Restoree (17 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

H
AD
H
ARLAN AND
S
TANNALL BEEN
aware of how many people Gorlot had touched in establishing his massive plans, they would have approached the Council Hall with even more trepidation that morning. Gorlot had chosen his victims well.

I know my own sense of foreboding was lulled in the first hour of that crucial meeting. The very familiarity of a roll call for the Councilmen as they named their provinces and districts (The Council consisted of scientists, military men and landed gentry instead of the proportional representation practiced on Earth) was reassuring to me.

Stannall as First Councilman called the session to order with a few words about the gravity of the situation and a reassuring report on Ferrill’s condition. If it deprived Ferrill of his birthright, at least it did not mean his death.

An ancient-looking, heavy collection of tablets was rolled to the front of the chamber right up to the raised dais where Stannall and the seven senior Councilmen were seated. (The significance of the number “seven” harked back to ancient history and the first Harlan’s Seven Brothers.) An old man mumblingly read from the tablets the names of Fathor’s children. At a motion from the floor, Ferrill’s name was ceremoniously canceled as ineligible for the Warlordship. Maxil was named as next in line and he was asked to step forward and present his claim. All this was couched in the floweriest language, with great gestures and ceremonial pauses.

Maxil came forward, holding his tall gangling figure erect. He bowed gracefully to the eight in front of him, to the Council behind him, and presented a much bemedaled slate to the secretary. A great show was made of reading it. The legality of his birth was then formally recorded.

Stannall took over and the simplicity of the procedure of investiture was refreshing. It amused me, for it sounded so like an Earth marriage ceremony. Stannall asked if anyone present knew of any just reason why Maxil, second son of Fathor, son of Hillel, son of Clemmen, true blood and seed of Harlan the First, Defender of the People, should not be Warlord-elect in this, his sixteenth year of life.

A massive silence prevailed. I gathered that this would have been the opportunity for Gorlot to bring up Maxil’s supposed impotency.

Stannall’s words of formal acceptance of Maxil in the name of the Council were drowned by the roar from this august body. The entire room was on its feet, shouting the boy’s name, and saluting continuously. Maxil smiling nervously accepted the acclaim with poise.

When the furor had subsided, a tense, uneasy restlessness took hold of the assemblage. Stannall motioned to Maxil to be seated on the single raised chair to the right of the eight elders.

“Since our young lord, Maxil, is under the legal age, it will be necessary for the Council to consider those men who are qualified to instruct him in the military duties of the Warlord and, with the aid and guidance of this Council, in governing and guiding this world toward its great and recognized goal, the extermination of the Mil from the skies.”

Stannall consulted a slate in his hand.

“We note that Lord Maxil is over fifteen years of age and therefore considered to have reached the age of reasonable discretion. Following the custom of our laws, he has the right to agree with or disagree to our choice of Regent, and to propose, if he should have a qualified candidate, a man sympathetic to his personality and his welfare.”

Jessl chortled to himself at that speech and I noticed a definite stirring among the Council members. I could not see either Harlan or Gorlot.

Stannall turned slightly toward Maxil and the boy rose as if forcibly ejected from the chair.

“I do have a choice, one acceptable to this Council since he has been Regent to my brother, Ferrill,” and Maxil’s voice stumbled a little over his brother’s name. “By my legal and accustomed right, I will choose Harlan, son of Hillel, son of Clemmen as my Regent, with the Council’s permission.”

“But the man’s been mad for months,” a voice from the back of the room protested quite clearly in the stunned quiet. Others chimed in with similar sentiments and a general arguing shout rose in volume. Stannall folded his arms to ride the noise a while before he called for order.

“We call Harlan, son of Hillel, son of Clemmen, before this Council.”

The great doors at the opposite end of the Hall opened and Harlan marched in, looking neither left nor right. He held himself so proudly, so regally, tears of pride came to my eyes. Harlan bowed to Maxil, to the Council, to Stannall. Not all of the seven elders had had a chance to see Harlan before this appearance and he was scrutinized carefully. Stannall indicated the empty chairs drawn up on the left of the main platform and Harlan, bowing briefly, seated himself there.

“We see that the name of Harlan, son of Hillel, is on the list of those men eligible by their age, conduct and military experience to be Regent. We also call before this board the following men, their merits to be weighed before Council this day.”

Stannall began to call off his list. The first three names were unfamiliar to me and at each one a Councilman arose to ceremonially remind Stannall that so-and-so had died, or was over the maximum age. The fourth name was Gorlot, son of someone—I didn’t hear because the name of the implacable man echoed in my mind harshly. Gorlot strode in, his square face as still as ever, his square frame devoid of the grace and litheness that characterized Harlan. He bowed to the young lord, to the elders, to the Council and was gestured toward the waiting chairs.

Gorlot hesitated at the chair next to Harlan and then, with deliberation, left two seats empty between them. His action had the appearance of being cautionary rather than insulting. But it was a well-calculated piece of business. Jessl groaned and cursed with vehement originality.

I started again as Gartly’s name was called and this gray warrior stepped forward. He was but a year under the maximum age. He took the seat next to Harlan, flicking his cape contemptuously in Gorlot’s direction. I could have kissed the old grump. Jokan’s name, too, was called and a mutter arose from the Council. Stannall turned to the seven with the comment that Jokan was absent on a special mission for the Council. As he was well known, his record would have to speak for him.

There were other names called, men I remembered Harlan using as examples for candidates for the Regency: men who were reported dead or in survivor asylums. I wondered if any of them were among the nine unwilling guests at Gleto’s. Jessl seemed to have the same thought, for he glanced at me significantly.

