“You like anything gold,” Ehomba snapped.
The swordsman weighed his friend’s comment. “Not always. When I was a stripling I remember a certain aunt whose mouth was full of gold teeth. Whenever she bent to kiss me I would cry. I thought her teeth were solid metal, like little gold swords, and that she was going to eat me up.”
“Be quiet,” the herdsman admonished him, “and maybe we can get out of here without any fuss if we satisfy them as to our purpose in being in their country.” Behind him and slightly to his right, Ahlitah sat on his haunches and busied himself cleaning his face, utterly indifferent to however the humans, friends and strangers alike, might elect to proceed.
“Welcome to Tethspraih.” The man in the middle folded his hands on the table before him and smiled. His expression was, as best as Ehomba could tell, genuine.
“Funny sort of way you’ve got of welcoming strangers,” Simna retorted promptly. Ehomba gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs.
The woman was instantly concerned. “Were you wounded while being brought here? Are you in pain? Or are you suffering from injuries incurred while coming down from the Aniswoar Mountains?”
“We are unhurt.” Ehomba eyed her curiously. “How did you know we came from those mountains? We could as easily have entered your land from the east, or the west.”
Simna commented sarcastically. “I know how, long bruther. A little birdie told them.”
The monk seated on the left, with a pleasant round face and twinkling eyes, sat a little straighter. “That’s right! That’s exactly right.” Lowering his voice, he murmured to his associates. “They have been talking to citizens.”
“No,” insisted the man in the middle. “I think he is just perceptive.”
“Funny.” The woman was staring at Simna. “He doesn’t look perceptive.”
Ehomba hastened to draw the conversation away from his companion. “We were told that we were brought here because our thinking was ‘not in alignment’ with the kind of thinking you have decreed for this country. I never heard of such a thing. How can you decree what people can think?”
“Not ‘what,’” the woman corrected him. “‘How.’ It’s the way people think that we are concerned with. What they think about is not our concern.”
“Absolutely not,” added the man on the far end. “That would constitute an inexcusable invasion of privacy.”
Ehomba was unconvinced. “And telling people how to think does not?”
“Not at all.” The beaming monk in the center unfolded his hands and placed them flat on the table. The subdued light in the chamber made the gold symbols on his robe dance and sparkle. “It leads to a thriving and prosperous society. Wouldn’t you agree that what you’ve seen of Tethspraih is flourishing, that the people are as healthy and attractive as their surroundings?”
“I would,” the herdsman conceded. Not only had these people allowed him and Simna to keep their weapons during the interrogation, but the litah had also been permitted to accompany them into this inner sanctum. This suggested great confidence. But in what? The armed servitors who had escorted him and his friends were stationed outside the chamber. Insofar as he could tell, not one of the monks carried so much as a dagger. What could they do to defend themselves if, for example, someone like Simna lost his temper and leaped at them with sword drawn? Sitting behind their table, they appeared quite indifferent to any danger the armed strangers might pose. Ehomba was simultaneously impressed and wary, and curious to know why.
“All right.” The swordsman sighed. “Tell us what we have to do to get out of here. If it’s a fine, we’ll try to come up with the money to pay it.”
“Oh no. Fining you would be a useless gesture characteristic of primitive extortionate regimes.” The woman was smiling at him once again. “We might as well put a knife to your ribs in the middle of the street. We’d never think of doing such a thing.”
“No indeed,” the middle monk added. “We are not an agency of punishment, fiduciary or physical.”
Simna relaxed a little. “Hoy, that’s good to hear.”
“Then what do you want of us?” Unlike his friend, Ehomba did not relax. “Why have we been brought here?”
“Why, so you can be helped, of course.” The smiles of the three were brighter than ever.
At this pronouncement the swordsman lost his composure. “What do you mean, ‘helped’?”
The monk on the end gazed across at him with infinite compassion. “To think appropriately, of course.”
