Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (21 page)

With that the human stage broke and tumbled apart. Bela somersaulted once in the air and landed on his feet as the troupe scurried around him. In seconds the quadrangle was transformed into a blue-green sea where waves rolled over one another, rising, falling, rising, falling, breaking on the imaginary shore.

The players, arranged in staggered lines, each held the hem of the player in front, fluffing the garment in the air and letting it sink slowly down. Extra lengths of cloth had been sewn into each yos precisely for this purpose. As the billows filled and expired, the lines crouched and stood and stretched alternately, all the while murmuring in a low, throaty hum.

The blue and green of cloth and makeup became water, the voices water sounds. Yarden could hardly keep her mind on her part, so taken was she with the performance. She stole glances at the audience, seeing her own amazement mirrored in their eyes.

Presently the ocean's waves grew choppy, the water sound more discordant. Illusionary winds whipped the surface of the water, driving the waves onto the beach with increasing force. A storm was coming!

The players ducked their heads down and flailed their arms, snapping the cloth more frantically. The hum became a moan; rending sighs escaped as the waves towered and crashed, spilling over one another, pounding forward.

The crowd sat deathly still, totally absorbed in the clash of wind and sea.

Then, as the gale reached its crescendo, the sea waves gentled, the wind calmed. The storm passed.

Gasps of delight whispered through the audience. Yarden saw them transfixed, their eyes wide and staring. They were seeing the ocean, feeling it. The quadrangle itself had become a sea of faces, each one enthralled with the play unfolding. For the Hyrgo, the Chryse players
were
the ocean.

All
day long Pizzle felt eyes watching him as he raked his way through the fields of muck. He would straighten and peer around quickly behind him, but would only see another Jamuna like himself, bent double, patiently turning over the drying crust. He would shrug, turn back to his work, and slog along a few rake lengths further before the feeling came on him again.

Finally, as the workday ended and the recyclers laid up their tools and began moving in from the fields, Pizzle saw two men standing on the rimwall of the field above. They were dressed like Jamuna Hagemen, but something about the way they stood—feet apart, arms held loosely at their sides—told him they had not been working the fields all day.

“They want you.” Pizzle spun around to see Nendl coming up beside him. He nodded toward the two men. “Go with them.”

“Who are they?”

“They are friends. You won't be hurt.”

“But—” Pizzle turned his face toward Nendl, trying to discover if there was cause for the alarm he felt. “I am afraid, Nendl.”

“Go quickly. Don't wait. You must not be seen. They will take care of you.”

“I want to stay with you,” whined Pizzle.

Nendl took him by the arm and gripped it hard. “You must go with them. I've talked to them—it's all right.”

“Then you come with me.”

“I can't.” Nendl darted a glance over his shoulder. As yet they had attracted no attention, but they could not stand talking together much longer. “You don't understand. I have to stay here. Go on!” He gave Pizzle a prod.

Pizzle took a few hesitant steps forward, then stopped and looked back. Nendl urged him on with a nod. “I will come later if I can. Now hurry!”

Other workers were walking along the rimwall toward the two men. Pizzle saw that he must make a decision. He lowered his head and moved off to meet them. When he reached the rimwall, he looked up to see that the men were now waiting for him at the entrance to the tunnel which led from the fields to the Hage warrens below. Jamuna Hagemen were passing by them into the tunnel; one of the men gave him a signal which meant he was to follow, and then stepped inside.

Pizzle followed, trying to catch the two men, but each time he looked up they were precisely as far away as before. They hurried through the Hage warrens, past dwelling blocks crowded with kraams, out onto open-air common areas, along boulevards lined with squat trees, across suspended walkways over terraced fields, and on. All he saw was new to him, and Pizzle realized there was no way back again, but also that the men had allowed him to draw nearer to them.

At last his mysterious guides disappeared into another tunnel which opened into the steep bank of a dwelling block overlooking a small lake fed by a splashing fountain in its center. Pizzle saw that the people at the lake's edge wore yoses he'd never seen before: gold striped with gold hoods. No one he saw wore the hood, however, unlike the Jamuna who wore them all the time except in Hage.

He stepped hesitantly into the darkened tunnel where the men had disappeared.

“Here, put this on. Quickly!” whispered someone directly in front of him. A bundle was thrust into his hands.

He stood for a moment, peering into the darkness. He opened his mouth to ask one of the many questions rising to his tongue, but felt hands on him, tugging at his clothes, before he could utter a syllable. There was a ripping of fabric, and his yos was stripped from him. “Put it on!” came the urgent whisper. Pizzle shook out the bundle and began feeling for the hem.

When he had pulled the yos over his head and tied the sash at his side, the guides took him, one at each elbow, and steered him back out onto the plaza where Pizzle saw that his new yos had gold vertical stripes like all the others he saw. They led him to the edge of the brickwork to where a wiry green lawn began its gentle slope down to the lake.

“Go on down there,” said one of the guides.

“Wait at the water's edge. Someone will come for you,” said the other.

With that, the two released him and stepped away. Pizzle turned back twice as he moved off toward the lakeshore. Each time he saw the two still standing where he'd left them, silently watching him.

He reached the shoreline and stood for a moment looking out across the lake to the fountain, which gurgled and bounced as it sent a thick column of water into the air. When he turned back, the two men had disappeared. Pizzle began strolling idly along the grassy shore, watching the others drifting, as he was, around the lake.

Short, round-topped trees, growing right at the water's edge, trailed vines into the water. Flowers with delicate white blooms floated up where the vines touched the surface. Pizzle stopped to examine the flowers, squatting down for a closer look. In among the stems and dangling water roots he saw the flash of a silver side and a swirl of fins. Also, reflected in the water's mirror, he saw two figures standing over him.

