Millennium

: Millennium

There are devices a high-level culture could produce that simply

don't belong in the hands of incompetents of lower cultural

evolution. The finest, and most civilized of tools can be made a

menace ...

Liewen Konar smiled wryly as he put a battered object on the bench.

"Well, here's another piece recovered. Not worth much, I'd say, but here

it is."

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Obviously, it had once been a precisely fabricated piece of equipment.

But its identity was almost lost. A hole was torn in the side of the

metal box. Knobs were broken away from their shafts. The engraved

legends were scored and worn to illegibility, and the meter was merely a

black void in the panel. Whatever had been mounted at the top had been

broken away, to leave ragged shards. Inside the gaping hole in the case,

tiny, blackened components hung at odd angles.

Klion Meinora looked at the wreckage and shook his head.

"I know it's supposed to be what's left of a medium range communicator,"

he said, "but I'd never believe it." He poked a finger inside the hole

in the case, pushing a few components aside. Beyond them, a corroded

wheel hung loosely in what had once been precision bearings.

"Where's the power unit?"

Konar shook his head. "No trace. Not much left of the viewsphere,

either."

"Well." Meinora shook his head resignedly. "It's salvage. But we got it

back." He stood back to look at the communicator. "Someone's been

keeping the outside clean, I see."

Konar nodded. "It was a religious relic," he said. "Found it in an

abbey." He reached into the bag he had placed on the floor.

"And here's a mental amplifier-communicator, personnel, heavy duty.

Slightly used and somewhat out of adjustment, but complete and

repairable." He withdrew a golden circlet, held it up for a moment, and

carefully laid it on the bench beside the wrecked communicator. Its

metal was dented, but untarnished.

"Don't want to get rough with it," he explained. "Something might be

loose inside."

He reached again into the bag. "And a body shield, protector type, model

GS/NO-10C. Again, somewhat used, but repairable. Even has its

nomenclature label."

"Good enough." Meinora held a hand out and accepted the heavy belt. He

turned it about in his hands, examining the workmanship. Finally, he

looked closely at the long, narrow case mounted on the leather.

"See they counted this unit fairly well. Must have been using it."

"Yes, sir. It's operative. The Earl wore it all the time. Guess he kept

up his reputation as a fighter that way. Be pretty hard to nick anyone

with a sword if he had one of these running. And almost any clumsy

leatherhead could slash the other guy up if he didn't have to worry

about self-protection."

"I know." Meinora nodded quickly. "Seen it done. Anything more turned

up?"

"One more thing. This hand weapon came from the same abbey I got the

communicator from. I'd say it was pretty hopeless, too." Konar picked a

flame-scarred frame from his bag, then reached in again, to scoop up a

few odd bits of metal.

"It was in pieces when we picked it up," he explained. "They kept it

clean, but they couldn't get the flame pits out and reassembly was a

little beyond them."

"Beyond us too, by now." Meinora looked curiously at the object. "Looks

as though a couple of the boys shot it out."

"Guess they did, sir. Not once, but several times." Konar shrugged.

"Malendes tells me he picked up several like this." He cocked his head

to one side.

"Say, chief, how many of these things were kicking around on this

unlucky planet?"

Meinora grimaced. "As far as we can determine, there were ninety-two

operative sets originally issued. Each of the original native operatives

was equipped with a mentacom and a body shield. Each of the eight

operating teams had a communicator and three hand weapons, and the

headquarters group had a flier, three communicators, a field detector

set, and six hand weapons. Makes quite an equipment list."

"Any tools or maintenance equipment?"

Meinora shook his head. "Just operator manuals. And those will have

deteriorated long ago. An inspection team was supposed to visit once a

cycle for about fifty cycles, then once each five cycles after that.

They would have taken care of maintenance. This operation was set up

quite a while ago, you know. Operatives get a lot more training now--and

we don't use so many of them."

"So, something went wrong." Konar looked at the equipment on the bench.

"How?" he asked. "How could it have happened?"

"Oh, we've got the sequence of events pretty well figured out by now."

Meinora got to his feet. "Of course, it's a virtually impossible

situation--something no one would believe could happen. But it did." He

looked thoughtfully at the ruined communicator.

"You know the history of the original operation on this planet?"

"Yes, sir. I looked it over. Planet was checked out by Exploration. They

found a couple of civilizations in stasis and another that was about to

go that way. Left alone, the natives'd have reverted to a primitive

hunter stage--if they didn't go clear back to the caves. And when they

did come up again, they'd have been savage terrors."

"Right. So a corps of native operatives was set up by Philosophical, to

upset the stasis and hold a core of knowledge till the barbaric period

following the collapse of one of the old empires was over. One

civilization on one continent was chosen, because it was felt that its

impact on the rest of the planet would be adequate to insure progress,

and that any more extensive operation would tend to mold the planetary

culture."

Konar nodded. "The old, standard procedure. It usually worked better

than this, though. What happened this time?"

"The Merokian Confederation happened."

"But their penetration was nowhere near here."

"No, it wasn't. But they did attack Sector Nine. And they did destroy

the headquarters. You remember that?"

"Yes, sir. I read about it in school. We lost a lot of people on that

one." Konar frowned. "Long before my time in the Corps, of course, but I

studied up on it. They used some sort of screen that scrambled the

detectors, didn't they?"

"Something like that. Might have been coupled with someone's

inattention, too. But that's unimportant now. The important thing is

that the sector records were destroyed during the attack."

"Sure. But how about the permanent files that were forwarded to

Aldebaran depository?"

Meinora smiled grimly. "Something else that couldn't happen. We're still

looking for traces of that courier ship. I suppose they ran afoul of a

Merokian task force, but there's nothing to go on. They just

disappeared." He picked up the mental communicator, examining the signs

of aging.

"One by one," he continued, "the case files and property records of

Sector Nine are being reconstructed. Every guardsman even remotely

associated with the Sector before the attack is being interviewed, and a

lot of them are working on the reconstruction. It's been a long job, but

we're nearly done now. This is one of the last planets to be located and

rechecked, and it's been over a period since the last visit they've had

from any of our teams. On this planet, that's some fifty-odd

generations. Evidently the original operatives didn't demolish their

equipment, and fifty some generations of descendants have messed things

up pretty thoroughly."

Konar looked at the bench. Besides the equipment he had just brought in,

there were other items, all in varying stages of disrepair and ruin.

"Yes, sir," he agreed. "If this is a sample, and if the social

conditions I've seen since I joined the team are typical, they have. Now

what?"

"We've been picking up equipment. Piece by piece, we've been accounting

for every one of those items issued. Some of 'em were lost. Some of 'em

probably wore out and were discarded, or were burned--like this, only

more so." Meinora pointed at the wrecked communicator.

"Local legends tell us about violent explosions, so we know a few

actually discharged. And we've tracked down the place where the flier

cracked up and bit out a hole the size of a barony. Those items are gone

without trace." He sighed.

