The wolf worlds, p.24
The Wolf Worlds, page 24
Doc knew that in a largely illiterate, partially repressed culture, a good joke or whispered scandal would spread almost as fast as if it had been broadcast on a livie.
If the campaign succeeded and most peasants were chuckling over the latest anti-Companion joke, and the Mantis section successfully penetrated the capital to start the shooting, hopefully the local populace would stay neutral. If they rose up in support of Mathias, Sten, all his team, and the prisoned meres would probably have very brief lifespans. And of course, if they decided to overthrow the palace in support of Sten, the result could well be civil war, and a civil war with religious overtones can last for generations and totally waste a culture.
Doc had spent long hours with his computer before the Bhor inserted the Mantis team. Working within the 28 Rules of Humor (Doc, like other Altarians, had less than no sense of humor), his innate dislike of humanoids, and his massive contempt for any cause beyond basic selfishness. Doc had come up with half a hundred jokes, some fairly juicy scandals, and one play.
The play was less normal drama than a cross between the Medieval Earth mystery cycles and the early, crudely humorous commedia deH’art, with a great deal of improvisation.
Casting the play was somewhat of a problem. Since Sten and Alex were well known by the Companions, their onstage and off-stage presences had to be disguised. For the play, it was easy. Sten and Alex were force-cast as the troupe’s clowns and were completely unrecognizable under white-mime makeup, black-outlined facial features, and fantastic fright wigs and costumes. Offstage, though, there was a bit of a problem.
A basic rule of makeup is that it’s unnecessary to change much of a person’s features for him to be unrecognizable. And Mantis knew those rules very well indeed. So Sten shaved his head and put a rather unsightly blotch on one cheek. Alex grew a walrus moustache and trimmed his hair into a monkish half tonsure.
The plot of the play was idiot-simple. Bet played an orphaned village girl whose virtue was threatened by a corrupt village official (Alex, with a long beard and a battered non-accent), in cahoots with a somewhat evil churchman of the late and not-much-lamented regime of Theodomir. The official was played by Ida in drag.
Bet’s only hope was her handsome lover, who had left the village to join the crusade of Mathias and his Companions against the evil Jann. By then official doctrine wasn’t admitting that the meres had done anything but sit on their duffs, pinch chaste women, and swill alk.
The lover would never be seen, which was a relief since the casting potential was running a little slender.
About twenty minutes in, after appropriate menacings by the official and the churchman, the girl, sobbed and caterwauled and sank in prayer to Talamein. And the Voice of Talamein—Ida again—spoke from offstage and told her to flee into the forest.
There she was menaced by hungry tigers and saved by a shipwrecked mendicant Bhor, played by Otho—who roared when told that he would have to make nice noises about what he considered to be a ridiculous faith, and then roared louder when told that he also had lines suggesting that all the Bhor felt the same about Talamein.
Then the Bhor mendicant led the girl to the shelter of twoclownish woodsmen, Sten and Alex.
Somehow, through a plot twist Doc could never figure out but one which didn’t bother the audience at all, the tigers turned into friendly tigers and did amusing stunts to keep the lonely girl laughing between chanted hymns while the woodsmen were out being woodsy.
She was threatened by an evil fortuneteller (Ida again), and only saved by a mysterious cute-and-cuddly furry creature (Doc, despite his howled protests).
More chanting, more prayers, and then the Voice of Talamein spoke again, saying that the evil official and prayerman were coming into the forest with their private army (Sten and Alex, playing peasants drafted as soldiers).
The army killed the woodsmen (very deft rolling from the wagon’s stage into the curtained-off backstage and slapped-on steel helms for Sten and Alex), leaving the girl doomed to submit to the embraces of the official.
But then, once again Talamein spoke, the tigers and Otho roared onstage, ate the villains, the soldiers recanted their ways, then, in a blinding finale, word came of the success of Mathias’ Crusade against the Jann. Unfortunately. Bet’s lover had been killed, doing something unspeakably heroic. But the Faith of Talamein was triumphant. Amid chanted praise, clown rolls by Sten and Alex, prancing tigers, the play came to a close, and exeunt omnes amid applause.
