The Warlock Wandering (9 page)

"Here it is." Chomoi waved a hand.

They stood on top of a ridge, oriented roughly east-west. The moonlight showed a plain stretching out for miles about them, unending grassland broken only by the occasional copse and a line of stunted trees that straggled across the prairie, marking a watercourse.

Rod took a deep breath. "Quite a view." Chomoi nodded. "It's spectacular by sunlight, but I don't think we can wait for that." She pointed. "There's the actual Sun-Greeting Place."

A stone step rose from the ground a few feet in front of them. Thirty feet away, an upright slab bulked large against the night. Chomoi slipped a slender flashlight out of her jacket and aimed it at the boulder. Its beam showed that the top of the standing stone had been flattened from front to back and leveled, then notched, eight deep gouges cut out of the rock. The first, fourth, and eighth were very deep.

"The shamen come up here every morning to greet the sun," Chomoi explained. "They take it in rotation. It's a religious ritual, of course, but it has a very practical purpose, too—every morning, the Shaman of the Day sees how close the sun is coming to one of the big notches. The middle 66 Christopher Stasheff

one is the equinox—there're sixteen months here; the two moons revolve eight times a year, and they rule the months in alternation. Figure that the first groove is the winter solstice. The sun starts there, moves down to the middle groove for the vernal equinox, goes on to the eighth groove for the summer solstice, then moves back to the middle groove for the autumnal equinox, and on back to the first one."

"New Year's," Yorick said.

Chomoi nodded. "And it's up to the shaman of the Purple tribe to keep an eye on the sun. When it rises behind the fourth notch, he goes home and tells everybody to start planting. When he sees sunrise through the eighth notch, he tells everybody to celebrate."

"A midsummer night's dream?"

"You could call it that," Chomoi said sourly. "Then the sun starts to swing back, and when it rises behind the fourth notch again, the shaman tells the tribe to get ready for harvest."

"Then back to Midwinter, and the whole thing starts all over again." Yorick knelt by the stone step. "Want to shine that thing down here, Ms.?"

"Why not? But call me 'Chomoi,' all right? We're working together now." The light gleamed on the rough stone at the base of the slab. Yorick ran a finger across the surface, and stopped at a dark blot.

They all stared, silent for a moment.

Then Yorick's finger went on to trace another drop, and another.

"Blood," Rod said softly.

"I'm not quite equipped to run a chemical analysis," Yorick mused, "but I'd say that was a pretty good bet. Want to scan the area, Ms. Chomoi?"

"Well, that's an improvement, I guess," Chomoi grunted. She moved the circle of light slowly over the area around

the stone step. The grass stood about three inches high.

"Nice to find out they keep it mowed," Yorick said, "but that's about all I see."

Rod nodded. "Not the slightest sign of a struggle. Whoever our hatchet man was, he was remarkably neat."

"Damn near inhuman," Yorick agreed.

"Not quite." Chomoi's lips were thin. "Some of my colleagues were extremely efficient. I wasn't too bad, myself." Yorick looked up. "But the blood on the stone does kind of indicate that the Wolman met the cleaver when he stepped up here to greet the sun."

Rod frowned. "Yeah. So what... Oh!"

"Right." Yorick nodded. "Who steps up to the SunGreeting Place to greet the sun?"

"A shaman," Chomoi breathed.

"But none of the shamen are missing," Rod pointed out.

"So what?" Yorick shrugged. "None of the Wolmen are missing. So why shouldn't it be a shaman who's not missing, instead of just an ordinary warrior?"

"More to the point," Chomoi said softly, "why shouldn't it be Hwun? After all, he's the shaman of the Purple tribe, and they're the ones closest to this place."

"No reason at all, except that Hwun is very much alive. Far too much so, for my liking." Rod frowned. "What is this business about Hwun being the chief chief, when he's also the Purple shaman? I've heard of overlapping directorates, but isn't this a little too obvious?"

"No problem there." Chomoi shook her head. "Wolman government is basic democracy. Major—very basic. They just sit around in a circle and discuss who's going to be leader. And when most of them agree—well, that's who the leader is. Every clan does it that way—and, once they've decided on a leader, they tend to stay with him, So when the clans gather for a tribal meeting, it's the clan headmen who sit down to elect the tribal leader."

