The Lantern of God

by John Dalmas

  "The lumber and charcoal trade are suddenly gone, and if we don't reestablish them, it will cause us all kinds of problems. And our flow of swords to the barbarians has been cut off at the worst possible time.

  "That's what I want you to handle."

  The amirr sat back and shook his head, exhaling gustily. "As far as that's concerned, I'm going to need someone there soon anyway. There's no doubt, you know, that Gamaliiu is going to attack us. He undoubtedly would have anyway, within a few years—ten at the most. We haven't been invaded since '23; they're overdue. Now it'll be within a year, almost surely. Almeon's emperor plans to invade not us but Djez Gorrbul, within a year; Allbarin has it clearly from Brokols' mind. And the emperor's plan seems to be to incite Gamaliiu to invade us before that. So that the Gorrbian army will be engaged in Hrumma—preferably deep inside Hrumma, I'm sure—when the Almaeic army lands at Haipoor l'Djezzer.

  "The assumption is, apparently, that with Gorrbul in Almaeic hands, Seechul and ourselves will certainly fall. Which, easily or bloodily, we will."

  He paused. "Do you see?"

  Eltrienn nodded. "So we want the barbarians to attack Djez Gorrbul at about the time the Gorballis intend to attack us, and we want them well-armed and eager. Enough that Gamaliiu will keep his army at home."

  "Exactly. And that means barbarians with good steel swords, not crude, heavy, bog-iron clubs. Something light and strong. But just when we need to increase the flow of weapons to them, I find out the channel's been completely cut off."

  "A question, Your Eminence."

  "Yes?"

  "Might it not be simpler to send an envoy to Gamaliiu, telling him what the emperor plans?"

  "What was done to the envoy my predecessor sent? And if he decided to receive mine, would he believe? He'll think we act from fear of his invading us."

  Again Eltrienn nodded.

  "I do intend to send one though—a volunteer. Though it feels to me like sending someone to his death. I will not willingly forego a possibility.

  "As to how helpful a barbarian invasion might be to us, in truth I don't know. I doubt that the barbarians are organized for such a campaign, and we know they're not experienced at them. Of course, they might be able to keep the Gorrbian army home, or bring it home. But then what? I've tried to imagine how things might develop, what might happen. And I've come up with several scenarios. And I'll tell you, it's much easier to imagine bad than good, given the circumstances. It's hard to believe that the barbarians might reach Haipoor l'Djezzer, and inconceivable that they'd join with the Gorrbian army to fight the Almites.

  "While if the situation seemed uncertain for a landing by the Almaeic army, their ambassador in Haipoor might message his emperor, or their admiral, in the way that they have, and they might decide to invade Djez Seechul instead. Or ourselves!

  "We could imagine on forever," he finished heavily. "Right now we do what we can. And all that we can. And hope Hrum is pleased with us."

  Eltrienn nodded. He felt as if someone had tightened a band around his chest. "I'll get ready to go to Agate Bay then. I'd like to take . . ."

  "Not Agate Bay. Not yet. The letter I got was from Ettsio Torillo himself. Hardly an unprejudiced reporter. He wants me to send a military force to Agate Bay to capture and execute the murderer. If I don't do it, he says he'll send a raiding party himself, to assassinate him."

  The amirr leaned back, shaking his head, and exhaled gustily. "I want you to ride to Gardozzi Bay and find out what actually happened. Find out, if you can, what led to the murder, and what problems we might have to solve to reestablish trade. And make it clear to old Torillo that I will not stand for his sending any raiding party. Get his firm agreement.

  "Take Lardunno with you, to read him. If Torillo won't agree, or if he says he agrees but secretly thinks he might send one anyway, tell him I'll lock him in the Hole of Shame if he has the murderer killed. And I will. Or if you see fit, you can tell him the Gorballis plan to invade, and we need the barbarians as allies. But if you tell him that, make sure he understands that it must be kept secret.

