by Eric Flint
Dhowifa.
"Go away," she whispered. "Hide, my love. There's nothing you can do but save yourself."
But Dhowifa, normally more clever and shrewd than any truemale Nukurren had ever met, was now utterly lost in a truemale spasm of emotional frenzy. He clutched at her head, desperately trying to pull the terrible stinger from her eye.
It was a hopeless task for his puny strength. But, for some unknown reason, his arrival had caused the demonlord to pull back. The stinger in its stick-tentacle drooped. There was a rapid exchange of sounds between the demonlord and the others. Then, the demonlord advanced again, its stinger held at the ready.
It's going to kill us both, Nukurren realized with despair. Oh, Dhowifa, you fool.
"Go—please!"
A huge shape stepped between Nukurren and the demonlord.
One of the hunnakaku, she realized, even before she heard the hoot.
The concentration necessary to interpret the hunnakaku was beyond her. She was afloat in a sea of pain.
She heard hoots answered by other, strange hoots. The latter, she dimly realized, came from the demons. But she could only concentrate on one thought.
I will not die with these horrible stingers in my flesh.
Gently detaching Dwowifa, she gripped the stinger in her eye. She inhaled deeply. Then, drawing on every reserve of strength and courage, she drew the stinger forth. She whistled from the pain, but never hesitated.
She cast the stinger aside. It rolled toward a demon. The monster stared at the weapon, then at her. It did not move. None of the demons were moving, she realized. The hunnakaku was now standing to one side, silent.
She reached back and gripped the stinger protruding from the left side of her mantle. Again, she exerted her great strength. The pain this time was not as intense, but after she drew out the weapon she felt a great weakness wash over her.
She fought the weakness aside, barely. She reached back and grasped the last stinger. Again, a heave. But now her strength failed her. She could barely see out of the eye left to her. The weariness and the agony were overwhelming.
She felt a touch on her palp. Strange, eerie touch. She twisted slightly and looked back. The demonlord was next to her side, staring at her with its strange little eyes. Dawn was now fully upon them, and there was enough light to see clearly. Much of the demon's body was covered with armor, and most of the rest was cloaked in hides. And there was something very strange, she realized, about the armor on its head. But she could see uncovered stretches of the monster's skin. Black as night. Implacable.
The touch again. She realized that it was the demonlord. The monster pulled her palps from the stinger. There was something bizarre about the shape of its palps, but she was too dazed to make sense of it.
It's very strong, she thought vaguely. But I think, if I were unwounded, not as strong as I.
She was unable to resist. She let her tentacles fall. The demonlord seized the stinger and placed one of its peds on her mantle, next to the wound. A sudden jerk, the sharp pressure of its tiny ped on her body, and the stinger was out.
She lost all vision, then. And almost, but not quite, her consciousness. Around her, she could hear the mingled hoots of hunnakaku and demons. She could feel Dhowifa's warm, trembling little body clutching her head. Reason, always thinly rooted in truemales, had fled completely.
Poor Dhowifa, was her last thought before sliding into oblivion, you were so proud of your mind. Now you see what terror can do.
Chapter 3
Rottu waited in the shadows while the patrol passed. She was not especially worried. The warriors in the patrol were auxiliaries, not keen-eyed legionnaires. More concerned with ending their patrol in the warmth of an ashu-chamber than with finding suspicious persons lurking in dark alleys.
As they drew alongside the mouth of the alley, the warriors stopped and made a casual examination of its interior. But Rottu knew they would see nothing. There was only a single glowmoss pillar at the entrance of the alley. An old colony, moreover, whose light penetrated not more than a few steps into the gloom beyond.
Still, Rottu took no chances. Far back in the alley, she pressed herself more closely against the stones. Then, cursing silently, repressed a hoot of pain. She had forgotten. The walls of the tenements were crudely made, with many sharp edges and rough corners. Nothing like the polished, beautiful walls of the Divine Shell.
I'm getting old and sloppy. Too accustomed to the luxury of the Shell. I haven't been outside the clan quarters in—how many eightweeks?
