Radnal took out the radiophone. “We’ve found the timer. It is separated from the wires which, we presume, lead to the starbomb. The koprit bird took away the wires the Krepalgans used to attach the timer.”
“A koprit bird.” Now Turand vez Nital said it. He sounded as dazed as any of the rest of them, but quickly pulled himself together again: “That’s excellent news, as I needn’t tell you. I’ll send a crew to your location directly, to begin excavating the starbomb. Out.”
Peggol vez Menk had been examining the timer, too. His gaze kept returning to the green needle bisecting the zero symbol. He said, “How deep do you suppose the bomb is buried?”
“It would have to be pretty deep, to trigger the fault,” Radnal answered. “I couldn’t say how deep; I’m no savant of geology. But if Turand vez Nital thinks his crew will dig it up before nightfall, he’ll have to think again.”
“How could Krepalga have planted it here?” Impac vez Potos said. “Wouldn’t you Trench Park people have noticed?”
“Trench Park is a big place,” Radnal said.
“I know that. I ought to; I’ve walked enough of it,” Impac said wearily. “Still—”
“People don’t frequent this area, either,” Radnal persisted. “I’ve never led a group anywhere near here. No doubt the Krepalgans took risks doing whatever they did, but not enormous risks.”
Peggol said, “We shall have to ensure such deadly danger cannot return again. Whether we should expand the militia, base regular soldiers here, or set up a station for Eyes and Ears, that I don’t know—we must determine which step offers the best security. But we will do something.”
“You also have to consider which choice hurts Trench Park least,” Radnal said.
“That will be a factor,” Peggol said, “but probably a small one. Think, Radnal vez: if the Barrier Mountains fall and the Western Ocean pours down on the Bottomlands, how much will that hurt Trench Park?”
Radnal opened his mouth to argue more. Keeping the park in its natural state had always been vital to him. Man had despoiled so much of the Bottomlands; this was the best—almost the only—reminder of what they’d been like. But he’d just spent days wondering whether he’d drown in the next heartbeat, and all of today certain he would. And if he’d drowned, his country would have drowned with him. Set against that, a base for soldiers or Eyes and Ears suddenly seemed a small thing. He said not another word.
Radnal hadn’t been in Tarteshem for a long time, though Tartesh’s capital wasn’t far from Trench Park. He’d never been paraded through the city in an open-topped motor while people lined the sidewalks and cheered. He should have enjoyed it. Peggol vez Menk, who sat beside him in the motor, certainly did. Peggol smiled and waved as if he’d just been chosen high priest.
After so long in the wide open spaces of the Bottomlands, though, and after so long in his own company or that of small tour groups, riding through the midst of so much tight-packed humanity more nearly overwhelmed than overjoyed Radnal. He looked nervously at the buildings towering over the avenue. It felt more as if he were passing through a canyon than anything man-made.
“Radnal, Radnal!” the crowds chanted, as if everybody knew him well enough to use his name in its most naked, intimate form. They had another cry, too: “Koprit bird! Koprit bird! The gods praise the koprit bird!”
That took away some of his nervousness. Seeing his grin, Peggol said, “Anyone would think they’d seen the artist’s new work.”
“You’re right,” Radnal answered. “Maybe it’s too bad the koprit bird isn’t here for the ceremony after all.”
Peggol raised that eyebrow of his. “You talked them out of capturing it.”
“I know. I did the right thing,” Radnal said. Putting the koprit bird that stole the detonator wires in a cage didn’t seem fitting. Trench Park existed to let its creatures live wild and free, with as little interference from mankind as possible. The koprit bird had made it possible for that to go on. Caging it afterwards struck Radnal as ungrateful.
The motor drove onto the grounds of the Hereditary Tyrant’s palace. It pulled up in front of the gleaming building that housed Bortav vez Pamdal. A temporary stage and a podium stood on the lawn near the road. The folding chairs that faced it were full of dignitaries from Tartesh and other nations.
No Krepalgans sat in those chairs. The Hereditary Tyrant had sent the plenipo from the Krepalgan Unity home, ordered all Krepalgan citizens out of Tartesh, and sealed the border. So far, he’d done nothing more than that. Radnal both resented and approved of his caution. In an age of starbombs, even the attempted murder of a nation had to be dealt with cautiously, lest a successful double murder follow.
