by M. A. Foster
Morgin said, half-irritably, “Respect to St. Zermille none the lesser, but the Embasses were not her doing, nor the folding of the tribes58. Those are of Cretus the Scribe.”
Jemasmy added, ritually, completing the formula, “Before the treachery out of Incana that brought the Empire to nothing; that kept the Kleshmen from their natural home the stars.”
Morgin mused, “Such a strange old dream, that . . . Is the Prote decysted yet?”
“Not yet, Morgin.” Jemasmy felt inside the shoulder bag, experimentally, gingerly. “Softening, but not open yet.”
Morgin nodded, acknowledging. He expected no better, for back down in the Delta, he had pushed the Prote to what he had thought were its usual limits—and beyond. But it had not once broken cooperation. Curious.
One of the native life-forms of the planet, a prote was a creature of curious abilities and even more curious limitations. No one was quite certain exactly what a prote really was, nor had anyone stepped forward with knowledge of how it fed, lived, excreted or reproduced. If indeed it performed any of the acts which fell under those headings. Generally sessile, a prote could exude pseudopodia and move, very slowly, on occasion. It rarely did.
But while having no identifiable traits common to most life-forms, a prote did have two abilities recognized as uncommonly useful by all: The first was speech, via sound waves to Humans, and by some unknown method among each other, apparently with little or no limitation of distance.59
The second ability was, in the end, even more valuable, and even less understood; a prote perceived. With no identifiable sensory organs, and having no permanent characteristics save its own protean flesh, a prote was capable of perceiving the disposition and condition of everything about itself, on occasion to considerable distance. That was their inimitable key to survival. A wild prote simply watched its surround, and, at a certain threshold of danger, encysted, becoming impervious to any method of attack yet discovered on Monsalvat. Fire, sword, projectile: all were alike in their uselessness. Thrown into bonfires, they vanished. Thrown off cliffs, they were not found. Taken into space, the containers arrived empty.
There were no young protes, nor had ever one been seen to bud, spore, mate or perform any known category of reproductive act. And the communication that passed from one prote to another, while seemingly unlimited in space, was curiously circumscribed in content: descriptions of conditions passed effortlessly, but complex ideas, or rational discourse was blocked.
Protes were somewhat rare; and they were the jealously guarded possessions of the Embasses60 of Monsalvat. Or, perhaps the Embasses were the property of the protes. Klesh did not trouble themselves with distinctions that made no difference to the order of things. And the protes? They found the Embasses to their liking, or tolerance, or to an emotion known only to protes. If they possessed any. Embasses who stepped beyond their function were quickly humbled, for their prote would leave them, or contrive to be lost, and found again by another mixed-blood. A prote could not be coerced.
Morgin had now been in Kepture for about twenty of the years of Monsalvat, and for the whole of that time, with the services of several Bagmen, he had carried his prote. In the course of that association, never entirely pleasant, Morgin had learned much he could not always put accurately into words. But he had also become sensitized to unusual conditions, and had learned when to call upon the powers of the prote. An act he never did casually, for protes were both ill-tempered and rather oracular in their utterances.
Now in the soft plains night, in the silence under the stars, Morgin began to walk about restlessly, casting short, sharp glances at the horizons, the empty prairie distances, not so much looking for a sign as casting for some subtle something out of place. The sense of Immanence was becoming stronger; from its rate of onset, and the strength of the growing hunch, he could almost read it. Almost. Haydars, he thought. A Meor band would leave more obvious traces, hang back, probe, feel them out, and take days to make up their minds. Morgin could recall travellers who had been trailed by Meors for ten days before being attacked. Haydars, on the other hand . . . They would vanish, leaving a sense of terror behind, or suddenly come straight in without warning.
Jemasmy broke into his searching, “You suspect treachery of the Lagostomes? I shouldn’t think they’d have it in them to dare to.”
