Star Winds

Chapter SEVEN

Baron Goth Matello, Margrave of the Marsh Worlds, Protector of the Castarpos Moons, and a loyal subject of his liege-lord, His Most Majestic King Lutheron by whose leave he held all his titles, raised a gold goblet to his lips. Ingeniously designed for free-fall, the goblet was capped by a gold cupola punctured with scores of tiny holes like a pepper-pot. The cover prevented the sharp-tasting wine from floating away as a liquid sphere; the wine’s own surface tension, on the other hand, prevented it from seeping through the perforations.

The sucking action of drinking, however, easily overcame this weak restraint Baron Matello sucked, drained the goblet, and tossed it to the serving maid who had handed it to him.

He turned to Captain Veautrin. “Have they been down in interrogation?”

“Yes sir,” Veautrin replied. “They all tell the same tale, right down to the details. The inquisitor is satisfied that their story is true. They really did sail from the third planet.”

“All right, let’s see this captain of theirs. Things are so boring around here that anything is a diversion.”

Veautrin walked to the door in cling-slippers. He opened it, and beckoned. A burly, bearded man entered, moving awkwardly in the cling-slippers he also now wore (like everyone else aboard the Bucentaur for as long as she remained in orbit). On his head was a battered cap displaying a tarnished badge of rank; he stood chewing his beard, gazing uncertainly at the baron, who reclined against a high-backed chair, legs carelessly out-spread.

Zhorga saw a man some ten years younger than himself, with a broad face framed by a close-clipped fringe beard. The baron bore that direct look of someone used to exercising authority. But there was also a certain ruffianly quality about him—it was a fighter’s face.

His eyes were brooding and restless, brown in color but with a luminous orange tint Zhorga had never seen on Earth. He avoided meeting those eyes directly. This was a man one did not trifle with—indeed the whole power and massiveness of the interstellar ship, its unabashed grandeur, was such that Zhorga felt overawed. He knew that he must tread carefully with the baron. It was true that he and his men had been received civilly enough so far—ten men, in fact, were currently in the ship’s sick bay. But on the either side of the coin Zhorga recalled his recent interrogation. The interview had been entirely verbal, but the instruments of persuasion—ready in case his words lacked the ring of truth—had been clearly on view.

“Well, Earthman,” the baron said in a loud voice, “what do you call yourself?”

Zhorga cleared his throat. “Captain Zebandar Zhorga, sir—at your service.”

“You are an air captain, I believe.”

“In the main, that is true,” Zhorga nodded. “I can now, however, claim some experience in space.”

“Yes—I am curious about this exploit of yours.” The baron smiled patronizingly. “Something of a pioneering flight, I gather.”

Zhorga saw no reason to hide his pride in the fact. “The first space voyage from Earth in nearly two generations!” he boasted.

“I can believe it,” said Matello dryly. He signaled to the nearby serving girl, holding up two fingers. She did something with a peculiarly fashioned carafe that rested on a magnetic tray, and approached with two full goblets. Matello took them both and tossed one through the air to Zhorga.

Zhorga caught it and stared at it in puzzlement.

“Drink—it’s a goblet of wine,” Matello said patiently. He demonstrated the use of the cupola, as though explaining something to a savage. Zhorga followed suit, then as he got the hang of it swallowed the wine greedily, emptying the goblet with gusto. The baron signaled the girl to refill it for him, then relaxed, sipping at his own.

“How did you drink in space on your own ship?” he asked.

“Oh, we just stuck a tube in a water cask. We had a bit of weight most of the time, anyway.”

“Spatial travel generally needs careful preparation. Evidently you had to improvise a great deal. Tell me about this voyage. Begin at takeoff.”

Zhorga did not need telling twice. Mentally he had rehearsed this scene many times, though the imaginary setting for it had been the taproom of The Ship in Olam. Down in the bowels of the Bucentaur the inquisitor had already once cut off his flowing narrative with an irritated “that’s enough.”

Bearing in mind that the baron was also unlikely to look kindly on any long-windedness, Zhorga tried to keep his story concise. He recounted the perilous ascent into space, described the difficulties of keeping the galleon trim and maintaining a course; told of the brush with the vortex and the encounters with alchemical monsters. Captain Veautrin stood by impassively, showing no reaction even when Zhorga, with some bitterness, described how the lighter commanded by himself had effectively destroyed the Wandering Queen.

