The Dawning Light

Chapter I

There was just one elderly Peaceman guarding the bank that held the wealth of the Province of Dimay. In the cold, rainy drizzle of the Nidorian night, Kris peKym Yorgen paced the deck of his ship, frowning uneasily as he watched the black shadows of his men slipping up on the square-hewn brick building.

Kris peKym turned to the man at his side—a small, wiry Bronze Islander named Dran peDran Gormek. "Is the longboat ready?"

Dran peDran nodded.

"And the deests?"

Again the Bronze Islander nodded.

"Good," Kris said. "The bank's surrounded. We'll be in possession within three minutes, if all goes well." His voice was incisive: "All we have to do is cut down the one old guard and the Keeper—not much protection for millions of weights, is it?"

Dran peDran shook his head. "They isn't expecting any robberies, captain. You doesn't guard against something you doesn't expect."

Kris smiled. The little outlander's bizarre inflection always amused him—besides, there was truth in what he said. Nidor's banks were four thousand years old—and in four thousand years, no bank had ever been robbed. The idea would have been preposterous, once; Nidor's carefully-balanced economy had seen to it that everyone had at least enough for himself, anyway.

Kris' lips curled in a lopsided grin. "There's always a first time, Dran peDran. There was a first time when the Earthmen came, when they first built their School and first started spreading lies and blasphemy among us. And there'll be a first time for robbing the Bank of Dimay." He squinted into the rainy darkness, then said, "Shove off and get into that longboat. They're ready to enter the bank."

"Right, captain."

Dran peDran sprang over the side of the deckrail into the waiting longboat below, and there was the sound of oars creaking as he moved off toward the dock. Kris peKym continued to pace the deck anxiously. First mission for the Party, he thought. It has to be perfect.

He fidgeted impatiently, watching the dim silhouette of the Peaceman strolling placidly back and forth before the bank. The Peaceman was going to be surprised, Kris thought with a grim smile. His family had probably held that sinecure for four thousand years in unbroken succession.

No ... no one had ever robbed a bank before ... but it had to be done now. Robbing the bank would drive a wedge between the people and the Earthmen, would leave the Council of Elders in an awkward spot—would, in short, put Nidor one step closer to a return to the old ways.

It was a paradox, thought Kris: in order to return to the old ways, it was necessary to do startlingly new things, like—he chuckled softly—-robbing the bank. But the world had changed, in the past century, and further change was needed to return it to the Way of the Ancestors.

He watched as a dark figure edged up quietly behind the unsuspecting Peaceman. Dimly seen behind him were the other crewmen who had gone ashore to make the assault on the bank.

Now, Kris thought. Now—hit him!

Kris saw an arm go up, saw the black bulk of a club hover in the air for a moment and then, traveling quickly and clearly across the water, there came the sound of the club striking the Peaceman's skull. He watched the shadowy form sag to its knees, and saw two other shadows appear out of the fog and truss the man thoroughly. So far, so good. The Peaceman would never know what hit him.

Nor would the Keeper of the bank. Kris smiled as he remembered the man—he had met him three days before, while he and Dran had been making preliminary investigations while ostensibly changing some large coins. The Keeper was a short, rotund man of the Clan Sesom, whose golden body hair had turned nearly silver; he was very fat, and waddled ludicrously around within his bank.

Straining his ears, Kris thought he heard a grunt from within the bank. So much for the Keeper, he thought.

His men, trained minutely for the job, were carrying the robbery off as if they were so many puppets. Only-Yes, there it was. The faint clatter of doubly-cleft deest-hoofs, behind the bank. Three of his men were there, mounted. At the signal that the bank was taken, they were to ride up the marshy back road toward Holy Gelusar for a few miles—far enough for them to take the main-road turn-off, come back, and repeat the whole thing all over again. By the time they had made ten or twelve round trips, it would appear as if a good-sized party of marauders had come down from Gelusar to clean out the bank.

Meantime, the real unloading was proceeding. Kris watched approvingly as the ten men who had entered the vault formed themselves into a human chain stretching from the unseen interior of the bank to the dock that led from the bank to the waters of Tammulcor Bay. And then, the cobalt began to move.

It traveled arm-to-arm down the row of men, each heavy loop of coins passing from one to the next, until it reached the dock. The last man was bending and handing the coins through the hole that had been prepared—I hope those sons of deests didn't hurt those planks, Kris swore; I want them to look as good as new when we're done—and into the longboat that waited under the docks, ready to scuttle through the water under cover of darkness to the Krand.

After about fifteen minutes of loading, the chain dispersed. That told Kris that the longboat was full, and that the men were going back to take a breather while the boat was rowed to the Krand. Tensely, he listened as the oars creaked in the night, held his breath as the longboat approached.

Then Dran peDran was up on the deck again, looking sweaty and overheated. "We is got the first load, captain!"

"Fine work," Kris said. "Get it below and go back for more."

"Is going, captain."

"Good."

He watched as the perspiring crewmen swung the loops of cobalt out of the longboat and onto the deck, where other crewmen grabbed the coins and carried them below to stow them in the false bottom of the Krand. Then the longboat slid silently away in the night, heading back under the dock to receive the next load of coins.

It was long, hard, slow, sweaty work, and it took most of the night. But no one bothered them. Who would be out, late at night, down at the treacherous waterfront? And who would expect the bank to be robbed, anyway? Such things just didn't happen.

At least they never used to, Kris thought pleasantly.

It was close to morning by the time they were finished and all the money was aboard the Krand. The bank had been thoroughly robbed, and the money was safely stowed in the ship's false bottom.

The bank bad been robbed. Strange words, Kris thought—words that never would have been conceived, had the Earthmen never come. But the Earthmen had come. It was not yet a hundred years since they had dropped from the skies, claiming to have come from the Great Light Himself. In not a hundred years, Kris thought, the balance of a world had been destroyed.

It was no exaggeration to say that tradition had been demolished and Nidor turned topsy-turvy since the coming of the Earthmen. The Elder Priests of Nidor's Sixteen Clans had accepted them as emissaries from Heaven, had greeted them enthusiastically—and thereby, Kris thought bitterly, had paved the way for their own downfall. Today, the knife and the rifle ruled in a world that had known peace for thousands upon thousands of years—and it was the fault of the Earthmen.

And now, the Krand lay innocently at anchor in Tammulcor Bay, its valuable cargo far from sight; it was simply another merchantship resting between voyages.

Kris stood for a while on the deck, while the men went below. After a few moments, Dran approached hesitantly.

"We is done it, captain!"

Kris nodded. "Yes, Dran. 'We is done it.' " He paused.

"There's no trace of the money?"

"They's never finding it," the Bronze Islander said. "Not without they takes the ship apart."

"Good," Kris said. He stared out over the rain-swept bay at the city sprawling on the mainland. "There will be fuss and fury in Tammulcor tomorrow," he said wryly, "We'll be able to hear the weeping and wailing from here, when they find out their money's not worth anything any more!"

Dran peDran laughed merrily. "This is good, captain! We is successful!"

"I hope SO," Kris said. Somehow, he found it hard to muster the enthusiasm of his little First Officer, despite the smoothness with which the bank robbery had been carried out. Only time would tell whether they would be successful in their ultimate goal—the restoration of Nidor. Only time would reveal whether or not the Way of the Ancestors could be attained once again.

Earthmen! Kris thought fiercely and spat into the water of the Bay. Devils!

Two weeks before, Kris had been in the eastern seaport of Vashcor, sitting in the office of the Secretary of the Merchants' Party, Norvis peKrin Dmorno, in the Party building—a small stone structure overlooking the sea.

From outside, the raucous cries of the fishmongers and the deep, melodious chanting of sailors killing time on the dock came drifting in, helping to build up a deceptive mood of security—deceptive because there was no security to be had on Nidor any longer.

On the walls around the office were posters which showed the intense, brooding face of Party Leader Del peFenn Vyless as reproduced in the blotchy pastels of a cheapjack printer. The Leader was off on a journey to the disturbed area around Elvisen, investigating conditions among the noisy bunch of discontented, landless ex-farmers clustered in the lowlands there. Kris was glad Del peFenn was elsewhere; he didn't mind dealing with Norvis and the others, but both Kris and Del were strong men and there was inevitably conflict between them— with Del, as the senior member of the organization, invariably coming out ahead.

In the office were two others beside Secretary Norvis. Young Ganz, Del's son, was still a boy, and yet more than a boy, actually a chunky youth with powerful arms and much of Party Leader Del's solid-hewn appearance. His eyes had the same piercing quality as the old sea captain's, and when he spoke his voice was a not dissimilar basso. Unlike his father, he had the quality of keeping his mouth shut when he had nothing to say—but he shared his father's strong anti-priesthood views completely.

Del's daughter, Marja geDel, was, in a ways more like her father than Ganz was. She had the same fiery spirit, the ability to speak her views as she saw them and—something Del peFenn didn't have—-a lush, shimmering beauty about her. Her eyes were deep and wide; the light down that covered her body was a pale, lustrous yellow. She bore herself with Del's erect dignity, but in a feminine way that was oddly pleasing.

At the head of the table sat Norvis peKrin Dmorno, the Secretary of the Party.

Norvis was a quiet man; he seldom said anything except to pass on the orders from Del peFenn. But when he did have something to say, it was important.

He was neither young nor old; he was approaching forty, but the downy hair on his face was still as golden as that of a youth's, and the lines in his face were those of experience, not age. He had been a sea captain, and a good one. Kris could remember when, as a ten-year-old midshipman aboard the Krand, he had watched Captain Norvis peKrin give his orders in a quiet, firm voice, commanding obedience but never forcing it. It sometimes seemed odd to Kris that, at that time, Norvis had been little older than he, Kris, was now.

Norvis folded his hands on the table and said: "Here's the position: we—the Party—have been losing ground steadily for nine years. A full cycle ago, we didn't exist. That means that less than five of our fourteen years of life have actually been productive. During the Great Depression our roils boomed; today, they're less than—"

Ganz peDel said, "Pardon, Secretary Norvis, but I'm confused. This is the first time I've been at a meeting of the Leader's Advisors, and—"

Norvis' face didn't change. "What troubles you, Ganz peDel?"

"Well, our father ... uh ... our Leader del peFenn—has told Marja and me something about the Great Depression, but I'm ashamed to say that I never understood it too well. How could too much food cause starvation, anyway?"

Marja geDel's smile widened as she turned to Norvis. "Father is a very emotional man; his ideas make sense, but his explanations are sometimes a little limping."

"I understand," Norvis said. "I'll try to explain." He breathed deeply —almost sighing—and looked at the soft golden fuzz on the back of his hands. "Twenty years ago, a hormone was invented by a student at the Bel-rogas School." It was the school that had been established by the Earthmen, nearly a hundred years before. "This hormone was supposed to be a great thing; it was supposed to double the per-acre yield of the peych-bean. The hormone was distributed all over Nidor. And it worked, just as the Earthmen knew it would; twice as many peych-beans were grown that year. We had more of our main crop than we could handle. Everything became worthless —clothes, made from the fiber; paper, made from the pulp; and worst of all, food—made from the fruit of the plant itself.

"The farmers had more than they could eat, but they couldn't sell it— so it never got to the cities. And the big cities starved because no one would bring them a worthless product."

"I see," Ganz said. "And my father—Del peFenn—brought us out of it."

Norvis nodded. "He organized the Merchants' Party and forced the Count of of Elders to change its ways. The food was given away to those who needed it. The rest was plowed back into the ground as fertilizer. But until the Party stabilized things, Nidor was in terrible shape. Am I light, Kris?"

Kris nodded grimly without saying anything.

"Again the Earthmen," Ganz said vindictively. "They've plundered and disturbed Nidor for six cycles—but they've done it through our priesthood. It's the priests who have sold us out to the devils!"

