Demon Princes 01-05 The Star Ki, page 55
Lerand Wible approached Gersen. “I am speaking to everyone in our group. Whatever happens—do not interfere. Do you agree to this?”
“Naturally not.”
“I didn’t think you would. Well then—” Wible whispered a few words; Gersen grunted. Wible moved off to speak to Navarth, who tonight was carrying a staff. After Wible spoke, Navarth threw down his staff.
“—On each world a hallowed Tree. How does it become so? By the afflatus, by the concentration of Life. Oh worshipful Druids, who share the life of the First Germ, bring forth your awe, your most poignant dedication! What say we? Two are here, two have lived for this consecration. Come forth, Druids, go to the Tree!” From one shelter staggered Hule, from the other Billika. Baffled, dull-eyed as if bewildered or drugged, they stared this way and that, then saw the fires. Fascinated they approached, step by slow step. Silence was heavy in the glade. The two approached the tree, looked at the fires, then descended into the hole below the tree.
“Behold!” called Pruitt. “They enter the life of the Tree—oh blessed pair—which now becomes the Soul of the World. Exalted children, lucky two! Forever and ever stand in sun, in rain, by day, by night; and help us to truth!” Druids Dakaw, Pruitt and Diffiani began to spade earth into the hole. They worked with gusto. In half an hour the hole was fall, the soil banked around the roots. The Druids marched around the tree, holding brands from the fire. Each called forth an invocation, and the ceremony ended with a chant.
The Druids customarily breakfasted at the refectory of the near village. The morning after the consecration they marched across the meadows, entered the refectory. Behind them came Hule and Billika. The Druids took their usual places, as did Hule and Billika.
Wust was the first to notice. She pointed a trembling finger. Laidig screamed. Pruitt leapt away, then turned and ran from the refectory. Dakaw fell back like a half-filled sack; Skebou Diffiani, sitting bolt upright, stared in puzzlement. Hule and Billika ignored the consternation they had caused.
Laidig, sobbing and gasping, reeled from the room, followed by Wust. Diffiani was the least disturbed. He spoke to Hule. “How did you get out?”
“By a tunnel,” said Hule. “Wible caused a tunnel to be dug.”
Wible came forward. “The servants are here to be used. I used them. We dug a tunnel.”
Diffiani nodded slowly. He reached up, took off his cowl, inspected it and tossed it into a corner.
Dakaw, roaring, rose to his feet. He struck once at Hule, knocking him to the floor; then aimed a tremendous blow at Wible, who stepped back, grinning. “Go back to your tree, Dakaw. Dig another hole and bury yourself.”
Dakaw marched from the inn.
Wust and Laidig were finally discovered, crouching in a bower. Pruitt had run south, beyond the precincts of the garden and was seen no more.
In some fashion the episode with the Druids had broken a web. The guests, looking at each other, knew that the end of their visit was approaching, that soon they would be departing the Palace of Love.
Gersen stood looking up at the mountains Patience was well and good, but he might never be so close to Viole Falushe again.
He pondered the small clues he had gleaned. It seemed reasonable to suppose that the banquet hall communicated with Viole Falushe’s apartments. Gersen went to examine the portal at the foot of the stairs. It showed a blank featureless face. The mountainside above was not climbable.
To the east, where crags reared over the sea, Viole Falushe had set a thorn palisade. To the west the way was barred by a stone wall. Gersen turned to look south. If he made a long journey, circling the periphery of the garden, he would then be able to climb into the mountains to approach the area from above .. This was the sort of purposeless activity Gersen detested. He would be moving without knowledge, without plan. There must be some better method, but he could think of none. Very well, then—activity. He looked at the sun; six hours of daylight remained. He must go far afield and trust to luck. If he were apprehended, he was Henry Lucas, journalist, in search of information: a statement of sufficient force, unless Viole Falushe undertook to use a truth-extracting device ... Gersen’s flesh crawled. The sensation annoyed him. He had become soft, diffident, over-wary. Reproaching himself first for cowardice, then for willful recklessness, he set forth, walking south, away from the mountains.
