Читать книгу Lord Kalvan of Otherwhen: Paratime Police Saga - H. Beam Piper - Страница 10
ОглавлениеI
Rylla sat with her father at the table in the small study. Chartiphon was at one end and Xentos at the other, and Harmakros, the cavalry captain, in a chair by the hearth, his helmet on the floor beside him. Vurth, the peasant, stood facing them, a short horseman’s musketoon slung from his shoulder and a horn flask and bullet-bag on his belt.
“You did well, Vurth,” her father commended. “By sending the message, and in the fighting, and by telling Princess Rylla that the stranger was a friend. I’ll see you’re rewarded.”
Vurth smiled. “But, Prince, I have this gun, and fireseed for it,” he replied. “And my son caught a horse, with all its gear, even pistols in the holsters, and the Princess says we may keep it all.”
“Fair battle-spoil, yours by right. But I’ll see that something’s sent to your farm tomorrow. Just don’t waste that fireseed on deer. You’ll need it to kill more Nostori before long.”
He nodded in dismissal, and Vurth grinned and bowed, and backed out, stammering thanks. Chartiphon looked after him, remarking that there went a man Gormoth of Nostor would find costly to kill.
“He didn’t pay cheaply for anything tonight,” Harmakros said. “Eight houses burned, a dozen peasants butchered, four of our troopers killed and six wounded, and we counted better than thirty of his dead in the village on the road, and six more at Vurth’s farm. And the horses we caught, and the weapons.” He thought briefly. “I’d question if a dozen of them got away alive and hale.”
Her father gave a mirthless chuckle. “I’m glad some did. They’ll have a fine tale to carry back. I’d like to see Gormoth’s face at the telling.”
“We owe the stranger for most of it,” she said. “If he hadn’t rallied those people at Vurth’s farm and led them back, most of the Nostori would have gotten away. And then I had to shoot him myself!”
“You couldn’t know, kitten,” Chartiphon told her. “I’ve been near killed by friends myself, in fights like that.” He turned to Xentos. “How is he?”
“He’ll live to hear our thanks,” the old priest said. “The ornament on his breast broke the force of the bullet. He has a broken rib, and a nasty hole in him—our Rylla doesn’t load her pistols lightly. He’s lost more blood than I’d want to, but he’s young and strong, and Brother Mytron has much skill. We’ll have him on his feet again in a half-moon.”
She smiled happily. It would be terrible for him to die, and at her hand, a stranger who had fought so well for them. And such a handsome and valiant stranger, too. She wondered who he was. Some noble, or some great captain, of course.
“We owe much to Princess Rylla,” Harmakros insisted. “When this man from the village overtook us, I was for riding back with three or four to see about this stranger of Vurth’s, but the Princess said, ‘We’ve only Vurth’s word there’s but one; there may be a hundred Vurth hasn’t seen.’ So back we all went, and you know the rest.”
“We owe most of all to Dralm.” Old Xentos’ face lit with a calm joy. “And Galzar Wolfhead, of course,” he added. “It is a sign that the gods will not turn their backs upon Hostigos. This stranger, whoever he may be, was sent by the gods to be our aid.”
II
Verkan Vall put the lighter back on the desk and took the cigarette from his mouth, blowing a streamer of smoke.
“Chief, it’s what I’ve been saying all along. We’ll have to do something.” After Year-End Day, he added mentally, I’ll do something. “We know what causes this: conveyers interpenetrating in transposition. It’ll have to be stopped.”
Tortha Karf laughed. “The reason I’m laughing,” he explained, “is that I said just that, about a hundred and fifty years ago, to old Zarvan Tharg, when I was taking over from him, and he laughed at me just as I’m laughing at you, because he’d said the same thing to the retiring Chief when he was taking over. Have you ever seen an all-time-line conveyer-head map?”
No. He couldn’t recall. He blanked his mind to everything else and concentrated with all his mental power.
“No, I haven’t.”
“I should guess not. With the finest dots, on the biggest map, all the inhabited areas would be indistinguishable blotches. There must be a couple of conveyers interpenetrating every second of every minute of every day. You know,” he added gently, “we’re rather extensively spread out.”
“We can cut it down.” There had to be something that could be done. “Better scheduling, maybe.”
“Maybe. How about this case you’re taking an interest in?”
“Well, we had one piece of luck. The pickup time-line is one we’re on already. One of our people, in a newspaper office in Philadelphia, messaged us that same evening. He says the press associations have the story, and there’s nothing we can do about that.”
“Well, just what did happen?”
“This man Morrison, and three other State Police officers, were closing in on a house in which a wanted criminal was hiding. He must have been a dangerous man—they don’t go out in force like that for chicken-thieves. Morrison and another man were in front; the other two were coming in from behind. Morrison started forward, with his companion covering for him with a rifle. This other man is the nearest thing to a witness there is, but he was watching the front of the house and only marginally aware of Morrison. He says he heard the other two officers pounding on the back door and demanding admittance, and then the man they were after burst out the front door with a rifle in his hands. This officer—Stacey’s his name—shouted to him to drop the rifle and put up his hands. Instead, the criminal tried to raise it to his shoulder; Stacey fired, killing him instantly. Then, he says, he realized that Morrison was nowhere in sight.
“He called, needless to say without response, and then he and the other two hunted about for some time. They found nothing, of course. The took this body in to the county seat and had to go through a lot of formalities; it was evening before they were back at the substation, and it happened that a reporter was there, got the story, and phoned it to his paper. The press associations then got hold of it. Now the State Police refuse to discuss the disappearance, and they’re even trying to deny it.
“They think their man’s nerve snapped, he ran away in a panic, and is ashamed to come back. They wouldn’t want a story like that getting around; they’ll try to cover up.”
“Yes. This hat he lost in the conveyer, with his name in it—we’ll plant it about a mile from the scene, and then get hold of some local, preferably a boy of twelve or so, give him narco-hyp instructions to find the hat and take it to the State Police substation, and then inform the reporter responsible for the original news-break by an anonymous phone call. After that, there will be the usual spate of rumors of Morrison being seen in widely separated localities.”
“How about his family?”
“We’re in luck there, too. Unmarried, parents both dead, no near relatives.”
The Chief nodded. “That’s good. Usually there are a lot of relatives yelling their heads off. Particularly on sectors where they have inheritance laws. Have you located the exit time-line?”
“Approximated it; somewhere on Aryan-Transpacific. We can’t determine the exact moment at which he broke free of the field. We have one positive indication to look for at the scene.”
The Chief grinned. “Let me guess. The empty revolver cartridge.”
“That’s right. The things the State Police use don’t eject automatically; he’d have to open it and take the empty out by hand. And as soon as he was outside the conveyer and no longer immediately threatened, that’s precisely what he’d do: open his revolver, eject the empty, and replace it with a live round. I’m as sure of that as though I watched him do it. We may not be able to find it, but if we do it’ll be positive proof.”