Then, of course. Sten and Alex would move among the crowd doing simple magic gags, clown stunts for the kids. Bet would stroll with her tigers, and Ida would set up the fortune-telling booth while Doc barkered.
And it went over in every village, from the opening performance in the fishing town through the fanning villages even to a couple of command performances before rural clergy.
Not that it had to be that great to succeed, when the only “entertainment” available to the villagers was the drone of theTalamein broadcast in the village square screens, church worship, and getting as drunk as possible on turnip wine.
Slowly the troupe moved closer to Sanctus’ capital.
* * * *
“We’re two kilometers from Sanctus’ gates,” Ida announced from inside the cart.
Sten nodded politely at a glowering guard team of Companions as they passed in their gravsled, then tapped the reins on the hauling beasts’ backs. They grudgingly moved from a stagger into a slow walk.
“An” noo,” Alex said, “w’be’t goint into tha’ tiger’s maw.”
“Hugin and Munin’s maw’s back on Prime World,” Bet added from her position, sitting just behind Alex and Sten, who were on the cart driver’s bench.
“Sharrup, lass,” Alex replied. “Ah’m dooncast. Ah fearit this scheme wi’ nae workit oot f r th’ benefits of Kilgours.”
“You’re probably right,” Sten agreed. “We’re doomed. And doomed without hearing the last of Red Rory.”
“Red Rory, aye?” And Aiex brightened. “W’noo. Wh’n last w’sawit Red Rory, an entire Brit comp’ny wae chargint up thae hill, a’ter his head, aye?”
Sten nodded wearily. The things he did to keep morale up.
“So tha’ screekit, an’ scrawit, an’ hollerint, and ae kinds ae goin’ on, an’ then heads come doon thae hill, bumpit, bump-it, bumpit.
“Anh t’ thae Brit gin’ral’s consid’r’ble astonishment, here’s his wholit comp’ny, lyin’ dead in thae dust.
“But b’fore he hae a chance to consider, yon giant on tha hillcrest screekit again:
“‘Ah’m Red Rory ae th’ Glen! Send up y’ entire rig’mint!’
“An the gin’ral turnit sa red hi’ adj’tant fearit he gae apoplexy. An’ he holler, ‘Adj’tant!’
“‘Send up tha’ wholit blawdy reg’mint! AH WAN’ THA’ MON’S HEAD!’
“An’ tha’ whole reg’mint fixit thae bay’nits an’ thae chargit up thae hill. An’ thae’s screamint, an’ screekit, an’ shoutint, an’ carryint on, for aye half ae day.
“An’ thae’s dust, an’ thae’s shots, an’ thae’s aye battle. “An’ th’ gin’ral’s watchint frae doon below.
“Ah sudden, thro’ thae dust, he see’t his adj’tant comit runnin doon thae hill.
“An’ tae adj’tant screemit. ‘Run, sah! Run! It’s ae ambush! Thae’s two ae ’em.’”
Very complete silence for many minutes.
Finally Sten turned to Alex, incredulous. “You mean, that’s the story I’ve been waiting for, for the last year?”
“Aye,” Alex said. “Dinnae it b’wonderful?”
Even more and longer silence…
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
MATHIAS WATCHED AS they led another of Ffillips’ meres into the chamber. The man was naked and sweating heavily under the bright, revolving interrolights. His body was covered with bruises and cuts from many days of beatings. The soldier was exhausted; his eyes were rolling in fear.
Mathias nodded at the chief interrogator, and the man was muscled into a chair and strapped down. Coldly and efficiently, an interrogrator’s aide snapped electrical leads to the prisoner’sbody.
The Prophet stepped forward, looming over the man. Then spoke gently. “Son, don’t let this go on. It grieves me to see a poor sinner submit to such an ordeal. End it for yourself. I beg you in the name of our gentle Father, Talamein.”
He leaned closer to the man.
“A simple confession of your sins and the sins of your leaders is all we require…. Now, will you confess? Please, son.”
Weakly the soldier shook his head, no.
Mathias nodded for the inquisitor to start. And the first screams ripped from the soldier’s body.
An hour later Mathias walked from the chamber, a tight little smile of satisfaction on his lips.