"That introduces an uncertainty factor, of course, but the equipment in

the hands of natives, and the stuff just lying around in deserted areas

has to be tracked down. This planet will develop a technology some day,

and we don't want anything about to raise questions and doubts when it

does. The folklore running around now is bad enough. When we get the

equipment back, we've got to clean up the social mess left by the

descendants of those original operatives."

"Nice job."

"Very nice. We'll be busy for a long time." Meinora picked up a small

tape reel. "Just got this," he explained. "That's why I was waiting for

you here. It's an account of a mentacom and shield that got away.

Probably stolen about twenty years ago, planetary. We're assigned to

track it down and pick it up."

He turned to speak to a technician, who was working at another bench.

"You can have this stuff now. Bring in some more pretty soon."

* * * * *

Flor, the beater, was bone weary. The shadows were lengthening, hiding

the details in the thickets, and all the hot day, he had been thrusting

his way through thicket after thicket, in obedience to the instructions

of the foresters. He had struck trees with his short club and had

grunted and squealed, to startle the khada into flight. A few of the

ugly beasts had come out, charging into the open, to be run down and

speared by the nobles.

And Flor had tired of this hunt, as he had tired of many other hunts in

the past. Hunting the savage khada, he thought resentfully, might be

an amusing sport for the nobles. But to a serf, it was hard,

lung-bursting work at best. At worst, it meant agonizing death beneath

trampling hoofs and rending teeth.

To be sure, there would be meat at the hunting lodge tonight, in plenty,

and after the hunt dinner, he and the other serfs might take bits of the

flesh home to their families. But that would be after the chores in the

scullery were over. It would be many hours before Flor would be able to

stumble homeward.

He relaxed, to enjoy the short respite he had gained by evading the

forester. Sitting with his back to a small tree, he closed his eyes and

folded his thick arms over his head. Of course, he would soon be found,

and he would have to go back to the hunt. But this forester was a dull,

soft fellow. He could be made to believe Flor's excuse that he had

become lost for a time, and had been searching the woods for the other

beaters.

The underbrush rustled and Flor heard the sound of disturbed leaves and

heavy footfalls. A hunting charger was approaching, bearing one of the

hunters. Quickly, Flor rose to his feet, sidling farther back into the

thicket. Possibly, he might remain unseen. He peered out through the

leaves.

The mounted man was old and evidently tired from the long day's hunt. He

swayed a little in his saddle, then recovered and looked about him,

fumbling at his side for his horn. His mount raised its head and beat a

forefoot against the ground. The heavy foot made a deep, thumping noise

and leaves rustled and rose in a small cloud.

Flor sighed and started forward reluctantly. It was the Earl, himself.

It might be possible to hide from another, but Flor knew better than to

try to conceal his presence from the old nobleman. The Earl could detect

any person in his vicinity, merely by their thoughts, as Flor well knew

from past experience. He also knew how severe the punishment would be if

he failed to present himself immediately. He pushed a branch aside with

a loud rustle.

Startled by the noise, a husa, which had been hiding beneath a nearby

bush, raced into the open. The small animal dashed madly toward the

Earl, slid wildly almost under the charger's feet, and put on a fresh

burst of speed, to disappear into the underbrush. The huge beast

flinched away, then reared wildly, dashing his rider's head against a

tree limb.

The elderly man slipped in his saddle, reached shakily for his belt,

missed, and lost his seat, to crash heavily to the ground.

Flor rushed from his thicket. With the shock of the fall, the Earl's

coronet had become dislodged from his head and lay a short distance from

the inert form. Flor picked it up, turning it in his hands and looking

at it.

* * * * *

Curiously, he examined the golden circlet, noting the tiny bosses inset

in the band. Many times, he had watched from a dark corner at the

hunting lodge, neglecting his scullery duties, while the Earl showed the

powers of this coronet to his elder son. Sometimes, he had been caught

by the very powers the circlet gave to the old nobleman, and he winced

as he remembered the strong arm of the kitchen master, and the skill

with which he wielded a strap. But on other occasions, the Earl had been

so engrossed in explaining the device as to neglect the presence of the

eavesdropper.

He had told of the ability given him to read the thoughts of others, and

even to strongly influence their actions. And Flor had gone back to his

labors, to dream of what he would do if he, rather than the Earl, were

the possessor of the powerful talisman.

And now, he had it in his hands.

A daring idea occurred to him, and he looked around furtively. He was

alone with the Earl. The old man was breathing stertorously, his mouth

wide open. His face was darkening, and the heavy jowls were becoming

purple. Obviously, he was capable of little violence.

In sudden decision, Flor knelt beside the body. His hand, holding the

short club above the Earl's throat, trembled uncontrollably. He wanted

to act--had to act now--but his fear made him nauseated and weak. For a

moment, his head seemed to expand and to lighten as he realized the

enormity of his intent. This was one of the great nobles of the land,

not some mere animal.

The heavily lidded eyes beneath him fluttered, started to open.

With a sob of effort, Flor dashed his club downward, as though striking

a husa. The Earl shivered convulsively, choked raspingly, and was

suddenly limp and still. The labored breathing stopped and his eyes

opened reluctantly, to fix Flor with a blank stare.

The serf leaped back, then hovered over the body, club poised to strike

again. But the old man was really dead. Flor shook his head. Men, he

thought in sudden contempt, died easily. It was not so with the husa,

or the khada, who struggled madly for life, often attacking their

killer and wounding him during their last efforts.

Flor consigned this bit of philosophy to his memory for future use and

set to work removing the heavy belt worn by the Earl. This, he knew, was

another potent talisman, which could guard its wearer from physical harm

when its bosses were pushed.

The murderer smiled sardonically. It was well for him that the old

nobleman had failed to press those bosses, otherwise this opportunity

probably would never have been presented. He stood up, holding the belt

in his hand. Such a thing as this, he told himself, could make him a

great man.

He examined the belt, noting the long metal case, with its engraving and

its bosses. At last, he grunted and fastened it about his own waist. He

pressed the bosses, then threw himself against a tree.

Something slowed his fall, and he seemed to be falling on a soft mat. He

caught his balance and rested against the tree, nodding in satisfaction.

Later, he could experiment further, but now he had other things to do.

He examined the coronet again, remembering that there was something

about its bosses, too. He looked closely at them, then pressed. One boss

slid a little under his finger and he felt a faint, unfamiliar sense of

awareness.

He put the coronet on his head and shuddered a little as the awareness

increased to an almost painful intensity. The forest was somehow more

clear to him than it had ever been. He seemed to understand many things

which he had heard or experienced, but which had been vague before. And

memory crowded upon him. He stood still, looking around.

At the edge of his mind was vague, uneasy wonder, obviously not his own

thought. There was a dim caricature of himself standing over the body of

the Earl. And there was a feeling of the need to do something without

understanding of what was to be done, or why.

