by John Dalmas
"And was that a master we talked with back there?"
"No. That was a man who has learned very much of the Books of Knowledge and memorized parts of them. Whose mind and behavior have been greatly influenced by them. But knowledge and wisdom aren't the same. A teacher will also have gained numerous pieces of Hrum's wisdom, but only pieces. His knowledge and wisdom are enough that his master certified him to teach and to meditate disputes."
"Umh," Brokols grunted, and found himself warily hopeful that a master might at least show less idiocy than the teacher had. "How far is it to this"—he paused, groping for the word—"this monastery?"
"Less than three miles. Just outside the city."
Three miles. Brokols looked around as if to conjure up transportation. "That's farther than I want to walk on a hot day like this," he said. Thinking he wouldn't have minded so much if it hadn't been for the woolen suit he wore.
"Fine," said Eltrienn, "we'll take this way then," and turned right down a cross-street. The next street over was a thoroughfare, and he whistled shrilly, once, twice, loud blasts that startled Brokols. At home, no citizen would make a noise like that where people were. Within seconds two rikkshas appeared, their runners loping easily, sweat gleaming on corded limbs and torsos, one's loincloth scarlet, the other's vivid indigo.
Brokols hadn't seen a rikksha runner up close before, and was awed by their bodies. He was already used to the size of the Hrummeans and their frequently fine musculature. The acrobatic dancers had impressed him deeply, as had Eltrienn's muscular arms. But these rikksha runners were unlike any men he'd seen before, their chests deep and broad, thighs and calves corded, torsos sinewy. Even their arms looked strong. They stood grinning at him, dripping.
Somehow bodies like theirs didn't offend him.
Following Eltrienn's example, and while the centurion gave directions to the runners, Brokols seated himself in one of the two rikkshas. The two runners began to lope. At first Brokols, leaning back and holding his hat, found the ride exhilarating. But within a block his runner began to fall behind the other, and the man called something which Brokols didn't get.
"Elver," shouted Eltrienn, "don't lean back! It's uphill, and your runner needs more traction."
At that, Brokols leaned forward, forearms on thighs, and now his runner kept pace. In about twenty minutes the city street became a country road, almost abruptly. Minutes later they pulled up outside a high courtyard wall, stopped and dismounted. Eltrienn paid the runners, who grinned, then loped toward a huge, broad-crowned tree, presumably to park their rikkshas and rest.
Here Eltrienn did not simply open the heavy gate; perhaps it was locked, Brokols decided, or it might be a matter of protocol. Instead he raised the bronze knocker and dropped it twice, while Brokols wondered what they'd find inside. The wait was brief. An old man opened for them, bald and wrinkled, spidery within a sacklike sleeveless shift that showed thin shanks and knobby knees, gaunt shoulders, loose-skinned long and wasted arms. Eltrienn nodded nonetheless respectfully to the man, and Brokols swallowed his annoyance. Surely such aged, unaesthetic bodies should be better covered.
Eltrienn spoke quietly, and they were ushered in. Now Brokols could hear a low bass resonance, a sort of thrumming. After closing the gate again, the old man led them toward a long wooden shed, open-sided, with four long, low, raised platforms, like broad benches, each with a row of men sitting straightbacked on folded legs. The sonorous thrumming was from them, and Brokols realized that the sound was the name of Hrum, resonated, protracted, and repeated. As he approached, he realized with a shock that, like the children, these men wore nothing beneath their short, coarse, unbleached shirts.
Stopping near one end of the shed, Brokols and Eltrienn watched. Two robed men, shave-headed like their students, quietly walked the aisles between the benches, each carrying a slender five-foot rod with a small knob on the end. Now and then one of them reached and tapped, or sometimes sharply rapped, the head of some student. After several minutes of watching, Eltrienn nodded to the old man, who led them to an adjacent building. There they stopped, and seeing Eltrienn remove his boots, Brokols bent and took off his shoes, leaving them beside the entrance.
They went down a hall then, and stopped again while the old man spoke through a door. A voice inside said "come in," and they did, the old man closing the door behind them without entering.
The man who'd answered met them standing, a man of less than medium height for a Hrummean, a bit shorter than Brokols. But he had presence! Brokols felt it at once. It was more than the way he stood, more than the calm eyes that seemed to perceive beyond light and form and color. To Brokols, even in that first moment, this seemed a different sort of entity than the teacher.
"Master Jerrsio," Eltrienn said, "I've brought a guest of the amirr's to see your initiates in training, and to meet you. You may have heard of him. He is Elver Brokols, the ambassador from beyond the ocean."
"From Almeon," Brokols heard himself say. It occurred to him that part of what he felt was subordinacy, and subordinacy was inappropriate here to a representative of His Imperial Majesty. But he let the matter stand; he didn't know how else to feel, although he added, "I represent His Majesty the Emperor."
Master Jerrsio's shaved head nodded polite acknowledgement, and he gestured to a low, padded bench. When they were seated, the master, folding his legs, sat down on a small rug and spoke. "Will you have satta?"
Brokols nodded; no words came to him. "If you please," Eltrienn said. He sounded entirely casual.
