“Outrageous!” Duruvanu of Ayar Adi’In shouted. “We covered this almost a century ago! We have shown that behavior is alterable both surgically and chemically! Freedom of will is just a glandular illusion!”
Mnemosynae raised an eyebrow. “We know much, Master Duruvanu, but I wonder if we know well enough what we don’t know, perhaps even what we can’t know?”
Tarbet glanced over his shoulder at Avarnon-Set, whose eyes, it turned out, were not burning into his back at all, but staring dreamily off in another direction altogether.
“It sounds to me,” said Duruvanu, “as though our ‘Orthodox sage’ is letting too much of his theology into his research.”
P’Tah chuckled. “And you don’t? We Orthodox have moved away from our religious ideology to embrace the new learning. However, the ‘new learning’ merely imposes a different religious ideology, which demands a faith just as dogmatic in its assumptions as one based on Seti’s Code. You claim your ‘Powers’ are not gods, yet you give them the same deference in all practical decisions about the real world. Should not that ideology also be subjected to the same skepticism that Orthodoxy has?”
The blood drained from Tarbet’s face.
The Second Priest of Ayar Adi’In slammed his fist on the arm of his sage rostrum. “We have tested the learning we received from the Powers by rigorous study and technical application! Where are your miracle cures, P’Tah? What answers did your Iyaredists offer the world? While Khavilakki embraced the future, your scholars hid their heads in the sands of the past! Now, after centuries, you want back into the discussion as though you never left! Catch up with the times, man!”
P’Tah smiled. “I’ve never been an Iyaredist, and I’m fully conversant with the academic work of the last four centuries. Your best research methodology first developed here—not in Lumekkor. The technology of Bab’Tubila merely makes it easier for us to observe with greater precision. My concern is not with miracle cures, but with preserving integrity in scholastic inquiry.”
“So what exactly is your point?”
“My point is that we all have powerful sponsors who have certain desired outcomes for our work. While we appreciate their generous support, we do them no service if we deliver their ‘desired outcomes’ in theories that only superficially conform to reality. Political choices based on erroneous information are always disastrous in the real world, no matter who makes them.”
Tarbet quickly stood up before his sage could go any farther. “Thank you, delegates. I think we should recess, and refresh ourselves before pressing on to the next issue.”
The noise in the rotunda dissolved into a dull roar as the magi broke up into little groups around the refreshment tables.
Tarbet jumped when a heavy hand clasped his shoulder from behind. He swung around to see Avarnon-Set loom over him like a hairy siege tower.
“Why did you cut your sage off so abruptly? It was just getting interesting,” said the Titan.
“Don’t mind him, Lord. He’s always been eccentric.”
“No need to apologize, Tarbet. I’ve given your little ‘Orthodox Renewal’ a lot of thought, and decided that I like the idea.”
“Lord?”
Avarnon-Set grabbed two goblets of wine from a passing steward, and sat down next to the Archon-in-Waiting to hand him one. “Your sage has an aura of integrity that I think will be useful to us in the long run.”
Tarbet’s heart rate began to slow. “That is why I sponsored him. He’s also quite right when he says that he was never an Iyaredist. Between you and me, P’Tah and I used to secretly visit Ayar Adi’in together quite a bit in the old days—just ask Pandura.”
Avarnon-Set bared a yellowed fang in what, hopefully, was a smile. “No need. I trust your judgment. Between you and me, it was refreshing to see Duruvanu put in his place—by a supposedly ‘backward’ sage, no less. He’s been a spiteful little toad since I advised Tubaal-qayin to open a Guild Directive on creation code research, and the alchemy of the human brain. The good Second Priest knows that I’m sanity-checking Temple work, and I’m finding all sorts of mistakes…”
“Such as?”
“I’m not at liberty to say—yet.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Let’s just say, Tarbet, that the Temple’s increased drive for fetal and infant ‘sacrifices’ is not entirely spiritually motivated. They’ve run into a snag, and they need a wider range of genetic material than anticipated.”
