Echoes of the Great Song Page 2

  Anu smiled at Talaban’s discomfiture. “Why does he disturb you so?” he asked.

  Talaban returned the smile, and decided upon a course of honesty. “To be frank, sir, it is because I am here to decide your sanity. It seems curious to be doing so while in the presence of an idiot.”

  “An interesting point for debate, Talaban. What is it that makes a man an idiot? Togen cannot dress himself, and if left to his own devices would probably starve to death. He does not understand politics, and if I sent him to market he would become lost before he reached the first shop. And yet, tell me, Talaban, upon which science is our civilization built?”

  “Mathematics,” answered the officer.

  “Indeed so. Now here is a riddle for you: Tell me the square root of 4,879,625?”

  Before Talaban could even think of a method to supply the answer the half-wit spoke. He did not look up or change his expression. “Two thousand two hundred and eight point nine eight seven three two four five four five.”

  Anu clapped his hands. “And the square root of that, Togen?”

  Again the half-wit spoke instantly. “Forty-point six nine nine eight.”

  “How does he do that?” asked Talaban.

  “I have no idea. But he has proved immensely useful to me these last six years. So, is he an idiot or a genius, Talaban?”

  “Apparently he is both. So let us put the question of his sanity aside and examine yours.”

  “As you will.”

  “You are preaching heresy, Questor. How do you justify your actions?”

  “My actions require no justification. But let us return to mathematics. I have studied the science for almost eight hundred years. Through it I have helped the Avatar to achieve greatness through architecture, travel and commerce.”

  “No one is disputing that, Questor. I have used your star maps myself on my journeys. But that is not the point at issue.”

  “It is the very point. We have a thousand years of history behind us, Talaban. But what is before us? Catastrophe awaits. Based upon my studies I have concluded that the earth itself passes through a series of regular cataclysms. During such times the earth rolls, falls if you like. I have studied ancient records. Such an event almost certainly took place about eleven thousand years ago. It is my belief it will happen again some time in the next two years. With the help of Togen I shall narrow down that estimate. But we must prepare for the end of all we know—indeed of much that we love. Within a few years this little garden will be buried beneath a mountain of ice. If we do not make preparations then the civilization we have brought to this planet will pass from memory.”

  “I have heard of your predictions, sir. Such is your reputation that even Vagar mystics are now predicting the end of all things.”

  Anu shook his head. “Now it is you who are missing the point. Those same mystics were prophesying the cataclysm long before I began my calculations. Indeed, it was my fascination with them that led me to apply my knowledge and expertise to the question.”

  “But they go against prevailing wisdom, sir—and worse—against the views of the Avatar Prime himself. Can you not accept that you might be wrong?”

  “I am not wrong, Talaban,” he answered, sadly. “I would give all that I possess—my life itself—if it could be so. And I know what must happen. The sun will rise in the west, the seas will tip from their bowls, and not one stone will be left upon another.” The Questor sighed, then gave a sad smile. “The Avatar Prime will either have me killed or declare me outcast. If it is the latter I will be stripped of my grants, my annuities, and my position. Even so I will continue to preach what you call heresy. I will take as many of our people as will travel with me and head north—far north. We have outlying settlements, and with the help of the Source, we shall survive the catastrophe. Whether there will be enough of us to rebuild our civilization I do not know.”

  Talaban had reported the conversation to the Council. Some called for Anu’s death, but Talaban spoke against such a course. The argument was fierce and raged on for several hours. Questor Ro had been vehement in his calls for death, and such was the recommendation to the Avatar Prime. Happily he overruled the judgment and instead declared Anu stateless. His property was confiscated and he could no longer walk the streets of Parapolis. The former Questor had removed himself to the temple grounds, where he survived on gifts of food and clothing from the few friends who stuck by him. Here he continued to preach the coming catastrophe.

  Within weeks Anu’s dark prophecies began to be spouted among the populace. But they were derided by the Council.

