Joaz framed a question with great care. “What do you believe that the Demie hopes you will achieve by coming here to stand?”
“I believe that he wishes me to learn how Utter Men think.”
“And you learn how I think by coming here?”
“I am learning a great deal.”
“How does it help you?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many times have you visited my study?”
“Seven times.”
“Why were you chosen specially to come?”
“The synod has approved my tand. I may well be the next Demie.”
Joaz spoke over his shoulder to Phade. “Brew tea.” He turned back to the sacerdote. “What is a tand?”
The sacerdote took a deep breath. “My tand is the representation of my soul.”
“Hmm. What does it look like?”
The sacerdote’s expression was unfathomable. “It cannot be described.”
“Do I have one?”
“No.”
Joaz shrugged. “Then you can read my thoughts.”
Silence.
“Can you read my thoughts?”
“Not well.”
“Why should you wish to read my thoughts?”
“We are alive in the universe together. Since we are not permitted to act, we are obliged to know.”
Joaz smiled skeptically. “How does knowledge help you, if you will not act upon what you know?”
“Events follow the Rationale, as water drains into a hollow and forms a pool.”
“Bah!” said Joaz, in sudden irritation. “Your doctrine commits you to non-interference in our affairs, nevertheless you allow your ‘Rationale’ to create conditions by which events are influenced. Is this correct?”
“I am not sure. We are a passive people.”
“Still, your Demie must have had a plan in mind when he sent you here. Is this not correct?”
“I cannot say.”
Joaz veered to a new line of questioning. “Where does the tunnel behind my workshop lead?”
“Into a cavern.”
Phade set a silver pot before Joaz. He poured, sipped reflectively. Of contests there were numberless varieties; he and the sacerdote were engaged in a hide-and-seek game of words and ideas. The sacerdote was schooled in patience and supple evasions, to counter which Joaz could bring pride and determination. The sacerdote was handicapped by an innate necessity to speak truth; Joaz, on the other hand, must grope like a man blindfolded, unacquainted with the goal he sought, ignorant of the prize to be won. Very well, thought Joaz, let us continue. We shall see whose nerves fray first. He offered tea to the sacerdote, who refused with a shake of the head so quick and of such small compass as to seem a shudder.
Joaz made a gesture signifying it was all the same to him. “Should you desire sustenance or drink,” he said, “please let it be known. I enjoy our conversation so inordinately that I fear I may prolong it to the limits of your patience. Surely you would prefer to sit?”
“No.”
“As you wish. Well then, back to our discussion. This cavern you mentioned—is it inhabited by sacerdotes?”
“I fail to understand your question.”
“Do sacerdotes use the cavern?”
“Yes.”
Eventually, fragment by fragment, Joaz extracted the information that the cavern connected with a series of chambers, in which the sacerdotes smelted metal, boiled glass, ate, slept, performed their rituals. At one time there had been an opening into Banbeck Vale, but long ago this had been blocked. Why? There were wars throughout the cluster; bands of defeated men were taking refuge upon Aerlith, settling in rifts and valleys. The sacerdotes preferred a detached existence and had shut their caverns away from sight. Where was this opening? The sacerdote seemed vague, indefinite. Somewhere to the north end of the valley. Behind Banbeck Jambles? Possibly. But trading between men and sacerdotes was conducted at a cave entrance below Mount Gethron. Why? A matter of usage, declared the sacerdote. In addition this location was more readily accessible to Happy Valley and Phosphor Gulch. How many sacerdotes lived in these caves? Uncertainty. Some might have died, others might have been born. Approximately how many this morning? Perhaps five hundred.
At this juncture the sacerdote was swaying and Joaz was hoarse. “Back to your motive—or the elements of your motives—for coming to my studio. Are they connected in any manner with the star Coralyne, and a possible new coming of the Basics, or the grephs, as they were formerly called?”
Again the sacerdote seemed to hesitate. Then, “Yes.”
“Will the sacerdotes help us against the Basics, should they come?”
“No.” This answer was terse and definite.
“But I assume that the sacerdotes wish the Basics drivenoff?”
No answer.
Joaz rephrased his words. “Do the sacerdotes wish the Basics repelled from Aerlith?”
“The Rationale bids us stand aloof from affairs of men and non-men alike.”
Joaz curled his lip. “Suppose the Basics invaded your caves, dragged you off to the Coralyne planet, then what?”
The sacerdote almost seemed to laugh. “The question cannot be answered.”
“Would you resist the Basics if they made the attempt?”
“I cannot answer your question.”
Joaz laughed. “But the answer is not no?”
The sacerdote assented.
“Do you have weapons, then?”
The sacerdote’s mild blue eyes seemed to droop. Secrecy? Fatigue? Joaz repeated the question.
“Yes,” said the sacerdote. His knees sagged, but he snapped them tight.
“What kind of weapons?”
“Numberless varieties. Projectiles, such as rocks. Piercing weapons, such as broken sticks. Cutting and slashing weapons such as cooking utensils.” His voice began to fade as if he were moving away. “Poisons—arsenic, sulfur, triventidum, acid, black-spore. Burning weapons, such as torches and lenses to focus the sunlight. Weapons to suffocate—ropes, nooses, slings and cords. Cisterns, to drown the enemy. . . .”
“Sit down, rest,” Joaz urged him. “Your inventory interests me, but its total effect seems inadequate. Have you other weapons which might decisively repel the Basics should they attack you?”
The question, by design, or chance, was never answered. The sacerdote sank to his knees, slowly, as if praying. He fell forward on his face, then sprawled to the side. Joaz sprang forward, yanked up the drooping head by its hair. The eyes, half-open, revealed a hideous white expanse. “Speak!” croaked Joaz. “Answer my last question! Do you have weapons—or a weapon—to repel a basic attack?”
The pallid lips moved. “I don’t know.”
Joaz frowned, peered into the waxen face, drew back in bewilderment. “The man is dead.”
Phade looked up from drowsing on a couch, face pink, hair tossed. “You have killed him!” she cried in a voice of hushed horror.
“No. He has died—or caused himself to die.”
Phade staggered blinking across the room, sidled close to Joaz, who pushed her absently away. Phade scowled, shrugged, and then as Joaz paid her no heed, marched from the room.
Joaz sat back, staring at the limp body. “He did not tire,” muttered Joaz, “until I verged upon secrets.”
Presently he jumped to his feet, went to the entry hall, sent Rife to fetch a barber. An hour later the corpse, stripped of hair, lay on a wooden pallet covered by a sheet, and Joaz held in his hands a rude wig fashioned from the long hair.
The barber departed; servants carried away the corpse. Joaz stood alone in his studio, tense and light-headed. He removed his garments, to stand naked as the sacerdote. Gingerly he drew the wig across his scalp and examined himself in the mirror. To a casual eye, where the difference? Something was lacking. The torc. Joaz fitted it about his neck, once more examined his reflection, with dubious satisfaction.