The Cyborg and the Sorcerers

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He continued to watch as the plaza swept underneath and the shattered wall of the palace cut off vision upon impact; he switched back to the nose camera and watched as the blasters came into play. He wondered how much damage they would have done if they had a range of more than twenty meters. Finally there came the sound of his own voice, the launch, and the ground falling away again.

  "Shut it off." He opened his eyes and glared at the blue chameleon fur. "Why did you do so much damage?" He suspected that, if anything, the computer's damage estimate was low—perhaps very low. It assumed that buildings had steel frames rather than stone arches, and that people knew enough to take shelter—and had somewhere they could go to take shelter.

  "Standard procedure for assault on enemy position."

  "Why didn't you just nuke the city and have done with it?"

  "Use of nuclear weapons would have aborted rescue of cyborg unit and resulted in termination of cyborg unit without justification."

  "Well, that's something, anyway."

  "Query: Advisability of resuming attack, using nuclear weapons."

  "I don't think so. It'd be a waste of a warhead, and we haven't got very many. They can't do us any more harm. Besides, it would negate any propaganda value my warning had, and it's possible that we might want to try dealing with them again later, when they've had time to clean up." He was getting better at making up excuses for not killing people, he thought

  "Affirmative."

  An idea occurred to him. "Hey, did anything out of the ordinary happen during that attack? Any systems malfunction, or inexplicable diversions from course?"

  "Negative. No resistance of any sort encountered."

  Then the wizards hadn't been able to do anything against the starship. He wondered if they'd had the chance to try. "Not even small-arms fire?"

  "Negative."

  They hadn't even used his submachine gun. His ship had been shooting at completely defenseless people. He was not at all happy about that. The war was over; he shouldn't be killing anybody.

  After a moment's consideration, he asked, "Now what? On to the next system?"

  "Negative. Gravitational anomalies representing enemy weapons research not yet fully investigated."

  That was what he had feared. "We can't go back to Teyzha for a while; I'd be killed on sight."

  "Affirmative."

  "Do we just wait here in orbit, then?"

  "Negative. Other locations show similar levels of gravitational disturbance."

  "Then why did you pick on Teyzha?"

  "Level of gravitational disturbance was marginally higher."

  "Oh." That was perfectly reasonable, actually. The computer had never said that there was anything special about Teyzha, and he hadn't asked; thinking back, he remembered that the little sparkles he had seen in the planet's gravitational field had been scattered all across its land area, not concentrated in Teyzha. "Wonderful. So we go somewhere else and try again?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Where?"

  "Cyborg unit discretion permitted."

  "I get to choose?"

  "Affirmative."

  The cable was still plugged into his neck; he closed his eyes and said, "Okay, give me a map."

  The computer displayed in his mind a topographical map of the planet in cylindrical projection, with glowing red indicating areas of gravitational disturbance—concentrations of magic, presumably. Teyzha was marked with a yellow glow.

  Slant picked a bright spot on the same continent as Teyzha, but far to the west, on the edge of a broad plain. "What about here?"

  "Acceptable."

  "Let's go, then."

  "Affirmative. Landing in twenty-three minutes."

  "No, wait; let me take a nap and get myself organized first. I don't want to screw up again."

  "Affirmative. Notify when ready to land."

  "Right" Slant detached the cable from his neck and lay back on the couch; a moment later he was asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  "HELLO, STRANGER."

  The farmer looked up from the whetstone he had been using to sharpen a scythe and squinted sideways at Slant from beneath his wide-brimmed straw hat. He said nothing.

  "What city is that ahead?"

  The farmer put down the scythe and studied Slant from head to toe, staring critically at his fur vest and the loincloth he'd made from spare fabric. At last he said, in a new and unfamiliar accent, "That's Awlmei."

  "Thank you." Slant bobbed his head politely and turned to continue toward the city.

  "Hey!"

  Slant turned back toward the farmer.

  "What do you want around here?"

  Slant was terse in his reply, as the man showed no trace of courtesy himself, and said simply, "Food and shelter."

  "You speak strangely. Where are you from?"

  "Teyzha." He was glad that he didn't have to try inventing a name this time.

  The farmer stared at him for a moment longer, then declared, "You don't concern me. Go on, then."

  Slant nodded again and continued toward the city. He made an effort to remember as exactly as possible the farmer's accent; there was no need to draw attention to the fact that he was a foreigner. Had the man been friendlier or more talkative he might have stayed and spoken for a while, to pick up the local dialect better.

  It seemed that a distrust of strangers was widespread on this planet, and not just a local aberration near Teyzha. Perhaps it resulted from the events of the so-called Bad Times; the destruction of the local civilization must have led to a period of chaos, and probably considerable lawlessness.

  He wondered whether there had been a city or other settlement on the site of Awlmei before the war; it seemed like a good location, with several small streams flowing down from the hills nearby and watering the plain, making it excellent farmland, and then merging into a river that wound off northward.

