by Chris Walley
He is going to strike me!
But he didn’t. Instead, he hissed, “Margrave, I know better—far better—than the textbooks do about what happened in the War of Separation.” The tone was one of barely restrained fury. “Listen! Jannafy’s chief mistake was this: he misjudged his underlings. They were entrusted with making the seven ships ready to launch in time. They failed. Jannafy’s main mistake was to trust fools. I have resolved not to repeat that.”
“My lord, I apologize. I will revise my history.” And not speak lightly of Jannafy ever again.
“And learn another lesson. Jannafy did indeed underestimate the Assembly, but not their power. He overlooked the way they can corrupt. I have talked of us enticing them. But be warned, my margrave, that the reverse can happen. More determined minds than yours have weakened under the impact of the Assembly and their values. The wills of many failed at Centauri because they had been weakened by the lies of the Assembly. I will not let that happen again. Be wary of them, Margrave. Very wary. No one is safe.”
“My lord, I am listening.”
There was silence. As Nezhuala stepped back, Lezaroth felt a sense of the immediate danger passing.
Now the lord-emperor spoke again. “So the man of my choosing will command the finest of ships. The pride of the fleet. He will have two tasks: the first, to bring back a copy of all the data in this Library. The second, to find Rahllman’s Star. I want it back.” There was a ring of determination in the voice. “I want to make sure its technology cannot fall into the hands of the renegades. Or the Assembly. And it has something precious on it, something I want back.”
What does it have on it?
“Now, Margrave, I am a fair man. I punish failure and I reward success. He who delivers what I desire will be rewarded. He may, of course, take the Triumph of Sarata on with the main battle fleet to the Assembly and Earth. Or he may choose to retire. Either way, I will give him the title of Military Governor of Farholme. And as such, he may do as he likes with the world and its population.”
The blank face stared at Lezaroth, the pale bloodless lips twisting into a wry smile. “Do you know that your title, margrave, is a historical curiosity? Are you aware of its origin?”
“No, my lord.”
“A margrave was a military governor of a frontier province. In one of the ancient European states on Earth. Wouldn’t it be appropriate—historically fitting—if you were to be such a man? A margrave in name and reality? I think you will find many pleasures there.”
I would indeed.
Suddenly the lord-emperor paused as if listening to something. “Ah, the time draws near. But, Margrave, consider what I offer. Might and prestige with the command of the best ship in the fleet. And, if you succeed, the possibility of almost unlimited power and a world of pleasure. And above all, a key role in the greatest military venture of our time. Or any time.” He waved a gloved finger for emphasis. “Not bad for a man who could be executed.”
There was a pause. “So do you choose to take my offer? to serve me without any dissent? to do my will? to give me the unshakable honor I require? to love my friends and hate my enemies? Are you ready? Consider the matter.”
There is a price. There is always a price. But what options have I? This opportunity may never return; the alternative may be death. I must seize it.
“My lord is generous indeed. I choose to take that offer.”
“Then we shall test it.”
What does that mean?
“Follow me.”
The lord-emperor turned and walked down the hall. Lezaroth followed, suddenly aware that the high wordless whispering had begun again, only now there was a new note of expectancy. It is as if the statues are talking to each other, as though they are waiting for something.
At the far end of the room the lord-emperor motioned him through a door. As Lezaroth stepped forward a chill breeze whipped at his face, and a red waning daylight enveloped him.
He blinked and gasped.
He was on a balcony—one without railings, with an edge barely two paces away that extended above a drop of some two hundred meters. Below, a steep, strangely curved surface seemed to flow into a great disklike central platform below. On the platform, red in the light of the fiery setting sun, robed people, perhaps twenty in number, stood around a plinth.
Of course, the evening sacrifice!
Lezaroth heard the door hiss closed behind them. He looked along the balcony expecting to see only the lord-emperor, but instead saw the admiral standing between them.