"Easy, Ganz," Norvis said calmly.

Kris frowned. He didn't like such ranting against the priesthood. That was the trouble with Leader Del; he had a habit of alienating the people by preaching against the Elders—and young Ganz was following in his father's steps.

"Just a minute," Norvis said, patting the air with a hand, "we're here to decide on new policy, not to vent our spleens against the Earthmen. If we have anything to say, let's make it constructive."

"Very well then," Marja said, "what's our problem?"

Norvis looked at each of them in turn. "Simply, this: we're in a rut because we haven't had an emergency. During times of trouble, people flock to the Party. When things are relatively easy, we lose members. If we're going to force the Council to return to the Way of the Ancestors, we'll have to have numbers. Therefore—"

"Therefore," Kris said, "we manufacture an emergency."

"Exactly—but how?"

Marja smiled wryly. "We've been going around the same point for weeks, now. We're stuck in a circle."

Norvis cradled his forehead in his hand. "I know. And we're not getting closer to a solution." He lifted his head. "What can we do? Use the hormone? No farmer would touch it. Start another hugl plague, as the Earthmen did sixty-odd years ago? There aren't any hugl left, to speak of." He shook his head. "No. Anything I think of is impractical, anyway, we need money to carry them out."

Marja brightened suddenly. "Money? Then why not get it directly?"

"Directly?"

"Of course! Let's go to a bank and take it!"

To Kris, who had been listening passively, the suggestion came as a jolt. Rob a bank? Unheard-of! But still—

Norvis was nodding. "I like it. By the Great Light, I like it!" He smiled. "Marja, your father would be proud of you! Let's work this out, here and now."

Kris leaned forward excitedly. "Who's going to do it?"

Marja turned to him, an odd light in her eyes. "I'd say you're the best choice," she said. "You've got the ability."

Kris smiled. He'd been thinking along the same lines himself. The job called for a strong man—and if he didn't do it, Del would. "You're right!"

"O.K.," said Norvis. "Ganz, you and Marja go out and find me half-a-dozen of the best ship's carpenters in Vashcor. I'll talk to Kris."

"Carpenters? What for?" Ganz said.

We'll have to make some changes in the Krand," said Norvis. His eyes glittered animatedly. "We'll have to build some sort of secret place, to hide all that money!"

After Marja and Ganz left, Norvis turned to Kris. "It's a tremendous responsibility, Kris peKym." He smiled as if to take the curse off that weighty statement. "I'm sure you can handle it, though."

"I'll do my best," Kris said.

"You'll go to Tammulcor and take the Bank of Dimay. Remember, though, that that territory is dangerous. We've got Vashcor, here, and the Bronze Islands pretty well under control. Sailors are notoriously lax in their religious discipline, anyway —as you well know."

Kris grinned. "I know." As a member of the Clan Yorgen, he could trace his ancestry back to the Great Lawyer, Bel-rogas Yorgen himself—as could a few hundred thousand other Nidorians. Some Yorgens regarded themselves as especially important for this reason— but a few years at sea had robbed Kris peKym of that particular delusion.

"But farmers," Norvis continued, "are different. A farmer depends on his land; he knows that the agriculture of his ancestors was "good enough to support a family, and he knows it will support him. The farmer is a simple man; he knows what he needs and he knows how to get it. His life is stable, and that's the way he likes it. Follow?"

Kris nodded. "If a farmer's life becomes unstable because of innovations, the first thing he'll do is scrap the innovations and go back to the old way of doing things. It's almost automatic. The farmer is simple in his outlook."

"Simple, yes," Norvis agreed. "He isn't stupid, though." He stood up, facing Kris, who towered over him by a full head, and stared at the younger man for a long moment.

"Let me tell you a secret," said Norvis. "You were only a child when the Great Depression hit Nidor. You know who caused that depression?"

"The Earthmen and the Elders," Kris said as if repeating a lesson.

Norvis shook his head. "No," he said. "I did. Del peFenn and myself caused that depression."

"You?"

Kris felt as though he had been stung. His parents had been sturdy Pelvash farmers who had tended their crops with care and husbanded them with diligence. In the year of the double crop, they had been murdered by a band of hungry, marauding scum from the cities. Eight years old, alone and friendless, the orphaned son of old Kym peThad Yorgen had made his way to Vashcor, to the sea—the only way a young boy could live.

He had signed eight-year papers and been assigned by the Seamen's Guild to the ship of Captain Norvis peKrin Dmorno.

Norvis had come to be almost a father to Kris, teaching him to read and write, filling him with hatred for the Earthmen who were destroying Nidor.

To find that Norvis was partly responsible for the devastation that had caused the Great Depression was a distinct shock to Kris peKym's nervous system.

"You were responsible? How?"

"We distributed the hormone to every farmer on Nidor—and so we caused the Collapse." For a moment, a flicker of some unreadable emotion crossed the Secretary's face.

"Why?" Kris asked. "Why did you—"

"Why? It's a complicated story, Kris. Let's just say the Earthmen badly fooled us all. But we managed to cover it up and do our best to straighten things out again."

Kris felt a great flood of relief.

How typical of Norvis! Simply because he had been duped by the Earthmen, he was willing to shoulder the responsibility for the whole collapse of the economy.

He smiled at the Secretary. "Well, you did straighten things out again."

"Yes—and we took credit for it But it was the farmer who did the right thing. It was the farmer who saw that the thine to do was to go back to the old way, to quit using the hormone. Of course, we were the ones who told them to plow their rotting crops back into the ground, but the vast majority had already made up their minds to go back to the old way. And the Council of Elders had to go along."

"I follow," Kris said. "With the farmers still persuaded that the Council of Elders knew what it was doing, too. They don't think too clearly, do they?"

"That's not the problem. The thing the farmers cannot seem to see is that our Council of Elders is being misled by the Earthmen. If we don't wake them up, Nidor will be in ruins before another century passes."

Kris' eyes widened. "This ought to stir them up. Great Light, what an idea! Robbing a bank! It's unheard-of!"

Norvis smiled. "Exactly. Marja hit on a tremendous idea. And that's why it'll work."

"We can certainly use the money," Kris said thoughtfully.

"True—but we'll have to use it sparingly. Too much of it dumped on the market at once will cause a panic."

"So? That's just what we need: panic."

"Not that kind. It's—" Kris looked exasperated. "Look here, stealing the money will cause a panic. Unloading it will cause another. That's what we're looking for — dissatisfaction, unrest, anything to agitate the people against the Earthmen. You've been telling me that ever since I was eight years old."

"Well, yes, of course. But we have to make sure what kind of panic. We have to remember what forces are in play." Norvis put his hands together. "The Unit Cobalt Weight is the money of exchange of all Nidor. It has been for four thousand years. For almost as long, the greatest percentage of the actual coin has been kept in the five banks of Nidor—one bank in each province. It was realized pretty early that a certified piece of paper was just as good as the coin, and, if lost, at least we'd still have the metal. Now what happens if a bank loses most of its metal?"

Kris put his hands on the desk and leaned toward Norvis peKrin Dmorno. "I don't have to be lectured to as though I were a child! Come off it, Norvis! Why not a second panic? The first will be nullified as soon as the Council in Gelusar authorizes the amount lost to be coined from the bullion reserves. Why not another panic?"

Norvis shook his head. "I don't think so. We'd lose more than we'd gain. Take a look at it; think it through. What will happen in Dimay if we're successful?"

Kris peKym's brows drew together in thought. "Well, bank notes will be worthless—for a while, at least. Then the Council will authorize more coinage, as they always do to make up for coins lost."

"You really think so?"

"Let me finish. These coins aren't lost. If we dump all that metal back on the market, the cobalt itself won't be worth as much; we won't have gained anything. We'll have to feed it back into circulation slowly enough to allow the Council to take up the slack by recalling the excess."

"Exactly," Norvis said. "Now, as soon as the Krand has been rebuilt, you're ready to go."

"How about a crew?"

"That's your job," said Norvis. He smiled a little. "You're a better leader than I am, Kris peKym— did you know that?"

"I think I am," Kris agreed without conceit. "You're more of a plotter, Norvis peKrin. You can think up beautifully nasty schemes— but you don't know how to handle men."

"Precisely," said Norvis dryly. "That's why Del peFenn Vyless is the leader; I know my limitations. Hut enough of that. We have to move quickly."

He took Kris peKym's hand. "Good luck, Kris. May the Great Light bring success."

Chapter II

Just offshore, two days after the robbery, the schooner Krand floated peacefully at anchor in the harbor of Tammulcor. Kris peKym seated himself comfortably in a chair in his cabin and folded his arms across his broad chest.

He looked at his First Officer, who squatted cross-legged on the floor, and his face broke into a broad grin.

"You don't look worried, Dran peDran."

"I isn't," said the little Bronze Islander. "What does I has to worry about?"

"Well, we've got eight million weights in cobalt in the hold of this ship," Kris said nonchalantly. "If the citizens or the Peacemen of the Province of Dimay ever find out where it is, you and I will be hanging from the bowsprit, waiting for the sea lizards to swoop down and pick our corpses."

"Captain," Dran said, "if you is trying to sicken me, you is not succeeding. As long as you has your life, I is not worried about mine."

Kris laughed. "We've got them in an uproar, that's for sure. No one seems to be able to figure out who stole it or why, or where it went."

"They's got priests on the job now, though," Dran said. "I sees five of them around the bank this afternoon."

"What can they find? Nothing, Dran, nothing." At least, he thought, I hope they can't. He enjoyed poking small jibes at his First Officer, but there was a great deal of truth in what the little man said.

"We is been here two days, captain," Dran said. "I is getting nervous."

"If we'd sailed the day after the robbery," Kris pointed out, "we'd have been first on the list of suspects. As it is, we've got our honest cargo almost loaded, and the longshoremen have been over every inch of the ship. They'll know—"

He stopped. A voice had sounded over the waters of the Bay of Tammulcor.

"Hoy!" came a faint voice from above. "You— Aboard the Krand! Hoy!"

Kris peKym cocked his head to one side and listened.

"Hoy, dockboat!" he heard the lookout shout. "What is it?"

"We're special searchers for the Uncle of Public Peace," came the reply. "We'll see your captain!"

Dran shot to his feet. "By my Ancestors!"

Kris lifted his tall, muscular body from the chair, moving like a cat stalking its prey. "Relax, Dran peDran; I can handle this."

He climbed up the ladder to the deck. The torches on the masts shed a flickering orange light over the water, and from above the pale glow of the Lesser Light shining through the eternal clouds gave a ghostly monochromatic background to the circle of orange.

Kris walked over to the port bulwark and looked over the side. A dinghy with five men in it was pulling up to the ladder.

"I'm captain here," Kris told them. "What's your business?"

"Special searchers for the Uncle of Public Peace," the leader repeated.

Kris frowned. "Looking for what?" he asked sharply. "We have no criminals aboard."

"That's to be seen," the Peaceman said. "We're not looking for men anyway; we're looking for cobalt."

"For what? Now, look here—I've paid my harbor fee."

"We'll take none that's legally yours. Let us aboard."

Kris shrugged and signaled the deckman. "Lower the ladder."

As the live Peacemen came aboard, Kris just stood there, his balled fists on his hips, looking at them coldly. Several crewmen stood about, fingering handy belaying pins. The crew of the Krand was a tight, cohesive unit that stood firmly behind Kris.

"You're Captain Kris peKym Yorgen?" the official asked. "Commanding the Krand, out of Vashcor?"

"I am," Kris said coldly. "And now that you're aboard my vessel, you'd better prove you are who you say—or the sea-things will eat tonight."