Morgin looked back, from the deep-blue darkness of the horizons, curiously, as if he were seeing Jemasmy for the first time. He answered, after a moment, “Lagos? What? Oh, that; yes, of course, of a matter of course, Seuthe. Of a certainty I suspect them. They are more desperate than most—driven into the Delta by pressure from surrounding tribes and Phyles, and now stuck there. Floods, and then storms from the Inner Water, nothing to trade and never enough food, and the highest birth rate in the whole world. And all around them the predatory races of Kepture, and an ancient compact which says that where a lance in the ground does not bring water, so there does the Lago become prey. And nothing to make a ship of, and no land to receive them, if they had, Inner Water or Outer61. So now they seek to buy a stone’s throw at a time, slipping back up the Yast and trying to confound both Ombur and Incana. This, Ruggou suspected. And so likewise thinks Molio Azendarach of the Kurbish Windfowlers. A pact with the Meors to the south. The Lagos know that we must return to Ruggou, to the Ombur. If Ruggou knows, then so will Azendarach. And then all these careful moves for nothing, once more exporting slaves to Azendarach, while Ruggou combs their western bluffs and encourages the Haydars. Then the Meors will tire of them, too.”
Jemasmy ventured, “Is it not the Embasse’s part to be neutral?”
“Yes, yes, of course, but not to blindness. The Lagos are a plague. Unchecked, they would engulf all Kepture, and no less than Azendarach and Ruggou, I also desire to see them kept in the Delta, in their land Yastian. So have all the other Embasses.” Morgin paused. “And the Prote?”
A flat, timbreless voice issued forth from the bag, sounding clearly, close at hand, but also as if the speaker were a vast distance away: “To the disturbance of One-Organ Morgin is this instrument come; speak, then, O singlet.”
Morgin cast down an evil glance to the bag. “Address me not with such endearments; perform function, encyst again—this is all that I ask, not these repeated abuses.” Morgin’s vulgar cognomen arose from a fact pertaining to his anatomy, a lacking occasioned by an injury sustained in his more ribald youth. It was said that Morgin had engaged the attentions of a young lady whom, it would seem, had already been spoken for. Morgin never appreciated being reminded of this. Jemasmy looked away, concealing a ribald smirk. Benne-the-Clone stood by the feeding Sumpters and chuckled to himself, adding an insane giggle now and again.
Benne said, at last, calling across the Sumpters, “Give up the one, Morgin! It is only a goad! Emulate your loyal servant, disciple and retainer, and be liberated from the gusts of hot temperaments!”
Morgin ruminated to himself. “While I try to steer a course through storm and reef, one asks why, one calls names, and the last urges castratodom.” He sighed deeply. He would never be free of the abuse of the Prote, nor the ignorance of Jemasmy, nor the inappropriate advisements of Benne. He spoke, now clearly, to the Prote, “East Ombur. Danger I query. Read place and tell.”
There was no immediate reply, nor was one expected. The Prote said nothing, but after a moment, there began a slow stirring in the bag. Jemasmy removed the bag from his shoulders and carefully laid it on the ground. The shape-changing of the Prote was disquieting to him, an event he had never learned to like, or even tolerate. He walked away from the bag, which continued to shift slowly, fluidly. There was motion on the ground beside the bag, a darker shadow.
After a time had passed, and the circling stars moved a little way across the skies of Monsalvat, and clouds moved over the face of the darkness, the voice spoke again in its flattened, measured cadences, “The suspicions of Morgin the Embasse transpose into the farsight of a prote.”
Morgin now approa
ched the bag on the ground, circumspectly; neither he nor any of the rest said anything, but rather remained silent, to allow the prote to develop its oracular remark after its own fashion.
The Prote continued, “Darkness and light are one, but for the shadowcaster; Ombur teems with movement, fierce life, men, near-men, not-men. Korsors and Eratzenasters,62 Haydars and Meor and Lagostome. To certain of these, such as this band do not exist; to others, interest. To others, central attentiveness. Lagostomes observe your movements from the eastern swale, awaiting a small band of Meors arriving along the hogback. All are persuaded by reasonable doubt: ahead are Haydars. Their presence disturbs, makes resolve hesitant.”
Morgin asked quietly, “Where are Haydars? How far? How many? Why are they here?”
The Prote answered, “They see you in the present; you will see them in the future. Afoot in their custom, they could speak with you within minutes. A moment: sensing . . . there are . . . fifteen. One is a girl, the omenreader. Another is an Embasse.”
Morgin paused, then asked, “The Embasse. Captive?”
“Negation. They seek new lands. This is a vanguard party, who came by air to seek an omen. The Embasse is for order as they pass through lands.”
Morgin thought swiftly, trying to foresee consequences, considering factors which would cause a band of Haydars to come to the East of Ombur, far from their more usual haunts. They preferred the west and north. Their presence would certainly disturb things. . . . Ruggou might become more demonstrative, but the Meor would certainly withdraw farther south. He asked, “Is their prote decysted? Can you read names?”
The prote answered, “They are . . . Talras Em Margaria, Rhardous N’Hodos, Kori D’Indouane, Zermo Lafma the Garrotist, Segedine Dao Timni . . .”
Morgin cried out, “Stop, stop! May the Lady prevent me from asking who might be found in the Delta! We would spend the next ten years listening to a recitation of all the full names of all the Lagos that are, plus all the little splitlips begotten while the first list was being delivered! Three I need, and of what clan. Phreme, Embasse, Omenreader.”
The Prote answered in the same toneless voice, “In that order, S’fou Ringuid Goam Mallam, Cland Joame Afanasy, Lami Tenguft Ouarde. Dagazaram Clan.”
Morgin straightened. There was no danger to them from this group of Haydars, and their presence might be an asset. Indeed. He reflected that neutral Haydars were the best protection available. And that to read names, their prote had to be decysted. He stepped back, so he could see better around him, and said, “Let them approach. If they haven’t attacked by now, they’ve no intent of it.”
The Prote said, “They come already . . .”
Morgin asked, “Are the Lagostomes and Meor the sole danger? If so read, then you may encyst. These will cover most contingencies.”
The prote did not immediately respond, and the slow, fluid movements in and around the bag continued. The voice said, now as if from a great distance, “A moment, One-Organ. The currents are roiled and turbulent. Time is required for deeper reading. . . . There is an immanence somewhere . . .”
And the bag made further motions, as the prote made adjustments to its form to enable it to read more fully the surround. Morgin was used to this pause, and expected no more from the prote. Presently it would return to its normal encysted condition. Protes always read as far as they reasonably could; they were professional worriers. But a deeper reading did require time. Morgin walked away from the bag by the side of the cart, preparing to meet the Haydars.
In the front of the cart, the Sumpters began to move nervously, stamping their feet, wagging their ponderous shoulders from side to side, causing their harness to rattle and slap against the heavy drawbar. Benne spoke softly to them, trying to calm the dray beasts. Morgin and Jemasmy both looked about apprehensively, trying to see, to hear something, but whatever it was disturbing the Sumpters, it was more subtle than their perceptions could detect. The Sumpters became even more agitated, almost as if they were in fear of their lives. Minutes passed slowly, as hours. And then, without any anticipation, the Sumpters became still, so abruptly that their harness continued to rattle momentarily after they had stopped. Morgin and Jemasmy looked closely about, trying to penetrate into the darkness, the limpid and deceiving distances. On a low rise no more than a few meters away was a small group of deeply hooded and cloaked shadows of the night; the two groups nervously watched one another, neither making a move.
Four of the tall, thin shadows detached themselves from the distant group and began to approach the cart in a measured, deliberate manner. Jemasmy shivered suddenly, as in the grip of a violent ague, but Morgin, sensing the motion out of the corner of his eye, smiled to himself. The motion of the approaching Haydars reassured him; he knew something of the Haydar way, and it was in just such a manner that one suggested benignly neutral, if not peaceful, intent.
They came closer: now Morgin could discern differences among the shadows, differences of outline, gait, tallness, posture. He glanced behind the approaching tetrad; the remainder of the band had vanished. Of those approaching—now Morgin could resolve a pouch such as a Bagman might carry, after the manner of Jemasmy. A Bagman. Another walked directly, with businesslike stride, with his cloak flapping about his shanks. Afanasy, the Embasse. One other was proud of bearing, but deliberate and aloof: most likely Mallam, the leader. And the last moved as any Haydar did, flowing, striding, using its incredible height to maximum advantage, but at the same time, with a more fluid, more graceful series of motions. The girl? Morgin strove to recall Haydar lore. Yes. Only one unwed could serve as tribal wise woman. So: Tenguft Ouarde.
Now they were near, glancing over Benne and the Sumpters, passing them by. Jemasmy they ignored, and Seuthe the Bagman was grateful for their inattention. Before Morgin they separated a little, each facing him equally. The girl, if Morgin’s suspicions were true, bent, stooped, lowering herself, and laid a spear on the ground. It was only slightly longer than her height, which was well over two meters. The others were taller still.