Simna ibn Sind did not like the sound of that. He did not like the sound of it one bit. “Thanks, but I’ve been thinking for myself for nigh on thirty-one years now, and I’m comfortable with the process just as it is. Set in my ways, you might say.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” the monk assured him. “It’s a consideration common to many improper thinkers, and one easily corrected. Don’t worry—we’ll take care of it for you.”
“By Gambrala, do I have to spell it out for you? I don’t want ‘it’ taken care of!”
Ehomba put a calming hand on his companion’s shoulder. A by now highly agitated Simna shook it off, but out of consideration for his friend held back the stream of words his tongue was preparing to launch.
“Why do you care how we think?” The herdsman addressed the panel in a voice calm with respect and genuine interest. “We come from other lands and are just passing through your country. With luck we will be beyond the borders of Tethspraih and inside Phan in a few days. Then our way of thinking will no longer concern you.”
The woman was shaking her head slowly. “If we allowed that to happen we would be derelict in our duty to our fellow man. All of us would have to do penance.”
“If you treat every visitor this way I’d think you wouldn’t have much trade with your neighbors.” Simna had calmed down—a little.
“Some of our neighbors are amenable to persuasion,” the monk on the end informed them. “With others we have treaties that, regrettably, prohibit us from exposing them to the satisfactions that come with decreed thinking. But we have no such treaty with you.”
“And because of that,” the man in the center added, “we have a wonderful opportunity to spread right thinking to countries whose names we may not even know! Because when you return to your homelands it will be as disciples for the Tethspraih way of life.”
“I got news for you,” Simna retorted. “The only way of life I’m a disciple for is the Simna ibn Sind way of life. It’s pretty popular in its own right, and while I’m real fond of it myself, I’d no more run around trying to inflict it on someone else than I would try to make them eat my favorite pudding.”
“We can fix that.” The man on the end wore a big smile that thoroughly belied the implied threat behind his words.
“No one said anything to us about such things when we entered your country,” Ehomba told them. “If they had, we would have avoided Tethspraih, and gone around its borders.”
“The sheepherder should have told you.” The woman shook her head sadly. “What a waste of a fine mind. The majority of his thinking is improper.”
When he had first met Lamidy Coubert, Ehomba had been unable to understand why such a gregarious and congenial individual would choose a life of isolation in the high mountains. Now he knew. Perhaps Roileé had helped him to escape. But the average citizen of Tethspraih had no bitch witch to assist him or her in flight. Prosperous and successful they might be, but they were trapped here. Or perhaps, he corrected himself, their bodies were free, and only their minds were ensnared.
“I do not know what you mean by proper or improper thinking,” he told them. “I know only that my friend Simna thinks the way he thinks, and I think the way I think, and Ahlitah thinks the way he thinks—and that is how we will continue to think.”
“We are not concerned about the great cat,” the woman replied. “Such beasts are creatures of instinct and not reason.” At these words the litah paused momentarily in cleaning its fa
ce, then resumed licking and brushing. It seemed content to let Ehomba deal with the controversy.
“But you and your friend will be brought into the fold. And you will be the happier for it.”
“I’m already happy enough,” an angry Simna retorted. “And I’ll stomp anyone who says different!” His fingers grasped the hilt of his sword.
Despite this openly hostile gesture, none of the three monks behind the table reacted apprehensively. From what Ehomba could see, they did not even tense. Where was their protection? he found himself wondering. How were they able to remain completely unruffled in the face of an implied challenge from an obviously agitated, intemperate personality like Simna?
Despite their intransigent words, he was still hoping to avoid a confrontation. With that in mind, he again tried to divert their attention from the combative swordsman. “I do not understand. How did you know how we were thinking when we entered your country? Something must have told you or you would not have been able to send your servitors, your police, to that tavern to find us.”
“Your friend already knows, and explained it.” The monk in the middle sat back slightly in his chair and smiled deprecatingly. “A little bird told us.”
Turning toward the door, he snapped his fingers twice. Simna tensed, expecting the armed servitors to enter. Instead, a young white-clad acolyte appeared. His robe was emblazoned with only two golden symbols. In the wire cage he carried, two small golden parrots were chattering and chirping contentedly. Ehomba remembered seeing their like among the flocks of songbirds that had announced their arrival in Tethspraih. And they had been common in the eaves above the tavern, and in the streets of the town, and among the stone sculptures that festooned the rectory.
They looked like ordinary birds, more spectacularly plumaged than some, less active than others. No more, no less.
After placing the cage on the table, the acolyte bowed respectfully to his superiors and backed out the way he had come. As he passed through the door, Ehomba noted that at least some of the armed servitors remained stationed in the hall outside. While impressive, the monks’ confidence was evidently not absolute.
The middle speaker placed an affectionate hand on the top of the cage. “These are Spraithian cockatells. They are very good mimics. Most parrots and other members of their related families can listen to human speech and recite it back. Cockatells are able to do the same with thoughts.”
“So that’s how you spy on your people.” Simna’s lips were tight. “We saw the damn little shitters everywhere. How can someone’s thoughts be their own if there’s a bird on every windowsill, in every branch, on the fence post outside each house, soaking up what and how they’re thinking? And of course, you people have ’em trained like pigeons, so that after soaking up enough thoughts they come flying back here, where you can milk them of other folks’ privacy.”
“You make it sound like a forced intrusion,” the woman responded disapprovingly. “No one is harmed, no one senses the cockatells at work, and peace and prosperity reign throughout the land.” Reaching into a pocket of her robe, she removed something and stuck it between the bars of the cage. The vivacious, feathered pair immediately descended from the perch where they had been chattering to nibble eagerly at the proffered gift. “In addition, they are playful, attractive birds.”
“I didn’t see anyone playing with ’em,” Simna responded. “And why do I have this gut feeling they’re not real popular as pets?”
“Do not blame the birds.” Ehomba gently admonished his friend. “It is not their fault they have been put to such a use. I doubt they have any notion of what they are involved in.” He watched the pair use their sharp beaks to shell and then spit out the husks of tiny seeds. “As the savants say, they are only mimics. They listen, and repeat, but do not understand.”
“You couldn’t find better spies,” Simna growled. His outrage at the invasion of his innermost privacy was complete, but out of deference to his friend his sword stayed in its scabbard.
“So from what you have learned from some birds you have decided that our manner of thinking is wrong, and that you have the right to change it. Even if we are happy with the way we think and do not want it changed.” The herdsman met each of the savants’ eyes in turn.
“You will thank us when we are done.” The woman was beaming again. “You,” she declared, directing her words to the quietly fuming Simna, “will become a much more pleasant and less belligerent person, one who is kind to others and supportive of extended contemplation.”
“By Gouzpoul, don’t count on it.” The swordsman’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his weapon.
“And you,” she continued as she turned slightly to face Ehomba, “will become a teacher, devoting your life to the spreading of the way of proper thinking among uncivilized peoples.”
“It sounds like an admirable calling,” Ehomba told her. “Unfortunately, I already have one. There are cattle to be supervised, and chores to be done. The Naumkib must give over all their waking hours to surviving. I have no time to devote to the profession of wandering teacher. You need to find another.”
“You are the first of your people to visit Tethspraih.” The monk seated at the other end of the table was speaking forcefully. “As such, you must be the one to carry our teachings to your land. It is a great honor.”
“Yes,” added the middle savant. “Besides, you have no choice. You do not have to waste time and energy arguing about it because the decision has been made for you.” He smiled encouragingly, reassuringly. “That is the job of savants. To make the right choices for others. We prevent many headaches before they happen.”
“Then why are you giving me one now?” Simna ibn Sind had listened to just about enough. Avoiding Ehomba’s attempt to restrain him, the swordsman took a bold step forward and drew his blade. Sensing his thoughts, the pair of cockatells stopped eating and fell back to the far side of their cage. They remained huddled together there, their shimmering golden feathers quivering slightly as they were forced to listen to and absorb the blast of unfettered aggression from the swordsman’s mind.