13
From Worlds I Have Known, by L G Duseny:
The municipal Temple at Astropolis is a splendid edifice of red porphyry with a noteworthy altar of solid silver. The Astropolitans are divided into thirteen cults, each dedicated to a distinct Supreme Deity. To determine which image sits on high, the Astropolitans each seven years conduct a Tournament of the Gods, with trials to measure Paramount Power, Inaccessible Loftiness and Ineffable Mystery.
At the first trial wooden god-images are mounted upon onagers, each hitched to a heavy log. The onagers then are urged around a track, and the winning god is credited with Paramount Power.
At the second trial the images are thrust into a glass cauldron which is then sealed and inverted. The god which floats on high is credited with Inaccessible Loftiness.
The images are then concealed behind booths Candidates for sacrifice are brought forward, and each attempts to guess the god behind each booth. The candidate with the lowest score receives unction and the blade, while the god who most efficiently conceals his identity is judged Ineffably Mysterious.
Over the past twenty-eight years the god Kalzibah has proved himself so consistently and the god Syarasis has so often failed that the Syaratics are gradually deserting the cult to become ardent Kalzibahans. The garden ended at a grove of indigenous trees, of a type Gersen had not seen before tall, gaunt organisms with pulpy black leaves, from which dripped a musty unpleasant sap Fearing poison, Gersen breathed as shallowly as possible, and was relieved to reach open ground with no other sensation than dizziness. To the east toward the ocean were orchards and cultivated soil, to the west a dozen long sheds were visible. Barns? Warehouses? Dormitories? Keeping to the shadow of the trees Gersen walked west, and presently came upon a road leading from the sheds toward the mountains.
No living creature was in sight. The sheds seemed deserted. Gersen decided not to explore them, they certainly were not the headquarters of Viole Falushe.
Across the road was a wild area overgrown with thorny scrub. Gersen looked dubiously down the road Best to travel by the barrens, there would be less chance of discovery. He ducked across the road and struck off toward the mountains. The afternoon sun shone brightly, the scrub was host to swarms of small red mites, which set up an impatient whirring sound when disturbed. Stepping around a hummock—a hive or a nest of some sort—Gersen came upon a bloated serpent-like creature with a face uncannily human. The creature saw Gersen with an expression of comical alarm, then, rearing back, it displayed a proboscis from which it evidently intended to eject a fluid Gersen beat a quick retreat, and thereafter walked more wanly.
The road veered west away from the garden Gersen crossed once more and took shelter under a cluster of yellow bladder-plants. He considered the mountain, tracing a route which would bring him to the ridge Unfortunately, while climbing, he would be exposed to the gaze of anyone who happened by No help for it. He took a last look around, and seeing nothing to dissuade him, set forth.
The mountainside was steep, at times precipitous, Gersen made discouragingly slow progress. The sun swung across the sky Below spread the Palace of Love and the garden Gersen’s chest pounded, and his throat felt numb, as if it had been anesthetized . The influence of the noxious black-leaved forest? Ever higher he climbed, the panorama below grew even wider.
For a space the way became easier, and Gersen angled toward the east, where presumably Viole Falushe maintained his headquarters Motion Gersen stopped short From the corner of his eyes he had seen—what? He could not be sure. The flicker had come from below and to his right. He scrutinized the face of the mountain, and presently saw what otherwise might have evaded his attention—a deep cleft or fissure with a bridge between two arched apertures, the whole camouflaged by a stone wall.
Clutching and straining, Gersen angled down toward the cleft, finally reaching a point thirty feet above the walkway. There was no means to descend. He could go neither forward nor up nor down. His fingers were tiring, his legs were cramped. Thirty feet—too far to jump; he would break his legs. Out upon the bridge came a pale stoop-shouldered man with a large moist head, a clipped shock of black-gray hair. He wore a white jacket and black trousers. It was the white jacket, Gersen now realized, which had originally drawn his attention. If the man should look up, if a dislodged pebble should strike the bridge, Gersen was lost ... The man moved into the opposite aperture and out of sight. Gersen gave a fantastic gravity-defying leap, to throw himself into the angle of the cleft. He thrust out his legs, doubled his knees, pressing between the walls. Inch by inch he let himself down, gratefully jumping the final six feet. He stretched, massaged sore muscles, then limped over to the western doorway into which the man had disappeared. A white-tiled hall led back fifty yards, broken by areas of glass and occasional doorways. Beside one of these glass areas stood the stoop-shouldered man, peering at something which had attracted his attention. He raised his hand, and signaled. From somewhere beyond Gersen’s range of vision came a heavy-shouldered man with a thick neck, narrow head, a coarse yellow brush of hair and white eyes. The two looked through the glass, and the white-eyed man seemed to be amused.
