The Madness Season, page 13
It opened the door—a smaller one than most— grabbed me again, and dragged me through. No patience in it at all. At first I couldn't see what manner of room we had entered, but then it reached out and pressed something, and a square of intense light suddenly appeared before me.
"Sit," the Raayat commanded.
Temporarily blinded, I failed to obey. It pushed me down into a chair and held me there until I nodded that yes, yes, I would stay. Blazing scatoma danced across my field of vision, but beyond them I managed to make out the outlines of a large and somewhat crowded room; it was unlit except for the square which burned before me, and every corner was filled with machinery of some kind. Screens, keyboards, projectors, giant lenses with panels of white set opposite—a multimedia processing center, I guessed. Not used very often, from the look of it.
The Raayat moved beside me, and the picture before me changed. No longer was it a field of blinding white, but a full color, high-resolution projection. Of a forest, it seemed to me—perhaps even one on Earth. What was the point of this?
"Tell me what you see," the Raayat commanded.
The ludicrousness of the whole situation was counterbalanced by its tone of voice, which implied that I might well die if I failed to satisfy it. Not knowing what it wanted, I dared the only answer I had. "A forest." And I added, "Mostly coniferous—"
With a hiss it reached forward to the controls, and a new picture appeared. The Raayat's anger was unmistakable. "And this one?"
I answered what I saw, which was a seashore. Again, my response seemed to anger it. But there it was: the murky green of shallow seawater, the curling white lines of breaking surf, and an expanse of mud and rock that was visible where the waves had receded. Seashore. Or maybe—just maybe—lakeshore. But what else could it possibly be?
More pictures. More anger. I struggled to give it the answers it wanted, but I seemed to fail every time.
Pictures flashed by me with ever-increasing speed. What do you see? Forest scenes. Desert. An alien landscape, blood-red in the light of its swollen, dying sun. News photos from my home planet: Kennedy's assassination. An early spacewalk. The Conquest.
How many hours we spent like this, I couldn't say. I lost all track of time, mesmerized by the progression of images that flashed before me, speaking automatically in response to pictures that I only half-saw. I was desperately trying to work out what the Raayat wanted, but it was giving me no hints.
Hundreds of images later—perhaps thousands—I focused my tired eyes upon a quiet pastoral scene, bordered by fences, and muttered, "A farm. Earth-farm."
There was silence. I felt my heart skip a beat. Had I failed it one time too often?
"What do you see?" it asked me again.
Hesitantly, I answered "It looks like an Earth-farm—"
"What do you see?"
I looked up at it, into eyes that were framed in swollen red. What did I see? Or, what did I perceive?
They were two different questions, I realized suddenly. And I had been answering only the latter.
The Raayat's hand was on my shoulder, the pressure of its tension near to drawing blood. I turned quickly back to the screen and told it, "Cattle: there." I pointed. Then, moving my finger in illustration, I pointed out the other vital farm-signs. And explained how I had deduced that this was indeed a farm, and why it was probably not something else.
And I waited, my breath held, for a response.
Its hand on my shoulder loosened. A new picture appeared.
"And this?"
Its voice had changed; it was still strained, I thought, but less angry. Did it see only details, unable to identify the concepts which these pictures represented? Was it using me to try to gain insight into the human conceptual process? It was a neat and pleasing explanation, but not one I was ready to accept.
True, the Tyr wasn't known for its abstract capacity, but it had never exhibited such a dearth of conceptual understanding as my Raayat seemed to be experiencing. Was this a part of whatever process had earned its kind the epithet Unstable?
It showed me more pictures; now that I knew why it had brought me here, I had no trouble choosing the right answers. An aerial photo of Earth flashed onto the screen: first I described the colors, the parts, the individual elements, then I concluded that it must be an aerial photo of Earth—and then I tried to explain how I knew that. Not an easy task. We take our minds for granted, and rarely question how they do what they do, or why; even I, who had studied the nature of human consciousness many lifetimes ago, couldn't give the Raayat any insight into just how I took all those disparate elements and gathered them together under one conceptual heading. An aerial photo of Earth: it simply was.
At last, after many more pictures, the Raayat turned off the screen. I would have hesitated to say that it looked sick, for the swellings and discolorations which humans associate with illness often serve the Tyr by adding to their size and aggressive coloring; nevertheless it seemed to me that it was exhausted, and the moist redness which encircled its upper eyes led me to believe that it was nearly as worn out from the questioning as I was. But not from mere tiredness. It had failed to grasp the gestalt of those images, from the first to the last, and all my explanations had failed to improve its skill. In a very literal sense, it couldn't see the forest for the trees.
How crippling that must be!I thought—but then I realized the idiocy of such a sentiment. The Raayat was part of the Tyr, and the Tyr was not crippled in this manner . . . therefore the Raayat could not be.
Which brought us back full circle: what the hell was going on?
It took me by the arm and led me from the cluttered room, talons now gentle upon my skin. Outside a hraas was sniffing at the corridor wall; my stomach tightened as I realized that my blood had drawn it, that tiny bit which I had smeared on the stone to mark my way.
