by John Norman
“And you,” said Ausonius, bowing.
“On Vellmer,” said Julian, “Ausonius learned manhood and honor.”
“Such things,” said Iaachus, “may complicate, even impede, statecraft.”
“Tuvo Ausonius is our eyes and ears on the street,” said Julian. “I am known, Captain Ottonius is conspicuous.”
“I have my sources of information, as well,” said Iaachus.
“A hundred spies,” said Julian.
“In Telnar alone,” said Iaachus. “The empire is large and information is precious. Without it one gambles.”
“And with it, as well,” said Julian.
“True,” said Iaachus.
“And you will gamble on us?” said Julian.
“I have little choice,” said Iaachus.
“You need us,” said Julian.
“I, and the empire,” said Iaachus. “Unfortunately one must sometimes trust those whom one does not trust.”
“We, as well,” said Julian.
“There are demands in the street, for the public appearance of the princesses,” said Iaachus.
“Few know the princesses by sight,” said Otto. “Substitute actresses, or slaves in gaudy finery.”
“But some know,” said Iaachus, “and large, vulnerable secrets are the least well kept.”
“Too,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “word is spread about, that the princesses vacation abroad, venturing to scenic places, lightheartedly touring on a dozen worlds.”
“In this, see the hand of Sidonicus,” said Iaachus.
“Obviously you know more than we,” said Julian.
“In his way,” said Iaachus, “Sidonicus poses a greater threat to the empire than Abrogastes.”
“How so?” said Julian.
“He wants the empire, the galaxy, the galaxies, either from the throne or from its enemies. He preaches the superiority of the koos to the state. The koos is to rule, which, of course, he speaks for, and the state is to obey. He wants to crown emperors, and have it that no one can be emperor who is not crowned by him.”
“He would then select emperors,” said Otto.
“And would-be emperors would hasten to do his will,” said Iaachus.
“And without risk he would rule worlds,” said Otto.
“At his word,” said Iaachus, “he might declare an emperor unfit, false, or illegitimate, unfavored by Karch, and his subjects thereby relieved of all allegiance and duties to their sovereign.”
“Madness,” said Otto.
“Weapons, even in the hands of the insane, have edges and weight. A knife in the hand of a lunatic is still sharp. It obeys the hand that wields it.”
“Surely men can see through this sort of thing, understand its purposes, the motivations involved,” said Otto.
“Some men,” said Iaachus. “Not others. And many men who understand the absurdity, the sickness, and the madness refrain from speaking, reluctant to perish at the hands of homicidal zealots.”
“There are rumors, too,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “of miracles.”
“Of course,” said Iaachus, “why not? Do they not, supposedly, abound in the pantheon of Orak and Umba, and in the lore of a thousand other faiths, sometimes weird and minor faiths, on ten thousand worlds?”
“What is a miracle?” asked Otto.
“Words are easily multiplied,” said Iaachus. “Facile verbalism produces in simple minds the illusion of understanding. In reality the concept is unintelligible.”
“Let us suppose,” said Julian, “that Orak supposedly does something which violates the laws of nature.”
“How would one know it violated the laws of nature?” asked Otto.
“One would not,” said Julian.
“What if there were no laws of nature?” asked Otto.
“Even granted iron laws of nature, which seems unlikely,” said Iaachus, “many unusual and surprising things still take place, things we do not understand and cannot now explain.”
“Miracles?” asked Otto.
“There seems little point in calling them that, but I suppose one could do so, if one wished,” said Julian. “Most, of course, have no relationship whatsoever to one faith or another.”
“Perhaps such things could be staged, faked, and such,” said Otto. “Tricks, such as magicians perform, dazzling us.”
“Or more likely, simply alleged to have occurred,” said Iaachus. “Lies are less costly than tricks, which often require a context, an apparatus, confederates, and such.”
“What is the point of miracles?” asked Otto.
