The Star Magicians

2. A FEAST OF KNIVES

NIGHT HUNG over Argion City, a murky pall lit by no moons but dimly illuminated by the fainter, smaller of the two suns low on the western horizon: a dim blur of yellow luminance drawn along the sky’s edge. A chill gust of wind whipped the lithe, slim rossiter trees along the verge of the River Temera, ruffling its dark mirror and setting aflap the stiff, silky banners that adorned the palace towers.

Within the great hall where the Argionid Lords had reigned for centuries past and gone, since the collapse of the mighty Carina Empire had given this stellar kingdom its independence, the Conqueror of Argion feasted and made revel with his clan-leaders amid a scene of fantastic and barbarous splendor.

Torches of resinous wood flared from brackets of blackened iron set in niches along the walls of smooth lime-green Vegan marble; they guttered as the cool night-wind tossed their flame-plumes, light flickering over the rippling, bright-colored war-banners and gorgeous tapestries stiff with silver wire and gilt threads. Sprawled on rich cushions beside long, low tables of mellow harpwood, the chieftains of the Star Rovers fed gluttonously on the fruits of their conquest. Argion was a traders’ world, and the rarest delicacies of a hundred planets loaded the long benches. Bearded pirates drank down the cold green wines of Shazar and Bellerophon, the rich red-golden ales of Netharna and Chorver and the fiery purple liquors that the far Eophim vintners distill from the wine-apples of Valthome … gulping the princely vintages from crystal cups, tankards of noble metals and horn goblets encrusted with glittering gems.

Great platters of chased gold, electrum and chaya bore smoking meats: succulent roast moon-ox, broiled shynx with Vegan cloves, crisp infrared-fried cave-fish from the cold, subterranean rivers of Argion’s Silver Isles. And there were fragrant stews and heaps of glistening, exotic fruits, and flaky mounds of dainty pastries.

As the conquerors gorged and drank, native musicians in feathered cloaks played for their pleasure, striking gay festival tunes and strumming heady, heart-stirring battle-themes from a dozen worlds with pipe, lute and tambour. Sleek-limbed, ripe-breasted dancers veiled in floating lucent gauze wound sinuously between the long, low tables in a graceful, weaving rhythm.

On the dais above the hall, beneath canopies of spun-gold cloth, sat the Warlord, Drask. The ancient Seat of Argion had been flung aside, and in its place the age-blackened King-bench of the Star Rovers stood as throne chair. And by the Warlord’s side, the slim daughter of the last of the Argion-Lords sat, pale, silent, with haunted face and downcast eyes.

When he had at length eaten his fill, Drask summoned before him Perion. The barbarian warchief looked him up and down with amused, appraising eyes as he stood at the foot of the dais. The piper was a little man, slim as a boy, spindle-shanked and bony, with mischievous brown eyes and a mocking, yet servile, grin that lit his sharp-featured, swarthy face with elfish wit. He was still garbed in the soiled and ragged motley he had worn in the arena—a comic patchwork of green, yellow, red and black. His battered multi-pipe of worn, cheap metal was thrust through his girdle like a sword. Thus: Perion of North Hollis.

For his part, the piper, unabashed, returned the Warlord’s scrutiny with frank curiosity. Drask was a lean dark hawk of a man, burned leather-black by the unfilterable lambda-radiation of deep space. Cruel, sneering lips were framed by narrow black moustaches; the cleft, lean jaw pointed a spike of black beard; strong, jutting bones of cheek, jaw and brow gave testimony to a taint of ancient Earthirish blood. About his powerful chest and broad shoulders was flung a thick dark fur cloak of Pharvisian snow-tiger, its yellow ivory claws crossing at his corded throat.

A huge radium-ruby smoldered in his left earlobe like a living coal. A brief kilt of black leather straps, studded with squares of bronze, clothed his loins and thighs. A yard-long Sirian hook-sword hung at his left hip in a scabbard of cobra-skin, and a beautifully machined Wayne-Drew laser pistol studded with chips of ruby was holstered at his right. His naked arms were thewed like an Ormisian wrestler’s; armlets of platinum and gold were set at wrist and bicep. He was booted in black leather, with sea-bear fur trim.