There was something strange about the admiral. It took Lezaroth a second to realize that he was extraordinarily rigid. The admiral’s blanched face held a look of utter terror and his gray eyes moved to meet Lezaroth’s. “Help me!” they seemed to plead.
What do I do? Lezaroth looked to the lord-emperor.
Apparently heedless of the admiral, Nezhuala gazed over the scene. He sighed, as if with contentment, and as though the admiral were absent, addressed Lezaroth. “Do you know, Margrave,” he said, “I like to think of this as the heart of our world.”
“Indeed, my lord,” was all Lezaroth could say.
“Yes, I think of this as the center, not just of this city but of this world.” The lord-emperor was almost affable. “My people can be sure that, as the day ends, a sacrifice is being offered here to the powers for them.”
“I see, my lord.”
The lord-emperor gestured at the scene with open hands. “Here we ask the powers for their blessing on our endeavors.” His smile was cold. “Do you know who is being honored today?”
“No, my lord.”
“The Master Exaltzoc—the bringer of plague and disfigurement.”
Far below, the robed figures, their faces indistinguishable, turned toward them. As they began a low urgent chanting, Lezaroth saw the glint of their knives. He turned to the lord-emperor, seeing the sharp, dark eyes boring into his.
“You have spotted that something is missing?” Nezhuala asked.
Lezaroth swung round to the scene below. His blood froze. There is no sacrifice.
“I’m afraid, Admiral, you are the sacrifice,” Nezhuala said in a mild, apologetic tone.
I should have realized this. Lezaroth felt a mixture of horror and relief. There was danger, but not for me.
The lord-emperor turned, tilted his head slightly, and seemed to look at the admiral like a hawk evaluating a potential prey. When he spoke again, his tone was very different. It seethed with anger. “Admiral—former Admiral—I was appalled at your mistakes at Tellzanur. First, you let a freighter be stolen. Then you let it escape the system. And not just any freighter, but the Rahllman’s Star. The freighter with my own grandfather’s body on board: the Great Prince Zhalatoc, a man many levels above you. We had hopes. We thought we might restore him to the post-mortal state. We were negotiating with the powers.” His face twisted into an expression of aggrieved fury as he leaned closer to the immobile admiral.
“Then, far too late, you headed off in pursuit. To find that, contrary to all our experience, they could enter Assembly space. So you followed them and watched what happened. Then, imagining that you had achieved something, you came back. Can you imagine the damage that might have been done if they had gone and given themselves up to the accursed Assembly?” The lord-emperor’s face was colorless with fury and Lezaroth saw spittle on his lips.
Am I next? Great Zahlman-Hoth, god of soldiers, spare me now. Bring me safe though this peril and I will sacrifice to you whatever you desire.
Below, on the great lower platform, there was something oddly expectant about the priests’ stance. Their uplifted blades were tinged with red sunlight.
“No, Admiral, you have failed.” There was fury in the words. “So, in a second or two, you will be on your way to the priests. They are waiting for you. I will use my limited extra-physical powers to ensure that you stay conscious. As long as possible.”
Nezhuala’s hands moved in a strange position. The
admiral swayed. Little beads of sweat appeared on his face.
As the lord-emperor turned to Lezaroth, his conversational tone of voice returned. “Margrave, this man is my enemy. Throw him off the edge.”
The test! In the space of a few moments, a great argument raged in Lezaroth’s mind. At first, he resisted. I cannot do this. I cannot repay a man who has spoken out to serve me. I cannot harm a superior officer. I must take a stand. Then, a countering question came back: Why not? The lord-emperor has commanded it and he is master of all. Lezaroth searched for any reason at all that he could use to justify refusing the order. But he found nothing there: no higher morality, no ultimate belief, no superior principle. Somehow, he felt he ought to take a stand, but he found nothing that he could stand on.
He was about to agree to the demand when he was struck by three successive thoughts that came like hammer blows: Do this and you cross a point of no return. Do this and you are Nezhuala’s slave. Do this and you are beyond redemption.