  True to his word Anu did refine his calculations, predicting the fall on the eighth or ninth day of summer in the eighteen hundred and third year of the Avatar Empire.

  Two years and four months later, on the ninth day of summer, while taking Serpent Seven on a mapping expedition to the far north-west, Talaban had viewed the fall of the world. The ship was sheltering in a wide bay and his scouts were returning from a trip ashore. It was close to sunset. Talaban was standing on the high upper deck as the silver longboat cut through the waves towards the Serpent. It had been a good day, bright and fresh and cold. Melting ice floes still clung to the shores of the bay and a cool breeze whispered across the decks. The longboat secured, his men on board, Talaban turned toward his cabin door. The sunlight was almost gone, the clouds shining red and gold above the western mountains. Talaban paused to watch the last of the sunset. Suddenly the winds rose, a storm arriving from nowhere. Distant trees were bent by its force, and the clouds began scudding across the sky. The ship lurched. Talaban was thrown against the cabin door. A bright light washed over the Serpent. Talaban turned—and saw the sun rising again. He stood, lost in the wonder of the moment. From all over the ship came the sound of shouting, as men called for their friends to come and see the phenomenon. Then Talaban remembered the words of Anu. The sun will rise in the west, the seas will tip from their bowls, and not one stone will be left upon another.

  Shading his eyes he stared into the west. The area they were mapping was a narrow strip of land, some 20 miles wide. On the other side of the mountains lay the ocean. A huge dark mass, like bunching storm clouds, reared up over the mountains.

  … the seas will tip from their bowls.

  The mountains were almost two miles high. The tidal wave beyond them was half as high again. And it was roaring towards the bay.

  For the first time in his life Talaban felt the onset of fear-induced panic. It rooted him to the spot, and he stared horrified at the immense wave darkening the sky. For a dozen heartbeats he stood still. Death was coming, and he felt powerless to oppose its immensity. On the deck below him a man screamed in fear, and fell to his knees, covering his head with his hands. The man’s terror touched Talaban like a cool wind. Forcing down his own panic he sprinted for the control deck and entered the inner sanctum. Swiftly he placed the power crystals into the black panels and spun the wheel. The black ship swung and sped out to sea. Her power chest fully charged, Serpent Seven was almost a mile from shore when Talaban swung her again, pointing her toward the towering wall of water bearing down upon her. At the last moment he turned her again, making an oblique angle. The colossal wave struck the ship, lifting the Serpent higher and higher, like a spear towards the sky, until it seemed the ship would be hurled through the clouds. Ferocious winds tore at the vessel, and several men who had remained on deck were sent hurtling to their deaths.

  Still the ship climbed, Talaban urging every last vestige of power from the chest which lay at the heart of the Serpent. The ship slowed and began to topple. Talaban clung to the control panel and glanced through the port window. It was a dizzying sight. Miles below him he could see islands about to be swamped. If the ship capsized it would fall back down the wave and be buried beneath the roaring ocean mountain. Twisting the wheel once more he struggled to straighten the Serpent.

  A crystal on the panel cracked. Another shattered.

  And then the ship righted
itself, and was sailing serenely behind the great wave.

  The world he knew was gone—and he had survived.

  As Touchstone entered the cabin Talaban opened his eyes. The tribesman gave a half-hearted salute then slumped down into a second padded chair alongside the desk. He was a short stocky man, round-shouldered and thick-necked. His greasy black hair hung in two braids, and, despite his two years as Talaban’s scout, he refused to apply for Vagar citizenship and still wore his black tribal vest decorated with fingers of bone. He glanced up at Talaban, his green eyes shining with mischievous humor. “Them’s running around like snow rabbits,” he said, “digging into the ice. You think they find what they look for this time?”

  Talaban shrugged. “They will or they won’t.”

  “Buy a big house, farm maybe, with all that gold,” said Touchstone. “Big waste.”

  Talaban found it hard to disagree. Driving gold rods into the ice was an expensive exercise, and so far it had achieved little. “These nomads,” he said. “Will they fight us?”

