"Oh, to be sure." Gerda shrugged indifferently as he scooped the coins
back into the bags. He chose three small scraps of wood, scrawled tally
marks on them, and went over to a heavy chest.
Taking a key from his belt, he unlocked the chest and raised its lid. He
looked at the bags lying within, then tossed the new ones on top of
them. As he locked the chest again, he saw Lor go to his account board,
to enter the new collection.
The Officer of the Guard straightened, stretched for a moment, then
glanced critically in at the windlass room. The serfs had secured the
windlass and racked their poles. Now, they were sitting, hunched against
the wall, staring vacantly, in the manner of serfs. The guardroom, its
commander noted, was properly clean. He shrugged and walked out again to
the wharf. Once more, he looked at the iron cliffs opposite him, then
glanced downriver. The merchant barge had disappeared.
* * * * *
Beyond Menstal, the cliffs closed in still farther, to become more
rugged and to form a narrow gorge. Between them, the Nalen took a
tortuous course, turbulently fighting its way over the rocks.
Eventually, it would drop into the lowlands, to become a broad, placid
river, lowing quietly under the sunshine to water the fields of Orolies.
But during its passage through the mountains, it would remain a dark,
brawling torrent.
The merchant barge swept through the rapids just beyond Menstal, her
polemen deftly preventing disaster against the rocks. At last, as the
gorge became a little wider, the steersman guided his course toward a
small beach beneath the cliffs. With his free hand, he thoughtfully
rubbed his injured cheek.
As the boat's keel grated against gravel, he shook his head and stepped
forward. For a moment, he fumbled under a thwart, then he brought out a
small case.
"Konar," he called, "fix this thing up for me, will you?" He opened the
case and laid it on the thwart.
One of the polemen laid his stick down and came aft.
"Pretty nasty clip, wasn't it, sir?"
Meinora grinned. "Guy's got a heavy hand, all right," he admitted. "Made
me dizzy for a second. Almost got mad at him."
Konar raised an eyebrow. "I felt it," he said. "Good thing Ciernar and I
backed you up a little. Wouldn't help us much to knock out the baron's
river detachment right now, would it?" He reached into the case.
"Looks as though the merchants weren't exaggerating, if you ask me," he
added. He approached Meinora, a small swab in his hand.
"Hold still, sir," he instructed. "This'll sting for a few seconds." He
dabbed at the cut cheek, then reached back into the case for an
instrument.
"Ouch!" Meinora winced. "Did you have to use that stuff full strength?
After all, I can wait a couple of hours for it to heal." He shook his
head as his companion turned back toward him, then dashed involuntary
tears from his eyes and blinked a few times to clear his vision.
"No," he added, "the merchants aren't exaggerating a bit on this one.
Bel Menstal's a pretty rough customer, and he keeps rough boys. Now,
we'll see whether he's the guy we've been looking for, the guy with our
equipment."
Konar focused the small instrument on his superior's face, passing it
along the line of the jagged cut. "You didn't explain that part."
"Simple enough." Meinora grinned wolfishly. "Those coins were a
Vadris-Kendar alloy. Now that they're out of their force field, they'll
start to sublimate. In a couple of hours or so, they'll be gone, and
someone will be asking a lot of questions. Set up the detectors. If the
baron is the boy we think he is, we should be getting a fairly strong
reading shortly after that guard's relieved."
* * * * *
From somewhere atop the cliff, a bell tolled. The hoarse voice of the
lookout drifted down to the wharf.
"Relieve the guard."
Nal Gerda looked up. A line of men were coming down the steep path,
stepping cautiously as they wound about the sharp turns. Gerda nodded
and walked back into the guard room.
"Draw up your guard," he ordered.
He beckoned to two of the serfs.
"Take the chest," he directed, "and stay close in front of me."
Herding the bearers before him, he went out to the wharf. His guard was
drawn up in their proper station, facing upstream, so that they could
view both the steps from the cliff and the river. No traffic was in
sight in the long gorge.
The new guard came slowly down the trail, formed at the foot of the
steps, and marched to the tower portal. Their commander dressed their
ranks, motioned to his clerk, and came forward, saluting as he
approached Gerda.
"Anything unusual?"
"Nothing," Gerda told him. "Seven barges, this watch. Traders are
gathering for the fair at Orieano."
"I know," the other agreed. "We'll have rich collections for the rest of
the summer, what with fairs all down the valley. You'll be going to the
Orieano Fair?"
"Got my permission yesterday. I'm to ride with the Baron. Have to give
the merchants back part of their money, you know."
"Yes, I suppose so." The other grinned, then sobered. "I'll relieve you,
sir."
"Very good." Gerda saluted, then turned.
"March off the old guard," he ordered.
The men started up the steps. Gerda followed the serfs with the money
chest, bringing up to the rear.
Slowly, they toiled their way up the trail, halting at the halfway point
for a brief rest. At last, they were at the top of the cliff. Before
them, the castle gate opened. Within the tunnellike passage through the
wall, two sentries grounded their pikes.
