The Compleat Traveller in Black

by John Brunner

  “Correction,” the enchanter parried blandly “I am Tyllwin. I have certain other natures besides my own – a trait I share with all persons save one alone.”

  The margrave made an appropriate sign at the mention of him who has many names but one nature, and pressed on with what he had to say.

  “We will not tolerate interference, sir,” he declared. “Since time immemorial we in Ryovora have striven to create a tradition of calm rationality, and to rely upon hard sense. This petty trick of intruding a so-called god like a gaming piece into our affairs is hardly worthy of a personage of your distinction.”

  “I agree,” said Manuus. “You may therefrom deduce that the act is not of my choosing.”

  “What?” the margrave blurted.

  “In this matter,” the enchanter continued, ignoring the exclamation, “you and I are on the same side: so to say, the outside. It will perhaps interest you to learn that he of whom we were speaking a moment ago – whose nature is single – was sitting in that same chair only two days ago.”

  Wondering what he had stumbled into, the margrave shivered. He said respectfully, “Manuus, your powers are beyond imagining!”

  “Oh, he did not come at my bidding!” – with a thin chuckle. “Rather the reverse!”

  “However that may be, I shall take leave of you,” said the margrave, rising and bowing. “For if this matter is his concern, I dare do nothing to intervene.”

  Eyes twinkling, Manuus shook his head. “I’m afraid you have no choice. Like it or not, both you and I have been concatenated in this web.”

  At which the margrave departed, his heart so heavy he could barely lift his boots, and when he was gone Manuus fell to ceremonies of a kind that had not been performed in living memory, which strange phenomena attended. There was a storm on peaceful Lake Taxhling; in Barbizond three madmen ran screaming through the streets; on a hill near Acromel dust devils ceased their whirling. Last, but not least, certain persons in Ryovora itself saw visions of a disturbing nature, and hastened to the new-designated temple to place yet more offerings at the feet of Bernard Brown and to consult the already sizable record of his sayings.

  Studying them, they found no comfort.

  VII

  And thus the matter was to remain for another day. The margrave, making as was his custom the best of a bad job, called up an obliging spirit and had a pavilion erected in the Moth Garden to serve as a temporary surrogate for his palace; there he sat, swearing mightily, far into the night, while he pondered the information Manuus had divulged.

  Those other nobles of Ryovora who were best skilled in the art of magic met to discuss in low tones over their wine the riddle of how to distinguish divinity from humanity. They remained unswayed by both the clamor of the populace, led by Brim, and the scant evidence furnished by their interrogation of Bernard Brown. It seemed implausible, they allowed, that a person who claimed to know merely about matters as base as roads and bridges should be a god; nonetheless, one must respect the powers of Manuus, and perhaps in a mood to make a jest of Ryovora he could have conjured up an authentic deity and disguised him. … Did he not have the power to disguise himself, even from them?

  The common folk, likewise, found themselves impaled by a dilemma. However, they had been longing for a god of whatever sort for a considerable while; indisputably someone strange had come among them, preceded by complex indecipherable omens, and it was generally deemed advisable to act as though Bernard were a genuine god until some incontestable argument to the contrary should be advanced.

  So the night passed; and of those who spent it restlessly, not the least fervent seeker of repose was Bernard Brown, for all that his couch was a vast stack of gorgeous offerings in velvet and satin.

  Then came the dawn.

  It had been centuries since another city marched against Ryovora. The citizens had long ago deduced that their best protection was their reputation; who after all would dare attack that city where pre-eminently the populace enjoyed the gift to plan and reason? No general, for sure, who depended on ordinary and obedient soldiers, deprived by systematic training of imagination and initiative!

  Perennially cautious, though, in a world where even yet an army might be raised of elemental spirits, they financed the wages of a team of watchmen … and next day, as the sun was rising, the current incumbent of the watchman’s post en route to his customary breakfast cast a casual glance across the country separating Acromel from Ryovora.

  And saw with astonishment – not to mention disbelief – that a red idol a hundred feet high was striding with enormous yells towards him.

