It was banquet night at Rath-Gallion, and I gulped my soup in the
kitchen and ran over in my mind the latest batch of jingles I was
expected to perform. I had only been on the Estate a few weeks, but I
was already Owner Gope's favorite piper. If I kept on at this rate, I
would soon have a cell to myself in the slave pens.
Sime, the pastry cook, came over to me.
"Pipe us a merry tune, Drgon," he said, "and I'll reward you with a
frosting pot."
"With pleasure, good Sime," I said. I finished off the soup and got out
my clarinet. I had tried out half a dozen strange instruments, but I
still liked this one best. "What's your pleasure?"
"One of the outland tunes you learned far-voyaging," called Cagu, the
bodyguard.
I complied with the _Beer Barrel Polka_. They pounded the table
and hallooed when I finished, and I got my goody pan. Sime stood
watching me scrape at it.
"Why don't you claim the Chief Piper's place, Drgon?" he said. "You
pipe rings around the lout. Then you'd have freeman status, and could
sit among us in the kitchen almost as an equal."
"I'd gladly be the equal of such a pastry cook as yourself," I said.
"But what can a slave-piper do?"
Sime blinked at me. "You can challenge the Chief Piper," he said.
"There's none can deny you're his master in all but name. Don't fear
the outcome of the Trial; you'll triumph sure."
"But how can I claim another's place?" I asked.
Sime waved his arms. "You have far-voyaged long indeed, Piper Drgon.
Know you naught of how the world wags these days? One would take you
for a Cintean heretic."
"As I've said, in my youth all men were free; and the High King ruled
at Okk-Hamiloth--"
"'Tis ill to speak of these things," said Sime in a low tone. "Only
Owners know their former lives ... though I've heard it said that long
ago no man was so mean but that he recorded his lives and kept them
safe. How you came by yours, I ask not; but do not speak of it. Owner
Gope is a jealous master. Though a most generous and worshipful lord,"
he added hastily, looking around.
"I won't speak of it then, good Sime," I said. "But I have been long
away. Even the language has changed, so that I wrench my tongue in the
speaking of it. Advise me, if you will."
Sime puffed out his cheeks, frowning at me. "I scarce know where to
start," he said. "All things belong to the Owners ... as is only right.
Men of low skill are likewise property; and 'tis well 'tis so; else
would they starve as masterless strays ... if the Greymen failed to
find them first." He made a sign and spat.
* * * * *
"Now men of good skill are freemen, each earning rewards as befits his
ability. I am Chief Pastry Cook to the Lord Gope, with the perquisites
of that station, therefore, that none other equals my talents."
"And if some varlet claims the place of any man here," put in Cagu,
"then he gotta submit to the trial."
"Then," said Sime, "this upstart pastry cook must cook against me; and
all in the Hall will judge; and he who prevails is the Chief Pastry
Cook, and the other takes a dozen lashes for his impertinence."
"But fear not, Drgon," spoke Cagu. "A Chief Piper ain't but a
five-stroke man. Only a tutor is lower down among freemen."
There was a bellow from the door, and I grabbed my clarinet and
scrambled after the page. Owner Gope didn't like to wait around for
piper-slaves. I saw him looming up at his place, as I darted through to
my assigned position within the huge circle of the viand-loaded table.
The Chief Piper had just squeezed his bagpipe-like instrument and
released a windy blast of discordant sound. He was a lean, squint-eyed
rascal fond of ordering the slave-pipers about. He pranced in an
intricate pattern, pumping away at his vari-colored bladders, until I
winced at the screech of it. Owner Gope noticed him about the same
time. He picked up a heavy brass mug and half rose to peg it at the
Chief Piper, who saw it just in time to duck. The mug hit a swollen
air-bag; it burst with a sour bleat.
"As sweet a note as has been played tonight," roared Owner Gope.
"Begone, lest you call up the hill devils--"
His eye fell on me. "Now here's a true piper. Summon up a fair melody,
Drgon, to clear the fumes of the last performer from the air before the
wine sours."
I bowed low, wet my lips, and launched into the _One O' Clock
Jump_. To judge from the roar that went up when I finished, they
liked it. I followed with _Little Brown Jug_ and _String of
Pearls_. Gope pounded and the table quieted down.
