bad enough,” Matello argued, “but if Your Majesty falls too … While Your Majesty lives there is still hope. But when a king falls in battle, often his nation disappears under the heel of the conqueror forever.”
King Lutheron dropped his eyelids, seeing the force of this. “But where can we escape to? Already the Kerek horde will be spreading out. They will pursue us, perhaps head us off. We will not get far.” He sighed. “Aghh … Better, perhaps, to go down fighting.”
Matello was silent. “I know a hiding place,” he said after a moment. “We are not far from where the Duke of Koss has his Aegis. There I have a secret underground camp. We can hide there, covering the Bucentaur or else destroying her, or setting her to sail crewless in space.” He hesitated. “Likely even the Duke of Koss will give his monarch shelter in these circumstances. Once in the Aegis we would be safe for all time.”
Briefly and without humor, King Lutheron laughed. “Koss? I think not! But for him, we might not even be in this mess.”
They all flinched as a sudden white glare lit up the circular glass screen. A fire-dart had found its mark on one of the Amanda’s weapons turrets. The Kerek galleys had got close in to her, too, like jackals worrying a larger prey, and already fighting was taking place on her decks.
“We must decide now, liege-lord,” Matello urged. “Another few minutes and it may be too late.”
King Lutheron was despondent. “Very well,” he conceded wearily, “we shall slip away like cowards. Attend to it, Sir Goth.”
Pulling his cloak around him, he strode from the room. When he had gone, Matello rounded jerkily on the ship’s captain.
“All right!” he barked. “You heard him! Let’s get out of here!”
***
As had been the practice of the supply ships that visited the secret camp from time to time, the Bucentaur landed well beyond the Aegis’s visible horizon, putting down near to the screened tunnel entrance.
From the grounded ship streamed a procession of men and stores. Like ants, they vanished underground, following the miles-long tunnel to the subterranean barracks. It was going to be crowded, Matello admitted. Over a thousand people would be compressed into a space meant to accommodate a couple of hundred. But the access tunnel could be used, and if that was not enough, well then some people would just have to shift for themselves in the open for a while, until more excavations could be arranged.
King Lutheron paused a few yards inside the down-sloping passage to examine the circular walls. The rock and soil was held back by a framework of what at first he took to be metal. He reached out and touched it.
“Adamant,” Matello explained briefly. “Flammarion himself took a hand in constructing this place. I don’t think we could have done it unnoticed but for his help.”
“Why didn’t he line the walls with adamant altogether? Then we would have been invulnerable here.”
“That would make it a miniature aegis. Flammarion refuses to build aegises gratuitously—something to do with the guild he belongs to.”
They stood aside to allow the procession of refugees to stream past. Flammarion’s tank rolled past them on wheels, drawn by serfs, the alien invisible beneath the yellow powder.
Matello turned to the bearded officer who accompanied them. It was Captain Zhorga, the former Earthman who had made himself so useful lately.
“Take His Majesty to the camp and see that he is shown suitable quarters,” he instructed. “I have to see to the disposal of the Bucentaur. With your leave, liege-lord? …”
The king nodded. Matello bowed and left, making his way back up the tunnel into the open.
The planet’s blazing sun was low in the sky. The ship’s entire company had left her now, and he saw her captain, the last to disembark, stepping through a side portal.
There was nothing for Matello to do, but he felt an urge to watch his prize possession’s last few minutes of life under human direction. The ropes that were to trigger her departure had already been laid. While he watched, teams of men hauled on them, releasing the spring bollards that snapped out lengths of silk on the enormous yards.
It was a pity to waste her, Matello thought, but it was best to eradicate as many traces of their presence as possible.
Landing on uneven terrain had damaged her still further, but even so the huge vessel was more than equal to the last demand made on her. Her sails darkened the place where Matello stood as she first lumbered, then soared into the air, rapidly gaining height Her direction had been set; she would make it into space with ease. With any luck she would also reach the destination intended for her, and fall into the raging, multicolored sun.
***
The great glass jar in the corner of Rachad’s room was over six feet tall. It was in fact a giant cucurbit he had taken from the laboratory with the help of one of Amschel’s assistants. It curved gracefully, the lamplight gleaming off its surf ace.
On the table, the four small jars still stood, but the four homunculi they had contained had reached the end of their natural life span now. The tiny corpses slumped against the glass bottoms, degenerating into slime which was clouding the water. In time, Amschel had assured Rachad, the water would become clear again, a simple mineral solution as before.
Filling the big cucurbit with a similar solution had taken him several hours. But that had been weeks ago. Rachad now sat on a chair in front of the vessel, thinking hard. Every evening at about this time he spent an hour at the exercise, holding an image in his mind and attempting to project it into the burgeoning mass. The work exhausted him, for he had never found it easy to think in a sustained way.
The huge homunculus was almost fully formed now, but the features were still indistinct. The next few days would tell if his efforts were to be rewarded with success or failure—would tell if, in the end, his creation would step forth and speak in a faint, drifting voice …
Rachad was beginning to daydream again. It always happened after a few minutes. He pulled his mind back on the job, focusing his mind’s eye on the necessary picture, thinking, thinking …
***
“And how close are they, would you say?” Baron Matello asked, his brow furrowed in a frown.
“No more than fifty miles, my lord!” the kneeling messenger answered unhesitatingly.
Matello grunted dourly. The news was bad.
With the Kerek’s famous knack of tracking human ships, he had been afraid that something like this would happen. The enemy, it seemed, had come upon this uninviting world only days after the landing of the Bucentaur. The serf kneeling before Matello and King Lutheron had ridden from the nearest mining town, which was in panic after hearing of the Kerek’s doings in other such towns around the planet.
It would not take the Kerek long to spot the Aegis. They would then attempt to besiege it, and the situation of those in the underground camp was therefore unenviable.
<
br /> King Lutheron, sitting in a plush chair with what in the circumstances was a luxurious amount of space around him, spoke up. “Perhaps it is time we should seek Koss’s hospitality after all.”
“Perhaps,” Matello admitted grudgingly. Although he had been the first to offer this possibility to the King, the truth was that he hated the idea of going begging to the hated duke. He would rather have perished.
“Leave it for a while,” he said. “The Kerek have not discovered us yet. I still hope to be able to take the Aegis without our demeaning ourselves.”
He ignored the incredulous looks of the officers around him, the camp commander included, who until the interruption had been idly occupying themselves with all there was to do in such a place—cleaning and sharpening their weapons.
“Yes, my liege-lord,” he repeated in a murmur, “I suggest we leave it for a while …”
Caban, what the hell has happened to you? he thought furiously to himself.
***
The homunculus had been growing for about ten weeks. Rachad came into his room one night and stared at it, biting his lower lip.
As far as he could judge the creature was fully matured. The facial features had taken final form several days previously, and a haughty, austere visage stared back at him through the side of the jar, the head, with its long bony nose, tilted ever so slightly on one side.
It was a marvel to Rachad how faithfully the development of the homunculus had followed the direction of his thoughts—the likeness to the original was uncanny. Yet still he had hung back, wanting to be sure. He would only get one chance.
Suddenly he made up his mind. The time for hesitation had to end sooner or later. It was do or die. And the present moment—the Aegis’s nighttime, its activity subdued, and when the laboratory staff had all retired—was most propitious for his purpose.
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