The Enemy of My Enemy (21 page)

“No.”

The Deputy’s mouth twisted. He put his hand out as he spoke, it stayed, arrested, and he looked at it as though surprised at what he saw. Sarlamat got up. “Let’s waste no time, then. But just think of this: You lived most of your life in a world where more hungered than did not, and more died than survived. This island-land of Tarnis has lain on its richness and its riches like a toothless dog. It can produce enough to feed every hungry mouth in Pemath. Surely you aren’t naive enough to believe that the Bahon are concerned with the welfare of the Pemathi or the Tarnisi? Of the Quasi or Volanth? It must be made absolutely clear to you: Anything which Baho does vis-a-vis Lermencas is done as part of a power struggle. If we succeed here, of course it will advance us throughout the world! And the only thing about our plans here which concerns Baho is that we must be defeated in order that
Baho
is to be advanced throughout the world. Now go, and we will see you here this evening to confirm your demands.”

• • •

Tulan Tarolioth shook his head. His hands trembled, and, indeed, his whole trim, small body quivered with restrained emotion. Atoral, by his side, placed her hand on his shoulder.

“My whole life since I became a man has been devoted to securing justice for the wild people,” he said, his voice frequently escaping control. “What I have suffered, I and my house, you do not know and you will never know, I must hope. But I have never lost my faith that those who have the Seven Signs will become worthy of the traditional ethics, and grant that justice. Only last week I spoke of this to a young man, one of the most hopeful young men we have, and he admitted to me that he was impressed by what I told him on that point. You may know him: the Lord Tilionoth.”

Tonoro controlled his face and voice. “I do know him,” he said. How far the old man had retreated from reality, to accept what could have been no more than polite commonplaces for awakening conviction! Lord Tilionoth, of all possible people!

“And today he returned to tell me that it has been charged that the Lermencasi have agents thick as flies among the Volanth and that they have promised to drive us into the sea and divide our lands up and give them to the Volanth!”

“Rumors, Tulan — mere lying rumors that you cannot believe, I must hope — ”

The old man’s face quivered with the force of his shaking his head. “Rumors, once raised, never vanish without trace. This entire cause, to which I have devoted my life — my
life!
— is now tainted. I hope not forever. I must hope not forever. I must hope that my name counts for something. I am too old to begin all over again.”

He paused, striving to keep from weeping. He seemed too old, at that moment, to do anything much more. His sincerity, his devotion to the cause of justice for the Volanth was without question, although the success of his attempts had been almost nil. Still, still, his name
did
count for something. He was respected, he had some followers, he had many friends. His absurd attempts to base a pro-Volanth philosophy upon the ancient tenets of the Tarnisi ethic might not be so utterly absurd in a different sort of situation. Suppose that the Volanth were forcibly emancipated. Might not a comforting and familiar-sounding set of lies provide the only way of accepting the situation for the Tarnisi? And thus avoid the perhaps otherwise inevitable appeal to bloodshed … .

But things were moving so quickly, now. Things were moving too quickly, now. Here in this dusty old room, filled with bas-reliefs of ancestral tulans and unpublished pamphlets, ancient books and general clutter — even here the rushing present had entered, and was now driving all before it and upsetting and overturning all. How the fact of Lermencasi involvement had gotten out, he, Tonoro (“Jerred Northi,” they’d called him just a while ago; he’d almost forgotten Jerred Northi) did not know. And then that fool, Tilionoth, taking time off from his preoccupation with spear-throwers and violent sex, had somehow gotten hold of a fragment of the fact and gone flitting from place to place like a demented insect, distorting and allowing to be distorted the rumor as he proceeded on his heedless, dangerous, and by now probably deadly way.

Tonorosant had come here to Atoral’s home in hopes of sounding out her father about the possibility of enlisting his support to make as smooth as might be the change which was inevitable. He had thought that, properly presented, his appeal could not fail. Now he found it could not succeed. The mere mention of foreign intervention had almost unhinged the tulan; he would now not just lean backwards, he was almost standing on his head, to make it quite clear that he and his faction had, had had, and would have nothing to do with it. Too, and understandably, he had been terrified almost witless by the suggestion that the landed aristocracy would not only be reduced to the status of lacklanders, but would see their lands divided up among the Volanth. Tulan Tarolioth would, without question, give his life to see that “the wild people” were given justice — justice, yes: but not given the Tarnisi lands! He would gladly give the Volanth his own life, but he had never contemplated giving them his own land!

