9
The Experiment
Night flowed into the village like the dark waters of the river, submerging fears and sorrows in its gentle current. Around the brick houses it crept, its shadows growing deeper and deeper, for it was a cloudy, moonless night. Gradually almost every light in the village was engulfed by the rising darkness, nearly everyone let sleep wash over him, sinking down into the murky depths of dreams.
But when night was at its flood, when the silent waters of sleep were at their deepest, light from the forge continued to glow red, burning away sleep and dreams for one person at least.
The firelight glistened in black curling hair, flickered in brown eyes, and beat upon a face now neither sullen nor angry but intent and eager. Within the fires of the forge, Joram heated iron ore in a crucible, iron that he had ground as finely as he could. The mold for a dagger sat to one side of the young man, but he did not pour the molten iron into it. Instead, he lifted another crucible from the fire, this containing a molten liquid similar in appearance to the iron except for its strange white-purple color.
Joram regarded the second crucible thoughtfully, a look of frustration causing the thick, black brows to contract.
“If I only I knew what they meant,” he muttered. “If only I understood!” Closing his eyes, he called to mind the pages of ancient writing. He could see the letters, could see every shape and twist and idiosyncrasy of the hand that had formed them, in fact, so often had he mulled over and studied the page. But it did not help. Again and again before his eyes rose those strange symbols that might have been another language to him for all the meaning they conveyed.
Finally, with a bitter shrug and a shake of his head, Joram tilted the contents of the second crucible into the first, watching as the hot liquid streamed into the burning pool of iron. He continued pouring until he had nearly doubled the measure of iron, then stopped. Looking at the mixture, he shrugged again and added a bit more for no particular reason except that it felt right. Putting the second crucible aside carefully, Joram stirred the molten mixture, examining it with a critical eye. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Was this good or bad? He didn’t know and, with another frustrated shrug, poured the alloy into the dagger mold.
It would cool quickly, the text had noted, minutes compared to the hours it took to cool iron. Still, it did not seem quick enough to Joram. His fingers itched to strike off the mold and see the object he had created. To take his mind off it, he lifted the second crucible and returned it to its hiding place among a pile of cast-off, broken tools and other refuse of the smithy’s. This done, he walked to the front of the cavern and peered through the cracks of the crude wooden door. The village was silent, drowned in sleep. Nodding his head in satisfaction, Joram returned to the forge. It must be ready now. His hands shaking in anticipation, he struck aside the wooden forms that held the mold, then broke the mold itself.
The object within had only the very crudest resemblance to the weapon it would become. Lifting it out with the tongs, he plunged it into the fires of the forge, heating it until it glowed red hot, as the text had instructed. Carrying the dagger to the anvil, he lifted his hammer and, with practiced blows, pounded it into shape. He hurried, being not too particular as to the weapon’s construction since this was only a test. What happened next was critical, and he was anxious to proceed. At last, deeming the dagger good enough for his purposes, he lifted it by the tongs again and, drawing a deep breath, plunged the hot weapon into a bucket of water.
Steam billowed up in a cloud, momentarily blinding him. But with the hiss of the red-hot iron in the water came another sound, a sharp crack. Joram’s heavy brows drew together in a scowl. Impatiently waving his hand to clear the air, he jerked the weapon from the water—and brought up only a shattered fragment. Hurling it onto the refuse pile with a bitter curse, he was about to dump out the worthless alloy he had produced when a prickling feeling at the base of his neck made him turn around quickly.
“You work late, Joram,” said Blachloch. The warlocks face was visible as he stepped into the light of the forge, along with the hands that he held clasped in front of him in the manner of the Enforcers. Other than those, he was a patch of night within the red-lit forge, the black of his robes absorbing the light and even the warmth of the fire.
“It was my punishment,” said Joram coolly, having had this matter arranged beforehand. “I was negligent in my work today and the master ordered I stay until the dagger was finished.”
“It appears that you will be here most of the night,” the warlock stated, his cold-eyed gaze going to the refuse pile.
Joram shrugged, his face flowing into its embittered, angry lines much as the molten iron had flowed into the mold. “I will if I am not permitted to get on with my work,” he said sullenly, walking around to pump the bellows. Deliberately turning his back upon the warlock, he almost, but not quite, shouldered the black-robed man aside.
A tiny line creased Blachloch’s smooth forehead, his lips pressed together, but there was no sign of annoyance or irritation in his voice. “I understand that you claim to be of noble birth.”
Grunting from the exertion of his labors, Joram did not bother to reply. Not appearing surprised or disconcerted by this, Blachloch moved to where he could see the young man’s face.
Joram paused in his work for an instant, but continued almost immediately, the muscles in his back and arms rippling and knotting with the exertion as he operated the device that sent a blast of air onto the coals of the forge.
“I hear you have been reading the books.”
Joram might have been deaf. His arms moved in unceasing, rhythmic motion, his dark hair fell forward, curling about his face.
“A little knowledge to one who is otherwise ignorant is like a dagger in the hands of a child, Joram. It can hurt him very badly,” Blachloch continued. “I would have thought you had learned your lesson when you committed murder.”
