The Wide World's End (12 page)

“The stranger Kelat is not here,” Morlock said. “He was in a bad way—hungry, wounded, filthy, bewildered. I sent him with my thain-attendant to be tended to. Thain Deor will bring him here presently.”

“Or not,” said Noreê drily. “In which case. . . .”

“Let's deal with cases as they arise,” Naevros said. “I saw the man, and his condition shocked me. Are we homeless barbarians roving the unguarded lands? Even they know laws of hospitality and decency.”

“He's not a guest,” observed Rild of Eastwall. “He's a stranger, perhaps an enemy. Should we set him on cushions and feed him candied fruit?”

Illion the Wise said, “If we intend to put him on the Witness Stone, he should not be weak or weary. The rapport is a strain, even for the strong. What he deserves is irrelevant. We don't judge; we defend.”

Noreê would have said more, Morlock thought, but she glanced at the faces of her peers and then stood back with her arms crossed: the debate was over. She never fought to fight; she only fought to win. Morlock respected that about her.

“Then we turn to the case of the captured Khnauronts,” Lernaion said. “Death? Exile? Some third way? Speak, vocates.”

“Exile?” said Aloê. “They are not among the Guarded. They don't belong here. We are really sending them home, if we send them anywhere.”

“Where is their home?” asked Jordel. “Shall we question them on the Witness Stone, or are they too weak for the trial?”

“My colleague and I questioned them yesterday, with the assistance of Illion and Noreê. Some did die.”

Jordel, not the most patient man in the world, was already rapping on the table before Lernaion was done speaking. “Excuse me! Excuse me! If you are asking us to settle the question, you must settle our questions first. Who are these people? Where do they come from? Who sent them here?”

Illion said, “They mostly come from the lands east of the Sea of Stones. Many of them have forgotten what names they originally had. None of them know anything about the Wards, or much of anything else. They live to eat; that's all they care about.”

Noreê said, “Jordel, I share your frustration. I, too, expected answers. But it may be that the true commanders of the Khnauronts were the ones whose bodies had absorbed their guts and were living on stolen tal alone—”

A storm of questions arose at this; most of the vocates were unfamiliar with the ins and outs of Khnauront anatomy. Noreê and Lernaion handled these questions capably between them, and then Noreê continued, “And so I think that the Khnauronts who survive should not be thought of as full members of their tribe, or whatever we are to call it. They were more like. . . .”

“Emergency rations,” suggested Aloê.

“Exactly, yes. They were a source of tal for the commanders when there was no other.”

“Their minds have been sculpted, I think, to this end,” Illion said. “Their emptiness and single-mindedness is unnatural.”

“Could they be cured?” asked Jordel.

“By all means, let us send them to the Skein of Healing!” cried Rild. “We can set our thains to knitting woolen underwear for their comfort! Let no expense or trouble be spared for these outlanders who broke through the Wards and invaded our lands to kill and kill and kill!”

Many of the Graith rolled their eyes or shook their heads at this hysterical ranting, but Morlock was sorry to see many vocates, and thains, too, nodding in approval.

“By all means, if you like,” said Jordel when Rild paused for a breath. “But my thought was that if they could be cured, they might be able to tell us more than they have.”

“Doubtful,” said Illion reluctantly. “I wish it were otherwise. But I think what's gone is gone. They might be made somewhat more . . . awake than they presently are. They will never be the people they once were.”

“Then, unless it conflicts with Vocate Rild's elaborate plans for their rehabilitation and comfort, I suggest we herd them onto a boat, sail it to the unguarded lands, and dump them on any convenient coast.”

“Might be a kindness to kill them,” Baran said.

“A cruel kindness, I guess? You're too subtle for me brother. But I must say I can't say that it matters much. They seem unable to harm us or anyone anymore. They seem equally unable to do themselves or anyone else any good.”

Kothala of Sandport said, “If the enemy who sent them here in the first place finds them and gives them new lifetaking wands, then they could do much harm indeed.”

This was a new thought to many, and a disturbing one.