  He had landed several kilometers to the south, well out of sight of the city in a stretch of uncultivated grassland, where the ship had concealed itself in a small gully. He had then slipped out at dawn, wearing the vest and loincloth and a pair of sandals—which were more comfortable than boots and perfectly adequate on the gentler terrain of the region. Not wishing to repeat his earlier mistake, he had not replaced his lost submachine gun with a duplicate from the ship's armory; instead he had sewn several sturdy pockets into the lining of the vest, which now held a snark, a general-purpose hand laser, and an automatic pistol he hoped would be loud and impressive enough to serve much the same purpose as the submachine gun had in frightening people. A casual inspection would reveal nothing extraordinary about him. The submachine gun, useful as it was, had been a mistake, attracting far too much attention.

  This time he hoped to get by without attracting any attention at all. Now that he had some idea what he was dealing with, he had devised a plan of action and cleared it with the computer, rather than just blundering in—not that he had had much choice before. There was no way to learn enough about a society to blend into it without seeing it close up firsthand. Now he had seen Teyzha close up, and hoped that Awlmei was similar enough for him to get by.

  Since the wizards seemed to be an elite group by virtue of their magic, and apparently kept the workings of that magic a secret from the rest of the populace, he would obviously have to find a wizard. This time, though, he was not about to put up with any Council audiences; he would get a wizard alone and interrogate him, trying first bribery and then threats should he prove uncooperative.

  He hoped that all the wizards knew the basics of whatever mysterious devices they used, and that there wasn't an elite within the elite that kept that information secret; such a complication could be very annoying indeed.

  It was still at least half an hour before noon when he reached the city gates. The walls here weren't the cut stone that Teyzha used, but adobe; still, they stood a good five meters high and looked sturdy and formidable. Guards could be seen occasionally as they patrolled the ram
parts.

  There were several gates, but Slant saw no reason to prefer one over another and chose to follow the road to the nearest. It was a wide pair of heavy wooden doors, guarded by an aging soldier wearing an outfit of thick leather and leaning lazily against the wan. As Slant walked up, this person stood upright and put a hand to his sword hilt

  "Hello, stranger," the guard said. "What brings you to Awlmei?"

  "Personal business." Slant saw no reason to say any more than necessary; he didn't care to draw attention to his accent, which he was sure remained very alien.

  "What sort of business?"

  "That's none of your concern."

  "I don't recognize you; you're foreign, aren't you?"

  Reluctantly, Slant admitted, "Yes."

  "Do you have any kin in Awlmei?"

  "No."

  "What's your name, then, and where are you from?"

  "I'm called Slant. I've come from Teyzha."

  "I never heard of it."

  Slant shrugged.

  "Where is it?" The guard did not take the shrug as Slant had hoped he would.

  "Far to the east."

  "I still never heard of it."

  "It's there."

  There was a moment of silence as Slant and the guard considered one another. The guard ended it by saying "You won't state your business?"

  Slant reconsidered; there was no reason not to tell the guard something, and it would apparently facilitate his entrance. These people tended toward the suspicious, and a refusal to speak would just add to the guard's suspicions. Besides, the man might be of help.

  "I'm looking for a good wizard. I need some magic done."

  "What sort of magic?"

  "That's a personal matter. I've heard that there are several wizards in Awlmei; might you know the best way to approach one?"

  "There are several with shops; pick any of them."

  Awlmei was set up differently from Teyzha, Slant realized. He had assumed that the wizards were the ruling class everywhere on the planet, but here they had apparently preferred economic exploitation to political use of their abilities. "Thank you. May I enter the city, then?"

  The guard gave him a final inspection, looking him over from head to heel, and when he had satisfied himself that Slant could not have a sword or other familiar weapon more dangerous than a knife on him, he stepped back and rapped on the gate. He did not touch the cyborg and failed to detect the devices inside his vest.

  A voice answered the knock from beyond the doors, but Slant could not catch the words; the guard replied with a nonsense phrase involving a green dog, and there was a rattling of latches being drawn aside. The gates swung open and Slant stepped through, finding himself on a narrow street that wound its way between low adobe buildings.

  Beside him, closing the gate, was a youth clad in a ragged tunic. He held out a palm and said, "It's customary to pay the gatekeeper something."

  "I'm sorry," Slant replied, "I have no local currency. Perhaps when I leave I'll have something for you."

  The lad shrugged and turned away, saying "It was worth a try."

  Slant walked on, then paused when he was out of sight of the gate and took a look about him.

  This city was much more what he had expected of a barbaric planet; it had none of Teyzha's splendor and ornament. The buildings were all a drab sun-baked yellow, and many had projecting beam ends visible. The streets were unpaved and dusty—but just as free of sewage and refuse as the avenues of Teyzha, for which he was grateful.

  A small plaza lay ahead, crowded with pedestrians, and people hurried along every street he could see, with an occasional horse or ox cart interspersed among them. Slant made his way into the square, dodging the larger gatherings and listening to the speech of those he passed; he hoped to improve his accent

  He looked about, hoping to spot something that was obviously a wizard's shop, but was disappointed. He was able to recognize shops because they had open doors and visible windows, while residences were thoroughly closed off and presumably had courtyards to let in light and air, like the houses of ancient Rome. There were buildings that could be entered through broad open arches but that were windowless and arranged around courtyards; he was not sure what these were.