"The rarest slave in all Rath-Gallion, I swear it," he bellowed. "Were
he not a slave, I'd drink to his health."
"By your leave, Owner?" I said.
Gope stared, then nodded indulgently. "Speak then."
"I claim the place of Chief Piper. I--"
Yells rang out; Gope grinned widely.
"So be it," he said. "Shall the vote be taken now, or must we submit
to more of the vile bladderings ere we proclaim our good Drgon Chief
Piper? Speak out."
"Proclaim him!" somebody shouted.
Gope slammed a huge hand against the table. "Bring Iylk, the Chief
Piper, before me," he yelled.
The piper reappeared.
"The place of the Chief Piper is declared vacant," Gope said loudly.
"--since the former Chief Piper has been advanced in degree to a new
office. Let these air-bags be punctured," Gope cried. "I banish their
rancid squeals forever from Rath-Gallion. Now, let all men know: this
former piper is now Chief Fool to this household. Let him wear the
broken bladders as a sign of his office." There was a roar of laughter,
glad cries, whistles.
I gave them _Mairzy Doats_ and the former piper capered gingerly.
Owner Gope roared with laughter.
"A great day for Rath-Gallion," Gope shouted. "By the horns of the
sea-god, I have gained a prince of pipers and a king of fools! I
proclaim them to be ten-lash men, and both shall have places at table
henceforth!"
* * * * *
I looked around the barbarically decorated hall, seeing things in a new
way. There's nothing like a little slavery to make a man appreciate
even a modest portion of freedom. Everything I had thought I knew
about Vallon had been wrong: the centuries that passed had changed
things--and not for the better. The old society that Foster knew was
dead and buried. The old places and villas lay deserted, the spaceports
unused. And the old system of memory-recording that Foster described
was lost and forgotten. I didn't know what kind of a cataclysm
could have plunged the seat of a galactic empire back into feudal
darkness--but it had happened.
So far I hadn't found a trace of Foster. My questions had gotten me
nothing but blank stares. Maybe Foster hadn't made it; there could have
been an accident in space. Or perhaps he was somewhere on the opposite
side of the world. Vallon was a big planet and communications were
poor. Maybe Foster was dead. I could live out a long life here and
never find the answers.
I remembered my own disappointment at the breakdown of my illusions
that night at Okk-Hamiloth. How much more heartbreaking must have been
Foster's experience when and if he had arrived back here.
And Foster's memory that I had been bringing him for a keepsake: what
a laugh that was! Far from being a superfluous duplicate of a master
trace to which he had expected easy access, my copy of the trace was
now, with the vaults at Okk-Hamiloth sealed and forbidden, of the
greatest possible importance to Foster--and there wasn't a machine left
on the planet to play it on.
Well, I still meant to find Foster if it took me--
* * * * *
Owner Gope was humming loudly and tunelessly to himself. I knew the
sign. I got ready to play again. Being Chief Piper probably wasn't
going to be just a bowl of cherries, but at least I wasn't a slave now.
I had a long way to go, but I was making progress.
OWNER Gope and I got along well. He took me everywhere he went. He was
a shrewd old duck and he liked having such an unusual piper on hand.
He had heard from the Greymen, the free-lance police force, how I had
landed at the deserted port. He warned me, in an oblique way, not to
let word get out that I knew anything about old times in Vallon. The
whole subject was tabu--especially the old capital city and the royal
palaces themselves. Small wonder that my trespassing there had brought
the Greymen down on me in double quick time.
One afternoon several months after my promotion I dropped in at the
kitchen. I was due to shove off with Owner Gope and his usual retinue
for a visit to Bar-Ponderone, a big estate a hundred miles north of
Rath-Gallion in the direction of Okk-Hamiloth. Sime and my other old
cronies fixed me up with a healthy lunch and a bottle of melon wine,
and warned me that it would be a rough trip; the stretch of road we'd
be using was a favorite hang-out of road pirates.
"What I don't understand," I said, "is why Gope doesn't mount a couple
of guns on the car and blast his way through the raiders. Every time he
goes off the Estate he's taking his life in his hands."
