Kelvas’s irritation swelled to the point he had to clench his jaw to keep from saying something so undiplomatic to the Deaconess it might provoke a worse crisis than the one in which they already found themselves. Who am I kidding? Itcouldn’t get any worse.
But he needed answers. He needed a witness, and he’d thought that was what he’d been promised. Instead, he’d been presented with the village idiot.
“Thank you,” he said to Lodolo, though gratitude was the farthest thing from his mind. “I’m done.”
He turned away.
Lodolo grabbed his arm. “I count the lights!” he cried. “I count the lights!”
Startled and annoyed, Kelvas pulled his arm free, so hard he tugged the monk off-balance. The little alien stumbled and fell onto his bare blue knees.
Kelvas barely noticed. “Who else?” he demanded of the Deaconess.
The handmaiden hurried forward to help Lodolo to his feet. Kelvas belatedly realized the gravity of his error as the Deaconness’s ears flattened—as bad a sign in a Prevarian as in the dogs they vaguely resembled.
“You will talk to Lodolo, or you will talk to no one.” The Deaconess’ squeaks had a sibilant hiss that the translator didn’t need to interpret: he had deeply annoyed and offended her, and he couldn’t afford that. If any answers were to be found, they would be found here, at the Tower of the Silent God, where the Ambassador had met his gruesome fate, so close to where Kelvas now stood that he would be walking in the man’s blood if it hadn’t been scrubbed from the stones.
The guards the Ambassador had left at the base of the stairs had heard the impact from halfway around the tower. They’d run to the scene. One had spent the next few minutes throwing up while the other, of stronger constitution, had frantically called Kelvas. Meanwhile the monks had also come running. As their religion demanded, they had immediately set about removing the Ambassador’s scattered parts and ritually cleansing the place where he had died. By the time reinforcements arrived from the Embassy, the Ambassador’s remains had already been burned to ash in the furnace of the central altar, the smoke of his immolation rising up the chimney at the heart of the Tower, completing the ascent his body had fallen so fatally short of.
The fact the Prevarians had disposed of all evidence before the Terrans could even begin their investigation had not inclined the anti-trade forces among the Terrans toward granting the benefit of the doubt, and in turn their accusations of assassination were rapidly driving those few Prevarians still on the fence about the wisdom of trusting the Terrans toward their own anti-trade camp.
If any answers were to be found, it would have to be with the help of the High Deaconess; and so, though it grated on him like fingernails on steel, Kelvas forced himself to say, with as much sincerity as he could manage, “I apologize, High Deaconess.” He looked at the monk, who stood hunched over, rubbing his knees. “Brother Lodolo.” He turned back to the Deaconess. “I am feeling the stress of this grievous death, and I allowed it to sharpen my tongue in a most undiplomatic way. Please forgive me.”
The Deaconess’s ears flattened further for a moment, and he thought he had ruined everything; but then they slowly rose. “Apology accepted,” she said. “This is a difficult time for us all.”
I doubt it’s as difficult for you as it is for me, Kelvas thought uncharitably. Although if the Navy withdraws and your precious Temple is flattened by scavengers pour encourager les autres, it will be.
He turned back to the Brother Lodolo, who had straightened and folded his arms. He rocked from foot to foot. “I count the lights,” he said, the translator giving his voice a pleading tone. “I count the lights. I count the lights.”
“I’m sorry,” Kelvas said. He knew the apology sounded stiff, but he did the best he could. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
“Is your translation link broken?” the Deaconess said behind him.
“No,” Kelvas said.
“Then how can you not understand? Lodolo counts the lights.”
“But . . . why?” Kelvas turned back to her. The handmaiden who had helped Lodolo had taken up her eyes-downcast post at the Deaconess’s left hand once more. “Why does he count the lights?” And how the hell is that of any use? he wanted to add, but didn’t.
“I told you. He is Holiest. His mind is uncluttered, giving room for the presence of the Silent God. He counts the lights because that is how the Silent God has told him to worship.”