It was the right thing to say, Kris knew. The other sea captains would be equally suspicious of anyone who came aboard their vessels. In the first place, Peacemen had no right to interfere in honest trade; in the second place, these might not be Peacemen in the first place.

The mob violence which had threatened Tammulcor and all of the Province of Dimay in the past two days made one suspicious of anyone and everyone.

The Peacemen fingered the heavy truncheons at their belts while their leader took a neatly-folded paper from his sash pouch. He handed it to Kris, who opened it and read the order from the Uncle of Public Peace.

He smiled and looked up. "Stolen cobalt, eh? What happened?" His voice was no longer truculent, and hands dropped from truncheons.

"Hadn't you heard that the Bank of Dimay was robbed?" the leader asked.

The words echoed oddly over the water.

"I had heard, yes," Kris said casually. "But not the details."

"One hundred manweights of cobalt were taken. A group of men struck the Keeper of the bank and took the money away." Kris saw the man glare at him sharply. "It was a most evil sin, and most incomprehensible."

Kris nodded. "True. What would anyone want with so much money? And why do you come to me?"

"The money must have been taken away somehow. It may be aboard a ship. We have to search every ship that comes into the harbor. You see that we—"

"I see," Kris said. He turned to his First Officer. "Dran peDran, show these men through the ship. Eight million weights of cobalt coin could not be hidden easily."

No indeed, Kris was thinking. It's hard to hide thirty-six cubic feet of metal. Especially when it's in the form of coin.

While Dran led the police below, Kris climbed to the bridge and leaned against the mainmast, watching the shore. The seconds passed slowly, and he found himself listening keenly to the sounds of the harbor—the creaking of a distant oar, the soft, unvarying lapping of the waves against the side of the ship, the sounds of men chanting far away on the shore or on some hauling-vessel entering the harbor.

The next few minutes would mean the success or failure of the voyage, Kris thought. And a failure here, at this time, might mean the failure of the whole Merchants' Party.

Kris smiled grimly. He'd staked his life with the Merchants—with Leader Del peFenn and with Secretary Norvis, It just wouldn't do to have the whole thing blow up in their faces right now, with Nidor still in the grip of the misguided Elders and the devil Earthmen hovering ambiguously in the background.

And now Captain Kris peKym stood on the deck of his ship, waiting for success—or failure. If the police found the secret of the double hull in the bilge of the ship, the whole project would collapse right there. It would do no good in the long run to kill the five investigators—though that would have to be done, of course. But the Uncle of Public Peace would know what had happened, and, within a day, Kris peKym Yorgen and his crew would be hunted men.

He waited patiently. There was no noise from below as yet. His men would come down on the hapless five with belaying pins just as soon as the fatal discovery was made— if it was made, that is. He steeled himself and waited for the outcome.

It took a while before the constables reappeared. They were trained searchers, and they had done a thorough job, having searched through the vessel for nearly three hours. When they came above, though, it was immediately apparent to Kris that they had been unsuccessful in their search.

He smiled to himself. Obviously, they didn't even as much as suspect the existence of a false hold in the bottom of the ship. After all, a ship is only built one way; the thought that anyone might break time-honored tradition would never enter into their heads.

The leader of the squad seemed a great deal more at ease than he had been when he had boarded the ship. "Well?" Kris asked. "Find the untold millions below?"

"I'm glad to say your ship's in fine order, captain. Not a trace of contraband of any sort. But still—"

"Yes?" Kris asked suspiciously.

"It's very odd, you know. A hundred manweights of cobalt is no easy load; how could it disappear like that? It's like magic."

Kris looked thoughtfully at the top of the mizzenmast. "Yes. You're right. It's almost as though the stuff had floated off into thin air—-as the Earthmen do, when they leave us."

A startled expression crossed the constable's face. "You aren't suggesting—"

"Oh, no!" Kris said, his face taking on an expression of horror. "Great Light forbid! No! But, as you said, it looks like magic."

The officer scowled. "Little help that is. Well, that'll be all. Good sailing, Captain Kris peKym."

Without another word, he and his men climbed down to the dinghy and rowed off. Kris barely managed to repress the urge to chuckle uproariously as their oars swept busily through the water.

When they were a good distance from the ship, Kris breathed deeply and turned around to Dran peDran.

"All right, let's turn in. We have to take sail tomorrow—and we have to look like honest sailors, don't we?"

Then he noticed the peculiarly solemn look on the First Officer's face.

"What's the matter, Dran peDran?"

The little Bronze Islander glanced apprehensively at the Public Peace dinghy that was moving smoothly away, some hundred yards from the ship. "We is got somewhat of trouble, captain. Come below, eh?"

Kris followed Dran down the ladder to the First Officer's cabin. There, he saw two burly sailors standing guard over a third seaman. The prisoner looked dazed.

"We has to clout him on the head when we find what he is up to, captain. Look at this." He handed Kris a bit of paper.

Kris took in the words scribbled on it at a quick glance:

The money is in a false bottom built into the ship. I had nothing to do with the robbery. Ask the Grandfathers to pray for me.

It was signed, Vels peKorvin Danoy.

"He is trying to give it to the Peaceman when I catch him," said Dran peDran.

Kris frowned. "Did you write this, Vels peKorvin?"

"Sure he write it!" Dran snarled. "I signal the boys when I see him, and they clout him and take him here! We tell the Peacemen that he is seasick," he added as an afterthought.

"Quiet, Dran," Kris said softly. "Let him talk. Did you write this, Vels peKorvin?"

The prisoner looked up stiffly. "I wrote it, captain. To steal money from a bank is nothing but sacrilege. It is a sin which I do not want on my soul."

"Why didn't you just denounce us?" Kris asked. His voice was still soft.

"It would have done no good," Vels said bitterly. "You would have killed us all. But if they got the note, they could have done something about it later, after they got ashore."

"Then you admit your guilt? You admit you have endangered the life of those aboard this vessel?" Kris crossed his arms sternly. "There is only one sentence for that, Vels peKorvin Danoy."

"I know. But I did what I thought was right."

"Very well." Kris turned to Dran. "Prepare a Cup of Eternal Quiet."

The little First Officer registered astonishment. "What, captain? The drug is only for those who is too badly hurt to live, or for those who is dying of an evil growth! Traitors is hanged!"

"Quiet!" Kris said sharply. "Hanging is for criminals; stoning is for blasphemers. Vels peKorvin is neither. He has done what he thought was right. If he had done it through fear of being caught, if he had denied it through cowardice, if he had tried to smuggle the Peacemen the note because of his fear of us—then I most assuredly would have hanged him. But he did what he did because of a mistaken belief that we are not on the side of the Great Light; he thinks that following the way of the Earthmen is following the Way of our Ancestors. Therefore, his death shall be honorable. Bring the Cup, Dran peDran."

The First Officer bobbed his head. "Yes, sir. I sees." He turned quickly and left the room.

Kris faced the stony-featured prisoner. "Your clan, the Danoy, will be told that you died in the course of duty, Vels peKorvin. I will see that the Passing Service is said for you at the Temple in Vashcor."

Hypocrite! Kris thought accusingly. All this solemnity when the thing to do is just to heave the man overboard. But revolutions move slowly.

The seaman bowed his head. "You are a great man, captain, even though you are misled. My prayers shall be for you."

"And mine for you. Would you care to hear the Scripture?"

The sailor nodded.

Kris crossed the tiny cabin to the locker where Dran peDran kept his personal belongings. He opened it, took out a thick book bound in brown deest leather, and began leafing through it.

At that moment, Dran peDran came in quietly, holding a cup of peych beer. The little cabin was silent as the prisoner took the bitter-tasting cup and drank it. He lay down on the bunk, face down, his hands clasped above his head. It would be a few minutes before the poison took effect.

"The Book of History," Kris peKym said. "Second section. 'And the Great Light spoke to the Lawyer Bel-rogas, saying: The Cataclysm has destroyed those who were not righteous, and they shall suffer forever. But he who dies for My sake shall live in eternal peace.

" 'Now, at that time, a certain man came to Bel-rogas,' "

Chapter III

The Krand weighed anchor at firstlight, sailing out of the Bay of Tammulcor and making her way due cast, along the coast. She skirted Thyvocor, the small port city of Thyvash Province, staying well out to sea so that her tall masts would not be seen. Then she angled northeast, heading for the Bronze Islands.

The trip was uneventful. The Krand dropped anchor well offshore in the dead of night. In the distance could be heard the rumble of the sea splashing against tall cliffs, and the occasional cry of a flying sea lizard.

Silently and carefully, the crew set to work. All that night they labored, doing their job doggedly and without case. A ship's longboat made the passage from ship to shore and back again many times. It was not until firstlight that Kris announced that the job was nearly done. He made the last trip himself.

Kris peKym eased himself down into the longboat and whispered: "Dran peDran, if you make those oars creak one more time, I swear I'll tie a rock around your neck and throw you overboard."

"Us is made twelve trips in this boat," said Dran stolidly. "Us is carried lots heavier cargoes than you is, captain. How many creaks is you heard?"

Kris glanced at the other crewmen in the dim illumination of the setting Lesser Light "I heard three," he said succinctly. "And that's about four too many."

One of the men chuckled a little as he pulled at the oars, and Dran's sharp whisper cut across the merriment. "You doesn't laugh at the captain's jokes at a time like this! Shut quiet!"

Kris grinned in the darkness as the longboat moved toward the shore in the blackness. They were a good crew; they knew what they were doing, and they knew how to keep their mouths shut. And they were loyal; that was the one important thing. They knew that their captain was right, and they'd follow him to the Rim of the World itself.

The Krand was anchored off the rocky shore of Bellinet, the largest of the Bronze Islands. Nearby was a small village. None of these villagers must know that the great load of cobalt from the Krand's false hull was being unloaded here.

The constant drizzle of rain that marked every Nidorian night wetted the bodies of the sweating seamen and dripped gently into the bottom of the boat. And there, the heavy cobalt coins glistened metallically in the faint light. It was the last load; the rest of the loot from the Bank of Dimay already lay in the tidal cave beneath the cliff.

After several minutes, Dran peDran whispered: "Captain! Us is here. Does you want to go in?"

Kris nodded. "I'll help you transfer it inside. We've got to hurry."

He glanced up and frowned. The rain was already letting up; soon, the Great Light would he coloring the eastern sky.

He and the crewmen stripped off their black seamen's uniforms—a vest and knee-length trousers, all alike except for the white stripes on the front of the vests of the officers.

Kris slid silently into the gently heaving water, feeling its coolness against his overheated body. "All right, Dran," he whispered harshly. "Give me the first load."

Dran heaved a string of coins out of the bottom of the boat. Each coin was pierced by the symbolic triangular hole which stood for the beam of light that pierced the lens of each temple as it illumined the altar. Through each of the holes ran a strong bronze wire, which was twisted to form a loop. And on each loop was a quarter of a man-weight in coins—more than twenty thousand weights of solid cobalt!

Kris grasped a loop in each hand, took a deep breath, and dropped to the sandy bottom of the surging sea, twenty feet below the surface. Slowly pushing his way toward the cliff ahead, he felt his way with his feet. As long as he kept on the sand, he was all right.

In the darkness, it was difficult to tell where he was going, but the gentle slope of coral sand that spilled out of the underwater cave before him was easy to follow. He moved one foot after another cautiously.

Holding the loops of coins, he pushed himself toward the cliff. Finally, he felt the opening in the wall. He lowered his head and crept up the slope toward the cave beneath the cliff. The only opening was completely underwater at all times, and traveling the passage, especially with a heavy load, required the ability to hold a breath and keep from panicking.

When at last his head broke water, Kris peKym took a deep, gasping breath. Above him, in the cave, were two of his crewmen. One of them held out a hand.

"I'll take the coin, captain."

