Son of the Tree

II

THE BUZZER SOUNDED. Joe flicked down the key, said «Garage.»

A girl's voice issued from the plate, the peremptory self-willed voice of Priestess Elfane, the Thearch's third daughter, ringing now with an overtone Joe could not identify.

«Driver, listen very closely. Do exactly as I bid.»

«Yes, Worship.»

«Take out the black Kelt, rise to the third level, then drop back to my apartment. Be discreet and you'll profit. Do you understand?»

«Yes, Worship,» said Joe in a leaden voice.

«Hurry.»

Joe pulled on his livery. Haste–discretion–stealth? A lover for Elfane? She was young but not too young. He had already performed somewhat similar errands for her sisters, Esane and Phedran. Joe shrugged. He could hope to profit. A hundred stiples, perhaps more.

He grinned ruefully as he backed the black Kelt from under the canopy. A tip from a girl of eighteen– and glad to get it. Sometime, somewhere–when he returned to Earth and Margaret–he'd dust off his pretensions to pride and dignity. They were useless to him now, a handicap.

Money was money. Money had brought him across the galaxy and Ballenkarch was at last at hand. At night when the temple searchlights left the sky he could see the sun Ballen, a bright star in the constellation the Druids called the «Porphyrite.» The cheapest passage, hypnotized and shipped like a corpse, cost two thousand stiples.

From a salary of eighty stiples a week he was able to save seventy-five. Three weeks had passed–twenty-four more would buy him passage to Ballankarch. Too long, with Margaret, blonde, gay, lovely, waiting on Earth. Money was money. Tips would be accepted with thanks.

Joe took the car up the palace freerise, wafting up alongside the Tree, up toward the third level. The Tree hung over him as if he had never left the ground and Joe felt the awe and wonder which three weeks in the very shadow of the trunk had done nothing to diminish.

A vast breathing sappy mass, a trunk five miles in diameter, twelve miles from the great kneed roots to the ultimate bud–the «Vital Exprescience» in the cant of the Druids. The foliage spread out and fell away on limber boughs, each as thick through as the Thearch's palace, hung like the thatch on an old-fashioned hayrick.

The leaves were roughly triangular, three feet long-bright yellow in the upper air, darkening through lime, green, rose, scarlet, blue-black, toward the ground. The Tree ruled the horizons, shouldered aside the clouds, wore thunder and lightning like a wreath of tinsel. It was the soul of life, raw life, trampling and vanquishing the inert, and Joe understood well how it had come to be worshipped by the first marveling settlers on Kyril.

The third level. Down again, down in the black Kelt to the plat beside Priestess Elfane's apartments. Joe landed the car, jumped out, stepped across the gold-and-ivory inlay. Elfane herself slid aside the door–a vivid creature with a rather narrow face, dark, vital as a bird. She wore a simple gown of sheer white cloth without ornament and she was barefoot. Joe, who had seen her only in her official vestments, blinked, looked again with interest.

She motioned. «This way. Hurry.» She held back the panel and Joe entered a tall chamber, elegant but of little warmth. Bands of white marble and dark blue dumortierite surfaced two walls, bands inset with copper palettes carved with exotic birds. The third wall was hung with a tapestry depicting a group of young girls running down a grassy slope and along this wall ran a low cushioned settee.

Here sat a young man in the vesture of a Sub-Thearch–a blue robe embroidered with the red and gray orphreys of his rank. A morion inlaid with gold leaf-patterns lay beside him on the settee and a baton lathed from the Sacred Wood–an honor given only to those of Ecclesiarch degree–hung at his belt. He had lean flanks, wide spare shoulders and the most striking face of Joe's experience.

It was a narrow passionate face, wide across high cheekbones, with flat cheeks slanting down to a prow of a chin. The nose was long and straight, the forehead broad. The eyes were flat black disks in narrow expressionless sockets, the brows ink-black, the hair an ink-black mop of ringlets, artfully arranged. It was a clever, cruel face, full of fascination, overrich, overripe, without humor or sympathy–the face of a feral animal only coincidentally human.

Joe paused in mid-stride, stared into this face with instant aversion, then looked down to the corpse at the Ecclesiarch's feet–a sprawled grotesquely-rigid form oozing bright yellow blood into a crimson cloak.

Elfane said to Joe, «This is the body of a Mangtse ambassador. A spy but nevertheless an ambassador of high rank. Someone either killed him here or brought his body here. It must not be discovered. There must be no outcry. I trust you for a loyal servant. Some very delicate negotiations with the Mang Rule are underway. An incident like this might bring disaster. Do you follow me?»

Palace intrigue was none of Joe's affair. He said, «Any orders you may give, Worship, I will follow, subject to the permission of the Thearch.»

She said impatiently, «The Thearch is too busy to be consulted. Ecclesiarch Manaolo will assist you in conveying the corpse into the Kelt. Then you will drive us out over the ocean and we'll dispose of it.»

Joe said woodenly, «I'll bring the car as close as possible.»

Manaolo rose to his feet, followed him to the door. Joe heard him mutter over his shoulder, «We'll be crowded in that little cabin.»

Elfane answered impatiently, «It's the only one I can drive.»

