Chapter NINE
For all his grandiose titles, Baron Goth Matello’s actual standing in life went little way toward satisfying his true ambitions for himself. In fact his highest rank—Margrave of the Marsh Worlds—was really worth least of all, for the Marsh Worlds were a dismal group of border planets not even worth taxing, but which it was his onerous duty to defend. Also largely empty was his title of Baron (by which he was formally addressed in keeping with Maralian tradition, it being his only hereditary title), most of the barony he had inherited having been gambled away in his impetuous youth, when he had been overmuch addicted to the card table and the dueling field.
To Rachad or Zhorga, or indeed to any Earthman, he was incredibly wealthy, but in his own estimation Matello regarded himself as poor. What he aspired to was a dukedom: a goodly crop of rich worlds where a man of expansive appetites need not feel cramped.
As it was, his base these days was the unprepossessing Castarpos Moons demesne, of which he was official Protector, and his one concession to undeniable luxury was the Bucentaur, his magnificent personal starship to buy which he had taxed his holdings till they bled. As the giant starship swung down toward the pitted surface of Arp, largest of the moons, those on deck were able to look down on the huddled town of Corrum which was Matello’s residence. Not long after she had landed, in a permanent dock on the edge of the town, a procession of horses and carriages suddenly issued forth from her, to go clattering through the narrow, winding streets, making for the craggy manor-castle that loomed on high ground.
Castarpos, the moon system’s primary, a vast striated world on which no man had ever set foot, bulked huge in the sky. By contrast the sun was small and amber, and seemed to add a burnished hue to everything it touched in the perpetually gloomy landscape. The sight of his domain afforded Matello no pleasure, however, and he kept the curtains drawn as his carriage passed through the town, mulling meanwhile over the plan that was forming in his mind.
During the journey from Mars he had been discreetly informed that an improper liaison had developed between the young Earthling, Rachad Caban, and his niece Elissea. He would have been quite within his rights to kill the youth immediately; but he had chosen to do nothing, and on the contrary had gone out of his way to show the impudent youngster every consideration, giving no sign that he knew what was going on. Caban, he had decided, was just the man to carry out the scheme he had in mind. He was audacious, self-interested—a chancer if ever there was one—and he even had some alchemical knowledge, which was excellent for Matello’s purpose.
Ensconcing himself in his stone fortress, Matello spent some time disposing of household affairs. That evening, he sent for Caban.
Nervously Rachad entered a vaulted hall of modest proportions. A fire blazed in a huge grate, adding a wavering glow to the light of the cressets. The baron sat at a large table that might have been of teak, but was more probably of a local material. Near him was a flagon and two goblets. He was thoughtfully tapping the lead cover of the alchemical treatise he had taken so much trouble to obtain.
At the other end of the hall Rachad saw something odd. A cloud of yellow dust hovered in the air over a large iron tank. Traces of the same dust were scattered about the floor.
Rachad coughed, and bowed.
“Ah, it’s young Caban!” Matello greeted jovially. “Come over here. Try some of this.”
Rachad approached. Matello filled a goblet with murky brown liquid and handed it to him. Rachad looked at the beverage doubtfully before sipping it. The stuff had a thick, aromatic flavor. He swallowed, then spluttered as it scorched his throat.
“The local vintage,” Matello told him. “It’s brewed from berries grown on the upland plateaux. Rough stuff, but not bad once you get used to it. Drink!”
The order was peremptory. Rachad forced himself to gulp down the wine, feeling his stomach burn and his senses reel.
“Now sit down,” grunted Matello with a grin. “We have something to discuss. How best make use of this.”
Once more he tapped the book. In his woozy state, Rachad wondered how long he could keep from revealing that the book was of little help without its supporting text, the Asch Mezareph, which thanks to his silence had been left behind on Earth. “I am to help you make gold, my lord?” he said, slurring his words a trifle. “You have an alchemical laboratory?”
Matello threw back his head and laughed loudly. “What, me make gold? What in space for? Not far from here I can show you a moonlet composed entirely of gold.”
His eyes twinkled to see Rachad’s startlement. “I can see that you’re a real backwater boy. Maybe gold’s something special back on Earth where you come from, but here in Maralia it’s worth no more than iron. Real wealth takes the form of power. Power over men, over territories.”
Rachad lowered his head, biting his lip. He should have thought of this before, he realized. Out here among the stars there would be a plenitude of every kind of material.
He looked up. “Then why do you need the book, my lord?” he asked, puzzled.
Matello slammed his goblet on the table. “Not to make gold, you may be sure! This book is bait. I need it to help me to get a man inside the Duke of Koss’s Aegis. Do you understand me?”
“No, my lord.”
Matello sighed. “I feared not.”
“What is this ‘Aegis,’ my lord?”
“An aegis,” Matello answered, with self-conscious patience, “is an impregnable fortress. It is built of adamant, a substance which is absolutely indestructible, and once inside it there is no known weapon that can harm you, and no way that the fortress can be breached. Now, as to the Duke of Koss, who lives in its protection—” Suddenly Matello rose to his feet. “Let someone else give you an indication of his character.”
Beckoning to Rachad, he strolled to the far end of the hall, stopping at the iron tank. As he followed, the fog of yellow powder stung Rachad’s nostrils and made him cough. He looked into the low tank, and recoiled with a gasp.
“Don’t be afraid,” the baron murmured. “He’s as civilized as you or I.”
Rachad guessed that the tank was deeper than it appeared from the outside and was set into the floor. It was filled to within a foot of the brim with fine yellow powder, resembling flowers of sulphur. The powder was waving and rippling. “Swimming” just beneath its surface was an undulating shape.
“Flammarion!” Matello said in a loud voice. “I have with me the young man I mentioned.”
The swimming shape surfaced. The creature was gray in color and resembled a stingray, with a waving, flapping cape. From beneath it came slim tentacles which tapped the sides of the tank, but Rachad could not properly see what else the cape hid. He forced himself to be calm as the beast flopped part of itself over the side of the trough, splashing out gouts of bright yellow powder.
“I sense you, humans. Greetings, Rachad Caban.”
“Er—greetings,” Rachad stuttered. The creature’s voice was soft and human-sounding, yet somehow larger than a man’s without being louder.
“This is Flammarion,” Matello said to Rachad, “a master builder from the other side of the galaxy. He it was who built the duke’s Aegis, long ago, and he and I are now united in a common purpose—somehow to break into that aegis. It is an ambition not altogether unique to us, for the duke has many enemies.”
He turned to the tank. “Tell Caban your story, Flammarion. It is best he should know the background to his mission.”
There was a pause, while the alien creature flapped and stirred in the powder-bath. “It is a sad tale, a pathetic tale, one that can only bring bathos and pity,” the voice said mournfully. “I am an acknowledged expert in the building of aegises. I alone know the secret of adamant, a material impervious to any weapon, unaffected even by alkahest, the universal solvent. No gun, arbalest or sonic trembler can break it, no acid can corrode it. It deadens even the shriek of Vurelian war trumpets, whose vibrations pass through stone and steel to kill those within.”