Gerda nodded to his clerk, accepted the account tablet, and followed his
serfs, who still bore the money chest, into the castle.
Inside the main counting room, his bearers set the chest on a large
table. The castle steward came toward them.
"And how were collections?"
"Reasonably good, sir. Seven barges came through during the night, with
good cargoes." Gerda held out the tablet.
The steward looked at it, checking off the entries. "Meron, of
Vandor--Yes, he would have about that. And Borowa? A thousand?" He
nodded thoughtfully. "That seems about right for him." He tapped the
tablet a few times, squinting at the last name on the list. "But who is
this Teron? I never heard of him. Must have had a rich cargo, too."
Gerda laughed shortly. "He's a new one to me. He tried to get away with
a tenth, then protested the valuation. I fined him an extra five
hundred."
"Oho!" The steward smiled thinly. "What then?"
Gerda shook his head. "Oh, he was suddenly so anxious to pay the right
amount, he gave me forty-eight teloa overweight. I'll know him next time
I see him, I'm sure. I marked him well for receipt."
He inspected his knuckles reflectively, then took the key from his belt
and opened the chest.
"You'll want to verify my count, of course?"
"Oh, yes. Yes, to be sure. Have to be certain, you know. And there's
your share of the fine and overpayment to be taken care of." The steward
reached into the chest, removing bags which clinked as they were dropped
to the table. He stopped, to look into the chest with a puzzled
expression on his face.
"And what are these?" He reached in, to withdraw three obviously empty
bags. He looked curiously at the thongs which tied their mouths, then
shook them and looked questioningly at Gerda.
"Why, I ... I don't know." Gerda looked incredulously at the bags.
"Certainly, I had no extra money bags."
"I should think not." The steward frowned, then beckoned behind him. Two
heavily armed guards approached.
"We'll have to examine into this."
As the guards came close to Gerda, the steward looked closely at the
bags on the table, then picked one up, opening it.
"Borowa," he muttered after looking inside and comparing the tally chip
with the count tablet. He weighed the bag in his hand. "Yes, it seems to
be about right. Certainly not overweight." He picked up another, then
still another. At last, he looked up.
"Of course, I shall have to count all of these carefully," he remarked
grimly, "but I see no coin from this Teron you have listed." He stared
coldly at Gerda. "And the tower lookout confirms that you had seven
barges. That was a considerable amount. What did you do with that
money?"
"Why, I counted it. It was all there." Gerda shook his head
unbelievingly. "My count agreed with that of my clerk, and I dropped
tallies in and closed the bags again." He looked uneasily at the two
guards who flanked him. "Surely, you don't think I'd be so foolish as to
tamper with the Baron's taxes? Think, man! I know the Baron's ways!"
"I'm not sure just what I think--yet." The steward shook his head. He
picked up one of the empty bags, opened it, and gave it a shake. The
small tally chip fell out and he picked it up, comparing it with the
list on the tablet. Frowning thoughtfully, he opened the other two bags.
More small blocks of wood fell out. He looked at the bags, then tossed
them aside and looked coldly at the guard officer.
"It's witchcraft," cried Gerda. "I had nothing----"
"We'll see." The steward motioned at the two guards. "Search this man."
* * * * *
Dazedly, Gerda stood still, submitting as one of the guards went through
his clothing while the other stood ready to deal with any resistance.
The searcher made a thorough examination of Gerda's clothing, muttered
to himself, and went over his search again. A pile of personal objects
lay on the table when he had finished. At last, he looked at the
prisoner, then faced his chief.
"He has nothing on him, sir, not even a teloa."
"So I see." The steward frowned, then looked at Gerda.
"You may reclaim your possessions now, captain. Is there any chance that
your clerk might have opened the money chest?"
Gerda shook his head. "I don't see how he could, sir, unless he had a
duplicate key, and that's hardly possible. I kept the chest locked at
all times, and the key never left my person."
"And there is no chance that any of your men could have hidden anything
on the way here?"
Again, Gerda shook his head. "None," he said positively. "I was behind
them all the way, and would have seen if any had made any unusual
motion."
"Very well." The steward clapped his hands sharply.
There was a clatter of arms, followed by the scuffle of feet. Across the
room, a door opened and a detachment of the castle guard filed in.
Their leader stepped forward, saluting the steward.
"There is a river watch outside," he was told. "Disarm them, take them
to a cell, and search them thoroughly. A considerable amount of coin has
been stolen. Report to me when you have finished."
"Yes, sir." The group filed out.
The steward turned to Gerda again.
"This matter must be examined carefully," he declared. "You may have
been the victim of witchcraft, of course, though I doubt it, never
having witnessed such a thing. Or one of your men may have worked out a
cunning method of theft, an occurrence which I have witnessed many
times. Or, there's the other possibility." He stroked his chin. "After
all, you were the rearmost man, and the one none other would observe."
