At last he said, “It is possible, yes. Jen cohorts continue to search the wastes in hopes that it pleased the Tlar leiil to strand him there. And if that is so,” he added grimly, “then the n’ka Omari will not live long. Death comes swiftly in the Outerlands.”
“Why?” she persisted. “What are the specific dangers? Physical ones? Omari can handle those. Or do you refer to the X rays emitted by your black sun? Are they strong enough to cause radiation poisoning? That is partly why these heavy cloaks and masks are worn, isn’t it? And why there is so much lead content in your metal alloys?”
In spite of knowing her to be a n’dl, and one of technological advancement, Picyt was astonished by the casual manner in which she spoke of the great blight of Ruantl. No one could have told her these things, for the Bban’n cared nothing for science or machinery. Indeed, her mind was far more clever than he had at first thought. She must be watched with great care.
But for the sake of curiosity he chose to counter her sharp questions with one of his own, even as an inward stirring of restlessness threatened the order of his rings. He gazed fully into her peculiar eyes and asked, “How have you determined the composition of our metals without instruments?”
She smiled and raised her head proudly. Fine wisps of red hair floated back from her face. “I was born and bred in the mining colonies. I could grade mineral deposits even before I learned to read computer codings. Now, back to my question concerning Omari’s chances of survival out there. What are they?”
Picyt swept out his hand, frowning slightly as the need for yde twisted within his veins, becoming impatience, craving, hunger. He could not remain here much longer. “I…he may not be in the Outerlands. He may be here, somewhere within the city.”
She was plainly irritated by his response. “I see you do not intend to give me a straight answer. Very well. At least, if he is out in the desert, he has a jen uniform for protection.”
“Why…” With effort Picyt wrenched his straying gaze away from the eye of Anthi. “Yours is not concern for his life, but…” Conscious that he must never appear hesitant or uncertain, Picyt fought back the desire for yde now skittering through his veins, mentally cursing it with loathing, and tried to look upon her with truth, only to clench his fist hard within his sleeve as truth did not form. Yde-hunger blinded him, and again he cursed it. Had the measure lasted but a few minutes longer…
“I’ll be plain,” she said while he looked grimly at her through a haze of impatience. “I’ll cooperate with what you want in exchange for Omari, if he’s found alive, and also I want a spaceship when we’re through.”
The hunger abruptly died, driven down by surprise. He stared at her, seeking to reform his rings of wholeness, not certain he had heard correctly.
“And you needn’t deny you have old ships, noble,” she continued before he could gather himself enough to speak. “I saw them along the edge of the bay we landed in. With repair and some parts salvaged from what’s left of the Forerunner,” she said grimly, “I think we could get off-world.” She raised her chin as his eyes widened. “Major Omari is accused of serious crimes. It is my duty to return him for trial and imprisonment. If I help you and a ship can be overhauled sufficiently to withstand the stress of leaving this system, then I intend to carry out my duty.” Her striped eyes held his. “Do we have a deal, Noble Picyt?”
He blinked, marveling fuzzily at how she spoke of spaceflight as the Tlar spoke of going to another street within Altian. For a moment he knew a longing to go with her, to see the wonders of the rest of the universe, to see those things once again of which the neophytes chanted in the litanies of history. He opened his mouth, giddy with temptation. But the sight of Anthi’s baleful eye upon the wall sobered him. Yde, he thought, clutching at his faculties. He must have yde before he lost all wholeness and was left in shame.
“Yes…” By supreme effort he managed to form one tiny ring as fragile as his own ebbing control. But it gave him enough strength to face her with a semblance of outward calm. “It pleases me to agree to your words, n’dl.” He caught himself as her eyes narrowed. “Saunders. But if we do not find the n’ka? I warn you the chances are small.”
She nodded her head in a gesture he did not comprehend. “Understood,” she said, something of a smile playing upon her thin, colorless lips now. The odd white-striped eyes gleamed. “But I think you’ll find him, noble. He’s equally as skilled and trained as I. And two of us would help your cause tremendously.”
