“You over-simplify.”
“And you, poor former pirate, you play for time. Be quiet.”
Quiet he was. But Mothiosant had, after all, stated things rather clearly. There are only a certain number of possibilities. Sarlamat, far the keener of the two, would have himself stayed quiet.
Only a certain number of possibilities.
Below him the land slipped slowly into darkness. Lovely land, forever vexed with unlovely deeds. The Craftsmen could not now proceed with their former intentions; there was not time; they might not know when the Bahon would move; therefore they themselves had to move fast. They could not be working or intend to work with the Volanth and the Quasi: the Bahon were doing this. They could not intend a compromise: Tonoro had proposed this and they had — obviously — rejected his proposal. Moreover, the rapidity with which they had moved against him was an indication that they dared not allow him at large. And therefore it was clear that they themselves intended to move rapidly.
The technique of world-polity prohibited their moving nakedly and openly by themselves. And this left but one possibility.
The Craftsmen, under whatever guise, were going to reveal the Bahon plan to the Tarnisi. And then, with them, move against both the Quasi and the Volanth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The floats swerved around and turned their backs on the waning colors of the sunlight and angled down into a walled enclosure in the one single port area which the Tarnisi grudgingly allowed. Its massive doors at once identified it as one of the long-abandoned old forts dating from the days of the wars of the Lords and the Guardians. However, it had been kept up in a state of repair, and not a blade of grass grew in the vast yard where once swordsmen and spearsmen had practiced.
“Be cautious, Tonorosant. Things will soon be settled in proper order. We are not vengeful, you know. Afterwards, I am sure we can find an excellent place for you in our plans. Or, if you prefer, you can go — anywhere you like. So don’t jeopardize your future.” Mothiosant gave instructions to the men waiting; then, in another moment, he and the others were gone. For a long moment, Tonoro, watching, saw the vessels climb and wheel and then vanish.
He had had some notion and hope that he would … that he might … be placed under Pemathi guard. And that then, being able to speak their language, he might somehow contrive their aiding his escape. But the sight of those who were actually to have him in custody — either genuine Tarnisi or Craftsmen-made imitators like himself — was really no surprise. Jerred Northi, Sarlamat called him that morning. And You, poor pirate, Mothiosant said when they captured him. So: they knew who he was, knew, too, his background in Pemath. And were taking no chances.
Once inside, the mystery of the place’s non-neglect was at the instant explained. — Explained by the combined scents, smells, odors, reeks and just plain stinks of sundry staple items ranging from timber to dried fish. The fort had been restored of its neglect and made to do duty as a warehouse. Mothiosant, as Commercial Deputy, would have the place completely in his hands; other Tarnisi would no more think of going there than to a charnel house.
“Might as well get these off,” one man, evidently in charge, said, stooping and grunting as he removed the cords. “You’re not in a float now, you can kick out all you want, and it won’t upset a thing.”
He paused at the smaller door next to the massive one and made a mock bow devoid of malice. “After you — ”
The warehouse seemed to contain nothing but much-mingled smells; Tonoro was reminded of the scene at Compound Ten after the conclusion of the last “war” in the Outlands, the plunder of foodstuffs and staple tradestuffs being stacked in place by the forced labor of the Volanth. Perhaps that very produce had passed through this place en route overseas. The slits and slots in the thick walls were now quite useless for illumination, but light-units had been set up and shed their faintly orange glow on the thick, worn slabs of the floor — floor which had been swept quite clean by the Pemathi after the last clearance, not because the Pemathi were compulsively neat but because even the sweepings would have had a money value, however slight. Once, as he passed under a heavy old archway his eye was caught by a glimmer of color still adhering to an ancient wall-painting done, probably, to while away the more peaceful hours of some forgotten siege: a Tarnisi warrior cutting off the head of a spear-transfixed mass of hair doubtless intended for a vanquished Volanth.
Much had changed in the interval of centuries. But not the Tarnisi character.
