Haze and the Hammer of Darkness

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Apollo flares and bends the light around him, and the Smoke Bull snorts and casts little rings of darkness at the feet of those who manifest them.

  “Martel has left,” announces Apollo.

  “Karnak,” verifies the winged siren Direne, and the gods who are close enough to their maleness bend toward the lure of her voice.

  Another goddess closes her eyes, thinks of her son, and wonders how soon before she will behold a leaden shield.

  “I must think,” thunders the hammer-thrower.

  “Think … think while you can, old throwback to antiquity,” murmurs the Goat, his red eyes laughing at the prospect of chaos.

  “Remember,” adds Apollo, “he is still the undeclared god, and the hope of the hopeless, and all that implies.”

  … and all that implies … The thought hangs over Jsalm long after the congregation has departed, long after they have turned their thoughts to the future, all but two, whose thoughts are on the past, and what it means.

  xlvii

  Martel wanders down the long parade of Emperors, past the glittering lights of the Everlight Palaces, past the modest coolights of the Longlife Homes, past even the Mausoleums of Remembrance, as the promenade narrows to a boulevard to an avenue to a street to a lane and to less than an alley among the hulks of empty walls.

  One fully intact structure still stands, but the steps to the temple are barred by a laser screen. Organized religion has been banned on Karnak since the Great Upheaval, the greatness of that catastrophe attested to by the fact that not even the Empire dares to raze the temple of the Black One, only spend gigawatts of hard-earned power to shield the black marble columns with a robe of death-light.

  The teletales of the sweepers flicker, throwing amber flashes on the tumbled walls outside the laser beams.

  “Do I dare to touch the strings of time … to taste the tartness of the lime … to think no thoughts in rhyme.” Martel stops. The words are in a tongue too old for even the databanks of the sweepers, and besides, the wench is not dead, but the ruler of the sweepers.

  He studies the walls of fire before the temple and sighs.

  “’Tis hardest to refrain, and therein lies the paradox … just a chatty old man you are, Martel, obsessed with your words, and knowing words are enough, and yet not enough.”

  He stares at the temple another long moment, then ignores the bones that crunch beneath his feet as he approaches the light knives that have claimed so many over the past millennium.

  “Just a gesture, for old times’ sake,” he says, knowing that the banks of recorders will relay it all to the Viceroy of Karnak.

  Wrapping the darkness tighter about him, he bends and picks up a jawbone, several teeth still intact, and thrusts it through the weaving net of lasers. The bone and teeth vanish in an acrid puff of smoke. Martel withdraws his untouched arm and black sleeve.

  As the flashing of the teletales begins to build, the one who calls himself Martel strides into the shadows dripping from the shattered walls of the ancient dwellings that surround the Black One’s temple. He is gone, gone even from the wide-angle, time-perfected spyeyes of the teletales.

  xlviii

  The Viceroy watches the scene from the third teletale disc, and although the angle differs, the picture is the same. The stocky figure in black, white bone in the left hand, thrusts through the laser screens with a puff of smoke. The bone is gone, but he withdraws his untouched hand and arm and disappears into the shadows. None of the teletales have been able to catch the man’s face.

  “Tell me what you saw, Forde,” commands the actual and titular ruler of Karnak, planet of long life and capital of the Western Reaches of the Empire of Light.

  “I saw what you saw, Lady,” answers the man in red, who has begun to resign himself to a drastic reduction in his life expectations.

  She purses her lips, then laughs.

  “Forde, you please me. That is one answer which I might accept.”

  Forde bows. Tall as he is, overtopping the slender figure worn by the Viceroy, he is all too aware of how appearances deceive, all too aware his continuation rests on a patience that can be as short-lived as a laugh.

  “You may go.”

  Forde bows again, and strides for the portal.

  The Viceroy lifts her finger, then lowers it. Forde’s second in command would have tried to answer the question. Better a clever schemer who knows his limits than an ambitious power-grabber who recognizes neither limits nor gods.

  The man in black seemed familiar, whether she could see his face or not, and that bothers the Viceroy. The color black has unpleasant associations, reminding her of matters better left forgotten.

  She represses a shudder. Perhaps she can again forget. Perhaps.

  She touches the arm of the high chair that is not quite a throne.

  “Query?” The well-modulated voice of the databanks forms in the empty space in front of her. She could use her screen faster than the vocal mode, but she isn’t in the mood. Or she could link directly with the system, but that is not called for at the moment, she feels. Besides, she wants to be alone with her thoughts, and with the direct link she certainly does not feel alone.

  “Linkage probabilities between the man in black at the temple of the Black One and the code file ‘Interest Black’?”

  The Throne Room is silent.

  “Linkage between the recently observed man in black and the Black One variable, depending on validity of Kyre-Brackell hypothesis and associated Auroran phenomena. Range from thirty percent to eighty percent.

  “Linkage between man in black and code file ‘Interest Black’ approaches unity.

  “Linkage between the Black One and code file cannot be calculated.

  “Further query?”

  The Viceroy purses her lips once more.

