Pizzle ate, enjoying the close kinship of the Fieri, feeling very much a part of it himself. But after he had satisfied his hunger, he excused himself and got up to wander back to the boat.
There would be no sunshower tonight; the air was too clear and still. Instead, the Light Mountains gave forth a steady warm glow that reminded Pizzle of the lights of a city seen from a distance on a clear night.
He went up the gangplank and stretched out on the empty deck to watch the stars come out. Tomorrow they would reach the Bay of Talking Fish, and he would be with Starla. But tonight he wanted to be alone with his thoughts—to let himself wander in his mind toward the truth Anthon spoke of. This night he felt closer to it than ever before, and he wanted to savor that closeness, and to increase it if he could.
Mostly, he just wanted to be alone and experience the sensation of solitude devoid of loneliness—something quite rare for him. The experience reflects its source, he thought. You can tell the tree by its fruit. Now where had he heard that?
When the boats reached the mooring place, Yarden did not stir. She remained below in her berth. In fact, she did not attend the last of the art classes that day either. And when Ianni told her that Gerdes had asked about her, she merely shrugged and said she hadn’t felt like going.
“You’ve been withdrawn the last few days,” Ianni told her. “I’ve noticed. Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not particularly,” said Yarden. “It’s something I’ve got to work out myself.”
“You look as if you are in pain, Yarden. Perhaps I could help.”
“No … thank you, no. I’d rather be alone.”
Ianni had left her then and Yarden had stayed there, listening to the voices of the Fieri as they left the ships and began preparing for their last night on the river. Tomorrow they would begin the trek through the mountains and down to the bay—a prospect which should have filled Yarden with excitement.
But she lay on her bed in the dark, listening to the clear, happy voices, watching the circle of sky growing dim through the porthole, feeling cut off from what was happening around her. Adrift on a troubled sea.
Over and over she asked herself the same questions—the same questions she’d been driving herself crazy with for days: Should I try to contact Treet? What if I don’t like what I find? What if he’s dead or in trouble? What then? Oh, God, what am I supposed to do?
She rose, went up on deck, and watched the activity on shore. There was an urgency about it—the coming of night made the Fieri move a little quicker in their preparations. They were aware of the fading day and did not wish to lose the light.
I’ve got to decide, Yarden said to herself. I’ve got to decide right now. If I wait any longer, I too will lose what little light I have.
She turned and walked back along the deck to the stem, as far from the bustle on shore as she could get. She sat down cross-legged on the polished wood and drew a long deep breath. God, help me, she thought. I don’t know what to do.
FIFTY-TWO
“The Dhogs have blasted the ductwork, Supreme Director.” The Invisible commander held himself stiffly and stared straight ahead. “It will take time to reach the Old Section through the refuse pits.”
“You will reach the Old Section,” intoned Jamrog menacingly. “I want those responsible brought before me at once. Do you understand me?” The bhuj flashed back and forth in the Supreme Director’s hands as he sat in the thronelike chair he had had placed in the center of the Supreme Director’s kraam. His face was puffy and blistered, his scalp mottled gray and patchy where clumps of hair had been burned off. His flesh was red and painfully swollen from the scorching he’d taken on the night of the failed assassination.
“The duct is destroyed, Supreme Director,” explained Osmas, realizing he was dangerously near the flashpoint of his superior’s vile temper. Jamrog had been raving mad since the Trabantonna attack; it didn’t do to argue with him or gainsay his whims, however unreasonable they might be. “I don’t see what anyone can do.”
The Saecaraz Subdirector motioned toward the door, and the Invisible backed gratefully toward it. Jamrog had killed three of them in the last two days, and Osmas wanted to save the man if he could. What with the demise of the Mors Ultima bodyguard, upper echelon Invisibles were getting scarce. “We’ll find another way in,” Osmas said hopefully.
“How?” roared Jamrog. “Searching is impossible, and guides are less than useless!”
