Nightsword Read online

  He suddenly realized that Targ had not once used his actual name. Perhaps, he thought, the man didn’t actually know his name.

  Well, at least that was something to hope for.

  The Imperial chambers were located in the emperor’s Palace at the end of the Avenue of Tears—the wide street where Kendis-dai, as legend had it, walked in his final indignity to the cathedral before dragging his brother, Obem-ulek, with him down into mortality. The palace was a magnificent structure rendered in upwardly thrust curves of green marble.

  Jeremy, perhaps uncharitably, referred to it as Oz, a reference that seemed to give the new prophet an amusement that not even Merinda could fathom.

  The walls appeared seamless, although entrances did appear when requested by the TyRen guards, and one could view the city through sweeping clear panels that appeared only on the inside of the structure. Most of the magnificent rooms remained closed; indeed, much of the palace itself remained unexplored. However, the Irindris knew that their new emperor needed a fitting place not only to rest his head but also to receive emissaries and others on official business that could not properly be handled during regular court sessions. So the industrious fanatics of the stars quickly discovered the private rooms of the Emperor’s Palace and set about making them worthy of their new prophet and his harem.

  This all seemed like a good idea to Jeremy Griffiths, who thought that it sounded like a proper way to begin his reign on this world.

  Thus he often found himself in the private reception room adjacent to his own private chambers. The room was small as things on Avadon went—a mere thirty feet in length and only about twenty feet across, its walls forming an oval. Numerous pillars standing five feet away from the wall supported an elongated, domed ceiling that could portray either soft colors or the sky outside at Jeremy’s will. Inside the boundaries set by the columns was a sunken floor two feet below the room’s perimeter, its polished surface inlaid with an artful rendition of the galaxy. At one end of the oval room stood the audience doors tooled with ornate bronze fittings; a set of similar doors closed off exits to either side. The Emperor’s couch sat at the other end of the oval room on a platform, which projected slightly over the sunken floor. Beyond the couch were the final exit doors, which led to the private chambers of the emperor himself.

  In the midst of this splendor, Jeremy Griffiths lounged on the imperial couch, only half-listening, it would seem, to the Vestis emissary.

  “… Must be aware that the master of the entire Omnet means no offense either to you or your people. He understands all too well your problems. Nevertheless his interests go beyond this single planet—this single people. His view encompasses an entire galaxy of issues, needs, and desires—a perspective which we must all honor and … and …”

  Jeremy watched as the Vestis Novus began to sweat slightly. The emperor could see the young man’s eyes looking beyond Griffiths to the three women of incredible beauty who stood statuesquely gazing at J’lan from behind the imperial couch. There were ten additional women in the room, five on a side, who stood between the pillars in perfect form. All of the women wore short, pleated tunics of an indefinable opal color fastened by a large medallion over the left shoulder, their perfect arms bare. All had extraordinary long hair carefully and meticulously woven into single long stocks extending to the middle of their backs. Their skin tones ranged from a deep chestnut to nearly translucent pale and their facial features were equally varied. The only things they seemed to have in common were their manner of dress, their undeniable perfection of physical form, and the fact that each had a huge, hulking TyRen floating directly behind her.

  Jeremy smiled. It often happened this way when males visited him here: the fear of the TyRen mixed with the longing lust for the women of his harem was, Griffiths admitted to himself, something of a calculated means of keeping callers more than a little off-balance. It certainly seemed to be working in J’lan’s case.

  “And …,”Griffiths offered, almost helpfully.

  “And …,”came the dubious response. J’lan had obviously lost his place.

  “Targ’s view encompasses a galaxy of issues and perspective which we must all honor and …,” Jeremy coaxed.

  “And respect.” J’lan was openly sweating now.