Glancing at Blachloch through the tangle of his black hair, Joram smiled a smile only visible in the dark, fire-lit eyes. “I would have thought there was a lesson there you could learn,” he said.
“You see? You are threatening me.” From his calm, even tone, Blachloch might have been speaking of the weather. “The child brandishes the dagger. You will cut yourself upon its sharp edges, Joram,” the warlock murmured. “You really will. Either yourself”—Blachloch lifted his shoulders—“or someone else. Can your friend … What’s his name … Mosiah? Can he read?”
Joram’s face darkened, the steady pumping of the bellows slowed slightly. “No,” he answered. “Leave him out of this.”
“I thought not,” Blachloch said blandly. “You and I are the only ones in the village who can read, Joram. And I think that is one too many of us, but there is nothing I can do about it—short of melting your eyes in your head.”
For the first time, the warlock moved his hands, unclasping them and bringing one up to stroke the thin blond mustache that ran across his upper lip. Joram had ceased to work. Keeping his hands on the handles of the bellows, he stared fixedly into the fire.
Blachloch drew nearer. “It would grieve me to destroy the books.”
Joram stirred. “The old man will never tell you where they are.”
“He would,” Blachloch said with a smile, “in time. In time, he would be searching for things to tell me. I have not pressed him before on the matter because it simply wasn’t worth upsetting these people by resorting to violence. It would be a pity if I were forced to change my policy, particularly now that I have the magic.”
Joram’s face flushed, burning in the light of the glowing coals. “You won’t have to,” he muttered.
“Good.” Blachloch clasped his hands together once again. “We Duuk-tsarith know something of these books, you know. There are things written in them that the world is better off for having lost.” The warlock stared intently at Joram, who remained standing where he was, looking into the fire.
“You remind me
of myself, young man,” Blachloch said. “And that makes me nervous. I, too, hated authority. I, too, believed myself above it”—the faintest tinge of sarcasm colored his otherwise gray voice—“though I am not of noble blood. To rid myself of those I believed were oppressing me, I, like you, committed murder without guilt, without remorse. You liked that taste of power, didn’t you? And now you crave more. Yes, I see it, I feel it burn in you. I’ve watched you learn, this past year, to manipulate people, to use them and get them to do what you want. You got the old man to show you the books that way, didn’t you?”
Joram did not answer or raise his gaze from the flame. But his left fist clenched.
Blachloch smiled, a smile that was dark in the firelight. “I see great things before you, Joram. In time you will learn how to handle this lust that consumes you. But you are a child still, as young as I was when I committed my first impetuous act—the act that drove me here. There is one difference, though, between you and me, Joram. The man I sought to displace was not aware of me or of my ambition. He turned his back upon me.” Unclasping his hands, the warlock laid one upon the young man’s arm. Even in the warmth of the forge, Joram shivered at the chill touch. “I am aware, Joram, and I will not turn my back upon you.”
“Why don’t you just kill me,” Joram muttered with a sneer, “and have done with it.”
“Why not indeed,” Blachloch repeated. “You are of little use to me now, though you may be when you are older. Whether you grow older will depend upon you and those who take an interest in you.”
“What do you mean, ‘those who take an interest in me’?” Joram glanced at him.
“The catalyst.”
Joram shrugged.
“He is here for you. Why?”
“Because I am a murderer—”
“No,” Blachloch said softly. “Enforcers hunt murderers, not catalysts. Why? What is he here for?”
“I have no idea,” Joram replied impatiently. “Ask him … or ask Simkin.”
Blachloch’s eyes stared searchingly into Joram’s. The warlock began speaking words of magic. He saw the brown eyes glaze, the lids droop. Moving his hand up to touch Joram’s face, the warlock raised an eyebrow. “You are telling the truth. You don’t know, do you, young man. What’s more, you don’t believe Simkin. I’m not certain I do either, and yet—How can I risk it? What is Simkin’s game?”
Irritably, the warlock dropped his hand.
Feeling as though he had awakened from a disturbed and fitful sleep, Joram blinked and glanced quickly around the forge. He was alone.
10
The Spy
“Bishop Vanya has retired to his private chambers for the evening,” was the message the Deacon who acted as secretary gave to all who asked to see His Holiness.
These were not many; everyone living in the Font, and a good majority of those who did not, being very familiar with the Bishop’s habits. He retired to his chambers to have the evening meal in private or with those few fortunate enough to be invited as guests. While in his chambers, he was not to be disturbed for anything short of the assassination of any of the Emperors. (Death of the Emperors by natural causes could wait until morning.) Duuk-tsarith stood outside the Bishop’s chambers, their sole task to make certain that His Holiness remained undisturbed.
There were several reasons for this well-guarded privacy, reasons both public and private. Publicly it was known all over Thimhallan that Bishop Vanya was something of a gourmand and refused to allow any sort of unpleasantness to interrupt his dinner. Guests at his table were carefully selected to provide interesting and noncontroversial dinnertime conversation, which was viewed as important to the digestion.
Publicly it was known that Bishop Vanya worked extremely hard during the day, devoting himself completely to matters of the Church (and state). Rising before the sun, he rarely left his office until it had set. After such a rigorous day, it was important to his health to have these hours of unbroken rest and relaxation in the evening.
