The World Menders

XIX

Farrari awoke at dawn and for a moment could not remember where he was. The cool, dry sand trickled between his toes when he moved them. Above him, one of the enormous paving stones protruded over the edge of the washout. He stirred lazily and eased himself the top for a glance at Scorv’s looming hilltop. Then he descended, made himself comfortable, and went back to sleep.

The sun was high in the sky when he awoke again. He slid to the bottom of the washout where a pool of clear rainwater stood, undisturbed by traffic since it had fallen. He drank deeply, and then he paused for a moment to choose the path that would get him onto the highway with the most speed and least effort—so that if sentries were watching from Scorv, Farrari would seem to appear miraculously.

He picked up his package, scrambled up the soft, caving side of the washout, and headed for Scorv. His stride was the swaying shuffle of an ol, and his package lay on his outstretched hands: a loaf of bread wrapped in a white cloth on which several black crests of the kru had been drawn meticulously. It would be the most trivial of gifts, this loaf of bread for the exalted kru, but it came from an extraordinary, an impossible donor—if Farrari lived to make the presentation.

He moved along at his slouching pace, his eyes downcast and fixed on the road ahead of him. He soon began to perspire—an un-ol-like trait—and when the road detoured around another washout, which had left a low, swampy area, a cloud of biting insects pursued him and soon had him twitching miserably. An ol would not have noticed them.

“But I’m the best non-ol available,” he told himself grimly.

An ol walking that road on that day should have cast a gigantic shadow, but no one came from the city to investigate, no one met him. As he passed the cluster of buildings at the foot of the hill, willing himself not to look toward Borgley’s bakery, he had the strange feeling of having stepped backward in time to another incarnation when he had also walked this road with a gift for the kru. Everything looked the same. There was not even a guard or a sentry point at the threshold of the city—and an ol army was only hours away!

Even the rascz looked the same until they saw him. Then they stopped to stare, some hurried to doors to summon family and friends, others followed him a short distance in silent awe.

An ol. The first most of them had ever seen.

The road pointed upward, and Farrari began the wearisome climb to the hilltop. Four times along the encircling road he crossed temporary bridges of planks laid over wide gaps cut deeply into the rock. They were old defenses, he thought, packed with dirt and paved over until needed and then quickly excavated. It proved that someone knew the olz were coming, and a small force stationed directly above them could defend those gaps, in the road against an army—if someone remembered to remove the planks.

He gained the top and started down the long, broad avenue toward the Tower-of-a-Thousand-Eyes. It was so precisely as he remembered it that he seemed to hear Gayne’s voice: “Don’t gawk!” He kept his head lowered and saw as much as he could, and the only thing that clashed with his memory was a glimpse, once, of a costume that he did not remember seeing in Scory on his previous visit: a durrl’s.

The avenue fell silent ahead of him, remained silent after he had passed. Those in the street backed away in astonishment; above his head shutters opened, faces peered down incredulously. He plodded on, the bread a leaden weight and his extended arms aching agonizingly, between lines of staring, astounded, speechless rascz: a scrawny, hairy, starved, almost naked specimen who bore scars of Rasczian authorship—their authorship—and who carried a gift for their kru. Farrari wondered if any of them would have the charity to think, as he had thought when he first saw a rasc, “He’s not a monster!”

A troop of cavalrymen appeared from a side street, brushed through the crowd, and brought its grilz to a rearing, braying halt. The soldiers studied Farrari with a shock that deepened as they comprehended his mission, and finally they turned to provide him with an escort.

He reached the temple square. The cavalry swung to the left to pass around the Life Temple toward the palace, where the kru normally accepted Farrari walked straight to the temple. He was determined to present this gift where he had presented the last, except that this time he intended to enter by the front door. He mounted a short flight of the strange, ramplike steps, crossed the broad terrace, and stood before the massive door. Eventually someone would tell the priests what was happening, they would confer and perhaps consult the kru, and a decision would be made.

