Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (20 page)

And to think that the Threl mercilessly persecuted the Dhogs and killed them or consigned them to reorientation cells whenever they were discovered. Why? It made no sense, unless … unless the Threl knew, too, that the Fieri existed. Knew and feared the knowledge, feared it enough to destroy anyone who might share it—why else torture those who believed? The coldblooded inhumanity of it astounded her.

I should have guessed long ago, Ernina thought. I have closed my eyes to this all my life. I have kept myself above the repulsive politics of the Directorate, and I have paid the price. I who prize knowledge so highly have wrapped myself in ignorance.

The man in the bed stirred. Ernina approached again and replaced the thin coverlet. “You must revive,” she whispered to him. “We have much work to do, you and I.”

Treet
was awakened by a presence beside his bed. Pink-white light tinted the sky; the section of dome above him had not yet become translucent. He rolled over slowly and peeped an eye open. A young man stood a pace away, apparently waiting for him to wake up.

“What do you want?” Treet's sleep-clouded voice sounded suitably gruff.

The youth, dressed in the standard black-and-silver striped short kimono, opened his mouth, then closed it, as if he had forgotten what he had come to say.

“Get out then,” said Treet. “I don't like people standing over me while I sleep.” He rolled over again. “Come back when you remember what you came for.”

“Supreme Director—” began the guide.

Treet's head whipped around, and he sat up. “He wants to see me?” He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, smoothed a hand through his ruffled hair, and noticed for the first time that the youth was blind. Empty holes stared where his eyes should be. “Um … okay Let's go.”

The guide led him out of the room and through a long, sinuous tunnel-like corridor—red tiled ceilings, gray stone-flagged floors. Amber lights, shining from half-moon receptacles set flush in the wall near the floor, illuminated their passage as they wound further and further into the convoluted heart of Threl High Chambers. Broken tiles lay scattered over the floor; blank squares dotted the ceiling and walls; here and there a light had gone out. The place reeked of disuse, and made Treet think of a long-deserted subway station.

Treet padded after the guide, wondering how the blind youth managed to find his way so easily. Practice, he guessed. As they moved along, Treet began wishing he had not been quite so hasty. He should have spent a moment or two at the sanitary stall—he smelled like a buffalo, and his face itched from the healthy growth of beard taking over his face.

Did these people shave? wondered Treet as they walked along. Did they bathe? So far all of the men he'd met sported smooth, beardless faces. None of them smelled like he did, either. He guessed that he was being kept away from such things as razors and bathing paraphernalia—perhaps in the interest of safety for all concerned.

Still, his skin felt tight and dry—like wearing a parchment bodystocking. It had been too long since his last nutrient bath; the capsules aboard the
Zephyros
didn't count. I could use a good soak, thought Treet. I could use some red meat, too. Come to think of it, I could use a lot of things I probably won't get any time soon.

For the first time since arriving on Empyrion, Treet felt like himself. He enjoyed the feeling. The ache in his head had vanished with sleep, taking with it the fog barrier that had blocked his thoughts. Now, aside from a few minor details—such as what had happened out there on the landing field—he remembered everything clearly and without pain. Furthermore, last night he had worked out a plan to ingratiate himself to the Supreme Director and win his confidence.

The guide entered a darkened, crumbling doorway and stopped. Treet remained standing in the corridor and realized that the guide had disappeared. He waited. In a moment the guide emerged and motioned Treet to follow him. Treet stepped into the darkness and felt himself turning—the floor was moving with him on it. Then the movement stopped, the light came up, and they were standing in a vestibule which opened onto a larger room.

Treet stepped into the room. It was, like all the rooms he'd seen so far, asymmetrically round with a ceiling that sloped like a portion of the interior of a much larger tent. Sunlight, now a little stronger, had clouded the panes of the dome above, so soft white light shone over everything.

