Fain stood rigidly still. When you were tracking down Changelings these moments would come: the sudden fear that everyone around you was a Changeling, an ultimate form of paranoia. Joane had passed by Scorpio this evening, and the dog had checked Skallon earlier. But he couldn’t keep checking everyone in the hotel. No—he had made the hotel a base and he would have to treat it as relatively safe, or else never rest easily;
Fain relaxed, letting his hands dangle, easing his muscles. He sat on the bed and meditated, drawing his breath soothingly through the nostrils and letting it out again in a long lazy rhythm. He let go and soon reached in. He found the calm center, where it always was. Serene, cool, opaque as a milky pearl. He would live, no matter what. There was no need to fret for life, since living in separate forms was an illusion. Let go of it. Concentrate instead on the moment. A warrior had to be firmly rooted in himself. From that strong mooring he could go out to confront the world; but the mooring was the essential. Without it, there was no judgment, no true seeing of the world as it was.
Fain let himself bask in the cool hardness he carried at the center of his mind, and again thought of his father. He knew there were rages burning inside himself, pains that would never escape. He used them for energy, to give him that certain fine edge in his dealings with the world. But at the center was the milky riddle, the sureness.
After a while he stood. In the morning he would use Scorpio and test Kish and Joane again. He would make a point of it whenever he had Scorpio available. And beyond that, he sensed something new in the odd contest he was in with this Changeling. Their prime flaw was their pride: they could not resist toying with mere men, whom they considered slow-witted and dense. So if this Changeling knew Fain was here, there was a chance it would seek him out, if it could. Fine. Let it. In fact, the balance of the pursuit might be shifting even now. The dull day in the Great Hall had probably bored the playful but deadly spirit of the Changeling. It, too, could get bored. Order, to it, was an insult, a perversion of the natural flow of things. So the Changeling might change from pursued to pursuer. It could happen, though it seemed unlikely.
Some tension still laced his muscles. Fain paced the room. To ease it away, he finally went out into the creaking hallways of the hotel and roved through them, listening to distant sounds. There was nothing suspicious.
When he passed Skallon’s room, he heard the tinkle of Joane’s laughter. He paused at a grimy window and looked out. Wan orange bulbs lit the street below. In the dim pools of light a few Alveans talked, or gestured, or slumped against a ruined wall, sleeping. Beyond them lay the city, not bright and phosphorescent as the cities of Earth were, but shrouded in night, the streets barely lit. Somewhere in that darkness was the Changeling. Fain felt the presence of it now, sensed the thing [ watching them. And somehow, now, the calm center inside him did not seem enough to protect him from the brooding pressure of this alien darkness beyond the pale lights. The Changeling was death, madness, the final blackness; Fain felt this now as he never had before. Was something in him slipping away? Was there something about Alvea, its bleak and shadowed streets, its old religion—something that was changing him? The sense of the alien beyond the darkness…Despite himself, Fain shivered.
10
“Did Joane come by your room last night?” Fain asked Skallon. The two men waddled with accustomed ease through the heavily congested morning streets of Kalic. Fain, barely conscious anymore of the thick wads of padding circling his middle, spoke loudly to be heard above the steady beat of a procession of chanting monks who happened to be preceding them. Fain believed that after all these days he was at last beginning to feel at home on this world. Skallon would not have agreed. Skallon continued to find fault with his accent, his manners, his way of holding himself. But Fain knew that wasn’t the point. The point was how he felt in his mind. And he felt comfortable. The Changeling would not, could not ever feel comfortable. No Changeling ever felt at home anywhere, not even, perhaps, on its own world. And that was an advantage. Fain intended to make use of it.
Skallon shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen her since early yesterday. Was she looking for me?”
“Not her, no. Kish. He came by my room last night and asked if I’d seen her.”
“What did you say?”
T lied. I said I thought Yd seen her go out.”
Skallon shrugged. “It was probably the truth. She often goes out at night—to one of the temples.”
“Then maybe that was it.”
“I’m just surprised that Kish even bothered to look for her.”
