"Oh," responded Vorion.
"Send a runner to the palace, get me an interview with the Over-mayor. Request it with the Invasion priority code."
"Very good, Highliber, consider it done. And where will you be waiting for the reply?"
"At the palace gates, you idiot. Now run!"
It was a mere twenty minutes later that Dramoren was ushered into the audience hall of Overmayor Lengina. The young Overmayor had been installed in office a mere twenty days before Dramoren's appointment, and had only met the chief civil servant of her Commonwealth the day before.
"Grave and disturbing news, Frelle Overmayor," said Dramoren as he walked through the double doors of filigree relief mountain ashwood. "The Call has ceased completely."
The former mayor of Inglewood was more used to being told
grave news along the lines of hailstorms wiping out the year's grape crop before the harvest had begun. Having no Call sweeping over her realm was simply incomprehensible. It was like being told that dogs no longer had tails.
"Are your sources reliable?" she asked, leaning forward and pressing her chin against her fist.
"They are both reliable and independent," Dramoren assured her. "From Seymour to Inglewood, the Calldeath lands may now be entered by humans. What is more, reports have come in of active, moving Calls just ceasing to exist."
The monarch of the entire Commonwealth thought both quickly and deeply, but it did her no good.
"This matter has no precedent in two thousand years," Over-mayor Lengina pointed out, quite correctly. "What do you recommend?"
Dramoren hoped that his relief did not show. He was obviously first with the news, ahead of her military overhands, economic advisors, and court nobility.
"The Calldeath lands are full of aviads," he replied. "We must keep them separated from settlers and adventurers, else there will be much bloodshed. Order that roadblocks be set up by local militias along the Calldeath borderlands, and suspend paraline traffic for a day. That will slow the flow of human settlers until we have had a chance to think."
"They are extreme measures," replied Lengina. "Commerce will be affected."
"Extreme measures show that we are taking the matter seriously, Frelle Overmayor."
"But how can we be sure they are correct?"
"We cannot, but then we only have to seem to be in control to keep the confidence of the citizens. Give people a firm order in difficult times and they will be relieved, not resentful."
The Overmayor frowned for a moment, staring directly at Dramoren.
"Your words might apply as much to me as to my subjects," she replied.
"Precisely, Overmayor, but notice that I have at least been honest with you."
Again Overmayor Lengina considered. Dramoren had given her a sensible course of action, but with no options. Lengina was uneasy when she had no options.
"Remind me of what will be achieved by your recommendation," she said.
"A lot of your subjects will be kept out of trouble and kept alive, Overmayor. You will also be given a few days to consult with your advisors and client mayors to determine a long-term policy appropriate to our new circumstances."
"Your advice seems both sensible and altruistic, Highliber."
"It is the role of librarians to keep government running in difficult times," replied Dramoren. "Librarians are the last line of defence against chaos."
Balesha Monastery, Western Australica
I wo thousand miles to the west, the horse that Brother Martyne Camderine had stolen was rapidly tiring. It was better suited to the millwheel's treadcircle than desperate flight across the desert. The young escapee had managed to put fifteen miles between himself and the Christian monastery of Balesha before his escape had been discovered, but his pursuers were quick to run him down. Martyne had abandoned his horse in rolling, scrubby hills as soon as he saw dust being raised behind him, but this bought less time than he had wished. A riderless horse follows a less purposeful path, and the three monks soon turned back to search out the fugitive.
Martyne was just nineteen years and two months old, and had spent the past five and a half of them in Balesha monastery. He was clean-shaven, and the hair surrounding his tonsure was only a quarter inch long. Like all the monks of Balesha he wore just drawstring trousers, sandals, a cassock, and his belt. The black cloth belt carried a knife, flintlock, powder horn, and shot pouch: Balesha was a Chris-
tian monastery espousing devotion to God through the martial arts. Only the previous April had Martyne become Brother Martyne after enduring five years of study, training, sparring, prayer, ordeals, privations, examinations, and vigils. Until a day earlier Brother Martyne had been resigned to spending the rest of his life with the Baleshan Order, indeed he had no choice. The monks considered themselves to be so dangerous that none were allowed to walk free in the outside world, except in pursuit of fugitive monks.