The baron listened in fascination. When Zhorga had finished, he chuckled.

“Don’t blame Captain Veautrin too much,” he said. “He was only doing his duty. You, no doubt, mourn the loss of your galleon—so think how I feel about a threat to my Bucentaur! An odd-looking ship like yours, appearing out of nowhere, was bound to arouse suspicion. But there’s something you haven’t told me. What were your reasons for embarking on this venture? They must have been pressing.”

“They were simple enough,” Zhorga said gruffly. “We came to Mars to trade. The merchants on Earth are running out of ether silk with which to ply the airways, and it is our hope to obtain some here.”

At this the baron threw up his hands and uttered a half-horrified, half-delighted exclamation. “But my dear fellow! Your efforts have all been for nothing! It is absolutely certain there is no silk to be had here!”

Zhorga stared at him blankly. “My lord—”

“There can be no doubt of it. This wretched planet has declined almost to a state of savagery. The people are barely capable of plowing the dirt—there are so few of them, anyway.” He shook his head, smiling with amusement. “No, I’m certain you won’t find a shred of silk. We’ve been here for nearly a month now, and yours is the first flying ship we’ve seen.”

Zhorga was dumbfounded. Somehow this possibility had simply not occurred to him. It was as if his mind had unconsciously put a block on the subject.

He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. What a farcical joke he had played on himself! What a fool he would look in the eyes of the men he had dragged with him across space! Momentarily Zhorga’s spirit was crushed. He stood with his back ramrod straight, gazing emptily ahead.

“I may pay a visit to Earth myself, when I am finished here,” the baron was saying lightly. “It is reputed by some to be the birthplace of space travel, not to say of mankind itself. If, that is, it is the same planet I am thinking of.”

“I seriously doubt it,” Zhorga rumbled absently. “Ether silk cannot be manufactured there; the sun is too close. So it cannot be the origin of space travel. Or of mankind, either, for the same reason. Both must have arrived there from outside.”

Matello shrugged. “Not worth a visit after all, then. Well, Captain, what are you going to do now? No ship, no silk to buy.”

“Hmmmmm…” The sound, a combination of chagrin and reappraisal, came from deep within Zhorga’s chest.

What, indeed, was he going to do? He was crushed, defeated, his plans destroyed.

He glanced wildly about him, sensing the vast bulk of the Bucentaur all around. He thought of the Wandering Queen; thought of the ships he had grown up with and struggled with all his life.

Suddenly it seemed to him that he had not really appreciated what it could mean to him to be standing on a starship. True, he had lost the Wandering Queen—but was it not ridiculous to be still obsessed with the need to take ether silk to Earth, a dilapidated backwater? Ridiculous—when this great ship could take him to a new life among the stars!

He took a deep breath. “My future lies in your hands, my lord. You have destroyed my ship. You have left me stranded. It lies in your power simply to abandon me here, or—”

He stopped. Matello frowned, looking dangerous. “Or?”

“Earth was never the place for a man of adventure. Swear me into your service. Permit me to wear your lordship’s coat of arms.”

Captain Veautrin’s rigid expression told Zhorga that he had committed a considerable faux pas. The baron tossed away his goblet, which went spinning across the room.

“And your men? You would desert them?”

“Any who want to grub on Mars, let them,” Zhorga said, blinking. “As for the others, swear them in, too.”

“To serve with the Margrave of the Marsh Worlds,” the baron said harshly, “is accounted an honor. It is not something to be handed out to any passing rabble of merchants and air sailors.”

Zhorga persisted. “I’ve been a fighting man in my time,” he claimed. “I was a midshipman on the Victorious—one of Earth’s last fighting ships.”

“Oh, you’re a fighting man!” Matello echoed mockingly. “What weapons do you know?”

“I prefer the cutlass or the broadsword.”

Matello had not lost his good humor; he sensed an opportunity for sport, of which there had been precious little since his departure for Mars. He rose and crossed the room to open a wall cupboard. Within, weapons were clipped to a rack—swords, pistols, long-barreled shooters.

He selected a pair of matched blades and returned to hand one apiece to Zhorga and Veautrin, before stepping back to lounge once more in his chair, though there was little need for it in the null gravity, the special cloth of his garments adhering crepe-like to the thick-piled upholstery.

