[Jan Darzek 04] - Silence is Deadly

by Lloyd Biggle, Jr.

  And he watched and listened, and Sajjo flitted about everywhere, but they learned little. Evidently someone had seen Bovranulz with an unknown visitor, and the Duke of OO had been sufficiently alarmed to publicly whip a negligent sentry and place additional guards around the inner circle of his enclave. Darzek could glimpse Bovranulz’s tent from a distance, through a narrow gap between tents—it was recognizable because a sentry now stood at its entrance constantly—but he did not dare attempt to approach it. And during the daily march, the covered cart carrying Bovranulz moved directly in front of the duke’s carriage.

  Darzek had his moments of stark despair, when it seemed to him that the selection of a king had nothing to do with him or the Synthesis, and he was wasting precious weeks of time on this outlandish trek. Even if there was something to be learned, the difficulties in doing so seemed insurmountable. It pained him to know that the Duke of OO and his closest advisers, the haughty black knights that accompanied him everywhere, were in secret conference beyond a thin expanse of canvas, and that Darzek—as the expedition’s popular and efficient provisioner—could pass the tent closely without arousing a twitch of suspicion from the watchful guards; and yet he could not overhear a word. For there was no eavesdropping on the Silent Planet except when one could watch the hands of the talkers.

  It bothered him even more when he realized that the Duke of OO was transporting a treasure. This thing of immense value had a wagon to itself and its own special guard of black-caped lackeys. The duke visited it every morning and every evening and sometimes during the day, but no one except the duke and its guard was allowed within twenty strides of it. At night, the treasure shared the inner circle with Bovranulz.

  Darzek pointed this out to Sajjo, who considered it gravely and then went her flitting way through the night’s encampment—she slipped unseen or unnoticed into places where even the distinguished provisioner Lazk would have been arrested at once—and she returned with the staggering news that all of the dukes were transporting treasures. Even Captain Wanulzk’s friend, the redheaded Duke Dunjinz, had a thing of immense value in his entourage that was guarded as carefully as that of the Duke of OO.

  Darzek wracked his imagination, came up with no answers, and finally dismissed the mystery from his mind. It was only one more imponderable among so many.

  The daily march tediously crept closer to the mountains, which now could be seen on the horizon. Sajjo watched them uneasily as they loomed larger. When Darzek asked her why, she answered, That’s where my father is.

  He questioned her and discovered that the Central Province was called the Realm of the Holy Beast because Storozian religious mythology did in fact make that its lair. The Winged Beast perched atop the highest peak to look out over the world and select the next victim it would take to feed its young. Those who came close to the mountains were, in Sajjo’s naive version of the myth, much more likely to be seized. She seemed to have forgotten the reassuring words of Bovranulz.

  Darzek reminded her of the villages they had passed along the way, and their apparently happy residents, subjects of the Duke Tonorj, whom the Winged Beast miraculously failed to molest; but she could not be convinced, and her uneasiness grew as the mountains loomed closer.

  Darzek worried about her.

  When they reached their destination, and the dukes and the Protector proceeded alone to their rendezvous, Darzek intended to follow them and learn what he could about the lottery. If it were in any way possible, he would prevent the Duke of OO from being selected king.

  He knew that the chances were excellent that he would be captured. He also knew that retaliatory measures might be taken against his family helpers. He intended to alert Sjelk so that he could warn the others in time, and he felt that they could look after themselves. He already had told Sjelk to have every worker prepare a survival pack of supplies for himself.

  But he worried incessantly about Sajjo. Therefore he struck up a friendship with a harness maker who had brought his wife and children with him. He invented a fictitious illness. The Winged Beast might spare him for a long time, he said; on the other hand—

  The harness maker gestured wisely. His wife shrugged understandingly. They found his fatherly concern touching. In return for his personal wagon and nabrula, they would cheerfully add Sajjo to their family and raise her to maturity. And—they were fond of the child—they would give her a marriage portion equal to the value of the wagon and nabrula. Darzek thanked them profusely and told them he knew no nobler people on Kamm.

