Gandrak’s horses had been oversized trash, and Trathrak’s no better. I knew how traders joked about their worst beasts being “fit only for a herdman.” So horseflesh was one of my first problems, one I solved by imposing a fine of three horses for every slave discovered in a caravan. I chose which three. The traders screamed about violence between groups and threatened to report me to the angels. I told them to go ahead, please.
My scheme ought not to have worked, of course. Had the traders simply spread the word to ignore loners and avoid transporting slaves across the grasslands, then that would have been the end of it. But I knew how the traders hated to lose an advantage or do favors for one another. By the time the news got around, there were no more wandering loners anyway, and my cavalry could run down anything on the plains.
I allowed no one else to deal with the traders, and I drove up the price of yarn until I could afford some simple luxuries to reward loyalty.
Herdmen, I discovered, were not born stupid—it was their wasted, barren culture that made them so. Under my guidance, the next generation grew up smarter. I founded singing schools and provided suitable songs of instruction. I created a corps of dedicated couriers, because a strong runner can travel long distances faster than a horse can in that climate. It also gave the youngsters more to do.
Even from the first, the women were inclined from habit to obey me without question, and they raised their children to do so, too. When they saw that their sons were not dying at puberty, when I halved the birthrate with a decree that babies must be breast-fed—then I had their souls forever. Now meek little herdwomen will denounce their own menfolk to me if they as much so suspect a disloyal thought. I hate that! It is only Haniana’s unflagging support that gives me the strength to do what I then must.
Eventually I was able to stop using women as rewards, but all marriages still required my approval, and I made sure that the woman was content. In an astonishingly short time, young maidens were expressing opinions on all sorts of subjects, and young herdmen were displaying interest in bathing, combing, and paring.
As Michael had long ago predicted, I never found any sign of Anubyl, nor of my family. They must all have perished in the great dying beside the March Ocean.
I was ready by then to realize my dream of revenge on the ants—and yet I had already come to realize that it would be a hollow satisfaction. I had once thought that I would destroy Heaven if it tried to block me. Now I saw that it could not block me and I needed it, an ironic situation indeed. Thus, as soon as I felt I had the power required, I issued a decree banning angels from the grasslands. Heaven and I must deal eventually, and I knew how long Heaven took to decide anything. My impertinence was sure to gain its attention. Besides, my troops enjoyed the sport of chasing chariots even more than roo hunting.
Mineral deposits can occur anywhere on Vernier, but they are more common in Wednesday than in any other day, because Wednesday is bigger. Many mines pass through the grasslands.
As a slave in the ants’ nest, I had dreamed of escaping and returning with an avenging army, riding on great ones. That was because the seamen had taught me to hunt that way, and it was the only form of cooperation between men that I then knew.
The spinster taught me much more. She had used an army to kidnap recruits to build her army. Admittedly she had enslaved her victims in a way I never could, but thereafter she had rewarded mostly with ribbons and titles and fine words.
The traders and the ants, the tribes of jungle and desert, and finally the angels—I had learned from all of them. Gradually I had refined my original muddled dream into a workable plan. Heaven can never throw enough men against the ants. My eager young warriors are armed with only bows and spears—no guns—but their shadows darken the hills. They worship me and they will die for me.
Traders will always part with information, for a price.
I located the nests. I learned the size of each tribe and its slave workforce and the name of its minemaster—and one of those names was Krarurh. It might not be the same one—a son, perhaps, or even that very grandson whose birth had resulted in my being given to Hrarrh—but I knew which nest I must attend to first.
That was a very bloody business, for my troops were inexperienced and the cats spooked the horses. Fortunately the mine was an open trench rather than an underground complex of tunnels. Thus it was not easily defended, and the ants were no more accustomed to battle than my herd-men were. Many slaves died in the carnage, but so did all of the cats and every adult male ant and many of their women, also. One body I identified with joy as that of the smith who had mashed my knees. Of Hrarrh there was no sign. He was either dead already or merely absent.
A man can’t have everything, I suppose.
And yet I almost hope he is still alive, for I probably had taken his family. All the women and children were distributed among my men, along with the rest of the booty. So I had my revenge.
All news reaches Heaven eventually, and this time the debate was fiercer. I was already very unpopular with the angels, and I expect that the archangels considered using force against me. In the end they wisely decided to negotiate, as I had known they must.
An exhausted young runner swayed on his feet before me as he gasped out his news: chariots had reached the grasslands and a party of three angels sought audience. In my delight, I promoted the lad to Warrior Junior Grade on the spot, and also all of the previous bearers who had relayed that message on its long trip from the borders to my palace. None of those couriers had even been born when I left Heaven, and now, at last, Heaven was coming to me.
I sent back orders that the angels were to be brought in on horseback, without their chariots—and without their guns.
—3—
NOTHING IN MY LONG LIFE has ever amused me more than the expression on those angels’ faces as they were led into my palace. As always, it stood on high ground to catch the breeze, but that particular hill chanced to be especially high. The walls were open on three sides to show vistas of gold-green grassland rolling away forever into hazy distance. Clustered around the stabbing blue of nearby lakes, the myriad bright tents that always accompany the palace sparkled like spilled jewels. I do not know why my presence requires at least a thousand supporters in attendance at all times, but it does, and when the angels arrived there were probably nearer to three thousand—but that was not by chance.
Everywhere there was color. Herdfolk love color, and now we could afford the best dyes on Vernier. Overhead the sun glowed through the brilliant fabrics of the roof, which the wind ran in long billows, stirring colors in their welcome soft-hued shade. The thick rugs underfoot were alive with color, and the downy cushions on the chairs also. Color glittered back from polished wood, from silver goblets and shiny silver plates of sugared fruits from Thursday As the guests sank open-mouthed into their seats, maidens in scintillating dresses offered them refreshments.
There was brilliance even in the pagnes and headdresses of my bodyguard, the twenty-five young giants who stood around like trees enclosing a forest glade. Tall and rigid as the poles that supported the roof, each held a spear that could have skewered a horse. Ayasseshas would have approved of my audience chamber.
The angels seemed small to me, and old. Yet even the oldest, who was also their leader, must be young enough to be my son, or even grandson by herdfolk ways. Indigo-two-green he was now, but I thought I could remember him as a cherub—it had been so long since I left Heaven that I could not be sure. His stoop might be from fatigue, of course. He was a hook-nosed desertman, and in his youth his hair had been red. Now it was mostly white.