Gerda looked at him fearfully.
"This may become a matter for the Baron's personal attention," continued
the steward. He looked sharply at Gerda. "How long have you been in the
Baron's service?"
"Why, you know that, sir. Ten years, ever since I----"
"Yes, yes, I remember. And you know how hopeless it is to try to deceive
the Baron?"
"Yes, sir." Gerda swallowed painfully.
"But you still insist you had nothing to do with the disappearance of
this money?"
Gerda spread his hands. "I can't understand it, sir. But I had nothing
to do with it myself. As I told you, we collected it, listed it, counted
it, and I put it in the chest and locked it up." He shook his head
again. "It's witchcraft, sir."
The steward leaned back, a slight smile playing about his lips.
"Witchcraft is good enough for serfs," he said smoothly, "but you and I
are intelligent men. We have had collection money disappear before, many
times. Almost always, there has been the cry, 'It's witchcraft!' And
always there has been a more simple, worldly explanation." He snapped
his lingers and a page hurried forward.
"A cup of wine," ordered the steward. "This questioning is thirsty
work." He faced back to Gerda.
"Always," he repeated, "some explanation has been forthcoming. Usually,
I have discovered the errant one--with the help of my guards, of course.
And the criminal has been duly punished. But there have been some few
occasions when the malefactor was so clever as to force the Baron's
intervention." He paused, leaning forward a little.
"And do you know what happened then?"
Gerda's throat was becoming dry. His mouth opened, but he closed it
again.
The page returned, bearing a large cup and a flagon of wine. Carefully,
he filled the cup, then set it before the steward, who lifted it to his
lips, drank, and set it down with a satisfied sigh.
"Thank you, boy. Here is one thing we can produce well in these
mountains." He wiped his lips and turned his gaze to Gerda again. He
shook his head slowly.
"The Baron can detect guilt or innocence in a moment. For a short time,
he questioned the persons brought before him. He soon determined the
guilty ones, and wrung confessions from their wretched lips. We then
took them away, and turned them over to the torturers." He raised the
cup again.
"You know," he added, "I'm told that some of them lasted as long as ten
full days." He shook his head. "I could never understand how the
executioners can put up with such noise for so long. But then, I suppose
one gets used to most anything."
He looked toward the door. "Strange," he murmured, "I wonder what's
keeping Maro so long." He clapped his hands sharply once more, and
waited.
The page dashed to a door and disappeared within. At last, he came back,
holding the door for the leader of the castle guard detachment, who came
forward to salute his superior.
"Have you found anything yet?"
"Nothing, sir. We have stripped them, but they have no unusual things
about them. And we have questioned them. None will admit to seeing or
doing anything other than normal duties."
The steward sighed. "Very well. Secure them, then. I'll call for them
later." He stood.
[Illustration]
"Come, Nal Gerda," he ordered, "unless you have something further to
tell me of this, we must have an audience with the Baron."
* * * * *
Florel, Baron Bel Menstal, sat at his ease. Before him was a dish of
good cakes, beside him, a cup and flagon of good wine. He looked
contentedly around the apartment.
For fourteen years now, he had been lord of this castle. And for
fourteen years, he had busied himself building his forces and increasing
his power and influence in the duchy. He had made himself feared and
respected.
During the past several years, his word had been of great weight in the
Duke's councils. He was now one of the great barons of the realm. He
smiled to himself.
As he had risen in importance, Orieano, the soft holder of the rich
fields to the west, had fallen. The man was getting old--even older than
the Duke himself, and he was tired. And his daughter was the sole heir
to that barony.
Again, Menstal smiled to himself as he thought of the daughter of
Orieano. Next month, at the fair, he would press suit for the hand of
the heiress, and a few months after that he would have control of the
rich farm lands and the trading city.
The girl would probably protest, but that would do her little good. He
knew what fear could do. And he could rouse such fear as to render even
strong men but helpless masses of flesh. The beauteous damsel of Orieano
would be a simple task. None other would dare dispute his claim, and the
Duke would come to support him.
And the Duke himself? Ah, well, perhaps it would be as well to allow him
to finish his life in peaceful possession of his broad fields. But
certainly, the son of Dwerostel would have no word in the control of the
duchy. An accident could be easily arranged, and Flor, one-time woods
beater and scullery boy of Budorn, would become the great Duke he had
long planned to be. No, it wouldn't take too many more years.
He filled himself a cup, and looked complacently into its clear depths.
The tap on the door broke his reverie, and he looked up, annoyed.
He stared impatiently at his castle steward as the man entered and made
obeisance.
"What now, Weron?" He set the cup down. "Must I be bothered with all
your petty problems?"
"This, Excellency, is an unusual problem. A sizable tribute payment has
disappeared without trace. The empty bags were left, and the culprit
has----"
"Enough!" The Baron waved a hand impatiently, then adjusted his golden
coronet to a more comfortable angle. For an instant, his fingers played
with the ornamental bosses.