He could remember clearly now, the Earl's explanations of the action of

the coronet. One incident stood out--a time when the old man, having

overindulged in the local wine, had demonstrated his ability to divine

the thoughts of others. Flor twitched a little in painful recollection.

The kitchen master had been especially enthusiastic in his use of the

strap that night.

The Earl's mount was eying Flor, who realized without knowing just how,

that the vague images and rudimentary thoughts were a reflection of the

beast's mind. He looked over at the thicket into which the little

animal which had started the charger, was hiding. It was still there,

and he could feel a sense of fearful wonder, a desire to be gone,

coupled with a fear of being discovered.

Again, he looked about the woods. In a way, the husa and he were akin.

It would be bad if he were caught here, too. To be sure, he would be

hard to capture, with his new protection, but many men would hunt him.

And some of them would be other Earls, or possibly some of the great

abbots, who had their own coronets and belts, and possibly other things

of great power. These, he knew, might be too much for him. He slunk into

the thicket, looked down the hill, and decided on a course which would

avoid the paths of the foresters.

As he walked, he plotted methods of using his new-found powers. He

considered idea after idea--then discarded them and sought further. With

his new awareness, he could see flaws in plans which would have seemed

perfect to him only a few short hours before.

First, he realized he would have to learn to control his new powers. He

would have to learn the ways of the nobility, their manners and their

customs. And he would have to find a disguise which would allow him to

move about the land. Serfs were too likely to be questioned by the first

passer-by who noticed them. Serfs belonged on the land--part of it!

He hid in the bushes at the side of a path as a group of free swordsmen

went by. As he watched them, a plan came to him. He examined it

carefully, finally deciding it would do.

* * * * *

The man-at-arms sauntered through the forest, swaying a little as he

walked. He sang in a gravelly voice, pausing now and then to remember a

new verse.

Flor watched him as he approached, allowing the man's thoughts to enter

his own consciousness. They were none too complicated. The man was a

free swordsman, his sword unemployed at the moment. He still had

sufficient money to enjoy the forest houses for a time, then he would

seek service with the Earl of Konewar, who was rumored to be planning a

campaign.

The man swayed closer, finally noticing Flor. He paused in mid stride,

eying the escaped serf up and down.

"Now, here's something strange indeed," he mused. He looked closely at

Flor's face.

"Tell me, my fellow, tell me this: How is it you wear the belt and

coronet of a great noble, and yet have no other garment than the shift

of a serf?"

As Flor looked at him insolently, he drew his sword.

"Come," he demanded impatiently, "I must have answer, else I take you to

a provost. Possibly his way of finding your secret would be to your

liking, eh?"

Flor drew a deep breath and waited. Here was the final test of his new

device. He had experimented, finding that even the charge of a khada

was harmless to him. Now, he would find if a sword could be rendered

harmless. At the approach of the man, he had pressed the boss on his

belt. The man seemed suddenly a little uncertain, so Flor spoke.

"Why, who are you," he demanded haughtily, "to question the doings of

your betters? Away with you, before I spit you with your own sword."

The man shook his head, smiling sarcastically. "Hah!" he said,

approaching Flor. "I know that accent. It stinks of the scullery. Tell

me, Serf, where did you steal that----"

He broke off, climaxing his question with an abrupt swing of the sword.

Then, he fell back in surprise. Flor had thrust a hand out to ward off

the blow, and the sword had been thrown back violently. The rebound tore

it from its amazed owner's hand, and it thudded to the ground. The

man-at-arms looked at it stupidly.

Flor sprang aside, scooping up the weapon before the man could recover.

"Now," he cried, "stand quite still. I shall have business with you."

The expression on the man's face told of something more than mere

surprise which held him quiet. Here was proof of the powers of the

coronet. Flor looked savagely at his captive.

"Take off your cap."

Reluctantly, the man's hand came up. He removed his steel cap, holding

it in his hand as he faced his captor.

"That is fine." Flor pressed his advantage. "Now, your garments. Off

with them!"

The swordsman was nearly his size. Both of them had the heavy build of

their mountain stock, and the garments of the free swordsman would do

for Flor's purpose, even though they might not fit him perfectly. Who

expected one of these roving soldiers of fortune to be dressed in the

height of style? They were fighters, not models to show off the tailor's

art.

Flor watched as his prisoner started to disrobe, then pulled off his own

single garment, carefully guiding it through the belt at his waist, so

as not to disturb the talisman's powers.

He threw the long shirt at the man before him.

"Here," he ordered. "Put this on."

He sensed a feeling of deep resentment--of hopeless rebellion. He

repeated his demand, more emphatically.

"Put it on, I say!"

As the man stood before him, dressed in the rough shift of a serf, Flor

smiled grimly.

"And now," he said, "none will worry too much about a mere serf, or look

too closely into his fate. Here."

He slashed out with the sword, awkwardly, but effectively.

"I shall have to find a new name," he told himself as he dressed in the

garments of his victim. "No free swordsman would have a name like Flor.

They all have two names."

He thought of the names he had heard used by the guards of the Earl.

Flor, he thought, could be part of a name. But one of the swordsmen

would make it Floran, or possibly Florel. They would be hunters, or

slayers of elk--not simply elk. He looked at the steel cap in his hands.

An iron hat--deri kuna.

"So," he told himself, "I shall be Florel Derikuna."

He inspected his new garments, being sure they hid the belt, and yet

left the bosses available to easy reach. At last, he put on the iron

cap. It covered the coronet, effectively hiding it.

Taking up the sword, he replaced it in its scabbard and swaggered

through the forest, imitating the man-at-arms' song.

At one stroke, he had improved his status infinitely. Now, he could roam

the land unquestioned, so long as he had money. He smiled to himself.

There was money in his scrip, and there would be but slight problems

involved in getting more. Tonight, he would sleep in a forest house,

instead of huddling in a thicket.

* * * * *

As the days passed, to grow into weeks and then, months, Florel wandered

over the land. Sometimes, he took service with a captain, who would

engage in a campaign. Sometimes, he took service with one of the lesser

nobility. A few times, he ran with the bands of the forest and road, to

rob travelers. But he was cautious to avoid the great Earls, realizing

the danger of detection.

Always, he kept his direction to the east, knowing that he would have to

reach the sea and cross to the eastern land before he could feel

completely safe. His store of money and of goods grew, and he hoarded it

against the time when he would use it.

Sometimes, he posed as a merchant, traveling the land with the caravans.

But always, he followed his path eastward.

* * * * *

Florel Derikuna looked back at the line of pack animals. It had been a

long trip, and a hard one. He smiled grimly to himself as he remembered

the last robber attack. For a time, he had thought the caravan guard was

going to be overwhelmed. He might have had to join with the robbers, as

he had done before. And that would have delayed his plans. He looked

ahead again, toward the hill, crowned with its great, stone castle.

