The Wooden Spaceships

Chapter 1

Lord Toller Maraquine took the bright sword out of the presentation case and held it in such a way that the foreday sun flamed along the blade. As before, he was captivated by its lucent beauty. In contrast to the black weapons traditionally used by his people it seemed to have an ethereal quality, akin to sunlight striking through fine mist, but Toller knew there was nothing unearthly about its powers. Even in its simplest, unmodified form the sword would have been the best killing instrument in history—and he had taken its development a step further.

He pressed a catch which was concealed by the ornamentation of the haft and a curved section sprang open to reveal a tubular cavity. The space was filled by a thin-walled glass vial containing a yellowish fluid. He made sure the vial was intact, then clicked its cover back into place. Reluctant to put the sword away, he tested its feel and balance for a few seconds and impulsively swept it into the first readiness position. At that moment his black-haired solewife, using her uncanny ability to materialise at precisely the wrong time, opened the door and entered the room.

“I beg your pardon—I had presumed you were alone.” Gesalla gave him a smile of sweet insincerity and glanced all about her. “Where is your opponent, by the way? Have you cut him into pieces so small that they can’t be seen, or was he invisible to begin with?”

Toller sighed and lowered the sword. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

“And playing warriors doesn’t become you.” Gesalla crossed the floor to him, moving lightly and silently, and put her arms around his neck. “What age are you now, Toller? Fifty-three! When are you going to put notions of fighting and killing behind you?”

“As soon as all men become saints—and that may not be for a year or two yet.”

“Who’s being sarcastic now?”

“It must be infectious,” Toller said, smiling down at Gesalla, deriving a pleasure from merely looking at her which had scarcely diminished in the long course of their marriage. Their twenty-three years on Overland, many of them hard years, had not materially altered her looks or thickened her gracile form. One of the few discernible changes in Gesalla’s appearance was the single strip of silver which might have been applied to her hair by a skilled beautician. She still adopted a long and flowing style of dress in subdued colours, although Overland’s burgeoning textiles industry was as yet unable to produce the gauzy materials she had favoured on the old world.

“At what time is your appointment with the King?” Gesalla said, stepping back and examining his clothing with a critical eye. It was sometimes a source of contention between them that, in spite of his elevation to the peerage, he insisted on dressing like a commoner, usually in an open-necked shirt and plain breeches.

“At the ninth hour,” he replied. “I should leave soon.”

“And you’re going in that garb?”

“Why not?”

“It is hardly appropriate for an audience with the King,” Gesalla said. “Chakkell may take it as a discourtesy.”

“Let him take it any way he pleases.” Toller scowled as he laid the sword in its leather case and fastened the lid. “Sometimes I think I’ve had my fill of royals and all their ways.”

He saw the fleeting expression of concern on Gesalla’s face and was immediately sorry he had made the remark. Tucking the presentation case under his arm, he smiled again to indicate that he was actually in a cheerful and reasonable mood. He took Gesalla’s slim hand in his own and walked with her to the front entrance of the house. It was a single-storey structure, as were most dwellings on Overland, and had few architectural adornments, but the fact that it was stone-built and boasted ten spacious rooms marked it as the home of a nobleman. Masons and carpenters were still at a premium twenty-three years after the Great Migration, and the majority of the population had to make do with comparatively flimsy shelter.

Toller’s personal sword was hanging in its belted scabbard in the entrance hall. He reached for the weapon and then, out of consideration for Gesalla, turned away from it with a dismissive gesture and opened the door. The precinct beyond glowed so fiercely in the sun that its walls and pavement seemed to be light sources in their own right.

“I haven’t seen Cassyll today,” Toller said as heat billowed in past him. “Where is he?”

“He rose early and went straight to the mine.”

Toller nodded his approval. “He works hard.”

“A trait inherited from me,” Gesalla said. “You’ll return before littlenight?”

“Yes—I have no wish to prolong my business with Chakkell.” Toller went to his bluehorn, which was waiting patiently by a spear-shaped ornamental shrub. He strapped the leather case across the beast’s broad haunches, got into the saddle and waved goodbye to Gesalla. She responded with a single slow nod, her face unexpectedly grave.

“Look, I’m merely going on an errand to the palace,” Toller said. “Why must you look so troubled?”

“I don’t know—perhaps I have a premonition.” Gesalla almost smiled. “Perhaps you have been too quiet for too long.”

“But that makes me sound like an overgrown child,” Toller protested.

Gesalla opened her mouth to reply, changed her mind and disappeared into the house. Slightly disconcerted, Toller urged the bluehorn forward. At the precinct’s wooden gate the well-trained animal nuzzled the lock actuating plate, a device Cassyll had designed, and in a few seconds they were out in the vivid grasslands of the countryside.

The road—a strip of gravel and pebbles confined by twin lines of rocks—ran due east to intersect the highway leading to Prad, Overland’s principal city. The full acreage of Toller’s estate was being cultivated by tenant farmers and therefore showed different shades of green in strips, but beyond his boundaries the hills had their natural uniformity of colour, a rich verdancy which flowed to the horizon. There were no clouds or haze to soften the sun’s rays. The sky was a dome of timeless purity, with only a sprinkling of the brightest stars and an occasional meteor showing up against the overall brilliance. And directly above, gravitationally fixed in place, was the huge disk of the Old World, looming but not threatening—a reminder of the most momentous episode in all of Kolcorron’s history.

It was the kind of foreday on which Toller would normally have felt at peace with himself and the rest of the universe, but the uneasiness caused by Gesalla’s sombre mood had not yet faded from his mind. Could it be that she had a genuine prescience, intimations of forthcoming upheavals in their lives? Or, as was more likely, did she know him better than he knew himself and was able to interpret signals he was not even aware of giving?

There was no denying that of late he had been in the grip of a strange restlessness. The work he had done for the King in exploring and claiming Overland’s single continent had brought him honours and possessions; he was married to the only woman he had ever loved and had a son of whom he was proud—and yet, incredibly, life had begun to seem flat. The prospect of continuing on this pleasant and undemanding course until he silted up with old age and died filled him with a sense of suffocation. Feeling like a betrayer, he had done his utmost to conceal his state of mind from Gesalla, but he had never yet managed to deceive her for long about anything…

Far ahead of him Toller saw a small group of soldiers moving north on the highway. He paid them little heed for several minutes until it came to him that their progress towards Prad was unusually slow for a mounted party. In the mood to welcome any distraction, he took his small telescope out of his pouch and trained it on the distant group. The reason for their tardiness was immediately obvious—four men on bluehorns were escorting a man on foot who was almost certainly their prisoner.

Toller closed the telescope and put it away, frowning as he contemplated the fact that crime was virtually unknown on Overland. There was too much work to be done, few people had anything worth stealing, and the sparseness of the population made it difficult for wrongdoers to hide.

His curiosity now aroused, Toller increased his speed and reached the intersection with the highway shortly ahead of the slow-moving group. He brought his steed to a halt and studied the approaching men. Green gauntlet emblems on the breasts of the riders told him they were private soldiers in the employ of Baron Panvarl. The lightly built man stumbling along at the centre of a square formed by the four bluehorns was about thirty and was dressed like an ordinary farmer. His wrists were bound in front of him and lines of dried blood reaching down from his matted black hair showed that he had been roughly handled.

Toller had already decided that he had no liking for the soldiers when he saw the prisoner’s eyes lock on him and widen in recognition, an event which in turn stimulated Toller’s memory. He had failed to identify the man right away because of his dishevelled appearance, but now he knew him to be Oaslit Spennel, a fruit farmer whose plot was some four miles to the south. Spennel occasionally supplied berries for the Maraquine household, and his reputation was that of a quiet, industrious man of good character. Toller’s initial dislike for the soldiers hardened into straightforward antagonism.

“Good foreday, Oaslit,” he called out, advancing his bluehorn to block the road. “It surprises me to find you in such dubious company.”

Spennel held out his bound wrists. “I have been placed under false arrest, my…”

“Silence, dung-eater!” The sergeant leading the company made a threatening gesture at Spennel, then turned baleful eyes on Toller. He was a barrel-chested man, somewhat old for his rank, with coarse features and the glowering expression of one who had seen a great deal of life without benefiting from the experience. His gaze zigzagged over Toller, who watched impassively, knowing that the sergeant was trying to relate the plainness of his garb to the fact that he rode a bluehorn which sported the finest quality tack.

“Get out of the way,” the sergeant said finally.

Toller shook his head. “I demand to hear the nature of the charges against this man.”

“You demand a great deal—” The sergeant glanced at his three companions and they responded with grins. “—for one who ventures abroad unarmed.”

“I have no need of weapons in these parts,” Toller said. “I am Lord Toller Maraquine—perhaps you have heard of me.”

“Everybody has heard of the Kingslayer,” the sergeant muttered,, augmenting the disrespect in his tone by delaying the correct form of address. “My lord.”

Toller smiled as he memorised the sergeant’s face. “What are the charges against your prisoner?”

“The swine is guilty of treason—and will face the executioner today in Prad.”

Toller dismounted, moving slowly to give himself time to assimilate the news, and went to Spennel. “What’s this I hear, Oaslit?”

“It’s all lies, my lord.” Spennel spoke quickly in a low, frightened monotone. “I swear to you I am totally without blame. I offered no insult to the baron.”

“Do you mean Panvarl? How does he come into this?”

Spennel looked nervously at the soldiers before replying. “My farm adjoins the baron’s estate, my lord. The spring which waters my trees drains down on to his land and…” Spennel’s voice faded and he shook his head, momentarily unable to continue.

“Go on, man,” Toller said. “I can’t help you unless I know the whole story.”

Spennel swallowed audibly. “The water lies in a basin and makes the land swampy at a place where the baron likes to exercise his bluehorns. Two days ago he came to my house and ordered me to block the spring off with boulders and cement. I told him I needed the water for my livelihood and offered to channel it away from his land. He became angry and told me to begin blocking the spring without further delay. I told him there was little point in doing so, because the water would find another way to the surface… and it was… it was then that he accused me of insulting him. He rode off vowing that he would obtain a warrant from the King for my… for my arrest and execution on a charge of treason.”

“All this over a patch of muddy ground!” Toller pinched his lower lip in bafflement. “Panvarl must be losing his reason.”

Spennel managed a lop-sided travesty of a smile. “Hardly, my lord. Other farmers have forfeited their land to him.”

“So that’s the way of it,” Toller said in a low hard voice, feeling a return of the disillusionment which at times had almost made him a recluse. There had been a period immediately following the arrival of mankind on Overland when he had genuinely believed that the race had made a new start. Those had been the heady years of the exploration and settlement of the green continent which girdled the planet, when it had seemed that all men could be equal and that their old wasteful ways would be abandoned. He had clung to his hopes even when the realities of the situation had begun to become obtrusive, but eventually he had reached the point of having to ask himself if the journey between the worlds had been an exercise in futility…

“Have no fear,” he said to Spennel. “You’re not going to die on account of Panvarl. You have my word on that.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you…” Spennel glanced again at the soldiers and lowered his voice to a whisper. “My lord, is it in your power to free me now?”

Toller had to shake his head. “For me to go against the King’s warrant would prejudice your case even further. Besides, it is more in accord with our purpose if you continue to Prad on foot—that way I can be there well ahead of you and will have ample time in which to speak to the King.”

“Thank you again, my lord, from the bottom of my…” Spennel paused, looking oddly ashamed of himself, like a merchant pressing for an advantage which even he conceded was unfiar. “If anything should befall me, my lord, would you be so… would you inform my wife and daughter, and see to their…?”

“Nothing untoward is going to happen to you,” Toller said, almost sharply. “Now be at your ease as far as is possible and leave the rest of this sorry business to me.”

He turned, walked casually to his bluehorn and hoisted himself into the saddle, feeling some concern over the fact that Spennel, regardless of the guarantees he had been given, still half-expected to die. It was a sign of the times, an indication that not only was he no longer in favour with the King, but that his fall from favour had been widely noted. Personally he cared little about such things, but it would be serious indeed if he found himself unable to help a man in Spennel’s predicament.

He nudged his bluehorn closer to the sergeant and said, “What is your name?”

“What concern is that of yours?” the sergeant countered. “My lord.”

To his surprise Toller experienced that flickering of redness at the edges of his vision which had always accompanied the most reckless rages of his youth. He leaned forward, stabbing with his eyes, and saw the challenging expression fade from the other man’s face.

“I will ask you but one more time, sergeant,” he said. “What is your name?”

The sergeant hesitated only briefly. “Gnapperl.”

Toller gave him a broad smile. “Very well, Gnapperl—now we know each other and can all be good friends together. I am on my way to Prad for a private audience with the King, and the first thing I will do is ensure that Oaslit Spennel receives a full pardon for his imaginary crime. For the present I am placing him under my personal protection, and—I dislike mentioning this now that we have become good friends—if any misfortune were to befall him you would soon be overtaken by an even greater misfortune. I trust my meaning is clear…”

The sergeant responded with a malevolent stare, his lips twitching as he debated making a reply. Toller gave him a nod of mock politeness, brought his mount around and put it into a fast canter. It was about four miles to Kolcorron’s major city, and he could expect to be there at least an hour ahead of Gnapperl and his squad. Toller glanced up at the vastness of the sister planet, poised directly above him and occupying a large arc of the sky, and knew by the width of its sunlit crescent that he would be in good time for his appointment. Even with Spennel’s release to be negotiated he could still complete his mission and reach home again before the sun vanished behind the Old World—provided that the King was in a reasonable frame of mind.

The best approach, he decided, would be to play on Chakkell’s antipathy towards the idea of his noblemen extending their territories. When the new state of Kolcorron had been founded, Chakkell—the first non-hereditary ruler in history —had sought to protect his position by severely limiting the size of aristocrats’ domains. There had been some resentment, especially among those related to the old royal family, but Chakkell had dealt with it firmly and, in some cases, bloodily. Toller had been too busy to pay much attention.

Those early years now had a dreamlike quality in his memory. He could no longer readily visualise that wavering line of sky-ships, a stack a hundred miles high, drifting down from the zenith after the interplanetary crossing. Most of the craft had been dismantled soon after the landing, the balloon fabric going to make tents for the settlers, or in some cases being restitched to create envelopes for airships. On a whim of Chakkell’s a number of the skyships had been preserved intact to form the basis of museums, but Toller had not viewed any of them in a long time. The inert, mould-encrusted reality of the ships was incompatible with the inspirational dynamism of that high point in his life.

On surmounting a fold in the land he saw the city of Prad in the distance, its centre cradled in the bend of a wide river. The city presented a strange appearance to his eye because, unlike Ro-Atabri where he had grown up, its origins lay in an abstraction, an architectural strategy. A cluster of tall buildings marked the core, oddly circumscribed and highly visible amid the green horizontals of the landscape, while the rest had only an attenuated existence. Patterns of future avenues and plazas were sketched on the terrain, sometimes with lines of timber dwellings, but for the most part with nothing more than posts and white-painted boulders. Here and there in the suburbs a stone-built official structure brought the plan a step closer to reality, each building suggestive of a lonely outpost under siege from armies of grass and scrub. In many areas nothing moved but the bubble-like ptertha, gently bounding across the open ground or nuzzling their way along fences.

Toller followed the straight highway into the city, a place he rarely visited. He passed increasing numbers of men, women and children who were on foot, and in the central section found a bustling atmosphere reminiscent of a market town on the Old World. The public buildings were in the traditional Kolcorro-nian style—featuring overlapping diamond patterns in varicoloured masonry and brick—which had been modified to suit local conditions. Deep red sandstone should have been used to dress all corners and edges, but no useful sources had yet been found on Overland and the builders had substituted brown granite. Most of the shops and hostelries had been deliberately made to resemble their Old World counterparts, and in some areas Toller found it almost possible to imagine himself back in Ro-Atabri.

Nevertheless, the rawness and lack of finish of many structures reinforced his opinion that King Chakkell had tried to do too much too soon. Only twelve thousand people had successfully completed the journey to Overland, and although they were multiplying rapidly the population of the entire planet was less than fifty thousand. Many of those were very young and—as a result of Chakkell’s determination to create a world state—were scattered in small communities all around the globe. Even Prad, the so-called capital city, housed less than eight thousand, making it a village uncomfortably glorified with the trappings of government.

As he neared the north side Toller began to catch glimpses of the royal palace on the far bank of the river. It was a rectangular building, architecturally incomplete, waiting for the wings and towers which even the impatient Chakkell had to entrust to future generations. The white and rose-coloured marble with which it was clad gleamed through ranks of immature trees. Within a few minutes Toller was crossing the single ornate bridge which spanned the river. He approached the brakka wood gates of the palace itself, where the chief of the guard recognised him and signalled that he should pass through unimpeded.

In the forecourt of the palace there were about twenty phaetons and as many saddled bluehorns, an indication that this was a busy foreday for the King. It occurred to Toller that he might not get to see Chakkell at his appointed hour, and he felt a sudden stirring of anxiety on Spennel’s behalf. The threat he had issued to the sergeant would cease to be effective in the presence of an executioner and high officials carrying death warrants. Toller dismounted, unstrapped the presentation case and hurried to the arched main entrance. He was admitted by the outer guards quickly enough, but—as he had feared—was stopped at the carved door of the audience chamber by two black-armoured ostiaries.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” one of them said. “You are required to wait here until the King bids you enter.”

Toller glanced at the other people, some of whom were wearing the sword-and-plume insignia of royal messengers, who were standing about the corridor in groups of two or three. “But my appointment is for the ninth hour.”

“Others have been in attendance since the seventh hour, my lord.”

Toller’s anxiety increased sharply. He paced a circle on the mosaic floor while he came to a decision and then, making a show of seeming relaxed and untroubled, returned to the guards. When he engaged them in Smalltalk they looked gratified, but not unduly so—their control of that particular doorway had enhanced their standing with many petitioners. Toller conversed with them for several minutes and was just beginning to have difficulty in dredging up suitable trivia when footsteps sounded on the far side of the double door.