  "Then come back here and report to me as fast as you can. I'll want it in writing. How long will it take you?"

  "Hmm. Two hundred and fifty miles—if I can have your written authorization to requisition remounts at postal stations, and I leave by noon today, I can be there late the day after tomorrow. Give me a day there, two at most, to talk to people and write things down while they're fresh—I'll be back in six days. Seven at most."

  "Then go."

  "Yes, sir. And if you'll have someone inform Lardunno . . ."

  The amirr nodded impatiently. "As you leave, tell Friimarti to take care of it. Tell him it's my order."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The centurion turned and left. The amirr looked at Allbarin. "Comment?"

  "About Eltrienn Cadriio, nothing. He is direct, he is clean. He says what he thinks, and he thinks linearly to the point, or as linearly as a situation allows. He'll be back in six days with all the pertinent information. Unless he's struck by lightning."

  The amirr raised an eyebrow. "I hope you don't see anything like that in his future."

  Allbarin allowed himself a small smile. "A figure of speech, Your Eminence. I'm not much of a seer, but if I had to predict, I'd say that that young man will live long, regardless of wars and any other dangers."

  "Umh. I suspect you're right,"

  "And now, Your Eminence, I'd like to make a suggestion that may seem to intrude into family matters. If I may."

  No answer was spoken; there was no nod. The look the amirr directed at his advisor was hard. After a long moment the man continued in his usual calm way.

  "I've said I'm not a seer. But I do sense that Ambassador Brokols will prove invaluable to you, to us. And beyond that, I hope you will not discourage any reasonable interest your daughter may show in him."

  "Why?" The word was less question than command.

  "It seems to me that she has some role to play in all this, too. Though I have no idea what it is, and things sensed so vaguely . . ."

  The amirr's jaw jutted; his mouth was a slash. "You were right; you do intrude." Again he exhaled gustily, then relaxed a bit. "Well, when one appoints an advisor, one must expect advice. And when his advice is as good as yours has invariably been, it's probably well not to reject it out of hand. 'Reasonable interest.' Hmh. I'll go this far: I won't forbid her, for a while at least."

  He glanced at the clock ticking loudly on the wall, then got heavily to his feet. "My friend, in less than an hour we'll be listening to people asking favors of me; not my favorite activity. Shall we take a swim in the pool before then?"

  Twenty-Two

  Having been caught robbing his mother's money crock, Karrlis Billbis had been persona non grata at home for more than a year. Since then he'd lived in a small room with an entrance on a six-foot-wide alleyway, with a single window looking out at a featureless brick wall. The sole amenity was an outside stairway to the roof, where in a tub-like pot a tree grew, root-bound and puny, too small to cast meaningful shade. The view of sky and harbor were quite nice however.

  Occasionally he had a guest; tonight it was Tirros Hanorissio. They sat on stools on the roof, watching a late thunderstorm pulse with lightning off the mouth of the firth. Tirros emptied his wine glass and Karrlis handed him the bottle.

  "She said she didn't have to be an adept to see how shocked the little norp was," Karrlis said. "She was tempted to seduce him on the spot."

  Tirros grunted. He was depressed this evening; it seemed to him that things weren't developing well at all.

  "I told her it was a good thing she didn't," Karrlis continued. "Your only handle on him is, he considers himself more moral than his master."

  Tirros got abruptly to his feet and stood stiff and silent, still facing seaward. Karrlis couldn't see his face, but the smoldering anger in his mind was more unequivocal than any scowl. After a long moment, Tirros spoke. "I don't need a handle
on him."

  His voice was like a rasp. Karrlis kept quiet.

  "We'll kill Brokols," Tirros went on. "Then the little man will have no choice. He'll have to be ambassador. We'll set Lerrlia on him and he'll do whatever she says. Which'll be whatever we tell her to."

  "He's already fucking someone," Karrlis ventured. "A big strong woman."

