The Compleat Traveller in Black

by John Brunner

  “Speak, Tyllwin,” he muttered, and braced himself.

  Tyllwin chuckled, a scratching noise, and the flowers on the whole of one tree turned to fruit and rotted where they hung. His nearest neighbors hastily left their seats and moved towards the margrave’s end of the table.

  Tyllwin’s huge round head, like a turnip ghost’s, turned to watch them, and a smile curved his dusty lips. He said, “Is it not certain, lords of Ryovora, that these things foreshadow an important event?”

  The rotten fruits fell with a succession of squelching sounds, and ants hurried from among the roots of the trees to investigate. The company hardly dared do more than nod.

  “Therefore,” said Tyllwin, “I suggest we investigate the commotion which is shortly to take place at the main gate.”

  He fell silent. A few dead leaves blew across the table. Most of them clustered before his place, and he touched them with a bony hand, whereat they dissolved. The watchers trembled.

  Still, the margrave was relieved to find that nothing more outrageous was going to follow Tyllwin’s unexpected loquacity. He said, “What is the opinion of the council?”

  Ruman spoke up, with a glance towards Tyllwin that lasted half a second after meeting Tyllwin’s eyes. He said, “I have not scried any such commotion.”

  “But you have not scried since yesterday,” countered Gostala with feminine practicality.

  “True, true. Then I am with Tyllwin.”

  “Petrovic?” inquired the margrave.

  “I am aware,” that dried-up individual said in a doubtful tone, “that the people believe all our troubles would be at an end if we had a god, as other cities do. I hope that in this instance they are wrong; they usually are. Having heard from our neighbors at Acromel how severely they suffer from their deity –”

  “This strays far from the point,” Gostala interrupted, tapping the table with a thumb-bone which had once been the property of a man fortunate enough – or unfortunate enough – to be her lover. “I say we do not know. Let us therefore expect both nothing and everything.”

  “Rational and well spoken!” approved the margrave. “Those in favor …?”

  All present laid their right hands on the table, except Tuc, who had left his in the mouth of a dragon beyond an interesting sea of fire far to the north. Even Tyllwin moved with the rest, causing yet more leaves to wither and tremble on the tree that had suffered most since he broke from his impassivity.

  “Agreed, then,” said the margrave. “Let us go thither.”

  The company rose with a bustle and began to adjourn to the main gate. The margrave, however, delayed a moment, contemplating Tyllwin, who had not vacated his place.

  When the others were at a distance he judged safe, he addressed the round-headed enchanter in a low voice.

  “Tyllwin, what is your opinion of a god?”

  Tyllwin uttered a creaking laugh. “I have been asked that before,” he said. “And I will answer as I did then: I do not know what a god is, and I doubt that many men do, either.”

  A branch on the tree overhanging him split with a warning cry, so that the margrave flung up his hand reflexively before his face. When he looked again, Tyllwin was gone.

  The commotion at the gate, foreseen by Tyllwin and by no other of the council members, had already begun when the stately procession entered the avenue leading thither. Each enchanter had come after his or her own style: Petrovic walking with his staff called Nitra, from which voices could sometimes be heard when the moon was full; Gostala riding on a creature she had summoned out of the deep water which was its natural element, that cried aloud in heartrending agony at every step; Ruman on the shoulders of a giant ape fettered with brass; Eadwil on his own young legs although his feet flashed red-hot at every tenth pace – this was to do with a geas about which no one ever inquired closely. The air about them crackled with strife between protective conjurations and the tense oppressive aura that enshrouded Ryovora.

  In the wide street before the gatehouse a crowd had gathered, laughing, shouting, exclaiming with wonderment. At its center, a man wearing outlandish attire, his face in a perpetual frown of puzzlement, was vainly trying to contend with a hundred questions simultaneously.

  The crowd parted to let the nobles approach him, and at once closed in again, like water around a slow-moving boat.