  The shops, however, were identified by signboards bearing unfamiliar symbols. He could figure out some, such as a stylized boot that must represent a shoemaker, but most were so simplified as to be unrecognizable. The natives undoubtedly knew them all from long exposure; they had probably originally been detailed pictures that were gradually stripped down over the years into quick and easy trademarks.

  He left the square and began strolling the street that appeared to have the highest percentage of shops, peering into the display windows and trying to figure out the signboards. A symbol halfway between a cross and a swastika he realized represented scissors, and indicated a tailor, apparently. A thing with two uprights and a low crossbar meant a blacksmith's forge. He passed several shops with windows that displayed nothing but were curtained off instead, any one of which could have been a wizard's; they bore different signs, however, and might have been anything from laundries to brothels. He did not care to venture into one at random.

  A couple of dozen meters from the square he came across one of the buildings with an open archway, and saw that a signboard hung over the arch; it was definitely a commercial establishment, then. Its symbol was a curlicue with an inverted trapezoid at each end.

  He peered through the arch and saw that the central court held several tables. He looked at the signboard again; he could imagine no way that the symbol could represent a restaurant or an inn, but it might possibly be intended for a still, indicating a tavern or a distillery. Such a place might be a good location to pick up a little information—such as how a wizard might be found.

  "I'm going to inquire in here; any objections or advice?" he asked telepathically.

  "Course of action appears advisable."

  If it was a tavern, there was a secondary purpose for stopping in, Slant decided as he strolled through the arch; he was thirsty from the morning's long walk. He'd brought some Old Earth corns; he hoped they'd be accepted.

  The courtyard was small but pleasant; a fountain splashed in one corner, its spray serving both to cool the air and keep down the dust, services very welcome, as the day was warm and dry. Half a dozen tables were scattered about, with varying numbers of chairs at each. A few green plants struggled feebly to survive in tubs of black earth.

  The sides of the yard were open arcades; more tables stood in their shady interiors. One side was lined with large barrels, ranged on their sides ready for tapping. A large blond man, presumably the proprietor, leaned against one barrel; the only three customers were huddled around a small table at the back.

  Slant looked appraisingly at the blond fellow, who returned his gaze in kind. The man looked friendly enough; Slant crossed the yard and said, "I could use a drink."

  The blond nodded and asked, "What'll you have?"

  "Something cool, if you have it; I'm thirsty."

  "Beer?"

  "That would be fine."

  "Red or black?"

  That gave him a moment's pause; no beer he was familiar with was either color. "Red," he ventured.

  The proprietor took a mug down from an overhead hook—Slant noticed for the first time that the rafters were lined with them—and filled it from one of the barrels. The liquid was a light reddish brown in color and bubbled forth messily, spilling as much on the man's arm and the ground beneath as went in the mug.

  When a reasonable amount had found its way into the vessel he closed the tap and held out his free hand, retaining the mug. "That'll be four bits," he said.

  "I don't have any local currency; will this do?" Slant reached into a pocket in his vest, fished out a small gold coin, and held it forth.

  The tavernkeeper looked at it dubiously. "What is it?"

  "It's an old gold piece I found. I give you my word, it's rea
l gold."

  The man took the coin, studied it, then shrugged and handed Slant the mug. "It'll do, I guess," he said.

  Slant took a gulp of beer and discovered that it was thick, and not as cold as he might like, but cool and perfectly drinkable. "Do I get any change? That was real gold."

  "I don't work that way. You've got a few more drinks coming, though, if you don't get rowdy." The barman leaned forward, trying to look threatening; Slant automatically assessed his actual danger—virtually none—but made an effort to look appropriately intimidated. After all, the fellow was a good ten centimeters taller than himself, probably just about two meters even, and fifteen kilos heavier at a minimum. To an untrained person that could make a very big difference.

  When the blond was satisfied that Slant was not going to make a fuss over this minor extortion, he leaned back against his barrel once more. Slant, in turn, leaned against one of the pillars supporting the arcade and sipped his beer.

  After a moment, when he judged the proprietor was at ease again, he asked, "Could I have some information instead of some of that beer I've got coming?"

  The barman, who had been contemplating the sky above the far side of the courtyard, looked at him and replied, "That depends what it is."

  "It's nothing much. I'm just looking for a wizard, and I cant read the signs."

  "You're a foreigner, then? I thought you spoke strangely. What do you want a wizard for?"

  "It's a personal matter."

  "Well, I can't tell you which wizard might be best if I don't know what you want done."

  "Just tell me where the nearest one is, then."

  "The nearest? That would be old Kurao, just up the street."

  "Where?"

  "It's just a few shops up that way." He pointed. "The symbol's like this." He scratched a sign in the dirt with his heel; Slant thought it might have been derived from a pair of eyes.