Although it was approaching full daylight, the morning sun would not clear the hills behind the city for an hour or more, and the stone-paved sidestreet was silent except for the chirp and flutter and occasional song of birds. That and, just now, the soft thud of leather-booted hooves as Eltrienn Cadriio jogged his kaabor through the cool down-alley breeze, all that was left of night. He'd seen almost no one since the sentries had saluted him out of the army compound, more than a mile away on the other side of the Fortress.
He was approaching the north side of the valley. The ground began to slope more strongly upward, and the street, which had been rather straight, started curving west to avoid the steepening, leaving behind first the almost solid ranks of buildings, then the paving blocks, and finally the last city dwelling. From there it was little more than a footpath across the firth's steep lower slope. Eltrienn stopped, dismounted, and removed the thick bullhide boots from his mount before riding on.
Gray dust was a thing of the season past; now the trail was moist and tan. Shrubs walled the path, their pungent leaves small and waxy, their blossoms just now opening to the morning. The sky was a high blue bowl, and sun touched the hilltop across the firth.
Rounding a curve, he saw the hut just ahead, on a small bench cleared of scrub. Its tile roof was faded, but its walls of chinked stone were newly whitewashed. Thin smoke hazed from a stone and mud chimney to dissipate seaward in the breeze. A man, having heard the quiet thud of hooves, peered out the open door, then stepped out of sight.
Eltrienn stopped at the edge of the clearing and dismounted, tying his reins to a stout bush. His kaabor could browse the twig ends. While he tied the reins, another man had come out of the cottage, recognized the centurion, and called quietly to him.
"Eltrienn! Brother!"
"Vessto!" Grinning, they strode toward one another and embraced, then at arms length looked each other over, the sage thin-bearded and now shave-headed, the soldier smoothfaced, with curly hair like a close-fitting cap.
"It's been quite a while," said Eltrienn.
Vessto nodded, beaming. "You look good, big brother. Stronger than ever. Hrum has been good to you."
"And you." Eltrienn cocked an eye at the lean body. "I wouldn't want to race you any longer."
Vessto laughed. "Which first: questions or breakfast?"
"Questions. I don't have time for both; I'm supposed to be somewhere else shortly."
"Then come." His brother led him to a steep and narrow footpath up which they scrambled, stiff twigs plucking at them, to a rock outcrop. There they sat down, Vessto on folded legs as if to meditate.
"So. Ask away," he said.
"Master Ganyell told me where to find you. He's heard you plan to stay at Theedalit and not go back to the Neck. Is that right?"
"For now at least."
"I've also heard that Panni Vempravvo recognizes you as a sage."
Smiling, Vessto shook his head. "You'd have to ask Panni. But I doubt it, although he treats me as a peer. I never became a master, never had the Awakening, so I can't see things from Panni's point of view. Or old Tassi's." He shrugged. "I have my talents though; in that, Hrum has gifted me beyond all but a rare few. I do what I do, say what I say. Others can make of it as they wish; that's not important to me."
Eltrienn nodded. He could feel the change in his brother. The adolescent Vessto had striven to seem special, sometimes flaunting his clairvoyance, and had resented the occasional gibes of other youths. That had been years ago, of course. Since then he'd spent years—four? five?—in the monastery at Liscotti's Vale. And most of a year as a mendicant; that might change a person too.
He wondered if Vessto knew his thoughts, here on this rock, could see without using questions to probe through the veil around his mind.
"I have a friend," Eltrienn said. "The foreigner, the ambassador from across the ocean. You've heard of him."
Vessto nodded.
"I've been assigned by the amirr as his guide and tutor. They know nothing of Hrum where he comes from, and he wants to learn. I've taken him to the central school, to talk with the senior teacher there, and then to the monastery, to Master Jerrsio. The answers he got didn't help him much. Actually, at this point, what he's really looking for is knowledge about Hrum and Hrummlis, not for the Wisdom of Hrum.
"And I wondered if you'd talk with him."
Vessto didn't answer at once, his gaze across the firth. Finally he looked at Eltrienn again. "You are my brother," he said. "If you ask me to talk to this foreigner, I will. But don't expect him to go away satisfied. One does not go to a sage for knowledge about, or to an adept. In his knowledge of Hrummlis and Hrum, he is like a little child. It would be better to show him the library at the Fortress, and let the librarian give him a children's book to start with."
Eltrienn had already asked the librarian to find one that said nothing about adept powers. The man had promised to see what he could come up with.
