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  But possibly there was still a way to head them off. Just possibly, he thought. Or, if a war couldn’t be avoided, at least to expose the perfidious role Thu-Kimnibol had played in bringing it about. The city could only suffer, if it went to war against the insect-folk. The losses would be terrible, the disruption of the fabric of life perhaps irreparable. And in the aftermath, those who had fomented the war would be brought down by it, and those who had tried in vain to prevent it would rise to greatness.

  Husathirn Mueri smiled.

  I’ll see what I can do, he thought.

  And may the gods be with me indeed.

  They had marched for weeks, going northward all the time. Behind them the world was gliding happily onward once again into spring, but in these forlorn lands on the far side of Vengiboneeza an iron winter still seemed to prevail. To Zechtior Lukin that made no difference. The chill of winter and the hot blasts of summer were all the same to him. He scarcely noticed the change of seasons, except that the hours of darkness lasted longer at one time of year than at another.

  Now they were in a gray land. The ground was gray, the sky was gray, the wind itself was gray with a burden of dark sand when it came roaring out of the east. The only color came from the vegetation which seemed to be striking back against the grayness with sullen fury. The tough sparse saw-edged grass was an angry carmine; the big rigid dome-shaped fungi were a deathly yellow and exploded into clouds of brilliant green spores when they were trampled; the trees, tall and narrow, had gleaming blue leaves shaped like spines, and constantly dropped a rain of viscous pink sap that burned like acid.

  Low chalky hills like stubby teeth formed chains in the distance. The open country between them was flat and dry and unpromising, no lakes, no streams, only an occasional brackish spring oozing out of some salt-crusted crack in the ground.

  “Which way now?” Lisspar Moen asked. She was the daily march-herald, who transmitted Zechtior Lukin’s orders to the others.

  He nodded toward the hills and indicated a continued north-northeasterly route.

  “Hjjk country?” she said.

  “Our country,” Zechtior Lukin told her.

  Striding along behind him in the gray plain were the Acknowledgers of Yissou, three hundred and forty of them now.

  Of his original three hundred and seventy-six followers, a dozen or so had been too old and feeble to undertake the risks of beginning a new life in the wilderness, and another few had, when the moment of departure was at hand, simply recanted their faith and refused to go. Zechtior Lukin had anticipated something of that sort. He made no attempt to coerce them.

  Coercion had no part in his philosophy. He acknowledged the supremacy of the gods in all things. If the gods decreed that some of his followers would choose not to follow him, he was prepared to accept that. Zechtior Lukin, expecting nothing of the world but what the world daily presented to him, had never known a moment’s disappointment.

  There had been some losses on the march, too. He accepted those calmly too. The gods would always have their way.

  A raiding party of hjjks had captured five of his people as the marchers were passing the vicinity of Vengiboneeza. Knowing that the ancient sapphire-eyes capital was held now by the insect-folk, Zechtior Lukin had chosen a route cutting well to the east of it. But not far enough it seemed. At twilight, in a mountain pass shrouded in close-hanging mist, came a sudden attack, shrieks and scuffles, great confusion, and, after a moment, the realization that whatever had happened was over. A few abandoned knapsacks lay on the ground, and one hand-cart was overturned. There was no hope of giving chase: the high country surrounding them was dark and pathless. Zechtior Lukin was grateful that the hjjks had taken as few as they had.

  Natural perils took others. This was an untamed land. A scattering of loose boughs turned out to conceal the mouth of a pit, and scarlet claws and yellow fangs were waiting at its bottom. A few days later a huge low-slung beast clad in thick brown scales hard as stone burst madly out of nowhere, swinging its small dull-eyed head from side to side like a club, killing those it struck. Then there was a comic hopping creature with merry golden eyes and absurd tiny forearms; but from its tail there sprang a spike that squirted poison. And at midday once came a swarm of winged insects, as dazzling as colored jewels, that filled the air with a milky spray. Those that breathed it fell ill, and some did not recover.