Altogether (Perion thought) a formidable figure—every inch the warrior, the barbarian, the King.

Drask spoke, and the musicians stilled on the instant.

“Piper,” he drawled, toying with a chilled goblet of neol, “for resisting my invasion of Argion planet—and for slaying my valiant warriors—Rim-law condemned you to the arena to die the traitor’s death you had earned. But your bravery, or wit, or perhaps a whim of the gods, won you the gift of life again … until another Divine mood whisk it away. The voice of the Star Rovers bade you go free, and free you are. What say you, brothers?”

“Hai!”

The scrawny little man winced at the unexpected, full-throated cry. Drask glanced at him with amusement.

“By Thaxis of the Hungry Spears, now do I wonder that you slew those men of mine! Why, from the ill-nourished looks of you, Piper, I’ll wager you’d find it a trying task to even bed a wench—yes, a willing one, at that.”

The Rovers bellowed with ribald laughter. Perion shrugged, spreading his palms apologetically, simpering at being the center of attention.

Drask thumped his goblet against the side of the King-bench, calling for silence.

“Yes, by Thaxis’ Own Blood, I am minded to make you my clown. I care little for songs or capering or jests, but the very sight of you rouses laughter in my guts. What say you, little man—will you prance for my pleasure—and your supper?”

The Piper fell to his skinny knees, pressing his brow against the Warlord’s booted feet, and shrilly declared: “Yes, dread Lord, give me a full belly and a wet tankard now and again, and I’ll dance attendance for anyone—even so fearful a master as yonder thard, for whom I danced in the arena!”

Drask frowned coldly, remembering the humiliating scene—for the dragon’s untimely execution had brought an end to the orgy of blood-letting that was the triumphal games.

Shrewdly noting his change in mood, Perion gazed up blandly, and added, “Little care I at whose trough I feed—so long as I be fed, Master …”

The Warlord grinned. “Aye, you yellow-livered leech, you’d turn your coat more often than you change your breeks, I doubt not, had you so large a supply of raiment. Ah, well, you’ll serve as butt for humor.”

Throughout the foregoing, the pale girl beside Drask had sat unmoving, unspeaking, her food untouched, remote and withdrawn as if not present at all. Now she lifted suddenly a cold, venomous gaze to Perion, and spoke. The icy tone of loathing in her bell-clear voice arrested the amusement of the Rovers.

“Barbarian, beware of that cunning worm.”

Drask turned to observe her, lifting his eyebrow with a small smile. “So you are roused at last, my Lady?”

“Beware the Piper, I say. He betrays his Lord, my father, to serve you pirate scum. Next he will betray you, to serve some other.” Drask smiled without deigning to reply, but Perion, suddenly in favor and drawing impudent boldness from it, capered on the dais step, scraped a low bow of mockery before the Princess.

She rose, slim, regal, pure among the squatting star-barbarians who had toppled her ancient kingdom into the mire and reft away her heritage in a storm of blood and fire. Her voice rang, sharp as a silver bugle, through the murmuring hall.

“You, Piper—my royal father’s board was your trough. Now you are content to slop with these bristle-bearded Out-worlder pigs. Well, I shall not!”

Quick as a flash of light she whirled—and drove a keen small dagger at the base of Drask’s throat as he sat beside her. Where the glittering steel needle had been hidden none could guess—and so swift, so totally unexpected was her murderous stroke that none had wit enough to lift a hand to halt her.

None—but Perion!

For swifter even than her flashing stroke were his nimble feet. With the agile, flickering grace of an acrobat he was before her, his thin but wiry-strong hand closing like an iron vise on her white wrist. He checked the blade’s descent just as the wicked needle-point grazed the nape of the Warlord’s neck.

“Treason! Help—murder!” Perion yelped, grappling with the frenzied girl. She broke, weeping, her cold determination gone. And so suddenly had all this transpired that the others, even Drask himself, still sat frozen, stupefied.

“Let me kill him—” she shrieked, breaking free of Perion’s grasp. He seized her around the waist, and lean and strong as the scrawny Piper was, the girl fought with the furious venom of a tigress. Clawing and spitting through her tears like a Bartoscan sandcat, she broke free of his grip, wriggled out of his arms and thrust him off-balance so that he fell sprawling, squealing into the Warlord’s very lap. Drask, thunder-browed with rage, was just rising, tugging at his sword.

