The Altar at Asconel (11 page)

F
OR THE
last half mile of their trip back to Tharl’s home Eunora stumbled along beside him. She no longer had difficulty keeping up with the man’s longer strides; he had brought himself to the verge of exhaustion.

“Is Tiorin here ahead of us?” he demanded as they came in sight of their goal.

She shook her head. “No one is there but Tharl, and he’s in a terrible state of anxiety. He’s wondering all the time whether he was right to reveal himself to you.”

“But he’s dependable?” Spartak insisted.

“I’m not so sure as I was,” Eunora muttered. “Fear has been working on him ever since we left.”

Spartak glanced at her, and for the first time in their headlong flight noticed that she was clutching something to her with both hands. He didn’t have to ask what it was; he recognized it in the same moment that she realized telepathically he was wondering about it. His medical case, which he had brought away from the ship and assumed to have
been left on the street with the rest of the abandoned equipment.

“I was holding the handle while you were working,” she explained shyly. “And when you picked me up I clung on to it.”

“Well, it’s something,” Spartak sighed. “Go and tap on Tharl’s window, will you, and get him to let us in?”

It was painfully clear from Tharl’s face that fear had indeed been giving him second thoughts since their departure. He hastened to shut the door as they came in, and demanded at once why they were alone.

Spartak told him with crude brevity, and Tharl literally wrung his hands.

“Then you must make off at once!” he exclaimed. “They’ll search the whole town, house by house, and if they find you here it’ll be all up with me, and you as well. You say you have a ship—you must go back there at once and leave Asconel for somewhere safe—”

“I’m not leaving,” Spartak grunted, dropping into a chair. “Not until Tiorin gets here.”

“But if he’s been taken too—”

“If he’s been taken too, there’s no chance of my reaching our ship—they’ll pry the location of it out of my brothers’ minds.”

“Your—your brothers?” echoed Tharl uncertainly.

What point in keeping the secret any longer? If Bucyon’s men had both Vix and Vineta, and possibly Tiorin as well, no disguise could conceal their identity for long. He said wearily, “I’m Spartak, Hodat’s half-brother, and the others were Vix and Tiorin.”

Tharl’s eyes grew round with wonder. “Forgive me!” he babbled. “I didn’t know, I didn’t guess!”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Spartak told him curtly, and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Eunora, you can warn us of approaching search parties, can’t you?”

“I was supposed to warn you of danger down at the temple,” the girl answered, eyes filling with tears again. “And I failed. I’m—I’m terribly sorry, but I was so fascinated—”

“You’re forgiven,” Spartak interrupted. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Excuse my asking,” Tharl ventured, “but how can she—?”

“Warn us? She can, I promise you. She’s a mutant.”

“A mutant!” Millennia of Imperial prejudice sprang up in Tharl’s mind, and he looked terrified.

“Stop it,” Spartak ordered angrily. “She’s of human stock, and that’s more than you can say of Belizuek.”

Curiosity and alarm struggled in Tharl’s mind; the former won. “Did you find out what he is?” he demanded.

“I think so. He’s a living creature, presumably capable of being killed; he requires to be housed in an air-tight compartment in which the oxygen is far below our normal air; he’s very large, and I suspect he’s effectively larger than any creature we’ve ever had to deal with before. And he’s intelligent.

“But he is also insane.”

Tharl turned that over and finally shook his head.

“What he is, in fact,” Spartak amplified, “is the last survivor—in our galaxy at least—of the race from whom we inherited our starships.”

Tharl stiffened. Spartak foresaw the objection he was about to voice, and went on crossly, “Oh, don’t give me that nonsense about an insult to human achievement! The idea that we built our own is a piece of Imperial propaganda. I’ve studied ten years on Annanworld, and I’m satisfied that we went out from our original system—wherever that was—and found a cache of starships left by a previous race. We converted them to our own use and spread through the galaxy, finding more of them wherever we went, but no other trace of their builders. Not that it matters, really, except that it gives us a set of parameters to define Belizuek.”