Joe took his time arranging the car against the door, frowning in deep thought. The only car she could drive... He looked across fifty feet of space to the next plat along the side of the palace. A short man in a blue cloak, with hands clasped behind his back stood watching Joe benignly.

Joe reentered the room. «There's a Mang on the next balcony.»

« Hableyat!» exclaimed Manaolo. He strode to the door, looked out without disclosing himself. «He above all must not discover!»

«Hableyat knows everything,» said Elfane gloomily. «Sometimes I think he has mastered second-sight.»

Joe knelt beside the corpse. The mouth hung open, showing a rusty orange tongue. A well-filled pouch hung at his side, half-concealed by the cloak. Joe opened it. From behind came an angry word. Elfane said, «No, let him satisfy himself.»

Her tone, her contemptuous condescension, stung Joe. But money was money. Ears burning, he reached into the pouch, pulled out a sheaf of currency. Hundred-stiple notes, a dozen at least. He returned to the pouch and found a small hand-weapon of a make he did not recognize. He rucked it into his blouse. Then he wrapped the corpse in the scarlet robe and, rising, caught hold under the armpits.

Manaolo took the ankles. Elfane went to the door. «He's gone. Hurry!»

Five seconds saw the corpse stowed in the back. Elfane said to Joe, «Come with me.»

Wary of turning his back on Manaolo, Joe followed. She led him into a dressing room, pointed to a pair of cases. «Take them, load them in the back of the Kelt.»

Luggage, thought Joe. He obeyed. From the corner of his eye he saw that Hableyat had once more come out on the balcony and was smiling blandly in his direction. Joe returned inside. Elfane was wearing sandals and a dark blue robe like a girl of the Laity. It accentuated her sprite-like appearance, the tang, the spice, which seemed an essential part of her. Joe wrenched his eyes away. Margaret would not have dealt so casually with a corpse. He said, «The Kelt is ready to go, Worship.»

«You will drive,» said Elfane. «Our route will be up to the fifth level, south over Divinal, across the bay and out to sea.»

Joe shook his head. «I'm not driving. In fact I'm not going.»

The sense of his words failed to penetrate at once. Then Elfane and Manaolo together turned their heads. Elfane was surprised with a lack of comprehension on her face rather than anger. Manaolo stood expressionless, his eyes dull, opaque.

Elfane said in a sharper voice, as if Joe had not understood her, «Go on out–you will drive.»

Joe casually slid his hand inside his blouse, where the little weapon rested. Manaolo's eyes flickered, the only movement of his face, but Joe knew his mind was agile and reckless.

«I don't intend driving you,» sail Joe. «You can easily ditch that corpse without me. I don't know where you're going or why. I know I'm not going with you.»

«I order you!» exclaimed Elfane. This was fantastic, insane–contrary to the axioms of her existence.

Joe shook his head, watching warily. «Sorry.»

Elfane dismissed the paradox from her mind. She turned to Manaolo. «Kill him here then. His corpse, at least, will provoke no speculation.»

Manaolo grinned regretfully. «I'm afraid the clobber-claw is aiming a gun at us. He will refuse to let me kill him.»

Elfane tightened her lips. «This is ridiculous.» She whirled. Joe brought out the gun. Elfane halted stock-still, words failing in her mouth.

«Very well,» she said in a subdued voice. «I'll give you money to be silent. Will that satisfy you?»

«Very much,» said Joe, smiling crookedly. Pride? What was pride? If it weren't for Margaret he'd enjoy... But no, she was plainly running off with this brilliant and dangerous Manaolo. Who would want a woman after his handling of her?

«How much?» asked Manaolo idly.

Joe calculated rapidly. He had four hundred stiples in his room, about a thousand he had taken from the corpse. He dismissed his calculations. Make it big. «Five thousand stiples and I've forgotten everything I've seen today.»

The figure apparently did not seem exorbitant to either of them. Manaolo felt in one pocket, then another, found a money-flap, riffled out a number of notes, tossed them to the floor.

«There's your money.»

Without a backward glance Elfane ran out on the plat, jumped into the Kelt. Manaolo strolled after her.

The Kelt jerked up, swung off into the clean air of Kyril. Joe was alone in the tall chamber.

He picked up the notes. Five thousand stiples! He went to the window, watched the air-car dwindle to a dot.

There was a small throb in his throat, a pang. Elfane was a wonderful creature. On Earth, had it not been for Margaret, he would have been entranced. But this was Kyril, where Earth was a fable. And Margaret, supple, soft, blonde as a field full of jonquils, was waiting for him to return. Or at least knew that he was expecting her to wait. With Margaret, Joe thought ruefully, the idea might not mean the same thing. Damn Harry Creath!

He became uneasily aware of his surroundings. Any one of a dozen persons might enter and find him. There would be difficulty explaining his presence. Somehow he had to return to his own quarters. He froze in his tracks. The sound of a door sliding brought an instant quickening of the pulse, a flush of sweat. He backed against the tapestry. Steps, slow, unhurried, came down the passageway.

The door scraped back. A man entered the room–a short yellow-skinned man in a blue velvet cloak–Hableyat.