The master struck a small gong, and they waited without talking. After about a minute a youth arrived, perhaps fifteen years old. He half bowed, and the master told him to bring satta. The youth left, and Master Jerrsio's gaze returned to Brokols.
Again they waited silently. Shortly the youth returned with a tray containing a pot and three delicate porcelain cups. Setting the tray on a low stand, he served them, cup by cup, his movements precise. When the youth had served all three, Jerrsio sipped and nodded approval. The youth left. Brokols, following the master's example, was sure he'd blistered his upper lip.
"How may I help you?" Jerrsio asked.
It struck Brokols that this man, this master, could be courteous and even common without losing presence. "In my country," Brokols said, "we know nothing about Hrum. I hoped you could tell me something about him."
"About Hrum I can tell you. Be informed though that knowing about Hrum and knowing Hrum are not the same. One can ride a kaabor, but one cannot ride a description of a kaabor. Still, knowing about Hrum may be useful to you, and it may also be sufficient to your purposes." Jerrsio paused. "Would you care to ask a specific question?"
Brokols cast back to the little, unintegrated and meaningless, that had been written down of what the slaves had said about Hrum, decades earlier. Perhaps they hadn't volunteered much on the subject.
"What use it is to know Hrum?" he asked.
"Ah! To the individual, Awakening to Hrum gives much greater neutrality, and hence more stability in life, greater appreciation of life, greater pleasures of life. As for nations—a nation whose leaders know even certain aspects of Hrum, and whose people respect Hrum, can enjoy greater justice and more happiness than if they did not."
He paused and smiled slightly at Brokols. "Nothing I can tell you here will much enlighten you. But let me suggest that when you have come to know our country better, you will know somewhat about Hrum."
Brokols looked intently at Jerrsio; he was an easy man to look directly at. "One more question, if you please," Brokols said. "My people first heard of Hrum from slaves given to them by the King of Djez Gorrbul, and according to them, Hrum is worshiped there. Yet in Djez Gorrbul they hold human beings as disposable property for life. What can you say about this?"
Again Jerrsio smiled slightly. "You are right. In Djez Gorrbul they worship Hrum. And one can find a certain satisfaction in worship. A certain peace, a certain ease. But knowing Hrum, one cannot worship him. And unt
il one ceases to worship Hrum, one cannot know him. Worship gets in the way."
He struck the gong again, then rose from his platform smoothly and without effort, despite the need to unfold his legs. "I am glad you visited me," he said to Brokols. And to Eltrienn, "Thank you for bringing us together."
The visitors too stood up. This time it was the old man who answered the gong, and after they'd put their shoes back on, he led them back to the gate. The rikkshas were gone, but it was downhill from there, and Brokols and Eltrienn walked back, not talking very much. A lot of questions lurked just out of sight in Brokols mind, and he let them be, somehow knowing that this was not the time to dredge for them.
It occurred to him that the master's answers hadn't been much more informative than the teacher's, but the way the two men affected him had been altogether different. Partly a matter of courtesy perhaps, but more of—something else. Charisma. Magnetism. Something.
And it seemed to him he hadn't been ready to talk to either of them, master or teacher. He'd continue to question Eltrienn from time to time, and perhaps visit the master again.
* * *
They ate lunch at an inn in the lower part of town. "Eltrienn," said Brokols thoughtfully, "your religion is really basic to your nation, isn't it? You're drilled in it from childhood. What further elements should I see? You mentioned having a brother who's a sage."
"That's right. Vessto's his name. I haven't been able to locate him. He was in town for Festival, that much I've learned, but I suspect he's left by now for Kammenak, our home district. That's the isthmus that connects Hrumma with Djez Gorrbul. In ancient times, 'Kammenak' meant 'Neck of Mountains'; the isthmus is only six miles wide, a series of parallel ridges, very rugged. We raise vehatto there."
Brokols knew that vehatto was some kind of domestic animal, presumably a grazer or browser; beyond that he knew nothing about it. "I need a map of your country," he said. "I've got very little idea of the geography here.
"Now about Hrummlis: One thing the slaves from Djez Gorrbul told us is that the worship of Hrum, in their country, was ruled by what they termed a priesthood; is that what you call the teachers and masters? And the sages? A priesthood?"
Eltrienn considered the question thoughtfully. "Here Hrum is much more influential than in the Djezes. In the Djezes, the priests are appointed by their high priests, and their high priests by the king. In Hrumma, instead of priests we have sages and masters and teachers, which we call 'the holy clergy.' "
He almost went on to mention the "secular clergy"—the adepts—but it seemed best not to. If the ambassador asked what the secular clergy did, he'd have to lie, so he skipped them, continuing with the holy clergy.
"And the amirr names none of them; they are appointed by Hrum, so to speak. While on the other hand, sages have much to say about who is elected amirr, and amirrs have been ousted by the Two Estates—the Lords and the People—led by the holy clergy."
Brokols' eyebrows lifted. He'd assumed that an amirr had the powers of a king. Just now he was overloaded with unfamiliar concepts, and groped for something further to relate them to. "How do you know when a person has been appointed by Hrum?" he asked.
"Hrum appoints someone as clergy by giving them some degree of wisdom."