This, then, was the land of the east--the farthest march of the land of

the east. It had taken him a long, cautious time to get here. And he had

spent his days in fear of a searching party from Budorn, even when he

had reached the seacoast itself. But here, he would be safe. None from

this land had ever been even to the mountainous backbone of his own

land, he was sure. And certainly, there would be no travelers who had

guided their steps from here to faraway Budorn and back.

None here knew Budorn, excepting him. Flor, the serf--now Florel

Derikuna, swordsman at large--was in a new land. And he would take a

new, more useful identity. He looked at the stone buildings of the town

and its castle.

They were not unlike the castles and towns of his native land, he

thought. There were differences, of course, but only in the small

things. And he had gotten used to those by now. He had even managed to

learn the peculiar language of the country. He smiled again. That

coronet he always wore beneath his steel cap had served him well. It had

more powers than he had dreamed of when he had first held it in his

hands in those distant woods.

Here in Dweros, he thought, he could complete his change. Here, he could

take service with the Duke as a young man of noble blood, once afflicted

with a restless urge for travel, but now ready to establish himself. By

now, he had learned to act. It had not been for nothing that he had

carefully studied the ways of the nobility.

The caravan clattered through the gate beneath the castle, twisted

through the streets just beyond the wall, and stopped in the market

place. Derikuna urged his mount ahead and confronted the merchant.

"Here is my destination," he said. "So, we'll settle up, and I'll be on

my way."

The merchant looked at him with a certain amount of relief. The man, he

knew, was a tough fighter. His efforts had been largely the cause of the

failure of bandits to capture the caravan only a few days before. But

there was something about him that repelled. He was a man to be feared,

not liked. Somehow, the merchant felt he was well rid of this guard,

despite his demonstrated ability. He reached into his clothing and

produced two bags.

"We hate to lose you, Derikuna," he dissembled. "Here is your normal

wage." He held out one bag. "And this second purse is a present, in

memory of your gallant defense of the caravan."

Derikuna smiled sardonically. "Thank you," he said, "and good trading."

He reined away.

He had caught the semi-fearful thoughts. Well, that was nothing unusual.

Everybody became fearful of the iron hat sooner or later. Here, they

would learn to respect him, too. Though their respect would be for a

different name. Nor would they be able to deny him aught. They might not

like him. That, he had no interest in. They'd do his will. And they'd

never forget him.

He rode to an inn, where he ordered food and lodging. His meal over, he

saw to his beasts, then had a servant take his baggage to his room.

* * * * *

Shortly after daybreak, he awoke. He blinked at the light, stirred

restlessly, and got out of bed. Rubbing his eyes, he walked to the other

side of the room.

For a few minutes, he looked at the trough in the floor and the water

bucket standing near it. At last, he shrugged and started splashing

water over himself. This morning, he spent more time than usual, being

sure that no vestige of beard was left on his face, and that he was

perfectly clean. He completed his bath by dashing perfumed water over

his entire body.

He opened his traveling chest, picking out clothing he had worn but few

times, and those in private. At last, he examined his reflection in a

mirror, and nodded in satisfaction.

"Truly," he told himself, "a fine example of western nobility."

He picked out a few expensive ornaments from his chest, then locked it

again and left the inn.

He guided his mount through the narrow streets to the castle gate, where

he confronted a sleepy, heavily-armed sentry.

"Send word to the castle steward," he ordered, throwing his riding cloak

back, "that Florel, younger son of the Earl of Konewar, would pay his

respects to your master, the Duke of Dwerostel."

The man eyed him for a moment, then straightened and grounded his pike

with a crash.

"It shall be done, sir." He turned and struck a gong.

A guard officer came through the tunnel under the wall. For a moment, he

looked doubtful, then he spoke respectfully and ushered Derikuna through

the inner court to a small apartment, where he turned him over to a

steward.

"You wish audience with His Excellency?"

"I do, My Man. I wish to pay him my respects, and those of my father,

the Earl of Konewar." Derikuna looked haughtily at the man.

Like the guard officer, the steward seemed doubtful. For a few seconds,

he seemed about to demur. Then, he bowed respectfully.

"Very well, sir." With a final, curious glance at the coronet which

shone in Florel's hair, the steward clapped his hands. A page hurried

into the room and bowed.

"Your orders, sir?"

"We have a noble guest. Bring refreshment, at once." The steward waved

to a table. "If Your Honor will wait here?"

Florel inclined his head, strode to a chair, and sat down. He looked

amusedly after the disappearing steward. The coronet of the old Earl, he

thought, was a truly potent talisman. Even the disdainful stewards of

castles bowed to its force. And, thought the impostor, so would his

master--when the time came.

* * * * *

The page reappeared with a flagon of wine and some cakes. Florel was

sampling them when the steward returned. The man bowed respectfully,

waited for Florel to finish his wine, and led the way through a corridor

to a heavy pair of doors, which he swung open.

"Florel, Son of Konewar," he announced ceremoniously.

The Duke flipped a bone to one of his dogs, shoved his plate aside, and

looked up. Florel walked forward a few paces, stopped, and bowed low.

"Your Excellency."

As he straightened, he realized that he was the object of an intense

scrutiny. At last, the Duke nodded.

"We had no notice of your coming."

Florel smiled. "I have been traveling alone, Excellency, and incognito.

For some years, I have been wandering, to satisfy my desire to see the

world." He glanced down at his clothing.

"I arrived in your town last evening, and delayed only to make myself

presentable before appearing to pay my respects."

"Very good. Punctuality in meeting social obligations is a mark of good

breeding." The Duke eyed Florel's costume.

"Tell me, young man, do all your nobility affect the insignia you wear?"

Florel's hand rose to his coronet. "Only members of the older families,

Excellency."

"I see." The nobleman nodded thoughtfully. "We have heard rumors of your

fashions in dress, though no member of any of the great families of

your realm has ever come so far before. We are somewhat isolated here."

He looked sharply at the younger man.

"Rumor also has it that this is more than mere insignia you wear. I have

heard it said that your ornaments give more than mortal powers to their

wearer. Is this true?"

Florel hesitated for an instant, then recognized the desired response.

Of course this eastern noble would not welcome the thought that there

were others who had greater powers than he. And he would certainly

resent any suggestions that a young visitor to his court had such

powers.

"Oh, that," he said easily. "Legends, really. The truth is that the

wearing of the coronet and belt is restricted to members of the older,

more honorable families. And even these must prove their ability at arms

and statecraft before being invested with the insignia. Too, knowledge

of long lineage and gentle birth makes a man more bold--possibly even

more skillful than the average." He smiled ingratiatingly.

"You, yourself, recognize your own superiority in all ways over your

retainers, your vassals, and your townspeople. And so are we above the

common man. This insignia is but the outward symbol of that

superiority."