After the archway, a ramp. After the ramp, a corridor. After the corridor, an enormous room. They started to cross it; it seemed to him that they were giving him covert, amused looks. He barely had time to wonder why when something seemed to move, convulsively, inside of him. He made a startled noise and a startled movement. The men laughed, stopped.
“There, you see, fellow,” the man in charge said, pointing down at a cable which lay circling around on the floor; “you step or jump — or even, I guess, fly! — over that, coming in, and it feels quite funny. Doesn’t it? Didn’t really hurt, though, did it? Just feels damned queer. Coming in. But. Don’t you try it going out. That’s, indeed, the most genuinely warm advice I could give you. It won’t just feel peculiar going out. It will hurt like all anguish, you see. And what is beyond question much more to the point: it won’t work. You can’t get out. You. Not us. Try it … if you like … . No? Then, good.”
The cable had an odd look, somewhat like quicksilver, somewhat like … something he had not a name for. He followed them on into the interior of the great circle formed by the cable. Behind, the light-units slowly, softly turned themselves off. Ahead was a rather hastily improvised, so it looked, cross between a lounge pavilion and a levy bivouac. “Eat here … sleep there … sanitary stall … and all on an if-and-when you like basis. Now, either excuse us or join us, for we’re about to be busy.”
He snapped his fingers, there was a quick taking of seats, and, from a microtrans which Tonoro had not till now noticed, a 3D performance in full vigor of sound and smell and action burst out upon them. It was musical, it was Lermencasi, it did not greatly interest him. But it evidently greatly interested the men. Probably all or most of them were Lermencasi, too: Commerce-L. might not mind at all making the Craftsmen’s services available to those who might have gotten on the wrong side of power in Lermencas … provided, probably, that they hadn’t gotten on the wrong side of Commerce-L.
It was the first 3D show he’d seen since leaving Pemath; although he’d sounded out the possibilities, the chances of getting permission to import micro transes had never looked good. This was one “foreign toy” on which Tarnis still frowned: Still intent as the Tarnisi were on keeping out, en masse, those who “lacked the Seven Signs,” they had no desire to admit their images — not merely into their country, but into their very homes. It occurred to Tonoro that this setup here in the old warehouse-fort might have been arranged originally not as a makeshift jail but as a sort of clandestine theater.
It was a long, long performance, with a cast (evidently) of thousands; dazed by the noise and clamor even after it had ceased for intermission, Tonoro stayed in his seat as the others got up, stretched, visited the stall, made themselves drinks or snacks. His reaction on hearing the voice shout, “Down flat! Down flat!” was instinctive. He obeyed. Went down, went flat. Wondered that no one else did. Realized that the voice had shouted in Pemathi … that, seemingly, no one else here understood. Someone had asked something in a voice of alarmed confusion. There was a thudding, cracking sound — no: not one sound, several. Now, at last, the others went down — one of them, screaming. Cautiously, Tonoro moved his head. Voices were echoing. There was blood. The others were down, all right. But not exactly flat down. In awkward heaps, at grotesque angles. The man who had been screaming now began to sob.
“Tonoro!” The voice echoed.
“Tonoro?” It called again and echoed again.
He cried, “Here!” — and then, having wisely or not wise
ly thus committed himself, he got up.
Confusion was, for a while, worse confounded. He shouted for them (whoever they were) not to cross the cable. But some already had. Some tried to cross back. That was nasty. There was a hurried search for the switch to activate all the light-units, the man with the shattered arm was — somehow — persuaded to bethink himself of this information, and then to reveal it. The others seemed all to be dead … .
He had guessed who and what it might be even before the orange glow sprang up all around and he saw Cominthal and many men standing back from the cable. Volanth were among them; he had realized it must be so when he saw the smooth stones. And saw the crushed skulls. He was somewhat regretful that the man in charge was dead, though it was not accurate to say that he had liked him. But, given time and other circumstances, he might have. No time to dwell on that. To the man now moaning on his knees he said, rapidly, “The cable. How is it crossed safely?” The man wept in the grief of pain and the shock of fear; shook his head.
