The Enemy of My Enemy (7 page)

In the patient’s mind, and, it seemed to him, in the very contours of the Craftsman’s face and in the very molecules of the ambient air, the words took form:
And that will cost you more … much, much more
.

Hob Sarlamat brought his hand up and out in the approved slow manner which avoided alike ungraceful abruptness and the possibility that his sleeve would ride up his arm and ruffle his cuff. “I have never seen the Tree of Consultation in finer bloom,” he said.

“I suppose it’s not more than three hundred years old,” Atoral Tarolioth said, dryly. She made her mouth smaller, and glanced away when he looked at her.

“Really, Atoral, I am not
that
old,” he protested.

“No, I believe that Tree is, let me see — it was planted by Tulan Soloniant in his third year as Guardian,” the man on Atoral’s other side said, considering. “Year ten, Cycle 80 — ”

Her full red mouth moved in silent amusement, then grew serious. “You know more than those of us who grew up being bored to the point of death,” she said, “by tutors who crammed us full of facts.”

He said, “My father often spoke of Tree and of everything connected with it.”

“I can understand how the smallest detail can grow dear in exile … . Exile … . It will never happen to me, I must hope. Sometime, we must talk about — no. Forgive me. We will never talk about it. Let that die away from your memory, Tonorosant.” She placed the tips of her fingers lightly on his wrist and looked up at him as though emphasizing that hers was no mere figure of speech, that she was in full fact asking a favor of him. There was something in this newly returned son of the exiles which was, well,
new
: and almost for that reason alone: interesting. A bit exciting. It was only by contrast with the occasional tartness of the exile’s manner that the never-left-home people seemed, at least to her, Atoral, over-smooth and over-sweet. He returned her look. After a slow second they turned again to the great Tree, the convolutions of its great bole velveted with moss, its patterned leaves dipping up the sunlight, the great flowers of an intense crimson and an almost waxy texture. Sapient Laforosan had told them something of this species of tree before they had set out early in the morning to visit the most famous specimen. Even in its (within historical times) sole remaining habitat, high up in the hills and deep within the valleys of southern Tarnis — still largely Volanth country — the tree was rare. Looking at this one now, it seemed small wonder that even the brute Volanth held it in awe and conducted certain of their perhaps better left undetailed ceremonies beneath. This one in particular was planted by the famous hero Tulan Soloniant to commemorate his first victory over the Volanth, and the Synod of Guardians had met for many years under its then youthful shade.

At length Sarlamat smiled. “Enough. Or else we shall all begin painting leaves, and the air this morning is too crisp and delightful for such sedate pursuits. What shall we do now?”

“Swim,” said Atoral.

They wandered down to the pavilion by the lovely little lake, paused to savor the scent of the frothy purple flowers in the reedbeds, tossed bits of food to the red-billed, black-winged lake birds. “Don’t delay,” she said, as they parted. Her words and smile were directed at both of them, but as Sarlamat turned away, once again she rested, lightly, so lightly, the tips of her long fingers on Tonorosant’s wrist. Then she turned away, her brocaded skirt swirling.

The pavilion was dim and cool and smelling of wood and sap. Over the low partitions dividing the dressing-cubicles, Sarlamat turned his rather prominent green eyes to his friend. “She is rather nice, I must hope,” he said.

Tonorosant didn’t answer the question.

“You’re all right, I must — ”

“Oh, yes, don’t worry. My health, in mind and form, is excellent and will continue to be so, I must hope. I was preoccupied … By something for which I don’t have a name. It’s not confusion. ‘Superimposition?’ That’s the closest … . I
do
remember my father telling me about Tree. I
do
know that I don’t remember any father and that if I did he’d never have heard of Tree. I
know
that it’s perfectly proper to swim without clothes but that to be seen taking off clothes is embarrassing. And I
know
, also, that whether you are nude or clothed is merely a matter of having or not having money to buy clothes. I
am
aware that I spent the last two years as an underpaid free-lance teacher of Tarnisi in Ludens. And I am
also
aware that two years ago I never could speak a word of Tarnisi, that I have never been in Ludens, that I’ve spent that period of time cutting tows in the Inner Sea of Pemath.