The boys were shocked. "Even piratical renegades would never dream of
taking a man's life, good Drgon," Sime said. "Every Owner, far and
near, would band together to hunt such miscreants down. And their own
fellows would abet the hunters! Nay, none is so low as to steal all a
man's lives."
"The corsairs themselves know full well that in their next life they
may be simple goodmen--even slaves," the Chief Wine-Pourer put in. "For
you know, good Drgon, that when a member of a pirate band suffers the
Change the others lead the newman to an Estate, that he may find his
place...."
"How often do these Changes come along?" I asked.
"It varies greatly. Some men, of great strength and moral power, have
been known to go on unchanged for three or four hundred years. But
the ordinary man lives a life of eighty to one hundred years." Sime
paused. "Or it may be less. A life of travail and strife can end much
sooner than one of peace and retirement. Or unusual vicissitudes can
shorten a life remarkably. A cousin of mine, who was marooned on the
Great Stony Place in the southern half-world and who wandered for three
weeks without more to eat or drink than a small bag of wine, underwent
the Change after only fourteen years. When he was found his face was
lined and his hair had greyed, in the way that presages the Change. And
it was not long before he fell in a fit, as one does, and slept for
a night and a day. When he awoke he was a newman: young and knowing
nothing."
"Didn't you tell him who he was?"
"Nay!" Sime lowered his voice. "You are much favored of Owner Gope,
good Drgon, and rightly. Still, there are matters a man talks not of--"
"A newman takes a name and sets out to learn whatever trade he can,"
put in the Carver of Roasts. "By his own skills he can rise ... as you
have risen, good Drgon."
"Don't you have memory machines--or briefing rods?" I persisted.
"Little black sticks: you touch them to your head and--"
Sime made a motion in the air. "I have heard of these wands: a
forbidden relic of the Black Arts--"
"Nuts," I said. "You don't believe in magic, do you, Sime? The rods are
nothing but a scientific development by your own people. How you've
managed to lose all knowledge of your own past--"
Sime raised his hands in distress. "Good Drgon, press us not in these
matters. Such things are forbidden."
* * * * *
I went on out to the car and climbed in to wait for Owner Gope. It was
impossible to learn anything about Vallon's history from these goodmen.
They knew nothing.
I had reached a few tentative conclusions on my own, however. My
theory was that some sudden social cataclysm had broken down the
system of personality reinforcement and memory-recording that had
given continuity to the culture. Vallonian society, based as it was on
the techniques of memory preservation, had gradually disintegrated.
Vallon was plunged into a feudal state resembling its ancient social
pattern of fifty thousand years earlier, before development of memory
recording.
The people, huddled together on Estates for protection from real or
imagined perils and shunning the old villas and cities as tabu--except
for those included in Estates--knew nothing of space travel and ancient
history. Like Sime, they had no wish even to speak of such matters.
I might have better luck with my detective work on a big Estate like
Bar-Ponderone. I was looking forward to today's trip.
Gope appeared, with Cagu and two other bodyguards, four dancing
girls, and an extra-large gift hamper. They took their places and the
driver started up and wheeled the heavy car out onto the highroad.
I felt a pulse of excitement as we accelerated in the direction of
Bar-Ponderone. Maybe at the end of the ride I'd hit paydirt.
* * * * *
We were doing about fifty down a winding mountain road. As we rounded
a curve, the wheels screeching from the driver's awkward, too-fast
swing into the turn, we saw another car in the road a quarter of a mile
ahead, not moving, but parked--sideways. The driver hit the brakes.
Behind us Owner Gope yelled "Pirates! Don't slacken your pace, driver.
Ram the blackguards, if you must!"
The driver rolled his eyes, almost lost control, then gritted his
teeth, reached out to switch off the anti-collision circuit and slam
the speed control lever against the dash. I watched for two long heart
beats as we roared straight for the blockading car, then I slid over
and grabbed for the controls. The driver held on, frozen. I reared back
and clipped him on the jaw. He crumpled into his corner, mouth open
and eyes screwed shut, as I hit the auto-steer override and worked the
tiller. It was an awkward position for steering, but I preferred it to
hammering in at ninety per.
