by M. A. Foster
“And so Bedetdznatsch and I so read what has come to pass. Here, in an isolated Dzoz in an empty land, and that one such would be brought to us who would dare what we dare not to ourselves. One from Outside. Embasse, tell him.”
Morgin said, “History. Only one man ever tried to unify this planet, knowing that to be the necessary precondition to our rejoining our human fellows. He lived long ago, and was called many things, but his name was Cretus the Scribe. He was not a soldier, or a warrior, but one who could put things together. He started at a location, by the great river of Kepture, which no longer exists, but he finished here, in Incana, in Cucany. The great work was under way, and even the mad Lagos were restrained once from their breedings, and then there was no more. Cretus expired, the heirs fell to disagreements, and the empire vanished. The Windfowlers from Inner Incana remained true to his memory, but the rest fled like scavenger beetles in the dawn. Here is where the Scribe worked, counselled, plotted, built. Here, below ground, is where his dust remains, and an artifact he used. He was the last of his Klesh-kind, and only a quadroon of that was his in truth. He had no tribe, no land, no hetman, no loyalty but to his own vision. He had a thing he saw visions in, which no one else knew how to use, or wouldn’t. It is widely accepted that the guardians of the world saw fit to strike him down for stealing their secrets of the future . . . that is what the people know of it.”
They were interrupted by a young boy, obviously an apprentice, who wore only a light open framework about his head instead of the full rigor of the opaque helmet. The boy issued forth from the same alcove Erisshauten had come from, without asking permission, bowed with his hands hidden in his sleeves, and said, in a high voice, “My lord Phanet, the Cellar Chamberlain Trochanter advises me that all is in readiness.”
Azendarach nodded acknowledgment, dismissed the boy with a gesture. Close on the boy’s departure returned Erisshauten from whatever observation point he occupied.
Erisshauten announced, “Phanet, Dzoz Potale respectfully withdraws their request for the boon of interpretation. They aver that their reading is now clear, to be passed to the Master Reader without delay. It is this: ‘Say that they say to do it now.’ ”
“That is all?”
“Just so they sent, M’Lord Phanet. They said that there was rapid clearing during our last series of transmissions.”
The Phanet shook his headdress from side to side slowly, a universal gesture of unsureness. He sighed audibly, then said, “I cannot doubt a clear reading, for they are rare, and even the inexperienced lad at Potale can read a clear; nevertheless, I would wonder why we read no such message here . . . ?” He trailed off, musing, seemingly innocently.
Erisshauten began to evidence sighs of nervousness. He spoke, now rapidly, “Perhaps, your surety, it might lie in the practices of our own reader, the Noble Bedetdznatsch. Having read at dawn, and having performed the ‘clearing mind of distraction by horizoning’ exercise, he now takes his rest in his chambers.”
Azendarach chuckled to himself, and said, expansively, “So, indeed. And I suppose the apprentices read in the day.”
“I should not venture to comment upon the practices of the Noble Bedetdznatsch, but it does sound highly probable that such might conceivably be the case.”
“Well, we shall not disturb old Romulu. Doubtless he has earned some freedom from opprobrium. Ready the chamber, then. I shall read.”
“Begging M’Lord’s pardon, but . . . in the presence of outlanders?”
“ ‘Now’ must be verified. There is risk in what we would try.”
“As you instruct, then.” Erisshauten then fussily began to prepare the chamber for what they called a reading. First he latched the doors from inside, then he carefully arranged the cushions and throws on the floor. Azendarach stood aside and waited without comment. Erisshauten then walked gingerly to the parapet, peering owlishly outside, determining the angle of the suns. Then he returned, went to another alcove, and extracted an iron rod with a crank, which appeared to be pivoted at its concealed end. This he began turning; the mechanism this operated worked without noise whatsoever, indicating long use and careful maintenance, but the effects were immediately apparent. A section of the roof over the parapet began withdrawing into the supporting structure, allowing the orange sunlight of the two suns to flood into the room.