Gersen drew back. Crossing the walkway, he looked up the passage to the east, to see a single doorway at the far end. The walls and floor were white tile; ornate lamps scattered rays and planes of various colors.
With long stealthy strides Gersen went to the far door. He touched the open button. No response. He sought for code points or a lock hole, without success. The opening-mechanism was controlled from the other side. In one sense this was encouraging—the stoop-shouldered man had come this way, and it could only be to confer with whomever sat or stood or worked beyond the door.
It would not do to attract attention. Yet, Gersen must do something and quickly. At any moment one of the two men might approach, and he had nowhere to hide. He scrutinized the door with great care. The latch was magnetic; retraction was accomplished by an electro-muscle. The escutcheon plate was fixed to the panel with adhesive. Gersen searched his pockets but found nothing of utility. Loping back down the hall, he reached up to the first lighting fixture and twisted loose a decorative metal cusp with a sharp point. Returning to the door he pried at the escutcheon plate, presently snapped it free, to reveal the mechanism of the open button. Gersen traced the circuit, and with the point of his metal cusp shorted across the relay contacts. He touched the button. The door slid aside, silent as a whisper.
Gersen passed through the opening into an unoccupied foyer. He replaced the escutcheon plate and let the door slide shut.
There was much to see. The far end of the room was ripple glass. To the left an archway opened upon a flight of stairs. To the right were five cinematic panels, each displaying Jheral Tinzy in various guises at different stages of existence.-Or were they five different girls? One, wearing a short black skirt, was Drusilla Wayles. Gersen recognized the expression on her face, the droop to her mouth, the restless habit of tossing her head to the side. Another, this a delightful imp in clown’s regalia, cavorted on a stage. A Jheral Tinzy of thirteen or fourteen in the translucent white gown of a sleepwalker moved slowly across an eerie setting of stone, black shadow and sand. A fourth Jheral Tinzy, a year or two younger than Drusilla, wore only a barbaric skirt of leather and bronze. She stood on a stone-flagged terrace and seemed to be performing a religious ritual. A fifth Jheral Tinzy, a year or two older than Drusilla, walked briskly along a city street ...
Gersen glimpsed all this in the space of two seconds. The effect was fascinating, but he could not spare time to look. For beyond the ripple-glass wall was the distorted image of a tall spare man.
Gersen crossed the foyer on four silken strides. His hand went to the open button of the door; he tensed, touched the button. The door failed to open. Gersen exhaled: a long slow sigh of frustration. The man turned his head sharply; all Gersen could see was distortion and blur. “Retz? Back once more?” he jerked his head suddenly forward; the glass was evidently permeable to his vision. “It’s Lucas—Henry Lucas the journalist!” His voice took on a harsh edge. “There is a need for much explanation. What are you doing here?”
“The answer is obvious,” said Gersen. “I came here to interview you. There seemed no other way.”
“How did you find my office?”
“I climbed the mountain, jumped down where the walkway crosses the notch. Then I came along the passageway.”
“Indeed, indeed. Are you a human fly to traverse the cliff?”
“It was not so difficult,” said Gersen. “There would be no other opportunity.”
“This is a serious annoyance,” said Viole Falushe. “Do you recall my comments on the subject of privacy? I am rigid on this score.
“Your comments were addressed to your guests,” said Gersen. “I am here as a man with a job to do.”
