by Fritz Leiber
It ran this way: "Why don't the priests protect us? We have confessed our sins twice over. We have reformed. We have been good. Then why don't they protect us from further terror? They tell us it's a test, but surely the test has lasted long enough. They've always said they could smite down Sathanas whenever they wanted to. Then why don't they?"
So Sharlson Naurya, slipping into the Great Square, sensed surliness as well as fear in the commoners leaving it. To her it was apparent in the readiness with which they quarreled over right of way and other trifles, exchanged accusations of pilfering, and cuffed their children for loitering.
For her purposes, the bickering confusion was an advantage, since it occupied the attention of the few priests and deacons on hand.
She knew she was taking chances and disobeying the instructions of Asmodeus. But the disappearance of the Black Man and Jarles had altered circumstances. Jarles had been on his way to recontact the Witchcraft. The Black Man had gone to meet him. That was all Drick had been able to discover.
So, garbed as a commoner, with shawl drawn close to her cheeks, Sharlson Naurya threaded through the sullen crowd in the Great Square, like a young mother searching for lost children.
And she felt rather like one. True, she might love one of the two men. But they seemed more like her children. The Black Man the slightly spoiled darling—clever and good-natured, but impudent and mischievous and harum-scarum, too. Jarles the serious one, stubborn, beset by moral problems.
There was a commoner about Jarles' build slouching at the next corner. Instinctively she hurried her pace. He had a stubbly growth of beard, and wore a hood—perhaps to conceal a recent priestly tonsure?
She came closer. It looked like Jarles. It was Jarles. The emotion she felt was mixed with a certain tart self-satisfaction. So Drick had said it would be futile to keep the rendezvous? For that she'd take Jarles direct to the Coven meeting tonight. Drick would find out soon enough that she had gained a very able convert for the Witchcraft.
She caught his eye. With the barest nod in his direction, she turned into the side street. After a moment he followed her.
The elation Jarles felt was not unmixed with apprehension. He had hardly hoped to contact the Witchcraft so smoothly and so soon, but he knew that ahead lay many perils—threats to his bodily welfare. And recently Jarles had come to have a great respect for that bag of flesh and bones which contained his ego. Once let that bag be seriously ruptured and you could whistle through all eternity for another.
Why he had ever before taken such desperate risks—and not for personal gain!—was mixed up with the greater mystery of why he had ever been such an idealistic weakling as he remembered. He disliked thinking about it. It was all too cheap and puerile.
Of course, to achieve personal gain and ego-satisfaction, it was necessary to run risks. You never got anything for nothing. Obviously, Goniface wouldn't make him a Fourth Circle priest—the reward he had dangled before Jarles—unless there was something in it for Goniface. So it was necessary that Jarles embark on the ticklish job of betraying the Witchcraft.
Goniface! There was a man for you! Jarles never remembered envying anyone so acutely or admiring anyone so utterly, though grudingly. Not even Cousin Deth. For the archpriest had the breadth of vision and capacity for power—and enjoyment of it—that the deacon lacked.
Elevation to the Fourth Circle—and all that went with it, and even a little more besides—was a reward that justified taking risks. Anything was better than to grub along with the timid little minds down in the first two circles. But it was only common sense to minimize risks and stretch margins of safety as wide as possible.
So it was with alert senses and active mind that Jarles followed Sharlson Naurya into the commoners' section. With a certain pleasure he noted the rich tones the sunset glow elicited from the crude masonry. Life had opened up for him in these last days and become infinitely more satisfying. Tasting, sniffing, touching—and all the other sensations—brought a keener delight. For now he clearly understood that he was nothing but an independent ego, free for a term to savor the pleasures of the world and impose his will upon it. Once you understood that, everything was clear as day and every moment was precious.
Foggy idealism had blinded that other Jarles to the possibilities of enjoyment right under his nose. But that other Jarles could no longer bother him now—except when he slept.
