Clarion
William Greenleaf
Prologue
THE MAN HAD BEEN WAITING IN THE SHADOWS OF
the alley for an hour when the first explosion came from the far side of the temple. The two sentries at the courtyard entrance turned instinctively in that direction, and the man stepped quickly across the road to flatten himself against the wall. He waited, hardly breathing. The sentries were only boys, but they were deadly.
The second blast was followed by distant shouts. The sentries drew their side arms and left their post at a run. The man grasped the top of the wall, pulled himself over and dropped lightly to the other side. Still crouching, he scanned the courtyard.
"I'm over the wall," he whispered. The small communications device was pinned to the neckband of his black fatigues. "Nobody around. Set off the rest of the caps in thirty seconds, then get out of here."
The courtyard was long and narrow, paved with stone. In the pale starlight he could see scattered crouching shapes that he took to be benches and William Greenleaf
clumps of low vegetation. Farther back was the great dark form of the temple building. Light flickered at the arched entrance. A single spire curved upward twenty meters, ghostly white
against the night sky.
The man's name was Cleve Quinton. He had
prepared himself as well as he could for this night, but as he crouched there looking up at the spire, he felt the danger of this place settle into his stomach like a hard knot. All his muscles were tensed for him to scramble back over the wall and escape into the darkness.
Stay calm, he told himself. He breathed slowly and forced his muscles to relax, one by one. But he couldn't take his eyes off the slender spire. From behind the temple came a rattling crescendo of explosions. The sound startled him even though he should have expected it. The commotion of voices told him the temple guards were still back there trying to find the source of the explosions. He drew a handgun from an inside pocket of his fatigues, checked the bead cartridge for a full load and made sure the scatter nozzle was in place. Keeping close to the wall, he made his way carefully across the courtyard to the lighted archway that was the temple's entrance. He climbed the shallow steps and ducked through the archway without a backward glance. To his left was the wide doorway that led into the sacred chamber. The flickering light came from there.
For a moment he stared into the chamber,
then turned right and went through another low doorway and along a short passage to a flight of stairs.
"I'm going up," he said, surprised at the steady sound of his voice. The stomach pains of danger grew more acute now that he was inside the temple. The light over the stairs was dim and he knew he
CLARION
would have to be careful; the steps had been designed for feet smaller than human. A ventilation grille was affixed to the wall just below the secondfloor landing. Quinton moved past it to the landing and checked the door to make sure he could get through it quickly. That would be his escape route: up to the roof, down along the wall on the far side, out into the darkness of the road—with, no doubt, the Sons of God shrieking after him.
He went back to the ventilation grille and returned the scatter gun to his pocket, then unslung his canvas bag and opened it on the landing. It took less than a minute to select the tool he needed and remove the grillwork fastenings. Then he was squirming through the horizontal metal duct. His hands and elbows stirred up choking dust. Ahead of him a dim square of light marked another ventilation outlet. He moved to it carefully and looked through. Below him was a vast circular room.
"I've reached the chamber." His eyes went to the center of the room. "I can see the chauka." Despite the anxiety, he felt a slight disappointment; from here the chauka looked to be nothing more than a shallow metal dish about two meters across. He was unsure of its color in the dim light—grayish, he thought, or dull blue. Its base was hidden from view. Protruding from one side just below the edge of the dish was a single slender rod.
According to High Elder Alban Brill and his cronies in the Holy Order, the chauka was the most sacred of the holy relics of the Tal Tahir.
"Doesn't look like much," he said softly, thinking of his friends who had died because of. the chauka. He edged forward so he could see the rest of the room. The light came from several flickering globes that were spaced along the far wall. "There are a lot of. . ." He paused, trying to think of a way William Greenleaf
to describe the strange-looking objects that were scattered across the floor like clumps of stony, slab-sided vegetation. They ranged in height from knee-high to a few that were taller than a man. Oddly shaped notches had been cut into the base of each. After a moment he realized that the objects were arranged in concentric circles that radiated outward from the chauka.
"Pedestals of some kind," he said at last, and made an effort to describe them. Then he heard shuffling sounds from the outer chamber. "The ceremony's about to start. I'll have to keep quiet now."
Through the ventilation grille he could see the first of the deacons as they came, two by two, through the archway. They filed by ten feet from Quinton's watching eyes and formed a neat line along the curve of the wall under the light globes. There were ten of them in white, calf-length robes. They stood perfectly still with their eyes fixed on the dish of the chauka. Quinton's eyes went back to the archway as the six elders began to file through, straight-backed in appropriately regal style. They took positions closer to the chauka, just inside the inner circle of pedestals. They, too, fixed their eyes on the metal dish.
For a long moment the room was held by heavy silence. Then two more figures moved slowly through the archway. The most striking was a tall man with pale skin that contrasted sharply with his red, ankle-length robe. Quinton recognized him instantly—Alban Brill, High Elder of the Tal Tahir, leader of the Holy Order and the most powerful man on the planet. A palm-sized silver disk gleamed at his throat. The Godstone. At his side walked a thin boy with short dark hair. The boy's smooth cheeks reflected the light and gleamed with health.
