Raising The Stones (11 page)

Dust filtered onto her face. A flash of light caught her eyes. She looked up to see daylight where no daylight should have been. One hand wiped her face and came away red with dust, wood dust, sifting down from the wooden ceiling. The parallel beams were crumbling at the edges. More dust fell, white this time, telling her that the clay above the wood was breaking up as well. If she climbed the narrow stairs to take a core from one of the beams, she could bring the whole thing down on herself! It was ridiculous! The Monuments Panel wouldn’t let the building fall to pieces!

More dust fell, accompanied by a subtle shifting in the mass above. Prudently, she moved under the arch, only to feel it shivering behind her. It might hold fast under the shifting weight of the roof, and then again, it might not The door she had entered by, the only door, was across the full width of the building.

China had never been accused of indecision. She ran. Behind her, logs creaked, dust spilled. There was a tortured rending of beams when she was still six arches from the door, and she did not pause to look back. The door had swung shut behind her when she came in, and it took a moment for her to force it open, but the instant it came free, she threw herself out and away from the building, pausing only at the road to turn back and see what was happening.

What was happening was the roof falling in, all at once, very deliberately, with no very loud noises in the process. The roof of the central space was at least ten feet higher than the lower roof and was not connected to it. Nonetheless, it fell when the lower roof fell, simultaneously, almost soundlessly.

The stone arches stood bare, like the ribs of a stripped carcass, looming over the clutter of dust and thatch. The temple of Bondru Dharm now resembled the other temples, the ruined ones, those nearby and those beyond the north edge of the settlement.

“Looks like it was hit by a de-bonder,” remarked a quavery voice at China’s side.

China turned to find a considerable crowd gathered. The Theckles stood close behind her—Mard looking dismayed, but Emun displaying a proprietary interest.

“Some of the soldiers packed away on Enforcement do stuff like that,” Emun announced. “They have this kind of gun, call it a de-bonder. Stuff just falls apart into dust.”

“People, too?” China could not keep herself from asking.

“Oh, people, animals, houses, everything. Of course, if a de-bonder had hit this, the stone arches would be gone as well.”

The two old men stayed beside her for a time, shaking their heads and mumbling to one another. The other by-standers, who had been on their way home from the fields, muttered, pointed, and departed, nodding or waving to China as they went.

When the dust had settled, China went back to the doorway and searched inside for a wolf-cedar trunk she could take a core from. There were none. There was only dust and a few punky chunks that fell to powder as she handled them. No one was going to learn from these remains when the temple of Bondru Dharm had been built. “De-bonded,” she said to herself with a shiver. It had an unpleasant sound.

•
The courtyard
the citadel of the prophets in Cloud had various uses. Rallies took place there, when the prophet felt inclined to address the Faithful. Apostates and recalcitrants were skewered, live, upon its walls to serve as a rebuke to backsliders. Sometimes fliers came in from other parts of Ahabar, slipping across the high walls to bring official visitors of one sort or another.

The two cloaked, masked figures who were landed in the courtyard one late evening and escorted inside the ramified bulk of the great stone pile had to be official visitors. They would have gotten no farther than the main gate, otherwise.

The men went silently through the corridors of the public part of the citadel, those parts the Faithful of the Cause were allowed to frequent. When they came to the iron door marking the private quarters of the prophet, the door was unlocked with much ceremony, and the two were escorted into warmth, light, the smell of roasting meat, and the piled softness of carpets and cushions. It was one of the younger prophets who had let them in and who nodded to them both.

“Altabon Faros,” he murmured. “Halibar Ornil. Faithful Ornil, if you will wait in the chamber …”

Halibar Ornil smiled and bowed and went into the chamber to wait while Altabon Faros was escorted past the chamber and into the quarters of the prophet Awateh himself. In the foyer, he removed his heavy cloak and was disclosed as a tall, aristocratic-looking person in nondescript clothing, distinguishable from other men in the citadel by the short, military cut of his hair.

The prophet sat in the next room on a comfortable divan, sipping fruit juice and reading a commentary upon the Scriptures. Faros knelt before him, placing his forehead on the floor.

