Be that as it may, Cejka now had to select the men who would go to the Old Section to begin training the Dhogs in the ways of covert combat. That, too, rubbed Cejka the wrong way—teaching Rumon secrets to nonbeings. But Tvrdy had insisted. There could be no holding back now. Jamrog had gained the Supreme Directorship, and the only way to survive a Purge was with an army at your back—even if it had to be an army of Dhogs. It was to Tvrdy’s credit, Cejka reminded himself, that he’d not only considered turning to the Dhogs; the ever-resourceful Tanais leader had actually joined forces with them. This was something Jamrog could never have foreseen.
The Rumon entourage, purposefully a large one so Jamrog would have no cause to accuse Cejka of being unsympathetic, passed slowly through the streets and byways of the Hage, followed by other Rumon Hagemen making their own way to Saecaraz to see the funeral spectacle. A delegation of Rumon priests, chanting loudly and raising a din with their cymbals and horns, took up a position in front of the official party and led the way to the dockyard.
The entire waterfront area was crammed with boats and people waiting to jam into boats. There was an air of festivity and high spirits among the populace. After all, it was a special day—no work in the Hages and free food for all in attendance at the funeral. It promised to be a tremendous spectacle, and no one wanted to be left out; all who could were making their way to Saecaraz.
“There is the funeral boat,” said Covol, pointing out the red-draped decks and gangway of the large tridecker. Cejka led his entourage to the gangway and boarded the boat, which was to pull away from the dock as soon as the last official squeezed aboard.
Cejka made his way to the topmost deck and took his place at the forward end, his guide on one hand and his Subdirector on the other. There arose a commotion from below, and when he asked what was taking place Cejka was told, “Some Hagemen have attempted to board, but they are not of the official party. There will be a slight delay while they are put off.”
“Oh, let them come along,” replied Cejka impatiently. “If there is room, let them all aboard. It will only make our number appear larger, which cannot hurt. No delays! We must arrive at the scheduled time.”
The Hagemen were allowed aboard, the gangway was pulled in, and the boat drew slowly away from the wharf, backing carefully through the small, congested harborage of Rumon, the scene ringing with voices of pilots and passengers as all made for the river beyond.
Kyan’s gray and turgid waters were choked with watercraft of every size and description. Anyone in charge of a vessel of any size was ferrying Hagemen to the funeral. There were tiny two-seat paddleboats, large triple-deckers, Hage pleasure barges, and a host of the solid, double-decked cargo boats, all crowded with people making their way to Saecaraz for the big day—and every last one flying a red funeral banner.
The festival atmosphere was inescapable. A Supreme Director’s funeral was a rare event in the first place, and Jamrog had appropriated huge sums to be spent in making Rohee’s funeral the most lavish of any in living memory. Cejka distrusted this, though Jamrog’s motive escaped him.
“I would have thought Jamrog content with a private cremation,” Cejka whispered to Covol as he scanned the enormous flotilla stretching out both ways along the river. “Why, a man could walk across Kyan without getting his feet wet! Look at them out there. We’ll be lucky if half the population of Empyrion isn’t drowned today.”
“Perhaps Jamrog seeks to gain more than the approval of the populace with this tactic,” replied Covol, a small man powerfully built and possessing a quick mind. He would one day make a good Director.
“Say what you think, Covol,” directed Cejka. “There are none among us in Jamrog’s keep.” It was true. Cejka had rigorously maintained the purity of his own ranks for years; he knew there were no traitors in his top echelon.
“By making much of Rohee’s death, he will gain favor with those whose loyalty is easily won.”
“Of course.”
“But he will also create the illusion of being greater than Sirin Rohee himself. Only a divine can pay homage to another divine, so the priests say.”
“I see,” said Cejka thoughtfully. “He will be seen not only as Rohee’s successor, but as greater and more powerful than Rohee ever was—and all because he makes a greater show of Rohee’s death than Rohee himself would have. Yes, I see.”
