Chapter 17

It was not quite dawn when my task force settled down on the smooth landing pad beside the lifeboat that had brought me to Vallon. It stood as I had left it seven earth-months before: the port open, the access ladder extended, the interior lights lit. There weren’t any spooks aboard but they had kept visitors away as effectively as if there had been. Even the Greymen didn’t mess with ghost-boats. Somebody had done a thorough job of indoctrination on Vallon.

“You ain’t gonna go inside that accursed vessel, are you, Owner Drgon?” asked Torbu, making his cabalistic sign in the air. “It’s manned by gobblins--”

“That’s just propaganda. Where my cat can go, I can go. Look.”

Itzenca scampered up the ladder, and had disappeared inside the boat by the time I took the first rung. The guards gawked from below as I stepped into the softly lit lounge. The black-and-gold cylinder that was Foster’s memory lay in the bag I had packed and left behind, months before; with it was the other, plain one: Ammaerln’s memory. Somewhere in Okk-Hamiloth must be the machine that would give these meaning. Together Foster and I would find it.

I found the .38 automatic lying where I had left it. I picked up the worn belt, strapped it around me. My Vallonian career to date suggested it would be a bright idea to bring it along. The Vallonians had never developed any personal armament to equal it. In a society of immortals knives were considered lethal enough for all ordinary purposes.

“Come on, cat,” I said. “There’s nothing more here we need.”

Back on the ramp I beckoned my platoon leaders over.

“I’m going to the Sapphire Palace,” I said. “Anybody that doesn’t want to go can check out now. Pass the word.”

Torbu stood silent for a long moment, staring straight ahead.

“I don’t like it much, Owner,” he said. “But I’ll go. And so will the rest of ‘em.”

“There’ll be no backing out, once we shove off,” I said. “And by the way--” I jacked a round into the chamber of the pistol, raised it, and fired the shot into the air. They all jumped. “If you ever hear that sound, come a-running.”

The men nodded, turned to their cars. I picked up the cat and piled into the lead vehicle next to Torbu.

“It’s a half-hour run,” he said. “We might run into a little Greyman action on the way. We can handle ‘em.”

We lifted, swung to the east, barrelled along at low altitude.

“What do we do when we get there, boss?” said Torbu.

“We play it by ear. Let’s see how far we can get on pure gall before Ommodurad drops the hanky.”

The palace lay below us, rearing blue towers to the twilit sky like a royal residence in the Munchkin country. Beyond it, sunset colors reflected from the silky surface of the Shallow Sea. The timeless stones and still waters looked much as they had when Foster set out to lose his identity on earth, three thousand years before. But its magnificence was lost on these people. The hulking crew around me never paused to wonder about the marvels wrought by their immortal ancestors--themselves. Stolidly, they lived their feudal lives in dismal contrast with the monuments all about them.

I turned to my cohort of hoodlums. “You boys claim it’s the demons and warlocks that keep the whole of Vallon at arm’s length from this place. In that case there’s no protocol for a new Owner’s reception at the Blue Palace. A guy with a little luck and even less of a memory than usual could skip the goblins and play it good-natured but dumb: show up at the Palace grounds, out of common politeness to the Top Dog, to pay his respects. Anything wrong with that?”

“What if they rush us first ... before we got time to go into the act?” said somebody in the mob.

“That’s where the luck comes in,” I said. “Anybody else?”

Torbu looked around at his henchmen. There was some shrugging of shoulders, a few grunts. He looked at me. “You do the figurin’, Owner,” he said. “The boys will back your play.”

We were dropping toward the wide lawns now and still no opposition showed itself. Then the towering blue spires were looming over us, and we saw men forming up behind the blue-stained steel gates of the Great Pavilion.

“A reception committee,” I said. “Hold tight, fellas. Don’t start anything. The further in we get peaceably, the less that leaves to do the hard way.”

The cars settled down gently, well-grouped, and Torbu and I climbed out. As quickly as the other boats disgorged their men, ranks were closed, and we moved off toward the gates. Itzenca, as mascot, brought up the rear. Still no excitement, no rush by the Palace guards. Had too many centuries of calm made them lackadaisical, or did Ommodurad use a brand of visitor-repellent we couldn’t see from here?

We made it to the gate ... and it opened.

“In we go,” I said, “but be ready...”