“Maybe he wanted his socks washed.”
“Alveans don t wear socks.”
“Then his robes.” Fain saw no reason to pursue the subject. The first thing this morning, exactly as he promised last night, he’d smuggled Scorpio unannounced into the kitchen and let him sniff the innkeeper at close range. The results proved negative: Kish was only Kish. Fain, realizing that he had allowed some sort of lingering guilt to arouse his suspicions the night before, had felt an odd mixture of disappointment and relief when Scorpio told him no. If Kish had proved, after all, to be the Changeling, it would have been so easy: a single quick blast of the heatgun and the job was over. Easy, yes, and perhaps too easy. Fain knew he needed more of a challenge if he wanted to renew the confidence he’d once felt in his own abilities. Now he had the challenge again. But was he ready to face it?
The passing of a silver-gowned procession of young, brightly painted women momentarily deflected his attention from his own thoughts. The women’s gowns ended far short of their bare knees. Fain couldn’t recall having seen a publicly displayed naked leg since his arrival on this world.
Skallon was smiling. “Imperial concubines,” he explained. ‘They’ve never had anything like an emperor on Alvea, but the caste dates back to the Gommerset era on Earth, and the Alveans have never seen fit to change it.”
Fain shook his head, staring after the women. “I think I can see why.”
“And they’re virgins, too, all of them. They live in small houses near the temples and exist on public charity. They’re seen in public only once each year, at fest time. They can’t have sex, because they’re reserved for the emperor’s use, and there isn’t any emperor.”
“Then where do the new ones come from? I thought the whole point of a caste system was father like son.”
“Not these women. They’re chosen. The prettiest girls from all the country.”
“Isn’t that a contradiction?”
Skallon shrugged. “I suppose it is. But don’t tell an Alvean that. I’m sure he’d have an explanation.”
“Then I guess the best idea is to be born ugly.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think the life of a virgin concubine can be much fun.”
“What woman’s life on this planet is?”
Fain was tempted to answer that question but decided to spare Skallon’s feelings. Besides, who was he to criticize Joane’s morals? On Earth what she was doing would have been the norm.
“We better get going,” said Fain. The crowd, most of which had stopped to watch the procession, was flowing again. Fain led Skallon into the middle of it.
They had gone a few more blocks toward the Great Hall when Fain remembered something else. “Where is Danon today? Did he decide to stay home and do some work for a change?”
“No, he had to go out early this morning, just before you came down with Scorpio. He said he’d try to meet us at the Hall.”
“Good.” Despite his original hesitancy, Fain had come to admit that the boy’s assistance was helpful. Danon’s knowledge of local customs far exceeded any of Skallon’s scholarly wisdom. Several times the boy had helped them out of tight spots caused by their own ignorance. Fain had a distinct feeling that if anyone could penetrate the Changeling’s present disguise that person would be Danon.
The boy met them in the broad plaza that fronted the Hall. He seemed inordinately excited and came runn
ing to meet them.
“I have found him!” Danon cried. “It is your enemy! I have seen him with my eyes!”
Fain wasn’t about to be taken in by yet another false alarm. He told the boy to keep his voice low, then asked, “What have you seen that makes you so sure?”
The boy screwed up his face in noncomprehension and looked toward Skallon, who repeated Fain’s words in a more decipherable accent.
Danon replied quickly and excitedly. Fain had an easier time understanding than in making himself understood. Danon said, “A man in black robes has entered the Hail.”
Fain saw Skallon’s surprise and knew this must be important. “So what?” he asked.
“It is not done,” said Danon. It is impossible.”
Fain looked at Skallon. “Maybe you better let me in on the secret.”
Skallon frowned, plainly thinking how fruitless Fain’s quicktreatment in Alvean affairs had been. “Only one caste on Alvea wears black robes: the assassins. Danon is saying that one of them has actually entered the Hall.”
“So? Maybe he’s supposed to kill somebody. That’s hardly our problem.”