Martyne found a soak hole by observing where the stubby trees and shrubs grew more lushly, and after drinking his fill he took out his knife and shaved his head entirely. This was his statement that he had left the order in spirit as well as body. He then began his stretching and sparring exercises. When his pursuers arrived they would be stiff from riding, and Martyne knew that he would need every edge and advantage that he could muster, no matter how slight.
When the three pursuers found him he was sitting in the shade of a low but dense tree beside a patch of smooth, red sand, his pack by his side and the twin-barrel Morelac across his lap. Two monks dismounted and flanked him as they approached, their muskets raised and the strikers cocked.
"Before these witnesses I claim trial by combat," said Martyne without moving.
"Raise your hands," replied the abbot.
Martyne complied. The abbot dismounted, approached warily, and lifted the Morelac from the fugitive's lap. He checked the flash-pans and found them both primed for firing.
"Before these witnesses I claim trial by combat," Martyne repeated.
"Why is it that those who break our laws are the first to claim their rights under them?" replied the abbot.
"Trial by combat is nevertheless my right," said Martyne. "We could even have it here. You, the abbot, are present, the disputant is present, and there are two witnesses."
Abbot Leadbeater was two decades older than Martyne, but scarcely showed his age. He scowled at Martyne's freshly shaven head, annoyed at the show of symbolic defiance. Martyne had never
been considered a model student or monk, but he had excelled in sparring and targetry contests. One day he would challenge to become abbot, one day when he had gained a few years of seniority, passed further examinations and ordeals, learned the nine hundred prescribed prayers, and experienced a divinely inspired dream or vision. When that day came he would be a fearsome opponent indeed. Abbot Leadbeater came to a decision, then twirled Brother Martyne's gun on its trigger guard and handed it to Gerian.
"What better place for a trial?" declared the abbot. "Brother Or-tano, you will adjudicate."
Walking across to his mount, the abbot took a jar of water from a saddlebag and tossed it to Martyne. The monk caught the jar, then took his own water jar and offered it to the abbot. They uncorked their opponents' jars and offered them to Ortano. He drank from each in turn before pronouncing both to be pure and harmless. He returned the jars to Abbot Leadbeater and Marty ne, who linked arms before drinking.
"Drink the waters of trust and friendship, then fight in the same spirit," said Brother Ortano.
They drank, then retreated seven paces each and set the jars down. Brother Ortano cut a crooked staff from the tree that had shaded Marty ne and began to mark out a circle with the jars defining its diameter. Abbot and monk waited beside the jars until the circle was complete. Ortano and Gerian stood outside the circumference.
"This match of skills in the noble and holy art of Baleshanto is to try Brother Martyne by combat for his act of desertion from the monastery. A first attempt at desertion is
punished by the cutting of the hamstring muscles in one leg, a second is punished by death. Either of these punishments can be reversed by God's will in the form of success against a superior opponent in trial by combat, and the trial will proceed until surrender, disablement, or death. Abbot Leadbeater, Brother Camderine, do you accept these terms?"
"Yes," said the abbot, and Martyne echoed the word.
"Re," said Brother Ortano.
The opponents bowed to each other.
"Hajime," barked Ortano.
They closed slowly and warily across the stretch of red sand delineated by the two jars. For some moments they circled each other, just out of reach. Their hands described slow, almost languorous paths through the air but their eyes were locked and unblinking. The abbot raised his leg and slashed across to sweep Martyne's leading arm aside before stabbing out with a flat kick at his face. Martyne arched his back and twisted, so that the abbot's foot merely brushed his cheek, then he retaliated with a rising roundhouse kick to the abbot's hamstrings. The blow was not crippling but it was damage, and instead of withdrawing his foot Martyne dropped it to the sand to step forward and punch the abbot in the lower ribs. Two ribs broke, but the abbot swung around with a backhand strike at the pressure point beneath Martyne's left arm, dropping the younger monk. The abbot raised his right foot to lash down at Martyne's head, but Martyne was already bringing his leg around in a flat sweep. He caught the abbot just below the knee, twisting to lock their legs as the abbot fell. For a moment the abbot's leg was locked between Martyne's, three inches above the red sand. In this moment Martyne's fist crashed down onto the side of the abbot's knee.