The car ahead was still sitting tight, now a hundred yards away, now
fifty. I cut hard to the right, toward the rising cliff face; the
car backed to block me. At the last instant I whipped to the left,
barrelled past with half an inch to spare, rocketed along the ragged
edge with the left wheel rolling on air, then whipped back into the
center of the road.
"Well done!" yelled Cagu.
"But they'll give chase!" Gope shouted. "Masterless swine!"
The driver had his eyes open now. "Crawl over me!" I barked. He mumbled
and clambered past me and I slid into his seat, still clinging to
the accelerator lever and putting up the speed. Another curve was
coming up. I grabbed a quick look in the rear-viewer: the pirates were
swinging around to follow us.
"Press on!" commanded Gope. "We're close to Bar-Ponderone; it's no more
than five miles--"
"What kind of speed have they got?" I called back.
"They'll best us easy," said Cagu cheerfully.
"What's the road like ahead?"
"A fair road, straight and true, now that we've descended the
mountain," answered Gope.
We squealed through the turn and hit a straightaway. A curving road
branched off ahead. "What's that?" I snapped.
"A winding trail," gasped the driver. "It comes on Bar-Ponderone, but
by a longer way."
I gauged my speed, braked minutely, and cut hard. We howled up the
steep slope, into a turn between hills.
Gope shouted. "What madness is this?"
"We haven't got a chance on the straightaway," I called back. "Not in a
straight speed contest." I whipped the tiller over, then back the other
way, following the tight S-curves. I caught a glimpse of our pursuers,
just heading into the side road behind us.
"Any way they can head us off?" I yelled.
"Not unless they have confederates stationed ahead," said Gope; "but
these pariahs work alone."
I worked the brake and speed levers, handled the tiller. We swung
right, then left, higher and higher, then down a steep grade and up
again. The pirate car rounded a turn, only a few hundred yards behind
now. I scanned the road ahead, followed its winding course along the
mountainside, through a tunnel, then out again to swing around the
shoulder of the next peak.
"Pitch something out when we go through the tunnel!" I yelled.
"My cloak," cried Gope. "And the gift hamper."
We roared into the tunnel mouth. There was a blast of air as the
rear deck cover opened. Gope and Cagu hefted the heavy gift hamper,
tumbled it out, followed it with a cloak, a wine jug, assorted sandals,
bracelets, fruit. Then we were back in the sunlight and I was fighting
the curve. In the rear-viewer I saw the pirates burst from the tunnel
mouth, Gope's black and yellow cloak spread over the canopy, smashed
fruit spattered over it, the remains of the hamper dragging under the
chassis. The car rocked and a corner of the cloak lifted, clearing the
driver's view barely in time.
"Tough luck," I said. "We've got a long straight stretch ahead, and I'm
fresh out of ideas...."
* * * * *
The other car gained. I held the speed bar against the dash but we were
up against a faster car; it was a hundred yards behind us, then fifty,
then pulling out to go alongside. I slowed imperceptibly, let him get
his front wheels past us, then cut sharply. Here was a clash of wheel
fairings, and I fought the tiller as we rebounded from the heavier car.
He crept forward, almost alongside again; shoulder to shoulder we raced
at ninety-five down the steep grade....
I hit the brakes and cut hard to the left, slapped his right rear
wheel, slid back. He braked too; that was a mistake. The heavy car lost
traction, sliding. In slow motion, off-balanced in a skid, it rose on
its nose, ploughing up a cloud of dust. The hamper whirled away, the
cloak fluttered and was gone, then the pirate car seemed to float for
an instant in air, before it dropped, wheels up, out of sight over the
sheer cliff. We raced alone down the slope and out onto the wooded
plain toward the towers of Bar-Ponderone.
A shout went up; Owner Gope leaned forward to pound my back. "By the
nine eyes of the Hill Devil!" he bellowed, "masterfully executed! The
prince of pipers is a prince of drivers too! This night you'll sit by
my side at the ringboard at Bar-Ponderone in the rank of a hundred-lash
Chief Driver, I swear it!"
