“Unguided thought can be very dangerous,” Emdahl declared.
“Both of my brothers feel the same way,” she said. “It’s lucky for Gher that I’m the one who found him.”
“Are they really your brothers, Dweia?” he asked in a strangely subdued voice.
“It’s a bit more complex than that, Emdahl, but the word ‘brother’ comes fairly close. Now then, why don’t we all go over to the window and find out what ‘the bad people’ are up to?”
———
The light outside the window blurred and grew darker.
“What’s going on?” Yeudon demanded in an alarmed voice.
“The window’s moving, your Eminence,” Bheid explained. “It’s going from here to there—and I’d judge that it’s also going from when to when, considering the change in the light.” He glanced at Dweia. “Just exactly what are we looking at, Divinity?” he asked her.
“It’s the town of Leida in south central Perquaine,” she replied, “and we’re looking at yesterday evening.”
“That’s Koman sneaking down that alley, isn’t it, Em?” Althalus asked, peering through the fading light.
“It seems to be, yes,” she replied “I was looking for Argan, but the House has a mind of its own. Sometimes Deiwos is a little lazy, so the House goes out of its way to make things easier.”
“There’s a concept for you, Brother Bheid,” Leitha said slyly. “Consider the notion of a lazy God for a while.”
“Please don’t do that, Leitha,” Bheid pleaded. “I’m having enough trouble already—and stay out of my head right now. You don’t want to see what’s in there.”
Exarch Emdahl looked speculatively at Bheid and Leitha, but he didn’t say anything.
Then in the littered and half-dark alleyway below, Koman opened a battered door and entered a building.
The light blurred again as the window followed Ghend’s mind leech into a shabby room where Argan sat waiting. “Did you find anything useful?” Argan asked.
The white-bearded Koman sat down. “The local ruler calls himself a Duke,” he replied. “His name’s Arekad, and he’s as stupid as the others have been.”
“Didn’t really expect anything else, old boy,” the blond priest in the scarlet robe replied. “What about the local Scopas?”
“He’s a fairly typical Brown Robe churchman. He fawns all over the Duke and squeezes every penny he can get out of the commoners. This pot’s already simmering, Argan. One good sermon should bring it to a boil.”
Argan smiled faintly. “You don’t necessarily need to pass this on to Ghend, old chap, but I never had much confidence in those open military campaigns. It’s always been easier to work from within. Pekhal and Gelta should have stayed in the dark ages where they belonged. If Ghend had listened to me in the first place, we’d already have Wekti and Treborea in our pockets, and the rest of the lands would be opening their doors to welcome us.”
“Possibly, but it doesn’t matter all that much to you and me, Argan. Ghend’s the one who has to explain it to the Master. I rather think the Master’s growing impatient. We don’t really have forever to finish up. Those military campaigns in Wekti and Treborea were a waste of time, and that was Ghend’s fault, not ours.”
“Couldn’t agree more, old boy,” Argan said. “We want men’s hearts and minds, not their bodies, and the key to that is the temple of Dweia in Maghu. If you and I can present that place to the Master as a gift, he might just send our ‘glorious leader’ packing.”
“My, aren’t we ambitious?” Koman observed.
“I’m better suited for the job than Ghend ever could be, old chap. You know that as well as I do. When we’re done with this, I’ll sit at the right hand of Daeva in Nahgharash, and you’ll sit at his left, and the world will bow down to us.”
“It’s a pretty picture, Argan, but you still have to get past Ghend, and that might take a bit of doing.”
“Althalus got around him without too much trouble.”
“You’re good, Argan, but you’re not that good.”
“We’ll discover that in time, old boy. Are you with me in this?”
“Up to a point. If Ghend finds out what you’re doing, though, you’re on your own.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, old boy. Let’s go report our progress to Ghend. I wouldn’t make things sound too easy, though, if you get my drift.”
Althalus rolled over in his bed and punched his pillow a few times. Then, grumbling to himself, he settled down and slowly drifted off to sleep.
The vast temple in Maghu seemed deserted, and then two cleaning ladies with brooms and mops and dust rags entered. They wore aprons, and their hair was protected by kerchiefs. And as they entered, the song of the Knife serenaded them.