“They are supposed to attest the soundness of claims and doctrine,” said Iaachus. “They cannot do so, of course, for a variety of reasons. For example, logical relations obtain amongst propositions, formulas, and such, whereas things, occurrences, and phenomena do not entail anything, no more than, say, waterfalls, trees, and rocks. Surprising events, for example, are cognitively independent of their interpretation. Any event might be interpreted variously. Let us suppose that I maintained that the star of Telnaria orbited Telnaria, rather than Telnaria orbiting its star, and produced an unusual event. That would not prove that our star spun about our world. Similarly, suppose I claimed to be a prophet of Karch and something surprising took place. That would not prove I was a prophet of Karch, or even that there was such a thing as Karch. The point may be even more easily made. Let us suppose we have three individuals making incompatible claims, only one of which could be true, if any, and each of these individuals produced exactly the same miracle, or unusual phenomenon. What is one then to suppose, that the three logically incompatible claims are all true? Rather, it is clear that surprising occurrences and truth are logically independent.”
“When I was a boy, tending pigs in the festung village of Sim Giadini,” said Otto, “I wondered why faiths did not begin earlier, why they waited for thousands of years to appear. If Orak or Karch, or some other god or gods, made the world, if it was made, should they not have made their faith at the same time? For example, many must have died, tragically deprived, before this or that faith was even known.”
“It had not been invented yet,” said Iaachus.
“Many of the brothers in the festung,” said Otto, “claimed to have had visions of Floon.”
“And doubtless many did,” said Iaachus. “Experience is internal to the organism. It commonly has both internal and external causes. There is doubtless a tree outside your body but your seeing of the tree is within you, an aspect of your consciousness. It could not be otherwise. All experience is internal to the organism, but some experiences may lack external causes. They may have only internal causes. The most common instance of this is the dream. The dream tree is internally generated. It is rooted only in dream soil, and shimmers only in dream light.”
“Men sometimes see what they hope to see, what they want to see,” said Julian.
“Certainly thousands have had visions of Orak and Umba, and thousands of other gods,” said Iaachus.
“What of signs in the sky, as claimed on several worlds?” said Otto.
“It is easy to see figures in the clouds,” said Iaachus, “particularly if one wishes to see them, is eager to see them, and so on. Furthermore, some such claims seem to have been simply fabricated, as they are not reported in other sources in the same locale at the same time. Too, not everyone inspecting the sky sees such things, even at the same time others are claiming to do so. Remember the internality of experience. And, who knows how many claim to see such things who do not see such things, for one reason or another, perhaps wishing to conform, perhaps wishing to be approved, perhaps wishing to gain attention, perhaps wishing to seem important, perhaps wishing to avoid discrimination or persecution.”
“It is hard to know what to think,” said Otto.
“Things which do not move, too,” said Iaachus, “may seem to
move. This has to do with movements in the eye itself.”
“What of those on whose bodies appear the marks of the torture rack?” said Otto.
“The mind,” said Iaachus, “can do strange things with the body.”
“It is hard to know what to think,” said Otto.
“Perhaps it is not all that hard, dear friend,” said Julian.
“The trust which human beings have is surely one of their most endearing characteristics,” said Iaachus. “Without it the enterprises of the charlatan and fraud would be far more difficult and perilous.”
“Why should Sidonicus, if he has, spread rumors of the princesses being on holiday?” said Julian. “Surely he knows the truth, if only from the empress mother.”
“May I speculate?” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“Surely, noble Ausonius,” said Iaachus.
“The Floonian ministrants wish to stand between humans, and other rational species, and Karch. They wish to control access to the table of Karch. Accordingly, they have the business of the smudging with oil, the approved prayers, the demanded exercises and required services, reserving to themselves the exclusive alleviation of the miseries and guilts which they themselves have produced, and so on.”
“Continue,” said Iaachus.
“Compatible with this program of managing and controlling the lives of others, whose economic resources they command, and on which they rely, they wish to regulate and supervise matings, to approve or disapprove of marriages, to perform or dissolve marriages.”
“That is known to me,” said Iaachus.