He ticked off points on his fingers. “Low oxygen. We have vague records to indicate that our predecessors were oxygen-breathers, as we are, but that they literally used up the resources of their own planets and went elsewhere before they needed to colonize the ones we eventually took over. Telepathic control of another species. This had been proposed as the ultimate in the domestication of animals. It fits. A view of the galaxy—and that’s perhaps the most important thing of all!” He jerked upright in his chair.

“You’ve seen the picture of the galaxy which accompanies
the ‘proof’ during the temple services? Of course you have; it’s a key element and must be received by everyone. Didn’t you notice that it’s an Argian map that it’s based on?”

Tharl could only mumble his answer.

“I tell you it is. Because it shows the Big Dark, and the Big Dark is a recent phenomenon; it’s anomalous, so it’s been carefully studied, and it’s only some ten to twelve thousand years old. And at its present size … well, I’m convinced that Belizuek has only seen human representations of the galaxy. That’s the clincher for me.

“I said he was insane. Why else would he have been left behind when the rest of his species took off for—for wherever? Why else should he descend to this petty shift of domesticating human beings, to move him from star-system to star-system? I got it direct, down in the temple. Conceit! Illimitable megalomaniac craving for power! And he couldn’t get it from his own species, because when he tried he was made an outcast and abandoned on—well, somewhere, presumably on Brinze where Bucyon and the rest came up against him. It’s going to be a very interesting story when it’s told: how he overcame his first victims, how he plotted to spread through the galaxy again …”

“He?” The word was almost a squeak from Tharl.

“I know what you’re trying to say,” Spartak nodded. “If there’s a living creature in every temple of Belizuek, why not speak of ‘they’? This is the final evidence I have for his insanity.

“Equipped with the kind of knowledge and techniques which the Empire enjoyed at the height of its power, it was estimated that a man could breed his kind from his own germ-plasm, artificially, to repopulate an abandoned planet. I have no doubt that Belizuek could do the same if he wished. But he doesn’t wish. He’s afraid of competition. The part of him which is in the Penwyr temple is a second self, not a bred descendant, an offspring. Ten thousand years ago, before we spread through the galaxy, it was open and empty before him! And it took him that, long to make up his mind that he could trust himself on one single other planet besides Brinze! I say he’s insane.”

“I see!” Eunora breathed. “That’s why I had the impression that he was so large in time and space!”

“Exactly. With a vast number of identical selves, he’s consequently telepathic between all of them. The Imperial policy of kicking mutants out to the rim has prevented much study being done on the subject, but it’s known that identity of receptor and transmitter is essential.”

Eunora blinked, but Spartak shot her some wordless qualifications that satisfied her. Not so Tharl.

“Then how does he communicate with us? We’re different!”

“Do you think he eats the sacrifices he’s given?” Spartak said with monumental disgust. “Never. He uses them as a biological amplifier till their brains are burned out, to provide a link between himself and his audience.”

Tharl felt for a chair and lowered himself into it without looking. “And you worked all this out since you arrived? Within the space of a day?”

“I—” Spartak checked. He stared at Eunora, who was giggling.

“You?” he said incredulously.

“Not really,” she countered. “It took your knowledge to solve the problem. But all day since we were in the temple I’ve been asking questions of your subconscious to find out why I felt as I did during the ceremony, and I guess that sort of—well, brought things to your attention.”

Spartak felt sweat prickle on his forehead. “What you’re going to be like when you grow up, I just don’t know! And if we’ve been deporting people like you to the rim ever since the foundation of the Empire, what
can
be going on out there?”

Still, that was irrelevant. He glared at Tharl. “Well, now you know what became of your wife and son; now you know the nature of the beast we’re up against. What are you going to do—order me to leave here and hide like a criminal, or help me further?”

“I don’t see what I can do!” Tharl said helplessly. “If your brothers have been captured, it’ll be known who they are, and—”

Spartak cut him short. “Are you in touch with any centers of resistance on Gard Island? I think you said the main temple, the original one on the planet, was there.”

“Yes-yes, that’s right, but … No, I know of no resistance movement there. It’s become Bucyon’s private preserve.”

“You know the city itself, perhaps?”