"Yes, yes, I see," he snapped. "You can spare me your mumbled details.
This man is the officer of the guard?"
"Yes, Excellency." The steward motioned Gerda forward.
Bel Menstal looked sternly at his officer. "Where did you hide your
loot?" he demanded.
Gerda looked incredulously at his master. He had stolen nothing. As far
as he knew, he had done nothing wrong. But he seemed to be condemned in
advance. Something was insistently pressing on his brain, demanding a
confession. He had nothing to confess, but the demanding pressure
remained. He struggled against it, and it grew.
_Admit it. How did you do it? Where is the money?_
The pressure became a tearing force. Gerda swayed weakly.
"I don't know what happened," he insisted. "I told----"
The words stopped as the force became almost unbearably intense. A
sudden, sharp pain tore at Gerda's throat, and blinding light seemed to
strike back of his eyes. Through the glare, he dimly saw the Baron raise
a hand threateningly.
"You claim to have no idea at all how the money was taken, or which of
your men may have been the thief? This is not a sensible attitude."
_You know something. You must know something. Tell it!_
Gerda shook his head miserably, entirely unable to speak. Somehow,
nothing was clear. He remembered that something had gone wrong. Somehow,
he had failed his duty. But how? The room was hazy. Snatches of his last
tour of duty rose to his consciousness, then were abruptly blotted
out--gone. The faces of his clerk and of the men-at-arms came out of the
haze for an instant. Then, they, too, were gone.
The room seemed to spin and an irresistible force bore him to the floor.
As he slowly was pressed downward, he wondered who he was--why he was
here--what had happened. Then, the floor came at him with blinding speed
and he ceased to wonder. The haze about him scintillated and became
impenetrable darkness.
The Baron looked down at the crumpled form.
"Take this man away, Weron," he ordered. "He knew nothing." He stroked
his hair. "When he recovers, assign him to some unimportant duty in the
castle. Something, of course, that will demand little thought or
spirit."
"And the others, Excellency?"
"Oh, bring them in, one at a time. One of them managed to make a
complete fool of his officer, of course. But I'll find him."
Bel Menstal waved his hand in dismissal, then leaned back in his chair,
watching as his steward directed a pair of men-at-arms. They carried the
limp form from the room.
* * * * *
"There. That'll pick up any power radiation from the castle." Konar
straightened, looking at the small panel.
"Good enough." Meinora leaned over, checking the dials. "See you've set
it for average power."
"Yes, sir. It'll give a flicker indication for low levels and it'll fail
to trip for unaided thought. Not too much chance of an overload,
either."
"That's right. You're learning." Meinora nodded casually. "Well, let's
keep watch on it." He sat down. "Audio alarm on?"
Konar glanced at the panel again. "I remembered it this time." He
grinned, then looked curiously at his superior's cut cheek. The wound
was healing nicely. In an hour or so, there would be no visible trace of
the injury.
"Say, Chief," he asked, "how'd you happen to get slapped?"
"I asked for it." Meinora smiled thoughtfully.
"Yes, sir. I know that. But what was the purpose?"
"This continent has never been thoroughly checked, so we're sampling the
culture. We know a lot about them now, but there's a lot we still have
to know. For example, how do they react to various stimuli? And how much
stimulus is necessary to produce a given action? Of course, we can't
check every individual, but we can pick up a sample from each community
we contact and extrapolate from them." Meinora spread his hands.
"So, I presented a minor irritation to that officer, and he
reacted--fast. He didn't just slap me for effect. He was infuriated at
the insult to his authority. Not only that, but his men expected him to
react in just that manner. I noted that, too. He'd have lost face if
he'd acted in any other way. And the men-at-arms were disappointed when
we gave them no further excuse for violence. We really lost face with
them. There, we have an indication that violence is the expected thing
in this particular castle, which is a community of the duchy. Right?"
"Yes." Konar nodded thoughtfully. "They're not only violent themselves,
but they expect violence from others. I see what you mean. You'll sample
the other baronies?"
"Certainly. As many as we contact. They can tell us quite a bit. We----"
A buzzer interrupted him. Meinora snapped a switch and sat forward
alertly.
A needle quivered, rose from its rest, and swung abruptly across the
meter scale. With an audible ping, it slapped against the stop beyond
the maximum reading.
Meinora looked sharply at the detector set, then turned a selector
switch. The needle moved reluctantly away from the pin, but remained
above the red line at center scale. Meinora grimaced, twisted the
selector again, and adjusted another knob, till the needle came to rest
at center.
He examined the dial readings, frowned incredulously, then turned.
"Look at it," he invited. "It's a wonder he hasn't burned that amplifier
out. It's a heavy duty job, I know. But----"
Konar leaned over his chief's shoulder.
"What an overload! We've found it, all right. But what's going on?"