In the meantime, Farrari would wait. And wait. There were circumstances, he thought, when a training in ol mentality had its advantages.

He waited.

Behind him his cavalry escort returned and drew up uncertainly. A growing murmur told him that the square was filling with people. Then he heard the sharp clicks of many hooves, a long line of cavalry swept through the square, his escort followed it, and the crowd faded away in an instant. He knew what had happened: the ol agents had timed the advance perfectly, and the olz had finally been sighted moving across the wasteland toward Scorv. The citizens had gone to see for themselves or headed for home and safety. Farrari had the temple square to himself.

The door opened.

He expected an underpriest or servant, but two high priests faced him. He stepped past them, walked the length of the empty room with them trailing after him uncertainly, mounted the ramp, executed a flawless bow, and laid the gift at the foot of the empty throne. Then he rose, pivoted slowly, and demanded in Rasczian, “Where is the kru?”

He had placed himself so that he stood in line with the relief carving behind the throne. For a suspenseful moment both priests stared blankly. Suddenly one recognized him and edged backward. Then the other started and turned, their eyes met for an instant, and they fled wildly. The kru’s miraculous priest had returned!

As an ol!

Farrari had read somewhere that the measure of a man could be gauged by the way he faced a miracle. The priests’ measurements were small indeed; the kru’s, microscopic. He arrived preceded by an irruption of guards and priests, and he trailed an interminable, reluctant tail of nobility. For a long time he stood immobilized with fear at the foot of the ramp, staring up at Farrari while the jittery priests urged him forward. He had gained weight since Farrari had seen him, and the new lines in his pouting jowls had not been placed there by the burden of his high responsibilities. When finally he stirred, his ascension to the throne was a moving form of collapse.

With the high priests’ assistance he got himself seated. Farrari again sank into his bow and then stood motionless while the kru fumbled with the gift, dropped it twice, and finally with shaking fingers got it open. He tried to pass the bread to one of the high priests, who did not want it. A lesser priest was summoned, and he edged forward, seized it, and fled.

Prompted by his priests, the kru made ostentatious throat noises and eventually produced a question. “What is your counsel?”

Farrari met his eyes boldly. “I have come to petition for a redress of your people’s grievances,” he announced in a booming voice that made the kru wince.

The kru nervously lowered his eyes. “My… people’s… grievances?” he muttered.

Again Farrari boomed his words. He wanted as many witnesses as possible and no doubt whatsoever as to what he said. “Are not the olz your people, Excellency?”

“The… olz… my… people,” the kru muttered. Then he started, jerked his head erect, and exclaimed incredulously, “The OLZ my people?” Farrari met his gaze sternly, and the kru lowered his eyes and muttered, “The olz my people. What is their grievance?”

“That Your Excellency is so badly served.”

Again the kru jerked erect, but this time he was speechless.

Farrari was watching the high priests. Clearly it had been a long time since those wrinkled old men had taken advice from anyone, and probably they, too, had never seen an ol; but obviously they believed in their religion or they would not have taken fright at the manifestation of a miracle. They would listen carefully when the miracle spoke, and if they believed what he said they would have the power to act.

“Badly served,” Farrari went on, “by deputies who cruelly abuse your people.”

One of the priests leaned forward and asked, “Cruelly abuse—how?”

“By starvation, by the zrilm whip, by the spear.” He touched his own scars. Kru and priests stared until Farrari stirred self-consciously and felt the scars begin to itch.

“What deputies?” the priest asked.

“Your soldiers, your durrlz—all who serve you with your people the olz serve you badly.”

They continued to stare. Farrari waited anxiously for something to happen. There had to be a set formula for concluding an audience with the kru, but IPR had not known what it was. Farrari hoped that it would not apply when the petitioner was a miracle.

Finally he announced, “The kru redresses all just grievances.” He paused. “Redress these!” he snapped. Kru and priests winced as though he had struck them. He bowed again, backed down the ramp, and turned away.

