Anderson, Poul - Novel 18 Read online

  Ercer en-Havan gave him a look he couldn’t read, sullen or sly or half afraid or scornful or what? The Wiseman was middle-aged, his forked beard dark but wrinkles deep in the yellowish face, around delicate nose and mouth, forming a network across hands whose rose-painted fingernails he bridged point to point. The robe of his order, Gray, swathed him from curl-toed shoes to thrown-back hood. On his chain of office hung a smoke crystal sphere engraved with a global map so old that a naked eye could see how, later, Ice had waxed and oceans waned. He was Holy Councilor for the World.

  Sidfr thought of him in prosiac Barommian, as the city-state’s head of civil affairs. That made Ercer the last of the lords spiritual who had anything real to do. As for the Holy Councilor of the Godhood, religious matters in Arvanneth had long ceased to be much more than intrigues between Temples. The mass of the population was sunken in superstition and corruptions of faith, or in unbelief, or in the worship of strange gods. As for the Holy Councilor of the Woe, conquest by the Empire had removed his responsibility for military business and left him simply a courtesy tide.

  Presiding over this triumvirate, the Grand Wiseman of the Council was a figurehead. His predecessor had led resistance to the Imperials, but conveniently died in honorable detention soon after they entered. Sidfr had never asked for details, nor perhaps had Yurussun Soth- Zora. A hint, dropped to Rahfdian subordinates who were skilled in such things, would have sufficed. The city abbots had elected as their new head of state that harmless dodderer whom the conquerors tactfully suggested.

  Thus Ercer en-Havan was the logical spokesman for the former rulers of Arvanneth. Doubtless he called secret meetings of his colleagues which debated what united front they should present to the foreign overlords. And this past year and a half he had done well by the native upper class. His blend of respectfulness, sound advice, and hauteur too subtle ever to be called arrogance, had won concession after concession.

  Today’s word, though, was astounding.

  “The Captain General knows we would never presume to question an edict from the Glorious Throne.” His voice slithered like a snake across the silken carpet. “Yet—forgive a search for elucidation—is his proposed campaign the direct will of the Emperor, or is it an ... executive decision ... made by lower and conceivably fallible officials—say, on the provincial level?”

  Sidfr barked a laugh. “You ask, Ercer, if I alone order it Or if not, how high are the heads over which you must appeal to get it countermanded?”

  “No, no! God, Who is in all things and above all things, give His grace to my truthtelling. The Captain General and—” tiniest hesitation, barest flick of lidded eye across Yurussun—“the Imperial Voice, between them represent the Glorious Throne. Their mutual will is not to be gainsaid. But they have shown themselves to be of that intelligence which is ready to hear counsel: counsel which, may I dare remind them, comes from those whose forebears also had ... experience in empire.”

  Yurussun sat unstirring, countenance and body alike. Perhaps, as a Philosopher trained, he meditated on the Nine Correct Principles, off which an infinitely more gross insult than Ercer’s ought to glide. Having given his co-governor several seconds in which to respond, Sidfr made answer:

  “Well, your Wisdom, I will confirm what you have reckoned out. The Northlands are next. Or I might say they were always first. No slur intended, Arvanneth is a rare jewel on the Emperor’s brow, but from a strategic viewpoint this territory is more a way station than a goal in itself.” He gestured outward. “Half a continent yonder!”

  “We know.” In that phrase did Ercer again recall to them how many centuries his chroniclers had watched peoples wash to and fro across the world. “Ever has Rahid desired those plains for its farmers. Lately Baromm has reached the edge of them, and desires grazing for its flocks. The Divine Mandate has passed to the descendants of Skeyrad, making conquest no mere decision, but a destiny. Yes. However, may I in my ignorance ask why the Imperial forces do not simply move straight north from the Khadrahad Valley?”

  “Because that was tried again and again, including under the present dynasty some ten years back, and never worked ... as a scholar should know.” Sidfr suppressed his irritation. “A drive up the Jugular, now, can split the barbarians in two, cut off their metal supply and foreign trade, provide us strong bases in fertile country from which we can reduce them in detail. Later, when they’re weakened, will come the direct push out of Rahid.”

