Land and Overland Omnibus

THE WOODEN SPACESHIPS

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 1988 by Bob Shaw

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

260 Fifth Avenue

New York, N.Y. 10001

First printing, July 1988

First paperback printing, July, 1989

ISBN: 0-671-69830-3

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Shaw, Bob.

The wooden spaceships.



I. Title.

PR6069.H364W66 1988 823'.914 88-3512

ISBN 0-671-65419-5 (hardcover edition)

Cover Art by Alan Gutierrez

Printed in the United States of America

Distributed by

SIMON & SCHUSTER

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N.Y. 10020





To M.E., with thanks



Contents

Part I: Gathering Shadows

Part II: The Cold Arena

Part III: Silent Invasions





PART I

Gathering Shadows


Chapter 1



Lord Toller Maraquine took the bright sword out of the presentation case and held it in such a way that the foreday sun flamed along the blade. As before, he was captivated by its lucent beauty. In contrast to the black weapons traditionally used by his people it seemed to have an ethereal quality, akin to sunlight striking through fine mist, but Toller knew there was nothing unearthly about its powers. Even in its simplest, unmodified form the sword would have been the best killing instrument in history—and he had taken its development a step further.

He pressed a catch which was concealed by the ornamentation of the haft and a curved section sprang open to reveal a tubular cavity. The space was filled by a thin-walled glass vial containing a yellowish fluid. He made sure the vial was intact, then clicked its cover back into place. Reluctant to put the sword away, he tested its feel and balance for a few seconds and impulsively swept it into the first readiness position. At that moment his black-haired solewife, using her uncanny ability to materialise at precisely the wrong time, opened the door and entered the room.

"I beg your pardon—I had presumed you were alone." Gesalla gave him a smile of sweet insincerity and glanced all about her. "Where is your opponent, by the way? Have you cut him into pieces so small that they can't be seen, or was he invisible to begin with?"

Toller sighed and lowered the sword. "Sarcasm doesn't become you."

"And playing warriors doesn't become you." Gesalla crossed the floor to him, moving lightly and silently, and put her arms around his neck. "What age are you now, Toller? Fifty-three! When are you going to put notions of fighting and killing behind you?"

"As soon as all men become saints—and that may not be for a year or two yet."

"Who's being sarcastic now?"

"It must be infectious," Toller said, smiling down at Gesalla, deriving a pleasure from merely looking at her which had scarcely diminished in the long course of their marriage. Their twenty-three years on Overland, many of them hard years, had not materially altered her looks or thickened her gracile form. One of the few discernible changes in Gesalla's appearance was the single strip of silver which might have been applied to her hair by a skilled beautician. She still adopted a long and flowing style of dress in subdued colours, although Overland's burgeoning textiles industry was as yet unable to produce the gauzy materials she had favoured on the old world.

"At what time is your appointment with the King?" Gesalla said, stepping back and examining his clothing with a critical eye. It was sometimes a source of contention between them that, in spite of his elevation to the peerage, he insisted on dressing like a commoner, usually in an open-necked shirt and plain breeches.

"At the ninth hour," he replied. "I should leave soon."

"And you're going in that garb?"

"Why not?"

"It is hardly appropriate for an audience with the King," Gesalla said. "Chakkell may take it as a discourtesy."

"Let him take it any way he pleases." Toller scowled as he laid the sword in its leather case and fastened the lid. "Sometimes I think I've had my fill of royals and all their ways."

He saw the fleeting expression of concern on Gesalla's face and was immediately sorry he had made the remark. Tucking the presentation case under his arm, he smiled again to indicate that he was actually in a cheerful and reasonable mood. He took Gesalla's slim hand in his own and walked with her to the front entrance of the house. It was a single-storey structure, as were most dwellings on Overland, and had few architectural adornments, but the fact that it was stone-built and boasted ten spacious rooms marked it as the home of a nobleman. Masons and carpenters were still at a premium twenty-three years after the Great Migration, and the majority of the population had to make do with comparatively flimsy shelter.

Toller's personal sword was hanging in its belted scabbard in the entrance hall. He reached for the weapon and then, out of consideration for Gesalla, turned away from it with a dismissive gesture and opened the door. The precinct beyond glowed so fiercely in the sun that its walls and pavement seemed to be light sources in their own right.

"I haven't seen Cassyll today," Toller said as heat billowed in past him. "Where is he?"

"He rose early and went straight to the mine."

Toller nodded his approval. "He works hard."

"A trait inherited from me," Gesalla said. "You'll return before littlenight?"

"Yes—I have no wish to prolong my business with Chakkell." Toller went to his bluehorn, which was waiting patiently by a spear-shaped ornamental shrub. He strapped the leather case across the beast's broad haunches, got into the saddle and waved goodbye to Gesalla. She responded with a single slow nod, her face unexpectedly grave.

"Look, I'm merely going on an errand to the palace," Toller said. "Why must you look so troubled?"

"I don't know—perhaps I have a premonition." Gesalla almost smiled. "Perhaps you have been too quiet for too long."

"But that makes me sound like an overgrown child," Toller protested.

Gesalla opened her mouth to reply, changed her mind and disappeared into the house. Slightly disconcerted, Toller urged the bluehorn forward. At the precinct's wooden gate the well-trained animal nuzzled the lock actuating plate, a device Cassyll had designed, and in a few seconds they were out in the vivid grasslands of the countryside.

