Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (23 page)

“I have been instructed to help you in every way, Traveler.”

“Okay.” Treet nodded, chewing a feijoa. “First thing is cut out the Traveler stuff. My name is Treet—Orion Treet. You can call me either. What do I call you? Friday?”

A puzzled expression played over the guide's young features. “I do not understand.”

“What's your name?” Treet picked up a bowl of diced meat in a thick, white gravy and ladled some of it into his mouth with a paddlelike utensil from the tray.

She hesitated, as if deciding how to answer.

“My name is Calin,” she said finally.

“Calin? Nothing else?”

“That is my name.” She didn't sound any too convinced.

“Have you eaten this morning, Calin?”

The guide nodded, watching Treet carefully and still wearing the look of quiet wonder with which she'd entered the kraam.

“Well, drag up a chair and sit down here anyway. I don't like people hovering over me while I eat.”

“You wish me to sit with you?” She acted as if she had never heard of sitting.

“Yes, I want you to sit with me. Look, unless I'm mistaken, we're going to be working very closely together for a while. I don't want anyone standing on ceremony around me. I have work to do, and I can't be tripping over formalities at every turn. See?”

Calin said nothing, but silently nodded her assent.

“Good,” Treet continued. “Now why don't you tell me about yourself and we'll get acquainted.”

Before the guide could speak, the chime sounded again and Treet looked up. “Company?”

Calin jumped up from the table as if her chair had suddenly become radioactive. “I have requested a shaver,” she explained, running to the vestibule. She came back leading a humpbacked, bald-headed man in a white-sleeved kimono. The little barber carried a soft woven box and peered nervously at Treet, awe and fear mingled on his smooth-shaven face. “This one is a third-order Nilokerus. I requested the best.”

“Good, Calin. You seem to have thought of everything. We're going to get along just dandy.” He rubbed his prickly chin, turned his chair around and, tilting his head back, said to the barber, “You may begin.”

With a tremble in his step, the Nilokerus shaver advanced, placed his box on the table, and went to work, rubbing sweet-smelling, clear lubricant on Treet's prickly face to prepare the beard. Treet closed his eyes and said, “The last guide I had was blind.”

“Hage guides are blind.”

“Why?”

“When they are assigned, their eyes are put out; otherwise the psi will not come to them. They are not magicians and have no other powers.”

Such barbarism was not unheard of. Still, Treet winced. “But you're not blind,” he pointed out. “How come?”

“I am a Saecaraz magician,” she explained, pride creeping into her voice. “I was chosen by the Supreme Director because of my skill, and because I am a Reader. I have—”

“A magician, did you say?” Treet opened his eyes and raised his head. The barber jumped back, razor in hand.

“Yes. Fourth-order.”

“That's good, huh?” Treet put his head back down. “You'll have to explain that to me.”

Calin shrugged. “There is nothing to explain. One serves one's function, and the priests reward one's achievement by advancing one through the orders. That's all.”

“Well, we'll work on that a little more later. But I think I know what you're saying. Go on.”

“There is nothing else to tell.”

“Oh?” Treet cracked open an eye. “Are you single? Married? Do you live alone or with a whole bunch of other magicians? What does a magician do exactly? How big is this place anyway? How many people? Where does Empyrion get its power? How do you grow your food? Why do you live under this dome? What's this business about Nilokerus and Saecaraz? What do you do for fun? How is the colony governed? Do you have laws? What's it like outside?” Treet paused for breath. “See? There's lots to tell.”

“I am admonished,” replied Calin, much taken aback with Treet's rapid-fire questioning.

“Don't worry about it. I just wanted to give you an idea of my interests. I'm interested in everything.” Treet quit talking and allowed the barber to finish scraping his face clean of whiskers. When the barber took out his scissors, however, Treet waved him off, saying, “I'll skip the trim, if you don't mind. Next time.” He rubbed his tingling face with pleasure. “Good job. Help yourself to a plantain or whatever those things are.”

