For a while I toyed with the idea of just chalking it up as a miracle.
Then I decided it would be a nice problem in probabilities. It had
been seven months since we had parted company on the pink terrace at
Okk-Hamiloth. Where would I have gone if I had been a cat? And how
could I have found me--my old pal from Earth?
Itzenca exhaled a snuffle in my ear.
"Come to think of it, the stink is pretty strong, isn't it? I guess
there's nobody on Vallon with quite the same heady fragrance. And what
with the close quarters here, the concentration of sweat, blood, and
you-name-it must be pretty penetrating."
Itz didn't seem to care. She marched around my head and back again, now
and then laid a tentative paw on my nose or chin, and kept up a steady
rumbling purr. The feeling of affection I had for that cat right then
was close to being one of my life's grand passions. I couldn't keep my
hands off her. They roamed over her scrawny frame, fingered again the
khaffite collar I had whiled away an hour in fashioning for her aboard
the lifeboat--
My head hit the stone wall with a crash I didn't even notice. In
ten seconds I had released the collar clasp, pulled the collar from
Itzenca's neck, thumbed the stiff khaffite out into a blade about ten
inches long, and was scraping at the mortar beyond my head at fever
heat.
They had fed me three times by the time the groove was nine inches
deep on all sides of the block, and the mortar had hardened. But I was
nearly through, I figured. I took a rest, then made another try at
loosening the block. I stuck the blade in the slot, levered gently at
the stone. If it was only supported on one edge now, as it would be if
it were a little less than a foot thick, it should be about ready to
go. I couldn't tell.
I put down my scraper, got in position, and pushed. I wasn't as strong
as I had been; there wasn't much force in the push. Again I rested
and again I tried. Maybe there was only a thin crust of mortar still
holding; maybe one more ounce of pressure would do it. I took a deep
breath, strained ... and felt the block shift minutely.
Now! I heaved again, teeth gritted, drew back my feet, and thrust hard.
The stone slid out with a grating sound, dropped half an inch. I paused
to listen: all quiet. I shoved again, and the stone dropped with a
heavy thud to the floor outside. With no loss of time I pushed through
behind it, felt a breath of cooler air, got my shoulders free, pulled
my legs through ... and stood, for the first time in how many days....
* * * * *
I had already figured my next move. As soon as Itzenca had stepped
out I reached back in, groped for the water bottle, the dry crusts I
had been saving, and the wad of bread paste I had made up. I reached
a second time for a handful of the powdered mortar I had produced,
then lifted the stone. I settled it in place, using the hard bread as
supports, then packed the open joint with gummy bread. I dusted it
over with dry mortar, then carefully swept up the debris--as well as I
could in the total darkness. The bread-and-water man would have a light
and he was due in half an hour or so--as closely as I had been able
to estimate the time of his regular round. I didn't want him to see
anything out of the ordinary. I was counting on finding Foster filed
away somewhere in the stacks, and I'd need time to try to release him.
I moved along the corridor, counting my steps, one hand full of bread
crumbs and stone dust, the other feeling the wall. There were narrow
side branches every few feet; the access ways to the feeding holes.
Forty-one paces from my slot I came to a wooden door. It wasn't locked,
but I didn't open it. I wasn't ready to use it yet.
I went back, passed my hole, continued nine paces to a blank wall. Then
I tried the side branches. They were all seven-foot stubs, dead ends;
each had the eight-inch holes on either side. I called Foster's name
softly at each hole ... but there was no answer. I heard no signs of
life, no yells or heavy breathing. Was I the only one here? That wasn't
what I had figured on. Foster had to be in one of these delightful
bedrooms. I had come across the universe to see him and I wasn't going
to leave Bar-Ponderone without him.
It was time to get ready for the bread man. I groped my way into one of
the side branches; Itzenca at my heels. With half a year's experience
at dodging humans behind her, she could be trusted not to show at the
crucial moment, I figured. I had just jettisoned my handful of trash in
the backmost corner of the passage when there was a soft grating sound
from the door. I flattened myself against the wall.
A light splashed on the floor; it must have been dim but seemed to my
eyes like the blaze of noon. Soft footsteps sounded. I held my breath.
A man in bodyguard's trappings, basket in hand, moved past the entry
of the branch where I stood, went on. I breathed again. Now all I had
to do was keep an eye on the feeder, watch where he stopped. I stepped
to the corridor, risked a glance, saw him entering a branch farther
down the corridor. As he disappeared I made it three branches farther
along, ducked out of sight.
I heard him coming back. I flattened myself. He went by me, opened the
door. It closed behind him. Darkness, silence and despair settled down
once more.
The bread man had stopped at one cell only--mine. Foster wasn't there.