The road—a strip of gravel and pebbles confined by twin lines of rocks—ran due east to intersect the highway leading to Prad, Overland's principal city. The full acreage of Toller's estate was being cultivated by tenant farmers and therefore showed different shades of green in strips, but beyond his boundaries the hills had their natural uniformity of colour, a rich verdancy which flowed to the horizon. There were no clouds or haze to soften the sun's rays. The sky was a dome of timeless purity, with only a sprinkling of the brightest stars and an occasional meteor showing up against the overall brilliance. And directly above, gravitationally fixed in place, was the huge disk of the Old World, looming but not threatening—a reminder of the most momentous episode in all of Kolcorron's history.

It was the kind of foreday on which Toller would normally have felt at peace with himself and the rest of the universe, but the uneasiness caused by Gesalla's sombre mood had not yet faded from his mind. Could it be that she had a genuine prescience, intimations of forthcoming upheavals in their lives? Or, as was more likely, did she know him better than he knew himself and was able to interpret signals he was not even aware of giving?

There was no denying that of late he had been in the grip of a strange restlessness. The work he had done for the King in exploring and claiming Overland's single continent had brought him honours and possessions; he was married to the only woman he had ever loved and had a son of whom he was proud—and yet, incredibly, life had begun to seem flat. The prospect of continuing on this pleasant and undemanding course until he silted up with old age and died filled him with a sense of suffocation. Feeling like a betrayer, he had done his utmost to conceal his state of mind from Gesalla, but he had never yet managed to deceive her for long about anything…

Far ahead of him Toller saw a small group of soldiers moving north on the highway. He paid them little heed for several minutes until it came to him that their progress towards Prad was unusually slow for a mounted party. In the mood to welcome any distraction, he took his small telescope out of his pouch and trained it on the distant group. The reason for their tardiness was immediately obvious—four men on bluehorns were escorting a man on foot who was almost certainly their prisoner.

Toller closed the telescope and put it away, frowning as he contemplated the fact that crime was virtually unknown on Overland. There was too much work to be done, few people had anything worth stealing, and the sparseness of the population made it difficult for wrongdoers to hide.

His curiosity now aroused, Toller increased his speed and reached the intersection with the highway shortly ahead of the slow-moving group. He brought his steed to a halt and studied the approaching men. Green gauntlet emblems on the breasts of the riders told him they were private soldiers in the employ of Baron Panvarl. The lightly built man stumbling along at the centre of a square formed by the four bluehorns was about thirty and was dressed like an ordinary farmer. His wrists were bound in front of him and lines of dried blood reaching down from his matted black hair showed that he had been roughly handled.

Toller had already decided that he had no liking for the soldiers when he saw the prisoner's eyes lock on him and widen in recognition, an event which in turn stimulated Toller's memory. He had failed to identify the man right away because of his dishevelled appearance, but now he knew him to be Oaslit Spennel, a fruit farmer whose plot was some four miles to the south. Spennel occasionally supplied berries for the Maraquine household, and his reputation was that of a quiet, industrious man of good character. Toller's initial dislike for the soldiers hardened into straightforward antagonism.

"Good foreday, Oaslit," he called out, advancing his bluehorn to block the road. "It surprises me to find you in such dubious company."

Spennel held out his bound wrists. "I have been placed under false arrest, my…"

"Silence, dung-eater!" The sergeant leading the company made a threatening gesture at Spennel, then turned baleful eyes on Toller. He was a barrel-chested man, somewhat old for his rank, with coarse features and the glowering expression of one who had seen a great deal of life without benefiting from the experience. His gaze zigzagged over Toller, who watched impassively, knowing that the sergeant was trying to relate the plainness of his garb to the fact that he rode a bluehorn which sported the finest quality tack.

"Get out of the way," the sergeant said finally.

Toller shook his head. "I demand to hear the nature of the charges against this man."

"You demand a great deal—" The sergeant glanced at his three companions and they responded with grins. "—for one who ventures abroad unarmed."

"I have no need of weapons in these parts," Toller said. "I am Lord Toller Maraquine—perhaps you have heard of me."

"Everybody has heard of the Kingslayer," the sergeant muttered,, augmenting the disrespect in his tone by delaying the correct form of address. "My lord."

Toller smiled as he memorised the sergeant's face. "What are the charges against your prisoner?"

"The swine is guilty of treason—and will face the executioner today in Prad."

Toller dismounted, moving slowly to give himself time to assimilate the news, and went to Spennel. "What's this I hear, Oaslit?"

"It's all lies, my lord." Spennel spoke quickly in a low, frightened monotone. "I swear to you I am totally without blame. I offered no insult to the baron."

"Do you mean Panvarl? How does he come into this?"

Spennel looked nervously at the soldiers before replying. "My farm adjoins the baron's estate, my lord. The spring which waters my trees drains down on to his land and… "Spennel's voice faded and he shook his head, momentarily unable to continue.

"Go on, man," Toller said. "I can't help you unless I know the whole story."

Spennel swallowed audibly. "The water lies in a basin and makes the land swampy at a place where the baron likes to exercise his bluehorns. Two days ago he came to my house and ordered me to block the spring off with boulders and cement. I told him I needed the water for my livelihood and offered to channel it away from his land. He became angry and told me to begin blocking the spring without further delay. I told him there was little point in doing so, because the water would find another way to the surface … and it was … it was then that he accused me of insulting him. He rode off vowing that he would obtain a warrant from the King for my … for my arrest and execution on a charge of treason."