Each ostiary swung upon a leaf and a small group of men dressed in commissioner’s robes emerged, nodding in evident satisfaction at the outcome of their meeting with the King. A white-haired man who looked like a district administrator stepped forward, obviously expecting to be ushered into Chakkell’s presence.

“My apologies,” Toller murmured, moving ahead of him. The startled ostiaries tried to bar the way, but even in his early fifties Toller retained much of the speed and casual power which had distinguished him as a young soldier, and he thrust the two men aside with ease. A second later he was striding through the high-ceilinged room towards the dais upon which Chakkell was seated. Chakkell raised his head, alerted by the clattering of the ostiaries’ armour as they came in pursuit of Toller, and his expression changed to one of anger.

“Maraquine!” he snapped, heaving himself to his feet. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“It’s a matter of life or death, Majesty!” Toller allowed the guards to seize him by the arms, but resisted their attempts to draw him back to the door. “An innocent man’s life is at stake, and I beg you to consider the matter without delay. Also, I suggest that you order your doorkeepers to withdraw—they would be of little value were I obliged to separate their hands from their wrists.”

His words caused the guards to redouble their efforts to move him, but Chakkell pointed a finger at them and slowly veered it to indicate the door. The guards released Toller immediately, bowed and backed away. Chakkell remained on his feet, eyes locked with Toller’s until they were alone in the large room, then he sat down heavily and clapped a hand to his forehead.

“I can scarcely credit this, Maraquine,” he said. “You still haven’t changed, have you? I had hoped that my depriving you of your Burnor estates would have taught you to curb that damned insolence of yours, but I see I was too optimistic.”

“I had no use for…” Toller paused, realising he was taking the wrong road to his objective. He eyed the King soberly as he tried to gauge how much damage he had already done to Spennel’s prospects. Chakkell was now sixty-five; his sun-browned scalp was almost devoid of hair and he was burdened with fat, but he had lost none of his mental vigour. He was still a hard, intolerant man—and he had lost little, if any, of the ruthlessness which had eventually gained him the throne.

“Go on!” Chakkell drew his eyebrows together to form a continuous bar. “You had no use for what?”

“It was of little consequence, Majesty,” Toller said. “I apologise most sincerely for forcing my way into your presence, but I repeat that this is a matter of an innocent man’s life, and there is no time to spare.”

“What innocent man? Why do you trouble me with this?” While Toller was describing the events of the foreday Chakkell toyed with the blue jewel he wore on his breast, and at the end of the account he produced a calmly incredulous smile. “How do you know that your lowly friend didn’t insult Panvarl?”

“He swore it to me.”

Chakkell continued to smile. “So it’s the word of some miserable farmer against that of a nobleman of this realm?”

“The farmer is personally known to me,” Toller said urgently. “I vouch for his honesty.”

“But what would induce Panvarl to lie over a matter of such little import?”

“Land.” Toller gave the word time to register. “Panvarl is displacing farmers from his borders and absorbing their holdings into his own demesne. His intentions are fairly obvious, and—I would have thought—not to your liking.”

Chakkell leaned back in his gilded chair, his smile broadening. “I get your drift, my dear Toller, but if Panvarl is content to proceed by gobbling up smallholdings one by one it will be a thousand years before his descendants can pose any threat to the monarchy of the day. You will forgive me if I continue to address myself to more urgent problems.”

“But…” Toller experienced premonitions of failure as he saw what was behind Chakkell’s use of his given name and sudden accession of good humour. He was to be punished for past and present misdeeds—by the death of another man. The notion escalated Toller’s uneasiness into a chilly panic.

“Majesty,” he said, “I must appeal to your sense of justice. One of your loyal subjects, a man who has no means to defend himself, is being deprived of his property and life.”

“But it is justice,” Chakkell replied comfortably. “He should have given some thought to the consequences before he offered insult to Panvarl, and thus indirectly to me. In my opinion the baron behaved very correctly—he would have been within his rights had he struck the clod down on the spot instead of seeking a warrant.”

“That was to give his criminal activities the semblance of legality.”

“Be careful, Maraquine!’ The genial expression had departed the King’s swarthy face. “You are in danger of going too far.”

“I apologise, Majesty,” Toller said, and in his desperation decided to put the issue on a personal footing. “My only intention is to save an innocent man’s life—and to that end may I remind you of a certain favour you owe me.”

“Favour? Favour?”

Toller nodded. “Yes, Majesty. I refer to the occasion when I preserved not only your own life but those of Queen Daseene and your three children. I have never brought the matter up before, but the time has…”

“Enough!” Chakkell’s shout of incredulity echoed in the rafters. “I grant you that, while in the process of saving your own skin, you incidentally delivered my family, but that was more than twenty years ago! And as for never referring to the matter —you have used it over and over again when you wished to pry some concession out of me. Looking back through the years, it seems to have been your sole topic of conversation! No, Maraquine, you have traded on that one for far too long.”

“But all the same, Majesty, four royal lives for the price of one ord—”

“Silence! You are to plague me no longer on that point. Why are you here anyway?” Chakkell snatched a handful of papers from a stand beside his chair and riffled through them. “I see. You claim to be bringing me a special gift. What is it?”

Recognising that for the moment it would be unwise to press the King further, Toller opened the leather case and displayed its contents. “A very special gift, Majesty.”

“A metal sword.” Chakkell gave an exaggerated sigh. “Maraquine, these monomanias of yours become increasingly tiresome. I thought we had settled once and for all that iron is inferior to brakka for weaponry.”

“But this blade is made of steel.” Toller withdrew the sword and was about to pass it to the King when a new idea occurred to him. “We have learned that ore smelted in the upper part of a furnace produces a much harder metal, one which can then be tempered to form the perfect blade.” Setting the case on the floor, Toller adopted a fighting stance with the sword in the first readiness position.

Chakkell shifted in his chair, looking uneasy. “You know the protocol about carrying weapons in the palace, Maraquine. I have half a mind to summon the guard and let them deal with you.”

“That would provide a welcome opportunity for me to demonstrate the value of the gift,” Toller said, smiling. “With this in my hand I can defeat the best swordsman in your army.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous. Go home with your shiny toy and allow me to attend to more important matters.”

“I meant what I said.” Toller introduced a degree of hardness into his voice. “The best swordsman in your army.”

Chakkell responded to Toller’s new note of challenge by narrowing his eyes. “The years appear to have weakened your mind as much as your body. You have heard of Karkarand, I presume. Have you any conception of what he could do to a man of your age?”

“He will be powerless against me—as long as I have this sword.” Toller lowered the weapon to his side. “So confident am I that I am prepared to wager my sole remaining estate on the outcome of a duel with Karkarand. I know you are partial to a gamble, Majesty, so what say you? My entire estate against the life of one farmer.”

“So that’s it!’ Chakkell shook his head. “I am not disposed to…”

“We can make it to the death if you like.”

Chakkell leapt to his feet. “You arrogant fool, Maraquine! This time you will receive what you have so assiduously courted since the day we met. It will give me the greatest pleasure to see daylight being let into that thick skull of yours.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Toller said drily. “In the meantime… a stay of execution?”

“That will not be necessary—the issue will be settled forthwith.” Chakkell raised a hand and a stoop-shouldered secretary, who must have been watching from a spyhole, scurried into the room through a small doorway.

“Majesty?” he said, bowing so vigorously as to suggest to Toller that he had acquired his posture through years of deference.

“Two things,” Chakkell said. “Inform those who wait in the corridor that I am departing on other business, but they may take consolation from the fact that my absence will be brief. Extremely brief! Secondly, tell the house commander that I require Karkarand to be on the parade ground three minutes from now. He is to be armed and prepared to carry out a dissection.”

“Yes, Majesty.” The secretary bowed again and, after casting one lingering and speculative look at Toller, loped away towards the double door. He was moving with the eager gait of one for whom a dull day had suddenly shown promise of memorable entertainment. Toller watched him depart and, having been granted time for thought, began to wonder if he had overstepped the bounds of reason in his championing of Spennel.

“What’s this, Maraquine?” Chakkell said, his former joviality returning. “Second thoughts?” Without waiting for a reply he crooked his finger and led the way out of the audience chamber by means of a curtained private exit.

As he walked along a panelled corridor in the King’s wake Toller suddenly glimpsed a mind-picture of Gesalla at the moment of their parting, her grey eyes deeply troubled, and his misgivings increased. Had some intuitive power enabled her to know that he was setting out to court danger? The meeting with Spennel and his captors had been pure coincidence, of course, but Toller lived in a society where violent death was not uncommon, and in previous years he had been unperturbed by reports of summary and unjust executions. Could it be that, in his mood of destructive discontent, he would have sought out a way —even without the chance encounter on the road to Prad—to place himself in a position of peril?

If he had been unconsciously trying to put himself in danger he had been spectacularly successful. He had never set eyes on Karkarand, but he knew the man to be a rare phenomenon—a gifted sword fighter, unhampered by any trace of morality or regard for human life, with a physique so powerful that he was rumoured to have dispatched a bluehorn with a single blow of his fist. For a middle-aged man, regardless of how well he was armed, to pit himself against such a killing machine was an act of recklessness bordering on the suicidal. And, as the ultimate flourish of idiocy, he had wagered the estate which supported his family on the outcome of the duel!

Forgive me, Gesalla, Toller thought, mentally cringing from his solewife’s level gaze. If I survive this episode I’ll be the model of prudence until the day I die. I promise to be what you want me to be.

King Chakkell reached a door which led to the outside and, in a complete reversal of protocol, pulled it open and gestured for Toller to precede him into the parade ground beyond. Some remnant of a sense of propriety caused Toller to hesitate, then he noticed Chakkell’s smile and understood the symbolism of his action—he was happy to suspend the normal rules of conduct for the privilege of ushering an old adversary out of the world of the living.

“What ails you, Toller?” he said, jovial once more. “At"this point any other man would be having second thoughts—are you, perhaps, having first thoughts? And regrets?”

“On the contrary,” Toller replied, returning the smile, “I’m looking forward to some gentle exercise.”

He set the presentation case down on the gravelled surface of enclosed ground and took out the sword. There was comfort to be gained from the balanced weight of it, the sheer rightness of the way it took to his hand, and his anxiety began to abate. He glanced up at the vast disk of the Old World and saw that the ninth hour was just beginning, which meant he could still reach home before littlenight.

“Is that a blood channel?” Chakkell said, looking closely at the steel sword for the first time and noticing the groove which extended down from the haft. “You don’t go in to the hilt with a blade that long, do you?”

“New materials, new designs.” Toller, who had no wish for the weapon’s secret to be revealed prematurely, turned away and scanned the line of low military quarters and stores which bounded the parade ground. “Where is this swordsman of yours, Majesty? I trust he moves with greater alacrity when in combat.”

“That you will soon discover,” Chakkell said comfortably.

At that moment a door opened in the farthest wall and a man in line soldier’s uniform emerged. Other soldiers appeared behind him and spread out sideways to merge with the thin line of spectators who were noiselessly materialising on the ground’s perimeter. The word had spread quickly, Toller realised, attracting those who anticipated seeing a dash of crimson added to the dull monochrome of the palatial day. He returned his attention to the soldier who had come out first and was now walking towards him and the King.

Karkarand was not quite as tall as Toller had expected, but he had a tremendous breadth of torso and columnar legs of such power that he progressed with a springy gait in spite of the massiveness of his build. His arms were so packed with muscle that, unable to hang vertically at his side, they projected laterally at an angle, adding a touch of monstrousness to his already intimidating appearance. Karkarand’s face was very broad, yet narrower than the trunk of his neck, its features blurred by a reddish stubble. His eyes, which were fixed on Toller, were so pale and bright that they seemed to fluoresce in the shadow of his brakka helmet.

Toller immediately understood that he had made a serious mistake in issuing his challenge to the King. Before him was a creature, less a human being than an engine of war, who had no real need of artificial weapons to supplement the destructive forces nature had built into his grotesque frame. Even if successfully disarmed by an opponent he would be capable of pressing the engagement through to a lethal conclusion. Toller instinctively tightened his grip on his sword and, choosing to wait no longer, depressed a stud on its haft. He felt the glass vial within shatter and release its charge of yellow fluid.

“Majesty,” Karkarand said in a surprisingly melodious voice as he approached and saluted the King.

“Good foreday, Karkarand.” Chakkell’s tone was equally light, almost conversational. “Lord Toller Maraquine—of whom you will doubtless have heard—appears to have become enamoured with death. Be a good fellow and cater to his wishes at once.”

“Yes, Majesty.” Karkarand saluted again and in a continuation of the movement drew his battle sword. In place of standard regimental markings the blackness of the brakka wood blade was relieved by crimson enamel inlays in the shape of blood droplets—a sign that its owner was a personal favourite of the King. Karkarand unhurriedly turned to face Toller, his expression one of calmness and mild curiosity, and raised his sword. Chakkell moved several paces back.

Toller’s heart began to pound as he made himself ready, speculating as to what form Karkarand’s attack would take. He had half-expected a sudden onslaught which would have been designed to end the duel in a second or so, but his opponent was playing a different game. Moving slowly forward, Karkarand lifted his sword high and brought it down in the kind of simple direct stroke that might have been used by a small child at play. Surprised by the other man’s lack of finesse, Toller automatically parried the blow—and nearly gasped aloud as the incredible shock of it raced back through his blade, twisting and loosening the haft in his fingers, causing a geysering of pain in his hand.

The sword had almost been struck from his grasp by Karkarand’s first blow!

He tightened numb fingers on the still-reverberating haft just in time to counter an exact repetition of the first stroke. This time he was better prepared for the devastating power of it and his sword remained secure in his grip, but the pain was more intense than before, surging back into his wrist. Karkarand kept moving forward at his deliberate pace, repeating the downward blow without any variation, and now Toller understood his opponent’s strategy. This was to be death by contempt. Karkarand had indeed heard of Lord Toller Maraquine, and he was determined to enhance his own reputation by simply walking through the Kingslayer like an automaton, annihilating him in a demonstration of sheer strength. No special skill was required, was to be the message to the onlookers and the rest of the world. The great Toller Maraquine was easy meat for the first real warrior he ever encountered.

Toller leapt back well clear of Karkarand to gain some respite from the punishing contacts with the black sword and to give himself time in which to think. He could see now that Karkarand’s weapon was thicker and heavier than an ordinary battle sword—more suitable for formal executions than prolonged combat—and only one possessed of superhuman strength could use it effectively in a duel. The heart of the problem, however, lay in the odd fighting style which had been adopted by Karkarand. An unrelenting series of vertical strokes was probably the best technique, albeit chosen unwittingly, for countering the secret additional power of Toller’s steel sword. If he wanted to survive—and thereby prove his point—he would have to force a radical change in the style of combat.

Hardening his resolve, Toller waited until Karkarand’s sword was again raised above his head, then he went in fast and blocked the coming downstroke by locking the two blades together at the hilt. The move took Karkarand by surprise because it could only have been completed successfully by an opponent of greater physical strength—and such was manifestly not the case. Karkarand blinked, and then with a snort of gratification bore downwards with all the power of his massive right arm. Toller was able to resist for only a few seconds before being obliged to yield, and as his opponent’s drive gained momentum he was actually forced into an undignified backwards scramble which almost ended in a fall.

The onlookers, who had advanced to form a circle, raised some ironic applause—a sound in which Toller detected a note of anticipation. He played up to it by bowing towards Chakkell, who responded with an impatient signal to continue with the duel. Toller wheeled quickly on his opponent, now feeling satisfied and relieved, knowing that the upper sections of the two blades had been in contact long enough for Karkarand’s weapon to have been liberally smeared with yellow fluid.

“Enough of this play-acting, Kingslayer,” Karkarand growled as he drove forward with yet another of the swishing, murderous vertical strokes.

Instead of fending it off to the right, Toller—using smallsword technique—swept his blade over and around the blow, and concluded the movement by striking across the line of it. Karkarand’s sword snapped just below the hilt and the black blade tumbled away across the gravel. Running a few paces towards the ruined weapon, Karkarand emitted a cry of anguished surprise which was amplified by the stillness which had descended over the crowd.

“What have you done, Maraquine?” King Chakkell bellowed, his paunch surging as he strode forward. “What trickery is this?”

“No trickery! See for yourself, Majesty,” Toller called out, his attention only partially centred on the King. The duel would have been ended or suspended had the normal Kolcorronian rules been in force, but he had assessed Karkarand as a man to whom behavioural codes meant nothing, who would always go for the kill using any means at his disposal. Toller faced the King for only an instant, judging the time available to him, then spun with his sword held level in a glittering horizontal sweep. Karkarand, who had been running at him with the organic club of his fist upraised, slid to a halt with the point of Toller’s sword in his midriff. A crimson stain spread quickly in the coarse grey weave of his tunic, but he held his ground, breathing heavily, and even seemed to be pressing forward regardless of the metal which was penetrating his flesh.

“Make your choice, ogre,” Toller said gently. “Life or death.”

Karkarand stared at him wordlessly, still without backing off, eyes reduced to pale venomous slits in the vertically compressed face, and Toller found himself making ready for an action which had become foreign to his nature.

“Use your brains, Karkarand,” Chakkell said, reaching the scene of the confrontation. “You would be of little use to me with a severed spine. Return to your duties immediately—this matter may be concluded another day.”

“Majesty.” Karkarand stepped backwards and saluted the King without once allowing his gaze to stray from Toller’s face. He turned and marched away towards his quarters, the ring of spectators hastily parting to let him through. Chakkell, who had been happy to indulge his subjects as long as he had believed Toller would be slain, made a dismissive gesture and the crowd rapidly dispersed. Within seconds Toller and Chakkell were alone in a sunlit arena.

“Now, Maraquine!” Chakkell extended his hand. “The weapon!”

“Of course, Majesty.” Toller opened the compartment in the haft, revealing the shattered vial bathed in yellow ooze, and a pungent smell—reminiscent of the stench of whitefern— permeated the warm air. Holding the sword by the lower part of the blade, Toller passed it over to Chakkell for inspection.