  The margrave came up behind the rest, panting somewhat, for he was growing fat, and looked the stranger over with dismay, while the people’s voices rose to a roar and then sank again into a muttering buzz. At last, having cast a beseeching glance at his companions and received no offers of assistance, he was compelled to address the newcomer.

  “Sir, who are you and what do you want?”

  In the terribly patient tone of one dealing with lunatics, the stranger said, “My name is Bernard Brown, and all I want is to go home.”

  “That is easy enough to arrange,” said the margrave in relief – though had he paused to reflect that Tyllwin was concerned with this man’s arrival, he would not so soon have been optimistic. He rounded on Petrovic. “Will you oblige?”

  Petrovic looked up in the air and down at the ground. He scratched a number of ideograms in the dust with his staff Nitra, then hastily scuffed them over with his sandal. He said flatly, “No.”

  “Well, if you won’t you won’t,” sighed the margrave. He appealed next to Gostala, who merely shook her regal head and went on scrutinizing Bernard Brown.

  “Eadwil!” cried the margrave.

  The boy, whose face had turned perfectly pale, stammered a few incomprehensible words and burst into tears.

  “See? They can’t! What did I tell you?” bellowed a voice from the crowd, and the margrave shot a glance at the speaker as sharp as a spear.

  “Come forth!” he commanded, and with the aid of a number of bystanders the fellow pushed and shoved until he stood before his ruler. He was an insolent-faced churl with a shock of corn-colored hair, and wore a leather apron with large pockets in which reposed the tools of his trade. He appeared to be some kind of worker in metal.

  “You are …” said the margrave, and ran through a short formula in his mind. “You are Brim, a locksmith. What did you mean by what you just said?”

  “What my words meant and neither more nor less,” the locksmith retorted, seeming amused. “Why, anyone can see he’s not to be pushed around by ordinary folk!”

  “Explain further,” the margrave commanded.

  “Why, ’tis simple as your mind … sir.” Brim thrust an errant lock of hair back into place with one blunt thumb. “I see it plain, and so do all of us. Here we’ve been saying these years past that what’s amiss with Ryovora is, we haven’t got a god like all those towns around the world every wherever. And now, today, what do the omens say? Can all your magicking unriddle them?”

  He thrust a stubby finger at the margrave’s chest. The latter recoiled and looked at him distastefully. But he was by temperament an honest man, so he had to admit that although the noble enchanters had speculated long and long about the recent omens they had failed to arrive at any conclusion.

  “There, mates! What did I tell you?” thundered Brim, whirling to face the crowd. There was an answering yell, and in a moment the situation had turned topsy-turvy. The throng had closed in on Bernard Brown, unmindful that they trod on noble toes, and had seized him and gone chairing him down the avenue, while men, women and children ran and skipped behind him, singing a rhythmic song and laughing like hyenas.

  “Well!” said the margrave in vexation. “This is a most improper and irregular state of affairs!”

  VI

  The margrave had cause to repeat those words, with still greater emphasis and an even more somber expression, the following morning. He sat once more at the head of the long table in the Moth Garden, for the air had become if anything more oppressive than yesterday; moreover, reports of omens seemed to have doubled in number.

  “This is extremely aggravating!” said the margrave te
stily. “Virtually the entire populace is firmly convinced this stranger is a god, simply because they can’t make head or tail of what he says. Accordingly they have turned me out of my own palace – I spent an uncomfortable night here in the Moth Garden! – and are at work converting it into a temple for this character without so much as a by-your-leave!”

  Eadwil suppressed an inappropriate smile. “Moreover,” he supplied, “all those persons who have voyaged extensively are being interrogated concerning the correct manner in which to pay homage to a new deity. Brim the locksmith, around whom this ferment seems to be most turbulent, has travelled to Acromel and is vociferous for human sacrifice; there is a group of women who in their youth were captives in Barbizond and wish to hold daily single combats before the altar; a man who formerly fished Lake Taxhling declares that the sole method of adopting the god is to burn down the city twice a year and rebuild it, as the fisherfolk do with their reed-hut villages. …”

  Petrovic shook his withered head and opined, “No good will come of this.”