* * * * *
I spent the first day at Bar-Ponderone rubbernecking the tall buildings
and keeping an eye open for Foster, on the off chance that I might pass
him on the street. By sunset I was no wiser than before. Dressed in the
latest in Vallonian cape and ruffles, I was sitting with my drinking
buddy Cagu, Chief Bodyguard to Owner Gope, at a small table on the
first terrace at the Palace of Merrymaking, Bar-Ponderone's biggest
community feasting hall. It looked like a Hollywood producer's idea of
a twenty-first century night club, complete with nine dance floors on
five levels, indoor pools, fountains, two thousand tables, musicians,
girls, noise, colored lights, plenty of booze, and food fit for an
Owner. It was open to all fifty-lash-and-over goodmen of the estate and
to guests of equivalent rank.
Cagu was a morose-looking old cuss, but good-hearted. His face was cut
and scarred from a thousand encounters with other bodyguards and his
nose had been broken so often that it was invisible in profile.
"Where do you manage to get in all the fights, Cagu?" I asked him.
"I've known you for three months, and I haven't seen a blow struck in
anger yet."
Cagu finished off an oily greenish drink and signalled for another.
"Here." He grinned, showing me some broken front teeth. "Swell places,
these big Estates, good Drgon; lotsa action."
"What do you do, get in street fights?"
"Nah. The boys show up down here, tank up, cruise around, you know."
"They start fights here in the dining room?"
"Sure. Good crowd here; lotsa laughs."
* * * * *
I picked up my drink, raised it to Cagu--and got it in my lap as
somebody jostled my arm. I looked up. A battle-scarred thug stood over
me.
"Who'sa punk, Cagu?" he said in a hoarse whisper.
Cagu took a pull on a fresh drink, put the glass down, stood up, and
threw a punch to the other plug-ugly's paunch. He oofed, clinched, eyed
me resentfully over Cagu's shoulder. Cagu pushed him away, held him at
arm's length.
"Howsa boy, Mull?" he said. "Lay offa my sidekick; greatest little
piper ina business, and a top driver too. How about a drink?"
"Sure." Mull rubbed his stomach, sat down beside me. "Ya losin' your
punch, Cagu." He looked at me. "Sorry about the booze in the lap. I
thought you was one of the guys." He signalled a passing waiter-slave.
"Bring my friend a new suit, and a shot. Make it snappy."
"Don't the customers kind of resent it when you birds stage a
heavyweight bout in the aisle?" I asked.
"Nah; we move down inta the Spot." He waved a thumb in the general
direction of somewhere else. He looked me over. "Where ya been, piper?
Your first time ina Palace?"
"Drgon's been travelling," said Cagu. "He's okay. Lemee tell ya the
time these pirates pull one, see...."
Cagu and Mull swapped lies while I worked on my drinking. Although I
hadn't learned anything on my day's looking around at Bar-Ponderone,
it was still a better spot for snooping than Rath-Gallion. There were
two major cities on the Estate and scores of villages. Somewhere among
the population I might have better luck finding someone to talk history
with ... or someone who knew Foster.
"Hey!" growled Mull. "Look who's comin'."
I followed his gaze. Three thick-set thugs swaggered up to the table.
One of them, a long-armed gorilla at least seven feet tall, reached
out, took Cagu and Mull by the backs of their necks, and cracked their
skulls together. I jumped up, ducked a hoof-like fist ... and saw a
beautiful burst of fireworks followed by soothing darkness.
* * * * *
I fumbled in the dark with lengths of cloth entangling my legs, sat up
and cracked my head--
I groaned, freed a leg from the chair rungs, groped my way out from
under the table. A waiter-slave helped me up, dusted me off. The
seven-foot lout lolling in a chair glanced my way, nodded.
"You shouldn't hang out with lugs like that Mull," he said. "Cagu told
me you was just a piper, but the way you come outa that chair--" He
shrugged, turned back to whatever he was watching.
I checked a few elbow and knee joints, worked my jaw, tried my neck:
all okay.
"You the one that slugged me?" I asked.
"Huh? Yeah."
I stepped over to his chair, picked a spot, and cleared my throat.
"Hey, you," I said. He turned, and I put everything I had behind a
straight right to the point of the jaw. He went over, feet in the air,
flipped a rail, and crashed down between two tables below. I leaned
over the rail. A party of indignant tally-clerks stared up at me.