  Ercer maintained a waiting silence. Sidfr’s fingertips drummed on his chair arm, until it burst from him: “Look here! Let me give you a speech, starting with the obvious. That’s sometimes harder to see than the esoteric is.

  “Of your three levels of dominance in Arvanneth, naturally your secular Lords are embittered. We’ve pushed them down to being plantation owners with pedigrees nobody will care about next generation; for we will raise and command the rural levies. When we open the Northlands to settlement, your old noble families will get competition in food and cotton marts. No wonder they complain, conspire, and squirm.

  “But why do you in the Temples join them? You must likewise have listened to the Guilds. You know how on the whole, more and more, your merchants are glad of the Empire. It’s breaking the crust of law and custom that bound them. It’s widening and making safer their trade. As they win money, they win power. They don’t mind in the least if that’s at the expense of a class which sneered at them aforetime.

  “They are the future. You can be too. The Council, the Orders that elect it and staff its offices, the Temples that nurture the Orders—all the Wise can play a high part in the Empire. A higher part in fact, if not in name, than what you had before—” Sidfr checked himself from using a Barommian expression: “when you were chief ghosts in a graveyard.” Rather, he finished, “But for that, you must change with the times. Live and prosper with the Guilds, not crumble away with the Lords.” “It is not always well to change with the times, Captain General,” Ercer said slowly. “Those nations which did it too readily are gone and forgotten. Arvanneth has abided.” His tone became practical. “Yes, we have heard out various Guildsmen. Some do fear trouble. For instance, their metal trade with the Rogaviki is immemorial. Institutions have evolved around it. To break those arrangements and agreements will dispossess many, and stop the flow.”

  “For a while,” Sidfr snapped. “You’ve heard how we’re working on means, like subsidies, for preventing undue distress. And soon we’ll start the flow afresh, beyond what those scattered barbarians ever cared to bring you. Most merchants grow content after I explain.” Ercer’s regard changed somehow. Was it even a little frightened? His speech dropped until the wind beyond the panes well-nigh drowned it. “Do you truly propose ... going the whole way ... to Unknown Roong?”

  “Maybe. My plans are still on the forge, being reshaped as I get information.” Sidfr leaned back. “In due course, yes, Roong will absolutely be the Emperor’s. Just when or how is a matter for his servants to determine. My basic scheme, a campaign through the Jugular Valley, has been approved. I have broad discretion. I could actually decide it’s unfeasible. So, your Wisdom, you may present whatever arguments you want, to me.”

  Ercer paused before he said, “The Captain General is a sagacious man, ready to hear the very humblest.” His failure to include Yurussun did not escape Sidir. The Rahfdian kept impassive. “Let me say merely this. His plan is bold, worthy of his grandsires whose valor brought oneness and peace back to the Empire. Yet... conceivably too bold? We Wise oppose nothing in principle. Nevertheless, having been made subjects of the Glorious Throne, we share a right and duty to advise wherever we can. And what we say is, you should not attempt further expansion this year. Nor the next, nor the next. The Northlands have waited a long while; they can wait a while more. Ancient, intricate Arvanneth is what needs continued attention. Soldiers alone cannot hold it; statecraft is required. In due respect, I remind the Captain General how many, many potentates throughout these thousands of years believed
they had made Arvanneth theirs.”

  “You fear, if I take most of my forces north—what? Rebellion? Who would be so crazy, knowing I would return to punish them?”

  “And the Orders will, of course, lay ban and curse on whoever speaks sedition. But ... the Seafolk have numerous ships in nearby waters.”

  “Merchantmen, explorers, making trouble for ours among the islands, quarrels that sometimes lead to fights—yes, I know. However, I know too that they can’t by themselves take any defended place hereabouts; and they have no allies ashore. Besides, the Seniory of Killimaraich is not composed of fools. If anything, Eaching tries to restrain the lesser Seafolk nations, lest a war with the Empire be provoked. They don’t feel ready for one ... yet.”

  “If your army should suffer disaster, though—Captain General, Roong is not called Unknown for nothing. We in Arvanneth, whose dominion once reached there, we ourselves have scant records left of it, besides myths and mysteries.”

  “You’ve never thought of returning. Nor, pardon my bluntness, are your scholars interested in acquiring new knowledge. I am. It goes well.” Sidfr drew breath. “I told you, maybe I won’t strike all the way to Roong this year. I am not as rash as you seem to think. I’ll not risk my men, my own Bright Lances, for vanity’s sake.”