He stood and turned. One of the figures was a man, the other a woman. Both smiled at him and nodded. The woman stepped to his side and said, “I see you enjoy the lake.” With the slightest tilt of her head, she turned him away from the water. “In that case we must come here again soon.”

The man, still smiling, stepped behind Pizzle, and together the three moved up the slope once more to the plaza. They walked easily along, passing before tiers of dwellings, each with a large round window and balcony facing the lake. Occupants in colorful Hage robes carried trays of food or sat at tables eating. Pizzle's stomach growled, and he remembered he hadn't eaten since midday.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Tanais section,” replied his companion. “Would you like to eat something? We thought a meal might be welcome soon.”

“I am hungry,” Pizzle admitted.

“It's just a little farther. There are some people who want to meet you, Pizol.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “How do you know my name?”

She laughed easily. “Didn't you know you had friends looking out for you?”

“Nendl is my friend.”

“Oh, he's our friend too. A Hageman does not betray his friends.”

Pizzle contemplated her last remark—had it been made for his benefit? A reminder of… what? Loyalty? Was she instructing him?

They walked on in silence, moving around the lake and above it, their feet soundless on the spiral-patterned bricks. At the far side of the lake, they approached an immense, multi-towered block of dwellings—so tall it commanded a clear view of the entire section. Aerial walkways arched between the slender towers, joining the upper levels to one another.

Overhead, the dome was now nearly transparent. A blue-gray dusk, deepening with the approach of night, triggered the miniature yellow lights hidden in the branches of trees and strung along the serpentine byways, and soon Tanais Hage basked in the golden wash of myriads of tiny lights.

“Here we are,” said the woman as they stopped before the central tower. She ushered him in through a narrow slit of an opening three levels tall. Pizzle slipped in and found himself in an enormous, triangular hall. The hall was nearly empty. Only a few Hagemen, dwarfed by the proportions of the room, moved silently across the polished surface of the floor toward one of the three spire-shaped openings.

“This one is ours—” She pointed across the hall to the opening on the left, and led them quickly across the expanse. Upon reaching the entrance, she paused and explained, “It's a lift. We will leave you here, Hageman Pizol.”

The man behind him reached inside the doorway, adjusted something, and then motioned Pizzle into the lift. He stepped in and heard a whizzing sound as the lift climbed swiftly away. Bands of light ringed the transparent compartment, dropping past so fast it seemed that the lights moved instead of the lift. Pizzle pressed his hands flat against the smooth sides and held on. Presently the falling rings slowed, and the lift stopped without a tremor. The static fizz of the unidor cut out, and Pizzle stepped out of the lift and into a kraam many times the size of Nendl's.

Wherever he looked, flat white surfaces met his gaze—ceiling, floors, walls—all soft white and smooth, uncluttered with objects or decoration of any kind, the floors covered with gray and white weavings. Before him stood a man, dark and imperious in a long, emerald green Hage robe.

“We have been waiting for you, Hageman Pizol,” said the man, coming forward to take him by the arm. “You are safe here. And very soon, you will remember who you are.”

Yawning, head pounding again,
Treet sat hunched on a blue silk cushion, chin in hand, trying to keep his eyes focused. It had been a long day, filled with interminable questions and innumerable answers. Director Rohee had wanted to know everything about him and had questioned him endlessly. They had talked for several hours before the Supreme Director had gone, leaving him in the incredulous care of the inquisitors, who had also come heavily armed with questions.

All day long they had interrogated, and he had supplied answers—holding back only those aspects of his trip he thought best kept to himself: his time distortion theory, for one thing, and any direct references to Cynetics for another. Now he sat by himself, watching the three inquisitors discuss among themselves, trying to make up their minds about something. How best to proceed with the cross-examination, Treet thought. Whatever it was, he had lost interest long ago. They might have been planning to barbecue him and feed him to the blue kangaroos. Treet didn't care.

He hadn't done so much explaining since he had been caught crossing over from the New Frontier with a liter of Stolichnaya in his luggage. He just wanted to eat and go to sleep.

“Enough!” said Treet, standing up. He yawned and did a couple of toe touches by way of getting his circulation going again. “That's all. No more. I'm going to sleep.”

The inquisitors looked at him. “We wish clarification on several points—” began the spokesman, a dry stick of a man named Creps.

“Come back next week. I'm through talking.” Treet advanced toward them. “I'm hungry and tired, and you're becoming a pain.”

“We will have food brought,” offered Creps.

“You do that,” said Treet, jabbing a finger at him. “And then clear out.”

The three exchanged puzzled glances. “We do not understand,” said Creps.

“Oh? Let me see if I can make it any clearer. Go away! Get out! Leave! Is that better?” Treet enjoyed the effect his words were having with the three stuffy inquisitors; expressions of horror bloomed on their officious faces. He continued, “You want to know something else? I'm tired of answering all your stupid questions. What about
my
questions? I'm not answering any more questions until I get some answers myself.”

“We have been instructed to provide information,” replied Creps. The other two nodded.

“Tell me this then: where are my friends? That'll do for starters.”

After a quick consultation, one of the inquisitors turned and fled the room. Well, thought Treet, that got some results. I should have hollered sooner. Treet stood and glared at his two remaining guests until the third came back a few moments later.

“Food has been requested,” Creps informed him. “Also, we have summoned the Supreme Director. He has asked to be informed of any unusual behavior.”

“Fine,” replied Treet. “Let's get the old boy back in here, and maybe we'll get somewhere.” He plopped himself back on his cushion and sneezed as the dust swirled around his face. “And send someone up here to clean this dump!” he added.