Lord of Light (34 page)

Nirriti turned back to him, and they studied one another.

Nirriti was a small man, with a twinkling eye, a facile smile, dark hair, restrained by a silver band, an upturned nose and eyes the color of his palace. He wore black and lacked a suntan.

"Why do the Gods of the City fail to stop this thing?"

"I feel it is because they are weakened, if that is what you want to hear, Lord. Since the disaster by the Vedra they have been somewhat afraid to squelch the progress of mechanism with violence. It has also been said that there is internal strife in the City, between the demigods and what remains of their elders. Then there is the matter of the new religion. Men no longer fear Heaven so much as they used to. They are more willing to defend themselves; and now that they are better equipped, the gods are less willing to face them."

"Then Sam
is
winning. Across the years, he is beating them."

"Yes, Renfrew. I feel this to be true."

Nirriti glanced at the two guards who flanked Olvagga.

"Leave," he ordered. Then, when they had gone,

"You know me?"

"Yes, chaplin. For I am Jan Olvegg, captain of the
Star of India
."

"Olvegg. That seems moderately impossible."

"True, nevertheless. I received this now ancient body the day Sam broke the Lords of Karma at Mahartha. I was there."

"One of the First, and—yes!—a Christian!"

"Occasionally, when I run out of Hindi swear words."

Nirriti placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then your very being must ache at this blasphemy they have wrought!"

"I'm none too fond of them—nor they of me."

"I daresay. But of Sam—he did the same thing—compounding this plurality of heresies—burying the true Word even deeper . . ."

"A weapon, Renfrew," said Olvegg. "Nothing more. I'm sure he didn't want to be a god any more than you or I."

"Perhaps. But I wish he had chosen a different weapon. If he wins their souls are still lost."

Olvegg shrugged. "I'm no theologian, such as yourself . . ."

"But will you help me? Over the ages I have built up a mighty force. I have men and I have machines. You say our enemies are weakened. My soulless ones—born not of man or woman—they are without fear. I have sky gondolas—many. I can reach their City at the Pole. I can destroy their Temples here in the world. I think the time is at hand to cleanse the world of this abomination. The true faith must come again! Soon! It must be soon . . ."

"As I said, I'm no theologian. But I, too, would see the City fall," said Olvegg. "I will help you, in any way I can."

"Then we will take a few of their cities and defile their Temples, to see what action this provokes."

Olvegg nodded.

"You will advise me. You will provide moral support," said Nirriti, and bowed his head.

"Join me in prayer," he ordered.

The old man stood for a long while outside the Palace of Kama in Khaipur, staring at its marble pillars. Finally, a girl took pity on him and brought him bread and milk. He ate the bread.

"Drink the milk, too, grandfather. It is nourishing and will help sustain thy flesh."

"Damn!" said the old man. "Damn milk! And damn my flesh! My spirit, also, for that matter!"

The girl drew back. "That is hardly the proper reply upon the receipt of charity."

"It is not your charity to which I object, wench. It is your taste in beverages. Could you not spare me a draught of the foulest wine from the kitchen? . . . That which the guests have disdained to order and the cook will not even slop over the cheapest pieces of meat? I crave the squeezings of grapes, not cows."

"Perhaps I could bring you a menu? Depart! Before I summon a servant!"

He stared into her eyes. "Take not offense, lady, I pray. Begging comes hard to me."

She looked into his pitch-dark eyes in the midst of a ruin of wrinkles and tan. His beard was streaked with black. The tiniest smile played about the corners of his lips.

"Well. . . follow me around to the side. I'll take you into the kitchen and see what can be found. I don't really know why I should, though."

His fingers twitched as she turned, and his smile widened as he followed, watching her walk.

"Because I want you to," he said.