A shout went up from the floor some distance away. I looked. In a
cleared circle two levels below a pair of heavy-shouldered men were
slugging it out. One of them was Cagu. I watched, saw his opponent
fall. Another man stepped in to take his place. I turned and made my
way down to the ringside.
Cagu exchanged haymakers with two more opponents before he folded and
was hauled from the ring. I propped him up in a chair, fitted a drink
into his fist, and watched the boys pound each other. It was easy to
see why the scarred face was the sign of their craft; there was no
defensive fighting whatever. They stood toe-to-toe and hit as hard as
they could, until one collapsed. It wasn't fancy, but the fans loved
it. Cagu came to after a while and filled me in on the fighters'
backgrounds.
"So they're all top boys," he said. "But it ain't like in the old days
when I was in my prime. I could've took any three of these bums. The
only one maybe I woulda had a little trouble with is Torbu."
"Which one is he?"
"He ain't down there yet; he'll show to take on the last boys on their
feet."
More gladiators pushed their way to the Spot, downed drinks, pulled off
gaily-patterned cloaks and weskits, and waded in.
After an hour the waiting line had dwindled away to nothing.
"Where's Torbu?"
"Maybe he didn't come tonight," I said.
"Sure, you met him; he knocked you under the table."
"Oh, him?"
"Where'd he go?"
"The last I saw he was asleep on the floor," I said.
"Hozzat?"
"I didn't much like him slugging me. I clobbered him one."
"Hey!" yelped Cagu. His face lit up. He got to his feet and floored the
closest fighter, turned and laid out the other. He raised both hands
above his head.
"Rath-Gallion gotta champion," he bellowed. "Rath-Gallion takes on all
comers." He turned, waved to me. "Our boy, Drgon, he--"
* * * * *
There was a bellow behind me, even louder than Cagu's. I turned, saw
Torbu, his hair mussed, his face purple, pushing through the crowd.
"Jussa crummy minute," he yelled. "I'm the champion around here--" He
aimed a haymaker at Cagu; Cagu ducked.
"Our boy, Drgon, laid you out cold, right?" he shouted. "So now he's
the champion."
"I wasn't set," bawled Torbu. "A lucky punch."
"Come on down, Drgon," Cagu called, waving to me again. "We'll show--"
Torbu turned and slammed a roundhouse right to the side of Cagu's jaw;
the old fighter hit the floor hard, skidded, lay still. I got to my
feet. They pulled him to the nearest table, hoisted him into a chair.
I made my way down to the little clearing in the crowd. A man bending
over Cagu straightened, face white. I pushed him aside, grabbed the
bodyguard's wrist. There was no pulse. Cagu was dead.
Torbu stood in the center of the Spot, mouth open. "What...?" he
started. I pushed between two fans, went for him. He saw me, crouched,
swung out at me.
I ducked, uppercut him. He staggered back. I pressed him, threw lefts
and rights to the body, ducked under his wild swings, then rocked his
head left and right. He stood, knees together, eyes glazed, hands down.
I measured him, right-crossed his jaw; he dropped like a log.
Panting, I looked across at Cagu. His scarred face, white as wax, was
strangely altered now; it looked peaceful. I took a bottle from a
waiter-slave, poured out a stiff drink, then a couple more. Somebody
helped Torbu to his feet, walked him to the ringside. I had another
drink. It had been a big evening. Now all I had to do was take the body
home....
I went over to where Cagu was laid out on the floor. Shocked people
stood around staring. Torbu was on his knees beside the body. A tear
ran down his nose, dripped on Cagu's face. Torbu wiped it away with a
big scarred hand.
"I'm sorry, old friend," he said. "I didn't mean it, you know I didn't."
I picked Cagu up and got him over my shoulder, and all the way to the
far exit it was so quiet in the Palace of Merrymaking that I could hear
my own heavy breathing.
* * * * *
In the bodyguards' quarters I laid Cagu out on the bunk, then faced the
dozen scowling bruisers who stared down at the still body.
"Cagu was a good man," I said. "Now he's dead. He died like an
animal ... for nothing."