Skallon looked even more irritated than before. “Don’t you even understand that much, Fain? These are people who believe in reincarnation, of souls that pass on from body to body. For them, murder is a terrible deed. It’s an interruption of life before it can be properly completed. Killing a man isn’t just killing a man: it’s making it so that he can’t be born again.”
“That’s gibberish.”
“Not to them.”
“So? You still haven’t reached the point.”
“The point is,” Skallon said, speaking slowly, controlling his anger, “the caste of assassins are really outcasts. They cannot speak with other castes, eat with them, socialize with them in any form. If an assassin came into this street right now, it would be absolutely deserted inside of two minutes. But one wouldn’t. That’s the point. They never come out in public. They ride in coaches, dark coaches, the blinds drawn, the—there, look!”
He pointed. Fain looked and saw what Skallon had described: a dark coach, the door hanging open.
“So now we know how he got here. So what?”
“So the only way an assassin would ever think of entering the Great Hall is if he wasn’t an assassin after all, if he was—”
Fain finished the thought: ‘The Changeling.” He gripped his heatgun and turned on Danon. “When? How long has he been in there?”
“Only a few moments,” the boy said. “Only just before I observed your approach. I saw the coach and then it stopped and he—the black-robed man—came out. I ran but then I saw him enter the hall.”
Fain glanced at the high doors ahead of them. Even as they spoke, high-caste individuals were passing inside. “If what you’ve told me is right, then why haven’t they come out? There ought to be a riot.”
“Maybe they’re too frightened to riot,” said Skallon.
Fain had to think for a moment. Was it possible? Could the Changeling make this bad a mistake?
The Changeling would know even less than Fain about this world. The Vertil could help him. But if it had grown careless, if it had simply assumed the identity of a high-caste Alvean without bothering to find out more, then it could be possible. He had known Changelings to make similar blunders before. They were smart, but they were also cocky.
“Danon,” he said sharply, “you stay here. Climb up a post or a tree, find a nook where you can observe the Hall. If the assassin comes out while we’re in there, you watch which way he goes.”
“I—I’ll follow him,” said Danon.
“No, don’t do that. Just watch him. And, Skallon—” Fain turned “—you’ll go in with me. We’ll split up once we’re inside and come at him from either side. If you shoot, make sure you hit him cleanly. We can’t go around killing the natives without blowing our cover sky high. If this is the end of it, it’s got to be the final end. Understand?”
But Skallon was shaking his head. “Shoot?”
“Yes, shoot. Kill. You know, like an assassin.”
“But what if we re wrong? What if this man isn’t the Changeling?”
“I thought you just got through telling me he had to be.”
“But…well, we could be wrong. I mean, there could be another explanation for the assassin’s presence.”
“What?”
“I-I don’t know.”
‘Then just do as I say. Do as I say and, in another few months, you’ll be home again safe and secure in your nice warm dormitory.”
“But, Fain, I really do think we—”
He caught hold of Skallon and propelled him toward the Hall. “Be quiet and hurry. We can’t let this chance slip by. If we do, don’t think we’ll get another.”
They made their way into the Great Hall. Fain hadn’t set both feet inside the assembly room when he spotted the assassin. It didn’t take any keen powers of observation. The black-robed man sat all by himself, with his back facing the door. Around him on all sides stood a broad ring of frightened Alveans. Fain could see only the back of the head and shoulders of the assassin. But he was thin—thinner than any Alvean Fain had ever seen. He studied the frozen faces of the Alveans. The entire scene reminded him of a strange old painting he had once seen: “Death Comes to Visit.” The black-robed assassin was certainly death, but whom had he come to see? The Alveans apparently could not decide, for not one of them had so far moved a muscle.
Fain found himself whispering. “I can’t get a good shot from here. We’d better penetrate the crowd. You go that way and I’ll go left.”
“But, Fain, that can’t be the Changeling. He wouldn’t just sit there, not doing—”
“How do you know?” He gave Skallon a shove. T said go—now go.”