"Let's find out." Meinora flipped a switch. The two men tensed against
the resultant shock and were silent for a time. At last, Konar reached
out to snap the switch off.
"Just raw, crushing force," he said wonderingly. "A ferocious demand,
with no regard for facts, no consideration of mental characteristics, no
thought of consequence." He shook his head slowly. "Never experienced
anything just like that before."
"With the power he's using," Meinora remarked, "it's a wonder he doesn't
upset every mind in his castle." He snapped the detector off.
"Including his own." Konar nodded and looked at the dial settings. "One
thing's sure. This boy never had any instruction." He stepped back.
"Well, we know he has it. What's the procedure?"
Meinora was frowning thoughtfully. He stroked his injured cheek, then
shook his head.
"We certainly let that guard officer in for something," he mused. "Have
to pick him up and give him therapy, I think." He looked at Konar. "Oh,
procedure?"
"Yes, sir. Do we catch him alone and proceed as we did with the last
one? That worked with no trouble."
"No, I don't think it'd work out so well in this case. If I caught it
right, this one's almost never by himself outside his apartment. Likes
to impress his personality on people." Meinora looked at the detector
set, then around at the younger man beside him.
"You know, I got some interesting side thoughts just now. Maybe we can
do two jobs in one this time. It'll take a little longer, but it might
save time in the long run."
The communications operator came over. "Not another of those?" he asked
with a grin.
Meinora nodded. "I'm just dreaming up a nice, dirty trick," he admitted.
"Tried something like it once before, on a smaller scale. It worked." He
stood up, stretching.
"The fair's going to be on at Orieano in a little while, right?"
"Yes. Be a pretty big affair, too, I think. Why?"
"And the Duke'll be there, of course, along with most of his court and a
good share of his fighting men?"
"Why, yes, sir. They tell me he's always been there. Don't suppose he'll
skip it this time."
"So, it's perfect. We'll get this set of equipment in public, and with
apparent legitimacy. And in the process, we'll set up social strains
that'll result in this area reorienting itself." Meinora looked around
with a grin.
"Look, call Barskor. Tell him to pick us up with the flier. We'll go
down to the hills south of Orieano. Tell you about it on the way."
* * * * *
The last of the river guards was carried out, head dangling limply from
the arms of one of the bearers. Bel Menstal sat back in his chair,
frowning. Abruptly, he turned on his steward.
"None of them knew a thing," he snarled. "None of them. There's
something funny going on here."
The steward's face was drawn. Dizzying forces had assailed him, and he
had almost collapsed several times during the questioning. He tried to
gather his hazy thoughts. Too many kept coming too fast.
"Yes, Excellency," he agreed. "Maybe it _is_ witchcraft."
Bel Menstal's face darkened. "Nonsense," he growled, rising part way out
of his chair. "Witchcraft be damned! There's some explanation to this,
and I'm going to find out what it is."
"Yes, Excellency."
The Baron looked up, then stared contemptuously at his man.
"Yes, Excellency," he mimicked in a singsong voice. "Always 'Yes,
Excellency.' Haven't you an idea of your own?"
"Yes, Excellency, I----"
"Inept fool! There's an explanation to this, I tell you. And peasant
superstition has no part in it. You should have found it. But no! You
came, dragging a whole detachment of guards in for me to question. Me,
the Baron! I have to do all the work--all the thinking. I tell you, I
want men about me who can think and act."
He got out of his chair and circled the table, striding close to the
steward.
"I'll give you one more chance, Weron. Go out and find what happened to
that money. I don't care how you do it, and I'm not going to be bothered
with your petty details. But find out where that money has gone. Is that
simple enough for you to understand?"
"Yes, Excellency." Weron backed toward the door. "I'll----"
Reckless fury shook Florel. Suddenly, he felt an irresistible craving
for direct, violent action. He picked a dagger from his belt.
"You're not only a fool," he shouted, "but a spineless one, as well. I
think I'll have to get another steward. A good one." He raised the
dagger, then paused.
"Here, weakling. You'd like to use this, wouldn't you? But you lack the
will. That's why you're a mere lackey." Abruptly, he threw the weapon at
Weron.
"Try it, fool. Try it, and see how a real man protects himself."
He stalked toward the steward.
The man cringed away, then, pressed by his master, suddenly sobbed with
rage. He raised the dagger. Bel Menstal, protected by his body shield,
brushed the stroke aside.
"Ha!" He snatched the weapon. "You would try it?"
Weron threw his arms before him, trying to ward off the blows, then
slumped as the blade sank into his flesh.
Bel Menstal struck the sagging body a few more times with the dagger,
then threw the weapon on top of the inert form.
"Ho, Guards," he shouted, flinging the door open.
He went back to his chair and watched as the guards came in. In
obedience to his gesture, they carried the one-time steward from the
room. The door closed, and Bel Menstal was alone. Slowly, the
stimulation of the encounter faded, and he shook his head.