Now that they had left the Great Square behind, Jarles caught up with Sharlson Naurya and walked beside her. He judged it wise to say, in a low voice, "I'm with you people to the finish now. I thought it all through at Mother Jujy's."
For answer there came the warm, friendly pressure of her hand, bringing to his mind the special problem that had been nagging it ever since he had spoken with Goniface.
Goniface had given very explicit directions about Sharlson Naurya, to Cousin Deth as well as to Jarles. If she chanced to be caught in the coming raid, she must instantly be killed.
Of course, if it came to an issue, he would have to sacrifice her—even destroy her himself if it were absolutely unavoidable. But if, without drawing too much suspicion to himself, he could manage to spirit her away, that would be the ideal solution.
After all, why was Goniface so interested in her? She must know a secret or two that would be very helpful in speeding up Jarles' promotion. So he had a double reason for preserving her life, if opportunity offered.
Sunset had paled to twilight. His guide turned suddenly into a tiny shrine where commoners might come to pray. In the gloom he could make out the image of the Great God, the altar, and the few small benches. The place was empty. Sharlson Naurya advanced to the wall at one side of the altar and felt along the ornate plastic molding.
A heavy panel slid aside. She stepped through. Jarles paused for a moment in the doorway, so that the bulb of radioactive tracers strapped to his left forearm would leave a heavier spoor at this point to guide Cousin Deth. Impatiently, she motioned him in.
The panel closed. They were in the interior twilight of a narrow passageway, lit by infrequent, tiny lamps. Again she felt along the molding—plain here—beside the doorway. Evidently reactivating an alarm system that had been turned off while they entered. As she started down the passageway he took a chance, felt for the button, found it, depressed it, then quickly followed her.
At the end of the corridor they descended a flight of stairs. Another corridor. More stairs. Jarles' senses were strainingly alert.
"These passages date back to the Golden Age," Naurya explained to him.
She stopped.
"The entrance to the Coven Chamber is just ahead, beyond a zigzag," she said. "I'm going to take you in and immediately propose you for membership. They are meeting now. Here"—her hand touched the wall—"is one of the extra entrances. We use them only in emergencies."
Her finger touched a spot and a panel slid open.
Jarles' new personality thought and acted swiftly. Adjusting the controls on the wrath ray strapped to his right forearm to paralyzer quality, he directed its now-invisible, faintly hissing beam at her waist. She stiffened. There was a convulsive retraction of the diaphragm. Her mouth opened spasmodically, but she made no sound.
Catching her arm, he let her fall gently into the side passageway she had just uncovered. Then, counting seconds, he coolly played the ray against her skull. When he was satisfied that she would remain unconscious for a sufficient period, he shut the panel, and proceeded toward the Coven Chamber.
Purple-tinged darkness, and a voice speaking masterfully through it. Silhouetted against the lesser darkness of the far wall, a crowded ring of human forms, listening to the voice. A phosphorescent throne against the far wall, and in it a dead-black manlike shape, and the voice coming from the shape.
Vividly the remembrance came to Jarles of the first time he had been in this chamber. So vividly that for a moment the two experiences were mixed, although then he had been a different person. Memory could bridge any gap.
Silently he donned the ultraviolet transformer goggles, which Cousin Deth had provided for him at his own suggestion. It was as if a sickly yellow light had suddenly illuminated the whole room. Instantly mysteriousness vanished from the scene. With two exceptions it became very ordinary. Just a long, low room and a group of people listening absorbedly to a speaker who sat in an unadorned and unimpressive throne. Jarles experienced a pleasant feeling of superiority.
The two exceptions were the speaker and a tall something beside the throne.
The speaker was still only a manlike shape, not one whit less black than before. The field he wore drank all radiations.
The tall something so puzzled Jarles and distracted his attention that he still had not time to catch the drift of what the speaker was saying. Certainly the object had not been in the room on that other occasion. It was very like an angel, of about the same height and general conformation. But the broad, dusky, lifeless face was incredibly ugly, with wicked horns sprouting from the forehead, and the forearms were reptilian and clawed. A demon monolith, it stood there rigidly, twice as tall as a man and a little taller than the room, so that its horns extended upward into a large circular recess or orifice in the ceiling.