  Now it was Touchstone’s turn to shrug. “Who knows? Them’s tough boys. They’ll fight if they see the gold. They don’t believe in Avatars no more. They know your magic is dying. They know the ice killed the empire.”

  “Wounded it,” corrected Talaban. “Nothing can kill the empire. We are too strong.” The words were spoken by rote and even Talaban had long since ceased to believe them. “And you shouldn’t verbalize such thoughts. I don’t want to see you lying upon the crystals.”

  “Straight talk?” asked Touchstone. Talaban nodded. The tribesman leaned forward. “You Avatars are like elk surrounded by wolves. You still strong, but the wolves will tear you down. They know it. You know it.”

  “Enough straight talk, my friend. And now I have work to do. Come back in an hour, and bring the Questor with you.”

  Touchstone rose. “I bring food first,” he said. “And more coal.”

  “My mother took less care of me than you do,” said Talaban.

  “Keep you strong,” said Touchstone. “You die and promise not be kept.”

  “I always honor my promises,” said Talaban. “And I have not forgotten.” Touchstone looked at him for a moment, the green eyes locked to Talaban’s dark gaze. Then he left the cabin.

  Talaban took up his pen and opened the log, carefully detailing the day’s work. As dusk deepened he lit a lantern. The beautifully painted walls of the cabin had been soiled with carbon deposits from lantern flame and coal over the years. Idly he wondered whether the ship felt a sense of shame at the loss of her power and prestige. You are a romantic, he told himself.

  With the log entry completed Talaban stripped off his clothes and moved through into the small sanctum beside his bedroom. He removed the three crystals from the velvet bag hanging by the window and placed them on the rug. Then he knelt facing the window and opened his arms wide. Taking a deep breath he drew on the power within. With his eyes closed he reached for the first crystal. It was pale and clear, like glittering ice. Lifting it to his forehead he slowly chanted the Prayer of One. His trance deepened and he felt his body relaxing. He became aware of knots of tension in his shoulders and neck. Gently he eased them. Completely relaxed now he laid the crystal down and reached for the second. This was a blue gem the size of his thumbnail. He held it to his chest, over his heart. The power of the blue seeped through his skin, entering the heart, invigorating the blood and flowing through his arteries and veins, filling them with strength. Lastly he took the green crystal, the largest of the three. This one he held against his belly as he chanted the Prayer of the Avatar Prime. This time the power flowed with more urgency, revitalizing his organs, healing and renewing them. The shock to his system was great, and pain flared from his kidneys and liver. But it passed and Talaban rose and placed the crystals once more into the black velvet bag.

  The green was coming to the end of its energy, he knew. How long had it been since he renewed it? And what was stopping him? Pushing the thoughts aside he lit a second lantern and carried it to the full-length mirror in his bedroom. Leaning in close he examined himself. The skin of his face was tight and glowed with health. His body was lean, the lines of muscle sharp and clear in the lantern light. Only the eyes were old, he thought, dark and somber, brooding. Gazing into his own eyes discomfited him and he turned away from the mirror.

  From the closet he took fresh leggings of black wool and a shirt of silver satin. Then he pulled on a dry pair of boots and returned to his desk. Touchstone had left a plate of salted meat and some fresh bread. He had also replenished the brazier, which was glowing red. Talaban opened the rear door of the cabin and stepped out onto the balcony beyond. Cold air whispered against him, but this time it was pleasant, following the heat from the cabin. The Vagar team had left the glacier, but he could still see the silver pyramids glistening in the moonlight. And below the ice the energy of the golden rods silently sought the Great Line.

  An elk surrounded by wolves. Touchstone’s words drifted back to him.

  The analogy was not quite correct. More like a dragon surrounded by lions. They feared his terrible fire and held back. He feared their fangs and their claws …

  … and hoped they would not learn his fire was dying.

