The Enemy of My Enemy (13 page)

Lord Tilionoth had begun to shake his head even before the question was more than half-asked. “Tarolioth and his little clique,” he said, interrupting. Then a light flush of embarrassment stained his handsome face a moment, and he bit at his full lips. “You will pardon my speaking of them as though in contempt, I must hope,” he went on. “I had for the moment forgotten that you are the known lover of his younger daughter. Though I must disagree with them entirely, it does not excuse my speaking or seeming to speak in improper terms.”

Tonorosant covered his surprise by merely bowing as though to indicate that forgiveness was not needed but was nonetheless extended. It seemed the right time to say no more but wait and hear what the other would say.

‘Tarolioth and those who agree with him,” the young lord continued, having cleared his throat, “are always talking about using more effective methods to civilize the Volanth. Keep them peaceful. And so, no violence. Well —

“All very pleasant for the
Volanth
, I agree. But what of
us?
”

He said the last word with such triumphant emphasis that his guest felt he had to break silence … though only with a noncommittal syllable into which the young man evidently read approval, for, “Do you see,” he swept on, making it a declarative and not a question.

“What of the Tarnisi? Surely it is our interests which must be predominate! Tarolioth’s views are totally unrealistic, he and his friends seem unaware of how weak and how effete our culture would be without these outlets. It’s been centuries since there has been real, full-scale war with the Volanth, and in that period — despite the time so many of us put in our estates — we have become an urbanized civilization, and such are always subject to decadence and softening due to the absence of conflict.” He spoke so swiftly and glibly that his listener had the feeling he was hearing the views of another, or of others, which had been often repeated until accepted as true faith.

“Do not think at all, you will not at all think, I must hope, that I am speaking slightily of the classcial ways when I say that such things as painting leaves form an insufficient stimulus. And even things like spear-throwing, of which I am myself so fond, as you may know, are purely artificial in the present state of civilization. Life becomes bland, it becomes boring, we find some outlet in those foreign toys which you are kind enough … . But it is not enough! It is not enough!

“We require the opportunity to risk our lives, and to risk them in combat. We must have an outlet against — what is the word? —
surfeit!
Yes. — To stir up our blood — even if we may have to shed it! That is why I have said that we must be grateful to those Volanth brutes for giving us the excuse. And we cannot, no, we cannot dispense with it. Do you see?”

Tonorosant thought that he did. He thought that he saw, perhaps, too much … . Tilionoth, complaining that he had grown tired of sex when it had become “just a matter of rolling over in bed for it”; Tilionoth, stripped to his skin, pursuing the women of the Volanth — not once and again, but again and again; and then, just now before dinner, remarking complacently about his lady-lover that it had “been quite well with” them … .

Tonorosant bowed again, deeper than before, to hide his face.

“Furthermore, though of course it is perhaps a trivial point, I believe that even the Volanth benefit — What? Yes, I do. They do. It stirs
them
up, too. They work the better for it.” But here he was vague as to details, murmured,
commerce
, in a hopeless tone, waved his hands. One could not be expected to be specific on such a subject, Lord Tilionoth indicated.

He took his departure a bit earlier than deepest courtesy allowed, but his host appeared not much disturbed by this “I shall see you out,” he said, “then drop by the kennels on my way back to assure myself that the dogs are properly bedded down for the night. One must be forever alert. Raw eggs … .” He shuddered.

• • •

Tulan Tarolioth, Atoral’s father. One accepted one’s parentage on faith; there seemed no resemblance, physical or emotional. “Sooner or later, I knew you would want to see him,” she said. Then, after some long silence en route, she added, suddenly, abruptly, “He is right, of course, but it is useless! Useless!” Nor would she explain what she meant, merely pointed, once, with a sigh, to a tree along the way: a squat, shag-barked one with inedible red fruit. “Volanth’s hearts,” they were called. And so, breaking silence, introduced him with voice subdued, to the tiny, nervous little man who was her father.

Her father, it soon became clear, was a man obsessed. He had two or three points to make, and he made them over and over and over again, until at last Tonorosant could see them coming. He was thus not surprised to observe that Atoral’s sister, after allowing a grimace of boredom and despair to convulse her face, slipped off and was seen no more. The room they were meeting in was a morass of books and papers and writing materials, from which, from time to time, the tulan produced a small pamphlet.

