Sensing uncertainty, Ethan searched desperately for some additional semantic weapon to throw at Trell. “You’d still be in charge, still be Commissioner. You could still take a legal percentage, however much smaller, of the local trade. Think of the boom in that trade when the Tran organize themselves on a planet-wide basis. We’ve already started them on that path here in Moulokin.
“And if that’s not inducement enough, consider the fame a few stolen credits can never buy. You’d go down in the Church histories as the Commissioner who recognized the cyclic nature of this world’s civilization and its importance and took the first steps to aid a climactically impoverished people. How much is a footnote in immortality worth, Trell?” He went quiet. Having appealed to Trell’s morality and now to his ego, Ethan had nothing left to fight with.
“I don’t—I’m not sure…” Trell’s unctuous manner had vanished along with his confidence. He’d come in expecting to hear pleas or defiance. Instead he’d been confronted with artifacts and a new world history. He was badly shaken, needed time to recover his balance.
“I’ve got to think on this, consider it carefully. We—” He halted, turned abruptly to Ro-Vijar. “Let us go and talk, friend Landgrave.” Ro-Vijar simply gave acknowledgement, accompanied Trell to the opening in the gate.
The Commissioner looked back at Ethan. “I’ll give you an answer in less than an hour.”
“All we ask is that you consider the obvious,” said Ethan. “We’ll give you our answer at the same time.” Trell didn’t appear to have heard the last, sunk in thoughts deeper than outside communication could penetrate.
“What do you believe he will do, friend Ethan?” asked Hunnar as the wooden walls ground shut behind the departing four.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. Usually I can tell when I’ve got a customer bubbled—when I’ve convinced someone of something—but Trell’s too numbed to read. Skua?”
“I don’t know either, young feller-me-lad. Trell’s tryin’ to decide whether immortality’s worth the pleasures of the present. It’s the old human dilemma: do you live for today or work for a place in heaven? Problem is, we can’t counter with the threat o’ Hell. We’ll know in an hour.”
“Assuming he refuses, Skua… what do we do?” September said nothing. His expression was answer enough.
XVIII
THE SKIMMER HOVERED ALONGSIDE the royal raft of the Poyolavomaar fleet. Within the central cabin Trell, Ro-Vijar, and Rakossa conversed. The two peaceforcers stood nearby, chatting idly to each other and ignoring the curious stares of the Tran around them.
“Friend Calonnin,” Trell said wearily, “I keep telling you but you refuse to understand. I no longer have a choice in this. Events have taken it beyond my control.”
“You are right,” replied Ro-Vijar tightly. “I do not understand why you say you have no choice. Why do you not use your light weapon to make hearth-ashes of those three outworlders and scatter their ashes upon the ocean?”
“It’s not a question of three people any more.” Trell sat in the too-large Tran chair and worked his fingers. They rubbed, scratched, entwined and folded upon one another.
“Everything they said about the future of your people is quite correct, given the accuracy of their interpretation of the discoveries they made. I’m inclined to accept both. Besides, I like the idea of having my name in the history tapes. You will, too.”
“Your history is not mine.”
“It will be.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Neither of us will sink into poverty because of these developments, Calonnin. You’ll still be Landgrave of Arsudun. As the port of Brass Monkey expands to handle increased trade from the rest of Tran-ky-ky, Arsudun and you will benefit.”
“In how many of your years?”
“Soon, soon,” Trell insisted.
“What of other, new ports?”
“There might be one or two,” Trell conceded. “But Arsudun will still be foremost.”
“I am little interested in what will occur after I am dead, friend Trell. I am interested only in what will happen tomorrow, perhaps also the day following.”
Trell glanced across the room at a figure standing in shadow. “What about you, Rakossa of Poyolavomaar? What do you want?”
Rakossa stepped out into the light. “We have wealth enough to satisfy us for all our future days. We have position and power. As to what happens to our name after we die we care not a k’nith. We do not even care what happens tomorrow, but only today. What do we want? We want justice! These merchants who dare to defy us and!—”
“Yes, I know, I know.” Trell sighed, exasperated by the childish obsessions of these ignorant primitives. “Calonnin explained to me about the concubine. Your desires are as limited as your vision, Rakossa.”
“You think us beneath you, offworlder. Our vision,” he said in a way which started a funny prickling at the back of Trell’s neck, “may not be so limited as you think.”
“Meaning what?”
“We attempt to foresee all,” Rakossa explained obtusely. “That is how we have been able to survive as long as we have in a court filled with intrigues and crafty enemies all about us. They too think we are foolish and mad, that we are blinded by silly desires. But obsession is not blindness, and we are not so obsessed that we cannot see possible futures. Cannot see all possibilities.”
Trell’s right hand began sliding cautiously toward the pocket in his survival suit, opening the interior heat seal to admit the hand into the coveralls beneath.
“First you said you care only for today. Now you claim to look into the future. You’re inconsistent if not truly mad, Rakossa.”
“’Tis our way of protecting our desires of today, offworlder.”
Trell had a sudden thought. Hand still moving, he turned a stunned gaze on Ro-Vijar, Who had moved to stand against a far wall. “Calonnin, what is…!”
The first arrow struck the Resident Commissioner just above his pushed-back ice goggles. It glanced off the skull and so failed to kill him outright. Subsequent arrows did not.
Both Ro-Vijar and Rakossa had ducked from the line of fire, Ro-Vijar out the door he’d ambled so casually toward, Rakossa behind the table and into shadows. Trell had just enough foresight to get off a shot. His beamer pierced only the cabin roof.
As soon as their task was completed, the sailors who’d been hidden in the rafters above and outside the doors and windows returned to their usual tasks. All save a few who were directed by Rakossa.
The bodies of the three dead humans, for the peaceforcers had fallen as well, were rendered almost unrecognizable by the profusion of arrows sticking from them.
“Were so many necessary?” inquired Ro-Vijar, eying the corpses a mite uncomfortably.
“’Twas yourself, Landgrave of Arsudun, who told us you could be not certain of the location of their vital organs. We do not take chances. Wait!”
The procession halted, their grisly cargo staining the clean wood of the deck. Rakossa walked to stand next to Trell’s limp form. Reaching through a small forest of arrows he lifted the vacant-eyed head by its hair, stared into it with blazing black and yellow eyes.
“Think you still so much smarter than us, Trell of the offworlders?” He grinned a bloodthirsty grin at Ro-Vijar. “Odd. He does not answer. Perhaps we have changed his mind for him.” He let the skull fall with a loose-jointed hobbling, a rotting apple in a stream. The sailors carried the bodies from view.