The Complete Dumarest, page 491
“Have the others?”
“They will. Once more, now, just to make sure.”
His fingers gripped and then he was gone to give the others the secret he had stolen. Before them waited priests, seven of them, tall, enigmatic in their robes, the sunburst insignia bright in the light of the scarlet sun.
“You are welcome.”
Dumarest looked at the priest who had come to stand before him. Watched as a man went forward, knelt, hands lifted as if in supplication. As he rose to move toward an opening, Dumarest took his place.
“You are welcome.”
Hands took his own; he felt the wide-spaced fingers press, linger until Dumarest returned the signal. Rising he followed the others to the opening, stood waiting as all were greeted, all tested.
“So far so good.” Sanchez breathed the words, not looking at Dumarest, his cowled face pointed toward the Temple. “What now?”
“We are friends. We traveled together. It would be suspicious if we acted as if we didn’t know each other.” Dumarest kept irritation from his voice—some men found it hard to remember simple instructions. “Just act as if you were genuinely what you claim to be.”
A pilgrim, one a little overawed, more than a little overwhelmed by the majestic expanse of the Temple. A man enamored yet constrained by respect. One who couldn’t help but show his interest but one who wouldn’t stare for too long.
A role Dumarest acted as the priests guided them through the maze. A long, convoluted journey which ended at the massive walls of the central complex. Great doors decorated with abstract designs stood open beneath overhanging eaves, then closed behind them with the sonorous throb of a beaten drum.
“Welcome to the Temple of Cerevox.”
The priest was tall, old, thin within his robe, adorned not with the sunburst insignia but a design composed of interconnected circles. Staring at it Dumarest was reminded of the Seal of the Cyclan and looked to where the pattern was repeated on the altar at which the priest stood. A block of stone as black as night set on a raised platform so as to dominate the entrance hall. Flames from flambeaux set to either side threw a dancing, ruby sheen over those assembled.
“For time beyond the count of mortals has the truth here being guarded. From the very first, when those bearing the fruit of true knowledge settled and dedicated their lives to the preservation of the heritage of Man, has the Original Secret resided within these walls. Only those who share our heritage may enter this place. Only those who are true in heart, in mind and spirit, may unite with us here in harmony.”
Like the priest, the voice was old but, again like the speaker, it held the strength of burning conviction. The voice of a fanatic.
Those answering it were like the dry rustle of leaves.
“All praise to the Guardians.”
“Here, now, the past and the present are one!”
“As it was so let it be.”
“Let your hearts be humble!”
“We grovel in the dirt at the feet of truth.” A concerted movement and the floor was covered with the black-robed bodies of the worshipers. “We are blinded by the light of revelation.”
The introductory ceremony, at least, presented no problems. Dumarest mouthed as if making the correct responses, bowing, lying prone as he darted glances to either side. The walls appeared solid. The roof was heavily groined with carved supports of inset pillars. Dimly, in the flaring light of the flambeaux, he could see the shapes of attendant priests. They bore touches of scarlet on their robes. A higher rank, he guessed, or those who were entrusted to do the bloody work of executioners. Speculation ended as the old priest fell silent, stepping back as, in a line, the worshipers moved past the altar to make their donations.
“For the Temple.” A woman, not Pollonia, tipped a bag and let gems fall like glinting rain on the black stone. “May it stand always as Guardian of the Truth.”
“For the Temple.” A man set down a small bar of precious metal.
Another had coins, thick, gemmed, easily negotiable wealth. He followed the others who had gone before to stand at a door flanked by priests. Beyond it, Dumarest guessed, would lie the inner precincts of the Temple, more ceremonies, a service of some kind, a view of sacred objects, incense, chanting, hypnotic repetitions. The basis of any ritual designed to reinforce obedience to authority.
The worshipers would be led like sheep, treated like sheep, herded the same way. To follow them would be to learn little.
“For the Temple.”
