The Jester at Scar dot-5 Page 4

  It was unnecessary to flatter.

  "My father worked for ten years to perfect the formula," said Jocelyn as he poured the trader more wine. "He based it on an old recipe he found in an ancient book and I think he made something in the region of a thousand experiments before he was satisfied. We call it Temporal Fire."

  Jellag raised his eyebrows. "For what reason, my lord?"

  "You will find out," promised Jocelyn. He smiled at the trader's startled expression. "You see? The full effects are not immediately apparent. Young lovers find the vintage particularly suited to their needs. Would you care for more?"

  Jellag firmly set down his goblet. "I crave your indulgence, my lord, and your understanding. At my age such wine is to be avoided."

  "Then try this," Jocelyn put aside the bottle and lifted the decanter filled with a warm redness. "You will find this acceptable, trader. That I promise."

  Jellag sipped at the wine, wishing that he were elsewhere. These high-born families and their inbreeding! But they had power, power aside from the money power he himself possessed. He blinked. The wine was the local product colored into visual strangeness. He sipped again and wondered what else had been added aside from the dye. There was nothing that he could determine, but that meant little. He relaxed as his host drank, refilled his goblet and drank again.

  "You prefer this vintage, trader?"

  "It is more familiar, my lord." Jellag gulped the wine, a little ashamed of his suspicions and eager to show he had no mistrust. "But the other is amusing; it would make an ideal jest."

  Jocelyn smiled. "You appreciate a jest?"

  "I have a sense of humor, my lord." Jellag felt it safe to claim that. He drank a little more, conscious of a faint carelessness, a disturbing light-headedness. Had something been added to the wine, some subtle drug to which his host had the antidote? He watched as ruby liquid ran from the decanter into his goblet. "With respect, my lord, may I ask what brings you to Scar?"

  "Destiny."

  Jellag blinked. "My lord?"

  "The workings of fate." Jocelyn leaned forward in his chair, his eyes hard as they searched the trader's face. "Do you believe in destiny? Do you believe that, at times, some force of which we are not wholly aware directs our actions, or, rather, presents us with a choice of action? At such times what do you do?" He did not wait for an answer. "You guess," he said, "or you ponder the improbables and do what you think best. The wise man spins a coin." He lifted the decanter. "More wine?"

  Jellag sucked in his cheeks. Had he been invited aboard simply to act as drinking companion to a madman? No, he thought, not mad. Odd, perhaps, strange even, but not mad. The rich were never that.

  "I spoke with the factor," said Jocelyn smoothly. "I wanted the advice of a man who knew his business. He told me that you were such a one. How long have you been coming to Scar?"

  "Many years, my lord."

  "And you make a profit?"

  Jellag nodded.

  "How?"

  Jellag sighed. "I buy and I sell, my lord," he said patiently, "rare spores if they are available, useful ones if they are not. Scar is a world ripe with fungoid growth," he explained. "Each season there are mutations and crossbreedings without number. Many of the products of such random blending are unique. There is a sewage farm on Inlan which is now a rich source of food and valuable soil. Spores from Scar were adapted to that environment, fungoids feeding on the organic matter and turning waste into rich loam. On Aye other spores are cultivated to produce a hampering growth on voracious insect life." Jellag spread his hands. "I could quote endless examples."

  "I am sure you could." Tocelyn frowned thoughtfully. "I owe you an apology," he said. "I thought you were an ordinary trader, but clearly I was wrong. You are an expert in a specialized field, a mycologist. I take it that you have to grow and check, breed and test the various spores you obtain?"

  Jellag was reluctant to be honest. "Not exactly, my lord. The season on Scar is too short for me to test in depth; I rely on my laboratory to do that. But when I arrive, I have a shrewd idea of what to look for: spores which will develop growths of minute size so as to penetrate invisible cracks in stone, to grow there, to expand, to crush the rock into powder; others to rear as high as a tree to provide shade for tender crops; still more to adjust a planet's ecology; edible fungi of a hundred different varieties; parasitical growths with caps containing unusual drugs or stems from which products can be made; molds which act as living laboratories; slimes which can be grown to need. The economy of a world could be based on the intelligent use of Fungi." Jellag blinked, wondering at his feeling of pride. And yet, why should I not be proud? A specialist! A builder of worlds!