  Chapter Two

  Questor Ro was a traditionalist. His head was shaved, his forked beard dyed blue, and every day he practiced the Six Rituals of the Avatars for precisely two hours. His clothes were of dark blue, a shirt of expensive satin edged with silver thread, leggings of finest wool, and boots of blue-stained lizard skin. Around his waist he wore the silver-edged belt of First Questor, and he still carried the ceremonial scepter, despite the fact that its energy had been spent some twenty years before. Though oceans had washed away the Avatar Empire and ice had entombed its power sources, Questor Ro believed in maintaining standards. It was one of the many reasons he disliked Talaban.

  He considered the others as he waited outside the captain’s cabin with the savage Touchstone.

  “Him’s busy,” said Touchstone. “Call us soon.”

  Questor Ro did not reply. In the glory days no savage would have dared address an Avatar directly. They would have approached on their knees, then touched their heads to the ground. Every address would begin with the words Lord hear your servant. In this way discipline was maintained, and lower orders understood their place in the world. Indeed, in the opinion of Questor Ro, they were far happier for it. Clearly defined borders of behavior were the cornerstone of any civilization. Talaban seemed to understand none of this, and allowed savages to address him as an equal. He had even journeyed among the barbarians, living in their squalid tents. Questor Ro shuddered inwardly. There was almost no doubt in his mind that Talaban had Vagar blood. Added to which he was young, barely two centuries old. He had not lived long enough to understand fully the need for maintaining fear among the sub-races.

  But then his mother had also been well known for her fey behavior, refusing to have a child until her eightieth year, when she—despite her crystal-inspired youth—was close to becoming barren. It had been the cause of many rumors, and had brought considerable humiliation upon her 300-year-old husband. Most Avatar females lost the ability to carry children past the age of seventy, and few males past the age of two hundred could sire them. No, the consensus was that she had fallen pregnant during her travels. Few Avatar women made long journeys of any kind, and then only from necessity. She, on the other hand, had apparently travelled for pleasure, visiting the outer cities of the empire. Questor Ro could readily imagine what pleasures she had found among the vulgar races who peopled the cities. Soon after she returned she announced her pregnancy.

  Her son’s current behavior only served to fuel Ro’s suspicions. Talaban was too close to the Vagars who served him. He was even popular, which was a situation no Avatar should achieve. Vagars respected discipline, they reacted best to fear. Popularity, as far as Questor Ro was concerned, merely showed weakness in areas of leadership. It sur
prised Ro that the General could not understand these obvious flaws in Talaban’s nature. Added to this there was the fact that Talaban had never married. And since he was fast approaching the age when his seed would no longer be strong it was an added insult to the Avatar race. Every citizen should sire Avatar children. What future for the Avatars without them?

  “Him’s ready now,” said Touchstone. Questor Ro had heard nothing, but the savage opened the door. He stood back as Questor Ro entered—which was at least something!

  Ro stepped inside. Talaban was sitting at his desk, but he rose as the Questor entered. He moved round the desk to greet his guest. Like most of the warrior caste Talaban’s movements were graceful, always in balance. The soldier towered over the short stocky mage. The two men opened hands in the Avatar greeting. Questor Ro bowed, halting the movement a few inches short of the required angle. Not enough to be insulting, but sufficient to show Talaban he was displeased. If the warrior noticed the discourtesy he did not show it, but returned the bow smoothly, offering the perfect angle.

  “How is your work progressing?” asked Talaban. Questor Ro cast a glance at Touchstone, who had sat down on the floor by the door.

  “It is not seemly to discuss such matters before inferiors,” said Questor Ro. His slender hand tugged at the twin forks of his blue beard, signalling his rising irritation.

  Talaban said nothing, but Touchstone rose and silently left the room. “Be seated, Questor,” said Talaban, returning to his chair.

  Ro glanced at a guttering lantern, then transferred his gaze to the cold crystal globes set into the wall. “I once journeyed to the western lands in one of these vessels,” he said, sadly. “They were impressive then. No storm could touch them.”