Kris handed the two loops up to him. The light of the flickering oil lamp cast changing, moving shadows across the interior of the dark cavern.

Kris climbed up from the pool that led to the outside and walked with the two men who were carrying the loops. They went to the heavy, leaden casket at the far end of the cave. It was filled with oil, the sea-smelling oil of the great lizards that prowled the coasts of the Bronze Islands. The huge, vegetarian beasts were excellent sources of oil, although it was scarcely worthwhile to ship it to the mainland of Nidor, where plant oils from the ubiquitous peych-bean were so cheap.

The coins went into the oil-filled chest. In sea water, even cobalt would pit and deteriorate. The oil would protect it for a while.

"Captain! Here's another!" One of the crewmen had bobbed his head above the pool; in his hand was another loop of coins.

Kris watched as the rest of the boatload, representing the last of the great mass of cobalt that had been taken from the Bank of Dimay, was hauled, loop by loop, into the hidden cavern.

When the last one had been dumped into the chest, he grinned and said, "That's the last of it, boys. She'll stay there until we need her. Lock it up."

One of the seamen stepped up to the casket, closed the lid, and padlocked it. He handed the heavy bronze key to Kris. "There he is, captain," he said, a twisted smile crossing his face. "They'll never find it here."

There was one more precaution. They shoveled sand and heavy chunks of coral over the box, covering it completely. When that was done, Kris said, "All's well, boys. Let's go."

The cobalt was buried now—the cobalt whose theft could trigger the movement that would, at last, drive the hated Earthmen from Nidor. Kris hoped so.

He took one last look. Then the three of them dived into the pool and swam through the passage to the waiting longboat.

The Great Light was just beginning to lighten the cloud-laden sky in the east.

In Vashcor, that same day, Norvis peKrin Dmorno and Marja geDel Vyless were performing their duties at the Party headquarters with more than usual energy.

"So Kris has succeeded in robbing the bank," Marja said. "Wonderful!"

"It is," the Secretary said quietly. "He carried the job off perfectly— and your father's out in the towns now, making speeches claiming it was the Elders who did it."

"Will that line of approach work?"

"I'm not sure," Norvis said. "It's your father's policy, though, and he's the Leader. For fourteen years, Del's been preaching against the Council. If he keeps it up, he may eventually convince the people that the Elders are corrupt."

"Where's Kris now?" Marja asked.

"Caching the money, no doubt. He ought to be back here soon. Why?"

"Oh—nothing much, Norvis. It's ... just that I'd like to see him again. It's kind of comforting, having a big man like Kris around the office."

Norvis smiled wryly. "Thanks, Marja."

"I didn't mean—"

"I understand."

"I know you do. Kris is ... well, sort of wonderful. I wish I could get to know him better. But he's always out crusading some place or other, just like Father."

"Maybe you'll get the chance soon, Marja. If—"

He was interrupted by a sound of knocking at the door.

"Come in!"

A yellow-clad acolyte entered. "From the Priest-Mayor," he mumbled. "A message." He handed Norvis a sealed envelope, which the Secretary broke open immediately and read.

"What is it, Norvis?"

"Grandfather Marn peFulda wants to see me at once. I'd better go, I guess."

"Norvis peKrin Dmorno, Secretary to the Merchants' Party," the acolyte intoned.

Grandfather Marn peFulda Brajjyd, Priest-Mayor of Vashcor, looked up as Norvis entered the office. "The peace of your ancestors be with you always," he said.

"May the Great Light illumine your mind as he does the world. You asked to see me, Grandfather?"

The Priest-Mayor looked at his visitor and smiled. "Sit down, my son. We'll not stand on ceremony here."

As Norvis sat, the Grandfather lifted an eyebrow at the acolyte who stood at the door. "Be about your duties," he said. "I have nothing to fear from Norvis peKrin Dmorno."

The acolyte bowed and left, but it seemed to Norvis that there was a trace of reluctance in his demeanor.

"My staff is rather on edge," the Grandfather explained apologetically. "They seem to fear for my life."

"They have nothing to fear from me, Ancient One," Norvis said.

"I know. But the priesthood is not exactly in good odor here in Vashcor; my Mayoralty is hardly considered any more."

Norvis shrugged. "For that, Aged Grandfather, I am sorry."

"I know." Suddenly, the priest put his finger to his lips and winked. "I'd like to have you take a look at this," he said.

He rose and tiptoed to the door, his blue robes gathered up with one hand so they wouldn't rustle. He winked again.

Norvis caught the meaning of the gesture and said, "Very interesting, Grandfather. Very interesting. May I look at it again?"

The priest paused at the door for a moment, then jerked it open suddenly. The acolyte who had been listening at the hinge crack nearly fell inward. He regained his balance just in time, after a half-stagger, and his golden facial hair was suffused with a pink glow of embarrassment from beneath.

"You were told to go about your duties, Gyls peDorf," the priest said sternly. "You disobeyed."

"Yes, Grandfather." The acolyte shrank in on himself in an agony of humiliation. An unsuccessful eavesdropper, Norvis reflected, is a pitiful sight.

"Having disobeyed my order, you must take your punishment. Go to your cell; fast and pray for the next three days. Go, Gyls peDorf."

The acolyte took off down the hall as though all the demons of the Outer Darkness were after him— which, of course, might well have been the case.

Chuckling to himself, the Grand-father closed the door again and returned to his desk. "Thank you, my son; you have a quick wit. My staff is loyal—too loyal, sometimes, I fear. But no one will hear us now."

Norvis gave the priest a half-smile. The cleric had something on his mind; that much was obvious. Ever since he had received the invitation to the Grandfather's office, he had been wondering what it was that perturbed the old priest.

"My son," he began, "it is more than fourteen years since a man has been stoned for blasphemy on Nidor. Before that, no man had been punished thus for over two centuries. You may recall the case. It took place in Holy Gelusar itself, and the man stoned was Norvis peRahn Brajjyd, the grandson of Grandfather Kiv peGanz Brajjyd, the present leader of the Council of Elders."

"I recall," Norvis said, trying to keep his voice calm. Did the priest know? Did he know that the man he was talking to was that very Norvis peRahn Brajjyd, the boy who presumably had been stoned to death the year before the Great Depression began?

"Before that instance," the Grandfather went on implacably, "no one had been stoned because there was no blasphemy—or, at least, none in public. There has been no one stoned since because blasphemy has become almost commonplace. We live in wicked times, my son."

"I quite agree, Grandfather." What's the old man getting at?

Grandfather Marn peFulda said: "We have a problem here, Norvis peKrin. I'll put it bluntly. The Leader of your Merchants' Party— Del peFenn Vyless—is a troublemaker. Ever since the robbery of the Bank of Dimay, he has been implying that we—the priesthood—are behind it."

"You must forgive Del, Grandfather," Norvis said quickly.} "He preaches against the Council of Elders, true—but remember, he is a sailor, and seamen are likely to become acerbic at times."

Marn peFulda shook his. head. "That's not the point, my son. I don't disagree with, what you have to say. I, too, think that the Earthmen are ... ah ... a disturbing influence on Nidorian culture, I would ... ahem ... like to see any such influences removed. But I don't think destroying our Government is the way to do it."

Norvis felt a slight shock. The thought that any of the priesthood would agree with the Merchants' Party program, would have any point of tangency whatsoever, was, to say the least, unusual.

He leaned back in his chair, stroking the downy fuzz on his check. "I don't think I quite follow you, Grandfather."

The Priest-Mayor looked worried and thoughtful. His face seemed somehow gaunt, and the silver of his facial hair looked oddly gray. Moving slowly, deliberately, he leaned across his desk toward Norvis. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper.

"I want to tell you something, my son. I don't want you to interrupt, because, if you do, I may not be able to finish what I have to say. I will speak to you as though we were of the same age, as though there were no difference between us. Forget that I am a priest; remember only that I am a Nidorian."

Norvis nodded. "I will listen, Marn peFulda."

He had not used the formal manner of address, and the priest looked just a trifle surprised for a second? Then he smiled bleakly.

"Thank you, Norvis peKrin. I know that what I say will not go beyond you—but if it does, I will refute it."

"You need have no fear, Marn peFulda." For the second time, Norvis used the familiar address.

"Very Well, then. And, as I said, no interruptions." He took a deep breath, but his voice was still low when he spoke.

"The Council of Elders is blind. When the Great Light told us our duties, immediately after the Cataclysm, he spoke through the great Lawyer Bel-rogas." Marn peFulda tapped the Book of Scripture on his desk. "It is all here, and we cannot disbelieve His Word.

"But Bel-rogas warned us that the Great Light had also spoken of the Great Darkness."

Norvis said nothing. The mention of the Great Darkness was well known, but no one paid any attention to it any more. Norvis, whose theological studies at the Bel-rogas School of Divine Law had been abruptly interrupted, two decades before, by a trumped-up expulsion arranged by the Earthmen, had little love for theology in any event.

"The Great Darkness, according, to Bel-rogas, is the antithesis of the Great Light," the Grandfather said. "It is a being whom the Great Light created as a counterbalance to Himself.

"Of late, we have come to discount the power of the Great Darkness. We have come to think of him as merely a natural phenomenon, as an absence of the Great Light. Through four thousand years of history, we have seen that when night comes there is nothing to fear. The Great Light is not shining upon us at night, but we do not find in darkness a negation of light, merely the absence of light." He paused dramatically, and his voice took on urgent undertones.

"But I tell you that the Great Darkness is a living being, as alive and ambitious as you or I! Through forty centuries, he has remained silent, not obtruding himself upon us, waiting until we no longer believed in him as a personality. And now, his time has come. He is here, among us; he has sent his minions to corrupt our priesthood, our Council, our lives, and the Way of our Ancestors.

"We of Nidor have traveled in the right path, we have moved in the Way of the Light. Why? Because we dared not follow the Darker Path? No. We moved in the Way of the Light because we knew no other way. The Great Darkness had not tempted us from that Way. But now now we have been invited to try the path of Darkness." He paused again and looked questioningly at Norvis. "How do you feel about this?"

"You may be right, Grand fa ... Marn peFulda. But how do we know that one Path is better than the other?"

The priest looked scornful. "Is it better to walk in the light of day, where one can see where one is going, where one can see one's goal, or is it better to walk during the night, when one cannot see what lies ahead of him, when his goal is obscured in blackness?"

Norvis shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He could see what argument the Grandfather was driving toward, but he wasn't quite sure he wanted to agree with it on theological grounds. "Where are you heading, Grandfa ... Marn peFulda?"

"Just this: it is obvious from the history of the past century that we have been diverted from the Way of our Ancestors. And I say that it is the Earthmen who have done this! The Earthmen who came among us and built their School, up in Holy Gelusar, supposedly to teach the Law. A stream of wickedness has come from the School under the guise of Light. The School has changed our world—taking our best minds, twisting them, filling them with words of the Earthmen. The Earthmen are the minions of the Great Darkness!"

Norvis frowned. He had much the same opinion of the Earthman-founded Bel-rogas School, but he had scarcely expected to hear it from a priest. Marn must not have gone to the School, he thought.

To test the priest's logic he asked, "But Grandfather—the Earthmen walk and act and speak in the daylight, when the Great Light shines. How can that be?"

"Can't you see, my son? The Scripture is metaphorical in its meaning. The passages are symbolical. They do not mean the darkness of an ordinary night; they mean the Darkness of a lack of morality, the Darkness of a rejection of the Way or our Ancestors, the Darkness of the deviation from the Path of the Great Light."

"I think I follow you, Grandfather. In fact, I'm sure I do." He paused for a moment. These were surprising words to hear from a priest's lips—and evidently it was an opinion the priest had been nursing a long time.

"My position," said Grandfather Marn peFulda, "is this: I believe that the Earthmen are agents of the Great Darkness—in fact, I know them to be so. But I cannot condone the attitude of Del peFenn Vyless, the Leader of your party."

That's no surprise, Norvis thought. The way Del howls for the heads of the Elders, it's a wonder the good Grandfather can keep a civil tongue in his head when he speaks of him.

"I do not feel," the priest went on, "that the proper service of the Great Light includes the throwing-over of His ordained priesthood; it must include only the correction of the evils which have invaded the Council of Elders. And if you were to change the line of attack of your Party somewhat, I ... I might be persuaded to lend some influence of my own."

A reformer! Norvis thought. He could hardly keep from smiling. It was exactly what he wanted—exactly what the Party needed! He had hardly dared hope it would happen.

Priest against priest; liberal orthodoxy against reactionary reformation—nothing could be more suited to his plans.

"Very well, Grandfather," he said, "I'll see what can be done." This interview altered things considerably. He had to leave, now. He wanted to send an anonymous note to Grandfather Kiv, the head of the Council—pitchforking Kiv into action that would set in motion the climax of the plan.

The priest nodded solemnly and raised his crossed forearms in benediction. "May the Great Light illumine your mind, my son, and lead you to the Way of Light."

"May He illumine your mind as He does the world," said Norvis, bowing.

Chapter IV

In his office in Holy Gelusar, capital city of Nidor, Elder Grandfather Kiv peGanz Brajjyd—leader of the Council of Elders of the Sixteen Clans, and traditionally the most powerful man on Nidor sat quietly, staring at the sheet of printed lettering on the desk before him.

He winced, glanced away. In order to dismiss it from his mind for the moment, Grandfather Kiv peGanz lifted his eyes to the window which looked out on the Holy City. There were buildings out there, buildings which had stood for centuries. Some of them had stood for two, perhaps three thousand years.

Gelusar, the City of the Great Light Himself, seemed safe from the corruption of the masses, but—But was it? Was it really safe?

Again he glanced at the note, as though to discover some meaning which was different from the meaning he had read before. No new interpretation came, though. There was none. The words remained the same.

Grandfather Kiv glanced reflectively up at the cloud-laden sky for a moment. Then, leaving the note on his desk, he locked his office and went down to the Temple. He knew he couldn't carry the weight of this decision alone.

The dim vault of the Temple was empty except for a few worshipers here and there, praying among the kneeling benches.

There were less than usual, Kiv noticed, as he made his way down the aisle toward the altar. It had not been like that when he was younger. He could remember long ago, when the Earthmen had first come, the days when the Temple had been steamy with the breath of many worshipers.

He remembered the Hugl Crisis— a crisis that he, himself had caused, more than fifty years before. The people had flocked to the Temples then.

Kiv sighed deeply, His eight decades of life weighed heavily upon him. His daughter, Sindi, had died, miserable and unhappy. His only grandson, Norvis peRahn, had been stoned to death for blasphemy, more than fourteen years before.

He lifted his eyes toward the altar. From the great lens in the roof of the temple, the diffuse rays of the Great Light were focused upon the refracting surface of the stone altar top.

Great Light, he asked, what have I done?

The focus of the Great Light was near the Left Pit. Kiv knelt before the glowing spot, keeping his eyes carefully averted.

O Great Light, he asked again, what have I done?

And this time, he seemed to hear a voice. What have you done? Nothing!

For a moment, Kiv peGanz felt deep relief.

And then the full import of what he had seemed to hear struck him.

Nothing?

Had he done nothing!

Had he neglected to do what he ought to have done?

He glanced at the pit in which the Great Light seemed to burn. It seared his eyes and he turned away. What was it the Earthman, Jones, had called the Great Light?.

A blue-white star.

What it meant, Kiv had no notion, but he had been told it by the blessed Earthman more than five decades before.

For the first time, he raised his eyes to the lens in the roof. And he made a prayer that had never been heard before on Nidor.

"Oh, Great and Holy Blue-white-star," he said softly, "if I have not acted according to Your wishes, if I have not acted at all—then give me the strength to act now."

He paused for a moment, but there was no response.

"I thank you, O Great Light. You have illumined my mind."

Rising quickly, he genuflected and then hastened toward his office. The other worshipers seemed to pay no attention to the old man's coming and going.

Back at his office, he looked once again at the note.

I have done nothing, he thought. I must act.

The note said:

Most Holy and Ancient Grandfather:

It has come to my attention that a certain thief has stolen eight million weights of cobalt from the Bank of Dimay. According to the Law, the vaults of the Holy City of Gelusar must make up any losses of money. But if you do this, and the extra money which has been stolen is spent by the thieves, it will lower the value of all our money.

On the other hand, if you do not replace it, the Bank of Dimay will fail.

What is your decision, Ancient Grandfather?

-

The note was unsigned.

Kiv fingered it for a moment. Can I take the chance? he asked himself.

No. He couldn't. He had to assume that the note was true. If he replaced the coinage in the vaults of the Bank of Dimay, then, when the thief dumped all that coinage on Nidor, every weight would be devalued. Money would be worthless.

Yet, if he refused to replace the money, the Bank of Dimay would be bankrupt, and its scrip mere paper. But the rest of Nidor would maintain its monetary integrity.

That was the core of the matter. It was the Bank of Dimay against all of Nidor—and Dimay would have to be sacrificed. Whether the note were true or not, there was only one thing he could do. And, by the Great Light, he would do it!

Calmly, the old priest reached for the pen on his desk. His gnarled hands quivered a little, but he pulled a sheet of embossed paper to him and began to write.

The Krand made its way into the crowded harbor of Vashcor nearly a week later, with Kris peKym standing proudly on the deck, staring at the sprawling seaport as if he were about to receive a hero's ovation.

They docked at one of the smaller piers, and Kris turned to Dran peDran. "When the cargo is unloaded, give the men a day's liberty," he told the Bronze Islander. "I'm going to pay a visit to Headquarters to see what our next job is."

"Is fine, sir," Dran peDran said.

Kris nodded and climbed ashore. He moved quickly through the knot of sailors and dockhands that thronged the busy waterfront, heading toward the small frame house that was the headquarters of the Merchants' Party.

Norvis peKrin Dmorno looked up and smiled in greeting as Kris entered.

"Well! The pirate has returned!"

"Safe and sound," Kris said, glancing around. "I see Del's not back yet."

"No," Norvis said. "I expected him back yesterday, but there's been so much trouble in Tammulcor that he must have been delayed. How did your voyage go?"

"Well enough. We brought back copper and tin from the Bronze Islands, and cloth from Tammulcor." He frowned, then added: "And we lost a man: Vels peKorvin Danoy. He went overboard during the voyage." Kris saw no need to elaborate; the affair was closed, and such losses at sea were not uncommon.

Norvis nodded. "I'll see that the proper papers are filled. Have you heard the news about Tammulcor? There's trouble down there."

"I dare say," Kris replied, grinning. "What happened? Someone rob a bank?"

Norvis was only slightly amused. "That, and more. The Council, under instruction from Elder Grandfather Kiv peGanz Brajjyd, has refused to replace the money. The scrip of Dimay is utterly worthless."

Kris looked puzzled. "Why the devil did he do that?"

Norvis smiled. "Because he doesn't know where the cobalt is, of course. If he were to replace it, and back the Bank of Dimay, what would happen if we dumped all that cobalt back on the market? There would be eight million weights too many floating around Nidor. See?"

Kris nodded. "Good. When are we going to dump it then? You want me to go back and dig the stuff up?"

"Not at all. It's causing more than enough trouble right where it is." The Secretary leaned backward and put his hands behind his head. "We're wicked, aren't we?" he asked suddenly.

"Living devils," said Kris. He stood there silent for a moment, toying with a carved-ivory statuette some sailor had made from a bone of a large sea animal and had given to Secretary Norvis long ago.

Suddenly, the abrupt plop plop plop of cloven deest-hoofs sounded outside. Kris looked up to see Leader Del pulling up at the hitching-post in front of Headquarters.

Kris nodded coolly as the Leader entered. Del's fine golden body-down was covered with a dull coating of road dust from his journey, and he showed signs of fatigue.

"Miserable trip," Del peFenn Vyless grunted as he strode in and sat down. "I'd rather sail from Gycor to Lidacor the long way than travel from Tammulcor by deest."

"How come you rode?" Kris asked.

"Couldn't get a ship," said Del. "I was in Elvisen when I found out there was trouble down in the south, so I rode down there. But the harbor's so fouled up because of the riots that there weren't any passenger ships available." He coughed and wiped perspiration from his face.

"Find out anything interesting down there?" Norvis asked.

"Aye," Del peFenn said heavily. He was a big man, tall for a Nidorian, with wide, muscular shoulders. He still walked with the rolling stride of a seafaring man, although it had been ten years since he had last captained a merchantship. "Aye. We have a bunch of raggle-tail grumblers who don't know what they want, but who know they don't like things the way they are."

"Sounds like promising material for us," Kris said.

Del dropped into a chair at the side of the bare room. "I don't know," he said. "The fatheads didn't want to listen to me." The Leader smoothed a thick-fingered hand over his silvering down.

At Del's bitter words, Kris felt a moment of triumph. He knew blustering, clumsy Del was doing things the wrong way—and here the Leader himself was admitting failure!

Del shook his head. "The Elders pulled the rug out from under those people by scragging their bank. They're rioting, marching up and down, burning things and yelling. And yet ... yet they can't be persuaded that the priests are no good for them. I don't understand it, Norvis."

Suppose we send Kris down there?" Norvis suggested suddenly. "We need Tammulcor—it's the lifeline of Gelusar and all the Central Plains area. It's a trading port surrounded by plenty of farming country—and the farmers are still on the side of the Elders, despite all that's happened to them."

"Why send Kris?" Del asked uneasily.

"He's a new face. He might be able to do the trick where you failed. They know you from way back, and they know you don't respect their religion. They don't know Kris."

Del considered that for a moment. "All right," he said finally.

"Let's send Kris to Tammulcor." He turned to face Kris peKym, who had been watching the interplay silently and without opinion. "You'd better go by deest," he said. "The harbor's blocked up."

"You want me to go immediately?" Kris asked, surprised despite himself.

Del nodded. "I think so. Come— let's sit down and plan out what you're going to say to them."

Chapter V

Kris peKym's strong baritone rang joyously through the warm, humid summer air.

"You is so right, captain," Dran peDran said. His voice sounded tired. "I is weary from riding this cursed deest. It's no way for an honest sailor to travel."

"Quiet, youngster," Kris said smilingly. "The feel of a deest ride, if you but had the sense to notice it, is very like that of a boat."

"Yes. I is in agreement I is never been sea-sick in my life, but I is definitely deest-sick now."

Kris grinned. "Better get used to the swing of it, Dran. We've got a long way to go."

The seaport of Thyvocor was not far behind them; Tammulcor was more than a day's journey overland ahead. They were on the second leg of their journey southwest to the big seaport.

There was a direct route from Vashcor to Tammulcor, but it was winding, dusty, and rarely traveled. There was the constant menace of bandits to be considered, too. Instead of the overland route, Kris and Dran peDran had taken the coastal packet south from Vashcor to Thyvocor, and there had purchased two sturdy-looking deests with which to complete the journey overland from midpoint. Vashcor lay directly west of the small port of Thyvocor.

"Flat, dull country this is," Dran commented as they spurred their mounts through the coastal lowlands.

Kris nodded. It was dull country, all marshy gray-green grass and flat, swampy plain. But it was necessary to cross through it, and so they were crossing it. It sometimes was necessary, Kris realized, to do perfectly dull, dreary things like crossing the lowlands, in order to get to where more exciting things could happen.

