The Lantern of God

by John Dalmas

  Chagrin flashed through Brokols. "You people have your kiruus," he answered. "Mine have their methods too. Now if you will excuse me . . ."

  Tirros and Karrlis got up, and Tirros reached out a hand to shake with Brokols. Brokols met it, clasped and shook it. When they'd gone, he washed his hands.

  * * *

  Tirros chattered as the two young Hrummeans walked down the stairs and onto the street. Karrlis half listened, his thoughts taking their own course. He decided to keep to himself much of what he'd learned from Brokols' mind. Let Tirros think there was a reasonable prospect of success with his plan. An illicit adept got very few jobs. To advertise was out of the question; even word of mouth was dangerous. He needed to keep this one going for the thin flow of coins it meant.

  "What would you say the odds are of his agreeing?" Tirros asked.

  Of course, Tirros was not an utter fool. His eyes were sharp enough, and he could add two and two. "Just now it's uncertain," Karrlis improvised. "He doesn't like you, doesn't trust you. But he does see strong advantages in your proposal."

  Tirros nodded smugly as they started down the sidestreet, toward its corner with a nearby major street where hansoms and rikkshas would be available. "I won't push him hard. I'll hold off a few days, then come around and ask what he needs taken care of that's a problem for him. Perhaps ask him if he'd like to meet another girl." Tirros laughed, the sound clear and light.

  "If he doesn't come around," Karrlis said, "I have an alternate suggestion you might like."

  Tirros looked quizzically at him as they strode along. "And what might that be?"

  "You can try his man. The little foreigner's more than just a servant. He's the one who'd serve as replacement if anything should happen to the ambassador. If this Brokols proves intransigent, we might, ah, retire him. Then perhaps you could work with the replacement."

  Tirros examined the suggestion, then crowed with delight. "A marvelous idea. Well, we'll see what we see. The ambassador is the stronger person, of course, with higher rank. Correct? He can do more for me. But if he closes the door in my face . . . I'll hire someone tomorrow morning; your little brother maybe? Have him watch the ambassador's street entrance and follow him if he goes out. If he goes to the Fortress or seems to be leaving town, we'll catch a coach, you and I, and talk to his man. What's his name again?"

  "Stilfos."

  "That's it. Stilfos." Tirros seemed to taste the name, trying it on his tongue. "Stilfos. And see what sort of man he might be to work with."

  Nineteen

  Stilfos had finished his morning work and settled on a chair in the garden with a cup of satta dosed with sweet wine, to browse the book Brokols had been reading the evening before. He read not with any particular intention of learning from it, but as a diversion, and was probably learning as much from it as Brokols had, when he heard the knocker clack on the entrance door. Frowning, he put the book down and went inside to answer.

  Tirros and Karrlis were waiting.

  "Yes?" he said. He didn't like either of them, didn't trust them. Nor did it help that he came only to Tirros's throat and to Karrlis's chin; at home his height was average or a bit more.

  "We'd like to come in and talk with you, if you please," Tirros replied. "It's about the ambassador."

  "We can talk where we are," Stilfos answered. His tone carried suspicion and disapproval. "I'm to let no one in without permission."

  Tirros shrugged. "Have you heard of the Trumpet of Hrum?" he asked.

  "The man who speaks against Almeon? I've been myself to hear him. What about it?"

  "Some of us here in Hrumma think it would be a good idea if your emperor did rule here. Last night the two of us offered to do what we could to help; help your emperor take over here, that is. But speaking frankly, we have doubts that your Lord Brokols is morally fit to serve as your emperor's representative. We thought you'd want to hear about it."

  Stilfos's impulse was to order them away. Instead he found himself saying, "It had better be good, or I'm closing this door in your face."

  Tirros nodded soberly. "Your ambassador, frankly speaking, is a libertine and sex pervert. He's . . ."

  "I don't believe it! Be on your way now, both of you!"

  Stilfos moved to shut the door, but Tirros's foot blocked it. "Mr. Stilfos," Tirros said earnestly, "I beg you hear me out. This is too important to leave unsaid."

  Stilfos stopped, unsure.

  "It may be," Tirros went on, "that his moral depravity does not affect his mental function, his judgement. All I ask is that you watch him, observe, and judge for yourself. Then decide what, if anything, you should do about it. We'd like to see your emperor succeed, if possible, and do what we can to help."

  Stilfos still stood, not knowing what to say.

  "How do you suppose the Trumpet of Hrum learned of your emperor's plans?" Tirros went on. "And about the fleet. The 200 ships."

  Stilfos looked stricken. He remembered his concern at his master's drinking, and the trouble it might cause. "You gentlemen really have to go now," he said. "I've work to do."

  This time Karrlis spoke. "Just one thing more, and we'll leave."

  Stilfos waited.

  "Have you ever seen the ambassador sick with a terrible headache after being out all night?"

  "What if I have?"