Vessto's face turned out across the firth again, his eyes losing focus. The brothers sat in silence for a minute or so before he looked once more at Eltrienn. "Yes, I will meet with your foreigner. I believe I'm supposed to. Bring him to me this evening, and I'll talk with him then."
* * *
It was his bladder that awakened Brokols. He was sprawled across his bed with shirt and underclothes still on, also a sock. His head hurt so badly, he knew better than to lift it suddenly. Even his eyes hurt. The drink, he thought, something in the drink.
With an inhaled hiss of pain, he rolled carefully onto his stomach, then off the bed onto his knees. He stood up more carefully yet, almost vomiting from headache, and wobbled to the toilet. His member was sore. The nightsoil man had emptied and limed the dump-trough below, of course, but still the smell threatened to sicken him.
Stilfos had heard him moving about, and peering round a doorjamb, saw him reenter the hall. Brokols avoided his eyes, and Stilfos decided not to mention breakfast. He'd heard when Brokols came in, and later, by daylight, had peeked in to see him sleeping partly dressed across the bed, shoes, pants, and hat on the floor. He assumed that his master had been drunk.
"Milord," he said quietly, "I've heated the tub, in case you're interested."
Brokols didn't pause or answer, barely nodded and went into his room. A few minutes later he shuffled back out in a bathrobe, and along the hall to the bathroom, which was separate from the toilet. There he stepped down gingerly into the water, hissing at the heat, seated himself neck-deep on the bench and stared blankly at the wall.
He had not been drunk; it had been nothing at all like drunkenness. There'd been something in the drink. And the girl—the pleasure droid—had been incredible. Truly incredible. But . . . he'd been manipulated, tricked, made a fool of. Tirros had added something to the drink, and the girl had known. He was sure of that. Probably she hadn't drank any herself, had only pretended.
Why had they done it to him? What purpose could Tirros have had? A practical joke? In Almeon it would have been a serious felony. And as a result, he'd exposed himself, fully naked, committed fornication and unnatural acts, witnessed others fornicating and allowed them to witness him.
No, worse! he told himself. He'd committed bestiality, because Lerrlia wasn't human!
As soon as he'd thought it, he rejected the thought. But the other crimes were severe enough. He stared bleary-eyed and unseeing. People in Almeon were not sinless. They offended against the Book of Forbiddances more than one heard or read about. Even members of the nobility did; he knew that. But he wondered if anyone, short of an utter criminal or lunatic, had ever committed such a battery of gross sexual sins in one night, even rejecting bestiality. And any Almaeic court of law would . . . well, they wouldn't reject the bestiality charge; it'd be the one they'd make the most of.
Yet somehow he didn't feel conscience-stricken at what he'd done. Nor fear that he'd be found out. What he did feel was that he had alienated himself from his own culture, and wondered how he'd ever feel comfortable at home again, withholding what he'd done.
It also seemed to him that no woman in Almeon could ever attract him now, after the pleasure droid.
* * *
The amirr, Leonessto Hanorissio, was reading his mail. His eyes moved quickly, and at the end of each letter or report, sometimes sooner, he dictated comments or a reply. Then his secretary's pen moved with astonishing speed, the sound of its furious scratching broken only for a dart at the inkwell, a quick touch on the blotter.
When he'd read the last piece, the amirr sat back and stretched. "Any questions?" he asked.
"I think not, Your Eminence."
"Good." Both men got up. "I'll be out in the garden. Have Allbarin informed that I'm ready to hear him about the ambassador. With anyone he cares to bring with him."
The amirr strolled out open garden doors into morning sunshine. The day was heating up, and clouds were stacking toward the midday shower. The acallchia had begun to flower, visually so beautiful that one could hardly fault their lack of fragrance.
The amirr wore no robe, simply hose and short tunic. And slippers that in another place and time would have been called poulaines. A powerful man, middle age had thickened his waist. Dropping to close-trimmed lawn, he did thirty quick pushups on his fingertips, stopping short of sweat. He'd always been vain about his strength, and made efforts to maintain it. Allbarin and another man were just entering the garden as the amirr got to his feet. He waited for them; then the three of them strolled while they talked.
"What did you learn?" he asked.
"I had Gestriivo talk with the ambassador at some length." Allbarin indicated his companion. "He'd have been less relaxed with me. I kept my distance, and read what I could of anyone besides Gestriivo who talked with him." He turned to the man who'd accompanied him into the garden. "Tell His Eminence what you learned."