“You sound as though you want them to fail. Should I raise the ire of my ‘Orthodox faithful?’”
“Let’s not go quite that far. I don’t want them to fail entirely. The Guild is dependent on Temple sacrifices for its tissue banks too, after all.”
Tarbet sipped his drink. “Will I see you at the dedication of Kunyari’s Monument?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” said Avarnon-Set, his whiteless eyes glaring off as if into the future, to plan another stage in the creation of a world.
T
he Archon liked his meetings held in dark chambers, preferably draped in sound-muffling crushed velvet—usually in reds and greens. Tarbet was certain that his father was unaware how much those cushioned rooms, bulging in such gaudy colors, only made the man in the gold-leafed high seat look like an enormous street clown; and a cranky one at that.
Archon Rakhau had apparently hoped for greater concessions from Tubaal-qayin “The Shepherd” Dumuzi’s state visit. So had Tarbet, but he had the good sense not to show it.
Seated in a less ostentatious seat, the Emperor of Lumekkor seemed even more emaciated than he had appeared on the Armistice ship last year. His cloak hung from his spare frame, wrinkled and oddly unkempt.
Tubaal-qayin grunted as he motioned the Archon’s steward for more wine. “I ask you to forgive the decision,” he said. “I assure you, we will maintain our observation post and its rocket defenses on that plateau in Southern Aeden. But honestly, you have little to fear from Samyaza any more, militarily speaking.”
Rakhau balled his sweaty fists. “He attacked our holy lands!”
“And had his air fleet mysteriously destroyed in the process. We have stepped up our intelligence since then. Assur’Ayur has not increased its standing army, and its naval forces consist of ten outdated coastal monitors and two Century War Era ironclads—hardly enough to challenge my Kush Armada off the island of Burunatu. With Aztlan in Far Kush, I’ve redoubled my Central Sea Fleet to cover both potential threats. I can assure you that Samyaza is focused on internal matters—with no likelihood of change in the foreseeable future. He’s through as a world power.”
Tarbet said, “Then why not finish him off?”
Tubaal-qayin Dumuzi leaned back into his seat. “Our situation with Aztlan is tenuous. I appreciate your willingness to sponsor the recent Summit of Mages here at Sa-utar. I hope such conferences can help heal the breach. Still, this is at best a watchful peace. Aztlan is using the breathing space to rebuild its forces, and so are we. The Armistice made them withdraw from the Lumekkor sub-continent, but they remain with a dagger at our soft underbelly in Far Kush. They hold most of the Greater Southern Land Mass in tribute.”
Rakhau slapped his fist into the pudgy mitt of his other hand. “All the more reason we should solidify your hold on the Northern one.”
Tarbet nodded. “Exactly!”
The Dumuzi shook his head. “It’s not that simple. While Samyaza’s interests have turned inward, he still has significant industrial capacity, and a huge population base. With a little technical aid from Aztlan, he could become part of a massive two-front war against Lumekkor. I don’t think I need to explain the ramifications of that for the City-States of Seti.”
Tarbet backed down. “No, of course not. I had hoped the peace was more solid than that. I have always been a bit of an optimist.”
Tubaal-qayin gave a haggard smile. “Would that the world was full of your optimism, Tarbet, but alas, it is not.”
“Will you be stay
ing for the dedication of the Colossus, Lord?”
“Yes. I hear you have quite a festival planned.”
Rakhau clucked his cheeks. “The private festivities will be even more entertaining.”
Tarbet took the signal. “My father means that Duruvanu is secretly sending in some Temple girls—and boys,” he quickly added for Avarnon-Set’s benefit.
Tubaal-qayin seemed uninterested. “I’ll pass the word along.”
A
nother Assuri-related political crisis faced Tarbet the day after his meeting with Tubaal-qayin and the Archon—this one local. Fortunately, Tarbet had the luxury of dealing with this debriefing in his own suite, which had windows, and equally comfortable, but less flamboyant seating.
Sa-utar’s Chief Constable said, “The deaths were most peculiar.”
“In what way?” asked the Assurim Diplomatic Attaché.