So, now, he barely understood what purpose Tonoro had in coming, had barely given him time or leave to explain anything of his purpose. Clearly, it would be vain to remain.

“Insofar as I have disturbed you and the peace of your august house,” Tonoro said, bowing, and preparing to leave, “you will forgive me, I must hope.” He looked up at Atoral, slightly raised his eyebrows. Would she come with him? But she shook her head; though the gesture was slight, her expression was firm. So, then, he, Tonoro, would have to see his way through this, muddle his way, fight, dig, claw, whatever it was, his way through this … without her … alone.

Once more he bowed. Suddenly the tulan held up his hand. A hope flared in Tonoro’s mind. The old man came forward, again shaking his head, this time in evident self-reproach. “The cause is too important,” he said. “It is too important for me to allow you to leave without — No, my sister’s child. Ah, no. No, no.” He stopped and put his hand to his forehead. Then his face cleared. “Just so,” he said. “Allow me to present you with a small pamphlet which I happen to have written on the sacred subject we have just been discussing. It will interest you, I must hope … ”

• • •

The countryside and prospects of the not-very-distant city had perhaps never looked lovelier than they did now in the light of the latening afternoon. The low, spreading houses of the estates and all their beautifully kept grounds, the curving lines of trees which emphasized rather than concealed the sinuous lines of the lovely river, greensward and copses of flowering trees; and, in the town, the glittering spires and the occasional crowns of trees rising higher than the garden walls, with their hints and reminders: golden gardens, sunken gardens, night gardens. Flights of birds circled overhead, as though their song signaled their own pleasure in the sight.

But Tonoro felt a heaviness which was physical as well as mental and emotional. He had one more call to make before the evening, and as he proceeded in his trim float, the same thoughts passed through his mind over and over again, circling like the birds. But without singing.

The Lermencasi planned to exploit the Volanth, but the Volanth (and the Quasi as well) would eventually learn enough from them to replace them. The Tarnisi would be weakened by the Lermencasi take-over, and this was a good thing: gradually they would be obliged to adapt and improve their attitude towards the “lesser” peoples of the country. When the time arrived, the Tarnisi would have to ally themselves with Quasi and Volant for conjoint action against the alien Lermencasi.

But if the Lermencasi accepted his, Tonoro’s plan, then all would be accelerated. No one need fight anybody. No one
need —

Which did not mean that no one
would —

Suppose, though, that the Bahon plan was the winning one, with its utterly abrupt change, and no chance of gradual adjustment. Likely, the Tarnisi would be utterly crushed, either destroyed or driven into exile. Could the Volanth manage the required upward climb … in a vacuum? Would it not be inevitable that they must then submit to be ruled by the inexperienced if somewhat more sophisticated Quasi — who moreover, in most cases, also loathed them? Might this not be just as bad?

Then, too: Tonoro himself. And Atoral. Sooner or later he must tell her that he himself was a Quasi. And what then? What then, what then, what then?

Still his thoughts circled and circled till they seemed to have taken on physical shape and form. It was only then that he blinked and looked and realized that he was hemmed in by at least a dozen other floats. Down — Down — They gestured to him to put down; gestured with hands containing charge-throwers. And he obeyed. Stepping out of his own craft, he said, “The answer, then, is ‘No’, Mothiosant?”

“The answer is ‘No,’ ” Mothiosant said, as they quickly bound Tonoro and placed him in another float. Getting in beside him, he repeated, “The answer is ‘No.’ ”

“Then you don’t wish to learn what the Bahon plan is.”

Mothiosant sighed. “Really, as Sarlamat pointed out after you left, the Bahon plan became obvious the moment you mentioned them. After all, there are only a certain number of possibilities. An outright invasion is out of the question — Orinel politics have passed that stage long ago. Subversion, conversion, disaffection: these are the only possibilities. Well — they could not have been working on the Tarnisi:
we
were working on the Tarnisi. It is a sum in simple subtraction and one easily made — you made it easier by mentioning the Quasi and Volanth.”