  Such an idol, the watchman realized, could be none other than the Quadruple God of Acromel.

  Around the monstrous crimson feet were fetters of riveted steel; before and behind, men went with blazing torches on long poles, prodding and driving it in a desired direction. Sometimes the thing’s yelling howled into a ridiculous falsetto when a torch made contact with its blood-colored limbs, and the drovers had to scatter and flee from the blows of eight gigantic fists. But they returned, and it became plain that they now well understood the reactions of the idol, and could drive it like a maddened bull because its rage made it unthinking.

  The watchman sounded an alarm, and panic spread through the streets of Ryovora like floodwaters through a burst levee. Men, women, even children, roused from sleep to dash hither and thither in confusion.

  One by one the nobles were summoned, and assembled on the ramparts with their retinues: an impressive band. Calmed by an enchantment that they spoke in unison, thousand by thousand the common folk acquired makeshift weapons – knives, axes, scythes – and numbered off into centuries to prepare for battle.

  So arrayed they waited tensely while the sun cleared the horizon and the Quadruple God with his attendants came to take station before the city walls.

  At a sign from one who seemed to be the leader, the torch-wielders compelled the god to halt, and he stood screaming empty threats at the unresponsive sky. Then this same man advanced to stand on a low knoll and gaze insolently at the Ryovoran nobles.

  “Greetings!” he called merrily. “News has come to us in Acromel that in the past few days you’ve been fortunate enough to acquire a god! Well, as it happens we in Acromel have been fortunate in more ways than one – we’ve lost Duke Vaul, who had for many years oppressed us, and we’ve figured out how to make the Quadruple God do as he’s told!” He gestured over his shoulder at the misshapen idol.

  “It appears to us,” he went on, “that our god is very foolish, although extremely strong. It is said that your god is weak, but extremely wise. We have not made head or tail of these cryptic utterances that have been relayed to us! Regardless of that, we wish to try conclusions and determine whether brute strength in a god is superior to sagacity! Sirs and ladies, we await your verdict! Failing a satisfactory response – by, let’s say, the stroke of noon – we shall of course goad the Quadruple God into Ryovora, and since he overtops all but your highest towers I suspect that would be a major misfortune for the city. Naturally, however, we would retrieve whatever we could from the resulting ruins and remove it to Acromel for safe keeping! Until noon, therefore! And not a moment later!”

  He bowed with a flourish of his right hand, and quit the knoll.

  Scowling so deeply it seemed a ploughshare must have crossed his forehead, the margrave called the nobles into conference on the ramparts, and spoke worriedly concerning this challenge. Some were of opinion that if the personage with many names and but one nature had taken a hand, there was nothing any of them could do; others poured scorn on this fainthearted attitude, among them Ruman, whose bull laugh echoed around the walls.

  “Never say die!” he boomed. “Some magic is of an order to bind even gods, and I have important knowledge of this magic. Fetch me a black goat and a white pigeon, and a mirror cracked from edge to edge, and I will discomfit the Quadruple Idiot!”

  So it was ordained, and Ruman withdrew into a large
black cloud with his goat, his pigeon and his mirror, and what he did to them caused thunderclaps.

  But eventually the cloud blew away, and there was no trace of Ruman.

  “This is ridiculous!” said Gostala with feminine directness, and Petrovic nodded his old dried-up head.

  “I agree,” he rasped. “Goats, forsooth! Pigeons! Mirrors! Claptrap, all of it! Now I came prepared, Margrave. I have here a phial containing the blood of an unborn child. That and my knowledge are all I require.”

  Thereupon Petrovic set about his task, and did what he had to do in the sight of all, which was most disturbing. The margrave, trying not to watch, wished Petrovic had had the decency to hide himself as Ruman had done.

  Yet the business failed, and Petrovic returned to them at last speaking in a tongue no one could understand, and burst into tears when he realized what had transpired. Meantime the great red idol still fumed and howled and clanked his chains.