A man in a fancy robe came up to the motor, bowed low. “I am the protocol officer. If you will come with me, freemen—?”
Radnal and Peggol came. The protocol officer led them onto the platform, got them settled, and hurried away to see to the rest of the seven walkers, whose motors had parked behind the one from which the tour guide and the Eye and Ear had dismounted.
Peering at the important people who were examining him, Radnal got nervous again. He didn’t belong in this kind of company. But there in the middle of the second row sat Toglo zev Pamdal, who smiled broadly and waved at him. Seeing someone he knew and liked made it easier for him to wait for the next part of the ceremony.
The Tarteshan national hymn blared out. Radnal couldn’t just sit. He got up and put his hand over his heart until the hymn was done. The protocol officer stepped up to the podium and announced, “Freemen, freeladies, the Hereditary Tyrant.”
Bortav vez Pamdal’s features adorned silver, smiled down from public buildings, and were frequently on the screen. Radnal had never expected to see the Hereditary Tyrant in person, though. In the flesh, Bortav looked older than he did on his images, and not quite so firm and wise: like a man, in other words, not a demigod.
But his ringing baritone proved all his own. He spoke without notes for a quarter of a daytenth, praising Tartesh, condemning those who had tried to lay her low, and promising that danger would never come again. In short, it was a political speech. Since Radnal cared more about the kidneys of the fat sand rat than politics, he soon stopped paying attention.
He almost missed the Hereditary Tyrant calling out his name. He started and sprang up. Bortav vez Pamdal beckoned him to the podium. As if in a dream, he went.
Bortav put an arm around his shoulder. The Hereditary Tyrant was faintly perfumed. “Freemen, freeladies, I present Radnal vez Krobir, whose sharp eye spotted the evil wires which proved the gods had not deserted Tartesh. For his valiant efforts in preserving not only Trench Park, not only the Bottomlands, but all Tartesh, I award him five thousand units of silver and to declare that he and all his heirs are henceforward recognized as members of our nation’s aristocracy. Freeman vez Krobir!”
The dignitaries applauded. Bortav vez Pamdal nodded, first to the microphone, then to Radnal. Making a speech frightened him worse than almost anything he’d gone through in the Bottomlands. He tried to pretend it was a scientific paper: “Thank you, your excellency. You honor me beyond my worth. I will always cherish your kindness.”
He stepped back. The dignitaries applauded again, perhaps because he’d been so brief. Away from the mike, the Hereditary Tyrant said, “Stay up here by me while I reward your colleagues. The other presentation for you is at the end.”
Bortav called up the rest of the seven walkers, one by one. He raised Peggol to the aristocracy along with Radnal. The other five drew his praise and large sums of silver. That seemed unfair to Radnal. Without Horken, for instance, they wouldn’t have found the electrical cell and timer. And Impac had picked up the trail when even Radnal lost it.
He couldn’t very well protest. Even as the hero of the moment, he lacked the clout to make Bortav listen to him. Moreover, he guessed no one had informed the Hereditary Tyr
ant he’d been fornicating with Evillia and Lofosa a few days before they went out to detonate the buried starbomb. Bortav vez Pamdal was a staunch conservative about morals. He wouldn’t have elevated Radnal if he’d known everything he did in Trench Park.
To salve his conscience, Radnal reminded himself that all seven walkers would have easier lives because of today’s ceremony. It was true. He remained not quite convinced it was enough.
Zosel vez Glesir, last to be called to the podium, finished his thank-you and went back to his place. Bortav vez Pamdal reclaimed the microphone. As the applause for Zosel died away, the Tyrant said, “Our nation should never forget this near brush with disaster, nor the efforts of all those within Trench Park who turned it aside. To commemorate it, I here display for the first time the insigne Trench Park will bear henceforward.”
The protocol officer carried a cloth-covered square of fiberboard, not quite two cubits on a side, over to Radnal. He murmured, “The veil unfastens from the top. Hold the emblem up so the crowd can see it as you lower the veil.”