Showing that they were indeed human, the savants reacted to Simna’s provocation by losing their seemingly everlasting smiles. But no one leaped from their chair or tried to flee. Nor did anyone raise a warning cry to the servitors stationed outside.
Instead, the monk in the center reached quickly beneath the table and brought out a most curious-looking device. The length of a man’s arm, it had a handle and a long tubular body that was fluted and flared at the end like an open flower. One finger curled around a small curve of metal set into the underside of the apparatus. Attached to the top was a small bottle or canister. This was fashioned of an opaque substance and Ehomba could not see what it contained.
Resting the wooden handle against his shoulder, the savant pointed the flowerlike end of the device directly at Simna. Exposed blade hanging at his side, the swordsman’s gaze narrowed as he stared down the barrel of the awkward contrivance. Not knowing what it did, he was unsure how to deal with the threat its wielder’s posture implicitly implied.
“Simna,” the herdsman told his friend warningly, “that’s enough! Stay where you are!”
The monk at the far end of the table spoke somberly. “It does not matter. Advance or retreat, the end will be the same.” His smile returned, though in muted form. “And you will be the better for it.”
“The better for it?” Simna glared furiously at the man, utterly frustrated by the unshakable composure of the smugly complacent trio seated behind the table. “I’ll be the better for this!” Raising the shining blade over his head, he took another step forward. Ehomba shouted a warning and Ahlitah crouched, instantly alert.
The monk aiming the device did not hesitate as he pulled the trigger and fired.
XI
The litah snarled warningly but held his ground. Ehomba instinctively drew back. As for Simna, he ducked sharply, frowned, and then straightened anew. To all outward
appearances he was entirely unharmed.
The cloud of powder that puffed from the muzzle of the strange device was primarily pink with deeper overtones of cerise. It enveloped the swordsman for the briefest of moments before dissipating in the still air of the chamber. Simna sniffed once, twice, and then laughed out loud.
“A decent little fragrance. Delicate, not too strong. Reminds me of a girl I spent some time with in a town on the western edge of the Abrangian Steppes.”
“Good.” The monk lowered the contraption but did not set it aside. “I’m glad it brings back fond memories for you.”
“Very fond.” Simna grinned wolfishly at the savant. “Fonder than you’ll ever know.”
“That may very well be true. You are obviously a man of extensive appetites. Mine, I am not ashamed to confess, are more modest. In that respect I envy you, though I cannot say that my envy translates into admiration.” He indicated the swordsman’s upraised weapon. His two associates were watching closely. “What, may I ask, were you planning to do with that impressive-looking piece of steel?”
Simna looked down at the sword in his hand. “This? Why, I was going to . . . I was going to . . .”
His words trailed away along with his anger. He stared stupidly at the weapon, as if he had once known its purpose but had forgotten, like someone who finds a long-lost piece of clothing in an old drawer and cannot remember how it is to be worn. Slowly, he lowered the blade. His expression brightened when he remembered the scabbard that hung from his belt. Sheathing the metal, he looked back at the trio of inquisitors and smiled.
“There! I guess that’s what I was going to do with it.” The smile plastered on his face resembled that of several of the lesser sculptures that decorated the exterior of the rectory: bemused, but not vacuous. “I hope we’re not giving you good people any trouble?”
“No,” the woman told him confidently, “no trouble at all. It’s nice to see you right thinking. A lot less painful, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.” But even as Simna spoke, his lips seemed to be doing battle with his jawline. Small veins pulsed in his forehead and neck, and perspiration broke out on his forehead even though it was quite cool in the darkened chamber. Everything about his expression and posture indicated a man at war with himself—and losing. One hand trembled visibly as it attempted to clutch the hilt of the now sheathed sword. The fingers would twitch convulsively forward and miss, twitch and miss, as if their owner was afflicted with any one of several neuromuscular infirmities.