by Chris Walley
Merral sensed an unease in his friend’s tone. Hardly surprising; it’s such an abhorrent topic. “He admitted that? Surely not.”
“Not in as many words. I just . . . well, r-recognized some of the things he was talking about. When he gets carried away, he sometimes says more than he means to.”
“And you recognized some allusions to sorcery?”
Merral received a sharp look. “Knowledge is my business, my f-friend; or it was. I know many things that ordinary people perhaps should not know.”
“I can’t see how he could be attracted to magic. Can you?”
Vero stared hard at him. “I can. But anyway, you disappointed him. He’s realized, at last, that you do not control the envoy. But he has not given up hope of trying to manipulate him. Or some being like him. And I think he feels that by killing you—and, to a lesser extent, me—he might lose any hope of manipulation.”
“I see. Killing those the envoy had dealt with might alienate him. I follow the twisted logic.”
Merral heard his stomach rumble. The effects of the limited diet were being felt. “Incidentally, Vero, did you get anything more about this decision that needed to be made? The one he had to be back on Earth for?”
“Ah, that. That seems to be linked to Gerry. I am guessing from what he said that she has come up with something. Something that he wants to happen but that doesn’t have unanimous support. He needs to swing things his way.” Vero polished his glasses. “I tried to press him on that, but he wouldn’t say anything. I wish we had managed to crack the code on that Revenge file of hers.”
“I wish Delastro weren’t on the loose.”
“So do I.”
Merral gazed around. “Well, Vero, I see several blessings about our current status. One of them is that there is nothing we can do about him.”
He received a smile. “My friend, I am encouraged to hear you use the language of blessing.”
Merral got to his feet. “It’s still early days for me, Vero. Let’s walk on.”
Lezaroth reached Jigralt a week after Merral had left it. There was no sign of the Sacrifice—only a small space station and two ships. After a pointless resistance that lasted no more than an hour, all had been destroyed or had surrendered.
Lezaroth had the few surviving men and women tortured one by one. From the words torn out of them, he learned that a craft of Dominion build but proclaiming itself to be an Assembly vessel had briefly appeared, and two men from it had been seized. One was clearly Merral; the other, a dark-skinned man. They had been taken away by followers of this prebendant figure but not, apparently, back to Farholme. One man’s spluttered last words were that they “were going to be forgotten on an empty world.”
As the man died beside him, Lezaroth determined the possibilities. Data at the space station showed there were four suitable worlds nearby: Kapanorath, Lathanthor, Tule, and Barannat. He plotted a course that would take him to each in turn.
The details he had gathered about the prebendant pleased him greatly. There is internal feuding. The lord-emperor’s prophecy is proving correct.
He left for Kapanorath.
In her fourth-floor apartment on the northern edge of Jerusalem, Eliza sat at the worktable in her bedroom putting the finishing touches on a document. Behind her, the antique clock struck eight in the evening, and she looked through the half-open curtains to see the delicate network of the city’s lights.
She turned back to the screen to stare at her final paragraph one more time. A pang of doubt struck her. This is going to cause such an upset; do I really want this to happen at this time? Millions have put their trust in Delastro. This exposure of his deceptions on Farholme and the request that a proper inquest be held on the death of Captain Huang-Li will be utterly shocking.
She felt herself frown at the implications. I cannot be sure of what will happen. The Guards of the Lord will surely be disbanded. Those linked with Delastro—Clemant and K, possibly the whole DAS leadership—might have to go.
But was there any other option? Eliza considered the evidence again. She’d been careful. She had woven together many strands of evidence into a conclusion that was inescapable.
“No,” she said quietly. “It must be published.”
She toyed with the thought that she might delay it but rejected the idea. The evidence would not change, and the Council of High Stewards was to meet in two weeks’ time. The agenda was secret, but she knew there would be a motion that the administration include a chancellor alongside the chairman. She was under no illusions about who was to be the first holder of the post.
The idea will probably get approved, too. The support for the Guards of the Lord is now so major and the fear of the advancing Dominion forces so great that the motion will be hard to oppose.
The opposition was not well organized. She had taxed Andreas as to whether the Custodians of the Faith might resist the proposal, but he had simply looked embarrassed, shrugged, and muttered that Delastro was the least of some very great evils.
She looked at the screen again. No. The man is a monstrosity. We cannot afford to let this evil go unchecked. This document will go out publicly tomorrow. To all in authority and to the news agency. It will be across the worlds in an hour.
She twisted slightly on her seat and her eye was caught by an image of her husband in his new Assembly Defense Force uniform. She had talked to him and, in separate conversations, her sons an hour or so earlier, and she now found herself puzzling over the tone of the conversation she had with them all.
I said things I hadn’t meant to. As though I was bidding them farewell. How odd. She stared back at the screen. Then a strangely certain thought came to her. I am preparing myself for the upheaval that will be created when I transmit this letter to Ethan and Andreas and have it openly published on the news networks. I may have to flee and I may lose my right to transmit information. Nevertheless, it must be done.