The man bobbed his head. "He's remarkably easy to get into, as you know. Any question I asked accessed a whole sequence of more or less related subliminal concepts and images. He has a most interesting store of prejudices and inhibitions."
Allbarin interrupted. "Gestriivo's recited it all to my secretary, in detail. You can review it at your convenience." He handed a sheaf of papers to the amirr, then nodded to Gestriivo to continue.
"The most important parts are these," Gestriivo went on. "His emperor plans an invasion. No date has been set, but it's likeliest to be about a year from now. I'm not sure whether of Hrumma or one of the Djezes or all three of us. A very large fleet is being built; apparently much of it is built already. Two hundred ships like the one that brought him here."
The amirr's expression changed from strong interest to abrupt concern little short of dismay.
"They have weapons that I don't understand," Gestriivo continued, "but there's a sense of noise about them, like the thunder noises their ship made at anchor. And of great killing. Interestingly, a feeling of distaste, tinged with guilt, seems to be associated with this in his subconscious.
"Also, the ship has left or will leave an ambassador at each of the Djezes. The one at Djez Gorrbul is senior, the one to whom the others report, and he has authority over them. I also received a clear sense that Djez Gorrbul is to attack us in connection with that, but no real indication why.
"The ambassador here reports to the one at Djez Gorrbul at night, by an instrument he has in his apartment. Apparently it has to do with the wires strung above his roof, and the little windmill." Gestriivo shrugged. "I have no idea how it works, but I received an impression of him sitting at a table, tapping on some contrivance with a finger, in an irregular cadence that suggests a code."
"Hmm." The amirr pursed his wide mouth. "If he can communicate to Haipoor l'Djezzer with that instrument, then perhaps he can communicate with his emperor across the ocean."
"Perhaps. But I got no sense of his doing so." Gestriivo stopped talking then, stood waiting.
"Is that it?" the amirr asked.
"Yes, sir. That's all that seems to relate to our security."
"Very good. You may leave now. I appreciate your good services."
Gestriivo bowed half a bow, turned and left the garden. When he was gone, the amirr sat down on a marble bench, Allbarin on another across from him.
"Comments?" said the amirr.
"Gestriivo is very good. He tends to see more deeply than I, and I have never known him to imagine what isn't there. His perceptions have always proved out, where we've had an opportunity to check.
"As for my own readings last night—there were two free-lance adepts there who questioned our good Brokols. They were well screened of course; I got no sense of who'd employed them."
"Hmm. We should have foreseen the possibility. They must have come in with invited guests. Of sufficient status to be allowed a guest of their own. See what you can find out."
Allbarin nodded. "There was also an untrained talent of rather good ability," he added, "eavesdropping like myself on the questioners and the ambassador."
He paused, waiting for the question he knew would come. The amirr frowned. Untrained talents, when they arose, were required to register and be trained, for reasons of simple ethics.
"Do you know him?"
"Neither personally nor by name. He was dressed as one of the waiters brought in to back up palace staff. Though I didn't notice him fetching drinks or food. He stood in a corner as if watching for shortages."
"And you didn't have him arrested?"
"No, Your Excellency. I had him followed."
"Ah! Better yet! Who did he report to?"
"I don't know. His follower lost him."
"Umh!" The amirr frowned. "Is that it then?"
Allbarin lagged for three or four seconds before answering. "Tirros was at the reception last night. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But the Vencurrio sisters were with him, both of them, which is something of a surprise. Considering."
The amirr's frown deepened to a scowl. The Vencurrios were a noble family fallen on hard times of their own making—the kind of people Tirros was attracted to. Various members had been in trouble with the law, for matters ranging from malicious mischief and simple theft to extortion.
He shook his head. "Why didn't I see them?" he asked.
"They were staying on the fringes of things. They seem to have remained mostly in the garden—didn't even visit the buffet. I saw them together once, very early; after that I only glimpsed them twice, one or two at a time, peering in through one of the garden doors. Watching the ambassador."
What, thought the amirr, could this mean?
Allbarin wasn't done yet. "I left for a few minutes, later in the evening, heeding the insistence of nature, and after I came back, I didn't see them anymore." He paused. "I didn't see the ambassador anymore, either."
The amirr's face darkened. "Are you implying . . . was there any evidence of—connection?"
"Nothing clear; nothing certain. I do not read residuals particularly well you know, and there were a lot of people, moving around a good deal."
"Did you sense anything from them when you saw them? Tirros and the Vencurrio girls, I mean."
"Only a sense of secrecy."
