by Garon Whited
Making the mirror wasn’t a problem. Delivering it, on the other hand, was more problematic than I liked. Finding Hazir wasn’t the problem, either. He wasn’t wearing a shielding spell. Explaining how I found him, opened a hole, and handed him a mirror was something well-deserving of consideration. This vikrasa heresy might be all about people being less confined in a single caste, but how was Hazir going to react to finding out I’m not just a warrior with some magical skills, but both?
Let’s leave the vampire part out, for now. Or forever.
He might be pleased, or he might be disturbed, upset, nonplussed, or anything else. No doubt there would be talk of a returned soul or some such.
I don’t really want to explore the religious implications of my presence. Hell, I don’t want to explore the local religion! All I want to know is the story behind a grape-flavored hottie with a knife fetish.
My first two ideas were to either go ahead and hand it to him through an open gate, or go there through a gate and hand it to him in a more mundane fashion. I finally decided to chicken out. I tracked down his quarters by following him with a scrying mirror. While he was occupied elsewhere, I used a small gate to drop off the mirror on a table in another room, along with a note. Let it be a mystery. I don’t have to explain those.
Not half an hour later, seated in my workroom, feet up on a table, I got a call. Hazir looked out at me and I grinned at him. He wore a heavily-embroidered silk robe, belted at the waist, and a jade-green headband to hold his hair out of his face.
“Like it?”
“I am gratified and honored.”
“I’m glad. It’s not entirely for your benefit, though.”
“Oh?”
“I have a couple of questions I don’t want to ask of anyone I don’t trust.”
“Ah. Is it wise, then, to speak so?”
“How do you mean?”
“Can another hear our words?”
I almost told him no. Technically, it’s possible, as I mentioned to Leisel. Now that I’d had a chance to let it bubble in the back of my mind for a while, there might be ways to do it. In fact, if someone went to enough trouble to make a specialized mirror—or crystal, or whatever—there might exist in this world a Mirror of Wiretapping. It would be difficult, but it wasn’t, strictly speaking, impossible.
Well, crap. If mirrors aren’t secure communications, how am I going to have a conversation with him?
“I see by your expression,” he went on, “there may be those who can listen.”
“I highly doubt it, but it’s not impossible. One chance in a thousand, maybe.”
“Is it a risk you wish to take?”
“I’m not sure you’ll like the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Would you care to come visit?”
“My duties do not permit me to take such an extended leave at this time.”
“What if I arranged for you to travel here and back again in less than an hour?”
He pursed his lips in thought. The mirror, sitting on a table, displayed him intermittently as he stood up and paced back and forth in front of it. I didn’t think it would need a motion tracker.
“Do you mean to send your… ah, ‘horse’ to fetch me?”
“First off, don’t refer to her in that tone. Her name is Bronze.”
“My apologies.”
“Second, I wouldn’t presume to ‘fetch’ you. I might ask her to give you permission to ride somewhere, but ‘fetch’ seems rather undignified and possibly demeaning.”
“Understood.”
“Third, no. I had in mind using the magical device I keep in my shed.”
“Oh? What device is this?”
“It can make a door here reach any other door. I open the door here, the other door opens as well, and people can step through in either direction. You could step from your bedroom into my shed—in one step. And, later, step from my shed back into your bedroom.”
“I would be delighted to see this wonder in action.”
“Okay. Give me a couple of minutes.”
I went down to the shift-barn, made sure the doors at each end were closed, and did a quick check for scrying sensors. Oddly enough, there were none in the vicinity. Of course, the scrying shield was large enough to cover the whole keep and the outbuildings, so nobody was going to put one inside. I doubted there were many still floating around above, either. I don’t know who’s on wand duty, but they keep popping the things and hopefully destroying the devices.
With my pocket mirror, I warned Hazir and encouraged him to step quickly before I actually opened the gate. The gate flushed, snapped, and we were looking at each other at arm’s length instead of through mirrors.
“Wondrous!”
“Quickly, please.”
He stepped through and the gate closed behind him.
“It doesn’t last long,” I told him.
“So I see.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be ready to go again in a few minutes and I can have it put you back where you were.”
“Indeed. May I ask where we are?” He looked around the high, long hall with interest.
“This is a storage building. We haven’t gotten around to storing anything in it, yet. The local roadblock has crimped my plans a bit.”
“Ah, and the doorway is here so you can move things into it?”
“Not exactly. It doesn’t open for long, as you’ve seen. This is simply a good place to keep it, for now.”
“I should like to see more of your valley, someday.”
“If you get some time off, I’d be happy to show you around.”
“Thank you. Now, you wished to speak privately?”
“Yes. I need to know some details of the Temple.”
“I am happy to oblige.”
So I explained about the Violent Violet. Hazir nodded thoughtfully as I spoke, following along. Once I explained what I knew, bringing him up to speed on my situation, I asked about… well, everything.
The local theology is a bit more involved than I thought. The short version runs something like this.