Azendarach now seemed remote, uninterested. He looked off into space, at noplace. Meure could not be sure, but his eyes seemed to have an unfocused look. Azendarach said, in a monotone, “What is the mode?”
Erisshauten answered, “Coming up on Broadside, M’Lord Azendarach. Best possible conditions there are, clear sky, no wind.”
Azendarach did not acknowledge that he had heard. Erisshauten continued cranking the handle. Now, besides the light streaming into the room from the sunlight, more light appeared, as if from an artificial source. Meure looked up, to the low ceiling, but saw only a reflection from the pool of water along the parapet. The pool was there to throw a reflection of the sun onto the ceiling, or perhaps the walls, according to the time of day. The room became very bright.
Now Azendarach carefully got down to the floor, and laid himself out, with as much dignity as he could manage. The purpose of the odd headdress now seemed clearer: it was to minimize distraction and reduce the flux of light. The chamber was so bright that it was uncomfortable, and the visitors squinted.
Erisshauten motioned to the visitors for quiet. Azendarach stretched out, relaxed, became quiescent. Stared at the reflection of the suns on the ceiling. Meure felt uncomfortable. Omens! These damn Klesh read omens at the least provocation, in front of others, and they seemed to consider such behavior normal. He supposed that most of them used some method; they could conceivably meet necromancers, geomancers, palmists, dreg-readers of several classifications, dependant upon the beverage employed, fire-leapers, the whole gamut. He risked a glance at Clellendol and Flerdistar. They stood respectfully, also accepting the behavior without comment.
Now he looked at the reflections on the ceiling; it was a reflection of the suns, side by side. Broadside, Erisshauten had called it. The image was not perfectly still, but wavered ever so slightly, in sharp, nervous little movements. The image conveyed nothing intelligible to Meure. The time was now midafternoon.
Azendarach watched the reflections for some time, without gesture or sound, or indeed any sign of consciousness. Then, abruptly, he waved to Erisshauten and began getting to his feet. He seemed to have some difficulty in doing so, and Audiart stepped forward, her hand extended, as if to offer assistance, but she stopped quickly. On one knee, Molio Azendarach fixed her with a glance of malign intent, so that she looked away, and stepped back, avoiding the imprint of those glow-rimmed eyes.
Azendarach gained his feet, while Erisshauten proceeded with the operation of closing the parapet roof. When he had finished, the Phanet said, “Yes, it is so, just so. I would rate the uncertainty factor at Purple. The admonishment is clearly to proceed.”
Erisshauten commented, “I will so inform Trochanter.”
“Very appropriate. And also as you do so, remember that our guests will require sustenance.”
“Aye, I will see to it, as you have said before.”
Erisshauten indicated that they should follow him, and set off without ceremony, save silence. The members of the group hesitated a moment, then fell in behind him. Erisshauten led them from the chamber of Molio Azendarach, out onto the landing, and then down, down, quickly turning off at a landing just below, and boring down into the bowels of the castle through ways much different from the way they had entered. Meure, pausing at the door before starting down the steep stairwell, glanced back once—and saw Azendarach standing at the edge of open space, staring out into the afternoon light and the distances, his hands carefully folded behind him, apparently deep in thought. What thought? What weighty decision lay in feeding strangers? Or that the omens should be consulted, unless all these Klesh people were hagridden with them?
They rapidly lost any sense of direction in the narrow warrens of Cucany; they traversed short corridors, went through ponderous wooden doors framed in black iron, which latched behind them. Light came from iron lanterns, burning an oil which made little soot, or from shafts cleverly let down into the body of the castle. And always down. Meure could not recall a single instance in which they went up. Nor were they greeted by any inhabitant along the way—it seemed the castle was inhabited only by those they had met in the upper chamber, and ghosts. They heard no noises, no conversations, no sound of life whatsoever. But judging by the passages they traversed, the castle had to be honeycombed, riddled with ways.