The Duke nodded, satisfied. He waved a hand.

"Sit down, young man. You must remain at our court for a time. We are

hungry for news of the distant lands."

Florel congratulated himself. Well embellished gossip, he had found, was

a popular form of entertainment in camp and court alike, and his store

of gossip was large and carefully gathered. Here at Dweros, far from the

center of the kingdom, his store of tales would last for a long

time--probably as long as he needed.

During the days and nights that followed, he exerted himself to gain the

favor of the Duke and his household. Much of his time, he spent

entertaining others with his tales. But he kept his own ears and eyes

open. He became a constant visitor at the castle, finally being offered

the use of one of the small apartments, which he graciously accepted.

And, of course, he was invited to join the hunts.

Hunting, he discovered, could be a pleasant pastime--so long as it was

another who was doing the hard work of beating. And his own experience

as a beater proved valuable. He was familiar with the ways and the

haunts of animals. What had once been a matter of survival became a road

to acclaim. He was known before long as a skillful, daring hunter.

* * * * *

At length, he decided the time was right to talk to the Duke of more

serious things. The duchy was at the very border of the kingdom. To the

north lay territory occupied only by barbaric tribes, who frequently

descended on the northern baronies, to rob travelers of their goods, or

to loot villages. Having secured their loot, the tribesmen retreated to

their mountains before a fighting force could come up with them.

Florel came upon the Duke while he was considering the news of one of

these raids.

"Your Excellency, these border raids could be halted. A strong hand is

all that is needed, at the right place. A determined knight, established

on the Menstal, could command the river crossing and the pass, thus

preventing either entry or exit."

"To be sure." The Duke sighed wearily. "But the mountains of Menstal are

inhospitable. Knights have occupied the heights, protecting the border

for a time, to be sure, but the land has always escheated to the duchy.

A small watchtower is kept manned even now, but it's a hungry land, and

one which would drain even a baron's funds. I have no knight who wants

it."

Florel smiled. He had plans concerning the Menstal, and the great river,

the Nalen, which raced between high cliffs.

"The merchants, who use the Nalen for their shipments, would welcome

protection from the robber bands, I think, as would the travelers of the

roads."

"And?" The Duke looked at him thoughtfully.

"Possibly a small tax?" Florel smiled deprecatingly. "Sufficient to

maintain a garrison?"

"And who would collect the tax?"

"That, Excellency, I could arrange. I have funds, adequate to garrison

the tower of the Menstal, and even to make it livable for a considerable

force of men. And I believe I could maintain and increase a garrison

there that would serve to hold the barbarians at bay."

"Let me think this over." The Duke sat back, toying with his cup. "It is

true," he mused, "that Menstal is the key to the border. And the small

garrison there has proved expensive and ineffective." He tapped the cup

on the table, then set it down and looked about the apartment. Finally,

he looked up at Florel.

"You have our permission to try your scheme," he decided. "We will

invest you with the barony of Menstal."

* * * * *

Konar paused at the castle gate. It had been pure chance, he knew, that

they had noticed this bit of equipment. The east coast earldom was

known, of course, but somehow, searchers had failed to discover that the

Earl held any equipment. Konar shrugged. He probably hadn't inherited

it, but had gotten it by chance, and his possession of the mentacom and

shield weren't commonly known.

"Well," he told himself, "we know about it now. I'll make a routine

pickup, and he won't have it any more."

A pair of weary sentries stood just inside the heavy doors. One shifted

his weight, to lean partially on his pike, partially against the

stonework. Idly, he looked out at the road which led through the

village, staring directly through the place where Konar stood.

Konar smiled to himself. "Good thing I've got my body shield modulated

for full refraction," he told himself. "He'd be a little startled if he

should see me."

The sentry yawned and relaxed still more, sliding down a little, till he

sat on a slightly protruding stone. His companion looked over at him.

"Old Marnio sees you like that," he muttered warningly, "makes lashes."

The other yawned again. "No matter. He'll be drowsing inside, where it's

warm. Be a long time before he comes out to relieve."

Konar nodded amusedly. The castle guard, he gathered, was a little less

than perfectly alert. This would be simple. He touched the controls of

his body shield to raise himself a few inches above the cobblestones,

and floated between the two sentries, going slowly to avoid making a

breeze.

Once inside, he decided to waste no more time. Of course, he would have

to wait inside the Earl's sleeping room till the man slept, but there

was no point in waiting out here. He passed rapidly through the outer

ward, ignoring the serfs and retainers who walked between the dwellings

nestled against the wall.

The inner gate had been closed for the night, so he lifted and went over

the wall.

He looked around, deciding that the Earl's living quarters would be in

the wooden building at the head of the inner courtyard. As he

approached, he frowned. The windows were tightly closed against the

night air. He would have to enter through the doors, and a young squire

blocked that way. The lad was talking to a girl.

There was nothing to do but wait, so Konar poised himself a few feet

from them. They'd go inside eventually, and he would float in after

them. Then, he could wait until the Earl was asleep.

After that, it would be a simple, practiced routine. The small hand

weapon he carried would render the obsolete body shield ineffective, if

necessary, and a light charge would assure that the man wouldn't awaken.

It would be the work of a few minutes to remove the equipment the man

had, to substitute the purely ornamental insignia, and to sweep out of

the room, closing the window after him. Konar hoped it would stay

closed. The Earl might be annoyed if it flew open, to expose him to the

dreaded night air.

In the morning, the Earl would waken, innocent of any knowledge of his

visitor. He would assume his talismans had simply lost their powers due

to some occult reason, as many others had during recent times.

Idly, Konar listened to the conversation of the two before him.

* * * * *

The squire was telling the girl of his prowess in the hunt. Tomorrow, he

announced, he would accompany the Earl's honored guest from the eastern

land.

"And I'm the one that can show him the best coverts," he boasted. "His

Grace did well to assign me to the Duke."

The girl lifted her chin disdainfully. "Since you're such a great

hunter," she told him, "perchance you could find my brooch, which I lost

in yonder garden." She turned to point at the flower-bordered patch of

berry bushes at the other end of the court. In so doing, she faced

directly toward Konar.

She was a pretty girl, he thought. His respect for the young squire's

judgment grew. Any man would admire the slender, well featured face

which was framed within a soft cloud of dark, well combed hair. She

looked quite different from the usual girls one saw in this country.

Possibly, she was of eastern descent, Konar thought.

The girl's eyes widened and her mouth flew open, making her face

grotesquely gaunt. Abruptly, she was most unpretty. For a few

heartbeats, she stood rigidly, staring at Konar. Then she put her hands

to her face, her fingers making a rumpled mess of her hair. Her eyes,

fixed and with staring pupils, peered between her fingers. And she

screamed.