  I wonder if this guy is ever going to make it past Vestis Novus in the Inquisition, Jeremy wondered to himself. “I honor Targ of Gandri and his unique perspective; it truly covers the great width of the galaxy today. I on the other hand have the unique perspective of time down through the ages at my disposal. I’m new to the galaxy. I come from a world which is not known to anyone—including, it would seem, your own Omnet. I don’t know much about your universe—but the Mantle gives me access to a perspective over three thousand years deep. I know Targ has come to ask a question. Is he prepared to use force to obtain it?”

  J’lan stiffened. “Lord Emperor, no one wants such an event—but he did tell me to convey that he would side with the Order of the Future Faith in the coming conflict rather than not obtain the answer he needs.”

  Jeremy snorted. “I rather doubt that. Nevertheless tell your master that he shall have his answer—tomorrow at court.”

  J’lan frowned. “I do not think he is so patient for his answer.”

  “Perhaps not, but my hands are tied. My access to the Mantle is restricted by the customs of my people and I cannot give him an answer until regular court session tomorrow morning—late in the morning. Such is the word of the prophet.”

  At the uttering of the last phrase, two of the women from the harem stepped forward and gently took J’lan by both arms. Jeremy could see that the man had more words to speak, but he had heard quite enough. It was far beyond time to end this farce. He watched quietly as J’lan was escorted out of the room. Griffiths did not move until the great doors were closed behind the exiting Vestis Novus.

  “Amandra?” Jeremy spoke quietly.

  “Yes, Lord Emperor,” came the quick reply from the tall, dark woman immediately behind him. Griffiths turned on the couch to see Amandra kneel in her matchless splendor before him, her black hair shining in the soft light of the room. Amandra was first wife of the harem, and it was through her that Griffiths’s commands were most commonly carried out.

  “I think,” Griffiths said, as much to himself as to his first wife, “that our friend J’lan and Targ both would bear watching until afternoon court tomorrow. Make sure that I’m not disturbed by either of them until then, OK?”

  “As you wish, Lord Emperor.”

  “It is my wish,” Jeremy said, gazing sadly at the incredible beauty presented before him. “It’s time to secure my chambers and get everyone back to their own quarters.”

  “Yes, my Lord Emperor.”

  Griffiths watched miserably as the incredible assembly paraded out of the room to either side. It was some moments before the women left through the doors to his left and the TyRen rumbled out through the doors to his right. Amandra left last, exiting through the far doors to check on the watch stationed beyond before returning to her own chambers for the night.

  Finally, he was alone.

  Griffiths groaned, collapsing on the couch in a most undignified manner, his arms falling limply to either side. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

  “God, I hate this!” he yelled into the dome overhead.

  “Hate what?” The voice cut the silence behind him.

  Griffiths, startled, fell off the couch onto the polished stone floor. “Damn! Merinda! Don’t you people ever knock?”

  Neskat leaned against the frame of the door to Jeremy’s private rooms. “No, Griffiths, we never knock. We’re the Inquisition—didn’t you hear? Everyone has the free will to run the galaxy the way we want them to. That requires no tact.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” Griffiths groaned, rubbing the elbow he had banged when he fell to the marble floor.

  Merinda was wearing her cold, Cheshire-cat smile. “So, what do you think of our Vestis
Novus, the great Phandrith J’lan?”

  “J’lan? The man’s an idiot—nearly as big an idiot as I am,” Griffiths said shaking his head. “Hey, that reminds me! Why didn’t you tell me about the prophet’s harem?”

  Merinda raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise. “Tell you? Why, I thought you were the big expert on the Irindris?”

  “Yeah, right!” Jeremy scowled. “Some old geezer Vestis saves my bacon …”

  “Zanfib,” Merinda said quietly.

  “Right, Zanfib.” Griffiths rolled his eyes at the name. “Zanfib, wizard deluxe, saves my bacon then goes and dies on me. He kisses me on the forehead and dumps his mission memories into my unwilling head. Thanks. Thanks a bunch.”

  “Hey,” Merinda smiled, “it made you what you are today.”

  “Yeah, well it didn’t clarify this whole harem thing!”

  Griffiths was venting his frustrations on her. She supposed it was best just to let him get it over with.