He returned the lord-emperor’s gaze, his throat tight. “Whatever you wish, my lord.”
He stepped toward the admiral, took a shaking elbow with one hand and with the other found the small of the man’s rigid but quivering back.
“Oh, Admiral,” the lord-emperor said, with a smile like a knife blade. “I won’t forget your family.”
Somehow—he had not intended it—Lezaroth found himself staring again at the admiral and seeing the desperate plea in the wide, panic-stricken eyes. He looked away and pushed.
A moment later, he looked back to see the admiral falling. He struck the curving wall with a heavy thud. Then, as rigid as a lump of wood, the heavy form slid smoothly down the concave surface toward the altar platform.
I feel dirty.
He was aware of the lord-emperor’s terrible eyes watching him.
“Margrave, you pass the test. But only just. You delayed.”
“My lord, I apologize for my delay.”
Nezhuala turned to the scene below and sighed. “Do you know that I really don’t like doing it this way? Using criminals is a cheap way of fulfilling our obligations to the powers. That’s why we use ordinary people. They really prefer children. Even if they come from the underclass.”
Lezaroth followed the lord-emperor’s gaze and saw the great red ball of the setting sun was now just beginning to dip below a fiercely jagged horizon.
“Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, Margrave, I really ought to participate in the ceremonies. But there is more we have to discuss.”
As Lezaroth bowed his head, the lord-emperor raised his right hand high. Far below there was a bustle of activity among the priests. A new chant began.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lezaroth saw Nezhuala drop his hand. The chant became urgent and savage.
The knives descended.
After a minute or so the lord-emperor said in his confiding tone, “Do you know, Margrave that there are variations on the sacrificial ritual? As to which bits they cut, in what order, and how they display them?”
“I had heard stories, my lord, but I have never studied the details. I’m a professional soldier. Culture isn’t my strong point.”
“I understand. But it’s a fascinating subject.” The lord-emperor shook his head. “Poor admiral.”
There was silence and when the lord-emperor spoke again, it was in a sharper tone. “So, you have decided to serve me? Fully? Without questioning?”
“I have.” It’s too late now to change my mind.
“Then come here and bow before me.”
Careful, mindful of the fitful, gusting wind and the fatal drop just a pace away, Lezaroth bowed before Nezhuala.
He glimpsed the lord-emperor taking his glove off and soon felt a cold hand on his forehead.
“Do you willingly renew your oath of allegiance to me?”
“I do.”
Lezaroth felt an almost electric tingling in his forehead.
“Say it.”
“I, Margrave Sentius Lezaroth, hereby resolve to serve and worship His Highness, the Lord-Emperor Nezhuala, Ruler of the Freeborn and Master of All in the Realms of the Dominion, with all that I am, and all that I have, until my death.”
The lord-emperor murmured something in a strange language whose words seemed to coil and twist in the mind.
“Very good, Margrave,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “You are now mine. Stand up.”
Lezaroth stood.
“Now, let me give you more instructions.” Nezhuala’s voice was urgent and factual now. “I appoint you to the rank and pay of fleet-commander. You will leave in eight days’ time. Because of the urgency, you and the ambassadors will travel very deep and fast in the Nether-Realms.”
“My lord, isn’t that dangerous?” There were horror stories of ships that went too deep.
There was a look of rebuke. “Oh, my margrave, don’t dissent now. . . . But I am negotiating with the powers. You will have a cargo that will stop the ship from being molested.”
“A cargo, my lord?”
“All being well, a baziliarch will go with you.”
A terrible vision of vast yellow, iridescent eyes, blackness, wings, and claws filled Lezaroth’s mind.
“On my ship? One of the seven?”
“Don’t be alarmed, Margrave. It will be dormant for the trip. You’ll be given an intermediary. Baziliarchs can be tricky, but they’re wonderful weapons. As I found out on Tellzanur. They have that ability to tear information out of minds, which you may find useful. And nothing is going to tangle with a convoy with a baziliarch. Even in the deepest Nether-Realms.”
