Knave of Dreams Page 21

Osythes shook his head. “I do not understand, Supreme Mightiness. The Lady Grishilda is in the Deep Sleep which it is believed only an adept can provoke. It cannot be broken, she will so slumber until some hour, already determined upon and imprinted upon her mind, arrives. And that we cannot know—”

  His concern appeared honest. But the Enlightened Ones were masters and mistresses of subtleties. However, Ramsay could perceive no gain for Osythes here.

  Did the Shaman have the power to read thoughts? For now Osythes regarded Ramsay intently and said with a compelling note in his voice: “Supreme Mightiness, this is no doing of the Grove Fellowship. It is rather a trick, perhaps played to induce such belief—to sever confidence and sow discord between those who should be allies, weakening defenses—”

  Logical, good sense. Still Ramsay had his reservations. The old reputation of the Enlightened Ones, that they would turn against an ally to further some project of their own, might make any word Osythes was willing to swear suspect.

  Ramsay could see only one action possible now. He wheeled on the men who had followed him, Olyroun and Vidinian palace guard alike.

  “I want,” he said grimly, “such a search of this palace as not even a fly on the wall will be unseen! I want each and every person questioned—and any who has seen—or heard—anything out of the ordinary is to be brought directly to me, here in the Duchess’s presence chamber. You will begin at once!”

  There was an advantage in standing in Kaskar’s boots at that moment, and he would make full use of it. The guard saluted, scattered. When they were gone, Ramsay spoke once more to the Shaman.

  “Ochall, Melkolf, Berthal?” The names that had haunted him into slumber came readily enough. But men could not be arrested on suspicion alone, nor could Thecla be found by merely listing possible enemies.

  He had been bold in so naming two of Osythes’s own party. However, the Shaman showed no surprise.

  “We must have more than just suspicions—” Now that they were alone, he omitted, one part of Ramsay’s mind noted, the wordy title.

  “I am told Melkolf has not only disappeared, but that he took with him knowledge unknown to others. Berthal wants to rule. And Ochall wants not only Ulad but also Olyroun. If they took Thecla to bargain—or to wed Berthal—”

  “That cannot be done—the wedding, I mean— while there is another Emperor in Ulad,” Osythes replied. “Such a union could not hold—for she was betrothed in the name of the Emperor. But that they might hope to conclude a bargain—yes. And it is true that we do not know the complete sum of what Melkolf learned and can put to use. The Merchants of Norn deal in the antiques of war. Others seek to salvage different knowledge. Where Melkolf has sought—it was thought that he was well overseen—but—” Osythes shook his head. “In all lie error. And in this case error has in turn become danger. There are those now set on Melkolf’s trail— but we know only this: that he learned more than was good for the state of Ulad—or perhaps of this world. He is being sought diligently—”

  “Time may run out,” Ramsay interrupted. “Ochall wanted five days—already those have shrunk to four. How many days may Melkolf need to produce something worse than a flamethrower or a blinding fog?”

  He slammed his fist against the frame of the door with bruising force. Thecla—he had let her go into the night—let her go believing—he was sure—that he had no trust in her. Now she was gone where no one could find her. The palace might be busy as a well-stirred ant hill, but that anything concrete might come from all their endeavors at searching—that he doubted.

  SEVENTEEEN

  “—The worthy prince sent his own body servant to our station, Supreme Mightiness. He bore the seal ring of Prince Berthal and said that this was a matter of grave import, ordering that we have ready a distant flyer completely fueled. We had no reason to believe that there was any wrong intended.”

  The man standing to attention before Ramsay was obviously nervous. He was one of the attendants of the landing areas where were parked the private flyers of the Family and the highest officials of the palace.

  “And when did the Prince arrive?” Ramsay’s headache had returned full force. Pain ringed in his eyes as he sipped from a glass Osythes had slid before him. Ramsay barely knew what he did, intent only on sifting all the scraps the intensive search of the palace was providing.

