Haze and the Hammer of Darkness (45 page)

“I might, too”—the man grins—“but not quite yet. It's like this. First, the glittermotes. They're simple. They congregate around those who can or do tap the field. But in … say a long while … I've never seen black. Only gold and white. Not even … anyhow, that's the glittermotes.

“Bit players, demigods, bystanders, all the same. Strong enough to endure, but not to influence the game. Once in a while, we can point things out to the new ones. That's you. My chains rattled free before they were supposed to, and I won't say how, on the condition I have a beer and a chat with you. No illusions about that. I'll be back throwing waves shortly.”

Martel listens, trying to accept the information, to take what is offered and sort it out later. In the back of his mind, he senses a change in the weather, a storm brewing over the hills to the west.

“You're educated. Talk about the chains of the sea. I've something to do with that. If you're in the chains of the sea, you drink salt water, and that doesn't do much for your thirst. Now ask why I don't try harder to get free of my chains. I do, every once in a while, for an adventure or two. But I don't stand up well against the storm-gods or their thunderbolts, and they don't stand up well to the Elder Gods, which says where I stand in the grander scheme of things. You're different, or will be, once you get the hang of it. You've got some of them stirred up. Can't see why exactly … seem too peaceful to me.”

Martel stands, the blackness boiling out of him like night, the glittermotes clinging to him like a shadow cloak.

Explain!
His command strikes the other like a whip.

Young god … and the older gods fear you. You are not ready to face them … by their own laws they cannot strike you down … but will tempt you to your own destruction … or to attack them all …

The perpetual day turns sudden dark, brooding smoke-yellow dusk, with the swiftness of a razor knife slicing day into night, and the thunder rolls in from the west and down the hillside like a war wagon to shake the cottage. The windows chatter with each quick drumroll.

Gil Nash freezes whiter than the white roads to Aurore, whiter than the white roofs of Sybernal, whiter than the snows of winter and the sands of Sahara.

Nash's eyes dart toward the clouds.

Martel throws a mental shell around himself, trying to gather all the energy he can, but as he draws he feels the golden bolt descending from the clouds in a blaze.

“Mr. Martel … Mr. Martel…”

Coldness, wetness … water across his face.

“What…”

He opens his eyes. He is sprawled on the deck on his back, looking up at the circular charred hole in the roof, and at the gray face of Mrs. Alderson.

He checks himself over, lets his unsteady perceptions review his body. The report is sound. No overt injuries. He sits up, concentrating on keeping everything in focus.

The chair where Nash has been sitting is a heap of ashes. The one where Martel sat is untouched. There is no sign of the demigod who called himself Nash, nor any remains.

“Thought there weren't any thunderstorms on Aurore, Mrs. Alderson.” He sits up.

“There aren't, 'less the gods are involved. You be messing with what you oughtn't, young man?”

Probably,
thinks Martel.

“Don't think so, but the fellow I met at the beach may have been.”

Martel stands up, uses the back of his hand to wipe the water off his forehead.

The table lies on its side, the beaker next to it. The beer mug, a glassy lump now, is coated with the ashes from the fired chair, and has rolled almost to Martel's feet.

The landlady follows his glances, sees the melted mug, connects it with the ashes of the chair and the hole in the roof, and gasps.

“Called himself Gil Nash. Swam out of the water and asked if he could have a beer. Didn't see any harm in it. He seemed nice enough.”

“And that goes to show you, Mr. Martel, what happens on Aurore when strange people arrive from the sea. Like as not he was a ruined demigod trying to escape his just punishment. Lucky as not you're an innocent. Knowing mortals who help the wicked uns, the gods have no mercy on them.”

Martel shakes his head slowly. No innocent, just fast enough with an energy screen … and yet … how long was he unconscious? Certainly long enough for anyone disposed to do him in to do so.

What had Nash said? Tempting him to strike out?

He shakes his head again, more violently. No striking out, period!