Konar felt suddenly faint, as though the girl's horror was somehow

communicated to him. The scream reverberated through his brain, rising

in an intolerable crescendo, blotting out other sensory perception. He

fought to regain control of his fading senses, but the castle court

blurred and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness. He started

sliding down an endless, dark chute, ending in impenetrable blackness.

* * * * *

Suddenly, the black dissolved into a flash of unbearably brilliant

light, and Konar's eyes closed tightly.

He was alertly conscious again, but his head ached, and he felt

reluctant, even unable, to open his eyes. Even closed, they ached from

the brilliant spots which snapped into being before them. He shuddered,

bringing his head down to his breast, gripping it with shaking hands,

and breathing with uneven effort.

This was like nothing he had ever met before. He would have to get back

to the others--find out what had happened to him--get help.

He concentrated on his eyelids, forcing them open. A crowd was

gathering, to look accusingly at the squire, who supported the fainting

girl in his arms. Her eyes fluttered weakly, and she struggled to regain

her feet.

"That awful thing! It's right over there!" She pointed at Konar.

Again, the unbearable ululation swept through his mind. Convulsively, he

swept his hand to his shield controls, fighting to remain conscious just

long enough to set his course up and away.

Before he was able to move and think with anything approaching

normality, he was far above the earth. He looked at the tiny castle far

below, noticing that from his altitude, it looked like some child's toy,

set on a sand hill, with bits of moss strewed about to make a realistic

picture. He shivered. His head still ached dully, and he could still

hear echoes of the horrified screaming.

"I don't know what it was," he told himself, "but I hope I never run

into anything like that again."

He located the hill which concealed the flier, and dropped rapidly

toward it.

As he entered, the pilot noticed him.

"Well, that was a quick mission," he commented. "How'd you----" He

looked at Konar's pain-lined face. "Hey, what's the matter, youngster?

You look like the last end of a bad week."

Konar tried to smile, but it didn't work very well.

"I ran into something, Barskor," he said. "Didn't complete my mission. I

don't know what happened, but I hope it never happens again."

Barskor looked at him curiously, then turned. "Chief," he called,

"something's gone wrong. Konar's been hurt."

* * * * *

Meinora listened to Konar's story, then shook his head unhappily.

"You ran into a transvisor, I'm afraid. We didn't think there were any

on this planet." He paused. "There were definitely none discovered to

the west, and we looked for them. But now, we're close to the east

coast, and you said that girl looked eastern. The eastern continent may

be loaded with 'em."

Konar looked curious. "A transvisor? I never heard of them."

"They're rather rare. You only find them under special conditions, and

those conditions, we thought, are absent here. But when you find one,

you can be sure there are more. It runs in families. You see, they're

beings with a completely wild talent. They can be any age, any species,

or of any intelligence, but they're nearly always female. Visibility

refraction just doesn't work right for their senses, and they can cause

trouble." He looked closely at Konar.

"You were lucky to get away. A really terrified transvisor could kill

you, just as surely as a heavy caliber blaster."

Konar shivered. "I believe it. But why are they called 'transvisors'?"

"The name's somewhat descriptive, even if it is incomplete. As I said,

visibility refraction doesn't work right in their case. Somehow, they

pick up visual sensation right through a screen, regardless of its

adjustment. But things seen through a screen are distorted, and look

abnormal to them. Unless they're used to it, they get frightened when

they see a person with a refracted body shield. That's when the trouble

starts."

Konar nodded in understanding. "You mean, they transmit their fear?"

"They do. And they'll shock excite a mentacom, completely distorting its

wave pattern. If they remain conscious and scared, their fear is deadly

to its object." Meinora drew a deep breath.

"As I said, you were lucky. The girl fainted and let you get away." He

shrugged and turned to Barskor.

"We'll have to change our mode of operation," he added. "We'll pick up

the Earl's mentacom and belt at the hunt tomorrow. Find him alone,

knock him out with a paralyzer, and give him parahypnosis afterward.

It's not so good, but it's effective. But be sure you are alone, and

don't try to use visual refraction under any circumstance. Be better to

be seen, if it comes to that. There might be another transvisor around."

He kicked gently at the seat beside him.

"This was just a secondary job, done in passing," he said, "but it's a

good thing we found this out when we did. It'll change our whole primary

plan. Now, we'll have to slog it out the hard way. On no account can

anyone refract. It might be suicide. We'll have to talk to travelers. We

want to know what abnormal or unusual developments have taken place in

what country in the last twenty years. Then, we'll have to check them

out. We've got a lot of work to do." He looked around. "Ciernar."

"Yes, sir?" The communications operator looked up.

"Send in a report on this to Group. Make it 'operational.'"

Konar tilted his head a little. "Say, chief, you said the transvisor's

fear was amplified by my mentacom. What if I wasn't wearing one?"

"You wouldn't feel a thing," Meinora smiled. "But don't get any ideas.

Without amplification, you couldn't control your shield properly. You'd

have protection, but your refraction control's entirely mental, and

levitation direction depends on mental, not physical control, remember?"

"But how about you? You don't use amplification. Neither do several of

the other team chiefs."

Meinora shrugged. "No," he admitted, "we don't need it, except in

abnormal circumstances. But we don't go around scaring transvisors. They

can't kill us, but they can make us pretty sick. You see we're a little

sensitive in some ways." He shook his head. "No, the only advantage I've

got is that I can spot a transvisor by her mental pattern--if I get

close enough. There's a little side radiation that can be detected,

though it won't pass an amplifier. When you've felt it once, you'll

never forget it. Makes you uncomfortable." He smiled wryly.

"And you can believe me," he added, "when I do get close to a

transvisor, I'm very, very careful not to frighten her."

* * * * *

Winter passed, and spring, and summer came. Nal Gerda, Officer of the

Guard, stood on the small wharf below the old watchtower. He looked

across the narrows, examined the cliff opposite him, then looked upward

at the luminous sky. There were a few small clouds, whose fleecy

whiteness accentuated the clear blue about them. Brilliant sunshine

bathed the wharf and tower, driving away the night mists.

It would not be long before the new guard came down the cliff. Gerda

stretched and drew a deep breath, savoring the summer morning air. Now,

it was pleasant, a happy contrast to the sullen skies and biting winter

winds he had faced a few short months ago.

For a time, he looked at the green atop the cliffs, then he transferred

his attention upriver, toward the bend where the Nalen came out of the

pass to blow between the iron cliffs of Menstal. The water flowed

swiftly in the narrows, throwing off white glints as its ripples caught

the sunlight, then deepening to a dark blue where it came into the

shadow of the cliffs.

A sudden call sounded from the lookout far above, and the officer

wheeled about, looking to the great chain which stretched from tower to

cliff, to block river traffic. It was in proper position, and Gerda

looked back at the bend.

As he watched, a long, low barge drifted into sight, picking up speed as

it came into the rapid current. Polemen balanced themselves alertly in

the bow, their long sticks poised to deflect their course from any

threatening rocks.