Fain moved himself. The Alveans gathered around the assassin refused to budge. Fain had to reach ahead and physically push each man aside before moving onward. He thought about Skallon’s half-voiced objection and knew that what he’d been trying to say hadn’t been entirely devoid of logic. Surely the assassin, Changeling or not, must be aware by now that he had erred seriously in deciding to enter the Hall. Shouldn’t he be trying to get away as quickly as possible? Fain wondered. Which really did make more sense? For the Changeling to go running wildly off, affording Fain and Skallon every opportunity for finding him on their own, or for him to remain exactly where he was, alone and isolated, where it would be very difficult for anyone to catch him unawares? Fain began to move with additional caution. He removed his gun but kept it hidden against his upper leg. He kept his head bent low and tried to part the crowd ahead of him without unnecessarily disturbing its shape. On the opposite side, Skallon ought to be doing the same. If he wasn’t—and Fain knew damn well Skallon would probably mess it up—then that ought to help deflect the Changeling’s attention from where the real danger was approaching.
When Fain reached a spot just back of the first row of Alveans—but still a good ten meters from where the black-robed man sat alone—he paused. He tried to get a good look at the assassin, but there was nothing to be seen there. The man, as well as he could be seen, looked like any other dark-robed, pale Alvean. The Changeling?
Fain saw no reason to think that he wasn’t.
Well, he thought, whoever and whatever you are, Changeling infiltrator or Alvean assassin, I’m going to kill you.
He raised the heatgun, thrust it between the shoulders of two broad Alveans in front of him, aimed, squinted, sighted, squeezed the trigger gently.
Someone shouted. Startled, the Alvean jerked sideways.
The voice, coming from directly behind, startled Fain. The heatgun went off as he followed the Alvean, but he missed. It was as Fain had expected. The man was the Changeling and it had been waiting for Fain to show himself. Now the man ran. He rushed toward the crowd that stood nearest the door. The Alveans stepped fearfully back to let the black-robed figure pass. Fain could have fired again, but for an instant
he hesitated.
A fist came down solidly on his arm. Fain caught the heatgun before it hit the floor and spun around.
Skallon stood beside him. “Fain, we cant-not yet. Its murder. Its plain, cold-blooded—”
Fain hit him. Not hard. Just hard enough to knock him back. Fain turned. But precious seconds had been lost.
All Fain saw was a sweep of black robes as the assassin raced safely through the open door.
He swiveled back, grabbed the stunned Skallon, and shook him. “You dumb, stupid, soft, simple bastard. If that thing gets away, I swear I’ll kill you with my own hands.”
Skallon held his jaw. “Fain, what if we’re wrong?” he said softly.
‘Then we re wrong, damn it. What else?” Fain raced toward the door. He heard Skallon pounding after him. There was still a chance, after all.
11
In the broad, fanning plaza outside, Skallon’s heart thumped so solidly he could feel it imposing its own rhythm against the background chanting and clanging of the processions. Alveans milled around them. Skallon searched the crowds, tasted their sweaty, reeking euphoria.
“See him?”
“No,” Fain replied. “Hell, he’s had forever to get away.”
“Where’s Danon?”
“Can’t spot him. Chances are—”
“There! Up there on the stone spike. That’s Danon.”
Fain squinted. “Right, that’s the kid. He’s waving.”
“Smart. He climbed up there to see down into the crowds. Look he’s pointing.”
“That’s the way. Come on.” Fain started to jog through the milling Alveans.
“I’m with you.”
The next ten minutes were frantic. They joined Danon at the base of the massive stonework buttresses. He led them down a cramped alley, one of the canonical passageways for the Elect of the high castes. Until the caste members returned for their de liberations, it was empty, a public concourse. They raced along as quickly as they could through surging knots of worshipers. Ahead they caught glimpses of the man they pursued, his robe flapping as he moved quickly and deliberately through the mobs. There was a fever in the air, and they all three caught the scent of a chase. When the three of them reached an intersection, each took a different fork and surged ahead. They kept in contact through their wrist communicators. At each separation, a moment’s pursuit found the fleeing man again and the two who had followed a wrong path ran to catch up. It was effective. They never lost him. Danon, who knew the diagonal short cuts of the city, was often in front.
Find the Changeling Page 13