The Complete Margaret of Urbs Page 16

  The frightened look on Evanie’s face moved Connor despite the injuries she had done him. After all, she had nursed him out of the very grave and given him, penniless and strange, a home and a place in this bizarre world. She was clinging frantically to the arm of Jan, who stood morose and impassive before the Master.

  THOMAS,” the ruler said, “I can get nothing from this sullen pair. Tell me what you know of this.” Connor met Evanie’s terrified gaze, and it wrung pity from him. He owed much to this girl. Was it any more than right that he help her now? At least he could confuse the issue, prolong it until he could obtain the aid of Margaret of Urbs.

  “I did it myself!” he said promptly. There was no change in the Master’s face.

  “You?” he repeated mildly. “How?”

  “I made the bomb in Martin Sair’s laboratory,” Connor said, with a quick warning glance at Evanie. “I made it at night, and smuggled it in here during the darkness. That’s all.”

  “Indeed? After your oath, Thomas? And I had flattered myself that you were my friend—my esteemed friend.”

  There was something inscrutable in the Master’s face. The grave eyes surveyed Connor sorrowfully as he fingered a beam-pistol.

  “I think,” said the Master, slipping out the weapon, “that I will destroy you once and for all, Connor.” He leveled the gun.

  “Wait!” shrieked Jan Orm. “He didn’t do it—I did!” He paused as the Master’s cool eyes shifted to him. “I had it made in Ormon and smuggled here to me. I hid it in the Throne Room early this morning, before any one was about!”

  “Well,” said the Master slowly, “I might believe that both of you had a hand in it.”

  His eyes flickered over Evanie.

  She drew herself erect.

  “What’s the use?” she said dully. “I won’t have you two shielding me. I did it. I had the bomb smuggled to me by an amphimorph, who rode a bubble down the mains to the pool in the Gardens. That’s the truth.”

  “Suppose, then,” said the Master, “I destroy all three of you, and thus assure myself that the guilty one is punished.”

  “I don’t care!” Evanie flung out defiantly. “I’m sorry I failed, but at least I’ve extinguished the Black Flame of Urbs—and I’m glad!”

  THE ruler’s eyes held a curious light as he gazed over their heads. A step sounded behind them. Connor whirled to see Margaret of Urbs approaching, supported by the arm of Martin Sair. Soot-stained, the whole slim length of her right leg red and blistered by the blast, her right cheek inflamed by the contact with the steaming floor, she was yet so incredibly lovely that she was breath-taking. Tom Connor sprang to her side, slipped a steadying arm about her as she swayed willingly against him. Evanie, so pale she seemed about to faint, was leaning weakly against Jan Orm.

  “What’s all this, Joaquin?” asked the Princess.

  “Merely an attempt to fix responsibility for the bombing, my dear.”

  “And have you fixed it?”

  “All three claim the honor.”

  “I see.” She paused. “Well, I can throw some light on the mystery. I am responsible for the bomb explosion. It was an accident. I was watching some detonol crystallize, in Martin Sair’s room, and forgot to take it off the burner. I was stunned by the concussion, and Thomas Connor rushed in and guided me out. Somewhere in the Throne Room I suppose I must have been overcome.”

  She paused again, staring back at the Master.

  “Don’t you see? Each of these three suspects the others and each is trying to shield his friends. But I did it; it was an accident.”

  She slipped from Connor’s arm and sank wearily to the steps that led to her ruined Throne.

  “I burn!” she muttered, and sipped the goblet of water that a guard held to her lips.

  Quizzically, the Master gazed down at her.

  “You know,” he said, suddenly stern, “that to me the one unforgivable sin is the thwarting of my plans. Not even you, my sister, may stand in the way of them. While I live, I am the Master. I shall yield only when a power arises strong enough to overthrow me, for that will tell me that my work is done. When that occurs, I shall have guided humanity as far as I am able along the path of Destiny, but until then—I am the Master.”

  His face, austere as an image in basalt, loomed over them. For the first time Connor glimpsed dimly the colossus behind the mild mask, the diamond hardness below the silk that sheathed it. Then the ruler smiled.