In the pre-Empire days, the locals struggled with the barbarian nomads. It was a more militaristic society back then. For survival, people were more regimented and controlled. In some ways, it was like many of the nations during the world wars. The war effort was everything, and everyone supported it. Rationing, protected jobs, volunteer work, everyone marching shoulder-to-shoulder to conquer the threat to their way of life, their very survival, all of it.
I’m not clear on how the propaganda symbols of their conflict grew into a religious organization. The impression I have is they were already into ancestor worship and reincarnation, so I guess having ancestors become gods—like parental figures—and judge your life isn’t too much of an evolution. The God of Warriors, the God of Craftsmen, the Goddess of Governing, all could have been Heroes of the People in a bygone age, deified in a manner similar to the Roman custom of deifying deceased Emperors.
The Temple, meanwhile, managed and encouraged this reverence while also half-encouraging, half-enforcing the idea of being what you were born to be. The son of a warrior must be a warrior. The daughter of a mahrani—an appointed ruler, or administrator—should be groomed to carry on her family tradition. Give it a few generations and a priestly push toward formalizing it, you can have a caste system as rigidly inflexible as a diamond.
More recently, the Temple had the chance to obtain serious power. Any rigid social system has to have some flexibility. It’s all fine and dandy to have a strict code of laws, but if the laws are too strict, everyone is a criminal. So the idea of parental sins and parental merits was born. If your parents did something exceptionally heinous or exceptionally wonderful, you could be born as a punishment or reward—their child, belonging to another caste! Of course, you couldn’t know this on your own. The Temple is the authority over such matters, so when you begin to suspect, you take your child to the Temple and offer a sacrifice (transl
ation: Pay them) to “interpret the will of the gods.”
It annoys me dreadfully that the priests might actually be interpreting the will of the gods. If so, I don’t like either group. I’m not fond of slavery. I never have been. I’m a big believer in free will—or a believer in the concept, whether it’s an illusion or not. I want free will so much I’m willing to extend the courtesy to everyone around me.
But this system sounds like overwhelming determinism. You’re born to your station in life and the only way to change it is by begging the priests to have mercy and grant your petition. Or to ask them to consult the gods—which may actually be a valid request—and intercede on your behalf.
Let’s be generous and say the priests are only carrying out the will of the gods. If that’s the case, the priests are the overseers for the slave-owners, with the gods owning the human slaves.
I don’t like it. No, I think I’ve understated it. I abhor it. I loathe it. It disgusts me on a primal, fundamental level. I want to kick down the Temple, topple the idols, and put the priests to the sword. Maybe the torch. With Firebrand, it’s both. I want the whole structure of this society burned to the ground so its ashes can fertilize something better. Slash-and-burn civiliculture.
I’m not doing it. Not immediately. Maybe never. It’s not my business, as such, and I have other priorities. But I sure as hell want to!
As for this safety valve of inter-class mobility… Is it common? Depends on what you mean by “common.” One in a thousand? One in a hundred? One in ten? Hazir didn’t have figures, but in Sarashda, a city of well over a hundred thousand people, the main Temple conducted two or three every week. Among all the lesser temples—shrines to the individual gods, rather than the whole pantheon—there might be another two or three, as well.
Each one with a sacrifice contributing to the Temple’s wealth.
Over time, the Temple—or Temples, I should say, since there is one main temple in each of the Empire’s cities—started branching out. If you’ve got a ton of money, why sit on it? Why not buy something to make even more money for you? Or, in this case, add to your existing power and control over your worshippers? Prostitution isn’t a crime in the Empire. It’s not even looked down on, as such. Although, as with any of the local trades, the level or standing of the individual within the trade is also a factor. One may be honored as one of the best or disdained as one of the worst, but the trade itself is simply what it is.
I shouldn’t pick on the prostitutes, but you’ll see why I went there in a second.
All the castes, now, have a… I’m not sure they’re representatives, exactly. The Temple, once it confirms someone is born to the wrong caste, takes over the care and training of the individual, preparing them to fulfill the will of the gods and to do it exceptionally well. This training is rigorous and thorough and generally makes the most of the subject’s talents in their new field of study. No matter what the caste is, however, their religious training is equally thorough. When the Temple is done, you may have a farmer—raised and trained at the will of the priests—who contributes what he doesn’t need to the Temple. Or you may eventually have a ruler of a city—trained for years under the supervision of the priests—who believes the Temples can do no wrong. Or anything in between.
It doesn’t make them one of the Temple’s private, institutional staff, though. They’re still private citizens, just browbeaten into acknowledging the supreme authority of the Temple.
Usually. People still do what people do, and not all of them harbor immense delight in their new profession or have positive feelings regarding their rigorous training. The rumor is those who “offend the gods with their personal failure”—meaning the priests don’t confirm them in their new trade, either through incompetence (rare) or failure to drink the Kool-Aid—simply pass Go and start over. The survivors—excuse me, the devout—go on to excel in their destined career field. So every caste or profession usually has a small but significant pool of individuals within it who are strongly pro-religion, making them a valuable resource for the Temple to draw on. Presumably, even to sending a zealous whore to kill a man.