* * * * *
It was a long wait for the next feeding but I put the time to use.
First I had a good nap; I hadn't been getting my rest while I scratched
my way out of my nest. I woke up feeling better and started thinking
about the next move. The door creaked, and I did a fast fade down a
side branch. The guard shuffled into view; now was the time. I moved
out--quietly, I thought, and he whirled, dropped the load and bottle,
and fumbled at his club hilt. I didn't have a club to slow me down. I
went at him, threw a beautiful right, square to the mouth. He went over
backwards, with me on top. I heard his head hit with a sound like a
length of rubber hose slapping a grapefruit. He didn't move.
I pulled the clothes off him, struggled into them. They didn't fit too
well and they probably smelled gamey to anybody who hadn't spent a week
where I had, but details like these didn't count anymore. I tore his
sash into strips and tied him. He wasn't dead--quite, but I had reason
to know that any yelling he did was unlikely to attract much attention.
I hoped he'd enjoy the rest and quiet until the next feeding time. By
then I expected to be long gone. I lifted the door open and stepped out
into a dimly lit corridor.
With Itzenca abreast of me I moved along in absolute stillness, passed
a side corridor, came to a heavy door; locked. We retraced our steps,
went down the side hall, found a flight of worn steps, followed them up
two flights, and emerged in a dark room. A line of light showed around
a door. I went to it, peered through the crack. Two men in stained
kitchen-slave tunics fussed over a boiling cauldron. I pushed through
the door.
The two looked up, startled. I rounded a littered table, grabbed up a
heavy soup ladle, and skulled the nearest cook just as he opened up to
yell. The other one, a big fellow, went for a cleaver. I caught him in
two jumps, laid him out cold beside his pal.
I found an apron, ripped it up, and tied and gagged the two slaves,
then hauled them into a storeroom.
I came back into the kitchen. It was silent now. The room reeked of
sour soup. A stack of unpleasantly familiar loaves stood by the oven.
I gave them a kick that collapsed the pile as I passed to pick up a
knife. I hacked tough slices from a cold haunch of Vallonian mutton,
threw one to Itzenca across the table, and sat and gnawed the meat
while I tried to think through my plans.
* * * * *
Owner Qohey was a big man to tackle but he was the one with the
answers. If I could make my way to his apartment and if I wasn't
stopped before I'd forced the truth out of him, then I might get to
Foster and tell him that if he had the memory playback machine I had
the memory, if it hadn't been filched from the bottom of a knapsack
aboard a lifeboat parked at Okk-Hamiloth.
Four 'if's' and a 'might'--but it was something to shoot at. My first
move would be to locate Qohey's quarters, somewhere in the Palace, and
get inside. My bodyguard's outfit was as good a disguise as any for the
attempt.
I finished off my share of the meat and got to my feet. I'd have to
find a place to clean myself up, shave--
The rear door banged open and two bodyguards came through it, talking
loudly, laughing.
"Hey, cook! Set out meat and wine for--"
The heavy in the lead stopped short, gaping at me. I gaped back. It was
Torbu.
"Drgon! How did you...." He trailed off.
The other bodyguard came past him, looked me over. "You're no Brother
of the Guard--" he started.
I reached for the cleaver the kitchen-slave had left on the table,
backed against a tall wall cupboard. The bodyguard unlimbered his club.
"Hold it, Blon," said Torbu. "Drgon's okay." He looked at me. "I kind
of figured you for done-for, Drgon. The boys worked you over pretty
good."
"Yeah," I returned, "and thanks for your help in stopping it. You claim
to believe in the system around here. You think it's a great life, all
fair play and no holds barred and plenty of goodies for the winner.
I know, it was tough about Cagu, but that's life, isn't it? But what
about the business I saw in the Audience Hall? You guys try not to
think about that angle, is that it?"
"It was the Owner's orders," said Blon. "What was I gonna do, tell
him--?"
"Never mind," I said. "I'll tell him myself. That's all I want: just a
short interview with the Owner--minus the wire nets."
"Wow ..." drawled Torbu; "yeah, that'd be a bout." He turned to Blon.
"This guy's got a punch, Blon. He don't look so hot but he could swap
buffets with the Fire Drgon he's named after. If he's that good with a
long blade--"
"Just lend me one," I said, "and show me the way to his apartment."
"I didn't like the capers with the wires, neither did most of the boys.
We're Brothers of the Guard," said Torbu. "We ain't got much but we got
our Code. It don't say nothing about wires. If we don't back up our
oath to the Brotherhood we ain't no better than slaves." He turned to
me. "Come on, Drgon. We'll take you to the Guardroom so you can clean
up and put on a good blade. If you're gonna lose all your lives at
once, you wanna do it right."
