The Great Fetish

10

Nothing happened for so long that Marko thought the next day must be approaching. The mercurial Halran sat with his head in his hands, moaning: “Oh, what a fool I have been, to take such chances at this season! Now we are surely doomed—”

“Hush,” growled Marko. “Someone’s coming.”

There were light, quick steps in the corridor. Somebody stood at the bars, and Marko saw that it was the young girl who had first greeted them on Mnaenn.

“Sinthi!” said Marko.

“Don’t shout!” she said. “You must escape because they have decided to kill you and I will if only … and it must be soon because … so I’ll give you …”

“Get your breath, child,” said Boert Halran, his despondency gone.

Sinthi gulped air and resumed: “The hierarchy has decided to slay you.”

“Why?” said Marko. “What have we done? And don’t they try people here as in civilized countries? Even the Afkans decided we were harmless.”

“Oh, you have been tried.”

“I wasn’t aware of it.”

“Well, you see, the trials here differ from those of the mainland. They’re by divination.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The method of divination is selected at random from the Handbook of Vaticination, by thrusting a dagger between the leaves. In your case, the method chosen was by marwan trance. The sibyl went into her trance and saw you two with your necks across the altar rail, and the Stringiarch chopping off your heads with your own ax, to the glory of Einstein.”

“Ugh,” said Marko.

“I wasn’t supposed to know about this, but I listened through the crack of the door. They had an argument. Mera objected that, while they might manage with Dr. Halran, Master Prbkopiu was too big to lay his head peaceably on the rail. He might break loose and start chopping them instead. Valri, the suffragan, objected that the Stringiarch wasn’t strong enough at her age, especially considering how thick Master Prokopiu’s neck is, and she might miss and gash the altar rail. Klaer was against the whole project as barbarous, as there hasn’t been a human sacrifice • on Mnaenn in nearly a century.”

Marko asked: “Why didn’t they dismiss the whole idea?”

“No, Katlin insisted. She’s very pious, you know. But she admitted she couldn’t take off your head with one neat slice. So in the morning they will send the troopers down here to shoot you with crossbows. Then they’ll drag your bodies out and lay them on the talisman table in front of the altar and ceremonially cut off your heads, probably with a saw.”

“Oh, dear!” said Halran. “That is terrible. Marko, do something! Think of something! Get us out of here!”

Marko said: “Sinthi, did you mention getting us out?”

“I can.”

“How?”

Sinthi held up a bunch of keys.

Marko said: “What do we do when we get out?”

“I don’t know. I thought you could lower the rope ladder, climb down, and take one of our fishing smacks.”

“How big are they?”

“Oh, one or two can row them. But I forgot a squad of guards is stationed at the ladder, as that’s where an invader would come up.”

Halran said: “I doubt if any such small boat could live through the sea out there anyway. But if I could get help in filling my balloon …”

Sinthi said: “What would you need for that?”

“Oh, perhaps a dozen hands and a supply of peat. I could direct them to rig the bag for inflation, and by morning we should be ready to go.”

Marko grunted: “I can see the old Stringiarch saying yes, gentlemen, gladly. Unless …” He turned to Sinthi. “Where is she now?”

“Asleep. I suppose. Everybody has retired except the witch who has the temple guard. That’s how I stole these keys so easily.”

“You don’t keep a heavy guard around here?”

“Why should we? There is hardly any crime among us; these cells haven’t been used for months. We do keep a watch on the cliffs against invaders from outside.”

“Where does the Stringiarch sleep?” asked Marko. “At the end of the second floor of the fourth wing. You go up the stairs, and turn sharply to your left, and down that hall, and up another stairs, and back towards the center …”

Marko made Sinthi repeat her complicated directions slowly several times, until he thought that he had them memorized. She had the exasperating female habit of saying “up” or “down” a passage when referring to horizontal movement, and it cost Marko some mental gymnastics to translate her directions into compass points. She said:

“You are not planning to hurt Katlin, I hope? Even though I don’t like her, I should not wish to be a party to her murder.”

“Not at all,” said Marko. “If I can get something with a sharp point, I’ll persuade her to order her people to help us off.”

He held out his hand for the keys, but Sinthi moved back from the bars, saying: “Oh, no, there’s a condition.” “So?”

“You must take me with you.” “Oh?” Marko exchanged looks with Halran, who said:

“I fear, my dear, our balloon will not carry that much weight.”

“It would raise me and one of you, wouldn’t it?” “Neither of us would leave the other,” said Marko. “No ride, no keys,” said Sinthi. “Oh, come,” said Marko. “Why are you so anxious to leave?”

“Because I hate this place. I’m bored to death. I don’t want to be a pyromancer and spend my life staring into fires to see visions. I think that is all a lot of nonsense anyway. I want to be a housewife, like the mainland girls, and have a man and a home to myself …” A tear glimmered. Marko thought, then said: “I should be glad to take you, but Dr. Halran knows what he’s talking about. There is no point in our all taking off, only to come down in the sea five minutes later. I’ll tell you …”

“Tell me what?” she said as Marko paused.

“I swear by all the gods that if you help us to get out of here, I will do my best to come back and fetch you too.”

