Gaudy hangings of purple cut the light of the sun to a rich gloom in
the enormous, high-vaulted Audience Hall. A rustling murmur was audible
in the room as uneasy courtiers and supplicants fidgeted, waiting for
the appearance of the Owner.
It had been two months since Gope had explained to me how a formal
challenge to an Owner was conducted, and, as he pointed out, this was
the only kind of challenge that would help. If I waylaid the man and
cut him down, even in a fair fight, his bodyguards would repay the
favor before I could establish the claim that I was their legitimate
new boss.
I had spent three hours every day in the armory at Rath-Gallion,
trading buffets with Gope and a couple of the bodyguards. The
thirty-pound slab of edged steel had felt right at home in my hand that
first day--for about a minute. I had the borrowed knowledge to give
me all the technique I needed, but the muscle power for putting the
knowledge into practice was another matter. After five minutes I was
slumped against the wall, gulping air, while Gope whistled his sticker
around my head and talked.
"You laid on like no piper, good Drgon. Yet have you much to learn in
the matter of endurance."
After surviving two months of Gope's training I felt ready for
anything. Gope had warned me that Owner Qohey was a big fellow, but
that didn't bother me. The bigger they came, the bigger the target....
There was a murmur in a different key in the Audience Hall and tall
gilt doors opened at the far side of the room. A couple of liveried
flunkies scampered into view, then a seven-foot man-eater stalked into
the hall, made his way to the dais, turned to face the crowd....
He was enormous: his neck was as thick as my thigh, his features
chipped out of granite, the grey variety. He threw back his brilliant
purple cloak from his shoulders and reached out for the ceremonial
sword one of the flunkies was struggling with; his arm was like an oak
root. He took the sword with its sheath, sat down, and stood it between
his feet, his arms folded on top.
* * * * *
"Who has a grievance?" he spoke. The voice reverberated like the old
Wurlitzer at the Rialto back home.
This was my cue. There he was, just asking for it. All I had to do was
speak up. Owner Qohey would gladly oblige me.
I cleared my throat with a thin squeak, and edged forward, not very
far.
"I have one little item--" I started.
Nobody was listening. Up front a big fellow in a black toga was pushing
through the crowd. Everybody turned to stare at him, there was a
craning of necks. The crowd drew back from the dais leaving an opening.
The man in black stepped into the clear, flung back the flapping
garment from his right arm, and whipped out a long polished length of
razor-edged iron. It was beginning to look like somebody had beaten me
to the punch.
The newcomer stood there in front of Qohey with the naked blade making
all the threat that was needed. Qohey stared at him for a long moment,
then stood, gestured to a flunky. The flunky turned, cleared his throat.
"The place of Bar-Ponderone has been claimed!" he recited in a shrill
voice. "Let the issue be joined!" He skittered out of the way and Qohey
rose, threw aside his purple cloak and cowl, and stepped down. I pushed
forward to get a better look.
The challenger in black tossed his loose garment aside, stood facing
Qohey in a skin-tight jerkin and hose; heavy moccasins of soft leather
were laced up the calf. He was magnificently muscled but Qohey was
bigger.
Qohey unsheathed his fancy iron and whirled it up overhead, made a few
practice swipes. He handled it like it was a lady's putter. I felt
sorry for the smaller man, who was just standing, watching him. He
really didn't have a chance.
I had got through to the fore rank by now. The challenger turned and I
saw his face. I stopped dead, while fire bells clanged in my head.
The man in black was Foster.
* * * * *
In dead silence Qohey and Foster squared off, touched their sword
points to the floor in some kind of salute ... and Qohey's slicer
whipped up in a vicious cut. Foster leaned aside, just far enough, then
countered with a flick that made Qohey jump back. I let out a long
breath and tried swallowing.
Qohey's blade flashed, cutting at Foster's head. Foster hardly
moved. Almost effortlessly, it seemed, he interposed his heavy weapon
between the attacking steel and himself. Clash, clang! Qohey hacked and
chopped ... and Foster played with him. Then Foster's arm flashed out
and there was blood on Qohey's wrist. A gasp went up from the crowd.
Now Foster took a step forward, struck ... and faltered! In an instant
Qohey was on him and the two men were locked, chest to chest. For a
moment Foster held, then Qohey's weight told, and Foster reeled back.
He tried to bring up the sword, seemed to struggle, then Qohey lashed
out again. Foster twisted, took the blow awkwardly just above the hand
guard, stumbled ... and fell.
Qohey leaped to him, raised the sword--
I hauled mine half way out of its sheath and pushed forward.
"Let the man be put away from my sight," rumbled Qohey. He lowered his
immense sword, turned, pushed aside a flunky who had bustled up with
a wad of bandages. As he strode from the room a swarm of bodyguards
fanned out between the crowd and Foster. I could see him clumsily
struggling to rise, then I was shoved back, still craning for a
glimpse. There was something wrong here; Foster had acted like a man
suddenly half-paralyzed. Had Qohey doped him in some way?