  “I suppose I cannot doubt my sister’s word. I release all of you.” He arose and descended from the throne.

  Connor followed a step or two. “I’m interested to learn,” he whispered, “which of us you believe.”

  The Master smiled again. “Haven’t I just said?” He turned away. “Of course, if I were curious, I could ask you and Jan Orm how you knew what time to set the blast. I hadn’t decided on a time for the Conclave until I had it announced in the corridors, and the bomb must have been placed between that moment and the arrival of the guards.”

  “Or the Princess is telling the truth,” suggested Tom Connor.

  “Some day Margaret shall explain why detonol causes a cloud of steam,” observed the Master. He continued absently, “Evanie has good blood in her. So has Jan Orm.” Then he was gone, followed by Martin Sair and the guards.

  CONNOR returned to Margaret of Urbs. Evanie’s incredulous eyes were fixed on the Princess as she whispered:

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I thought it would please Tom Connor.” Margaret of Urbs said frankly.

  Evanie stared at her with dawning comprehension.

  “The Black Flame herself burned!” she murmured wonderingly. “I see now why we can still learn from the ancients. They’re miracle workers.” But the next instant her brown eyes glittered vindictively. “I’m glad at least that the conquest of the Flame was during my lifetime.” She bowed half in wonderment, half in mockery, before Connor. “I salute the Prince-consort of Urbs!”

  The Princess flushed faintly, and Connor laughed and glanced away. Something that sparkled in a pile of ashes caught his eye. He stooped to retrieve the marvelous crystalline flower, glowing brilliant and indestructible, untouched—even brightened—by the blast.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “My moon-orchid,” said Margaret of Urbs. “The only perfect one ever found.”

  He grinned and turned to Evanie.

  “I promised you one. Here—our wedding present to you and Jan.”

  “Engagement present, rather,” said the Princess. “I owe you two somewhat more than you realize.” She ignored both Evanie’s silence and Jan Orm’s protestations of mingled embarrassment, thanks, and refusal as he held the priceless thing. “Tom,” she murmured, “would you mind if we were—alone?”

  It was dismissal. Jan and Evanie backed away with half awe-struck glances at Connor. He dropped beside the weary Princess of Urbs, slipping his arm tenderly about her scorched shoulders. Even in the sultriness of that blasted chamber she shivered, her teeth chattered, so recently had the icy face of death withdrawn.

  He drew her close, then halted as he heard a distant, thin clamor beyond the windows.

  “What’s that?” he asked sharply. “Another revolution?”

  “Just the newspapers, I guess. You’ve been in them frequently of late.” She smiled wanly. “As often as I, this past week. The Weed who sustained the ionic beams—revealed as a living ancient—proclaimed for immortality—the rescuer of Margaret of Urbs—and now—” She quoted ironically, “ ‘Margaret to Wed? Romance Rumored with Rescuer!’ ” She nestled closer to him. “Oh, the downfall of the Black Flame will be well publicized, never fear! Let them add this to their pictures and vision broadcasts. I don’t care!”

  “Pictures? What pictures?” He glanced about the vast deserted chamber.

  “From the seeing room, of course! Don’t you suppose we were watched all during the blast, even in here, as much as the steam permitted? Don’t you know we�
�re being watched now, photographed for papers, and broadcasts? You’re world news, Tom.” She frowned. “They must have thought me mad to rush into that inferno with you, out of safety. Well—I was mad!”

  “You can’t even die in privacy here!” Connor said bluntly. “Do you suppose”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“they heard what you—what we said?”

  “Above the roar of the blast? No. I thought of that when I—said it.”

  HE smiled at that. It was so typical of the utterly strange and fascinating character of the girl. He drew her against him, and felt the pressure of something hard in his belt—the ivory Venus, still safe, still immaculate in its perfection, since it had been on the left side, shielded by his own flesh when he passed the blast.

  “I know what I shall give you as a wedding present,” he said slowly. “The original Venus de Milo. The most beautiful statue of the ancient world.”

  She smiled and a trace of the old mockery showed. “And I know what I shall give you,” she said. “Life!”

