When True Night Falls Page 13

  She turned away from him; the room snapped suddenly back into normal perspective. “I had a vision,” she said softly. “A ship would come from the West, just as this one did, at just this time ... and he would be on it, accompanied by a priest. He’s dangerous, Andir, an enemy of our Church and our people. If you tell me there was no man on that vessel who fit his description, I believe you. If you tell me there was no place on that vessel for him to hide, I believe that, too. But what are the odds that this one ship—the only merchant-ship ever sent from the West—would arrive at our shores at just this moment, fulfilling my prophecy in every detail but that one? God warned me of this man for a reason, Andir. We would do well to heed His warning.”

  “He wasn’t on the ship, Holiness, and there was no sign of him. I swear it. But there was a priest, as you say, and a Sanctified woman tambia.”

  She looked startled. “Sanctified? But that’s impossible. The West doesn’t have—”

  And then she stopped herself, and chose her remaining words with care. “The last expedition gave us no reason to believe that the West had developed such an Order.”

  “I saw her, Holiness. Verdate.”

  She stared at him for a long while in silence, digesting that information. “All right,” she said at last. “It may be the ship I foresaw. Maybe not. Either way, I want the priest and the woman followed whenever they’re on shore. Discreetly, verda? And as for the others ... what would you recommend?”

  “I think we would profit from the trade they offer, your Holiness.” A vision of horses flashed before his eyes; with effort he suppressed it. “There are some things we need to take care of before they disembark, of course. The health issue concerns me; they may carry diseases we’re no longer immune to. I would like to feel secure that their cultural expectations are harmonious with our own, so that they don’t disrupt our society too much. And we presently have no import taxes which would apply to such a vessel ... it might be well to get a couple on the books before we assess their cargo.”

  The Matria smiled, displaying pure white teeth. “I’ve always liked your style, Andir. See that it’s done.” She offered him her hand again, and he stretched forward to kiss it. “I thank you for a thorough job, my Lord Regent. As always.”

  “To serve you is to serve the Church,” he responded. His tone was one of absolute reverence, devoid of any political resentment. The latter had no place here—or anywhere, for that matter, save deep within his heart. There it coiled, like a venemous serpent. Undying. Unforgiving.

  He pushed his chair back and stood. Then hesitated. He had another question, but wasn’t quite sure how to voice it. “Your Holiness....”

  “You may speak freely,” she prompted.

  “When this is all done ... when they’ve made their rounds and traded their goods and packed up to go home ... are you going to let them leave?”

  It seemed to him that her smile faltered. Certainly the humor went out of her eyes. What took its place was hard and cold, and strangely predatory.

  “When that time comes,” she promised, “we shall see.”

  Eight

  On the first day after the Glory dropped its anchor the inquisition began. It started at noon, when Lord Toshida arrived to “ask a few questions.” There were, of course, considerations of where to speak, whom to speak with first, questions of rank and protocol and, certainly, efficiency ... and before anyone quite realized what was happening he had managed to maneuver the travelers in such a way that it was impossible for anyone he had questioned to make contact with those still awaiting interview. It was all very quietly done, all most politely managed, so much so that many of the passengers seemed not to realize the implications of Toshida’s strategy. Damien did, and he wasn’t happy. Not happy at all.

  “Shit,” he muttered. Whispering the oath, lest Toshida’s guards—ever present, ever alert—should hear him. Hesseth looked sharply at him, and despite the tight-fitting coif which masked her head he had the distinct impression of furred ears pricking forward, to fix on his speech.

  “Bad?” she whispered.

  Very bad, an inner voice insisted. But for her sake he muttered, “Maybe.” Forcing the words out. “Let’s hope not.”

  He had prepared the crew for a trial just like this. Hadn’t he? He had explained to the pagan crew members why it would be important for them to pretend to be of his faith, had given them the basic information they would need to persevere in that role ... but would it work? If the Regent’s questions turned to religion, could they answer him safely based on what little knowledge they had? And what about Hesseth? Would the merchants remember that she was supposed to be human? Would they care enough to maintain that lie, if Toshida became suspicious? There was so much that Damien’s small company stood to lose if anyone made even a tiny slip—one passing reference to Hesseth’s fur, or Hesseth’s claws, or Hesseth’s alien nature. Or even worse, to Damien’s sorcery. Was the Regent listening for hints of such a secret? Was that why he had come on board?

  And then, of course, there was Gerald Tarrant.

  A cold wind gusted across his soul as he thought of the man. Tear down my walls, he had said, expose my belongings. See that nothing remains of my power. Damien had taken it one step further. He had asked the passengers and crew to pretend that the Neocount had never been on their ship at all. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and they seemed willing to play along. But would it be enough? If Toshida came to suspect that something was wrong, if he asked the right questions—perhaps threatening them openly, perhaps maneuvering them into a rhetorical corner where it was hard to maintain the lie—might not one of them slip up? It would only take one word, Damien reminded himself, one wrong, careless word....

