Still-he sent his own thoughts across.
How have I lied to you? you lie.
Now, he understood.
Yes, but not to you. To enemies only. That is not lying. Not properly. It is simply a ruse of war. incomprehension.
He remembered the vision, and understood that the jewel’s way-for it was, somehow, a thing of the crystals he had seen-knew nothing of duplicity. How could it, or they? For it was not truly an it, and they were not truly a they. It was inseparable from them. And they encompassed it, and each other, into an indivisible whole.
How could such a being understand duplicity?
He understood now, fully, that great loss and longing for home which he had sensed in the jewel from the very beginning.
He pondered. The sun was now almost touching the horizon.
What was the message you received? From the-Great Ones?
The thoughts were unclear, untranslatable. The problem, he knew, was not communication. It was that the message itself was almost incomprehensible to the jewel, and the crystals. How can you translate something you do not understand yourself?
Later. We will try later. For now-you must trust me. I do not lie to you. question.
I promise. you promised before.
For a moment, he almost denied the charge. Then, realized that perhaps he could not. There was a mystery here he did not understand, and perhaps it was true, in some manner beyond his present understanding, that he was responsible for Enough. Later.
And did I break that promise?
Silence, silence; then, a slowly gathering uncertainty. not sure.
The general’s demand:
Did I break that promise? Answer!
Slowly, grudgingly, hesitantly: not yet.
Belisarius straightened from the rail. The sun’s orb had now sunk completely below the sea. Darkness was falling.
“You see what you’ve done?” he demanded in a humorous whisper. “Now it’s too late to see what I came here to-”
He stopped, for he realized that he was speaking falsely. In some manner, while he had thought himself completely engrossed with the jewel, some other part of his mind had spent that time usefully. Had, while he entered a vision and grappled with mystery, placidly observed and recorded.
He had seen all he needed. More would be useless, for he was not a seaman. Interpretation was needed, and for that he needed-Garmat.
He left the docks, heading toward the hostel. As he made his way back through the teeming streets and alleys of Bharakuccha, however, he was oblivious to the languages spoken around him. His steps were swift but automatic. His mind was almost completely engrossed with inward thoughts. The gap in the barrier was large now, if rubble-strewn, and he intended to press home the advantage. The jewel had taught him much. Now it was time for it to learn.
And so, step by step, he led the facets through the paces of the past. Through the battle at Daras, and the maneuvers with the brothers which had preceded it; through his current stratagem, first taken shape in the pirate attack, and the flesh he had added to those bones since.
This is a ruse, and that is deception. They are legitimate acts of war. You see? True, Coutzes and Bouzes were not enemies, but in their folly they were playing into the enemy’s hands. So it was perfectly honest for me to-
To the spy who followed him, and watched his every move, Belisarius seemed like a man completely oblivious to his surroundings. The spy was immensely pleased. The ambush would have worked anyway, but now the foreign fool would be like a lamb led to slaughter.
So the spy was stunned when the trap was sprung, at the mouth of an alley. Much as a wolf hunter might be stunned, discovering a dragon in his snare.
The dacoits waited until Belisarius passed the alley before lunging into motion. The first, as instructed, aimed his cudgel blow at Belisarius’ head. The general was not wearing armor, simply a leather jerkin and a leather cap. There was every reason to hope he might he stunned. He could be questioned at length, thereafter, until he spewed forth every secret he had ever possessed. None could resist mahamimamsa skills.
Then-his body found in an alley, somewhere in the most disreputable part of the city. How unfortunate. Sad tidings to Rome, but-the Malwa were in no way responsible. In the future, the Roman Emperor would be advised to send a less lecherous envoy, who did not insist on exploring those quarters where the foulest creatures roam. Violent characters, your pimps. It is well known.
The blow never landed, for the muscular hand which held the cudgel was sailing away, still clenching its weapon. The dacoit gaped down at the blood gushing from his severed wrist. Then, gaped up at Belisarius. Somehow, the foreigner was facing him, sword in hand.
The gape was suddenly joined by another, wider gape, slightly lower on the dacoit’s body. The spy watching was stunned again, not so much by the speed of the sword strike which almost decapitated the dacoit, but by the grace and agility with which Belisarius avoided the spewing blood and butchered the second dacoit.
This thug he did decapitate, with a strike of his spatha so powerful that it cut through the arm which the dacoit flung up for protection before butchering its way through his neck. For a moment, the spy took heart. Such a furious sword strike would inevitably un balance the foreign general, and the third and fourth dacoits were even now striking with their own daggers, while the fifth The third dacoit was driven into the fifth by a straight kick delivered with such violence that the man was paralyzed, his diaphragm almost ruptured. The dacoit he had been driven into was himself knocked down, half stunned.
The fourth dacoit, in the meantime, found that his dagger strike had been blocked, an inch from Belisarius’ side, caught by the cross-guard of the general’s spatha. The dacoit had just enough time, in the poorly lit gloom of the street, to examine the powerful sinews of the wrist holding that horrible blade. And time to despair, knowing-a quick, irresistible twist of the wrist, the dagger was sent flying.
The dacoit flung up his arms, trying to block the inevitable strike. But the strike was short, sharp, sudden, and came nowhere near the dacoit’s head. Belisarius had been trained by Maurice, and his skills polished by the blademaster Valentinian.
Valentinian, that economical man. Belisarius drove the razor edge of his spatha straight down, mangling the dacoit’s knee. The dacoit cried out, staggered, then collapsed completely. His right arm had been severed just below the shoulder by the follow-on strike.
The three dacoits remaining fled back into the alley. Belisarius made no effort to pursue. He simply stalked over to the two dacoits he had knocked to the ground with his kick. The one beginning to rise never saw the sword blade which split his skull like a melon. The other, paralyzed, could only watch as the foreign monster then drove that hideous blade through his heart.
From his place of concealment, the spy examined the scene. Despite his long experience, he was almost in shock. Eight dacoits, he had been certain, would be more than enough. Now-five were dead, butchered as horribly as he had ever seen. In not more than a few seconds of utter ruthlessness. The street was literally covered with blood.
It seemed most terrible of all, to the spy, that Belisarius himself was not only unscratched but was almost unmarked. How could a man shed so much blood, in so short a time, and still have but a trace of gore on his own person and clothing?
The spy pressed himself back into his hiding place. Belisarius had quickly cleaned his spatha and sheathed the blade. He was striding on. The spy would have to follow, and more than anything he had ever wanted in his life, he did not want to be seen by that demon.
The spy might have taken some small comfort-but not much-had he known that Belisarius had spotted him long before. Before he even reached the docks. Almost as soon as he left the hostel, in fact. Belisarius had made no attempt to elude the spy, however. He had remembered Irene’s advice. Better a spy you know than one you don’t.