“Luck, I guess,” he answers the waiting woman. “I'll pay, as soon as I can, for the damage. Not on purpose, but, as you said, I should have known better.”

“No, Mr. Martel. How would you know, being new and all? It's not that I'm short on funds. You are, and I should have warned you. Just be a mite bit more careful what strangers you strike up with. Time comes and you'll sense the queer ones.”

“I will. Certainly will.”

He sweeps the ashes into a bag, where he deposits the lump of glass that had been a mug, and carries the bag out to the recycling pickup next to the coast road below Mrs. Alderson's house. By the time he climbs back up the long steps, she has rearranged the porch furniture and placed another chair next to the table. Except for the hole in the roof and a darker shade of decking where Nash's chair had been, the setting is again as it had been.

Most people, reflects Martel, wouldn't see the difference unless they looked up. And who makes a habit of looking up?

“Thank you again, Mrs. Alderson.” The words feel awkward, but he doesn't know what else to say.

“No problem, Mr. Martel. We all have to get used to new places, now, don't we?”

He nods, trying to repress a smile. Some individuals, like Mrs. Alderson, like Rathe Firien, have a down-to-earth friendliness that puts everything in perspective.

Rathe … He purses his lips.

“Do you have a directory? For Sybernal?”

“Aye, and so do you. Second drawer, under the vid.” She picks up her broom and with quick steps is halfway down the porch steps before he can speak.

“Thank you again. I appreciate, I really do, your understanding.”

She smiles.

“Without that, wouldn't be much, would I? But you do be careful, Mr. Martel.” She turns, like a sprightly terrier, and marches back down to the main house.

He shakes his head.
Of course, she's right, Martel.

He does not know if it is his thought or another's. It doesn't matter.

The directory is in the second drawer under the vidfax, and he does find the listing: Firien, R., NW of Sybernal.

His fingers tap out the codes.

There is no answer as the beeps pulse and pulse and pulse.

“Not even an answer slot?” he mumbles.

A check of the instructions reminds him that autoscreens are not available on Aurore.

He tries again, but she is still not there.

Next, he surveys the drawers in the small kitchen, mentally inventorying each utensil.

He taps out the number again, and there is no answer.

He reads the autochef manual, cover to cover, beginning with the installation date stamped inside the front fold and ending with the recipe for time-roasted scampig.

Rather than try her number again, he looks for some cobwebs to dust, but his memory reminds him that Aurore has no spiders, and therefore no cobwebs. He keys Rathe's codes into the limited memory of his faxer, then jerks his hands off the access plate.

Should he have let her go?

No.

Was he going to let her go?

No.

Thinking about it, he smiles. Listening to the soft chittering of birds through the open windows, the muted swash of the sea beyond the hill, and, feeling the sharp edge of the salt air, he smiles.

 

x

The receive channel on the relay ship opens for nanounits.

The monitor blinks green, signifying that the relay has been completed.

The Brother at the controls touches one plate, a stud, begins the quick sequence to take the ship into underspace to wait for the next transmission.

Once the small ship is underspace, he stabilizes the controls, touches the replay stud, and waits for the equipment to return the message to real time.

The image on the screen is that of Brother Geidren, current domni of the Council.

“By order of the Council, all Brothers and Sisters of the Order are hereby requested to give their full prayers to the Congregation of the Fallen One, in accordance with the Writ of Perception.

“Though all will not be accomplished that might, though the hours of the very stars are numbered, still we persevere until each is weighed and numbered.”

The screen blanks.

The Brother frowns.

Like all Brotherhood quicksends, it has a double message, and for the first time in many years, he does not understand the logic behind the second message.

In effect, the Brotherhood is being disbanded, being told to join and fully support the Church of the Fallen God while continuing the basic goals of the Brotherhood.

The relay pilot pinches his fat lips together.

The command releases the ship to him, for whatever purpose, and the same effect apparently will take place throughout the Brotherhood.