“I think I’m up to speed on all that,” I told Hazir, pacing in my shift-barn, “but I’m a little unclear on exactly why the Temple wants me dead.”
“That, I am not prepared to definitively state,” he admitted. “I have some suspicions, however.”
“Oh, do tell.”
“My position with the city affords me certain privileges. I can, if you wish, consult the records to discover if someone you have killed was a child of the Temple. Tobar and Palan are foremost in my thoughts.”
“You think the Temple would hold a grudge if I killed one of their… what do I call them? Agents?”
“I think ‘agents’ would imply more coordination by the Temple than is the case.”
“Are you sure?”
Hazir almost replied, but caught himself and considered the question. Slowly, he shook his head.
“No. I am not sure,” he replied, troubled.
“Problem?”
“You raise an interesting question. I am not certain how this affects… the… individuals who are much less pleased with the priesthood than most.”
“The idea of the Temple having potential fanatics as spies among the various walks of life?”
“The idea the Temples have done this deliberately and continue the practice for material purposes is one I cannot disregard. It is possible such… let us call it an organization, for surely some organization of these people is involved.”
“Sure.”
“Such an organization may be evolving as a counter to those who do not suffer the yoke of the Temples gladly.”
“You think this may be a coordinated, concerted effort by the Temples to subtly influence the public as a whole in order to keep power? Or the work of a spymaster, attempting to identify blasphemers and heretics?”
“Possibly both. Since I do not know, I cannot even guess. It bears deeper investigation.”
“I agree. So, if Tobar or Palan was part of such a setup—or simply known to be devout—the Temple might regard me as a problem?”
“I had not considered this, originally. My chief concern was they might be manipulating Sarcana to attack you. You have moved outside their control, placing yourself above your station. I suspect they cannot permit such a flouting of their doctrine, even in the far west.”
“They why not immediately send a dozen agents to make sure I fail?”
“And miss the opportunity?”
“Opportunity for what?”
“To attract all those who might be discontented with the order the Temple imposes. By gathering them all in one place, they have them—they believe they have them—in the palm of their hand.”
A parade of things passed before my mind’s eye. A hundred scrying portals spying on the valley. Stolen divinity dynamos. An ambush, supposedly by Tobar’s students. A quiet roadblock, rather than an invasion. Renata’s mysteriously-motivated kidnapping. A wizard’s one-man attempt at rescuing the kidnap squad. How many of these were designed to spur me on? How many were set up to fail—or sabotaged by those who wanted it to? And, of course, how many were completely unrelated, since the world doesn’t revolve around me, no matter what my paranoia says? And how do I tell?
How many more things did I simply miss? Maybe, if I took more time to be involved in the actual running of the place, I would notice these things. At least I’d have a chance to notice. But no, I spend my time avoiding people when possible and religion at all costs. This may have to change.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about, Hazir.”
“I hope it helps. Is there anything else I might do on your behalf?”
“Not at the moment, but I might want you to send messengers to the guys I hired the other day. Velina made a list but I haven’t given them mirrors.”
“I would be happy to convey messages. One might say it is my primary duty.”
“Anyt
hing I can do for you?”
“At the moment, I can only think of your attendance at the next warmeet.”
“Still wanting me on the council of nine?”
“It would be of great benefit to some, although it poses some risk to you.”
“More than I’m currently running?”
“Hence my willingness to propose it,” he pointed out.
“Fair enough. I’ll see what I can do. Ready to go back?”
“If you please.”
I opened the gate, targeting the doorway in his home. He stepped through and turned back, covering his heart with his left hand. I returned the gesture as the gate closed. With some annoyance, I trudged back into the tower and almost ran into Renata.
Renata was visibly pregnant and wearing clothes much more suited to a Texas summer than to a warrior. How far along was she? Four months? Five? Some of it here, some of it there…
“Welcome back. Problem?”
“Nothing we could not handle, sir. A stranger delivered some devices to the house. He seemed to think you expected them. Are these the things you told us about?”
“Ah. Let’s go look. What time was it when you left?”
“He just delivered them. Halfway between midday and sunset.”
“That works out,” I decided, since it was getting on toward evening here. “Let’s go.”
I reset the shift-closet to maintain a micro-connection and avoid time slippage. We cycled it and went through.
The house was still there, although I detected some odors. Something caught fire while I was gone. The burned smell still lingered, despite the minor repair spell on the house, and one of the kitchen windows was boarded up. Outside, there was a ring of stones with ashes inside. A cooking fire? Perhaps. It didn’t look recently used. The cookware in the kitchen was a bit soot-stained, but with old stains. The electric stove showed signs of a fire, but it was mostly cleaned up. Maybe Annunciata taught them how to use it properly.
It was probably my fault for not training them more thoroughly on high-tech devices. All I did was brief them. I juiced up the repair spell to speed things along.