Some piece of ritual sculpture, Jarles decided. These people were very imaginative, yes, and very clever—perhaps. But they were children in true craft, giants in carelessness. How else could they permit him to penetrate so easily their secret councils!
Oddly the speaker was now expressing much the same thought. Jarles listened to the masterful voice.
"Thus far you have only played at being witches. It has been a hard and dangerous game, but, to most of you, only a game. Most of you were drawn into the Witchcraft by a rebellious and mischievous desire to exercise secret power in a world where the Hierarchy has a monopoly of power.
"I and my co-workers recognized this when we devised the Witchcraft. We knew that a great cause and a worthy purpose would be insufficient to attract a following. We knew that you would obey our instructions only so long as they were sufficiently amusing. And when you embarked on private pranks, we did not interfere."
The voice paused. One of the circle of listeners eagerly interjected a question.
"What you say is true. But what would you have us do now, O Asmodeus?"
Jarles' heart pounded. Asmodeus! He had heard that name given to the leader of the Witchcraft. The coming captures would be of vast importance. Elevation to the Fourth Circle was no longer sufficient compensation. The Seventh Circle, at the least! Lucky he had Sharlson Naurya to use against Goniface, if the archpriest balked.
"Now," continued the masterful voice, "the game is over. Or rather, it enters a more serious stage. Thus far you have been amazingly successful despite frequent foolhardiness and carelessness. Most important, the Hierarchy has been slow to act. A conservative organization, it has never since its establishment faced any opposition worth the name. And it is at present troubled by internal dissensions. So, partly from conservativism, partly from cunning, partly as a compromise, it has adopted a waiting policy.
"But do not underestimate the Hierarchy! It is awakening—has almost awakened—to its danger. More and more, its vast spy system is being devoted to the work of tracking us down. In a thousand sanctuaries, research priests of the Fifth Circle are close to discovering and duplicating the scientific secrets of the Witchcraft. And there are signs that the internal dissension in the Hierarchy will soon be healed—by drastic surgery.
"Do not underestimate the Hierarchy! It is so powerful that it can afford delay. It is no empty priestly boast, when they threaten to call down help from heaven!"
Soon now, thought Jarles, Cousin Deth must strike. According to his calculations, the deacon must already be past the panel in the shrine. And still no alarm. That was good. Yet he felt a sudden pang of fear. Not fear for his own safety—he felt that to be sure, constantly, and it kept him painfully alert. But that fear was clear and sharp. The other was vague, formless. He tried in vain to grasp its nature.
"In warfare, time is all-essential," came the voice from the throne. It was a voice that gave the impression of wickedly bright eyes, not without humor and compassion. "How much more, then, is time essential in the psychological warfare we are waging! Fear is our only weapon, and it has one great limitation—it swiftly loses its effectiveness. By a carefully plotted rising tide of terror we have badly shaken the lesser priesthood and planted the seeds of supernatural panic in the higher circles. But if we pause now, our advantage evaporates. We must create a stampede.
"It is for that reason that I have summoned you leaders and taken the unprecedented step of appearing before you in person."
Better and better, thought Jarles. All their leaders bagged at once. And Asmodeus! But the murky, undefinable fear still oppressed him. If only Deth would strike!
"I have come to discuss with you the plans for our final operations. Instructions conveyed on reading tapes are no longer sufficient or safe. I will handle those matters with you individually, after this meeting.
"But first I must warn you of a vast responsibility that may fall to your lot. It concerns myself and my co-workers. We, your leaders, are in a peculiarly vulnerable position. It may very well happen that, before the crisis comes, we will be found out and destroyed. In that case, you chief agents of the Witchcraft in the key city of Megatheopolis will have to take over."
Jarles clenched his fists in nervous impatience. His murky fear had now become something strange and unpleasant. He had the feeling that something was going to happen to thwart him, and that he could easily prevent it—if only he knew what it was. It made his head feel heavy and hot, as if he had a fever.