  Why would there be any linkage between the man in black and the Black One? But why would her sources on Aurore merely have suggested her agents assassinate the man in black? How had he managed the failure? For that alone he deserved to live, at least until she could discover if he had a certain method for beating the Guild. That she could use.

  She frowns.

  Why was his bearing familiar?

  At last, she shakes her head. Maybe the familiarity was only an illusion, a similarity to someone else.

  xlix

  Rydal and Commoron drift across the Lake of Dreams in a swanboat, a common swanboat with second-degree time-stretching and pleasure-lifting intensifiers. They thus prolong each instant into hours, trying to grasp the feeling of eternal life and youth.

  The swanboats on the Lake of Dreams are all the two will know of long life or of centuries as frequent as sunrises. Rydal and Commoron are poor, limited to extensive wardrobes, limited in travel to the grand city of Karnak, limited to one “now,” waiting for a death that will arrive long before the Viceroy has skimmed another millennium down the timetrack.

  “I saw a streak of black along the far shore.”

  “No one walks that shore, Commoron. That’s from the ruins of death.”

  “That’s why I noticed it.”

  “You shouldn’t be noticing such things now.”

  “Why doesn’t the Viceroy,” persists Commoron, “just level the Black One’s temple?” She finishes with the symbol of the looped cross.

  “Because,” answers her lover, the poor Rydal, “the Black One remains trapped within the temple, like you’re trapped within my boat.”

  Rydal ignores the fact that the swanboat is not his, as youths have done in all times and in all cultures.

  “No one wears black on Karnak,” Commoron muses.

  “Then you didn’t see a streak of black,” he responds, before kissing her hand and drawing her to him.

  The swanboats, including the one containing Rydal and Commoron, circle the Lake of Dreams on their preprogrammed patterns, twining their intricate paths for poor lovers clutching a moment out of time.

  And yet … do those poor lovers know somethi
ng in their blindness?

  They do not. It only seems so, particularly to gods who are searching for humanity in a race that has never really had it.

  Martel knows about the swanboats and favors them with a glance as he walks the ruinshore side of the Lake of Dreams, the side he had never walked as a student. He inhales the too-strong scent of trilia and novamella that crosses the water from the pleasure groves on the opposite side, beyond the dreaming couples in the swanboats.

  Too much of a scent, like too much power, often has the wrong effect.

  He smiles at the thought, but the smile is not a pleasant one, for his eyes are cold.

  The Viceroy’s Palace is at the far end of the lake, where the dark water lightens into the brilliant blue bay and where the sun always shines, even when it has set.

  The swanboats do not go nearly that far, milling around as they do near the end of the Avenue of Emperors, not nearly far enough from a small square and a jet-black temple that has resisted a millennium and more of the Empire’s best weapons.

  The temple is guarded only because it could not be destroyed, not without taking most of the city with it, and neither the Regent nor the Grand Duke had wished that, not when the Park of Summer had already been destroyed by the Dark One and the Tree of Darkness.

  The Dark One has not been seen since, excepting reports that He has reappeared on Aurore and will return to His true believers. Or reports that he has appeared on Tinhorn, or Mardreis, or Sileom, or any one of a hundred worlds outside the mainstream of the Empire.

  In the interim, neither age nor weapons have changed the temple, and the faithful still worship, though no litany exists, nor any true priests.

  Martel knows these facts and quickens his pace. The Viceroy is waiting.

  l

  The Viceroy has a name, not that anyone has dared to use it since the Great Upheaval. She is addressed as “Lady” and other honorifics by those who must answer to her, and in other terms by those who do not.

  She bites her lower lip as she gazes from her window at the morning light playing upon the blue waters of the great Lake of Dreams.

  The fallen one, the man in black who is more than he seems, will arrive shortly. Of that she is certain.

  Turning from the wide unglassed and open window, through which nothing but light and clean air can pass, she takes a deep breath. This day, the palace has given the air the delicate scent of sand fir.

  She returns to pondering the matter of the man in black. What remains most uncertain is the purpose for which he has left Aurore and come to Karnak. His modesty also bodes ill, for the gods of Aurore, who have seldom returned to the Empire, are not known for their modesty.

  The last time a god came to the people, rather than the other way around, led to the revivals that led to the Great Upheaval and the downfall of the Prince Regent. The Viceroy’s edict banning organized religion still stands, although the temples, shrines, and churches are open to all—except for the one black marble temple. Anyone can worship any god, or none, but there are no priests and no services.

  The precautions have worked for a thousand years.

  Still … she shivers.

  Why would anyone want to leave being a god to come back to risk death, or destruction, at the hands of the Empire?

  She has no doubts that the full firepower of an Imperial battle cruiser will turn the strange man in black to ashes and vapor—at least away from Aurore.

  So why does he court death?

  Or does he?

  Is that flicker of black along the far side of the lake the man-god she expects? So soon?

  She speaks to the empty air.

  “A man in black will arrive shortly. I will see him as soon as he arrives.”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  The Viceroy taps a series of studs on the wide gold belt she wears, and she is enveloped in a coruscation of auras, each a defense against some form of attack. She is merely testing the system; the triggers are automatic.

