Seeker

by William Nicholson

  She had no regrets about the loss of her escort. Nor was she afraid to continue her journey alone. She had no fear of travelling spikers, and as for robbers, she trusted her acute senses to keep her out of trouble. But with Barban had gone all her money. All she had left were the clothes she was wearing and the little twist of lamb's wool that had been her father's parting gift.

  She took the wool out of her pocket now and pressed it to her cheek.

  "I'm sorry to lose your money, Papa," she whispered. "I know how hard you worked for it. But you've no cause to worry about me. I'll find my way to Anacrea, one way or another. And then I'll be with Mama again."

  PART TWO

  The Surrogate

  They are watching.

  Day by day their bodies grow weaker.

  Day by day their minds grow stronger.

  Their will reaches out to the little people.

  Their will finds those who know how to obey.

  For the old ones, this is a matter of life and death.

  Their life. Everyone else's death.

  11. Hate Training

  "UH UH! WHO DO WE HATE?"

  Bam-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam!

  "Nomana! Nomana!"

  Ba-ba-bam! Ba-ba-bam!

  Radiant Vision, son of Radiant Harvest, inheritor of the imperial throne, priest-king and ruler of the empire of Radiance, and most favored son of the Great Power above, stood with his legs apart, beating with his fists on a drum, his face red and sweating with effort, and yelled at the top of his voice.

  "Uh! Uh! Who will we kill?"

  Bam-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam!

  "Nomana! Nomana!"

  Ba-ba-bam! Ba-ba-bam!

  Only one other person was in the room with the king, and that was his personal secretary, Soren Similin. He was a strikingly ugly young man. With his long narrow nose, his bulging eyes, and his prominent ears, his face looked as if it had been put together out of spare parts, none of which matched. But when he spoke, as he did now, it was in an unexpectedly sweet and musical voice.

  "Jab out their eyes, Radiance."

  The king took his cue, hammering on the drum.

  "Uh! Uh! Jab out their eyes!"

  Bam-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam!

  "Nomana die! Nomana die!"

  Ba-ba-ba-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam!

  This hate training was the secretary's own idea, introduced by him shortly after his arrival at the court of Radiance. Similin was an outlander, raised in the poor north, with none of the rights and privileges of the citizens of the empire. His rapid rise to favor with the king had astonished all at court. The High Priest in particular had done his best to warn the king against putting too much trust in the ugly young man.

  "We know nothing about him, Radiance. We have no idea what has brought him here or what it is he wants."

  "Yes, we do," retorted the king. "He wants the Nomana destroyed. It's no secret."

  "But why, Radiance?"

  "They refuse to worship the Radiant Power. They think they're superior to everyone else. But I mean to teach them who's superior!"

  The High Priest frowned and shook his head.

  "We have found it best to leave the Nomana alone, Radiance. They do have powers—"

  "Tricks!" shouted the king. "Tricks! I'll show them tricks!"

  So the High Priest and the rest of the court were obliged to look on as the seed planted by the ugly young outlander blossomed into an obsession with the king. Whatever doubts and questions they had about this, they had to admit that the hate training did wonders for the king's morale. He emerged from each session glowing and invigorated.

  "Uh! Uh! Rip out their hearts!"

  Bam-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam!

  "Nomana die! Suffer and die!"

  Ba-ba-ba-bam! Ba-ba-ba-bam!

  Within three weeks of Soren Similin's arrival in Radiance, the priest-king declared it was his imperial will that Anacrea be destroyed.

  On the day that this new policy was made public, Soren Similin returned to his modest quarters and dropped to his knees. He touched his forehead to the ground and murmured aloud.

  "Have I done well, mistress?"

  You have done well, came the reply that only he could hear.

  "All that I do, I do for you."

  You are the cup into which we pour our wine.

  "I brim with your fullness."

  The harvest time approaches. The little people will kneel before you and call you their lord.