  “Has anyone knowledge of Tyllwin’s whereabouts?” inquired the margrave, for the gaunt one’s place was empty today.

  A shudder went down the table, and those in earshot shook their heads, not without exclamations of relief.

  “Well, then, let us proceed to a course of action,” said the margrave. He shifted in his chair; his night in the open, although the weather was warm, had left him feeling bruised all over.

  “The first point to establish,” said Gostala sensibly, “is whether this Bernard Brown is indeed a god. If not – well!”

  “Agreed!” came a chorus in reply.

  Snorting, Ruman thumped the table with a hamlike fist. “And how, pray, do we set about that?” he demanded with honey-sweet sarcasm. “For we have all previously confessed that we do not know what a god is. Was that not the reason why we never acquired one in the old days?”

  “I fear very much,” said the margrave heavily, “that the days of ordered rationality in Ryovora may be finished. It would appear that the populace are already treating Bernard Brown in all the ways they think it proper to honor a god; unless, then, we arrive at disproofs adequate to disabuse them, life in our city is doomed to become insufferable.”

  “Hah!” said Gostala without mirth.

  “I have a suggestion,” ventured Eadwil. “A god is presumed to have knowledge and power beyond what mere humans may command. Let us therefore interrogate Bernard Brown concerning the most recondite and esoteric of our arts. If he fails to answer well, let us challenge him before the multitude, so that it may be seen his talents are negligible compared to ours.”

  “The proposal is rational,” conceded the margrave. “As I said, however, the days of rational thought here may be numbered. … However, if there is no better idea –?”

  None was forthcoming. Accordingly the company betook themselves to the newly converted temple, formerly the great hall of the margrave’s palace.

  There they found Bernard Brown – to judge by his expression, less than delighted with his situation – seated on an ebony-and-silver throne above an enormous improvised altar. Before this throne the townsfolk were coming and going with gifts. Their most prized possessions were heaped about his feet, from their inherited table-plate to their newest garments. On the altar itself were piled luscious fruits and choice cuts of meat, together with bottles of delicious wine. Sucking at one of the fruits, Bernard was attempting to question the people as they came and went. However, they would not answer him; they merely listened respectfully, then went away and wrote down what he said, with a view to creating a canon of mystical precepts.

  At the entry to the hall the nobility paused to survey the scene, and Eadwil spoke privily to the margrave.

  “Has not Tyllwin been here?” he said under his breath.

  “You’re right!” confirmed the margrave after a deep inhalation. “I can scent his power. Now what snare has that devious personage laid in our path?”

  He advanced towards the altar. Taking his stand three paces distant – because of the heaped-offerings – he raised his voice and addressed the putative god.

  “Sir! We, the lords of Ryovora, are here to determine whether or no you are a god, as the populace maintain!”

  Bernard Brown gave a cautious nod. “I was advised about your intention,” he confided. “And I have been warned not to deny the possibility. Since meeting with Jorkas on my way here, I have acquired a healthy respect for the advice I am given hereabouts, no matter how irrelevant it may seem. Contrariwise, however, in all honesty I must state that prior to my arrival in your city the notion that I might be a god had never crossed my mind.”

  Was it possible for a god not to be aware that he was one? That paradox was not addressed in any of the books the margrave had studied. He exchanged frustrated glances first with Eadwil and then with Ruman, who snorted characteristically and called to Bernard Brown.

  “Are we, then, to take it that you believe it possible you may be a god?”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” said Bernard unhappily. “Until yesterday I had always pictured myself as a perfectly ordinary person. But certainly I am not ordinary in your world, wherever and whatever it may be.”

  “Come now!” said Ruman, bridling. “This is a reputable and well-regarded city! Or was, until you chose to intrude on its traditionally sober existence.”

  “If you will forgive my contradicting you,” Bernard sighed, “I chose nothing of the sort. All I want is to be allowed to go home. Have I not already said as much?”

