The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  “We are, naturally, equally prepared for the other possibility?”

  All moved their helmets ponderously, signifying affirmatively. Erisshauten summarized. “In the event of successful transfer, we must destroy the device immediately and overpower the subject so that we may interrogate him at our leisure, without fear.”

  Azendarach mused, “I fear this, each time we try it. I like it not, even though it was read in the reflection generations ago and reverified again and again. We are to attempt to revive the personality of Cretus the Scribe in the body of a subject. After that, nothing. No advice, no instructions, suggestions, absolutely blank. The best omenreaders have plied their trade and get no reading of advantage or disadvantage, blame or unblame.”

  Bedetdznatsch corrected the Phanet, politely, “Your pardon, m’lord, but the reading is always ‘advantage/disadvantage, no blame.’ ”

  The reply was icy. “In my workbook, that is the import of the null reading.”

  Bedetdznatsch whispered, “Of course, of course. But within a concept in which inaction is a form of action, and indecisiveness a form of decision, then a null reading has its wording and commands the same respect as the others. And we cannot overlook that this particular one was delineated. ‘One will be brought from the offworlds. Use him next.’ This is the one, according to the Embasse.”

  “The Embasse also said that the Star-boat crashed very close to the country of the Lagostomes. He could have been for them to use.”

  “They couldn’t have done much. Only we possess the talisman. No, things have worked to bring the subject here. The reflections so read, and so it has been. I have faith.”

  “Mine is not in question. I am fearful, when I receive what can only be interpreted as specific instructions from the omens, and no resultant is revealed at the culmination of those actions. And no way has been found to weasel it out, either.”

  Bedetdznatsch mused, “Rapmanchelein the Mystic was reputed to have inquired in the reflections of their origin, to wit, were the omens, of God. In his opinion the interpretation was a negation of that idea. That is, while his sanity remained. He spent the remainder of his short life, muttering, ‘they laugh their laughs, they do,’ and sometimes, ‘one in many, many in one.’ I would not think of wondering what the source is. For the time, I will accept that it is not communication with the One, but perhaps something lesser, at least familiar with Aceldama.”

  Azendarach added, “And the region surrounding it, out how far we can’t even guess. We read the instruction many days before the Ship could have landed here.”

  Erisshauten agreed, emphatically, “Yes, many days, indeed. One wonders, for a certainty.”

  Azendarach turned away from the group and looked at Schasny, reflectively. Finally he said, still looking at the unconscious body slumped at his place at the table, “We should be able to control that one in the event the transfer works . . . dare we mention the rest here?”

  The doorward said, “This level is supposed to be free of bane or omen. All experiments conducted here approximate random to the extent we have been able to perform and record them. The conclusion is that this level is blind. . . .”

  “No one knows why the readings suggest the reactivation of Cretus the Scribe. But in the archives it was reported that he was known to be not only a reader, but an activant. That implies control, or cooperation with some affective entity. If our suspicions are accurate, then we will possess either a key to our dreams, or else a powerful bargaining tool to work toward that. But it will have to be fast. We must not let him get away from us this time, eh? Like those fools of the old Incana, long ago, let him get away from them.”

  He stopped, as if the idea were too powerful to submit to the tyranny of mere words. He shook his head. “These adventurers and charismatics come along and think the world’s their own toy to pull down or set straight! And setting straighter it’s always needed, correct enough; but for it practical men are needed to guide the repairing hand, else all be broken along the way. They had the right idea, then. They insulated him in routines and functions and repetitious acts and got him pointed in the right direction. It’s all in the archives. But they left him one way out. We must leave this one no way out, if it works. And then we’ll subdue this proud Cretus. With fire and iron, if need be ... What shall we have him set to rights first, my fellows?”

  Bedetdznatsch muttered, “Potale has long been a hotbed of heterodoxy and should be brought to heel.”

  The doorward ventured, “Rid the wide world of Eratzenasters. And their riders. My cousin was taken.”

  Erisshauten said, thoughtfully, “The Lagostomes will provide ample manpower, properly instructed, for ourselves and associates to subdue Kepture; we can work from there.”

  “Let it begin, then.”

  Erisshauten withdrew from his robe a vial containing a clear liquid. This he poured onto a towel handed him for the purpose. The solution appeared to have no discernible scent. Then he seized Schasny roughly by the hair and covered the boy’s face with the saturated towel. At first, there was no change; Schasny gave no indication whatsoever that he perceived what was being done to him. Then his eyes began moving under the lids, and he opened his eyes. Erisshauten removed the towel, and the boy sat upright unassisted. He asked no questions, nor did he look around, although he seemed alert enough.

  Azendarach said sharply, “Test him!”

  Erisshauten asked the boy, “What is your name?”

  He answered tonelessly, “Meure Wendrin Schasny.”

  “Give your age and planet of origin.”

  “I was born on Tancred; I have twenty Tancred years. The correction factor for Tancred is .962215.”

  Azendarach asked, “What is a correction factor?”

  The boy answered in the same toneless voice, “It is a ratio between a planetary year and the year of the suspected planet of origin. The period has been verified independently by biometric means, so the system need not be found to prove the concept. It provides a means to equate ages among persons from different planets, for statistical purposes, and also legal purposes.”

  The Incanans looked at one another. Azendarach asked, “The existence of such a concept suggests a community of many planets. How many are there inhabited by humans like us?”

  Schasny emitted a short giggle. “None.”

  Azendarach asked, “How many inhabited by those like you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “More than twenty?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than a hundred?”

  “Yes.”

  Azendaach looked at his companions. “That’s a lot of people.”

  Erisshauten commented, “Homogenized Gorgensuchen. One Klesh would be worth any ten or twenty. They have not had to survive against their fellow Humans in the manner we have. They will reward equality and conformity. We pursue excellence. There is no correspondence between the two systems. We will gain an initial advantage at first, then enter a period of stalemate. After a time, their will will weaken and we will gain the victory. This will come later. Now, first things first.”

  Azendarach said to Schasny, “What is your desire?”

  “I have no desire.”

  “Then arise and come with me.”

  He got to his feet, unsteadily, assisted by the doorward, who turned him in the direction he should go The group left the refectory and passed through a small kitchen, Azendarach leading. Bedetdznatsch and Erisshauten bringing up the rear.

  Bedetdznatsch whispered to Erisshauten, “Molio’s not such an alert watchman as one might need.”

  “Precautions have been taken.”

  “I have it from my morning reading that this one will take.”

  “You kept that quiet, didn’t you?”

  “Azendarach assumed the Phaneterie by chicanery; he may read according to his abilities to do so.”

  “They say each reader sees a different truth, both ways. You know the saying.”

  “Aye, wha
t you can see and what it says. I know: they can change, they can. I’ve caught ’em changing with the students, more than once.”

  “You know more?”

  “They don’t like Molio.”

  “Why?”

  “Too much peace, not enough war. He’s a parlor-Phanet, a politician, such as the filthy Lagos follow.”

  “Well, from what I hear, Cretus’ll change all that. All the accounts say he was fond of action. Took the council almost ten years to get him under control. We’ll accomplish that tonight. Or we’ll put the legend to sleep for good.”

  “I’ll give you a foretelling . . .”

  “It’s supposed to be bad luck.”

  “Throw that! Luck is made, not waited for. So all I’ll say is give him room, not a lot, and be wary, but if Cretus makes the first move, let him make it.”

  “He’ll get Azendarach, then?”

  “There’s a big uncertainty factor in it, but it looks like that’s the probability.”

  “What’s the uncertainty factor?”

  “Orange.”

  “You’re dreaming, not reading. Orange lies within the norm of random variation.”

  “I admit it was weak, but I say it was there.”

  “Very well. But attend! These steps are bad.”

  Now they were at the end of a long passageway they had been traversing, starting down a steep stairs deeper into the native rock. Erisshauten’s caution was not in error; the stairs were dark, wet and treacherous, making several changes in direction and pitch; not enough to make a landing, but enough to make one stumble. At the end, they descended into a small chamber, quite bare, which led into a larger one. The lanterns they carried cast a yellow, flickering light to the dusty, underground rooms.

  Azendarach was explaining to Meure what he must do; “You are to carry this lantern, and enter that room. There, you will find a shining object made of wire. You will pick it up and look at it in the light. While you are looking at it, you must try to imagine, and remember what you see.”

  “That is all?”

  “That is all. If you see nothing, you will replace the object in the place where it was.”

  “Am I a fortuneteller now?”

  “You may be a fortune bringer. Now!”

  Azendarach and the doorward flanked Schasny and led him into the room, carefully averting their eyes from something out of sight to the left, using the headdresses to great advantage, as if they had been designed just for this purpose, to let one see where one was going, blocking the sight of something. The others lagged a little, hanging back at the doorway.

  They saw Schasny, moving like a sleepwalker, look for something, and locate it; he reached for it, bending, and picked up something shining and glittering, something from which Bedetdznatsch and Erisshauten alike averted their eyes. Holding the object with one hand, and the lantern with the other, the boy looked blankly at the object for what seemed like an extended time; so far this had been identical to scores of other times. But this time began to go differently, and in a way none of them expected, without preparatory gesture, or motion, Schasny rapidly squeezed the object with the hand holding it, breaking up its shining glitters and transforming it into an uninteresting wad of metallic fibers. It was done fast. And then all hell broke loose.

  7

  “ ‘Motion about a point is iniquity’ . . . and ‘Torsion is iniquity.’ I understand that every disturbance, which makes manifestation possible, implies deviation from perfection.”

  —A.C.

  THERE HAD BEEN a passage of time so long that years could not serve to measure it; centuries would not suffice, for there would have been too many of them. And if the double star Bitirme had been visible from any other planet as a member of a constellation, then that constellation would have changed shape to the naked eye.

  For one who called himself Cretus the Scribe there was no time, and the courses of the stars in space had no meaning for him. He was here; and then he was . . . here.

