Mutiny in Space

by Avram Davidson

  Moha, trotting by her husband’s side, exclaimed. “It might be so! Perhaps it was one of their war-rattles that Sejarra heard — ”

  Sejarra’s thin, sour face broke into a thin, sour smile. “It might be so,” she repeated Moha’s words. “And if it is — ”

  O-Narra broke in. “It would be a shame if this journey were disrupted or delayed for any reason. We know how loyal Lady-Sejarra is to her friends, but the Heiress herself would understand your sacrificing this chance to engage your Sword in the conflict.” Moha matter-of-factly urged the same course, suggesting that the Old Sword would probably sue for peace as soon as a token fight had cleared her daughter’s honor. Sejarra nodded, rather reluctantly, and no more was said.

  It seemed to Jory that O-Narra now shook her pouch of bullets rather more often than it would have shaken normally by itself. A war-rattle itself would have to be very near and very loud to make itself noticed.

  But when the danger actually came, it came unheralded.

  • • •

  They had left the roughlands and came down to the foothill country. The sun was declining, the old road was smooth, the air cool. No directive had been given but the pace had slowed. All were tired. Rond should have liked to push on through the night, but Jory advised against it.

  “Let’s not press our luck too far,” he said. “As things are now, Moha is our greatest resource. It wouldn’t do to make her suspicious — or, more to the point, to make Sejarra suspicious, and spoil the atmosphere. These things tend to be contagious.”

  Reluctantly, Rond agreed.

  Then, where the road seemed to give itself a slight heave as if to gather strength for passing through a defile, a group of people suddenly appeared. Moha’s party stopped, abruptly. Moha muttered. Her hand went toward her left shoulder, where the hilt of her sword rested, bound in a green ribbon to indicate a peaceful mission. But the sword remained slung across her back and the hand stayed at her bosom. Moha might be slow, Jory noted — noted, too, that they were well out-numbered — but she was no fool. And, unless Moha drew, it would be bad manners of the worst sort for either of the other warriors to draw. Still, it was with no pleasure that he drew near the group which barred their way.

  Several women of the group wore armor, but it lacked the natty look of warrior armor. Too, the circumstance of its being all black, without a single trace of scarlet, gave a somber air to the outfit. Neither did he see a single sword, although the new arrivals were by no means unarmed. The armored women carried weapons which were something between a cutlass and a machete; the others had pikes with rather sharp-looking edges.

  But the blades were sheathed, the pikes carried points down.

  One of the women, her hair cut short and close, like the others’, came forward. In her hands was a leafy branch.

  “Is it peace, Moha?” she asked in a husky voice.

  Stiffly, cautiously, Moha said, “You know there is no peace with outlaws, only truce.” She moved slowly to the side of the road and, without taking her eyes from the outlaw, broke off a branch from a bush. Jory heard O-Narra release her breath in a long sigh. Everyone seemed to relax.

  “Truce, then,” said the outlaw. Ignoring the warriors, she fixed Rond with a bold look, which traveled from one to another of Persephone’s men, finally coming to rest on Jory. “My name, Giant, is Nelsa … we’ve heard that you were hereabouts, and came to see for ourselves.”

  Jory bowed, slightly, said nothing. It would have been foolish for them to have assumed that they could move even through wild country without being observed at all. And then, too, rumor must have spread swiftly, more swiftly than the couriers. He noticed how the two warriors and all the servitors had gathered around the palanquin in which Lord Clanan and the child sat silently. His own men, along with O-Narra and Little Joe, were grouping, now, alongside him and Captain Rond.

  Said Moha, in a low voice which did not tremble, “I warn you, Nelsa, that we are traveling on the Dame’s orders, taking these Great Men to the Holy Court. Do not interfere.”

  Nelsa nodded, casually … almost indifferently. She flicked her branch of leaves toward Moha, but her eyes never left Jory.

  “The Holy Court … That’s good. The people of the forest, Giant, have never set themselves against the King. Why should we? He’s a god. But now, it seems … perhaps there may be new gods in the land.” Jory saw Sejarra snap her head back. She frowned. Her mouth curled open in an ugly grimace. There was a movement among Moha’s servitors, but a quick glance from her quelled it.