Radnal obeyed. The dignitaries clapped. Most of them smiled; a few even laughed. Radnal smiled, too. What better way to symbolize Trench Park than a koprit bird perching on a thornbush?
Bortav vez Pamdal waved him to the microphone once more. He said, “I thank you again, your excellency, now on behalf of all Trench Park staff. We shall bear this insigne proudly.”
He stepped away from the microphone, then turned his head and hissed to the protocol officer, “What do I do with this thing?”
“Lean it against the side of the podium,” the unflappable official answered. “We’ll take care of it.” As Radnal returned to his seat, the protocol officer announced, “Now we’ll adjourn to the Grand Reception Hall for drinks and a luncheon.”
Along with everyone else, Radnal found his way to the Grand Reception Hall. He took a glass of sparkling wine from a waiter with a silver tray, then stood around accepting congratulations from important officials. It was like being a tour guide: he knew most of what he should say, and improvised new answers along old themes.
In a flash of insight, he realized the politicians and bureaucrats were doing the same thing with him. The whole affair was formal as a figure dance. When he saw that, his nervousness vanished for good.
Or so he thought, until Toglo came smiling up to him. He dipped his head. “Hello, freelady, it’s good to see you again.”
“If I was Toglo zev through danger in Trench Park, I remain Toglo zev here safe in Tarteshem.” She sounded as if his formality disappointed her.
“Good,” he said. Despite her pledge of patronage before she hiked away from the lodge, plenty of people friendly to Trench Park staff in the Bottomlands snubbed them if they met in the city. He hadn’t thought she was that type, but better safe.
As if by magic, Bortav vez Pamdal appeared at Radnal’s elbow. The Hereditary Tyrant’s cheeks were a little red; he might have had more than one glass of sparkling wine. He spoke as if reminding himself: “You already know my niece, don’t you, freeman vez Krobir?”
“Your—niece?” Radnal stared from Bortav to Toglo. She’d called herself a distant collateral relation. Niece didn’t fit that definition.
“Hope you enjoy your stay here.” Bortav slapped Radnal on the shoulder, breathed wine into his face, and ambled off to hobnob with other guests.
“You never said you were his niece,” Radnal said. Now that he was suddenly an aristocrat, he might have imagined talking to the clanfather of the Hereditary Tyrant’s distant collateral relative. But to talk to Bortav vez Pamdal’s brother or sister-husband … impossible. Maybe that made him sound peevish.
“I’m sorry,” Toglo answered. Radnal studied her, expecting the apology to be merely for form’s sake. But she seemed to mean it. She said, “Bearing my clan name is hard enough anyway. It would be harder yet if I told everyone how close a relative of the Hereditary Tyrant’s I am. People wouldn’t treat me like a human being. Believe me, I know.” By the bitterness in her voice, she did.
“Oh,” Radnal said slowly. “I never thought of that, Toglo zev.” Her smile when he used her name with the polite particle made him feel better.
“You should have,” she told him. “When folk hear I’m from the Pamdal clan, they either act as if I’m made of glass and will shatter if they breathe on me too hard, or else they try to see how much they can get out of me. I don’t care for either one. That’s why I minimize the kinship.”
“Oh,” Radnal’s snort of laughter was aimed mostly at himself. “I always imagined being attached to a rich and famous clan made life simpler and easier, not the other way round. I never thought anything bad might be mixed with that. I’m sorry, for not realizing it.”
“You needn’t be,” she said. “I think you’d have treated me the same even if you’d known from the first heartbeat who my uncle happened to be. I don’t find that often, so I treasure it.”
Radnal said, “I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t think about which family you belonged to.”
“Well, of course, Radnal vez. You’d be stupid if you didn’t think about it. I don’t expect that; until the koprit bird, I thought the gods were done with miracles. But whatever you were thinking, you didn’t let it get in the way.”
“I tried to treat you as much like everyone else as I could,” he said.
“I thought you did wonderfully,” she answered. “That’s why we became friends so fast down in Trench Park. It’s also why I’d like us to stay friends now.”
“I’d like that very much,” Radnal said, “provided you don’t think I’m saying so to try and take advantage of you.”