His last exit from this room had been through an eager, enthused crowd that pressed close to look, even to touch. Now all shrank from him. He marched to the door, waited until someone sprang to open it, and waited again until it crashed shut behind him before he resolutely began the long walk out of the city. The IPR specialists had told him that he would probably reach the temple unharmed, but they would make no prediction as to his return.

It was easier, because he no longer had the bread to carry. Again he was an object of curiosity, but there were few pedestrians about and no cavalry, and no one hindered him. He descended the hill, passed the suburb, and abruptly came upon the kru’s army, rank upon rank of mounted soldiers drawn up on either side of the highway, silently awaiting battle. He passed through it, expecting a rain of spears at any moment, but the soldiers sat with spears poised and made no movement.

Spread out on a distant hillside were the olz. They looked like a formidable army until he approached, and then they looked like olz. A messenger, one of the IPR agents, had told them to halt, so they stood indifferently in the hot sun awaiting another order. Farrari worked his way among them to where one of the agents stood. The agent arched an eyebrow inquiringly; Farrari shrugged. Even had they been able to talk he would have had little to say. He had marched an army on Scorv, he had made a miraculous and dramatic reappearance before kru and priests and nobility, and he seemed to have accomplished nothing.

Now he did not know what to do. He was still reluctant to turn back while there remained a possibility that the ol presence might force the rascz to think, but if he waited too long there was every likelihood that the army would charge and very effectively resolve the stalemate. He did not know what to do. The agent, too, was puzzled. He looked about perplexedly, having just worked it out for himself that nothing was happening and they couldn’t stay there forever.

They heard the clicking beat of gril hooves. It was a durrl, final proof, Farrari thought gloomily, that his plea had failed. Immediately he brightened, of course they’d send a durrl, who else could talk with the olz?

The durrl brought his gril to a halt. Farrari resigned himself to an interminable address in two languages because a blast of oratory concerning the kru’s redressment of just grievances would not find enough words in o/ to properly get started. He was also prepared to be amused.

The durrl leaned forward and said something. Abruptly the olz in the front rank turned, those behind them turned, and before Farrari could quite comprehend what had happened his army had done an about face and was marching away, he along with it. The durrl wheeled and rode toward Scory without a backward glance. Farrari was sorely tempted to turn the olz toward Scory again, but he feared that rasc patience might have a breaking point.

At dusk the IPR agents halted the march. Farrari left them in charge of his olz and continued south where a platform picked him up as soon as darkness fell. He was back at base before morning. Base already had the news, and Jorrul and the coordinator were seated in one of the conference rooms discussing it. They’d left word for Farrari to join them.

“The rascz know something we don’t know,” Jorrul announced bluntly.

“Or understand something we don’t?” Farrari suggested.

Coordinator Paul nodded. “They’ve had considerable more experience with the olz than we have. You produced the illusion of a revolution, but evidently the rascz know that the olz won’t revolt. When we study the events of the past few weeks, we’d best start by trying to understand that.”

“You study the events of the past few weeks,” Farrari said. “I’m going to revert to a Cultural Survey Advanced Trainee.”

Jorrul snorted. “There’s no future in that. If I’ve heard you say it once, I’ve heard it a dozen times: the olz have no culture.”

Farrari got to his feet and strode to the observation window. The first light of dawn was touching the bleak mountain landscape. The mountains wore encircling mantles of dusky yellow quarm leaves, and there were, even in midsummer, snowcaps on the highest peaks. He wondered if JPR had chosen this particular location for some obscure psychological purpose: certainly the view was no more formidable than IPR’s problem on Branoff IV.

“The olz have no culture,” Farrari repeated slowly. “If I’ve said it that many times, I should have given some thought to what it meant.”

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“The olz have no culture. Neither do the grilz nor the narmpfz.”

“So? Grilz and narmpfz are animals. You’re expecting animals to produce a culture?”

“No,” Farrari said. “But people should.”