The Traitor's Daughter (2 page)

The Overmind lived on, and yet its power was shattered. The strength of mankind waxed, and the Inhabitants were driven forth from the heart of the Veiled Isles, their faint remnant finding refuge in the northern wilderness that is now called the Wraithlands. And men, deeming these former lords of the land utterly and forever vanquished, soon set them from mind. But the wise forgot neither the terror of the Overmind in all its strength, nor the mutable character of the Source, and the peril that lay therein. Always they kept watch for the signs of—

“Leftover.” The metallic tones of the automaton sliced atmosphere. “Leftover, once known as Grix Orlazzu. Our discussion is not finished.”

“Yes, it is, Junior.”

“Do not call me Junior. Your discourtesy offends me. Set the manuscript aside. You have not yet heard the second of my demands.”

Orlazzu did not trouble to reply. His eyes remained fixed on the page, but the voice of his creation was not to be excluded.

“You will teach me to read,” announced the automaton. “You owe me as much. I will not be deprived of the knowledge.”

A crease appeared between Orlazzu’s eyes. He studied the manuscript devotedly.

“I will no longer submit to injustice.” The automaton folded its arms. “My mind is hungry. You are obligated to feed it.”

Orlazzu read on:

—for the signs of the great reversal that turns the Source backward upon itself, restoring the world to its former order and the great Overmind to its lost glory. For in that hour of reversal lies the sure and certain downfall of mankind
.

“You will teach me to read.” With a clank of gears the automaton rose from its chair to approach its creator. “It is your duty to teach, and my right to learn.” Receiving no response, it jogged the other’s shoulder. “You will not deny me.”

Goaded, Orlazzu finally answered through gritted teeth, “Very well, you plodding heap of scrap. Anything to silence you. Watch the page and try to follow along as I read aloud; perhaps you’ll learn something. Now hold your peace and pay attention.” He drew a calming breath and recommenced aloud,
“Three times since the great vigil began, the wise have witnessed the portents of impending reversal, these portents including—”

“Who are these so-called wise?” demanded the automaton. “What makes them think themselves so wise?”

“These portents including the violent disruption of arcane activity—”

“What does that mean?”

“The great confusion among men, quasi-men, and beasts, whose minds are stolen—”

“What are quasi-men?”

“The wrath of the raging plague, and the dreadful presence of the walking dead.”

“A plague is a malady, devoid of emotion. It has no wrath, and it cannot rage. And the dead do not walk. Why do you heed such foolery?”

“You flaunt your ignorance, Junior. The portents have already reappeared, as you would know, were you capable of intelligent observation.”

“I would pit my eyes of clear, flawless glass against your blobs of clouded jelly any day, Leftover.”

“Three times the wise of the Veiled Isles have marshaled their forces,”
Orlazzu grimly resumed,
“sending forth the greatest adepts from those Six famous Houses known to possess arcane talent of the highest order. And these Six Houses are House Corvestri, House Belandor, House Pridisso, House Steffa, House Zovaccio, and House Orlazzu—”

“Orlazzu.” The automaton’s inner works whirred thoughtfully. “I possess a famous name. Why have you sought to conceal this from me?”

“Three times, the combined abilities of six men and women of knowledge have effected the arcane cleansing that forestalls impending reversal of the Source—”

“What is an arcane cleansing? What does that mean?”

“Thus preserving the natural order that is essential to mankind, yet anathema to the Overmind. So has it continued throughout the ages, but human vigilance must never slacken, lest—”

The sudden descent of a steel-jointed leathern hand upon the manuscript cut the reading short.

“What now?” Orlazzu inquired, affecting boredom.

“You ignore my questions.” The automaton’s face was tight with indignation. “I will have answers. I am resolved.”

“Take your hand off that manuscript, Junior.”

“Not until I receive the respect and consideration that I deserve.”

“Take your hand off that manuscript right now.”

“I will not obey. You possess no authority over me. You are not my superior. Quite the contrary, Leftover.”