"All this over a patch of muddy ground!" Toller pinched his lower lip in bafflement. "Panvarl must be losing his reason."

Spennel managed a lop-sided travesty of a smile. "Hardly, my lord. Other farmers have forfeited their land to him."

"So that's the way of it," Toller said in a low hard voice, feeling a return of the disillusionment which at times had almost made him a recluse. There had been a period immediately following the arrival of mankind on Overland when he had genuinely believed that the race had made a new start. Those had been the heady years of the exploration and settlement of the green continent which girdled the planet, when it had seemed that all men could be equal and that their old wasteful ways would be abandoned. He had clung to his hopes even when the realities of the situation had begun to become obtrusive, but eventually he had reached the point of having to ask himself if the journey between the worlds had been an exercise in futility…

"Have no fear," he said to Spennel. "You're not going to die on account of Panvarl. You have my word on that."

"Thank you, thank you, thank you…" Spennel glanced again at the soldiers and lowered his voice to a whisper. "My lord, is it in your power to free me now?"

Toller had to shake his head. "For me to go against the King's warrant would prejudice your case even further. Besides, it is more in accord with our purpose if you continue to Prad on foot—that way I can be there well ahead of you and will have ample time in which to speak to the King."

"Thank you again, my lord, from the bottom of my…" Spennel paused, looking oddly ashamed of himself, like a merchant pressing for an advantage which even he conceded was unfair. "If anything should befall me, my lord, would you be so … would you inform my wife and daughter, and see to their…?"

"Nothing untoward is going to happen to you," Toller said, almost sharply. "Now be at your ease as far as is possible and leave the rest of this sorry business to me."

He turned, walked casually to his bluehorn and hoisted himself into the saddle, feeling some concern over the fact that Spennel, regardless of the guarantees he had been given, still half-expected to die. It was a sign of the times, an indication that not only was he no longer in favour with the King, but that his fall from favour had been widely noted. Personally he cared little about such things, but it would be serious indeed if he found himself unable to help a man in Spennel's predicament.

He nudged his bluehorn closer to the sergeant and said, "What is your name?"

"What concern is that of yours?" the sergeant countered. "My lord."

To his surprise Toller experienced that flickering of redness at the edges of his vision which had always accompanied the most reckless rages of his youth. He leaned forward, stabbing with his eyes, and saw the challenging expression fade from the other man's face.

"I will ask you but one more time, sergeant," he said. "What is your name?"

The sergeant hesitated only briefly. "Gnapperl."

Toller gave him a broad smile. "Very well, Gnapperl—now we know each other and can all be good friends together. I am on my way to Prad for a private audience with the King, and the first thing I will do is ensure that Oaslit Spennel receives a full pardon for his imaginary crime. For the present I am placing him under my personal protection, and—I dislike mentioning this now that we have become good friends—if any misfortune were to befall him you would soon be overtaken by an even greater misfortune. I trust my meaning is clear…"

The sergeant responded with a malevolent stare, his lips twitching as he debated making a reply. Toller gave him a nod of mock politeness, brought his mount around and put it into a fast canter. It was about four miles to Kolcorron's major city, and he could expect to be there at least an hour ahead of Gnapperl and his squad. Toller glanced up at the vastness of the sister planet, poised directly above him and occupying a large arc of the sky, and knew by the width of its sunlit crescent that he would be in good time for his appointment. Even with Spennel's release to be negotiated he could still complete his mission and reach home again before the sun vanished behind the Old World—provided that the King was in a reasonable frame of mind.

The best approach, he decided, would be to play on Chakkell's antipathy towards the idea of his noblemen extending their territories. When the new state of Kolcorron had been founded, Chakkell—the first non-hereditary ruler in history—had sought to protect his position by severely limiting the size of aristocrats' domains. There had been some resentment, especially among those related to the old royal family, but Chakkell had dealt with it firmly and, in some cases, bloodily. Toller had been too busy to pay much attention.

Those early years now had a dreamlike quality in his memory. He could no longer readily visualise that wavering line of sky-ships, a stack a hundred miles high, drifting down from the zenith after the interplanetary crossing. Most of the craft had been dismantled soon after the landing, the balloon fabric going to make tents for the settlers, or in some cases being restitched to create envelopes for airships. On a whim of Chakkell's a number of the skyships had been preserved intact to form the basis of museums, but Toller had not viewed any of them in a long time. The inert, mould-encrusted reality of the ships was incompatible with the inspirational dynamism of that high point in his life.

On surmounting a fold in the land he saw the city of Prad in the distance, its centre cradled in the bend of a wide river. The city presented a strange appearance to his eye because, unlike Ro-Atabri where he had grown up, its origins lay in an abstraction, an architectural strategy. A cluster of tall buildings marked the core, oddly circumscribed and highly visible amid the green horizontals of the landscape, while the rest had only an attenuated existence. Patterns of future avenues and plazas were sketched on the terrain, sometimes with lines of timber dwellings, but for the most part with nothing more than posts and white-painted boulders. Here and there in the suburbs a stone-built official structure brought the plan a step closer to reality, each building suggestive of a lonely outpost under siege from armies of grass and scrub. In many areas nothing moved but the bubble-like ptertha, gently bounding across the open ground or nuzzling their way along fences.