  Tirros shrugged it off. "Let Lerrlia put half a pinch of passion dust in his satta. That'll break him. Or we can get rid of the woman he's already seeing."

  Abruptly he turned hissing on Karrlis. "Hrum's name! I don't want to hear about problems! We'll kill Brokols first; then we'll decide what to do next!"

  * * *

  Before he slept that night, Karrlis went and hired a boy for Tirros, to watch Brokols building next morning. When the ambassador came out, the boy followed him half a block behind, till he saw him cross the square into the Fortress. Then he ran and told Karrlis.

  Tirros met Karrlis at noon, at the usual satta shop. The mirj had rented a small, two-wheeled carriage with a luggage box as the seat. After lunch, he drove to the main street above Brokols' building. Their hired boy was playing on the sidewalk near the corner, spinning his top on a chalked matrix of numbers and waiting for Brokols to come past. "No," the boy said, "the foreign lord hasn't come back yet."

  Tirros gave him a second silver coin and ran him off. "Can we trust him to keep quiet?" he asked Karrlis. "Or do we need to get rid of him too?"

  "He'll keep quiet. I told him we're with a secret group spying on the Almite enemy, and if he tells, we'll kill him."

  Tirros grunted, then chucked to the kaabor and turned down the sidestreet to barely past Brokols' place, where they could watch for him in the rearview mirrors without being visible to him. After an hour or so, Tirros got sleepy and told Karrlis to watch, then slouched down and closed his eyes.

  Karrlis had no trouble with boredom. His eyes watched the street, but mentally he eavesdropped on Tirros's dreams, which, if uninformative, were interesting. He'd waken Tirros when Brokols turned the corner, and they'd call to him when he arrived. Assuming no one else was in sight. Each of the two had a short, lead-weighted club on the seat beside him. When Brokols came over, they'd cosh him, pull him into the carriage, strangle him, stuff him in the luggage box, and take him to a place Tirros knew, out of town. There they'd tie a rock to him—they had the rope—and sink him out past low tide.

  Karrlis had suggested leaving the carriage and waiting in an alleyway between buildings. An attack would have been easier from there. But Tirros hadn't wanted to wait on his feet.

  It wasn't necessary to waken Tirros. He woke up on his own, needing to relieve himself. Before he could get out of the carriage though, a rikksha rounded the corner and moved briskly down the sidestreet. They listened as, only a dozen feet behind them, Brokols paid the runner, then went upstairs.

  Tirros swore, then chucked again to the kaabor, stopping at a nearby alleyway where he hopped down and ducked out of sight for a minute to urinate.

  "What now?" Karrlis asked when he got back.

  Tirros didn't answer at once, simply drove around the block and stopped just past Brokols' stairway again. "We wait here till he comes back out. Then we grab him."

  Karrlis was skeptical. Tirros was not very good at waiting. Half an hour later Brokols came out. With Stilfos, the two of them talking in their own language. The ambushers watched the Almites walk up the street to the corner, where they separated, going in opposite directions.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Tirros jumped from the carriage. Karrlis, after a moment's hesitation, followed. Up the stairs they went, to Brokols' door.

  "Open it," Tirros said.

  Karrlis tried the handle to no avail, then took a small metal hook from a pocket and, after several tries, got the door open. Once inside, Karrlis looked questioningly at the mirj. Tirros led out onto the roof garden, where they waited around the corner of the garden door.

  Tirros took a half-dried sourdrupe from his belt pouch, popped it in his mouth, and a few seconds later spit out the pit. "If the ambassador comes back first," he said, "we take him. If the little man comes first, we'll . . ." Tirros groped mentally, then abandoned the problem. "He won't have to know we're here. He probably won't come out here, and we'll still wait. When the ambassador comes back, we'll tell him—something; it'll come to me—and we go out with him."

  Karrlis began to wish they hadn't come here: Tirros wasn't making much sense. After a quarter hour, Tirros decided he wanted a cup of satta, and went inside to make some.

