Echoes of the Great Song (21 page)

“Insane? That is very rude,” Viruk told him. “I think I shall kill you with your own sword.”

The knifeman hurled himself forward. Viruk stepped in to meet him, swaying aside from a clumsy lunge and hammering his elbow into the man’s face. With a strangled cry the man staggered back. The swordsman sent a vicious cut toward Viruk’s head. The Avatar ducked under it, then launched himself in a flying dive, his shoulder thudding into the man’s belly and pitching him from his feet. They hit the ground hard. Viruk reared up and struck the swordsman three times in the face, then grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the road twice. The swordsman groaned. Viruk pushed himself to his feet, and wrenched the sword from the man’s hand. “Pitiful,” said Viruk. “Truly pitiful.”

Spinning he sent the blade slashing through the air—and into the neck of the knifeman, who was creeping up behind him. The blade sliced through skin and tendon,
smashing the vertebrae and slicing through both jugular veins. The man’s head flopped to the right and his legs buckled.

The swordsman had struggled to his knees. “No!” he cried, as his friend died.

“No?” queried Viruk. “The time for saying no was before you attempted this ridiculous assault. I wouldn’t mind—save for the fact that you knew who I was. You have no idea how insulting that is. I mean, two of you!” Crouching down before the kneeling man he reached out and dragged the scarf clear. The face he saw was young, barely out of his teens. “I take it you are Pajists,” said Viruk.

The youngster nodded, then a gleam came into his eyes. “Yes. And proud to die for the cause. I may not have been good enough to kill you—but one day someone will. Kill you and all your foul kind.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Viruk. “Now why don’t you tell me the names of those who sent you?”

“Never!”

“That’s what I thought,” Viruk told him with a wide smile. “It does make matters so much more simple.” With one sudden move he swept the sword up and plunged it into the young man’s belly with such force that the blade penetrated his back. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” said Viruk. The swordsman screamed and sagged forward into the arms of his killer. Viruk kissed his cheek and pushed him away.

Rising, he remembered his soiled boot. Wiping it clean on the clothing of the dying man he made his way back to the palace to report the attack.

The Questor General sent a squad of soldiers to the spot, but by the time they arrived the bodies had been spirited away.

“What do you remember about them?” Rael asked Viruk, who was sponging blood from his black silk shirt.

“They were young and not very skillful,” said Viruk. “But they were waiting for me. One of them said as much. Called me Viruk the Killer. I can’t believe they sent only two. Do you think they were trying to annoy me?”

“They didn’t send only two,” said Talaban, moving forward. “Someone else was close by. Otherwise they would have had no time to remove the bodies.”

“Ah,” said Viruk. “That’s more like it. They sent three—but one of them was a coward. Even so, three is still somewhat of an insult.”

“You were
unarmed
, Viruk,” Rael pointed out. “They probably thought three would be enough.”

“I expect you are right,” said Viruk. “Can you still see blood on the shirt?”

“I think it is gone,” Rael told him. “Now, can you think of anything else? Anything at all?”

Viruk thought about the question, picturing the events once more. “No,” he said at last. “They came at me from the darkness. It was all over very quickly.”

“Then get home and rest, cousin,” said Rael. “And this time take a sword.”

“He is a fool,” said Talaban, after Viruk had gone. “Had he kept the swordsman alive we could have questioned him.”

“As he said, they came from the darkness,” Rael pointed out.

Talaban shook his head. “He was unarmed. He took the swordsman’s blade and killed the knifeman. That left the swordsman unarmed. He could have captured him.”

“I know that!” snapped Rael. “But Viruk is not a thinker. He likes to kill. That is his talent, and his obsession. But if we are speaking of fools, Talaban, let us review your report to the meeting. Was it your intention
to create enemies here? You spoke of arrogance, and your summation of Avatar characteristics was offensive. How did you put it?
If these newcomers are anything like us they will be arrogant and convinced of their superiority and divine right to rule
. Because of that you angered Niclin and he sought to have your crew put to death. Had Questor Ro not supported you it would have happened.”

“I merely spoke the truth,” said Talaban.