On the edge of her vision was a mirror, and suddenly she was aware of a dark form appearing in it.
She swung round to see a tall figure—undoubtedly a man—clad in black from head to foot with an odd, wide-brimmed hat. There was something about him that she found strangely static. Was he real or perhaps some sort of hologram?
“Who are you?”
The figure looked at her and she recognized an unearthly solidity to him that no holographic figure could ever have had.
“A servant of the Most High and a messenger.” The voice was like no voice she had ever heard, with a strange resonance that was somehow inappropriate for this domestic room. The odd thought came to her that if this were a recorded image she would have said that the sound editing had not been done well.
“You are not human, are you?”
Strangely, she felt no fear. Awe, perhaps; reverence, maybe.
“No, although I have dealt much with your race.”
She remembered that the reports from Farholme, although fragmentary—she now suspected why they were fragmentary—had talked about various people seeing an angelic visitor. Delastro had even hinted at meeting with him.
“You’re an angel.”
The face was utterly elusive. She wanted to see it but knew it would be unwise to do so. He hides his face to save us from what we could not bear.
“Angel would be an acceptable term. Those who know of me call me simply the envoy.”
“So are you the one they mentioned appeared at Farholme?”
“Yes, although the reports you have are both incomplete and untrue.”
“I know that, and I intend the worlds will know it tomorrow.” She gestured to the screen.
There was a pause, almost as if the visitor was hesitating about what he had to say.
“Your report is one thing I have come about.”
“I am ready to send it.”
“I have been commanded to ask you not to.”
“You know what is in it?”
“My Master knows and has told me the contents.”
Eliza was suddenly struck by the extraordinariness of the conversation. I am talking with an angel in my own bedroom.
“But why do you want me not to send it? Isn’t it true? I have tried very hard to be accurate.”
“The accuracy is not an issue. On the contrary, your allegations are only a fraction of those that can, and one day will, be made. There is worse.”
“So the death of Captain Huang-Li was not an accident.”
“It was a carefully planned and rehearsed murder.”
“I can’t really believe it. The prebendant has such an air of . . .”
“Holiness? It was always so. Amongst your kind the worst evil is always that which comes from twisted good.”
Eliza heard a strange and almost disapproving tone of puzzlement in the envoy’s voice. He deals with us but he does not really understand us.
“So why am I not to send it?”
“The time is not right.”
“I see.” I don’t.
“I have also come to give you some news that you may not appreciate at the moment. Your race rarely does.”
“Which is?”
“My Master will be summoning you into his presence within the next hour.”
The words held no meaning. At least none that was acceptable. “You mean . . . ?” she said, and she heard her voice tremble.
“Yes, you are going to die.”
“But I do not feel ill.”
“You are not ill. In fact, I can tell you that you could probably live for another fifty years.”
She leaned back in her chair. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that this is the most bizarre conversation that I have ever had.”
“Not at all. It is rare for me. Its rarity indicates how much the Most High values you.”
“I ought to be honored, then? So, how am I going to die?”
“The unfortunate Zachary Larraine is going to come and kill you. It will not be particularly unpleasant. He has a drug that will stop your heart beating and mimic a natural death. You will have known worse events in life than the act of leaving it.”
Eliza got to her feet and stood against the desk. “So I’m going to be murdered. But shouldn’t I do something about it?”
“No.”
“But I have this document.” She gestured to the screen. “That must be sent off.”
“The one I serve says that now is not the time for the truth to be revealed.”
“Look, letting this happen—this . . . murder, not publishing this file—doesn’t that mean that you are acquiescing in evil?”
The head tilted slightly. “That is a common complaint. It is not, however, true. Evil will be judged. That is recorded in the Word and all men and women know that in their hearts. Yet there are times and places where evil must be allowed to persist for a little while. The time is not yet come for the prebendant and his colleagues to face judgment.”
“But it doesn’t seem, well, fair.”
“From your perspective, it doesn’t seem fair. But the human viewpoint is defective.”
A new thought came to her. “But my family . . . I need to talk to them.”
“You spoke to them just now.”
And so that is why I was prompted to say what I did; I was indeed making my farewells.
“No chance of a delay, I suppose?”
There was a shake of the head. “I wouldn’t ask for it. His time is the best time. Please delete the file. You have fifty minutes.”
Then, as if he had been snatched out of the room too fast to see, he was gone.
I must do as he says.
She sat down at her desk again.
“Irrevocably delete this file.”
“Are you sure?” the artificial voice asked.
“Quite sure.”
The text vanished. “File deleted.”
She was aware she was oddly calm. She laughed at the realization that she was wearing old clothes. That really will not do for the occasion.
She quickly changed into a long, brightly colored dress, put on her favorite jewelry, tidied her hair, and returned to her desk. Then she prayed.
Just after nine the doorbell rang. Eliza rose to her feet and walked to the door. She stretched out her hand, aware that, finally, she was trembling.