Mull glowered at me. "You talk like we was to blame," he said. "Cagu
was my compeer too."
"Whose pal was he a thousand years ago?" I snapped. "What was he--once?
What were you? Vallon wasn't always like this. There was a time when
every man was his own Owner--"
"Look, you ain't of the Brotherhood--" one thug started.
"So that's what you call it? But it's just another name for an old
racket. A big shot sets himself up as dictator--"
"We got our Code," Mull said. "Our job is to stick up for the Owner ...
and that don't mean standing around listening to some japester callin'
names."
"Names, hell," I snapped. "I'm talking rebellion. You boys have all
the muscle and most of the guts in this organization. Why let the boss
live off the fat while you murder each other for the amusement of the
patrons? You had a birthright ... once. But it's up to you to collect
it ... before more of you go the way Cagu did."
There was an angry mutter. Torbu came in, face swollen.
"Hold it, you birds," Torbu said. "What's goin' on?"
"This guy! He's talkin' revolt and treason," somebody said.
"He wants we should pull some rough stuff--on Owner Qohey hisself."
Torbu came up to me. "You're a stranger around Bar-Ponderone. Cagu said
you was okay. You worked me over pretty good ... and I got no hard
feelin's; that's the breaks. But don't try to start no trouble here. We
got our Code and our Brotherhood. We look out for each other; that's
good enough for us. Owner Qohey ain't no worse than any other Owner ...
and by the Code, we'll stand by him!"
"Listen to me," I said. "I know the history of Vallon: I know what
you were once and what you could be again. All you have to do is take
over the power. I can lead you to the ship I came here in. There are
briefing rods aboard, enough to show you--"
"That's enough," Torbu broke in. He made a cabalistic sign in the air.
"We ain't gettin' mixed up in no tabu ghost-boats or takin' on no
magicians and demons--"
"Hog wash! That tabu routine is just a gag to keep you away from the
cities so you won't discover what you're missing--"
"I don't wanna hafta take you to the Greymen, Drgon," Torbu growled.
"Leave it lay."
"These cities," I ploughed on. "They're standing there, empty, as
perfect as the day they were built. And you live in these flea-bitten
quarters, jammed inside the town walls, so the Greymen and renegades
won't get you."
"You wanna runs things here?" Mull put in. "Go see Qohey."
"Let's all go see Qohey!" I said.
"That's something you'll have to do alone," said Torbu. "You better
move on, Drgon. I ain't turnin' you in; I know how you felt about Cagu
gettin' killed and all--but don't push it too far."
I knew I was licked. They were as stubborn as a team of mules--and just
about as smart.
* * * * *
Torbu motioned; I followed him outside.
"You wanna turn things upside-down, don't you? I know how it is; you
ain't the first guy to get ideas. We can't help you. But we got a
legend: someday the Rthr will come back ... and then the Good Time will
come back too."
"What's the Rthr?" I said.
"Kinda like a big-shot Owner. There ain't no Rthr now. But a long time
ago, back when our first lives started, there was a Rthr that was Owner
of all Vallon, and everybody lived high, and had all their lives ...
it's kind of like a hope we got--that's what we're waitin' for through
all our lives."
"Okay," I said. "Dream on, big boy. And while you're treasuring your
rosy dreams you'll get your brains kicked out, like Cagu." I turned
away.
"Listen, Drgon. It's no good buckin' the system: it's too big for one
guy ... or even a bunch of guys ... but--"
I looked up. "Yeah?"
"... if you gotta stick your neck out--see Owner Gope." Abruptly Torbu
turned and pushed back through the door.
See Owner Gope, huh? Okay, what did I have to lose?
* * * * *
I stood in the middle of the deep-pile carpet in Gope's suite, trying
to keep my temper hot enough to supply the gall I needed to bust in on
an Owner in the middle of the night. He sat in his ceremonial chair and
stared at me impassively.
"With your help or without it," I said, "I'm going to find the answers."
"Yes, good Drgon," he said, not bellowing for once. "I understand. But
there are matters you don't understand."
