Jaan’s gaze turned away, to the northerly horizon where the continent reared above the Sea of Orcus. With Virgil barely over them, the heights appeared black, save for the Linn. Its dim thunder reverberated through air and earth.
—I do not see them flying, he said.
—No, they are not, replied Caruith. For fear of pursuit, they landed near Alsa and induced a villager to convey them in his truck. Look, there it comes.
Jaan was unsure whether his own mind or the Ancient’s told his head to swing about, his eyes to focus on the dirt road snaking uphill from the shoreline. Were the two beginning to become one already? It had been promised. To be a part, no, a characteristic, a memory, of Caruith … oh, wonder above wonders …
He saw the battered vehicle more by the dust it raised than anything else, for it was afar, would not reach the town for a while yet. It was not the only traffic at this early hour. Several groundcars moved along the highway that girdled the sea; a couple of tractors were at work in the hills behind, black dots upon brown and wan green, to coax a crop out of niggard soil; a boat slid across the thick waters, trawling for creatures which men could not eat but whose tissues concentrated minerals that men could use. And above the Arena there poised on its negafield an aircraft the Companions owned. Though unarmed by Imperial decree, it was on guard. These were uneasy times.
“Master.”
Jaan turned at the voice and saw Robhar, youngest of his disciples. The boy, a fisherman’s son, was nearly lost in his ragged robe. His breath steamed around shoulderlength black elflocks. He made his bow doubly deep. “Master,” he asked, “can I serve you in aught?”
—He kept watch for hours till we emerged, and then did not venture to address us before we paused here, Caruith said. —His devotion is superb.
—I do not believe the rest care less, Jaan replied out of his knowledge of humankind: which the mightiest nonhuman intellect could never totally sound. —They are older, lack endurance to wait sleepless and freezing on the chance that we may want them; they have, moreover, their daily work, and most of them their wives and children.
—The time draws nigh when they must forsake those, and all others, to follow us.
—They know that. I am sure they accept it altogether. But then should they not savor the small joys of being human as much as they may, while still they may?
—You remain too human yourself, Jaan. You must become a lightning bolt.
Meanwhile the prophet said, “Yes, Robhar. This is a day of destiny.” As the eyes before him flared: “Nonetheless we have practical measures to take, no time for rejoicing. We remain only men, chained to the world. Two are bound hither, a human and an Ythrian. They could be vital to the liberation. The Terrans are after them, and will surely soon arrive in force to seek them out. Before then, they must be well hidden; and as few townsfolk as may be must know about them, lest the tale be spilled.
“Hurry. Go to the livery stable of Brother Boras and ask him to lend us a statha with a pannier large enough to hide an Ythrian—about your size, though we will also need a blanket to cover his wing-ends that will stick forth. Do not tell Boras why I desire this. He is loyal, but the tyrants have drugs and worse, should they come to suspect anyone knows something. Likewise, give no reasons to Brother Ezzara when you stop at his house to borrow a robe, sandals, and his red cloak with the hood. Order him to remain indoors until further word.
“Swiftly!”
Robhar clapped hands in sign of obedience and sped off, over the cobblestones and into the town.
Jaan waited. The truck would inevitably pass the wharf. Meanwhile, nobody was likely to have business here at this hour. Any who did chance by would see the prophet’s lonely figure limned against space, and bow and not venture to linger.
—The driver comes sufficiently near for me to read his mind, whispered Caruith. —I do not like what I see.
—What? asked Jaan, startled. —Is he not true to us? Why else should he convey two outlaws?
—He is true, in the sense of wishing Aeneas free of the Empire and, indeed, Orcus free of Nova Roma. But he has not fully accepted our teaching, nor made an absolute commitment to our cause. For he is an impulsive and vacillating man. Ivar Frederiksen and Erannath of Avalon woke him up with a story about being scientists marooned by the failure of their aircraft, in need of transportation to Mount Cronos where they could get help. He knew the story must be false, but in his resentment of the Terrans agreed anyway. Now, more and more, he worries, he regrets his action. As soon as he is rid of them, he will drink to ease his fears, and the drink may well unlock his tongue.
—Is it not ample precaution that we transfer them out of his care? What else should we do? … No! Not murder!
—Many will die for the liberation. Would you hazard their sacrifice being in vain, for the sake of a single life today?
—Imprisonment, together with the Ythrian you warn me about—
—The disappearance of a person who has friends and neighbors is less easy to explain away than his death. Speak to Brother Velib. Recall that he was among the few Orcans who went off to serve with McCormac; he learned a good deal. It is not hard to create a believable “accident.”
—No.
Jaan wrestled; but the mind which shared his brain was too powerful, too plausible. It is right that one man die for the people. Were not Jaan and Caruith themselves prepared to do so? By the time the truck arrived, the prophet had actually calmed.
By then, too, Robhar had returned with the statha and the disguise. Everybody knew Ezzara by the red cloak he affected. Its hood would conceal a nord’s head; long sleeves, and dirt rubbed well into sandaled feet, would conceal fair skin. Folk would observe nothing save the prophet, accompanied by two of his disciples, going up to the Arena and in through its gates, along with a beast whose burden might be, say, Ancient books that he had found in the catacombs.
The truck halted. Jaan accepted the salutation of the driver, while trying not to think of him as really real. The man opened the back door, and inside the body of the vehicle were the Ythrian and the Firstling of Ilion.
Jaan, who had never before seen an Ythrian in the flesh, found be was more taken by that arrogance of beauty (which must be destroyed, it mourned within him) than by the ordinary-looking blond youth who had so swiftly become a hinge of fate. He felt as if the blue eyes merely stared, while the golden ones searched.
They saw: a young man, more short and stocky than was common among Orcans, in an immaculate white robe, rope belt, sandals he had made himself. The countenance was broad, curve-nosed, full-lipped, pale-brown, handsome in its fashion; long hair and short beard were mahogany, clean and well-groomed. His own eyes were his most striking feature, wide-set, gray, and enormous. Around his brows went a circlet of metal with a faceted complexity above the face, the sole outward token that he was an Ancient returned to life after six million years.
He said, in his voice that was as usual slow and soft: “Welcome, Ivar Frederiksen, deliverer of your world.”
Night laired everywhere around Desai’s house. Neighbor lights felt star-distant; and there went no whisper of traffic. It was almost with relief that he blanked the windows.
“Please sit down, Prosser Thane,” he said. “What refreshment may I offer you?”
“None,” the tall young woman answered. After a moment she added, reluctantly and out of habit: “Thank you.”
“Is it that you do not wish to eat the salt of an enemy?” His smile was wistful. “I shouldn’t imagine tradition requires you refuse his tea.”
“If you like, Commissioner.” Tatiana seated herself, stiff-limbed in her plain coverall. Desai spoke to his wife, who fetched a tray with a steaming pot, two cups, and a plate of cookies. She set it down and excused herself. The door closed behind her.