Yorick nodded. "Which means that one of the tribal chiefs 68 Christopher Stasheff

is going to be the national chief."

Chomoi frowned at him. "You had experience with this kind of thing?"

"We were Number One. So they held a tribal meeting like that to fight the soldiers better?"

"You have been around. But it was a national meeting—

all the tribes banded together for an all-out war."

"Makes sense." Yorick agreed. "After all, it was probably the first time in their history that they'd had somebody to fight besides each other."

Gwen shivered. "Must men forever be fighting, then?"

"Sure. How else would we get you ladies to notice us, instead of the other guys?" Yorick turned back to Chomoi.

"This wouldn't happen to have been the first time they'd ever banded together for anything, would it?" Chomoi stared at him, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Up until the convicts came, they'd always been fighting each other, just the way you said."

Yorick nodded. "Nice of you to help out that way."

"Yes, bringing civilization to the poor savages." Rod's eyes glittered. "I always find unification fascinating." Something in his voice made Chomoi look up with a scowl. "Don't make any mistake. Major. It was the Wolmen's idea to get together to fight us, not the colonists'. Just a marriage of convenience, that's all."

"And as fragile as such unions usually are, I'm sure—

but one which Shacklar and Cholly have steadily been trying to strengthen."

"Oh, that's deliberate enough, sure—and Shacklar definitely likes having a national leader he can deal with. But they chose Hwun, not him."

"At a national council?"

Chomoi nodded. "The tribal leaders got together, so of course they chose one of their own number. That's how come Hwun, the Purple chief, wound up being acclaimed chief Wolman chief."

"Makes sense." Rod nodded. "But why'd they elect a

shaman instead of a general—excuse me, 'war-chief?' I mean, how good a tactician is a pholk-physician going to be?"

Chomoi shook her head. "Medicine's only part of it, Major, only a spin-off, really. His main function is spiritual. He's a holy man."

Rod shuddered. "I don't like the sound of that. Religion and politics make a lousy combination."

"But it's very useful when you're trying to keep all the factions of your people together," Chomoi pointed out.

"That's Hwun's main job. As to fighting when they went to war, he had four generals, one for each tribe. They took care of the tactics; he just had the final say on strategy."

"Neat." Rod scowled. "In fact, a little too efficient for my liking."

"But his constituents can recall him at any minute," Yorick pointed out.

Chomoi gave him an irritated glare. "That's right, in fact. How'd you know?"

"Y' seen one oral culture, y' seen 'em all," Yorick said.

"Not really true, but they do all have certain characteristics in common. Government by consensus is one of 'em, and instant recall is part of that."

"Instant, yes—by the most effective means available. At least, sometimes. In fact, it has occurred to me that we may be looking at an impeachment here."

Yorick shook his head. "You'd know better than I would, but I find it hard to believe. This kind of a society wouldn't understand that kind of sneaky killing. If somebody wanted to challenge the head honcho, he'd just do it. In fact, the more witnesses he had for the fight, the stronger his support would be."

Rod nodded. "That sounds right. Besides, you said it yourself, Chomoi—some of your colleagues are inhumanly efficient. This is such a neat job that it fairly screams 'professional.'" Slowly, she nodded. "Yeah. Probably well armed, too." 70 Christopher Stasheff

Rod frowned. "But he didn't use a blaster. If he had, there wouldn't have been blood."

Chomoi shook her head. "A pro wouldn't have. Major. This was right at dawn, remember? A blaster bolt would've been seen. It also might have set a fire, and people would have really started wondering." She shrugged. "Sometimes the oldest weapons work best."

"Well, one thing's sure, then." Yorick stood up, dusting off his hands. "It wasn't any Wolman who did this killing. I mean, they may be pretty enthusiastic, and I'm sure they're skillful, but when you get right down to it, when it comes to killing people, they're really amateurs." He nodded to Chomoi. "One of the soldiers did this—and one trained for commando work."

"Probably." Chomoi gazed at the dark spatters on the stone. "Don't sell those Wolmen short, though. They've become very competent warriors since they started fighting these convict-soldiers. Very competent—and they've been developing a lot of skill with blasters, ever since Shacklar took over and the truce began."