  “Immortality?”

  “Not immortality. Life.” She turned her emerald eyes on him. “Tom, is it very hard to give up the idea of children? Men want children, don’t they?”

  “Most of us do—but it’s a happiness well lost for you.” He glanced down at her. “Listen, can’t this immortality thing be undone? Wouldn’t it be possible for Martin Sair to render you mortal for—a few years?”

  “Of course. Further exposure to the hard rays will do it.”

  “And then,” eagerly, “could we—” The smile she flashed at him had in it a touch of heaven. “Yes,” she said exultant, but instantly a cloud chased away the smile. “But don’t you remember what sort of children women bear who’ve been too long in the ray?” she whispered. “Amphimorphs, Tom! Would you like to be father to a little amphimorph?”

  He shuddered. “Thank you. We’ll do as we are then.”

  She burst suddenly into laughter almost as mocking as her old self. Then she was as suddenly serious, tender.

  “Tom,” she murmured, “I won’t tease you. That will be my gift to you. Martin Sair can do what you wish. There is some leeway to the process—enough, perhaps, for a single time. I’ll give you five years of mortality. My permanent age is twenty now; it will be twenty-five then. But who in all the world could have anticipated that the Black Flame would assume motherhood—and like it? Tom, that’s my gift to you—life! Kiss me!”

  For a moment of ecstasy he felt her lips quiver against his.

  “Two boys and a girl!” she murmured. “Won’t we, Tom?”

  “And can Martin Sair,” he asked ironically, “fix that for us too?”

  “Of course. Two boys like you, Tom.” She was suddenly dreamy-eyed.

  “But not a girl like you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Tom Connor laughed, “I don’t think society could stand a second Black Flame!”

  A Master of Science Fiction

  THE memory of the late Stanley G. Weinbaum’s genius will endure forever. Perhaps the greatest popularizer of science fiction during the past decade, Stanley Weinbaum’s stories are dear to every follower of fantasy prose.

  When this magazine published Stanley G. Weinbaum’s first science fiction story, “A Martian Odyssey,” the narrative was recognized internationally as a brilliant work of fiction. Could this new author match his great success with stories equally as good? That was the question.

  Time told the answer. From Weinbaum’s pen flowed a steady stream of fascinating stories, each finer than its predecessor. And, climaxing his list of triumphs, there followed two masterpieces—the stories of The Black Flame.

  The story of The Black Flame and the City of Urbs we have already published in our companion magazine, STARTLING STORIES, where it achieved immediate acclaim. And now we are privileged to present DAWN OF FLAME, a story that will be as immortal as its author.—THE EDITOR.

  CHAPTER I

  The World

  HULL TARVISH looked backward for the last time at the little mountainside cottage that had been his home. Then he faced about, purposefully, and strode away—out of Ozarky.

  He passed the place where the great steel road of the Ancients had been, now only two rusty streaks and a row of decayed logs. Beside it was the mossy heap of stones that had been an ancient structure in the days before the Dark Centuries, three hundred years ago, when Ozarky had been a part of the old state of M’souri.

  They had been mighty sorcerers, those ancients; their steel roads went everywhere, and everywhere were the ruins of their towns, built it was said, by a magic that lifted weights. Down in the valley, he knew, men were still seeking that magic.

  Tarvish whistled to himself, shifted the rag bag on his shoulder, set his bow more comfortably on his mighty back, and trudged on. He was going to see what the world was like. He had been always a restless sort, not at all like the other six Tarvish sons. They were true mountainies. Not Hull, however; he was restless, curious, dreamy. So he whistled his way into the world, and was happy.

  At evening he stopped at the Hobel cottage on the edge of the mountains. Away before him stretched the plain, and in the darkening distance was visible the church spire of Norse. That was a village; Hull had never seen a village. But he had heard all about Norse, because the mountainies occasionally went down there to buy powder and ball for their rifles, those of them who had rifles.

  Hull had only a bow. Powder and ball cost money but an arrow did the same work for nothing, and that without scaring all the game a mile away.

