THE CRUCIBLE OF TIME BY JOHN BRUNNER

Just before entering the castle again, Twig turned to him and said bluffly, “Put what I know about the world below together with what you know about the sky, and we might get somewhere one of these days, right? Shall we try?”

It was a formal invitation not just to collaborate but to make friends.

Jing felt obliged to treat it as such, despite his reservations concerning Twig’s researches. They locked claws accordingly.

Later, Jing reflected it was as well they concluded their compact at that juncture, for the first person to meet them within the castle reported Drakh’s death; the best of Twig’s cleanlickers had failed to purify his wound. Grief at being shorn of his last Ntahish companion might have driven him to dreamness and made him reject Twig-friend because of Twig-physician. Yet no blame could attach save to those who had stabbed Drakh a month’s journey ago.

When, in compliance with local custom, they consigned Drakh’s remains to a pullulating pond surrounding a handsome blazetree, Twig spoke much about loneliness and isolation, and Jing was touched and grateful.

As though the funeral were a significant occasion, the Maker’s Sling delivered a cast of long bright streaks across the zenith.

But that was apt to happen any night.

IV

Next day distraught peasants came crying that a snowbelong had killed a child from the furthest-outlying village, and the Count hauled himself out of his sitting-pit and set off to hunt it down with hoverers and canifangs. Twig predicted it might be several days before he returned, and Jing looked forward not only to improving his Forbish but also to cleansing his mind of the nostalgic dreams which since the death of Drakh threatened to overwhelm him.

Taking advantage of his absence, however, the sacerdotes promptly summoned Jing to their chapel, an enclosure within the north wall of the castle which they had been granted because the Count, despite being well fed, was sufficiently at the mercy of his dreams to half believe their dogma.

“You’ll have to go, I’m afraid,” sighed Twig.

“Here I thought had they no power. How they force me?”

“Hmm! It isn’t quite like that. True, the Count’s rule is absolute here, and the people, if they have a religion at all, adhere to superstitions even more absurd than the sacerdotes’, though some of their knowledge, especially where fire is concerned … Excuse me. The point is, the Count has opened up this place to trade with the south, and that means contact with southern believers. Most of the summer there are at least half a score of the faithful here, and the sacerdotes incite them to put pressure on the Count, who’s growing senile. What I’m afraid of is that sooner or later he may conclude that they’re right after all, and hoping to escape the curse he’ll go whining to them for forgiveness, and you can guess what’ll become of the rest of us then! At all events they’re getting bolder, and if you don’t obey their summons you could well find your food poisoned or a prong stuck in your back.”

Jing would have dismissed the idea as ridiculous but for what had happened to Drakh. Sensing his dismay, Twig added, “If it’s any comfort, though, you should bear in mind that it would be a far greater coup for them to convert you than kill you. They may be a nuisance but they’re not likely to be a menace.”

At least these sacerdotes were less determined to execute what they held to be the Maker’s will than their counterparts at Forb. They greeted him politely as he entered the chapel, which was decorated with makeshift symbols: the Sling, of course, shiny with glitterweed; a pile of the seared rocks which were held to be what the Sling cast, but looked much like any other rock except for superficial melt-marks; some rather repulsive models of victims of the Maker’s wrath, struck down from on high.

For a while there was ordinary conversation, about his homeland and his various travels. Jing answered as best he could, wishing he had asked Twig their names, for they had not offered them and direct inquiry might be rude. There were a chief, a middle and a junior; that would have to do.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *