Glamdrul Feynt was a young man by Chancery standards, only slightly half past a hundred, but he seemed to hover on the edge of dissolution, his aging unstemmed by the Payment. It had been given him tardily and with deep frustration by certain underlings of the Dame Marshal who devoutly wished him dead but were unable to replace him. It amused Glamdrul Feynt, therefore, to act even older and feebler than he was while still conveying omniscience on any matter relating to the files. Bent and gray, shedding scraps of paper from every pocket as he came, he approached the Dame Marshal with dragging footsteps and failing breath, leaning heavily upon his cane, meantime whispering his compliments in a gasp that bid fair to presage extinction at any moment.
‘Oh, sit down, sit down,’ she snarled at him. ‘Jorum, make him sit down. Now get off down the corridor, all of you. I’ve private business to discuss.’ She watched them malevolently as they retreated out of earshot, then leaned close to Feynt’s side and said in a low voice, ‘I need you to do some research for me, Glamdrul Feynt. And if you do it well, I’ll see you get a dose of the Payment that’ll do you some good.’
‘Ah, Your Reverence. But I’m too old, I’m afraid. Too late. Much too late, so they say. On my last legs, I’m afraid.’ He fished in a pocket for a wad of paper fragments, drew them forth, and peered at them with ostentatious nearsightedness.
‘Nonsense. Play those games with those who believe them, Feynt. Now listen to me.
‘There’s a thing going on. The Talkers call it the Riverman heresy. What it is, it’s people putting their dead in the River instead of giving them to the Awakeners. Now, it’s no new thing. Seems to me I’ve heard of it off and on in passing for a few hundred years. There’s been a flare-up of it in Baris. Maybe other places, too. There’s a new thing in Thou-ne. Some fisherman pulled a statue out of the River. Now it’s set up in the Temple, right under Potipur himself. Rumblings. That’s what I hear. What I want to know is, where did this heresy start? And when. When is important, too. And could the two things be connected?’
‘I can look, Your Reverence. I don’t recall the heresy, offhand. Don’t recall anything about Rivermen. But I can look…’
‘Go back two or three hundred years and look in the records of Baris. Find out who was Superior of the Tower then. Find out what was going on. Hah? You understand?’
He did not answer, merely wheezed asthmatically and bowed, as though in despair.
For her part, she took no notice of his pose but shouted for her entourage and went back the way she had come. Something within her quickened, hard on the trail of a connection she merely suspected. Tharius Don. The lady Kesseret. Hah. Both from Baris. And she seemed to recall something about Baris as a center of rebellion, long ago.
Behind her on the bench the old man peered after her with rheumy eyes, his hands busy with the scraps of paper he had drawn from a pocket, sorting them, smoothing them, folding them twice and thrusting them into the pocket once more. ‘Oh, yes,’ he muttered to her retreating back. ‘I’ll bet you would like to know where it started, old bird.’ He sat there, perfectly still, until he was alone in the files once more. Then he rose and moved swiftly down the corridor, shedding scraps from every pocket as he went.
A door halfway down the long corridor opened as he approached, and a figure came halfway into the hall, beckoning imperiously.
‘Well, what did the old fish want?’ The question came from a mouth thin-lipped as a trap and was punctuated by the snap of fingers as long and twisted as tree roots. Ezasper Jorn was a man of immense strength and enormous patience, though this latter characteristic was not now in evidence. ‘Come up with it. Feynt! What did old Mitiar want?’
Behind the Ambassador the shadowy figure of Research Chief Koma Nepor stared at the file master. ‘Yes, yes, Feynt. What did she want?’
Glamdrul Feynt entered the room, casting a curious glance at the boyish figures that lay here and there in its corners and along its walls. These were his apprentices. They were also the materials Nepor had used in his research on the effects of Tears and blight and half a dozen other substances found here and there on Northshore. ‘Any luck?’ he asked, purposely not responding to their questions. ‘Did you have any luck with that last one?’
‘It talked,’ whispered Nepor, his pallid little face with its pink rosebud mouth peering nearsightedly at one of the forms. ‘It talked for quite a while, didn’t it, Ezasper? I was quite hopeful there for a time.’