It was true. For some unknown reason, guides had never been able to locate the hidden entrances and exits of the Old Section. There were many theories to explain this, but it remained a mystery why the blind wayfinders could not discover the Dhog’s secret pathways—even with the help of their psi entities.
“Nevertheless, I’m told that the interrogations are proceeding successfully. We will uncover useful information soon.”
At that moment Diltz, the cadaverous Nilokerus Director, entered the kraam and crossed the floor in quick, confident strides. His sunken eyes gleamed in his skull. “I bring good news, Supreme Director,” he said with a deferential nod of his long head.
“The Fieri have been located?” Jamrog half rose out of his chair.
The corners of Diltz’s mouth drew down. “Ah, no, Supreme Director. But I can report that we have located what appears to be a navigational tower, I have brought a map to show you.”
He produced a thin roll of yellowed plastic from the folds of his black-and-white yos, stepped close, and unrolled it for Jamrog. Osmas pushed in to see it, too. “Here,” said Diltz, pointing to a newly drawn circle on a flat expanse of plain beyond the river that ran near Empyrion. “The tower is located in this area—called, I believe, a desert.” He pronounced the unfamiliar word carefully.
“Desert,” repeated Jamrog. “And just what is this desert?”
“Nothing—literally. The word, I am told by my readers, is an ancient mapmakers’ term for void.”
“I see,” said Jamrog, looking askance at the map. “And how will examining a void help us find the enemy?”
“The tower is of Fieri design,” explained Diltz, the enthusiasm draining out of his voice. “We are searching the area now. If we find another such tower, we may be able to fix a direction to the Fieri settlement.”
“Or away from it,” said Osmas, snapping the brittle plastic map with a fingernail. Since adopting the Supreme Director’s questionable notions of finding and exterminating the Fieri using the old weapons, Diltz was enjoying a rapid ascendancy in Jamrog’s favor. Osmas resented it.
The Saecaraz Subdirector thought they should concentrate solely on eradicating the Dhogs. He disliked seeing Diltz win favor through the continued support of an idea he personally considered dangerous. Moreover, he disliked the fact that the Nilokerus had been given control of the Saecaraz magicians assigned to the Archives. Diltz seemed to be making steady progress in his assignments, while he, Osmas, met with nothing but setbacks in digging out the Dhogs.
Jamrog, ignoring Osmas’ remark, asked, “What of the weapons?”
“Ah, yes.” Diltz smiled. “The weapons have been removed and examined.” The smile turned wicked. “I am assured that there will be little problem reactivating them. Readers are working on deciphering the technical material now.”
“Excellent!” cried Jamrog. He turned to Osmas and pointed a puffy, red finger at him. “You see? This is what can be done with some effort.”
Diltz grinned smugly, but said nothing.
“The Fieri settlement still remains to be found,” observed Osmas sourly. “Meanwhile, the Dhogs are here among us.”
“And remain to be found,” said Diltz.
“With more help—”
“You have all the help you need,” barked Jamrog, flinging himself from the chair. “Mrukk tells me you have not been making full use of resources.”
Chagrined to find himself on the defensive, the Subdirector sputtered, “Until the interrogations turn up some useful information—”
The Supreme Director thrust the bhuj in Osmas’ face. “Are you questioning my directives?”
“Never! But perhaps the Mors Ultima are somewhat overzealous in carrying out their orders. Reorientation cells are crammed beyond capacity—six, eight share a space designed for one. Four of five die under the questioning. Corpses are being stacked in Hage squares—the Jamuna cannot render the bodies fast enough. The smell of death is everywhere.”
“Let it be a warning to the rest!” yelled Jamrog. “I will not have my directives questioned!” He swung the bhuj at Osmas, missed him, and then threw it at the Subdirector. The ceremonial weapon clattered across the floor.
Osmas, already backpedaling toward the door, tripped over his own feet and landed on his backside. Jamrog, standing over him, lashed out with his foot, screaming, “Get out! Get out!” Throwing his hands up to protect his face, Osmas rolled away from the vicious kicks, gathered his feet under him, and sprinted toward the door, leaving a livid Jamrog bellowing in rage.