He turned to Calin, excitement bubbling through his veins. “I'm ready! Let's go!”

Calin smiled. She liked this unpredictable Traveler, and his enthusiasm swept over her like a rumor through the Hage. “Tell me where you wish to go. I will take you anywhere.”

They
stood at the rimwall of the topmost terrace in Saecaraz Hage—the highest point in all Empyrion. The dome directly over their heads—a scant hundred meters away, Treet estimated—was not perfectly bowl-shaped. It was more like the inside of an old-fashioned circus tent, complete with poles.

He could clearly see individual panes large enough to cover whole city blocks back in Houston; the cords that bound them, like the strands of an enormous spiderweb, were as big as the trunks of California redwoods. The gigantic support poles which poked up through the dome were as big as hypertrain tubes.

“Some view,” remarked Treet after a long moment of silence. The effect was like standing on an alpine mountain summit overlooking deep valleys with their huddled villages below. Only here, the mountain was a squat pyramid of plates stacked atop one another in descending circumferences, and the valleys were plazas and greenspace, although at least one river of size wound its way along the lowest level rimwall to disappear around a terrace curve far below.

Treet was no accurate judge of distance, but guessed that on Earth, on a good day, he could see perhaps twenty-five or thirty kilometers. The other side of the dome appeared to be at least that far, maybe farther—he couldn't tell because there was no haze to cloud distance and offer perspective.

“We are near the center of Empyrion. This is Saecaraz Hage. Threl High Chambers and the Supreme Director's kraam are below us. Over there,” Calin pointed across space to another terraced hillside in the distance, “is Nilokerus Hage. And there,” she swiveled forty-five degrees, “is Chryse. Tanais is next to it, adjoining Saecaraz.”

To Treet these landmarks were fairly meaningless since he couldn't tell where one place left off and another began. Like suburbs of a metropolis, one place simply merged with another. “Just what is a Hage?” asked Treet. “Is it a place or a social designation? You seem to imply both.”

“I don't understand social designation.”

“It's … ah, like a class or a family.” From the frown on Calin's face Treet knew he had explained nothing. “It's who you are.”

Calin bent her head in thought, her forehead wrinkled. “It is a place,” she said finally, “when one goes there. It is a social designation when one comes from there.” She smiled, proud of her definition.

Now it was Treet's turn to frown. “I see. You live there you mean. It's home.”

“Home?” Calin shook her head. The word meant nothing to her. “We live in Hage, yes.”

“Everyone lives in a different Hage?”

“Yes, the Saecaraz live here, the Nilokerus there,” she pointed across the distance again, “the Chryse there, and the Tanais, and the others,” she indicated with a sweep of her hand, “each in his own Hage.” Her tone implied that this was a most obvious and elementary fact.

Treet began to see the arrangement. Whatever else it was, a Hage was clearly some sort of social marker which aided internal organization. A caste system, apparently. “I'm beginning to get it, I think.” They turned away from the wall and walked back to the lift entrance. “Take me to a Hage; I want to see one close up.”

Calin cocked her head to one side. “We are in Hage. We are in Saecaraz.”

“No; I mean I want to go to a different one. Nilokerus—is that how you say it?—let's go to that one.”

The guide hesitated. “Perhaps Bolbe. It's closer.”

“Fine,” replied Treet. “Tell me about it on the way.”

They reached the lift and began their descent to what Calin called Gladwater level. “The Bolbe are a small Hage, and have little stent, but at least they are above the Jamuna—although some of their magicians are equal to the best Chryse players.” This fact was illustrated with the graceful flip of an upraised palm, which Treet read to mean that things tended to even out, at least for some members of a Hage.

Calin continued, “The Bolbe are weavers mostly, and tailors. I will take you to their Hageworks where you can see what they do.”