Publicly it was known that the Bishop used these quiet hours in meditation and discussion with the Almin.
These were the public reasons. The real reason, of course, was a private one, known only to the Bishop. Vanya used these quiet hours for discussion—but not with the Almin. Those to whom he talked were of a more worldly nature ….
There had been guests to dinner this autumn night, but they had left early, the Bishop indicating that he felt unusually tired that evening. After the guests had gone, however, Vanya did not proceed to his bedchambers as might have been expected. Instead, moving with a swiftness and an alacrity that accorded ill with pleas of exhaustion, the Bishop removed the spell that sealed off a small, private chapel, and opened the door.
A beautiful and peaceful place, the chapel was built along ancient lines and traditions. Its dark interior was illuminated by stained glass windows conjured up many centuries ago by the most skilled of artisans whose speciality lay in glass shaping. Benches of rosewood stood before an altar of crystal, also centuries old, decorated with the symbols of the Nine Mysteries.
Here Vanya performed the Ritual of Dawn, the Evening Prayers, and sought guidance and counsel of the Almin—something he did infrequently, if at all, it being Bishop Vanya’s private opinion that it was the Almin who could use the guidance and counseling of his minister, not the other way around.
Vanya entered the chapel, which was illuminated by a perpetual gleam of light shining from the altar, as pale and restful as moonbeams, gracing the chamber with an air of peaceful tranquility.
There was neither peace nor tranquility in the Bishop as he walked through the chapel, however. Moving swiftly, without a glance at the altar, Vanya crossed the room and came to stand before one of the handsomely decorated wooden panels that formed the interior of the small chapel. Laying his hand upon the panel, the Bishop murmured secret, arcane words and the panel dissolved beneath his fingertips. Before him opened up a vast void, empty and dark—a Corridor. But it was not an ordinary Corridor, not part of that vast network of time-dimensional tunnels created long ago by the Diviners that crossed and crisscrossed Thimhallan. This Corridor had been created by the Diviners, but it connected to no other Corridor. Only one man knew of its existence—the Bishop of the Realm—and it went to only one place.
It was to that place that Bishop Vanya proceeded, arriving there within the space of a heartbeat. Stepping out of the Corridor, the Bishop was in a pocket made of the very material of the Corridors themselves, a pocket that existed only in the warped fabric of space and time. It seemed to Vanya that whenever he entered this place he was entering some dark and inner part of his own mind.
He could see nothing within this place, nor could he touch walls or feel a floor, though he had the sensation that he walked in it. He had the impression that the pocket of time and space was round. There was a chair in the center where he could sit down, if his business proved long. But the chair may have well been in his mind, for it seemed to have armrests when he wanted them and to lack them when he didn’t. At times it was soft, at others times firm, and sometimes, when he was irritated or pressed for time or felt like walking as he talked, the chair wasn’t there at all.
This evening, the chair was there and, this evening, it was soft and comfortable. Sitting in it, Vanya relaxed. This was not a meeting that demanded the application of subtle pressures, threats, or coercion. It was not one of delicate negotiation. This was a meeting of an informative nature, clarification, reassurance that all was proceeding according to plan.
Settling back, Vanya allowed himself a moment to absorb and activate the magic in the room that permitted this communication to work, then he spoke aloud into the darkness.
“My friend, a word with you.”
The magic pulsed around him, he could feel it whisper against his cheek and stir across the fingers of his hand.
“I am at your service.”
It was the darkness that spoke to Vanya, though human lips well over hundreds
of miles distant formed the words. Because of the magic within the room, the Bishop heard the words as his own mind formed them, not necessarily as the person on the other end of his conscious thought spoke them. Thus the room was known as the Chamber of Discretion, for two people could converse with each other, neither knowing the other’s identity unless it was revealed, neither ever being able to recognize the other by sight or sound. In the ancient days, so legend had it, there had been several of these chambers built—each of the Royal Houses, for example, had one, as did the various Guilds. Following the Second Rectification, however, the catalysts had moved swiftly to see that the other pockets in the Corridors were sealed up, giving as pretext the reasoning that in a world of peace, no one need have secrets from each other.
It was assumed by all parties that when the catalysts sealed off the other Chambers of Discretion, they sealed off their own in the Font as well. Which only goes to prove the old adage that assumptions are lies believed by the blind.
“Are you alone?” Vanya’s mind queried his unseen minion.
“For the moment. But I am busy. We ride within the week.”
“I am aware of that. Did the catalyst arrive?”
“Yes.”
“Safely?”
“In a manner of speaking. He is better now, if that is what you mean. At least he has no desire to venture by himself into the Outland.”
“Good. He will perform adequately?”
“I see no problem. He seems, as you described him, naive and weak, easily intimidated, but—”
“Bah! The man is a mass of quivering jelly. He may cause trouble once, but that will be dealt with harshly, I presume. Once he has learned his lesson, I foresee no further problems.”
“I hope not.” The voice in Vanya’s head sounded skeptical, causing the Bishop to frown.
“Where are the Technologists in terms of the forging of the weapons?” Vanya continued.
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