  “The Dame, says Moha, is sending you to the Temple. Well, Moha’s a woman of honor. She wouldn’t lie. But maybe the Dame hasn’t taken Moha all the way into her confidence. After all, the Dame has nothing to gain by new gods in the land when she and all the Keepers before her have had the old gods walled up, safe and sound. All sorts of things have been happening, Giant, today and yesterday. The other Sword over there seems worried. Maybe for good reason. What do you say, Giant?”

  Jory waited for someone to give him a lead. The blue air thickened into early dusk. The warriors were silent, O-Narra looked aside to him in a look of pure question, and Rond stared at the ground. Jory took in a deep breath of the clean, cool evening. Nelsa, plainly, was no fool, either. Her eyes were fixed on him. He was not at all sure of what she wanted, except that she probably wanted him, but he was reasonably sure that she wanted more than that.

  “I say what Lady-Moha says. And I say this, too: come with us. At the Holy Court no harm can come to any, and there, questions will be answered.”

  Nelsa thrust her lips out a little, asked, “What does Moha say now?”

  Moha, plainly, would have liked to say much. But Lord Clanan, in the palanquin, shifted slightly, and the baby let out a faint little cry. “Be it so,” said Moha.

  There was a movement among the black-clad outlaws. One of them moved forward, disclosing that it was a black robe and not a coat of mail that she wore. Jory realized, with some surprise, that this was the first old woman he had seen. And Nelsa asked, “What does the priestess say?”

  The old woman nodded her head several times, then began to speak in the same singsong tone in which Little Joe, Rahan, had recited his old tales to Captain Rond.

  “The great bird slays her dam,” she quavered, “Heaven and Earth burn, the Great Men dwell in the Land, ruling in equity. …” Her head nodded and nodded. It was undoubtedly a quotation.

  “Be it so,” said Nelsa. “We’ll camp here. No fires.”

  • • •

  That night, having set the guard-wires, Jory went to have a final word with Rond. He hoped, he said, that his suggestion about the outlaws had been the right one. “At least, sir, we now have more of the Val people on our side.”

  But Rond seemed both tired and petulant. It came as somewhat of a shock for Jory to think, He’s aging….

  “It’s just so many more people to slow us. down, Mr. Cane,” Rond complained. He listened, finally, to what Jory had to say. It was about the Holy King. Jory thought the King, Mukanahan, might be an answer to their problems. Suppose they were — somehow — to hold him as a hostage. Wouldn’t the Dame, or the Keeper, or any indigenous group or person, be willing to ransom him with borax — and time to make boron?

  To the Captain’s objection that the King was only a figurehead, Jory countered that therein lay the whole point: he was a sacred figurehead! A ruler was sure to have enemies. Dame Hanna … suppose they captured Dame Hanna? The result might well be only a palace revolution, or the uprising of some rival sept, setting or aiming to set in power another Dame. But the King, who reigned without ruling, had no enemies — had never had the opportunity to make any. His person was holy, he was a saint, a god. No desire which anyone of the Val people could have to see Persephone’s people punished could equal their desire to see their Holy King released.

  “It seems like a crack-brained scheme to me,” Rond said, getting out his warmcloak. “And I tell you what — we’ve got to pay mo
re attention to the terrain. Keep an eye out for shale, for sandstone or limestone. No reason why petroleum deposits shouldn’t have formed on this planet.”

  “But, sir — ”

  “No reason at all. Good night.”

  O-Narra said, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” To his surprised “why?” she made one of those indeterminate little noises peculiar to women, caressed his face with her fingers. “Nelsa was looking at you,” she murmured, at last. Jory laughed, spread the cloak around them.

  But the last voice he heard that night was Nelsa’s, after all.

  Clear and unmistakable it came through the darkness. “Dam?” she was asking someone. “Dam — or Dame? Who knows …”

  Who, indeed, Jory thought, sleepily.