"I understand too much," I snapped. "Do you remember Cagu? Maybe you
remember him as a newman, young, handsome, like a god out of some old
legend. You've seen him live his life. Was it a good life? Did the
promise of youth ever get paid off? And what about yourself? Don't you
ever wonder what you might have been ... back in the Good Time?"
"Who are you?" asked Gope, his eyes fixed on mine. "You speak Old
Vallonian, you rake up the forbidden knowledge, and challenge the very
Powers...." He got to his feet. "I could have you immured, Drgon. I
could hand you to the Greymen, for a fate I shudder to name." He turned
and walked the length of the room restlessly, then turned back to me
and stopped.
"Matters stand ill with this fair world," he said. "Legend tells us
that once men lived as the High Gods on Vallon. There was a mighty
Owner, Rthr of all Vallon. It is whispered that he will come again--"
"Your legends are all true. You can take my word for that! But that
doesn't mean some supernatural sugar daddy is going along and bail you
out. And don't get the idea I think I'm the fabled answer to prayers.
All I mean is that once upon a time Vallon was a good place to live
and it could be again. Your cities and roads and ships are still here,
intact. But nobody knows how to run them and you're all afraid to try.
Who scared you off? What broke down the memory-recording system? Why
can't we all go to Okk-Hamiloth and use the Archives to give everybody
back what he's lost--"
"These are dread words," said Gope.
"There must be somebody behind it. Or there was once. Who is he?"
* * * * *
Gope thought. "There is one man pre-eminent among us: the Great Owner,
Owner of Owners: Ommodurad by name. Where he dwells I know not. This is
a secret possessed only by his intimates."
"What does he look like? How do I get to see him?"
Gope shook his head. "I have seen him but once, closely cowled. He is
a tall man, and silent. 'Tis said--" Gope lowered his voice, "--by his
black arts he possesses all his lives. An aura of dread hangs all about
him--"
"Never mind that jazz," I said. "How can I get close to him?"
"There are those Owners who are his confidants," said Gope, "his
trusted agents. It is through them that we small Owners learn of his
will."
"Can we enlist one of them?"
"Never. They are bound to him by ties of darkness, spells, and
incantations."
"I'm a fast man with a pair of loaded dice myself. It's all done with
mirrors. Let's stick to the point. How can I work into a spot with one
of these big shots?"
"Nothing easier. A driver and piper of such skills as your own can
claim whatever place he chooses."
"How about bodyguarding? Suppose I could take a heavy named Torbu;
would that set me in better with a new Owner?"
"Such is no place for a man of your abilities, good Drgon," Gope
exclaimed. "True, 'tis a place most close to an Owner, but there is
much danger in it. The challenge involves the most bloody hand-to-hand
combat, second only to the rigors of a challenge to an Owner himself."
"What's that?" I snapped. "Challenge an Owner?"
"Be calm, good Drgon," said Gope, staring at me incredulously. "No
common man with his wits about him will challenge an Owner. He is a
warrior trained in the skills of battle. None less than another such
may hope to prevail."
* * * * *
I smacked my fist into my palm. "I should have thought of this sooner!
The cooks cook for their places, the pipers pipe ... and the best man
wins. It figures that the Owners would use the same system. But what's
the procedure? How do you get your chance to prove who can own the
best?"
"It is a contest with naked steel. It is the measure and glory of an
Owner that he alone stands ready to prove his quality against the peril
of death itself." Gope drew himself up with pride.
"What Owner can I challenge? How do I go about it? What's the
procedure?"
"Give up this course, good Drgon--"
"Where's the nearest buddy of the Big Owner?"
Gope threw up his hands. "Here, at Bar-Ponderone. Owner Qohey. But--"
"And how do I call his bluff?" I asked.
Gope put a hand on my shoulder. "It is no bluff, good Drgon. It is long
now since last Owner Qohey stood to his blade to protect his place, but
you may be sure he has lost none of his skill. Thus it was he won his
way to Bar-Ponderone, while lesser knights, such as myself, contented
themselves with meaner fiefs."
"I'm not bluffing either, noble Gope," I said, stretching a point. "I
was no harness-maker in the Good Time."
Gope sat down heavily, raised his hands, and let them fall. "If I tell
you not, another will. But I will not soon find another piper of your
worth."