“For the price of a day’s food and drink, the populace will see him as Cynetics incarnate.”
Cejka sighed heavily. “I am afraid you are right. And we—we support the illusion by seeing to it that our whole Hage turns out to glorify dead Rohee—a man who was barely worth his night soil all his life long.”
“It is strange.”
“More than strange, Covol. We will see a frightening thing today. We will see a man make himself a god. There will be no stopping him now.”
“Yet, he must be stopped,” said Covol, wanting to believe that it was possible. “We will find a way.”
Cejka looked at him sadly and then turned his eyes back to the river, saying, “Kyan will run red with the blood of our Hagemen before Jamrog will be stopped. Enjoy the funeral today, Covol. It is our own.”
“An artist must be pure of heart,” said Gerdes, “for true art is the expression of the artist’s innermost being. To create beauty, one must be beautiful”—she pressed her hands to her bosom—“in here, in your heart of hearts.”
Yarden listened intently. They were meeting in Gerdes’ home which was, like most Fieri homes, an exercise in studied simplicity: spacious and comfortable, open to the sun and air. The room in which they sat facing one another across a low table of polished wood opened onto a meticulously tended garden. Fine paintings hung on the walls, delicate, expressive, gentle shadings of light and color, giving the room warmth for all its airiness.
Ianni, as promised, had brought Yarden to meet Gerdes, and once the conversation had begun, excused herself so the two could talk alone. Gerdes did most of the talking, and Yarden thrilled to be in the older woman’s presence, because Gerdes, teacher of dance, was unlike anyone Yarden had ever met, and certainly unlike anyone she would have imagined as a dancer: thickset and short-limbed, with short, grizzled, gray hair and a ruddy face, small rosebud lips that turned down at the edges in a frown of motherly disapproval, frank hazel eyes that fairly sparkled with enthusiasm and intelligence. Her manner was gruff, but her tone patient and caring.
But it was not her appearance or her manner that Yarden found so fascinating—it was the extraordinary things she said. Yarden had never heard such words, such ideas. Gerdes talked about art, about creating beauty, and the way she spoke was beautiful too. Yarden glimpsed possibilities of expression she had never known existed; whole worlds of wonder opened up to her as the woman spoke. She saw herself poised for a plunge into a shimmering sea of promise. How she would emerge, she could not say, but she would be changed and the change would be wonderful.
“I understand,” said Yarden softly.
Gerdes looked at her closely. “Do you? Do you really understand? It is not easy to be pure. It is hard work. The hardest. The discipline required of an artist is enormous. Many people—most, it seems—simply do not have such discipline, such single-mindedness of purpose and patience. It takes years to develop a craft; years of painstaking, difficult work. The discipline is beyond all but the most dedicated.”
“What about talent?” asked Yarden. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Oh yes, talent is good. Talent is commendable, for it makes the discipline easier to endure, and the dedication comes more naturally. But talent alone isn’t the answer. Talent is raw; it is a beast, wild and untamed. Talent must be mastered; it must be trained so that it can be used with wisdom and purpose. It must be pruned like a tree so it will bear only the best fruit.” Gerdes paused to shake her head slowly as she paced before Yarden. “No, talent without discipline is only an empty promise—the glitter of an unworked crystal. It is nothing of itself.”
Now that they had finally come to the reason for Yarden’s visit, Yarden found her voice had dried up. She forced the words out: “I want to dance. That is, I want to learn to be a dancer.”
Gerdes peered at her and nodded absently. “Stand, please. Walk for me.” She made a back-and-forth motion in the air with her hand.
Yarden stood and walked slowly, passing before Gerdes once, twice, and then again, conscious of the woman’s sharp appraisal. “Yes,” said Gerdes, “that’s enough. You may sit.”
Yarden returned to her seat. “Will you teach me?”
Gerdes nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on Yarden’s face. “I’ll teach you—but not to dance.”
Yarden’s smile disappeared instantly. “I don’t understand. Why not, may I ask?”
