Star Winds

To this one-sided discourse Rachad added little, firstly because he knew little, but also because the duke’s table habits left him stupefied. His own food was familiar and appetizing, but to the duke there was served dish after dish of different foods altogether—unrecognizable stuffs which gave off bizarre aromas. The flavors, it seemed, were equally strange, a combination of the delicious and nauseous so overpowering that several times the duke lost control and turned to vomit into an urn placed near his chair.

Nor were his table pleasures limited to this stretching of the range of the palate. Rachad’s eyes bulged as, at intervals, young women, youths, even children, came forward from the sides of the hall and, in full view of everyone present, performed lascivious and perverted acts upon the duke’s person. In mid-sentence the duke would pause to grunt and moan, turning up his eyes in ecstasy. Then, giving Rachad a friendly leer, he would continue the talk where he had left off.

Finally he pushed away the latest offering, a plate of odious-smelling pale fruit, and gestured to the retainer to indicate that he was satisfied. Rachad looked around the hall. The other diners, who talked little, and came and went as they pleased, had noticed nothing unusual. The denizens of the Aegis were individualistic, little given to formality, and mostly pursued private interests.

The duke leaned close. “One thing is plain, young man—you know little of alchemy. Do not prevaricate, now.”

Rachad grimaced ruefully. “I am only an apprentice,” he admitted. “My hope is to become Master Amschel’s assistant in the completion of the work. Then I will return to my own master and impart to him the method of the preparation of the stone.”

The duke pursed his lips, adjusting his dress and brushing away the fondling hand of a maiden who bent over him.

“I shall speak to Amschel of your desire,” he murmured.

A silence descended, the same dead, stifling silence that Rachad had noted before. He realized that the duke was a classic case of self-obsession. He was trapped within his own consciousness, encased to a point that in the outside world would have been regarded as insanity, but that here passed without comment. Indeed, the whole Aegis was a hymn to solipsism, to the rejection of any outward involvement, to the creation of a world that sprang solely from one’s own desires.

“And when shall I meet Master Amschel?” Rachad asked.

“Tomorrow. But enough—the hour is late, and my strength flags.”

The duke rose and sauntered toward the wall, turning just before he reached it. “And so to my bed of slime. I bid you good night.”

A section of wall slid aside. Within, Rachad saw a small chamber containing a sort of bath or coffin rimmed with ornate gilt and filled with the same muddy concoction he had seen in the orchid garden.

The duke entered. Before the wall closed again an attendant helped him strip. He lowered his bony body into the bath. His eyes closed, the slime enclosing him and leaving only his face showing.

A footman approached Rachad. “Allow me to show you to suitable apartments,” he said quietly. “Any reasonable service you require is available. You may, if you wish, partake of a slime-bed. But I warn you, once you have sampled it you will not willingly leave the Aegis again.”

“Thank you—all I need is a place where I can sleep normally.”

The footman led him away, and Rachad’s mind became busy. He could not dislike the duke, but there was the awful extent of his degeneracy. This was not the healthy, robust world Rachad knew.

Up until now he had not been sure whether he would in fact attempt to carry out the mission Baron Matello had set him. But now he found it easy to rationalize such treachery. He was, he told himself, furthering not only his own ambitions but also helping mankind to defend itself against the Kerek.

At the earliest opportunity he would endeavor to open up the Aegis.

Chapter ELEVEN

After a long sleep between linen sheets, Rachad was awakened by a maid-servant who brought him a breakfast of fruit and crumbly flavored bread. Shortly, when he had washed and dressed himself, a footman arrived and escorted him to a part of the Aegis he had not seen before. The sumptuous luxury with which the walls were normally draped gave way once more to gray adamant, bare and metallic.

The Duke of Koss, clasping the lead-bound pages of The Root of Transformations, waited for him at the entrance to a featureless corridor. He smiled, and seemed refreshed.

“Good morning, young Caban. You slept well, I trust?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Rachad answered, addressing the duke as etiquette would elsewhere have required, though in the Aegis it scarcely seemed necessary.

“I, too. Our evening meal was delightful, when experienced for the second time.”