The room was formally arranged with many pieces of furniture of sleek, exacting design: clever cantilevered chairs, several elegant tables large and small, a freestanding cabinet with many shelves holding odd art objects, a strange, oblong chest or trunk made of a woven material, a mound of silken cushions in one corner, and something that looked for all the world like an ordinary holovision screen, surrounded by a ring of cushions, standing in the middle of the floor. The place could have used a good dusting.

“Do you like you new kraam?” The voice came from a cabinet in the center of the room.

As Treet watched, Supreme Director Rohee emerged from behind the cabinet. “My new … krawm?”

The Director waved a hand to indicate the room. “Kraam,” he repeated, accenting the syllables separately. “It is yours.”

“It is?” Treet asked dumbly.

He had expected the audience to be much the same as their meeting of yesterday—conducted with official pomp from behind a barrier field, with guards and inquisitors in attendance. He had expected anything but to be offered his own plush apartment.

The old man smiled, his eyes disappearing into crinkled folds of skin, his jowls bulging. “We will sit.” He led Treet to the cushions and pulled one from the mound, sinking down onto it with a sigh.

“Where are your guards?” Treet glanced back over his shoulder and sat down cross-legged.

“We will not need them anymore. I have made up my mind about you, Traveler.” He smiled again, lips pressed firmly together. “You can be trusted.”

Treet did not know what to say. This turnabout was blowing holes in his plan of ingratiation, but the effect was better than he could have hoped for.

“Can you understand what I am saying to you. Traveler?”

“I understand.” Treet nodded. Yes, his facility for languages had served him well. He now caught nearly every word spoken to him—it was, after all, merely a mutated dialect of old reliable International English.

“Good! Good!” Rohee seemed very pleased with this information. “We can talk freely then.”

“I hope so,” replied Treet, taking the opportunity to launch into his prepared speech. “I mean no one any harm. I do not wish my presence here to cause anyone alarm. I have come to help you.”

“Help me?” the Supreme Director asked. “How would you help me?”

“It appears to me that Cynetics is no longer remembered in Empyrion.” Rohee's flinch told him his hunch was true. Treet continued boldly, “Cynetics is very powerful. Cynetics will help those who help me in my mission.”

“What sort of mission, Traveler?” The old man cocked his head to one side. His fine white hair had been brushed until it shined. His quick eyes watched intently.

“To learn why your people have forgotten,” he said, stretching the nature of his assignment slightly. Under the circumstances he didn't think Chairman Neviss would mind. He paused and then delivered his next revelation. “My friends will tell you—we all have similar missions.”

Rohee gave away nothing by his expression. He merely peered back at Treet with a benign smile and remained silent.

Treet continued. “Yes, I remember my friends. I didn't at first, but I do now. In fact, I remember everything.”

According to Bela, the
Chryse were second only to the Saecaraz in Hage stent. This was important, he maintained; it meant that artists and sensitives could finally assume the exalted position they rightly deserved. It meant that the long years of austerity were over—as anyone could see by allotment. Now even musicians and storytellers, Chryse of the lowest order, regularly received meat in the dole.

Yarden listened attentively as the troupe walked the teeming byways of Hyrgo Hage, with its multi-layered terraces all growing green, the smell of rich damp soil thick in the air. She liked hearing Bela talk; he had such a high opinion of himself and of all Chryse that it made her feel important. She suspected that Bela liked hearing himself talk too; he enjoyed the sound of his own modulated tones.

“The Nilokerus do not like this,” he was saying, “since we've advanced over them. No one likes to lose stent.” He shrugged, his lanky shoulders lifting under the ample yos. Today they were all dressed in the same sea colors of deep blue-green, head to toe, their hands and faces painted blue, their hair dyed or covered with close-fitting caps of the same color. Today they were playing
Ocean
for the Hyrgo and Saecaraz. “The Nilokerus should just be glad they're still above the rest; they value themselves overmuch.”

Yarden nodded, not quite understanding this, but taking it in all the same. The effects of the flash still lingered. Her head felt soft and mushy, slightly detached from her body, which felt, not unpleasantly, lethargic, wrapped in a drowsy, cottony numbness that dulled physical sensation. She was happy just to walk and listen and not think—thinking had become such an exhausting chore lately she preferred letting her mind wander aimlessly. It was easier.