It had been pleasant for a few minutes, he thought, but he had solved
nothing.
Could it be that searchers from his native land had at last found him?
He frowned. No, they wouldn't use some devious method, even supposing
they could find some way of corrupting his household. They would simply
expose him and accuse him before the Duke. They'd storm his castle if
necessary, to take him by force. This was something else. He would have
to think. He put his elbows on the table, cupping his face in his hands.
* * * * *
The great market square at Orieano was crowded. Colorful tents hid most
of the cobblestones, and the rest of the pavement was obscured from view
by the droves of people. Merchants and their assistants hovered about,
each endeavoring to outdo the rest in enticing the swarming crowd into
his tent. Jugglers and mountebanks competed for attention, outdoing even
themselves in their efforts to gain the ears, the eyes, and the coins of
the mob of bargain hunters.
At one side of the square, the cattle mart was drawing many, who
listened to the noise of the beasts and the shouts of the vendors. Some
paused to bargain. Others simply strode about, still looking for the
things they had come to seek out. Here and there, a cutpurse slunk
through the crowd, seeking his own type of bargain--an unwary victim.
The Duke of Dwerostel rode into the market, conscious of a buzz which
rose to a loud hum. The bellowing of beasts, the cries of vendors, the
scuffling of many feet, all blended into one great sound--the voice of
the fair.
The Duke listened contentedly. Here, he thought, was activity. Here, his
chamberlain would find the things he had been ordered to get that the
comfort of the castle might be furthered. And here was a certainty of
tolls and taxes, which would enrich the duchy.
He continued at the head of his retinue, through the center of the
square. Time enough to take close note of the market later. Now, he
wished to get to the castle of Orieano, where he would take refreshment
after his trip.
He looked up at the heights above the town. Pennants were flying from
the stone battlements. And he could see the tiny figures of the guard.
His presence in the town had certainly been noted. He rode to the other
side of the square, and led his company up the steep, winding road to
the castle's town gate.
The sentries grounded their pikes and stood rigidly as the ducal escort
rode through the gate, the pennons on their lances flying with the
breeze of their passage. The ducal party swept through the outer ward,
through the inner wall, and came to a halt before the keep.
The Baron of Orieano waited before his keep. He came forward, bowing low
before his liege, then steadied a stirrup as the Duke dismounted. He
waved toward the dinning hall.
"Your Excellency will grace us with his presence at meat?"
The Duke gestured to a page, who took the charger's reins to guide the
beast away.
"It would be pleasing to us," he said.
He nodded graciously and followed his vassal into the hall. He nodded in
approval at the long tables, waited until the clanging of the welcoming
salute subsided, and went to the elevated table set for his use and that
of his Baron.
He sat down, looking over the company. A glint of gold caught his eye,
and he looked curiously at two men who sat a little way down the table.
These two were elegantly turned out, their long cloaks thrown back to
expose richly embroidered cloth. The Duke examined them closely.
Obviously, here was one of the great western nobles, with an almost
equally noble companion. The golden circlet proclaimed the identity of
one, and the proud bearing and rich dress of both confirmed their
station. Somehow, the Duke thought, these two presented a far more
imposing appearance than his vassal, the Baron Bel Menstal, despite that
Baron's overwhelming personality.
He thought of his hard fighting border protector. Of course, he had far
to come, and the way through the mountains could be difficult. But it
was a little strange he was not yet here.
The Duke remembered some of the resentful gazes he had noted during his
passage through the fair. He must have words, he decided, with Bel
Menstal. Possibly the man was a little too eager to collect his road and
river taxes. Possibly this hard man of his was too hard, too grasping.
Of course, he held a valuable bastion against the tribes of the
Ajerical, but----
He shrugged away his thoughts and devoted his attention to the dishes
before him.
* * * * *
As the Duke took up his food, the waiting company commenced reaching for
dishes. Konar turned toward Meinora with a slight smile.
_"Got 'em well trained, hasn't he?"_
_"That he has. Another note for our cultural information."_
_"When do you want me to talk to him?"_
_"After he's finished his main courses and got a few cups of wine in
him. Our boy'll be delayed for a while, you know. We've plenty of time
to let Orieano fill the Duke in before Bel Menstal arrives."_
Klion Meinora turned his attention to the trencher before him for a
moment, then looked toward his companion again.
_"Notice the girl sitting by the Baron?"_
_"You mean Orieano's daughter?"_
_"Precisely. Don't give her any cause for fear. Don't even make a
sudden move in her presence."_
_"You mean----?"_
_"I do. She could become Lady Death, if she got frightened."_
Konar looked toward the elevated table. The girl looked harmless enough.
She was slender, attractive, even delicate looking. But he remembered a
horror-distorted face, a mind-shattering scream, and a blinding flash of
light. He shuddered a little and turned his attention to his food.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
Florel Bel Menstal strode into the hall, looking toward the table head.
The Duke, he noted, was still at table, though he had finished his meal.