* * * * *
Torbu watched as the boys belted and strapped me into a guardsman's
fighting outfit. I had made him uneasy, maybe even started him thinking.
I felt better in the clean trappings of tough leather and steel. Torbu
led the way and fifteen bodyguards followed, like a herd of Trolls.
We stopped before a great double door. Two guards in dress purple
sauntered over to see what it was all about. Torbu clued them in. They
hesitated, looked us over....
"We're goin' in, rookie," said Torbu. "Open up." They did.
I pushed past Torbu into a room whose splendor made Gope's state
apartment look like a four-dollar motel. Bright Cintelight streamed
through tall windows, showed me a wide bed and somebody in it. I went
to it, grabbed the bedclothes, and hauled them to the floor. Owner
Qohey sat up slowly--seven feet of muscle. He looked at me, glanced
past me to the foremost of my escort....
He was out of bed like a tiger, coming straight for me. There was no
time to fumble with the sword. I went to meet him, threw all my weight
into a right haymaker and felt it connect. I plunged past, whirled.
Qohey was staggering ... but still on his feet. I had hit him with
everything I had, nearly broken my fist ... and he was still standing.
I couldn't let him rest. I was after him, slammed a hard punch to the
kidneys, caught him across the jaw as he turned, drove a left and right
into his stomach--
A girder fell from the top of the Golden Gate Bridge and shattered
every bone in my body. There was a booming like heavy surf, and I was
floating in it, dead. Then I was in Hell, being prodded by red-hot
tridents.... I blinked my eyes. The roaring was fading now. I saw
Qohey, leaning against the foot of the bed, breathing heavily. I had
to get him.
I got my feet under me, stood up. My chest was caved in and my left
arm belonged to somebody else. Okay; I still had my right. I made it
over to Qohey, maneuvered into position. He didn't look at me; he
seemed to be having trouble breathing; those gut punches had gotten
to him. I picked a spot just behind the right ear, reared back, and
threw a trip-hammer punch with my shoulder and legs behind it. I felt
the jaw go. Qohey jumped the footboard and piled onto the floor like a
hundred-car freight hitting an open switch. I sat down on the edge of
the bed and sucked in air and tried to ignore the whirling lights that
were closing in.
* * * * *
After awhile I noticed Torbu standing in front of me with the cat under
one arm. Both of them were grinning at me. "Any orders, Owner Drgon?"
I found my voice. "Wake him up and prop him in a chair. I want to talk
to him."
Ex-Owner Qohey didn't much like the idea but after Torbu and a couple
of the other strong-arm lads had explained the situation to him in sign
language he decided to co-operate.
"Get off his head, Mull," Torbu said. "And untwist that rope, Blon.
Owner Drgon wants him in a conversational mood."
Qohey was looking at me now, eyes wild. He grunted something, but was
having trouble talking around his broken jaw.
"The fellow in black," I said: "the one who claimed your place as
Owner. You netted him and had your bully boys haul him off somewhere. I
want to know where."
Qohey grunted again.
"Hit him, Torbu," I said. "It will help his enunciations." Torbu kicked
the former Owner in the shin. Qohey jumped and glowered at him.
"Call off your dogs," he mumbled. "You'll not find the upstart you seek
here."
"Why not?"
"I sent him away."
"Where?"
"To that place from which you and your turncoat crew will never fetch
him back."
"Be more specific."
Qohey spat.
I took out the needle-pointed knife I was wearing as part of my get-up.
I put the point against Qohey's throat and pushed gently until a
trickle of crimson ran down the thick neck.
"Talk," I said quietly, "or I'll cut your throat myself."
Qohey had shrunk back as far as he could in the heavy chair.
"Seek him then, assassin," he sneered. "Seek him in the dungeons of
the Owner of Owners."
"Keep talking," I prompted.
"The Great Owner commanded that the slave be brought to him ... at the
Palace of Sapphires by the Shallow Sea."
"Has this Owners' Owner got a name?"
"Lord Ommodurad," Qohey's voice grated out.
"When did he go?"
"Yesterday."
"You know this Sapphire Palace, Torbu?"
"Sure, but the place is tabu; it's crawlin' with demons and warlocks.
The word is, there's a curse on the--"
"Then I'll go in alone," I said. I put the knife away. "But first I've
got a call to make at the spaceport at Okk-Hamiloth."
"Sure, Owner Drgon. The port's easy. Some say it's kind of haunted too
but that's just a gag; the Greymen hang out there."
"We can take care of the Greymen," I said. "Get fifty of your best men
together and line up some air-cars. I want the outfit ready to move in
half an hour."
"What about this chiseller?" asked Torbu.
"Seal him up until I get back. If I don't make it, I know he'll
understand."