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The boy was the initiate; tonight he would become a member of the Sons of God. A slight shudder passed through Quinton. He caught himself, thought: Now, what was that forf Alban Brill was only an old man, and the Holy Order was made up of blind fanatics.
Dangerous fanatics, he reminded himself, and carefully pulled the scatter gun out of the deep pocket.
High Elder Brill and the boy walked together past the deacons and elders, and stopped in front of the chauka. The High Elder's eyes were invisible in the pits of shadow beneath his brow. Quinton gripped the handle of the scatter gun, wondering if the proper moment had come. Brill was within easy range. But something made him wait. Curiosity'!
Sudden movement brought Quinton's eyes back to the far wall. As if they had all received a silent signal at the same instant, each deacon extracted a long, flutelike instrument from the folds of his gown. They lifted the instruments and began playing. Quinton had heard the music of the priams before—if it could be called music. But there was no melody, only a series of low hums and highpitched tones that merged from time to time into an eerie chorus.
High Elder Brill stood rigid in front of the chauka with the young boy a half step behind him. Then Brill's hands went wide and the full sleeves of his robe billowed. The music ceased abruptly. In the dim light the High Elder's narrow face shone white like a skull. Staring intently at the empty space above the dish of the chauka, he began to moan softly. Then his voice broke into a series of short, choppy syllables. Quinton strained to hear. Brill was speaking gibberish—or a language
Quinton had never heard. Then he fell silent, his eyes still on the chauka. The boy stood rigid beside William Greenleaf<
br />
him. Brill spoke again, this time in Basic. His voice had lapsed into the singsong tones of a chant:
"Oh Great One, who comforts us,
King of all holy places,
Lord Tern the Almighty,
Come, we ask you, hear our prayers."
The elders repeated the chant in a chorus of mixed high and low tones, their voices echoing around the chamber. The deacons back against the wall remained silent. Brill spoke again:
"Hear this our song to you,
Monarch of monarchs in whose name
Our enemies are slain.
We praise thee!"
This last was followed by a sudden clapping of hands that made Quinton jump a little. The elders echoed the chant. Then High Elder Brill knelt down on the paved floor in front of the chauka and held his hands out to it with palms open, as if he were warming them over an open fire. The elders began to chant:
"Lord Tern, Lord Tern, Lord Tern . . ." Brill reached to his throat, and Quinton thought at first he was going to unclasp the robe. Then he realized the High Elder was removing the
Godstone. Brill fondled the round disk and fitted it into the palm of his hand as if it offered cool comfort. Through all this the elders continued the droning chant. Then Brill reached out slowly and brought the Godstone into contact with the rod protruding from the edge of the chauka. Quinton heard a faint snap
"Lord Tern, Lord Tern . . ."
Quinton swallowed. The skin of his face felt hot and dry, and he decided he had seen as much of
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this ceremony as he wanted. He lifted the gun and carefully eased the nozzle out between the rods of the grillwork. His thumb moved to the firing stud. But once again he hesitated, telling himself that the boy stood too close and might be hit by the beads. Another part of him admitted that he was only making excuses. He was an expert with the scatter gun; he could easily hit Brill without endangering the boy. The truth was, Quinton had killed only on two other occasions, and both times he had done so in defense of his life. He didn't relish the thought of shooting High Elder Brill from a hiding place.
High Elder Brill is sick, he reminded himself. He is infecting the entire planet of Clarion with his sickness.
"Lord Tern, Lord Tern,
Lord Tern, Lord Tern':'
The chant was building in intensity. High Elder Brill's hands wove a pattern in the air above the dish of the chauka. Quinton's thumb exerted pressure on the gun's firing stud—then his eyes jerked back to the chauka. The large dish had begun to change. He strained to see. Something was taking shape in the center of the dish, but he couldn't quite fix his eye on it. The image was slippery, like a reflection in a rippling pond.
"Hear our prayer, oh holy king,
Lord Tern the Almighty.
Smite those who would forsake thee!"
After the last rousing chant, Brill and the rest of the elders fell silent. All their attention went to the chauka. The swirling haze in the shallow dish began to take form and substance.
Quinton stared, gripped by a sudden, overWilliam Greenleaf whelming sense of dread. Then the object in the dish snapped into focus. A small sound escaped Quinton. He dropped the gun and put his hand to his mouth, turning it so the flesh of the palm was pressed between his teeth. He bit down until the blood ran. When that wasn't enough to stifle the terror that crawled through him, he opened his mouth and screamed.
Chapter One
"IS THAT HOW IT STARTED, GRANDFATHER?" The old man stirred in his chair and looked down at the girl, who sat cross-legged on a heavy rug at his feet. She seemed disappointed.
"What about the player's magic and Jacque the Fearless, who struck down the evil ones with fire from his hands?" She was a twelve-year-old with short dark hair and a pixie face and the watchful, gleaming eyes of her mother. Her name was Danita.
"The story began when Cleve Quinton was killed in the sacred chamber," the old man answered.