  Morning he bade good-by to the Hobels, and set off. His powerful, brown bare legs flashed under his ragged trousers, his bare feet made a pleasant soosh in the dust of the road, the June sun beat warm on his right cheek. He was happy; he was bound for adventure.

  He swung placidly on toward Norse with a glistening spring-steel bow on his shoulder, and twenty-two bright tubular steel arrows in his quiver.

  He stopped on a little rise and the town lay before him. He stared. A hundred houses at least. More than he’d ever seen in his life all together. He stared at the houses, and at the people, most of them shod in leather.

  Hull didn’t care for Norse, he decided. As the sun set, the houses loomed too close, as if they’d stifle him, so he set out into the countryside. There he found a good place and slept.

  He awoke dewy wet. The sun shot golden lances through the trees, and he was ravenously hungry. He ate the last of his mother’s brown bread from his bag, then strode out to the road. There was a wagon creaking there plodding northward. The bearded, kindly man in it was glad enough to have him ride for company.

  “Mountainy?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Bound where?”

  “The world,” said Hull.

  “Well,” observed the other, “it’s a big place, and all I’ve seen of it much like this. All except Selui.[1] That’s a city. Twenty thousand people in it! Maybe more. And they got ruins there the biggest you ever saw. Bridges. Buildings.”

  “Who lived in ’em?” asked Hull.

  “Don’t know. Who’d want to live so high up it’d taken a full morning to climb there? Unless it was magic. I don’t hold much with magic but they do say the Old People knew how to fly.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Hull said.

  “Nor I. But did you hear what they’re saying in Norse?”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “They say,” said the farmer, “that Joaquin Smith is going to march again.”

  “Joaquin Smith!”

  “Yes. Even the mountainies know about him, eh?”

  “Who doesn’t?” returned Hull. “Then there’ll be fighting in the south, I guess. I have a notion to go south.”

  “Why?”

  “I like fighting,” said Hull simply.

  “Fair answer,” said the farmer, “but from what folks say, there’s not much fighting when the Master marches. He has a spell; there’s great sorcery in N�
�Orleans, from the merest warlock up to Martin Sair.”

  “I’d like to see his sorcery against arrow and ball,” said Hull grimly. “There’s none of us can’t spot either eye at a thousand paces, using a rifle. Or two hundred with arrow.”

  “No doubt, but what if powder flames, and your guns fire themselves before he’s even across the horizon? They say he has a spell for that, he or Black Margot.”[2]

  “Black Margot?”

  “The Princess, his half-sister. The dark witch who rides beside him, the Princess Margaret.”

  “I don’t know,” said the other. “It makes small difference to me whether I pay my taxes to N’Orleans or to gruff old Marcus Ormiston, who’s eldarch of Ormiston[3] village there.”

  “The mountainies pay taxes to no one.” Hull was silent a moment. Then he burst out. “The Master, is he really immortal?”

  The other shrugged. “How can I say? There are great sorcerers in the southlands, the greatest of whom is Martin Sair. But I do know this, that I have seen sixty-two years, and as far back as memory goes there was always Joaquin Smith in the south, and always an Empire gobbling cities as a hare gobbles carrots. When I was young it was far away, now it reaches close at hand; that is all the difference. Men talked of the Satanic beauty of Black Margot then as they do now, and of the wizardry of Martin Sair.”

  Hull made no answer, for Ormiston was at hand. The village was much like Norse save that it huddled among low hills, on the crest of some of which loomed ancient ruins. At the near side his companion halted, and Hull thanked him as he leaped to the ground.

  He spun suddenly about as a voice called him from across the road: “Hi! Mountainy!” It was a girl. A pretty girl, slim-waisted, copper-haired, blue-eyed.

  The voice of the farmer sounded behind him. “It’s Vail Ormiston, the eldarch’s daughter.”

  But Vail Ormiston was above much converse with a wandering mountainman. She surveyed his mighty form approvingly and then disappeared into the house.

  But that afternoon, trudging toward Selui, he was richer than when he had set out by the memory of the copper hair and blue eyes of Vail Ormiston.