Taraka of the Rakasha was uneasy. Flitting above the clouds that moved through the middle of the day, he thought upon the ways of power. He had once been mightiest. In the days before the binding there had been none who could stand against him. Then Siddhartha the Binder had come. He had known of him earlier, known of him as Kalkin and had known him to be strong. Sooner or later, he had realized, they would have to meet, that he might test the power of that Attribute which Kalkin was said to have raised up. When they had come together, on that mighty, gone day when the mountaintops had flared with their fury, on that day the Binder had won. And in their second encounter, ages afterward, he had somehow beaten him even more fully. But he had been the only one, and now he was gone from out the world. Of all creatures, only the Binder had bested the Lord of Hellwell. Then the gods had come to challenge his power. They had been puny in the early days, struggling to discipline their mutant powers with drugs, hypnosis, meditation, neurosurgery—forging them into Attributes—and across the ages, those powers had grown. Four of them had entered Hellwell, only four, and his legions had not been able to repel them. The one called Shiva was strong, but the Binder had later slain him. This was as it should be, for Taraka recognized the Binder as a peer. The woman he dismissed. She was only a woman, and she had required assistance from Yama. But Lord Agni, whose soul had been one bright, blinding flame—
this
one he had almost feared. He recalled the day Agni had walked into the palace at Palamaidsu, alone, and had challenged him. He could not stop that one, though he had tried, and he had seen the palace itself destroyed by the power of his fires. And nothing in Hellwell could stop him either. He had made a promise then to himself that he must test this power, as he had that of Siddhartha, to defeat it or be bound by it. But he never did. The Lord of Fires had fallen himself, before the One in Red—who had been the fourth in Hellwell—who had somehow turned his fires back upon him, that day beside the Vedra in the battle for Keenset. This meant that
he
was the greatest. For had not even the Binder warned him of Yama-Dharma, god of Death? Yes, the one whose eyes drink life was the mightiest yet remaining in the world. He had almost fallen to his strength within the thunder chariot. He had tested this strength once, briefly, but had relented because they were allies in that fight. It was told that Yama had died afterward, in the City. Later, it was told that he still walked the world. As Lord of the Dead it was said that he could not die himself, save by his own choosing. Taraka accepted this as a fact, knowing what this acceptance meant. It meant that he, Taraka, would return to the south, to the island of the blue palace, where the Lord of Evil, Nirriti the Black, awaited his answer. He would give his assent. Starting at Mahartha and working northward from the sea, the Rakasha would add their power to his dark own, destroying the Temples of the six largest cities of the southwest, one after another, filling the streets of those cities with the blood of their citizens and the nameless legions of the Black One—until the gods came to their defense, and so met their doom. If the gods failed to come, then their true weakness would be known. The Rakasha would then storm Heaven, and Nirriti would level the Celestial City; Milehigh Spire would fall, the dome would be shattered, the great white cats of Kaniburrha would look upon ruins, and the pavilions of the gods and the demigods would be covered with the snows of the Pole. And all of this for one reason, really—aside from relieving the boredom, aside from hastening the final days of gods and of men in the world of the Rakasha. Whenever there is great fighting and the doing of mighty deeds and bloody deeds and flaming deeds—he comes, Taraka knew—the One in Red comes from somewhere, always, for his Aspect draws him to the realm that is his. Taraka knew he would search, wait, do anything, for however long it took, until that day he stared into the black fires that burn behind the eyes of Death. . . .

Brahma stared at the map, then looked back to the screen of crystal, about which a bronze Naga twisted, tail in teeth.

"Burning, oh priest?"

"Burning, Brahma . . . the whole warehouse district!"

"Order the people to quench the fires."

"They are already doing so, Mighty One."

"Then why trouble me with the matter?"

"There is fear. Great One."

"Fear? Fear of what?"

"The Black One, whose name I may not speak in your presence, whose strength has grown steadily in the south, he who controls the sea lanes, cutting off trade."

"Why should you be afraid to speak the name of Nirriti before me? I know of the Black One. Do you feel he started the fires?"

"Yes, Great One—or rather some accursed one in his pay did it. There is much talk that he seeks to cut us off from the rest of the world, to drain our wealth, destroy our stores and weaken our spirits, because he plans—"

"To invade you, of course."

"You have said it. Potent One."