One of the warriors began to make a perfunctory inspection of the alley. But she had no sooner taken a few steps forward than she suddenly recoiled.
Watching, in the darkness beyond, Rottu found it hard not to whistle derision.
She smells the stench of the corpse.
The corpse lay between Rottu and the mouth of the alley. When she had seen the warriors approach, she had deliberately hidden herself beyond the body. If the squad of warriors chose to investigate the alley closely, they would have to edge their way past the thing. Several days dead, that corpse. Crawling with scavengers. Putrid.
A nameless corpse, Rottu knew. Dead of hunger, or parasites; or the wounds inflicted by thieves, themselves desperate enough to rob a nameless one. A former helot, most likely, escaped from the lands of her clan mistresses. Seeking, like so many before her, a new life in Shakutulubac. And finding nothing but death in the slums of the great city.
There are more and more such, now. Driven by the increasing tyranny in the land to seek refuge in a city which is itself hooting louder and louder.
There will be another pogrom soon. The awosha have already given the order. Many Pilgrims will die. We are too many, now, to find safety in a few cellars.
The patrol left quickly, as Rottu had known they would. In eightyweeks gone by, in the time of Rottu's youth, the patrol would have reported the corpse at the end of their night's work. The following morning, a gang of slaves would have been sent by the Mistresses of the City to remove it. But those days were long gone. In the Shakutulubac of Rottu's old age, corpses rotted in the streets. There were so many of them now. The life of the poor and low-clanned had always been cheap. Today, it was worth nothing.
Some time later, when she judged it was safe to do so, Rottu edged past the corpse and left the alley. Allowing no sign in her mantle of the repugnance she felt. There were none to see her color, of course. But Rottu had been a mistress of shoroku for too long to relax her discipline. A lifetime too long.
Once back in the street, she hurried along. Hurried, but took no chances. If she were spotted by a patrol, she would certainly be recognized. The patrol, of course, would not accost her. They would not dare. But they would talk, and the talk would reach the Tympani of the Ansha. Then—disaster. Rottu herself ranked high in the Tympani. But not high enough to avoid the chambers in the cellars of the Shell. Not if it became known that she was seen, late in the night, in that quarter of the city which was known to be infested with Pilgrims.
Some of the Tympani are already a bit suspicious. I have been careful, but it is impossible to make no mistakes. I have made very few, or my mantle would have been stripped long ago. But it has been many eightyweeks since I entered Ushulubang's service.
She ducked into another alley-mouth and examined the street behind her. Then, satisfied, continued on.
I would not have taken this chance, except—there has perhaps never been a parcel more precious than the one I carry tonight. And I have not seen Ushulubang in so long. We must speak together, for all the risk. I must make certain that she understands the truth of the situation.
This pogrom will be—terrible.
Rottu finally reached her destination, and gave the signal. Moments later, she was following a pashoc through the labyrinth of cellars beneath the slums. Now that she was in the relative safety of the underground, she admitted to herself that there had been another reason she had taken the risk of coming here personal
ly.
I must see Ushulubang myself. It has been so long, and my soul needs replenishing.
Ushulubang's quarters were, as always, spare and lean. A simple pallet. A sturdy reading bench. A crudely-trimmed glowmoss colony, which cast barely enough light for the sage to read by. Barely, but enough. Nothing more. Even for a former warrior like Ushulubang, the rigor of her life must sometimes be trying.
But Rottu saw, with relief, that there were no signs of that rigor upon Ushulubang. The sage was old, of course. But she still seemed as vigorous as ever.
After they entwined their arms, Ushulubang stepped back and whistled humorously.
"Why such an air of gloom, Rottu? Your mantle might as well be pure brown."
"Stop making jokes, you old fool." From the corner of her eye, Rottu saw the mantle of the pashoc glow orange and pink. The young Pilgrim was shocked to hear someone speak to the great opoloshuku in such an unseemly fashion.
Let her be shocked. Someone has to speak the truth to this—this saintly idiot.