  Jocelyn leaned forward and poured his guest more wine. "You are a clever man, my friend. You would be most welcome on Jest."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  "Most welcome," repeated Jocelyn meaningfully. "I am a believer in destiny. It seems as if fate itself directed me to this world." He sipped his wine, eyes enigmatic as he stared over the rim of his goblet. "You have a family?"

  "A wife and two daughters, my lord. The eldest girl is married, with children of her own."

  "You are fortunate to have grandchildren. They, too, are fortunate to have so skillful a grandfather, a man who could do much for his house." He lifted his goblet. "I drink to your family."

  They'll never believe it, thought Jellag. The ruler of a world drinking to their health! His hand shook a little as he followed Jocelyn's example; courtesy dictated that he empty the goblet. Politeness ensured that, in turn, he found the boldness to return the toast.

  "Now, my friend," said Jocelyn lifting the decanter. "Tell me more about your fascinating profession."

  * * *

  Adrienne stormed into her cabin, her nostrils white with anger and her eyes glinting in the hard pallor of her face. "The fool!" she said. "The stupid, besotted fool!"

  "My lady?" Her maid, a slender, dark-haired girl cowered as she approached. She had unpleasant memories of earlier days when her mistress had vented her rage in personal violence.

  "Get out!" Adrienne hardly looked at the girl. "Wait! Tell the cyber I wish to see him. Immediately!"

  She was brushing her hair when Yeon entered the cabin. He stood watching her, his hands as usual hidden within the sleeves of his robe and his cowl thrown back from his shaven skull. The brush made a soft rasping sound as it pulled through her hair; it was almost the sound of an animal breathing, a reflection of her inner self. Abruptly, she threw aside the brush and turned, facing the silent figure in scarlet.

  "You were advisor to my father," she said. "Is it you I have to thank for being married to a fool?"

  "My lady?"

  "He's down there now in the lower cabin drinking with a common trader; he's praising him, toasting his family, promising him ridiculous things. My husband!" She rose, tall, hard and arrogant. "Has he no dignity, no pride? Does he regard the rule of a world so lightly?"

  Detached in his appraisal, Yeon made no comment, watching her as she paced the floor. No one could have called her beautiful and spoken with truth. Her face was too thin, her eyes set too close, her jaw too prominent. Her figure was angular, though clearly feminine, as if she deliberately cultivated a masculine stance. The long strands of her hair hung about her shoulders, loose now, but normally dragged back and caught at the base of her skull. Her mouth alone was out of place; the lower lip was full, betraying her sensuousness.

  "Why?" she demanded. "Why, of all men, did my father have to pick him?"

  Yeon moved a little. "Your genetic strains are highly compatible, my lady. Both your husband and your father were most insistent on this point; both agreed that, above all, the union should be fertile."

  "A brood mare to a fool, is that all I am?" Rage drove her across the floor and back again, the metal heels of her shoes tearing at the fine weave of the carpet, her hair swirling to glint ashen in the light. Abruptly she halted, glaring at the cyber. "Well?"

  "Yo
u wish me to answer, my lady?"

  "Would I have asked if I did not?"

  "No, my lady." Yeon paused and then, in the same even monotone said, "You are the wife of the ruler of a world, a queen. Many would envy you your position."

  "Are you now saying that I should be grateful!" For a moment it seemed as if she would strike the enigmatic figure in scarlet, and then, as if coming to her senses, she shuddered and lowered her upraised arm. "I am distraught," she said unevenly, "unaware of what I was doing. I apologize for any offensive behavior."

  Yeon bowed. "No apology is necessary, my lady. No offense was taken." He watched as she returned to the seat before the mirror. "You disturb yourself needlessly. Against the major pattern, the trifles of which you complain are meaningless. I would advise you to ignore such petty irritations."

  Her eyes stared into the mirror and found his reflection there.

  "Before agreeing to the marriage contract," the cyber continued, "your father asked me to predict the logical outcome of the proposed union. I must admit that my answer was hampered by lack of knowledge of Jest. A true prediction can only be based on assured fact."