  Cretus entered the chamber at the bottom of the stairs, carefully latching the door behind him. Not so much for security, he told himself wryly, because they could break it down in minutes, but for the little reassurance that he’d have a short privacy for what had to be done. The chamber was a storage closet, a good locker for times of siege. Empty now, the shelves bare, damp-smelling, dusty. There was a crate on the stone floor. Cretus placed the lantern he was carrying on the shelf, absent-mindedly, and then pulled the crate over to him. He sat, looking back up at the lantern, as if verifying its relative position.

  He thought, about now, they’ll find out I’m gone. He knew how it would go after that; they’d not waste time worrying about how he got past the guards, supposedly his protectors, but would check the gates of the stronghold Cucany, and find out that none had passed. But they’d put out a patrol anyway, supplemented with the filthy Derques65, and with daylight, there’d be a Haydar or two to cover the ground. No, they wouldn’t be fooled long; they’d imagine he was somewhere in the stronghold yet, and they’d start looking. Very thoroughly, a room at a time. They were thorough, that was a fact. And that thoroughness would of necessity slow them down a little. Long enough, he supposed.

  He reached into the plain robe he was wearing, and withdrew an object, shining and glittering in the lamplight, now in its inactive shape, mostly flattened into a shape that was disclike and toroidal at the same time. He looked at it carelessly; it didn’t matter now, folded as it was. He could do nothing with it until it was opened up.

  The object was, to his knowledge, the last Skazenache in existence, just as he was the last Zlat. And at that, not a true-zlat, but a quadroon-zlat. One-fourth, that somehow had bred true. But he did not delude himself; he had looked deeply into time and the symbol that told stories which he now held in his hand, and he knew his appearance and zlat ways were only one expression of a probability formula that no one could change. The terrible magic wrought by the Warriors in the deeps of yesterday was coming unravelled in some of its parts, and the Zlat trait was being absorbed back into the common ruck and squabble. He also knew that the genetic distribution expanded its base by a factor of two each generation. Were he to sire one more true-zlat, son or daughter, they would only have one-eighth zlat in them. One could not maintain a pure line by oneself.

  Cretus sighed. He had seen much, but he was not, so he imagined, much of a philosopher. A faint smile flickered across the sharp features, the deepset eyes, the lines and hollows of his face, the half-shaven stubble that had been his trademark. He thought, it’s this, now: I couldn’t do anything for my people, because my people are gone, one by one. At least I could do for myself. At the least I could help the others keep their identity, and put a stop to this absurd racecrossing. What foolishness! To populate this world with bastards! Even half-breeds detested the idea, and would seek others like them to form the cores of future tribes. But I am a victim of my own program, am I not? “Cretus,’ they cry, ‘who saved us.” Who had unified all of Kepture that counted, first from a base in Ombur, and then here in Incana.

  And who had felt his grasp leading men slowly leached away by government, by counsellors, by servants and toadies and politicians and professional hangers-on, who always waited for a leader to ride behind as long as they survived . . . and who they now cherished like a prisoner, to deflect along the shabby paths such running-Derques always wanted. What trash! He had offered them the stars, in time, ultimately. And all they wanted was something they could feel today: a woman, money, an eyrie in the castle with a view. But they couldn’t seem to grasp the first step, that all Monsalvat had to be wielded into a whole of component Klesh races, everyone to his part, stronger than all the rest put together. Like crystals in a matrix. He had seen that.

  He had seen much with his storyteller, once he had learned it was for more than telling stories; lives from the past, worlds and their inhabitants spread across the sky, old humans, new humans, more, stranger creatures, some odd indeed. He had nothing
but the Klesh experience to judge the universe by, and he suspected that it was an erroneous view, but he didn’t know where the error was. And there were the others, whose location and nature, kind and numbers were vague, shifting, unstable. Nothing remained the same but that they spoke, indirectly or not at all. They had suggested (was it he, she, or it had suggested?) this way out, into the storyteller to wait for another time, another body. More than once he had rejected the idea out of hand. Zlats had never used the device that way, so his grandmother had told him. Never. It was the unclean way. His skin crawled. Cretus, who had terrified many in his climb from street urchin to titular ruler of most of Kepture, was himself terrified by what he thought to do.

  They’d protect him until they found the right one, eh? That’s what they (he, she, it) said. But how long, that’s the rub. Only that all these coattail riders will all be dead, and that they’d be considerably discomfited by his absence, since their only genuine foreteller would be gone. Cretus had learned to fine-tune his Skazenache to the immediate worldline and the immediate future. And who could win battles against one who could read the future, and not only choose the ground, as he’d learned on the streets, but could choose the time of engagement as well?

  He unfolded the device into a shining spherical object made of metallic wires, with thousands of tiny beads strung along them, made a series of adjustments, now concentrating, not careless or off-hand at all, and looked at it, face curiously empty of expression. Then back. He nodded, as if he had seen more or less what he expected to see”.

  It was time to do it. His chamberlains were not far away, proceeding with thoroughness. Cretus took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. To be gone, this agile body, and what would he continue in? A fat publican? A child? Perhaps a woman? Now that would be something. He smiled to himself.