Martyne broke free and stood clear of the abbot. The ruler of Balesha got up slowly, but it was quite clear that he could put scarcely any weight on his left leg. Martyne circled him, giving him the opportunity to either attack or declare defeat. The abbot merely remained at the ready. Martyne stepped within range of the abbot's kick.
The abbot dropped while lashing out with a flat roundhouse kick to Martyne's knee, but Martyne merely drew his legs into the air to let the kick swing harmlessly past. The abbot toppled as he tried to regain his balance.
Ortano stepped in and barked "Yame!"
"I am not beaten!" insisted the abbot.
"Trial by combat is meant to be a fight, not a farce, Reverend Abbot," retorted Ortano to his superior. "I have declared an end, you have lost."
"He used witchcraft; I have five times more experience," the abbot shouted back.
"I am a student of history, not witchcraft," said Martyne as he stood back from the abbot. "I studied your fighting, then questioned your opponents. All said how blindingly fast you were, yet your speed never seemed more than unexceptional to me—as an observer. Do you know that I had to break into your chambers nineteen times until I finally discovered that hidden phial of slothwine in the hollow leg of your bed?"
The abbot showed no emotion at the accusation, but merely sat massaging his knee. There was a loud click from the joint.
"What I just drank was rainwater to which you had added yet more rainwater, and behold, you suffered your first defeat," Martyne concluded.
"But, but I drank the very same water as the abbot's opponents before many, many bouts and I was quite unaffected," protested Ortano.
"Ah, but you were affected, Brother," insisted Martyne. "An edge of perhaps one part in one hundred was taken off your reactions. Not enough to notice, but enough to give an evenly matched opponent an advantage."
Ortano did not reply, but the shock and confusion were plain on his face. The abbot got to his feet and dusted himself off.
"Brothers, bind him," he said firmly.
"But your rev—" began Brother Gerian.
"Do as I say! He may have beaten me, but he has now accused me of the most heinous of crimes. He may go free only after he has been taken back to Balesha and tried for this new accusation."
"When the hollow leg in your bed is considered beside the vinegar jar of slothwine that I concealed in the ornamental fish pool, I doubt that the trial will last long," warned Martyne.
"Bind him!" shouted the abbot.
Gerian and Ortano placed their muskets and Martyne's Morelac against the tree and seized the unresisting Martyne. They bound his arms—then looked up to see the abbot pointing Martyne's Morelac at them.
"Very un-Christian, the way you shot my two monks with a stolen gun," said the abbot.
The abbot fired the two barrels in quick succession. Ugly red patches appeared over the hearts of Brothers Gerian and Ortano. They winced, but remained standing. The abbot's jaw dropped open. He glanced from the gun to Martyne, then to the monks.
"Very un-Christian of me, loading my gun with beeswax pellets of red ink," explained Martyne.
The air was laden with the sort of silence that only a windless day in the desert can fashion. Intensely bright light and lurid colors to assail the eyes, baking, relentless heat for the skin, sulfur from the abbot's shot hanging in the air to suggest that this might be a foretaste of hell, the taste of fear on four tongues, yet nothing for the ears.
"You flout the will of God," snarled the abbot, flinging Martyne's flintlock to the sand.
"In your case I'd say it was the devil's will," replied Martyne, "and I do not worship the devil."