Chakkell wrinkled his nose in distaste. “This is brakka slime!”

“A refinement of it. In this form it is easier to remove from one’s skin.”

“The form is of no account.” Chakkell looked down and nudged the discarded handle of Karkarand’s sword with his foot. The black wood of the blade stump was visibly seething and frothing under the action of the destructive fluid. “I still say you resorted to trickery.”

“And I maintain there was no trickery,” Toller countered. “When a superior new weapon becomes available only a fool stubbornly clings to the old—that has always been a precept in military logic. And from this day forward weapons fashioned from brakka wood are obsolete.” He paused to glance up at the looming convexity of the Old World. “They belong up there—with the past.”

Chakkell returned the steel sword and broodily paced a circle before again locking eyes with Toller. “I don’t understand you, Maraquine. Why have you gone to such lengths?Why have you taken such pains?”

“The felling of brakka trees has to stop—and the sooner the better.”

“The same old tune! And what if I suppress all details of your new toy?”

“It’s already too late for that,” Toller said, turning a thumb towards the line of military quarters. “Many soldiers saw the steel sword survive the worst shocks that Karkarand could inflict, and they also saw what happened to his blade. It is beyond the power of any ruler to restrict that kind of knowledge. Soldiers will always talk, Majesty. They will feel uneasy, and resentful, if required to go into battle armed with weapons they know to be inferior. If in future there were to be an insurrection—perish the thought!—the traitor leading it would ensure that his soldiers were equipped with steel swords of this new pattern. That being the case, a hundred of his men could rout a thous—”

“Stop!” Chakkell clapped his hands to his temples and stood that way for a moment, breathing noisily. “Deliver twelve examples of your damned sword to Gagron of the Military Council. I will speak to him in the meantime.”

“Thank you, Majesty,” Toller said, taking care to sound gratified rather than triumphant. “And now, about the reprieve for the farmer?”

There was a stirring in the brown depths of Chakkell’s eyes. “You can’t have everything, Maraquine. You overcame Karkarand by deceit—so your wager is lost. You should be grateful that I am not claiming the stipulated payment.”

“But I made my terms clear,” Toller said, appalled by the new development. “I said I could defeat the best swordsman in your army as long as I held this sword in my hand.”

“Now you’re beginning to sound like a cheap Kailian lawyer,” Chakkell said, his smile stealing back by degrees. “Remember you’re supposed to be a man of honour.”

“There is only one here whose honour is in question.”

The words he had spoken—his own sentence of death— quickly leached away into the surrounding stillness, and yet it seemed to Toller that he could hear them still being chanted, slow-fading in the passageways of his mind. I must have planned to die, he told himself. But why did my body proceed with the scheme on its own? Why did it make the fatal move so quickly? Did it know my mind to be an irresolute and untrustworthy accomplice? Does every suicide recriminate with himself as he contemplates the empty poison bottle?

Bemused and numb—stone-faced because the last thing he could do was to show any sign of regret—Toller waited for the King’s inevitable reaction. There was no point in trying to apologise or make amends—in Kolcorronian society death was the mandatory punishment for insulting the ruler—and there was nothing Toller could do now but try to shut out visions of Gesalla’s face as she heard how he had engineered his own demise…

“In a way, it has always been something of a game between us,” Chakkell said, looking reproachful rather than angry. “Time after time I have allowed you to get away with things for which I would have had any other man flayed; and even on this foreday—had your bout with Karkarand taken its natural course —I believe I would have stayed his sword at the end rather than see you die. And it was all because of our private little jest, Toller. Our secret game. Do you understand that?”

Toller shook his head. “It is entirely too deep for the likes of me.”

“You know exactly what I’m saying. And you know also that the game ended a moment ago when you broke all the rules. You have left me with no alternative but to…”

Chakkell’s words were lost to Toller as, looking over the King’s shoulder, he saw an army officer come running from a doorway in the north wall of the palace. Chakkell must have given a secret signal, Toller decided, his heart lurching as he tightened his grip on the steel sword. For one pounding instant he considered making the King his hostage and bargaining his way to the open countryside and freedom, but the obdurate side of his nature came to the fore. He had no relish for the idea of being hunted down and trapped like a bedraggled animal—and, besides, the act of threatening Chakkell would rebound on his own family. It would be better by far to accept that he had entered the last hour of his life, and to depart it with what remained of his dignity and honour.

Toller stepped clear of Chakkell and was raising his sword when it came to him that the orange-crested captain was hardly behaving like an arresting officer. He was not accompanied by any of the palace guard, his face was agitated and he was carrying binoculars in place of a drawn sword. Far behind him other soldiers and court officials were reappearing at the edges of the parade ground, their faces turned to the southern sky.

“… if you make no attempt to resist,” Chakkell was saying. “Otherwise, I will have no recourse but to…” He broke off, alerted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and wheeled to face the running officer.

“Majesty!” the captain called out. “I bear a sunwriter message from Airmarshal Yeapard. It is of the utmost urgency.” The captain slid to a halt, saluted and waited for permission to continue.

“Get on with it,” Chakkell said irritably.

“A skyship has been sighted south of the city, Majesty.”

“Skyship? Skyship?” Chakkell scowled at the captain. “What is Yeapard talking about?”

“I have no more information, Majesty,” the captain replied, nervoulsy proferring the leather-bound binoculars. “The air-marshal said you might wish to use these.”

Chakkell snatched the glasses and aimed them at the sky. Toller dropped his sword and reached into his pouch for his telescope, narrowing his eyes as he picked out an object shining in the south, about midway between the horizon and the disk of the sister world. With practised speed he trained the telescope, centring the object in a circle of blue brilliance. The magnified image produced in him a rush of emotion powerful enough to displace all thoughts of his imminent death.

He saw the pear-shaped balloon—impressively huge even at a distance of miles—and the rectangular gondola slung beneath it. He saw the jet exhaust cone projecting downwards from the gondola, and even discerned the near-invisible lines of the acceleration struts which linked the upper and lower components of the airborne craft. And it was the sight of the struts—unique to the ships designed more than twenty years earlier for the Migration—which confirmed what he had intuitively known from the start, adding to his inner turmoil.

“I can’t find anything,” Chakkell grumbled, slewing the binoculars too rapidly. “How can there be a skyship anyway? I haven’t authorised any rebuilding.”

“I think that is the point of the airmarshal’s message,” Toller said, keeping his voice level. “We have visitors from the Old World.”

Chapter 2

The thirty-plus wagons of the First Birthright expedition had travelled too far.

Their timbers were warped and shredded, little remained of the original paintwork, and breakdowns had become so frequent that progress was rarely as much as ten miles a day. In spite of adequate grazing along the route, the bluehorns which provided the expedition’s motive power were slouched and scrawny, weakened by water-borne diseases and parasitical attacks.

Bartan Drumme, pathfinder for the venture, was at the reins of the leading wagon as the train straggled up to the crest of a low ridge. Ahead of him had unfolded a vista of strangely coloured marshland—off-whites and sickly lime greens predominating —which was dotted with drooping, asymmetrical trees and twisted spires of black rock. The sight would have been unappealing to the average traveller, but for one who was supposed to be leading a group of hopefuls to an agricultural paradise it was deeply depressing.

Bartan groaned aloud as he weighed various factors in his mind and concluded that it would take at least five days for the party to reach the horizontal band of blue-green hills which marked the far edge of the swampy basin. Jop Trinchil, who had conceived and organised the expedition, had been growing more and more disillusioned with him of late, and this new misfortune was not going to improve the relationship. Now that Bartan thought of it, he realised he would be lucky if any of the other farmers in the group continued to have dealings with him. As it was, they only spoke to him when necessary, and he had an uneasy feeling that even the loyalty of his betrothed, Sondeweere, was becoming strained by his lack of success.

Deciding it would be best to face the communal anger squarely, he brought his wagon to a halt, applied the brake and leapt down on to the grass. He was a tall, black-haired man in his mid-twenties, slim-built and agile, with a round boyish face. It was that face—smooth, humorous, clever-looking—which had led to some of his previous difficulties with the farmers, most of whom were inclined to distrust men not cast in their own mould. Aware that he already had enough problems to cope with in the next few minutes, Bartan did his utmost to look competent and unruffled while he signalled for the train to halt.

As he had anticipated, there was no need for him to call a meeting—within seconds of glimpsing the dismal terrain ahead, the farmers and their families had quit their wagons and were converging on him. Each of them appeared to be shouting something different, creating a confusion of sound, but Bartan guessed that their scorn was about equally divided between his ability as a pathfinder and this latest in a series of infertile, unworkable tracts of land. Even small children were staring at him with open contempt.

“Well now, Drumme—what fanciful tale have you for us this time?” demanded Jop Trinchil, arms folded across the pudgy billows of his chest. He was grey-haired and plump, but he carried his excess weight with ease and had hands which looked like natural farming implements. In a straight fight it was likely that he would be able to dispose of Bartan without even getting out of breath.

“Tale? Tale?” Bartan, playing for time, chose to sound indignant. “I don’t trade in tales.”

“No? What was it when you told me you were familiar with this territory?”

“I told you I had flown over the region several times with my father, but that was a long time ago—and there is a limit to what one can see and remember.” The final word of the sentence was out before Bartan could check it, and he cursed himself for having given the older man another opportunity to use his favourite so-called witticism.

“I’m surprised you even remember,” Trinchil said heavily, glancing about him to solicit laughs, “to point your spout away from yourself when you piss.”

And I’m surprised you even remember where your spout is, Bartan thought, keeping the riposte to himself with difficulty as those around him, especially the children, burst into immoderate laughter. Jop Trinchil was Sondeweere’s legal guardian, with the power to forbid her to marry, and reacted so badly each time he was bested in a verbal duel that she had made Bartan vow never to score over him again.

“I see no profit in going any farther west,” a blond young farmer called Raderan put in. “I vote we turn north.”

Another said, “I agree—if the bluehorns last long enough we’re going to end up arriving back where we started, but from the other direction.”

Bartan shook his head. “If we go north we’ll only drive into New Kail, which is already well settled, and you will be obliged to split up and take inferior plots. I thought the whole purpose of the expedition was to claim prime land for yourselves and your families, and to live as a community.”

“That was the purpose, but we made the mistake of not hiring a professional guide,” Trinchil said. “We made the mistake of hiring you.”

The truth contained in the accusation had a greater effect on Bartan than the vehement manner in which it was delivered. Having met and fallen in love with Sondeweere he had been devastated to learn that she was leaving the Ro-Amass vicinity with the expedition, and in his determination to be accepted by Trinchil and the others he had exaggerated his knowledge of this part of the continent. In his ardour he had half-convinced himself that he could recall the broad geographical features of a vast area, but as the wagons had groped their way west the inadequacies of his memory and handful of sketch maps had become more and more apparent.

Now he was reaping the reward for his manipulation of himself and others, and something in Trinchil’s manner was making him fear that the reward might contain an element of physical pain. Alarmed, Bartan shaded his eyes from the sun and studied the shimmering marshland again, hoping to pick out some feature which would have a stimulative effect on his memory. Almost at once he noticed a kink in the horizontal line which was the area’s far boundary, a kink which might indicate a narrow extension of the marsh in a river-bed. How would that look from the air? A thin white finger pointing west? Was he deceiving himself again or was there just such an image buried in some recess of his mind? And was it linked to an even fainter vision of lush, rolling grasslands traversed by clear streams?

Deciding to take the final gamble, Bartan produced a loud peal of laughter, using all his vocal skills to make it sound totally natural and unforced. Trinchil’s silver-stubbled jaw sagged in surprise and the discontented babble from the rest of the group abruptly ceased.

“I see nothing amusing in our situation,” Trinchil said. “And even less in yours,” he added ominously.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Bartan giggled and knuckled his eyes, the picture of a man fighting to control genuine merriment. “It was cruel of me, but you know I can’t resist my little jokes—and I just had to see your face when you thought the whole venture had come to naught. I do apologise, most sincerely.”

“Have you lost your reason?” Trinchil said, hands clenching into huge leathery clubs. “Explain yourself at once.”

“Gladly.” Bartan made a theatrical gesture which took in the whole of the marshy basin. “You will all be delighted to hear that yonder dish of mildewed porridge is the very landmark for which I have been aiming since the outset. At the other side of it, just beyond those hills, you will find an abundance of the finest agricultural land you have ever seen, stretching for league upon league in every direction, as far as the eye can see. My friends, we are almost at journey’s end. Soon our days of toil and tribulation will be over, and we will be able to lay claim to the…”

“That’s enough of your wind,” Trinchil shouted, raising his hands to damp the rising note of excitement among some of the onlookers. “We have suffered this kind of rhetoric from you too many times in the past—why should we believe you this time?”

“I still say we should turn north,” Raderan said, stepping forward. “And if we’re going to do that it would be best to do it from here rather than waste time circling that swamp on the say-so of a fool.”

“Fool is too kindly a word for him,” said Raderan’s hulking gradewife, Firenda. After a moment’s thought she suggested what she considered a more appropriate description, bringing a gasp from several of the other women, and an even more ecstatic howl of laughter from the children.

“It is well that you are protected by your skirts, madam,” Bartan protested, privately doubting his ability to stand up to the giantess for more than a few seconds, and to his dismay she immediately began to fumble with the knot of her waistcord.

“If it is only my shift that deters you,” she grated, “we can soon…”

“Leave this to me, woman!” Trinchil had drawn himself up to his full height and was conspicuously asserting his authority. “We are all reasonable people here, and it behoves us to settle our disputes through the exercise of reason. You would agree with that, wouldn’t you, Mister Drumme?”

“Wholeheartedly,” Bartan said, his relief tempered by a suspicion that Trinchil’s intentions towards him had not suddenly become charitable. Beyond the circle of people he saw the yellow-haired figure of Sondeweere part the canopy of a wagon and begin to descend to the ground. He guessed she had hung back, knowing he was in fresh trouble and not wishing to increase his discomfiture with her presence. She was wearing a sleeveless green blouse and close-fitting trews of a darker shade. The garments were quite standard for young women in farming communities, but it was evident to Bartan that she wore them with a special flair which distinguished her from all the others, and which signified equally rare qualities of mind. Even with his present difficult situation to occupy his thoughts, he was able to take a keen pleasure in the graceful, languorous movement of her hips as she climbed down the side of the wagon.

“That being the case, Mister Drumme,” Trinchil said, moving towards Bartan’s wagon, “I think the time has come to rouse your sleeping passenger and make her start paying her way.”

This was the moment Bartan had been hoping to avert since the beginning of the expedition. “Ah… It would occasion a lot of hard work.”

“Not as much hard work as crossing those hills and perhaps finding a swamp or desert on the other side.”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?” Trinchil tugged at the wagon’s stained canvas cover. “You have got an airship in here, and you can fly it, can’t you? If it transpired that you had turned my niece’s head with a pack of lies I would be very angry. More angry than you have ever seen me. More angry than you can even imagine.”

Bartan glanced at Sondeweere, who was just reaching the edge of the group, and was taken aback to see that she was gazing at him with an expression which was frankly questioning, not to say doubtful. “Of course, my airship is in there,” he said hurriedly. “Well, it’s more of an airboat than an airship, but I can assure you that I am an excellent pilot.”

“Ship, boat or coracle—we’re listening to no more of your excuses.” Trinchil began unfastening the cover and other men willingly went forward to help him.

Not daring to object, Bartan watched the operation in a mood of increasing gloom. The airboat was the only object of any value he had inherited from his father, a man whose passion for flying had gradually impoverished and eventually killed him. Its airworthiness was extremely dubious, but Bartan had concealed that fact when presenting the case for his being allowed to join the expedition. An aerial scout could be of great value to the commune, he had argued, and Trinchil had reluctantly assigned wagon-space to the craft. There had been several occasions during the journey when reconnaissance from the air would indeed have been worth the trouble of sending the boat aloft, and each time Bartan had tested his ingenuity to the limit by devising plausible reasons for remaining on the ground. Now, however, it looked as though the day of reckoning had finally arrived.

“See how eagerly they scrabble,” he said, taking up a position beside Sondeweere. “It’s like a sport to them! Anyone would think they doubted my ability as a pilot.”

“That will be soon put to the test.” Sondeweere spoke with less warmth than Bartan would have liked. “I only hope you’re better as a pilot than as a guide.”

“Sondy!”

“Well,” she said unrepentantly, “you must admit you’ve made a fine pig’s arse of everything so far.”

Bartan gazed down at her in wounded bafflement. Sondweere’s face was possibly the most beautiful he had ever seen—with large, wide-spaced blue eyes, perfect nose and well-delineated voluptuous lips—and his every instinct informed him she had an inner loveliness to match. But now and then she would make an utterance which, taken at its face value, indicated that she was quite as coarse as some of the slovens with whom circumstances of birth had forced her to associate. Was this a matter of deliberate policy on her part? Was she, in her own way, warning him that the agricultural life he was about to embrace was not for milksops? His thoughts were abruptly diverted to more practical matters by the sight of a farmer aboard the wagon picking up a green-painted box and preparing to drop it to the ground.

“Careful!” Bartan shouted, darting forward. “You have crystals in there!”

The farmer shrugged, unimpressed, and lowered the box into Bartan’s hands.

“Let me have the purple one too,” Bartan said. When he had received the second box he tucked one under each arm and carried them to a safe resting place on a flat-topped boulder. The green pikon and purple halvell crystals—both extracted from the soil by the root systems of brakka trees—were not really dangerous unless allowed to mingle inside a sealed container. But they were expensive and difficult to obtain outside the largest communities, and Bartan was very solicitous with the small quantities remaining to him. Accepting that he was now virtually committed to making a flight in spite of the hazards involved, he began to supervise the unpacking and assembly of the airboat.