“Match yourself against the good Captain Veautrin here,” he drawled. “He’ll be only too pleased to accommodate you.”

Zhorga tested his sword for balance, difficult though it was to assess in free-fall, and probably immaterial anyway. The weapon was broad-bladed and somewhat longer than he was used to. The metal, however, was excellent—much springier and tougher, he judged, than anything to be found on Earth.

He turned to Veautrin, who stared expressionlessly back at him, his sword pointing military-style at the floor.

“To what limit?” Zhorga asked the baron.

“’Til one of you yields.”

Veautrin took a step back, saluted Zhorga, and took up a formal stance, one arm extended behind him, his sword thrust forward and down, and apparently expecting Zhorga to do the same. His was obviously an impeccable kind of swordsmanship.

Zhorga was trained in a rougher school, however. With a growl he charged at Veautrin, wielding his blade in a whirl of savage strokes. Veautrin easily parried the flurry, stepping neatly in his cling-slippers—while Zhorga found himself tromping clumsily like an elephant.

Then Veautrin’s blade found an opening. Its tip hacked at Zhorga’s cheek, narrowly missing his ear. Zhorga knocked the sword aside with a bellow and a clang of steel. His blood spilled into the air, forming floating globules which he batted with his free hand, splitting them into a fine mist of droplets.

He regarded the waiting Veautrin with a more cautious eye. The fellow was used to free-fall swordplay; Zhorga was not, and besides he was out of practice. Just the same, he told himself, he had better put up a good show or he would be booted off this ship and onto the red desert below.

Cunning would be required.

He charged again at Veautrin, apparently in the same manner as before, but at the last moment changed direction. As he had anticipated, Veautrin was impeded by his cling-slippers and was unable to take advantage of Zhorga’s momentary defenselessness. As he lunged past the starman, Zhorga swung round and kicked him behind the knee—a trick he had learned on the Victorious. Veautrin buckled and in the next instant Zhorga’s whole bulk collided with him. In a moment the star captain was knocked to the floor, his sword arm pinned down by Zhorga’s knee, and Zhorga, teeth bared, held aloft his own blade in both hands, directing the point at Veautrin’s throat.

“Yield,” he grunted.

Veautrin twitched his sword arm. Too late, Zhorga realized that he lacked the planetary weight to hold his opponent to the floor. Already he had made the mistake of lifting one foot from the carpet, and the other remained attached only by the sole. Now the remaining inches of grip-felt came free, and Veautrin sent him floating into the air, spinning slowly, unable to reach his adversary and feeling ridiculous.

With a chiming sound his sword was struck from his grasp and went flying toward the ceiling. As it bounced back, Veautrin deftly caught it. Then he tugged Zhorga to the floor by the skirt of his jacket and handed him the weapon hilt foremost with a curt bow.

“Your play has merit, though it lacks finesse,” he said.

Baron Matello was laughing loudly and clapping his hands. “Well done! The best bit of clowning I’ve seen for a long time!” He turned to the victor. “Well, Veautrin, what do you think of him?”

The captain looked Zhorga up and down. He might have been appraising a horse. “He’ll be all right, once he’s been put through the drills. A good reliable type, basically—if he’ll accept discipline.”

Privately Zhorga marveled as he dabbed at the blood that still oozed through his beard. The two were discussing a fealty oath that could bind him to the baron for life—yet nothing had even been mentioned to him of the baron’s own allegiances, his ideals and aims, even though Zhorga was obviously quite ignorant of them. It was apparently of no consequence, for instance, that he did not even know the name of Matello’s monarch.

All this accorded with what he had heard of the mentality of these great star nobles, who lived in an atmosphere of unquestioning obedience and treated their bondsmen as personal property without any opinions of their own. Zhorga tried a new tack. “Perhaps your lordship would be generous enough to give us passage to the star worlds and allow us to fend for ourselves thereafter. In return, let us work for you during your stay on Mars.”

“But what use would you be to me?” Matello said petulantly. “It is not as if you had any special knowledge of Mars, or could help me in my mission.”

“That depends, of course, on what brings you to this planet,” Zhorga said in a low voice.

Matello was silent for a moment. Then he grunted.

“Well, what does it matter if you know? Mars, at one time, was a venue for those seeking a thing of value called the Philosopher’s Stone. It has come to my knowledge that a book is hidden here somewhere, said to contain the ultimate alchemical secret. Alchemy, as such, doesn’t interest me—but I have reasons for wanting this book.”