Now, he was engaged in earnest conversation with Orieano.
This, Bel Menstal thought, must be checked. Haughtily ignoring the rest
of the company, he paced to the head of the table, where he made
perfunctory obeisance.
"Your Excellency," he greeted. He straightened. "I offer my apologies
for my late appearance. My men had to clear a slide from the way." He
turned toward Orieano.
"You would do well to instruct your serfs in the art of road building.
Their work seems slack."
He faced the Duke again. The overlord set his cup down.
"Bel Menstal," he said gravely, "two nobles of your former land have
come to me to present serious accusations." He rose. "You will accompany
me to the chambers."
Bel Menstal hesitated. His men were outside the castle, of course. It
was against etiquette to bring them inside, especially when the Duke
was present. But there were plenty of them. Possibly he should fight his
way out of here now. Once in his hilltop castle, he would be
impregnable. And his raiding parties could keep the barony in supplies.
Or possibly it would be better to----
He forced his panic down. After all, what could these two do? There
could be little evidence they could offer. Well over twenty years had
passed. He had adopted the ways of the land. Now, he was one of the
Duke's powerful arms. And what could they give to offset that?
Here was no cause for fear. He could bluff his way out of this
accusation, discredit the searchers, and make his position permanently
secure. Possibly it was even better this way. He looked scornfully at
the two men who moved toward him.
They were dressed in the ornate court dress of the Western Empire, he
saw. Unquestionably, these were genuine men of the west. But he was now
of the east. And here, he had established himself, and would soon
establish himself more firmly, while they were mere foreigners. When it
came to it, the Duke would hardly dare be too critical of him.
Confidently, he pushed his way past the nearer of the two westerners, to
follow the Duke to the audience chamber.
As the Duke faced about, one of the newcomers stepped forward.
"There is the man, Excellency," he said positively. "Here is no man of
noble birth. This man is a serf--a mere scullery boy-who murdered his
noble master to steal his insignia. We have searched for many years, for
his crime was so monstrous that no effort could be too great to bring
him to justice." He faced Bel Menstal.
"Flor, serf of Budorn," he said sternly, "your time of reckoning has
come. Hand over the stolen insignia."
The Duke intervened.
"Aren't we going a little fast?" he asked mildly. "He claims to be a
younger son of the Earl of Konewar. Let him speak in his defense."
The stranger nodded. "That we learned, Excellency," he admitted. "And
that is what led us to him, for it is one of the great holes in his
story. We know of Konewar. True, he had two sons, but the younger was
killed several years ago." He paused.
"There is a further bit of evidence I might offer," he added. "And I
feel sure that some study by your chamberlain will bear me out." He
pointed at the coronet worn by Florel.
"That insignia of rank which this man profanes is never given to other
than the rightful heir to a great estate. And then, not until he
succeeds to his title. No younger member of any of our noble families
has ever been allowed the coronet or the belt. Even many large
landholders, such as I, do not have them. Those are reserved for the
heads of the great houses, and there are few of them in existence.
Certainly, no western Earl would desert his holdings to journey to far
lands and to take service with another, not even one so highly placed as
yourself."
The Duke looked sharply at him, then turned his gaze on his vassal.
"These words have the ring of truth," he said. "Can you answer them?
Have you perchance traded upon our unfamiliarity with your home country
to misrepresent your station?"
Flor looked around the room. Possibly there was still time to----Or
possibly he could still face these men down. Only one of them wore a
coronet. He drew himself up arrogantly.
"These are cunning deceivers," he stated positively. "When I left
Konewar, my father himself----"
Meinora raised a hand threateningly. "Your father was never in Konewar,
Serf," he said sternly. "Your father still tends his master's fields in
the hills of Budoris."
Flor snatched his sword from its sheath. This was the unprotected one.
He could be struck with the sword, and perhaps in the confusion, an
escape would be possible.
"That is the last insult," he snarled. "I challenge you to combat, to
test whether you can support your lies."
"Nobles," was the reply, "do not fight with serfs. You should know that.
The great ones, like him," Meinora pointed at Konar, who stood close to
the Duke, "have no contact with such as you. But I am here. And when a
serf becomes insolent, we have ways of punishing him."
Konar smiled a little, pointing a small object as Meinora slipped his
own sword out.
Flor lunged furiously, and Meinora stepped aside. The man had
determination and fierce courage. But he had never bothered to really
learn the use of his weapon. No need, of course. He had never been
compelled to put up a defense. Not till now. The hand weapon held by
Konar would destroy his invulnerability.
Meinora struck suddenly at Flor's hand with the flat of his blade, then
engaged the man's sword with his own, and twisted. The weapon clattered
to the floor and Flor stooped to recover it.
The team chief laughed shortly, bringing the flat of his blade down in a
resounding smack and Flor straightened, involuntarily bringing a hand to
his outraged rear. Again, the blade descended, bringing a spurt of dust
from his clothing. Flor twisted, trying to escape, but his assailant
followed, swinging blow after full armed blow with the flat of his
sword. He worked with cool skill.
