Three young mors with earnest expressions entered the room with trays of parchment, ink, and quills. They set them on the table to write down everything that transpired. There was no escaping the importance the Assenzi attached to this meeting.
"What do you want to know, Utnapishtim?"
"We want to know everything, Thru Gillo, everything you can remember."
Thru, well taught in the Assenzi way, had expected this answer. The questioning was in minute detail.
Hours went by. Occasionally young mots and mors in palace livery entered with trays of hot tea and wedges of bushpod pie or salted beeks with pots of mussel stew. At such times, the young mors set down their quills and ate heartily, and Utnapishtim or Acmonides took up a quill in their stead. The Assenzi ate but lightly, a bisk here, a mouthful of stew there. The young mors of the Dronned civil service were stunned to see the old Assenzi take their place, but Thru was not. He knew the Assenzi were not averse to work.
After Thru had described the canal trip across Shasht and then his precarious life through the winter, holed up in caves and lodges in the mountains, Utnapishtim wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.
"It is just as I'd expected, Thru Gillo. I knew you were destined for some great undertaking. Don't you see? You have become our eyes and ears, peering into the world of our enemy."
Thru smiled. "I think I was merely the agent of the Spirit. Because now the war is over. There will be peace, thanks to the Emperor."
Utnapishtim put away his handkerchief. "Ah, well, that may not be so. Our real enemy has not made peace."
Thru stared at them for but a moment. He understood. "You mean that thing we saw in the pyramid? The Old One?"
The Assenzi said nothing, regarding him with their huge eyes.
"The message you sent, which Simona took, it was not for the Emperor, was it?"
"No. Our message was ineffective. Karnemin ignored it."
"Yes, that was the name you spoke once before. Who is this enemy that we never knew existed?"
"Who is Karnemin?" repeated Utnapishtim softly, and he looked over to the other Assenzi, who shrugged.
Utnapishtim turned back to Thru. "As to who he is today, well, none of us has any idea. As to what he is, of that we are better informed."
Acmonides spoke as if reciting a well-known text: "Karnemin is the last survivor of the Groybeel Vaak, a clique of wizards, shapechangers, and mindstealers. This clique was one of many that flourished in the last days of Man. Social morality had broken down. Sorcery obsessed the last wizards. They formed secret societies devoted to necromancy, cannibalism, and dark forms of magic."
Thru shivered. What great evil was this?
"Men felt the cold chill of extinction coming upon them. Their numbers had dwindled steadily for many centuries. In their despair, they turned to evil."
"Then what is this Karnemin you speak of?"
"An evil wizard, Thru. A thing that is no longer really human, yet inhabits a human body. There were others, terrible creatures such as Pinque or Namooli of Thoth. But they had all died off by then. Karnemin is the last."
"It is a parasite," said Acmonides, "a man who delved too far into dark arts and became debased. It learned to move its mind into the bodies of others, thus it could defeat death. It became long-lived and lost all sense of humanity."
"It lives on forever in the flesh of other men."
Thru stared at them, horrified.
"Once," murmured Utnapishtim, "we knew him well. Our masters at Highnoth imprisoned him."
"It was in the first period of the ice," said Acmonides. "Karnemin was already very old by then. He was kept locked in a high room in the Red Tower."
"I remember," added Utnapishtim. "The High Men numbered only ninety-nine then, and they were beginning to die off. Karnemin was insane. But he was cunning. He inveigled Cusewas, whispered words of poison in his ears."
"Cusewas helped him escape, there is no doubt of it," said Utnapishtim somberly.
"That was but the beginning. The struggle went on for thousands of years. Eventually his power was smashed. We thought he was lost in a crevasse in the great glacier of Kabal Mountain. But it was not so."
"He fooled us. It was some poor devil, one of his slaves. He escaped and fled south. We knew no more of him."
"Somehow he got along. Perhaps he dwelt among the pyluk, though we think they would have eaten him, having no memory of their creator. However he did it, he crossed the world and found the primitive men of Shasht. He must have dwelled among them for tens of thousands of years, taking one of them every so often to renew his own life."