  “This does not sound like the utterance of a god,” the margrave muttered to Eadwil, who nodded.

  “Sir,” he said to Bernard, “we wish to establish the extent of your powers. To what knowledge lay you claim?”

  “I am competent,” said Bernard cautiously, “in matters touching roads, drains and bridges and similar practical undertakings. Is that the sort of thing you want to hear about?”

  “Indeed it’s not! But are you acquainted with the Book of Universal Shame, and can you conjure from it?”

  By now the townspeople had ceased their going and coming before the altar, and were gathering in silence to listen to this discussion. It was plain that a few of them were unconvinced, propitiating Bernard only by way of insurance, as it were.

  “I never heard of it,” said Bernard, swallowing.

  “Then of the Book of Three Red Elephants? Perhaps of the Casket of Disbelief?”

  To each name Bernard shook his head.

  Eadwil turned smiling to the margrave. “It is most unlikely that this fellow is a god!”

  Then in their turn Petrovic, Gostala, and Ruman questioned Bernard about the most esoteric wisdom known to them – which implied the most esoteric known to anyone. Some few individuals surpassed the enchanters of Ryovora, such as Manuus, but those persons were far beyond the commerce of everyday life and chose to exist alone with their powers, seldom intruding on mundane affairs.

  To each inquiry Bernard was constrained to reply in the negative, and in the watching crowd some began to stare significantly at Brim. The locksmith grew more and more flustered and annoyed, until at last, when Ruman had completed his interrogation, he strode forward and faced the altar challengingly, hands on hips.

  “Let’s have it straight!” he bellowed. “Are you a god, or have you come here under false pretenses?”

  “I – I was advised not to deny it,” said Bernard helplessly, and the margrave clapped his hand to his forehead.

  “Fool that I am, after Eadwil gave me the clue!” he cried, and thrust Brim to one side, ignoring his complaint. “It was Tyllwin who advised you thus, was it not?”

  “I don’t suppose it can do any harm to say who it was,” Bernard decided reflectively. “Uh … whether it was Tyllwin or not, I’m unsure, for he gave no name. But I can describe him: a very charming elderly gentleman, with a wisp of grey beard clinging at his chin.”

  “Manuus!” exclaimed several of
the lords together, and the margrave whirled to face his colleagues.

  “How many of you had seen Tyllwin before yesterday?” he demanded.

  “Why –” began three or four, and as one fell silent with expressions of amazement.

  “You have it!” snapped the margrave. “He was there, and by some enchantment persuaded us he was seated by right and custom. But I for one now realize that I have no other knowledge of Tyllwin. Well, then! So Manuus is behind the matter! We must go to him and tell him we will not tolerate his meddling in Ryovora’s affairs. If he chose to live among us as a responsible citizen, that would be a different cauldron of spells. But as things are, we can only respect his privacy so long as he respects ours.”

  There was much shuffling of feet. With juvenile dignity Eadwil spoke up. “Margrave, I regret that I dare not face Manuus in this connection. My powers are inadequate as yet. I hate to shelter behind my youth – but!”

  And he took his leave.

  One by one, shamefaced, the others of the council copied his example, until the margrave was left by himself, whereupon the townsfolk, having garnered from these events only that the nobles had failed to disprove Bernard’s divinity, made haste to resume their self-imposed tasks.

  “A fine lot we breed in Ryovora!” exclaimed the margrave scornfully. The scorn, though, was a mask for his own forebodings; he was less of an adept than many who served under him, having attained his eminence by administrative skills. Nonetheless he was a resolute man, and accordingly he summoned his train and set forth to beard Manuus in his castle.

  The mists parted in such fashion as to imply that this call was not unexpected, and having left his attendants huddled together in the great yard he ascended to Manuus’s sanctum with determined steps. There the enchanter greeted him with warm professions of respect.

  But the margrave was ill at ease in this place of discomfortable forces, and came to the point as swiftly as manners would permit. He said firmly, when he had the chance, “Sir, since you are Tyllwin’s master you know the purpose of my errand.”