«It sounds as if one species succeeded after another,» Keff said. «The Old Ones moved in to live with the Ancient Ones, and many generations later after the Ancients died off, the New Ones arrived and cohabited with the Old Ones. They are the third in a series of races to live on this planet: the aborigines, the Old Ones, and the New Ones, or magic-using humanoids.»
Carialle snorted. «Doesn't say much for Ozran as a host for life-forms, if two intelligent races in a row died off within a few millenia.»
«And the humanoids are reduced to a nontechnological existence,» Keff said, only half listening to Chaumel, who was lecturing him with an intent expression on his broad-cheeked face. «Could it have something to do with the force-field holding you down? They got stuck here?»
«Whatever trapped me did it selectively, Keff!» Carialle said. «I'd landed and taken off six times on Ozran already. It was deliberate, and I want to know who and why.»
«Another mystery to investigate. But I also want to know why the Old Ones moved up here, away from their source of food,» Keff said. «Since they seem to be dependant on what's grown here, that's a sociological anomaly.»
«Ah,» Carialle said, reading newly translated old data from IT. «The Old Ones didn't move up here with the New Ones' help, Keff. They were up here when the humanoids came. They found Ancient artifacts in the valleys.»
«So these New Ones had some predilection for talent when they came here, but their contact with the Old Ones increased it to what we see in them now. Two space-going races, Carialle!» Keff said, greatly excited. «I want to know if we can find out more about the pure alien culture. Later on, let's see if we can trace them back to their original systems. Pity there's so little left: after several hundred years of humanoid rule, it's all mixed up together.»
«Isn't the synthesis as rare?» Carialle asked, pointedly.
«In our culture, yes. Makes it obvious where the sign language comes from, too,» Keff said. «Its a relic from one of the previous races—useful symbology that helps make the magic work. The Old Ones may never have shared the humanoid language, being the host race, but somehow they made themselves understood to the new-comers. Worth at least a paper to Galactic Geographic. Clearly, Chaumel here doesn't know what the Ancients were like.»
The magiman, watching Keff talking to himself, heard his name and Keff's question. He shook his head regretfully. «I do not. Much before days of me.»
«Where do your people come from?» Keff asked. «What star, where out there?» He gestured up at the sky.
«I do not know that also. Where from do yours come?» Chaumel asked, a keen eye holding Keff's.
The brawn tried to think of a way to explain the Central Worlds with the limited vocabulary at his disposal and raised his hands helplessly.
«Vain hope.» Carialle sighed. «I'm still trying to find any records of settlements in this sector. Big zero. If I could get a message out, I could have Central Worlds do a full-scan search of the old records.»
«So where do the Noble Primitives fit in, Chaumel?» Keff asked, throwing a friendly arm over the man's shoulder before he could start a lecture on the next object d'art. He pointed at a male servant wearing a long, white robe, who hurried away, wide-eyed, when he noticed the bare-skinned ones looking at him. «I notice that the servants here have lighter pelts than the people in the farm village.» He gestured behind him, hoping that Chaumel would understand he meant where they had just come from. He tweaked a lock of his own hair, rubbing his fingers together to indicate «thin,» then ran his fingers down his own face and held out his hand.
«They're handsomer. And some of them have five fingers, like mine.» Keff waggled his forefinger. «Why do the ones in the valley have only four?» He bent the finger under his palm.
«Oh,» Chaumel said, laughing. He stated something in a friendly, off handed way that the IT couldn't translate, scissors-chopping his own forefinger with his other hand to demonstrate what he meant. «. . . when of few days—babies. Low mind . . . no curiosity . . . worker.» He made the scissors motion again.
«What?» Carialle shrieked in Keff's ear. «Its not a mutation. Its mutilation. There aren't two brands of humanoids, just one, with most of the poor things exploited by a lucky few.»
Keff was shocked into silence. Fortunately, Chaumel seemed to expect no reply. Carialle continued to speak in a low voice while Keff nodded and smiled at the magiman.
«Moreover, he's been referring to the Noble Primitives as property. When he mentioned his possessions, IT went back and translated his term for the villagers as 'chattel.' I do not like these people. Evil wizards, indeed!»
«Er, very nice,» Keff said in Ozran, for lack of any good reply. Chaumel beamed.
«We care for them, we who commune with the Core of Ozran. We lead our weaker brothers. We guard as they working hard in the valleys to raise food for us all.»
«Enslave them, you mean,» Carialle sniffed. «And they live up here in comfort while Brannel's people freeze. He looks so warm and friendly—for a slave trader. Look at his eyes. Dead as microchips.»
«Weaker? Do you mean feeble-minded? The people down in the valleys have strong bodies but, er, they don't seem very bright,» Keff said. «These, your servants, are much more intelligent than any of the ones we met.» He didn't mention Brannel.
«Ah,» Chaumel said, guardedly casual, «the workers eat stupid, not question . . . who know better, overlords.»
«You mean you put something in the food to keep them stupid and docile so they won't question their servitude? That's monstrous,» Keff said, but he kept smiling.
Chaumel didn't understand the last word. He bowed deeply. «Thank you. Use talent, over many years gone, we give them,» he pantomimed over his own wrist and arm, showed it growing thicker, «more skin, hair, grow dense flesh . . .»
IT riffled through a list of synonyms. Keff seized upon one. «Muscles?» he asked. IT repeated Chaumel's last word, evidently satisfied with Keff's definition.
«Yes,» Chaumel said. «Good for living . . . cold valleys. Hard work!»
«You mean you can skimp on the central heat if you give them greater endurance,» Carialle said, contemptuously. «You bloodsucker.»
Chaumel frowned, almost as if he had heard Carialle's tone.
«Hush! Er, I don't know if this is a taboo question, Chaumel,» Keff began, rubbing his chin with thumb and forefinger, «but you interbreed with the servant class, too, don't you? Bare-skins with fur-skins, make babies?»
«Not I,» the silver magiman explained hastily. «But yes. Some lower . . . mages and magesses have faces with hair. Never make their places as mages of . . . but not everyone is . . . sent for mightiness.»
«Destined for greatness,» Keff corrected IT. IT repeated the word. «So why are you not great? I mean,» he rephrased his statement for tact, «not one of the mages of—IT, put in that phrase he used?»
«Oh, I am good—satisfied to be what I am,» Chaumel said, complacently folding his fingers over his well-padded rib cage.
«If they're already being drugged, why amputate their fingers?» Carialle wanted to know.
«What do fingers have to do with the magic?» Keff asked, making a hey-presto gesture.
«Ah,» Chaumel said. Taking Keff's arm firmly under his own, he escorted him down the hall to a low door set deeply into the stone walls. Servants passing by showed Keff the whites of their eyes as Chaumel slipped the silver wand out of his belt and pointed at the lock. Some of the fur-skins hurried faster as the red fire lanced laserlike into the keyhole. One or two, wearing the same keen expression as Brannel, peered in as the door opened. Shooting a cold glance to speed the nosy ones on their way, Chaumel urged Keff inside.