More gems. More portable wealth. Dumarest glanced back at the line. Sanchez was closest; the assassin beyond him, Lauter, looming over a woman close to the end of the line. Altini, the thief, was last. For a moment their eyes met, then Dumarest turned away. Three others stood before him, one the man he had spoken to on the trail.
“For the Temple.” He made his donation. Then, instead of moving on, he rested both arms on the altar. “I also dedicate my heart, my spirit, my body, my life. To be used as a bastion for the truth.”
The priest said, “You choose a hard path.”
“Willingly.”
“The step is irrevocable.”
“That I accept as I accept all things. Grant me the supreme joy of serving to the end of my days the truth which has dominated my existence.”
After a moment the priest lifted a hand. “It is so granted.”
Attendants led the man to one side, to where a door gaped in the wall, one set far from that before which the others waited.
“For the Temple.”
A man made his donation.
“For the Temple.”
Another did the same and Dumarest stepped forward to take his place. He coughed as he reached it, doubling as he had on the journey, straightening, the cowl falling back from his face.
“For the Temple.” He set down the small bag containing items of jewelry. He followed it with both arms set on the stone. “I also dedicate my heart, my spirit, my body, my life. To be used as a bastion for the truth.”
Ellen Contera said, “Earl dedicated himself? What the hell made him do that?”
Altini shrugged. He sat in the salon of the Argonne, his face marked with lines of fatigue. The wine he held did little to refresh him. Later there would be drugs but, for now, it was good just to sit and rest and savor the sweet comfort of the wine.
“And the others?” Ishikari was impatient. “What of them? Speak, man!”
“They followed Earl. A contingency plan.”
Altini sipped at his wine. The Argonne was in space, drifting high above Raniang, the captain following his instructions. Karlene, drugged, was somnolent in her cabin. Far below, night had closed over the Temple. When it thickened he would return.
“Earl saw his chance and took it,” explained the thief. “A way to get close to the heart of the Temple. Ordinary worshipers don’t come close. Earl must have guessed that. He gave me the signal to stay out of it and went ahead. The others joined him. I followed the rest.”
“Into the Temple?” Ellen leaned closer. “What did you see?”
“I’m not too sure.”
“Try to remember. I could help you if you want.”
“No.” He smiled and lifted his glass. “I’ve had enough hypnotism. You were right about that: chanting, drums, flashes of light, repetition, ritual responses, movements, all of it. I dug my nails into my palms and managed to keep a clear head. It wasn’t easy.”
“But you managed.” Ishikari gnawed at his lip. “But what did you see?”
A chamber reached by a sinuous passage decorated with a host of beasts and birds, reptiles and all manner of living things. A roof glistening with artificial stars. Priests chanting to either side, some with the scarlet insignia, others with the sunburst, few with the convoluted rings.
“No women?” Ellen fired the question. “No priestesses?”
Not in the passage but in the great hall to which it led nubile girls had offered small cups of pungent liquid which had to be swallowed at a gulp. Symbolic blood of a symbolic world, or so Altini had guessed. He had managed to retain most of the fluid, spitting it out later when unobserved, but the little he had swallowed had made his ears buzz. As had the pound of music; the wail of pipes and the throb of drums. A beat designed to match that of his heart, to slow it, to weave about him a strange, almost mystic detachment, enhanced by the dancing of the girls, the directed movements of the worshipers. Before him a world had opened, strange, alien, brightly exciting. One which held a touch of fear.
“It was creepy,” he said. “I can’t describe it better than that. A feeling of danger.”
Of danger and excitement as would be felt by a child exploring a reputedly haunted house. An adult teasing a serpent. One who yielded to the desire to test personal courage by risking an action which could destroy if followed too far.
And then came the climax of the ceremony.
“You saw it?” Ishikari was intent. “You saw what the Temple contains?”
“I don’t know. A part of it, perhaps, but that’s about all. It was—” Altini broke off, shaking his head. “It was—strange.”