But she turned from her prey, leaving him untouched, and sprang to the further side of the dais, disheveled, panting, eyes flashing and firm breasts rising and falling. The slim blade was still clenched in her small white hand.

“Let all of Argion-folk turn their coats to grovel for scraps at the bloody bootheels of these star-scavengers—that is the business of Zargon, Lord of Punishments and Rewards, but it is none of mine! As for me and my House, I thank the Gods that the last of the Argion-Kings knows how to die with unstained honor!”

She drove the blade between her white breasts before any could lift a hand to stop her, quenching its polished glitter in crimson blood.

For a moment, she stood, tall and regal—then crumpled to the floor, sliding down the steps of the dais, a red-bedabbled, pitiful bundle. Even Perion, tangled in Drask’s cloak, gaped, frozen with astonishment.

All over the great hall, men were stumbling to their feet, white-faced, in deathly silence. One of the dancing girls, a lithe and fawn-eyed nude whose white thighs had been splattered by a dribble of the Princess’ blood, shrieked— and the stillness was broken. A roar of confusion arose, men babbling, yelling.

Cursing, Drask kicked Perion from his knees and straightened to his feet, staring blankly at the dead girl, silent amid the milling, shouting rabble boiling around the dais.

At last he spoke. “Now, by Thaxis of the Scarlet Spears, that was nobly done!”

So it was, thought Perion. We are all in Zargon’s Balance …

“Tonguth! Wine—wine for all. The Hero-Toast for the last of the House of Argion!” Standing, the throng drank the ancient toast, each barbarian spilling a dabble of wine to appease the gods and to sate the thirsty spirit of the newly-dead. Then they stumbled back to their places as Drask somberly resumed his seat. The feast continued, but the febrile gaity had gone out of it: men conversed quietly, or staring glumly into their cups. Tonguth, at a nearer table, gulped wine, spat sourly, and grumbled something into his bush of black beard.

Alone now on the dais, Drask saw and snapped out a command like a whipcrack.

“Speak up, black dog—what was that?”

Tonguth grimly swung his head. “I said it was an ill omen, Master. That’s all. A bad sign, death at a feast… .”

Drask snorted contemptuously.

Mumbling in his cups, Tonguth continued, “What says the Book of Jarsha about ‘a feast of knives, with blood for wine, and Death, swift-footed, follows for the second course’ … ?”

The Warlord spat.

“Priest’s mewling prattle, dog—naught else. What have we to fear?” He surveyed the great hall boldly, from his proud place. “Argion is ours, her people cowed, resistance crushed, rebellion broken. Our mighty fleets ride in high orbit, and no force within ten thousand light-years can stand against their strength. Gods—devils—what have we to fear, my brothers?”

“Calastor.”

The faint whisper of that name seemed to spring from the empty air of the great hall, and its echo rang against the silence like a stricken bell.

“Who spoke that name?” Drask roared. “Who dares name that sneaking, masked filth in my presence—who dares? Abdekiel—was it you?”

From a place far down the board a small, bland, obsequious-looking man rose, bowing, soft hands tucked in the wide sleeves of his dull gray robe. He was bald as a skull, his skin yellow as butter, features stolid, faintly smiling, impassive as a Buddha. Only the rapier-sharp glint of black eyes showed the measure of the man. Save for their cold, reptilian shrewdness he seemed a rotund, sleepy, harmless little man.

“Not my voice, dread Lord,” he purred in silky tones, bowing again. “Yet, I think, wise words to heed and remember nonetheless.”

A mutter arose among the Star Rovers, an uneasy grumble that passed through the hall like a moving shadow. In its wake faces paled, eyes swiveled to peer covertly into shadowy corners, shag-bearded barbarians furtively signed themselves with the sigils of a dozen outworld gods. The old shaman continued in his soft, sleek, colorless voice:

“Remember, Great One, no man knows Calastor, the White Wizard of Parlion, nor how he comes or goes, nor when he shall raise his unseen hand to smite and blast. As he has sworn to smite you, Great Master.”