The cordon stopped pushing. I tugged at the arm of the bodyguard beside
me. "What's to be the fate of the man?" I asked.
"They're gonna immure him."
"You mean wall him up?"
"Yeah. Just a peep hole to pass chow in every day ... so's he don't
starve, see?"
"How long--?"
"He'll last; don't worry. After the Change, Owner Qohey's got a
newman--"
"Shut up," another bruiser said.
* * * * *
The crowd was slowly thinning. The bodyguards were relaxing, standing
in pairs talking. Two servants moved about where the fight had taken
place, making mystical motions in the air above the floor. I edged
forward, watching them. They seemed to be plucking imaginary flowers.
I moved even farther forward to take a closer look, then saw a tiny
glint.... A servant hurried across, made gestures. I pushed him aside,
groped ... and my fingers encountered a delicate filament of wire.
I pulled it in, swept up more. The servants had stopped and stood
watching me, muttering. The whole area of the combat was covered with
the invisible wires, looping up in coils two feet high.
No wonder Foster had stumbled, had trouble raising his sword. He had
been netted, encased in a mesh of incredibly fine tough wire ... and
in the dim light even the crowd twenty feet away hadn't seen it. I put
my hand on my sword hilt, chewed my lower lip. I had found Foster ...
but it wouldn't do me--or Vallon--much good. He was on his way to the
dungeons, to be walled up until the next Change. And it would be three
months before I could legally make another try for Qohey's place.
I would have to spend that time working on my swordplay, and hope
Foster could hold out. Maybe I could sneak a message--
A heavy blow on the back sent me spinning. Four bodyguards moved to
ring me in, clubs in hand. They were strangers to me, but across the
room I saw Torbu looming, looking my way....
"I saw him; he started to pull that fancy sword," said one of the
guards.
"He was asking me questions--"
"Unbuckle it and drop it," another ordered me. "Don't try anything!"
"What's this all about?" I said. "I have a right to wear a Ceremonial
Sword at an Audience--"
"Move in, boys!" The four men stepped toward me, the clubs came up.
I warded off a smashing blow with my left arm, took a blinding crack
across the face, felt myself going down--another blow, and another: all
killing ones....
Then I was aware of being dragged, endlessly, of voices barking sharp
questions, of pain.... After a long time it was dark, and silent, and I
slept.
* * * * *
I groaned and the sound was dead, muffled. I put out a hand and touched
stone on my right. My left elbow touched stone. I made an instinctive
move to sit up and smacked my head against more stone. My new room was
confining. I felt my face ... and winced at the touch. The bridge of
my nose felt different: it was lower than it used to be, in spite of
the swelling. I lay back and traced the pattern of pain. There was the
nose--smashed flat--with secondary aches around the eyes. They'd be
beautiful shiners, if I could see them. Now the left arm: it was curled
close to my side and when I moved it I saw why: it wasn't broken, but
the shoulder wasn't right, and there was a deep bruise above the elbow.
My knees and shin, as far as I could reach, were caked with dried
blood. That figured: I remembered being dragged.
I tried deep-breathing; my chest seemed to be okay. My hands worked. My
teeth were in place. Maybe I wasn't as sick as I felt.
But where the hell was I? The floor was hard, cold. I needed a big soft
bed and a little soft nurse and a hot meal and a cold drink....
Foster! I cracked my head again and flopped back, groaned some more. It
still sounded pretty dead.
I swallowed, licked my lips, felt a nice split that ran down to the
bristles. I had attended the Audience clean-shaven. Quite a few hours
have passed since then. They had taken Foster away to immure him,
somebody said. Then the guards had tapped me, worked me over--
Immured! I got a third crack on the head. Suddenly it was hard to
breathe. I was walled up, sealed away from the light, buried under the
foundations of the giant towers of Bar-Ponderone. I felt their crushing
weight....
* * * * *
I forced myself to relax, breathe deep. Being immured wasn't the
same as being buried alive--not exactly. This was the method these
latter-day Vallonians had figured out to effectively end a man's
life ... without ending all his lives. They figured to keep me neatly
packaged here until my next Change, thus acquiring another healthy
newman for the kitchen or the stables. They didn't know the only Change
that would happen to me was death.
They'd have to feed me; that meant a hole. I ran my fingers along the
rough stone, found an eight-inch square opening on the left wall, just
under the ceiling. I reached through it, felt nothing but the solidness
of its thick sides. How far along the other open end was I had no way
of determining.
I was feeling dizzy. I lay back and tried to think, but everything
remained fuzzy.
* * * * *
I was awake again. There had been a sound. I moved, and felt something
hit my chest.
I groped for it; it was a small loaf of hard bread. I heard the sound
again and a second object thumped against me.