“Well…”

“Look,” said Marko. “I’m a Vizantian. You have heard, haven’t you, how punctilious Vizantians are about keeping their word?”

“Y-yes, though I suspect you aren’t always so careful as you claim.” She hesitated again. “All right, I’ll do it. But if you play me false, I’ll cast every kind of spell in the arsenal of Mnaenn, from envoutement down.”

Marko smiled. “I thought you didn’t believe in them?”

“I don’t exactly disbelieve in them either. One of them just might work. Here, take your keys, but give me time to get back to my dormitory before you break out. I don’t want to be connected with your escape.”

“If I count five hundred, will that be enough?”

“I think so, if you don’t count too fast. Goodbye and good luck.”

Marko and Halran waited until Marko had counted. Then Marko tried keys until he found one that unlocked the door of their cell. He started out, then turned to the philosopher.

“We can’t go clumping through the halls this way,” he whispered, indicating his own heavy boots and Halran’s low but substantial shoes.

They removed their footgear and issued forth cartying them. Marko, following Sinthi’s directions, led his companion up nights of stone steps and around bends and turns in never-ending corridors. There was no sound, and the only light was that of occasional lamps turned down for the night.

They halted at a pair of large closed doors. Halran murmured: “I am sure this is where she said to turn right, which would take us through these doors.”

“No, no,” said Marko. “She meant to continue north until the corridor itself turned.”

They argued in whispers. Finally, Halran said: “Well, let us at least look to discern what is beyond this door.”

Marko cautiously tried the handle. The right-hand door opened with a faint squeak, and behind him Hal-ran drew in his breath.

They had blundered into the cella of the temple. The only light was that of a single lamp, on what Marko recognized as the talisman table. Its light did not reach far. From the darkness above, faint reflections winked back from the jewels and precious metals of the decorations.

Marko shut the door behind them and tiptoed to the center of the structure. Behind them ranked the pews; before them stood the table with its lamp. “Beyond the talisman table was a big, massive railing. Marko glanced at Halran and made a chopping motion with the edge of his palm. He laid down his boots and climbed over the rail.

Behind the rail rose the altar, a pyramidal structure with a half-do/en steps going up on each side. Another table or similar support rose from its top. Something else stood atop this. The thing on the support and most of the support itself were hidden by a cloth of gold draped over them.

Marko pulled off the cloth and saw the Great Fetish. Just as Sinthi had said, it consisted of a stack of small boxes of transparent substance, each a little bigger than a pack of playing cards. The boxes themselves were arranged in pyramidal fashion. Marko guessed that there were forty or fifty boxes.

Marko said: “Let’s take these with us.”

“All of them?”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, we cannot afford the weight. For another, if you take them all, the witches will notice the loss and will probably tear us to pieces, even if we hold their high priestess as hostage. If you put a couple in your pockets…”

Without further argument, Marko worked the two topmost boxes of the top stack out of the golden string that bound the stack together and stowed them in his sheepskin. The removal of the boxes left the string limp and loose. To make his theft less patent, Marko gathered up a loop of it and tied it. Then he replaced the cloth of gold.

They stole out of the cella and closed the door behind them. Marko whispered:

“I know where I am now. Down that corridor is the office where the Stringiarch interviewed us. Come on.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Marko hastened down the corridor and into the office. There was no light inside, but enough came through the door so that his eyes, now accustomed to the dimness, made out the furnishings. He hunted for his ax, but it was not on the desk and not suspended from the walls. Finally he began opening desk drawers, which stuck and squeaked until Halran emitted a terrified hiss:

“Curse you, Marko, be quiet! You will have—”

At that instant Marko tried the last drawer, which stuck, then gave with a piercing squeal. His hand, groping in the dark, found the hilt of his ax just as the door opened wider and a female voice cried:

“Ho! What—”

A glimpse showed Marko the silhouette of a witch in half armor, with a spear over her shoulder. He plunged around the corner of the desk and at the woman, knocking Halran flat in his rush. Before she could say a third word, he struck.

The Vizantian culture pattern included rough chivalry on the part of the men towards their women, as long as the women adhered to the sexual code. Therefore Marko smote the watch-woman with the flat of his ax, not the blade. The blow crashed down on her brazen helmet and knocked her to the floor, with the clatter of a hundred overturned fire irons.

“Oh, gods!” breathed Halran in the silence that followed. “We are done for!”

Marko dragged the woman’s body all the way into the room and softly closed the door. Now they were in total darkness. Marko pressed his ear to the door. He thought he heard a voice call a question; then nothing but silence.

“She is still alive,” came Halran’s whisper.

“I only tapped her with the flat to stun her. Take her sword.”

“But—but I know nothing of weaponry …”

“Oh, Earth!” Carry my boots then. Here. Had I known I should meet her…”

Marko took the little sword himself. “Come along.”

After another long stalk and climbing another flight of stairs, they found themselves outside the room of the Stringiarch. Marko tried the door of dwarf-stupa wood. It was locked.