The green in Ushulubang's own mantle never wavered, of course. Ushulubang enjoyed the rare occasions when someone flailed her. It reminded her, she would say, of the days when she had wandered the world with Goloku. Days long gone. The most precious of days. The days when Goloku had flailed her with the truth, and shown her the road of the Way.
"Always so grim. Always so grim."
Ushulubang made the gesture of rueful acceptance.
"Very well, Rottu. I see I will not be able to avoid your flail. But first—do you have the packet?"
Rottu withdrew the packet from where she had secreted it within her mantle cavity. With considerable relief. The packet was large and heavy. She extended it to the sage. Ushulubang's arms made short work of unwrapping the cloth.
The sage moved closer to the light shed by the glowmoss. Slowly, she examined the sheets.
"You have seen?"
"Yes, Ushulubang. I have made my own copies of the most important sheets."
A tinge of pink came into Ushulubang's mantle.
"Isn't that a bit—"
Rottu interrupted with a rude whistle. The pashoc in the corner of the chamber glowed azure and orange with indignation.
"Stick to philosophy, Ushulubang. Let me worry about keeping things secret."
Again, Ushulubang made the gesture of rueful acceptance.
"I am well flailed. I had forgotten how uncouth you are! But, as you say, you are the mistress of such things."
She gestured to the sheets.
"What do you think?"
"It is perfect. We will never be able to pronounce the language exactly the way they do, of course. But the Pilgrims on the mountain say that the demons themselves are changing their manner of speech to fit our needs."
Ushulubang issued a soft hoot of surprise.
"Truly?"
Rottu made the gesture of affirmation. "And in every other respect, Enagulishuc is ideal. Clear and logical. And the written form is very easy to learn, once one learns the strange method. Even the barbarians at Fagoshau are learning it. More easily, in fact, than the Anshac."
Ushulubang looked back at the sheets. "That is not so surprising, Rottu. The former barbarians do not have their minds cluttered with the arcane complexities of Anshaku writing."
Rottu accepted the reproof without comment. In principle, she agreed with Ushulubang. All apashoc are equal on the Way. Still, it was difficult not to think of barbarians as semi-savage illiterates. Skilled in war, within their limits; and often surprisingly cunning in their statecraft. But—
"You agree, then?" she asked Ushulubang. "We will adopt Enagulishuc?"
Ushulubang made the gesture of hesitation.
"I think so, yes. From a practical point of view, it is ideal. Yet—there is still the deeper question to be resolved. We will be committing ourselves, Rottu. In a sense, at least. We will become identified with demons."
Rottu whistled derision. "And so what? All the better. Let those who oppress the Pilgrims find red in their mantles, for a change. There is no longer any doubt on that question, Ushulubang. No Pilgrim has yet been able to observe the demons in battle, of course. They move much too quickly for our warriors to accompany them. But they have seen the results. Entire slave caravans destroyed. With no casualties suffered by the demons, other than minor wounds."
Seeing the continued hesitation, Rottu pressed on.
"Ushulubang, facts are what they are. It is a world of evil and violence. We may wish it were not so, and speak against it, but the fact remains. And we have become too numerous to avoid attack by simply hiding."
Hesitation.
"Ushulubang, there is a new pogrom coming. It has already been ordered. It will take the Tympani some time to organize, but not much."
Ushulubang made the gesture of postponement.
"I know, Rottu. But we will speak of that in a moment."
The sage laid the sheets down on the bench.
"You misunderstand my concern, Rottu. Goloku was a warrior herself, you should remember. She spoke against violence, true. But she was not reluctant to defend herself when necessary. As you say, if we can learn the skills of war from the demons, so much the better."
"Then why do you hesitate?"
"Battle is a small thing, Rottu. It is the soul which looms large on the Way. And these are, after all, demons."
"Demons who eat nothing but owoc ogoto."
"That is certain?"
Rottu made the gesture of affirmation. "Yes, Ushulubang. It is certain."
She pointed to the sheets on the bench. "You can read the report yourself. Many of the Pilgrims on the mountain have been living among the demons for eightweeks, now. They have watched carefully, as you instructed. Never—not once—have they seen a demon eat anything else. The demons themselves say they cannot."