"Hey!" I yelled, "listen to me! I'll die in here. I'm not like the rest
of you; I won't go through a Change. I'll rot here until I die. Do you
hear me?..."
I listened. The silence was absolute.
"Answer me!" I screamed. "You're making a mistake...!"
I gave up when my throat got raw. I felt for the other item that had
been pushed in to me. It was a water bottle made of tough plastic. I
fumbled the cap off, took a swallow. It wasn't good. I tried the bread;
it was tough, tasteless. I lay and chewed and thought. As a world-saver
I was a bust. I had come a long long way and now I was going to die
in this reeking hole. I had a sudden vision of steaks uneaten, wines
undrunk, girls unhad, and life unlived. And then I had another thought:
if I never had them was it going to be because I hadn't tried? Abruptly
I was planning. I would keep calm and use my head. I wouldn't wear
myself out with screams and struggles. I'd figure the angles, use
everything I had to make the best try I could.
First, to explore the tomb-cell. It hurt to move but that didn't
matter. I felt over the walls, estimating size. My chamber was
three feet wide, two feet high, and seven feet long. The walls were
relatively smooth, except for a few mortar joints. The stones were big:
eighteen inches or so by a couple of feet. I scratched at the mortar;
it was rock hard.
I wondered how they'd gotten me in. Some of the stones must be newly
placed ... or else there was a door. I couldn't feel anything as far as
my hands would reach. Maybe at the other end....
I tried to twist around: no go. The people who had built the cage knew
just how to dimension it to keep the occupant oriented the way they
wanted him. He was supposed to just lie quietly and wait for the bread
and water to fall through the hole above his chest.
That was reason enough to change positions. If they wanted me to stay
put I'd at least have the pleasure of defying the rules. And there just
might be a reason why they didn't want me moving around.
I turned on my side, pulled my legs up, hugged them to my chest, worked
my way down ... and jammed. My skinned knees and shins didn't help
any. I inched them higher, wincing at the pain, then braced my hands
against the floor and roof and with all my strength forced my torso
toward my feet....
Still no go. The rough stone was shredding my back. I moved my knees
apart; that eased the pressure a little. I made another inch.
* * * * *
I rested, tried to get some air. It wasn't easy: my chest was crushed
between my thighs and the stone wall at my back. I breathed shallowly,
wondering whether I should go back or try to push on. I tried to move
my legs; they didn't like the idea. I might as well go on. It would
be no fun either way and if I waited I'd stiffen up, while inactivity
and no food and loss of blood would weaken me further every moment. I
wouldn't do better next time--not even as well. This was the time. Now.
I set myself, pushed again, I didn't move. I pushed harder, scraping my
palms raw against the stone. I was stuck--good. I went limp suddenly.
Then I panicked, in the grip of claustrophobia. I snarled, rammed
my hands hard against the floor and wall, and heaved--and felt my
lacerated back slip along the stone, sliding on a lubricating film of
blood. I pushed again, my back curved, doubled; my knees were forced
up beside my ears. I couldn't breathe at all now and my spine was
breaking. It didn't matter. I might as well break it, rip off all the
hide, bleed to death; I had nothing to lose. I shoved again, felt the
back of my head grate; my neck bent, creaking ... then I was through,
stretching out to flop on my back gasping, my head where my feet had
been. Score one for our side.
* * * * *
It took a long time to get my breath back and sort out my various
abrasions. My back was worst, then my legs and hands. There was a messy
spot on the back of my head and sharp pains shot down my spine, and I
was getting tired of breathing through my mouth instead of my smashed
nose. Other than that I'd never felt better in my life. I had plenty of
room to relax in, I could breathe. All I had to do was rest, and after
a while they'd drop some more nice bread and water in to me....
I shook myself awake. There was something about the absolute darkness
and silence that made my mind want to curl up and sleep, but there was
no time for that. If there had been a stone freshly set in mortar to
seal the chamber after I had been stuffed inside, this was the time to
find it--before it set too hard. I ran my hands over the wall, found
the joints. The mortar was dry and hard in the first; in the next....
Under my fingernail soft mortar crumbled away. I traced the joint;
it ran around a twelve-by-eighteen-inch stone. I raised myself on my
elbow, settled down to scratching at it.
Half an hour later I had ten bloody finger tips and a half-inch groove
cut around the stone. It was slow work, and I couldn't go much farther
without a tool of some sort. I felt for the water bottle, took off the
cap, tried to crush it. It wouldn't crush. There was nothing else in
the cell.
Maybe the stone would move, mortar and all, if I shoved hard enough.
I set my feet against the end wall, my hands against the block, and
strained until the blood roared in my ears. No use.
I was lying there, just thinking about it, when I became aware
of something. It wasn't a noise exactly. It was more like a
fourth-dimensional sound heard inside the brain ... or the memory of
one.
But my next sensation was perfectly real. I felt four little feet
walking gravely up my chest toward my chin.
It was the cat, Itzenca.