* * * *
From a crystal decanter, Mathias poured himself a goblet of pure, cold water. Its source was one of the clear mountain springs that he had recently declared holy.
It was night on Sanctus, and Mathias was alone in his spartan chamber. Outside the room he could hear the faint sounds of the pacing guards.
Mathias reviewed his plans once more before going to sleep on the small, hard, military cot he favored.
He realized unhappily that his plans for the resettlement of Sanctus was not proceeding as swiftly as he would like.
The idea had come to him like a vision. He saw a series of small, isolated spiritual communes, devoted to reflection and worship. To create these communes, he would empty the cities and villages. Move the peasants off the farms.
The latest reports said that the idea had met a huge amount of resistance, especially from the farmers and artisans. Whowould till the land? they complained. Who would mix the mortar and build the buildings?
This kind of small, ungodly thinking would have to stop, Mathias decided. He would not let the unenlightened of his planet stand in the way of a glorious future.
He scrawled an order for Companions to sweep into the villages. What he could not do with reason, he would accomplish by force. He added a suggestion to the report: Burn the homes and destroy the farms. That way the peasants would have no place to return.
Mathias was more pleased with his progress involving the matter of the mercenaries. Of course, he had personally handled that. He had scheduled the public trial to begin the following day. Enough mercenaries had confessed to insure its success.
One by one, each man would be found guilty. And Mathias would order their executions. Those, too, would be public.
It would be a solemn occasion, followed by a great celebration. Mathias had already announced that some of the rules of Talamein behavior would be relaxed during the festival.
A wise Prophet, he told himself, had to understand that his people were only weak human beings.
Mathias began to scrawl a few notes concerning the planet-wide month of purification that he would declare to take place immediately after the festival.
He had some interesting ideas on this subject. Floggings, for instance—all voluntary, of course.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
FFILLIPS STOOD AT stiff attention before her ragged band of men. They were drawn up in the temple’s central courtyard. Ffillips could sense the hidden vidmonitors that werebroadcasting the event across the planet. Around them were row after row of spidery bleachers filled with red-uniformed Companions. Seated in front of the bleachers were the ten judges hand-picked by Mathias from his officer corps.
On one side sat the Prophet himself. He was seated on a small onyx throne. He wore a simple uniform, with only two small golden medals—the torch symbol of Sanctus—to mark his rank.
The evidence” had been given—mostly, the humiliating confessions forced from men and women who couldn’t bear up under torture. The judges had weighed the verdict. And it was about to be delivered.
Ffillips knew she was dead.
Mathias raised a hand for silence. Instant hush. He leaned slightly forward in his throne. His face was serene, almost kindly. “Do you wish to say anything in your behalf?” he asked Ffillips. “In the interest of justice?”
Ffillips looked coldly at Mathias and then at the judges. “I don’t see her here.”
“Who?” Mathias asked.
“Justice,” Ffillips said. “Now, as one soldier to another, I’ll ask you to end this sham. My men and I await your decision.”
But before Mathias could give the signal, Ffillips shouted: “DETACHMENT, TEN-HUT.”
And her sad, ragged troop suddenly became soldiers again. They snapped to, throwing off the exhaustion and fear. Even those crippled by torture drew themselves up. A few had to be helped. Some grinned at Mathias and the Companions through broken teeth.
Mathias hesitated, then turned.
“What is the verdict?” he asked the judges. And the same word hissed out along the line of ten.
“Guilty…. Guilty…. Guilty… And so on until the last judge pronounced their fate.
Mathias rose, bowed to the judges. “I have agonized over this.” Mathias announced. “The evidence was overwhelming, even before the trial. And, as you all know, I counseled compassion.”
He paused for effect.
“No doubt,” Ffillips said, loudly enough for the vidmonitors to pick up.
Mathias ignored her.
“But.” the Prophet continued, “I must bow to the wisdom of the judges. They know best the desires of Talamein. I can only accede. And give thanks to our Father, for his guidance.”
He turned to Ffillips and her men. “With great sorrow, I must pronounce judgment—”
Ffillips shouted the order: “TROOP. RIGHT FACE.”