  She turned, her face tilted up at his shaven skull. "Continue," she ordered, remembering veiled hints Elgone had dropped and which she had been too busy or too annoyed to understand. "What was your prediction?"

  "You will have a child, a son. Failing other offspring of your family-and the genetic forecast promises none -that child will inherit the rule not only of Jest but also of Eldfane."

  She frowned. The family was inbred, she knew; but she did not think it that infertile.

  "It is a matter of the direct line," said Yeon, guessing her thoughts. "Those of a station suitable for union with either of your two brothers are incompatible. The laws of Eldfane do not recognize the issue of unregistered unions, and your father will never consent to accept a commoner as the legal wife of either of his sons. Therefore, your child must be the logical heir of both worlds."

  Sharp white teeth bit thoughtfully at the fullness of her lower lip. The future prospects of her unborn son were bright, but what about herself? Yeon remained enigmatic.

  "Once the child is safely conceived, my lady, many things can happen. I hesitate to do other than touch on possibilities."

  "Jocelyn could die," she said harshly. "One way or another, he could be disposed of. I would still remain Queen of Jest."

  "Perhaps, my lady."

  "There is doubt?"

  "There is always doubt. New laws could be passed to take care of that eventuality, perhaps old ones already exist. I have still to assimilate much data appertaining to the world. It would be wise to move with caution."

  "To wait, you mean, to act the dutiful wife, and, while waiting, to be the laughing stock of all who see the conduct of my husband. Destiny," she snapped. "How can a grown man be such a fool? How can he hope to retain the rule of his world? Has he no nobles weary of his antics?" Rage lifted her once more from the chair and sent her striding the floor. "Did you hear him when he decided to head for Scar, his talk of omens and signs sent by fate? Can such a man be allowed to rule?"

  "Do not underestimate him, my lady. Many men wear a mask to hide their thoughts."

  "Not my dear husband, cyber," she said bitterly. "I know more than you. He is what he appears to be." She frowned, her anger dissipating as she considered her future. Yeon was right, it would be ill-advised to act prematurely. First she would have to make friends, gain sympathizers and, above all, ensure the conception of her child. That, at least, should not be difficult.

  * * *

  Dumarest paused and looked up at the low range of peaked hills, their sides scored and gullied, masses of exposed stone looking like teeth in a rotting mouth.

  "There's nothing up there," said Clemdish. He eased back the wide-brimmed hat he wore and mopped at his streaming face. Overhead, the monstrous disk of the sun glowed with furnace heat. Even though it was barely summer the temperature was soaring, a grim promise of what was to come. "I tried it once," he continued, "the first season I was here and damn near killed myself climbing to the top. It was a waste of time. There's nothing beyond; just the reverse slope running down to the sea."

  "I'd like to see it," said Dumarest.

  Clemdish shrugged. "Who's stopping you?" The small man looked around, found a rock and sat down. "I've gone far enough. It's a waste of effort, Earl. The wind is from the sea all the time, and any spores will be blown back inland. We'd do better scouting farther back this side of the range."

  Dumarest ignored him, concentrating on the hills. If he were to take the gully up to where it joined a mesh of shallow ruts, swing left to hit that crevasse, ease himself along until he reached a jutting mass of stone and then edge right again, he shouldn't have much difficulty in making his way to the top.

  He turned at the sound of a soft thud. Clemdish had slipped off his pack and was rummaging through its interior. He looked up defiantly.

  "I'm hungry," he said. "I figure on taking time out to rest and eat. You going to join me?"

  Dumarest shook his head. "I'm going to take a look at what's beyond those hills. You wait here and guard the packs." He undid the straps of his own and dropped it beside the one Clemdish had thrown down. "Go easy on the water; it's a long way back to the station."

  "Too damn long," grumbled the small man. "Coming this far out was a crazy thing to do. It's bad enough now, what's it going to be like later?" He scowled after Dumarest as he moved away. "Hey, don't forget your markers."

  Dumarest smiled. "I thought you said it was a waste of time?"

