The sanctuary of the White One was unlike any other in Heaven. The north half of the chamber held a simple altar with a shimmering white cross suspended in midair above it, and the south half held a white desk with chairs facing it.
As soon as Corvyn entered, he saw two, and only two, dark objects, one of which was the black trident burned into the white stone above the small altar on the north side of the room. He let his eyes fix on it, waiting to see Jaweau’s reaction.
“I assume that’s what you were looking for.” From where he sat behind the desk amid a cloud of light, now somewhat subdued, Jaweau gestured to the dark gray chair, the only such in the spotless white sanctuary that still felt more like an office or study to Corvyn. “Do you care to tell me why?”
“Because some power burned one into my study. The more I looked at it, the more it annoyed me. So I went looking to see if I had been singled out.” Corvyn seated himself.
“You obviously haven’t.” Jaweau gestured to the black trident, but his seemingly guileless blue eyes remained on Corvyn, his shimmering blond hair faultless.
“And you left it there?”
“For now. Until I’m ready to deal with all that lies behind it. Besides, the only ones who could discover that it’s here would probably already have been visited with their own tridents. Some force greater than mere powers or principalities is behind it.” He smiled at Corvyn. “You’ve obviously discovered something along those lines already.”
Rather than answer the question, even indirectly, Corvyn said, “I’m surprised you’re so accessible.”
“Only to you. Only because it’s far less trouble to see you immediately. If I refused to see you, you’d make your way here anyway … or skulk around Los Santos where your shadows would disturb people more.”
The absolute truth behind Jaweau’s words—not that Jaweau was seldom other than truthful, if sometimes only on a superficial and literal level—bothered Corvyn even as he replied sardonically, “Nothing to tarnish or dim the light of faith.”
“I will convert even you someday, shadowed one, or at least all those in the shadow lands. As you know, I can be most patient.”
Corvyn was well aware of that and nodded.
“And,” continued Jaweau, “the light always prevails, because light holds the truth, and a true belief is truth. It cannot be otherwise.”
“But where there is light, there are always shadows.”
Jaweau seemed to ignore Corvyn’s response as he said, “By the way, did you enjoy Lucifer’s Basement?”
“I enjoyed the music there more than at the Paradise. I’m not terribly partial to hymns.”
“So … what do you want?” asked Jaweau. “Or are you here on behalf of Lucian?”
“You know we don’t talk. We never have.”
“Then perhaps someone else should be hegemon.”
“Anyone else as the head of the House would be intolerable.”
“Except you.”
“You should know more than anyone that I have no interest in that.”
“Not now. Still … others might prefer someone besides Lucian.” Jaweau didn’t look angry, just offered a sad-eyed and superior expression. He waited for Corvyn to speak.
“You know Lucian and I don’t talk. Why don’t you two?” Corvyn knew the answer, but needed to ask the question to avoid revealing that he knew.
“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s up to you.” Corvyn shrugged.
“Let’s just say that it’s far more than a difference of opinion.”
Isn’t that more than enough for you? Corvyn did not voice that thought, but merely nodded in response and waited.
“Where are you headed? Across the central hills and up the lesser rivers?”
For as long as Corvyn had been acquainted with Jaweau, he had referred to the Acheron and its tributaries as the lesser rivers, even though their flows and length were greater than those of the River Sanctus. “What you do think?”
“You’ve obviously seen all that you care to in the Houses on the Greater River. The only real question is whether you end or begin with the Maid.”
“Is that what you think in that devious mind?”
“Devious?” From amid the cloud of light, Jaweau raised a hand, and small lightnings played around his fingertips.
“I didn’t say dark. I said devious.”
“With your reputation, Corvyn, you call me devious?”
Corvyn laughed. “Questions instead of answers.” What he did not say was:
The rhetorical rhymes of olden times
Avoid replies that only can be lies.
“The answers are always in the light, not the shadows. One only has to look. Questions lie in the darkness and shadows.” After the briefest of hesitations, Jaweau added, “And occasionally … information.”
Corvyn managed not to show any reaction to the veiled probe. “You can find information anywhere.”
“Obviously, but information always reveals its source, especially in the light of truth.”
Jaweau always had the skill of conveying righteousness with every word and gesture, and this moment was no different from any other time Corvyn had met with the White One. “We agree about the looking,” answered Corvyn, “but it’s interesting that you only mention the Maid, as if she would ever deign to become involved in something like this.”
“What is ‘this’? How much more do you know than you’re revealing? I have a dark trident here in my sanctuary. Embedded with power and skill. You say you have one, too. From where you’ve been, I gather that there are other tridents. What else do you know besides the presence of the trident?”
“Not much,” replied Corvyn. “What about the Maid?”
“Don’t you find it interesting that you’ve found nothing except the tridents? Is there any other House besides hers that any know so little about?”
Corvyn frowned. “There’s much known about Tian or Sunyata, but little of import.”
“I could say the same about Helios.”
“No, you couldn’t,” countered Corvyn, “not if you stand by your vaunted honesty.”
“It’s too bad you’re not the head of the House of Skeptics.”