“Suppose, then,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “the princesses, in their alleged holiday, encountered, and allegedly fell in love with, as the reports might have it, unexpected and magnificent swains, young, handsome princes of mighty barbarian nations.”
“I see,” said Iaachus.
“New blood for the empire,” said Julian.
“The empire totters,” said Otto. “Fear bestrides the times. In what quadrant might dawn the sun of hope? Foreign blood and might, conjoined with sophistication and civilization, might undo a thousand years of diffidence, subsidence, and retreat.”
“It will never be,” said Iaachus.
“And who might arrange, and sanctify, and with what in mind, such unions?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.
“Sidonicus, obviously,” said Iaachus.
“One must not allow the dark, ugly hand of these madmen to cheapen, soil, and pervert life,” said Julian.
“Many will welcome such things,” said Iaachus, “provided it is done in the name of right, of goodness, of justice, of love, and such.”
“What a meretricious pursuit of power,” said Julian.
“Better the fist and blade,” said Otto.
“They, at least, are honest,” said Iaachus.
“But in the world there are many mysteries,” said Otto.
“True,” said Iaachus. “Many things are mysterious. I fear the world does not speak our language, or have us much in mind.”
“If Sidonicus performs the marriages of the Princesses Viviana and Alacida to the sons of Abrogastes, and they have male issue, which, in time, seems likely,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “blood right to the throne will have been established.”
“Too,” said Iaachus, “such an act would much increase and enhance the prestige and power of the exarch, the high ministrant. He is so mighty that he may preside over the marriages of, so to speak, kings and queens. The next claim would surely be that ministrants alone have the right to ratify unions.”
“Quite possibly,” said Julian.
“And the hand of the exarch is laid ever more heavily on the empire,” said Iaachus.
“The sons of Abrogastes,” said Julian, “will further his schemes, as he has theirs. The exarch gives credence and legitimacy to their pretensions, and they, in turn, would lend him the support, and sword, of the state.”
“Would that we had an emperor!” said Iaachus.
“We do,” said Otto.
“A drooling, mindless child,” said Iaachus, “enamored of toys and terrified of insects.”
Otto was silent.
“What is to be done?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.
“The projected marriages must not take place,” said Julian. “We must recover the princesses.”
“We do not even know where they are,” said Iaachus. “They could be on any one of a thousand worlds.”
“Surely on a barbarian world,” said Julian, “one not too far, not too close, a world familiar to the Alemanni and their allies.”
“There may be dozens such,” said Iaachus.
“There are,” said Otto.
“There is little time,” said Julian.
“Let us suppose,” said Otto, “there is a likely world. How would one proceed?”
“Any attempt to extricate the princesses from their predicament,” said Iaachus, “would have to proceed with great delicacy and in great secrecy. This militates against a massive effort, which would be easily detectable and the bungling or clumsiness of which might result in the removal and concealment of the princesses, or, even, worse, Orak forbid, in their loss. This is work for the surgeon’s blade, not the woodsman’s ax. Too, it would seem to me unwise to invest imperial forces in this enterprise. Questions would arise; security might be breached.”
“Mercenaries, then?” said Julian.
“Surely,” said Iaachus. “Mercenaries, trustworthy, fresh from bloody wars, who owe the state much.”
“You have such men in mind?” said Julian.
“Yes,” said Iaachus, “but it avails naught, for we do not even know where to seek the princesses.”
“You will be dealing with barbarians,” said Otto. “I will command.”
“I will accompany you,” said Julian.
“And I,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“I do not understand,” said Iaachus, Arbiter of Protocol. “We do not even know where to look.”
“True,” said Otto. “But there is a likely world, a barbarian world, one not too far, not too close, one known to the Alemanni and their allies, a crossroads world, an assembly world, a rendezvous world, a meeting world.”
“What world is that?” asked Iaachus.
“Tenguthaxichai!” said Julian.