It looked at us briefly, then turned back to its investigation of the wall. The Raayat drew me past.
Silence. It wanted to walk in silence, worn out from this mental and emotional trial. But I needed to speak to it, for the plan which I was beginning to formulate—which would enable me to measure my sanity, and gain control over my own private madness—required that I speak to one of the Tyr. And of all the Tyr, this one was the most likely to answer me.
I waited until we were back at my cell (three thousand, two hundred and fifty-one steps), and then turned to it ... and hesitated. I was afraid. Who knew what this creature might do, in its current state?
It opened the door, but didn't force me to go inside. It seemed more like its usual self now, and its body language was more like what I remembered from calmer days. Perhaps that was what reassured me.
I pointed to the wall of the corridor, where we had just passed. "What do you see?" I asked softly.
It looked at me for a minute or two, and I wished I could read its expression. At last it turned to the wall and said: "An expanse of rough-surfaced stone, marked with eight leyq."
"Leyq?"
"Guidelines of color. Visible only to Tyr-sight." It indicated that I should enter my cell, but I stayed where I was. My heart was pounding. "They mark direction, and codify distance." Its voice was now betraying irritation; I realized that it might be dangerous to push things too far, and stepped back into my cell. Within myself I was trembling, not from fear so much as excitement. But it wouldn't do to let the Raayat see that. I waited until the door had closed again and it had left me—until the sound of its footsteps had faded down the hallway, and the scent of its presence was no longer so oppressive.
It had told me what I needed to know.
Leyq.They were real. I had seen them. No product of my fevered imagination, but a collection of alien markings which should have been invisible to me. Only they weren't.
I leaned against the portal and gazed out into the corridor. It was with a sense of uneasy wonder that I noted I could now see only unmarked stone. Whatever feat my body had managed in that time, when my need was greatest, I was now back to normal. But that journey had been no illusion. The leyq were there, and I had seen them. And if the details of that desperate journey had not been delusion, but an accurate perception of the truth. . . . dear God, how many of my other delusions might likewise turn out to be valid? And if so. ...
No. I wasn't yet ready to face that. I was far too tired, I told myself; too shaken by my confrontation with the Raayat. But I knew I was going to have to.
Soon. Before we reached Ky-gattra, in fact; before the Tyr had a chance to "examine" me.
I would have to examine myself, first.
* * *
Darkness. Night. A spacious hallway, lit by torches. And fear, thick in my throat; exhaustion, binding my limbs.
My captor paces, his eyes upon me. A dark man whose stance bespeaks violence, his manner proclaims his willingness to kill in cold blood, at a moment's notice. A dangerous adversary. I know him from somewhere, but can't place the memory; there are only fleeting images of other nights, other hallways, other fears. Nothing useful.
"It will do you no good to fight." He indicates the men who encircle me, soldiers of coinage now garbed in sweat-stained leather; I was not an easy man to bring down. "They are ready and able to kill you, and will do so without hesitation if you refuse to obey me. Am I clear?"
I meet those eyes, onyx-cold, and I know there is no weakness in him, no human foible that I might exploit in order to gain my freedom. They chose their champion well, I think. His black and brown armor, nail-studded, is a dramatic backdrop for the jeweled cross that lies on his chest; the latter was no doubt borrowed for the occasion, his kind would rather consume wealth than wear it. I wonder which of several ruthless men hired him ... but not why. The mercantile practices of Florence are as complex as her politics, and infinitely more vicious; it's hardly surprising that one of my business rivals, in the course of spying for personal gain, discovered things I would rather keep secret. And equally unsurprising he would act on that knowledge, when the dispersal of my estate would result in such advantage to his.
My captor spits at my feet—on them—and half-draws his sword. "Yes or no?" he demands.
Ten men, perhaps twelve. All armed, with knowledge and weapons both. Faulty knowledge, of course; there may be some hope in that. "I understand." At least ten arrows are aimed at my heart, bowstrings taut in readiness. How many of them can I dodge, how quickly can I run? They've cornered me well, which says much both for their efficiency and their courage; if I try to break out at the weakest part of their formation, can I make it out of range before their arrows bring me down?
There is a sparkle behind me, the play of torch-light on naked steel. I catch its meaning out of the corner of my eye and coldness fills me, the darkness of despair. Arrows pose only a moderate danger to me, for if they fail to bring me down when first they strike they can be dealt with easily enough at a later time; swords are another thing, their nature is stubbornly unalterable. As I shift my weight—carefully, so as not to alarm my captors—I can feel the soldiers' weapons at my back, and know myself trapped. And well trapped, too, if they understand my nature. If not... then there is still some hope.
"You will stand as you are. Without moving! Hands where I can see them." Details of submission are dictated to me and I feel myself move in obedience; time, I must have time to think, every second counts.
There is a pull at my hip and my dagger is gone, taken from behind. Just as well; I might have had to leave it behind anyway. This way I need betray no weakness in doing so. God alone knows what they imagine me capable of.