“Allow me to give you a copy,” he would say. Or, “Now, this may interest you.” And, “Ah, I see that you already — you will forgive me, I must hope.” Yet, even after that: “Allow me to give you a copy … .”

This was a booklet on the subject of Tarnisi-Volanth relationships which Tulan Tarolioth had published. Or, to be exact, written: It had never, it seemed, been officially published. “The subject is a delicate one,” he said. “We are ashamed of it. Properly so. We ought to be ashamed of it. Do not we, who have the Seven Signs, owe a duty towards those who do not? And how do we show it? By destruction of life, destruction of property.” He quoted noble and ethical sentiments from classical authors, and adduced them as evidence of the wrongness of Tarnisi attitudes towards their country’s aboriginal people — a use which might well have surprised their authors, who had, never, it would seem, made the same connection themselves.

Were there many Tarnisi who agreed with him? The tulan became agitated. Of course! Very many. Numbers increasing all the time, he must hope. How could it be otherwise? Was not cruelty against the most fundamental aspects of the Tarnisi character? And he named a name, and he named other names, and then he began to name names he had already named, and then he offered Tonorosant a copy of his little booklet “This may interest you,” he said.

Atoral stayed behind. Tonorosant left with a feeling of infinite sadness.

• • •

Mothiosant and Sarlamat smiled. “Yes, of course,” said Hob. “I didn’t expect you to find it out for yourself … or, at least, we didn’t think that you would do it quite so soon.” His smile was brief and thin, and, like that of Mothiosant, the Commercial Delegate, had nothing in it of warmth.

“You’re quite right,” said Hob. “Far from being appalled at these periodic incidents of Volanth brutality, the Tarnisi are pleased. I don’t suppose that any one of them, this last time, for instance, ever actually said: ‘It’s about time for another little war to stir our sluggish blood and to revive our flagging lusts by fun and games with the hairy women; therefore we will give such orders to one of the march wardens as cannot fail to provoke the Volanth in his territory to outrage’ — I’m certain it was never put quite that way. I’m equally certain that the whole tendency of their policy for a long, long time has nevertheless been just that. And of course it
was
no accident that the Tarnisi victims were lacklanders. They can always be spared, you know.”

Tonorosant said, “Awful.”

“Oh, yes,” Mothiosant said.

“Then … their whole economy is based on their stealing what the Volanth produce, isn’t it? Under the guise of ‘punishing’ them?”

“Largely, Tonorosant, yes. My inability — in my official capacity, that is — to fulfill on occasion commercial contracts I was obliged, in the same capacity, to make earlier — we allow it to be passed off as part of ‘our,’ Tarnisi, incapacity for coarse trade. It’s usually as simple as this: they neglected to provoke an uprising in time to provide them with the goods contracted for. The resin trees, for example, were not really sick this last season at all; but we had to tell the Bahon buyers something, and were just tired of saying, ‘Oh, excuse us for not being businessmen … .’ By
we
, of course, I mean the Tarnisi.

“But there is another
we
and there is another
us
. Isn’t there?”

Tonorosant took a deep breath. At last the waters were receding, to show the shape of the submerged shoal. “Yes,” he said. “The Craftsmen.”

Mothiosant nodded. Hob Sarlamat seemed to relax upon an inner sigh. For now, at least, pretense — if not fully gone — was going. “Yes,” said Mothiosant. “The Craftsmen. And if you have had trouble, with your two faces, intending just to work and play a while and then be gone, think and consider what difficulties we have had adjusting ourselves, ostensibly, to this monstrous and appalling arrogance forever.”

Hob said, softly, “Only it won’t be forever. The time is coming closer. Which means it’s growing shorter. And when it arrives,
Jerred Northi
, where will you be?”