  "My power will be your power, mistress. I am your surrogate. You command me as the heart commands the hand."

  Your obedience is pleasing to us, said the soft sweet voice.

  "Am I deserving, mistress?"

  You are deserving.

  Then the sweetness came upon him. Swooning in bliss, he received his reward.

  The time of the evening offering was now approaching. The sun was descending over the Great Basin Lake. In the royal temple of Radiance, the priests and the court officials were assembling to perform their ritual duties. The keeper of the Corona was dressing the sunflower heads in the great fan-shaped structure that would sit on the king's shoulders. The royal wives were entering, one by one, each one shepherding her single child. The little procession of three crimson-robed priests, tinkling their little silver bells, was on its way to the holding tank to collect the evening's tribute. And six levels below, in the temple square, the broad plaza that ran down to the shores of the lake, the people of Radiance were gathering to gossip and spend their money on the trinkets for sale from the wandering vendors.

  The High Priest, arrayed in his golden robe, waited impatiently for the hate session to end. He could hear the king's great bellows of rage coming through the closed doors. Unaware that he was doing so, the High Priest curled his lips and murmured, "Dangerous nonsense!" and, "Ugly, ugly!"

  A bloodcurdling yell from beyond the doors signalled the climax of the session. The doors opened and the king came hobbling out. He was overweight, and his knee joints gave him pain; but for all that, he was beaming.

  "We'll see them squirm yet," he said, rubbing his hands. "We've a surprise in store for them! Eh, Similin?"

  "Yes, Radiance," said the secretary, following a few paces behind with lowered gaze.

  "Let it be soon!" said the king.

  "Not long now, Radiance," murmured the secretary.

  The king nodded at his wives, who all dimpled and dipped as he passed, and reaching out his arms on either side, he prepared to be dressed in his ceremonial garments. The High Priest spoke low to the secretary.

  "What is this surprise?"

  "I am no more than the king's humble servant," said Soren Similin.

  "Something to do with the Nomana, I suppose."

  "Forgive me, Holiness. The king commands my silence."

  The tinkle of silver bells sounded again as the crimson-robed priests passed by, now leading the evening's tribute: a man dressed in white, his eyes blank, his steps uncertain. The priests held him by the arms on each side, to help him on his way. The High Priest saw, and shook his head. The tribute had been doped again. Gone were the glory days when the tributes were prisoners captured in war, who went to their deaths with their heads held high, screaming defiance at the world.

  As for the king's secretary and his pious silence, the High Priest reckoned he could guess the secret easily enough. The only surprise the king could be so eager for these days was news of the destruction of the Nomana. How this froglike young man could give the king hope of such a thing was another matter. The Nomana were not so easy to destroy.

  The keeper of the Cape now presented the heavy gold-embroidered garment to the Handler of the Cape, who placed it on the king's back. Then the keeper of the Corona gave the heavy object to the Handler of the Corona, who lowered it onto the king's shoulders. The stiff fanlike structure rose up behind the king's head, giving him a magnificent halo of fresh-picked sunflower heads, all golden petals and honey-colored seeds.

  The High Priest checked that the tribute was now i
n place, then he gave a sign to the temple choir. The choristers were lined up at the back of the broad open terrace outside, where the king would shortly present himself to his people. The choir now began to sing, their faces to the setting sun as it sank towards the waters of the Great Basin Lake.

  "O Radiance! O Radiance!

  Our lord, our life, our light!

  Receive from us! Receive from us!

  Our tribute for this night!"

  Down in the packed square below, the people stopped chattering and turned their attention to the temple rock. This massive granite shaft towered five hundred feet above the lake and leaned a little outward over the water, towards the west. All up its eastern side the great temple had been built, terrace after terrace, rising to the highest level, which was just below the summit of the rock. There on the summit stood the three red-robed priests, holding the tribute between them. Soon now, when the setting sun touched the water, the offering would be made. Then night would fall. But the people of Radiance need have no fear: so long as the offering was made, the sun would rise again. The Radiant Power would shine on them and bring them riches and victories. Had it not been so for a hundred years? Was Radiance not the greatest power in the land?