Gerda threw off the almost poetical admiration of beauty that had

possessed him a moment before and faced the guard house, from whence

came a scuffle of feet and the clank of arms, to tell of the guard's

readiness.

"Turn out the Guard." Gerda drew himself up into a commanding pose.

A group of men-at-arms marched stiffly out, followed by a pair of serfs.

The leader saluted Gerda with upraised hand.

"The Guard is ready, My Captain," he proclaimed. "May the tax be rich."

Gerda returned the salute. "It will be," he stated positively. "These

merchants have learned by now that to insult Portal Menstal with poor

offerings is unwise in the extreme. And, mark me, they'll not forget!"

The barge approached and swung in toward the wharf in obedience to

Gerda's imperious gesture. One of the polemen jumped ashore, securing a

line to a bollard.

The steersman climbed to the dock, to halt a pace in front of Gerda. He

folded his hands and bowed his head submissively.

"Does Your Honor desire to inspect the cargo?"

"Of course." Gerda's haughty glance appraised the man from toe to crown.

"Quickly now. I've little time to waste." He glanced back at his clerk,

who had a tablet ready.

"Your name, Merchant?"

"Teron, of Krongert, may it please you, sir. I have been to----"

Gerda waved an impatient hand. "Save me your speech, Higgler," he said

curtly. "What's your cargo value?"

"Six thousand teloa, Your Honor. We have----"

"Unload it. I'll look at it." Gerda waved the man to silence.

* * * * *

As the bales of goods were placed on the wharf, Gerda examined them

critically. A few, he ordered set aside after a quick check and a few

questions. Others, he ordered opened and spread out. At last, satisfied

with his estimate of the cargo's valuation, he turned.

"Your choice, Merchant?"

"I would pay, Your Honor," said the man, "to the tenth part of my

cargo." He extended a leather bag.

"Don't haggle with me," snapped Gerda. "The tax is a fifth of your

cargo, as you should well know." His hand sought his sword hilt.

The merchant's face fell a little, and he produced a second bag, which

he held out to the officer. "I must apologize," he said. "I am new to

this land."

"See that you learn its customs quickly, then." Gerda handed the bags to

his clerk.

"Check these, Lor," he ordered. "I make it a thousand, six hundred

teloa."

An expression of dismay crossed the merchant's face.

"Your Honor," he wailed, "my cargo is of but six thousand valuation. I

swear it."

Gerda stepped forward swiftly. His hand raised, to swing in a violent,

back-handed arc, his heavy rings furrowing the merchant's face. The man

staggered back, involuntarily raising a hand to his injured cheek.

As a couple of the men-at-arms raised their pikes to the ready, the

merchant righted himself, folded his hands again, and bowed in

obeisance. Blood trickled down his chin, a drop spattering on his

clothing. He ignored it.

"You would dispute my judgment?" Gerda drew his hand up for a second

blow. "Here is no market place for your sharp bargaining. For your

insolence, another five hundred teloa will be exacted. Make speed!"

The merchant shook his head dazedly, but offered no word of protest.

Silently, he dug into his possessions, to produce a third bag. For a

moment, he weighed it in his hand, then reached into it, to remove a few

loose coins. Without raising his head, he extended the bag to the

officer of the guard.

Gerda turned. Lor had gone into the guard house, to count the other two

bags. The officer raised his voice.

"Lor, get back out here. I've more for you to count."

He tossed the bag to the clerk, then stood, glaring at the unfortunate

trader. At last, he kicked the nearest bale.

"Well," he growled, "get this stuff off the wharf. What are you waiting

for?"

He watched the barge crew load, then turned. Lor came from the guard

house.

"All is in order, My Captain."

"Very well." Gerda looked at him approvingly. Then, he swung to the

merchant, fixing him with a stern glare.

"We shall make note of your name, Merchant. See thou that you make

honest and accurate valuation in the future. Another time, we shall not

be so lenient. The dungeon of Menstal is no pleasant place."

He watched till the last of the bargeload was stowed, then nodded

curtly.

"You may shove off," he said. He turned his head toward the tower.

"Down chain," he ordered loudly.

* * * * *

The windlass creaked protestingly and the heavy chain dropped slowly

into the river. The barge steered to the center of the channel,

gathering speed as it passed over the lowered chain.

When the barge had cleared, serfs inside the tower strained at the

windlass in obedience to the commands of their overseer, and the chain

rose jerkily, to regain its former position across the stream.

Gerda watched for a moment, then strode toward the guard house. He went

inside, to look at the bags of coin on the counting table.

"Cattle," he growled, "to think they could cheat the Baron Bel Menstal

of his just tax."

He stepped back out for a moment, to watch the merchant barge enter the

rapids beyond the chain. Then, he swung about and re-entered the tower.

Inside, he sat down at his counting table. He opened the bags, spilling

their contents out on the boards, and checked their count.

There were forty-eight over.

He turned to his clerk.

"What was your count, Lor?"

"Two thousand, one hundred, sir, and forty-eight."

"Very good." Gerda smiled a little. "For once in his thieving life, the

merchant was anxious to give full weight."

Lor spread his hands. "He'll get it back, and more, at Orieano, sir."

"Oh, to be sure." Gerda shrugged indifferently as he scooped the coins

back into the bags. He chose three small scraps of wood, scrawled tally

marks on them, and went over to a heavy chest.

Taking a key from his belt, he unlocked the chest and raised its lid. He

looked at the bags lying within, then tossed the new ones on top of

them. As he locked the chest again, he saw Lor go to his account board,

to enter the new collection.

The Officer of the Guard straightened, stretched for a moment, then

glanced critically in at the windlass room. The serfs had secured the

windlass and racked their poles. Now, they were sitting, hunched against

the wall, staring vacantly, in the manner of serfs. The guardroom, its

commander noted, was properly clean. He shrugged and walked out again to

the wharf. Once more, he looked at the iron cliffs opposite him, then

glanced downriver. The merchant barge had disappeared.

* * * * *

Beyond Menstal, the cliffs closed in still farther, to become more

rugged and to form a narrow gorge. Between them, the Nalen took a

tortuous course, turbulently fighting its way over the rocks.

Eventually, it would drop into the lowlands, to become a broad, placid

river, lowing quietly under the sunshine to water the fields of Orolies.

But during its passage through the mountains, it would remain a dark,

brawling torrent.

The merchant barge swept through the rapids just beyond Menstal, her

polemen deftly preventing disaster against the rocks. At last, as the

gorge became a little wider, the steersman guided his course toward a

small beach beneath the cliffs. With his free hand, he thoughtfully

rubbed his injured cheek.

As the boat's keel grated against gravel, he shook his head and stepped

forward. For a moment, he fumbled under a thwart, then he brought out a

small case.