  Ercer gave him a close look. “But you do intend to risk yourself,” he murmured. “Can I persuade you, at the minimum, not to do that? Send your army if you must. But you stay here. Continue your work among us.”

  Taken aback, Sidfr exclaimed, “What? You want to keep me, whose horse left red tracks up the stairs of your Crown Temple?”

  “You govern sternly but justly. Why, alone the criminals whom you have hunted down and executed put us in your debt.”

  “I do not govern by myself.” Sidfr spoke with sharpness, for he thought Ercer’s baiting of Yurussun had better cease. “My task is military. Well, Arvanneth and its hinterland are pacified. My duty reaches elsewhere. Civil government lies with my viceregal colleague, the Imperial Voice.”

  “True.” Millennia of an ingrown, stratified society had taught Ercer an urbanity which could scoff. “Still, two such great men would not be coequal were their tasks not intertwined. Let me list how much remains to be done by the Captain General in person.”

  For the first moment since he had ceremoniously greeted the Councilor, Yurussun took a part. Beneath softness, his tone crackled: “Your Wisdom, I assume you would go into endless detail. I fear we have no time for that today. Other people expect to see us. And in any event, such things are best submitted first as written reports, facts and figures which we can study at length. If you will do that, your Wisdom, we will receive you here for further discussion when circumstances permit.”

  Hatred smoldered in Ercer’s gaze. He dropped lids over it, touched forehead to fingertips in deference, and I said, “I realize the Captain General and his colleague I are busy. I will prepare the letter the Voice demands, as fast as scribes can take dictation. Perhaps my next interview should be with the Captain General only. There is no reason for me to trouble the august Voice, whom indeed I did not anticipate finding here. May God reveal us truth.”

  Rituals of good-bye followed. At last a nacre-covered door swung shut, and Arvanneth’s masters were alone in the Moon Chamber.

  Sidfr could sit no longer. He sprang erect, prowled among furnishings, back and forth before a marble hearth, until he crossed the floor to stand at a window, thumbs hooked in belt. This room was on the fourth story of the Golin Palace and the window was large. Thus he saw widely over the city he had conquered.

  On his left he glimpsed the Gardens of Elzia, surrounding Lake Narmu where the waterways met. On his right he spied similarly a bit of the arches carrying the Patrician Bridge (for courtiers five thousand years dust) from this building, above the New and Royal Canals and the common life of the metropolis, to the Grand Arena. Ahead he viewed a plaza surrounded by marble facades which remained impressive though time had blurred their columns and blotted their friezes. It had likewise, even in this wet climate, put a purple iridescence in the glass through which he looked, so that he saw the world strangely hued.

  Otherwise it was a world of ordinary bustle. Several major streets emptied into the square. Beyond the enclosing public structures reached plain, flat-roofed shops and tenements, generally of brown brick. In front of them huddled booths where ragged folk sold tawdry wares. Between them passed humans, sparrows, pigeons, now and then a gaunt dog or laden wagon.

  No soldiers were in sight, apart from an occasional native militiaman whose striped kilt, below a green tunic, identified his unit. Sidfr was careful to keep his army as inconspicuous as possible. Male civilians wore their tunics longer, to the knees. A majority had shed the hose, boots, and cowled cloaks of winter, and bore sandals on their feet, knitted caps on their heads. The long-tressed women wore brief, provocative versions of the same. Materials were gaudy and a great deal of cheap jewelry glittered. Exceptions were the old, who muffled themselves in drab clothes and dignity, and monks and nuns of the four Orders of Wisdom, Red, White, Gray, Black.

  They were a short and slender race, these Arvan- nethans, dark-haired, dark-eyed, amber-skinned, fine-featured. Their movements were usually quick and graceful, their gestures lively. The weight of a civilization millennia petrified did not burden the chaotic, mostly illiterate mass of its Low. Sidfr could just catch the marketplace noise, footfall, hoof-clatter, talk, laughter, a reed flute played for a dancer, the groan of an oxcart wheel. He could imagine smoke, incense, dung, dream weed, a vendor’s roasting ears of com, sweat, perfume, like a shimmer across the odors from canals and swamps. But thunder and wind were overriding these, and people thinned out beneath the lightning. A few raindrops blew past, scouts for storm.