Toller followed the straight highway into the city, a place he rarely visited. He passed increasing numbers of men, women and children who were on foot, and in the central section found a bustling atmosphere reminiscent of a market town on the Old World. The public buildings were in the traditional Kolcorronian style—featuring overlapping diamond patterns in varicoloured masonry and brick—which had been modified to suit local conditions. Deep red sandstone should have been used to dress all corners and edges, but no useful sources had yet been found on Overland and the builders had substituted brown granite. Most of the shops and hostelries had been deliberately made to resemble their Old World counterparts, and in some areas Toller found it almost possible to imagine himself back in Ro-Atabri.

Nevertheless, the rawness and lack of finish of many structures reinforced his opinion that King Chakkell had tried to do too much too soon. Only twelve thousand people had successfully completed the journey to Overland, and although they were multiplying rapidly the population of the entire planet was less than fifty thousand. Many of those were very young and—as a result of Chakkell's determination to create a world state—were scattered in small communities all around the globe. Even Prad, the so-called capital city, housed less than eight thousand, making it a village uncomfortably glorified with the trappings of government.

As he neared the north side Toller began to catch glimpses of the royal palace on the far bank of the river. It was a rectangular building, architecturally incomplete, waiting for the wings and towers which even the impatient Chakkell had to entrust to future generations. The white and rose-coloured marble with which it was clad gleamed through ranks of immature trees. Within a few minutes Toller was crossing the single ornate bridge which spanned the river. He approached the brakka wood gates of the palace itself, where the chief of the guard recognised him and signalled that he should pass through unimpeded.

In the forecourt of the palace there were about twenty phaetons and as many saddled bluehorns, an indication that this was a busy foreday for the King. It occurred to Toller that he might not get to see Chakkell at his appointed hour, and he felt a sudden stirring of anxiety on Spennel's behalf. The threat he had issued to the sergeant would cease to be effective in the presence of an executioner and high officials carrying death warrants. Toller dismounted, unstrapped the presentation case and hurried to the arched main entrance. He was admitted by the outer guards quickly enough, but—as he had feared—was stopped at the carved door of the audience chamber by two black-armoured ostiaries.

"I'm sorry, my lord," one of them said. "You are required to wait here until the King bids you enter."

Toller glanced at the other people, some of whom were wearing the sword-and-plume insignia of royal messengers, who were standing about the corridor in groups of two or three. "But my appointment is for the ninth hour."

"Others have been in attendance since the seventh hour, my lord."

Toller's anxiety increased sharply. He paced a circle on the mosaic floor while he came to a decision and then, making a show of seeming relaxed and untroubled, returned to the guards. When he engaged them in Smalltalk they looked gratified, but not unduly so—their control of that particular doorway had enhanced their standing with many petitioners. Toller conversed with them for several minutes and was just beginning to have difficulty in dredging up suitable trivia when footsteps sounded on the far side of the double door.

Each ostiary swung upon a leaf and a small group of men dressed in commissioner's robes emerged, nodding in evident satisfaction at the outcome of their meeting with the King. A white-haired man who looked like a district administrator stepped forward, obviously expecting to be ushered into Chakkell's presence.

"My apologies," Toller murmured, moving ahead of him. The startled ostiaries tried to bar the way, but even in his early fifties Toller retained much of the speed and casual power which had distinguished him as a young soldier, and he thrust the two men aside with ease. A second later he was striding through the high-ceilinged room towards the dais upon which Chakkell was seated. Chakkell raised his head, alerted by the clattering of the ostiaries' armour as they came in pursuit of Toller, and his expression changed to one of anger.

"Maraquine!" he snapped, heaving himself to his feet. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"It's a matter of life or death, Majesty!" Toller allowed the guards to seize him by the arms, but resisted their attempts to draw him back to the door. "An innocent man's life is at stake, and I beg you to consider the matter without delay. Also, I suggest that you order your doorkeepers to withdraw—they would be of little value were I obliged to separate their hands from their wrists."

His words caused the guards to redouble their efforts to move him, but Chakkell pointed a finger at them and slowly veered it to indicate the door. The guards released Toller immediately, bowed and backed away. Chakkell remained on his feet, eyes locked with Toller's until they were alone in the large room, then he sat down heavily and clapped a hand to his forehead.

"I can scarcely credit this, Maraquine," he said. "You still haven't changed, have you? I had hoped that my depriving you of your Burnor estates would have taught you to curb that damned insolence of yours, but I see I was too optimistic."

"I had no use for…" Toller paused, realising he was taking the wrong road to his objective. He eyed the King soberly as he tried to gauge how much damage he had already done to Spennel's prospects. Chakkell was now sixty-five; his sun-browned scalp was almost devoid of hair and he was burdened with fat, but he had lost none of his mental vigour. He was still a hard, intolerant man—and he had lost little, if any, of the ruthlessness which had eventually gained him the throne.

"Go on!" Chakkell drew his eyebrows together to form a continuous bar. "You had no use for what?"

"It was of little consequence, Majesty," Toller said. "I apologise most sincerely for forcing my way into your presence, but I repeat that this is a matter of an innocent man's life, and there is no time to spare."

"What innocent man? Why do you trouble me with this?" While Toller was describing the events of the foreday Chakkell toyed with the blue jewel he wore on his breast, and at the end of the account he produced a calmly incredulous smile. "How do you know that your lowly friend didn't insult Panvarl?"

"He swore it to me."

Chakkell continued to smile. "So it's the word of some miserable farmer against that of a nobleman of this realm?'

"The farmer is personally known to me," Toller said urgently. "I vouch for his honesty."

"But what would induce Panvarl to lie over a matter of such little import?"