  And then the guard was standing before him and waiting, and it was clear from his manner that Damien’s time had come. With a prayer on his lips he followed the man, across the deck to the small cabin which Toshida had commandeered for his interviews. Ushered in by the guard, he entered. The shades inside were drawn, so that none might look in on them; even the sea view was shuttered. Two oil lamps cast cool golden light about the room and its occupants; its hue lent an eerie cast to the Regent’s dark skin, like that of an ancient bronze statue.

  “Reverend Vryce.” The Regent’s tone was cool but cordial. “Please sit.”

  He took the chair opposite Toshida’s own. Damien glanced down at the desk between them, noted several bills of lading, shipping specs, one map. Then they were gone, gathered up by Toshida’s dark hands and set far to one side, out of the lamplight.

  “My government has some concerns,” Toshida said quietly. His voice was utterly neutral in tenor, as befit one whose power was beyond question. “Would you mind clarifying a few issues for me?”

  “Of course not,” he responded. Trying not to let his uneasiness affect his tone.

  Would it matter if I did?

  It began with simple questions, the kind that a government official might be expected to ask of a foreign ship in his harbor. Damien answered those simply and honestly, and when he lacked information he referred Toshida to those who would be able to answer. Then came questions that probed into Damien himself. Was it he who had organized this expedition? Why? Damien answered those questions with care, honestly wherever possible but preferring occasional vagueness to an outright lie. No one on board but Hesseth knew his true motives, thus it was unlikely that Toshida would be able to entrap him. Still he was careful, remembering always that twenty of his co-travelers had already talked to Toshida—possibly about him—and that he was being measured against that template.

  At last the Regent seemed satisfied with that line of questioning, and turned to another. “Tell me about the health of the crew.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “You were in charge of that facet of the journey, verda?” The dark fingers steepled, casting dual shadows. “Tell me about your preparations.”

  It was impossible to tell from Toshida’s exp
ression whether he knew just how revealing this ground might prove. How much had the others told him? Damien cursed his own lack of knowledge, in particular his ignorance of the status of sorcery here. Would the others have thought to protect him? Would they even have realized that such protection was necessary? He chose his words very carefully. “I felt that there would be considerable risk making contact with a colony that had its own disease profile. So I made sure of two things as I signed on my people: that each of them had a good history of resisting illness, and that no one was presently carrying anything which might infect your people. We took every precaution possible,” he assured him. Hoping it would be enough.

  “So you relied upon interviews, verda?”

  He shook his head. “Everyone was examined. Passengers, officers, crew.”

  “By whom?”

  He answered without hesitating, because hesitation would be damning. “By qualified professionals.”

  I Healed them, you son of a bitch. With my Church-sanctioned powers I Worked the fae and used it on each and every one of them, to make sure that when we got to this precious city of yours we wouldn’t spread eight hundred years of bacterial evolution among your people. I did that. I. And I used the fae to strengthen their immune systems so that they could survive your diseases, and took a few other precautions as well, whose names you wouldn’t even recognize. That’s what I do, Regent. That’s what I am.

  He drew in a deep breath, faked a cough to cover it. God, the man was getting to him. That was bad. That was dangerous.

  Toshida jotted a few notes on the topmost piece of paper; the light was too poor for Damien to make out what they were. “Reverend Vryce, I’ve been directed to ask you a question which you may find offensive. If so, I apologize. The circumstances we find ourselves in are most unusual, verda? Sometimes that makes for uncomfortable questions.”

  “Please go ahead,” he said quietly.

  The Regent’s eyes fixed on his, commanding his gaze. They were deep sable brown, Damien noted, nearly black, so dark that in the dim light it was impossible to make out iris from pupil, or tell where the two might be divided. Disconcertingly like Hesseth’s in the darkness.

  “Have you ever used sorcery?” he asked. And then added, “For any purpose?”

  For a moment there was silence. Utter stillness. How much does he know? Damien thought desperately. What did the others say? To be caught in one lie, no matter how small, meant admitting to the possibility of others. And that meant an endless barrage of questions, with certain condemnation at the end of it.

  The dark eyes were fixed on him. Demanding an answer.

  “I was ordained in our western Matriarchy,” he said at last. “The Holy Mother taught that sorcery worked in God’s name was a holy enterprise. Later I traveled to the east, where I served that region’s Patriarch. His views were somewhat different, and in accordance with my vows I served his will while I was there.” He drew in a deep breath, choosing his words with care. “My vows demand obedience to the hierarchy of my Church, whatever that may be. That means obedience to your laws, your Eminence, and respect for your customs. The vows of my Order permit no less.”

  The Regent’s reaction was strange. He stiffened slightly—but not in response to his words, Damien thought. Perhaps in response to something they implied.

  There was something odd in his tone that Damien couldn’t quite define. Something almost ... hungry.

  “Your Patriarch, you say.”

  “Yes, your Eminence.”

  “A man,” the Regent mused.

  Puzzled, Damien nodded.

  “Is he your autarch? Is that what the title means?”

  He nodded again. “The Church was unified under one leader late in the third century. But the natural barriers between east and west were too great for one man to govern both realms effectively, so it was decided to have an autarch for each region.” And he ventured: “As you would have your own in this region.”