Objects set in cases encrusted with gems and precious metals. Things which the priests displayed as if they were sacred relics. Most had knelt and kissed the containers. Others had stood as if entranced. All had given their total attention to what they were shown. And then had come the climax.
“A light,” said Altini. “A blue glow which seemed to pulse. One without heat.”
“You saw it?”
“I saw something.” The thief swallowed more wine, not looking at the old man. “A reflection, maybe. A glow seen through complex mirrors. I had that impression. I also felt that, if I had seen it direct, I would have lost my eyes.”
“The living God shining in resplendent glory at the heart of the Temple,” mused Ellen. “In the Holy of Holies. Is that what they said it was?”
“Not exactly. The hint was there, maybe, and some could have taken it for that. But they didn’t talk of God. It was Earth, they said. Mother Earth.”
“Which they worship. Anything else?”
“Not much. There was bowing and chanting, then the light vanished and it was over. The priests made gestures, a blessing of sorts, maybe, then we were led out.” He added, “It seemed a hell of a long way back to the valley.”
“Is that all?” Ishikari made no effort to mask his disappointment. “Damn it, man, you went—”
“I was doing a job.” Altini finished his wine and slammed the goblet hard on the table. “I wasn’t there to enjoy the sights. You want to know just what happened? Every word spoken? Every gesture made? Then join the next batch of pilgrims. You might be lucky and get away with it. Then, when you come out, you’ll have your answers.”
But not all of them. Ellen said, quickly, “You’re tired, Ahmed. Short-tempered and I can’t blame you. Did you find out what you wanted to know?”
He was a thief and had noticed things others would have missed; the layout of the passage and chambers, nooks in which a man could hide, vents through which he could crawl. While the others had bowed, chanting, he had watched and studied; the twist of smoke in the air as it rose pluming from smoldering incense, the touch of subtle drafts, the echoes of shuffling feet, the set of shadows and the texture of walls and floor. A master of his trade who scented weakness like a dog scented blood.
Later, when he rested in his cabin, pipes feeding energy into his veins, metabolism speeded by the use of slowtime which stretched minutes into hours, Ellen returned to join Ishikari.
He sat, thoughtful, spinning an empty goblet in his fingers, small droplets of wine clinging to the interior, moving so as to trace elaborate patterns on the glass.
Without looking up he said, “Will he be ready in time?”
“I’ve given him forty hours subjective. He’ll wake hungry but fit.” She added, “By the time he’s eaten and aligned himself it’ll be two hours from now.”
“The moon sets in three.” It was barely a crescent but a little light was more dangerous than none. “He’ll have plenty of time.”
“Plenty,” she agreed. On Raniang the nights were long. “It’ll work out.”
“Maybe.” Ishikari turned the goblet again then blinked as, without warning, the stem shattered in his hands. “Earl,” he said. “Why—”
“Did he split his forces?” She shrugged, impatient with his lack of understanding. “A wise move. He and the others on the inside and Altini free to operate on the outside. Who better than a thief to break into the Temple? If Earl makes a distraction he could make his way to the inner chambers. Or it could be the other way about. I’m not worried about that.”
“Then what?”
“The glow,” she said. “The mystic chanting. The worship of a God-like something. The way some pilgrims offer themselves to the Temple. And the way Karlene’s acted ever since we arrived here. Her terror. That’s why I’ve kept her drugged. The thing which made her run in the first place is tearing at her mind. The foreknowledge of death and fear—and it’s so strong, so close.”
He looked up, ignoring the broken glass, the blood which welled from a tiny wound on a finger to form a ruby smear.
“What has that to do with us?”
“Religions change,” she said. “Like all institutions. What begins as one thing ends as another. Sometimes circumstances dictate the change, sometimes expediency. In times of stress it can be the worshipers themselves. They need to take a greater part, to bind themselves closer to the object of their veneration and, always, the priests will accommodate them. Those who serve a god serve the greatest power they can imagine. They share in that power. And the more demanding their god the greater it becomes. Maybe the Temple has passed the line.”