"Konar," he called, "fix this thing up for me, will you?" He opened the

case and laid it on the thwart.

One of the polemen laid his stick down and came aft.

"Pretty nasty clip, wasn't it, sir?"

Meinora grinned. "Guy's got a heavy hand, all right," he admitted. "Made

me dizzy for a second. Almost got mad at him."

Konar raised an eyebrow. "I felt it," he said. "Good thing Ciernar and I

backed you up a little. Wouldn't help us much to knock out the baron's

river detachment right now, would it?" He reached into the case.

"Looks as though the merchants weren't exaggerating, if you ask me," he

added. He approached Meinora, a small swab in his hand.

"Hold still, sir," he instructed. "This'll sting for a few seconds." He

dabbed at the cut cheek, then reached back into the case for an

instrument.

"Ouch!" Meinora winced. "Did you have to use that stuff full strength?

After all, I can wait a couple of hours for it to heal." He shook his

head as his companion turned back toward him, then dashed involuntary

tears from his eyes and blinked a few times to clear his vision.

"No," he added, "the merchants aren't exaggerating a bit on this one.

Bel Menstal's a pretty rough customer, and he keeps rough boys. Now,

we'll see whether he's the guy we've been looking for, the guy with our

equipment."

Konar focused the small instrument on his superior's face, passing it

along the line of the jagged cut. "You didn't explain that part."

"Simple enough." Meinora grinned wolfishly. "Those coins were a

Vadris-Kendar alloy. Now that they're out of their force field, they'll

start to sublimate. In a couple of hours or so, they'll be gone, and

someone will be asking a lot of questions. Set up the detectors. If the

baron is the boy we think he is, we should be getting a fairly strong

reading shortly after that guard's relieved."

* * * * *

From somewhere atop the cliff, a bell tolled. The hoarse voice of the

lookout drifted down to the wharf.

"Relieve the guard."

Nal Gerda looked up. A line of men were coming down the steep path,

stepping cautiously as they wound about the sharp turns. Gerda nodded

and walked back into the guard room.

"Draw up your guard," he ordered.

He beckoned to two of the serfs.

"Take the chest," he directed, "and stay close in front of me."

Herding the bearers before him, he went out to the wharf. His guard was

drawn up in their proper station, facing upstream, so that they could

view both the steps from the cliff and the river. No traffic was in

sight in the long gorge.

The new guard came slowly down the trail, formed at the foot of the

steps, and marched to the tower portal. Their commander dressed their

ranks, motioned to his clerk, and came forward, saluting as he

approached Gerda.

"Anything unusual?"

"Nothing," Gerda told him. "Seven barges, this watch. Traders are

gathering for the fair at Orieano."

"I know," the other agreed. "We'll have rich collections for the rest of

the summer, what with fairs all down the valley. You'll be going to the

Orieano Fair?"

"Got my permission yesterday. I'm to ride with the Baron. Have to give

the merchants back part of their money, you know."

"Yes, I suppose so." The other grinned, then sobered. "I'll relieve you,

sir."

"Very good." Gerda saluted, then turned.

"March off the old guard," he ordered.

The men started up the steps. Gerda followed the serfs with the money

chest, bringing up to the rear.

Slowly, they toiled their way up the trail, halting at the halfway point

for a brief rest. At last, they were at the top of the cliff. Before

them, the castle gate opened. Within the tunnellike passage through the

wall, two sentries grounded their pikes.

Gerda nodded to his clerk, accepted the account tablet, and followed his

serfs, who still bore the money chest, into the castle.

Inside the main counting room, his bearers set the chest on a large

table. The castle steward came toward them.

"And how were collections?"

"Reasonably good, sir. Seven barges came through during the night, with

good cargoes." Gerda held out the tablet.

The steward looked at it, checking off the entries. "Meron, of

Vandor--Yes, he would have about that. And Borowa? A thousand?" He

nodded thoughtfully. "That seems about right for him." He tapped the

tablet a few times, squinting at the last name on the list. "But who is

this Teron? I never heard of him. Must have had a rich cargo, too."

Gerda laughed shortly. "He's a new one to me. He tried to get away with

a tenth, then protested the valuation. I fined him an extra five

hundred."

"Oho!" The steward smiled thinly. "What then?"

Gerda shook his head. "Oh, he was suddenly so anxious to pay the right

amount, he gave me forty-eight teloa overweight. I'll know him next time

I see him, I'm sure. I marked him well for receipt."

He inspected his knuckles reflectively, then took the key from his belt

and opened the chest.

"You'll want to verify my count, of course?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, to be sure. Have to be certain, you know. And there's

your share of the fine and overpayment to be taken care of." The steward

reached into the chest, removing bags which clinked as they were dropped

to the table. He stopped, to look into the chest with a puzzled

expression on his face.

"And what are these?" He reached in, to withdraw three obviously empty

bags. He looked curiously at the thongs which tied their mouths, then

shook them and looked questioningly at Gerda.

"Why, I ... I don't know." Gerda looked incredulously at the bags.

"Certainly, I had no extra money bags."

"I should think not." The steward frowned, then beckoned behind him. Two

heavily armed guards approached.

"We'll have to examine into this."

As the guards came close to Gerda, the steward looked closely at the

bags on the table, then picked one up, opening it.

"Borowa," he muttered after looking inside and comparing the tally chip

with the count tablet. He weighed the bag in his hand. "Yes, it seems to

be about right. Certainly not overweight." He picked up another, then

still another. At last, he looked up.

"Of course, I shall have to count all of these carefully," he remarked

grimly, "but I see no coin from this Teron you have listed." He stared

coldly at Gerda. "And the tower lookout confirms that you had seven

barges. That was a considerable amount. What did you do with that

money?"

"Why, I counted it. It was all there." Gerda shook his head

unbelievingly. "My count agreed with that of my clerk, and I dropped

tallies in and closed the bags again." He looked uneasily at the two

guards who flanked him. "Surely, you don't think I'd be so foolish as to

tamper with the Baron's taxes? Think, man! I know the Baron's ways!"

"I'm not sure just what I think--yet." The steward shook his head. He

picked up one of the empty bags, opened it, and gave it a shake. The

small tally chip fell out and he picked it up, comparing it with the

list on the tablet. Frowning thoughtfully, he opened the other two bags.

More small blocks of wood fell out. He looked at the bags, then tossed

them aside and looked coldly at the guard officer.

"It's witchcraft," cried Gerda. "I had nothing----"

"We'll see." The steward motioned at the two guards. "Search this man."

* * * * *

Dazedly, Gerda stood still, submitting as one of the guards went through

his clothing while the other stood ready to deal with any resistance.

The searcher made a thorough examination of Gerda's clothing, muttered

to himself, and went over his search again. A pile of personal objects

lay on the table when he had finished. At last, he looked at the

prisoner,

Miela's Story

Ministry Of Disturbance