Like getting to Tammulcor, for instance—Tammulcor, where bewildered men were rioting and demonstrating against anything and everything. Once in Tammulcor, Kris would face a difficult job, but he was looking forward to it.

There was an analogy. For the past three-years, he had taken orders from Del peFenn—dull, blockheaded, blustering Del peFenn. Kris had threatened rebellion from time to time, but Norvis had always managed to smooth things over. Now, at last, Del peFenn had sent Kris off to Tammulcor in a position of unquestionable authority. It had been worth waiting for.

Dran yawned. "When is we getting to Tammulcor?"

"Soon, Dran peDran. Be patient."

Easy to say, Kris thought. He scowled as the deests barreled through a muddy marsh and kicked up a shower of brackish water. This trip would never end.

Somehow, he managed to hold himself in check for the rest of the long day. Toward nightfall, the Great Light began to dim rapidly, and soon the nightly drizzle started coming down.

"Do we camp for the night?" Dran asked.

Without turning his head, Kris said, "No. Let's keep going."

They kept going. Before morning, the harbor of Tammulcor came into view. Smoky fires trailed upward, giving sign of violence the night before.

"There's been trouble here," Kris said. "And there'll be more." There was a note of keen anticipation in his voice.

The Great Cor Bridge across the Tammul river was guarded by a group of ten husky men wielding heavy truncheons. One of them was armed with a cocked and loaded rifle—an expensive weapon, but an effective one. The guard, Kris thought, looked as though he could handle the gun effectively enough.

They had placed a heavy wooden barrier across the bridge, just high enough to prevent even a trained deest from leaping over it. As Kris and Dran trotted their mounts up to the barrier, one of the men stepped forward to meet them.

Before the Peaceman could say anything, Kris called out: "Who are you? Why is the bridge blocked?"

"Peacemen!" said the burly one. "Who are you, and what is your business?"

"My compliments to the Uncle of Public Peace," Kris said smoothly. "I can see that he chooses his men well."

"What do you want? Why do you go to Dimay?" the Peaceman repeated, obviously attempting to ignore the naked flattery. But his voice was less harsh than it had been.

"I am Kris peKym Yorgen," Kris said. "Merely a citizen who wants to go to Tammulcor. Is that wrong?"

"Not wrong," said the Peaceman. "But foolish. The whole province is in an uproar; there is rioting in the cities and bands of looters in the country. You take your life in your hands to enter Dimay."

"Is that why you're here then?" Kris asked with feigned innocence. "To warn travelers?"

The Peaceman shook his head. "No. Somewhere in Dimay, someone has hidden eight million weights in cobalt. We don't want it to leave the Province."

"Indeed? Eight million weights?"

"Yes. You may enter if you wish, but watch yourself. And don't try to pass an exit barrier without stopping."

"Of course," Kris said meekly.

The barrier was lifted, and Kris and Dran urged their deests across the bridge.

"What is all that for, captain?" Dran asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

"They're playing it smart. They didn't ask us if we had any coins when we came in, but you can bet your life we'll never leave with any. They're letting cobalt into the province, but they're not letting any out."

"I wonder why," Dran said slyly.

"I wonder!"

They trotted on across the Great Cor Bridge.

The first task at hand was to find lodging and a place of business. Then, Kris thought pleasantly, once things were set up, things would really begin to pop in Tammulcor.

Kris reined in his deest, and Dran pulled up alongside him. "What is we going to do?" Dran asked.

Kris glanced around. The city was quiet, just now, but it looked as if it were about to explode into violence any minute. An uneasy fog hung over the port, and even the usually placid Tammul River looked oddly threatening. Restless townsfolk moved aimlessly about the streets, and here and there an ugly-looking little knot of men was gathered, whispering earnestly.

"The first thing," Kris said, "is to find a place to stay. Suppose you get moving into town and find some hotel with room for us."

Dran nodded. "And then?"

"I want to find an office for us. We need a center of operations. I'll go look for that, and you meet me back here at midmeal. Got that?"

"I sees perfectly," Dran said.

"I hope you does," said Kris.

Kris rode down into the heart of town, watching carefully for sign of an office building that would serve his purposes. He needed one centrally located, impressive looking, and easily defended in case of emergency.

After about half an hour, he found what he wanted. He hitched up the deest and strode inside. A thin youth with blinking eyes looked up lazily at him from a chair in the vestibule of the building.

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for the landlord," Kris said. "I want to rent an office."

"He isn't here," the boy said.

"When will he be back?"

The boy shrugged complacently. Kris took a step closer to him and grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic.

"Hey, let go of me!"

"Not so much noise," Kris said mildly. "Where's the landlord, now?"

"He's ... upstairs," the boy said.

"Get him," Kris commanded.

The boy dashed away, not bothering to conceal the fact that he was happy to be out of Kris' reach, and returned a few moments later with a sour-faced man of middle age. The landlord confronted Kris with an expression of unhidden hostility. Kris noticed that a wide-bladed peych-knife was thrust in the sash of the man's trousers.

"You the fellow who wants an office?"

Kris nodded. "My name is Kris peKym Yorgen. I'm interested in renting one of your vacant suites."

The landlord clamped his lips together and grimaced owlishly. "We don't have any vacant suites," he said.

"Oh? That's odd; I'd say the building was at least half empty, from the looks of things."

The man's hand slipped to the pommel of the peych-knife, but he made no move toward Kris. "I say the building's full, and I say I don't want any strangers renting here. What are you going to do now?"

Kris shrugged. "Well, if you're going to be that way about it—"

Casually, he drew a thick sheaf of purple-and-gold Bank of Pelvash scrip from his pocket, riffled through the notes reflectively, smiled, and stuffed the roll of bills back in the pocket. He drew forth a handful of cobalt coins, jingled them, and likewise replaced them. Then, whistling a sea tune, he turned and sauntered toward the front door.

"Just a minute," the landlord said hesitantly as Kris started to leave. "What kind of business you say you were in?"

"What does it matter?" Kris countered. "The building's all full, isn't it?"

The landlord smiled craftily. "That was Bank of Pelvash money you had there, wasn't it?"

"What of it?"

The landlord put his palms together. "Possibly I could find a vacancy," he said. "Quite possibly."

The sign on the door said:

SCRIP EXCHANGE OFFICE

Kris grinned as he looked at the reversed printing on the inside of the frosted glass door. It looked impressive. If Dran were doing his duty, spreading the word around Tammulcor, it wouldn't be long before the good folk of the town would be clawing at each other to see who'd get inside that door first.

Gently, he slid open the desk drawer and looked down at the handgun that lay there. It was one of a pair, the other of which was concealed inside his belt, covered by his vest.

They were handsome weapons, lovingly made, a fine pair of the few handguns in existence. The rifle had become a fairly common weapon in recent years; some student at the Earthmen's school had invented it for use by the farmers in the days of the Great Depression, when, because of the superabundance of crops, the herbivorous forest animals had multiplied like wildfire. The farmers had needed something to hold them off when they became hungry in the second year.

They were expensive because they had to be made of specially treated iron; bronze would be much too weak to withstand the violence of the powder unless the weapon were reinforced—in which case it would be too heavy to carry easily. And there was, of course, no need for a weapon like that. What good is a gun so big you can't carry it?

The pistol was Norvis peKrin's idea. Instead of one charge, it carried four in a little revolving cylinder, each with its own cap. Norvis had been very careful about allowing that secret to leak out.

Thus far, very few people had realized the effectiveness of such weapons against men — although there were undoubtedly a few farmers in Dimay who were learning fast, and certainly the Peacemen had recognized it.

Since the rifle was designed to kill at long range, it was necessarily long enough to give proper distance to the copper projectile. But Norvis' idea had been to make a short-range gun for personal protection. It didn't need to be as big or as heavy, because it carried less powder and had a shorter barrel.

Someone else might think of the idea—but unless he had Norvis peKrin's ingenuity, the gun would only fire one shot without reloading —not four. As he studied the gun, Kris reflected that perhaps he had been underestimating Norvis a little.

Suddenly he heard footsteps in the corridor. He pushed the desk drawer closed and looked up.

There was a shadow on the other side of the frosted glass, and then a timid knock.

"Come in," Kris said.

The short, stocky man who opened the door was obviously a farmer. His hands were calloused, and he wore the heavy cloth of a field worker. In his belt was a long peych-knife.

"Are you Kris peKym Yorgen?" he asked cautiously.

Kris flashed his most winning smile. "I am. What can I do for you?"

"Well ... well—" The man took a deep breath. "I heard somebody say that you were redeeming Bank of Dimay notes. Is that so?" His tone was querulous, timid, as though he was certain he was about to be called a liar.

"Perfectly true, my dear fellow," Kris said. "A ten-weight Dimay note will bring you a five-weight note of Pelvash."

Without hesitation, the farmer pulled a wad of bills from his belt pouch. "These ain't no good at all. Nobody will take them. I got two hundred weights here, but I can't spend them."

Kris opened the drawer in his desk. On top of a huge pile of Pelvash notes lay the heavy pistol, which he pushed casually aside. He took out twenty-five weight notes and counted them ostentatiously.

"Here you are, sir. One hundred good Pelvash notes for your Dimay money. May I see them?"

He took the Dimay notes, leafed through them, and dropped them into another drawer. Then he handed the Pelvash bills to the farmer. "It's a pleasure to do business with you, sir."

"And you, sir," the farmer said. His eyes glittered; obviously he still did not quite believe such a windfall could occur. He mumbled his thanks, suspiciously counted the notes, and left hurriedly.

Kris watched him go, and chuckled in amusement. It was a good business, he reflected. If only it worked the right way!

At this very moment, Kris thought, Dran peDran is roaming around the town telling people of the fabulous fool who was buying up the worthless Dimay scrip at two-to-one. And now there was a farmer who would also spread the tale. Before long, how worthless would the Dimay currency be?

By mid-afternoon, there was a line forming that stretched out of Kris peKym's office, down the stairs, and out into the street. Business was booming. The word was getting around Tammulcor rapidly.

One at a time, Kris took care of each customer, ushering him into the office, giving them a winning smile and half their money back—in cobalt-backed notes of the Bank of Pelvash.

It was a long day. By the time the Great Light had begun to fade, he had collected nearly sixty thousand weights in Dimay bills, and had paid out half that in Pelvash scrip. The drawer that held the redeemed Dimay currency was overflowing.

And then it happened—the thing that Kris had been half expecting all day. Two men stepped into the office. One of them, a swarthy one with a heavy scar drooping over one eye, walked up to Kris' desk and suddenly jerked a heavy peych-knife out of his belt. The two-foot blade, with its blunt end and razor-keen edge, was poised six inches from Kris' throat.

At the same time, the second man drew his knife and stationed himself at the door, facing the crowd outside.

"Nobody's going to get hurt if they behave themselves," he said roughly. There were several men in the crowd who were carrying the heavy knives, but none of them did anything except shrink back from the doorway.

The man with the scar held his knife steady. Kris stared evenly at the thin edge before him. He could be decapitated with one flick of the stranger's wrist, and it was not a pleasant sensation.

"Give me your Pelvash notes!"

"Certainly, sir," Kris said. His voice was not loud, but it carried to the crowd outside. There were murmurs, but the people on line still did nothing. Tammulcor was used to this sort of violence by now.

"You may have the notes," Kris continued. "I don't care to lose my life." He reached toward the drawer.

"It's obvious that you need the money, or you wouldn't take such desperate measures. Of course, it's a shame that all those people out there won't be able to get the money they deserve, but—"

There was a sudden low growl from the crowd outside. They had heard Kris' words. They knew what was going on.

The man holding the peych-knife at Kris' throat turned his head just a fraction as he heard the sound from outside. That was all Kris needed. One hand hit the robber's wrist, sending the heavy knife ringing across the room. The other hand, balled into a hard fist, slammed against the man's ear.