“Oh yes. When your brother Vix celebrated the completion of his campaign, he honored me by including me in a party to stand honor guard and general security duty at the Warden’s palace.”

“In that case, we should make for Gard,” Spartak said. “In
any
case we should make for Gard, is what I mean! I can think of nothing else to try except a direct attack on the original Belizuek that was brought to Asconel. A simple, breach in the air-tight container should be enough.”

“So simple?” Tharl breathed. “Why, if I’d known—”

“You’d have gone to the temple here yourself,” Spartak finished for him. “But I doubt if that would have helped; the local Belizueks will only be reflections of the original. No, that’s the key point.” He checked, struck by a sudden thought. “What means would you have used?”

“I’ll show you,” Tharl said eagerly, and went into the next room. There were scraping sounds.

“Under the floor,” Eunora whispered. “A secret cavity.”

And Tharl was back, cradling proudly in his arms a shiny energy gun. “The same with which I served your father and brother, sir,” he announced. “And charged ready for use.”

Spartak pursed his lips. “Here now is your chance to do a far greater service. Will you undertake it?”

Tharl looked extremely unhappy, but he didn’t say anything.

“You must hide us here for at least a day, to give Tiorin a chance to rejoin us—this is the only meeting-place we have. During the daytime, however, you must go out, ask what means we can employ to get to Gard—anything, a boat, a skyboat, whatever can still be hired. And as soon as possible, we’ll go.”

“We, sir?” Tharl ventured.

“I understood your wife and your son—”

“And your brothers, sir.” Tharl placed the butt of the gun on the ground and leaned on it, gazing into nowhere. “I don’t wish to appear a coward—I’m not, believe me!—but
after such a long time, to have a plan of action offered … It takes me aback, you might say.”

Seeing his lower lip tremble, Spartak refrained from pushing him any further. He yawned cavernously. “I must sleep,” he muttered. “Though I’m not sure I can. Eunora—?”

But she had already closed her eyes.

“S
OMEONE
’
S COMING
!” Eunora whispered. “Officials!”

Spartak jolted out of uneasy slumber. The long winter night had not yet given way to dawn, but the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Tharl, up and dressed and carrying a tray of breakfast: hot broth and bread. His face was pale with alarm.

“Searching for us?” Spartak rapped.

Eunora, puzzled, shook her head. “Apparently not. There are four of them going from house to house—one’s a priest, I think, because he’s so arrogant and self-satisfied.…But they aren’t searching any of the houses, just knocking at the doors and telling the people that …”

“Telling them what?” Spartak urged.

The girl bit her lip. “Both Tiorin and Vix were captured. Bucyon’s men know who they are. There’s going to be a grand ceremony at the chief temple on Gard—is that right?—at which they’ll voluntarily give themselves up to Belizuek, and everyone who can is urged to go there and witness this final triumph of Bucyon over those who support Hodat.”

Spartak sat rock-still for long moments. Finally he said with ghastly humor, “At least it means we shan’t be conspicuous if we go there. But do they not know about us?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? If they’ve got an admission of their identity out of them …” Eunora knitted her brows. “I think I understand, though. The priest was already aware that there were three brothers, including you, but he’s taking it for granted that you’ll make a false step and reveal yourself. Then anyone who notices will at once report you.”

“That sounds like them, all right,” Tharl said sourly.
“They know how their dupes behave nowadays. Utter one false word, make one wrong move, and some favor-currying bastard will be off to inform on you.”

“They’re coming closer,” Eunora warned. “Only three or four houses away. We’d better get out of sight.”

Tensely, crouched in the concealment of a closet, they strained their ears for auditory confirmation of what she had detected, and when he let them out again Tharl gave it fresh emphasis.

“Just as the little girl says,” he muttered. “Everyone who possibly can is expected to travel to Gard and see your brothers sacrificed, sir. We’d best make haste, hadn’t we?”

“Not too fast,” Spartak sighed. “Give them a chance to get over the hill, then take some of my money—here—and go book us passage on the fastest available transport.” He took some Imperial coins from his belt-pouch.

“As you say, sir,” Tharl conceded, and served them the meal he had prepared.