Ezasper Jorn refused to be sidetracked by these considerations. He gripped the file master in one huge hand and shook him gently to and fro, as a song-fish might shake a tasty mulluk. ‘Out with it, Feynt. What did the old fish want?’
And Glamdrul Feynt, chuckling from time to time, explained what it was that much concerned the Dame Marshal of the Towers. After which came a long and thoughtful silence.
18
Mumros Shenaz rolled out of his blankets well before dawn, awakened by the peeping of the ground birds, a repetitive, percipient cry that seemed as full of meaning as it was without purpose. There was no mating, no nest building, no food searching going on. No defense of territories. Only this high, continuous complaint of bird voice, as though only by this sound could the dawn be guided to the eastern horizon and only by these cries driven to mount the sky.
Such thoughts amused Mumros. He sat often by himself, thinking such things, and was called the Lonely Man because of the habit. He did not mind. Since all who were his had died, he was indeed a lonely man, spending his life seeing the joys of others and remembering his own that were past. One such was to be remembered this dawn time. He stretched, bent from side to side, working the kinks out of his back and legs. All around him lay the lightweight pamet tents of the Noor. Last night’s campfires were hidden beneath lumps of half-dried bog-bottom. Smoke leaked upward in thin, coiling bands. He stretched again and bent to pick up the pottery flask of sammath wine laid by for his father’s ghost. His father’s mud grave was nearby, only over the hill, and Mumros walked away from the camp toward it, the walk turning into the distance-eating trot of the Noor as his sleep-tightened muscles loosened with the exercise.
At the top of the hill he looked back, hearing someone in the camp call, a long-drawn cry to the new day. There was movement there. Flames. Someone had risen as early as he and built up the fire with dried chunks of bog-bottom cut by some other traveling Noors, days or even months ago. Such was the life of wanderers. Planting grain to be eaten by others, harvesting grain others had planted. Cutting bog-bottom for another’s fire, burning bog-bottom some other Noor had cut. ‘Of such small duties is the solidarity of the Noor built,’ he remarked to himself, remembering something similar his father had once said. ‘Of our concern for those who travel after us comes our unity as a people.’
He trotted down the hill, head swinging to and fro in its search for the mud grave. His tribe had not been this way in several years. He could have forgotten where it was – no. No. He had not forgotten. It stood in a slight declivity, the sculptured face looking toward him. Rain, though infrequent, did come upon the steppes from time to time. It had washed the mud face, leaving it bland, almost featureless. In a way that was a good sign, for when the mud grave fell to dust, the spirit would move on. Some were ready to go on in only a year or two. Others so longed for their lives and kin that they stayed in the mud graves for many years, even a lifetime. This grave was neither very old nor very young.
‘Father …’ He bowed, pouring the sammath wine onto the thirsty clay that covered the bones. ‘I have brought you drink. And news. The tribe has been chosen by Queen Fibji to take part in her great plan. We go now to her tents, all of us. Your friend Mejordu is still well, though he tires sometimes after a long day, and he asks to be remembered to you.’ He had several anecdotes about Mejordu to share, for the man had always been clownish and amusing. After this he was still for a moment, trying to recall the last bit of news. Oh, yes. ‘Your grandson Taj Noteen has led a group of Melancholies south to net shore-fis
h for the Queen.’
He fell silent then, thinking he had heard cries from the camp. Well. Whether or not, it was time to be getting back.
‘I take my leave, Father. I will visit you when we next come by this way.’ He bowed again and turned back toward the camp, not trotting now but running, for he did hear cries, screams.
Before reaching the crest of the hill, he dropped to his belly and writhed upward to peer over it.
Glittering figures moved among the tents of the Noor. Jondarites! Shiny fishskin helms plumed with flame-bird feathers sparkled over the huddled people of Mumros’s tribe. He wriggled forward, serpentlike in the sparse grass, down the hill into a slanting gully. Over the cries of his people he heard the voice of the Jondarite captain.
‘Women and children here. Men over there. All boys over ten with the men. Boys under ten with the women. Speed it up there, move! Move!’