  "I still think so," said Clemdish stubbornly. "But take them just the same." He threw a couple of thin rods at Dumarest. "Sling them over your back, and Earl."

  "What now?"

  "Be careful."

  "What else?"

  "I mean it," insisted Clemdish. "You're a big man, heavy. I don't want to bust a gut carrying you down. Remember that."

  The first part of the climb wasn't very difficult. Dumarest followed his memorized route and paused as he reached the mass of stone to catch his breath. The temptation to strip was strong, but he resisted it. The sun was too big, too loaded with harmful radiation. Invisible infrared light could burn a man before he knew it, and there was always the chance of a random spore. Clothing might not keep them out, but it forced the body to perspire and so would wash them from the flesh.

  He edged right, cautiously testing each foothold before applying his full weight, gripping firmly with both hands as he moved along. The sun-baked surface was treacherous, the soil beneath weakened by the winter rains and ready to crumble at any misdirected impact. Higher it wasn't so bad, for masses of stone, leached from the dirt, formed a secure matrix; he covered the remainder of the journey at fairly high speed.

  Resting on the summit of a peak, he looked around.

  The view was superb.

  Looking back the way he had come he could see the scarred plain rolling towards the horizon, the rough ground interspersed with patches of smoothness where the trapped ooze of winter had firmed during the spring. They looked darker, richer than the rest, and countless buds of wakening growth dotted them like a scatter of snow. Other growths, less advanced, showed wherever bare dirt faced the sky. In the shadow of rock, molds and slimes stretched as spores multiplied and grew in the mounting heat.

  Small in the distance, Clemdish sat with his back against a rock, his legs sprawled before him and the packs resting to one side beneath the protection of one arm. Dumarest shaded his eyes with the edge of his hand. Farther back, almost invisible against the faint haze still rising from the ground, the tiny, antlike figures of scouting men could be seen as they swung in a circle around the station. The landing field itself was below the horizon, since Scar was a dense but small planet.

  Dumarest turned and felt the soft touch of a breeze against his perspiring face. From where he stood the ground fell sharply away in an almost sheer drop before it eased into a gullied sl
ope running down to the sea.

  There was no sand and no shore as such. The winter rains which had lashed the high ground for eons was gradually washing the soil and rock into the sea. A sullen red beneath the sun, its surface was broken only by the occasional ripple of aquatic life, calm in the knowledge that, given time, it would spread over the planet in unquestioned domination of the entire world.

  Dumarest moved and a rock, loosened by his foot, fell tumbling, bouncing high as it hit stone and rolling until it dropped over the edge of the cliff and fell into the sea. Ripples spread, shimmering in shades of crimson and scarlet, dull maroon and glowing ruby, the colors fading and blending as the disturbance spread, the tiny waves dying at last.

  He turned, looking back to where Clemdish sat sprawled in sleep, and then looked back at the sea. With one slip he could easily follow the rock. A fall could break his leg or send him tumbling from the cliff.

  Carefully, he lowered himself down to where a boulder thrust from the dirt, a temporary resting place. Budding growths thrust smooth protrusions to either side, and Dumarest smiled at the evidence of his suspicions. The wind was from the sea, but released spores had been driven back against the side of the hill rather than carried over the summit. Better still, if the wind was steady the spores would be driven back to their original sites. The chance of scattering with the resultant crossbreeding would be diminished. Logically here, if anywhere on Scar, the fungi would breed true.

  Dirt showered from beneath a foot as he moved and he froze, feeling sweat running down his face, fingers like claws as he gouged at the soil. More dirt shifted; a small rock fell. There was a sudden yielding of hardened surface, a miniature avalanche, gathered momentum as it slid towards the cliff.

  Dumarest rolled, his muscles exploding into a fury of action as he released his grip and threw himself sideways to where a rock thrust from the slope. He hit it, felt it shift beneath his weight and threw himself still farther, rolling as the stone joined the showering detritus. He choked on the rising dust, rolled again and spread arms and legs wide in an effort to gain traction. Desperately he snatched the knife from his boot and drove the blade to the hilt in the ground. It held, and he clung to it, trying to ease the strain on the blade, rasping his booted feet as he fought to find purchase.