"Do the demons say why?"
"Yes. They say any other food will kill them."
"Just so. It is fitting. Powerful demons, with the knowledge of great secrets. Yet—they cannot exist without the love of the world's simplest and most gentle beings."
Ushulubang made the gesture of certainty.
"In the end, that is what guides me. The minds of the owoc can be easily fooled. But their souls? Never, I think."
The sage turned to the pashoc in the corner.
"Spread the word, Shurren. Enagulishuc is now the language of the Way. All of the apashoc should begin its study. If they have already begun, they should intensify their efforts."
"Yes, opoloshuku. And the other matter?"
"That too is settled. Tell the Pilgrims to prepare for the journey."
The pashoc hurried from the chamber.
"What journey?" demanded Rottu. "What 'other matter'?"
Ushulubang whistled humorously.
"Excellent! Even the all-seeing Rottu remains in the dark. I am pleased. The secret has been kept. A difficult task, when it involved so many people."
"What are you talking about?"
"We are leaving Shakulutubac, Rottu. All of us, except for a few friars who will stay behind to continue the work of recruitment."
Rottu was dumbfounded. It took all of her mastery of shoroku to prevent her mantle being flooded with orange.
"Leaving? Where are you going?"
"To the Chiton, Rottu. To the mountain of demons."
"But—all of you? You too?"
She felt a sharp pain.
I will never see Ushulubang again. My soul will shrivel and die.
Then, drawing on a lifetime of harsh self-discipline, she repressed her emotions. She stood in silence for a moment, considering the question.
It is a brilliant stroke, actually. I would never have thought of it myself. The Chiton will provide safety from persecution. Long enough, at least, for Ushulubang to weave the Pilgrims into a thick cloth. The coming pogrom will strike at—nothing. I can easily provide enough places of safety in the city for a few friars.
Her cunning mind saw anothe
r possibility as well. But she pushed it aside. There would be time enough to deal with that later. For the moment—
Again, she repressed her emotions.
I will not live much longer, in any event. The steps I will need to take to enable so many Pilgrims to flee Shakutulubac will certainly come to the attention of the Tympani. I will be put in the torture cells.
In her mind, she whistled derision.
But they will learn nothing from my corpse. I have carried poison with me ever since I gave my soul to the Way.
And there is this, to bring comfort. Ushulubang will live. Ushulubang will live.
The sage interrupted her thoughts.
"Such an idiot."
Rottu stared at her, surprised.
"What does that mean?"
"Do you really think I would leave you behind? To receive the blue fury of the awosha? You are coming with us, Rottu."
"What? Impossible! I need to—"
Ushulubang's mantle flashed black. The sight of that implacable color on the sage's mantle stopped Rottu in mid-sentence. It was a color she had almost never seen on the opoloshuku of the Way.
"I command, Rottu. In this, I command. We will need your skills to assist us in fleeing the city. But only so much as you can do without throwing yourself into the torture cells."
"I can save—"
"You will save enough, Rottu. And you are not thinking clearly. You are only thinking of the escape. What of the arrival?"
"I don't understand."
"Just so. Just so. I am casting the fate of the Pilgrims into the coil of demons, Rottu. You may be a fool, but I am not. Do you think I would do so—without the assistance of my other eyes? Without your cunning at my side? Fool."
Rottu considered the question in this new light. And concluded, as she had so many times in the past, that Ushulubang was truly a sage.
"You are correct, opoloshuku."
Ushulubang whistled. Rarely did Rottu allow that word of respect to issue from her siphon.
The two gukuy stared at each other in silence for a moment. They had known each other for many, many eightyweeks. Ever since a young Tympani had been assigned as one of Ushulubang's interrogators, following the first persecution of the Pilgrims. A very young Tympani. Old enough to be sickened at the cruelty she had seen in the torture cells. Young enough not to have absorbed the cruelty into her own soul. An interrogator who had found, looking for answers from Goloku's only surviving pashoc, a Question to which she had devoted her life.