“This is not a decision that has to be taken today,” Illion said. “Time may bring them healing, or memory, or death. We should follow at least part of Rild's kindly suggestion and send to New Moorhope for seers who may glean more from the empty fields of their minds than I was able to do.”

Lernaion was dismayed by this, but he looked around the table and realized the weight of opinion was with Illion.

“If we put that matter aside,” Lernaion said, “what of our colleague's death? When we take the oath of Guardians and become subject to the rigors of the First Decree, the Graith assumes the role of our protector and vengeancer. It is too late to protect our lost friend, Earno—”

Morlock, to his astonishment, heard Aloê mutter to herself, “Shut your lying mouth.” He wasn't sure if anyone else heard her; evidently Lernaion did not.

“—who lies dead and murdered alongside the Road. What shall we do for him?”

“I could not disagree with the summoner more!” shouted Rild.

Lernaion's dry, dark face bent with annoyance and surprise. “Some of your peers here saw him die. I myself saw his body, which lies now in occlusive stasis on the very spot where he fell. Are you saying that Earno is not dead?”

“No, of course not! But you seem to be suggesting that his death ends the threat. But it may be only the beginning! If Earno can be murdered by magic, which one of us is safe? Which one will be next?”

“Our conversation will go smoother if you address yourself to what I have said, not what I seem to have suggested. Because what I mean, I say.”

“But—”

“We didn't join the Graith to be safe, but to pledge our lives for the safety of others,” Illion observed.

“Yes, but—”

“Rild,” Jordel interrupted, “I urge you to shut your mouth. Shall I put the question? Vocates, I want Rild to be quiet, for his good and ours. We have matters of moment to discuss.”

Rild stood back, startled and offended. His glance slid around the room and he spoke no more.

“Because, listen to me, Guardians,” Jordel continued, “I think we're starting in the wrong place. The question is not
what
we should do, but
who
should do it. Everyone here knows what must be done. We must find out who murdered Earno and why. To that end, we must elect one of our Graith to be investigator and vengeancer on our behalf.”

“I accept your correction,” said Lernaion patiently. “Who, then? We must choose carefully. It would be a strange irony if the investigator were also the criminal.”

Jordel waved his hand. “Oh, I saw that play. And what was the point of all that stuff about his mother? I thought it overrated, honestly.”

“With equal honesty, I assure you I have no idea what you're talking about. Fortunately, it doesn't matter at all.”

“That's what I was saying!”

“It isn't, but put that aside. Who, vocates, will be your investigator, your vengeancer?”

Many, now, were looking at Morlock. He turned away from them to meet Deor's dark, amused eye. Deor always enjoyed watching the Graith at Station, which he compared to a puppet show that was popular in his youth, where every puppet in the cast took a turn beating the others with a stick. Deor nodded when he saw Morlock looking at him. Morlock didn't need to wonder what he would have said if they could have talked. Blood has no price! Earno was an odd man, but a
rokhlan
and a hero, and (after an awkward start) had been well-loved by Theorn Clan—better than he knew, perhaps.

But Morlock did not choose to undertake the task of vengeance. He said, “I name Vocate Aloê Oaij.”

Startlement flashed like lightning across the chamber. Aloê turned to look at him, her golden eyes agape, her dark, rosy lips poised for a grin.

“No one could be better for the task,” Noreê said coldly. “I say the same name.”

“God Avenger!” cried Jordel. “If Morlock and Noreê agree on something, does anything more need to be said? Anyway. Who's shrewder? Who's braver? Who's more dedicated to the Guard? She was a friend of Earno—she has friends all through the Wardlands. She's a seer and a fighter. Let me tell you this story—maybe you've heard it before—”

“Does anyone disagree?” Lernaion said hastily. “Aloê, are you willing to take up the task?”

Aloê bowed her head in thought. Then she said, “I accept it. God Avenger have pity on the killer, for I'll have none.”

Naevros pounded the table and there were shouts of assent that echoed all around the chamber. Vocates left their places at the long table and went over to congratulate her. Morlock stepped off the dais to let them pass. Looking up he saw his red-cloaked, dark-skinned, golden-haired wife crowned with the stars painted on the dome's ceiling. She seemed more than human to him in that moment, as in many others, and he laid the memory of her away in a secret temple of his mind. When the vocates drifted away back to their places he stepped up again and would have said something to her. But she stabbed him with a bitter, golden glance, and he realized that she was angry with him, though he didn't understand why.