“If they don’t get in soon they may break the other arm, you know — ”
“Belts! It’s the belts!” he cried in a frenzy of concern. The belts — he pointed to his waist. Quickly, Tonoro stripped three of them from the heedless dead, ran to the cable. They felt rather heavier than they should, but, looping one around himself, he had no time to reflect on what that might mean. The old, groined roof sent back the echo of his pounding feet, as it had sent back in days of old the noise of the captains and the shouting of ancient wars. He girded two of the men inside the circle, and together they crossed over. He felt no more than a twinge, stripped off his and the others’ belts, passed them across to those still inside. One, a middle-aged Volanth with a strong face, evidently not understanding, failed to put on the belt and — even as Tonoro and the others cried out warning — passed safely over with it held in his hand. Evidently it was all in the belt, and not in how or where it was worn.
“Let’s get away from here,” Cominthal said — then added a word or two in the Volanth tongue. The last man out nodded, put his hand in the pouch by his side, hefted the stone a moment, then threw back his arm, gauging with his eye the man with the shattered arm.
Tonoro caught hold of the thrower’s hand. Said, “No.”
Cominthal said, “We can’t take him with us and we can’t have him getting out to sound an alarm. Really, if he merits a kindness, this is it.”
But, in the end, they didn’t do him that kindness. They merely took his belt away. They left him there among the bodies, the blood, drinks spilled and unspilled, food scattered and unscattered. He clutched his hand and stared. And, just as they passed from sight, they heard the 3D drama spring back into gaudy life, saw it burst into bouncy sight once more.
The intermission was over.
• • •
“How did you learn Pemathi?”
“I learned all of it I wanted to — one phrase. How? I asked.”
“How did you know where I was?”
Cominthal’s mouth stretched briefly into a one-sided smile. “I never let you out of someone’s sight since we last met … . Tell me it all, my uncle’s son.”
He listened, grim, intent, to his cousin’s account of what had passed between him and the two emissaries of Lermencas, and to his, Tonoro’s, conjectures of what would now have to be the Lermencasi plans. “ ‘Move immediately against the Quasi and the Volanth,’ ” he repeated. “Yes — but when? How much ‘immediately’? Now? Tomorrow? We have to know. I am sure that you are right so far. So be right a bit further. You know the foreign minds. Eh?”
Tonoro said, “I can extrapolate, make educated surmises. I can’t make gorum, you know. I can’t prophesy. But … . Now? I don’t think quite now. In order for them to overcome the suspicion and prejudice the Tarnisi have toward foreigners they’ll have to devise something very huge and special in the way of lies. Otherwise neither Lords nor Guardians nor anyone else will consent to Lermencasi participation. It won’t matter that those two, Sarlamat and Mothiosant, and the other Craftsmen clients here, are still posing as Tarnisi. In order to wipe out Quasi and Volanth — ”
Cominthal seized his wrist. “You think that? Wipe us out?”
“As near as they can.”
“Who’ll be their slaves, then?”
“Labor? They can import it, by contract. Pemathi, perhaps, Why not?”
His cousin said, “Go on.”
They had left the old fort-warehouse, the Volanth carefully retrieving their thrown stones for future use; this time they proceeded through the gates and not by notched log-ladders as they had entered. The present moment found them far enough away, in the sub-basement of a mean inn catering exclusively to lacklanders … most of whom, in this case, were actually Quasi who had succeeded in “passing.” Broken furniture and rubbish of all sorts clogged the crowded cellar. A gilded mirror with a crack in it lay propped in such a way that its reflection wavered and trembled incessantly. The light was very low and dim, the switch lay in Cominthal’s hand so that at the first alarm he could plunge the room in darkness.
“It’s appropriate, I suppose,” Tonoro went on, “that foreign assistance will be used by the Tarnisi against the Volanth. They loath and fear the foreigners — but they loath and fear the Volanth even more. So their most basic bigotry will be their undoing … . Which would do us no good. No — I can think of only one thing which would force the Tarnisi into a foreign alliance. And that’s for them to get a hint of the truth.”
“That we’re plotting against them?”
