Генри Каттнер - Lands of the Earthquake

The face was stone!

“Godfrey,” Boyce said—and then shouted the name. “ Godfrey! ”

Stone eyes stared at him.

Silence brimmed the blue tunnel.

Boyce went on. The sickness was still deep within him, but the fact that now he had some sort of goal gave him strength. He had learned little enough from Godfrey Morel, but he guessed that the King of this haunted city might be a friend. Or, at least, an enemy of his enemies.

Irathe and the Oracle were the same—or had been, once. The Sorcerer King might hate Irathe, but would he hate the Oracle?

And the Huntsman—Jamai? Boyce tried to understand that. It seemed meaningless. Why should the Huntsman masquerade as Jamai, or vice versa? Why….

Huntsman or Jamai or both, if the man recovered from Boyce’s stunning blow, he would pursue. And with the pack. Boyce moved faster along the blue passage.

In the end he found the dragon mask. It was stone. No such creature had ever existed on Earth. It was the prototype of ancient woodcuts Boyce had seen, though how the artists had found their source he could not guess. The monstrous, snarling mask loomed above him, jutting out into the passage, blocking it so that he had to sidle past carefully to avoid touching the glittering walls with their festoons of roots.

Knowing what he did now, Boyce was more anxious than ever to avoid contact with the bright, unmoving tendrils that were the hungry roots of the plant–mutation Jamai had created.

* * * * *

The dragon mask was enormous, its lower jaw resting on the stone floor, its scaled snout three feet above Boyce’s head. He could have walked into that incredible, gaping mouth. All around the mask grew the roots. If a secret way existed here, Boyce wondered how it could be opened without touching the walls. Perhaps here the twining coils were harmless—but he did not think so. When his shoulder brushed those bas–relief festoons, his flesh shrank.

All around the dragon–mask the tendrils coiled. But within that yawning mouth….

He peered in. The blue glow did not penetrate far. Surely, if this were the opening to another passage, the Huntsman—Jamai—would have discovered it before this.

Shrinking a little, he stepped into the dragon’s mouth. Before him now he could see a curtain of the stony roots—the wall. Disappointment flooded him.

As he turned to step out, the irregular surface beneath his feet betrayed him. He stumbled, caught blindly at the nearest object—

He caught himself, but too late. His hand had touched the wall.

It had not ! There had been no feeling of substance against his palm. That meant—

Gingerly he reached out again. The wall was visible, but intangible. His hand and arm melted through those stony tendrils he could see only dimly.

He put out a tentative foot. There was a floor beyond the wall.

He stepped through the barrier into a soundless, lightless blackness.

That lasted only for an instant. Almost immediately he was conscious of swift motion. Wind blew against him strongly. Yet the movement was erratic, as though he stood in a car that was racing in a secret path through the heart of the City, bound for a destination he could only guess. Had the King built this—whatever it was—so he could spy on Jamai?

The swift motion halted. Light came, pale and colorless. Boyce stood in a tiny, featureless cubicle like a small elevator. Only for a moment did the white walls prison him. Then a gap widened before him.

Before him was the throne–room of a King—or a god!

It was the room the Huntsman had shown him in a vision. Double pillars marched the length of it to the great black and scarlet throne at the end, where a crowned figure sat motionless.

But now there was more to see than the Huntsman’s glass had revealed. The room was enormous, and in place of roof and walls a gigantic hemisphere, transparent as glass, covered it like a bubble. Below, Boyce could see the domes and smaller places of the Sorcerers’ City. Mists shielded the distances, but there was a brief glimpse, gone before he could focus on it, of Kerak, gray and small in the distance, on its crag.

He had eyes only for the King, the same bearded figure, crowned and robed in yellow, that he remembered from the vision.

Warily he walked forward between the great columns. He could see his reflection in the shining black floor—not his own reflection, but that of Guillaume du Bois, scowling and scarred. Guillaume himself would have wanted a sword’s hilt in his hand at this moment and, curiously, Boyce felt his own palm itch for the same comforting feeling. But he was unarmed.

The man on the throne made no move. His eyes watched Boyce. There was no sound but the heavy tread of Boyce’s feet.

Closer he came, and closer. He stood before the throne.

“Go. Go at once,” the king said. His voice held no shadow of emotion. It was utterly cold, completely depersonalized.

Boyce swallowed. He shook his head stubbornly. King or no king, sorcerer or scientist or man, he would not go until—

“Go at once. You will be summoned when I am ready. Go now.”

Boyce set his jaw and took a step forward. The man on the throne lifted a hand in warning. And now Boyce was able to see, as the wide sleeve was raised, that across the King’s knees lay a bared sword, shining with cold steely radiance. But the King did not touch the sword.

“If you come closer to me, you will die,” the dispassionate voice said.

The yellow robe was stretched taut against the King’s breast. A design was embroidered there, a pattern of hieroglyphics Boyce could not read. His attention was drawn briefly to that design—and he stared, not quite believing what he saw.

Then he took another step forward. The man on the throne did not move, even when Boyce laid his palm on the satin robe.

There was no heart–beat. Through the yellow, thick fabric, the chill of cold flesh was perceptible.

Even then, Boyce could not believe until he held the steel sword–blade to the King’s lips. That mirror surface did not cloud.

“You are the first man in this world to learn the truth,” Irathe’s voice said. “No one else would have dared approach the throne.” Her laughter sounded as Boyce turned, shifting his hand from the sword’s blade to its hilt.

She stood near him, her red mouth smiling, her eyes faintly mocking. She wore a long robe now, and the iron crown was on her head. The black floor reflected her, and Boyce remembered the vision the Huntsman had shown him—a woman sundered, broken into two women—Irathe and the Oracle—by an unknown science.

“Yes, the Oracle of Kerak,” she said. “I think I have won this game, even though Jamai threw the dice first. I’d never hoped for this much—that I could bring the Oracle here . Jamai has nearly earned my gratitude.”

Boyce looked at her coolly. He took out the crystalline gem and cradled it in his palm.

“I think this gives you power over me, Irathe,” he said. “Suppose I smash it?”

“If you like,” she said indifferently, shrugging. “You can’t return to your own world without it. And I have not as much power over you as you think.”

She nodded toward the King.

“I could destroy you now, if I wanted. But I may need you. You’ve fulfilled my purpose. You’ve also found out that the King, my father, is dead, and that must be kept secret, unless—”

“Dead?”

“He died long ago.”

“After you were made into two women?”

Irathe looked at him steadily.

“So you know that. The Huntsman, I suppose—Jamai. Yes, it was after that that my father died. He tried to use knowledge that only They can use. So he died.

“But I have certain skills of my own. The King died, but a body can be controlled, like a mind, by an outside source. For my purposes, the King had to remain alive.” She smiled again. “Call it hypnosis. Or believe that the body on the throne before you is a robot. I can control it, make it act and speak as I wish.”