The Crystal Empire (53 page)

“What resulted—besides Ourselves, of course—was a long-lasting culture capable of a measured progress. With all due respect for my e
s
teemed ancestor, ’twas little to the doing of it. After all, as Our Drea
m
ers inform Us, a redheaded half-Mongol can, with the same ease, be mistaken by a superstitious savage for the Feathered Serpent as any—but you’d have no wise of knowing about that.”

Agreeing in silence with the boy—that he knew not what was being spoken of—Oln Woeck accepted a cup of the fragrant infusion. Perhaps, after they ate, he could determine whether this beautiful youth might feel amenable to yet another pleasure—
no!
He mustn’t allow his fleshly pred
i
lections to overpower his judgment.

Bowing his head, he muttered a few words of ceremonial gratitude to the Suffering Lord Jesus, hands trembling with the effort of controlling his voraciousness.

Zhu Yuan-Coyotl watched him with a neutral expression.

Oln Woeck took up a pair of eating-sticks.

Before the Cultist could taste a single mouthful, the Sun Incarnate appeared to change the subject. So abrupt was the change that the old man looked up, eating-sticks hanging in the air, all but forgotten, before his puzzled face.

“There are many theories, Oln Woeck, as to how one may achieve satisfaction in life. We, for example, have gone to some pains to erad
i
cate wit
h
in Ourselves any desire which depends for its fulfillment upon the coope
r
ative goodwill of other human beings. Thus no one exercises power o’er Us. Whate’er We can’t purchase, or compel by fear or force, We’ve learned to do without.”

He snapped his fingers. In an instant, servants entered. They began removing screens, fans, lamps, tables, furnishings, fixtures, until the li
t
tle room shone steel-bare once again, the sumptuous food and drink an ag
o
nizing memory.

Zhu Yuan-Coyotl continued as if nothing had happened.

“Be assured this isn’t the case with Our subjects, whose schooling, free of cost to them, and entertainments We’ve seen fit to saturate with platitudes of love, brotherhood, mutual dependence, repeated to the point of nauseation. This, too, is not unlike the theology you practice. We’ve observed with amusement the tendency, once one’s ‘seen the light’—any light, it doesn’t matter—to create others with whom to share this enlightenment. We Ourselves avoid this. Truth is power, Oln Woeck. ’Tis not in Our interests that Our subjects share it.”

The stool jerked from beneath him, Oln Woeck fought back tears of angry disappointment.

“In the name of Jesus, man—”

The Sun appeared to ignore the plea.

“Thus it may occur to you to wonder why We bother discussing these ma
t
ters with you. ’Tis because, Oln Woeck, of the commendable ruthlessness with which you disposed of Sedrich Fireclaw’s transgressions against what you regarded to be decency. We believe We’ve found a use for you. As you’ll recall, We asserted that all men come to serve Us in their own wise, in suff
i
cient time.”

The Sun’s hand snapped out like a striking snake, ripping the robe from Oln Woeck’s body.

The old man began to shiver once again.

“The best way to rule’s ne’er to let the people learn they’re ruled,” the Sun offered, turning his back.

This time, no butcher knife had been left upon the naked metal bench as a temptation.

“The Comanche and the Utes, Our well-spiked fence against a hostile and inquisitive world, ne’er knew who ruled them, nor e’en that they were ruled, but that they served the gods. With Saracens and Mughals set upon exploring the globe, We believe the time’s come to extend this fence—and Our domination—to your own people, the Helvetii.”

Tossing the robe over his arm, the Sun strode toward the door.

“As a leader of the foremost power among the Helvetii, you may have a substantial part in this, Oln Woeck, and commensurate benefit. But ne’er in the name of this Jesus—at least not in Our presence. Our scholars will d
e
termine which beliefs and practices should be encouraged among your pe
o
ple, which uprooted, allowed to perish. We shall discuss the details with you later.

“Perhaps.

“We shall provide you, now, with yet another opportunity—to co
n
template in some exactitude what it is you worship, the mythical ghost of a long-dead godling...”

He stepped outside the door, seizing the handle.

“Or the warming light of the living Sun!”

Zhu Yuan-Coyotl slammed the door.

Surely for the godfearing awaits a place of security, gardens and vineyards and maidens with swelling breasts, like of age, and a cup overflowing.
—
The
Koran,
Sura LXXVIII

“N
ow the left hand!”

One ankle crossing another, Owald, stripped to a pair of baggy exe
r
cising trousers, leaned against a marble column so green it appeared carven out of jade, bearlike arms folded, an expression of astonishment upon his fair, clean-shaven face. He’d a towel draped about his neck, still catching his breath from a session of hand-to-hand.

Sunlight poured down into the cavernous practice-hall through bright-colored windows high in the ceiling overhead, relieving the damp chill each morning’s fog brought to the four islands and the surrounding city in the heart of the Crystal Empire. As Fireclaw shouted explan
a
tions—black Ursi dozed, contented, upon a carpet of brightness cove
r
ing one section of the glossy floor—Owald watched his father’s martial labors with professional interest.

“Head!

“Thigh!

“Head!

“Hip!

“Head!

“Shoulder!

“Head!”

Fireclaw groaned, shouting out imaginary targets as he struck them, trembling with exertion, sweat-drenched, but visibly determined to r
e
gain the speed and power a week’s journey and two substantial doses of dart-drug had denied him.