Mumros risked raising his head. The men were herded together at one side of the camp. The women were all in the center, near the fires, surrounded by the Jondarite soldiers. Suddenly, without a word of command, the soldiers began slaughtering the women and children. All at once. Quickly. Like fishermen clubbing fish, they struck them down. Like stilt-lizard beaks, swords dipped in and out, emerged dripping, plunged in again.
The men of the tribe tried to break loose, but they had been tied. Over his own howling blood, Mumros heard their voices, crying names: ‘Onji, beloved!’ ‘Creedi, Bowro, children – ah!’ ‘Girir, oh, Girir!’
Then the voice of the captain once more.
‘You men are to be taken as slaves to the mines. You will be roped together and marched there. Before we go, you are to look at the bodies, closely. Make sure all are dead. We have had men try to escape in the past to get back to their families. We want you to be very sure you have no families to come back to.’
Mumros dropped his head into the grass. He could not move. There was bile in his mouth, an agony in his head. He wanted to kill but had nothing to kill with. He was one and they were many. He could go to them, but what good would it do? They would only take him with the others.
So he lay, not moving, while the chain of roped captives was led away into the distance. When they had gone, he went into the camp. The captain had been right. None of those who had been taken away had anyone left to return to.
He lit three fires, spread them with damp bog-bottom, tended them while the smoke rose in pillars in the still air. By noon the first helper arrived. By nightfall there were several more. After several days there were many, and where the camp had been now stood the mud graves of the women, those of the children clustered at their knees.
‘Come,’ said one of the helpers to Mumros. ‘There is nothing more you can do here. Join us.’
‘I know I can do nothing here,’ said Mumros. ‘But I will not come with you. I must go and tell of this thing to Queen Fibji.’ And he turned his face from the cluster of graves to begin the long march.
19
In Thou-ne, Haranjus Pandel had been expecting a visitor for over two years, since the day he had sent a signal to the Chancery announcing the finding of an image in the River and the elevation of that image in the Temple. As a matter of policy, the existence of the signal towers – or, rather, of their purpose, since the existence could not be concealed – was kept from the general populace. No one except Haranjus Pandel knew of the message he had sent or that it was possible to send a message at all. Thus, no one knew the eventual visitor had come in response to that message. The whole township saw the boat, of course, and the Chancery man getting off it, but it was all very casual.
Bostle Kerf was his full name, a Section Chief in the Bureau of Towers, sent south in all haste through the pass, thence quickly west, and then south again to arrive after a year’s travel in Thou-ne after a short detour to Zendigt, two towns east. His arrival from the east would evoke less concern, he had been told, than if he had appeared suddenly, coming down from the north like a migrating Noor. It was necessary to come to Thou-ne. It was not necessary to cause more talk than had already occurred. Gendra Mitiar had been clear about that. Once safely ensconced in the Tower, Kerf had a long, troubled conversation with Haranjus Pandel.
‘How did you allow this to happen, Pandel? Her Reverence is in a fury over it, I’ll tell you. Bad enough to have no workers in Thou-ne, without having a miracle here as well.’
The Superior nodded, sweating a little. He had never aspired to the Payment. Indeed, he had never aspired to be Supervisor of a Tower, but then, no one with aspirations would have taken the job in Thou-ne. The mountains to the east prevented any traffic from the next township that way. This meant there was little enough need for Awakeners in Thou-ne, and little enough to do for the few there were. The Tower was small, cramped, and needed only one recruit every decade or so. Since there were no workers, there was no fieldwork, road or jetty building. All the Tower really had to see to was the transport of Thou-ne’s dead to the worker pit in Atter, next town west, and since Thou-ne itself was small, there was little work in that. Haranjus had been content to be what he was, letting happen what happened, and in general the people of Thou-ne had approved his stewardship. Now he sweated more than a little, wondering if he was to be blamed for what had happened despite his innocence.
‘I wouldn’t call it a miracle,’ he said now, not wanting to contradict the Section Chief but unwilling to be blamed for more than was just. ‘It’s only some image from old times, floated up on the River, that’s all.’