“I can, very clearly, see the events in the life of Tonorosant. I know that I’m he. And yet, just as clearly, I can see and know that I’m Jerred Northi. And the two things are equally true and valid. Should I be afraid? Is there any chance that a time might come when one of these truths will fade away? Or vanish abruptly? And which one?”

Sarlamat shook his head. “No danger at all. No danger of either.” He slid open the hatch, gestured Tonorosant to do the same. They went down the corridor, reed mats soft beneath their feet. “The hypno-indoctrination has never slipped yet. Should you even want to be entirely rid of either identity, why, that can be arranged. You were told it could. For the present, though, since you don’t yet know just what you may want in the future, it’s best to keep both. Do you think that
I
don’t know just exactly how you feel? After all, I wasn’t always Hob Sarlamat, anymore than you were always Tonorosant. But I’ve been Sarlamat for a good while, now. I was one of the first. Never had any trouble. Nor will you … and I needn’t even add, ‘I must hope.’ Just remember, in case any blank spots appear, that no one will expect you to know everything. Your birth and bringing-up abroad will account for that. And also,” he smiled, “I’m here, too. By and by you won’t need me. Until then … .”

They came out into the sunlight and went down the walk to the water. Atoral was waiting on the brim, her dark hair wound snug under the transparcap, her hands upon her golden hips. She smiled as they approached.

“Until then, it’s best and easy, I must hope, for all to remain as it now does.”

Tonorosant, who had been and in some way still was Jerred Northi, dashed forward, seized the girl in his arms and, he shouting, she screaming, fell sideways into the water.

She barely bothered to pretend offense. “This is not the way things are done abroad, I must hope,” she said. “Did you treat the foreign girls this way?”

“Why should one bother treating them at all? They lack the Seven Signs.”

They trod water. “And what do I lack?” she asked. She turned on her side and swam away. After a moment he caught up with her, and they made their way slowly and now sedately, side by side. With each stroke her breast lifted from the water for a flashing second, then was gone again.

“Why do you say that? I would say that you lack nothing — least of all, patience to endure my attentions.”

This seemed to please her, he could see, but turning on her back and floating so, she asked, “Then why do you never see me alone? and always with Hob Sarlamat?”

He floated alongside her and he touched her. She moved closer. Surely, he thought to himself, a bit amused, a bit puzzled, but most of all, pleased; surely, she does not expect me to make love to her right here in the water, like the lake birds? He observed Sarlamat a good ways off and heading down towards the other end of the lake, doing a slow and classical stroke with many bobbings up and down. “He’s not with me now — ”

With pretended sulkiness, she said, “Why do you not go after him? I have heard of such things … abroad … .”

He touched her again, she gave a little scream, leaped around and struck him in the face with her flat hand, then darted away. For a moment he floundered, abashed, aghast. Then he swam after her. She was quick, though. She was very quick; he never did catch up with her in the water.

Afterwards, she said, as though to herself, and almost unwillingly, “So, then … not everything one learns in foreign parts is bad.”

He thought that this required nothing to be said on his part, so he kissed her breast. It was still wet.

• • •

And even after that, though she no longer spoke of “having heard of such things … abroad,” still she complained that he was often with his friend. He knew of no way to tell her that it was not quite so, but that his friend was often with him.

• • •

At various times in history the Synod of Guardians had been the supreme organ of delegated authority; at other periods this place had been occupied (“usurped,” if one preferred) by the Assembled Lords. The sharpness of these historical dividing-eras was blurred by the often ages when the two had struggled for superiority without either quite gaining. The present governance of Tarnis was based upon a balanced and perpetual truce between them, a truce complicated in typical Tarnisi fashion by the fact of each body containing members who were also members of the other. The Tarnisi themselves accepted this, but not without a sense of its peculiarity — typified, perhaps, by the famous story of the young man who — facing a parental summons to account for reported wrongdoing — urgently inquired of his mother, “Advise me, for my life! is my august father being a Lord or a Guardian today? so that I may know what to say to him!”