One scrubwoman was pale blond Leitha, and the other was perfect Dweia. And pale Leitha, weeping, did seat herself upon the stones of the temple floor, and she took up a garment of finest weave. Still sobbing, she tore one sleeve from the garment and cast it up into the silent air, and the Knife cried out also as the sleeve vanished in the air.
And the face of Dweia was sad.
And, weeping still, did pale Leitha tear the other sleeve from the garment of finest weave, and once again cast she that torn sleeve into the air, and once again the Knife cried and the sleeve vanished.
And then did Leitha, with tears upon her face, rip the garment of finest weave into fragments small, casting each in turn after the vanished sleeves. And when she was done, the garment of finest weave was no more, and pale Leitha cast herself facedown on the floor before the altar and wept, even as a brokenhearted child.
But perfect Dweia comforted her not, but proceeded unto the altar. Then stopped she there and brushed the top of the altar with meticulous care, catching her brushing in one perfect hand.
And then did she cast the fruit of her brushing into the air, and it was even as dust.
Then caused she that window that men call Bheid to be opened. And behold, a great wind did issue forth from the window Bheid. And the Knife sang, and the dust was there no more.
And then the Goddess looked about with calm satisfaction. “And now,” she spake, “my temple is once more immaculate and undefiled.”
C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - N I N E
Did you sleep well, gentlemen?” Althalus slyly asked the Exarchs the next morning as they gathered in the dining hall.
“Quite well, actually,” the silver-haired Yeudon replied, “all except for a rather peculiar dream I had. I can’t seem to get it out of my mind, for some reason.”
“Let me guess. Two cleaning ladies were tidying up the temple. One of them was ripping up a shirt, and the other one was dusting off the altar. Was that roughly the way it went?”
“How did you know that?” Yeudon asked in a startled tone.
“You aren’t the only one who was dreaming last night. This has happened before, but this time the dream was probably a gift from Dweia. We’ve all had these peculiar dreams before, but the other ones came from Daeva. You don’t really want to start having those dreams.”
“You should know all about dreams, Yeudon,” Exarch Emdahl rasped. “You White Robes make more money interpreting dreams than you do casting horoscopes. What was that peculiar noise in the dream, Althalus?”
“The song of the Knife, Emdahl. The dreams of Daeva have an entirely different sound. Most dreams don’t really mean too much, but when they start singing to you, it’s time to pay attention. The dream visions are usually an alternative to reality. The ones we’ve encountered before were Ghend’s attempts to modify certain events in the past in order to change what happened next. Sometimes they’re fairly blatant, but that one last night was about as complicated as they’re likely to get. Of course, Emmy’s much more subtle than her brothers. If I’m reading last night’s dream vision correctly, it had to do with the purification of Dweia’s temple in Maghu.”
“That’s our temple!” Exarch Aleikon objected.
&nbs
p; “For now, perhaps, but it was the temple of Dweia a few thousand years ago. If she happens to decide that she wants it back, you’ll be out in the street. Anyway, we were talking about metaphors yesterday, and that might be the best way to explain last night’s dream. Dweia and Leitha are going to clean out the temple, right enough, but it’s not going to involve dusting and mopping. Over the years your order has grown corrupt. You’re just a little too interested in money and power, and your treatment of the commoners has opened the door for Ghend’s underling, Argan. He’s a defrocked priest, so he knows how to preach. His sermons are mostly denunciations of the injustices of your order, and he’s reaching a very willing audience. Ghend tried invasions by armies in Wekti and Treborea. Now he’s trying social revolution, and that’s far more dangerous. Evidently, Dweia’s going to step in personally this time, and when she cleans house, she goes all the way down to bedrock. She’ll sweep away everything that offends her, and you Brown Robes might very well wind up on the dustheap with Argan and Koman.”
“Deiwos wouldn’t permit that!” Aleikon exclaimed.
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, your Eminence. Dweia and her brother argue quite often, but they do love each other. Deiwos is a distant God, but Dweia gets personally involved. If you offend her, she will take steps, and Deiwos won’t interfere.”