Although the little gondola was extremely light he had no worries about its strength, and the jet engine—being made of brakka wood—was practically indestructible. Bartan’s main concern was with the gasbag. The varnished linen of the envelope had been in doubtful condition when he had packed it, and the long period of stowage in the back of the wagon was likely to have caused further deterioration. He inspected the material and the stitching of the panels and load tapes as the gasbag was being rolled out to its full length on the ground, and what he found added to his misgivings about the proposed flight. The linen had a papery feel to it and there were numerous loose ends of thread wavering on the tapes.

This is madness, Bartan thought. I’m not going to get myself killed for anybody.

He was choosing between the alternatives of facing up to Trinchil and simply refusing to fly, or of surreptitiously disabling the boat by putting a hole in the envelope, when he noticed that a change was coming over the other members of the group. The men were asking questions about the construction and operation of the craft, and were listening to his replies with interest. Even the unruliest children had become more respectful in their manner. It slowly dawned on Bartan that the settlers and their families had never been close to a flying machine before, and a sense of wonder was stirring to life inside them. The boat and its strange mechanisms, seen for the first time, were proof that he really was a flier. Within minutes his status had improved from that of mistrusted novice farmer, a liability to the commune, to that of a man possessing arcane knowledge, rare skills and a godlike ability to walk the clouds. His new eminence was very gratifying—and it was a pity it was destined to be so brief.

“How long would it take to reach the hills with a device like this?” Trinchil said, with no trace of his usual condescension.

“Thirty minutes or so.”

Trinchil whistled. “It is truly wondrous. Are you not afraid?”

“Not in the least,” Bartan said, regretting that he could no longer delay making his position clear. “You see, I have absolutely no intention of trying to fly this…”

“Bartan!” Sondeweere arrived at his side in a swirling of yellow tresses and put an arm around his waist. “I’m so proud of you.”

He did his best to smile. “There’s something I ought…”

“I want to whisper.” She drew his head down, at the same time applying her body to his in such a way that he felt the warm pressure of her breasts against his ribs and her pubis nuzzling into his thigh. “I’m sorry I was rude to you,” she breathed in his ear. “I was worried about us, you see, and Uncle Jop was getting into such a dark mood. I couldn’t bear it if anything got in the way of our marriage, but now everything is all right again. Show them all how wonderful you are, Bartan—just for me.”

“I…” Bartan’s voice faded as he became aware that Trinchil was staring at him with an inquisitive expression.

“You were about to say something.” There seemed to be a rekindling of the old animosity in Trinchil’s eyes. “Something about not flying.”

“Not flying?” Bartan felt Sondeweere’s hand slide down his back and come to rest on his buttocks. “No, no, no\ I was going to say I’d be in no danger because I have no intention of trying to fly too fast, or of performing any injudicious aerobatics. Aviation is a business with me, you know. Strictly a business.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Trinchil said. “I’d be the last man in the world to tell another how to conduct his business, but may I offer you a pertinent piece of advice?”

“Please do,” Bartan replied, wondering why he found the older man’s grin less than reassuring.

Trinchil clamped an enormous hand on each of Bartan’s shoulders and gave him a mock-playful shake. “If, by any chance, you fail to find good land beyond those hills—keep on flying in a straight line and be sure to put as many leagues as you can between the two of us.”

The boat was handling well and—had he not been fearful of a sudden and catastrophic failure of the gasbag—the experience of being airborne again might have produced an equivalent lift in Bartan’s spirits.

Enigmatic though it had seemed to the farmers, the engine designed and built by his father had only three basic controls. A throttle fed pikon and halvell into a combustion chamber, and the hot miglign gas thus generated was exhausted through an aft-facing jet pipe to propel the boat. The pipe could be swivelled laterally by means of a tiller to give some directional control; and when required another lever diverted gas upwards into the envelope to create and maintain buoyancy. As miglign was lighter than air, even when cool, the assemblage was compact and efficient.

Bartan took the boat to a height of fifty feet and sailed it in a circle around the wagons, partly to please Sondeweere, mainly to check that the extra strain of turning would not be too much for the attachment gussets. Relieved at finding the craft still airworthy for the time being at least, he gave a stately wave to the watching farmers and set a course to the west. It was just past noon, with the sun very close to the zenith, so he was riding in the protective shadow of the gasbag and could view his surroundings with unusual clarity. The marshlands stretched out ahead of him like pastel-tinted snow, in contrast to which the distant hills seemed almost black. Apart from the occasional flash of an extra-bright meteor there was little to be seen in the sky. Its brilliance was overpainting all but the brightest stars, and even the Tree—the most important constellation in the southern heavens—was barely visible to his left.

After a few minutes of uneventful flight Bartan began to cease worrying about his safety. The intermittent sound of his jet was fading quickly in the pervasive stillness, and he had little to do but hold his course, now and then pumping the pneumatic reservoir which force-fed crystals to the engine. He might have been able to enjoy the sortie had it not been for Jop Trinchil’s parting words, and once again he found himself regretting that he had never been able to persuade Sondeweere to leave the Birthright group.

He had been only two years old at the time of the Migration and had no real memories of the event, but his father had told him much about it and had given him a good understanding of the historical background. When the ptertha plague had forced King Prad to build an evacuation fleet capable of flying to Overland from the sister world, Land, there had been strong opposition from the Church. The basic tenet of the Alternist religion had been that after death the soul flew to Overland, was reincarnated as a baby, lived out another life and returned to Land in the same way, part of an eternal and immutable process of exchange. The proposal to have a thousand ships physically undertake the voyage to Overland had been an affront to the Lord Prelate of the day, and the riots he led had threatened the whole enterprise, but the Migration had been accomplished despite adverse conditions.

When Overland was found to have no human inhabitants, no counterpart to Land’s civilisation, religious conviction had largely ceased to exist among the colonists. The fact that it had not disappeared entirely was, according to Bartan’s father, a triumph of stubborn irrationality. All right, we were mistaken, was the argument advanced by the remnants of the devout. But that was only because our minds were too puny to appreciate the grandeur of the plan devised by the Great Permanence. We know that after death the soul migrates to another world, and so inadequate was our vision that we presumed that other world to be Overland. We now realise that the departing soul’s actual destination is Farland. The High Path is much longer than we realised, brethren.

Farland was roughly twice as distant from the sun as the Land-Overland pair. It would be many centuries before ships from Overland would be able to undertake that kind of journey, Vlodern Drumme had concluded—passing his natural cynicism to his son—so the high priests had made a good choice. Their jobs were safe for a long time to come…

He had been wrong on that point, as it had transpired. In designing Overland’s infant society, King Chakkell—an old enemy of the Church—had made certain it contained no vestiges of a state religion. Satisfied with having abolished the clergy as a profession, the King had occupied himself with other matters, careless of the fact that his edicts had created a vacuum to be filled by a new kind of preacher, of whom Jop Trinchil was a good example.

Trinchil had embraced religion late in life. At the age of forty he had willingly taken part in the interworld migration, with no qualms about desecrating the High Path, and for the most part his life on Overland had been one of unremitting hard work on a smallholding in the Ro-Amass region. On nearing his sixties Trinchil had become disillusioned with the normal pattern of agricultural life and had decided to be a lay preacher. Unlettered, uncouth in word and manner, inclined to violence, he nevertheless had a raw force of personality which he was soon exerting over a small congregation, whose donations handsomely supplemented the rewards of his own physical toil.

Finally, he had conceived the idea of leading a flock of the faithful to a part of Overland where they could practise their religion without interference—especially from busybodies who might report Trinchil’s illegal activities to the prefect in Ro-Amass.

It was during the preparations for the Birthright Expedition that Trinchil’s and Bartan Drumme’s paths had intersected. Bartan had been earning a reasonable, if irregular, income by selling cheap jewelry of his own design and manufacture. Normally his commercial judgment was sound, but for a brief period he had allowed himself to become infatuated with the appearance of the newly discovered soft metals, gold and silver. As a result he had been left with a batch of trinkets he found almost impossible to sell in his normal markets, where there was a conservative preference for traditional materials such as glass, ceramics, soapstone and brakka. Refusing to be discouraged, he had started touring the rural areas around Ro-Amass in search of less discerning customers, and had met Sondeweere Trinchil.

Her yellow hair had bedazzled him more than gold had done, and within minutes he was hopelessly in love and dreaming of taking Sondeweere back to the city as his solewife. She had responded favourably to his overtures, obviously pleased by the prospect of marrying a man whose appearance and manner contrasted so sharply with those of the average young farmer. There had been, however, two major obstacles to Bartan’s plans. Sondeweere’s desire for novelty stopped short of any interest in changing her way of life—she was adamant that she would never live anywhere but on a farm. Bartan’s reaction had been to discover within himself a hitherto dormant passion for agriculture and an ambition to work his own plot of land, but the second problem had been far less amenable to a quick solution.

Jop Trinchil and he had taken an immediate dislike to each other. There had been no need for a conflict of interests, or even for a word to be spoken—the mutual antagonism had sprung into existence, deep-rooted and permanent, on the very instant of their first meeting. Trinchil had decided at once that Bartan would be an abject failure as husband and father; and Bartan had known, without having to be told, that Trinchil’s only interest in religion was as a means of lining his pocket.

Bartan had to admit that Trinchil was genuinely fond of his niece, and although he seized every opportunity to complain about Bartan’s shortcomings he had not forbidden the marriage. That had been the situation up to the present, but Bartan had a feeling that his future was in the balance, and his state of mind had not been improved by Sondeweere’s behaviour at the impromptu meeting. She had acted as though her love was beginning to waver, as though she could turn away from him if he failed to make good his latest promise.

The thought caused Bartan to concentrate his gaze on the irregularity at the far edge of the swampy basin. Now that he was closer and higher he was almost certain that it indeed represented an extension of the marsh into an arroyo, in which case the chances that he actually was recalling an aerial view were somewhat improved. Wishing his memory was more trustworthy, he fed several bursts of hot miglign into the gasbag which swayed above him, and slowly he gained the height he would need for crossing the hills. The spires of rock rearing up from the pale surface shrank to the semblance of black candles.

In a short time the boat was scudding over the marsh’s ill-defined boundary and Bartan was able to confirm that a narrow finger of it ran due west for about two miles. With increasing confidence and excitement he followed the course of the ancient waterway. As grassy contours rose up beneath the boat he saw groups of deer-like animals, disturbed by the sound of the jet, make swerving runs, with white hindquarters beaconing their alarm. Frightened birds occasionally erupted from trees like wind-borne swirls of petals.

Bartan kept his eyes on the slopes ahead. They seemed to form a barrier which was being raised higher and higher to block his view, then he was crossing a ridge and with dramatic suddenness the horizon receded, fleeing into the distance before him. The intervening space was revealed as a complex vista of savannahs, gentle hills, lakes and occasional strips of woodland.

Bartan gave a whoop of glee as he saw that the territory, spilling out in front of him like a rich man’s hoard, was a homesteader’s dream translated into reality. His first impulse was to turn the airboat and head back to Trinchil and the others with the good news, but the hillside was shelving away beneath him now in a silent invitation to fly onwards. He decided it would do no harm to spend a few extra minutes in getting a closer and more detailed view of the nearer tracts, and perhaps to locate a stream which would afford a good preliminary stopping place. It would help impress on the farmers that he was a competent and practical man.

Allowing the boat to lose altitude naturally through the cooling of the gasbag, Bartan continued sailing west, sometimes laughing aloud with sheer pleasure, sometimes sighing in relief over the nearness of his escape from humiliation and expulsion. The clarity of the air defeated perspective, stacking geographical features on top of each other as in a meticulously executed drawing, allowing him to pick out details of rock formations and vegetation at ranges he would normally have considered impossible. Thus it was that—although he was a good five miles from the white speck on the hillside when he first noticed it—identification was immediate.

He was looking at a farmhouse!

His pang of disappointment seemed to darken the sky and chill the air, drawing an involuntary moan of protest from his lips. Bartan knew that King Chakkell’s first major decision on ascending the throne had been to establish Kolcorron as a single world state. To that end, a fleet of large airships had been employed to disperse the newly arrived migrants around the globe. Those seedling communities had served as nodal points for vigorous expansion, but it had been Bartan’s understanding that this southerly part of the continent was as yet untouched. To help maintain the impetus of growth, farmers moving into new territories were entitled to claim much larger plots than were granted in comparatively settled areas—a consideration which had motivated Jop Trinchil—and now it seemed that the selfsame factor could thwart Trinchil’s ambitions. Bartan’s own plans could be similarly affected unless it transpired that settlement of the region had only just begun, in which case there might be ample land for new families. Definite information had to be obtained before he returned to the expedition.

Encouraged by the flickering of hope, Bartan altered his course slightly to north of west, aiming directly for the minuscule white rectangle of the farmhouse. In a short time he was within a mile of the house and could discern drably coloured sheds around it. He was preparing to shed buoyancy for a landing when he began to notice something wrong with the general aspect of the place. There were no people, animals or vehicles in sight, and the ground slipping beneath the prow of his boat did not look well tended. Faint variations in coloration showed that crops had once been planted in the familiar six-strip pattern, but the edges of the sections were blurred and there seemed to have been an invasion of native grasses which showed as an overall green haze.

The realisation that the farm had been abandoned took Bartan by surprise. It was possible that there had been some kind of epidemic, or that the owners had been tyros who had become discouraged and had returned to urban life—but surely someone else would have been glad to take over a unit in which all the gruelling basic work had already been done.

His curiosity aroused, Bartan shut off the jet and floated his craft down on to the level ground which surrounded the house and its outbuildings. The slightness of the breeze enabled him to make an accurate landing within yards of a patch of wryberry vines. As soon as he stepped out of the boat the craft as a whole became lighter than air and tried to drift away, but he held it down by one of the skids until he had thrown a tether around the nearest vine. The boat gently rose to the full extent of the rope and came to rest, wallowing a little in weak air currents.

Bartan walked towards the farm buildings, becoming further intrigued with the mystery of the place as he noticed a dust-covered plough lying on its side. Other smaller implements could be seen here and there. They were made of brakka, but some had rivets of iron, a metal which was becoming generally available, and from the degree of rusting he guessed the tools had been lying around untouched for at least a year. He frowned as he estimated the practical value of the abandoned equipment. It was as though the owners of the farm had simply walked away from their livelihood—or had been spirited away by some unknown means.

The notion was a strange one to come to Bartan while he was standing in the full flood of the aft day sun, especially as he had never had anything but scorn for credulous people who heeded stories of the supernatural. Suddenly, however, he was uneasily conscious of the fact that his kind had been on Overland for only twenty-four years, and that much on the planet remained unknown to them. In the past the knowledge that he was a newcomer on a largely unexplored world had always exhilarated Bartan, but now he felt strangely chastened by it.

Don’t start acting like a child, he told himself. What is there to be afraid of?

He turned towards the farmhouse itself. It was well constructed of sawn timbers caulked with oakum, and the whitewashing showed that somebody had taken pride in it. Bartan frowned again as he saw that yellow curtains still hung in the windows, glowing in the shade of the wide eaves. It would have been the work of only a moment to snatch them down, something he would have expected any home-lover to do, no matter how hasty the departure.

Is it possible they haven’t departed? Could a whole family still be in there? Dead of some disease? Or… or murdered?

“Neighbours would have been around before now,” he said aloud to block the flow of questions. “Even in a place as remote as this, neighbours would have been around before now. And they would have taken all the tools—farmers don’t let much go to waste.” Comforted by the simple logic, he walked quickly to the single-storey farmhouse, unlatched the green front door and pushed it open.

His eyes were attuned to the fierce sunlight, therefore it was several seconds before they adapted to the shade of the eaves and the comparative dimness within the house, several seconds before he clearly saw the nameless beast which was waiting for him to enter.

He sobbed, leapt backwards and fell, mind’s eye brimming with the dreadful vision… the dark, slow-heaving pyramid of the body, upright and tall as a man… the sagging, dissolving face, with wounds in place of eyes… the single slim tentacle, gently groping forward…

Bartan jarred down onto his backside and hands, rolled over in the dust and was in the act of surging up and away from the house in a fear-boosted sprint when the picture behind his eyes shifted and changed. Instead of a nightmarish monster he saw miscellaneous items of old clothing suspended from a hook on a wall. There was a dark cloak, a torn jacket, a hat, and a stained apron with one string being wafted by the abrupt opening of the door.

He slowly got to his feet and brushed the dust from his body, all the while staring at the dark rectangle of the doorway. It was obvious what had caused the momentary illusion, and he felt a tingle of shame over his reaction, but in spite of that he was now oddly reluctant to enter the house.

What made me want to go in there in the first place? he thought. It’s somebody else’s property. Nothing to do with me…

He turned and had taken one pace towards his boat when a new thought obtruded. What he was actually doing was running away from the farmhouse because he had become unaccountably fearful, and if he allowed that to happen he would be even less of a man than Trinchil had supposed. Muttering unhappily to himself, Bartan spun on his heel and marched into the house.

A quick inspection of the musty rooms established that the worst of his fears had been groundless—there were no human remains. All the major items of furniture had been removed, but he found extra evidence that the occupants had departed in great haste. Mats had been left in two of the rooms and there was a ceramic jar full of salt in a niche in the stone fireplace. Farming people simply did not abandon items like that in normal circumstances, Bartan knew, and he was unable to rid himself of a suspicion that something sinister had occurred on the lonely farm in the not-too-distant past.

Relieved at having no further cause to remain in the uneasy atmosphere, he went outside—brushing past the slow-stirring garments hanging by the door—and walked straight to the airboat. It had lost some buoyancy as the gasbag cooled and now was resting lightly on its skids. Bartan unfastened the tether, seated himself in the gondola and took the boat aloft. It was still only a short time past noon and after a moment’s thought he decided to continue flying west, following the line of a faint track into the lush green landscape. Much of the terrain consisted of drumlins—small hog-backed hills, oval in plan because of ancient glaciation—so regularly arranged that they reminded him of giant eggs in a basket. There’s the natural name for this fertile region, he thought. The Basket of Eggs!