Clutching at the last of his strength, Picyt gestured to Tuult, who strode forward at once to seize the arm of the n’dl. She stiffened, then with a glare grabbed up her mask and allowed the Bban to lead her out. As soon as the door closed behind them, Picyt staggered across the room, knocking a chair out of place, nearly falling over it. With a grunt he caught himself, heedless of the stole of office that slipped from his shoulders. He stumbled on, forcing each step, and barely caught himself on the wall. The light chill of the room intensified as his veins contracted. Nearly blind, and unable to focus his rings, which swirled about in dizzying fragments, he slid partway down the wall and groped with fumbling wooden fingers until he touched the edge of the huge silver medallion that represented the eye of Anthi. Running his fingertips rapidly over the intricate design, he found the place at last and pressed it. With a faint click the metal warmed beneath his touch until his arm tensed to draw his fingers back from the heat. But by then his flesh was melded with metal. Energy, blue and raw, shot through his shriveled veins, and with a roar that sang through his throbbing head, Anthi spoke to him with words too terrible for anything but the spirit to hear. The room spun and darkened. Then the blue fire spread to his brain, burning away all other things until only the vision of the stark grandeur of the Outerlands remained within him. He saw the black banners of the Bban’jen lift over the desert ridges, and wave after wave of the Bban tribe poured forth. He saw Altian aglitter like a vast carved gem in the darkness. And at last he saw the sacred Jewels of M’thra, sworn to his safekeeping as they lay glowing with faint golden radiance in the black depths of their cavern.
He trembled, the blue fire bursting through his veins and the vision unbearably clear in his head. The words of prayer quavered out from his soul.
He lifted forth his question to the goddess, weakening beneath the sweep of her power yet desperate to have his answer. Did the n’ka live? Would he be found? So much might rest upon this stranger from another world. So much… Anthi! he cried from his heart, anguished by fear as terrible blackness struck away the vision. For an instant he was left in a horrible void, abandoned and lost. Then the fire blazed through him again like a swordthrust. Once again a vision came to him, and it was the dark, guarded caverns of M’thra, where the long slim capsules of crystal lay glowing faintly in the silence of age and dust.
“Asan,” said Anthi.
Frightened of the insistence of that vision, Picyt shrank from Anthi’s command, knowing he could never raise the mighty Asan himself. Someone else, perhaps…The n’ka? he asked with hope, and again blackness buffeted him.
Abruptly the fire cooled, and the blackness faded, releasing him. The eye of Anthi stared cold and silent once more. With an unsteady hand Picyt fumbled within a pocket in his sleeve and drew out a small vial of fine blue powder. He struggled for a moment with the stopper, but at last unsealed it and with both shaking hands lifted it to his lips.
The yde left a slightly acrid aftertaste in his parched mouth. He coughed, rubbing his lips with the back of his hand as he put away the emptied vial. Strength returned with a surge to his trembling limbs, and almost on their own the rings began forming. He opened his eyes, seeking to focus them upon the overturned chair, and finally succeeded.
But the rings of composure were false, bolstered by the strength of yde. Deep within the shrinking corners of his soul lurked the horror of Anthi’s answer. This was not the first time the vision of the Jewels of M’thra had been thrust on him when he questioned Anthi for
guidance. And he could not face the prospect of raising the Jewels himself. No, in all else he served the goddess. But not in this.
With a sigh he stood, his fingertips pressed together to enlarge the ring of composure, smoothing his rebellion away to a hidden place within his mind. The flush of yde still swelled his veins. Concerned with the violence of this attack, he knew it would be necessary very soon to purge himself of the drug so that he might again sustain himself on only a few grains. He dared not encourage worse attacks. Drawing himself erect, Picyt set up the chair and replaced the stole of office across his shoulders. Yes, he must purge soon, but not—and he brushed away that tiny glimmer of fear at the chance he took—not as long as he had Saunders here and Leiil Hihuan knew of it. Losing her as he had lost the n’ka Omari could not be permitted, not if Ruantl was to survive and the Bban to fit themselves to the true purpose. Risk to his own survival must be taken. He dared do nothing less.
Perhaps it was the yde, perhaps the curiosity about how well the n’dl would work with his technicians, perhaps the lingering uneasiness over the communication with Anthi, or perhaps all of them combined to distract him during the lengthy meeting with the representatives of the Spandeen merchants, so that in the end they went away dissatisfied, and Noble Basai dared frown at him in rebuke.