It was on his lips, those full, smooth Tarnisi lips which were not really his, to say, As far away as I can possibly help it! What was to keep him here? He had paid his bill, he was making his money, things were not going to move so rapidly that he would not be able to make more before they moved too rapidly (or came to a crashing halt), and he had kept in mind the proverb of the overseas Pemathi: “
One should always have one’s money in another country, but one should always be in the country where one’s money is …
”

It made perhaps little difference whether the island he was going to buy was a bit bigger or a bit smaller. He would not be spending all of his time on it, anyway. Orinel had more to offer his still questing heart than, probably, he would ever be able to exhaust. It made little difference to him if the Craftsmen achieved their obviously enormous aims sooner or later. And if they, or any of them, thought that they had him in a vice, they would learn that they had not. He had paid their price. They were nothing to him. They were his friends. They were his friends.

This sudden about-face of his thoughts brought, despite his control, a wordless sound to his lips. His body moved, trembled. In a rush of confusion he searched his mind for the key, found it in another proverb, a universal one and probably of immense age.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend
.

Certainly he could throw off all obligations to the Craftsmen. He had been betrayed by Tarnis, the Tarnisi had proven unworthy of his hope and love. He could pursue his selfish search for pleasure elsewhere, his inner-centered drive for personal security. And he could never forget, wherever he went or fled, whatever he did or tried to do, the bleeding and shattered bodies lying — oh, so needlessly! so very, very needlessly! — upon that Outlands hill … .

Rather slowly and thickly, too shattered to say much, he said, “I? I’ll be where you want me to be. I’ll help you.”

Monstrous and appalling arrogance
, yes. It had to be put down. No man could refuse to assist in that. And then, up through the waves of still tingling shock, came the recollection that not all Tarnisi had partaken of the monstrous and the appalling. There was Atoral, her father, and her father’s friends. Could one leave them alone, abandon them to … no.

Firmly, now, and clearly, once again master of himself, he said, “There isn’t any doubt that I can be of help. I want to — and I will.”

Sarlamat nodded. Mothiosant seemed to swell, then, in an instant, he was as usual. And said, blandly, urbanely, “Then, indeed, all shall be as you have said, I must hope.”

• • •

The more Tonorosant applied himself to the work urged on by Mothiosant, “aiding returned exiles,” finding places for them which might be of key importance when the time for the overthrow came, the more he found himself involved in the affairs of the lackland class. Looking backwards, later on, it seemed that this all began about the time he began seeing so much of Cominthal. Then, however, he made no connection. He could never be quite sure that there was one, really.

The man was there one afternoon, when Tonorosant walked out onto his grounds to stretch his legs. It was impossible to say if he had just come in and paused en route to the largehouse, or if he had for some time been sightseeing. He showed neither confusion nor embarrassment, however, but merely gazed at Tonorosant with his lowering and usually sullen look, and said, “I’m doing you the courtesy of enquiring if you’ve suffered no ill effects from the campaign. It was a new thing for you. Sometimes people suffer. Sometimes they don’t know it until a while later.”

Tonorosant was surprised and, somehow, oddly touched. He expressed his thanks, invited him to return to the house. But the man, with a mumble, and elaborately polite bow which seemed as sincere as it was inexplicably grotesque, declined. And slipped away.

There was another occasion. Night, lamps reflecting forever on the river, music of the
sint
and
harn
, many people, voices near and not so near. Glitter of lights on silver shoulder crests. Fragrant woods smoldering in the fireplaces, soft-footed and soft-voiced Pemathi servants in procession, laden with trays of foods. Laughter. A moment’s silence, such as falls now and then on every conversation, every gathering. And, in the silence, a voice.

“To freedom!”

A man, face almost aggressive in what was immediately seen to be an immense effort to look unself-conscious, holding up his glass. Cominthal. The guests looking from one to another in polite incomprehension. The expression on Comin-thal’s face faltered, slipped, was replaced by one entirely different. In an entirely different voice, he said, “Oh, I’m not pwonouncing the wo’d cowwectly. You will pa’don me, I must hope. To fweedom!”

Understanding was immediate. There were scattered laughs, and here and there people held up their glasses and nodded to Cominthal as they drank. There was a patronizing note in it, the sort one assumes towards other peoples’ children. Or towards those adults who show by behavior not yet offensive but ordinarily impermissible that they have had too much to drink.