This is going nowhere, Kelvas thought again. But diplomacy insisted he continue the charade a little longer. “But . . . what lights?”
“The lights of the Tower.” The High Deaconess pointed up. “There are five hundred and sixty seven steps on the outside of the tower. Every nine steps, there is a light: sixty-three lights in all. Sixty-three is a holy number, for the holiest number is three, and sixty-three is three threes.”
Three threes? Kelvas frowned for an instant, then understood: because the Prevarians were three-fingered, they calculated in base four, in which the highest digit was three. The numeral 333 in base four equaled 63 in base 10.
“Every night,” the Deaconess continued, “Lodolo walks around and around the tower. He counts the lights, from bottom to top, then from top to bottom, then from bottom to top. He does this sixty-three times, one for each light. Then he ascends the Tower, counting again from bottom to top; and descends, counting from top to bottom. Thus does he worship the Silent God. And something he saw, as he performed this act of worship two nights ago—the night the Ambassador fell—has troubled him deeply. Offended him, I would judge.”
But he can’t communicate it, Kelvas thought. Great. Perfect.
Kelvas felt a cautious tug at the sleeve of his uniform. He looked around. Lodolo hastily stepped back, as though afraid Kelvas would knock him down again. That was an accident, Kelvas thought, but now that his irritation had subsided . . . slightly . . . he felt guilty. “It’s all right,” he said to the monk, keeping his voice as calm as he could. “What is it?”
Brother Lodolo, short even by the standards of his people, stood, child-like, only as tall as Kelvas’s chest, which made it hard for Kelvas to remember that in fact—as the Deaconess had told him as she guided him to the monk—he was twice Kelvas’s age. The Prevarians lived longer than humans, and Lodolo was elderly even by their standards. He didn’t repeat his single phrase this time: instead he pointed at Kelvas, then up at the Tower.
“I don’t understand,” Kelvas said, again. He was getting very tired of that phrase. He hated not understanding. It was his job to understand: to understand the ramifications of the deteriorating diplomatic situation, to understand the society of the planet on which he served, and when things went horribly awry—and nothing in his long career had gone as horribly awry as things had gone here with the Ambassador’s death—to investigate until he understood. He glanced at the High Deaconness. “Do you know what he wants?”
“He wants you to ascend the Tower with him,” the High Deaconess said, the Translator rendering her as astonished. “It is a great honour. Without precedent.”
A great honour? Kelvas thought. He looked up at the black stone spire. How many steps had she said? Five hundred and sixty-seven?
He sighed. Still, he followed Lodolo the short distance to the base of the Tower because, with the High Deaconess watching, what else could he do? And anyway, he thought cynically, I could use a little divine favour right now.
But as they approached the long staircase that wound around and around the tower, Lodolo held up a three-fingered hand and then pointed to a bench built into the wall.
“Now what?” It was impossible not to be irritated all over again.
“You cannot climb the Tower of the Silent God while the sun is above the horizon.” The High Deaconess and her handmaiden had followed them, and now she spoke as if the truth of what she said was self-evident. “It is not a place one goes to see the sights of the world, but to see inside one’s own soul. You must wait until twilight.
”
“I’m not—” climbing it to worship your non-existent God, Kelvas almost said, but fortunately thought better of it. Instead he paused, glanced at his watch, and said, “Very well.”
Though the climate in the Prevarian capitol, tempered by the nearby ocean, varied little, the days still grew short in the winter, and the solstice was only a few tri-days away. Technically, Kelvas could have returned to the Embassy for an hour, but that might have meant facing Tyrone Boynton or John Kimblee, and he didn’t want that. So instead he sat on the bench next to Lodolo, who, fortunately, did not continue repeating “I count the lights” over and over again as Kelvas half-expected. Instead, the monk rocked silently. Like Tyrone.
Kelvas wondered if Eve’s brother were still sitting in the outer office, staring at the Persons of Interest screen. The images and videos that cycled endlessly on that screen were of known troublemakers, terrorists and criminals. All Diplomatic Corps security headquarters were required to display the POI feed in prominent locations: the modern equivalent of a bulletin board covered with wanted posters. Kelvas had never heard of anyone being apprehended because someone had seen his or her image or video in the POI feed, but regulations were regulations.