Gerdes leaned forward, reaching out a hand to touch Yarden’s knee. “You move well. There is grace and ease in your step. No doubt you have great natural abilities—talent, yes. But, daughter, you are too old.”
This pronouncement shocked Yarden. She’d never been told she was too old for anything in her life. Why, she had at least a hundred and fifty good, productive years left, probably many more than that. How could she be too old? “Are you sure?” asked Yarden.
“I know what you are thinking,” replied Gerdes. “Ianni has told me that your lifespan is not like ours. You will live long, many times longer than will I. In this you are like the Ancients of our own people. This is what you are thinking, yes?”
Yarden nodded silently.
“Of course. But the dancers that you saw yesterday, that filled you with such longing to dance, have been working at their craft since they were small children. Their bodies have been adapted to the dance, formed by it; their minds think in terms of movement and rhythm. Everything they think and do is dance.”
“You don’t think I could learn?” asked Yarden, disappointment making her petulant.
Gerdes simply shook her head. “No,” she said, and then quickly explained. “Oh, you could learn the steps, the movement. You could dance, probably very well, I imagine. But never well enough to suit yourself, or the Fieri standards of excellence either, for that matter. If you danced, you would always be reminded just how inferior your craft remained. You would see children dance with greater skill and proficiency than you would ever achieve, and you would envy them.
“In time, your envy would turn bitter—you would hate yourself for not being better than you can ever be. This hate would destroy your craft and art. It would destroy your heart, your soul. In the end it would destroy you. Rather than being a blessing, dance would become a curse.”
Yarden was amazed by what she heard. Never had anyone spoken like this to her. “But—you said you would teach me,” she replied, shaking her head in confusion.
Gerdes patted her knee and then leaned back once more, smiling. “Yes, I’ll teach you. But not to dance. I’ll teach you to paint.”
“To paint?” The idea had never occurred to her.
Gerdes laughed. “You would be surprised to learn how close the two are to one another. There is much movement and rhythm in painting—it is dance of another kind, and more. I will teach you to paint, if you are willing.”
Yarden blinked back, bewildered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“No one can decide for you. But I will tell you this: you have the heart of an artist; you are sensitive, you feel things very deeply in your soul. You long to create beauty and to share it. These things are good and necessary.
“What is more, painting is an art that requires a special kind of intelligence. I sense in you that intelligence—wise, intuitive, loving. This is important. If you lacked it, there would be no way to learn it, and neither I nor anyone else could give it to you.” Gerdes gazed levelly at Yarden. “But think about it. When you have decided, come to me. I will be here.”
Their meeting at an end, Yarden stood slowly and took Gerdes’ hand. “Thank you for talking to me. I’ll need some time to think about all you’ve said.”
“There is no hurry, daughter. Come back when you have chosen.”
Yarden nodded and thanked her hostess again, then left, stepping out into the sunlit day. She walked along the wide, tree-lined boulevard back to Ianni’s house. Ianni lived some distance away, and the walk gave Yarden a chance to think about all she and Gerdes had discussed. By the time she reached home, she had made up her mind. Please, she thought, let me be an artist.
“Did you enjoy your talk?” asked Ianni as Yarden entered, glancing up from her work of cutting vegetables for a meal.
“It was—” she began, and then changed the subject. “Ianni, you knew that I could never be a dancer, didn’t you? That’s why you took me to Gerdes. You knew what she would tell me.”
Ianni ducked her head to hide a smile and began putting the sliced vegetables in bowls. “I suspected, yes. But you were so full of the wonder of the dance, I could not spoil it for you. What you felt was good and true, and I did not want to discourage you in any way. I knew Gerdes would know how to tell you. Hers is a wise spirit.” She raised her head slightly. “You’re not angry with me?”
“No, not angry. You were right. I am glad to have met Gerdes. And—” She hesitated, finding the title a little presumptuous, but then plunged in anyway. “I’m going to be an artist. A painter. More than anything, that’s what I want to do.”
