Star Winds

Veautrin took his time about replying. “It has never properly been accounted for,” he said. “It is only known that it is a mental force that can command human and Kerek alike. Some say it does not exist as such and is only a form of collective hypnosis—others that it is a living entity that can reach out across space.” He shuddered. “Already whole kingdoms have fallen to the Kerek. If they are not stopped the outlook for the galaxy itself will be bleak. But the Kerek will be stopped! They have to be stopped!”

Zhorga felt chill. Why had this menace never been mentioned to him before?

It could only be because it was such an ever-present shadow that it was taken for granted.

They stepped out into the corridor. The Bucentaur swept on, sinuating through the asteroid shoals toward the clear void beyond.

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.