Which reminded him again of Eve’s request that he bend those regulations for her brother. He sighed. Much as he sympathized with her plight, bending regulations risked an official reprimand, and that, in turn, risked a black mark on his record just before retirement—which could impact his pension.
Of course, failing to solve the murder of the Ambassador he was charged with protecting would be an even bigger black mark. He glanced at Lodolo. Was this rocking blue alien with the “uncluttered” mind really his only lead to what had happened?
Apparently, God help me. He glanced up at the Tower. Any god.
He turned over his wrist to expose the datascreen and spent the remaining time until sunset reading messages and sending several variations of, “The investigation is proceeding apace and a resolution is expected shortly,” which was a flat-out lie, but at least bought time.
I’m chasing wild geese, he thought as he sent the last message. He glanced at Lodolo, who had stopped rocking and now sat motionless, eyes closed. And sooner or later those wild geese are going to turn into pigeons and come home to roost. Despite everything, his mouth quirked. I must be worried. I’d never have come up a mixed metaphor that ugly if I were thinking clearly.
He sighed. He’d almost taken early retirement from Diplomatic Corps Security three years ago, and if he had, he and Annie would currently be fishing in the mountains of Montana and hoping against hope their daughter would find someone with whom to give them grandchildren. But the opportunity to be head of security at a major new embassy on a newly opened planet had seemed too good to pass up. The pay was very, very good. Though Annie hadn’t made the trip out here with him, she’d visited a couple of times, courtesy of the free-transportation program that had also landed him with the Boynton problem.
I guess we can still go fishing after I’m cashiered out the service, he thought wistfully. In a much smaller boat. Wearing a disguise. Which will also be useful for panhandling for loose change on weekends.
He sent a final note to Simon, updating his secretary on where he was and what he was doing. If he fell off the Tower like the Ambassador . . . well, it would end all hope of a trade agreement, for one thing, but what really concerned him was that he not simply vanish without Annie ever knowing what had happened.
Almost without his noticing, the sun had slipped behind the dome of the Temple. The lengthening shadows vanished completely a few moments later. In the deepening twilight Lodolo finally stirred, and looked up at the Tower. “I count the lights,” he said helpfully.
“So I’ve heard.” Kelvas got heavily to his feet. “Let’s get this over with.”
The High Deaconess had left them during the hour they waited, but she reappeared now, striding across the stones of the courtyard on bare three-toed feet. “I will wait here for your return,” she said. “To learn what you have found.”
Or to make sure they clean up the blood promptly, Kelvas thought.
The eerie green bioluminescent lights of the Tower had come on as the day faded. As the evening land-breeze sprang up, the Temple began to emit a low organ-like chord that made the hairs on the back of Kelvas’s arms stand up. He knew the Prevarians felt peace and awe when they heard it, but considering what had happened to the Ambassador, he thought the human fear-response might be more appropriate.
Lodolo began to climb. As they passed the first light he said, as Kelvas expected, “I count the lights”; but then, for the first time, he said something else. “One.”
Another nine steps. “I count the lights. Two.”
And again. “I count the lights. Three . . .”
They climbed onward. The steps, worn and slightly rounded, sometimes even sloped down, away from the tower. Kelvas kept as close to the wall as he could, trailing one hand along it. The last light slipped from the sky. Darkness surrounded the base of the Tower: all illumination in the Temple Complex was shielded to prevent it from spilling upward. Only outside the Complex wall did the ordinary bluish illumination favored by the Prevarians appear, and even that was sparse: the Prevarians had better night-vision and what they considered brilliant illumination was more like what Kelvas associated with the kind of restaurant where the ambiance was more important than seeing what you were eating.
Lodolo strode confidently up the middle of the stairs, seemingly unconcerned by the ever-deepening abyss to his left. “I count the lights. Fourteen . . .”