Within a short time he saw another farm agreeably positioned on the slopes of one of the rounded hills. He banked and flew towards it, and this time—in his state of alertness—he was quicker to realise that the place was not being worked. On arriving overhead he circled the farm once at low altitude to confirm his findings. No tools or equipment were visible and the farmhouse appeared to have been completely stripped, evidence that the evacuation had been more leisurely and ordered, but why had it taken place at all?

Deeply puzzled, Bartan continued with the flight, changing to a zigzag search pattern which slowed his progress to the west. In the hour that followed he discovered eight more farms, all in ideal agricultural land, all totally deserted. The sections in the region were far too large to be worked by single families, and the people who claimed them did so with the intention of laying down fortunes for their descendants. As the population of Overland increased the pioneers would be able to sell or sublet land to later generations. It was a prize not to be yielded lightly—and yet something had induced many hard-headed farmers to pack up their belongings and move on.

Eventually Bartan began to pick out the glint of sunlight on a sizable river and decided on it as a natural limit to the day’s sortie. At the northern end of one of his sweeps he detected a hazy column of smoke arising from a point which seemed to be close to the river. It was the first sign of human habitation he had seen in more than ten days, and was made even more intriguing by the prospect of getting information about the empty land he had been crossing. He set a course for the smoke trace, flying as fast as he dared in view of the gasbag’s untrustworthy condition, and soon began to realise that what he was approaching was not another farm, but a small township.

It was situated on a Y-shaped fork created by a tributary joining the main river. As the airboat brought him closer, Bartan saw that it consisted of about forty buildings, some of which were large enough to be warehouses. White squares and triangles of sails indicated the river was navigable to the southern ocean. The place was obviously a trading centre, with the potential to become important and prosperous, and its presence made the enigma of the abandoned farms all the more baffling.

Long before Bartan had reached the edge of the township the roar of his jet had attracted attention on the ground. Two men came galloping out on bluehorns to meet him, waving vigorously, and then kept pace with the boat as he guided it down into an open patch near a bridge which spanned the lesser river. Men and women were issuing from the surrounding buildings to form a ring of spectators. Several youths, needing no appeal, willingly grabbed the skids and held the craft until Bartan had tethered it to a convenient sapling.

A red-faced man with prematurely white hair approached Bartan, obviously in the role of spokesman. In spite of being slightly below average height he had an air of assurance and, unusually in such a community, was wearing a smallsword.

“I am Majin Karrodall, reeve of the township of New Min-nett,” he said in friendly tones. “We don’t see many aircraft in these parts.”

“I’m scouting for a party of claimants,” Bartan replied to the unspoken question. “My name is Bartan Drumme, and I would be grateful for some water to drink. I have flown much farther than I intended today and it is thirsty work.”

“You’re welcome to all the water you want, but if you would prefer it you can have good brown ale. What do you say?”

“I say good brown ale.” Bartan, who had not tasted an alcoholic beverage since joining the expedition, grinned to show his appreciation of the offer. There was a murmur of approval from those watching and the men began a general movement towards an open-fronted barn-like building which appeared to double as a meeting place and tavern. In a short time Bartan was seated at a long table in the company of Karrodall and about ten other men, most of whom had been introduced to him as storekeepers or riverboat crew. From the tone of the amiable banter going on around him Bartan guessed that impromptu gatherings like this were not infrequent events, and that his arrival had been seized on as a convenient excuse. A substantial two-handled jar was placed before him and when he sipped from it he found the ale to be cool, strong and not too sweet for his taste. Comforted by the welcome and the unexpected hospitality, he proceeded to quench his thirst and to answer questions about himself, the airboat and the objectives of Trinchil’s expedition.

“I fear this is not the kind of news you wish to hear,” Karrodall said, “but I think you will be obliged to turn north. The lands to the west of here are curtailed by the mountains, and to the south by the ocean—and the prime tracts have all been claimed and registered. It isn’t much better if you head north into New Kail, I admit, but I have heard that there are one or two quiet little valleys still untouched on the other side of the Barrier range.”

“I’ve seen those valleys,” a plump man called Otler put in. “The only way you can stand upright is by growing one leg longer than the other.”

The remark occasioned some laughter, and Bartan waited until it had subsided. “I have just flown over some excellent farming land to the east of the river. I realise, of course, that we are too late to claim it—but why are the farms not being worked?”

“It’ll never be too late to claim that cursed place,” Otler muttered, staring down into his drink.

Bartan was immediately intrigued. “What do you…?”

“Pay him no heed,” Karrodall said quickly. “It was the ale talking.”

Otler sat up straight, with an offended expression on his round face. “I’m not drunk! Are you suggesting that I’m drunk? I’m not drunk!”

“He’s drunk,” Karrodall assured Bartan.

“Nevertheless, I’d like to know what he meant.” Bartan knew he was displeasing the reeve by pursuing the point, but Otler’s strange comment was reverberating in his mind. “This is a matter of considerable importance to me.”

“You might as well tell what he wants to know, Majin,” another man said. “He’ll be able to find out for himself.”

Karrodall sighed and shot Oiler a venomous glance, and when he spoke his voice had lost its former briskness. “The land to which you refer is known to us as the Haunt. And while it is true that all claims to it have been allowed to lapse, that information is of no value to you. Your people will never settle there.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you think we call it the Haunt? It is a place of evil, my friend. All who go there are… troubled.”

“By ghosts? By wraiths?” Bartan made no attempt to hide his incredulity and joy. “Are you saying that there are only hobgoblins to dispute the ownership of that land?”

Karrodall’s face was solemn, the eyes intent. “I’m saying that you would be ill-advised to try settling there.”

“Thank you for the advice.” Bartan drained his ale, set the jar down with a flourish and stood up. “And thank you for the hospitality, gentlemen—I will repay it soon.”

He left the table and went out into the aftday sunshine, eager to get aloft and return to the expedition with his good news.

Chapter 3

The skyship was being borne eastwards on the lightest of breezes, but the ground over which it was drifting was uneven and covered with scrub, which meant that the mounted soldiers had some difficulty in keeping pace with their alien quarry.

Colonel Mandle Gartasian, riding at the head of the column, kept his gaze firmly fixed on the ship and for the most part trusted his bluehorn to find its way around obstacles. The sight of the vast balloon and its room-sized gondola was activating bleak memories, causing a degree of pain he had not experienced since his first years on Overland, and yet he was unable to look elsewhere.

He was a tall man, with the powerful build typical of the Kolcorronian military caste, and showed few signs of his fifty years. Apart from a dusting of grey in his cropped black hair and a deepening of the lines on his square face, he looked much as he had done at the time of the hasty evacuation of Ro-Atabri. He had been an idealistic young lieutenant then, and had unhesitatingly taken his place on one of the first military ships to depart the doomed city. Thousands of times since that day he had cursed the naive trust in his senior officers which had led him to take off ahead of his wife and infant son.

Ronoda and the boy had been assigned places on a civilian ship, and he had left them in the belief that the army was in full control of the situation, that the embarkation schedules would be maintained, and that the separation would last just for the duration of the flight. Only when his binoculars revealed the growing chaos far below had he felt the first pangs of fear, and by then it had been much too late…

“Look, sir!” The words came from Lieutenant Keero, who was riding at Gartasian’s side. “I think they’re preparing to land!”

Gartasian nodded. “I believe you’re right. Now, remember to keep your men from crowding in on the ship after it touches down. Nobody is to go closer than two hundred paces, even if the ship appears to have landing difficulties. We don’t know what the crew’s intentions are—and they may have powerful weaponry.”

“I understand, sir. I can hardly believe this is happening. Can they really have flown all the way from Land?” Keero was infringing field discipline by making inessential remarks, but it was explained by the excitement on his pink-cheeked face. Gartasian, normally strict on such points, decided the lapse was excusable in the unique circumstances.

“There can be no doubt that they have come from the Old World,” he said. “The first question we have to ask is… why? Why after all these years? And who? Are we dealing with a small group who managed to survive the ptertha attacks, and finally succeeded in making an escape? Or…?” Gartasian left the question unspoken. The idea that the pterthacosis plague might have abated—sparing enough of the population to rebuild an organised society—was too far-fetched for words. It certainly was not the kind of fanciful speculation to be voiced before a junior officer, especially as concealed within it were the seeds of a far wilder notion. Was there the remotest possibility that Ronoda and Hallie were still alive? And had all his years of guilt and remorse been a self-indulgent waste? With sufficient vision, enterprise and courage could he have instigated a return flight to Land?

The torrent of questions, a distillation of fantastic wish-fulfilment dreams, was the last thing Gartasian needed if he were to function well as the commander of a military operation. He gave himself a mental shake and forced his mind to concentrate on the palpable realities of the situation. It had been more than a minute since he had heard the hollow, echoing roar of the skyship’s burner as it discharged hot gas into the balloon—an indication that the crew had selected a suitable landing site. The gondola was now a mere twenty feet above the ground, and at its sides he could see the silhouettes of several men who appeared to be working with rail-mounted cannon. He was beginning to wonder if two hundred paces was a good enough margin of safety for his own force when the cannon fired in a downwards direction. Four harpoon-like anchors speared into the ground, each trailing a line, and at once crewmen began hauling the lines in, thereby drawing the gondola into a controlled touchdown. The balloon above it remained inflated, swaying ponderously.

’’ We have learned one thing,” Gartasian said to his lieutenant. “Our visitors never had any intention of staying for long—otherwise they would have vented their balloon.”

His only answer was a hurried salute as Keero wheeled away with a sergeant beside him to deploy the soldiers in a circle around the skyship. Gartasian took a pair of binoculars out of his saddle pouch and trained them on the gondola.

He could see the heads of the four crewmen as they went about the work of securing the ship, but something else in the magnified image attracted his attention. The gondola was of basically the same design as those used in the Migration, and yet had no anti-ptertha cannon on the sides. In spite of the weight penalty imposed by such weapons, they had been deemed necessary for the passage through Land’s lower atmosphere, and Gartasian found their absence intriguing. Could it really be a sign that the ptertha—the airborne globes whose poison had all but annihilated Kolcorron—had ceased their onslaught on humanity? Gartasian’s heart lurched as he again considered the possibilities. A civilisation which embraced two worlds… a mass return to Land for those who were discontent on Overland… miraculous reunions with loved ones who were believed to be long-dead…

“You fool!” Gartasian made the whispered accusation as he put the binoculars away. “What new folly is this? Are you so excellent a commander that you can afford to handicap yourself with winedreams?”

As he made ready to ride forward he reminded himself of two pertinent facts—his advancement in the army had been hindered by the ambivalence springing from his guilt; and fate had now given him an unparalleled opportunity to compensate by placing him close to the landing site of the enigmatic skyship. The sunwriter message from Prad had said that King Chakkell was on his way with all possible speed, and that in the meantime Colonel Gartasian was empowered to deal with the situation and take any steps he considered necessary. A good showing on this occasion could yield incalculable benefits in the future.

“Remain here,” he said to Lieutenant Keero, who was just returning to his starting point. He nudged his bluehorn into a walk which he deliberately kept slow, demonstrating to the visitors that his intentions were not hostile. As he neared the ship he was uneasily aware that his cuirass, moulded from boiled leather, would provide little protection if he were to be fired upon, but he remained upright in the saddle, presenting the appearance of one who was satisfied with his ability to deal with the situation.

Those aboard the ship, observing his approach, ceased their activities and came to stand at the near side of the gondola. Gartasian looked for an identifiable commander, but the crew all seemed to be of an age—not much more than twenty—and were wearing identical brown shirts and jerkins. The only visible insignia were small circles of different colours sewn to the lapels of the jerkins, but the variations had no significance for Gartasian.

He was surprised to note that the men were sufficiently alike to have been mistaken for brothers—each with a narrow forehead, close-set eyes and narrow jutting jaw. As he entered the shadow of the balloon he saw, with a sudden sense of disquiet, that the four had dark jaundiced complexions and a peculiar metallic sheen to their skins. It was an appearance which would have suggested a recent brush with some cruel disease, except that the men also exuded that unconscious arrogance which can arise from being superbly fit. They regarded Gartasian with expressions which to him seemed both amused and contemptuous.

“I am Colonel Gartasian,” he said, halting his bluehorn a few yards from the gondola. “On behalf of King Chakkell, the planetary ruler, I welcome you to Overland. We were greatly surprised by the sight of your ship, and many questions clamour in our minds.”

“Keep your questions and your welcome to yourself.” The man on the right, tallest of the four, spoke in oddly accented Kolcorronian. “My name is Orracolde, and I am the commander here, but I also have the honour of being a royal courier. I come to this world with a message from King Rassamarden.”

Gartasian was shocked by the speaker’s immediate and overt hostility, but he decided to control his temper. “I have never heard of a King Rassamarden.”

“That is hardly surprising under the circumstances,” Orracolde said, smiling disdainfully. “Now, I expected that Prad would be dead by this time, but how did Chakkell become King? What of Prad’s son, Leddravohr? And Pouche?”

“They too are dead,” Gartasian said stiffly, realising that the deliberate challenge in Orracolde’s manner would have to be taken up for the sake of honour. “And for your further enlightenment, I intend that this meeting will henceforth be conducted along different lines. I will provide the questions, and you the answers.”

“And what if I decide otherwise, old warrior?”

“My men have your ship surrounded.”

“That fact had not escaped my attention,” Orracolde said. “But unless their flea-infested mounts can soar like eagles they pose my ship no threat. We can be airborne in an instant.” He turned away from the rail and a second later the skyship’s burner discharged a burst of hot gas into the balloon which loomed overhead, maintaining its buoyancy. Gartasian’s bluehorn, startled by the echoing blast, half-reared and he had to act quickly to bring it under control, much to the amusement of the four onlookers. It came to him that for the present the visitors were in a greatly superior position, and that unless he devised a better method of dealing with them he could be humiliated. He glanced at the sparse circle of mounted soldiers, now seeming so distant, and chose new tactics.

“Neither of us has anything to gain by quarrelling,” he said reasonably. “The message you spoke of can be relayed to the King through me, or—if you would prefer it—you can wait until his Majesty arrives in person.”

Orracolde tilted his head. “How long will that take?”

“The King is already on his way and could be here within the hour.”

“Giving you ample time in which to draw up long-range cannon!” Orracolde scanned the brush-covered terrain as though expecting to find evidence of troop movements.

“But we have no reason to bear you ill will,” Gartasian protested, dismayed by the other man’s irrationality. What kind of envoy was this? And what kind of a ruler would entrust such a man with diplomatic responsibility?

“Do not take me for a fool, old warrior—I will deliver King Rassamarden’s message without delay.” Orracolde stooped, momentarily disappearing behind the gondola’s side, and when he came into view again he was removing a yellowish scroll from a leather tube.

Gartasian had time in which to find his thoughts seizing on a triviality. Orracolde derogated him with every sentence he spoke, but he uttered the word “old” with a particular venom, as though it was one of the most insulting in his vocabulary. It was a minor mystery compared to the other puzzling aspects of what was happening, even though Gartasian had never considered himself as being old, and he resolutely pushed it aside as he saw Orracolde unroll a square sheet of heavy paper.

“I am an instrument of King Rassamarden, and the following message must be regarded as issuing directly from his lips,” Orracolde said.

“I, King Rassamarden, am the rightful sovereign of all men and women born on the planet of Land, and of all their offspring, wherever they may be. In consequence, all new territories on the planet of Overland are considered to have been occupied on my behalf. I therefore proclaim myself sole ruler of Land and Overland. Be it known that I intend to exact all tributes which are rightfully mine.”

Orracolde lowered the paper and stared solemnly at Gartasian, awaiting his response.

Gartasian gaped at him for a few seconds, then began to laugh. The sheer preposterousness of what he had heard, combined with the pompous style of the delivery, had abruptly translated the entire scene into farce. Release of the tension which had been growing inside him fuelled his mirth, and he had genuine difficulty in bringing his breathing back under control.

“Have you lost your reason, old man?” Orracolde leaned over the rail, bronzed face thrust forward, like a snake spitting venom. “I see nothing to laugh at.”

“Only because you can’t see yourself,” Gartasian said. “I don’t know which was the greater fool—Rassamarden for issuing that ridiculous message; or you for undertaking such a long and hazardous journey to deliver it.”

“Your punishment for insulting the King will be death.”

“I tremble.”

Orracolde’s mouth twitched. “I will remember you, Gartasian, but for now I have more important concerns. Littlenight will soon be upon us. When darkness falls I will take my ship aloft—rather than give you the chance to launch a sneak attack—but I will pause at a height of one thousand feet and wait for aftday. Chakkell will no doubt be with you by that time, and you will communicate his response to me by sunwriter.”

“Response?”

“Yes. Either Chakkell bows the knee to King Rassamarden willingly—or he will be compelled to do so.”

“You truly are mad—a madman speaking for a madman.” Gartasian held his bluehorn steady while one of the crewmen fired another burst of gas into the balloon. “Are you talking of war between our two worlds?”

“Most certainly.”

Struggling with his growing incredulity, Gartasian said, “And how would such a war be prosecuted?”

“A fleet of skyships is already under construction.”

“How many?”

Orracolde produced a thin smile. “Enough.”

“There could never be enough,” Gartasian said calmly. “Our soldiers would be waiting for each ship as it landed.”

“You don’t really expect me to swallow that, old warrior,” Orracolde said, his smile widening. “I know how thinly your population must be scattered. With informed use of wind cells we can put down almost anywhere on this planet. We could land under cover of darkness, but there will be little need for stealth, because we have weapons the like of which you have never imagined.

“And on top of everything else—” Orracolde paused to glance at his three companions, who gave approving nods as though knowing what he was about to say—"there is the natural and undeniable superiority of the New Men.”

“Men are men,” Gartasian said, unimpressed. “How can there be new men?”

“Nature saw to that. Nature and the ptertha. We have been created with total immunity to the ptertha plague.”

“So that’s it!” Gartasian ran his gaze over the four narrow faces which, with their inhuman metallic sheen, could almost have belonged to four statues cast from the same mould, and understanding began to flicker in his mind. “I thought that… perhaps… the ptertha might have ceased their attacks.”