The lift stopped, and they stepped out into a dark, cavernous gallery hollowed from the stone crust of the planet. Dim lights set in the walls cast pale illumination into an oblong room whose slab-cut ceiling echoed with the ping of splashing water. A pathway described by tiny yellow lights led down to a waterfront where people had gathered. There were, Treet guessed, a hundred or so colonists—the most he'd seen so far—and they appeared to be waiting for something.

“What's going on here?” Treet asked. His guide pursed her lips—an expression which meant he had asked an incomprehensible question. He rephrased it. “I mean, what are these people doing?”

“They are waiting for a boat,” Calin said. “We will go with them to Bolbe Hage.”

“By boat?”

“Unless you are afraid of boats.” She regarded him with concern. “Many people do not like boats. I myself like them very much. I ride whenever I can.”

“Boats are fine. Wonderful. I like boats, too—only I never expected to ride one here, that's all.”

They had come to the water's edge to stand waiting with the others gathered there. Treet could see kimonos in several different colors: gold-striped, red-striped, turquoise-hooded with silver-banded sleeves, green-sleeved with yellow hems. Those wearing identical robes stood together—well away from the ones wearing different colors. His guess was correct: the robes were uniforms. “These are the colors of the Hage?” He indicated the various clustered groups.

“All Hagemen wear the yos so that they may be recognized,” Calin explained simply.

“Black and silver—that's Saecaraz?” Treet plucked at his own uniform.

“The silver bands are Saecaraz,” Calin replied, “and the gold Tanais.” She nodded to a group wearing yoses with vertical gold stripes. “The green and yellow is Hyrgo; the red is Rumon.” She named the various ones around them.

“Saecaraz, Hyrgo, Rumon,” Treet repeated. “How many are there altogether? How many Hages?”

The magician looked at him oddly. “Eight,” she replied as if this should be self-evident.

“Eight? Why not six, or ten, or twenty?”

Calin shook her head slowly. “There are eight,” she began solemnly, and then looked away as the crowd around them surged forward. “Look, the boat is coming.”

Treet could not see the boat. The cave was not well lit, and the people pressed close to the rail at the water's edge. He saw a dark shape glide up, and heard the hollow scrape as the hull touched the wharf. Someone called out something in a loud voice which he did not understand. A murmur went through the passengers on the dock. In a moment the crowd began to move forward.

When they reached the rail to board the boat, Treet saw three men in red-striped yoses and short, blunt wands in their hands, standing at the head of a wide gangplank. Passengers passed before these men, who pressed the glowing point of the wand against the exposed flesh of each person's upper right arm.

“What's this?” asked Treet.

“To ride the boat costs two shares,” said Calin. “They read poak as you board.” She raised the sleeve of her yos and presented her arm. The boatman pressed the glowing point against her arm as she stepped onto the gangplank.

Treet followed her example, watching closely. He felt a pleasant tingle where the wand touched his arm. The bored boatman waved him on, and Treet climbed down into the boat. It was a squarish, boxy carrier—more barge than boat—made for transporting cargo and passengers short distances: flat decks—three of them, one atop the other over three quarters of the boat, with the small third deck over the rear quarter—surrounded by a woven rope rail. There were benches along the sides and in the center; all the rest was deck space—filled with passengers and, here and there, mounds of stacked bales and bundles.

“I always ride there,” said Calin, pointing to the topmost deck. She pushed through the other passengers toward the midsection of the boat where a stairway led up to the upper decks.

Treet followed her up to the third deck, gripping the handrail as the boat swung away from the stone pier. In the darkness there was not much to see, but Treet felt a sensation of motion and glimpsed the yellow lights of the waterfront sliding backward. They were off.

They journeyed in gloom, but Treet saw that they had entered a channel. Rock walls pressed inward, and the boat picked up speed as the river ran more swiftly through the narrowed course. After what seemed an interminable length of time, Treet saw the mottled gray stone lighten as it closed on them, and all at once they were out of the cave.

“It's fantastic!” cried Treet, blinking in the bright daylight. “I've never seen anything like it!”