“Yes,” said Otto, “Tenguthaxichai.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Cornhair lay curled at the feet of her Master, Rurik, in the Farnichi enclave, overlooking the Turning Serpent, somewhat northeast of Telnar. A silver chain ran from the ring on her silver overcollar to the ring set in the floor to the left of his thronelike chair, in which he received visitors. Beneath the overcollar she wore a simple close-fitting collar bearing the Farnichi emblem, the five petaled Pin Flower, native to Larial VII. She was not clothed. This was partly, doubtless, because she was lovely, and her Master enjoyed seeing her naked, and partly because she had once been a scion of the Larial Calasalii.
“We await guests,” said Rurik.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“I am curious as to their business,” he said. “It is interesting. They come incognito.”
“Master may have me removed,” she said, “or he may unchain me, and I shall hurry to my cage, and crawl within.”
“You will remain,” he said. “I enjoy displaying you, a pretty slave, once a woman of the Calasalii.”
“As Master wills,” she said. “I am his slave.”
Some days ago Cornhair had been laden with heavy chains and put naked into a wagon. A few hours later the wagon had been admitted behind the first gate of a high-walled enclave. When the gate had been closed behind the wagon, Cornhair was relieved of her chains, and placed, kneeling, on the paving stones between the first and second gate. The officer in charge of the gate guard, which consisted of four men, made his
mark on the delivery receipt and the wagon was turned about, and, the gate opened, took its departure. Cornhair heard the gate close behind her, but did not look, as she had been knelt facing the second gate. She saw a small door open in the second gate, which door would permit the passage of only one person at a time. Through this door emerged a fellow clad in normal Telnarian garb, perhaps a constable or bailiff. Dangling from his left hand was an opened collar.
He approached Cornhair and stood before her, and she lowered her head.
“Look up,” he said.
Cornhair looked up.
The collar was held before her.
“Do you know this design?” she was asked.
“It is the five-petaled Pin Flower,” she said.
“It is the mark of what great family?” he said.
“It is the mark of the Farnichi,” she said.
“So it is a Farnichi collar,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“And you are going to wear it, are you not?”
“If Masters please,” she said.
“Assume the posture of a bitch,” he said, “slut of the Calasalii.”
Cornhair went to all fours, her head down.
The collar was then snapped about her neck.
“You are one of the few sluts of the Calasalii who have long avoided the collar,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“But now you are in it, where you belong,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“Wait here,” he said, “as you are.”
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
He then exited through the small door in the larger gate.
As the reader may recall, the Calasalii and the Farnichi, both originally native to Larial VII, maintained private armies, devoted to their interests on more than one world, interests which were occasionally incompatible. These private armies, on more than one world, met in the fierce adjudications of war. Eventually the empire saw fit to intervene, an intervention apparently, at least partly, in response to an invitation of the Farnichi, which saw little profit to be reaped from a continuance of hostilities, hostilities which seemed likely to be indefinitely prolonged, with the obvious diminution of resources on both sides and an ever-mounting toll of burned and gutted cities and towns, and planetwide widths of barren, untilled fields. This invitation to imperial forces, it was rumored, this repast of harmony and conciliation, was sweetened by substantial condiments of Farnichi gold. Surely it was more in the interests of the empire, to restore order, to side with one foe or another, thereby increasing the power and leverage of the favored faction, rather than try to impose its will on two intransigent parties, each of which might, particularly on certain worlds, more than overmatch any imperial cohorts likely to be applied in the appropriate sectors. In any event, abetted by the empire, the Farnichi brought the war to a brief and bloody close. Calasalii forces were disbanded. Calasalii property was confiscated by the state, and divided between the empire and the Farnichi. In this way each of the original Farnichi gold pieces was multiplied several times, an outcome more than justifying the original investment. After the war the Calasalii family was stripped of rank, and the associated perquisites of rank. The family was reduced to the humiliori. Later, as we earlier noted, presumably at the instigation of the Farnichi, who may have had long memories and apprehensions concerning the future, the Calasalii were outlawed, an outlawry kept secret until its consequences were enacted without warning. Men and women of the Calasalii were seized by the state. The men were largely consigned to the mines and quarries, the women to the collar.