  The royal party now emerged onto the high terrace, to cheers from the people below. The king waved to the crowd, then took up his ritual position, facing the setting sun, and spread his arms. This caused the gold cape to open out like the wings of a celestial bird, glowing gold and scarlet in the river of light cast by the sun over the surface of the lake.

  The choir sang ecstatically.

  "O Radiance! O Radiance!

  This life we humbly give!

  Return to us! Return to us!

  Through you alone we live!"

  The sun touched the water. The priests on the top of the high rock shuffled the tribute closer to the edge. The evening was warm and still, with barely a breath of wind.

  The king's secretary stood at the back of the crowd of priests and officials, near the king's bodyguard, who was one of the massive armored axers. The bodyguard had seen it all hundreds of times, and he was openly yawning. Similin was paying very little attention himself. His mind was wrestling with a particularly complex problem.

  Soren Similin liked problems. He had a subtle and powerful brain, and he was confident that he would find a solution. The harder the problem, the more satisfaction he got from solving it, because it raised him all the higher above the little people. But for his brain, he would still be one of them. His father, and his father's father before him, had been poor village weavers. As a child, Soren Similin had watched as the merchants came to buy, and he had seen the way his father sat with lowered eyes, and the merchants cheated him, and his father had said nothing. That was when Soren had known that his father was one of the little people.

  Then everything had changed. He had been chosen.

  When the voice first sounded in his head, he had not been surprised.

  You are cleverer than those round you, the voice had said. You deserve more. Help us, and you will get all you could ever desire.

  He never knew who it was who instructed him; only that they were superior to himself and to everyone he had ever met. Their only limitation, it seemed, was the weakness of their bodies.

  With our bodies we can do little, he was told. With our intelligence, we can do much. Soon now all this will change and we will become perfect.

  Until that day, they worked to achieve their goal through surrogates. Similin had no idea how many surrogates there were apart from himself, nor what the goal was towards which he worked. All he knew was that he obeyed them, and he was rewarded: not only with the sweet bliss he had learned to crave, but with worldly success. His unseen mistress had guided each step of his journey and smoothed away all obstacles in his path. Now here he was, at the heart of the court of Radiance, on the point of accomplishing his greatest mission. He would solve the last outstanding problem and so would please the one he sought above all others to please, and she would raise him to power.

  Now the crowd in the square below fell silent, and the voice of a solo singer rang out over the golden roofs of the city.

  "Receive our tribu-u-ute!"

  The red-robed priests led the drooping man in white to the towering rock's edge. Here they released their hold on his arms. The tribute must never be pushed. He must be seen to go of his own volition to his death.

  As the sun sank into the lake, the tribute crumpled to his knees. From this position, slowly, unstoppably, he toppled over the edge and turned over and over as he fell.

  The solo singer sang.

  "Return to us!"

  The tribute fell down and down, black against the red sky. His arms flailed out, but he made no cry. The timing was perfect. Just as the last of the setting sun dropped below the horizon, the tribute struck the water with a smacking hiss. Then came the sound of a more muffled impact, as he smashed onto the rocks just below the water's surface. A low sigh, like a passing breeze, rose from the crowd. Another day was ended. Another tribute paid. The dawn was secured, the sun would rise again. Life would go on.

  The people started to leave.

  As the royal children filed out with their mothers, one of them said, in a plaintive whine, "I didn't see the blood! I never see the blood!"

  Soren Similin, standing beside the broad open stairway that led down the levels, heard this complaint and was struck by a sudden, brilliant idea. Of course! he thought to himself. All this time the solution had been staring him in the face.

  The king called out to the Handler of the Corona.

  "Get this damn thing off me! It tickles my neck."

