“Yield,” he grunted.
Veautrin twitched his sword arm. Too late, Zhorga realized that he lacked the planetary weight to hold his opponent to the floor. Already he had made the mistake of lifting one foot from the carpet, and the other remained attached only by the sole. Now the remaining inches of grip-felt came free, and Veautrin sent him floating into the air, spinning slowly, unable to reach his adversary and feeling ridiculous.
With a chiming sound his sword was struck from his grasp and went flying toward the ceiling. As it bounced back, Veautrin deftly caught it. Then he tugged Zhorga to the floor by the skirt of his jacket and handed him the weapon hilt foremost with a curt bow.
“Your play has merit, though it lacks finesse,” he said.
Baron Matello was laughing loudly and clapping his hands. “Well done! The best bit of clowning I’ve seen for a long time!” He turned to the victor. “Well, Veautrin, what do you think of him?”
The captain looked Zhorga up and down. He might have been appraising a horse. “He’ll be all right, once he’s been put through the drills. A good reliable type, basically—if he’ll accept discipline.”
Privately Zhorga marveled as he dabbed at the blood that still oozed through his beard. The two were discussing a fealty oath that could bind him to the baron for life—yet nothing had even been mentioned to him of the baron’s own allegiances, his ideals and aims, even though Zhorga was obviously quite ignorant of them. It was apparently of no consequence, for instance, that he did not even know the name of Matello’s monarch.
All this accorded with what he had heard of the mentality of these great star nobles, who lived in an atmosphere of unquestioning obedience and treated their bondsmen as personal property without any opinions of their own. Zhorga tried a new tack. “Perhaps your lordship would be generous enough to give us passage to the star worlds and allow us to fend for ourselves thereafter. In return, let us work for you during your stay on Mars.”
“But what use would you be to me?” Matello said petulantly. “It is not as if you had any special knowledge of Mars, or could help me in my mission.”
“That depends, of course, on what brings you to this planet,” Zhorga said in a low voice.
Matello was silent for a moment. Then he grunted.
“Well, what does it matter if you know? Mars, at one time, was a venue for those seeking a thing of value called the Philosopher’s Stone. It has come to my knowledge that a book is hidden here somewhere, said to contain the ultimate alchemical secret. Alchemy, as such, doesn’t interest me—but I have reasons for wanting this book.”
He gestured to Veautrin to return the swords to the cupboard rack. His florid tones became complaining.
“Where, however, is it? The towns are in ruins, scarcely anyone in them can even read. It could be under any square foot of sand.”
Zhorga blinked, and looked astounded. “That is all you know, my lord? That the book is on Mars?”
“That is all.”
Zhorga grinned. His eyes gleamed. “Then I can be of use to you after all!”
“You’re sure your mentor had nothing else to add? No hint of an address? No idea of what quarter of the city to look in?”
“No, my lord,” Rachad lied, trying to sound as guileless as possible. “He only knew that I should go to Kars.”
They stood on a rise overlooking the ruins of the ancient city. Around them were parked the Bucentaur’s three lighters, which had ferried some hundreds of men to the site. Included in the work force were Zhorga and his crew, transformed now into a small squad and wearing the baron’s uniform, but without his coat of arms. They stood at ease alongside the others, awaiting instructions.
Matello was reflective. “Not a great deal to go on for one young man on his own in a strange land,” he mused. He had been firm but courteous toward the youth, not wishing to terrify him unduly. He was aware, anyway, that Rachad had already seen the torture equipment in the interrogation room. And indeed, the boy had volunteered his information with alacrity, though disappointingly it did not amount to anything more than the snippet already provided by Captain Zhorga.
“To know that the book exists at all is already a great deal,” Rachad said defensively, “let alone in what city it is hidden.”
“And with that,” Matello sighed, “you came all the way from Earth.”
“With respect, my lord, you came much farther with even less. Even a small chance of obtaining so precious a secret is worth taking.”
Matello shot him a sarcastic glance. Rachad continued: “My master advised me to pose as a seeker or even an adept, and to inveigle myself among the alchemists and secret societies he thought would exist here.”
“Hah! I wish he could be here to answer for his advice.” Matello rattled the map he was holding. It showed Kars as it had been in former days, before war and decay had overtaken it. At one time the city must have been a thriving, colorful place, but now it presented mostly piles of tumbled masonry, shells of buildings, broken towers and jutting pillars. True, it was even now not entirely abandoned. Among the decrepit piles of sand-colored stone were signs of movement, and on the edges of the sprawling ruins ploughed fields extended.
And the main street plan could still be made out, at least as regards the wider avenues. Rachad craned his neck trying to see Matello’s map. He had already learned to recognize the squiggly symbol that marked the temples, of which Kars, it seemed, had been crammed full. Rapidly, almost despairingly, his eye raced over the parchment—and then stopped. There it was, clearly written in the graceful Martian script! The Temple of Hermes Trismegistus!
Rachad’s heart beat faster. He looked out over the dead city, trying to locate what he had seen on the map. Could that be it over there—that half-tumbled building with sloping walls, that might once have resembled an athanor?
Yes, he decided. That was it.
With a grunt Baron Matello took up a pen, dipped it in a little bottle of ink, and divided the map into sections. “We’ll start here,” he said, subdividing one section still further into a number of blocks. Beckoning his officers to gather round, he allotted one squad to each block. “Tear everything apart,” he ordered. “Pay special attention to temples—these ancient Martians seem to have gone mad on religion.”
The officers shouted commands. Nearly five hundred men trotted downhill, and the inhabitants in their path, living in shacks and makeshift dwellings, fled at their approach.
The work was quickly organized. Block by block, street by street, uniformed men swarmed over the ruins, showing a preference for those that seemed to have been public buildings. Soon the air was filled with dust and resounded to the crack of hammers and the crash of falling masonry.
Rachad, wearing not the baron’s uniform but his own tunic and breeks, attached himself to Zhorga’s squad at first. But after an hour’s work he contrived to slip away, glancing behind him constantly to make sure his departure was not noticed, and set off across Kars, orienting himself by recollecting Matello’s map.
It was like a journey through a dream landscape. The city’s buff and orange stone was weathered, so that the ruins had a mild and rounded rather than a shattered appearance. He clambered over fallen columns and ascended heaps of rubble, but for the most part walked along what had been magnificent thoroughfares, many of them almost clear of detritus.
He became aware, too, that eyes were watching him from the surrounding ruins, though he caught only glimpses of the watchers as they darted from sight. He felt little fear of being molested; it was obvious that the people hereabouts feared the visitors from the stars.