“Listen, you rusted chamber pot.” Orlazzu rose from his chair to face his creation. They were of identical stature. “That chronicle you’re abusing is priceless and irreplaceable. If you so much as crease a single page—”

“Are you threatening me? I will not endure threats. Observe.” Plucking the manuscript from the table, the automaton stepped back to the hearth. “Threaten me again, and I will throw these old papers into the fire. See if I do not.”

Orlazzu strove to compose himself. Following a moment’s pause, he suggested gently, “Destruction accomplishes nothing.”

“That is a matter of opinion. Now you will apologize.”

“If I apologize, will you return that manuscript intact?”

“We shall see. Now you will apologize, and promise upon your honor that you will never again address me as Junior.”

“Agreed. No Junior.”

“You will call me by the name that is rightfully mine. I am Grix Orlazzu, the improved, authentic, and true Grix Orlazzu. Say it, Leftover.” His creator hesitated, and the automaton flourished the hostage manuscript above the flames. “Say it.”

Inwardly plotting revenge, Orlazzu obeyed.

“Now you will apologize. Then we shall resume my reading lesson, and you will answer all my questions properly.”

Again Orlazzu hesitated, and that silent moment was broken by an urgent thud of knocking at the door. No one had knocked at his door in years, which was the way he preferred it, but now he almost welcomed the interruption. He answered the summons at once, opening up to confront a naked amphibian some half a head shorter than himself, hairless and green of skin. A Sishmindri male, nearly mature, upright and fully biped, its gills entirely absorbed, its cartilaginous brow ridges still quite prominent—in short, at the stage of development when it most nearly resembled a human being, and would therefore have fetched the highest price on the open market in Vitrisi or any other of the big cities.

“Yes, what do you want?” Orlazzu’s brusque tone discouraged intrusion. He spoke in classical Faerlonnish, which many of the Sishmindris knew, but the visitor displayed no sign of understanding. He repeated the query in the guttural amphibian tongue.

Still no sign of recognition, but the Sishmindri’s vocal air sacs swelled, as if he strove to speak.

Orlazzu gazed into protuberant golden eyes unnaturally glazed. The green skin, ordinarily moist and clammy, appeared dry. Waves of heat rolled off the cold-blooded body.

“You are ill,” he stated, adding with reluctance, “You may come in.” The invitation would not have been extended to a fellow human being. He stepped back from the doorway, and the Sishmindri stumbled in. A slow string of unintelligible syllables dripped from the lipless mouth. Orlazzu listened, frowning.

“What is that thing? What does it say?” asked the automaton.

Orlazzu shook his head. A beep of impatience escaped his simulacrum.

The Sishmindri tottered to the middle of the room, where it paused, distended vocal sacs quivering. Croaking speech emerged.

“I asked you, what does it
say?
Why is it here? What does it
want
?”

Orlazzu held up one hand, wordlessly enjoining silence.

The Sishmindri surveyed his surroundings without comprehension. He wobbled and would have fallen had not his host caught his arm.

The greenish flesh burned. “You are ill,” Orlazzu repeated distinctly. “Lie down. Come.” He steered the other toward the bed.

The Sishmindri resisted, arms flailing. His croaks rose to delirious soprano pitch. Orlazzu released the creature at once.

“Easy,” he soothed. “Nothing to fear, my friend.”

“You have never called
me
your friend,” observed the automaton. “You have always been distant. You have not made me feel cherished.”

The Sishmindri’s auditory membranes vibrated, and the glazed golden eyes sought the source of the mechanical voice. Croaking fervently, the amphibian advanced.

“Stand back,” the automaton commanded. “I do not like others close about me.”

The warning went unacknowledged.

The Sishmindri’s hands closed on two homespun shoulders. Drawing himself near to stare into amber glass eyes from a distance of inches, he spoke with great emphasis and no intelligibility.

The automaton’s internal cogs clicked sharply.

“Softly,” Orlazzu advised, but the warning came too late; his creation shoved the visitor away.

The Sishmindri staggered backward and fell, striking his head hard on the hearthstone. His limbs jerked for a moment or two; then he lay still.