The robber dropped soggily.

With a leap, Kris cleared the desk and landed on the back of the second man, who had heard the noise but hadn't dared turn his back on the crowd.

Kris wrenched the knife from his hand and slammed him up against the wall. The man shook his head groggily as Kris whirled him around and grasped him by both lapels of his vest.

"Now, what's the idea?" Kris' voice was oddly gentle.

Helpless in Kris' grasp, the would-be robber said, "We ... we're longshoremen. We're out of money. No ships have loaded for a week!"

"Here! What's going on here?" bellowed a voice from the door.

Kris jerked the man he was holding, spinning him around. He grabbed an arm and twisted it sharply behind the man's back, at the same time turning to face the door.

Two Peacemen were pushing their way through the crowd. One customer armed with a peych-knife was standing over the other robber, who was just regaining his senses.

"Come in, Peacemen," Kris said, without releasing his hold on his adversary. Then, to the customer with the peych-knife: "Thank you, friend. You may step outside; the Peacemen are here now."

The man glared at the fallen robber and then walked back into the corridor with the crowd.

The Peacemen pushed the door shut. "We heard there was a robbery here," said one Peaceman, keeping a firm grip on his thick black truncheon. "Looks like you've got it fairly well under control, though." He waggled his club at the scarfaced man on the floor. "Come with us, you; we're going to see the Uncle of Public Peace."

"Just a minute, Peaceman," said Kris mildly. "Could I have a word with you?"

"What is it?"

Kris lowered his voice. "These men are my bodyguards. We put on this little act for the people outside, just to show them that I could take care of myself."

"Oh? But why?"

Gradually Kris relaxed his pressure on the longshoreman's arm. He made no untoward move, so Kris released the arm completely.

"Well," Kris said, "I handle quite a lot of money here, and I was afraid there might be a robbery. I know that you Peacemen have enough to do already, and a good citizen should do all he can to help, so I thought that if word got around that I was able to handle my own affairs, I'd have less trouble." He patted the longshoreman on the back. "With the boys here to back me, we won't need to take Peacemen from their more important duties."

The Peacemen were smiling. "Why, that's a very good idea," said one. "Scare the tough boys off, eh? You're very thoughtful."

"I try to do my best," Kris said deprecatingly. "Don't I, boys?" He glanced at the two longshoremen.

"You sure do, sir."

"Yes, sir."

The words came out as a duet.

"Thanks for coming, though," Kris continued. "It's good to see such fine Peacemen."

"We were right outside, really. One of your customers called us in. What sort of business do you run here, anyway?"

Kris smiled and explained carefully. Within three minutes, the Peacemen were carrying Pelvash money, for which they had handed over their worthless Dimay cash.

"By the way," he said when the transaction was finished, "would you mind waiting outside for my boys? It would add color if the crowd thought they'd been arrested, and if they try to walk out by themselves they're likely to get killed."

"Certainly, sir. Glad to do the favor."

When they were outside, Kris faced the two longshoremen. They looked shamefaced, and, as Kris slowly looked them over, they grew nervous.

What's your names?" he asked.

"Bor pePrannt Hebylla," said the scarred one, "He's my brother, Bryl pePrannt."

"You look like a couple of pretty tough boys," Kris said. He paused for a moment. "If you want a job with good pay, come back here tomorrow morning."

"You mean that?"

"If I didn't, you'd be on your way to the Uncle right now. All you have to do is let those Peacemen escort you out of here."

He handed each of them a five-weight Pelvash note. "Go out and get yourself cleaned up. Take a bath. If you're not here by the Hour of Second Prayer, don't bother."

They nodded and left without another word.

Kris turned. There still were customers waiting to be served. He kept going until it was well after dark. Then he went to the door and announced to the impatient crowd, "The office is closing now. May the Great Light illumine you."

One man stepped forward.

"I've just got—"

"Sorry," Kris said firmly. "That's all for today. Come back tomorrow, if you want to redeem your Dimay money."

"But ... will the offer still hold?"

"Certainly," Kris said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The offer's good indefinitely. So long as you've got Dimay scrip, I'll be offering half as much in Pelvash money for it!"

He packed the day's receipts carefully in a bulging leather case, went out the back way of the building, unhitched his deest, and rode swiftly toward the hotel in which he and Dran peDran had rented rooms.

Dran was waiting for him.

"How is it go, captain? I doesn't understand what's going on, but I does my best today."

Kris chuckled at the Bronze Islander's simplicity. "Everything's perfect, Dran! Business is wonderful!" He tossed the heavy leather case on the bed. "Watch that. He pulled a handgun from his belt. "There's my pistol," he said. "Use it if necessary. Someone might have found out where we are and decided to take the loot. I doubt it, but there's not much use taking chances."

"Where's you going, captain?"

Kris stripped off his vest and shorts and substituted a pair of common seaman's shorts, a uniform of somber black. He grinned secretively at Dran peDran. "You do your rumor-spreading by day, youngster; I'll do mine by night!"

He headed out into the Tammulcor street.

Chapter VI

Half an hour later, Kris strolled into a tavern, looking like nothing more or less than an ordinary seaman. The tavern was full and the peych-beer flowing; it was a time of troubles, and business was good.

When he produced cobalt coin to pay for his drinks, the barkeep practically fawned on him.

"What's yours?" he asked, staring at the hard money glinting in Kris' hand.

"Peych-beer," Kris said. The bartender fetched a glass of the heavy, warm Dimay brew, and Kris dropped his coin on the bar. "Light illumine you," he said. "What's news around here?"

"May He illumine us all," said the barkeep. "There's nothing much, seaman. Just the same as yesterday."

It was the standard reply of the Tammulcor barman, ritualized, uninformative. It was social custom, nothing more. The real news would be forthcoming.

The barkeep pushed out the mug of brew and said: "There's a rumor around town that some fool is buying up Dimay scrip."

Kris grinned inwardly. He had figured that that would be the news of the day, and he had been right. It was unusual enough an event to cause comment all over town— perhaps it had even spread farther. Fine, he thought. Excellent. Now comes the counter punch.

"Oh?" he said languidly. "Buying up Dimay scrip, eh? It doesn't surprise me at all. I'll give you one for two right now."

The tavern owner looked a little startled. "You mean that?"

Kris nodded emphatically. "Sure!" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of crumpled Pelvash notes. "Here's twelve weights. Want to give me twenty-four?"

The tavern-keeper's eyes flickered greedily. "You've got a deal, seaman." He handed over a sheaf of Dimay notes, which Kris promptly pocketed.

"That's a good profit for me— when the cobalt comes back to the bank."

He walked out, whistling.

The same thing was repeated, with variations, all over Tammulcor. Kris arrived at his hotel room much later that evening, tired and somewhat overloaded with peych-beer, but with his pockets stuffed with Dimay scrip. Things were beginning to move, he told himself happily.

"Dran? Dran, you here?"

There was no sign of the Bronze Islander. Kris shrugged and turned to the bed, where he spied a note written on a grimy piece of paper. It took him a while to decipher Dran's near-illiterate scrawl, but finally he concluded that it was a message telling him that Dran peDran had gone out for some entertainment, and would be back later.

Kris nodded. He didn't mind a few moments of privacy at all. He walked to the closet, reached upward, and hauled out the saddlebags of his deest. Quickly, he unpacked one of the pockets.

The first item to come forth from the saddlebag was a thickly-folded wad of paper—Del peFenn's instructions on what Kris was to do in Tammulcor. Kris remembered the way Del's grizzled, fierce face had looked as he handed the instructions over.

"Here's what you're to do, lad. Seoul around, try to turn popular sentiment to us and away from the Elders, and above all stay out of any fights. I've outlined some speeches you can make."

Kris leafed through the pages. They were filled with Del's usual hysterical anti-priesthood tirades, the same sort of stuff Del peFenn had been handing out for so long to people obviously unwilling to listen. Casually, he ripped the sheets lengthwise, then tore the halves a second time, and ripped what was left into tiny fragments that he sprinkled into the waste unit.

"Del peFenn," he said softly to himself, "I bid you farewell. From now on, Kris peKym Yorgen is doing this his way."

The next thing to come out of the bag was a much-tattered but carefully folded sheet of paper. It was a standard seaman's map of Nidor, but it bore markings that Kris himself had made.

As he looked at it, he could picture men moving—men as well-trained and efficient as his own sailors; men trained to fight together as seamen worked together on a ship; men who could follow orders without question; men who combined the fighting efficiency of Peacemen with the co-ordination of a ship's crew.

And he saw their target: The Bel-rogas School of Divine Law.

The Earthmen had no weapons; nearly a hundred years of dealings with them testified to that. But— what of their supernatural powers?

Kris glanced at the spot on the map which indicated the Holy City of Gelusar. There was his answer.

If the Earthmen were demons, if they were simply impostors, then the Great Light Himself would aid those who fought them. Their supernatural powers would be of no avail.

If they were, on the other hand, the true Messengers of the Great Light, then Kris peKym Yorgen, self-convicted of blasphemous sin, would die.

There was no necessity for decision now; he had decided long ago. The Earthmen must go. So far as any Nidorian knew, none of them had ever died, but there was always a first time—and that time would come soon.

He would still need Del, of course. It was Del's money—his private fortune plus the money he had solicited and wrung from the merchants and seamen for fourteen years—that was being spent in this effort to bolster the economy of Dimay and bring it under control of the Merchants' Party.

Kris looked at the map again and smiled grimly.

No, he corrected. Not under the control of the Merchants' Party.

Under the control of Kris peKym Yorgen.

The Council of Elders had been led astray; it would take a man who could see clearly to bring them back to their senses.

Beyond the fighting men, he could see another scene—a hundred or perhaps a thousand years in the misty future. A time when Nidor was as it should be, as it had once been—quiet and serene, with each following the Law and the Way of the Ancestors.

And perhaps—perhaps—the name of Kris peKym Yorgen would rank high, near the name of his Ancestor, Bel-rogas Yorgen, the Lawyer. Perhaps it would be—Kris peKym, the Exorcist.

Kris shook his head as though to clear it. The peych-beer was giving him delusions of grandeur, he decided.

He sketched idly in the margin of his map, thinking. Norvis had told him strange things about the Earthmen—about their secret city in the depths of the Mountains of the Morning, the city which only a few Nidorians knew was there; about their unfathomable schemes, and devious craftiness.

Kris was not sure how true all these stories were. But the facts spoke for themselves. Since the coming of the Earthmen, Nidor had undergone change.

Ergo, the Earthmen had done something to Nidor.

Conclusion: drive the Earthmen off the planet.

It was a concept he had broached unsuccessfully to Del peFenn. Del, with a merchantman's dislike for the priesthood, had been far more interested in going after the Elders than in bothering with the remote and incomprehensible Earthmen.

Kris licked his lips reflectively and peered close to the map. If we approach from the west, he thought, we can by-pass Gelusar and still wipe out the School. Yes, that ought to do it.

Del would kill him if he knew Kris was planning any such maneuver on his own hook. But Del was safely up there in Vashcor, and Kris had the situation completely to himself down in Tammulcor.

But I need an army, Kris thought. He stood up and glanced out the window at the straggling wanderers in the street below.

Tammulcor was full of bewildered, unhappy people looking desperately for someone they could put their faith in. What better material for my army? Kris thought, with savage glee.

During the next few weeks, Kris began to feel almost as though he was a disembodied spirit. He was detached from reality, watching what was happening in Tammulcor without actually being a part of it. It was an odd feeling for a man who was accustomed to shape events around himself.

For one thing, the money-changing business dropped off sharply. People no longer seemed willing to make the two-for-one exchange.

Kris kept close touch with what was happening in the troubled city. Combining business with pleasure, he adopted his role as ordinary seaman and went the rounds of the taverns again, saying nothing, simply standing to one side and observing.