It was Zak. I would have been astonished if it had been anybody else.
He looked ill, and his eyes darted this way and that.
“I have a message,” he said. “May I come in?”
What happens to history if I refuse?
“By all means,” she said, noticing that the pocket on his jacket bulged slightly.
She closed the door behind him.
“I know why you are here,” she said, and she saw his eyes widen. “Whatever you have to do, do it quickly.” A quotation. She tracked it to its source and balked at it. How strange that it was said not far from where I stand now.
She felt a sudden enormous spasm of pity for Zak.
“I am under orders,” he protested, and she heard the wobble in his voice.
“Of course. So am I.”
Zak’s hand dipped into his pocket and pulled out a small pad. “A neural poison.” He was talking too quickly. “It will trigger heart failure.”
The pad was close to her nostrils.
“I forgive you.” That was important to say.
The pad was over her nose. There was a strange smell—of flowers, perhaps.
“It will be best . . . if you don’t resist. Breathe deeply.”
As she felt her heart thud and slow down, she was struck by the strangest of thoughts. I am dying and my killer will live. Yet the reality is quite the opposite: it is he who faces death . . . and I who am truly going to live.
At the end of the second week of walking, Merral and Vero had put the high ground well behind them and were making their way along flatter land at the edge of what was now a major river. They were weary. Despite having been supplemented by fish and fruit, their food supply was now very limited and they had both lost a good deal of weight.
They had just come to a high and wide ridge of rock through which the river tumbled down into a steep-sided valley. A thunderous rumble and clouds of water vapor in which rainbows gleamed spoke of at least one waterfall ahead. Reluctantly, Merral and Vero left the riverbank and began a slow and painful traverse of the ridge. It took them most of the morning, but they encouraged each other with hopes of at last seeing the sea.
At the very crest, they peered ahead, but all they could see was endless ranks of green broken by more tumbled massifs and spires of rock. There was no sign of any sea.
“It can’t be that far away,” Merral protested. “Even on Made Worlds, rivers reach the sea somewhere.” Or do they? Perhaps this one just dies out in some bleak desert?
Then they picked up their backpacks and began walking on westward. As the sun was setting they reached a loop of the river. After its foaming passage through the gorge, it was quieter here, a broad, smooth-flowing, muddy serpent of water.
“It’s a pity we can’t float down it,” Vero said.
“I’m considering it,” Merral replied. “But we’d have to make a boat and we may not have seen the end of any more rapids. I think it’s safer to walk.”
That night when Vero woke Merral for his watch, he told him that he’d seen something in the sky that might have been a new satellite. Merral caught the concern in his voice and on his watch he too glimpsed a silver point of light speeding overhead. It is more likely foe than friend.
The following day they struck camp early and continued westward. Now, though, they walked more carefully than they had hitherto, moving around clearings rather than across them, and all the time listening and watching intently.
They made good progress that day, and the night passed without incident. The next day they pressed on until, near midday, a broad whaleback of stone began to rise up above the trees ahead of them. By the time the late afternoon clouds had gathered and the frenzy of the storm w
as upon them, they were at its edge and took shelter under a rock slab by the river’s margin. There they sat in near darkness as the rain whipped down around them in a downpour so deafening that it almost drowned out the thunder.
While they waited, Merral watched as the river level rose within minutes; great branches and even whole trees began flowing past them. As the storm abated, a large fir tree, its drowned branches still green, came into sight, bobbing in the turbulent brown waters. Merral watched it, wondering how far it had traveled. Like me, it has been uprooted by the current of events from a world where it flourished. Then as if to contradict his gloomy thoughts, the tree’s roots caught in the mud and it swung to a shuddering halt on the riverbank below.
Perhaps I am like a tree trunk in a river. Then a bizarre notion came to Merral: Could the trunk criticize the river? And then, in an instant, he was overwhelmed with a sense of his own folly. How little I understand! How little I can understand! What basis do I have for criticizing God? I am ignorant.
In an insight he saw what had happened. His elevation on Farholme as warrior, the repeated—if slenderly based—claim that he was the great adversary, even his reckless attempt at self-sacrifice at the Blade of Night had all contributed to a sense of self-importance. I became proud; I imagined that I had contributed to my own success, and that blinded me. Then, when the inexplicable happened, I rebelled because it went against my expectations. Did I really expect to be consulted by the Maker of the universe?
He bowed his head and admitted his pride, and in his admission, found he could pray.
I demanded understanding that I might have faith. I failed to realize that faith is the prerequisite of understanding.
The storm was slow in blowing itself over, and they decided they would go no farther that day. So they sat and watched as a bloodred sun sank, setting fire to tattered columns of cloud and turning the river red. And as they did, Merral told Vero, in halting words, that the crisis was over.
Vero said little but just nodded.
“You knew the problem, didn’t you?”
“My friend, I guessed. But pride is a hard thing to deal with. It is unique in that it carries its own defense against accusation. And we all have our own battles to fight.” And with that he let the matter drop.