"Borland Avery came to Clarion a few months later. But there's something you have to remember." He paused, wanting her to understand this above all.
"Dorland Avery was a player but he was human. So was Jacque Hakim. That's what made them special. Gods can do anything. Humans have to work harder to accomplish miracles."
Dorland Avery stood motionless in the center of the stage with his feet slightly apart and his arms stretched out toward the audience. He was a strik9
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ing figure in his player's garb: loose-fitting white jumpsuit with black accents on sleeves and pant legs, wide black belt, a white headband with a silver medallion. Colors flashed around him and reflected off the curtained backdrop, changing rapidly through red, green, blue and orange with the beat of the music. He was deep in the player's trance. In the glass-enclosed control booth above the stage, Paul Jurick took his eyes away from Dorland and looked out over the audience. Nearly twenty thousand tonight, another full house. It was too dark to see their faces, but he knew from the absolute stillness that they were caught up in Dorland's performance.
"Take a look," said Jeffrey Hanes from the chair beside him. Hanes had been scanning the darkened auditorium with night goggles. Now his attention was on something in the balcony, far out behind the booth. He handed the goggles to Paul. "Upper level, fifth row on the left. A man with a beard." Paul swiveled his chair around to take a look. The goggles gave a clear image but filtered out colors to leave everything in shades of gray. He counted the balcony rows and found the man.
"What about him?"
"He just came in," Hanes said. "Late for the show. He looks nervous. And that outfit—he isn't from around here, that's for sure."
"Neither are we," Paul pointed out. "Last time I checked, being from someplace else wasn't a crime." The man in the balcony sat stiffly in his chair, arms thrust out with his hands grasping his knees. He stared fixedly at the stage. Paul studied what he could see of the face behind the beard. "He looks nervous about something, but not dangerous."
"The most effective killers never look dangerous." Paul lowered the goggles and looked sideways at
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11
Hanes. Hanes was a small, intense-looking man who seldom smiled. Like Paul, he had served in the Guard. But while Paul had been punching computer keys and checking supply orders for clerical accuracy, Hanes had been chasing Fringe outlaws in a Guard patrol ship. Four years ago he had gotten his belly full of that, and Paul had hired him to take charge of Dorland Avery's private security team. He took his job seriously, but in Paul's opinion he had a tendency to overreact to anything he thought to be even slightly out of the ordinary.
"We get threatening calls all the time," Paul said.
"There're a lot of nuts out there. So far they haven't had the guts to follow through."
Hanes kept silent, but Paul knew he wasn't
convinced. The message that had come through the hotel switchboard three hours before the show was brief and to the point: if Dorland Avery performed at the hotel's main auditorium tonight, he would be killed. Period. No reason was given, and no conditions—and of course the caller had not identified himself. Dorland knew about the call, but that hadn't stopped him from going on with the show. Even Paul was beginning to take such threats almost casually. They came with the job for wellknown entertainers, especially psi-players. Paul lifted the goggles again to look at the man in the balcony. "Anyway, he's too far from the stage to do anything."
"Not if he planted something earlier," Hanes pointed out. "An explosive, or a gas canister. He could have put it on the stage and set it to go off from a remote trigger." Hanes reached for the communicator on his belt, flipped it open and issued a few brief orders to the men he had stationed in the balcony. Then he turned to look down at the stage. "He's almost done, isn't he?" Paul swiveled back around. The brilliant colors had given way to subdued violets and blues as the 12_________________William Greenleaf
intensity of the music diminished. The two
technicians who occupied the other chairs in the control booth were busy at their consoles, but Doriand had direct control over the music and most of the stage lights from micropads that were strapped to his hands.
Now Dorland's face was tilted upward, pale and calm. The medallion on his forehead reflected glittering fragments of light. Paul stared for a moment, wondering what was going on inside
Dorland's head. The player's trance was deep, there was no doubt of that—
"Well?" said Hanes.
Paul blinked and cleared his throat. "He'll wrap it up in ten minutes or so."
Hanes was silent a moment, then: "If anything's going to happen, it'll be at the end." Paul pulled his eyes away from Doriand.
"What?"
"That's when all the lights go out but the big white spot from the ceiling."
Then Paul understood, and he had to admit it made sense. Doriand always closed his show the same way. The big speakers would be roaring with that peculiar hum Doriand called the mood relaxer, and the auditorium would be dark except for the single brilliant light on the stage. Doriand would make a perfect target with his arms stretched out and his feet apart in the stance that always made Paul think uncomfortably of a crucifixion. In the darkness a man would probably be able to slip away without trouble; after one of Dorland's shows, most people in the audience felt drained, without the motivation to do more than hug the person they had come with or sit quietly and consider the deeper meaning of life.
"I'm going up to the balcony," Hanes said abruptly. He left his seat, stepped through the doorway onto the platform and climbed quickly up
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the narrow ladder. A moment later he disappeared through the dark opening that led to the service area above the ceiling. Paul lifted the goggles again. The bearded man seemed unaware of the two
security men who stood in the darkened aisle a few rows behind him. As Paul watched, Hanes emerged from a side door and went down the aisle to stand with his men.
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