“The attacks continue unabated, but now they are futile.”

“And what about… my kind? Are there any survivors?”

“None,” Orracolde said, smugly triumphant. “The old have all been swept away.”

Gartasian was silent for a moment, saying a final goodbye to his wife and son, then his thoughts were drawn back to the problems of the present and the need to learn all he could about the interplanetary visitors. Implicit in the few words Orracolde had already spoken was a dreadful scenario, a vision of a civilisation in its death throes. The drifting globes of the ptertha had swarmed in the skies of Land, hunting down their human quarries without mercy, driving them closer and closer to extinction, until their numbers were so…

My stomach is on fire!

The burning sensation was so severe that Gartasian almost doubled over. Within seconds the heat centre beneath his chest had spread tendrils into the rest of his torso, and at the same time the air about him seemed to cool a little. Unwilling to show any sign of discomfort, he sat perfectly still in the saddle and waited for the spasm to come to an end. It continued unabated and he realised he would have to try disregarding it while he gathered precious information.

“All swept away?” he said. “All? But that means your entire population has been born since the Migration.”

“Since the Flight. We refer to that act of cowardice and betrayal as the Flight.”

“But how could the babes have survived? Without parents it would have been…”

“We were born of those who had partial immunity,” Orracolde cut in. “Many of them lived long enough.”

Gartasian shook his head, pursuing the thought in spite of the spreading fire at the core of his being. “But many must have perished! What is your total population?”

“Do you think me a fool?” Orracolde said, a sneer appearing on his dark countenance. “I came here to learn about this world—not to throw away knowledge about my own. I have seen as much as I need to see, and as littlenight is almost here…”

“Your reluctance to answer my question is answer enough! Your numbers must be small indeed—perhaps even less than ours.” Gartasian gave a violent shudder as, in contrast to the heat within his body, the air seemed to press in on him with a clammy coldness. He touched his brow, found it slick with perspiration, and a shocking idea was born deep in his mind, coiling like a worm. He had not seen a case of pterthacosis since his youth on Land, but nobody of his generation could ever forget the symptoms—the burning sensation in the stomach, the copious sweating, the chest pains and the bloating of the spleen…

“You grow pale, old warrior,” Orracolde said. “What ails you?”

Gartasian held his voice steady. “Nothing ails me.”

“But you sweat and shiver and…” Orracolde leaned forward across the rail, his gaze hunting over Gartasian’s face, and his eyes widened. There was a moment of near-telepathic communion, then Orracolde drew back and gave a whispered order to his crew. One of them stooped out of sight and the ship’s burner began a continuous roar while the other two men hurriedly began releasing the anchor lines from the downward-pointing cannon.

Gartasian had a pure, clear understanding of what he had read in the other man’s eyes, and in the instant of accepting his own death sentence his mind had vaulted far beyond the circumscribed present. Earlier Orracolde had boasted of weapons outside the Overlanders’ imaginings, but even he had been taken by surprise, had not sensed the dreadful truth foreshadowed by his own words. He and his crew were weapons in themselves —carriers of the ptertha plague in a form so virulent that an unprotected person had only to go near them to be smitten!

Their King, though apparently insane by Gartasian’s standards, had been prudent enough to send a scout ship to gauge the opposition an invading force would meet. If he received word that there could be very little effective resistance, that Overland’s defenders would be annihilated by pterthacosis, his territorial ambitions would be even further inflamed.

The skyship must not be allowed to depart!

The thought spurred Gartasian into action. His men were too far away to be of any assistance, and the ship was already straining upwards, making him solely responsible for preventing the take-off. The only course open to him was to rupture the fabric of the huge balloon by hurling his sword at it. He drew the weapon, twisted in the saddle to make the throw and gasped aloud as pain erupted through his chest cavity, paralysing his upraised arm. He lowered the sword into a position from which he could try an underarm lob, suddenly aware that Orracolde was bringing an oddly shaped musket to bear on him.

Counting on the delay which always occurred while power crystals were combining in a gun’s combustion chamber, Gartasian began the upward swing. The musket emitted a strangely flat crack. Something punched into Gartasian’s left shoulder, slewing him around and causing his sword—weakly thrown—to tumble wide of its mark. He jumped down from the startled bluehorn and went for the fallen blade, but the agony in his shoulder and chest turned what should have been a highspeed dash into a series of stumbles and lurches. By the time he had retrieved the sword the gondola was a good thirty feet above ground, and the balloon carrying it was far beyond his reach.

He stood and watched helplessly, his personal catastrophe eclipsed for the moment, as the skyship rapidly gained height. Although it was centred on the misty blue disk of Land, the ship was hard to see because the sun was almost in the same line of sight, already silvering the sister world’s eastern rim. Gartasian gave up trying to penetrate the dazzling rays and spokes and oily needles of light. He lowered his head and stared down at the grass, musing on the fact that the last action of his career and life had ended in abject failure, and it was only the sound of an approaching bluehorn which brought him out of the dark reverie. There were duties yet to be discharged.

“Stay back,” he shouted at Lieutenant Keero. “Don’t come near me!”

“Sir?” Keero slowed his mount to a walk, but kept it moving forward.

Gartasian pointed at him with his sword. “This is an order, lieutenant. Do nor come any closer! I have the plague.”

Keero halted. “Plague?”

“Pterthacosis. You’ve heard of it, I trust.”

The upper half of Keero’s face was masked by the shade of his visor, but Gartasian saw his mouth distort with shock. A moment later the sunlit hills of the western horizon blinked with prismatic colour, then abruptly dimmed as the shadow of Land came rushing over the countryside at orbital speed. As its edge swept across the scene, initiating the brief penumbral phase of little-night, the darkening sky was seen to be spanned by a huge spiral of misty radiance, its arms sparkling with brilliant stars of white, blue and yellow. The knowledge that it was the last time the spectacle of the night sky would be unfurled for him filled Gartasian with a yearning to ponder it in detail, to memorise the patterns of lesser whirlpools and comets so that he would have light to take with him into the place where there was no light. Pushing the notion aside, he addressed himself to the lieutenant, who was waiting about twenty yards away.

“Listen to me carefully, Keero,” he called out. “I will be dead before littlenight is over, and you must…” The fire in his lungs, aggravated by the effect of shouting, forced him to abandon the plan to transmit his precious new knowledge verbally.

“I am going to write a message for the King, and I charge you with the responsibility of ensuring that he receives it. Now, take out your dispatch book, make sure the pencil is not broken, and leave the book on the ground for me. When you have done that, rejoin your men and wait with them for the King to arrive. Tell him all that has happened here—and remind him that nobody is to approach my body for at least five days.”

Drained of strength by the painfully prolonged speech, Gartasian forced himself to remain upright and militarily correct while Keero dismounted and placed his dispatch book on the ground.

The lieutenant got back into the saddle and hesitated for a moment. “Sir, I’m sorry…”

“It’s all right,” Gartasian told him, grateful for the fleeting human contact. “Do not concern yourself about me. Just go, and take my bluehorn with you—I have no more need of him.”

Keero gave an awkward salute, collected the redundant animal and rode away into the twilight. Gartasian walked to where the book lay, his legs buckling further with each step, and allowed himself to sag to the ground beside it. He had barely finished removing the pencil from its leather sleeve when the last coin-clip of the sun slid behind the curvature of Land. In spite of the reduced level of illumination he was still able to see well enough to write, thanks to Land’s halo and the extravagant spangling of the rest of the heavens with fierce stars, some of them in tightly packed circular clusters.

He attempted to lean on his left arm, but jerked upright again as pain flared in the wounded shoulder. Exploring the injury with his fingers, he found that the brakka slug from the musket had spent much of its energy in gouging through the rolled leather at the edge of his cuirass. It had lodged in his flesh, but had not broken the bone. Reminding himself to include a note on how the weapon had fired without the normal delay, he sat with the book in his lap and began to write a detailed report for the benefit of those who would soon have to repel a deadly invader.

The mental discipline involved in the work helped him avoid dwelling on his fate, but his body interposed frequent reminders of the losing battle it was fighting against the ptertha poison. His stomach and lungs seemed to be filling with hot coals, agonising cramps encircled his chest and occasional bouts of shivering made his writing almost illegible in places. So rapid was the progress of the symptoms that on reaching the end of his report he was dully surprised to find himself still conscious, still with some dregs of strength.

If I move away from here, he thought, the book can be picked up without delay, and with no risk to any man’s life.

He set the book down and marked its position by weighting it with his red-crested helmet. The effort of raising himself to his feet was much greater than he had anticipated. He was unable to prevent himself from swaying in vertiginous circles as he scanned his surroundings, which seemed to be a scene painted on slowly undulating cloth. Keero had brought all his men together and a fire had been lit to guide King Chakkell to the spot. The soldiers and their mounts formed a stationary, amorphous mass in the dimness, and there was little movement anywhere but for the near-continuous flickering of meteors against the dense fields of stars.

Gartasian guessed the men’s eyes were fixed on him. He turned and walked away from them, staggering grotesquely, blood beading into the grass from the fingers of his left hand. After some twenty paces his feet were snared by bracken and he pitched forward, to lie with his face buried in rough-haired fronds.

There was no point in trying to get up again. No point in trying to cling on to consciousness any longer. I’m coming back to you, Ronoda and little Hallie, he thought, closing his eyes on the universe. I’ll soon be with…

Chapter 4

When Toller Maraquine heard the bolt of his cell door being drawn his principal emotion was one of relief. He had been allowed writing materials, and all through the hours of littlenight he had sat with the pad on his knees, trying to compose a letter to Gesalla and Cassyll. His intention had been to explain and apologise, but explanation had proved impossible—how was he to find any shred of reason in what he had done?—and all he had written was one bald sentence. I am sorry.

The three words struck him as being an apt but dismal epitaph for a life that had been thrown away, and now he had a profound desire to get the last minutes of futility over and done with.

He stood up and faced the opening door, fully expecting to see an executioner accompanied by a squad of jailers. Instead, the widening rectangle revealed the paunchy form of King Chakkell, flanked by stone-faced members of his personal guard.

“Should I feel honoured?” Toller said. “Am I to be seen off by the King in person?”

Chakkell raised a leather-bound dispatch book of the type used by the Kolcorronian army. “Your astonishing good luck continues, Maraquine. Our game is on again. Come with me—I have need of you.” He grasped Toller’s arm with as much force as the executioner would have used and marched him into the passageway, where recently extinguished wicks still smoked and fumed in their sconces.

“You have need of me? Does this mean…?” Paradoxically, in the moment he began to entertain hope Toller was unmanned by a pang of death-fear which cooled his brow and stilled his voice.

“It means I’m prepared to forget about your stupidity of the foreday.”

“Majesty, I’m grateful… truly grateful,” Toller managed to say. Inwardly he promised: I’ll never fail you again, Gesalla.

“And so you should be!” Chakkell led the way out of the cell block, through a gateway whose guards sprang to attention, and into the parade ground in which, seemingly an aeon ago, Toller had faced Karkarand.

“This must concern the skyship we saw,” Toller said. “Was it really from Land?”

“We will talk in private.”

Toller and Chakkell, still accompanied by guards, entered the rear of the palace and went through corridors to an undistinguished doorway. Walking behind the King, Toller had detected the soupy smell of bluehorn sweat from his clothing, and the indication of hard riding intensified his interest. Chakkell dismissed his men with a wave and brought Toller into a modestly proportioned apartment in which the only furnishings were a round table and six plain chairs.

“Read that.” Chakkell handed Toller the dispatch book, took a seat at the table and stared down at his clenched fists. His deeply tanned scalp was glistening with perspiration and it was obvious that he was highly agitated. Deciding it would be unwise to ask any preliminary questions, Toller sat down at the opposite side of the table and opened the book. The reading difficulties he had known as a young man had faded over the years, and it took him only a few minutes to go through the pages of pencilled script, even though the characters were wildly distorted in places. When he had finished he closed the book and set it down, suddenly aware of blood stains on the cover.

Head still lowered, Chakkell looked up from under his brows, eyes showing white crescents. “Well?”

“Is Colonel Gartasian dead?”

“Of course he’s dead—and from what is written there he could be the first of many,” Chakkell said. “The question is, what can be done? What can we do about these diseased upstarts?”

“Do you think this Rassamarden really intends to invade? It seems an unreasonable course for one who has an empty world at his disposal.”

Chakkell pointed at the book. “You saw what Gartasian said. We are not dealing with reasonable people, Maraquine. It was Gartasian’s opinion that they are all unhinged to some extent, and their ruler could be the worst of the lot.”

Toller nodded. “It is often the way.”

“Don’t take too many liberties,” Chakkell warned. “You have more skyship experience than any other man in Kolcorron, and I want your views about how we can defend ourselves.”

“Well…” For a few seconds Toller was distracted by an upsurge of something like joy, immediately followed by feelings of shame and remorse. What kind of a man was he? He had barely finished vowing never again to set anything above the blessed peace of a contented domestic existence, and now his heart was quickening at the thought of participating in an entirely new kind of warfare. Could it be some kind of reaction to the discovery that he was not about to be executed, that life would continue—or was he a fatally flawed human being in the pattern of the long-dead Prince Leddravohr? The latter possibility was almost too much to contemplate.

“I am waiting,” Chakkell said impatiently. “Don’t tell me that the crisis is of so great a magnitude as to still your tongue.”

Toller took a deep breath and exhaled it in a sigh. “Majesty, assuming that a contest does take place, fate has dictated the terms. We cannot carry the battle to the enemy, and for obvious reasons these so-called New Men must never be permitted to set foot on our world. That leaves us but one course of action.”

“Which is?”

“Exclusion! A barrier! We must wait for the ships in the weightless zone—midway between the two worlds—and destroy them as they labour up from Land. It is the only way.”

Chakkell studied Toller’s face, appraising his sincerity. “From what I remember of the mid-passage the air was too cold and thin to support life for any length of time.”

“We need ships of a different design. The gondolas need to be larger, and totally enclosed. And sealed to retain air and heat. Perhaps we will even use firesalt to thicken the air. All that and more will be necessary if we are to remain in the weightless zone for long periods.”

“Can it be done?” Chakkell said. “You seem to be talking about veritable fortresses suspended in the sky. The weight…”

“On the old skyships we were able to lift twenty passengers, plus essential supplies. That is a considerable weight, and we may be able to attach two balloons to one lengthened gondola so as to double the carrying capacity.”

“It’s worth thinking about.” Chakkell stood up and paced around the table, frowning at Toller all the while. “I believe I’m going to create a new post, especially for you,” he finally said, it shall be… Sky Marshal… with complete responsibility for the aerial defence of Overland. You will be answerable to none but me, and will have the power to draw on any resource you need—human or material—for the successful prosecution of your task.”

Toller was uplifted by the prospect of having purpose and direction restored to his life, but to his own surprise he felt reluctant to let himself be borne away on the tide of Chakkell’s ideas. If he could be marked down for execution in one minute and raised to an exalted office in the next, then he was nothing more than a creature of the King, a puppet without dignity or a true identity of his own.

“If I decide to accept your commission,” he said, “there are certain…”

“If you decide to accept! If!” Chakkell kicked his vacated chair aside, slammed his hands down on the table and leaned across it. “What’s the matter with you, Maraquine? Would you be disloyal to your own King?”

“Only this foreday my own King sentenced me to death.”

“You know I wouldn’t have permitted things to go that far.”

“Do I?” Toller did not hide his scepticism. “And you refused me the single favour for which I begged.”

Chakkell looked genuinely baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“The life of the farmer, Spennel.”

“Oh, that\” Chakkell briefly turned his gaze towards the ceiling, showing his exasperation. “Here’s what I will do, Maraquine. The execution may well have been delayed because of all the commotion in the city. I’ll send a messenger with all speed, and if your esteemed friend is still alive his life will be spared. Does that satisfy you? I hope it satisfies you, because there is nothing more I can do.”

Toller nodded uncertainly, wondering if the voice of his conscience could be silenced so easily. “The messenger must leave at once.”

“Done!” Chakkell turned and nodded towards a panelled wall in which Toller could discern no apertures, then dropped into a chair beside the one he had overturned. “Now we must draw up our plans. Are you able to sketch a design for the sky fortresses?”

“I think so, but I want Zavotle with me,” Toller said, naming the man who had flown with him in the days of the old Skyship Experimental Squadron, and who had later been one of the four royal pilots in the Migration. “I believe he flies one of your courier ships, Majesty, so locating him should be a simple matter.”

“Zavotle? Isn’t that the one with the peculiar ears? Why do you choose him?”

“He is very clever, and we work well together,” Toller said. “I need him.”

Still in his mid-forties, liven Zavotle looked too young to have been in command of a royal skyship at the time of the mass flight from Land. His body had thickened only a little with the passage of the years, his hair remained dark and was still cropped, emphasising the protrusion of his tiny, in-folding ears. He had joined Toller and Chakkell within ten minutes of being summoned from the adjacent airfield, and his yellow aircaptain’s uniform showed signs of having been hastily removed from a closet.

He listened intently while the threat posed by the New Men was explained to him, now and then—as had always been his habit—making notes in neat, crowded script. His manner was just as Toller had remembered it—precise and meticulous, a reassurance that there was no difficulty which could not be overcome by the orderly application of reason.

“There you have it,” Chakkell said to Zavotle. “What do you think of this notion of establishing permanently manned fortresses in the weightless zone?” He had disliked the idea of having to consult a lowly captain, but had acquiesced to Toller’s request and had even—an indication of how seriously he regarded the situation—invited Zavotle to be seated at the table with him. Now he was eyeing the newcomer critically, with something of the air of a schoolmaster eager to fault a pupil’s performance.

Zavotle sat very straight, aware that he was on trial, and spoke firmly. “It can be done, Majesty. In fact, it must be done—we have no other recourse.”

“I see. And what about attaching two balloons to one long gondola?”