The uniformed men inside the compound, obviously chosen for their beef content, kept their distance, looked at us questioningly. We pulled up on a broad blue-paved drive and waited for the next move. About now somebody should stride up to us and offer the key to the city--or something. But there seemed to be a hitch. It was understandable. After all there hadn’t been any callers dropping cards here for about 2900 years.

It was a long five minutes before a hard case in a beetle-backed carapace of armor and a puffy pink cape bustled down the palace steps and came up to us.

“Who comes in force to the Sapphire Palace?” he demanded, glancing past me at my team-mates.

“I’m Owner Drgon, fellow,” I barked. “These are my honor guard. What provincial welcome is this, from the Great Owner to a loyal liege-man?”

That punctured his pomposity a little. He apologized--in a half-hearted way--mumbled something about arrangements, and beckoned over a couple of side-men. One of them came over and spoke to Torbu, who looked my way, hand on dagger hilt.

“What’s this?” I said. “Where I go, my men go.”

“There is the matter of caste,” said my pink-caped greeter. “Packs of retainers are not ushered en masse into the presence of Lord Ommodurad, Owner of Owners.”

I thought that one over and failed to come up with a plausible loophole.

“Okay, Torbu,” I said. “Keep the boys together and behave yourselves. I’ll see you in an hour. Oh, and see that Itzenca gets made comfy.”

The beetle man snapped a few orders, then waved me toward the palace with the slightest bow I ever saw. A six-man guard kept me company up the steps and into the Great Pavilion.

I guess I expected the usual velvet-draped audience chamber or barbarically splendid Hall, complete with pipers, fools, and ceremonial guards. What I got was an office, about sixteen by eighteen, blue-carpeted and tasteful ... but bare-looking. I stopped in front of a block of blue-veined grey marble with a couple of quill pens in a crystal holder and, underneath, leg room for a behemoth, who was sitting behind the desk.

He got to his feet with all the ponderous mass of Nero Wolfe but a lot more agility and grace. “You wish?” he rumbled.

“I’m Owner Drgon, ah ... Great Owner,” I said. I’d planned to give my host the friendly-but-dumb routine. I was going to find the second part of the act easy. There was something about Ommodurad that made me feel like a mouse who’d just changed his mind about the cheese. Qohey had been big, but this guy could crush skulls as most men pinch peanut hulls, and in his eyes was the kind of remote look that came of three millenia of not even having to mention the power he asserted.

“You ignore superstition,” observed the Big Owner. He didn’t waste many words, it seemed. Gope had said he was the silent type. It wasn’t a bad lead; I decided to follow it.

“Don’t believe in ‘em,” I said.

“To your business then,” he continued. “Why?”

“Just been chosen Owner at Bar-Ponderone,” I said. “Felt it was only fitting that I come and do obeisance before Your Grace.”

“That expression is not used.”

“Oh.” This fellow had a disconcerting way of not getting sucked in. “Lord Ommodurad?”

He nodded just perceptibly, then turned to the foremost of the herd who had brought me in. “Quarters for the guest and his retinue.” His eyes had already withdrawn, like the head of a Galapagos turtle into its enormous shell, in contemplation of eternal verities. I piped up again.

“Ah, pardon me...” The piercing stare of Ommodurad’s eyes was on me again. “There was a friend of mine--,” I gulped, “swell guy, but impulsive. It seems he challenged the former Owner of Bar-Ponderone...”

Ommodurad did no more than twitch an eye-brow but suddenly the air was electric. His stare didn’t waver by a millimeter but the lazy slouch of the six guards had altered to sprung steel. They hadn’t moved but I felt them now all around me and not a foot away. I had a sinking feeling that I’d gone too far.

“--so I thought maybe I’d crave Your Excellency’s help, if possible, to locate my pal,” I finished weakly. For an interminable minute the Owner of Owners bored into me with his eyes. Then he raised a finger a quarter of an inch. The guards relaxed.

“Quarters for the guest and his retinue,” repeated Ommodurad. He withdrew then ... without moving. I was dismissed.

I went quietly, attended by my hulking escort.

I tried hard not to let my expression show any excitement, but I was feeling plenty.

Ommodurad was close-mouthed for a reason. I was willing to bet that he had his memories of the Good Time intact.

Instead of the debased modern dialect that I’d heard everywhere since my arrival, Ommodurad spoke flawless Old Vallonian.

It was 27 o’clock and the Palace of Sapphires was silent. I was alone in the ornate bed chamber the Great Owner had assigned me. It was a nice room but I wouldn’t learn anything staying in it. Nobody had said I was confined to quarters. I’d do a little scouting and see what I could pick up, if anything. I slung on the holster and .38 and slid out of the darkened chamber into the scarcely lighter corridor beyond. I saw a guard at the far end; he ignored me. I headed in the opposite direction.