  • • •

  At first he thought it was a drop of rain on his face, and moved to pull the cloak closer. His eyes opening, he realized that it was only dew. The time must be earliest morning, the light was muted and dim and the air misty gray. The trees shimmered and looked ghostly. A smell of woodfires and food reminded him of last night’s cold supper and of stumbling around in the darkness. Nelsa’s directive had been a sensible one, but it would be little if any more comfort to be overtaken in the daytime. While he mused, he became suddently aware of voices, a hum of voices, far too many voices for the twenty or so of his and Moha’s party and the fifty-odd of Nelsa’s.

  O-Narra was still asleep, her hair looking ash-blond in the half-light. Gently, he drew apart, tucked the cloak in around her, and stood up. At once, the voices rose to a shout; abruptly died away.

  They were surrounded.

  There must have been close to two hundred of them, and almost all were men. The noise awakened one of the crew — Levvis, it proved — and when his long figure popped to its feet, there was another shout. It was not long before everyone was awake. The small men came, fearfully, at first, cheerfully, before long, flocking around the big ones. Awe was on their faces as they touched their taller brothers. At first too shy to speak, they found their tongues soon enough.

  “Men!”

  “Great Men!”

  “The old daddy’s tale was a true one — see — giants!”

  Then they were falling back, stumbling over one another in alarm. Sejarra came striding through the throng, almost running, one hand laid threateningly on her sword-hilt, the other hand knocking the frightened men aside. Her face, ugly even in repose, was now quite hideous in rage. She shook her fist.

  “What have you brought among us, Narra!” she shouted. “Anarchy? Rebellion? Treason?”

  Accusations poured from her. She almost frothed at the mouth. Every man-servitor for miles around must have left his mistress — and even some of the women. More shame to them. What would be the result if men left their labor, fled from their kitchens, abandoned their flocks, deserted their wives? If servitors of either sex felt free to ignore their tasks …? Their positions in society?

  “Heaven and Earth tremble!” she continued, with a shriek.

  A voice cut short her hysterical rage as if with an ax. “Great Lady,” it said — and the words were an insult in that tone of scorn and contempt — “Great Lady, if there were no crying children here and if we desired to make them cry, your hysterical babble would serve a useful purpose. You sound like a bailiff with a bellyache berating an awk-boy.”

  Someone laughed, and at the sound, Sejarra’s face, which had been for a moment almost bewildered, changed. Her sallow color became gray, almost that of a corpse. Then it grew mottled and patchy. Her breath hissed in her mouth. She seemed to crouch, She said one word.

  “Draw.”

  Nelsa, one hand on her hip, tilted her head. “What?” she continued, still in the same insulting tone. “Is a Great Lady condescending to match her sword against the plebian blade of an outlaw? Why … Sejarra … what would they say at Court, if they knew — ”

  But Sejarra was not to be baited any longer. The word broke like a howl — ”Draw!” — and while it still came, baying, from her mouth, she had drawn herself and was attacking.

  Nelsa, freeing her own weapon from its sheath, and engaging in some nimble and defensive footwork, said, looking only at her antagonist, “I ask you to witness, Narra, that it was no challenge of mine which broke this truce … Ah! Not this time, Sejarra!”

  As attack succeeded attack, Sejarra was beside herself. Jory shivered, his mouth twisting awry, as he heard the horrid war-cries once again, as they burst and bellowed from Sejarra’s mouth. Nelsa, after her first comment, saved her breath.

  She had need of it. Sejarra was lighter and moved more quickly; she was the angrier and moved furiously. Sejarra’s weapon was longer and enabled her to strike out with hope of striking home at distances which gave Nelsa no such advantage.

  Circling, leaping, withdrawing, the two figures as they flew about in the dust were surrounded almost at once by spectators — all of whom, however, took care to remain at a safe distance. Moha’s voice, filled with outrage trembling against respect, sounded at Jory’s ear. “Who drew first? Sir — ?”

  “The challenge was Lady-Sejarra’s,” he said, shortly.

  “Oh! Against an outlaw to whom I had granted truce!” Her conditioned contempt toward outlawry was overcome by the almost instinctive horror of any breach in the code of war — outlawry by its very nature standing apart from the necessity of obedience. Had it been Nelsa who had challenged or first drawn, Moha would not have felt a tithe of the indignation which now showed so plainly on her face.