  He knew they would reduce Sajjo to the role of an unpaid servant and there would be no marriage portion; but they would treat her kindly and provide a temporary refuge, and as soon as she reached a Free Port, any of the many sea captains who now knew her would return her to Northpor.

  Now the mountains were close enough so that their precisely stratified vegetation was visible, from the lush brown of the zarak forests to the vibrant blue of the izu meadows and finally the snow-capped peaks. It was a formidable chain, and few would be the Kammians hardy enough to trace the mythical Winged Beast to its lair.

  As the land moved precipitously upward in their first really difficult climb, they passed the village of Surjolanz, the last village and the last wayside forum of the Duke Tonorj’s province. A looming sculpture of the Winged Beast announced what all of them already knew: From this point, the old religion ruled. They stood at the border of the land of death.

  Their panting nabrula finally gained the narrow pass at the top of the rise and pointed their bulging noses downward in long, steep descent. At the bottom was a broad valley, and on the far side of a shallow, swift-flowing, cold river was the village of Veznol—the only Central Province village on this surlane east of the mountains, it was said.

  The long procession finally had reached its destination.

  The Protector was there ahead of them, and he took personal charge of locating the encampment. His decisions were incisive, but in the inevitable disputes that developed he seemed infinitely patient and fair in his judgments. He formed the enclaves in a vast circle on the floor of the mountain valley below the village. He placed Darzek’s establishment at the center of the circle, so that supplies and services were conveniently located for everyone. And he established a nabrula corral far downstream where it wouldn’t befoul the river’s water before the needs of village and encampment were taken care of.

  Darzek was impressed.

  As soon as Darzek’s wagons were parked, he consolidated loads, overloading as much as he could, and started the empty wagons on the return lane to Midpor. That evening, coming back from the nabrula corral, Darzek saw the long mounted column of dukes and their chosen associates setting out up the narrow lane that led toward the high mountain pass above the village. Night was coming on, but he could see, in the zigzagging, torch-lit column, that each duke took his private treasure with him, borne on a litter draped with costly tapestries and surrounded by guards.

  Where the lane left the village, and again halfway up the mountain, were torch-lit sentry posts with armed guards. Darzek assumed there’d be another at the top of the pass. Obviously the route was triple-guarded; and at that very moment, black knights of the Winged Beast were passing through the encampment warning all those left behind to remain in camp. There was only one penalty for intruding into the Realm of the Holy Beast beyond the village of Veznol: Death.

  Actually, the situation seemed far more hopeful than Darzek had expected. The fact that the dukes continued their journey that night meant that their destination was close at hand. The senile Duke Borkioz, who was in poor health, could not have tolerated a long night ride through the mountains.

  The site of the lottery was within Darzek’s reach if he cared to take the risk: a torturous night climb over the mountain, avoiding the lane all the way, and certain death if he were captured in the vicinity of that most secret ceremony that would decide the kingship.

  He spoke tersely with Sjelk, reminding him of the agreed pla
n should Darzek disappear. Then he left the camp, strolling downstream as though he intended to visit the nabrula corral again. He stopped at a point where he could study the profile of the mountain against the darkening sky. He intended to take the risk; at the same time, he wanted to cover himself with some plausible excuse for getting lost on the mountainside, if he could think of one. He thought long and hard as he watched the last torches of the procession of dukes vanish into the high pass. If he waited much longer, the mounted party would be too far ahead to be overtaken.

  He turned and found Sajjo watching him.

  Suddenly he found the excuse he needed, but the experience would be a scarring one for her. He took her to their tent, lit a candle, and told her what he wanted. She agreed immediately, in the quiet, matter-of-fact way she accepted all of his requests. He looked at her doubtfully. He had to decide at once.

  She got to her feet. Shall we go now?