She saw he didn’t understand.
“Donations,” she explained. “Personal attachment. The binding of the young to serve. But it needn’t stop there. The line between symbolism and reality can be passed. When that happens token surrender isn’t enough.” Pausing she added, “I think Earl could have offered himself for sacrifice.”
Chapter Ten
The man with cancer was Nakam Stura, a merchant, he explained and, from his clothing, Dumarest guessed he had been successful. The robe covered soft fabrics of expensive weaves and he wondered why the man hadn’t used his wealth to buy medical treatment.
“We all follow the Wheel.” Stura answered his unspoken question. “The Mother knows what is best. To fight against what is to be is to act the child. Better to accept with dignity and to serve as one is able. As you chose to do, my friend. As Pollonia and Reigan. In submission lies contentment.”
They waited in a room to which a priest had guided them. One with bare stone walls and a floor of tessellated segments of black and amber. Light shone from sources beyond tinted panes: a luminous glow enhanced by the minute flames of vigil lights set before various places on the walls. Reigen knelt before one, hands clasped, head lowered, words a soft mumble as he prayed before the stylized depiction of a quartered circle. A man like the woman, old, drawn, his face ravaged by time. One with eyes lost in a vision of things Dumarest couldn’t discern.
“He lives only for the Mother,” said Stura. “Always he has longed for her embrace.”
As had they all—if they were what they purported to be.
Dumarest edged away, sensing danger, not knowing when a word or remark would reveal him for what he was. Lauter, big, solemn, sat to one side, his face blank, eyes glazed as if lost in a world of his own. Dietz, small, restless, paced to one side. He slowed as he caught Dumarest’s eye and turned to concentrate on a vigil light, the round, blotched circle it illuminated.
Sanchez said, softly, “How long are we supposed to wait here?”
He had drifted close and spoke without looking at Dumarest but, even so, he was being unwise. As he had been willful when dedicating himself to the Temple. He should have followed Altini; instead, greed for loot had made him ignore the plan.
Now he said, “We could break out. Grab a few of the priests and find out what they know. Gather what we can and get on with what we came to do.”
Dumarest said, “The Mother is merciful.”
“What?”
“If you have sinned then there will be forgiveness.”
“Earl—”
“Be patient.” Dumarest glanced at the ceiling, the tinted panes, the frieze cut into the wall of the chamber. Who knew who could be watching? Listening to every word? In a whisper he added, “Act the part you chose to play. Settle down. Pray. Look blank and wait. Damn you, wait!”
Beyond the chamber there would be ceremonies under way. Priests busy with the function of the Temple. The worshipers who would leave needed to be attended to—those who had dedicated themselves could be left for a time. He sat, hearing the soft mumble of Reigan’s voice. Pollonia sighing as she sat in an apparent trance. Even the merchant was silent, head lowered, chin resting on his chest.
What would happen if he should change his mind and buy the treatment which would save his life?
A question Dumarest knew he dare not ask. He leaned back, shoulders against the wall, forcing himself to relax as he had done so often before when waiting to enter the arena. He drifted into a calming detachment during which his powers were conserved and vital energies husbanded.
In his mind he saw the model of the Temple, the plans of its interior. Guesses, but better than nothing and, so far, they had confirmed Karlene’s memory. The great entrance doors, the altar, the passage which must have lain beyond, the one they had followed to this room—a chamber set on a lower level; others would adjoin it. Halls, more chambers, more passages. Places where she had worked and others where those serving the Temple had eaten, cooked, slept. A lot of people, a lot of rooms—but still the inner chambers posed a mystery.
How long had it been?
Dumarest glanced at the chronometer strapped to his wrist; an instrument which was more than it seemed. Time had moved faster than he had guessed and he inhaled, filling his lungs with air drawn through his nose, catching a pungent sweetness, a hint of acridity. Incense and something else, a truth-inducing vapor of some kind, perhaps, if they were under test it would be natural.