  He grew aware that Yurussun had joined him, and turned. “Well,” he asked, “what do you think about our visitor?” Immediately he realized that, though he spoke Rahfdian, he had allowed Barommian brusqueness to shape it. The Devil Mare kick me for a fool! he thought. / don’t want him insulted any more this day. He and I have enough trouble working together as it is.

  Expressionless, the other replied, “Ever oftener, I believe we are mistaken in trying to conciliate those so-called Wise.” No matter how levelly he spoke, his blunt phrasing came as a shock.

  “What would you do instead?” Sidfr challenged.

  “That was a rhetorical question, Captain General. You know. Dissolve the Council, discharge its underlings, rule Arvanneth directly. Put the Temple leaders in preventive detention. Watch their lower ranks, and punish every least recalcitrance promptly and mercilessly. Prepare the stage for an eventual confiscation of the Temples’ wealth. It is enormous. The Imperial treasury can well use it.”

  “Hai, I thought I scented such ideas burrowing in you. No. We’d need a swarm of imported administrators, who’d not just arrive ignorant about governing this country but would find bedlam. Not to speak of ten or twenty regiments tied down to control resentment. It’d delay conquering the Northlands for years.”

  “Ercer was right about that much. The conquest has waited. It can wait.”

  “It will not.” Sadfr tried to speak mildly. “Yurussun, you don’t sound like a disciple of the Tolan Philosophy. Quite aside from practical politics, you should be the first to preserve the world’s most venerable society.”

  “Venerable no longer.” Anger broke loose. “Dead. Nothing but dry bones. Let us give them decent burial and forget them.”

  “Ah-h-h,” Sidfr breathed. “I see what flogs you.”

  They stood confronted.

  Yurussun Soth-Zora was the taller despite age having stooped him, thinned hair and limbs, whitened the beard that fell over his breast, turned a fair skin into brown-spotted parchment. The Rahfdian features jutted prominent as ever, and behind gold-rimmed spectacles his eyes were still like polished lapis lazuli. He wore the flat black cap of a graduate Philosopher, upon it the silver badge of his Zabeth; a green robe wit
h ivory buttons; red sash and slippers; purse for writing materials. His serpent-headed staff was a sign of respect-worthy years rather than a support.

  Sidfr, son of Rael of Clan Chalif, had more height and less breadth than usual among Barommians. (But then, a grandmother of his was Rahfdian, taken for a concubine when Skeyrad’s hordes first overran her land. Not until later did the horsemen from Haamandur cease thinking of the Empire as booty and begin thinking of it as heritage.) He was thickly muscled, however, and at forty-five had lost no springiness. His legs were straight, not bowed, because he had spent only part of his boyhood in the ancestral uplands; the rest of it, he was getting a civilized education. His beardless hatchet face was red-bronze, eyes narrow and dark, midnight hair streaked by meteors. He cut it short in the Rahfdian style. At his right hip was the emblem of his Imperial authority, a dagger in a crystal sheath to show its damascened blade, which dated from the second of the Three Radiant Dynasties, twenty centuries past. But around his neck twined, in gold because he could afford that, the Torque of Manhood, which none save adult male Barommians might bear. And he wore close-fitting shirt and trousers of course blue cloth, tooled leather boots, horsehide bolero—nomad’s garb.

  “I do,” he said. “Shall I tell you, Yurussun?” For best I speak plainly now, before strife worsens between us. “You knew from chronicles how Arvanneth first brought civilization to Rahfd. But such a long, long time had passed. Arvanneth was a shell already when the Ayan Imperium flourished along the Khadrahad. Your race saw itself as the flower of the ages. Then you came here and found a city that was great before the Ice moved south, and remembered that greatness, and scorned your nation for a pack of yokels who, luckily, would soon break back down into savagery as so many before them have done. You must live with this, day by day, month by month. In buildings and books everywhere around you, in the very real learning of the Wise, you saw it wasn’t an altogether empty boast. Yes ... Ercer and the rest soon discovered how to taunt you.” Yurussun flushed. “What of you, Captain General?”