“I prefer to remain in the shadows.”
“I’m certain Lucian prefers that as well.” Jaweau paused, then smiled. “In any event, you might find a trip up the Maid’s river to be of interest. Think about it.”
Corvyn could sense that he had learned all that Jaweau would say, so he rose from the dark gray chair that had doubtless tried to discern his thoughts and physiology—and failed.
Jaweau seemed to have come to the same conclusion, because the sanctuary filled with blinding light that concealed the departure of the White One.
Corvyn slipped into the unseen shadows in a far less ostentatious departure.
Yet he wondered, moments later, about Jaweau’s departure. Had the White One even really been there in person? Yet what would he have gained by not being there? It wasn’t as though Corvyn could have threatened him. And why had there been the allusion to information in the shadows unless Jaweau had discovered the signals from the control station?
After more thought, Corvyn moved through the shadows, where he observed, briefly, worshippers in the cathedral being bathed with a warm light of reassurance and certainty based on the One True Faith. Not that all faiths aren’t that one true faith to their believers. Jaweau had simply gone to greater lengths to reinforce that certainty. At least from what Corvyn observed. Although Brother Paul has tended to dispatch Gabriel’s doves to remind straying believers. Corvyn just wished Gabriel hadn’t sent the doves after him. The birds deserved better than the Sands of Time.
From the cathedral proper, he used the shadows to pass through the chambers that held the quantum intelligences deep beneath the cathedral, chambers holding only a few organic intellects, to scrutinize the continuous collection of data and visuals. Given his observations and the myriad of
technologies, some of which employed quantum shifting, it just might be possible that Jaweau had discovered a certain signal and the control station that it identified. That was not the best of omens. Yet, without investigating every last console and quantum intelligence, there was no way to tell. At the moment, without proof, he could not transgress certain ancient limits. Observations from the shadows were one thing; physical entry and systems invasion were another, as had been imprinted on his very being.
From beneath the cathedral, he returned to Jaweau’s sanctuary, but the White One was definitely gone and nowhere close enough to sense.
It seemed as though Jaweau did not wish to spend more time with Corvyn, which led to a variety of suspicions, even if the White One had never liked to spend much time with Corvyn.
So Corvyn began a wider search of Los Santos, always from the shadows.
That search took the remainder of the day, and he found no trace of Jaweau in the city itself. Corvyn saw little point in taking the time necessary to cover all of the lands belonging to the House. In that amount of time he could visit other Houses, quite a few of them. And Jaweau might have used the shadows to travel beyond his own domain.
But you may have to return here.
That was also possible, and more than likely, but it was six in the afternoon and Corvyn was tired. Searching from the shadows was exhausting, and a good dinner at the Paradise followed by a good night’s sleep, hopefully without nightmares, had come to sound very appealing before he resumed his search.
The glittered dross the pirates took
beguiles not the crudest rook.
25
After deciding that at the present time, and for various reasons, there was little point to remaining in Los Santos, Corvyn rose the next morning and prepared to leave the Domus Aurea. Well before eight he rode the electrobike down the Avenue of Redemption to the Port of Hope, where the River Sanctus was indeed wider than the Jordan, and where Corvyn waited almost an hour for the ferry to pull into the slip. When the ferry arrived, Corvyn smiled. It had slipped his mind that, unlike every other conveyance in Los Santos, the ferry was red and gold because the gaming salons across the river in Portroyal owned it.
Had it been late afternoon, or even late at night, the wait would have been much shorter because more ferries were available to accommodate those frequenting the variety of gambling establishments beyond Jaweau’s reach. As Corvyn rode the electrobike onto the ferry, along with perhaps thirty others who had been waiting, most of them on foot, he recalled the myth that the Lances of Heaven had destroyed the angels of vengeance Jaweau had dispatched to destroy the gaming salons and their money changers. The events of the mythic story had never transpired, although the Lances of Heaven would certainly have been unleashed had Jaweau been foolish enough to send any forces.
After only a few minutes, the boarding ramp lifted, and the ferry left the slip, churning northeast across the river.
Corvyn felt both worried and glad to leave Los Santos. He had left matters unresolved, but knew that without visiting other hegemons he would not find the evidence required for him to act. He also hoped to find either the poetess or the singer, preferably both, before returning. Or at least discover enough to ascertain that neither bore directly on the matter of the tridents.
He stood beside the bike near the end of the ferry closest to Portroyal, looking out across the deep blue waters of the Sanctus. Colorful structures clustered together on the northeast side of the river above the stone river walls with low rolling hills beyond. Portroyal was more than a town but less than a city, and while geographically close to Los Santos, it was actually under the governance of Helios. It was also one of the older towns on Heaven, having sprung up soon after the establishment of Los Santos, as soon as it was clear that the lands on which it was established would be governed by the City of Skeptics—and thus could offer gaming and certain other … services … not openly permitted in Los Santos.
In less than a quarter hour, the ferry neared the black stone river walls of Portroyal and slid easily into the one open slip of the five in a row—the others being occupied by other off-duty ferries, all in gold and some other brilliant color, emerald green, magenta, fuchsia, and lazuli blue.