None of the rooms was locked. There was no arsenal at the Palace and no archives that lesser folk than the Great Owner could use with profit. Everything was easy of access. I guessed that Ommodurad rightly counted on indifference to keep snoopers away. Here and there guards eyed me as I passed along but they said nothing.

I saw again by Cintelight the office where Ommodurad had received me, and near it an ostentatious hall with black onyx floor and ceiling, gold hangings, and ceremonial ring-board. But the center of attraction was the familiar motif of the concentric circles of the Two Worlds, sketched in beaten gold across the broad wall of black marble behind the throne. Here the idea had been elaborated on. Outward from both the inner and outer circles flamed the waving lines of a sunburst. At dead center, a boss, like a sword hilt in form, chased in black and gold, erupted a foot from the wall. It was the first time I’d seen the symbol since I’d arrived on Vallon. I found it strangely exciting--like a footprint in the sand.

I went on, toured the laundry and inspected pantries large and small and caught a whiff of stables. The palace was asleep; few of its occupants noticed me, and those who did hung back, silent. It looked as if the Great Owner had given orders to let me roam freely. Somehow I didn’t find that comforting.

Then I came into a purple-vaulted hall and saw a squad of guards, the same six who’d kept me such close company earlier in the day. They were drawn up at parade rest, three on each side of a massive ivory door. Somebody lived in safety and splendor on the other side.

Six sets of hard eyes turned my way. It was too late to duck back out of sight. I trotted up to the first of the row of guards. “Say, fella,” I stage-whispered, “where’s the ah--you know.”

“Every bed chamber is equipped,” he said gruffly, raising his sword and fingering its tip lovingly.

“Yeah? I never noticed.” I moved off, looking chastened. If they thought I was a kewpie, so much the better. I was a mouse in cat country here and I wasn’t ready to fake a meow--not yet.

On the ground floor I found Torbu and his cohort quartered in a barrack-room off the main entry hall.

“We’re still in enemy territory,” I reminded Torbu. “I want every man ready.”

“No fear, boss,” said Torbu. “All my bullies got an eye on the door and a hand on a knife-hilt.”

“Have you seen or heard anything useful?”

“Naw. These local dullards fall dumb at the first query.”

“Keep your ears cocked. I want at least two men awake and on the alert all night.”

“You bet, noble Drgon.”

I judged distances carefully as I went back up the two flights to my own room. Inside I dropped into a brocaded easy chair and tried to add up what I’d seen.

First: Ommodurad’s apartment, as nearly as I could judge, was directly over my own, two floors up. That was a break--or maybe I was where I was for easier surveillance. I’d skip that angle, I decided. It tended to discourage me and I needed all the enthusiasm I could generate.

Second: I wasn’t going to learn anything useful trotting around corridors. Ommodurad wasn’t the kind to leave traces of skullduggery lying around where the guests would see them.

And third: I should have known better than to hit this fortress with two squads and a .38 in the first place. Foster was here; Qohey had said so and the Great Owner’s reaction to my mention of him confirmed it. What was it about Foster, anyway, that made him so interesting to these Top People? I’d have to ask him that one when I found him. But to do that I’d have to leave the beaten track.

I went to the wide double window and looked up. A cloud swept from the great three-quarters face of Cinte, blue in the southern sky, and I could see an elaborately carved façade ranging up past a row of windows above my own to a railed balcony bathed in a pale light from the apartment within. If my calculations were correct that would be Ommodurad’s digs. The front door was guarded like an octogenarian’s harem but the back way looked like a breeze.

I pulled my head back in and thought about it. It was risky ... but it had that element of the unexpected that just might let me get away with it. Tomorrow the Owner of Owners might have thought it through and switched me to another room ... or to a cell in the basement. Then too, wall-scaling didn’t occur to these Vallonians as readily as it did to a short-timer from earth. They had too much to lose to risk it on a chancey climb.

Too much thinking is never a good idea when your pulse is telling you it’s time for action. I rolled a heavy armoire fairly soundlessly over the deep-pile carpet and lodged it against the door. That might slow down a casual caller. I slipped the magazine out of the automatic, fitted nine greasy brass cartridges into it, slammed it home, dropped the pistol back in the holster. It had a comforting weight. I buttoned the strap over it and went back to the window.