He must have been slightly ahead of the rush; he got them all passage on one of the fastest boats left in the northern hemisphere, an elderly skimmer whose engines wheezed so badly she could barely get up on her foils with the load of passengers that crammed aboard, but which was at any rate better than some of the half-rotten fishing-boats in which the latecomers embarked. They must have known, Spartak reflected, that they stood no chance of getting to Gard in time for the ceremony, but either they’d be satisfied to get away from drab poverty-stricken Penwyr for a while, or else the fear of not “showing willing” compelled them to make the gesture and impress the priests. He hoped it was the former, which might indicate they still retained some normal human feelings, but he feared it was more likely the latter.

There was a very bad moment as they approached the dockside towards sunset, shivering in the chill blasts of icy foam that the night wind whipped off the estuary; two priests stood beside the gangway to their skimmer, searching the faces of all those that passed.

“Are they looking for us, Eunora?” Spartak whispered.

“Luckily no,” she murmured in reply. “They’re turning
away people notoriously lax in their temple attendance—this trip is supposed to be a reward for loyal homage. I don’t know what they’re doing about strangers. So few people travel nowaways, they hadn’t considered the problem.”

Tharl drew a deep breath. “Leave this to me, sir,” he suggested, and as they drew near the priests, he pushed his way forward.

“Forgive me, sirs!” he shouted, and their heads turned. “Perhaps you’ll remember, sirs, that when Belizuek first came to honor Penwyr with his presence, my wife and my son were the very first to give him their total service. And I was bitter!” He shook his head in a parody of regret. “I know now it was foolish of me. Why, if the Warden’s brothers themselves have returned and agreed to offer themselves up to Belizuek, what more powerful proof could anyone want that he is indeed the master of us all and truly superior?”

“Clever!” Spartak whispered. “Is it going to work?”

“Oh yes,” Eunora said with a twisted smile. “They’re lapping it up. He’d only better be careful he doesn’t over-do it—one of them is thinking of singling him out for some special temple duty.”

If they had been aware that the long bundle of clothing and provisions slung over Tharl’s shoulder contained the energy gun he had produced last night, they would have been a deal less eager. But Belizuek was far away from the docks, and these were only human dupes.

Tharl came to rejoin them when they were securely aboard, wiping sweat from his face, and blushing faintly at Spartak’s warm compliments.

“Too early for that, sir,” he countered. “We haven’t even cast off yet.”

In one way at least he was right. That voyage was among the most dreadful experiences of Spartak’s entire life. To be with these three or four hundred people who laughed and sang ribald songs while they passed canteens of precious wine and the typical Penwyr sour beer as they might on any festival excursion—then, to remember with a jolt the excuse for such jollification: the planned sacrifice of his brothers, including Vix whom many of these people had served in the old days, whom they had cheered as the
son of his father, the late Warden, and brother of Hodat the heir-apparent … that was like living a nightmare. And all the time Eunora was alert for some keen-eyed person to pierce his disguise.

The chances of his being betrayed receded somewhat when the word got about that he was a doctor, and a mother whose child was sensitive to seasickness came begging his help. The little boy recovered at once when Spartak tended him, and after that a shy succession of patients surrounded him, asking help and advice for an incredible range of complaints.

Spartak’s fury burned inside him like a coal. When he left Asconel for Annanworld, there had been no one hungry, no once sick except with mild infections which could never be wholly eliminated, and certainly no one suffering from the deficiency diseases. Yet time and again when he examined those who now presented themselves, he saw that their need was not for drugs, but for soap and water and a proper diet.

Weeping sores. Ulcers. Gums sickly-sweet with pus. Children’s bones twisted into awkward curves. Eyes matted with a dirty yellow discharge. So the tale went on. More than once, as he was on the point of bursting out at some silly fool about the true reason for his condition, Eunora caught his eye and gave an almost imperceptible headshake, implying, “Don’t! He’ll go to the priest at once.”

The priest—there was apparently always one aboard any passenger vessel on Asconel nowadays—came to Spartak in the end; that encounter was hardly to be avoided. He put a number of curious questions which Spartak deftly dodged, trying to give the impression that the priest was making himself look ignorant by not knowing the answers already, and in the end the trick worked and the priest made off, embarrassed without being sure why.