That young Lord Tilionoth was among the informal gathering at Greenglades, when everyone was concerned with matters affecting the interest of the Guardians, was no surprise either to him or to the others. It was the season of the Former Equinox and green was being worn: leaf-green, grass-green, sea-green, sky-green, grain-green, insect-green; sunset-, dark-, and feather-green. Tilionoth had removed his robe of vine-green and stood in under-costume of the same hue, a hundred marks from the great triangular target, the figure which had once delineated a stag-Volanth prancing with club in hand now faded to a dim outline on which only the five vital spots — throat, heart, belly, and the arteries of the right and left groins — still stood out brightly and retouched. The young Lord moved up and down on his toes and swung his arms. His Pemathi handed him the spear-thrower and he held it with his right arm and placed it athwart his right shoulder. Next he took the target spear, examined it, hefted and tossed it several times, catching it with his left hand. Then he stepped back to the line and set the shaft in the thrower so that the butt end rested securely in the pocket prepared for it at the end of the throwing-stick.

Several of the older men leaned upon their T-staves and watched with detached interest.

“Stands well … .”

“Yes. None of those ropy muscles, you know. Ah — ”

“Well tossed! Well thrown! Neatly in the left!”

“Glad to see that his fondness for foreign toys hasn’t made Tilionoth forgetful of the classical sports.”

“Ah — ! Neatly in the throat! Well tossed!”

“What foreign toys are those, Guardian?”

“Oh … .” The gray-haired Guardian waved his hand downslope. “You know. The river, there, for instance. Skimming and darting like water-bugs, hundreds of them. You can’t have missed them.”

“Yes, yes. Those tiny power craft, the one-man ones? I’ve been tempted to try, but I’ve got too much belly on me to lie flat, and then, you know, all that spray in the face, I … . Neatly in the right!”

“Well tossed!”

The few women present waved their hands so that their jewelled bangles tinkled Like tiny bells. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and of the aromatic sawdust sprinkled at the line where Lord Tilionoth stood, now swinging the thrower in his right hand to limber it and the arm and shoulder muscles. He glanced at one of the women and smiled.

“There’s been quite a fashion for foreign toys of late, it seems to me. It won’t result in any turning away from any of the ancient ways, not just in sport, one must hope. Ah — ! Ah — ! Neatly and well!”

The gray-haired Guardian placed two fingers before his lips in the Tarnisi negative. “Oh, no fear of that, no fear. One of the returned men, son of an exile, Tonorosant — have you met him? You will, one must hope — he has sort of taken up these foreign toys as a hobby. And, well, one does know that none of us born in the land are ever so anxious for the ancient ways as a returned exile. Which is understandable, which is natural … deprived of them for so long, ‘in
barbarous lands and far,’
oh?”

“
‘Thirsty flock, return ye to the water,’
oh?”

“Just exactly … . Ah. Last shaft.” They placed the carved and gilded top-pieces of their T-staves securely under their arms and leaned forward, mouths slightly open, jaws thrust slightly forward. No arm unaided could ever have propelled a target-spear one hundred marks; this was the function of the long wooden spear thrower, to constitute as it were an artificial extension of the thrower’s arm, thus to give greater force and distance to the hurtled lance shaft. A very light sweat glistened on the sun-dark skin of Lord Tilionoth, on face and neck, hands and arms and lower legs. He stood for a moment motionless in his place, the thrower hanging from his one hand, the spear pointing head down as it rested loosely in the other. In one swift flashing series of motions which seemed almost one motion, spear was in spear-thrower and thrower was flung forward and downward and spear was in air and spear was transfixed in target and quivered there and Lord Tilionoth was just righting himself and the
thud
of the stricken board met their ears.

“Heart! Heart! Well tossed, well thrown, and neatly in the heart!”

The dim and dancing Volanth image supported five shafts. Not one had missed, not one had dropped out. “No fear, eh? that anyone who can throw like that is likely to be spoiled by foreign toys — ”

“None whatsoever, one must hope. Mmm. Umm. Tilionoth is, ah, still quite safe?”

A look of craft and cunning and pride passed between the gray-haired man in the dark-green and the ruddy-faced one in the lizard-green robe, swept down to cover the young spearman who, stripping off his dampened under-tunic, was walking towards the bathing-booth, and came back to each other.