CHAPTER IV
The disc came down to the roof like a drifting feather. Stepping from it, Craig paused for a moment, staring out with brow furrowed at the spangled night of Torneulan. City of barons or city of Baemae, there was beauty here in this silent moment.
Only now was no time for beauty. Not here, atop Lord Zenaor's sleek, shining fortress tower.
Craig turned.
A stair-housing rose near one edge of the flat, parapeted roof. Crossing to it, he kicked out the door's translucent panel.
Inside, now. The stairwell yawned like a black, bottomless pit. Silently, Craig crept down the steps.
There was another locked door at the bottom—and this one had no panel.
Craig kicked it.
It held firm. He kicked it again—unrestrained, now—and again, and again, till the echoes rang round him in thunder-chorus.
From beyond the portal came a beat of running feet. Someone fumbled with the door's handle.
Craig drew his fire-gun ... waited....
The door opened, a bare inch.
Craig kicked it with all his might.
The door burst open. A guard reeled back, clutching his face where the swinging edge had struck him.
Craig kicked him, too—first in the belly; then, when he doubled over, in the face.
The guard crumpled; lay still.
Craig strode down the hall, trying doors. But the rooms they sealed were empty, unfinished.
Craig went back to the guard.
The man was moaning now. His fingers dug spasmodically at the naked tiles of the floor.
Dragging him erect, Craig shoved him back flat against the wall.
Slowly, the other's sagging head lifted. The glazed eyes cleared a little.
Craig held his voice cold and level: "Where's Zenaor?"
"At ... this hour?" The swollen lips bubbled. "Down—seventh level."
"And between?"
"The guest chambers—Lady Vydys—her party."
"Vydys...." Craig paused—frowning, searching his memory. Where had he heard that name before? From Tumek, or Narla? Or in a report, while he briefed for this mission?
He scowled, probing. "Why are you here, then, when this level's empty?"
"Why—? With Vydys in the tower?" The bloodshot eyes widened. "My lord Zenaor loves life. He knows better than to trust her."
The memories came back with a rush, if not their source. Vydys the Cruel, chief of all Zenaor's rivals! Here, in this tower, tonight!
Craig drew his lips thin.
"Where's your post, scum?"
"Below—force shaft." The guard gestured. "Heard you—kicking."
Craig stepped aside. "Get back to it, then." He motioned with the fire-gun.
The guard shot him a bleared, uncertain glance. Then, shuffling, not quite steady, one hand to the wall, the man moved ahead of Craig down the hall to an alcove backed with twin sliding panels. Clutching the grip of the one on the right, he pushed it back.
Beyond lay a small, square room like a closet, but without floor or ceiling.
The guard stepped across the threshold.
It was as if he had moved out onto an invisible platform. Erect, motionless, he sank slowly down the shaft.
Craig shot one breath-taking glance into the pit, and followed.
Instantly, a pulsing vibrance seemed to grip and hold him. Taut-nerved, he stood rigid, drifting slowly down against the lift of an upward flow of some strange current.
Below him, the guard reached out and caught a metal hand-hold jutting from the shaft's wall, then slid back a panel like the one above and stepped out into a broad hall.
But where the top level had shown stark and bare here lay luxury to stagger man's imagination. The walls were a shimmering tapestry of translucent color. Craig's feet sank into raaltex carpeting so thick and soft that it was like stepping onto a cloud.
He gripped the guard's arm. "Now—Vydys!"
"This way." The other turned, shuffling ahead. "End chamber...."
Craig shifted the fire-gun in his hand; laid the butt hard across the guard's head behind the ear.
The other crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Stripping off the man's harness, Craig donned the livery himself and lashed his prisoner's wrists and ankles, rolling him out of sight behind a long, sofa-like seat.
Then he was at the door, the door to the Lady Vydys' chambers.
He paused for a moment, listening with his ear against the panel.
No sound came.
He gripped the handle ... turned it slowly ... let the weight of his shoulder press against the door.
Ever so slowly, it swung open a fraction. Craig peered into the living room beyond—a place fully as ornate as the corridor, with furnishings sleekly trimmed in polished chromite.
Craig slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
On the far side of the room, another door stood open. Noiselessly, Craig crossed to it ... looked into a bedroom. A sleeping-couch, all gold and white, rested against the far wall, framed in darkly glinting mirrors.
While he watched, the coverlet moved. A body shifted.
Gripping the fire-gun, Craig walked warily to the couch-side.
Black hair rippled against white pillows. A sleek body twisted—sensuous, cat-like.
Then the head turned. For the first time, Craig saw the face.
A woman's face. The face of evil, incarnate, living in the fleshly form that men called Lady Vydys.
Yet she was lovely. Even here, even now, Craig Nesom's heart pounded as he looked down on her.