“The victims were all respected members of the Assurim immigrant community. They all had priestly ties to the Temple at Assur’Ayur—we checked. They all died of sudden heart failure, and their hands all had an odd skin discoloration on the palms.”
“Poison?” Tarbet asked for the second time that day—for political drama purposes. The first time was when the Constabulary Chief had initially reported the case to him. He had summoned the Attaché in the Archon’s name after that.
The Attaché said in a heavy accent, “Sounds like spiny basilisk venom. It is native to the Zhri’Nikkor Delta forests. Our assassins use it in a resinous suspension. It quickly out-gasses after the victim touches the contaminated surface—usually a wood object that has been varnished or oiled with the mixture.”
Tarbet and the Chief Constable glared at the diplomat.
“This was not sanctioned by my government—the merchant Yabulla was a valuable asset to us. Assur’Ayur wants to investigate this incident as much as you do.”
“Of course,” Tarbet said. “We did not mean to imply otherwise. Let me assure your lords that we will do everything in our power to bring the authors of this outrage to justice. If we find that any of the Samyaza Sect immigrants were victims of anti-Samyaza bigotry, I will personally see to it that the perpetrators are punished with extra severity.”
“That is warmly appreciated,” answered the Attaché blandly.
The Chief Constable said, “We have no evidence at this time that an ultra-Orthodox, or any other anti-Samyaza conspiracy, is involved. But we will not tolerate any if we find them.”
Tarbet stroked his smooth-shaven chin. “What about the fanatical fringe sects in Akh’Uzan? I seem to recall that one of Muhet’Usalaq’s sons, Lumekki, served in the Zhri’Nikkor War. The Sons of Q’Enukki have a violent reason to hate the Samyaza Sect. According to what I hear, some of them still cry, ‘Remember Regati!’ at their Dragon-slayer training camps. Lumekki, I understand, was disabled at Balimar Straits, but, there may still be some in that clan bent on revenge.”
The Chief Constable shook his head. “We’ve checked into that. There’s no reason to believe it’s so, Appointed One.”
“It would seem,” said the Attaché, “that the only direct evidence suggests a matter internal to the immigrant community. Several of the clans there come from the Zhri’Nikkor region—where this poison is known.”
The diplomat’s admission stunned Tarbet. “I trust you will make inquiry of your superiors in Assur’Ayur, then?”
“Of course, we want nothing more than to foster amicable relations with our Setiim brothers.”
T
he new tent compound at the edge of the Assurim Immigrant Quarter near Farguti Crossroads bustled with activity. Another caravan had just arrived, loaded with new settlers and baggage.
Inguska took Dhiva immediately into his tent as soon as they had unloaded the wagons. Nobody outside knew that the reason had to do with more than simply sporting his favorite concubine after their long separation.
“Show me one of the parcels,” he commanded the girl.
Dhiva rolled away from him, and wrapped herself in a fawn robe. She pulled a knapsack from under the couch and opened it up.
“Under the divan?” Inguska’s heart almost stopped.
Dhiva smiled. “It is harmless, my Lord, until the Magic is called upon. The sacred mages made me memorize how.”
“How many?”
“Two, to start with. More will come later. The second charm is in the holy robes of the messenger—it blesses his personal travel pouches. The second charm strengthens the parcel’s magical power over a thousand-fold.”
“When?”
Dhiva sat on his lap. “The Daughters say that it will be at least seven years before Samyaza releases the incantation—to give time for more parcels to reach our cells throughout Lumekkor. It will become almost impossible to smuggle them across borders once the Magic is released.”
“Show me how it works.”
Dhiva slid the odd disk-like contraption from its package. Metal tubes and wires adorned it in several places, concentrated mostly at the disk’s top center. Along the circumference on both sides were incantation glyphs that invoked Samyaza’s curse upon the enemy.