He gestured to Veautrin to return the swords to the cupboard rack. His florid tones became complaining.

“Where, however, is it? The towns are in ruins, scarcely anyone in them can even read. It could be under any square foot of sand.”

Zhorga blinked, and looked astounded. “That is all you know, my lord? That the book is on Mars?”

“That is all.”

Zhorga grinned. His eyes gleamed. “Then I can be of use to you after all!”

“You’re sure your mentor had nothing else to add? No hint of an address? No idea of what quarter of the city to look in?”

“No, my lord,” Rachad lied, trying to sound as guileless as possible. “He only knew that I should go to Kars.”

They stood on a rise overlooking the ruins of the ancient city. Around them were parked the Bucentaur’s three lighters, which had ferried some hundreds of men to the site. Included in the work force were Zhorga and his crew, transformed now into a small squad and wearing the baron’s uniform, but without his coat of arms. They stood at ease alongside the others, awaiting instructions.

Matello was reflective. “Not a great deal to go on for one young man on his own in a strange land,” he mused. He had been firm but courteous toward the youth, not wishing to terrify him unduly. He was aware, anyway, that Rachad had already seen the torture equipment in the interrogation room. And indeed, the boy had volunteered his information with alacrity, though disappointingly it did not amount to anything more than the snippet already provided by Captain Zhorga.

“To know that the book exists at all is already a great deal,” Rachad said defensively, “let alone in what city it is hidden.”

“And with that,” Matello sighed, “you came all the way from Earth.”

“With respect, my lord, you came much farther with even less. Even a small chance of obtaining so precious a secret is worth taking.”

Matello shot him a sarcastic glance. Rachad continued: “My master advised me to pose as a seeker or even an adept, and to inveigle myself among the alchemists and secret societies he thought would exist here.”

“Hah! I wish he could be here to answer for his advice.” Matello rattled the map he was holding. It showed Kars as it had been in former days, before war and decay had overtaken it. At one time the city must have been a thriving, colorful place, but now it presented mostly piles of tumbled masonry, shells of buildings, broken towers and jutting pillars. True, it was even now not entirely abandoned. Among the decrepit piles of sand-colored stone were signs of movement, and on the edges of the sprawling ruins ploughed fields extended.

And the main street plan could still be made out, at least as regards the wider avenues. Rachad craned his neck trying to see Matello’s map. He had already learned to recognize the squiggly symbol that marked the temples, of which Kars, it seemed, had been crammed full. Rapidly, almost despairingly, his eye raced over the parchment—and then stopped. There it was, clearly written in the graceful Martian script! The Temple of Hermes Trismegistus!

Rachad’s heart beat faster. He looked out over the dead city, trying to locate what he had seen on the map. Could that be it over there—that half-tumbled building with sloping walls, that might once have resembled an athanor?

Yes, he decided. That was it.

With a grunt Baron Matello took up a pen, dipped it in a little bottle of ink, and divided the map into sections. “We’ll start here,” he said, subdividing one section still further into a number of blocks. Beckoning his officers to gather round, he allotted one squad to each block. “Tear everything apart,” he ordered. “Pay special attention to temples—these ancient Martians seem to have gone mad on religion.”

The officers shouted commands. Nearly five hundred men trotted downhill, and the inhabitants in their path, living in shacks and makeshift dwellings, fled at their approach.

The work was quickly organized. Block by block, street by street, uniformed men swarmed over the ruins, showing a preference for those that seemed to have been public buildings. Soon the air was filled with dust and resounded to the crack of hammers and the crash of falling masonry.

Rachad, wearing not the baron’s uniform but his own tunic and breeks, attached himself to Zhorga’s squad at first. But after an hour’s work he contrived to slip away, glancing behind him constantly to make sure his departure was not noticed, and set off across Kars, orienting himself by recollecting Matello’s map.

It was like a journey through a dream landscape. The city’s buff and orange stone was weathered, so that the ruins had a mild and rounded rather than a shattered appearance. He clambered over fallen columns and ascended heaps of rubble, but for the most part walked along what had been magnificent thoroughfares, many of them almost clear of detritus.