“We dare not offend them, revered noble,” he said, his thin, shrill voice piercing over the faint sounds of neophyte chanting coming from the hall of worship. “They have power within Altian, and it is to our profit to ally ourselves with them. Revered noble—”
Lifting his hand impatiently, Picyt stood up. “You sound like one of the merchants, Basai,” he said, gesturing at Basai’s quick gobble of protest. “No, do not offend yourself. I understand the need of their use.”
“I think you do not, my noble,” said Basai quickly. “They have come—”
Picyt quelled him with a sharp glance. “Yes, they came, Basai, but only to make petty judgments as to how much they dare play us against the palace. I do not intend to make Kkanthor their toy.” Basai sniffed and began tapping his pudgy fingers on the council table. Picyt continued: “When they are indeed ready to cooperate with us, then be assured my attention will be upon them. Until then—”
“Forgive me, revered noble, but I think your attention is too much upon these strange intruders.” Basai swept out his hand, his slitted green eyes hard upon Picyt. “What can one female do to change our world? Merdarai, all know that the Bban’n are far from ready for what you would thrust them into! More time—”
“No!” Picyt turned on him furiously, his inner rings breaking into spears of anger. “The Bban tribes are in ferment. Are you content to wait until Anthi’s hand can hold them no longer? For with our guidance or in their own violence they will soon come down upon Altian. The season is upon us, and we all know that a starving, freezing Bban is the most dangerous of all creatures. I know what I do, Noble Basai! Grant me that.” With a curt gesture Picyt strode out, leaving Basai fuming behind him.
Fool, Picyt thought, belatedly composing his features into a less harsh expression after meeting several startled priests in the public corridors. Complacent, stupid fool!
The next day saw him in no better humor. No word had yet come from Pon Tuult, and Picyt’s last glimmers of hope died. Nor did he trust Hihuan, expecting the Tlar leiil to do more against him than merely steal away the n’ka. Hihuan’s spies lurked not only among the Bban’n, but even in the House of Kkanthor itself, necessitating a constant monitoring of all within. What next would he do?
Frowning, Picyt ceased these worried thoughts, listening to his voice glide on, instructing his class of neophytes in the advanced sonthi methods of inner control. These boys were nearly ready for induction into full priesthood. He paused in speaking to study every face as they sat in still obedience, their eyes shut, breathing in trained unison. Their hearts almost beat as one. Ever sensitive, ever in control, Picyt placed his fingertips together, but held back from looking upon each with truth, as was his custom at this hour. One heart, one set of lungs was not in unison.
He became instantly suspicious. In the younger classes such a thing was commonplace, but it should not occur here. He extended his sensitivity, yde enhanced and powerful, over the room, probing gently. No, the ring was not complete. One had not joined it. With a sharp intake of breath, Picyt withdrew into himself and stood before them in the midst of the circular pale-walled chamber, a brazier of coals at his back and the eye of Anthi over them all.
The sense of danger, now confirmed, heightened within him, locking his own rings into iron bands of defense. But still, although no Kkanthor-ka was ever wholly free of the threat of assassination, the nearness of this trap shook him. He drew in a slow, deep breath, his hands tensed within his sleeves, and considered how, in his distraction over so many problems, he had come close to entering the thoughts of the one who waited now with intent of murder rather than of submission. His gaze moved slowly across each somnolent face as the neophytes knelt, calmed for his touch. Who was it? Which expressionless face hid Hihuan’s hireling?
Now that the first start of fear was fading, anger rose unchecked in its stead. Picyt studied them, these boys who served him so eagerly by struggling to discipline their youth and vigor to Anthi’s stern rule. He loved them as his own sons. But one was a traitor.
Which?
The question seared him like a brand. He knew Hihuan’s other spies within his domain. Carefully he had them monitored, giving them sufficient leeway to betray themselves. But no one of this class had been suspected. To discover such a betrayal now was like a stab to the heart.