“Pah! The truth. Why is it that men always believe the truth is like a single crystal, hard and unchanging? What you perceive as arrogance, others see as pride. You want the truth? You cannot have it, for it is based on perception, like a beautiful woman. Where one man sees a whore, another sees an angel. When you spoke of our arrogance the Council looked at you, and what did
they
see? A man who despises his own people, perhaps.”

“That is not true!” stormed Talaban.

“There you go with the truth again. What is it you mean? That Niclin does not see it as true, or that you do not see it as true?” He held up his hand as Talaban tried to answer. “It does not matter. What they observe is a man who eschews the
look
of an Avatar. Where is the blue in his hair? Why does he not want to look like one of us? Is he ashamed? Or is it that he knows he is a Vagar? Are the stories about his mother true? And here we come to the word ‘truth’ again. Well let me tell you, I am sick of other men’s truth!

“Do not misunderstand me, Talaban. I value you highly, which is why I support you, but you must realize that we are a race under siege. We live with the constant threat of extinction. Such a situation breeds paranoia.”

“You are right,” said Talaban softly. “I do despise what we have become. Once we ruled the world. Now we are parasites, sucking the blood from the Vagars. We contribute little.”

Rael laughed aloud. “I might argue that we contribute greatly to the stability of the region. We are the enemy. We give them reason to unite. Without us there would be constant tribal wars and great devastation. All the while they look to us with hatred the general peace is maintained.”

Talaban smiled. “You say you
might
argue that. I take it you do not believe it.”

“I tell no one what I believe,” said Rael. “I am the Questor General. Do you know why Ro supported you?”

“No. It was a surprise.”

“It should not have been. He supported you because Niclin called for the deaths of your crew. Ro hates Niclin. It is that simple. I know you struck Ro, because he came to me, calling for your crew to be crystal-drawn. I asked him to wait until the meeting to raise it, and then made sure that Niclin was apprised of the incident. Had Ro called for your crew to be killed, Niclin would have opposed it.”

“I thank you,” said Talaban. “Once more I am in your debt.”

“You are an intelligent man, Talaban, but you are cursed—or perhaps blessed—with a romantic turn of mind. You see absolutes where there is only shifting sand. In many ways you are like the Pajists. They see us as tyrants and believe that the world would be better, and more just, if we were overthrown. What they do not realize is that the world is created for tyrants. It always has been. You were a student of history. Can you tell me of a time where there were no rulers? No lawmakers?” Rael moved to the far table and poured himself a goblet of watered wine. “Society,” he said, “is like a pyramid. The poor make up the base, and slowly the whole building narrows until a single stone is placed at
the top. The king, the emperor, the god. It can be no other way.”

“I am not convinced of that,” said Talaban.

Rael chuckled. “Of course you are not. You are a romantic. Well, let us deal with history again. Three thousand years ago, when the empire was very young and a rigid class system was in place there were several revolutions. The most interesting—for the sake of this argument—was the third, when the people killed the king. An assembly of senators was created with no overall leader.”

“It could have been a golden age,” said Talaban. “Fairer laws were passed. Universities were created.”

“Indeed they were. But within ten years there was a king again.”

“Not so, surely. Perjak took the title First Senator,” objected Talaban.

“Who cares what he called himself? He might have taken the title Fourth-sheep-from-the left. The title was immaterial. He had absolute power and he ruled like a king. His enemies were put to death. The poor remained poor, the rich got richer. What I am saying is that Man requires leadership. We are like the wolves, the elk, the deer, the tuskers. Always there is a leader of the herd. At this time in history the leader is the Avatar race. One day it will be another race. It may be unjust, but it is natural.” Rael poured Talaban a goblet of wine and handed it to him. “But these political matters are not what concerns me most about you, Talaban.

“In all my life I have only truly loved two people—loved them with all my heart. My wife, Mirani, and my daughter Chryssa. When Chryssa became crystal-wed I wanted to die. If it were possible to give my life for hers I would have offered it gladly. But when she died I accepted it. I buried her. And I moved on, Talaban. I chose
to live, as fully as I could. It is time for you to do the same.”