He rechecks the authentications, and taps a query into the sender. The whole idea of the message is absurd. There will always be a Brotherhood, Empire or no Empire.

To go underground even more thoroughly has been expected since the ejection from the Empire, but to join such an offbeat group of lunatics as the Church of the Fallen One?

He readies his ship for the real-space transfer to send his query.

 

xi

CASTCENTER
—a simple bronzed plaque over the portal.

Martel steps through.

The foyer on the inside is small. Indirect yellowed lighting combines with the brown plasteel to convey a clean dinginess. The entry console is vacant, as are the two armless chairs across from it.

Martel sits down, lets his perceptions range through the small building.

There are, from what he can tell with a quick scan, three studios, several smaller rooms, four or five offices, a larger screening room, plus fresher facilities, editing rooms, and the reception area.

He picks up three people in the entire circular building. One engineer, one caster, and one administrator. A man and two women.

The administrator, female, is walking down the corridor toward Martel.

Martel stands up.

“You must be Martel. Certainly took your time in getting here.”

He frowns. He is reporting eight weeks earlier than he has to.

“Does everyone report early?”

“I forgot.” The woman smirks. “You had adjustment problems.” She has sandy hair, cropped straight at chin level, and bangs that are trimmed squarely above her eyebrows. The washed-out gray of her eyes matches the gray tunic and trousers she wears.

Martel wonders about her obnoxiousness, but answers evenly. “That's right. I had adjustment problems. But I'm here and ready to work.”

She slouches into the lounger behind the console.

“Aren't you the chiever-beaver. Just like that.”

Martel waits.

“Sit down. Sit down. Farell's on the board, will be for the next two stans. Few comments from KarNews on the in-feed. That's about it. That's all it ever is, except for the specs and the logos, the gossip pieces, the once-in-a-god-year storm warning. Feed the touries their home-planet news. We handle Karnak.”

Karnak? The one fax outlet on Aurore handling Karnak, and that's where the Brotherhood has placed him? He files the point for reference, and turns his attention to the woman.

Her eyes are bright. Too bright. Cernadine. Do the demigods allow addiction?

Why not? So long as it doesn't impair performance or hurt anyone else. Cernadine is safe and available. And explains the washed-out look in her eyes.

“Fine. Farell's on the board. You are…?”

“Hollie Devero, at your service, Masterfaxer Martel.” Her mouth quirks upward even farther, then twitches into a thin line before she continues. “And how did a Regent's Scholar with a masterfax rating end up on Aurore, the punkhead of faxing?”

“You seem to know all the answers. Since I'm not sure, you tell me.”

“You're right. I do know full feed on you, Marty Martel. How you actually put a little love into a greeter's life, and how you really like to take long walks alone on the sands, and how you avoid people. And how the first things you bought were black tunics and trousers. And you had to special-order them!” She laughs and the sound is brittle.

Martel bites his lip. No one should be greeted like this! No one!

“Then you know why I'm here.”

Her voice loses its edge. “No. I don't. First new faxer in ten standard years, first one not even a Guild prentice, and the Guild approves you … and no record marks.”

Martel probes at the fringes of her thoughts, gently, uncertain how cernadine affects her sensitivity, unsure how sensitive she is.

… say that?… Did I … what … Martel … the one …

Her curiosity is building against the damping waves of the cernadine, but Martel senses she does not know what she has just said. How? Why?

Someone else is walking down the corridor from control area—the engineer.

Danger. Danger!
Danger!
DANGER!

Martel strikes, lets his mind go in a blast of energy, lashing at the man in a way he only half believes.

“Gods!
No!
…” The scream from inside and outside Hollie Devero catches at the edge of his attack, and he holds back the darkness … finds himself staring from a slumped position against Hollie's console at a man lying facedown, antique slug-thrower gripped in his hand.

Martel knows the man is dying or dead. Maybe.