“Your occupation gives you no license to break laws,” Viole Falushe stated in a gentle voice. “You are aware of my wishes, which here, as elsewhere in the cluster, are law. I find your trespass not only insolent but inexcusable. In fact, it goes far beyond the brashness ordinarily tolerated in a journalist. It almost seems—”
Gersen interrupted. “Please, do not let your imagination dominate your sense of proportion. I am interested in the photographs in the foyer. They seem to be the likeness of the young lady who accompanied us on our journey; Navarth’s ward.”
“This is the case,” said Viole Falushe. “I have a strong interest in the young woman. I entrusted her upbringing to Navarth with unhappy results; she is a wanton.”
“Where is she now? I have not seen her since we arrived at the Palace.”
“She is enjoying her visit in circumstances somewhat different from yours,” said Viole Falushe. “But why your interest? She is nothing to you.”
“Except that I befriended her and tried to clarity certain issues which she found confusing.”
“And these issues were?”
“You will allow me to use candor?”
“Why not? You can hardly provoke me more than you already have.”
“The girl was fearful of what might happen to her. She wanted to live a normal life, but did not care to risk retaliation for actions she could not avoid.”
Viole Falushe’s voice trembled. “Is this how she spoke of me? Only in terms of fear and retaliation?”
“She had no reason to speak otherwise.”
“You are a bold man, Mr. Lucas. Surely you know my reputation. I subscribe to a doctrine of general equity—that he who commits a grievance must repair the effects of his act.”
“What of Jheral Tinzy?” Gersen inquired, hoping to divert Viole Falushe.
“Jheral Tinzy.” Viole Falushe breathed the name. “Dear Jheral:
as willful and promiscuous as the unfortunate girl whom you befriended. Jheral could never quite repay the damage she wrought upon me. Oh, those wasted years!” Viole Falushe’s voice quavered; grief lay near the surface. “Never could she requite her wrongs, though she did her best.”
“She is alive?”
“No.” Viole Falushe’s mood changed once more. “Why do you ask?”
“I am a journalist. You know why I am here. I want a photograph of Jheral Tinzy for our article.”
“This is a matter I do not care to publicize.”
“I am puzzled by the resemblance between Jheral Tinzy and the girl Drusilla. Can you explain this?”
“I could,” said Viole Falushe. “But I do not choose to do so. And there still remains your intrusion, which has shocked me, to such an extent that I demand retribution.” And Viole Falushe leaned negligently back against an article of furniture.
Gersen reflected a moment. Flight was futile. Attack was impossible. Viole Falushe certainly carried a weapon; Gersen had none. Galling though the situation might be he must persuade Viole Falushe to change his mind. He tried a reasonable approach. “Conceivably I violated the letter of your regulations, but what avail is an article on the Palace of Love without the comments of its creator? There is no communicating with you, since you choose to keep yourself aloof from your guests.”
Viole Falushe seemed surprised. “Navarth knows my call-code well. A servant would have brought you a telephone unit; you might have called me at any time.”
“This did not occur to me,” said Gersen thoughtfully. “No, I had not considered the telephone. You say Navarth knows the code?”
49S
“Certainly. It is the same as that which I use on Earth.”
“The fact remains,” said Gersen, “I am here. You have seen Part One of the projected article, Parts Two and Three are even more highly colored. If we want to present your point of view, it is important that we speak together. So open the door and we will discuss the matter.”
“No,” said Viole Falushe. “It is my whim to remain anonymous, since I enjoy mingling with my guests ... Well, then,” he grumbled, “I suppose I must swallow my outrage. It is not just that you should evade your debt to me. Perhaps you will not in any event. For the moment, you may regard yourself as reprieved.” He spoke a soft word that Gersen did not hear; a door opened in the foyer. “Go within; this is my library. I will speak with you there.”
Gersen passed into a long room carpeted in dark green. A heavy table at the center supported a pair of antique lamps and a selection of current periodicals. One wall was lined with ancient books, the shelves sliding up or down through floor and ceiling to magazines above and below. There was a standard microreference system, a number of soft chairs.
Gersen looked around with a trace of envy; the atmosphere was quiet, civilized, rational, remote from the hedonistic life of the Palace. A screen glowed to reveal Viole Falushe sprawling in a chair. A light threw his form into silhouette; he was no more identifiable now than before.