Leonessto Hanorissio exhaled gustily. "This troubles me greatly. As amirr and as a father. Do not let any of these matters go uninvestigated, and let me know whatever is learned."
* * *
Tirros had slept till after noon, then left home on foot. Walking, he was less conspicuous then when riding his kaabor. He met Karrlis Billbis at a little satta shop, where they sat in a private corner, screened by curtains. In murmured undertones, Karrlis told him what he'd learned about Brokols. He'd monitored him throughout the reception.
They didn't stay long at the satta shop. When they'd finished their second cups, Tirros paid Karrlis for his services and they went separate ways, Tirros retracing the streets to the palace.
Karrlis Billbis was useful, Tirros told himself. Some thought of Karrlis as lacking wits, but that was because he usually didn't say much. Among his few confidants he talked freely enough, if not brilliantly, and the talent—the talent he had in abundance. His biggest lack was of self-direction, and that suited Tirros perfectly.
As for the foreigner—now there was a strange one. Strange and vulnerable, and the road to wealth and power. When his emperor conquered Hrumma, they'd have need for a regent to rule for them here. And Tirros would be that regent; all he had to do was figure out how.
* * *
Mellvis Rantrelli stopped at the top of the stairs, wheezing hoarsely, and mopped his forehead with a sleeve. It was dark, but early enough that it hadn't cooled off much.
He was not so unfit as he appeared, but this was one of the tallest apartment buildings in the city, and even the man with him was breathing heavily. While catching his breath, Rantrelli looked across the roof garden; if Tassi Vermaatio wanted to discourage visitors without retreating to the hills, he thought, living in a tiny seventh-floor penthouse would do it. The penthouse door was open. A scarecrow figure sat just outside it on folded legs, facing them but seeming not to notice.
If that is a watchman—the merchant said wryly to himself. But he didn't really doubt that the fellow was aware of them, and very likely knew who they were. And had probably notified his master without moving or speaking, if notification was needed.
Rantrelli had a high opinion of the abilities of holy men.
He hitched the belt of his robe over a generous belly and started toward the penthouse, his companion following. The "watchman" didn't even look up as they passed him to peer in through the open door.
The single room was thick with incense and charcoal smoke, none of which seemed to reach outside the door. There was no stove, only a small fireplace with the remains of a charcoal fire in a brazier. A kettle sat next to it, and a single large bowl hung on a wall, flanked by numerous smaller bowls. Two men slept on grass mats on the floor, and three others, like the "watchman," sat straight-spined on folded legs, their eyes open but seeming not to see.
One of the three was very old, and hairless except for long wisps like old cobwebs that hung from chin and upper lip. Tassi. He was said to be almost a hundred. His face seemed small, as if his skull had shrunk, and even in the smoke and feeble light, displayed a fine and intricate network of lines. As a strange incongruity, his hands, palms cupped loosely upward on his knees, were remarkably large, and looked still strong. It occurred to Rantrelli that this had not always been a holy man. In his youth he had labored hard.
It also occurred to Rantrelli that Zivas Linforrio had been right: There'd been nothing to gain by coming here. True, if the old sage would deign to advise them . . . but Tassi Vermaatio, while still in this world, was no longer of it.
Rantrelli turned away to leave, hoping that a voice from the room would stop him. None did, and he recrossed the roof garden, Linforrio a step behind, and went back down the stairs and onto the street. Raising a foot to the step of his carriage, the fat merchant hoisted himself in, with no hand from Linforrio. Which irritated him slightly, considering Linforrio's fee. But an adept was an adept. They didn't hire out as footmen.
"Can you find the cave of Panni Vempravvo?" he asked his coachman.
"I know where it is, sir. But we can't drive the last little distance. There'll be a walk."
Uphill no doubt, Rantrelli thought. "Take us there," he said.
* * *
By evening, Brokols' headache had passed, though he still looked rather drawn, and he'd started off on a long walk with Cadriio.
Or so he said, Stilfos thought. He hoped Brokols wasn't turning into a drunk. He looked in on the wireless telegraph. Kryger's private instructions had been to let him know any time Brokols had difficulties. Without Brokols finding out, of course, and Brokols hadn't a clue that Stilfos knew code.
Kryger didn't trust Brokols; he'd told Stilfos that—a remarkable thing for a nobleman to say to a commoner about another nobleman. Brokols was too young, unproven, inexperienced, had gotten his post through family influence; and there was a softness about him. So said Kryger. Maybe he was right. Stilfos was nonetheless glad to be stationed with Brokols instead of Kryger, and he hoped his master wasn't going bad.
