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.
The Protector continued to scrutinize Darzek. And the child?
This morning she still had not been found. I have sent lackeys to assist in the search, and I have again warned those searching not to go beyond the east slope.
The provisioner seems to have told the exact truth, the Protector remarked, still keeping his eyes on Darzek.
Yes, sire. He has a high reputation for integrity with all who have dealt with him.
The child’s mother?
The Winged Beast took her long ago, sire.
The Protector paused for a moment, lost in meditation, but his unwavering gaze never left Darzek’s face. The Duke Dunjinz had been right, Darzek thought. The Protector would favor no duke, and especially not his villainous brother.
A pity, the Protector said finally. His expression, as his hands formed the words, softened into one of genuine regret. A pity, since he is a most worthy citizen and one meriting the thanks and esteem of us all. But he entered the Forbidden Temple uninvited. He has had the high honor of seeing the Holy Beasts. They already have tasted his blood. His life is forfeited to them. No other verdict is possible. Why did you ask?
He is devout, sire. He wears an amulet of the Winged Beast. He is highly regarded for both his personal and his business dealings. He is a devoted parent, and his child has no other. I thought possibly, considering all of this, and especially the child—
There is no way to erase what he has seen. His life is forfeit. The Protector’s hand fell casually on the scribe’s arm. But you have done well to ask. Since he has lived a commendable life, since he has rendered service to many, including ourselves, and since he has abilities our own service staff may find useful, I give you the privilege of postponement for him. If he serves us well, you may continue it indefinitely.
Thank you, sire.
But no prisoner is excused from the selection of the king. He must share that honor with all of the others. See that it is done.
Yes, sire.
And throw some water on him. I don’t object to the obvious marks of an honorable profession, but the odor of dried namafj lingers.
Yes, sire.
Darzek’s escort of three stepped forward and led him away.
Unfortunately for Darzek, the strictures of the Protector were taken literally. He was drenched with icy mountain stream water, and the shock almost knocked him unconscious. And when, later that day, a knight chanced to take a deep breath while passing his cell and fancy that Darzek still smelled of dried namafj, the stricture was recalled, and Darzek was drenched a second time.
Otherwise, he spent the day in the same small bare room in which he had spent the last part of the night. But the pallet on the floor had been filled generously with straw, and the food brought to him was tastily prepared and ample. Whatever the knights of the Winged Beast ultimately did to their prisoners, they kept them well fed and comfortable.
He gave no thought to escape. They permitted him to keep his Winged Beast amulet, and he easily could have stunned his escort; but he would have had to find his way out of the system of caverns, past he knew not what obstacles, and if he succeeded, he would be on the outside. For the moment he preferred to be inside, even though he was a prisoner, because he had come there to find out how the king was selected and to influence the result if he could. Being condemned to participate in that selection looked like a stroke of luck to him.
He rested on his pallet most of the day—his mountain climb had exhausted him, and the slashes on his arms and legs, though the knights had tended them promptly and expertly, were still painful. He was fed again late in the day, and then night was announced by the simple expedient of extinguishing most of the torches in the corridor beyond his cell door. He was able to sleep well that night. In the morning he was fed another adequate meal, and then an escort of a knight and two lackeys took him to join the other prisoners.
Darzek was one of a group of ten that was led through a labyrinth of corridors: straight, curved, ascending, descending, branching. They passed through a series of barred checkpoints, and finally the group was turned into a long room that seemed nothing more than an extremely wide, barren, torch-lit corridor. Bars banged into place behind them; ahead of them, at the far end, were more bars. Half a hundred males of Kamm stood about, or squatted, or stretched out on the smooth rock floor. Sobs shook one male’s huge frame—the only evidence of his silent weeping.
Instantly curious as to what lay beyond the barred opening at the other end, Darzek started to walk the length of the room. A few of his fellow victims looked up as he passed and then looked away again, thoughts turned inward, eyes dull with surrender or fear.
Then one looked quickly a second time as Darzek approached, and a third, and pushed himself into a sitting position.
And he spoke aloud. “Gul Darr. So even you have failed.”
Darzek halted, staring down at him. It was Rok Wllon, though it looked nothing like him. He wore a form-fitting artificial covering, as did so many Synthesis agents, and it made him resemble a native perfectly.
Darzek knelt beside him. “I’ve been looking all over the island for you. How are you?”
“Weary. And eager. Death is failure’s consummation, and I am eager for it. But I wish they didn’t take so long about it.” He looked searchingly at Darzek. “You came. I wanted to ask you to come, but I was afraid you wouldn’t. Did you find the pazul?”
“I’ve been close to it. I know two dukes, at least, who have them. At first I thought it had been brought from another world—”
“No, no!” Rok Wllon protested.
“Then I found your memo. Since we know who has one, we’ll soon find out what it is.”
“You failed,” Rok Wllon said. “You didn’t find it, either. Death is failure’s consummation.”