“With respect to Lord Toller, I don’t like it, Majesty,” Zavotle said, glancing at Toller. “The gondola would have to be very long to accommodate two balloons, and I think there would be serious control problems.”

“So you would advocate using one monstrous balloon?”

“No, Majesty—that would introduce an entirely new set of difficulties. No doubt they could be overcome in time, but we have no time to spare.”

Chakkell looked impatient. “What then? Have you something in mind, captain, or do you content yourself with deciding what cannot be done?”

“I believe we should continue to use the size of balloon with which we are experienced,” Zavotle said, not losing his composure. “The sky fortresses should be built in sections, taken aloft in sections—and assembled in the weightless zone.”

Chakkell stared hard at Zavotle, his expression slowly changing to one of mingled astonishment and respect. “Of course! Of course! There is no other way to proceed.”

Toller felt a pang of vicarious pride as the new concept flooded his mind, bringing with it a series of giddy images. “Good man, liven,” he breathed. “I knew we had need of you—though my gut freezes when I think about the kind of labour involved. Even with the knowledge that he was well tethered a man would be powerfully distracted by the sight of thousands of miles of thin air below him.”

“Many would be quite unable to concentrate their minds,” Zavotle said, nodding, “but the work would be kept to the absolute minimum. I envisage circular sections held together by simple clamps and sealed with mastic. A fortress might be constructed of three such sections.”

“Before we concern ourselves with details, I must know how many of these sky fortresses will be needed,” Chakkell said. “The more I think about it the more doubts plague me about the feasibility of the entire scheme. If one neglects volume and treats the weightless zone as a flat disk midway between the worlds, there are millions of square miles to defend—and I fail to see how it can be done. Even if I had the resources of old Kolcorron at my disposal I would be unable to construct the number of fortresses required. A thousand, would you say? Five thousand?”

Zavotle looked at Toller, giving him the opportunity to reply, and Toller responded with a slight shake of his head. The objection expressed by the King seemed to him a valid one, and although he could tell by Zavotle’s unperturbed expression that an answer existed he was for the moment unable to deduce it by himself.

“Majesty, we are not required to defend the entire area of the zone,” Zavotle said. “The two worlds have a common atmosphere, but it is shaped like an hourglass, with a slender waist. Skyships have to remain close to the centre of that waist—in a narrow bridge of air, so to speak—and that is where we will wait for the Landers. I do not know how determined they will be to press ahead with their invasion, but when we destroy the first of their ships the others may try to pass us by at a safe distance. To do that they would need to venture so far outside the air bridge that their crews would lose consciousness and then they would asphyxiate.”

“I begin to form an affection for you, Zavotle,” Chakkell said, half-smiling. “So, how many fortresses would you say?”

“Not many, Majesty. Perhaps as few as ten or twelve in the initial phase, while we have the advantage of surprise; perhaps a hundred later on, if the Landers begin to introduce effective counter-measures.” Zavotle again glanced at Toller, obviously trying to draw him back into the discussion. “I cannot be more precise at this stage. Much depends on the distance at which we can spot an ascending ship, but—as Lord Toller will testify—the eye becomes abnormally keen in the high air. Much will also depend on the effective range of our weaponry, but my expertise in that field is minuscule compared to Lord Toller’s. Perhaps he should say…”

“Continue without me for the present,” Toller said comfortably, appreciating Zavotle’s motives. “I find your discourse both interesting and instructive.”

“Your Lord Toller,” Chakkell whispered to Zavotle, “is so sure of himself that he has no fear of gifted and promising subordinates. Now, I have another and more prosaic difficulty for your consideration—one I fear you will not be able to magic away so quickly.”

“Majesty?”

“It is many years since I controlled the production of the Migration fleet, but I recall very clearly that the only material light enough and strong enough for the manufacture of skyship envelopes is linen.” Chakkell paused and frowned, dispelling the trace of levity which had crept into the proceedings.

“You may not be aware of this, but the flax seeds we brought from Land have not taken well in the soil of Overland. Only a few acres here and there produce a useful crop, and much of the yield has already gone into airships which are currently in service. In your considered opinion, could the material of those airship envelopes be cut up and restitched to form skyship balloons?”

“No!” Toller and Zavotle spoke simultaneously, but once again Toller—whose reply had been a reflex—was at a loss for a constructive answer. He was reminded of the fact that Chakkell was not King because of an accident of birth, that he had a phenomenally detailed knowledge of those aspects of agriculture, manufacture and trade which were the true foundation of a nation’s power. And again he chose to remain silent, transferring all responsibility to Zavotle. He was both surprised and impressed when Zavotle responded with a calm smile.

“The balloons must be made from new, perfect material, Majesty,” he said, “but not many will be required. The ambush strategy devised by Lord Toller is a good one, and it is fortunate for us that, in the circumstances envisaged, balloons would be an encumbrance, a serious handicap.”

Chakkell’s frown deepened. “We seem to be parting company, Zavotle. What are you saying?”

“Majesty, we are talking about a new kind of warfare, but some ancient principles must prevail. It is essential for us to remain out of sight of the enemy for as long as possible, until he has blundered into our trap. That being the case, balloons —which are so huge that they can be seen for many miles in the purity of a weightless zone—would become a liability. The fortresses would function more efficiently without them.”

Toller began to comprehend the scheme Zavotle was proposing, and for a moment he seemed to feel the coldness of the high air seeping into his body. “You want to detach the balloons, and… and…”

“And return them to the ground, where they will be used to carry other fortress sections aloft,” Zavotle said, nodding. “I see no reason why an individual balloon should not make the return journey many times.”

“That is not the issue I was going to raise,” Toller said. “You’re talking about leaving men up there. Stranded! With no means to check a ship’s fall!”

Zavotle’s face became more serene, and somehow less human. “We are discussing the weightless zone, my lord. As you yourself once said to me - how can an object fall if it has no weight?”

“I know, but…” Toller retreated from the use of logic. “I don’t like it.”

“But I do!” Chakkell half-shouted, beaming at Zavotle in a manner which suggested that his burgeoning affection had quickly reached full flower. “I like it a lot!”

“Yes, Majesty,” Toller said drily, “but you won’t be up there.”

“Nor will you, Maraquine,” Chakkell countered. “I am appointing you my Sky Marshal because of your extensive knowledge of skyships—not because of your redundant and fading physical prowess. You will remain firmly on the ground and direct operations from here.”

Toller shook his head. “That is not my way. I lead from the front. If men are required to entrust their lives to… to wingless birds, I would prefer to be among the first of them.”

Chakkell looked exasperated, then he glanced at Zavotle and his expression became enigmatic. “Have it your own way,” he said to Toller. “I am investing you with the authority to take any man in my kingdom into your service—may I assume that your friend Zavotle will be given an important advisory post?”

“That was my intention from the beginning.”

“Good! I expect you both to remain at the palace until we have discussed every major aspect of the defence plan, and as that will take a considerable time it will be…” Chakkell broke off as his stoop-shouldered secretary entered the room, bowing vigorously, and approached the table. “Why do you interrupt me, Pelso?”

“Apologies, Majesty,” Pelso replied in a quavering voice. “My information was that you were to be informed without delay. About the execution, that is.”

“Execution? Exe…? Oh, yes! Go on, man.”

“Majesty, I sent for the holder of the warrant.”

“There was no need for that. I simply wanted to know if the chore had been completed. Oh, all right—where is your man?”

“He waits in the east corridor. Majesty.”

“What good is he to me in the corridor? Bring him here, you old fool!”

Chakkell drummed on the table with his fingers as Pelso, still bowing, backed away to the door.

Toller, although he had no wish to be diverted from the discussion in hand, stared towards the doorway as the thick-chested figure of Gnapperl appeared. The sergeant, carrying his helmet under his left arm, showed no sign of nervousness over what was undoubtedly his first audience with the King. He marched to Chakkell and saluted very correctly, awaiting permission to speak, but his eyes had already met Toller’s and they were malignly triumphant, beaconing their message ahead of the spoken word. Self-recrimination and sadness caused Toller to lower his gaze as he thought about the hapless farmer he had met on the road to Prad that foreday. Could it really have been such a short time ago? He had promised Spennel help, and had failed him, and adding to the poignancy of his regrets was the knowledge that Spennel had expected him to fail. How was he to defend an entire world when it had proved beyond his powers to rescue one man from…?

“Majesty, the execution of the traitor Spennel was carried out in accordance with the lawful warrant,” Gnapperl said in answer to Chakkell’s signal.

Chakkell shrugged and turned to Toller. “I did what I could. Are you satisfied?”

“I have one or two questions for this man.” Toller raised his head and locked eyes with Gnapperl. “I was hoping that the execution would have been delayed. Did the sight of the skyship occasion no disturbances in the city?”

“There were many disturbances, my lord—but I could not allow them to divert me from the course of duty.” Gnapperl spoke with ingenuous pride, a way of covertly baiting Toller. “Even the executioner had gone off with the crowds to follow the skyship, and I was forced to ride hard for several miles to find him and bring him back to the city.”

He was the first executioner you encountered today, Toller thought. I am the second. “That is most commendable, sergeant,” he said aloud. “You appear to be the kind of soldier who puts his duty above all else.”

“That I am, my lord.”

“What is going on here, Maraquine?” Chakkell put in. “Don’t tell me you have descended to feuding with common soldiers.”

Toller smiled at him. “On the contrary, I hold the sergeant in such esteem that I intend to recruit him into my own service. That is permissible, isn’t it?”

“I told you you can have anyone you want,” Chakkell said impatiently.

“I wished the sergeant to hear it from your own lips.” Toller addressed himself directly to Gnapperl who—belatedly realising he had misread the situation—was beginning to look alarmed. “There will be many dangerous tasks to perform when it comes to testing our new skyships which hang in the high air without the support of balloons, and I will have need of men who put their duty above all else. Send those who are with you back to Panvarl, with my compliments, then report to the house commander. Go!”

Gnapperl, now pale and thoughtful, saluted and left the room, followed by the bowed form of the secretary.

“You told him enough about our deliberations,” Chakkell grumbled.

“The sooner the word is put about the better,” Toller said. “Besides, I wanted the sergeant to have some idea of what is in store for him.”

Chakkell shook his head and sighed. “If you intend to have that one killed, do it quickly. I won’t have you wasting your valuable time on trivia.”

“Majesty, there is something in this account I fail to understand,” Zavotle said, abstractedly rubbing his stomach. Throughout the exchange with the sergeant his narrow head had been bent over Colonel Gartasian’s dispatch book, ears protruding like tiny clenched fists, and now he was looking puzzled.

“Does it concern the musket?”

“No, Majesty—it’s to do with the Landers themselves. If these odd-looking New Men are simply the offspring of men and women who were partially immune to pterthacosis, should there not have been a sprinkling of them among our own newborn?”

“Perhaps a few were born,” Chakkell said, not showing much interest. “The parents would probably have disposed of them quickly without saying much about it. Or perhaps the condition is latent. It may not manifest itself until the brats are exposed to the toxins—and the ptertha on Overland are not poisonous.”

“Not yet,” Toller reminded him, “but if we go on destroying brakka trees the globes will surely change.”

“Something for future generations to worry about,” Chakkell said, pounding the table with the gavel of his fist. “Before us is a problem which must be solved in days, instead of centuries. Do you hear me? Days’”

I hear you, Toller thought, and already in his mind he was ascending towards the weightless zone, that realm of thin, cold and meteor-streaked air which he had entered but twice in his lifetime and had never expected to see again.

Chapter 5

The dream had returned many times during the night, taking Bartan Drumme back to the day of his airboat flight.

He had just tethered the boat and was walking towards the whitewashed farmhouse. An inner voice was shrieking at him, warning him not to enter the house, but although he was afraid he was unable to turn back. He unlatched the green door and pushed it open—and the creature was waiting inside, gently reaching for him with its single tentacle. As had happened in reality, he sprang backwards and fell, and when he looked again the monster had been transformed into a conglomerate of old clothes hanging on a wallhook. Where the dream differed from the reality was that the apron continued to beckon him, languorously, in a manner which could not have been caused by transient air currents, and somehow that struck more fear into him than the confrontation with the monster itself…

At that point Bartan had always awakened with a moan of alarm, relieved to find himself back in the normal night-time world, but each time he had recaptured sleep the dream had begun again. Consequently, he had welcomed the return of daylight, even though he had risen with a lingering tiredness in his system. He had claimed an entire section on his own behalf, as Jop Trinchil had wanted him to do, and was working himself to exhaustion every day in an effort to get the place ready for Sondeweere’s arrival.

Now, as he drove his refurbished wagon towards the Phoratere section, the contrast between the sunlit ambience of the morning and the terrors of darkness was invigorating him, dispelling all traces of weariness from his limbs.

There had been rain during the night and as a result the air was soft, thick and sweet. The mere act of breathing it was subtly thrilling and evocative as though it were wafting around him from out of those years in which he had been a dreamy-eyed child who perceived the future as little more than a shifting aureate glow. And what added a psychic sparkle to the surroundings was the realisation that the instinctive optimism of his boyhood had been fully justified. Life was good!

Keeping the bluehorn moving at a leisurely pace, Bartan reviewed the various circumstances which were conspiring to make this a special day in a special time. There had been the news from the reeve, Majin Karrodall, that all the expedition’s claims had been registered and approved in the provincial capital. The farmers, who had been happy to take over ready-made buildings and cleared land, now regarded Bartan as a benefactor. Jop Trinchil had set a date, only twenty days away, for Sondeweere’s wedding. And, finally, there was the prospect of the festive gathering—to celebrate the ratification of the claims—at which there would be many kinds of food and drink, and dancing far into the night.

The revel was not due to begin at a set time, but would gradually accrete during the day as family groups made their way in from outlying sections. Bartan was going exceptionally early in the hope that Sondeweere would do the same, thus giving him some extra hours in her company. He had not seen her for at least twelve days, and he was hungry for the sight of her face, the sound of her voice and the dizzying feel of her body against his own.

The thought that she might already be at the Phoratere farm prompted him to urge the bluehorn to a faster pace. He soon reached the top of a shallow dome, from which he was able to see many miles ahead, and the pastoral serenity of the view accorded with his mood. The night’s rain had deepened the blue of the sky, as was evidenced by the fact that he could discern several whirlpools of light in addition to a generous sprinkling of daytime stars. Below the horizon were sweeps and swathes of grassland in which the only perceptible movements were occasional reflections from near-invisible ptertha drifting on the breeze. In the middle distance, fringed by striated fields, were the buildings of the Phorateres’ farm, visible as tiny rectangles of white and grey. Harro and Ennda Phoratere had volunteered the use of their place because it was one of the most central.

Bartan began to whistle as the wagon rolled more easily on the downward slope, following the parallel ruts of the track. When he neared the main farmhouse he saw that several wagons were standing by the stable, but Trinchil’s—in which Sondeweere would have travelled—was not among them. It was likely that those which had arrived so early belonged to families whose female members were helping with the preparations for the party. A long table had been set up and a number of men and women were standing near it, apparently deep in discussion. Children of various ages were at play in the vicinity, producing a cheerful hubbub of laughs and screams, but as Bartan halted near the stable he received the impression that something was troubling the adults.

“Hello, Bartan—you are early.” Only one of the farmers—a ruddy-cheeked young man with spiky straw-like hair—had left the group to greet Bartan.

“Hello… Crain.” Bartan named the man with some difficulty because the Phorateres were a large family, with several cousins of similar age and appearance. “Am I too early? Should I depart and return later?”

“No, it’s all right. It’s just that… something has happened. It has taken the wind out of our sails a bit.”

“Something serious?”

Crain looked embarrassed. “Please go into the house. Harro needs to see you. We were on the point of sending a rider to fetch you when we saw your wagon coming over the rise.” He turned and walked away before Bartan could question him any further.

Bartan walked to the farmhouse’s front entrance with growing curiosity. Harro Phoratere was the head of the family—a reserved and taciturn forty-year-old who had not warmed to Bartan as much as the other members of the community. The fact that he had invited Bartan into his home was unusual in itself, a hint that something extraordinary had occurred. Bartan tapped the planked door and went inside, to find himself in a large square kitchen. Harro was standing by an inner door which probably led to a bedroom. He had a cloth pressed to his right cheek and his face was devoid of the high colouring which was a family characteristic.

“There you are, Bartan,” he said in a subdued voice. “I’m glad you came early—I’m sorely in need of your help. I know I haven’t shown you much cordiality in the past, but…”

“Put that out of your mind,” Bartan said, starting forward. “Only tell me what I can do for you.”

“Speak quietly!” Harro said, putting a finger vertically to his lips. “Those wondrously fine little tools that you showed us… the ones you use for repairing jewellery… have you brought them today?”

Bartan’s puzzlement increased. “Yes, I always keep some by me. They are in my wagon.”

“Could you unlock this door? Even with the key still in the lock on the other side?”

Bartan examined the door. It was unusually well crafted to be in a farm dwelling, and its having a lock instead of a latch was an indication that the original builder of the house had had gentlemanly aspirations. The shape of the keyhole, however, indicated that the lock itself was of the simplest and cheapest warded pattern.

“An easy enough task,” Bartan whispered. “Is your wife in that room? I hope she isn’t ill.”

“Ennda is in there, all right, and I fear she has gone mad. That’s why I didn’t break the door down. She screams when I so much as touch the handle.”

Bartan remembered Ennda Phoratere as a handsome, well-made woman in her late thirties, better educated and more articulate than the other farmers’ wives. She was eminently practical, with a good sense of humour, and probably the last person in the community he would have expected to fall prey to fevers of the mind.

“Why do you think she is mad?” he said.

“It started during the night. I woke up and found Ennda pressing herself against me, working herself against me. Intimately, you understand. Moaning she was, and insistent—so I obliged. To tell you the truth, I had little choice in the matter.”

Harro paused and gave Bartan a hard look. “This is between us, you understand.”

“Of course,” Bartan said. He had noticed before that, while being fond of using vulgar sexual references in everyday speech, the farming people tended to be reticent about their own personal relationships.