"Land." Toller gave the word time to register. "Panvarl is displacing farmers from his borders and absorbing their holdings into his own demesne. His intentions are fairly obvious, and—I would have thought—not to your liking."

Chakkell leaned back in his gilded chair, his smile broadening. "I get your drift, my dear Toller, but if Panvarl is content to proceed by gobbling up smallholdings one by one it will be a thousand years before his descendants can pose any threat to the monarchy of the day. You will forgive me if I continue to address myself to more urgent problems."

"But…" Toller experienced premonitions of failure as he saw what was behind Chakkell's use of his given name and sudden accession of good humour. He was to be punished for past and present misdeeds—by the death of another man. The notion escalated Toller's uneasiness into a chilly panic.

"Majesty," he said, "I must appeal to your sense of justice. One of your loyal subjects, a man who has no means to defend himself, is being deprived of his property and life."

"But it is justice," Chakkell replied comfortably. "He should have given some thought to the consequences before he offered insult to Panvarl, and thus indirectly to me. In my opinion the baron behaved very correctly—he would have been within his rights had he struck the clod down on the spot instead of seeking a warrant."

"That was to give his criminal activities the semblance of legality."

"Be careful, Maraquine!' The genial expression had departed the King's swarthy face. "You are in danger of going too far."

"I apologise, Majesty," Toller said, and in his desperation decided to put the issue on a personal footing. "My only intention is to save an innocent man's life—and to that end may I remind you of a certain favour you owe me."

"Favour? Favour?"

Toller nodded. "Yes, Majesty. I refer to the occasion when I preserved not only your own life but those of Queen Daseene and your three children. I have never brought the matter up before, but the time has…"

"Enough!" Chakkell's shout of incredulity echoed in the rafters. "I grant you that, while in the process of saving your own skin, you incidentally delivered my family, but that was more than twenty years ago! And as for never referring to the matter—you have used it over and over again when you wished to pry some concession out of me. Looking back through the years, it seems to have been your sole topic of conversation! No, Maraquine, you have traded on that one for far too long."

"But all the same, Majesty, four royal lives for the price of one ord—"

"Silence! You are to plague me no longer on that point. Why are you here anyway?" Chakkell snatched a handful of papers from a stand beside his chair and riffled through them. "I see. You claim to be bringing me a special gift. What is it?"

Recognising that for the moment it would be unwise to press the King further, Toller opened the leather case and displayed its contents. "A very special gift, Majesty."

"A metal sword." Chakkell gave an exaggerated sigh. "Maraquine, these monomanias of yours become increasingly tiresome. I thought we had settled once and for all that iron is inferior to brakka for weaponry."

"But this blade is made of steel." Toller withdrew the sword and was about to pass it to the King when a new idea occurred to him. "We have learned that ore smelted in the upper part of a furnace produces a much harder metal, one which can then be tempered to form the perfect blade." Setting the case on the floor, Toller adopted a fighting stance with the sword in the first readiness position.

Chakkell shifted in his chair, looking uneasy. "You know the protocol about carrying weapons in the palace, Maraquine. I have half a mind to summon the guard and let them deal with you."

"That would provide a welcome opportunity for me to demonstrate the value of the gift," Toller said, smiling. "With this in my hand I can defeat the best swordsman in your army."

"Now you're being ridiculous. Go home with your shiny toy and allow me to attend to more important matters."

"I meant what I said." Toller introduced a degree of hardness into his voice. "The best swordsman in your army."

Chakkell responded to Toller's new note of challenge by narrowing his eyes. "The years appear to have weakened your mind as much as your body. You have heard of Karkarand, I presume. Have you any conception of what he could do to a man of your age?"

"He will be powerless against me—as long as I have this sword." Toller lowered the weapon to his side. "So confident am I that I am prepared to wager my sole remaining estate on the outcome of a duel with Karkarand. I know you are partial to a gamble, Majesty, so what say you? My entire estate against the life of one farmer."

"So that's it!' Chakkell shook his head. "I am not disposed to…"

"We can make it to the death if you like."

Chakkell leapt to his feet. "You arrogant fool, Maraquine! This time you will receive what you have so assiduously courted since the day we met. It will give me the greatest pleasure to see daylight being let into that thick skull of yours."

"Thank you, Majesty," Toller said drily. "In the meantime … a stay of execution?"

"That will not be necessary—the issue will be settled forthwith." Chakkell raised a hand and a stoop-shouldered secretary, who must have been watching from a spyhole, scurried into the room through a small doorway.

"Majesty?" he said, bowing so vigorously as to suggest to Toller that he had acquired his posture through years of deference.

"Two things," Chakkell said. "Inform those who wait in the corridor that I am departing on other business, but they may take consolation from the fact that my absence will be brief. Extremely brief! Secondly, tell the house commander that I require Karkarand to be on the parade ground three minutes from now. He is to be armed and prepared to carry out a dissection."

"Yes, Majesty." The secretary bowed again and, after casting one lingering and speculative look at Toller, loped away towards the double door. He was moving with the eager gait of one for whom a dull day had suddenly shown promise of memorable entertainment. Toller watched him depart and, having been granted time for thought, began to wonder if he had overstepped the bounds of reason in his championing of Spennel.

"What's this, Maraquine?" Chakkell said, his former joviality returning. "Second thoughts?" Without waiting for a reply he crooked his finger and led the way out of the audience chamber by means of a curtained private exit.