"I do not understand," Gwen murmured. "Why doth he give Wolmen his weapons, when to keep them to his own men would yield him great advantage?"

Chomoi shrugged. "He seems to think that if it comes to war, the colonists are going to be wiped out, sooner or later. We're so heavily outnumbered that our only real hope for survival is peace with the Wolmen."

"And the only way to be sure of that," Rod said stiffly,

"is to meld the two cultures into a single, unified society." Chomoi nodded. "And having all the blasters on the soldiers' side, doesn't exactly help build Wolman confidence."

"Maybe not." Yorick looked around. "I get the feeling we're missing something. There may be evidence of a struggle in the area around here—or some other kind of evidence that we won't find at night."

"True," Rod said judiciously. "With only a flashlight,

we're limited to looking at what we already suspect. We'll have to wait for daylight to get the Big Picture, and any clues we haven't thought of."

"There's a problem with that," Yorick pointed out.

"Aye, my lord," Gwen added. "We must needs be at the Governor's great hall in the mom—e'en by dawn." Rod shrugged. "So what? We already skipped town, didn't we?"

"Aye, yet they did enlarge us upon our parole." Chomoi stared. "What is she talking about?"

"She means Shacklar only let us go, because we promised to come back in the morning." Rod's mouth tightened at the corners.

"'Twould be dishonorable, an we did not return."

"Well, true, but this isn't Gramarye. Honor isn't quite so important here."

Gwen stared at him, scandalized. More importantly. Rod realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he didn't believe it himself anymore. "All right, all right! We'll have to go back to town! Besides—skipping town is one thing, but skipping the planet is entirely another!" Gwen frowned. "What is a 'planet,' my lord?" Chornoi just stared at her; but Rod took a deep breath and said, "Well. A planet is a world, darling. It's not flat, you see—it's round, like a ball."

"Assuredly not!" she cried.

Rod shrugged. "Okay, so don't believe me—just take my word for it. I came to Gramarye on a 'shooting star,'

remember—and I got to see the planet from way up. Way up—and it's round. Oh, believe me, it is round!"

"He's telling you the truth." Chornoi frowned, puzzled.

"I've seen planets from space, too, and they're round, all right. Like that." She pointed at the single moon that was still up in the sky. "It's just a very little planet. The word means 'wanderer,' see, and you know how the moon wanders; it moves all over the sky."

"Aye." Gwen frowned, trying to absorb the alien con72 Christopher Stasheff cept. "There be others, be there not? Stars that do wander."

"Right." Rod nodded. "They're worlds, too. But most of the stars, the ones that stay put—well, they're suns, just like the one that gives us light and heat during the daytime."

"Can they truly be?" Gwen breathed, eyes round. "Nay, surely not! For they be but points of light!"

"That's because they're so far away," Chomoi explained.

"Nay, it could not be." Gwen turned to her, frowning.

"For they would have to be so far distant that..." She broke off, her mind reeling as she realized just how far away that would have to be.

Chomoi watched her, nodding slowly. "Yes, ma'am. That's how far away. So far that it takes their light quite a few years to get here."

"Yet how can that be?" Gwen asked, looking from Rod to Chomoi and back. "How can light take time to come to a place?"

"Well—it travels," Rod said. "Believe us, honey—there's no easy way to prove it. I mean, it has been proven, but it was very hard to do, very complicated. Light travels at 186,282 miles per second. That's about six trillion miles in a year." Gwen's eyes lost focus, and Rod confided, "Don't try, dear. We can't really grasp the idea of a distance that huge—not really, not emotionally. But we can be intimidated by trying." He turned to Chomoi. "The nearest star here—it wouldn't happen to be visible, would it?"

"Oh, yeah. It's the third star in the ban-el of 'The Blaster'—

one of our homemade constellations." Chomoi stepped up beside Gwen and pointed. "You see those six stars, forming a rough parallelogram—you know, a rectangle leaning sideways?" Gwen sighted along her arm. "Aye, I see them."

"Well, that's the handgrip. And that line of four stars at a right angle to them? That's the barrel. The third star in from its end is our nearest neighbor." Chomoi shrugged.

"It doesn't really have a name—just a number on the starcharts. The soldiers call it 'The Girl Next Door.'"