  “Each city has its own Matria,” the Regent responded. There was a tightness in him that was almost animal in nature, a tension that belied his smooth, even speech. There’s something in him waiting to explode, Damien thought. Something that’s been ready to explode for a long, long time. “Their communal word is our law.”

  “And the Regency?” he dared. “Where does that fit in?”

  For the first time since the interview began, the Regent looked away. “The Matria are our visionaries, our oracles. They hear and interpret the Voice of the One God, and live eternally Sanctified in His Name ... which lifestyle is not particularly well suited to governance, Reverend Vryce. Verda?

  “So you rule in fact?”

  “In some things. Always subject to the Matria’s will.” He turned back to face Damien. There was an intensity in his gaze that was hard to meet, an almost predatory alertness. Damien was acutely aware that he was watching him for his reaction. “My rank is as high as a man can aspire to in these lands. But I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Reverend Vryce. Wasn’t it the Prophet himself who established that pattern?”

  Was he hearing him right? Was it possible that in this place the autocracy was reserved for women, and this man—this energetic, ambitious man—had been reined in by no more than a perverse sexist custom? He was suddenly very glad that he had played poker as often and as well as he did; he had never had more need of a dispassionate expression. “Customs differ,” he said carefully. “And even the Prophet’s words are subject to interpretation.” He didn’t dare address the question any more directly than that. Not now. Not until he had more of a handle on who and what these people were. To do otherwise would be like throwing a match into a keg of black power, just to see what would happen. Madness.

  For a few seconds the Regent was silent. Considering his words. Sifting them for all the messages they contained, voiced and unvoiced.

  “You understand,” he said at last, “some of what we’ve discussed here would be ... upsetting for my people. Verda? This talk of foreign hierarchy, disparate customs....” His dark eyes narrowed. “And sorcery. All these things are sensitive issues, best kept to a private forum. Don’t you agree, Reverend Vryce?”

  He found that he had been holding his breath; it took effort to speak. “What about my people?” he chanced. In other words, how much is my silence worth to you?

  “I see no further need to question them,” the Regent responded smoothly. Which said it all.

  Was there anything other than religious faith that could have kept this man from demanding his own long ago, from toppling kingdoms to achieve it? Was there anything that could succeed in holding him down now, once he fully understood his options? Damien felt like he had indeed thrown a match into a powder keg. And that keg was sitting on an arsenal.

  The Regent pushed back his chair and stood. “It’s clear you prepared well for this voyage, and I see no reason why you should remain under quarantine. I’ll inform the Matria of that decision.” As he spoke his ruler’s title there was just a trace of hostility in his tone, almost imperceptible—but Damien was sure that if he Worked his vision he would see the fury inside him seething like a demon, screaming its indignation. “My aide will give your people a brief tour of the city tomorrow, so that they know their way around. After that, you’re all free to come and go as you please. I anticipate the merchants will be able to unload their cargo by the end of the week, or move on with it as they desire.”

  “Thank you,” Damien said. “I’ll tell them.”

  The Regent nodded, his dark eyes narrow. Piercing gaze, oh, so piercing. What future world was he gazing upon, that made his look so fierce? What secret potential had Damien’s words unveiled, which had previously been unspeakable?

  “No,” Toshida said softly. “Thank you.”

  If Damien had been concerned that there would be any further investigation of his role on board the Glory, he was quickly reassured. Their tour of the city, attended by most of the passengers and all the lesser crew, went without a hi
tch. There were the predictable swarms of reporters, of course, who flanked them like hunting dogs throughout their journey. Is it what you expected? Was it worth the crossing? How have we surprised, disappointed, impressed, intrigued, appealed to you? And of course the inevitable queries from tabloid artists regarding ghost islands, sea monsters, and western sexual practices. At one point their guide made a point of gathering them together and explaining to them in simple words and an almost decipherable accent that their stories were worth quite a bit to these people, and they shouldn’t part with too much information without getting paid for it. To which Anshala responded, in a tone that was equally patronizing, “We’re not brainless savages, you know.” And they were left to conduct themselves as they saw fit.

  On the third night a celebration was declared in honor of the travelers, to include a display of fireworks when the Core set after dusk. The invitation to attend was hand-delivered by the captain of Toshida’s guard to Rozca himself, no doubt in recognition of his stubborn refusal to leave his ship the day before. Despite the fact that Rozca loudly refused to attend that gala display or any other until he was satisfied with the security of his ship, he appeared to be pleased by the attention. And later, when that same officer returned at dusk to take personal charge of the Golden Glory, Rozca allowed himself to be talked off his bridge and across the dock and into town itself.

  Fireworks: controlled small-scale explosions, performed for entertainment. An old Earth custom, the Regent’s man assured them, and Damien was amazed at how casually the phrase rolled off his lips. Damien’s own people had been struggling with the basics of survival for so long that they had all but forgotten what true Earth custom was, and used the phrase only rarely to denote a ritual whose roots were so ancient they could no longer be remembered. Here, where relative stability had been achieved a mere three centuries after the Landing, oral tradition had preserved much more of Earth’s heritage. The West might have recorded Earth’s facts in its struggle to preserve its scientific heritage, Damien reflected. But the East alone remembered Earth’s spirit.