“You over-simplify.”

“And you, poor former pirate, you play for time. Be quiet.”

Quiet he was. But Mothiosant had, after all, stated things rather clearly.
There are only a certain number of possibilities
. Sarlamat, far the keener of the two, would have himself stayed quiet.

Only a certain number of possibilities
.

Below him the land slipped slowly into darkness. Lovely land, forever vexed with unlovely deeds. The Craftsmen could not now proceed with their former intentions; there was not time; they might not know when the Bahon would move; therefore they themselves had to move fast. They could not be working or intend to work with the Volanth and the Quasi: the Bahon were doing this. They could not intend a compromise: Tonoro had proposed this and they had — obviously — rejected his proposal. Moreover, the rapidity with which they had moved against him was an indication that they dared not allow him at large. And therefore it was clear that they themselves intended to move rapidly.

The technique of world-polity prohibited their moving nakedly and openly by themselves. And this left but one possibility.

The Craftsmen, under whatever guise, were going to reveal the Bahon plan to the Tarnisi. And then, with them, move against both the Quasi and the Volanth.

The floats swerved around and turned their backs on the waning colors of the sunlight and angled down into a walled enclosure in the one single port area which the Tarnisi grudgingly allowed. Its massive doors at once identified it as one of the long-abandoned old forts dating from the days of the wars of the Lords and the Guardians. However, it had been kept up in a state of repair, and not a blade of grass grew in the vast yard where once swordsmen and spearsmen had practiced.

“Be cautious, Tonorosant. Things will soon be settled in proper order. We are not vengeful, you know. Afterwards, I am sure we can find an excellent place for you in our plans. Or, if you prefer, you can go — anywhere you like. So don’t jeopardize your future.” Mothiosant gave instructions to the men waiting; then, in another moment, he and the others were gone. For a long moment, Tonoro, watching, saw the vessels climb and wheel and then vanish.

He had had some notion and hope that he would … that he might … be placed under Pemathi guard. And that then, being able to speak their language, he might somehow contrive their aiding his escape. But the sight of those who were actually to have him in custody — either genuine Tarnisi or Craftsmen-made imitators like himself — was really no surprise.
Jerred Northi
, Sarlamat called him that morning. And
You, poor pirate
, Mothiosant said when they captured him. So: they knew who he was, knew, too, his background in Pemath. And were taking no chances.

Once inside, the mystery of the place’s non-neglect was at the instant explained. — Explained by the combined scents, smells, odors, reeks and just plain stinks of sundry staple items ranging from timber to dried fish. The fort had been restored of its neglect and made to do duty as a warehouse. Mothiosant, as Commercial Deputy, would have the place completely in his hands; other Tarnisi would no more think of going there than to a charnel house.

“Might as well get these off,” one man, evidently in charge, said, stooping and grunting as he removed the cords. “You’re not in a float now, you can kick out all you want, and it won’t upset a thing.”

He paused at the smaller door next to the massive one and made a mock bow devoid of malice. “After you — ”

The warehouse seemed to contain nothing but much-mingled smells; Tonoro was reminded of the scene at Compound Ten after the conclusion of the last “war” in the Outlands, the plunder of foodstuffs and staple tradestuffs being stacked in place by the forced labor of the Volanth. Perhaps that very produce had passed through this place en route overseas. The slits and slots in the thick walls were now quite useless for illumination, but light-units had been set up and shed their faintly orange glow on the thick, worn slabs of the floor — floor which had been swept quite clean by the Pemathi after the last clearance, not because the Pemathi were compulsively neat but because even the sweepings would have had a money value, however slight. Once, as he passed under a heavy old archway his eye was caught by a glimmer of color still adhering to an ancient wall-painting done, probably, to while away the more peaceful hours of some forgotten siege: a Tarnisi warrior cutting off the head of a spear-transfixed mass of hair doubtless intended for a vanquished Volanth.