The three Exarchs looked uneasily at Dweia, but she smiled faintly and said nothing.
“Emmy was reaching on up ahead with her dream thing, wasn’t she?” Gher suggested to Althalus. “I mean, it hasn’t happened yet, has it? Wasn’t it sort of like that one we all had when the bad lady was standing on Andine’s neck?”
“You’re probably right, Gher,” Althalus agreed. “Emmy jumps around in time fairly often, so sometimes it’s a little hard to know exactly when she is. This time it did have a sort of ‘not yet’ feel to it, and I get a strong feeling that Brother Bheid’s going to be involved somehow.”
Not yet, love, Dweia’s voice murmured. A few things have to happen before we get to that. Right after breakfast, let’s go up to the tower and see what Argan’s doing.
If that’s what you want, Em, Althalus agreed.
“Where is that, Sergeant Khalor?” Bheid asked when they joined the hard-bitten Arum at the west window of the tower.
“Dail,” Khalor replied. “After somebody finally woke up and set fire to Bhago, the peasants packed up all their loot and marched in a more-or-less northeasterly direction. The defenses of Dail are a joke, so I don’t imagine the city’ll hold out for very long. Argan and Koman are there, and I think Argan’s getting ready to make a speech to fire up the peasants.”
“It’s called a sermon, Sergeant,” Bheid said with a slightly pained expression.
Khalor shrugged. “Whatever,” he replied indifferently. “I’m an Arum, so I’m not too well versed in religious terminology. When some idiot jumps up and starts shouting, ‘My God’s better than your God,’ I don’t pay very much attention—except to hide my purse.”
“Wise precaution,” Althalus murmured. “I’m just a bit curious to see how good Argan really is, though. He has managed to stir things up here in Perquaine, so he’s probably fairly eloquent.”
“Here they come,” Eliar reported from the window.
“I think you gentlemen might want to listen to the competition,” Althalus suggested to the Exarchs. “I’m sure he’ll do his best to touch as many sore spots as he can manage.”
A vast mob of ragged peasants flowed across the frozen fields of northern Perquaine toward the grim walls of the city of Dail. Here and there the crowd was dotted with more splendidly dressed individuals, fairly clear evidence that the clothing of assorted nobles had been a part of the loot taken from the coastal cities.
Exarch Aleikon’s face had turned pale. “I didn’t know there were that many,” he said with a certain dismay. “They go on forever!”
“It’s wintertime, Aleikon,” Emdahl rasped. “They don’t really have anything else to do.”
Sergeant Khalor was looking at the ocean of peasants advancing on Dail. “I think we’re in trouble,” he said bleakly. “They don’t know how to fight, and the only thing they’re really interested in is looting, but it looks as if just about every peasant in Perquaine’s joining the rebellion. Fighting that mob’s out of the question. There aren’t enough professional soldiers in all of Arum to stand up to that crowd, and no Clan Chief’s stupid enough to even try. The aristocracy always seems to forget just how many peasants there really are. Once the peasantry’s been aroused and given some sort of goal, there’s no way to stop them.”
“It looks to me as if you might have picked the wrong side, Aleikon,” Yeudon observed rather smugly. “The nobility of Perquaine has all the money, but the peasants have the numbers. I’d make a run for it, if I were you.”
“Koman,” Leitha said rather cryptically, “and Argan.”
“Where?” Bheid asked her.
“Up at the front of the crowd,” she replied, peering out the window. “There,” she said, pointing. “They’re riding in that farm wagon.”
“Can we get a bit closer, ma’am?” Khalor asked Dweia. “I think we might want to listen to them.”
“Of course, Sergeant,” she agreed, making a sort of gesture at the window.
The scene below blurred briefly, and then it cleared again, and they seemed to be just above a rickety farm wagon that was jolting over the frozen ground as the pair of weary-looking oxen drawing it plodded toward Dail.
“Do your people know what they’re supposed to do?” Argan was asking Koman. Argan was dressed in an artfully patched red robe, and he’d obviously not shaved for several weeks.