  “Did you know that the prophet is supposed to be big-time morally clean—including completely celibate?” Griffiths roared.

  “Well, there may have been a few details that I forgot to mention …”

  “A few details?” Griffiths’s voice broke with his rage. “I’m surrounded all day by the most gorgeous women on the planet—my own supposed wives—and I’m not allowed to so much as drool. I suppose you knew that this so-called harem is supposed to be in charge of safeguarding my purity? Every last one of them is stronger than I am. They’re all supposed to have been trained in some form of scary martial art that could kill a man and about thirty other types of creatures I’ve never heard of in no fewer than seventy different ways—not that I’d ever be that lucky. No! The harem is the traditional guards’ organization for the prophet. Everyone else they kill—me, they just torture.”

  “What about the TyRen? If your harem is such a powerful force, why are they still around?”

  “They insist.” Griffiths shrugged. “Both the harem and the TyRen are convinced that the other isn’t trustworthy enough to keep me safe. At least the TyRen aren’t so concerned about my chastity, but the harem never leaves me alone long enough with anyone to even make pleasant conversation.”

  “Well,” Merinda said softly, “we’re alone now.”

  Griffiths looked up, surprised. Yes, he thought, he certainly did want her. Merinda was beautiful but in a way that he had always thought unattainable for someone like him. She wasn’t fragile—God knew after all they had been through he could never consider her remotely frail in any of her aspects—but she had a refinement that always seemed to make him feel a little awkward and somehow less than he wanted to be. She always had him off-balance.

  “Yes,” Griffiths said, smiling shyly and relaxing at last. “I wonder why my harem would allow that?”

  “Because, barbarian,” Merinda said, sweetly reaching out and patting his cheek, “they know that there is no possible way that your chastity is endangered by me.”

  Slammed again, Griffiths thought. I could really like this woman if I didn’t hate her so much. “Thanks, Merinda, that’s cute. Really cute.”

  “Oh,” Merinda pouted with a light twinkle in her eye, “poor barbarian …”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Griffiths said shaking his head.

  “… Ruler of the planet and so unhappy. Speaking of which”—Merinda’s tone suddenly took on the razor-blue edge that meant business had begun—“just what was that all about in the Chamber of Wisdom today? You do know who Targ of Gandri is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.” Griffiths felt like he was in school, being lectured. It was not a comfortable feeling—he had never cared for school. “Targ of Gandri is the supreme director of the Omnet—your great news and information organization that seems to want to control everything in the galaxy—although for the life of me I’m not sure why. The Omnet never seems interested in acquiring any planets or suns or any real regions of space. You do seem interested in telling everyone else who owns planets or suns or any real regions of space what they should know, how they should think about it, and when they should think it, however—and I suppose that’s more than enough conquest for one organization.”

  “You’re rambling, Griffiths,” Merinda said dispassionately. “Targ is second only to the Nine Oracles in his authority. It is the wisdom and insights of the Nine that have directed the Omnet down through the last three centuries to become the force for truth and the rediscovery of knowledge throughout the galactic disk. Only one man receives their instructions on a regular basis and that’s Targ. Targ is the will of the Nine …”

  Griffiths shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? Targ isn’t acting for the Nine now—he’s acting on his own.”

  “That’s not possible,” Merinda said flatly. “The Nine Oracles have stood at the pinnacle of the Omnet for the last three hundred years. No one has remotely challenged their supreme authority in all that—”

  “Until we did—two weeks ago,” Griffiths interrupted.

  “What?” Merinda blinked.

  “Our last little adventure had more far-reaching consequences than just setting the Order back on its heels. The synthetics were hoping to discover whether they had free will or not. The Order was using that quest as an excuse—preaching faith to synthetics so that they could control them toward their own ends. So long as the question of whether synthetics had free will or not was open to debate, the Order could frame the argument as a matter of faith and maintain control over the synthetics.”