  “We do not know, Supreme Mightiness. It was in the Prince’s message that the flyer be readied for instant use, and left unattended.”

  “The pilot?”

  “The Prince is often his own pilot, Supreme Mightiness.”

  “And no one saw who came to the ship? That I find very hard to believe.” Ramsay kept his Own voice level, his impatience under what control he could muster. “There are guards on duty, are there not?”

  The man swallowed visibly. “Always, Supreme Mightiness. But—but the Prince Berthal has often been angered by too close a watch. He had before ordered that the guards were not to be on hand when he sent a private message. He—he said something once about not giving the Eyes and Ears a chance to meddle—” The man was half stammering now. “Supreme Mightiness, believe me, I only repeat what the Prince said in anger when he found guards by his flyer some months ago.”

  “So this flyer is now gone you know not where, bearing you know not whom—” Ramsay summoned up the gist of what the other had told him.

  “Supreme Mightiness, we are under command. It is for us to do as we are bid,” the man returned.

  Ramsay sighed. He was right, of course. Yet there was something—a feeling—perhaps because this answer was too much of a direct defeat. Was that why it was so hard to accept? Berthal’s seal ring and a message to be obeyed. A takeoff witnessed right enough, but no knowledge of who had winged into the night.

  “You may go,” he told the landing attendant. But before the man had thankfully disappeared, Ramsay appealed to the one who had come with this witness. “There is no way of tracing the flyer’s course?”

  “None, Supreme Mightiness. The director had not been set. But this is not unknown. Those about private errands sometimes neglect that ruling.”

  “Especially,” Ramsay said, allowing some of his rising anger to color his words, “if they are of sufficient rank, is that not so?”

  The other made no answer, which was an answer in itself. Ramsay rubbed his forehead. There was sun bright in the room. He could not have told the hour, but it seemed more like days since he had come to find Thecla gone.

  In the bedchamber Grishilda still slumbered, always under the eyes of the Empress’s own trusted maid, who would report the first sign of waking. For the rest—what did they have?

  A handful of bits that he could not fit together. A flyer that had taken off—the fact that Ochall was certainly not to be found anywhere within this palace—a report from a guard on the second level of the tower that he had challenged something and from that time could not remember what happened until discovered by his commanding officer standing at his post in a state bordering on sleep.

  Ochall—Berthal—Melkolf—none to be found. Slowly Ramsay raised the glass he suddenly realized he was holding, drank the rest of its contents. The stuff was bitter enough to give him a slight shock. Was the Shaman drugging him now—?

  “What—?” He looked to Osythes, who in turn was watching him intently.

  “A cordial only, Supreme Mightiness. And food is being brought. You cannot drive yourself past the point where your mind still rules your body. If the body falters—then what may you do?”

  Ramsay leaned back in his chair. There were no more possible witnesses waiting to be interviewed. He fought the wave of fatigue that was a part of the ache in his head, the frustration of his useless efforts.

  Perhaps Osythes’s remedy was already beginning to work. The throb over his eyes was certainly less strong. And he was suddenly conscious of hunger. As he rested his head against the back of the chair, he asked: “What do you make of this coil, Enlightened One?”

 
“What do you?” Osythes countered.

  Ramsay frowned. He had fought to piece together bits, rule out wild surmise for more definite evidence. Yet now all he had was a hunch, and that was so strong that he could not shrug it aside.

  “It would seem,” he said slowly, “that they escaped—that they can now be anywhere in Ulad—or out of it. With a world to search, where do we start?”

  Osythes said nothing in answer as Ramsay paused. Did his silence mean agreement with what seemed to be facts, or did he also have some premonition that that was all too easy, too direct? Ochall might wield a club, but it was not his nature to proceed too directly to his goal. Ramsay could not be certain of his own deductions—he might be guessing wildly because he wanted to believe in his hunch—he did not dare to think that what he had stated was the truth—that there was no hope of pursuit now.