“Altabon Faros,” breathed the prophet, briefly looking up from the page.

“Holy One,” said the other, adding nothing, merely waiting. He and Ornil had been summoned, and they had come. Perhaps, later, he would have the opportunity to ask … beg… . Not now. It was not a good idea to ask for anything during an audience, certainly not early in an audience.

“How fare you upon the moon Enforcement?” asked the Awateh.

How fare I? wondered Altabon Faros. I fare alone and lonely, except for that fanatic Ornil. I fare frightened most of the time. I fare in desperation when I think of Silene and of my children.

“We move toward our goal, Awateh.”

“I was distressed to hear there is a delay,” the voice was kindly. Only long experience with that voice would have led the hearer to shiver at the tone. Such kindliness. Such iron. “I have been put to some trouble over this delay.”

“There is a delay, Awateh.”

“There were to be no more delays.”

Faros swallowed desperately, trying to wet a dry throat. “Alas, Holy One. We do not control everything the men of Authority do or say.”

“Explain,” the prophet demanded. Faros looked up, wondering if the aged man would be able to understand. Evidently so. His eyes were as sharp and perspicacious as Faros had ever seen them. Perhaps the vagueness came and went. Last time Altabon Faros had seen the Awateh, he had seemed barely able to hold up his head. “Explain from the beginning,” demanded the prophet. “As though I knew nothing.”

This was a favorite device of the prophets. Make a man tell the whole story, checking the details each time to see if he left anything out or told it differently or remembered things he shouldn’t.

Faros gathered his thoughts. The true beginning had been two generations before, when a dozen zealous members of the Faithful had cut off their hair and gone secretly out into Ahabar where they had established themselves as well-to-do planters. Planters were anonymous and, for the most part, socially acceptable, whether they had gone to the proper schools or not. Wealthy planters were particularly well-accepted.

The false-planters had raised children who learned to speak and behave as Ahabarians, though when they reached the age of reason they had been sent “away to school.” The school was in Voorstod, in the citadel of the prophets, from which the satisfactory sons returned to raise families of their own and the unsatisfactory sons and the daughters did not return at all. Women fully trained in the total self-effacement required among the Faithful could not be expected to show themselves in the outside world. Second generation wives and mothers were recruited from among Ahabarians.

As Silene Faros had been.

Faros and Ornil were the end result of all this endeavor, two apparent Ahabarians who had obtained positions on Enforcement. Faros and Ornil, both with impeccable records and a generation’s worth of references.

The prophet didn’t want to hear all that, no matter what he said, so Faros began with his own history.

“Ten years ago, I obtained a post on Enforcement after serving in the Ahabarian army for five years following my graduation from the Academy at Fenice.” He kept his voice expressionless. One never knew what might set the Awateh off into one of his rages. “The Faithful of the Cause had already smoothed my way by bribing certain officials in the personnel office of Enforcement, thus assuring I would be accepted and given a suitable command. At first I was too low in rank to have access to the information needed by the Cause. I was promoted as rapidly as it is possible to be promoted, each step upward aided and assured by my brethren. Two years ago, I reached the rank of Overmajor, which is the minimum rank necessary to be admitted to the secret levels of Enforcement.” He ran his tongue over his lips, longing for water. He dared not ask for it.

“It was then your family were brought here, for safekeeping,” purred the prophet.

“Indeed, Holy One.” They hadn’t told him they intended to pick up his wife and his children. Silene and the children had always lived in Ahabar. He had gone there for his holidays. He had never told Silene anything about Voorstod. He wouldn’t have told her anything. She had been safe and happy in Ahabar, on the plantation. She and the children could have been left there, perfectly safely. And instead this old … the Holy One had had them kidnapped and brought here!

“To assure there would be no unnecessary delays,” said the prophet in the same kindly tone, sipping at the goblet in his hand.

Faros, who knew that tone, held his breath. When he could go on, he said, “As soon as I could, I learned the procedure by which the army of Enforcement is mobilized.”