Morgin reached within his caftan, removing a poinard-like knife-sword, with a wavy edge; by all accounts, a vicious weapon. This he laid on the ground before himself.
One of the group spoke, a deep, hollow, mournful voice. “I am Afanasy. You would know me as Embasse.”
Morgin replied, “I am Morgin Balebaster, Embasse of the Ombur. You surprise me. I ask without intent of offense; are you truly Haydarrada?” The allusion was to Afanasy’s lineage; it was the force of tradition that an Embasse be mixed-blood.
Afanasy answered, the cavernous tone of his voice changing not at all, “Not Vere-Dagazaram Haydar, as are my associates. I am of the Techiascos. Mixed enough to take the prote of my predecessor, but somewhat true in form. How may we assist you in serving order, Master Embasse of the Ombur?”
Morgin said, “Lagostomes dog our trail from the Delta, and our prote reads Meors in collusion. I think dispersed along yon hogback. I bear reports, and desire only to pass unmolested into the west to the water-places Medlight, and then Utter Semerend.”
“Are you not under warrant?”
“Only within the Delta country.”
“Fear them not. We met a band of Meors at dusk when we landed. Those are not worthy of the name ‘enemy.’ Those who survived fled east. They were unworthy of running to earth. These will do nothing. We are here to feel out new lands. No Haydar range the East Ombur, save in rare hunts.”
“You will settle here?”
“The Dagazaram will divide; Ullahi will remain in the ancestral hunt-lands. The Iasamed will range East Ombur. Who will oppose, Embasse?”
Morgin reflected, then spoke. “I understand that Incantor Ivak Ruggou of Sept Aurisman desires that his people extend somewhat to the east.”
Afanasy replied, “Aurismen? We know Aurismen. They will stay in their little walled towns and break the sod around them. So long as they content themselves with their gardens, they will know no Haydar. We do not contest t
erritory with men of the soil.”
True enough, thought Morgin. But hardly know them? Haydars were the legendary ogres of the night, on every continent. No place was free of them, entirely, for only the Haydar were fierce enough to break and ride, in the air, the gruesome Eratzenaster. Yet it might not be such a bad idea to have a small band settled permanently in East Ombur; Haydars reproduced slowly, and they would of a certainty dilute the ambitions of Ruggou. Brave or not, only fools willingly moved into an area known to be Haydar Huntland. They ate trespassers. He added, aloud, “Molio Azendarach, across the Great River, has thwarted the expansions of the Lagostomes; since they cannot walk on water, Ombur becomes worthy of their notice; the more so since the Meor can only be pushed so far southwards down the coast. I may not speak for the Meor, being out of their favor in the present—yet I could tell them that Ruggou has plainly stated he intends to occupy the uplands if he senses any movement west by Lagos. This issue is a perpetual one in these parts, usually resolved by the Lagos remaining in the Delta. My reading is that they are to the point of defying Ruggou—he is farther away than Molio Azendarach and has notable supply-line problems for an investiture of the East Ombur.”
Afanasy reflected, not speaking, while Mallam stood back. The girl, Tenguft Ouarde, stepped closer to Morgin, close enough for him to make out individual features, instead of a gaunt Haydar wrapped in a shapeless cloak and robe, further covered by the soft night darkness: she was tall, indeed, tall enough that Morgin had to look up to see her face. Under the hood were bottomless, hollow eyes, a great blade of a nose, a small mouth. Yet in her own way she was also smooth and young, and full of the confidence of bearing that only beauty brings. The beauty was not in gross shapes, in structures, but in something deeper that animated those shapes.
She spoke, a tracery of youthful boastfulness counterpointing the husky adolescent voice, a girl’s voice, even in the deep resonances of the Haydar throat, “Lagostome peoples are only fit for the casting of omens; they are soft and weak and have no sinew in their souls. I read your brow! You do not know the Haydarada: game is that which fulfills us, not those who spend their lives in breeding. You may rest easily now, Master Morgin the Embasse of the Ombur and the Incana, and say the same to Ruggou and his Aurismen. Upon the Sun’s coming, I will walk along the ridgeline there in the east in my hunt clothing, as I came into the world and time, with spear and knife my only companion. And not one will cross the river.”