  Still reluctant, for he knew she would be terrified, he packed a lunch for her, dressed both of them in heavy clothing, and folded a rug and a blanket. He added a jar of water, telling her how to dispose of the jar, the rug, and the blanket when she was finished with them. Then he repeated his instructions again and had her repeat them back to him.

  Moving from shadow to shadow, they slipped from the encampment, crossed the meadow, and started up the mountainside, moving quickly past the stabbing lights of the innumerable night creatures that so frightened Sajjo. Darzek again felt reluctant to go on; but when they reached the edge of the looming forest, she gestured a farewell at him and slipped from his sight.

  He hurried back to the encampment and went directly to his friend the harness maker.

  Have you seen Sajjo? he asked him. I can’t find her.

  The harness maker was instantly sympathetic.

  I’ve looked everywhere, Darzek said. She was afraid of the mountains. Would a child that age wander off when she’s afraid?

  The harness maker, whose children were considerably younger than Sajjo, instantly constituted himself an authority. Of course she might, he said expansively. A child often wasn’t afraid at all of the things she talked about being afraid of. But it seemed more likely that she would be found around the camp. There were plenty of things nearby to interest a child, even at night.

  I’ve looked everywhere, Darzek repeated. He waved his hands despairingly. I’ll keep on looking.

  He hurried away.

  Minutes later he was clear of the encampment himself and climbing the mountain. He saw no sign of Sajjo; but she would follow his instructions religiously and find a comfortable place for herself with as much concealment as possible but within sight of the encampment so she couldn’t get lost. She was to make a bed of the rug and blanket and sleep if she could. At midmorning she was to cover rug, blanket, and water jar with leaves and undergrowth, disarrange her clothing, and come crying down the mountain, pretending that she had got lost and wandered about all night.

  And that, Darzek thought, would give an anxious father excuse enough for wandering into the forbidden Realm of the Holy Beast. He doubted that it would save him, but it might keep the Protector’s revenge from falling on his family.

  He climbed stumblingly up the steep slope, through forest and thick undergrowth, and he was quickly exhausted; but he did not dare go near the lane for fear the watchful sentries would detect his movements through the luminous patterns of fleeing night creatures. Not until he approached the top of the slope did he veer sideways far enough to look down into the pass, and he found his suspicions confirmed. The torch-lit pass swarmed with black-capes. He turned away, plunged back into the forest, and finally came out on the downward mountain slope beyond the pass. He could look far into the valley beyond and see the tracery of night creatures on the distant valley floor.

  His first discovery was that more torch-lit sentry posts barred the surlane to him. His second was that the party of dukes already had disappeared. He watched for some time, but he saw no moving torches anywhere—and they could not have moved quickly enough to cross the valley and gain the high mountain pass beyond.

  Neither was there any sign of an encampment. He had lost them completely.

  Rather than wait until morning, he chose to wander on in the dark. He reasoned that they must have descended as far as possible from the thin, chill air of the pass before they halted. He moved on, finding the steep descent relatively easy after the arduous climb and experiencing no problems with walking because the night creatures continued to light his every step.

  As he walked, his puzzlement grew. He had expected an imposing religious temple, probably with a complex of buildings that befitted the headquarters of a prosperous religion. At a minimum, there should have been accommodations extensive enough to put up the parties of eleven dukes in the style to which they had let themselves become accustomed and in fact could be expected to demand.

  And Darzek could see no building at all, not even a nabrula shed. Nor was there any trace of an encampment of tents. He found himself pondering the question of whether the dukes would accept the austerity of a night in the open as the price of a chance at the kingship.

  He walked on.

  Then, abruptly, he was falling.

  He realized afterward that there’d been warning enough—a circle of darkness where no night creature scurried or even flew; but the exhausting climb and his need for sleep had dulled his responses, and until he stepped into it the hole looked like the rest of the dark mountainside. He absently walked up to an opening five meters in diameter and fell in.