It had taken the better part of a year to learn the exact sequence of events necessary to get the soldiers moving. “First, at least fourteen of the twenty-one Actual Members of the Advisory create an ineradicable record of their intention to mobilize the army. A copy of that record is then carried by the Commander-in-Chief, in his own hands, to Enforcement, where it is verified by the two Subcommanders. The Commander-in-Chief then uses his key …”

“Key?” asked the prophet, as though he didn’t know what Faros meant. He knew exactly. He had been told.

“A device keyed to his living person. The Commander uses this key to open a certain panel on the moon Enforcement. Behind that panel is a control to which the Commander and the two Subcommanders simultaneously speak a command. This command releases the locks upon the army and allows them to be programmed as desired.

“It was clear, Holy One, that many of the details were mere ritual, that if we had the key and the living body of the Commander-in-Chief—regardless of its condition—and a record of the three voices uttering the proper command, nothing more was actually necessary. The command was ‘Open Sesame.’ It had some connotation I do not understand. It was not a phrase any of the three highest ranking officers would use in their daily lives.

“Still, the words were not difficult. The word
open
was easy to collect from the three officers. I recorded two men and Ornil recorded one. The other word, we had to build up from phonemes, which took longer, but soon we were ready to make the recording.” Faros licked his lips. They had been so close, so very close.

“We had understood your success was imminent.”

“It was, Holy One.”

“But then you sent word of delay. Delay necessitates explanation.” The words were icy, like cold iron.

“The message was ready, telling you of our success, when Subcommander Thees suddenly was removed from his command.”

“Could you not have used the key before he was actually sent away?”

“He was not ‘sent away,’ Holy One. He was at a banquet on Authority when it happened, and he never returned. The Commander was at the same banquet, and so we had no access to him. The password had already been changed from Authority by the time the Commander returned, which was the first we learned of the incident.”

“Incident?”

“It had nothing to do with Thees’s work at Enforcement. He went to a banquet on Authority and said something improper to a young woman. The young woman was the daughter of a Baidee family of some exalted position, and, as even an officer recruited from Ahabar should have known, Baidee do not
mix
. The young woman’s family demanded his removal.”

“You should have foreseen this difficulty.”

“I abase myself, Holy One.” How in all Satan’s realm was he supposed to have foreseen that a damned Ahabarian would drink too much and make a pass at a Baidee woman!

The prophet snarled. “How long, then?”

“We have already learned the new password. We have already put together those words in the voices of the two men available to us. Mobilization requires three voices, however, and Subcommander Thees’s replacement has not yet been selected. Nothing moves very fast on Authority, and Enforcement is dependent upon Authority for this particular decision.”

As soon as it had happened, Faros had sent word to Voorstod, to this old man, giving every detail. Patience, he had said. A small delay. Patience. This old man already knew what had happened. He had been told!

But Voorstod had long ago learned what passed for patience among the prophets: a rage they barely bothered to suppress. According to the prophets, if a man failed in his mission, he failed because Almighty God was unhappy with him and willed it so. If God were happy with him, he could not fail. If he failed, God was unhappy with him, and so were the prophets. It was all very logical.

“I understand,” said the prophet in a lofty and unforgiving tone. “A pity I did not understand earlier that the delay may not have been entirely due to your own dalliance and negligence. I am afraid your family may have suffered somewhat because of your lack of foresight.”

Faros held his breath again.

“No doubt Almighty God has forgiven you,” said the prophet. “No doubt His victory over the false Gods of the unbelievers is imminent. No doubt your destiny is in His hands.”

Faros abased himself. Vagrantly, for no reason, he had a vision of some other man, somewhere, kneeling before some other prophet or some other God, hearing these same words. Somewhere, was there another poor vassal being assured of his destiny? Some servitor of a false God, perhaps? Faros caught his breath and fought down an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh hysterically. Perhaps it was not Almighty God who had allowed him to fail. Perhaps Almighty God had an unknown enemy. Perhaps, somewhere, some other God was unwilling to lie down and die before the feet of the Faithful.