He became aware, too, that eyes were watching him from the surrounding ruins, though he caught only glimpses of the watchers as they darted from sight. He felt little fear of being molested; it was obvious that the people hereabouts feared the visitors from the stars.

At one place he came to a street used as a market or bartering place and lined with booths and stalls offering food, cooking utensils, coarse and ill-cut garments, ornaments, and so on. But both vendors and customers had departed.

At last he came to the building he had picked out as the Temple of Hermes Trismegistus. Set apart from the surrounding structures, it was still impressive even though derelict. The space around it was now partly filled with tumbled stone and masses of a creeper-like weed sporting innumerable scarlet flowers. Rachad paused before an almost intact portico. Over the entrance a large relief carving blazed forth, depicting the Worm Ouroborous, its body arced in the familiar perfect circle, its tail in its mouth. Reliefs also adorned the square flanking columns—on the left a caduceus, the health-giving Hermetic staff entwined by two snakes, on the right a two-headed Hermetic androgyne.

He crossed the threshold and stepped through a vestibule. Beyond that was a square, darkened room. Finally he found himself standing under the sky again, in a spacious interior whose roof had collapsed to deluge the floor beneath with spilled bricks, pieces of rafter, and tiles of assorted pastel hues. Like all others in the temple, the walls sloped inward. There were several doors to the chamber, and through a gap in the opposite wall Rachad saw more chambers.

His attention was caught by a sarcophagus-like marble dais on which, all covered with brick dust, there stood crucibles, alembics, and a small furnace. The equipment was scanty for any real alchemical efforts, Rachad thought. He guessed its use to have been ceremonial and the dais to be an altar, for as a backdrop to it was a mural showing the alchemical marriage of the sun and the moon, in progress within a glowing flask.

He rapped his knuckles on the marble top. Could this be the book’s hiding place? The idea seemed logical. He tried to remove the top, but it resisted his efforts.

He set off to explore the remaining rooms, hoping to find something with which to break the dais open. He found nothing, and returned to the altar. It was then that he heard the tramp of booted feet. Into the temple burst Zhorga, closely followed by several of his squad.

They all halted on seeing Rachad. Zhorga’s eyes were bright and wild as they darted about the chamber, and he seemed immensely pleased with himself.

“So this is the place, eh?” he crowed. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from it for long!”

Crestfallen and surly, Rachad lowered his head. “You followed me,” he accused tonelessly.

“Damned right we did, and lucky for you, too. It stood to reason you knew more than you were letting on. The baron would have given you back to the inquisitor if I hadn’t persuaded him to let you lead us to it, and you know what that means.” He gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Well, have you found it yet?”

“No.”

“Any ideas?”

Rachad shrugged. “I was going to look in that altar.”

“Smash it,” Zhorga said brusquely to those behind him. Patchman went forward with a sledgehammer and swung at the plinth, cracking the marble after several heavy blows.

Zhorga placed a paw on Rachad’s shoulder and watched the work greedily. “This is good news for all of us,” he murmured. “The baron will swear us into his service if that book turns up. He’s promised me that much.”

Rachad felt suddenly dismayed, even bitter. Zhorga, long his hero, seemed to be changing his nature. “What happened to your independent spirit, Captain?” he said scathingly. “I never thought to see you selling yourself to a master—I wouldn’t have guessed you’d betray me, either!”

Zhorga’s reply was heated. “I’m giving Matello the book for all our sakes!” he hissed. “He’ll take us to Maralia, the star country he comes from—or would you rather spend the rest of your life on Mars?”

“You’ll still be a serf. How does it feel?”

“A soldier-at-arms! It’s an honorable profession—I’ve been one before. As for not being your own master, that’s how things are in the star worlds—so get used to it.” Zhorga dropped his arm from Rachad’s shoulder wearily. “I don’t know what you imagined you were playing at. You couldn’t possibly get the book back to Earth.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rachad said, brightening. “We could smuggle it aboard the Bucentaur. The baron might decide to visit Earth, and then we could sneak away with it. Gebeth could make gold. We’d be rich.”

“Forget it,” Zhorga snorted. “Anyway I’ve already sent a message back to the baron. This temple will be aswarm before long.”

Rachad’s face fell. “What’s going to happen to me?” he said nervously. “The baron knows I tried to trick him.”