TEN
Treet stared into the utter blackness of his cold rock cell. Huddled in a corner, he sat with his knees drawn up against his chest and waited for the reorientation to begin, knowing that it would be, could not be anything other than, disagreeable in the extreme.
He’d read about prisoners in one of Earth’s senseless wars being forced to undergo what they called brainwashing—a cruel form of mental abuse designed to destroy a person’s will, among other things. Some prisoners of war, though, came through the experience with their faculties intact. These men were mentally tough to begin with, but they also used a few basic survival tactics to counteract the brainwashing. They recognized that the pointless cruelty practiced upon them had no rational basis other than to wear down their mental defenses; all the meaningless tasks and contradictory orders and physical harassment and verbal abuse was an attempt to weaken the inner man and break the mind.
Just recognizing this went a long way toward defusing its effectiveness. Once a prisoner knew what he was up against, he could take steps to counteract it. The survivors, forced to give up control of the major aspects of their lives, learned to regain control in other, subtler ways, thereby retaining a degree of independence and a sense of personal freedom. Maintaining this control, however limited, was the key: a determined man with even a tiny amount of personal autonomy could not be broken. He might be killed, but not broken. And almost to a person, the survivors Treet had read about had vowed they would die before giving in.
The general idea of survival was to beat the enemy at their own game, to control them while they were controlling you. When taken for interrogation and ordered to sit down, the prisoner went to the chair and moved it slightly so that he sat, at least symbolically, where he chose; when captors came to his cell, he invited them in and directed them to places on his mat, subtly showing that he controlled the terms of the visit; when dragged from his cell at dawn and ordered to dig his own grave, the survivor determined where to dig, thereby exerting control in the choosing of his own plot; and when at noon he was ordered to refill the grave, he planted a seed or a clump of grass so that his work would have symbolic value, rather than, as intended, remain just another meaningless exercise meant to unhinge him.
Treet steeled himself with the
se thoughts and planned strategies to meet whatever barrages they threw at him. His overall plan was to make an outward show of resistance early on in the game and then give the appearance of having succumbed to the reorientation so that when he was released he would still have his head in one piece. He didn’t know if he could pull it off, but it was his only chance—as long as they didn’t use drugs. Against drugs—like the amnesiant they’d used on him the first time—there was little he could do.
He sat in his cell for hours—perhaps much longer, he couldn’t tell—waiting for something to happen. When something finally did happen, it surprised him with its mildness: lights hidden in the rock ceiling came on, shining dimly, and with them a sound like that of an ocean washing over a pebbled shore. Nothing more.
Not too bad, thought Treet. I can handle this. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Some time later he was awakened by a pinging sound, like a small hammer tapping a scrap of steel plate at regular intervals. This pinging sound had been added to the ocean sound, and he noticed, too, that the lights were brighter. Clearly, they meant to hammer at him with sound and light for a while—in the manner of cooking a live frog: toss the frog into a pot of cold water and then gradually bring up the heat until the pot boils; the frog will never know what’s happening until it’s too late to hop away.
“This frog is wise to their tricks,” Treet told himself, and unzipped the front of his singleton and began worrying an inner pocket, which he eventually succeeded in tearing off. He took the pocket and tore it in half, rolled up the halves, and stuck one in each ear. His improvised earplugs worked quite well and he curled up and went to sleep once more. Better to sleep now while he could, and conserve his strength. There was no telling what might come later.
When Treet awoke, the sound had stopped and the lights were dim again. On the floor of the cell before the unidor lay a tray with a bowl and a jar. The bowl contained boiled beans—tough little legumes that tasted like leatherbound cardboard pellets; the jar contained water, tepid but fresh. He drank the water and tossed down a handful of beans before remembering that the food and water could well be drugged. He sniffed the bowl and tasted another bean, but could detect nothing out of the ordinary. He replaced the bowl. Hungry though he was, he did not want to risk drugging himself so early in the game.
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 6