As he walked along a panelled corridor in the King's wake Toller suddenly glimpsed a mind-picture of Gesalla at the moment of their parting, her grey eyes deeply troubled, and his misgivings increased. Had some intuitive power enabled her to know that he was setting out to court danger? The meeting with Spennel and his captors had been pure coincidence, of course, but Toller lived in a society where violent death was not uncommon, and in previous years he had been unperturbed by reports of summary and unjust executions. Could it be that, in his mood of destructive discontent, he would have sought out a way—even without the chance encounter on the road to Prad—to place himself in a position of peril?

If he had been unconsciously trying to put himself in danger he had been spectacularly successful. He had never set eyes on Karkarand, but he knew the man to be a rare phenomenon—a gifted sword fighter, unhampered by any trace of morality or regard for human life, with a physique so powerful that he was rumoured to have dispatched a bluehorn with a single blow of his fist. For a middle-aged man, regardless of how well he was armed, to pit himself against such a killing machine was an act of recklessness bordering on the suicidal. And, as the ultimate flourish of idiocy, he had wagered the estate which supported his family on the outcome of the duel!

Forgive me, Gesalla, Toller thought, mentally cringing from his solewife's level gaze. If I survive this episode I'll be the model of prudence until the day I die. I promise to be what you want me to be.

King Chakkell reached a door which led to the outside and, in a complete reversal of protocol, pulled it open and gestured for Toller to precede him into the parade ground beyond. Some remnant of a sense of propriety caused Toller to hesitate, then he noticed Chakkell's smile and understood the symbolism of his action—he was happy to suspend the normal rules of conduct for the privilege of ushering an old adversary out of the world of the living.

"What ails you, Toller?" he said, jovial once more. "At this point any other man would be having second thoughts—are you, perhaps, having first thoughts? And regrets?"

"On the contrary," Toller replied, returning the smile, "I'm looking forward to some gentle exercise."

He set the presentation case down on the gravelled surface of enclosed ground and took out the sword. There was comfort to be gained from the balanced weight of it, the sheer rightness of the way it took to his hand, and his anxiety began to abate. He glanced up at the vast disk of the Old World and saw that the ninth hour was just beginning, which meant he could still reach home before littlenight.

"Is that a blood channel?" Chakkell said, looking closely at the steel sword for the first time and noticing the groove which extended down from the haft. "You don't go in to the hilt with a blade that long, do you?"

"New materials, new designs." Toller, who had no wish for the weapon's secret to be revealed prematurely, turned away and scanned the line of low military quarters and stores which bounded the parade ground. "Where is this swordsman of yours, Majesty? I trust he moves with greater alacrity when in combat."

"That you will soon discover," Chakkell said comfortably.

At that moment a door opened in the farthest wall and a man in line soldier's uniform emerged. Other soldiers appeared behind him and spread out sideways to merge with the thin line of spectators who were noiselessly materialising on the ground's perimeter. The word had spread quickly, Toller realised, attracting those who anticipated seeing a dash of crimson added to the dull monochrome of the palatial day. He returned his attention to the soldier who had come out first and was now walking towards him and the King.

Karkarand was not quite as tall as Toller had expected, but he had a tremendous breadth of torso and columnar legs of such power that he progressed with a springy gait in spite of the massiveness of his build. His arms were so packed with muscle that, unable to hang vertically at his side, they projected laterally at an angle, adding a touch of monstrousness to his already intimidating appearance. Karkarand's face was very broad, yet narrower than the trunk of his neck, its features blurred by a reddish stubble. His eyes, which were fixed on Toller, were so pale and bright that they seemed to fluoresce in the shadow of his brakka helmet.

Toller immediately understood that he had made a serious mistake in issuing his challenge to the King. Before him was a creature, less a human being than an engine of war, who had no real need of artificial weapons to supplement the destructive forces nature had built into his grotesque frame. Even if successfully disarmed by an opponent he would be capable of pressing the engagement through to a lethal conclusion. Toller instinctively tightened his grip on his sword and, choosing to wait no longer, depressed a stud on its haft. He felt the glass vial within shatter and release its charge of yellow fluid.

"Majesty," Karkarand said in a surprisingly melodious voice as he approached and saluted the King.

"Good foreday, Karkarand." Chakkell's tone was equally light, almost conversational. "Lord Toller Maraquine—of whom you will doubtless have heard—appears to have become enamoured with death. Be a good fellow and cater to his wishes at once."

"Yes, Majesty." Karkarand saluted again and in a continuation of the movement drew his battle sword. In place of standard regimental markings the blackness of the brakka wood blade was relieved by crimson enamel inlays in the shape of blood droplets—a sign that its owner was a personal favourite of the King. Karkarand unhurriedly turned to face Toller, his expression one of calmness and mild curiosity, and raised his sword. Chakkell moved several paces back.

Toller's heart began to pound as he made himself ready, speculating as to what form Karkarand's attack would take. He had half-expected a sudden onslaught which would have been designed to end the duel in a second or so, but his opponent was playing a different game. Moving slowly forward, Karkarand lifted his sword high and brought it down in the kind of simple direct stroke that might have been used by a small child at play. Surprised by the other man's lack of finesse, Toller automatically parried the blow—and nearly gasped aloud as the incredible shock of it raced back through his blade, twisting and loosening the haft in his fingers, causing a geysering of pain in his hand.

The sword had almost been struck from his grasp by Karkarand's first blow!