He shrugged and said, “Tell me later.”

“Yes.”

Lernaion rapped the Staff of Exile on the table and said, “Guardians, to order.”

“Lunch!” called out someone hopefully. The voice was disguised, but Morlock thought he recognized it as Deor's.

The cry was echoed a couple times around the long table, and a wintry smile bent Lernaion's brown lips. “The Guard now,” he said. “Lunch later. Guardians, I see that the stranger Kelat is with us. Let us do now as we have done before, and join our minds, strength to strength, and seek the truth in the mind of this stranger. I ask that you permit my colleague Bleys to join us at Station, so that he may prepare Kelat to bear witness.”

“Guardians!” cried a voice near the Witness Stone. “Vocates and Summoner Lernaion! I say no to this. I urge you all to say no as well.”

Looking over, Morlock saw that the speaker was Gyrla Keelmaker. Her face was red and sweating, and she leaned on the table as she shouted out her words. “Many of you know me,” she continued, “but some of you may not. I don't come to Station to tell witty stories or make myself admired. The sooner it's done, the sooner we can go about our real work. But my brother was Thain Stockrey, and he is dead today because of this Bleys and the games he played with the Witness Stone. The Graith chose not to exile him for those crimes, though God Avenger knows he deserved it. You probed his mind with the Witness Stone and found its uncleanness to be of use to the Guard. ‘We don't judge; we defend.' I've heard it a million times. Well, I
do
judge, and I tell you I will not stand in rapport with that monster and the Witness Stone. Neither should you. Look at him! Look at him! How can you trust him?”

Bleys stood in a patch of chilly light from the windows. His head was bowed, his pink, hairless face frozen in a smile. The names of Kinian and Stockrey would haunt him to his grave, Morlock thought, without any sympathy at all.

Lernaion's dark face grew darker with anger, but he spoke patiently. “Who better than Bleys?”

“Anyone! No one!” cried Gyrla. “But if you speak merely of skills, there are not a few who can see as deeply as Bleys into the unseen world, and who do not have the blood of fellow Guardians on their hands.”

“You would persuade me better if your tone were calmer,” Lernaion said in a level voice.

“When she finds no one will listen, a Guardian's voice may grow shrill,” Noreê said thoughtfully. “I agree with Gyrla in this. Our rapport will be deeper, our union closer, if Bleys is not part of it. I don't trust him either, and I doubt I am alone here.”

There was a general growl of agreement and Lernaion glanced thoughtfully around the table. “Very well,” he said. “It is for you, Guardians, to decide who stands at Station with you. Illion and Noreê: after Bleys, you are called the greatest seers in the Graith. Will you prepare the witness for the Stone?”

“Wait a moment,” said Jordel.

“Have you an entertaining story to tell us, Jordel?” Lernaion said, his long calm fraying to the breaking point.

“Thousands,” said Jordel agreeably, “and I'll tell them to you some time over wine and shellfish. But for now, just one point. I don't trust Bleys either. He keeps his white cloak thanks to you and Earno. But now Earno is dead, and for all we know, you may be next. When we are in rapport with each other and the Stone, Bleys may work some harm against us. I hope you don't mind my being so frank, Summoner Bleys?”

“If I were allowed to speak in this assembly,” said Bleys warmly, “I would assure Vocate Jordel of my willingness to harm him. As it is, I prefer to stand silent.”

“I guess that's irony?” Jordel said. “Anyway: who'll guard the Guardians while we question the witness? It must be someone Bleys couldn't get around somehow.”

“Let him do it!” said Noreê, pointing at Morlock. “They hate each other almost as much. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“. . . as much as you hate us both, my dear?” Bleys suggested in his most grandfatherly voice.

“My peer,” Lernaion said heavily, “be silent.” He turned to Morlock. “I don't know if Noreê spoke in malice or in jest. But I think she's right. What do you say?”