Meanwhile he wouldn't send a message now. One bad night did not a drunkard make.
He wished he knew for sure, though, who Brokols had been with last night—Cadriio, probably—and whether he was loose-mouthed while drunk.
* * *
It was past midnight, but overcast, which kept it from cooling off. Rantrelli's robe was wet with sweat, and he was limping badly as they walked up to the hut. He'd had to leave the carriage behind again, half a mile behind, and the path had been uphill. Of course.
He'd found Panni's cave earlier, and Panni. It had been a cruel uphill walk; harder than this one. And all Panni had given him was a smile, saying that the country sage was the one he should talk to. Panni hadn't called him a country sage though; he'd simply referred to him by name: Vessto Cadriio, the man who'd visited Rantrelli's home with him. He told him where he lived.
This door too was open. Several men were sleeping inside on mats, and one was meditating—one of the masters, by his robe. Vessto didn't seem to be there. Hesitantly, reluctantly, Rantrelli walked in, approached the master, and spoke softly.
"Master."
The eyes, which had been open all along, shifted focus from infinity to Rantrelli's face, unaccompanied by words.
"Master, I have walked my feet sore, coming to see the sage. Can you tell me where he is?"
The master turned his gaze to one of the sleeping men, a disciple; the disciple stirred, groaned, sat up and looked around. The master's focus returned to wherever it had been before. Rantrelli felt the short hairs crawl on nape, arms, legs. He looked at Linforrio, who went to the disciple.
"We've come to consult with the sage," Linforrio told the man. "Take us to him."
The disciple looked at the silent master, then nodded, got up, and led them back out into darkness. He took them half a dozen yards to the edge of the dense and bristly scrub, where a path led upward. "Up there, meditating," he muttered. "You can't miss him. The path ends where he is." Then the man went back into the hut.
Rantrelli sighed. If he'd known ahead of time . . . but he hadn't.
He'd never get up the narrow path with his robe on, so he shrugged out of it, left it on the ground, and started. All he had on now were sandals and loin cloth; the stiff twigs scratched almost like thorns. The way was nearly as steep as old Tassi's stairs, and the footing for poorer. Even without the robe, he was sweating like a rikksha runner when the path ended at a rock outcrop.
This sage too sat upright on folded legs. Rantrelli stood for a moment, not quite knowing what to do, then took the bull by the horns and spoke.
"Master," he said.
"Yes?" The country sage answered without moving, without turning his face to them.
"We have come for your advice."
Rantrelli felt foolish saying it. To come for advice in the middle of the night, on a matter which could have been addressed the next day. But he'd been shunted from one sage to another, and hadn't expected to be here by either night or day. And it was his way to persist on a course until he'd finished, if at all practical.
"Ask," said Cadriio.
Rantrelli turned to Linforrio, who took it from there.
"It's about the foreign ambassador," Linforrio said, "the one from across the ocean."
Cadriio said nothing.
"I am an adept, employed by this gentleman, Mellvis Rantrelli. I spoke with the foreigner last evening, at a reception in the amirr's palace, casually asking questions about his homeland and what he hoped to accomplish here. His answers were innocuous, but beneath them I perceived his pictures, and more . . . his great king, his 'emperor,' intends to conquer here—the Djezes and Hrumma, all three. He is building a great fleet. And there is more to it than fleet and army—subterfuge is part of it—but the rest was not clear to me."
He gestured at the merchant. "Mellvis Rantrelli is a man who loves Hrum and Hrumma. A man also of considerable resources. You have been to his home, on the first day of Festival; you know him. He would like you to advise him on what to do to forestall the foreign emperor's plan."
Vessto's reply came without a lag. "I have been meditating on it, while I awaited you. I will send a man to Mellvis Rantrelli in the morning or go to him myself, and talk with him."
It was clear that he would say no more, and Linforrio in the lead this time, the two visitors went back down through the scrub, then down the path to the carriage more than half a mile farther. Rantelli's limp had become a hobble, and he carried his robe on his arm for whatever cooling might be gained, sure that at least a few of his scratches must be bleeding.
If he knew we were coming, if he was waiting for us, why didn't he wait at the hut? Rantrelli thought. Or better yet at the end of the road? But when the merchant had settled himself on the carriage seat, it was with satisfaction as well as physical relief. For it seemed to him that the country sage would not only advise, but in some way would act. Meanwhile he, Mellvis Rantrelli, would soak in the hot tub when he got home, have a servant put ointment on the scratches, and then sleep late.