  "It's from a drug he took. To enable him to, uh, couple with different women all night long. And engage in acts other than coupling. A close acquaintance of mine was there and witnessed part of it; he's a servant of the house where it happened." Karrlis shuddered; Tirros looked on, impressed with him. "The things he did!" Karrlis added. "And in front of other people!"

  Tirros interrupted. "Enough," he said. "It's not right to burden this man with all that ugliness." He looked at Stilfos. "Unfortunately, these things are true. But I can understand how hard it might be for you to hear them. We'll leave now, but I'll get in touch with you again in a few days. In case you decide we can help."

  They backed away then, turned and disappeared down the stairs. After a moment, Stilfos closed the door and went to the kitchen to wash pots, forgetting all about the book laying on the garden table. Fortunately it didn't rain.

  Tirros and Karrlis laughed and giggled most of the way to the satta shop.

  * * *

  The next day at almost the same time, Lerrlia knocked. Stilfos was stunned by her appearance. She wore a light and clinging frock that didn't reach her knees, and she seemed to him lovely beyond belief.

  "Is the ambassador at home?" she asked.

  "Ah, no ma'am—miss—he's not."

  "When do you expect him?"

  "I'm not sure. Late afternoon most likely."

  She frowned prettily. "Perhaps I'll come back then. I've been invited to a, um—very special party this evening, and I hoped he'd take me. He enjoyed the last one so much, and I've never known anyone who could, ah, party all night the way he did." She shivered. "He's marvelous!"

  Stilfos simply stared.

  She shrugged. "Oh well. I suppose he's very busy, or perhaps he's spending his free time with one of the other girls he met there. I shouldn't be pursuing him, but . . ."

  She turned and left. It was half a minute before Stilfos closed the door and went back to his kitchen. He tried to finish cleaning the stove, the project he'd set for his morning, but it was no use. After a few minutes he went to the wireless room and radioed Kryger.

  No one answered the signal at the other end though—no one seemed to be there—and Stilfos gave up on it for the time being.

  Maybe, he told himself, none of it was true. Maybe they were lying, even the beautiful young woman. Although it was hard to imagine anyone so lovely being a liar.

  Perhaps, he thought, he should wait a few days before telling Lord Kryger what he'd heard. Wait and see how Lord Brokols seemed. The truth was, he liked Lord Brokols much better than he did Lord Kryger. And as for the two young Hrummean gentlemen, there was something about them that seemed positively evil.<
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  Twenty

  Eltrienn Cadriio had spent little time with Brokols since their return. The ambassador had less need of a guide and tutor now, and linguistically he'd made the switch from Djezian to Hrummean pretty thoroughly. His Almaeic-Djezian accent was interesting rather than troublesome, and only occasional words and idioms, relatively little used, caused glitches in communication for him.

  The centurion had not been returned to his position on the amirr's guard though. He was to remain available to Brokols for the time being, and was quartered with the "unassigned" officers that formed a pool for miscellaneous temporary details. Mainly, just now, this involved helping the training cadre drill recruits, which were increasing sharply with the concern over possible invasion. Because of Cadriio's reputation as a swordsman, he'd been giving demonstrations and supervising drills with the weapon.

  The palace messenger found him at the military compound, in the officers' dining room, and handed him the sealed envelope, then stood waiting. It was not, Eltrienn noted, an official envelope, nor was the seal familiar to him. Opening it, he began to read.

  * * *

  Dear Eltrienn,

  It was my pleasure, during your visit at Sea Cliff recently, to talk a little with Ambassador Brokols. I found him to be a nice man and quite interesting. I would like to be better acquainted with him.

  It would please me very much if you would arrange for him to meet me tomorrow at the palace after lunch, so that we may talk. I would like to know more about him and his country.

  Fondly,

  Juliassa

  * * *

  The centurion grimaced slightly, folded the message and tucked it in his belt pouch, then looked at the messenger. "Tell the namirrna," he said, "that I'll deliver her invitation."

  When the lad had hurried off, Cadriio shook his head and returned his attention to his food. From captain of the amirrial guard to messenger boy for the namirrna. He didn't know where Brokols was today—in the library perhaps, or at home, or maybe visiting some merchant . . . probably not the latter, he told himself. He'd likely have asked me along on anything like that.

  It would be interesting to know what was on Juliassa's mind. She'd been a nice child, and now she seemed a nice young lady. But she'd always been adventurous and impetuous, and a bit spoiled. She'd be better off, he thought, not to develop a romantic interest in Brokols. Not only was his political status somewhat uncertain; personally the ambassador was something of a stick. Quite a likable stick, basically a decent stick, but a bit of a stick nonetheless. The odds are, he wouldn't know how to respond to her.

  * * *

  The lady in waiting led Brokols into the garden, where Juliassa sat beneath a large umbrella, embroidering. She looked up as he came out the door, and smiling, rose to her feet. The lady in waiting turned demurely and went back in, leaving Brokols on his own.

  It occurred to him, seeing Juliassa there, that a few evenings back he'd felt hopelessly in love with her. Then he'd arrived in Theedalit to an anti-Almeon rally, and after that there'd been the matter of Stilfos reporting behind his back to Kryger. He'd scarcely thought of Juliassa again till Eltrienn had delivered her message the day before.