  “True,” Merinda nodded, “but all that ended when you activated the Mantle of Kendis-dai and were able to answer the question.”

  “Right, but in doing so we not only answered the question for many of the synthetics of the Order”—Griffiths nodded—“we also answered the question for the Nine Oracles as well.”

  “Of course, that was all part of the mission the Nine gave me when I—” Suddenly, Merinda’s eyes went wide. “By the Nine!”

  “Yes, by the Nine indeed,” Griffiths agreed. “In answering the question, the Nine Oracles learned that they, being synthetic minds as well, were subject to the free agency of biological sentients. They therefore deemed themselves subservient to the will of biologicals—and ceased to function as supreme leaders of the Omnet movement itself.”

  “They—resigned?” Merinda was stunned.

  “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

  Merinda began pacing about the room, her hands animated as she spoke. “But that would mean chaos! The Nine weren’t just another set of synths; they were—are—the very symbol of the Omnet! Without them control would break down, faith in the news service alone would suffer irreparable damage. It would so greatly weaken the network as to call into question whether the Omnet could function with any power or authority at all anymore! It would mean a tremendous power vacuum at the top of the organization.”

  “It would if anyone knew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Griffiths replied, for once feeling glad that he could tell Merinda a thing or two, “that no one other than Targ—and, of course, you and I—know about it. He’s kept it all very cleanly under wraps although I don’t know for how long that can last. He’s certainly moving very quickly—I think he’s trying to accomplish whatever he’s up to before anyone finds out.”

  “How do you know all this?” Merinda said, still having difficulty believing what she was hearing.

  “The Mantle,” Griffiths replied simply. “It is the master synthetic mind, remember, and is now in direct contact with the Nine Oracles—although for the life of me I haven’t a clue as to how it does it. Targ approached the Nine with his question and the Nine deferred the question to the Mantle since the Nine couldn’t answer it. The Mantle dutifully asked for my wisdom on the subject—and I told the Mantle to deny the answer to Targ.”

  “You did that?”

  “Well,” Griffiths said modestly, “I told you they don’t call
it the Mantle of Wisdom for nothing. The Mantle is great at handling information. It gives whomever sits on the Throne of Kendis-dai a perspective on the universe that is as informationally complete as I think exists anywhere. However, it defers actual judgment on those matters to the biological on the Throne, which in this case was me. I smelled a rat, and cut off his access to the Nine.”

  Merinda stopped her pacing and blinked for a moment. “I take it that the smell of rats is a bad smell?”

  “Oh, yes, very bad, indeed,” Griffiths replied.

  “So, then, what is he up to?” Merinda asked, rubbing the back of her neck as though it might dislodge some new thought. “Why isn’t he back at Central trying to work out a new power structure instead of dashing about the stars?”

  “I think our answer is in his own question. He wants to know the navigation course of the Lokan Fleet.”

  Merinda’s head snapped up, her eyes locking on Griffiths’s own. “He’s looking for the Nightsword?”

  “Yes, where Lokan hid it three millennia ago,” Griffiths responded, and pointed to the dome overhead. The galaxy appeared in the dome, brilliant in its spiraling stars. “ ‘It came to pass that in the first cycle following the fall of Kendis-dai, Lokan, servant of Kendis-dai, proclaimed himself the Emperor Priest of Avadon. In the mantle of his office did Lokan go before the people, having been proclaimed their new Lord, and spoke unto them great words that they might follow him and fulfill the desires of the great, lost Kendis-dai.’ ”

  “You’re quoting the Odyssey of Tears,” Merinda said as she gazed up into the dome.

  “Yes, chapter seven,” Griffiths responded. “It’s amazing what you can learn around here. The important part is after that, however, as you probably know. ‘Now so it was that Lokan was a mortal man whose lusting for his Lord’s queen consumed his soul while his physical shell belied it not. Black was his heart yet his countenance was bright before the sight of man. The vestments of his office still shone with the faith of the nation that followed him yet his heart served only himself.’ ”