Thru stared, openmouthed. "He made the pyluk?"
"Yes, they were meant to be an army for him. He saw himself as the Lord of the World. All others were to be his slaves. This is when the High Men imprisoned him in the Red Tower, however, and most of the pyluk were destroyed."
"Alas, a few escaped and became a plague upon the Land."
Thru thought back to his own encounters with the pyluk and had to agree. The green-skinned lizard men had earned their terrible reputation.
"Were there mots and brilbies then?"
"Yes. They were few in number, though, and all lived in Highnoth."
Thru shivered as he recalled the words of the Book; the ancient dogma of his people:
They raised us up from bowls of purest glass, with teeth of shining steel. They made us what we are.
The ancient lines confronted him with a glance back across an aeon of time to the very origins of his own kind.
"Karnemin is behind the current war," said Utnapishtim. "He will not stop unless we destroy him."
At once Thru could see the fuller dimensions of the problem. "It will be hard to keep our armies up to strength. Our folks are not warlike unless faced with annihilation."
"True enough, and there will be many difficulties. But we can work to keep up the tradition of self-defense. All youngsters will receive training. Swords and spears must be kept sharp and ready. Shields and wicker armor, too."
"And we will become more like them, like the men," Thru said sadly.
Utnapishtim nodded sadly. "Alas, I fear you are right."
Old Melidofulo, one of the most peaceable of all the Assenzi, spoke up at last. "This will be the greatest evil yet that Karnemin has wrought."
"Perhaps," said Utnapishtim in a distant voice. "And then again, perhaps not. If Karnemin ever succeeds, then he will annihilate all of us. We must make what preparations we can. Aeswiren will take his army back to Shasht next summer. Can he prevail with a mere ten thousand soldiers? We do not know. He has won many battles in the past, often against the odds. If he is victorious, then we can strive for some peaceful coexistence with the men of Shasht. There is much we can teach them."
Thru nodded. "We can learn from them as well."
"Yes, Thru Gillo, you have already told us a great deal. The land of Shasht is worse off than I had imagined. Your insights have been invaluable. Again I thank the Spirit that preserved you."
"I second that thought," murmured Acmonides.
"But"—Utnapishtim held up a bony finger—"if Aeswiren is not victorious, what then? Clearly, Karnemin will not give up. Sooner or later he will send another fleet. We must be ready when it comes."
Eventually the meeting broke up, and Thru set out back through the warren of passages in the palace to Nuza's room. She was not there, so he headed out again on an errand. He had many letters to write and he needed quills, ink, and paper. Ter-Saab would be heading south to Sulmo. He would take letters to the Sixth Brigade in Glaine. Thru was still a part of that brigade, and he had to send in a report as soon as possible. And a quick message needed to be sent up the coast to Warkeen village. Thru knew that his family had to have given him up for dead. They were in for a pleasant surprise.
Out in the streets of Dronned, Thru was almost overwhelmed by the rush of sights and sounds. Back among his own folk, back in this city where he had so many memories, his feet flew over the
cobbles and his heart soared up to the sky.
It was busier than ever. Building work was going on all over the place. The strong smell of wood smoke in the air brought with it a whiff of brimstone every so often. At the major intersections, Dronned had always had gardens in the squares. Now some of these had been taken over by cookshops and beerhouses.
At the junction of Slope and Seam Streets, a large beershop had been erected on one side and a cookshop on the other. Thru discovered Juf Goost standing by the lamppost, leaning on his staff.
"Well, well, greetings, Thru. How does it feel to be back home?"
"My feet are scarcely touching the ground. I keep pinching myself to make sure it's not a dream."
"It's no dream. We got back alive. We're home!"
Thru patted Juf on the shoulder. "But you're not all the way home yet. Are you going south with Ter-Saab and the others?"
Juf nodded, then burped. "I've been drinking beer," he said happily.
Thru laughed. "And singing, too, I expect."
"Care for a round of 'The Jolly Beekeeper'?"