  As he walked toward her, he found her as lovely as before, as sweet, and the feeling rekindled inside him. But the emotion wasn't the same as it had been on the beach. On the beach there'd been her sense of loss and grief, his own sympathy . . .

  Now she was smiling broadly, teeth white and even, and as he stepped up to her, she raised her hands for him to stop.

  "You're wearing Hrummean clothes!" she said.

  He grinned sheepishly. "They looked so much cooler, I decided it was foolish not to. I'll reserve my ambassadorial garb for ceremonial and official occasions."

  She looked him up and down, warming him with her eyes. His suit was cut conservatively, white of course, and lightweight, with sleeves to the elbows. His fitted hose were snug from the knees down, and his lightweight blue calfskin boots ended a little above the ankles. He'd always had very good forearms and calves, and thought them comparable to those of most Hrummean men.

  Reaching out, she took his hands, squeezing his fingers lightly, then motioned him to a chair on the other side of the tiny umbrellaed table, and they sat down.

  "I'm glad you could come."

  "I am too. Things are a bit unsettled, you know."

  She nodded, sober now. "I've heard. Mother told me about it—about Eltrienn's brother and some of the nobles being worried about your country attacking ours." She brightened. "I'm not worried though. We're a strong people, a strong country. And if your country does something wrong against ours, I know whose side you'll choose."

  Her conclusion, her confidence, her comment jarred Brokols to his heels. He'd been totally unprepared for it, hadn't considered that there might be a choice. She actually seemed to think he'd abandon his country and his emperor over a matter of principle! Of principle as she saw it!

  It left his psyche in momentary confusion. For there were principles involved, an entire array of principles, and he hadn't looked at them. Now they began to roil within the borders of his consciousness: his senses of morality and propriety, of duty and responsibility and happiness and life and . . . and he wasn't sure where they led, how they fitted together, what they meant.

  So he grabbed one of them, duty to emperor, as a stable datum. He was a loyal subject. Beyond that he'd go as far as he could to make things right—as far as he could while remaining loyal.

  "I'm glad to have your confidence, Juliassa. This isn't a comfortable situation for me, I'm sure you know."

  "I do," she said, nodding. "But now that you're here in a land where Hrum is listened to, you'll hear him too." Abruptly she smiled again and changed the subject. "Now that you've seen so much of our country, what do you think of it?"

  In a minute or two he was out of himself, describing what he'd seen and what he'd made of it, with increasing animation. She added her own comments, asked questions, made faces. There was laughter. When he left, after almost an hour, it was with a promise to have lunch with her and her mother the next day. It seemed to Brokols that he'd never enjoyed any hour in his life as much as this one.

  Not even, he realized, during that drug-heightened night on the pleasure boat. He'd forgotten about that, and it brought back the swirl of uncertainties about principle.

  Instead of returning to the Fortress and its library, he walked back to his apartment, where the similarly introverted Stilfos was still troubled by his visit from Lerrlia that morning. And read some more on the history of Hrumma.

  Twenty-One

  The steward ushered Eltrienn into the amirr's office, then backed out and closed the door. Leonessto Hanorissio beckoned the centurion to sit, then sat down himself and regarded the younger man for a moment. Besides the two of them, only Allbarin was there, sitting to one side of the amirr and a little back, a wise and observant shadow.

  Eltrienn knew the amirr well, and it was clear to him that something was wrong.

  "Perhaps you're aware," the amirr said, "that your Almite is interested in my daughter. Yesterday they visited in the palace garden, and today he's to have lunch with her and her mother."

  "Begging your pardon, Your Eminence, but it appears to me that her interest came first. She invited Brokols to yesterday's meeting—had me carry the invitation to him."

  The amirr withdrew his gaze, his lips pursing. "Umh. I shouldn't be surprised."

  "Also, Your Eminence, if I may say so, he's not my Almite. As a matter of fact, it seems to me he doesn't need me anymore. Perhaps I should be given another assignment."

  The hazel eyes focused on Eltrienn again, and suddenly the mouth smiled. "Ah! And now you bring us to the reason I sent for you. You're the only person in government, so far as I know, who speaks the barbarian language."

  Eltrienn nodded. "Not fluently, but functionally perhaps. It's been several years. There are people on the east coast, some of Ettsio Torillo's people,
who should be quite fluent in it. If you need someone who speaks the language, one of them might serve you better."

  The amirr shook off the suggestion. "They're part of the problem. Not that they caused it; so far as I know, they didn't. And I need someone I can depend on. Namely, I need you. After all, their great chief knows you."

  "An upset with Torillo?"

  "Upset isn't quite the word. I received a letter last evening telling me that the great chief's brother murdered Torillo's factor, his son, at Agate Bay. With a sword, supposedly in cold blood, while the factor was unarmed. And before witnesses. So the deputy factor, Torillo's nephew, pulled out the entire operation, loaded everyone on two lumber schooners at the wharf there, and went home. That's the report.