He rested his weight against a chair-arm; raised the fire-gun. "Vydys...."
She stirred in her sleep. The shadow of a frown crossed the lovely face.
"Vydys!"
Slowly, the soot-black lashes lifted. The dark eyes opened.
Craig said softly, "Quiet my lady! Don't make me kill you!"
She showed no sign of fear—no sudden tensing, no quick tremor. "You know, of course, that your heart will be torn from your body for this, carrion." Her voice was low and silky.
"Will it?" Mirthlessly, Craig chuckled.
Vydys' black eyes widened. She twisted beneath the coverlet. "You are no guardsman!" And then—staring, rocked back with sudden shock: "You—the Earthman—!"
"Yes, the Earthman," Craig nodded bleakly.
"But—what do you want—?"
"You know a girl called Narla? Zenaor's daughter?"
The dark eyes narrowed. "Yes...."
"Would you trade me even for her?"
A note of bafflement; a shifting: "Trade you—even....?
"Yes." Craig leaned forward. "I want her, Vydys—and I'll give you Zenaor's own head for her!"
Vydys' hand came up to the ripe swell of her bosom. Scarlet lips peeled back from small, sharp white teeth. "Zenaor's head—!"
Again, Craig nodded. He let his own lips part in a tight wolf-grin. "Let's talk straight, Vydys. You hate Zenaor for his power as chief of barons. You know that the first safe chance he gets he'll cut your lovely throat."
"And so—?"
"So your only chance is to get him first—before he finishes the Baemae and decides to turn his full force on you."
Of a sudden an irregularity developed in Vydys' breathing. The dark, eyes smouldered. "You ... would help me with this, Earthman—?"
Wordless, Craig tilted his head in affirmation.
"Now—tonight—?"
"Yes."
"But why? What is your reason?"
Craig smiled—a crooked smile. "I said I wanted Zenaor's daughter Narla, Vydys. That means alive—both of us. I'll need help to handle it."
The last traces of Vydys' hesitation vanished. She twisted; sat up on the sleeping-couch, her face aglow with dark excitement.
"He is on the seventh level, Earthman. If anyone should question, tell him that you carry a message to Zenaor for me. Here, take this signet—" She stripped a ring set with a carved black gem from a slender finger; held it out to Craig.
Not touching it, he said, "I've got a better idea."
Vydys' smooth brow furrowed, ever so slightly. "What—?"
"You go with me."
She caught her breath.
"You see?" Craig laughed harshly. "The picture changes when your neck's in the noose along with mine." He got up; gestured peremptorily with the fire-gun. "Come on!"
Her nostrils flared. "And if I will not?"
Craig paused; brought his weapon's muzzle up, steady and level. "A blast from this at close range would sear your breasts till they crackled, my lady."
A quick-drawn breath. Fear was in the dark eyes now—fear, and ... something else, something strange, hard to define.
Then, wordless, the woman slid from the bed and pulled on shoes and a diaphanous outer garment.
Craig came close behind her. "Time's short."
She shrugged; leaned against him for a moment. "Why do you want her, Earthman—that pale slut, Narla?"
Involuntarily, Craig stiffened, then stood wooden-faced, unmoving. "Why does any man want a woman, my lady?"
"A woman—?" Vydys' laugh held an edge of scorn ... or was it fury? "You call that creature a woman, Earthman? There's water in her veins, not blood!"
Craig stepped away from her, not answering.
For an instant lines of quick anger slashed Vydys' face. Then the tempest faded. Together, the two of them, they went out through the corridor to the force shaft. Rode it down in pulsing silence to the seventh level. Walked echoing halls where the tension crawled like a living thing.
Ahead, an intersection loomed. Down the right-hand passage, a guard paced slowly.
Vydys breathed in sharply. "There—he watches over Zenaor's chambers!"
Craig pushed her forward.
The guard came about, his face a bleak mirror of suspicion. His hand hovered by his weapon.
Vydys said, "I seek the Lord Zenaor."
"At this hour?" Irritation pushed aside distrust. "My lord sleeps."
Ever so casually, Craig eased closer.
"Are you sure?" Vydys' hand came up in a helpless, perplexed gesture. "They told me—"
Craig turned and side-stepped, as if to hear them both the better.
The guard scowled. "Listen—"
Craig brought up a hand as if to scratch his head—and then, pivoting, smashed a blow to the guard's temple.
The man staggered, clawing for his weapon.
Craig caught his wrist in both hands; twisted.
It spun the other around—off balance, still staggering. A kick to the back of his knees buckled his legs. He sprawled flat on his face.
Then, before Craig could move, Vydys threw herself on their fallen foeman like a tigress. A slender, stilleto-like knife flashed in her hand, lancing down into the soft hollow at the base of the guard's skull.