Gerian reached down and slipped the knot to Martyne's bonds. The abbot turned and hobbled for the horses, clutching at his injured knee. He had just reached his mount and drawn a small flintlock from his saddlebag when Gerian tackled him. There was a short but frantic struggle in the dust. The flintlock discharged harmlessly, then the abbot found himself with a knee on his neck, his face in the dust, and his wrist bent into an excruciating lock.
"Brother Camderine, you will have to return to the monastery with us," said Gerian to Brother Martyne as the abbot was being bound.
"But I defeated the abbot, I have the right to leave Baelsha."
"Yes, and after you have testified against him you will indeed go free. I do not shirk from sacrificing my life for my faith, but I draw the line at wasting my life as a result of some grubby little dispute. You will return with us, Brother Martyne, and you will testify. If we lose, you lose. If we win, you go free."
"Your logic has defeated me where the abbot could not," replied Martyne.
They rode through the night and into the next morning before reaching Baelsha. Within minutes of their arrival the trial of the
abbot began, for it was prescribed in the Baleshan Order that evil must be sliced from its ranks on the very day that it is found. The trial began badly for the abbot when his bed was found to feature a hollow leg, and after the other evidence and testimonies were presented it became merely a question of whether he should be executed before or after lunch.
By noon the former abbot was hanging dead from the arch of the open front gate. Martyne spared him a glance through the dormitory window as he prepared to leave again, this time on foot. Brother Gerian came up behind him, carrying a pack.
"This will get you to the paraline, where you can flag down a wind train," said Gerian.
Martyne turned away from the window and accepted the pack in silence.
"From the moment that you step through the gate you cease to exist," warned Gerian, stepping past Martyne and pointing through the window. "You can never return."
"I know the rules. In fact, I got a distinction when examined on them five months ago."
"Why did you do it?" asked Gerian, rubbing at his tonsure. "You were hardly a model monk, but you had promise."
Martyne produced a scrap of reedpaper. Gerian saw that the words "Elsile" and "Murdered" were written on it in small, neat letters.
"How did this get into Baelsha?" asked Gerian in astonishment.
"A little bird brought it."
"I want the truth."
"Very well, a rather big bird brought it."
"Brother Martyne, do not jest. We are totally screened from the outside world, save what the abbot—"<
br />
"Abbot Leadbeater is disgraced and dead, Brother Gerian, and I have duties to attend."
"Who is Elsile?"
"My sister."
Gerian shook his head.
"You vowed to renounce your friends and family. We did not
give you five years of the finest martial arts training on the continent to use in some family feud."
Martyne cast a glance to Gerian. Something flashed in the soft, chocolate brown eyes that nevertheless made the bigger monk step back a pace.
"The murder of my sister is not 'some family feud,' Brother Gerian, and I have won the right to leave."
"And by winning that right you have gained obligations. Chapter one, Section nine, Clause eleven: 'He who demonstrates the existence of corruption within the order is obliged to initiate reform, assuming whatever rank is required.' "
"Maybe so, but I have won the right to leave and I intend to exercise that right."
Gerian followed as Martyne made his way down the stairs and out into the courtyard where three dozen other monks were waiting in an arc. The rest of Balesha's community were forming a guard of dishonor, standing in two rows facing the path that Martyne would take to the gate.
"Obligation precedes right," said Gerian from the doorway. "Stand firm!"
Three dozen flintlock pistols were drawn from the robes of three dozen monks, and Martyne found himself at the focus of the line of fire of three dozen barrels.
"Once through the gate you cease to exist, but until then you are Brother Camderine and you are acting with the rank of abbot. Tell us, Abbot Martyne, what must we do to purge the corruption from Balesha?"
Martyne took in the sweep of barrels. There was no alternative but to obey.
"Isolation is our strength," he began slowly, "but isolation is our curse. We are an order of perfect swords that sit in racks, polished and honed to perfection but unused. In the east of the continent there is an order known as the Logisticans, who study God's universe and glorify Him by teaching what they learn to the laity. Go to them, beg help from them, offer help to them. Brother Gerian, there may be worthier souls than you in Balesha, but I have seen no better
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