It seemed to Flor that the punishing steel came from all directions, to
strike him at will. Blows fell on his back, his legs, even his face, and
he cringed away, trying desperately to escape the stinging pain. Under
the smarting blows, he remembered previous whippings, administered by a
strong-armed kitchen master, and he seemed to smell the stench of the
scullery once more. Suddenly, he sank to his knees in surrender.
"Please, Master. No more, please." He raised his hands, palms together,
and looked up pleadingly.
The Duke looked down in horrified disgust.
"And this, I accepted. This, I made a Baron of my realm." He transferred
his gaze to Konar. Suddenly, he looked feeble and humbly supplicant.
Flor sniffled audibly.
"I know you have come a long way," the Duke said, "but I would ask of
you a favor. I would deal with this miscreant. Your injury is old. It
has been partially healed by time, and it does not involve honor so
deeply as does my own." He shook his head.
"I have abandoned the dignity of my station, and the injury is fresh and
must continue unless I act to repair it."
Konar nodded graciously. "Your Excellency's request is just," he said.
"We but came to reclaim the lost insignia of Budorn." He stepped
forward, taking the circlet from Flor's head. Two guards seized the
prisoner, and Konar tore the belt from the man's waist.
"This insigne must be remounted," he said. "The belt has been dishonored
for too long." He broke the fastenings holding the body shield to the
leather, and threw the heavy strap back at Flor.
"We are deeply indebted to you, Excellency," he added, turning to the
Duke. "If it is your will, we shall remain only for the execution, then
return to our own land."
The Duke sighed. "It is well." He nodded at the guards. "Remove him," he
ordered. "An execution will be held at daybreak."
* * * * *
_"Very good, Konar. You handled that beautifully."_
_"Thanks, Chief. What's next?"_
_"Just keep the Duke busy with bright conversation. Buck up his spirits
a bit. The old boy's had a nasty shock, and unfortunately, he's due for
another one. Too bad, but it's for the best. I'll take it from here."_
* * * * *
Diners looked up curiously as the two guards led Flor through the hall
to the outer door. A few rose and followed as the three men went past
the sentries at the portal, and came out into the sunshine of the inner
ward. Across the cobblestones was the narrow entrance to the dungeon.
Flor looked around despairingly. His charger stood, waiting for the
rider, who would never again--Or would he?
He remembered that he was still carrying the heavy belt that had been so
contemptuously flung at him. When the strap had been thrown, he had
flung a hand up to protect his already aching face. He had caught and
held the belt, and no one had thought to take it from him.
He suddenly swerved his thick shoulders, swinging the heavy strap at the
eyes of one of his guards. With a cry of pain, the man covered his face,
and Flor spun, to swing the strap at the other guard. Before the two men
could recover, he dashed to the side of his mount, swung into the
saddle, and urged the beast into motion.
The wall was low on this side, but Flor remembered it towered high above
the dry moat. And across that moat were the woods, where his men waited.
He urged the beast to full speed, forcing the animal to the top of the
wall and over.
For an almost endless instant, time seemed to stop. The barren moat and
green weeds floated beneath him, and the only reminder of his rapid drop
was the air, which whistled past his ears. Suddenly, motion was restored
again, and they lit with a jarring crash, just at the lip of the moat.
With a cry of agony, the charger pitched forward, pawing at the stones
that had smashed his chest, and throwing his rider over his head. Flor
managed to land uninjured. He picked himself up and ran to the edge of
the forest before he stopped to look back.
Heads were appearing atop the wall. At the edge of the moat, the charger
struggled vainly, then dropped from sight. Flor waved defiantly at the
growing crowd which stared from the high wall.
"The Duke hangs nobody," he shouted, "unless he can catch and hold him."
He turned, to make his way through the trees.
"In fact," he added to himself, "I may yet return to hang the Duke."
He went to the meadow where his escort was encamped.
"We have been betrayed," he shouted. "The Duke plots with the merchants
to destroy Bel Menstal and hang his men. Break camp! We must gather the
forces of the barony."
* * * * *
Baron Bel Orieano looked worried.
"The Duke has sent couriers," he said, "to gather the fighting men of
the duchy. But it will be a long, hard struggle. The serf has gained the
hills of Menstal. He has raised his men, and has dared to attack. Some
say he has enlisted those very hill tribes, from whose depredations he
swore to defend the duchy, and even has them serving under his banner."
He looked at Meinora and Konar.
"The roads of the duchy are no longer safe. Raiding parties appear at
every wooded stretch. Nor can we even be certain that the couriers have
gotten through to Dweros." He shook his head.
"I, of course, am loyal to the Duke. But my forces are few. My barony
has been a peaceful community, having little need for arms."
Meinora smiled encouragingly. "Yet there are fighters here," he said,
"and in plenty."