He fumbled at it without effect, then said: “It doesn’t look very strong. I think I could burst it with a good lunge. But if I miss the first time …”

“I understand,” said Halran. “Would it not be better to chop it open?”

“No, that would take several licks. The noise would bring the witches. Stand back.”

Marko sprang across the corridor and hurled his weight against the door. It was held in place by a light bolt on the inside, the bolt plate in its turn being secured by four nails. As Marko’s weight struck the door, the bolt plate flew across the room. The door slapped open. Marko staggered across the room before he could stop himself.

The room was a sitting parlor, not a bedroom faintly lit by a turned-down lamp on a table. Marko heard a sharp voice:

“Who is there? What is it?”

Guided by the voice, he plunged into the bedroom, found the bed, and touched the point of his sword-knife to the chest of the Stringiarch just as she sat up.

“Be quiet and do as you’re told, and you shall live,” he said.

Voices sounded in the corridor. Halran tumbled into the bedroom. “The witches!”

“Tell them to stay out,” grated Marko, pressing his point a little harder.

“S-stay out, girls!” said Katlin. “Now, what do you two brigands want?”

“To leave,” said Marko. “Doctor, explain to our hostess.”

Halran gave directions for starting a peat fire and inflating the balloon. At the mention of the quantity of peat, Katlin balked. “Ridiculous!” she cried. “We have to import every bit of peat, as there is none on the island. You—”

She subsided as Marko pressed a little harder, and said: “How long will this take?” Marko could not help admiring her coolness.

“What time is it now?” said Halran.

“Only about half-past fifteen. I had just gone to sleep.”

“It will take at least till dawn,” said Halran.

“And,” added Marko, “every minute I shall have the point of this against you, and the first false move…”

“Spare me your melodramatics, sir brigand,” said Katlin, throwing off her covers. “I trust you would not force me to stand naked all night on the cliff edge?”

“No,” said Marko, covering his embarrassment by handing his ax to Halran. “Stand in the doorway, Doctor, in case she gets past me. Dress, madam.”

Stringiarch Katlin covered her lean shape with clothes, while Marko stood guard. When she had finished, he seized her wrist, bent her left arm behind her, and marched her out with the point of the sword pricking the skin of her back.

Muphrid was well up in a clear turquoise sky when the balloon was inflated. Boert Halran tested the wind and said:

“Jump in, Marko.”

Halran pulled loose the canvas tube that led from the big peat stove, which the witches had woman-handled out to the site of the balloon. He swung aboard. Marko, still gripping the Stringiarch’s wrist, tossed his short sword into the basket and climbed in after.

“Cast off those ropes!” commanded Halran.

He emptied a couple of ballast bags. The witches untied the ropes belayed to the stakes that held the balloon down. Marko let go of Katlin’s arm as the balloon rushed up and away.

The instant Marko released her, the Stringiarch sprang away from the basket. “Bows!” she screamed. “Arbalests!”

From the nearest clump of dwarf stupas, a group of witches ran with crossbows cocked. When they came to the place from which the balloon had ascended, they raised their weapons.

The balloon was swiftly rising and drifting westward. The travelers were still within crossbow range. Boert Halran leaned over the side of the basket, placed the thumbs of his outspread hands against his ears, wiggled his fingers, stuck out his tongue, and yelled: “Yah, yah, yah!”

The bowstrings snapped. Both men ducked below the edge of the balloon. Two bolts struck the basket. Another glanced from the small peat stove above with a clang, while the rest screamed past. By the time the arbalesters had cocked their weapons again, the balloon was out of effective range. Two of the warrior women tried long shots anyway. The bolts streaked upwards, slowed, hung for an Instant, and sank back towards the ground.

Mnaenn sank and dwindled until the people were mere ants. Marko said: “Whatever possessed you to hoot at them in that undignified way, Doctor?”

Halran replied: “Had I not, they might have shot at the bag, which they could easily have hit.”

“Would the escape of air through the holes have forced us down?”

“I do not know. I do not think that one or two small punctures would force us down much sooner than we should have to descend anyway. But such a hole might start a rip in the fabric, which would drop us like a stone.”

“Oh,” said Marko.

“Again I owe you thanks, Marko. I am a peaceful fellow, who has not struck a blow in anger since boyhood. Without your iron nerves and steel muscles, I should now be as dead as the Ancient Ones; and without your - quick wit, my head would be an Afkan trophy.”

Marko blushed. “Please, Doctor. You know I’m not really proud of the few little things I did, because I had to. What I really want is an earned university degree.”

“Now, is that not the contrary human race?” said Halran. “When I was young, I yearned to be a mighty athlete and adventurer. Being a spindly, awkward little tersor, I had no chance. You, with enough might for two men, would rather be a pale, hollow-chested scholar. If the gods made man, which I doubt, they should have made him so he sometimes enjoyed what he has instead of forever yearning for what he has not.”

“If they had, we should probably be mere animals,” said Marko. “Whither are we bound now?”

Halran unfolded his chart. “At this rate, we should reach the Eropian coast in about six hours. It will not, however, be the part of Eropia to which we wish to go. We should come down somewhere around Ambur or Pari. And now, if you will excuse me, I think I am going to faint.”