The four came forward.
The Cogitants stood like statues. Then they moved as if at a single decision. From twenty parts of the room streaks of flame leapt forth. Transfixed from twenty directions, eyes bulging, hair fluffing into a nimbus from the sudden charge, Lord Palafox of Breakness died.
Beran fell into a chair, unable to stand. Presently he took a deep breath, staggered to his feet. "I can say nothing to you now--only that I shall try to build the sort of world that Cogitants as well as Paonese can live in with satisfaction."
Finisterle, standing somberly to the side, said, "I fear that this option, admirable as it is, lies not entirely in your hands."
Beran followed his gaze, through the tall windows. High up in the sky appeared bursts of colored fire, spreading and sparkling, as if in celebration for some glory.
"The Myrmidons," said Finisterle. "They come for vengeance. Best had you flee while there is yet time. They will show you no mercy."
Beran made no answer.
Finisterle took his arm. "You accomplish nothing here but your own death. There is no guard to protect you--we are all at their mercy."
Beran gently disengaged himself. "I shall remain here; I shall not flee."
"They will kill you!"
Beran gave the peculiar Paonese shrug. "All men die."
"But you have much to do, and you can do nothing dead! Leave the city, and presently the Myrmidons will tire of the novelty and return to their games."
"No," said Beran. "Bustamonte fled. The Brumbos pursued him, ran him to the ground. I will no longer flee anyone. I will wait here with my dignity, and if they kill me, so shall it be."
An hour passed, the minutes ticking off slowly, one by one. The warships dropped low, hovered only yards from the ground. The flagship settled gingerly upon the palace deck.
Within the great hall Beran sat quietly on the dynastic Black Chair, his face drawn with fatigue, his eyes wide and dark. The Cogitants stood in muttering groups, watching Beran from the corners of their eyes.
From far off came a whisper of sound, a deep chant, growing louder, a chant of dedication, of victory, sung to the organic rhythm of pumping heart, of marching feet.
The chant swelled, the door burst open: into the great hall marched Esteban Carbone, the Grand Marshal. Behind him came a dozen young Field Marshals, and behind these, ranks of staff officers.
Esteban Carbone strode up to the Black Chair and faced Beran.
"Beran," spoke Esteban Carbone, "you have done us unforgivable injury. You have proved a false Panarch, unfit to govern the planet Pao. Therefore we have come in force to pull you down from the Black Chair and to take you away to your death."
Beran nodded thoughtfully, as if Esteban Carbone had come urging a petition.
"To those who wield the power shall go the direction of the state: this is the basic axiom of history. You are powerless, only we Myrmidons are strong. Hence we shall rule, and I now declare that Grand Marshal of the Myrmidons shall now and forever function as Panarch of Pao."
Beran said no word; indeed, there was no word to be said.
"Therefore, Beran, arise in what little dignity you retain, leave the Black Chair and walk forth to your death."
From the Cogitants came an interruption. Finisterle spoke out angrily. "One moment; you go too far and too fast."
Esteban Carbone swung about. "What is this you say?"
"Your thesis is correct: that he who wields power shall rule--but I challenge that you wield power on Pao."
Esteban Carbone laughed. "Is there anyone who can deter us in any course we care to pursue?"
"That is not altogether the point. No man can rule Pao without consent of the Paonese. You do not have that consent."
"No matter. We shall not interfere with the Paonese. They can govern themselves--so long as they supply us our needs. "
"And you believe that the Technicants will continue to supply you with tools and weapons?"
"Why should they not? They care little who buys their goods."
"And who shall make your needs known to them? Who will give orders to the Paonese?"
"We shall, naturally."
"But how will they understand you? You speak neither Technicant nor Paonese, they speak no Valiant. We Cogitants refuse to serve you."
Esteban Carbone laughed. "This is an interesting proposition. Are you suggesting that Cogitants, by reason of their linguistic knack, should therefore rule the Valiants?"
"No. I point out that you are unable to rule the planet Pao, that you cannot communicate with those you claim to be your subjects."
Esteban Carbone shrugged. "This is no great matter. We speak a few words of Pastiche, enough to make ourselves understood. Soon we will speak better, and so shall we train our children."
Beran spoke for the first time. "I offer a suggestion which perhaps will satisfy the ambitions of everyone. Let us agree that the Valiants are able to kill as many Paonese as they desire, all those who actively oppose them, and so may be said to exercise authority. However, they will find themselves embarrassed: first, by the traditional resistance of the Paonese to coercion, and secondly, by inability to communicate either with the Paonese or the Technicants."
Carbone listened with a grim face. "Time will cure these embarrassments. We are the conquerors, remember."
"Agreed," said Beran in a tired voice. "You are the conquerors. But you will rule best by disturbing the least. And until all Pao shares a single language, such as Pastiche, you cannot rule without great disturbance."
"Then all Pao must speak one language!" cried Carbone. "That is a simple enough remedy! What is language but a set of words? This is my first command: every man, woman and child on the planet must learn Pastiche."
"And in the meantime?" inquired Finisterle.
Esteban Carbone chewed his lip. "Things must proceed more or less as usual." He eyed Beran. "Do you, then, acknowledge my power?"
Beran laughed. "Freely. In accordance with your wish, I hereby order that every child of Pao: Valiant, Technicant, Cogitant and Paonese, must learn Pastiche, even in precedence to the language of his father."
Esteban Carbone stared at him searchingly, and said at last, "You have come off better than you deserve, Beran. It is true that we Valiants do not care to trouble with the details of governing, and this is your one bargaining point, your single usefulness. So long as you are obedient and useful, so long may you sit in the Black Chair and call yourself Panarch." He bowed, turned on his heel, marched from the hall.
Beran sat slumped in the Black Chair. His face was white and haggard, but his expression was calm.
"I have compromised, I have been humiliated," he said to Finisterle, "but in one day I have achieved the totality of my ambitions. Palafox is dead, and we are embarked on the great task of my life--the unifying of Pao."
Finisterle handed Beran a cup of mulled wine, drank deep from a cup of his own. "Those strutting cockerels! At this moment they parade around their stele, beating their chests, and at any instant..." He pointed his finger at a bowl of fruit. Blue flame lanced forth; the bowl shattered.
"It is better that we allowed them their triumph," said Beran. "Basically, they are decent people, if naive, and they will cooperate much more readily as masters than as subjects. And in twenty years..."
He rose to his feet; he and Finisterle walked across the hall, looked out over the roofs of Eiljanre. "Pastiche--composite of Breakness, Technicant, Valiant, Paonese. Pastiche--the language of service. In twenty years, everyone will speak Pastiche. It will fertilize the old minds, shape the new minds. What kind of world will Pao be then?"