  The Handler of the Corona, a wealthy oil merchant proud to perform this ceremonial task, hurried forward with hands outstretched.

  "Coming, Radiance!"

  As he unbuckled the Corona, he murmured in the king's ear,

  "It will be my name day soon, Radiance. I have the honor of supplying the tribute for that day."

  "I hope he'll be an improvement on the riffraff they drag out these days," said the king. "They think I don't know they're drugged, but I can always tell."

  "I believe you'll be proud of my offering," said the oil merchant.

  "Let's hope so. I've had enough droopy tributes."

  "My name is Cheerful Giver, Radiance," said the merchant, not sure that the king knew who he was.

  "Good, good."

  Waving a hand vaguely behind him as he went, the king hobbled off to his private quarters, one level below. His secretary waited for him to go, his mind filled by the idea that had just come to him. It was a simple and elegant solution, and as such, profoundly satisfying. And if it worked, he would soon be able to deliver the first of the mighty shocks that would raise him to glory.

  12. The Secret Weapon

  THE GREAT TEMPLE OF RADIANCE WAS BUILT ON SIX levels, rising from the big public sanctuary at the bottom, through royal and priestly offices and quarters, to the grand terrace at the top. The temple was a complete world in itself. There were kitchens here, and storerooms packed with provisions; armories, where smiths worked before blazing furnaces; wash yards and laundry yards; slaughter yards for meat; and dairy yards for milk and cheese. There was a tailor and a barber and a hatmaker for the king's wives. And up at the highest level, hidden away at the back but conveniently placed for the evening offerings, there was a prison house. Here hundreds of prisoners were held in stone-lined pits known as tanks. Murderers, petty thieves, and homeless spikers were huddled together indiscriminately, beneath the heavy iron grids, waiting their turns to be sedated and led out to the high temple rock, where each paid for his crime or folly or plain bad luck by being sent tumbling to his death before the indifferent gaze of the people of Radiance.

  When Soren Similin left the royal terrace that evening, it was to the tanks that he directed his steps. Beyond the tanks was a bleak stone-walled yard, built as an exercise yard for the prisoners. These lost creatures in thei
r last weeks of life had neither the need nor the desire for exercise; so very little difficulty was made when the king's secretary had asked to be given the use of the yard. This was five months ago. Since then, carpenters and glaziers and metalworkers had transformed the yard into a glass-roofed laboratory, and a team of scientists had built within it a remarkable device, all in complete secrecy.

  The only access to the laboratory was through the long room that contained the tanks. This alone made the secret project secure and beyond the reach of idle curiosity. The guards on duty by the tanks knew better than to question the secretary and his team as they came and went. It was the king's business, and in Radiance, the king's word was law.

  An iron walkway ran over the top of the grids, raised a few feet above the bars to prevent the prisoners from reaching up at passing ankles. Not that there was any danger. The prisoners had no way of escape and knew they would not be leaving the tanks except to fall to their deaths; so they spent their days in a listless half sleep, all hope lost.

  The guards on duty saluted Similin as he hurried by. On the far side of the walkway there was a locked door to which the secretary had a key. Beyond that door was a second door, which was locked on the inside and had a spy hole in the middle. This door was only ever opened to members of the team.

  As Soren Similin entered the laboratory itself, he was accosted by Professor Evor Ortus, a small, bald middle-aged man, whose lined and stubbly face showed that he had allowed himself very little sleep for the past week.

  "I've had a new idea!" he cried. "See what you think of this."

  The lab was festooned with apparatus. Ranged all round the walls, rack upon rack, were hundreds of short glass tubes, angled to receive the light that streamed by day through the glazed roof From the tubes ran traceries of fine copper pipes that fed into a tall copper cylinder, from which issued jets of steam. This cylinder in turn fed a sequence of ever-smaller glass vessels, the last and smallest of which looked for all the world like a bottle of plain water.