"Get out of here with that beekeeper! Never again. Not after that damned island."
"Oh, yes, forgot about that. Well, I 'spect you're hurrying somewhere."
"I've letters I must write and send south with Ter-Saab. Army matters. Don't forget, we're all still soldiers in the Army of Sulmo."
Juf's forehead furrowed. "But the war is over. Why do we need to be soldiers anymore?"
"You were in Shasht, Juf. You saw what they're like. We will have to keep a standing army from now on. We will always have to be ready to defend ourselves."
"Friend Thru, you know how to take the fun out of the daylight, don't you?"
"Sorry, old Juf."
"Think I'll go back for another beer. Care to join me?"
But Thru was already leaving, intent on finding Nuza before the dinner gongs began to ring. The streets were alive with folk. Thru had returned to the Land.
—|—
Aboard the Sea Wasp, as the lamps began to be lit in the city, a message was brought addressed to Simona. She opened it with trembling hands. Ever since she'd seen Nuza on the dockside, Simona had kept to herself, tormented by the inevitable loss of Thru's affection once he had found out that she had lied to him.
The message was written in the tongue of the Land, and Simona struggled as she read it.
I know what you did, dear Simona, and I write to thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for bringing my Thru home to me safe and sound. I will always be in your debt. And be assured, Thru will never know the truth from my lips.
She set it down on her bunk. Tears were running down her cheeks, and she looked out the porthole toward the city of mots, where more and more lamps were being lit.
Simona mumbled her thanks to the Spirit. Dear Nuza, so wise and yet so naive. But how could she even begin to suspect the truth?
And Thru, dear Thru, who had been her only lover in this life...
They would have to keep their secret locked in their hearts forever.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The first year of the Peace of Aeswiren was regarded as a miracle year. The winter was mild, and the seaponds provided a great bounty. The spring came early, and the summer was perfect for the growing crops, with rain arriving at least once a week.
All over the Land there was a great movement to rebuild. The determined survivors of a thousand coastal villages and towns returned to their homes, or in some cases to the ashes of their homes. Spirits were higher than anyone could remember, as if, having survived the horrors of four years of war and peril, the warm summer had brought back a time many had thought lost forever. The dreams of the folk were soaring like hawks on the warm winds of summer.
The harvest was one for the annals. They called it Aeswiren's Harvest, despite the fact that Aeswiren was the Great King of the men of Shasht. Aeswiren had earned a different reputation; he had not only ended the war, he had slowly but surely brought about cooperation between his men and the folk of the Land.
And so, the mots and brilbies of Dronned and Sulmo had seen another side to the hand of Man. Handpicked parties of soldiers had come ashore to help with the work of rebuilding places such as Tamf, which they had burned to the ground a few years before.
Of course, at first there were long and difficult negotiations about these matters. Many mots were against having anything whatever to do with the men of Shasht. But others took a longer view. In this they were encouraged by the Assenzi, who advised cooperation with Aeswiren.
On the island of Mauste, men worked alongside the mots and brilbies to bring in a huge harvest. The men were also working to stock their fleet for the following year, when they would set sail for Shasht once again. Temporary fields and extra polder had been cleared in the effort to feed the men and prepare them for their great journey.
Everyone understood that these men carried a huge responsibility. They had to go back and defeat their common enemy and return Aeswiren to his throne. The success of this mission was of paramount importance. And so they worked with Man the Cruel himself. And they found that those men could work hard.
Aeswiren's Harvest started well, with early wheat crops in Dronned and Tamf. The oats in the North were excellent, and the barley was wonderful, though a little late in ripening. The wine regions of Sulmo reported bumper crops ripening on the vines.
Then came three days of rain and mist, and, when it cleared, the harvest continued at a rapid pace. All across the Land the polder was alive with workers taking in waterbush. Apples were thick upon the trees in Blurri, and the wine grapes were the pick of a hundred years down in Ajutan and Sulmo. The harvest for bushpod on the fertile plains of the Sulo Valley was the greatest ever seen.