“Don’t worry,” Zhorga said sourly. “He thinks you acted out of loyalty to Gebeth. That’s the complexion I’ve put on it—you understand? He appreciates loyalty. Also, he thinks you’re a genuine student of alchemy.

Rachad did not fail to notice the sarcasm in Zhorga’s voice. “You think differently, of course,” he sulked.

“Oh, it’s gold you’re after. I understand that well enough. But you’ll have to give up your dreams. Forswear everything and give your allegiance to the baron, unless you want to be left behind on Mars.”

Somewhat grumpily Zhorga left him and went to supervise the work. The alchemical apparatus crashed to the floor and the dais finally broke. Rachad rushed forward. The dais was indeed hollow; but empty.

“We’ll dig underneath,” Zhorga decided.

Rachad retreated. Shortly afterward Matello arrived, his whole retinue in train. The baron was in high spirits. He bustled about the temple, peering here and there, donating advice as to how the building was to be razed. Then he retired to watch from a safe distance, relaxing in a chair his servants provided.

Cursing Zhorga in his mind, Rachad skulked well out of the way. He had to admit that Zhorga had acted for the best as he saw it—but what would Rachad’s own position be if the book were never found? After all, there was no proof that it even existed. The inquisitor, however, might be unimpressed by his protestations to that effect.

He need not have worried. Although Matello would have persisted until every stone in the temple had been ground to a powder, in this event such thoroughness proved unnecessary. A fluted column, pulled down by means of a rope, smashed open as it struck the tessellated floor. Within a hollow space lined with alabaster a soldier found a heavy object wrapped in cloth of gold.

He took it at once to Matello, who unwound the glittering wrapping. He uncovered a massive tome with covers of solid lead nearly half an inch thick, engraved very skillfully with an iron stylus and then beautifully colored by rubbing powders or paints into the incisions.

Matello summoned Rachad and passed the book to him. “Is this what you sought?”

Gingerly Rachad accepted the book. It was so heavy that he nearly dropped it. On the front cover was an engraving of the philosophic tree, the signs of the elements hanging from its five branches. Below it was a somewhat less picturesque symbol that was cool and almost luminous in its simplicity: a blue square inscribed within a silver triangle, inscribed in turn within a golden circle.

Awkwardly he turned the book over. The back cover bore a single colored engraving which almost sent him reeling. A face glared out of the lead plate. An ancient, wild face that seemed to be alive. The skin was a dusty gold, veined with gray and silver. The hair exploded wildly in all directions to frame the face like a sunburst, and was gray mingled with rivulets of dull silver, a mixture of tones it shared with the beard. The eyes were a more brilliant, penetrating silver, lacking pupils but seeming ferociously, pitilessly aware.

Rachad made a quick guess that this was the symbol known as the lead man, who became first the quicksilver man, then the silver man, and finally was transformed into the gold man.

He turned the book over again and opened it to the frontispiece, where he read:

THE ROOT OF TRANSFORMATIONS

Including Also

The Art Of The Fulmination Of Metals.

“The title is the correct one,” he informed the baron. He turned more pages, but immediately observed that a sizable proportion of the leaves had been removed and that the spine gaped bare where they had been.

“My lord,” he said quickly, “half the book is missing!”

Matello grinned in triumph. “Then we have found what we were seeking! The other half already lies in the Aegis.”

Taking the volume from Rachad’s hands, he rose to his feet. “Let’s get aloft. It will be a pleasure never to have to set foot on this miserable planet again.”

Perplexed, Rachad followed the baron as, cloak flying behind him in the light breeze, he went striding away through the ocherous city. Soon all the others followed too, pouring from the destroyed temple, raising a cloud of orange dust as the procession made for the lighters that stood ready to convey them to the giant sailship orbiting overhead.

Tearing the meat from a chicken leg with his teeth and throwing the bone across the banqueting hall, Baron Matello leaned toward Rachad. “Well, young man,” he teased, “do you think you could make gold now?”

Rachad, who had been poring over the alchemical book, pursed his lips. “After sufficient study,” he said brazenly, hoping that Matello was too ignorant to gainsay him. “Provided I were supplied with the missing pages.”

In fact, he found the book almost impenetrable. For one thing, it was written in so many different languages—even different alphabets! And although supposed to be an explicit commentary, it was couched in the same cryptic style that characterized alchemists throughout the ages, replete with poetic expressions and arcane symbology.