"Plans for such an eventuality have long been in existence. But they were intrusted to one of you who has since disappeared—presumably dead or the Hierarchy's prisoner. Therefore, it will be necessary to make new arrangements."
This reference to the Black Man ought to have interested Jarles, but he had almost ceased to listen to Asmodeus, the strange fear was affecting him so. It was making his throat dry and numb. When he raised his hand to his lips they were no longer sensitive to touch.
And yet, if he only knew what it was that was coming, he could prevent it. Maddening. If it got any worse, he would have to activate his tracers and summon Deth, though he was not supposed to do that unless he was apprehended.
"—critical moment approaches." He was only vaguely aware of Asmodeus' words. "—every move you make from now on… freighted with significance—Not only your own safety… fate of the world—This city… crucial—Future of mankind—"
At that instant a painfully convulsive spasm seized Jarles' vocal organs, and, to his intensest horror and dismay, he heard himself cry out, "You are betrayed! This is the Hierarchy's trap! Escape while you can!"
Then control over his muscles came back to him. With a snarl of rage and shame—for the moment he was beside himself with hatred of that other Jarles who had spoken—he activated the tracers strapped to his left arm to a maximum intensity which would jolt Deth's instruments if he were anywhere near.
And Deth must have been very near, for before the semi-circle of witches and warlocks could more than rise to their feet, deacons bearing wrath rods and other weapons poured into the room.
Out from the semi-circle of witches and warlocks, a shadowy scurrying went along the floor, like rats running for their holes. Before Jarles could get his own wrath ray into action, they had vanished.
Asmodeus was the only human being who had reacted swiftly to the warning. He sprang for the demonlike sculpture beside the throne. The thick violet gout of a wrath rod cut down a witch and impinged upon him. For a moment his blackness glowed eerily, as the absorbent field strained to drink the power. But before the field collapsed, he was behind the sculpture, which seemed resistant to the ray.
Jarles circled forward, hoping to get a shot at him from the side. Asmodeus was too greatly outnumbered. He had managed to reach a p
oint of cover, but he couldn't hold out long.
Not behind the sculpture, though. In it.
A solid blow—fringe of a repulsor field—sent Jarles reeling. The demon figure moved, lifted, and, the focus of a dozen tongues of violet incandescence, shot upward through the orifice in the ceiling.
Sprawled on the floor, Jarles realized bitterly that his first impression had been right. The thing was like an angel—mobile. And the shaft into which it had vanished must lead to the surface. It was probably disguised as a chimney.
Deth had said there would he angels patrolling overhead. They were the last, slim hope of catching Asmodeus.
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Chapter 13
In the pearly gray chamber of the Apex Council Goniface watched Brother Frejeris rise to accuse him. The Moderate's voice had a silky note. "Do I rightly understand your purpose in having your servant Cousin Deth bring those instruments here?"
With a wave of his hand, he indicated an arrangement of gleaming apparatus before the Council table. A chair, with attachments for confining the sitter, was a chief feature. Engaged in testing the apparatus was a group of Fourth Circle technicians, under the direction of Cousin Deth.
Goniface nodded.
"Torture!" Frejeris enunciated the word with indignation. "Have we become barbarians, as threatened in the Golden Age, that we stoop to such brutality?"
The idea of brutality actually shocks him, thought Goniface amusedly. I wonder what name he has for the toil we exact of the commoners, and the penances we impose on them?
Frejeris continued, "Our Brother Goniface all of a sudden informs us that his agents have apprehended a group of individuals who, he tells us, are dangerous to the Hierarchy. His agents have done this without the knowledge or consent of the Apex Council, in direct violation of all procedures. Now he tells us that these private captives of his are members of the New Witchcraft. On top of all that, disregarding the scientific methods we have at hand for extracting truth, he proposes that they be questioned under physical torture and—again secretly—makes arrangements for it. Why, I ask the Council, this reversion to barbarism?