  “Igoroth!” said Gostala in exasperation. “Dumedinnis! And likewise Algorethon!”

  Three odd-looking gentlemen – one in blue, one in white, one in green – walked through a nearby wall and stood before her. None of them was entirely normal in appearance, though it was hard to say in what particular respect.

  “Get rid of that – object!” directed Gostala forcefully.

  The three peculiar personages looked at her, then at each other, then at her again. Premeditatedly they shook their heads, and departed, taking her with them.

  Hastily the margrave hurled a protective charm around the city, to guard against a reappearance of the trio – for they were notoriously tough to tackle singly, let alone in concert – and bit his lip in frustration. This was a bad business altogether, and the worst fears he had carried away from his interview with Manuus were being overfulfilled.

  “These are indeed magics to bind a god,” said Eadwil, his boyish face white and strained because his feet were blazing hot, he having walked from his dwelling when news of the attack was brought. “But are they magics to bind one such as Manuus? Margrave, I think Tyllwin may be found in this vicinity.”

  “That is good plain reasoning!” the margrave said with enthusiasm. “You are a true citizen of Ryovora!”

  He strode forward to the battlements and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Tyllwin!” he bellowed towards the Acromel party. “Tyllwin, ha!”

  An acre of grass turned brown and died, while songbirds that had been chanting in the trees nearby fell stiffly from their perches. From the besieging company the gaunt figure of Tyllwin was borne into view on the back of a brawny slave.

  “You desire converse with me, Margrave?” said that scarecrow form.

  “So this is your doing!” exclaimed the margrave in disgust.

  Tyllwin’s thin chuckle carried clearly to his ears; also to those of various dogs, causing them to howl.

  “Why, Margrave, did I not state that you and I are on the same side in this matter? Admit frankly that the pretended god in your palace is not to your taste! Admit that it is in our common interest to demonstrate his fallibility by matching him against this perfectly genuine god from Acromel!”

  “It’s for this reason you have destroyed three of the leading enchanters of our city?” countered the margrave. “Why could you not have left us to sort the matter out ourselves?”

  Tyllwin’s voice was suddenly as dull as doom. “Because he whose nature is single has a hand in the affair.”

  He fell silent. A horse neighed into the quietness, and the neigh became a scream of agony.

  The margrave turned beseechingly to Eadwil, who shook his head. “Against Manuus, which of us can stand?” he said. “Moreover, the situation is escaping our control. Look down into the street. The townsfolk have gone to fetch their god, supplicating him for protection.”

  Indeed, down the broad avenue leading to the main gate they saw a pressing throng of citizens, and among them a figure in outlandish costume who was crying out for aid and receiving none. Brim the locksmith could be discerned grasping him by the elbow, hurrying him along willy-nilly, and occasional voices rang out distinct above the general uproar.

  “Save us! Defeat the enemy god! We have no hope except in you!”

  “Hah!” sighed the margrave in mingled pity and annoyance. “So nothing will convince them the poor wretch is not a god but that he be laid low by the Quadruple One. Well, now at least we know which way the lot is cast.”

  Eadwil summoned the ghost of a smile. “I wonder!” he said, “I wonder …!”

  Shortly, the ringleaders among the crowd opened the gates, and the folk poured forth onto an open level space where they could confront the menacing array of troops from Acromel. On seeing those armored ranks – for the enemy had made careful preparations, whereas the folk of Ryovora had been taken by surprise – many felt qualms and tried to draw back, but the press was too great, and at length the mass of them, in number three or four thousand, simmered and seethed but stood still.

  Urging his god forward, glistening with sweat, Brim the locksmith forced a path to the front of the crowd. “There!” he shouted, throwing up his arm to indicate the hideous red idol. “That’s the best they can muster against you! Hark at his howling! Why, already he fears your mere presence!”

  “I must go down,” said the margrave in low tones. “I have no stomach to stand up here and watch the poor fools massacred.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Eadwil said.