Talaban nodded. “I know that now. I learned it on the voyage home. What is it you would have me do, Rael?”

“First put some blue in your hair,” said Rael, with a weary smile. “Then take a few days’ rest. After that gather your crew. None of them has ever fought on a fully charged
Serpent
. Take them out to sea. Train them. I shall also give you thirty Avatar soldiers.”

“All the ship’s weapons need to be recharged,” said Talaban. “That will require more than a hundred crystals.”

“I will send them to the ship.”

“You think the newcomers will seek a war?”

“It is inevitable.” Rael gave a weary smile. “For they will be arrogant, just like us, and believe in their superiority and divine right to rule.”

The tavern was deserted, the diners departed, the tables empty. Yet still Sofarita did not sleep. She sat on the windowsill, tense and fearful, gazing down at the silent square. She could not relax for if she did, images would flow past her mind’s eye, people she did not know, places she had not seen, words and conversations she had never heard.

Each time the visions came she felt as if she were flowing with them, drowning in a sea of lives. She feared the flow. Once, as a small child, she had fallen into the Luan, tumbling down the mud bank to disappear beneath the fast-flowing water. A farmer had plunged in to rescue her, dragging her clear. But there was no farmer now to pull her back from this river of other people’s dreams.

Sofarita could not understand why this mystical phenomenon should be happening to her. She had never before experienced visions. She wondered if it could be a
sign of approaching madness. Perhaps the visions were not real, but just her imaginings. Perhaps she had a fever. She lifted a hand to her brow. It was not hot. Rising from the sill she walked back into the room and drank a cup of water. Weariness dogged her, and she longed for the bliss of sleep.

But what if she never woke? What if the river of dreams carried her away?

She knew no one in the city to whom she could turn for help. You are alone, she told herself. You must help yourself. This thought was curiously helpful. True, she could rely on no one and yet, conversely, no one relied upon her. She was truly free for the first time in her life. Not subject to the whims of a father who believed women were of little worth, nor of a husband she had liked and respected—but never truly loved. No longer chained within a close-minded village society.

The river of dreams at least offered excitement.

Sofarita lay down upon the bed, her head upon the pillow. Drawing the blankets over her shoulders she closed her eyes. There were no visions, no haunting scenes.

She was in the cellar of the tavern. Baj was sitting at a narrow table, his head in his hands. He was weeping. A man was sitting close by. He was middle-aged, with silver-streaked yellow hair and beard. There was a golden-haired child asleep on a cot bed by the wall. Sofarita watched the scene, dispassionately at first, but then Baj’s distress touched her. She moved forward to comfort him—and realized she was floating above the scene. The men could not see her
.

“Stop your crying, man, and tell me what happened,” said the older man
.

“He killed them. It was horrible.” Baj looked up, his face a mask of anguish. “I did nothing, Boru. I stood frozen in the shadows.”

“He would have killed you too,” said Boru. “To attack Viruk was stupidity beyond belief.”

“Forjal saw him walking to the meeting. He was unarmed. If I had acted …”

“But you did not,” said Boru harshly. “Did Forjal talk before he died?”

“Yes, but he only told Viruk that someone would kill him. He refused to say who sent him. But what if they find the bodies? Forjal worked for me. I could be implicated.”

“Stop your whining, man! They
will
find the bodies, but not the heads. They are in a weighted sack, which I hurled from the dock. But understand this, Baj, there must be no further acts of individual violence. Everything must be planned. You and Forjal risked everything by one act of indescribable stupidity. Now he and the other fool are dead. And, were it left to me, I would cut your throat now. But you are to be given another chance. From now on you will follow orders. You will take no precipitate action. Do you understand this?”

Baj nodded. “I am sorry.”

“Apologize to the spirits of Forjal and his friend.”

Sofarita opened her eyes. The bedroom was dark, lit only by a shaft of moonlight coming through the small window. She felt incredibly rested, though she could not have been asleep for more than an hour. She had blown out the lanterns before climbing into bed, and she had no means now of lighting them.