Owald could see how his truncated wrist ached, bruised to the ma
r
row from elbow to stump with what was demanded of it this morning. Nor was he any longer a young man. Yet, shifting the greatsword
Mu
r
derer
for another assault upon a man-high post of bound rattan staves planted in the floor, the graying Helvetian warrior went on and on, r
e
peating motions he’d first learned as a youth.

Whirling
Murderer
high above his shaven head, he once again lengthened his reach with an echoing roar which was half agony, half fury, le
t
ting the gleaming steel weapon lash out. The gleaming razor-edge bit deep, showe
r
ing tan-colored powdery splinters about the room, making hazardous nav
i
gation of the smooth-polished floor.

They’d have to be swept up e’er long, lest some unwary palace serv
i
tor slide upon them, breaking his neck.

Watching Fireclaw lever the great blade free, his silver-stranded war-braid bobbing, Owald reflected upon what the older man had told him in the last few days. In sun, snow, and rain, summer heat and winter cold, he’d repeated these painful motions a hundred times each dawning for the last quarter century. The man’s wrists had come to resemble bu
n
dled iron staves, his forearms outsizing the calves of many another man. The pra
c
tice had served him well: he still lived after all those eventful years, while many a worthy enemy didn’t.

Owald suspected other, more recently acquired incentives to self-punishment were at work, guilt of a couple differing flavors, several v
a
rieties of frustration. The little dark-eyed Princess, Ayesha, was pro
m
ised in wedlock to Zhu Yuan-Coyotl, the Sun Incarnate of the Han-Meshika. Fireclaw had lost his wife and unborn child less than a for
t
night since, no d
e
cent interval, in the eyes of any Helvetian, for proper mourning. Yet life gave little regard to what men considered decent. Neither seemed to realize it yet—from the viewpoint of either party, this was no time to go acourting—but Ayesha was becoming Fireclaw’s woman, in intention if not in deed, which meant more trouble ahead than any sane man would wish to contemplate.

Another sudden whirl, another savage scream of unleashed power, another bite into the rattan butt. Shock sang through the blade, echoing about the room.

Yes, Owald thought, the Saracen Princess, his long-lost father, twice her age, both were in for something of a surprise. Trouble was, even he, the commander of the Sun’s bodyguard, couldn’t imagine how the su
r
prise could turn out to be that pleasant one of mutual recognition which ord
i
nary lovers might enjoy.

He shook his head, as if to clear it of disturbing notions. Life had been that simple ere Fireclaw showed up!

With each swing of the legendary
Murderer,
Owald was forced to regard the saw-toothed blade he’d carried in the Imperial Bodyguard with greater contempt. Fireclaw had practiced with one such a while ea
r
lier, flinging it aside in a few moments with disgust.

Mass-produced somewhere within the Empire, ’twas true it bit deep for its weight, creating terrible ragged wounds, which, did the victim survive, would be long in healing, if at all. The little blade spanned but two fingers’ width at the haft, possessed no cross-guard to speak of. From point to pommel, it could be carried resting upon the fingertips, tucked into the armpit. Great
Murderer
must be slung across the back, handle high above one’s head. The Empire’s saw-toothed swordlets could be carried at the waist, like daggers.

Mob-weapons, Fireclaw had snorted, devised for close massed attack upon victims less than well prepared for self-defense. Or for finishing off the helpless wounded. Useless, he maintained, to an individual co
n
fronting enemies of equal skill.

This annoyed the Imperial Bodyguard commander, who’d heretofore taken some pride in the skill he possessed with the most scientific, dea
d
ly edged weapon in the known world.

“Now the right side for a while,”
Fireclaw shouted, pushing
Murde
r
er
’s long pommel into his prosthetic, giving it a locking twist,
“and back to the left!”

But not so much as the irritating fact that this gray-haired barbarian was right. Disgusted—although with what he couldn’t say—Owald pulled the towel up over his head. He slid down the column until he was seated at its foot upon the floor.

Time passed.

The patches of colored sunlight from the ceiling crawled across the floor, somehow, as if by magic, dragging the sleeping bear-dog along with them.

At long last, Fireclaw ceased his belligerent labors, toweling his own half-naked body with linens brought by a servant while another entered, as he had each morning for a week, sweeping up the debris with a push-broom. Fireclaw glanced toward Owald, whistled Ursi to attention, b
e
gan walking across the great hall toward the showers, as had been his practice every morning.

Owald stopped him with a shout, leapt to his feet, and dog-trotted to catch up.

“Wait a moment,” he told his father. “There’s something I want to show you first.”

Ursi glanced in confusion toward the showers—he was fond of fal
l
ing water, already in the habit of bathing with his master—then seemed to shrug and follow along, complacent. Together all three turned lef
t
ward, walking the great length of the empty room which at another hour would be full of off-duty guardsmen, practicing their own murderous skills, until they reached the entrance of a deep wing set at right angles to the rest of the skylighted structure, where two copper-kilted soldiers in full ba
t
tle-dress awaited them.

Owald looked upon his father.

“I see you bear greatsword and dagger—also the little knife inside your shirtfront—yet you’ve laid your revolving pistol aside. This you shouldn’t have done. ’Tis a sign of the Sun’s great favor to be granted the priv
i
lege—”

“Of carrying an unloaded gun?” Fireclaw asked, adding a short, one-syllabled Helvetian word.

“’Tis a badge of honor, Father.”

Fireclaw snorted.

“Empty gun—by the sovereign’s leave—empty honor. We’ll speak no more upon it.”

“You’re held to be a dangerous man,” Owald told his father. “I r
e
quested special permission for this, receiving it only under these cond
i
tions. D’you not be alarmed.”