He tightened numb fingers on the still-reverberating haft just in time to counter an exact repetition of the first stroke. This time he was better prepared for the devastating power of it and his sword remained secure in his grip, but the pain was more intense than before, surging back into his wrist. Karkarand kept moving forward at his deliberate pace, repeating the downward blow without any variation, and now Toller understood his opponent's strategy. This was to be death by contempt. Karkarand had indeed heard of Lord Toller Maraquine, and he was determined to enhance his own reputation by simply walking through the Kingslayer like an automaton, annihilating him in a demonstration of sheer strength. No special skill was required, was to be the message to the onlookers and the rest of the world. The great Toller Maraquine was easy meat for the first real warrior he ever encountered.

Toller leapt back well clear of Karkarand to gain some respite from the punishing contacts with the black sword and to give himself time in which to think. He could see now that Karkarand's weapon was thicker and heavier than an ordinary battle sword—more suitable for formal executions than prolonged combat—and only one possessed of superhuman strength could use it effectively in a duel. The heart of the problem, however, lay in the odd fighting style which had been adopted by Karkarand. An unrelenting series of vertical strokes was probably the best technique, albeit chosen unwittingly, for countering the secret additional power of Toller's steel sword. If he wanted to survive—and thereby prove his point—he would have to force a radical change in the style of combat.

Hardening his resolve, Toller waited until Karkarand's sword was again raised above his head, then he went in fast and blocked the coming downstroke by locking the two blades together at the hilt. The move took Karkarand by surprise because it could only have been completed successfully by an opponent of greater physical strength—and such was manifestly not the case. Karkarand blinked, and then with a snort of gratification bore downwards with all the power of his massive right arm. Toller was able to resist for only a few seconds before being obliged to yield, and as his opponent's drive gained momentum he was actually forced into an undignified backwards scramble which almost ended in a fall.

The onlookers, who had advanced to form a circle, raised some ironic applause—a sound in which Toller detected a note of anticipation. He played up to it by bowing towards Chakkell, who responded with an impatient signal to continue with the duel. Toller wheeled quickly on his opponent, now feeling satisfied and relieved, knowing that the upper sections of the two blades had been in contact long enough for Karkarand's weapon to have been liberally smeared with yellow fluid.

"Enough of this play-acting, Kingslayer," Karkarand growled as he drove forward with yet another of the swishing, murderous vertical strokes.

Instead of fending it off to the right, Toller—using smallsword technique—swept his blade over and around the blow, and concluded the movement by striking across the line of it. Karkarand's sword snapped just below the hilt and the black blade tumbled away across the gravel. Running a few paces towards the ruined weapon, Karkarand emitted a cry of anguished surprise which was amplified by the stillness which had descended over the crowd.

"What have you done, Maraquine?" King Chakkell bellowed, his paunch surging as he strode forward. "What trickery is this?"

"No trickery! See for yourself, Majesty," Toller called out, his attention only partially centred on the King. The duel would have been ended or suspended had the normal Kolcorronian rules been in force, but he had assessed Karkarand as a man to whom behavioural codes meant nothing, who would always go for the kill using any means at his disposal. Toller faced the King for only an instant, judging the time available to him, then spun with his sword held level in a glittering horizontal sweep. Karkarand, who had been running at him with the organic club of his fist upraised, slid to a halt with the point of Toller's sword in his midriff. A crimson stain spread quickly in the coarse grey weave of his tunic, but he held his ground, breathing heavily, and even seemed to be pressing forward regardless of the metal which was penetrating his flesh.

"Make your choice, ogre," Toller said gently. "Life or death."

Karkarand stared at him wordlessly, still without backing off, eyes reduced to pale venomous slits in the vertically compressed face, and Toller found himself making ready for an action which had become foreign to his nature.

"Use your brains, Karkarand," Chakkell said, reaching the scene of the confrontation. "You would be of little use to me with a severed spine. Return to your duties immediately—this matter may be concluded another day."

"Majesty." Karkarand stepped backwards and saluted the King without once allowing his gaze to stray from Toller's face. He turned and marched away towards his quarters, the ring of spectators hastily parting to let him through. Chakkell, who had been happy to indulge his subjects as long as he had believed Toller would be slain, made a dismissive gesture and the crowd rapidly dispersed. Within seconds Toller and Chakkell were alone in a sunlit arena.

"Now, Maraquine!" Chakkell extended his hand. "The weapon!"

"Of course, Majesty." Toller opened the compartment in the haft, revealing the shattered vial bathed in yellow ooze, and a pungent smell—reminiscent of the stench of whitefern—permeated the warm air. Holding the sword by the lower part of the blade, Toller passed it over to Chakkell for inspection.

Chakkell wrinkled his nose in distaste. "This is brakka slime!"

"A refinement of it. In this form it is easier to remove from one's skin."

"The form is of no account." Chakkell looked down and nudged the discarded handle of Karkarand's sword with his foot. The black wood of the blade stump was visibly seething and frothing under the action of the destructive fluid. "I still say you resorted to trickery."

"And I maintain there was no trickery," Toller countered. "When a superior new weapon becomes available only a fool stubbornly clings to the old—that has always been a precept in military logic. And from this day forward weapons fashioned from brakka wood are obsolete." He paused to glance up at the looming convexity of the Old World. "They belong up there—with the past."

Chakkell returned the steel sword and broodily paced a circle before again locking eyes with Toller. "I don't understand you, Maraquine. Why have you gone to such lengths? Why have you taken such pains?"

"The felling of brakka trees has to stop—and the sooner the better."