  What had they managed to discover about Ochall in their hours of patient and impatient questioning? That there was absolutely no witness to any communication between the High Chancellor and Berthal. Which did not mean, of course, that such had not taken place.

  The High Chancellor had gone at once to the chamber always allotted him when he stayed at Lom on matters of state. He had dismissed even his body servant—who had been the most severely interrogated of all those questioned today—with the comment that he had urgent need to study certain reports which the new Emperor would soon be calling for. The guard swore that he had never come forth from that chamber.

  Which report meant nothing, Ramsay knew, with his own experiences of guards under what might be termed control. However, when summoned to attend the conference concerning the disappearance of the Duchess, his apartment had been entirely empty.

  Melkolf, the third of their trio, was perhaps in his own way as dangerous as Ochall. His disappearance had come first, several days ago. And there was plenty of evidence of a strong tie between him and Berthal.

  Ramsay was shaken out of his thoughts by the arrival of a tray of food. He ate quickly but cleaned each plate. Either the food or the cordial had given him new vigor. With that inner renewal his confidence rose once more.

  “What did Melkolf take—instruments, machines—records—?” he asked as he pushed away the last dish.

  “None of the machines,” Osythes replied. “But the location beamer of the exchanger was gone. And we discovered indication of records hastily combed—including two empty hiding places— neither large.”

  “The exchanger?”

  “Her Splendor Enthroned ordered that destroyed. I myself saw that it was done.”

  “Could it be rebuilt?” persisted Ramsay.

  “Such a task would require great resources— time—”

  “But it could be done?”

  “With Melkolf’s knowledge, yes.” Agreement came reluctantly.

  “Could Melkolf then operate it as before?”

  “No! Not alone,” Osythes was quick and emphatic with his answer. “The machine makes the actual exchange, but it cannot be used to locate the proper personality pattern.”

  “No, that you do with your dreaming,” Ramsay returned flatly. “So even if Melkolf reproduced his exchanger, he could not activate it without the aid of those extra powers your fellowship exploits. Would they aid him?”

  “No!” Osythes leaned a little forward.

  “You are very sure—”

  “It is decreed so. We want no more variables to upset our patterns for the future.”

  “One thing I have accomplished at least, merely by being,” commented Ramsay. “Then why did Melkolf see fit to take with him the most important part of the exchanger?” He stood up. “I think I want to see the lab.”

  His hunch pointed him into action as might the keen nose of a hound picking up a faint but traceable scent. He could not put aside a strong feeling that the departure of the flyer was only a screen—a ruse— that what he sought now was not so far beyond their reach.

  “Supreme Mightiness—”

  Ramsay, for a moment, found it difficult to answer to that title. Half engrossed in his speculations, he blinked at the guard waiting in the doorway.

  “Yes—?”

  “One has come, he says he was summoned. He was dropped from a flyer of the Enlightened Ones—”

  So much had happened since the night before that Ramsay took a second to remember. Dedan—could it be—?

  “Admit him!”

  The guard stepped aside for the man in the plain mercenary uniform. He was pale and had lost some of his assured air of command. His face appeared aged by several years, and had undergone another subtle change; yet this grim-countenanced man was indeed the First of the Company.

  Ramsay moved forward quickly. “You came!” Until this moment he had not been sure that his meeting in the place of nothingness would bear any results.

  Dedan gave a shadow of his old shrug, but there was none of the old warmth. “I have come, Supreme Mightiness. Why—”

  So now there existed a barrier between them. Dedan’s eyes might not be shut as they had been when Ramsay fronted him in the dream, but his face was closed, perhaps his mind also. He was as stiff as the guardsman who admitted him.

  “Leave us!” Ramsay ordered the guard. Only when the door closed did he speak again, though the sharp change in the only man he thought he could claim as friend daunted him.

  “Dedan, I speak now as Arluth. Do you want vengeance on the man who sent the flamers to wipe us out?” Was that the promise that could strike through the shell of the First Captain now?

