He raised his voice to continue, "What does the Scripture tell us? 'To destroy a thing, cut at the root and not at the branch!' And what is the root of this evil? Where has this spawn of Darkness, this demoniacal growth hormone come from? What is the source of this substance which has been ruining our lives and is beginning to ruin our very culture?"
Norvis waited a moment and then shouted: "From where? From the Earthmen! It is they—not the Elders—who must be approached! The Elders do the bidding of the Earthmen! When an Earthman says jump!—they jump!''
The crowd was growing angrier and angrier by the moment. Norvis saw black frowns, heard mutters of wrath. He noticed, then, that Gwyl peRob was moving through the crowd, whispering something to people, stopping at a small knot of people, talking, and then moving on to the next.
Norvis grinned inwardly. The little, red-faced farmer was probably telling them how he had been treated by the Elder Brajjyd.
Norvis watched their anger grow. He saw that it was his moment to spur them even further.
"They are trying to ruin our lives! You all know how things have changed in Nidor since they came; our old system is breaking down! A hundred years ago, no Elder would have ignored a proper petition from his Clan. I say we must destroy this evil! And we can only do that by destroying the Earthmen! Their Bel-rogas School is a sacrilege against the Name of our Ancestors!
"The Earthmen—"
He got no further. A clod of dirt struck his chest, and he was astonished to hear someone shout: "Blasphemy!"
"Do you know who this Norvis peRahn is?" yelled someone else. "He's the blasphemer who was expelled from the School four years ago!"
"That's true!'' shouted another voice. Norvis turned his head to look. It was Gwyl peRob! "I found it out only an hour ago! It's the same man! Twice he has smeared the Light-given Name of Brajjyd!"
Another man roared: "I'm a Ghevin! Slandering a name is one thing—but to slander the Great Light is blasphemy!"
Norvis blinked. "But I didn't say—"
"Stone him!" cried someone. "False prophet!"
"Blasphemer!" cried another.
Norvis was paralyzed. He hadn't realized—
He snapped out of his shock when a rock thudded against his ribs, almost knocking the breath out of him.
Amid shouts of "Sacrilege!" and "Blasphemy!" and "Kill him!" Norvis peRahn Brajjyd turned to run. Another rock struck his back. The crowd, spurred on by a few of its more vociferous members, was beginning to get murderous.
"He preaches against the Great Light!"
"Stone him!"
Norvis leaped off the back edge of the platform, clearing the balustrade that ran along its rear edge. Twelve feet below him was the water of Shining Lake. As he hit the water, stones splashed all around him, thrown by some who had swarmed up on the stage to get at him.
"Get the torches!"
"Bring lights!"
"Find the blasphemer!"
"Someone call a peaceman! Call a priest!"
Norvis ducked underwater and swam as though his life depended on it—which it did. There was only one way to go; directly across the lake. It was long and narrow, and he could make it across before anyone would be able to get around it. And he was fairly sure no one would try to swim after him.
They didn't, but there were a few pleasure boats tied up at the shore, and some of the pursuers got into them, carrying torches raised over their heads to illuminate the water.
Norvis came up for breath and saw that he was far enough away from the boats to chance swimming on the surface.
"Where is he?" someone shouted. "I think a rock hit him!"
"Yes! I hit him with a rock just before he went down!"
Someone was trying to make himself a reputation, Norvis thought.
"Maybe he's drowned!"
"Let's keep looking! We've got to make sure!"
Norvis swam rapidly and quietly for the opposite bank, hoping he'd come out of the lake alive.
When he reached the Grand Harbor of Vashcor a good many days later, after a torturous and unpleasant hitch-hike with a foul-breathed deest-peddler who had been heading that way, he made his way almost immediately to the small, squat little hotel down in the fishermen's quarter of the city. He was in a dismal mood.
He registered under the peKrin Dmorno alias and was shown to a dingy room overlooking the sea. His room was unpainted and smelled of fish, but it represented the first sanctuary for Norvis since his flight from Gelusar. He had barely managed to get out in one piece, and he was glad of a place where he could sit down and rest.
The outlook was gloomy. He had botched things on all sides; Bel-rogas had long ago been lost to him, and his abortive crusade to prohibit the use of the growth hormone had only resulted in his alienation from both sides; the people had stoned him as a blasphemer, and were now perfectly content to let the Elders squeeze them dry in the name of Scripture.
It was a bitter ending; now, he realized, he had accidentally pushed the Elders into a stronger position than they had been in before. The populace was always ready to do something irrational if they could find theological grounds to do it on, and he had given them grounds with his' blasphemous talk. They still held firmly to the old beliefs, and they'd keep on doing so, even if it ruined them—which it was doing.
He frowned and walked to the window. There was a cluster of ships in the harbor, and he squinted out, trying to search out the familiar masts of the Balthar. He didn't see it, but his way seemed clear; he would abandon the pack of them. Nidor and its Elders could go their merry way to Eternal Darkness; Norvis would throw his lot with Del peFenn or some other free sea-captain and hope that things didn't get too bad during his own lifetime. It was an unheroic way out, but he was a miserable failure as a hero.
The next day, he made inquiries. No, the Balthar was not in port, he was told. Yes, it was due back soon from the Bronze Islands, and have you heard about the blasphemer who was killed in Gelusar?
Norvis got that bit of news from one of the men at the Shipmaster's Building. He pretended he had heard nothing, and was told the whole tale, with most affecting and grisly particulars.
"A grandson of the Elder Brajjyd, eh?" he said, shaking his head. "What's that Clan coming to?"
"It's a disgrace, an utter disgrace," his informant agreed.
Norvis nodded. "But they killed him?"
"Of course! Bashed his skull in with a rock! Blood all over the water. He never came up again."
"Well, then, we needn't worry," Norvis said, "His ideas stand no chance of being spread, then."
"A blessing indeed," agreed the other.
Norvis was overjoyed at the report of his death. The excitement of the mob, the exaggerations of witnesses, the boasting of a couple of rock-throwers, and the red gleam of torchlight on the water had added up to death. It meant that no one had seen him slip out of the far side of Shining Lake and make his way out of Holy Gelusar. He was free, now, to bury Norvis peRahn Brajjyd forever and live on in security as Norvis peKrin Dmorno.
Norvis waited impatiently for the return of the Balthar. The quicker he got off the land and back to sea, the better he'd like it. He spent most of the time walking the streets and throwing ineffectual stones at swooping sea-lizards. At least that gave him some satisfaction; the small-brained flying seathings were similar to the stupid peasants of Gelusar—nothing on their minds but food and the following of their ancient instincts.
At the end of the third day, he saw a familiar face. Down at the end of the Fishermen's Docks, busily cleaning scales from a newly unloaded cargo of fish, was Ganz peKresh Danoy, the middle-aged swabhand from the Balthar.