"Umh. And how do you recognize wisdom when you see it?"
"Masters recognize it in initiates, and give them the title of master or some lesser title such as teacher. As for sages—a sage is usually a master whose wisdom impresses people enough that they agree he's a sage."
"You said your brother is a sage."
"He is widely considered one, in Kammenak and the districts around it. But to become fully recognized as a sage, one must be considered a sage in Theedalit."
Eltrienn looked questionmgly at Brokols. "Would you care to visit a sage? We have two in Theedalit, or nearby. Tassi Vermaatio is said not to talk though, at all, while Panni Vempravvo may be meditating at any hour. Or he might simply give you a riddle to contemplate."
Inwardly, Brokols grunted. What land of wisdom was that? "No," he said, "I'll wait awhile before visiting a sage. I need to sleep on what I've experienced today. And I need to visit more of your country."
"Good. I'll hire a shay for the rest of this afternoon, and we can drive about the city—visit some businesses. Tomorrow perhaps we'll look at some upriver farms."
Nine
On the private rooftop garden outside his apartment, Brokols ate a quiet, solitary supper, a late meal, watching the fading bands of silver and old rose in the western sky, beneath the brilliant bit that was Little Firtollio in his first quarter. Something in bloom perfumed the evening with a fragrance he hadn't noticed during the day.
He was in a strange mood, random detached thoughts drifting idly through his consciousness. Jerrsio. The man had impressed him, but from a perspective of eight hours there seemed to have been no cause for it. In anything the man had said or done. Maybe the initiates droning Hrum had had some psychological effect, rendering him susceptible.
Interesting that the frequent bare torsos and even limbs in Hrumma weren't usually offensive. Perhaps subconsciously he knew that droids weren't truly human and human rules didn't fully apply. He looked at the thought and rejected it. And anyway the monks really should wear something, some undergarment, or else sit differently to better conceal their genitals while they intoned the name of their god. And the aged should definitely not be allowed to expose their unsightly wrinkled limbs.
In general though, the Hrummean physique tended to be quite superior. As one might expect of the progeny of pleasure droids. His own physique should get back into shape here. There were five long flights of stairs to climb from the street, each time he came home; he took them fast and hard, and his thighs had burned from it. And Hrummean food promised to be less fattening. He'd had Stilfos downstairs at the kitchen of their landlord part of the day, learning Hrummean cookery.
Stilfos was important to him, someone he needn't hide things from. Any servant Eltrienn might have procured for him would be a spy. Of course, Eltrienn was too, in a manner of speaking, but Eltrienn didn't have the run of the apartment, access to the wireless room or arms chest.
Feet sounded softly on the deck behind him, followed by quiet words in still-awkward Hrummean. "Milord, there's a gentleman at the door. A Tirros . . ." Stilfos hesitated over the unfamiliar polysyllable. "A Tirros Han-o-riss-i-o. And a male companion. Mr. Tirros appears to be noble, and he'd like to speak with you. He gave me this."
Stilfos handed Brokols a folded sheet of paper, or something like paper, its wax seal impressed with a sigil he couldn't make out in the thickening twilight. Not, he thought, that he'd recognize it in any light.
But Hanorissio. That seemed to mean his visitor was a member of the amirrial family. "Thank you, Stilfos." Brokols said it without rising, without turning. "Tell him I'll be with him in a moment."
As the footsteps receded, Brokols sat staring not at the paper but down the harbor, through its entrance at the ocean beyond. Serpents. How much intelligence could something have, use, without hands to go with it? The water people had hands, even if they used them for little besides catching fish.
He got to his feet, feeling the slight soreness in his thighs as he did so, and turned to the terrace door. Soft fluttering light shone from the glass globes of oil lamps. He entered, then waited standing till Stilfos ushered the visitors into the sitting room. The smaller, less well-dressed of them stopped a pace behind the other, as if perhaps a servant. Brokols recognized the first, a slender youth, inches taller than himself, who'd stood behind the amirr's shoulder that first day. They shook hands, the strength in Tirros's long slender fingers surprising the Almite.
"I'm Tirros Hanorissio," the young man said. "The amirr is my father." He gestured at his companion. "This is Karrlis Billbis, a friend of mine."
Brokols nodded. "Pray be seated," he said, gesturing at chairs. "A cup of satta perhaps?" As Tirros Hanorissio sat down, his eyes took in the room.<
br />
Its furnishings were Hrummean, of quality. "We prefer wine," he answered. "At your pleasure."
Brokols nodded, then instructed Stilfos. When the servant left, Brokols sat.
"I've never talked with a foreigner before," Tirros told him. "This is a nice apartment, though I'm surprised that Eltrienn took an upper floor for you. For someone of your position, that makes a lot of steps to climb. Are you satisfied with it?"
"Entirely satisfied. I specifically asked for an upper floor. The view, you know."
"Ah. And is Eltrienn a satisfactory representative of my father?"
"Entirely satisfactory."
"Good." Tirros paused, his gaze frankly calculating. "Eltrienn's a herdboy from the Neck, you know—intelligent enough, but common. And provincial. He's ignorant about our level of society—yours and mine."
