Jack Vance - Big Planet

Nymaster leaned back, whispered, “To reach the wall we’ve got to pass Nello; we can’t let him see us, he will raise an outcry.”

He bent, picked up a clod, flung it hard at the little boy at the end of the line. The boy cried out, then quickly silenced himself, bent furtively to his work.

Nello uncoiled like a lazy python, sauntered yawning across the sunny garden to the quivering boy and raising his whip, carefully and without haste striped the child’s buttocks. Once—twice—three times—

Nymaster pulled at Glystra’s arms. “Now while he’s absorbed in his enjoyment…”

Glystra let himself be pulled across the patch of open space, behind a wall of crumbling stone. Nymaster scurried now at top speed, the skirts of his garment flapping in three-colored flashes.

By a thick cycad with a trunk like the skin of a pineapple he paused, looked in all directions, and finally peered through the fronds at the top of Myrtlesee dome.

“Sometimes a priest stands in the turret watching across the desert. This is when they expect important guests, and wish to ready the oracle.” He peered, squinted. “Hah, there he is, scanning the wide world.”

Glystra saw the dark shape in a cage atop the dome, standing stiff as a gargoyle.

“No matter,” said Nymaster. “He will never notice us; his gaze is out in the air-layers.” He climbed the wall, using chinks and crevices in the rock for foot and hand holds. Halfway up he disappeared from view, and Glystra, following him up the wall, came upon a narrow gap invisible from below.

Nymaster’s voice came from below. “The wall was built for show, and hollow. There is an avenue within.”

Glystra heard a clink, a click and sparks flew through the darkness. A line of hot smoulder pulsed as Nymaster blew, burst into a tongue of flame, from which he lit a torch.

Nymaster strode ahead confidently, a lord in his own realm. They walked a hundred yards, two hundred yards, across damp well-packed clay. Then the wall ended against blank stone. At their feet was a pit into which Nymaster lowered himself.

“Careful,” he muttered. “The footholds are only cut into clay. Get a good toe-grip.”

Glystra descended eight feet, ducked under the foundations of a heavy wall, crawled up a slanting passage.

“Now,” said Nymaster, “we’re under the floor of the Main College. Over there”—he pointed—“is the Veridicarium, where the oracle sits.”

Footfalls sounded above—hasty yet light, with an odd hesitancy. Nymaster cocked his head. “That’s the Sacristy, old Caper. When he was young a malicious slave poisoned her teeth, and when he made demands on her, she bit his thigh. The wound never healed and his leg is no thicker than a wand.”

A second mass of rock barred their way. Nymaster said, “This is the oracle’s pedestal. Now we must be careful. Hold your head away from the light, say nothing. If we are halted and recognized—”

“What then?”

“It depends on who the villain is, and his rank. The most dangerous are the novices in black fringes, who are over-zealous, and the Hierarchs, with gold baubles on their hoods. The ordinaries are less conscientious.”

“What do you plan?”

“This passage leads to the pens where prisoners, slaves and exchanges are pent before processing.”

“Processing? Do you mean serving as an oracle?”

Nymaster shook his head. “By no means. The oracle needs the wisdom of four men to guide his thoughts, and for every dissertation of an oracle three men besides himself must be processed. He himself serves as fourth man, for the next oracle.”

Glystra, gripped by a sudden impatience, waved his hand. “Let’s hurry.”

“Now—absolute quiet,” warned Nymaster. He led around the rock, up a rude wooden ladder, from which he rolled off on to a shelf. He fixed the torch in a rope socket, and crawled off on his stomach through the darkness. Glystra came after. Overhead a stone floor pressed into his back.

Nymaster stopped and Glystra ran into his feet. Nymaster listened, then jerked forward.

“Follow me, swiftly.”

He disappeared. Glystra almost fell into a dim hole. He swung himself down, stood on a stone floor at Nymaster’s back. Vile-smelling water gurgled past his feet. Nymaster strode toward the light, a shaft of feeble yellow shining down a flight of steps. He climbed the steps and without hesitation stepped out into the light.

Glystra followed.

The air was hot and reeked with an oily stench that knotted his stomach. From a wide archway came sounds of industry.

Nymaster marched past without pause. Glystra followed on his heels. He turned his head, looked into a bin—into the blank dead eyes of Bishop.

Glystra made a moaning coughing sound, stopped short. He felt Nymaster’s hard arm, heard his petulant voice.

“What’s the trouble?”

“That is the head of my friend.”

“Ah.” Nymaster was uninterested. “Beyond is the extraction room where the head is tapped of its wisdom… It is a precise art, so I am given to understand, and not easily mastered.” He looked sardonically at Glystra. “Well—?”

Glystra pushed himself away from the wall. “Yes. Let’s get it over with.”

By a heroic effort he restrained his gorge. Nymaster impatiently hurried off down the corridor.

Men in robes passed—two, three, four—without paying them heed. Then Nymaster stopped short. “There, behind this wall are the pens. Look in through the chinks and pick out your woman.”

Glystra pressed close to the stone wall, peered through an irregular hole at about eye-level. A dozen men and women, completely naked, stood in the middle of the room, or sat limply on stone benches. Their hair had been shaved, and their pates daubed with paint of either blue, green or yellow.

“Well—which one is she?” snapped Nymaster. “That one at the far end?” This was a long-headed creature with pendant breasts and a yellow wrinkled belly.

“No,” said Glystra. “She’s not here.”

“Ha,” muttered Nymaster. “Hm, this poses a problem… Very difficult—and I fear past the scope of our agreement.”

“Nonsense!” said Glystra in a deadly voice. “The agreement was to find the woman and bring her out, wherever she was… So now take me to her, or I’ll kill you here and now.”

“I don’t know where to look for her,” explained Nymas-ter in a patient voice.

“Find out then!”

Nymaster frowned. “I’ll ask Koromutin. Wait here—”

“No. I’ll come with you.”

Nymaster growled under his breath, and turned off down the passage. He thrust his head into a little chamber. The man within was fat and middle-aged. He wore a spotless white tunic and an immaculate collar of ruffled lace. He appeared soft, pompous, petulant, effeminate, capable of irresponsible spite. He was not surprised to see Nymaster and resentful only to the extent that as an important official, his time was valuable.

Nymaster spoke to him in a low voice, which Glystra bent forward to hear. Koromutin’s eyes rested on him, probed under his hood.

“—he says she’s not in the pen; he won’t leave till he finds her. She must own the key to his life; she must be a witch. No woman is worth such effort and expense. But in any event we must have her.”

Koromutin frowned judiciously. “This woman evidently must be pent upstairs for personal use. If so—well, how much does your father put forward? Now I mind me of a certain dagger of good Philemon porphyry…”

Nymaster nodded. “It shall be yours.”

Koromutin rubbed his hands, bounded to his feet, examined Glystra with a new speculation. “The woman is evidently a rich queen. My dear sir,” he bowed, “I salute your loyalty. Allow me to assist your search.” He turned, not waiting for Glystra’s answer, flounced down the hall.