“The Magic inside the holy disk sleeps until charmed by a quickfire pulse here and here.” She pointed to where metal tubes entered the casing, from what Inguska recognized as a mechanical timepiece. Dhiva continued, “The Holy Messenger must press the sacred glyph of Samyaza’s Name on this talisman, which he is to wear as a pendant.” She held out what appeared to be a piece of ornamental jewelry, careful not to knock the safety spacer clamp from the raised ideograph. “The Holy Messenger will then have twenty seconds to announce that Samyaza’s wrath has fallen. Did I do well, Lord?”
“Excellent, my Dove.”
“Has a Holy Messenger received the Calling yet?”
“One has, and others shall soon be revealed. I’m glad the gods want to wait a few years, though. It gives me time to choose my targets carefully.”
“The Daughters of Heaven are wise.”
Inguska stroked her long dark hair. “Yes. Have the parcels buried in the hills nearby, well outside the Immigrant Quarter. Take your time. Study the area for regular traffic. Then draw up coded directions for me to the cache site, and make sure nobody sees your work party.”
Dhiva kissed him long. “It shall be done as you say, my Lord.”
M
ore clutter than usual covered the reading table in the Archon-in-Waiting’s airy suite. Tarbet mulled over the latest population reports from each of the Orthodox City-States while he waited for the Chief Constable.
“This can’t be right,” he said to his scribe.
“Those are the latest census figures, Appointed One.”
“Yes, but it says here that each of the cities have had between a thirty and forty-two percent fall-off in birth rates since before my father inherited the Chair. I was given to believe that the city populations were all on a dangerously explosive growth curve. The sages and mages of Lumekkor keep telling us we need more population control measures.”
The scribe shrugged. “At least the crime wave has leveled off.”
Tarbet read further. “In the cities, maybe, but it says here that rural areas show a drastic rise in murders and rapes.”
The Scribe shrugged. “People are leaving the cities to avoid crime, but the crime moves with the population, sire.”
“So it would seem. Send out feelers to the other city-states. I want to track what’s happening, perhaps have the Academy initiate a formal study.”
“Yes, sire.”
A courtier herald poked his head into the chamber. “Lord Tarbet, the Chief Constable has arrived.”
“Send him right in.”
Tarbet’s scribe took out his pen, and prepared a small papyrex roll.
The Chief Constable entered, and bowed before Tarbet’s writing table. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Appointed One.”
Tarbet motioned him into a chair. “Your request sounded urgent. Has some
thing happened with the Assurim immigrant murders?”
“Your uncanny insight has yielded fruit, Appointed One.”
“Enlighten me.”
The Chief Constable cleared his throat. “It seems you may have been right to look further for an Akh’Uzan connection. One of Yabulla’s wives has remembered a fellow who delivered a wooden box to her husband less than an hour before he dropped dead. She says the deliveryman spoke with a thick Akh’Uzan accent. Another witness at one of the other murder scenes also remembers a man who spoke that dialect.”
“How interesting. Is there anything else?”
“Unfortunately, neither witness got a good look at the man’s face—he wore a hooded cloak. There’s something even more troubling, though.”
“What’s that?”
“The Immigrant Quarter is restless.”
“Wouldn’t the murders account for that?”
“While I’m sure that’s part of it, there’s something else. Assurim vendors and artisans used to welcome my roving patrols. Lately, it seems the whole community has turned sullen and hostile. The constables sense that they are afraid of them now—but can’t figure out why. Vendors that used to give out complimentary drinks and meals now shut their stalls at our approach. We’ve done nothing to offend them, Lord.”
Tarbet stroked his smooth cleft chin. “Are you sure? The Samyaza Cult has always been a fiery lot. Perhaps they want a speedier investigation.”
“We’re doing all we can, sire.”
“I know you are. Thanks for bringing this to me. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help speed things along.”
I
nguska watched the Colossus dedication ceremony from a vantage point remarkably close to the platform at the feet of the gigantic image. A city administrator who was friendly to Samyaza’s faithful had arranged passes for him and the Immigrant Quarter’s Chief Priest to observe from the roof of a public building right under the enormous statue’s shadow.
A Broken Paradise (The Windows of Heaven Book 3) Page 16