The scent and feel of the air changed subtly; a faint dusty odor gave way to a damper smell, and it felt damp. Meure tried to compare how far up they had climbed against how far down they had come, and decided that they were now below ground level. Still, the inner walls were of masonry, rubble, timbers of a heavy, coarse wood. Down one more stair, almost steep enough to warrant a ladder, and they reached a level where the walls were stone. There were fewer intersections.
Erisshauten led them to a room of moderate dimensions, furnished with plain tables and benches, motioned to the benches, and departed. Presently, another person appeared, still wearing one of the prism-shaped headdresses of Incana, bearing bowls of what appeared to be a stew or goulash. The food was steaming hot. The steward set the tables, left and returned with huge clay pots of a light, but very bitter beer. They all looked uncertainly at the lamplit hall, the rough tables, the bowls and jugs, and sat down to eat, one by one. Satisfied that all were setting to the fare, the steward left.
They were all hungry, and began at once, slowly at first, then faster, as the bland taste of the stew began to fill them. The beer tasted odd, too, but it seemed to fit the food. All seemed correct, all were eating, even Morgin and the Haydar girl, although in their cases they ate very sparingly, almost reluctantly. Nothing seemed out of place, unless it was the distance that their hosts kept from them. Meure concentrated on the bland stew and the beer; it might be some time before they had such an opportunity again.
The steward looked in once more, saw empty bowls, and refilled them, also refilling the beer-pots. Yes, indeed, all did seem well. There was no sign of hostile intent in the steward’s manner whatsoever. Meure attacked his new helping with gusto. Underneath the bland taste of it, there seemed to be a subtle flavor he couldn’t quite identify, but which he began to enjoy. And he saw the others were similarly engaged, and that was good. This was turning out to be less hazardous than he had imagined. Shortly, he imagined, they would be led to plain but serviceable pallets somewhere in the castle, and would spend the night. That sounded like a very good idea, even better than the food, for, now that he thought of it, he was very fatigued from the adventures of the last few days—he wasn’t sure how many since they had abandoned the ship, but it seemed like a long time. He tried to imagine how long, for something didn’t quite fit, that it, the feel of the time, seemed longer than his recollection of the number of days involved.
He looked around at the others. The Vfzyekhr had curled up in Audiart’s lap and seemed to be asleep. Well enough that! Slaves would learn to sleep whenever they could, if half of what one heard about the Spsom could be credited. He saw that Morgin and Tenguft had not taken seconds, and were sitting, quietly aloof, their eyes drooping. What odd people, not to take advantage of hospitality. The others continued, just as he did, but in slow-motion, as if suspended in syrup. He turned the beer-pot up and drank it clean. Flerdistar was across the table from him, staring at her bowl with a most comical, wall-eyed expression on her thin and homely face, although now Meure thought to see some previously hidden charm in the aristocratic Ler girl. He looked again at the plain face, the pale skin; the thin, boyish body. The watery eyes. That was how she ought to be, he thought, but she didn’t look that way now, even though she was acting very odd. Now he could see some of the intensity of her inner personality animating the physical features. Yes, of course. She would possess extravagant emotions, and would probably be fond of all sorts of odd practices. He saw her in other lights now; saw the thin mouth as a giver of hard kisses and fierce, passionate words in the dark. How could he have thought of her as plain, even homely. Clellendol was a fool for ignoring her.
The Ler girl pushed her bowl away and laid her head down on her arm, her eyes open, staring, but after a moment they closed, separately. Her mouth opened, and he could see her teeth behind the thin lower lip, white and pink. He felt emboldened, full of confidence. Yes. Tonight. If Clellendol wouldn’t he would. Right! It was then that he discovered he couldn’t seem to put his intent into motion. He wanted to get up and join Flerdistar, but somehow he couldn’t move his legs properly. In fact, he could barely keep his head up. He looked around, and saw the most curious sight; all were settling at their places, their heads drooping over the table. And the oil lamps were so bright now! Even Morgin and Tenguft, although upright, seemed disconnected, not conscious. Only Clellendol, who was sliding off his bench with exaggerated care. Meure laughed. Let him! Now he could discern what Meure had in mind, with his superior intuition, such as Ler were supposed to have. And he would come to him and tell him, after the blustering manner of Cervitan, to leave the girl alone. Hah! It was not to be so!