  That's when Stilfos came home. Karrlis heard the bolt turn, heard footsteps down the hall, and Stilfos's exclamation when he reached the kitchen door.

  "What?! What're you doing here? You've got no business in here!"

  Karrlis went in too.

  "I'm making a cup of satta," Tirros said. "I talked to your master a few minutes ago, and he told me to come up and wait for him."

  "That's not so! I told him you came up and talked with me, and he said I was to have nothing to do with you. So be off now, or I'll report you to the police."

  Tirros tried to cosh him but he dodged, and they grappled. Karrlis stepped in to help. To them the Almite was small, but his father had been a stone mason, and Stilfos had worked with him throughout his adolescence; he was a lot stronger than either of the two Hrummeans expected. When the brief struggle was over, Stilfos was unconscious, strangled by a throatlock. Both Hrummean youths had marks where they could be seen—Karrlis a split lip and Tirros a scratch on his forehead.

  Neither of them said anything just then. Supporting Stilfos between them like a drunk, they went down the several flights of stairs to the street, then loaded him into the carriage. Not till they had him in the luggage box did they look around. There was no one in sight.

  Karrlis jumped back out. "Drive around the block," he said, and disappeared back up the stairs. Tirros stared angrily after him, then did as he'd said. When he got back, Karrlis came out of a nearby alleyway and climbed in.

  "There's no blood up there," he said. "I put the rolls and sausage away, and the wine—the things he had in the sack. Then I scanned off the pictures and emotions we left there, him and us. If the police sent a scanner up, he could easily have seen who did it—seen the whole thing. I scanned off what little there was on the roof garden too, and the stairwell."

  He'd thought Tirros would be impressed with his foresight, but the mirj said nothing, simply started the kaabor with a slap of the reins. All Karrlis could read in him was bitterness, as if somehow he'd been cheated.

  * * *

  Brokols came home with his new guide and watchdog, Reeno Venreeno. Who was also an adept, though of course Brokols didn't know it. As soon as they came in the door, they smelled scorched metal, and Brokols hurried to the kitchen. The kettle, boiled dry and blackened, sat on the stove.

  "Huh! I wonder . . ." He passed his hand close over the stove, which was no longer more than warm, then gingerly touched the kettle. "Strange. Stilfos should be here, but apparently he hasn't been for some while. And it's very unlike him to leave the kettle on when he goes out, except on the sideburner."

  By that time Reeno had scanned the kitchen and found nothing. Not even the normal, mixed and blurred residuum of daily life. Nothing. Which told him that someone had scanned the place clean. It also told him that something had happened here which someone didn't want known. And why would anyone do that unless they anticipated an investigation?

  While violence was rare in Almeon, there were those anti-Almaeic speeches to consider.

  His eyes went to Brokols, who looked troubled, uncertain. Maybe, Brokols was thinking, maybe he's at the Bostelli's downstairs. Maybe he'll be back soon.

  He led Reeno out onto the roof garden, where they sat down to watch the sunset. Reeno felt uneasy. After two or three minutes, Brokols turned to him.

  "I have a bad feeling about my man. Stilfos. As if something's happened to him."

  "I ha
ve the same feeling," Reeno said.

  "Do you think we should call in the authorities, with nothing really to tell them? They might very well consider me overwrought. Which in fact I may be. But it occurs to me . . . there's growing sentiment against Almeon, you know."

  "I suggest we do bring in the police," Reeno said. "We have some very good men on our force."

  "Well then." Brokols got up. "I'll . . ." He stopped and bent over, then straightened. "I stepped on something," he said, and went inside. The adept followed. In the light, Brokols looked at what he'd stepped on. The adept felt a quick pulse of excitement—his own, not Brokols'.

  "What is it?" he asked, knowing.

  Brokols handed it to him. "It looks like a sourdrupe pit. See the wrinkles on it?"