He sank back against the wall, and though Darzek continued to talk to him, to ask him questions, to try to find out if he knew anything that might be useful, he would not speak again.
“It’s no use,” a voice said in Darzek’s ear. “He’s been that way ever since he came here.”
Darzek looked questioningly at the young male who bent over him.
“I’m Kjorz.”
“I’m Lazk,” Darzek returned. “How many agents are here?”
“Six males and one female that I know of. You make the seventh male.”
“Is the female Riklo?” Darzek asked quickly.
“Right. She’s already told us about you. Expects you to gallop up on a nabrulk and put all the black knights to flight.”
“She would,” Darzek agreed grimly. “And instead, I came stumbling over the mountain at night, on foot, and fell into an air vent.”
Kjorz said, a touch of awe in his voice, “You did? You actually found this place on your own? Maybe she wasn’t overestimating you. The rest of us were hauled in here blindfolded, from all over Storoz. We’ve talked it over, and we know we goofed in some perfectly stupid way, but we can’t figure out how. Do you know?”
“Yes,” Darzek said. “But there isn’t much we can do about it. Certainly not here. The problem is that you stink. All of us stink.”
“Nonsense. The Synthesis has been on Kamm for at least a hundred years. If aliens smell so offensively, how come the natives never noticed it until now? We never had any trouble before. I’ve been on Kamm for five years without making anyone hold his nose. Suddenly I was picked up. All of us were picked up, one after the other, and more than half of us were killed.”
“You got picked up because someone smelled you,” Darzek told him. “Ever hear of
worlds named Zruan and Arrn?”
“I guess so. They’re in neighboring solar systems, aren’t they?”
“Right. They’re in the two nearest solar systems to Kamm’s. Both have achieved a primitive interstellar travel. Kamm is located almost midway between them, and it’s occurred to both of them that they need a base here. So they’re meddling in the local political situation on Storoz because Storoz has the uranium ore they need.”
“What does that have to do with our smelling?” Kjorz demanded.
“There are two kinds of aliens on Storoz besides us—Arrnians and Zruanians. Each is trying to do in the agents of the other. One group supplied its Kammian allies with metal detectors—only an alien is likely to be carrying metal objects about. In retaliation, the other group discovered that its rivals have a personal odor that stinks to the natives of Kamm, so they have their supporters going around smelling everyone. Between the two groups, they managed to trap our agents along with the aliens they were looking for. Until the other aliens got here, the Kammians ignored our body odors out of politeness.”
“Then they really weren’t trying to catch us?”
“No. But you were caught just as surely as though they had been. What do you know about this place?”
“Come and have a look,” Kjorz said.
Darzek got to his feet, and Kjorz frowned and fingered his bloodstained sleeve and looked with concern at a bloodstained rip in his trousers.
“My introduction to the Winged Beasts,” Darzek said.
“Then I don’t need to explain.”
“About the Beasts, no. Though I must say a face-to-face encounter with a monstrosity I’d considered the abstract symbol of a myth is the kind of shock I’d prefer not to experience twice. The black knights must have been raising them in captivity since the early days of their religion. What can you tell me about the layout of this place?”
Kjorz led him to the far end of the room, and they stood looking out through the bars upon an enormous, domed, circular arena. It was dimly lit from barred openings in the ceiling of the type Darzek had fallen into. At intervals around the sides were pairs of barred openings the size of a large door—one at floor level and one directly above it. Resting on the floor in the center of the arena was a large cage.
“It’s a cathedral,” Kjorz remarked. “It’s the site of the most important religious ceremonies of Storoz. It’s also the place where religious questions are decided—including the selection of the king. The barred openings on the upper level are royal boxes—there’s one for each duke and one for the Protector. When there’s an important question to be decided, the arena is filled with Winged Beasts, and a victim is placed in the cage. Then the lower doors are opened and the cage is hoisted to the dome, leaving the victim unprotected in the center of the arena. All he has to do is get to the safety of one of the lower doors before the Beasts tear him to pieces. The first few victims don’t manage more than about three steps apiece, but eventually the Beasts have their hunger satisfied, and they lose interest. Even then, they enjoy the chase so much they’ll attack and kill anyway if the victim tries too energetically to escape. But finally one makes it, and whatever door he escapes through decides whatever issue is under consideration. Today, it’ll decide which duke becomes king. Pleasant little game, isn’t it?”
“You’ve seen it happen?” Darzek asked.
“Unfortunately, yes. Not for the choice of a king, of course, but for lesser matters. And I’ve got friendly with one of the young lackeys, a student priest, and he’s so pleased to have someone to talk with that he’s been violating his vows to tell me about the history and ritual of the death religion. If I ever get out of here, I’ll have a lovely report to write.”
“How do they decide which of us to use?”
“By lot.”
“Have any of our agents died in the arena?”