  A howl of triumph from Sejarra was followed by a groan from the watching crowd, but not till the circle of combat had turned his way again was Jory able to see the cause. A trickle of blood from Nelsa’s forehead coursed down onto her face, narrowly — fortunately — missing the eye. Attracted like a fly to the blood, Sejarra struck out again and again toward the cut, never achieving her earlier success, but continuing — almost as though hypnotized — to try.

  In so doing, and doing so once too often, she left herself open. Even as her sword clove the air, her antagonist went on one knee, struck with a double chopping movement whose noise, though dull, was clearly heard. It did not seem to pierce the armor of Sejarra’s leg, but she stumbled. Nelsa swung her body around and chopped again.

  Again, they were on their feet, again Nelsa with her back and Sejarra with her face toward Jory. Again Sejarra stumbled, and this time Jory saw why. The tape which bound the greaves upon one of her legs had been cut, and the pieces hung loose, bumping back and forth with each movement. They were obviously not going to remain as they were much longer, and Sejarra, evidently realizing this, endeavored to move the leg as little as possible; tried to tempt Nelsa into coming closer.

  But Nelsa would not be tempted.

  “Fool, fool!” O-Narra said, almost breathlessly. “Why doesn’t she ask a quittance until the armor is repaired? The Code would justify it.”

  But Sejarra was obviously far from thinking of the niceties of the Code. In another moment her actions ceased to be motivated by conscious thought at all, became purely visceral. She wavered, waved her arms woodenly, staggered, then leaned over and was violently sick.

  The fight ended then and there.

  Nelsa simply walked away. Sejarra made no attempt to follow, and, indeed, did not seem to notice. Moha came up and put out her arm, but it was pushed away. With a shrug, Moha, after a second, went away. Everybody went away. Jory, looking over his shoulder, saw the woman, her head still down, standing quite alone.

  No one could say, afterward, when she had left.

  At first, wrenching his mind with difficulty away from the duel whose sounds still echoed in his ears, Jory was intending only to rejoin Rond and the men, who had looked on from a slight rise of ground off to one side a bit. But Jory’s progress was impeded — gently, respectfully, even involuntarily — by the crowds of newcomers, the existence of whom (although they had been the cause of the fight) he had for the moment forgotten.

  Their small
hands plucked at his clothes … or, perhaps they only caressed … and their voices, scarcely above a whisper, murmured, Giant … Great Man … Great Man … Giant … Giant …

  O-Narra saw his mild difficulty and, smiling slightly, came toward him, speaking.

  “Here are the Giants,” she said. “You see them — the Great Men. They cannot talk now with every one of you. Be sure they wish you well. And now — ”

  She was about to ask them to return, but Jory, to whom an idea had suddenly, almost violently, occurred, stepped up beside her. “And now,” he said, “give no cause for offense, but wait quietly till we have washed and eaten and begun our journey to the saintly King. And then, still quietly, come with us on our pilgrimage.” There was an instant’s stunned silence. Then another shout went up. Then, bowing, faces glowing, the small men retreated. What, exactly, they had had in mind, Jory did not know, but that more than a quick peek and then a return to the old order was involved was obvious. The men had brought food, bedding, wood and small stoves, walking-staves, new clothes, children, pet animals…. In another moment the sound of their prayers and the smell of their incense filled the air.

  In less than half an hour the procession moved off.

  It never ceased growing. At least two and fragments of several other outlaw bands joined it — wandering and nonwandering clerics of both sexes, widowers and orphans, peasants, woodcutters, workers…. There was one bad moment. Jory, coughing a bit from the dust which the (by now) more than one thousand feet had raised on the road, looked up to see the hideous scarlet and black battle-mask of a warrior next to him. But in a moment the mask was thrown back, and the face beneath it showed only awe and curiosity.

  “Ho! Giant!” the woman cried. “Have you heard anything of slavers raiding near the coast?” He shook his head. “I am Fief-Darna — the smallest fief in the Land,” she said, with a laugh. “Word reached me that the Dame has raised the septs to punish those rogues. I am on my way to bring Sword-Darna to her … Holy King! what an army you have with you! Your dust alone would smother the slavers!” And, with another laugh, and a friendly wave of her arm, she was gone. He wiped his face on his sleeve.