“My lord . . . I bow to your wisdom. And as for crew, may I choose my own?”
“Yes, with one exception. Your second-in-command will be Lucretor Hanax.”
Blank your expression. Hide your dismay. “My lord, is that . . . ?”
“Is that wise you were going to say?”
Hanax is pushy and overconfident, and we hate each other. But how do I say that?
“Well, my lord, he has risen rather rapidly through the ranks. I had thought . . . that a period of consolidation might be appropriate. It is tradition.”
“My margrave, I know your background. You are of an old family and he comes from nowhere. I know the objections to Hanax—that he rises too fast and he hates the noble families. I know everything. But his record is excellent.”
“If it is your will, my lord . . .”
“But it is my will.” There was an irresistible force in the voice. “Work with him. The powers have told me that he will play a great role.”
That may be, but on my ship, he will know his place.
“Very well, my lord.”
The chant changed as the last sliver of Sarata dipped below the horizon. Below in the congealing gloom, Lezaroth could see that the priests were leaving. Something soft, wet, and red—no, several things—were arranged on the plinth.
Apparently catching his gaze, Nezhuala pointed down. “Notice how swiftly they leave, Margrave. They summon The Master Exaltzoc, but they do not stay for his appearing.” Then, as if listening to his private voices, he shook his head and fell silent.
It came to Lezaroth that he needed to clarify his orders or he might end up like the admiral. “My lord, how much force may I use?”
Nezhuala smiled. “As much as is needed. But I would prefer some captives. The powers grow hungry at the base of the Blade and some fresh flesh would be very well received. Men and women and, especially, children from the Assembly would be welcome. And we need tissue samples at least of the best specimens. We may strip their genes of the best code and add it to ours. As for force: once you get me the Library data intact, the Rahllman’s Star, and the DNA, you can kill them all as far as I am concerned.” Nezhuala smiled again. “Set an example. But spare the world itself. It would be a shame to wreck it. It looked rather . . . nice. . . . I might stop and inspect it on my way to Earth.”
“Whatever you will, my lord.”
> “A few more things, Fleet-Commander.” Suddenly, for the first time, the lord-emperor seemed to be slightly ill at ease. “What do you know of the tale—the myth—of the great adversary?”
I need to be careful here. “I heard of it from the captives at Tellzanur. It is the belief that the rise of the Dominion will be threatened by a man who will come close to defeating it.”
“Or?”
“Well, of course they saw him as actually defeating it. We treated it with scorn.”
“Quite so.” The lord-emperor was silent for some time, apparently gripped by thoughts. “But it is a far older belief,” he said at last. “The powers have mentioned it to me. They know of it. It is the idea that, in the last battles, there will be a single warrior who will stand in our way. Of course, we succeed; we cannot fail. But this being opposes us. Or so the myth says.” A slight spasm seemed to run through the lord-emperor’s body. “They mention a name in connection with this great adversary.” His voice sounded strained. “Can you guess whose name it is?”
“In the accounts of the War of Separation, the blame for our loss is attributed to one man—Lucas Ringell.”
“Yes!” The word came out like a hiss. “It is a matter of history that, without him, the outcome of the War of Separation would have been very different.”
“He killed Jannafy.”
The lord-emperor stared at the ground. “Ah well, I remember that. But yes, it is Ringell’s name that is whispered among the powers. There is babble of him ‘returning soon,’ but what that means is unclear to me. And, I think, to them.” The lord-emperor looked up. “My guess—no more than that—is that they speak of another warrior. One who will be like Lucas Ringell and who will stand in the way of the final triumph of we who are the Freeborn.”
A new gust of wind whipped across the balcony. Lezaroth tried not to shiver. In the night sky, stars were appearing.
“I mention the matter, my margrave, for one reason: I want you to watch out for this man. He may be on Earth. But he may be on Farholme. And if he is there, I want him found.”
Lezaroth heard anger in Nezhuala’s voice now, and perhaps also fear.