“I don’t think you’d do that.” Though Toglo kept smiling, her eyes measured him. She’d said she’d had people try to take advantage of her before. Radnal doubted those people had come off well.
“Being who you are makes it harder for me to tell you I also liked you very much, down in the Bottomlands,” he said.
“Yes, I can see that it might,” Toglo said. “You don’t want me to think you seek advantage.” She studied Radnal again. This time, he studied her, too. Maybe the first person who’d tried to turn friendship to gain had succeeded; she was, he thought, a genuinely nice person. But he would have bet his five thousand units of silver that she’d sent the second such person packing. Being nice didn’t make her a fool.
He didn’t like her less for that. Maybe Eltsac vez Martois was attracted to fools, but Eltsac was a fool himself. Radnal had called himself many names, but fool seldom. The last time he’d thought that about himself was when he found out what Lofosa and Evillia really were. Of course, when he made a mistake, he didn’t do it halfway.
But he’d managed to redeem himself—with help from that koprit bird.
Toglo said, “If we do become true friends, Radnal vez, or perhaps even more than that”—a possibility he wouldn’t have dared mention himself, but one far from displeasing—“promise me one thing.”
“What” he asked, suddenly wary. “I don’t like friendship with conditions. It reminds me too much of our last treaty with Morgaf. We haven’t fought the islanders in a while, but we don’t trust them, or they us. We saw that in the Bottomlands, too.”
She nodded. “True. Still, I hope my condition isn’t too onerous.”
“Go on.” He sipped his sparkling wine.
“Well, then, Radnal vez Krobir, the next time I see you in a sleepsack with a couple of naked Highhead girls—or even Strongbrows—you will have to consider our friendship over.”
Some of the wine went up his nose. That only made him choke worse. Dabbing at himself with a linen square gave him a few heartbeats to regain composure. “Toglo zev, you have a bargain,” he said solemnly.
They clasped hands.
PERSPECTIVES ON CHANUKAH
This one also sees print here for the first time, though it has been
heard before. In the fall of 2001, NPR asked me for a 1,500-word sf or fantasy story about Chanukah (for anyone who doesn’t know, I am Jewish, though not especially observant) to be read over the air. That’s a devilishly hard length for a piece of fiction, unless you’re telling a joke or something—you don’t have room to do much more. Nothing along those lines occurred to me, but a nonfiction idea did. I asked them if I could write an essay instead. I did, and they ran it, though slightly edited. Though it was written in the aftermath of 9/11, I think it still makes some points worth remembering.
When I was a little boy, Chanukah was, hands down, my favorite holiday. There were presents for eight days, which made me the envy of my Christian friends. There was the excitement of adding one more candle to the menorah each night, till finally every space was filled. And there was the excitement of the story itself, with the heroic Jews beating back the wicked Syrians. My father made me a silver-painted wooden sword to swing in a Sunday-school pageant.
Some years went by. In college, as part of my training as a historian (a good background for a writer, as it luckily turned out—not nearly so good for anything else), I studied the Hellenistic age. After the wars of Alexander the Great’s successors convulsed the Balkans and the Near East for more than a generation, three main kingdoms formed in what had been Alexander’s empire: the Antigonids in Macedonia; the Ptolemies in Egypt; and the Seleucids in Asia Minor, Syria, Mesopotamia, and, depending on how successful they were at any given moment, various points east.
Antiochus IV (175-164 BCE), the villain of the Chanukah story, was a Seleucid.
What did he think he was doing when he tried to suppress Jewish worship in Palestine? What did the Jews seem like to him? Why did he think they would obey?
Since Alexander’s time, a century and a half before, the Seleucids, and, to a lesser degree, the Ptolemies had worked to reshape the culture of the Near East along Greek lines. Greek settlers poured into the area. Greek became the language of administration and culture. Armenians, Phoenicians, Cilicians, Syrians, Babylonians, Egyptians—yes, and Jews—who wanted to get ahead in this new, complex, amazingly cosmopolitan society learned Greek. They went to the theater and watched Greek tragedies and comedies. They wore Greek-style clothes. When they went to the gymnasium to exercise, they did as the Greeks did and discarded those clothes. All of them.
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