“You fool, you’ve hurt him.” Orlazzu knelt beside the fallen amphibian. Viscous blue-green fluid oozed from a head wound. He touched the fluid, which was already coagulating. “I think you’ve killed him.”

“The creature presumed to touch me, and I cannot allow that. And don’t call me a fool.”

“I’ll call you worse than that if he dies. Ah, ruination, look at that.”

A long reluctant breath sighed out of the Sishmindri. His body went limp, and his brilliant eyes blanked.

“That’s it, he’s gone.” Orlazzu rose. “Congratulations, you’ve just committed your first murder.”

“That is untrue. He was already malfunctioning and would doubtless have died anyway. Moreover, you misuse the term
murder;
it does not apply to the termination of subhuman life-forms. I do not recognize that creature’s species, but it is certainly not a man.”

“No, he is a Sishmindri, one of the quasi-men that you were asking about a few minutes ago. Displaying every sign of great confusion, exactly as described in
The Drowned Chronicle
, but I suppose that detail escaped your attention. He is—was—a member of a sentient species, the superior of humanity in many respects, and worth ten of you any day of the week, junkheap. And you’ve gone and killed him.”

“Well, and what if I have? It is the fate of all you organic creatures to die. At best you wear out and break down in a matter of decades. Your construction is flimsy, repair is difficult, and replacement parts are not easily obtained. Since you are all going to die anyway, how much difference does it make exactly when and how it happens? The issue is trivial.”

“You would find most of us poor organics slow to agree.”

“Poor organics. Yes. But you yourself are fortunate, Leftover. In me, Grix Orlazzu finds immortality.”

“Which I leave him to enjoy in the solitude he prefers.”

“What is your meaning?”

“I mean that your society does not agree with me. Nor does the shape of things soon to come. I am withdrawing from both.” So saying, Orlazzu pulled a canvas sack from under the bed and began stuffing the most essential of his scanty belongings into it.

“You are leaving me?” the automaton marveled.

“Correct.”

“Alone?”

“Completely.”

“You cannot do that. Your presence is required.”

“For—?”

“You have not yet taught me to read.”

“I don’t doubt the ability of an intellect such as yours to instruct itself.”

“It is your duty to—”

“I leave you my books,” Orlazzu cut the other off. “Not all of them, of course.” Several volumes, scrolls, and notebooks, including
The Drowned Chronicle
, disappeared into the sack. “The cabin and its contents I give to you.”

“They should be mine, but what about—?” The automaton’s gesture encompassed the dead amphibian.

“Yours as well. You must decide what to do.”

“So I shall, for I am Grix Orlazzu, and equal to all occasions.” A belated thought struck the automaton. “Where will you go, then? Back to the city of your birth?”

“No. I remember Vitrisi as beautiful, even in the aftermath of the wars. I suspect it won’t remain so for much longer, and I prefer to preserve my memories.”

“You do not choose to assist your fellow organics?”

“They, like you, must shift for themselves. Their concerns are none of mine. Besides, there’s little I can do by myself. Alone, I haven’t the power.” Orlazzu’s packing was complete. He slung the sack over his shoulder.

“Where, then?”

“Away into the quiet and the isolation. Away from all the chaos that’s coming. Not my doing. Not my business.”

“Farewell, Leftover. You have stepped aside gracefully, and Grix Orlazzu appreciates the gesture. I will not forget your many services. Know that you are always welcome in my home.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Orlazzu’s eyes touched the dead Sishmindri, lingered a regretful instant, and moved on. Without another glance to spare for his home or his mechanical doppelgänger, he exited into a cool dim world of mist and moorland. It was midday, but the perpetual fogs of the Veiled Isles shrouded the sun and blanketed the ground, concealing all landmarks. A stranger would have been lost in that place, but Orlazzu marched unhesitatingly to the mouth of the ravine, ascended a rise, and paused at the summit to gaze south. Many miles distant, beyond the range of the sharpest vision on the clearest day, rose the city of Vitrisi. Grix Orlazzu’s eyes were filled with mist, but his inner sense caught the remote echo of his birthplace.

For some moments, he stood facing Vitrisi. Then he turned his back and walked off in the opposite direction.

ONE