"The same old tune! And what if I suppress all details of your new toy?"

"It's already too late for that," Toller said, turning a thumb towards the line of military quarters. "Many soldiers saw the steel sword survive the worst shocks that Karkarand could inflict, and they also saw what happened to his blade. It is beyond the power of any ruler to restrict that kind of knowledge. Soldiers will always talk, Majesty. They will feel uneasy, and resentful, if required to go into battle armed with weapons they know to be inferior. If in future there were to be an insurrection—perish the thought!—the traitor leading it would ensure that his soldiers were equipped with steel swords of this new pattern. That being the case, a hundred of his men could rout a thous—"

"Stop!" Chakkell clapped his hands to his temples and stood that way for a moment, breathing noisily. "Deliver twelve examples of your damned sword to Gagron of the Military Council. I will speak to him in the meantime."

"Thank you, Majesty," Toller said, taking care to sound gratified rather than triumphant. "And now, about the reprieve for the farmer?"

There was a stirring in the brown depths of Chakkell's eyes. "You can't have everything, Maraquine. You overcame Karkarand by deceit—so your wager is lost. You should be grateful that I am not claiming the stipulated payment."

"But I made my terms clear," Toller said, appalled by the new development. "I said I could defeat the best swordsman in your army as long as I held this sword in my hand."

"Now you're beginning to sound like a cheap Kailian lawyer," Chakkell said, his smile stealing back by degrees. "Remember you're supposed to be a man of honour."

"There is only one here whose honour is in question."

The words he had spoken—his own sentence of death—quickly leached away into the surrounding stillness, and yet it seemed to Toller that he could hear them still being chanted, slow-fading in the passageways of his mind. I must have planned to die, he told himself. But why did my body proceed with the scheme on its own? Why did it make the fatal move so quickly? Did it know my mind to be an irresolute and untrustworthy accomplice? Does every suicide recriminate with himself as he contemplates the empty poison bottle?

Bemused and numb—stone-faced because the last thing he could do was to show any sign of regret—Toller waited for the King's inevitable reaction. There was no point in trying to apologise or make amends—in Kolcorronian society death was the mandatory punishment for insulting the ruler—and there was nothing Toller could do now but try to shut out visions of Gesalla's face as she heard how he had engineered his own demise…

"In a way, it has always been something of a game between us," Chakkell said, looking reproachful rather than angry. "Time after time I have allowed you to get away with things for which I would have had any other man flayed; and even on this foreday—had your bout with Karkarand taken its natural course—I believe I would have stayed his sword at the end rather than see you die. And it was all because of our private little jest, Toller. Our secret game. Do you understand that?"

Toller shook his head. "It is entirely too deep for the likes of me."

"You know exactly what I'm saying. And you know also that the game ended a moment ago when you broke all the rules. You have left me with no alternative but to…"

Chakkell's words were lost to Toller as, looking over the King's shoulder, he saw an army officer come running from a doorway in the north wall of the palace. Chakkell must have given a secret signal, Toller decided, his heart lurching as he tightened his grip on the steel sword. For one pounding instant he considered making the King his hostage and bargaining his way to the open countryside and freedom, but the obdurate side of his nature came to the fore. He had no relish for the idea of being hunted down and trapped like a bedraggled animal—and, besides, the act of threatening Chakkell would rebound on his own family. It would be better by far to accept that he had entered the last hour of his life, and to depart it with what remained of his dignity and honour.

Toller stepped clear of Chakkell and was raising his sword when it came to him that the orange-crested captain was hardly behaving like an arresting officer. He was not accompanied by any of the palace guard, his face was agitated and he was carrying binoculars in place of a drawn sword. Far behind him other soldiers and court officials were reappearing at the edges of the parade ground, their faces turned to the southern sky.

"…if you make no attempt to resist," Chakkell was saying. "Otherwise, I will have no recourse but to…" He broke off, alerted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and wheeled to face the running officer.

"Majesty!" the captain called out. "I bear a sunwriter message from Airmarshal Yeapard. It is of the utmost urgency." The captain slid to a halt, saluted and waited for permission to continue.

"Get on with it," Chakkell said irritably.

"A skyship has been sighted south of the city, Majesty."

"Skyship? Skyship?" Chakkell scowled at the captain. "What is Yeapard talking about?"

"I have no more information, Majesty," the captain replied, nervously proferring the leather-bound binoculars. "The air-marshal said you might wish to use these."

Chakkell snatched the glasses and aimed them at the sky. Toller dropped his sword and reached into his pouch for his telescope, narrowing his eyes as he picked out an object shining in the south, about midway between the horizon and the disk of the sister world. With practised speed he trained the telescope, centring the object in a circle of blue brilliance. The magnified image produced in him a rush of emotion powerful enough to displace all thoughts of his imminent death.

He saw the pear-shaped balloon—impressively huge even at a distance of miles—and the rectangular gondola slung beneath it. He saw the jet exhaust cone projecting downwards from the gondola, and even discerned the near-invisible lines of the acceleration struts which linked the upper and lower components of the airborne craft. And it was the sight of the struts—unique to the ships designed more than twenty years earlier for the Migration—which confirmed what he had intuitively known from the start, adding to his inner turmoil.

"I can't find anything," Chakkell grumbled, slewing the binoculars too rapidly. "How can there be a skyship anyway? I haven't authorised any rebuilding."

"I think that is the point of the airmarshal's message," Toller said, keeping his voice level. "We have visitors from the Old World."