Her troops wheeled as one. Proud men and women ready to go to their deaths. Their guards broke rank and dignity, rushing over to them, shouting, waving their weapons.
Mathis had to rush out the words:
“You are all sentenced to die,” he shouted. “Within five days. Before the people of Sanctus, and—”
Ffillips broke through his ranting: “FORWARD… MARCH….
And the soldiers stepped out in perfect time, heading back for their prison and their doom.
“And Talamein!” Mathias screamed.
Ffillips shot him the universal gesture of contempt. And, in her best parade-ground voice: “CLOT YOU.”
All was confusion. As the meres disappeared, Mathias was yelling instructions at his guard and fruitless explanations at the vidmonitors.
Ffillips might have been a dead woman, but she knew how to go out in style.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
THE GIANT FUNERAL chimneys of Sanctus belched out ash, smoke, and fire, working overtime as the very wealthy and highly nervous ruling class of the Lupus Cluster poured in their donations to the new Prophet.
Sten, Bet, Alex, and the others jockeyed their gaudily painted wagons through the crowds that were pouring into the holy city.
Red-uniformed Companions made cursory attempts to check out the pilgrims. Here and there they pulled people aside to run scanners over their bodies and belongings. But mostly they were just waving the hordes of people through, barely able to keep up with the traffic, much less look for malcontents.
Once they got through the gates, Sten waved his people to one side. He took a fresh look at the Sanctus of Mathias.
To either side of the Avenue of Tombs and its eye-ear-nose-and-throat-polluting monuments spread the city itself. Sandwiched between the mix of small homes, tenements, and the occasional gabled mansion were the narrow streets and alleyways. Sanctus’ capital had evidently not had much of a planning commission.
And now the barely passable streets were roiling with visitors. Sten’s back prickled as he realized that all of them, whether peasants, artisans, or merchants, were in their colorful best clothes. Also, Sten noted, here and there, other entertainers’ wagons. The chaos was worrisome. It was a perfect cover, to be sure, but the spontaneous partying meant that Sten and his team had less time than they thought. None of them had seen or heard about the sentencing cast, but from the festive tourists, Sten realized he would have to act quickly.
Bet slid across the seat toward him and nuzzled his neck. “Mathias acted more quickly than we thought,” she hissed. Sten forced laughter and pulled her close for a kiss. A Companion stared at them curiously for a moment, then moved on. A drunken beggar stumbled past, waving a sheaf of tickets.
“THE EXECUTIONS,” he shouted. “SEE THEM IN PERSON… STILL A FEW SPACES LEFT IN THE PUBLIC SQUARE.”
He staggered on.
“SEE THE EXECUTIONS… THE BETRAYERS OF TALAMEIN…
His voice was finally drowned out by the crowd. Bet broke away from Sten and slid off the wagon seat. Sten gave her a slap on the rump.
“See what you can find out,” he whispered.
Bet nodded and laughed lustily, then jumped down onto the roadway. In a moment she had disappeared into the throng.
Alex stuck his head out from the wagon’s interior, then slid up on the seat beside Sten.
“Best be movin’, lad,” he said.
Sten took another look at what faced them before he gigged the beasts into motion.
The Temple sat at the end of the Avenue of Tombs, atop a gently rising hill about three hundred meters higher than the city gates. Its spire towered over thick, protective walls. Below the Temple was what had been a monastary. Years past, it had been a place of silent devotion for Talamein priests. Morerecently Theodomir and now Mathias used it as a prison. Sten pointed it out to Alex.
“Tha’s whae th’ be’t keepint our Ffillips,” Alex said. He passed Sten a wineskin. Sten upended the bag, letting the wine pour into his mouth. Then it went back to Alex, who raised it, eyes scanning the landscape over the tanned leather.
“Over there,” Sten said, nodding to the skeleton of a building going up beside the old Talamein monastery/prison. “That’s our way in.”
Alex peered at it for an instant, then turned away.
What he had seen was a slim, towering needle of steel, very much out of place next to the ancient monastery. They had heard it was going to be the new barracks Mathias was building for his Companions. Ironically, it was also to be named for Theodomir.
