The king was—well, if not an absolute monarch, pretty close to being one, simply because the law had set him over the commons. Like many warlike barbarians, the Thunsbans had a quasi-religious reverence for the letter of the law, if not always for its spirit. The Patrol had run head-on into two items of the code: (a) the king would not yield up a loyal guardsman to an enemy, but would fight to the death instead; (b) if the king fought, so would the whole male population, unmoved by threats to themselves or their mates and cubs. Death before dishonor! Their religion, which they seemed quite fervent about, promised a roisterous heaven to all who fell in a good cause, and suitably gruesome hell for oath-breakers.
Hm-m-m… there was a powerful ecclesiastical organization, and piety had not stopped a good deal of conflict between church and throne. Maybe he could work through the priesthood somehow.
The outworld traders who came to swap various manufactured articles for the furs and spices of Ryfin’s Planet had not influenced the local cultures much. Perhaps they had inspired a few wars and heresies, but on the whole the autochthones were content to live in the ways of their fathers. The main effect of trading had been a loss of superstitious awe—the strangers were mighty, but they were known to be mortal. Alak doubted that even the whole Patrol fleet could bullyrag them into yielding on so touchy a point as Varris’ surrender.
«What I can’t understand,» said Drogs, «is why we don’t just swoop down and give the city a blanket of sleep-gas.» This mission had been ordered in such tearing haste that he had been given only the most nominal briefing; and on the way here, he had followed his racial practice of somnolence—his body could actually «store» many days’ worth of sleep.
His free hand gestured around the flitter. It was not a large boat, but it was well equipped, not only with weapons—for bluffing—but with its own machine shop and laboratory.
«Metabolic difference,» said Alak. «Every anesthetic known to us is poisonous to them, and their own knockout chemicals would kill Varris. Stun beams are just as bad—supersonics will scramble a Ryfinnian’s brain like an egg. I imagine Varris picked this world for a bolthole just on that account.»
«But he didn’t know we wouldn’t simply come down and shoot up the den.»
«He could make a pretty shrewd guess. It’s a secret that we never kill, but no secret that we’re reluctant to hurt innocent bystanders.» Alak scowled. «There are still a hundred million people on Caldon who’d rise—bloodily—against the new government if he came back to them. Whether he succeeded or not, it’d be a genocidal affair and a big loss of face to the Patrol.»
«Hm-m-m… he can’t get far from this world without more fuel; his tanks must be nearly dry. So why don’t we blockade this planet and make sure he never has a chance to buy fuel?»
«Blockades aren’t that reliable,» said Alak. Drogs had never been involved in naval operation, only in surface work. «We could destroy his own boat easily enough, but word that he’s alive is bound to leak back to Caldon now. There’d be attempt after attempt to run the blockade, and get him out. Sooner or later, one would succeed. We’re badly handicapped by not being allowed to shoot to hit. No, damn it, we’ve got to lift him, and fast!»
His eyes traveled wistfully to the biochemical shelves. There was a potent drug included, a nembutal derivative, hypnite. A small intramuscular injection could knock Varris out; he would awaken into a confused, passive state, and remain thus for hours, following any lead he was given. Much useful information about his conspiracy could be extracted. Later, this drug and other techniques would be used to rehabilitate his twisted psyche, but that was a job for the specialists at Main Base.
Alak felt more handcuffed than ever before in his pragmatist life. The blaster at his waist could incinerate a squad of Thunsban knights—but their anachronistic weapons weren’t so ridiculous when he wasn’t allowed to use the blaster.
«Hurry it up,» he said on a harsh note. «Let’s get moving—and don’t ask me where!»
A landing field had been made for the traders just outside the walls of Wainabog. Those bulked thick and gray, studded with turrets and men-at-arms, over a blue landscape of rolling fields and distant hills. Here and there Alak saw thatch-roofed hamlets; two kilometers from the town was a smaller community, also fortified, a single great tower in its middle crowned with a golden X. It must be the place mentioned in the trader narratives. Grimmoch Abbey, was that the name?
It was not too bad a mistranslation to speak of abbeys, monks, knights, and kings. Culturally and technologically, Thunsba was fairly close to medieval Europe.
Several peasants and townsfolk stood gaping at the flitter as Alak emerged. Others were on their way. He swept his gaze around the field and saw another spaceboat some distance off—must be Varris’, yes, he remembered the description now. A dozen liveried halberdiers guarded it.
Carefully ignoring the drab-clad commons, Alak waited for the official greeters. Those came out in a rattle of plate armor, mounted on yellow-furred animals with horns and shoulder humps. A band of crossbowmen trotted in their wake and a herald wearing a scarlet robe blew his trumpet in their van. They pulled up with streaming banners and thunderous hoofs; lances dipped courteously, but eyes had a watchful stare behind the snouted visors of their helmets.
The herald rode forth and looked down at Alak, who was clad in his brightest dress uniform. «Greeting to you, stranger, from our lord Morlach, King of all Thunsba and Defender of the West. Our lord Morlach bids you come sup and sleep with him.» The herald drew a sword and extended it hilt first. Alak ran hastily through his lessons and rubbed his forehead against the handle.
They were quite humanoid on Ryfin’s Planet—disturbingly so, if you hadn’t seen as many species as Alak. It was not the pale-blue skin or the violet hair or the short tails which made the difference: always, in a case like this, the effect was of a subtler wrongness. Noses a shade too long, faces a trifle too square, knees and elbows held at a peculiar angle—they looked like cartoon figures brought to life. And they had a scent of their own, a sharp mustardy odor. Alak didn’t mind, knowing full well that he looked and smelled as odd to them, but he had seen young recruits get weird neuroses after a few months on a planet of «humanoids to six points of classification.»
He replied gravely in the Thunsban tongue: «My lord Morlach has my thanks and duty. I hight Wing Alak, and am not a trader but an envoy of the traders’ king, sent hither on a mission most delicate. I pray the right to see my lord Morlach as soon as he grant.»
There was more ceremony, and a number of slaves were fetched to carry Alak’s impressive burden of gifts. Then he was offered a mount, but declined—the traders had warned him of this little joke, where you put an outworlder on a beast that goes frantic at alien smells. With proper haughtiness he demanded a sedan chair, which was an uncomfortable and seasick thing to ride but had more dignity. The knights of Wainabog enclosed him and he was borne through the gates and the cobbled avenues to the fortresslike palace.
Inside, he did not find the rude splendor he had expected, but a more subtle magnificence, really beautiful furnishings. Thunsba might throw its garbage out in the streets, but had excellent artistic taste. There were a hundred nobles in the royal audience chamber, a rainbow of robes, moving about and talking with boisterous gestures. Servants scurried around offering trays of food and liquor. A small orchestra was playing: the saw-toothed music hurt Alak’s ears. A number of monks, in gray robes and with hoods across their faces, stood unspeaking along the walls, near the motionless men-at-arms.