"It may be true, my priest. So tell me, do you feel your gods will not stand by you if the Lord of Evil attacks?"

"There has never been any doubt. Most Puissant One. We simply wanted to remind you of the possibility and renew our perpetual supplication for mercy and divine protection."

"You have made your point, priest. Fear not."

Brahma ended the transmission. "He will attack."

"Of course."

"And how strong is he, I wonder? No one really knows how strong he is, Ganesha. Do they?"

"You ask me, my Lord? Your humble policy adviser?"

"I do not see anyone else present, humble godmaker. Do you know of anyone who might have information?"

"No, Lord. I do not. Everyone avoids the foul one as though he were the real death. Generally, he is. As you are aware, the three demigods I sent south did not return."

"They were strong, too, whatever their names, weren't they? How long ago was that?"

"The last was a year ago, when we sent the new Agni."

"Yes, he wasn't very good, though—still used incendiary grenades . . . but strong."

"Morally, perhaps. When there are fewer gods one must settle for demigods."

"In the old days, I would have taken the thunder chariot—"

"In the old days there was no thunder chariot. Lord Yama—"

"Silence! We have a thunder chariot now. I think the tall man of smoke who wears a wide hat shall bend above Nirriti's palace."

"Brahma, I think Nirriti can stop the thunder chariot."

"Why so?"

"From some firsthand reports I've heard, I believe that he has used guided missiles against warships sent after his brigands."

"Why did you not tell me of this sooner?"

"They are very recent reports. This is the first chance I have had to broach the subject."

"Then you do not feel we should attack?"

"No. Wait. Let
him
move first, that we may judge his strength."

"This would involve sacrificing Mahartha, would it not?"

"So? Have you never seen a city fall? . . . How will Mahartha benefit him, by itself, and for a time? If we cannot reclaim it,
then
let the man of smoke nod his wide white hat—over Mahartha."

"You are right. It will be worth it, to assess his power properly and to drain a portion of it away. In the meantime, we must prepare."

"Yes. What will your order be?"

"Alert all the powers in the City. Recall Lord Indra from the eastern continent, at once!"

"Thy will be done."

"And alert the other five cities of the river —Lananda, Khaipur, Kilbar—"

"Immediately."

"Go then!"

"I am already gone."

Time like an ocean, space like its water, Sam in the middle, standing, decided.

"God of Death," he called out, "enumerate our strengths."

Yama stretched and yawned, then rose from the scarlet couch upon which he had been dozing, almost invisible. He crossed the room, stared into Sam's eyes. "Without raising Aspect, here is my Attribute."

Sam met his gaze, held it. "This is in answer to my question?"

"Partly," replied Yama, "but mainly it was to test your own power. It appears to be returning. You bore my death-gaze longer than any mortal could."

"I know my power is returning. I can feel it. Many things are returning now. During the weeks we have dwelled here in Ratri's palace I have meditated upon my past lives. They were not all failures, deathgod. I have decided this today. Though Heaven has beaten me at every turn, each victory has cost them much."

"Yes, it would seem you are rather a man of destiny. They are actually weaker now than they were the day you challenged their power at Mahartha. They are also relatively weaker. This is because men are stronger. The gods broke Keenset, but they did not break Acceleration. Then they tried to bury Buddhism within the known teachings, but they could not. I cannot really say whether your religion helped with the plot of this tale you are writing, by encouraging Acceleration in any way whatsoever, but then none of the gods could say either. It served as a good fog, though—it diverted their attention from mischief they might have been doing, and since it did happen to take as a teaching, their efforts against it served to arouse some anti-Deicrat sentiment. You would seem inspired if you didn't seem shrewd."

"Thank you. Do you want my blessing?"

"No, do you want mine?"

"Perhaps, Death, later. But you did not answer my question. Please tell me what strengths lie with us."

"Very well. Lord Kubera will arrive shortly. . ."

"Kubera? Where is he?"

"He has dwelled in hiding over the years, leaking scientific knowledge into the world."

"Over so
many
years? His body must be ancient! How could he have managed?"

"Do you forget Narada?"