  Dedan’s blankness of expression vanished in an instant. “You know him?” His demand was harsh, but he was alive, as if only the thought of vengeance could reach through some cloud horror had laid upon him.

  “I know who and why. Listen—” Ramsay swiftly outlined what he had learned from Ochall—of how the Company had been used in the callous, horrible experiment to test the new weapons out of Norn.

  Dedan’s mask tightened again, only his eyes burned in his gaunt, worn face. When Ramsay had finished he said briefly: “In this matter command me—and I shall follow!”

  “Then do so now,” Ramsay returned. “For we seek a private place in which other strange things were once stored. There perhaps we can find the beginning of a trail that will lead to Ochall—”

  Osythes was already at the door. “You have something in your mind,” he said to Ramsay. “You do not believe that we must seek the flyer.”

  “A feeling only.” Ramsay could not defend that feeling, but it was so strong in him now that he felt driven to find some proof.

  “A feeling may be more valuable in the end than any fact,” the Shaman replied. “And you are the Knave, trust in your feelings, in your dreams.”

  Once more Ramsay found himself in that well-hidden room which he had not been given a chance before to explore fully, the others crowding in his wake. But now the chamber was in a state of utter chaos. Apparently the Empress’s orders had been carried out with great thoroughness and also muscle. For the machines he remembered standing in square rows had been literally smashed, as if sledgehammers had been used with force and fury.

  The floor was littered with shards of equipment, broken glass, twisted metal, so that one had to pick a careful way, yet still crunched bits under boot heel. Whoever had been at work here had made very sure that nothing was salvageable.

  Osythes took over the lead, gathering up skirts of his robe in one hand as if fearing contact with the wreckage. He ushered them past the flattened, disemboweled exchanger, from whose wrecked casing trailed coils of fused and tangled wire, to the far side of the chamber where there were a number of small cupboards.

  The doors of each had been sprung, and now either lay free of their hinges on the floor or swung open to show masses of blackened stuff within, from which arose chemical stenches.

  “This,” reported the Shaman, “was not done at the Empress’s orders. These records were destroyed before our men went to work here. And”—he came to the e
nd of that row of cupboards to show a rent in the wall itself, behind which they could see two bare shelves—shelves—“this part was entirely secret—we never knew of it at all.”

  Ramsay’s mind since the meal, the disappearance of his headache, was clearer. He now felt as alert as if he had had a good night’s rest with no worries to trouble him. “Then you do not really know what Melkolf looted before he went. Where did he—did you—get the knowledge to set up this place in the beginning?”

  For the first time Osythes wore an uneasy expression. “Not all the knowledge of the Great Era was lost. There were those who were farseeing and established caches which might and did enable them and their civilization to survive. We have found some of them. Now I believe that Melkolf has also discovered in the records we showed him some hint to others which he plundered in secret. His ability to handle our notes, which are often vague, was too sure, too ready—”

  “Who is Melkolf?” Ramsay asked.

  Osythes seemed unhappy in his answer, which he gave slowly and with obvious reluctance. “He is from the Grove in Marretz. Not all who seek the Way of Enlightenment are fitted by temperament to our training. Yet they may have a brilliance in one thing or another that makes them of potential worth in the outer world. Thus, if they cannot take the full vows, still they are encouraged to develop such talents and work with the Fellowship in other ways. Melkolf’s talent was”—he swept his hand about to indicate the well-wrecked chamber—“centered in experiment with ancient equipment. He showed a genius for being able to read the cryptic notes we have discovered. But he had not the spirit to make him acceptable in the Inner Circles.

  “Thus he left Marretz and wandered for a while. It is during that time perhaps that he did discover some secret cache of knowledge. He was in Yury and there met with Prince Berthal, who was hunting. It was Berthal who brought him to Lom, and what he had to offer then—” Osythes shook his head. “Her Splendor Enthroned was impressed, she summoned me in turn. It had been ordained that Ulad be protected—” Again he hesitated.