As the ramp extended to the dark gray stone pavement leading from the slip, Corvyn studied the buildings set higher on the gentle slope. The most prominent was the Gold Doubloon. Keeping with the ancient antecedents of Portroyal, the black-walled structure flew an enormous black flag displaying the skull and crossbones, while behind the salon a small hill designed to resemble a volcano occasionally belched steam. Corvyn decided to begin his search there, since the harpist had been familiar with the singer and since gaming establishments had always been a place of employment for entertainers for as long as there had been those who gamed.
He was among the first to leave the ferry, easing the electrobike over the ramp and along the short lane to the boulevard paralleling the Sanctus. After making three turns and close to a mille later, he guided the bike into the underground parking spaces of the Gold Doubloon, secured it in a bike locker, and made his way to the lift, which he took to the main level. He stepped out into an area that appeared to be stone-walled, but the ashlar masonry was set far too irregularly for the precision dimensions of stone blocks of Navaho sandstone, as opposed to the volcanic stone that might have been used in the original Portroyal. Nor would there have been the black-trimmed crimson hangings framing the alcoves in which stood statues of piratical figures, none of which Corvyn recognized, not that there was any reason why he should have.
He could have used the shadows, but it would have taken more time and effort than being direct. He merely approached a man dressed in inauthentic pirate garb. “I’d like some information, please. I’m looking for the entertainment director.”
The young and fresh-faced functionary took in Corvyn’s shimmering grays, then paused, clearly sensing that he was more than he appeared. “Ah…”
“I’m not looking for employment, but for information. Don’t misdirect me. That wouldn’t be advisable.” Corvyn smiled pleasantly.
“Yes, sir. Ah … that would be Maynard Roberts. Take the small lift around the corner and go up one level.”
“Thank you.”
The small lift required a code, which Corvyn bypassed. When he emerged, the image of a pirate, if a man in a tattered thobe carrying an antique slugthrower rifle could be called a pirate, appeared and asked, “Your business, sir?”
“Entertainment, Maynard Roberts.”
“The third door on the right.”
The door was locked, and after sensing someone inside, Corvyn used the shadows to slip beyond the closed door.
Roberts looked up from the series of images projected before him in puzzlement for an instant before the images vanished.
“I’m investigating a matter. I was hoping you might help.” Corvyn smiled warmly. “I’m trying to trace a singer. He’s dark-haired and plays a rather unusual acoustical instrument, something you might call a lutelin or lutar, a cross between a guitar and a lute.” Corvyn didn’t want to explain that lutes and guitars were essentially variations on the same instrumental theme. So he didn’t.
Roberts frowned. “What did he do?”
“He seems to be gathering those who love his music and then moving on. We’re interested.”
“I can’t say I’ve run across him or even heard of someone like that.”
Corvyn could sense both the honesty and the disinterest in the other’s voice, but asked, “How long have you been in entertainment here?”
“A little over eleven years.”
“Thank you. That’s all I need to know. I appreciate your time.” With that Corvyn turned and left the small office, conventionally, making his way to the lift, and from there out of the gaming salon.
From the Gold Doubloon, he proceeded to the Silver Reef, with a similar lack of results, and thence to Sinaia, the Estoril, Wolfwoods, the Casino Wiesbaden, where no
ne of those dealing with entertainment had ever heard of such a singer.
The seventh establishment he visited was the Dragonara, where he met with the assistant to the entertainment director and asked the same questions. This time the answer was different.
“We never had anyone like that, but I think there was someone like that at Lasseters. You might ask Robyn Lezli there.”
“Thank you.” Corvyn nodded politely and departed, again conventionally, having no immediate need of the shadows. Equally conventionally, he and the electrobike made their way to Lasseters, where he met with the brown-eyed and red-haired Robyn Lezli and posed the same question.
“Singer with a lutar?” Lezli laughed. “That had to be Bran Denu. He played here until two years ago in the tea garden. Late-afternoon gigs. Good voice, the pleasant sort. Nothing special, but the older women liked him.”
Bran? Corvyn hid the wince he felt, for, if that name had been chosen with forethought, matters were worse than he had thought, for “bran” was the word for “raven” in an ancient language, and he suspected that he knew all too well what “denu” meant. Lure or not, you still need to find him. “How long was he here?”
“Three, maybe four years.” She shrugged. “I thought he’d stay longer. He was a good fit. Warm voice, not pushed. He liked people and seemed to enjoy what he did. He didn’t seem to want to go anywhere else, and that was fine by me.”
“Why did he leave, then?”
“He said he’d discovered that he wanted to use his music for a greater cause. When I asked him what that might be, he just smiled and said that if he was successful, I’d find out in time, and if he wasn’t, then that was probably for the best.”
“Did you think that a rather odd response?”
The redhead smiled. “Who am I to say? Most musicians, the good ones, especially singers, aren’t like other people. They’re all a little driven, some more than a little. Some even more than that.”
“Did he mention what this greater cause might be?”
“Something about ending the unending cycle of goodness repressed.”
Quantum Shadows Page 16