  He landed on a metal framework three or four meters below the surface and found himself in a caged airshaft. Before he could collect his confused senses, pain stabbed at his arm, and he jerked away and stood in the center of the cage, staring about him.

  Beating at the bars of the cage, wings fluttering, fangs bared greedily, talons ripping at him, were the monstrous myths of the Kammian religion, terrifying in their enormity. At the same instant, an overwhelming wave of dizziness seized him.

  He had fallen into a nightmare where the most farfetched fantasy became reality. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that the hideous symbol of the death cult could be anything more than that—could in fact be real. But the gaping gullets, the slobbering jaws, the bared fangs, the knife-like talons of the Winged Beasts were reality’s convincing horrification. His dizziness continued, and he feared he was about to faint.

  A Winged Beast swooped up from below and slashed his ankle. Looking about him, Darzek saw that at two points the support bars formed a perfect ladder. It was his only chance, and instantly he made a rush for it.

  He was forced back by slicing talons and ripping fangs. Both his arms and legs were bleeding, now, and his dizziness continued. He crouched in the center of the cage, ready to kick at any beast that approached from below, and fighting to remain conscious.

  Then, in the dim light far below him, he saw, beyond another set of bars, a black-caped knight of the Winged Beast staring up at him. The knight whirled suddenly and ran.

  CHAPTER 18

  The time, Darzek thought, was dawn, though the only light that touched the small, bare, windowless, rock-hewn cell in which he had spent the remainder of the night came from torches in the corridor beyond. Footsteps approached; the barred door opened. A black-caped knight’s fingers snapped an order.

  Darzek sprang to obey, and they started along the corridor: one black-caped knight leading the way; two more following after Darzek. The corridor was chill, and Darzek, who had been shivering all night, continued to shiver. The low temperature in the system of caves perhaps explained why all the knights and lackeys wore some form of headgear. Darzek wished he had a hat.

  The knights marched him directly to the Protector, who was seated on a dais at the center of a large audience room. He wore black robes and a hat with a twist to it that in such solemn surroundings looked positively jaunty. At his elbow stood a knight Darzek had seen several times during the trek from
Midpor: a scribe, Darzek guessed, and perhaps an administrative assistant as well. Like all of the knights Darzek had seen there, he wore armor and a headpiece. In the temple of the Winged Beast, its knights always were girded for battle.

  This is the provisioned the Protector asked.

  Yes, sire.

  The Protector studied Darzek thoughtfully. I have seen him.

  We all have, sire. He accompanied us from Midpor. He dealt in dried namajf.

  The Protector sniffed and grimaced. So I notice. Obviously he has dealt in dried namafj quite recently. Continue, please.

  Dried namafj and other things. He organized the food supplies, and also the system of repairs and services, for the entire expedition. He even has arranged to have supplies meet the expedition en route when we return, just in case the supplies brought with us are insufficient. All of the dukes speak highly of him. They agree that many would have been hungry but for him, and several say that the quest would have had to turn back.

  It would seem that he has a commendable competence, the Protector remarked. His cold, flashing eyes bored at Darzek, who regretted that he could not meet them boldly. The Protector needed the experience of someone looking back at him, but Darzek was hardly in a position to supply it. He was about to experience one of life’s most unpredictable occurrences: the judgment of a fanatic.

  A remarkable administrative ability, the scribe agreed. Further, he has priced his goods honestly, with no more than a fair profit to himself. He was seen to say that those who travel to the Holy Realm for a high religious purpose deserve to be commended, not robbed.

  A smile flicked on the Protector’s lips; or perhaps it was only a nervous twitch. Continue.

  He has a young daughter, to whom he is devoted, the scribe went on. Last evening he called on a friend, a harness dealer, asking in concern where the child was. He feared she had wandered off. He said he would continue to look for her. Obviously he became lost in his search, trespassed the forbidden, and in the dark fell into the air vent.