“You worry too much,” Koman replied. “Everything’s set up exactly the way you want it.” Koman was dressed in burlap rags tied here and there with bits of twine. “Just ask the questions, Argan; you’ll get the answers you want. I think you’d better fire these dirt balls up a bit. The enthusiasm’s starting to fade, and that uncontrolled looting in the coastal cities is starting to cut into your numbers. Peasants with nothing to lose will follow just about anybody, but a peasant who’s just filled his purse with gold usually wants to live long enough to spend it.”
“I can set fire to them again, old boy,” Argan replied confidently. “I can preach the birds down out of trees, if I really want to. Is Ghend around anywhere nearby?”
Koman shook his grizzled head. “Not close enough for me to find him. I think he’s still in Nahgharash trying to smooth over the death of Yakhag. That’s not sitting very well with the Master.”
“What a shame,” Argan replied sardonically. “Things are going rather well for us, aren’t they? Once we present the Master with Dweia’s temple in Maghu, I think he might just decide that he doesn’t really need Ghend anymore.”
Let’s wait until we take Maghu before we start celebrating, Argan,” Koman replied. “Althalus is still out there, you know, and he’s outsmarted Ghend at every turn. You’ll have to get past him to take the temple in Maghu, and I’m not sure that you’re up to it.”
“You seem to have quite a reputation in the enemy camp, Althalus,” Emdahl rasped.
“I’m good,” Althalus replied deprecatingly. “Everybody knows that.”
“Turn aside, Koman,” Argan instructed when their wagon was about half a mile from the gates of Dail. “Let’s get up on top of that little knoll so they can all see me.”
“Right,” Koman agreed.
“Make sure they can all hear me,” Argan added.
“No problem,” Koman said, reining their tired oxen around.
“I didn’t quite follow that,” Exarch Emdahl rasped. “That mob’s spread out for miles, and nobody can talk loud enough to make himself heard that far.
“Koman’s going to take care of that, your Eminence,” Leitha told him.
“How?”
She shrugged. “I’m not entirely certain,” she admitted.
“It’s one of those little t
ricks, Emdahl,” Althalus said.
“Could you do it?”
“Probably, if I really wanted to. I’d have to get the proper word from Emmy, though. The Books are involved, and that always gets a little complicated.”
“Some sort of miracle, then?”
“Well, in a way. We can talk about it some other time, though. Let’s see what Argan has to say right now.”
When their rickety wagon reached the top of the knoll, the blond Argan pulled his ragged hood up to conceal his face and rose to stand pensively in the wagon while Koman’s people quieted the unruly crowd. After a certain degree of order had been established, Argan pushed back his hood and raised his head with an expression of noble suffering on his face. “My brothers and sisters,” he said in a voice throbbing with emotion.
The crowd fell silent.
“My brothers and sisters,” Argan repeated. “Much have we suffered in our quest for justice. Now is the very dead of winter, and the cold north wind bites our flesh while the frozen ground bruises our feet. Unshod and poorly clad, we have struggled our way across Perquaine while cruel winter swirls about us. We hunger and thirst, but not for bread and water. Our hunger and our thirst go far deeper. And what is the unattainable goal we seek?”
“Justice!” a stout peasant bellowed in a voice like a crack of thunder.
“A well-chosen word, my brother,” Argan agreed. “Justice, indeed. But who stands athwart our path to simple justice?”
“The nobility!” another peasant shouted.
“Ah, yes,” Argan agreed, “the ones who call themselves noble. In truth, however, I see very little nobility in what they have done to us down the endless centuries. The fair land of Perquaine is fertile, and she brings forth food in abundance. But how much of that food is allotted to us?”
“None!” a slatternly woman with wild, matted hair shrieked.
“Well said, my sister,” Argan agreed. “None is our allotment. None is our breakfast, and none is our supper. We gorge ourselves on none. We expend our lives in wresting food from the rich land of Perquaine, and whole bushels of none is our only reward. Those who call themselves noble have taken from us all that we have, and they still demand more. And when there is no more to surrender up to them, then are we beaten with whip and club—not to satisfy their greed, but rather to fulfill their lust for cruelty. And is this noble?”
The Redemption of Althalus Page 67