He spits at my feet again, callused hand lifting the cross up into my line of vision. My instinctive reaction is one of revulsion, but not for the reason he imagines. The symbol is one I have come to associate with man's darker, more violent side. Beneath the shadow of the cross my father watched the Library of Alexandria burn; in the name of the cross I myself have seen whole cities put to the sword—have watched murder replace reason—have lived as an outcast in a world which once welcomed my kind.
How can I do anything other than despise what it represents?
My reaction gives him pleasure, confirms what he assumes to be the truth of my nature. With a flourish he draws forth a flask from underneath his baldric, uncorks it, and upends it over my head. Fluid pours down over my hair and ears, soaking the silk of my doublet. Merely water, but the damage is done. My outer garment may not appear expensive, for I wear no gold thread or metal-set jewelry, but the finest of Venetian silks have gone into its making, and the shirt beneath is of pure Indian cotton. By now the dye will be seeping from one into the other, ruining them both. Amazing, is it not, that in the face of death we hunger for distraction, and are wont to focus on other things, trivial things, as a means of not acknowledging our danger. ... So it is, now, with me. Irrationally, I am more angered by this action of his than by any other which he has committed to date, perhaps because it has the appearance of purposeless harassment. Filled with rage—and fear—I am speechless.
He steps back from me, smug and satisfied. "Take him," he orders his men. "Bind him well. He can't change on you, now."
They are about to move when a noise from the other end of the hall attracts their attention. Only for a moment—but one moment is enough, or else it must become so, it may be my only chance. I dive for the opening which I have already noted, it is only a small one and easily closed, but I am halfway through it before the nearest guard reacts. Steel bites into my leg—an arrowhead, most likely, I ignore it— and then there is shouting and quick movement, and the captain's rough-voiced commands and I am free of them!
A hail of arrows mark my passage, but I can run faster than any day bound man. . . .
I make it onto the street and quickly take my bearings. This part of Florence is unfamiliar to me, I dare not take any chances. Eschewing the alleys which might entrap me I make for the nearest side street, hoping to turn a corner before the bowmen start their second volley. And I make it. There's shouting behind me, mercenaries bellowing orders and a dozen bystanders exclaiming in surprise and dismay; it covers the noise of my passage and I quickly turn another corner, dropping out of sight again. I can hear them coming— close now, very close—and I choose my turns at random, knowing they will cut me off the moment they can anticipate my direction. My current burst of stamina is finite, it will eventually succumb to the pain and blood loss of my wounds; I must do something other than run, I must outthink them, it is vital if I am to survive.
I look at the towering walls that flank my passage, punctuated by small windows now securely shuttered against the night. Even if my pursuers know what I am normally capable of, they will have been convinced by their leader that his Christian magic has disabled me. They will search where a man can go, and no farther. That may yet save me.
I force my legs to move even faster—there is a wound in one thigh that burns like fire, but I cannot allow it to slow me down—and then, as I turn one corner, I leap. My claws bite deeply into the building's supporting beams and I am climbing, climbing desperately, trusting to my instinct to supply me with the most effective form to do so. As I reach the roof I can hear them entering the street, and as I pull myself over the edge with one last burst of desperate strength I hear the first of them call out that I am nowhere in sight, I must have gotten far ahead of them.
Heart pounding, I listen to them pass me by. They will search the nearest streets, then—when they realize they have lost me for good—cordon off this part of the city. Cellars will be searched, bedrooms rummaged, and no doubt some small valuables will work their way into the searchers' possession. I will be safe on the roof, for a while; once the sun comes up, they will never think to look for me here. As for being discovered accidentally, that is simply a risk I have to take; I am too wounded to fly now.
I find some planks and a half-barrel, and cloth laid out to bleach in the sun; out of those I can rig up a primitive shelter, not complete by any means but sufficient to keep me alive. Later, when the healing sleep has done its work, I can take to the air and go north. My Milanese accounts can still be salvaged, providing I reach them before my adversary does. The loss need not be total. My Florentine possessions will have to be left behind, but that is to be expected; the more valuable items have probably already been seized, and the rest will soon follow. The pattern is painfully familiar to me. After a number of similar experiences, I have learned not to love my possessions too dearly.
Damn you! I think, as the magnitude of my loss finally strikes home. But Florence is a fickle mistress, and I knew the risk involved in courting her. Damn you! The first rays of sunlight are sliding smoothly over the horizon, and they drive me into my makeshift shelter. I lie down, and pain overwhelms me.
Damn you all!
* * *
I had to know the truth. And there was only one way to discover it.
With trembling hands, I collected the paraphernalia of my alleged madness. My shirt, its thin cotton weave neither torn nor stained; why was it in this condition when I clearly remembered tearing it, the night I broke out of my cell? And why were the buttons alone malformed, as if something in my body's healing process had warped them out of shape? My shoes, whose dark, sullen stains had never fully washed out, I also laid before me. I had cut a bit of hair from one temple, and this I put down beside the other objects; should I once more take on the countenance of youth, this bit of gray hair would be my only proof that recently I had appeared otherwise. And the mirror—hated, hated item. I trembled even now as I forced myself to look into it, wondering what facet of insanity it would reflect. But my face was as I had last seen it, and I lay the battered metal sheet aside. That was the last of it. That was all I needed.