  “These things are to be expected,” Zechtior Lukin said.

  “We acknowledge the will of the gods,” his people replied.

  The survivors went on undaunted. Zechtior Lukin waited for the Five Heavenly Ones to tell him that they had come to the place where they should build their city.

  On the far side of the chalky hills the grayness lifted. The land here was pale brown streaked with red, a sign perhaps of fertility, and there was a river running from east to west that was split into three forks. Along the riverbanks the vegetation had shining green foliage and some of the shrubs bore fat purplish fruits with wrinkled skins. They proved to be edible.

  “Here we will stay,” Zechtior Lukin said. “I feel the presence of the Five here.”

  He chose a little ridge between the two southernmost forks that seemed likely to be above the river’s floodplain, and they set up the tents that they would live in until they had constructed the first buildings. Three women who were gifted with unusually powerful second sight went some distance apart to send word to Yissou of their location; for Zechtior Lukin had promised the king that he would do that. Salaman had showed him a method, combining twining and second sight, that would allow contact to be maintained over great distances. Zechtior Lukin was skeptical. But promises were to him like sacred oaths, and he sent the women off to transmit the message.

  He said, “I call this place Salpa Kala,” which meant the Place of the Heavenly Ones.

  On the morning of the fourth day after the Acknowledgers had settled at Salpa Kala three hjjks appeared without warning, as though they had risen from the earth, and went unhesitatingly to Zechtior Lukin as he was supervising the raising of a tent. He was aware that they were behind him even before he turned: he could feel a hard icy pressure against his consciousness that was the bleak, remote, arid coldness of their austere souls.

  Calmly one of them—he could not tell which; it spoke in the silent buzzing drone voice of the mind—said, “This place is forbidden to you. You will leave here tonight and return to your own land.”

  “This place is Salpa Kala, and the Five Heavenly Ones have given it to us to be our home,” Zechtior Lukin replied evenly.

  By second sight he sent for the vision he once had had, of the immensity of the queen of the insect-folk hovering in the air above Yissou, as though to say that he knew of her greatness, and accepted it as he accepted all things; but what he attempted to transmit also was that he had been told by the gods, the same high gods who guide the destinies of the hjjks, that he must come to this place and establish a settlement here.

  But if what he had sent forth had reached the hjjks, or had impressed them in any way, they gave no sign of it.

  “You will leave here tonight,” said the rasping hjjk-voice again.

  “We will not yield the gift of the gods,” said Zechtior Lukin.

  The hjjks said nothing further. Zechtior Lukin studied them calmly, staring at their long shining bodies, their many-faceted eyes, their segmented orange breathing-tubes, their jutting beaks, their six slender bristly limbs. The shortest of the three was a head taller than he was, but he doubted that it weighed any more than a child, so parched and fleshless did its body seem. In the clear morning air their hard yellow-and-black carapaces reflected the sunlight with an unpleasant glare. He felt no fear of them.

  After a time he shrugged and turned his back to them, and went back to the job of directing the raising of the tent.

  “What will we do?” Gheppilin the harnessmaker asked, when the hjjks had gone stalking off.

  “Why, we’ll hold our ground,” he said. “It�
�s ours by gift of the gods, is it not?”

  He gave orders to his Acknowledgers to break out weapons: swords, spears, knives, clubs. At sundown they gathered in a tight circle beside their clustered baggage and waited for the hjjks to return.

  The three who had come before—Zechtior Lukin assumed, at least, that they were the same ones—stepped out of the shadows.

  “You are still here,” the droning hjjk-voice said.

  “This place is ours.”

  “It is no place for flesh-folk. Go back or die.”

  “The gods have brought us here,” said Zechtior Lukin. “The gods’ will be done.”

  There was a shrill cry from the far side of the encampment. Zechtior Lukin looked about quickly; but the one quick glance was enough. A horde of dark angular figures had emerged from the thickets by the river, hjjks by the hundreds, perhaps by the thousands. It seemed as if every pebble along the bank had been transformed in that moment into a hjjk. Already his people were in chaos.