The new beer was made for the harvest moon, and the young wine was set to ferment, while fiddlers, drummers, and horn players took up their instruments—and the Land set to dancing and feasting. In Warkeen village, Thru Gillo had many reasons to celebrate: the war's end and his release from the army of Dronned, the abundant harvest, and also the announcement of his engagement to Nuza of Tamf. She had accepted when he proposed and had even come North with her mother to join the Warkeen harvest festival.
Her father, Cham, and the rest of her family had remained in Tamf. The survivors of the city had returned that spring and summer, and with help from all the neighboring states, as well as the men of Aeswiren, they had begun the task of rebuilding. Alas, New Tamf would not be as beautiful as the old—nothing could bring back the grace of thousands of years—but Tamf would rise again.
In Warkeen, Nuza and her mother picked bushpod from morning to night along with everyone else. When it was done, they picked the grapes and took them in barrow loads to be crushed as the young wine was pressed. While they were so engaged, Thru and his father, Ware, were working with a gang of six other mots, going from field to field to mow the late harvest oats. Working together with a group of youngsters and two donkey carts, they were able to cut the oats on every farmer's field on the northern side of the village.
When it was all done, even while the cider apples were still being pressed, the festival began. The tenth moon of the year was riding high and full. The fiddles and drums were going, and as always the first dancing began at the town tavern.
The first barrels of young beer were rolled out. The beer had only just cleared that morning, barely ready to be drunk, but the folk of the village were more than ready to drink it.
That evening, a bonfire was lit on the village green, and the singing and dancing went on until the moon went down.
Thru and Nuza danced, drank the young beer, and, when they were tired of the gaiety, went back to the house and sat up talking of the future for hours.
"We must live in Tamf, my dearest Thru, I have promised Mother that. But we shall come to Warkeen for harvest time. Never have I seen a village let itself go like this one!"
Home village was the wife's choice, so custom said, and Thru agre
ed. They would live in New Tamf, Nuza would work with her mother, and Thru would have a workshop in which to weave.
"I want to have our children quickly. I want a mot and a mor."
"We will live in New Tamf so long, we will forget there ever was a war."
They laughed, but in their eyes each saw the truth. They would never be able to forget. Everything had been changed by the war.
The next day, they repaired to the village green. The old batting tree had been freshly painted red, and the boundary lines were laid with chalk. The last game of the season was a game that usually brought out most of the village to watch, if only for a little while.
Warkeen played their oldest rivals in a local grudge match, neither having succeeded in going on to the championships in the city. Warkeen played well but were beaten nonetheless by an inspired Juno village team who put up 123 runs on the board. Thru Gillo batted for the village, but it was not his day. He was caught for the final time after scoring only 18 runs. Warkeen village managed no more than 102, and Juno carried off the vine garlands of triumph.
That night, while dancers whirled on the village green, a party was held to announce Thru and Nuza's engagement. Ware Gillo broached a barrel of new ale and wished the couple well, though he lamented that they would live as far away as Tamf. The evening ended with a great feast. Thru's mother, Ual, and his sister, Snejet, had worked long and hard to set out the delicacies of the Dristen Valley. Everything was superb, and the crowning glory was a great bewby pie.
The family chooks, of the clan Tuckra, were on hand to eat their fill and dance like a whirlwind to the fiddles and the drum. Chook dancing was too wild and fast for mots to imitate, but it was wonderful to watch. When the roosters had finally tired of bouncing with legs extended far and wide, Ware filled everyone's mugs again for a round of the old songs. While the ale flowed from the barrel, Thru and Nuza were toasted a dozen times. Then the musicians took up their instruments again and the dance resumed, but now at the more stately pace of mots and brilbies. Thru and Nuza led the ensemble through the pretzel patterns of the engagement dance. Next came the Lushtan Reel and the age-old Chook's Dance, where mots tried to move their legs with the speed of chooks, and everyone laughed at the general silliness. None more than the chooks themselves, enlivened by a little ale on their feed corn.
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