Harro nodded. “Well, at the height of it all she… bit me.”

“But…” Bartan hesitated, wondering how much difference there could be between the urban and the rural experience of passion. “It’s not uncommon for lovers to…”

“Like this?” Harro said, removing the cloth from his cheek.

Bartan flinched as he saw the wound on the other man’s face. There were two curving incisions in the shape of an open mouth, their ends so close that it was obvious that a substantial piece of flesh had almost been torn out of Harro’s cheek. The edges of the incisions had been drawn together with a cross-stitching of black thread, but blood was still oozing in places despite a generous dusting of powdered pepperbloom, a traditional Kolcorronian coagulant. The skin surrounding the wound was darkly bruised, and it was evident that Harro would be scarred for life.

“I’m sorry,” Bartan mumbled. “I had no idea.”

Harro covered his cheek again. “Next thing Ennda was attacking me, beating me about the head with her fists, screaming at me to get out of the room. I was so confounded that I was out of the room before I knew what was happening. Ennda locked the door. For a while she kept screaming something… it sounded like, ‘Not a dream, not a dream’… then she fell silent and has been that way for hours. Except when anyone tries the lock, that is—then she starts it again. I’m worried about her, Bartan. I must reach her in case she does some mischief to herself. She sounded so… so…”

“Wait here!” Bartan went to the front entrance and, ignoring the questioning glances of the group by the long table, walked quickly to his wagon. He opened its toolbox and was withdrawing the roll of jeweller’s instruments when Crain Phoratere arrived at his side.

“Can you do it?” Crain said. “Can you manage the door?”

“I believe so.”

“Good man, Bartan! When the screaming started we ran here from the sidehouses and found him naked and covered with blood. We put some clothes on him and stitched the wound, then he cleared the house. He refuses to speak to anyone—ashamed, perhaps—and we don’t know whether to let the revel continue or not. Perhaps it would be unseemly.”

“We’ll see how she is when we get into the bedroom,” Bartan said, hurrying back to the house. “Stay close by and I’ll call you if we need assistance.”

“Good man, Bartan!” Crain said fervently.

In the house Bartan found Harro still waiting by the bedroom door. Bartan knelt beside him and examined the keyhole closely, satisfying himself that the lock could be successfully manipulated. He selected the instrument best suited for his purpose and looked up at Harro.

“I have to do this quickly in case she guesses what is happening,” he said. “Please be ready to go in immediately.”

Harro nodded. Bartan turned the key with a single twist and moved aside as Harro brushed by him and into the room beyond. In the half-light from the doorway and the shuttered window he saw Ennda Phoratere standing in the far corner, back pressed to the wall. Her black hair was in wild disarray around a face that was dehumanised by the white-corona’d eyes and the blood caked on her chin. Brownish stains dappled the upper part of her nightdress.

“Who are you?” she shrilled at Harro. “Stay away! Don’t come near me!”

“Ennda!” Harro darted forward and seized his wife despite the flailings of her arms as she tried to fight him off. “Don’t you know me? I only want to help you. Please, Ennda.”

“You can’t be Harro! You…” She broke off, staring into his face, and pressed a hand to her mouth. “Harro? Harro?”

“You had a nightmare, but it’s over. It’s all over, dear one.” Harro drew his wife towards the bed and made her sit down, at the same time nodding meaningfully towards the window for Bartan to take heed. Bartan went forward and opened the shutters, expanding a central sliver of brilliance into a wash of sunlight. Ennda looked all around the room, mistrustfully, before turning to her husband.

“But your face! Look what I did to your poor face!” She gave the most anguished sob Bartan had ever heard, lowered her head and—on seeing the bloodstains on her nightdress—began to tear at the thin cotton material.

“I’ll fetch some water,” Bartan said hastily, leaving the room. He saw Crain Phoratere standing just beyond the front entrance and made a pushing gesture against the air to warn him to remain outside for the time being. His glance around the kitchen located a green glass ewer and basin on a sideboard. He poured some water into the basin, gathered up a washcloth, soap and towel, taking as much time as possible over the operation, and returned to the bedroom door. Ennda’s nightdress was lying on the floor and she was swaddled in a sheet taken from the bed.

“It’s all right, lad,” Harro said. “Come in.”

Bartan entered the room and held the basin while Harro cleaned and dried blood from his wife’s face. With the disappearance of the scaly disfigurement Harro showed an uplift in his spirits, reminding Bartan that some nursing procedures were as much for the benefit of the caring as the cared for. He too began to feel a sense of relief, though with a twinge of conscience over his own selfishness—his special day had been threatened, but the threat was lifting. Ennda Phoratere had had a very bad dream, with unfortunate consequences, but life was now settling back into its pleasant routine and soon he would be dancing with Sondeweere, belly to belly, thigh to thigh…

“That’s better,” Harro said, dabbing his wife’s face with the towel. “It was only a nightmare, and now we can forget all about it and…”

“It wasn’t a nightmare!” Her voice had a thin, wailing quality which somehow checked Bartan’s rising tide of optimism. “It was real!”

“It can’t have been real,” Harro said reasonably.

“What about your face?” Ennda began to rock gently backwards and forwards. “It wasn’t like a dream. It seemed real, and it seemed to go on for ever… for ever and ever…”

Harro tried being jocular. “It can’t have been worse than some of the dreams I have had, especially after a supper of your suet cakes.”

“I was eating your face.” Ennda gave her husband a calm, dreadful smile. “I didn’t just bite your cheek, Harro—I ate up all of your face, and it took hours. I bit off your lips and chewed them up. I pulled your nostrils off with my teeth and chewed them up. I gnawed the front off your eyeballs and sucked the fluid out of them. When I had finished with you, you had no face left… nothing at all… not even ears…

“There was just a red skull with some hair on top. That’s what I was doing to you during the night, Harro, my beloved—so do not try to tell me about your nightmares.”

“It’s all over now,” Harro said uneasily.

“Is that what you think?” Ennda began to rock more vigorously, as though driven by an invisible engine. “There was more, you know. I haven’t told you about the dark tunnel… crawling under the ground in the dark tunnel… with all the flat, scaly bodies pressing on me…”

“I think it would be better if I left,” Bartan said, turning towards the door with the basin.

“No, don’t go, lad.” Harro raised a hand to detain Bartan. “She’s better with company.”

“…they had many legs—and I was the same… I had many legs… and a trunk… a tentacle… growing out of my throat…” Ennda suddenly ceased rocking, tucked her right shoulder under her chin and extended her arm forwards. It made a gentle, boneless rippling movement which was mimicked by something in the deeps of Bartan’s consciousness, making him unaccountably afraid.

“Well, I’ll just put the basin away,” he said, feeling like a traitor, knowing that he intended to get out of the house and leave the two unfortunates to deal with their own problems, none of which had anything to do with him. He evaded Harro’s hand, walked briskly into the kitchen and set the slopping basin down on the sideboard. He turned and was on his way to the bright sanity of the front entrance when he was snared by Ennda’s psychic web. She had risen to her feet, unmindful that the sheet was slipping down her torso, and could have been performing a strange new dance, her arm snaking and wafting before her.

“It began oddly,” she murmured. “Very oddly indeed, and it’s wrong to call it a beginning because I kept going back to the house. It was an ordinary farmhouse… whitewashed, green door… but I was afraid to go in… and yet I had to go in…

“When I opened the green door there was nothing there but some old clothes hanging on a hook on the wall… an old hat, an old cloak, an old apron… I knew I should have run away at that stage, while I was still safe, but something made me go in…”

Bartan halted at the bedroom door, chilled.

Ennda looked straight at him, through him. “You see, I was wrong. There weren’t any old clothes. It was one of them… that tentacle reaching towards me… ever so gently…”

Harro closed with his wife and gripped her shoulders. “Stop this, Ennda. Stop it!”

“But you don’t understand.” She smiled again, her arm coiling around his neck as the sheet dropped to the floor. “I wasn’t being attacked, dear one… it was an invitation… an invitation to love… and I wanted it. I went into the house and I embraced the horror… and I was happy when I felt its pale grey penis entering me…”

Ennda surged against Harro, her naked buttocks pumping and contracting. With one imploring glance towards Bartan, Harro used his weight and size to force his wife down on to the bed. Bartan stepped into the room, slammed the door behind him and threw himself down against the couple, helping to imprison Ennda’s threshing limbs. Her teeth clicked as she bit the air and her pelvis drove upwards again and again, but now with diminishing power. Her eyelids were drooping wearily, peace was returning to her body. Bartan took the initiative and covered her, using the sheet that had fallen to the floor, but his mind was elsewhere, wandering in a strange continuum of doubt and confusion.

Could coincidence ever be stretched far enough to explain two people dreaming the same thing at the same time? Perhaps, if the subject were a very commonplace one, but not when… And at first mine was not a dream! Bartan’s brow prickled coldly as he remembered that he had been to the house and had walked through the green door in actuality. But in reality his monster had been a delusion, and in Ennda’s delusion her monster had been a reality. The universe does not work this way, Bartan told himself. Something has gone wrong with the universe…

“She looks better now,” Harro whispered, stroking his wife’s brow. “Perhaps a couple of hours of proper sleep is all she needs. In fact, I know that is what she needs.”

Bartan stood up, trying to anchor his thoughts in the solid present. “What of the celebration? Are you going to send everybody away?”

“I want them all to remain here. It will be best if Ennda has her friends around her when she awakes.” Harro got to his feet and faced Bartan across the bed. “There’s no need to talk too much about all this, is there, lad? I don’t want people to think she has gone mad—especially Jop.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“I’m grateful to you,” Harro said, leaning forwards to shake Bartan’s hand. “Jop has no time for all this talk of dreams and nightmares that we’ve had of late. He says that if people worked as hard as they ought they would be too tired to dream at night.”

Bartan forced a smile. Were other members of the community having bad dreams? Was this what Reeve Karrodall had foretold? Could this be only the beginning, the beginning of something terrible, something which could drive the new wave of settlers away—as had happened to their predecessors?

“When I lay my head down at the end of the day,” he said ruefully, pushing aside his memories of the night’s disturbing dream, “I experience a small death. There is nothing until daybreak.”

“Anybody who tried to start off a whole section on his own is entitled to be exhausted, more so somebody who wasn’t brought up to this work.”

“I get some help from the neighbours,” Bartan said, eager to talk of commonplace things while he strove to come to terms with his new internal picture of the world. “And after I’m married there will be…”

“I must put a bandage on my war wound,” Harro interrupted, gingerly prodding his cheek. “You go outside and say I want to know why they are all standing around with both arms the same length instead of preparing for the festivities. Tell them this is to be a day to remember.”

News had come that Jop Trinchil and his family would not be arriving until near the middle of the day, so Bartan passed the time by joining in where he could with the various preparations going on around the farm. His efforts were received with good humour, but the women soon made it clear to him that he was hindering rather than helping, especially as he was abstracted and prone to error. He withdrew to a bench facing the kitchen orchard, where several men were already sunning themselves and sharing a jug of green wine.

“That’s right, lad,” Corad Furcher said companionably, handing Bartan a full cup. “Leave the women to get on with it by themselves.” He was a middle-aged man whose yellowish hair betokened a blood relationship with the Phorateres.

“Thanks.” Bartan sipped the sweet liquid. “It’s all confused back there, and I did seem to be getting in the way a little.”

“There’s the source of the trouble, up there.” Furcher made a gesture which took in the clear blue dome of the sky. “The onset of littlenight was the obvious time to begin a revel when we lived on the Old World, but here the sun goes on shining and shining and shining, and you can’t regulate yourself properly. It isn’t natural, you know, this living on the outside. I’m as loyal as the next man, but I still say King Chakkell was interfering with the right way of things when he scattered us all around the globe. Look at that sky! Empty! It makes me feel I’m being watched all the time.”

The men farther along the bench nodded in agreement and began a discussion about the disadvantages of being on the hemisphere of Overland which was permanently turned away from the sister planet. Some of the theories they put forward about the effects of the uninterrupted day on crop growth and animal behaviour sounded highly dubious to Bartan. He found himself longing for Sondeweere’s company more than ever, and in between times wrestling with the problem posed by Ennda Phoratere’s terrible nightmare. Coincidence had to be ruled out, but perhaps the key to the mystery lay in the very nature of dreams. Was it possible, as some claimed, that the mind roved out from the body during the hours of sleep? If it were, then perhaps two discarnate personalities could meet by chance and commune briefly in the darkness, influencing each other’s dreams.

Bartan was reluctant to abandon his vision of a perfectly happy future, and the new idea seemed to offer its salvation. As the strong wine began to do its work he began to see the episode as rare and unpleasant but perfectly explicable, a manifestation of some of nature’s complexities and subtleties. The resurgence of his optimism was aided by the sight of Ennda emerging from the main house and taking part in the seemingly endless preparations for the forthcoming party. She was a little sheepish at first, but soon she was laughing with those around her, and the message for Bartan was that the black humours of the night were dispersed and forgotten. The day would be all the more joyful in comparison.

He was unaccustomed to drinking wine, and by the time the Trinchil wagon appeared in the distance he had reached a state of lightheaded euphoria, an enhancement of the one he had known in the early part of the day. His first impulse was to go out and meet Sondeweere, but it was superseded by a playful desire to surprise her with a sudden appearance. He went to where the other farmers had parked, stationed himself between two of the tall vehicles and waited until the new arrivals had rolled to a halt close by. There were more than a dozen of the Trinchil family on the wagon, and the noise level in the area increased sharply as they spilled over its sides, the children vying with the adults in the calling out of greetings to friends. In spite of his bulk, Jop Trinchil was first to reach the ground. He strode off immediately towards the laden tables, obviously in a boisterous mood, leaving the women to supervise the unloading of infants and some small hampers.

Bartan was enchanted to see Sondeweere wearing her best dress, a pale green tailored garment with an olive filigree pattern, which complemented her fair coloration and reaffirmed his impression of her as being in a class apart from all the other women of the community. She was the last to quit the wagon, languorously rising to her feet in a kind of voluptuous slow-motion shimmy which set Bartan’s heart racing.

He was about to go forward when he saw that one of Jop’s sons—a precociously muscular seventeen-year-old named Glave—was waiting by the wagon with arms upraised to help Sondeweere descend. She smiled down at him and swung her legs over the side, permitting him to encircle her waist with his large hands. He took her weight easily and lowered her to the ground in a deliberate manner which brought their bodies close together. Sondeweere gave no sign of being offended. She allowed the intimate contact to continue for several seconds, all the while gazing into Glave’s eyes, then shook her head slightly. Glave released her immediately, said something Bartan was unable to hear and loped away in the wake of the rest of his family.

Annoyed, Bartan left his place of concealment and approached Sondeweere. “Welcome to the party,” he said, quite certain in his mind that she would be disconcerted to learn that she had been under observation.

“Bartan!” Smiling brilliantly, she ran to him, threw her arms around his waist and nuzzled against his chest. “It seems years since I’ve seen you.”

“Does it?” he said, refusing to return the embrace. “Haven’t you found a way to make the time pass quickly? And pleasantly at that?”

“Of course not!” Becoming aware of the rigidness of his body, she stepped back to look at him. “Bartan! What are you saying?”

“I saw you with Glave.”

Sondeweere’s jaw sagged for a moment before she began to laugh. “Bartan, Glave is just a boy! And he’s my cousin.”

“Full cousin? By blood?”

“That doesn’t come into it—you have no reason to be jealous.” Sondeweere raised her left hand and tapped the brakka ring on the sixth finger. “I wear this at all times, my love.”

“That doesn’t prove…” Bartan’s throat closed painfully, preventing him from finishing the sentence.

“Why are we behaving like strangers?” Sondeweere fixed Bartan with a soft but purposeful stare and embraced him again, this time putting her arms around his neck and drawing his face down to meet hers. He had never been to bed with her, but before the kiss was over he had a fair idea of what the experience would be like and all thoughts of rivalry, or indeed of anything, had flown from his mind. He responded hungrily until she had broken away from him.

“Labouring in the field is making you very strong,” she whispered. “I see I will have to be careful with you and grow a plentiful crop of maidenfriend.”

Flattered and uplifted, he said, “Don’t you want to have children?”

“Lots of them, but not too soon—we have much work to do first.”

“We’ll have no talk of work for the remainder of the day.” Bartan linked arms with Sondeweere and drew her away from the farm buildings towards the sunlit peacefulness of the open land, where crops in different stages of maturation glowed in strips which narrowed into the distance. They walked together for a good hour, enjoying each other’s presence, passing the time with lovers’ Smalltalk and counting the meteors which occasionally scribed silver lines across the sky. Bartan would have liked to keep Sondeweere to himself until nightfall, but he gave in with good grace when she decided to return to the others for the start of the dancing.

By the time they had reached the main farmhouse Bartan was thirsty. Feeling it would be prudent not to have more wine, he joined the men clustered around the ale barrels in search of a less heady brew. He fended off the expected ribaldry about what he had been doing while absent with Sondeweere, and emerged from the group with a heavy pot of ale in his hand. Three fiddlers had begun to play in the shade of the barn and several young women—Sondeweere among them—had joined hands and were opening the first of the set dances.

Bartan looked on in a mood of utter contentment, taking small but regular sips of his drink, as some male farmers overcame their self-consciousness and gradually swelled the ranks of the dancers. He finished his ale, set the pot on a nearby table, and had taken one step towards Sondeweere when his attention was caught by a group of small children at play on a grassy patch near the kitchen orchard. All were aged about three or four and were moving in a circle, silently absorbed, performing a dance of their own to a slower rhythm than that of the adults’ music. Their chins were tucked down into hunched right shoulders, and their right arms were extended in front, gently wafting and undulating like so many snakes.

The movements were strangely inhuman, strangely unappealing—and exactly simulated those with which Ennda Phoratere had acted out the obscene horrors of her nightmare.

Bartan turned away from the children, frowning, suddenly feeling isolated from the merriment and innocence of his neighbours.