The man's body jerked once, spasmodically, then lay still.
Vydys came to her feet in one smooth, sinuous motion. She was breathing hard. A strange, hot light of excitement gleamed in her eyes.
Craig snatched the bloody knife out of her hand. "Why did you do that? We could have tied him—"
"So that he could talk later?" Teeth bared, she laughed, high and keening. "No, Earthman! This way is better!"
Craig looked from the dead guard to the knife. He could feel the hair along the back of his neck rising.
As if reading his thoughts, Vydys laughed again—low, this time; taunting. "Did you think to find me defenseless, Earthman? Me, Vydys of Cadilek?" She swayed close against him. "You have daring, warrior! That is why I came with you; not out of fear."
Craig pushed past her. "Come on, then—before Zenaor's men surprise us." Bending, he dragged the dead guard up by the harness.
Vydys' face was a mask, the dark eyes unfathomable. She turned and pulled back the door's handle.
The portal swung open. Wordless, Craig followed her into the room beyond, dragging the corpse with him.
A man's quarters, these—bleak, severe, without ostentation. Here no mirror walls threw back the glint of polished chromoid. The raaltex carpeting of the chambers above in this room was replaced with ostran tile and schalagat. Dark leathers gleamed dully against the flat contrast of iron-grey duroid.
Cat-like, slim Vydys tiptoed to the sleeping chamber's entry. Her breath hissed in the stillness as she looked in.
Taut-nerved, Craig lowered the dead guard to the floor.
But already Vydys was back beside him, slim hand outthrust. "My knife!" It was a command.
Craig stepped past her, not answering. In his turn, he peered through the arch into the other chamber.
Zenaor lay there, sleeping. Yet even at rest, the lean, high-boned face showed no trace of slackness. The muscled hands still curled to fists.
"My knife!" Vydys whispered again, close to Craig's ear. "You promised me his head, Earthman!"
Craig stared down at her.
The dark eyes glowed like twin coals now, and the skin of her face seemed suddenly to have stretched tighter, replacing curves with planes and hollows. The fingers that strained towards the dagger trembled with a naked urgency, somehow obscene, as if in the blood-lust of this moment the woman's very soul were spread out to the viewer, dark and evil.
Craig turned away ... looked again at the sleeping Zenaor.
"Curse you, Earthman—!" Vydys panted. She clawed for the knife.
For an instant their bodies strained together in silent struggle. Then, suddenly, Vydys ceased to writhe and twist. Her body pulsed against Craig's.
His heart pounded. He clutched the woman to him.
A voice said, "If you move, you die!"
Craig froze. Ever so slowly, he brought his head round.
Narla stood framed against a drape-shrouded door to his right. She gripped a fire-gun in her hand.
She raised her voice before he could speak. "Father!"
Zenaor came awake with a twist, a jerk of covers. The coal-black eyes gleamed beneath the heavy brows. "So—visitors!" And then, to Narla: "My daughter...."
"It's nothing. They spoke too loudly. I heard them."
The fire-gun in her hand stayed very steady.
"You'll not regret it." Zenaor groped a weapon of his own from a stand by his sleeping-couch. His lips set in a thin, mirthless smile. "Welcome, Vydys. You come in strange company."
"He ... forced me...."
"He forced you!" Mockery rang in Zenaor's harsh laughter. And then, the mirth dying: "Woman, you go back to your chambers. Under open guard, this time, with every man ordered to kill you if you so much as smile at him."
Vydys' lovely face flushed. "Zenaor, you dare not!"
"Because if I do you'll kill me?" Of a sudden Zenaor's voice echoed flat menace. "You'll try, you mean, you bitch—just as you tried here, tonight. And you'll fail again. Only perhaps by then I'll have less need to let you live for the sake of Kukzubas unity, and I can watch you writhe and die instead, as you should die now!"
There was silence, then—a taut, hate-surging silence. Eyes smouldering, white to the lips, Vydys smoothed her gown, her hair.
Zenaor turned to Craig Nesom. "You, Earthman—now you, too, shall join ranks with your fellows who died in the starship."
Craig shrugged. In this time, this place, words were wasted.
"But slowly," the chief of barons continued. "There are many things I would ask you—things best brought out under torture: how you got here, into my chambers; the plans of the Baemae; your relations with Vydys. So, you die—but by inches."
Craig shrugged again.
The baron's eyes narrowed. A spark that might have been grim mirth lighted behind them. "And ... there is another thing you should know...." He spoke almost softly. "Your serf genius, Tumek, sought to defeat me. With this."
Left-handed, he reached into the stand beside the sleeping-couch once more, and brought out a flat, black case perhaps six inches across. His thumb touched a spring. The cover flew open.
A great crystal gleamed on black orlon.
In spite of himself, Craig Nesom went rigid.