Some passages were more or less intelligible. Such as: “When the artifex depicts colored flowers, surrounded by griffins and dragons, he indicates the sublimation of sulphur accomplished by means of an athanor of infusoration, or in other words by fulmination; for if this operation is carried out with sufficient intensity and duration the flowers will be seen. Likewise, when the reverse of the fifth page shows the blood of young children gathered together and giving forth serpents, the artifex indicates the intensive fulmination of quicksilver…”

To impress the baron with his alchemical training, Rachad had been explaining the terms in this passage. “Chiefly, of course, the book speaks of the primus agens, the materials with which one must start,” he said airily, parroting Gebeth. “Ordinarily alchemical treatises never clearly reveal that. It is the essential secret.”

“Little would it avail you to know this secret, locked away on Earth,” the baron retorted. “Your Earth metals are of no use for transformation, even I know that. It’s celestial metals that are needed—metals with special properties found only among the stars.”

He drained a goblet and stuffed more bread and chicken into his mouth. Taken aback, Rachad pondered this revelation. It was an aspect he had never thought of before—though of course the baron’s words could not be relied on. It was likely that he was simply repeating something he had heard.

Rachad’s sudden discomfiture must have shown, for the baron laughed. Rachad allowed his gaze to wander down the long table, where there sat a comely young girl who for some time had been drawing his glances. Her name, he had heard, was Elissea; she was Matello’s niece.

She smiled. He smiled. Shyly, he closed the book and resumed eating.

The baron had given him a favored place at the table, being curious—though it seemed to Rachad in a halfhearted way—to know what he could tell him of the book. The Bucentaur remained in orbit; but Rachad could not help but marvel at how well the comforts of the dining table were adapted to the state of free-fall. Cling-slippers, together with garments that clung almost as effectively to the special plush of the chairs, made the lack of gravity close to irrelevant. The diners drank from closed goblets punctured with tiny holes as in a pepperbox. The food, all solid—bread, meat, cheeses, confections and fruit, pastries and pies—was wrapped in paper napkins and, so that it did not float away, was spitted with skewers which were stuck into cork boards. Apparently the cooks were not discommoded by this restriction, for the repast was delicious.

Belching with satisfaction, the baron rose to his feet. “In two hours we depart for Maralia,” he announced. “But first, I honor my pledge. Bring them on!”

At these words Matello’s private secretary seized the alchemical book from under Rachad’s nose and made off with it. All those at table—mostly the baron’s senior officers—hurriedly rose also, whether or not they had finished their meal. Serving girls and footmen unfastened the clasps that locked chairs and tables to the floor, steering the now floating furniture to the sides of the hall.

Baron Matello seated himself on a throne-like chair farther back in the banqueting hall. The main doors opened. Through them came Captain Zhorga and his crewmen, looking about themselves nervously.

Mingling with the others, Rachad sidled toward the door. He knew what was coming; perhaps if he could slip away, he thought, his defection from the proceedings would pass unnoticed.

It was not to be. Near the door he came face to face with Elissea, and stopped, entranced by her pert face and smiling eyes. “You came on that ship from Earth, didn’t you?” she said. “Uncle says it was very brave of you.”

He laughed jauntily, and could not resist lingering. Soon he found himself boasting of his experiences, while in the background he heard, like a continuous murmuring, the voices first of Zhorga and then of the others as one by one they took the fealty oath. Eventually he reminded himself that he should leave; but suddenly Matello’s voice rang out.

“And where is the lad who was apprenticed to the alchemist? We mustn’t leave him out; I need him on my staff.”

Rachad felt himself pushed forward, reluctantly.

Then he realized he would never have got away with it, and resignedly approached the baron to kneel before him, offering his hands in the attitude of prayer as had been shown to him earlier. Nearby stood Matello’s secretary, ready to prompt him.

The baron clasped Rachad’s hands in his. Slowly, though the words stuck in his throat, Rachad repeated the oath the secretary read out to him, swearing obedience, loyalty and truthfulness. With what seemed a measured perfunctoriness, the baron responded, accepting him into his household and promising protection and fair treatment.

When his hands were released Rachad stood up and walked away. It was done. He was under oath to Baron Goth Matello, Margrave of the Marsh Worlds, Protector of the Castarpos Moons, and liege to his Majesty King Lutheron the Third of Maralia.