Was it Braal? Aar? Riidul? Was it…and his breath faltered in anguish at the thought…was it Oliir, the only Bban of his students, his special protégé for whom he had such hopes? He frowned at the boy, barely able to hold back his desire to strike out as he studied those repulsive skeletal features so shyly revealed in the maskless confines of the House. Then Aar stirred restlessly, and Picyt turned his gaze to the slim, high-caste youth.
He must decide now, before the dark one suspected discovery.
Quickly Picyt extended his senses into a ring surrounding the boys, concealing his horror and fury from them behind a haze of false serenity. Once they took their first yde, tonight, this deception would no longer succeed with them. He must act now.
Calmness…submission…oneness… His presence encircled them, soothing them back into perfect unison as if he were unaware of the one upon the fringes of the circle. Regulating his breathing to theirs, taking control of even that part of them, Picyt stepped silently back to the curving wall, where the eye of Anthi watched. He shut his eyes and looked upon Aar with truth, feeling the boy jerk with that brief spurt of rebellion he had not yet learned to tame. Relaxing, Picyt shared himself with the boy for a moment, smiling within as Aar clung to him. Then he withdrew and looked upon gentle Braal, who was not the dark one either.
That left Riidul and Oliir. Picyt hesitated, the grief twisting through his anger. Oliir, being Bban, was the perfect target of Aabrm’s briberies. And it was certain no one of the palace wished any Bban to rise beyond the place of warrior and slave. But Oliir had not released his musk. Either he had learned more of the sonthi teachings than even Picyt suspected, or else he was innocent.
Slowly, barely able to keep his emotions from the serenity of the rings, Picyt steeled himself and reached out a hand to place his fingertips lightly upon the edge of the medallion. Then with extreme care he faced the risk and looked upon Oliir, opening himself to the sharing. Now the attack would come. But Oliir met him gladly, with the shyness that had become so endearing, and in his relief Picyt nearly overwhelmed the young Bban with his feelings. He withdrew abruptly, leaving Oliir to sway at the violence of that departure. With a sudden blast of fury Picyt shattered the rings holding all the boys.
With a hoarse cry Riidul jumped to his feet and rushed forward, his hand at his belt. Picyt’s fingers pressed the eye of Anthi, flesh meldi
ng with fiery metal as the blue fire smoked forth through him, blazing from his eyes, until his entire form was consumed. His mouth opened and he uttered two words—Riidul’s name and another so terrible that it shook the room. Riidul screamed, clapping his hands to his ears, then stiffened as the blue fire crackled out from Picyt’s pointing finger to engulf him. For an instant the room hung frozen, the other boys glazed with fear as they stared, cringing from Riidul’s writhing body held in the awesome blue fire.
Black things, like shaped, monstrous obscenities, rushed at Picyt’s mind, but the fire of Anthi consumed them all.
Then with a final horrible scream Riidul crumpled to the floor, his outflung hand spilling an inkpot that spread out a slow purple stain across the woven mats. Picyt dropped his hand, and the fire ceased, leaving him standing tall and fierce, a blue haze still clouding his sight. Inside, his soul curled, sickened by the sight before him. The room would have to be cleaned of the taint.
The room was silent save for the panicked gasps of the three remaining students. Slowly they turned away from Riidul’s smoking corpse to stare up at Picyt. Aar clutched his chest as though it hurt him, but his eyes remained fixed on Picyt. As the fear and shock faded from his gaze, awe replaced it, stirring with the gleam of worship.
Pleased, Picyt looked away, staring at the others, who huddled, stricken. For a minute longer the power of Anthi sang through his veins; then it faded sufficiently for him to be able to see normally again and to speak. He heard the sound of running footsteps in the corridor outside and Uble’s voice lifted in anxious query.
“Riidul was a traitor to the House,” said Picyt, and Anthi still thundered sufficiently in his voice to make the boys bow hurriedly. “Go. Purify yourselves, and think on this shame until you have mastered it. The ceremony will still be at the last hour.” He lifted two fingers in dismissal, and as one Aar and Braal fled, flinging open the door to dart out past the alarmed Uble. Oliir lingered, his jaw clicking nervously as though he wished to question Picyt. Then he lowered his hairless head and scurried out after the others.
The Children of Anthi Page 8