"You see? It ends here!" Zenaor chuckled. "What it means, how the serfs were to use it against the weapon I plan to defeat them with, I do not know. But whatever its purpose, I have it, and its maker lies dead."
He snapped shut the case, dropped it back into the stand. "Back, now, both of you, while I call the guards."
The pulse in Craig Nesom's temple pounded. Turning, he started past Narla towards the door.
Her grey eyes dodged his. She stepped aside, fire-gun lowered.
"Guards...." That was Zenaor, at the com-box.
Craig stopped breathing, stopped thinking. Like lightning striking, he leaped sidewise, pivoting—back, behind Narla.
Zenaor roared a curse.
But already, Craig was clawing the girl close against him, snatching her fire-gun, blazing a flare straight at the baron.
Zenaor dived over the sleeping-couch. The fireball seared into the wall.
Craig jammed the gun against Narla. "Zenaor! If I die, she burns with me!"
Time stood still. Silence echoed.
Again Craig lashed out: "Do you love her, Zenaor? Do you want her to burn?"
He could hear the rasp of the other's quick-drawn breath. "Curse you, Earthman—!"
"And curse you, Zenaor!" New recklessness surged through Craig. "Curse you for all the blood you've shed; your arrogance, your lust for power, your cruelty!" And then: "Vydys! Bring me that crystal!"
Tension. The fire-gun's muzzle, leveling.
Wordless, the woman obeyed.
Craig gripped the jewel-case. "I'm leaving now, Zenaor—and Narla goes with me! Warn your guards of that!"
Silence again, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing.
Craig drew Narla back, tight against him, a living shield. Holding her close, he backed through the exit door. The girl was trembling now. He could feel her heart pound.
Then they were out in the corridor once more ... the same bleak, echoing passageway through which he'd come with dark Vydys.
Only that seemed an eternity ago, now.
Jerking the door shut, dragging the girl by one wrist, Craig raced for the force shaft. Slamming back the panel on the down-side, he jammed it ajar. Then, sliding open the other unit, he pulled Narla into the lift-current, closed the gate behind them, and let go of the hand-hold.
Together, they surged upward, level after level.
Narla's face showed pale and drawn. "Where ... are you taking me?"
Craig laughed aloud. His head swam, as if he were suddenly drunk on danger and recklessness and tension. "You'll see."
Overhead, the shaft-cap loomed closer ... closer. They reached the top level, hung there, suspended.
Then Craig slid back the panel, and they stepped out into the bare, echoing hallway's darkness. Still gripping the girl's wrist, he groped his way up the stairway and out onto the flat top of the tower.
The disc still lay where he had left it. Far to the west, the sky was already turning turquoise, Roh's blue beams dimming. In minutes the great green morning sun called Boh would climb above the far horizon.
Pulling Narla to the edge of the roof, Craig peered down.
Ant-like, men were moving through the street below—spreading out, forming a cordon.
"Too bad I'll have to miss the reception." He chuckled and turned back to Narla. "Now; about the crystal—"
"The crystal—?" Her grey eyes clouded. "I know nothing of it."
Craig stared. "But Tumek said—"
"He sent it to me to hold for him. That was all. He never told me its use."
A numbness gripped Craig.
The girl said, "Besides, even if I did know, why should I trust you—you, who came as murderers come, with that creature Vydys to whom only pain is passion?"
Craig turned on her. "What—?"
"You held her, did you not? Else how could I surprise you—?"
"Are you jealous, then—because it was she I held, and not you?"
Narla's face turned white with fury. "Not even a sadat would say such a thing!" She jerked free of Craig's hand, beat her small fists on his chest. "Go, you rabble! Leave me! Go back to the scum, the Baemae!"
Craig reached for her hands.
She jumped back and slapped his face.
The sting of her palm was like a trigger. With a curse, he lunged for her and caught her to him, still struggling and flailing.
"Is this what you want?" Savagely, brutally, he kissed her.
Her lips were like ice. Her eyes blazed grey fire. "Is that quite all, Earthman?"
Craig sucked in air. "No. Not quite." Pinioning her arms, once again he glanced down at the cordon of guards in the street below. "You see ... you're going with me."
"No!"
"Yes." He flashed a tight, hard grin. "Without a knowledge of how to use Tumek's crystal, the Baemae will need a weapon against your father. And what better could they find than you, his daughter, as a hostage?"
Shoving her aside, he lifted the great disc from the rooftop; spun it.
It jerked ... caught ... hovered.
"Please, Craig Nesom...."
"Please indeed, my lady Narla! We're sailing south this morning—away from Torneulan, beyond the reach of your father and his cursed Kukzubas barons."
"You mean—?"
"Yes!" Bodily, he lifted her and set her on the hovering disc. "We are traveling south to the djevoda range, and freedom!”