  Zechtior Lukin lifted his spear. “Fight!” he bellowed. “Fight! Cowardice is ungodly!”

  He thrust the weapon into the bright shining eye of the hjjk nearest him, pulled it free, used the edge of its blade to slash the breathing-tube of the second one.

  “Fight!”

  “We’ll all be killed!” Lisspar Moen called to him.

  “We owe the gods a death, and tonight they’ll have it, yes,” Zechtior Lukin said, and struck down the third of the hjjks just as it raised its clacking beak above him. “But we’ll fight all the same. We’ll fight to the end.”

  The insect-folk swarmed everywhere in the encampment. Their spears flashed. Their harsh screeching cries drowned out the voices of the Acknowledgers.

  Lisspar Moen’s right, Zechtior Lukin told himself. We’re all going to die now.

  So it seemed he had misunderstood the will of the gods. Evidently they hadn’t meant him to be the one who built the new world after all. That seemed clear. Very well: this too was the will of the gods, even as the descent of the death-stars upon the Great World had been their will, seven hundred thousand years before.

  He wondered for a moment whether it was right even to attempt to resist. If the gods had ordained his death and the death of all his people this night, as surely they had, should he not put down his spear and wait peacefully for his end with folded arms, just as the sapphire-eyes had done when the Long Winter swept over them?

  Maybe so. Looking quickly around, he saw some of his people trying to hide or flee, but others standing calmly, offering themselves with an Acknowledger’s true resignation to the spears of the hjjks.

  Yes. Yes, he thought. That is the proper way.

  But he realized that he himself couldn’t do it. Here at the last, with destruction at hand, he felt impelled to resist, futile though it was, and contrary to all that he had believed and taught. He didn’t have it in him, after all, to submit so obligingly to slaughter. In the final hour of his life Zechtior Lukin found himself staring at an aspect of his soul that he had not expected ever to find.

  False Acknowledger! Hypocrite!

  At least he was capable of acknowledging that much. He pondered the matter for an instant and thrust it from his mind. After all, he was what the gods had created, for good or ill.

  A wide ring of hjjks surrounded him. Their shining eyes were like huge glittering dark moons. With a snarl, he set himself in a square battle-stance as they moved in on him.

  He struck and struck and struck again, until he was able to strike no more.

  8

  The Sword of Dawinno

  Husathirn Mueri said, “A moment, if I may, Hresh.”

  The chronicler, who had been about to enter the House of Knowledge, halted on the steps and gave Torlyri’s son an inquiring look. Husathirn Mueri took the steps two at a time and was at Hresh’s side an instant later. He said in low voice, “Do you know what’s going on in this city, Hresh?”

  “In general or in particular?”

  A quick smile. “You don’t know, then. Your brother’s out at the stadium this very minute, putting the army through its drills.”

  Hresh blinked. It was only three days since the Presidium had voted to ratify the new alliance with the City of Yissou. Taniane and Thu-Kimnibol had spoken strongly in favor and only a few cautious ones like Puit Kjai had objected that the agreement would sooner or later drag Dawinno into war. More likely later than sooner, Hresh had thought then. But things seemed to be moving more quickly than he had expected.

  “We have no army,” he said. “Only a city guard.”

  “We have an army now. Thu-Kimnibol and his friends have put it together overnight. The Sword of Dawinno, it’s called. Your brother insists that we’re going to be at war with the hjjks any minute, and we have to get ready for it.” Husathirn Mueri made a hoarse sound that Hresh realized, after a moment, was laughter. “Imagine it! Half the city’s sitting in the Kundalimon chapels right now singing the praises of the insect Queen, and the other half’s out by the stadium getting ready to go and kill Her!”

  “If there is war,” Hresh said slowly, “Then of course we must be prepared to fight. But why does Thu-Kimnibol think—”

  “The alliance with Salaman requires us to go to war, if Yissou is attacked.”

  “I know what it requires. But the hjjks haven’t made any hostile moves.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is there any reason to believe they will?”