“Thankfully, not yet. Not that I know of. But you’ve seen the director’s mental state, and the other four males have been tortured. They’re in bad shape.”
“I’ve seen a lot of worlds, and a lot of primitive practices, and a lot of violence,” Darzek said. “But this—” He shook his head.
“Generations ago they changed to animal subjects. That was before the old king was deposed. But the present Protector is reviving the old customs—the restoration of the kingship and the reversion to what they call ‘citizen sacrifice,’ as though it’s a special form of taxation. The victim that escapes has a very nice thing going for him. The duke he makes a king will give him honors and rewards. He might be elevated to the knighthood and even allowed to marry the duke’s daughter, if the duke happens to have one available. It won’t be so nice for the victims that don’t make it. The unnerving thing is that they take so long to die. The Beasts like to tear their meals from living animals, and they craftily avoid administering a fatal wound as long as possible. It’s pretty gruesome.”
“Is there any way I could see Riklo?”
“No. The women are kept on the other side of the arena, and women victims are sent in through the door opposite this one. I managed one brief talk with her and got two lashes for it from the knight who caught us. I don’t even know if Riklo is the only female agent there. I suppose you haven’t any idea of how to get us out of here.”
Darzek patted his Winged Beast amulet. “This is a stun gun. But the charge is small, and I’d be silly to try to take on the army of knights and lackeys guarding this place. If I’m the chosen victim, I might possibly be able to use the lowest setting and keep the Beasts away long enough to choose myself a king. I know which duke to choose.”
Kjorz pursed his lips thoughtfully. “If you actually injured a Beast—or seemed to injure one, even if you only knocked it unconscious—the priests would tear you apart even if the Beasts didn’t. It’d be risky. There’s no way of telling what the lowest charge would do to a Beast, or whether it would affect it at all.”
“Perhaps not. But using this thing would be no more risky than standing out there and doing nothing,” Darzek pointed out. “The other alternative is to knock off my guards when I’m being escorted somewhere. There are never more than three. But I was brought into this place blindfolded, too, and there seemed to be a lot of barred passageways, and I have no notion of which way is out. Do you?”
“No. So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll snoop around and talk to our fellow victims and see if I can learn anything.”
He moved back along the room, stepping over a prisoner who lay prone on the stone floor wracked with terrified shudders. A wizened oldster who sat nearby grinned cheerfully at Darzek, so Darzek stopped to talk with him.
Don’t get discouraged, the oldster’s hands said. Maybe you’ll be lucky, like me.
Lucky in what way? Darzek asked him.
My number doesn’t come up. Been here four years, and I’m still here. Food is good, quarters aren’t bad, and they don’t give you much work to do. It isn’t a hard life if you don’t mind being herded down here on Holy Days and the like.
Darzek gestured at the arena. Do you enjoy what goes on in there?
I don’t let it bother me. Sure—I know it could be me, in there. But it isn’t, and I’ll die of old age before my number comes up.
Four years, Darzek mused. How many lives have you seen given to the Beasts?
Don’t know. Never bothered counting. A lot. But usually it’s only one or two at a time, and my number doesn’t come up. Of course I never saw a Choice. Today’s the first time there’s been a Choice. The knights say they’ll use a lot of us for a Choice.
Darzek walked on. He found the other four Synthesis agents, talked with them briefly, and left them. They had been brutally mistreated. One had been whipped almost to death, and his body was a sickening network of scars. They also had been starved before being offered to the Protector as victims, and they were still weak. They might be led out of the place, but no vigorous action could be expected from them.
With a sudden flash of insight, Darzek knew how the Duke of OO expected to become King of Storoz.
He also knew how he was going to prevent it.
Suddenly a familiar odor caught Darzek’s attention—a vile, pungent odor. He turned toward it and identified the source—a young Kammian who was seated against the wall in an attitude of relaxed indifference. Darzek could not recall seeing him before, but the stench he emitted was unmistakable. Darzek had a jar of the stuff himself, in his wagon, and he had been sniffing it and puzzling over it ever since Nijezor, the OO perfumer, had sent it to him.
With a sudden flash of insight, Darzek knew how the Duke of OO expected to become King of Storoz.
He also knew how he was going to prevent it.
CHAPTER 19
Darzek continued to prowl about, and be managed to examine the bars securing the exit door before a black-caped lackey chased him away. It could be opened only from the outside.
The females had been brought into the passage opposite theirs. Darzek peered across the area at the torch-lit opening until once again he was chased away, but he was unable to identify Riklo.
Finally he seated himself along the wall and considered his surroundings. This vast and complex network of natural caves had been altered and improved and extended by generations of priests. Probably there were kilometers of passageways, on a multitude of levels. Considering the frequent barriers and the ease with which one could get lost in the place, fighting one’s way out would be impossible. It would have to be done by subterfuge.
He was confident that he could escape by himself; but how to get the others out?
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