Drask grimaced curtly. “Cease croaking, old vulture. I fear naught in this Galaxy nor the next—beast, man, or wizard. And least of all, this shadowy skulker. Any voice can speak words—for words are but air, and that is all that composes his threats! Nay, speak not of this ghostly assassin of Parlion, for I fear neither his words nor his magic.”

Tonguth spoke up, eyes glinting superstitiously. “But, Master, recall what happened before we laid siege to Scather. The voice that spoke from emptiness—the two guards found dead—frightened to death! And whose was the hand that set off the nuclear armory, demolishing our advance squadron? His! You found his note pinned to the curtains of your bed that very night—”

“True, Tonguth—as I slept in the King’s chamber, as victor and conqueror of Scather. Shadows—words—empty threats—nothing more. Only a fool would fear such—as only a fool fears magic, eh, shaman?”

The bland sorcerer bowed again. “But magic exists, dread Lord. The fool may fear, as you say, but the wise man fears as well … and takes sound precautions.”

“Now, by Thaxis, am I tempted to set my fleets over against Parlion itself. Then should we see how shadow-magic fares against hot steel and laser-beams… .”

The shaman shrugged. “Yet what man knows the place of Parlion? The planets are numberless as the sand-grains of the shore, and the World of Wizards is marked down on no chart, Lord.”

Tonguth gulped chill green wine. “Aye! Aye, Master, they say it is a shadow-world, invisible as a ghost! And Ca—the White Wizard—his ears and eyes are everywhere, his servants as numberless as the stars of the Nucleus. He has a thousand faces, thrice a thousand bodies, men say … and no man knows his face. Why, for aught we know, he might be standing among us at the very moment, viewless as the empty air, armed to strike—”

“I say—silence!”

Drask’s hard voice broke the rising mutter of his men. But … perhaps it was due to the wine they had drunk, or to Tonguth’s ill-omened quotation from the Sacred Book, or the ignorant superstition that ruled their inner lives … but there, sprawled in the noontide glory of their strength and victory, a haunting fear rode each burly Rover. It was a small thing, a mood, a tone of voice … but as they mumbled amongst themselves, their eyes edged about, glancing half-fearfully, half-defiantly into the gloom of murky shadows that suddenly seemed to press close about the flickering, wind-tossed torches … a dim wave of darkness that seemed almost to smother the light. Imagination? Illusion—a trick of wine-bleared vision?

The mood of the feast had changed. Drask snatched up a goblet and drained it at a gulp, hurling the precious crystal thing into the shadows that clustered in a wall-niche. It burst against the stone into a hundred ringing shards.

“Let me teach you fools a lesson from the pages of history,” he said loudly—perhaps too loudly, as if to drown out an inner fear. “The grand and glorious Empire of Carina was the greatest power this Galaxy has ever known. The Carina Emperors ruled with a sword of flame, hounding our forefathers to the dim-lit, scattered worlds of the Rim. Outlaws, exiles, criminals fleeing justice—the scum of the Galaxy. Yet there they stood, wrested a living from naked rock, tamed wild worlds and bent them to their will, and, with generations, forged a mighty fleet. This fleet they set up against the proud legions of the Empire and broke them down in thunder and ruin in a series of swift battles that broke through the shield of Imperial strength like hammer-blows. For a time the desperate Imperials bought their life with immense sums of tribute—for a time they hired the Rim Barbarians, as they called us, to serve as border legions patrolling the Rim—a fiction to disguise abject terror! At length we became the legions, and the degenerate, swinish Imperials depended on us—until a whim of the mighty Warlord Shandalar the Red broke the Empire and the capital world was sacked and given over to the sword. Since that day our nomad fleets have stood as the greatest fighting force in ten million ages. Tied to no world, our fleets quest where they will, and never has a single world stood against us for long!”

His fist crashed against his mailed chest. “I am Drask of the Varkonna, Warlord of a thousand Chieftains, conqueror of twenty-one planets! No force, no world, no man in all the Galaxy dares stand in my path!”

The savage words rang out bravely and boldly, but the effect was ruined by a hidden voice that whispered:

“Except for … Calastor.”