“It's pretty here,” she observed. “It smells like …” Her voice trailed off. Strange, she had nothing to compare it with. “I like it here.”

One of the other troupe members who had been walking close behind moved up beside them. “Wait until you taste their food! Everyone knows they save the best for themselves. Whenever we play the Hyrgo we eat like priests.”

“True enough, Woiwik,” replied Bela. To Yarden he said, “If we do well today, we'll be given gifts of food—it's a tradition with the Hyrgo. They are so proud of their abilities they always try to impress us.”

“They impress me!” admitted Woiwik, rubbing his stomach and rolling his eyes.

“You're too easily impressed,” Bela snorted. “The Hyrgo think that if they give away food they can improve their stent.” He chuckled. “They don't know it doesn't work that way.”

“And we'll never tell them,” laughed Woiwik. “They're growers! Even their magicians—just growers all the same.”

“Someone has to grow the food,” said Yarden. “They work hard—harder than we do. I don't see what's so funny about that.”

Both men looked at her askance. Woiwik opened his mouth to challenge her, but Bela warned him off with a glance and said, “It isn't the work. We all know they work hard. But their craft is not subtle; there is no art in it. Without art, life is … well, life is not life. Seh?”

“Maybe
she
was a Hyrgo,” muttered Woiwik. “Before—”

“Hagemen!” Bela turned and shouted. “Let us play so well today that we will embarrass the Hyrgo if they don't send us away groaning with pleasure.”

This exhortation brought a shout of acclaim from the troupe, which this day numbered forty because the nature of the play required that two troupes merge. They continued on to a place where the lower terraces met to form a wide quadrangle. The troupe stopped here to wait for their audience to assemble.

“How will they know to come?” asked Yarden.

“When they see that we are here, they will come,” explained Bela. “Also, a Hyrgo always stops at midday to eat a meal, and they always eat together.”

“That's why we always choose this time and this place to perform for the Hyrgo,” Woiwik put in, looking pleased with himself. “We don't mind coming down here in deep Hage if it means better gifts.”

Yarden nodded absently and raised her eyes skyward. The dome glittered faintly from far above—so high individual cords and panes could not be made out. It was a blank white shell, an enormous curving bowl above all, glowing with sunlight. The tallest of the narrow trees grew upward toward it, but did not begin to reach. Wide, flat terraces—fields with dwelling clusters interspersed—rose like stairstep mountains on all sides; the topmost layers formed plateaus crowned with orchards.

As she looked around her, Yarden saw figures moving in the landscape. As Bela had predicted, the Hyrgo had seen the troupe from afar and were coming down to meet them, calling to their Hagemen to leave their work and follow. In minutes the lower terrace rims began filling with Hyrgo Hagemen young and old, dangling their feet over the rimwall or squatting on their haunches below it. All were quiet and orderly, their faces radiating anticipation. Here and there a mud-stained smile welcomed the troupe, but for the most part the Hyrgo looked on in silent expectation.

When a sizable crowd had assembled, Bela motioned to some of the troupe members who, on hands and knees, linked themselves together to form a living platform. Climbing quickly to the top, he addressed the audience. “Welcome, all, to our performance,” he said, his voice clear, deep, and fine. “We are happy to play for you. Today, as you can see by our costumes, is a special performance.” A ripple of excitement fluttered through the audience. Bela drew out the moment, heightened the suspense. “Today we will perform
Ocean!”

The Hyrgo loosed a roar of acclaim, chattering their approval. Bela allowed the outpouring to continue for a few moments and then cut it off just as it began to die away. He told them of the play's history, and briefly explained the various movements they would see. Yarden saw how expertly he manipulated the audience, working them into the proper mood for the performance. He ended by saying, “We do not wish to keep you from your midday meal, so please eat and enjoy the performance!”