At any rate, by the end of Stannall’s little list, only three were seated at the left of the seven. No one doubted that the contest was between Harlan and Gorlot.

“We are fortunate indeed,” Stannall began with a slight smile, “to have as candidates two men who have already had experience in the arduous position of Regent to the Warlord-elect.” His bow was impartial.

“At the young lord’s request, we first consider the eligibility of Harlan, son of Hillel, son of Clemmen.”

A sigh ran through the Council and was echoed by me. Stannall made a sign to the secretary who nervously cleared his throat and read off in a rattling way the personal history of Harlan. I couldn’t always catch his mumbling or the stilted phrases and ceremonial longhand he spoke. But it was evident that Harlan’s early career as a fighting man had been brilliant, crowned with the discovery of the Tane planets as well as some daring innovations in perimeter patrol techniques.

The secretary came to the last slate of the pile before him, and his voice noticeably slowed.

“On the twenty-third day of the thirteenth moonset, Regent Harlan was stricken ill and relieved of his duties toward the Warlord until such time as his recovery was effected.”

Stannall smiled slightly and there was a loud spate of excited whispering among the Councilmen. I wondered who had slipped that helpful phraseology in the document or whether it had been there all the time. Stannall raised a hand and the whispering died.

“As is customary, Council asked all candidates to present themselves to the War Hospital to be examined as to their physical . . . and mental fitness. Physician Monsorlit, as head of that establishment, may we have your report on Harlan, son of Hillel.”

Stannall stepped aside as Monsorlit, whom I had not previously noticed, rose from his side seat in the front row of the Council and took the center of the room. He bowed to Maxil, to the eight men, to the Council, to the three candidates. I caught myself holding my breath. Perhaps now would come the bombshell to our hopes. Monsorlit’s duplicity with Gorlot was certain in my mind. He may have lulled the suspicions of others, but would he show his true self now? If restoration were such a heinous crime as I gathered it was, Monsorlit would not care to risk Gorlot’s exposing him. For Gorlot certainly must have known Monsorlit was restoring people.

Monsorlit spoke well and without a plethora of confusing technical terms. He summarized being called by Stannall with the other three physicians to determine the state of Harlan’s mental health.

“Even a cursory examination without benefit of special equipment proved that Harlan had recovered from the grip of mental disease that prostrated him ten months ago. You can imagine, gentlemen, how delighted and surprised my colleagues and I are. No other patient suffering from similar symptoms has recovered to such a marked degree.”

I glanced at Gorlot to see what his reaction was and, in spite of the man’s studied carelessness, I thought I detected a smug satisfaction to his patience.

“Naturally, such a superficial examination was not conclusive proof. Harlan himself suggested a more thorough one at the Mental Clinic.” Monsorlit paused to thumb through tissue-thin metal sheets in his hand. He finally sorted one to the top. “I have here the results of our most exhaustive tests which we compared with the last physical examination of Harlan, taken shortly before his illness.” Again he paused and I took another deep breath. Harlan was looking with obvious but not anxious intent at Monsorlit. Gorlot sat, showing that trace of smugness. Maxil fidgeted continually.

“There was a noticeable discrepancy between the two reports,” Monsorlit continued. Gorlot’s smile broadened slightly. “It was apparent that the reaction time in certain coordination tests and in the general response to spoken and written questions was shorter.”

Gorlot’s semi-smile disappeared and there was an agitated rustle in the Council Hall. Monsorlit had thrown his bombshell all right but not in the expected direction.

“In short, Harlan is in better general physical health today than he was eleven months ago, the time of the last full physical examination.”

“What about mental health?” a voice demanded from the floor, heedless of protocol.

Monsorlit glanced unperturbed at his notes.

“My colleagues and I are in agreement. On the basis of the most exhaustive tests in our means, Harlan is both mentally and physically capable of any duties or offices required of him by Lothar.”

Maxil clapped a hand to his mouth to suppress his glad shout. Others in the Council had no inhibitions about expressing their approval, but the jubilation was not as widespread as I had hoped it would be.

Gorlot was glowering now and he watched angrily as Monsorlit resumed his place, in the front row, oblivious to any censure from that direction.

Stannall stepped forward again, bowed to Harlan and held up his hand for silence.

“This is indeed good news for the entire world. I trust that you and your colleagues are already working to effect similar recoveries on others of our leaders who have fallen victim to this new scourge.”

Monsorlit contented himself with bowing his head briefly in assent.

“A question, Sir Stannall,” a loud voice interrupted. Our attention was directed to a portly individual in the right rear of the hall.

“You have the floor, Calariz of South Cant,” said Stannall after a very brief pause.

“I recall the physician for further questions. I, and I am certain there are others of my mind, am not sufficiently reassured by this . . . this glib certification to trust the tender mind of an untried youth to a man so recently mad beyond speech.”

Monsorlit came forward again.

“Physician, have there been other recoveries from this form of illness?”

“Yes,” replied Monsorlit blandly, to the consternation of his questioner.

“As complete as Harlan’s?”

“No. As I remarked earlier, Harlan is in better condition than before his collapse. Due, no doubt, to the rest and quiet with which we find it best to surround our mentally disturbed.”

“Why then, and particularly since you have been the physician in charge of Harlan’s case, was not the improvement noted and reported? I believe I am correct in stating that this Council expressed a deep interest in being kept abreast of any improvement in our . . . ah . . . former Regent’s health.”

Monsorlit did not hesitate with his reply. “In such cases as we have been able to observe where an improvement has been noted, it has been either so gradual as to escape the untrained eye, or a matter of instantaneous return to normal.”