It was established beyond a doubt that half the people who had set off from northern islands like Penwyr would never get to Gard in time, when they started to raise the traffic from the nearer ports the next day. The sea seemed to be crawling with passenger vessels; there were even skyboats overhead, the first Spartak had seen since
his return. All were converging on Gard for the ceremony. Winter was behind them at this latitude; the sky was blue and the sun mild and warm.

The tremendous strain the influx of visitors—pilgrims, perhaps, would be a closer term, Spartak reflected sourly—put on the resources of Gard city worked in their favor. With boats crowding into the port and disembarkation reduced to a panicky rush down the gangplanks so that room could be made for the next vessel, the guards and priests who supervised the travelers could not hope to keep control. Moreover, here was no poverty-stricken provincial town; Bucyon clearly liked his luxuries as much as anyone, and everything worked, to the wonder of the stranger children. Food was abundant, on quayside stalls and in the city’s stores; gaudy posters, banners and streamers decorated the buildings for the great day tomorrow, and relic hawkers offered—when there were no priests in sight—such precious items as hairs from Bucyon’s beard and Lydis’ nail-clippings.

Spartak, taken in at first by this deception, was half-minded to buy one of the relics and put it under the microscope to see if Lydis’ alleged mind-reading powers were due to a cellular mutation; then he realized these were frauds to trap the credulous.

His heart ached as he beheld his former home. His knuckles whitened on the handle of the medical case he carried, now much depleted after the voyage.

“If I could only get next to Bucyon!” he whispered.

“Not a chance,” Tharl muttered, glancing around to make sure they were not overheard as they trudged, with thousands of others, towards the center of the city. Ahead, the streets were in full operation, and there were delighted squeals from the youngest children who had never seen a molecular-flow street before. “He’s always guarded very strictly. And Lydis, who can read thoughts, never leaves his side.”

“Where is the temple?” Spartak demanded.

“It used to be the Place of Grand Assembly,” Tharl told him. “You know it, of course.”

Spartak did indeed. There he had witnessed the seating of Hodat in the Warden’s chair, the last day he had stayed on Asconel before his departure, and Vix’s and Tiorin’s too.
It was a vast open horseshoe of seating: the inner rows for dignitaries, the outer for the public.

He came to a decision, arranged a meeting-place with Tharl for later, and sent him off to find them a place to stay. Then he and Eunora went straight to the temple.

It had not been altered much to accomodate its change of function. Behind it loomed the dark shape of the Warden’s palace, now Bucyon’s home. The Warden’s chair had been moved forward to make room for a huge gilded dome. Inside there dwelt Belizuek: the original self of which all the local Belizueks were only reflections. The size of the dome took him aback. Either this Belizuek was a monster, or there were several layers of armor around him, in which case would even an energy gun … ?

He checked himself. Before making any more plans, he needed to get details of the planned ceremony. There was a gang of men at work assembling a high dais close to the Warden’s chair; it only required a few friendly words and the flash of a five-circle coin to get one of them to part with the full program.

This was to be the place where Vix and Tiorin were displayed to any in the crowd who might doubt their identity, and from which they would state their intention of entering voluntarily into the “full service” of Belizuek. Bucyon and Lydis would be present; they would leave the palace in ceremonial procession at such a time, reach the temple at such another time, begin the ritual at such another time. …

Spartak seized on the crucial point that they would leave their groundcar at the far end of the horseshoe. He tipped their informant and returned thither. There were many idle sightseers around, so they attracted no special attention.

“I have it!” he whispered, and snapped his fingers. He shot a glance at Eunora. “Will it work?”

“I—don’t know.” She was very pale. “Can you get Tharl to the right place with his gun?”

“I’m sure I can. I was raised in the Warden’s palace, remember, and that dominates the far end of the Assembly. But am I asking too much of you?”

“I don’t think so,” Eunora murmured. “Until I meet Lydis
face to face I can’t be sure. But I had a lot of practice in dissembling back home. I think even to a mind-reader I may—may!—be able to tell a lie.”