  Husathirn Mueri looked thoughtfully into the distance. “I have reason to think so.”

  “Salaman’s been telling us for years that the hjjks mean to invade him. I gather that wall of his has gotten higher and higher until it looms over his city in the most incredible way. But meanwhile no invasion has ever come. All the supposed hjjk threats against him have been strictly in his mind. Why should things be any different now?”

  “I think they are,” Husathirn Mueri said.

  “Because Salaman has rejected the Queen’s offer of a peace treaty and we’ve ignored it?”

  “That’s part of it. But my guess is that it’s only a small part. I think that there are those among us who are actively engineering a war by provoking the hjjks to take action against us.”

  “What are you saying, Husathirn Mueri?”

  “I could say it again, if you wish.”

  “You’re making a very grave accusation. Do you have any proof?”

  Husathirn Mueri stared again into the distance. “I do.”

  “The Presidium should have it, then.”

  “It involves a person or persons very close to yourself, Hresh. Very close.”

  Hresh scowled. “All this ponderous hinting at conspiracies is annoying, Husathirn Mueri. Speak out frankly or let me be.”

  Husathirn Mueri looked dismayed. He said in his most ingratiating way. “Perhaps I’ve been too forward. Perhaps I’m leaping to conclusions too swiftly. I hesitate to implicate those who may be innocent, at least at this point. But let me put it another way, shall I? There are certain great forces in the universe that are pushing us to war, is what I believe. It’s inevitable. Sometimes a thing simply is inevitable, the way the coming of the death-stars was inevitable. Do you understand me, Hresh?”

  This was maddening, this pious philosophizing out of an unbeliever like Husathirn Mueri. But Hresh saw that he wasn’t going to get anything explicit or even coherent out of him. He was determined to be evasive and elliptical, and no amount of questioning could break through his defenses.

  It was always a temptation, when you were talking with Husathirn Mueri, to want to probe him with your second sight, to see what meanings lay concealed behind his words. Hresh resisted it. Surely Husathirn Mueri would be prepared for such a thrust, and would have a counterthrust ready.

  With some irritation Hresh said, “Well, may the gods spare us, but if the hjjks do strike against Yissou, then we’re bound to go to Salaman’s defense. That’s done and agreed. As for your talk of conspiracies, I regard that
as mere talk until I have reason to think otherwise. But in any event, why be so troubled by Thu-Kimnibol’s army? If a war’s coming, should we go into it unprepared?”

  “You miss the point, though you utter it with your own lips. Don’t you see? It’s Thu-Kimnibol’s army. If war’s this close, and I think Thu-Kimnibol’s correct that it is, then the responsibility for organizing an army belongs to the Presidium. There has to be an official mobilization. It can’t simply be a private patriotic venture of one powerful prince. Can’t you see that, Hresh? Or are you so blinded by your love for your half-brother that you’ve forgotten that he’s his father’s son? Do you want another Harruel here? Think about that, Hresh.”

  Hresh felt a stab of shock.

  In an instant the years dropped away from him, and he was a boy again, and it was the Day of the Breaking Apart. Here stood the folk of Koshmar’s tribe, and there, opposite them, were those who had opted to depart from Vengiboneeza with Harruel. Hresh’s mother Minbain, Harruel’s mate, was among them; but Hresh had just chosen not to go. “There are important things for me still to do here,” Hresh had said.

  And Harruel swelled with wrath, and his powerful arm swung in sudden fury.

  “Miserable boy! Flea-ridden little cheat!”

  The blow was only a glancing one. But it was enough to knock Hresh off his feet and send him flying through the air. He landed in a heap, stunned and trembling. And stayed there until Torlyri went to him and lifted him and held him in her warm embrace.

  “Think about it,” said Torlyri’s son now. “Is it your brother Thu-Kimnibol who’s drilling that army on the stadium grounds now? Or is it King Harruel?” Husathirn Mueri gave him a close, searching look. Then he turned and was gone almost at once.