But the Lords of Stability were cowed. The Castigator said, “We cannot oppose the Master of the Empyrean. He is older than our world, older than the worlds of our ancestors. He is older than time itself! He is the father of a dead god and of many living ones!”
Vigil recalled the wording of his oath. Even if it meant conquest for his world, death for himself and his kin, and the obliteration of his way of life, his honor would not die.
He unhooked the sheathed sword from his baldric. And started walking, one slow step at a time, toward the Imperator, whose dark beard made his white smile seem all the brighter, and his dark brows made his dark eyes darker green.
Here was a man who liked to prevail.
Vigil took one reluctant step, then another, and then he saw one of the statues on the dais that circled the chamber stirring to life and her eyes shine intolerably.
It was Torment in her executioner’s hood and bridal gown, surrounded by her instruments of inquisition. The statue did not grow in height nor weight, and yet a terrible sense of pressure seemed to enter the chamber as if a whole world were focused into this small and human spot.
She raised her hand. Vigil, for a moment, thought that a mudra had frozen him in place. But no, to his relief an internal assured him it was only his own panic and craven fear.
She said, “Yield not that blade to him.”
6. The World’s Word
Ximen del Azarchel stood and, without a word, snatched the pearl from the hand of the Theosophist. Unfortunately, the Theosophist had been staring the Potentate in the eyes at that moment, not looking at the pearl in his hand, and not only went blind but fell backward with a cry, toppling over sieges too surprised to scuttle out of the way, and struck the glass floor to lie senseless. Ximen hefted the gleaming orb once or twice in his palm, perhaps adjusting parts of his nervous system to accommodate it, and raised his eyes to stare at the Potentate unabashed. “Back into silence, Septfoil! You may not interfere with human affairs. That is the unalterable decision of Triumvirate.”
“Yet is there not an exception, Imperator, allowing me to speak in my own defense, when human acts unwittingly bode my obliteration?” She turned her inhuman eyes toward Vigil, who flinched, and raised his hand as if to ward off a blow. He squinted at the figure between his fingers. She said, “I believe the Lord Hermeticist still has the floor, examining the testimony of the Table before rendering his verdict.”
Del Azarchel said, “I am sure Vigil will yield me the balance of his time so that we may move to the next order of business, which is how to prepare for the coming invasion. You see, all the worlds I conquered are forewarned, and given the opportunity to select weapons and conditions of engagement…”
Vigil’s counselor nudged him in the back and hissed, “Stop him.” And Vigil said loudly, “To the contrary. I do not yield the floor.”
Del Azarchel had a strange and dangerous look in his eye, and Vigil felt as if he were looking into two tunnels leading into eons far from the present time. Vigil had the strange, dizzying sensation that Del Azarchel would not forget this affront, and long after Vigil and all his race were extinct, and the star Iota Draconis burned into a cinder and collapsed, and yet still would Del Azarchel recall this moment and fret in anger.
But the Master of the Empyrean glanced at the tall statue of Torment, and nodded graciously, as if it was from his generosity alone he determined not to press the issue. He seated himself again, the orb in one hand.
Vigil said, “The Master has decreed the Table not in dereliction. How, then, do I retain the authority to speak at this Table, to wield this sword, or to call witnesses?”
Torment did not answer, but a voice from the Table itself spoke: “The Chrematist does not have authority unilaterally to call the question and end debate on the question of dereliction. His authority extends only to financial matters relating to establishing resources needed to power the launching and deceleration laser at such times and for such purposes as the Great Schedule decrees. The Lord Hermeticist still has the floor. He has already decreed the Table to be in dereliction. That decree cannot be overridden by any power this Table recognizes. You were discussing only the matter of whether to punish or whether, due to mitigating circumstances, to grant clemency.”
Vigil said, “But that is the Master of the Empyrean, the founder of the Order, and the author of our constitution and regulations! He is the Prince Consort of Rania, and therefore sovereign.”
The Table said, “Forgive me, but we are not allowed to advise on those matters. The human order of being will be saved or damned by its own wisdom or folly. My purpose is to see that the procedures are concluded in an orderly fashion, so that if the world is saved, it is saved in a systematic and proper way, and if damned, damned neatly and according to the book. I am allowed to speak only to answer queries about the rules of order, and to maintain decorum.”
“Then answer: How is it that I still have authority to act or speak, when my sovereign Imperator says otherwise?”
“The humans in the Chamber have not officially voted to acknowledge and recognize Ximen del Azarchel, Lord Nobilissimus and Imperator. At the moment, in the eyes of the law, he is still Eosphoros, Lord Chrematist.”
“But the chairs know damn well who he is! So do you!”
“They lack the privilege to address the Table or franchise to vote.”
Ximen del Azarchel, raising both eyebrows, now spoke as softly as a jet-black panther purring, “But you, Lord Hermeticist—your name is Vigil, and your mother is Lady Patience?—you know who I am, and you will answer to me, soon or late. Lay down your commission, declare the Table not at fault, and let us get on with the business of forcing this backward world into the next higher step of evolution, hammering history to new shapes on the blood-drenched white-hot forge of war. Or, for your boon, you could ask the ship to surrender to your world, to your people, or even to you personally: and you can conquer this wretched world yourself, as your own fief, and arrange her as you like.”
Vigil pushed the sword out of the sheath with his thumb, exposing no more than the first bright inch of blade near the hilts. “Have I still the authority to wield you?”
Nothing has changed. The verdict was spoken. There is no appeal. All that remains is sentencing. You may slay the world, or you may spare her.
As before, the answer was like the stab of a needle through his brain. He pushed the sword back into the sheath.
To Del Azarchel he said, “Your pardon, sir, but as a point of order, I still have the floor. You cannot offer me the boon of the vassalage of this world, since I already accepted the boon of this sword and its authority. I know you to be too honorable a man to rescind your word.”
Del Azarchel did not like to lose, but he knew how to concede gracefully. He gritted his teeth, made himself smile, and waved his hand. “The sword is yours.”
Vigil turned, lowering his eyes and wishing he had the use of the pearl that Del Azarchel held. “Torment! Why did you slay my father?”
She nodded her hooded head forward, saying solemnly, “You have guessed the reason.”
“Confirm my guess for me. My mind is not like yours and needs to have even its irrational doubts soothed.”
“I dissolved the segments of his brain because he asked me to, the knowledge hidden there being intolerable to him. His mind was too finely made, with too many stubborn internal segments and secret defenses, to be fully mastered by the amnesia imposed by this chamber on him, even when the imposition was done with his full consent.