Meure watched Clellendol crawling on his hands and knees around the table to him, as if it were the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. Each step forward was like climbing a mountain. It was fascinating. At last, Clellendol reached Meure’s place, and struggled to support himself on the bench. Clearly, he was failing to do so. Meure leaned close; if could do no harm. Why, he’d even tell him what he had in mind. What the hell: he could watch, if so inclined. He leaned down until their heads were almost touching. Clellendol tried to look up, but couldn’t make his eyes look high enough. And then he spoke, and it was not what Meure expected to hear.
“... We’ve been drugged . . . be careful . . . beware Cretus. Don’t look at it, whatever it is . . .”
But then the Ler boy could say no more, for he was sliding to the cold floor, with just enough coordination left to keep his head from bumping.
Meure laid his head on his arm and thought about that for a moment. He closed his eyes, because the light from the lamps was so bright, it hurt. Don’t look at it. Flerdistar? That didn’t sound right. Cretus? Why beware a man dead thousands of years, however long it was. Cretus was gone, something for Flerdistar to worry over. Drugged? Well, now, he’d have to look into that. That wasn’t hospitable at all, but he supposed that the matter would keep until tomorrow . . .
Nightfall occurred coincident with the phase of the Sun Bitirme which the savants among the Windfowlers called, among the society of the Elect, manefranamosi, which they thought meant “broadening” in the ancient Singlespeech of their once-masters.63 This was when one of the pair was rounding the limb of the other, suggesting an ovoid shape; the pair of stars, already broadened by the atmosphere, distorted by uneven refraction, and their orange light reddened further, assumed a bizarre, floating shape on the edge of the world, seemingly stopping for a moment, and then sinking unnaturally rapidly. This condition, with just the precise degree of ovality, precisely at the moment of sundown, augered in general success for deeds of questionable virtue, in the system affected by the Windfowlers. No doubt, for others somewhere on the four continents of Monsalvat, such an event might well have contrary interpretations.
No light illuminated the cellar refectory of Dzoz Cucany except the oil lanterns hung along the walls, with a slight added gleam coming from a pair of such lamps suspended from an iron standard carried by a helmeted and robed figure whose headdress identified him as Eddo Erisshauten. There were others; one, in the most angular prism-shaped headdress, wa
s Molio Azendarach. Another carried a rotund figure beneath the dark robes, and answered to the cognomen of Romulu Bedetdznatsch. A fourth was doorward of the castle.
They entered in the refectory with a gait suggestive of two opposites: great ceremony, and the furtiveness of sneakthieves. They came in procession, but they watched the sleeping, drugged guests carefully lest any one of them show signs of awareness. Morgin still sat bolt upright, but his eyes were half-closed, and his breathing was slow and regular. Tenguft, likewise, also sat upright yet, but her eyes were closed. The procession, led by Erisshauten, wound into the cellar, filing to that side of the bench where sat Schasny. There they gathered in conclave, conferring in almost inaudible whispers.
Azendarach whispered, “The inhalation will awaken him?”
The doorward answered, “Certainty. The subject will be ambulatory, but will have little will, other than to perform as he is instructed, and the instructions are not difficult. It is nothing new, this procedure,” he added petulantly. “We have done this before.”
Azendarach answered, after a long hesitation, “... As you say, so it is. But this one, now, this one is of the offworld gorgensuchen64, and who knows what he might be carrying in his bloodline.”
Bedetdznatsch interjected, “The underservant reported that the subject was more resistant than the others, but that his lapsing was well within the calculated tolerances. We should anticipate, if anything, only another failure.”
“It is possible that he might have done it willingly. The drug may be a factor in our past failures.”
“The concomitant use of the ingestant and the inhalant stupefies the will and renders the subject suggestible; so much is rote from the pharmacopoeia;even persons resistant to hypnosis perform marvels in the attained state. Remember, the drug was resorted to for the reason that no one would even look at it otherwise.”