Diltz watched the scene with unconcealed pleasure. Here was an opportunity to consolidate his advantage: he would see to it that Osmas would no longer pose a threat to his ambitions. He approached the seething Jamrog.
“His loyalty wavers, Supreme Director. But is he dangerous?”
Jamrog turned, the veins bulging on his neck and forehead. “Is no one to be trusted?”
“Trust me,” said Diltz softly. “Allow me to deal with this problem for you.”
“It’s yours.” Jamrog whirled away, retreating back into his bedchamber. “I want nothing more to do with him.”
The walk up through the mountain pass was more exhilarating than exhausting. Over the years, Fieri engineers had carved out a generous pathway over an easy route of gentle inclines amidst towering cliffs and plunging gorges threaded with rushing freshets and reckless cascades crossed by graceful cantilevered footbridges. Long tunnels bored through solid rock laced the route—cool and damp, and echoey with the sound of pattering feet and whispered voices.
At the summit of the pass, the travelers emerged from a tunnel to view their descent winding down through blue-green moss forests shimmering in silver mists. The moss flourished on spindlelike rock spires and columns in the cool-air heights, nourished by the mineral-rich spray of a hundred dashing waterfalls.
The Fieri, delighted with the beauty of the scene, ran down through the hanging mists, laughing to feel the tingling splash on their faces, soaking their clothing in the spray. The children ran to gawk at each waterfall, shouting above the crash and roar as they followed the tumbling water down and down to the plain below.
The day was fine and bright; wonder lurked around every corner, and glory loomed on the near horizon. Joy was contagious, infecting young and old alike with a most virulent strain that broke out in luminous smiles, songs, and laughter. Pizzle, walking hand in hand with Starla—Anthon strolling an amiable distance behind—felt drunk with happiness.
He chattered happily away, describing his long, lonely days and even longer, lonelier nights to a sympathetic Starla. For her part, his beloved appeared content merely to be in his presence. She smiled and nodded and squeezed his hand, luxuriating in his unflagging attention.
In this way they came down the mountainside, passing by tunnel through one last stone curtain to emerge blinking on the other side, dazzled by the spectacular vista of Talking Fish Bay—a great golden sweep of sand cradling a bowl of jade-colored water.
The bay was enormous—making the whole of Prindahl look like a duck pond in a park—stretching from horizon to horizon. The ragged tops of mountains formed a boundary on the right; on the left the deep blue-green of the Blue Forest smudged the distant skyline like a low, dark cloud bank. Directly ahead, jade water danced under the white sun as far as the eye could see.
The Fieri hurried down to the bay, the young ones racing ahead, abandoning themselves to headlong flight. “Magnificent!” breathed Pizzle. “I never dreamed it would be this—this wonderful.” He paused, grasping for superlatives. “It’s like something out of Lord of the Rings! I feel like Frodo coming to the Grey Havens.”
“It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” said Starla.
Those still lingering over the view voiced similar sentiments. Anthon came to where Pizzle and Starla stood with their arms wrapped around each other. “It inspires me anew each time I see it,” he sighed. “The Creator is indeed extravagant with His beauty.” Then he turned and eyed the lovers. “Well, come on, we’ll find our places.”
“Places?” inquired Pizzle as they started off.
“For our tents—” Starla began to explain.
“And also to meditate,” added Anthon. “But tonight—tonight we all come together—”
“Songs and stories,” said Starla, tugging Pizzle along now. “And swimming.”
They overtook Anthon, who waved them on, saying he would be along in his own good time, and hurried down to join the first ranks of Fieri now spreading out over the beach below.
At the rear of the long procession making its way down to the golden beach walked Yarden, last but for those guiding the supply train—a train made up of miniature balons whose gondolas were laden with provisions and camping equipment. Bobbing and weaving through the mountain course, the long string of balons resembled a giant centipede wobbling down to the sea, flanked by attendants carrying poles and tether ropes to steer it.