‘It shines, man. I went to the Temple. I saw it for myself. It’s all wet, and it shines.’
‘Well, there’s that, yes. But dead fish often do that, and mulluk shells.’
‘She shines and smiles,’ Kerf went on, not listening. ‘And holds out her hand. More attractive than the moon faces, I’ll tell you.’
‘Oh, well, now, Your Honor, but nobody’s suggested the thing’s a god! No. I wouldn’t have tolerated that for a minute. No. No heresy here. All they’ve said is the thing is an image of… well, of the Bearer of Truth.’
‘And what’s that? Not a goddess? You’re sure?’
‘Well, nobody’s said it’s a goddess. I shouldn’t think anyone believes so unless they’ve said …’
‘If they haven’t so far, depend on it they will soon.’
‘Well, if they do, I’ll just have to pick up a few, that’s all. Pass around a few Tears. Settle things down.’
‘Why haven’t you settled things down already?’
Haranjus shrugged, a bit uncomfortably. Why hadn’t he? ‘Well, because if I did, you know, they’d think there was something in it. Something important. Something the Tower needed to defend against. If I let it be, it’s a wonder for a few years, and it brings some curious travelers to spend their money here in Thou-ne – which won’t hurt, Your Honor. Potipur knows we’re poor enough. And it will blow over. When it does, let enough time pass for them all to forget it, then take the thing and burn it, shine or no shine.’
Bostle Kerf was no fool. He liked having his own way but wouldn’t push it to the point of causing trouble. Here, he felt, the local man had the right of it. Don’t fuss it. Don’t make a racket. Let it die, as it would, of its own accord, without drawing more attention to it.
‘How long since it was found?’
‘Two and a half years. Maybe closer to three. I signaled the Chancery the very night of the day it happened.’
As he had, sweating away at the handles of the signal light, clickety-clacking the coded message across all those miles to the nearest signal tower, first time he’d ever done it; first time he’d ever had anything to report. And it had taken over a year for the Chancery to decide it wanted to investigate, so why all this uproar now? Well, thought Kerf, Haranjus was probably right. Let it alone. For now.
He snarled a little, letting the local man know he was being watched. No harm in that. Keep him on his toes. When it was dark, they went to the signal room, polished the mirror and lighted the
lantern while Kerf worked the shutters. He did it a good deal faster than Haranjus had done, but then, he’d had more practice. ‘Reported image of local interest only,’ he signaled. ‘Thou-ne Tower recommends allowing interest to die of its own accord. Kerf in agreement. Returning to the Chancery.’
All that travel for nothing, Kerf thought. Not even any good food in Thou-ne. And certainly none in the lands of the steppe people, going back. Noor bread always tasted of ashes, and no one but a steppey could pretend to enjoy roasted roots. Besides, Noor hated Chancery men. Only his escort of heavily armed Jondarites guaranteed passage and food at all. Though they hadn’t seen many steppeys, come to that. Fewer than he’d thought they would. Perhaps they were traveling, east or west of the route Kerf had taken.
He shrugged, setting those thoughts aside as he bullied Haranjus a bit more before leaving. It had taken him a year and a half to get to Thou-ne. It would take that long at least going back. In his eagerness to leave, he did not ask the local man if devotion to the image had increased or decreased since shortly after it was found. Haranjus had very carefully not mentioned that subject. Bostle Kerf was able, therefore, to leave Thou-ne in good conscience.
Three days after Bostle Kerf left Thou-ne, the Gift of Potipur arrived there with a boatload of Melancholies who intended to disembark in Thou-ne and begin the trek north to their home country. Pamra was also on the ship. She came ashore in Thou-ne. By that time, however, it was too late to summon the Chancery man back again.
20
The Queen of the Noor sat upon her carved throne, legs neatly aligned in their tall fishskin boots, eyes forward, feathered scepter in hand, dying a little more as each delegation from an outlying tribe made its appeals, thankful for the protocol that insisted upon an expressionless face. As a young Queen she had rebelled against the requirement; as an old one she realized its necessity. Had it not been for protocol she would have wept, screamed, howled in frustration, anger, and pity.
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