  The room she enters and paces is not the largest in the Viceroy’s Palace. Only a pinnace could be safely hangared within, and the weapons that the unseen guard operators can bring to bear on any intruder would destroy any such pinnace as well.

  Comforting herself with that thought, the cold-eyed Viceroy looks from the lake vista on the far wall to the cremegolden hangings of the room and the gentle arch of the high ceiling.

  Should she take her seat upon the raised dais, or should she greet the fallen one in midroom?

  She decides on informality, sacrificing some of the defenses contained within the dais.

  She hopes the man in black will come soon. One way or another she can dispose of the issue, perhaps of the man, and clear her mind for the everyday schemes necessary to keep Karnak supplying the bodies for the Fleet, the souls for the arts, and the young aristocrats for amusement.

  Waiting, the Viceroy ponders.

  Aurore, planet of eternal dawn, home of the gods, and refuge for independent newsies—pondering these, Kryn does not know which aspect of Aurore she likes least. Rulers distrust dawns, gods, and independent information media, and Aurore hosts all three.

  The Lady who holds an Empire shivers and waits, knowing she is wasting time, afraid she will recognize the man-god in black, and afraid she will not.

  “The gentleman in black has arrived and is ascending. I asked his name, but he only said he was expected.”

  “Thank you. Put all internal defense systems on full alert.”

  “It is done, Lady.”

  That alone would set the firevine burning with gossip, she reflects. She had not ordered full internal defenses since the previous State visit of the Prince a century earlier. Internal defenses against a man whose only attribute is sleight of hand while wearing black clothing?

  Is he really the fallen one, the undeclared one, that even the gods of Aurore are rumored to oppose? The one who escaped the Assassins’ Guild and her own sweepers’ scans? Can she be sure? The port records missed that one’s face also.

  Too many questions—for that reason alone the Viceroy must see the man in black. As a Lady she is also curious. A good millennium has passed since a man has refused her his name. The last had not fared well. She smiles at the recollection, and her eyes glitter ice-bright.

  She half turns at the internal warning of his approach.

  The man is stocky, but not big, nor overweight, and the top of his head reaches only to the shoulders of the guardsmen who flank him into the room.

  The guards halt at the arched entrance. Martel walks straight ahead to meet the Viceroy.

  “Lady, a pleasure to see you again after all these years.”

  She smiles, even with the icy stab of fear that penetrates her. She remembers not his face, but knows she should. She cannot recall the last time she forgot an important face.

  “I confess I do not recall our last meeting,” she returns with a smile that includes her eyes but not her heart.

  “That is not surprising, Lady. It has been some time.”

  He bends to touch his lips to the back of her extended hand.

  “Will you continue the mystery or enlighten me before we proceed?”

  “I notice you still have the lasers around the old temple,” he comments.

  “Yes. I see no reason to remove them. They do serve a useful purpose in attracting those who believe in death.” She realizes the man will not give his name until he is ready.

  “You admit that your subjects still respect death?”

  “There will always be those who reject life.”

  “Life and death are one and the same, Lady. After more than a millennium, you certainly should recognize that.”

  Something about his words bothers her, rings the faint chimes of a distant memory, a cold and faraway recollection of a time before …

  She inclines her head to the side, noncommittally.

  Martel sees her struggling with the memories she has suppressed. All souls have their price. All power is bough
t with the stuff of the soul and paid in pain. Martel had not wanted oblivion, only occasional forgetfulness, bought with a jasolite beaker and the routine of a practicing newsie/faxer.

  Never has he been more conscious, never has he realized …

  … how much Kryn and Emily are alike … almost as if …

  He thrusts the thought aside. That price he cannot pay, not now.

  Martel also knows Kryn will not accept him, readies himself, drawing his cloak of darkness from the closet of time around the corner from now, preparing to use it at the proper instant.

  “The Empire would not have survived without you and without Aurore and its gods, Lady and Viceroy. But the time has come for the people to accept both death and life and to create their own idols and their own rules.

  “Have we not had time enough to accept that, Kryn Kirsten?” He almost added the words “my love,” for she has been once, when the Lake of Dreams was the Park of Summer, and the Prince Regent had ruled Karnak.

  “Strike!”

  Pale skin blanching, she triggers her own shields and the palace’s full internal defense/attack systems. As she begins to glow in her cocoon of energy, before the lasers flash and the disruptors scream, the hall is filled with blackness.

  “Martin Martel, my god.” But her words are lost in the fury that fills the blackness.

  By the shore of the Lake of Dreams, Martel studies the Viceroy’s Palace.

  The faint green corona shifts fractionally toward the blue as the internal defense systems continue squandering millions of energons trying to destroy a man who isn’t even inside the palace.

  Martel begins his stroll back toward the black temple, this time along the populated and fashionable side of the lake, his feet not touching the silver sands, his black cloak flapping in the breeze like ravens’ wings.

  As the golden dust inside the Receiving Hall of the Viceroy’s Palace finished settling into a golden carpet, as the massive heat exchangers lower the temperature to where an unmodified mortal can exist unshielded, and as the various devices within the walls begin to re-create the golden hangings and the furniture that had been turned to dust, the Viceroy releases her shields.