Kelvas was fit for a man in his late 50s—he had to be, in his position—but he still found the climb wearing on him. The ambassador had not been particularly fit—he hadn’t had to be, in his position—and Kelvas found himself impressed Hori had undertaken the climb at all. He really believed in this trade agreement, he thought. He really cared about this planet and its . . . people.
“I count the lights. Twenty-eight . . .”
Kelvas had never cared very much about any of the worlds on which he’d served. His heart was always back on Earth. He didn’t hate the various aliens he’d met, and he’d done his level best to understand their societies, but not out of real interest: only so he could do his job and identify potential threats to the diplomats he was charged with protecting. He didn’t think of aliens as people so much as things that he had to deal with efficiently in order to do his job.
“I count the lights. Thirty-two . . .”
Like this simpleminded monk. Kelvas gulped more air and kept climbing, trying to ignore the growing ache in his calves.
Around and around. And then . . .
Just like that, Lodolo stopped. He didn’t say, “I count the lights.” He didn’t say . . . what number were they up to? Forty-six? Instead, he made a low, unhappy moan in his throat. He tugged at Kelvas’s sleeve, and pointed. Kelvas, who had been climbing with his head down, concentrating on putting one foot after the other, looked up.
He couldn’t see any reason for the delay. They stood two steps below one of the green lights, casting what seemed to him a paltry pool of illumination, though no doubt beautifully bright to Lodolo. An Aspect of the God, smiling beatifically—although even that had a slightly demonic look to human eyes, given the strangeness of the Prevarian face—stared out from the wall below the light. The next light glowed some five metres away.
Kelvas looked at Lodolo. The monk, still moaning softly, had begun to rock back and forth again, for no reason Kelvas could see.
Kelvas resisted the urge to say “I don’t understand.” He resisted the urge to say, “I count the lights. Forty-seven.” But he couldn’t just stand there all night, either. He took a step forward, and then another. The monk’s moan deepened.
As then, as Kelvas passed the smiling Aspect of the Silent God, the next light, number forty-seven, went out.
To Kelvas’s eyes, it was as if the steps disappeared completely
, swallowed by the darkness. Their black stone barely showed even in the green light of the bioluminescent lamps. The stars glimmering overhead had no hope of reflection.
Lodolo plucked at Kelvas’s sleeve, as though trying to stop him from advancing. But Kelvas pulled free, barely noticing, mind racing. Was this where the Ambassador died? Had Lodolo seen this interruption in the lights as he walked around the Tower, counting the lights?
But why had the light gone out? And what lurked in the darkness?
Kelvas turned and looked out over the city, trying to get his bearings. The Embassy glowed on the horizon, its Terran lights brighter and whiter than anything else in sight. The Ambassador had fallen from the side of the Tower facing the Embassy . . . a fact that the anti-traders insisted pointed to a Prevarian murder plot.
It could have been right here.
It had to have been right here.
But how did that help him?
He couldn’t send a forensics team up here to investigate: the High Deaconess had made it clear that would not be allowed. The Prevarians lacked the technological know-how to even attempt to gather samples, and in any event, the steps were ritually washed every day, the only time anyone mounted the Tower while the sun shone.
If he were going to discover anything, it would have to be now. He took the flashlight from his belt and unfolded the collapsible framework that allowed him to attach it to his uniform cap so he could keep his hands free. Once the lamp was firmly in place, he reached up and switched it on. Lodolo cried out in distress and flung his blue arm over his big eyes at the flare of bright white light.
“Sorry.” Kelvas started back up the steps, head down, studying each riser and runner in turn. A trip wire, perhaps? But no, not if the steps were washed daily: someone would have discovered it.
He looked up at the wall as he approached the spot where the next lamp should have gleamed.
There it was, its crystal sides reflecting his torch, but devoid of even the slightest green glow. Below it, the Aspect of the Silent God: in this instant, in sharp contrast to the Aspect he’d just left, screaming in apparent terror, mouth wide, eyes bulging, the perfect embodiment, for a human, of the Tower’s constant threatening moan.
Strangers Among Us Page 13