“Yes. It would send them so near mad with rage and fear that the Lermencasi could lack human form and not just the Seven Signs and they’d still go along with them. But they can’t work up a presentation immediately. As yet they have no proof in hand about the Bahon and they certainly won’t want to admit the intentions and endeavors of the Lermencasi — Besides, the fact that a trickle of the truth about an indirect link between Lermencas and the Guardians has gotten out is going to make things even more difficult. So they’ll have to take a while to fix up a fake case with fragments of fact.
“The question is, How long a while? It’s a qualified immediacy, and that’s as close as I can say. And all else that I can say is: They are going to move fast and therefore we are going to have to move faster.”
Cominthal got to his feet. His reflection danced and trembled in the broken mirror. “We have already begun to move,” he said.
• • •
Bishdar Shronk made growling noises as he listened. From time to time he turned to the maps and charts and then returned, restlessly, still growling, to his seat. Bearlike man, huge of head and trunk, seamed and weathered face, abrupt, loud, suspicious. Bishdar Shronk. Bahon.
“A bad time,” he said, and growled. “We hadn’t thought to have to move this soon. The ground is not prepared for it, the people are not prepared — either here or at home. Before — ” He flung his bristly paw of a hand at the charts, the maps. “Before, it was a matter of preparing the ground. A long process. Working with the oppressed to overthrow the oppressors. A certain number involved, no more. Tarnis is not greatly populated.” He grunted, flipped his hand back, shifted his bulk.
“But now!” he exclaimed, in a low roar. “Now Lermencas enters in! Or, Commerce-Lermencas, which is the same thing … . The United Syndicates of Baho are not surprised, we knew it was inevitable. Not content with their illegal seizure of the Archipelago of Ran — But I am sure you know their wretched history. The problem is now. The United Syndicates cannot yet fully mobilize our forces. Also, present planetary polity here on Orinel rules out open involvement of one nation in the affairs of another. What, then — ”
He mused a moment, growling. Then he thumped his fists on the table. “Everything indicates that we must make a lightning move — arm the Volanth — hurl them at the ruling class — destroy the power of that class before Lermencas can move, itself. But — ”
“But with what would one arm the Volant
h?” Tonoro broke in.
“Exactly … rrrr … . With what? Leeri? Fire-charges? How soon could they be trained?”
Cominthal began a passionate argument about arming the Quasi instead. “Time would be wasted trying to train the Volanth in the use of modern armament,” he concluded. “They’re a primitive horde, they hunt by slinging rocks at small game. But the Quasi — ”
Bishdar Shronk growled a negative. “Too few, too few,” he said. “Also, the Volanth, besides being so much more numerous, are the more notoriously oppressed. The polity of the situation requires that argument for support be on the side of the majority of the populace. Everyone knows about the Volanth. If we are to act, it must be for them and with them and through them. The Quasi are a fraction. If only there were more time — education would logically begin with that fraction, it forms a link between two worlds — but time there is not, and even if we put fire-arms in the hands of every adult Quasi, it would not be enough.”
And Tonoro said, “Not firearms and not the Quasi.” It was as though he were thinking aloud. “But hands, yes. Hands and arms — ” He rose, his heart filled with a necessary terror which was not devoid of exaltation. He spoke and they listened. He spoke and they looked each at the other. He finished speaking. They nodded. And they began to move, faces both animated and grave.
“It might do it,” said Bishdar Shronk, making yet another trip to the maps. “It should do it,” he amended. He nodded slowly, deeply, his blunt mouth pursed. “I’ll send the signal — ”
Cominthal’s body slouched as though he were about to fall, but it was not weakness which posed him. He straightened up. He glared. “ ‘Might,’ ” he repeated. “ ‘Should’ … . You. You two. Listen. If it fails, one of you can go back to Baho and the other one to Pemath — or anywhere else. But I have no place to go. None of us have any place to go. Except here, here. We’re fighting for our lives and no one is going to give us a choice of surrender, you know that? ‘Might.’ ‘Should.’ Don’t say those words, do you hear? Don’t say them!
The Enemy of My Enemy Page 17