At one place, he watched a small-time merchant enter and order a brew. The merchant, a chubby, surprisingly cheerful little man, stood around a while, and then said to the bartender:

"Have you got any Dimay notes about? I suppose you've thrown most of them away, but if you want to get rid of them for cash, I'll—"

"Forget it," said the barkeep crisply. "Dimay money is just as good as any other, these days. I'll take your Dimay notes, if you have them."

A flicker of surprise passed over the merchant's face. "But they aren't backed by cobalt! They're worth nothing whatsoever!"

The tavern-keeper grinned toothily. "Oh, so? Then why are you willing to pay for them?"

There was a moment of silence. Then the merchant smiled and shrugged without self-consciousness. "You're on to it, then. Well, it was a good racket while it lasted. For nearly a week, I was getting two and a half weights Dimay for one weight Pelvash."

"Sure," the barkeep said. "And at the same time, this Kris peKym Yorgen was offering two for one. And he isn't getting any more offers these days either."

Kris finished his drink and strolled out into the street. He had heard all he wanted to hear. It had worked! By offering a false backing to the notes of Dimay, he had made them worth something again. And as long as he wanted to, he could control the situation.

The net was starting to tighten. Even at this moment, Dran peDran was busily spreading another rumor. The people of Tammulcor were learning that the reason that the Council had held up replacing the cobalt in the Bank of Dimay was because the Earthmen had ordered the Council to stay away from the whole affair.

Dimay money was hanging in abeyance—and, for the time being, it had recovered its old value.

Three weeks after his arrival in Tammulcor, Kris was sitting in his office—alone. No one had come in to have money exchanged in the past two days. Why should anyone, when Dimay money was again on a par with Pelvash? But Kris was expecting company at almost any moment. A third rumor had gone fluttering through the town.

He didn't have long to wait. A visitor arrived not much past mid-meal.

"Come in," Kris said sharply.

"I am Venk peDor Ghevin," said the man who entered. He was short and heavy, with something oily about his appearance. "You are Kris peKym Yorgen?"

"Correct."

"I am in the jewel trade. I understand you are offering one Pelvash weight for each two Dimay notes. Is this true?"

"No longer," Kris said. "I've just received word that the Earthmen have ordered the Council not to back the bank, as they were intending to. I'm sorry. Dimay money no longer has value."

The jeweler's face became bleak with disappointment. "I'm sorry, too. I had hoped you wouldn't confirm the bad news that just reached me—but you have. I've lost a great deal on this trading of notes if nothing comes through."

Kris leaned back in his chair and eyed the little jeweler with what he hoped was an expression of deep sympathy. "It's a nasty situation. But save your notes, Venk peDor. When I speak to the Council again, I may be able to convince them that they should go against the Earthmen's wishes. If so—and I see no reason why I should fail—you may redeem your notes with me."

"I see," said the merchant, making an ineffectual attempt to conceal his astonishment. "Very well, then." He bowed politely and left.

Kris chuckled warmly when the jeweler departed. A big lie, he thought happily, is always worth a dozen little ones. If it's implausible enough, they'll always swallow it.

Four more merchants swallowed it before Kris was finished for the day. Again, word began to travel through the city. Gradually, people were getting the idea Kris wanted to impart—that he was a powerful man who could swing the currents of currency virtually at a whim.

By nightfall, he was ready. If everything had worked out right, Dran peDran should have started his riot by now.

Chapter VII

The warehouse of Nibro peDom Lokness, owner of the Tammulcor Baker's Merchandisery and leader of the Baker's Guild, was an imposing building at the upriver end of town. As Kris peKym rounded the corner that led to the warehouse, he saw there already was a mob of rioters on the scene. Flickering torches cast a red gleam over the building's walls, and angry shouts arose.

"Where's Nibro peDom? We want bread!"

"We want bread!" "Bread!"

Kris slipped into the shadows and watched as the rioters hurled stones and imprecations at the massive Warehouse. The sides of the building were beginning to blacken with smoke. Tension was accumulating in the hungry mob.

He nodded to himself. Tension. That was the key: set men in conflict, draw the net of tension around them, tighten. They react blindly. They can be led. They can be manipulated. Coolly, levelly, Kris peKym calculated the dynamics of the mob before him, and wondered if Nibro peDom would make his appearance before the anger of the mob surged over and caused the destruction of the warehouse. He hoped so.

Nibro peDom did not disappoint him. He appeared suddenly at the door of the beleaguered warehouse, with three Peacemen standing at his side.

"What's the trouble here?" the bread merchant demanded, in an angry voice. Nibro peDom was wealthy-looking, sleek and well-fed, and he did not seem to be afraid of the mob.

"Give us bread!" someone shouted.

"Bread?" Nibro peDom asked. "You want bread?" He shrugged. "Bread costs money to produce, my friends. Give me money, and I will give you bread."

"All we have is Dimay money!"

"Worthless," Nibro peDom replied. "Mere paper. Eat that, if you like."

"But you took Dimay money last week," roared a burly man in the front who had appointed himself spokesman.

"That was last week," the merchant said evenly. "Last week, the stranger Kris peKym Yorgen was redeeming Dimay money. This week he refuses. Dimay money is worthless!"

"If you won't give us bread, we'll take it!" yelled a high-pitched voice. "Let's break in!"

The crowd began to surge forward uncertainly. Kris waited just a moment, until they had a reasonable chance to approach Nibro peDom, and then leaped out of hiding and stepped between the merchant and the mob.

They kept coming. The big man who had been spokesman barreled into him, and Kris hurled him back against a mass of shadowy bodies. Someone's fist struck him heavily; he grunted and returned the blow. The Peacemen behind him waded into the mob as well. Kris ducked under them and jumped up on the steps of the warehouse, next to Nibro peDom.

"Hold everything!" he roared, in a voice that could be heard blocks away. "Stop fighting!"

"It's Kris peKym," someone's astonished voice said.

"Yes! It's Kris peKym." He held up his hand for quiet, and gradually the threshing mob settled into an uneasy calm.

"What's the trouble here?" Kris asked, turning to the bread merchant.

"These people want bread," Nibro peDom said. "And they offer Dimay money for it."

"So? What's wrong with Dimay money?"

"Nothing backs it," Nibro peDom said.

Kris laughed and turned to face the mob again. "This breadman says he won't take your money. All right; there are other bread merchants. Go somewhere else. But tomorrow, when you come to my office— I'll redeem your Dimay money again!"

An audible gasp swept through the mob. Kris glanced at Nibro peDom again. The merchant suddenly looked terribly flustered and confused. He stepped close to Kris, and whispered a few words in his ear.

Kris turned to the mob once again. "All right, Nibro peDom says he'll sell you bread—tonight!"

A roar of enthusiastic approval went up from the crowd. Kris smiled in satisfaction and whispered to Nibro peDom, "You can exchange your money tomorrow at my place —if you want to."

As he had assumed, only a few people showed up the next day, and none of them were there to ask for money. They were merchants. Among them was the baker, Nibro peDom Lokness.

There were eight of them, ringing themselves in a little semicircle around Kris' desk. They tried to look grim, although their faces betrayed more puzzlement and consternation than anything else.

Nibro peDom stepped forward to act as spokesman. He maintained a stern expression as he spoke, but there was respect in his voice, and he used the proper form of address to a superior.

"Old One, we have come to ask what is being done about the state of the moneys of Dimay. We have asked our priests, and they tell us nothing. You seem to know, so we come to you."

"Sit down, my friends," Kris said smoothly. "Care for some beer?"

The businessmen arranged themselves uneasily in the chairs against the wall while Kris brought each of them a foaming mug of brew.

When they had each taken a thirst-whetting sip, Kris leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. "Can I trust you gentlemen?"

They glanced at each other, and then all eyes focused on Nibro peDom. The baker said; "You can trust us."

Kris opened a drawer of his desk and took from it two books—the Scripture and the Law. They were bound together, as was customary, by a cooper band.

"I must ask each of you to give his word, bound by a promise to the Great Light, that you will not reveal to anyone else what I tell you today."

Make it impressive, he thought. The more impressive it is, the deeper it'll sink in.

He held out the book. After a moment's hesitation, Nibro the Baker took the double volume and held it to his forehead.

"May the Great Light witness that I, Nibro peDom of the Clan Lokness, give my word that whatever is told me in this room will never pass my lips unless I am released from my oath by him who tells me."

Solemnly, each of the others went through the same rite.

When they had finished, Kris said: "The truth is this: The Earthmen have brought destruction upon Nidor. It is they who control our destiny—and the Council of Elders is powerless. If we are to return to the Way of our Ancestors, we must thrust out the Earthmen."

Nibro peDom slapped his hand to his leg. "That's exactly what I've thought all along! I've ... I've been afraid to voice it openly, but—"

One of the other merchants rose. "I'll wager the Council wants to replace the stolen money, but the Earthmen won't let them!"

Kris nodded. "Thus far, my influence with the Council has held off the desires of the devil Earthmen, but I can't hold off much longer without help."

"What sort of help do you want?" Nibro asked.

Kris gestured with his hands. "We have to go to the aid of the Council," he said. "The Council needs us. Under the influence of the Earthmen, they're helpless. They have been unable to appeal to us— the common people. We must back our priesthood and throw the Earthmen off Nidor!"

He felt a fever of excitement course through him at this first public declaration of the doctrine he had held so long. If Del could hear this! he thought wryly.

"You say the priesthood is controlled by the Earthmen?" asked a small merchant in the corner.

"Of course," Nibro peDom said scornfully. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

Kris nodded. "We either help the Council against the Earthmen or we will be destroyed."

"Do you have a plan?" the baker asked.

"Of course I do," said Kris. "But I want you to think the matter over before I tell you what's in my mind."

They turned to one another, and a hushed buzz of conversation flowed from the group. Kris knew what they were thinking.

Here, they thought, was a man who knew when money was good and when it was not. He was a strong man, a man who knew how to lead. He was a man who knew what was good for Nidor.

Nibro the Baker turned to him and said, "We're with you, Kris peKym. We'll follow where you lead."

He could barely keep from jumping with glee. He could see the towers of the Bel-rogas School bright with flame even now, and old Del peFenn blustering with impotent rage as his young disciple single-handedly drove the Earthmen from the planet.

Kris glanced from one man's face to the next. They were angry, impassioned-looking men. They would follow his orders. He had them in his hand, now.

Here's the nucleus of my army, Kris thought. We'll start organizing at once—and march on Bel-rogas!

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, wondering just where he should begin to outline his plan to his eight merchants. But just as he was about to speak, he heard a rapid, excited knocking at the door.

"Just a minute," he said, frowning. He crossed the room and threw open the door.

A tired, bedraggled-looking man stood there, his body hair gray with road dust, swaying wearily, seeming as though he would collapse at any moment.

It took Kris a moment to recognize him. When he did, his voice was low and hoarse with astonishment. "Norvis! What's happened? What are you doing here?"

The Secretary coughed, as though the dust were not only clinging to his skin but to his lungs. "Step outside a moment, Kris."

His mind a frozen blank, Kris followed Norvis out into the hall, ignoring the puzzled glances from the merchants within. He grasped (he smaller man by the shoulder and whirled him around to face him. "What's going on, Norvis? Why are you here?"

Norvis seemed to gasp for breath. "We need you. We need help, and you're the only one who can give it now."

"We? Who's we? What are you talking about?"

"Del peFenn's daughter and son —and I. We had to flee Vashcor; someone is after our lives!"

Kris blinked unbelievingly. "Your lives? What about Del?"

Norvis peKrin's face became bleak. "Del peFenn was murdered two days ago. Shot from ambush by a rifle. We don't know who did it."