  Accordingly they descended together to the gate. Among muttered threats from the commoners, saying that if these nobles were going to interfere out of spite they would earn short shrift, they elbowed closer and closer to Bernard. The heat of Eadwil’s feet helped clear a path.

  At last the margrave stood face to face with Bernard Brown, and cast on him a look eloquent of sympathy.

  “This is none of our doing,” he said in apologetic tones. “It seems the people of Ryovora, so long accounted sensible, have finally taken leave of their good sense.”

  Bernard blinked at him unhappily. “I fear you are right, sir,” he agreed. “Especially since this galumphing monstrosity is plainly nothing more than an overgrown child.”

  “A – what?” said the margrave, and Eadwil was seen to be grinning almost from ear to ear.

  “An overgrown child,” repeated Bernard patiently. “Why, he howls and strikes out and breaks things at random! This is not the behavior of an intelligent, adult personality! Moreover, one must assume that the folk of Acromel have attempted to establish communication with their idol, must one not?”

  “Why – ah …” The margrave was bewildered. “One would imagine so, yes!”

  “Yet their preferred mode of converse proves to be torches on long sticks.” Bernard spread his hands. “One may deduce that we have here a case of arrested development, not entirely on the idol’s part, so what I would propose …”

  VIII

  Wave upon wave of laughter rang out around the walls of Ryovora, and at once the citizens, aided and abetted by the margrave, set about implementing Bernard’s plan. Eadwil stood a little apart, his lips set in a smile that bid fair to become permanent.

  Meanwhile the sky attained full brightness and the sun hoisted itself towards the meridian. Among the ranks of those from Acromel a certain impatience grew manifest. The torches which served to goad the idol were withdrawn one by one, soaked in fresh pitch, and relit; the chains which tethered his sixteen limbs were firmly anchored to posts hammered deep in the ground, so that the teams of men afoot and ahorse who weighed him down when he was on the move might relax for a while; but in the comings and goings of the mass there was more restlessness than purpose.

  Ultimately, close upon midday, the spokesman who had previously addressed the nobility of Ryovora again ascended his knoll and called for the margrave. Sweating from hard work, hands filthy, his richly embroidered sleeves turned back above his elbows, that official leaned over the ramparts and responded with a wave.

  “Ah, the
re you are, your honor! It’s time to remind you that our god is restive! Time wastes – it’s almost noon – and we hunger to learn the outcome of this matter!”

  The margrave glanced down into the avenue paralleling the wall, where work had proceeded apace under Bernard Brown’s direction. Far below, Eadwil raised both arms to signal that all was ready.

  “Good!” said the margrave privately, and shouted to the spokesman for Acromel.

  “Our city’s god is prepared to meet yours!”

  At once the man from Acromel yelled to those charged with loosing the Quadruple God from his chains. A moment passed; then, from amid the crowd before the gate of Ryovora, diffidently yet with unfaltering strides, Bernard Brown marched forth to face the enemy.

  A gust of merriment ascended, and the welkin rang with scornful gibes. But Bernard kept on plodding towards the Quadruple God.

  And the huge red idol paid him no attention.

  Because behind the approaching man, behind the ramparts of the city, another figure was appearing amid a cloud of smoke – a figure so gigantic, so bloated, so colossal, that the Quadruple God seemed a dwarf or midget by comparison. This apparition bore a head with glaring yellow eyes and twenty-foot-long fangs in its gash of a mouth; it had arms like a hundred barrels; it had legs planted either side of a tall building.

  And this figure was growing. It was rising as though from the depths of the earth, and all four heads of the Quadruple God were striving to fix their eyes on it at once.

  Gracefully, considering its bulk – this was thanks to an afterthought of Eadwil’s – the bloated colossus raised its arms into a posture of menace. From the camp of the men of Acromel the naked eye could not detect the fine silk cords governing its motions.

  And then this construct of inflated wineskins, of paint and osier and waxed fabric supported by hot air – a smidgin supplemented by that quick charm of Eadwil’s – spoke with the massed voices of all the citizens of Ryovora, a sound like the crashing of a landslide.