Ianni walked beside Yarden, troubled for her friend, but respectful of Yarden’s silence. Her attempts at conversation along the way had elicited only vague, halfhearted responses, and Ianni had given up trying to draw Yarden out and had contented herself with lending comfort by her presence. They stopped at the overlook to take in their first sight of the bay, and Yarden stirred from her reverie. “Oh, it is wonderful,” she said reverently.
Ianni, glad for any response, pounced on this pronouncement. “Yes, it is. It’s always been one of my favorite places. Wait until the fish arrive—that’s something to see as well. The first thing I want to do is go for a swim, and then—” She broke off. “What is it, Yarden? Tell me what’s wrong.”
At first, Ianni thought Yarden wouldn’t answer. There was a long silence in which Yarden merely stared out across the enormous bay, as if taking in the majestic sight, but Ianni saw that Yarden’s dark eyes were unfocused, her gaze directed inward. The balon centipede bobbed past them. Several of the Fieri walking with it looked at the women concernedly, but Ianni gave them reassuring glances and they continued on.
“It’s nothing,” Yarden replied finally. She turned and smiled, and Ianni saw her force down whatever had been troubling her, and noticed that the smile was strained. “I’ll be all right,” insisted Yarden. “Come on, let’s get down to the beach. A swim would do me good, I think.”
FIFTY-THREE
Spirits improved somewhat when the missing Kopetch returned to the Old Section. He had been gone three days and was considered a casualty of the operation. But, tired and hungry, he appeared at the Chryse entrance, presented himself to the sentries there, and was brought safely in.
Now, after some food and a few hours rest, the rebel Cabal sat before a gray-faced Kopetch, listening, worry lines etched on every brow, eyes staring at a bleak, hopeless future filled with pain and death.
“I stayed as long as I could, to gather information. Invisibles were everywhere … I had to get out,” said Kopetch, sipping from a cup of water. “I knew the raid had failed, but I could not believe the speed of the retaliation.”
“He already knew what he would do,” suggested Fertig. “Jamrog had it planned. Hladik helped him before he was killed.”
“Likely,” agreed Tvrdy. “Go on.”
Kopetch gulped down some water and resumed his dire recitation. “Every Director is under Mors Ultima guard—”
“Mors Ultima arrest!” snorted Piipo.
“And Jamrog has disbanded the Threl,” continued Kopetch. “Each Hage is under the direction of a Mors Ultima c
ommander—except Saecaraz and Nilokerus, of course. There is talk of a quota; five thousand from each Hage must be interrogated.”
“Tortured, you mean,” said Cejka.
“The Invisibles have been given a free hand to question Hagemen. Work must continue, but everyone is afraid to leave the Hageblocks—although anyone discovered hiding in a kraam during work time is immediately arrested. Hagemen are pulled off the streets at random and herded into ems. Invisibles roam the walkways with lists; if one is on the list, he is taken. Or, if one is not on the list he is taken. It doesn’t matter; the lists are meaningless—they make the arrest appear more official, that’s all. If it appears official, the people don’t question it; they go along quietly.”
“How are the lists made?”
“During interrogation, the Mors Ultima offer a Hageman a chance to save himself further agony by giving the names of fellow traitors. If he gives them names, they might stop the torture. They get lots of names.
“Women go to special interrogation kraams where they are raped before being questioned. Often their Hagemates are forced to watch. The Invisibles get many names.”
“Those who resist?” asked Tvrdy.
“Few resist,” said Kopetch sadly. “Corpses are fished continually from Kyan’s coves—these are said to be Hagemen who dared question their arrest or made interrogation difficult.”
“What of the Hage priests?” wondered Cejka. “How can they continue to accept their rewards? Don’t they see what is happening?”
“The Hagemen say the priests insist that it is a political problem and they must not take sides.”
“Not take sides!” shouted Piipo. “They inform on Hagemen and say they cannot take sides. They will pay with their lives for that lie!”
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome Page 32