Moisture ran from the walls and trickled silently along a runnel in the centre of the floor.
The corridor wound downward, turned, branched, went down more stairs, and emerged into another lamplit chamber. Two more guards sat on their haunches by the door. These were attired in blue-lacquered Chlen — hide breastplates, the flaring shoulderguards of the Tsolyani regular army, and kilts like those of their comrades above. Two crested helmets bearing the insignia of the Omnipotent Azure Legion lay in a comer, and curved, scallop-edged swords leaned against a wall. One rose to greet Siyun, who said a word or two in reply and jerked a thumb at Harsan. The other guard seemed lost in some revery of his own.
They passed through into the chamber beyond, where a table stood covered with a grey cloth. On it lay the golden hand and the map symbol. There were other items as well: three roundish lumps of crumbling red rust, a rod of some silvery-blue metal perhaps as long as a man’s forearm, and a heap of manuscript leaves. These last were obviously fragile with age, mouldering, stained, and rotten.
A glance took in all of this. Then Harsan’s gaze shifted to the other occupant of the room and he stared.
It was a Pe Choi.
But yet what a Pe Choi! Instead of the sleek, dully-gleaming black nudity of the Pe Choi of Do Chaka, this specimen was decked out in an odd-fitting copy of a human’s kilt, a gorget of Chlen — hide all chaised and set with twinkling blue stones, and- most ludicrous of all-a hat! Rising up between the delicate grey-shadowed ear-ridges was a loaf-shaped bonnet of embroidered cloth-of-gold, a style currently fashionable among the young aristocrats of Bey Sii.
Harsan repressed a wild impulse to laugh, then a strong surge of revulsion. No Pe Choi of the Chakas would ever have worn this foppish travesty of human costume! This was a parody, a caricature. It was like the Kiini — bird a trader had once brought to the monastery; it had been garbed in a tiny grey priest’s tunic and black skullcap, and the man had made it say preposterously pontifical things in its shrill little voice.
Siyun was saying, “I can’t pronounce his name, but this is a priest of our Lord Thumis’ Cohort, Ketengku. Here is priest Harsan, the language scholar we were told to expect.”
The Pe Choi minced forward on his two powerful rear legs, articulated tail swaying in unconscious imitation of a dandy’s walk. “I am Chtik p’Qwe, Scholar Priest of the Fourth Circle.” He spoke almost perfect Tsolyani with only a trace of a whistle to mar the sibilants. “I have heard that you come from near my home in Do Chaka?”
Harsan had not yet recovered from his surprise and could only nod in affirmation.
Siyun said indifferently, “I leave you to your tasks. Our great Tunkul — gong can be heard even at these depths, so you’ll probably know when it is dinner time.”
The two were left to stare at one another. The Pe Choi almost certainly sensed Harsan’s distaste and reticence and was the firsi to break the silence.
“Since our two temples are so close, we may find it profitable to work together. I can show you what my techniques have uncovered, and you in turn can aid by analysing the writings.” He bent his long oddly-jointed neck closer to Harsan. “Two more will return-they are gone to the midday rituals at their own temples. They serve the Lords of Change, and we are told to be wary of them. They are here only upon the direct permission of the Imperium, as you may have heard by now.”
He led Harsan to the table and pointed to the relics. “This is a religious icon, a hand of gold made in imitation of that of some more ancient idol, named Tga’a Nmemsu, ‘the Man of Gold.’ ” Harsan gave no sign that he had heard of this before. “Next, there is a map symbol showing the Empire of Llyan of Tsamra. It cannot be used without certain devices now lost to us, and indeed, which we did not know still were workable as late as Llyani times.” The map symbol? Kurrune the Messenger must have run hard to carry it back, or perhaps he had sent it by some other courier.
Chtik p’Qwe picked up a blob of rust. “These lumps also contain artifacts, but their iron caskets have rusted away. The manuscripts are in Llyani, but in a difficult and cryptic hand- perchance you can help there. And this rod may be a power source, similar in function to the ‘Eyes’ made by the servants who preceded Llyan’s empire, even as he precedes ours. I have not been able to puzzle out its use, and mayhap its force is now gone. As with similar devices, it probably drew upon the energies of the Planes Beyond, which fill the gaps between each bubble of reality.”
“I have studied only the rudiments of that theory,” Harsan murmured.
“It is so? The ‘Layers of Reality’ were my specialty in our temple, and I submitted a treatise upon the topic as my Labour of Reverence for the Fourth Circle.”
“I fear I am not so far advanced.” He felt uncomfortable. “No matter. I shall explain.” The Pe Choi raised a thin hand in unwitting imitation of the statues of Feshmu’un, Tutor of the Gods, the Ninth Aspect of Thumis. “What we perceive is only the exterior of reality, like the bark upon a section of Mnosa- root. Beneath the bark run the fibres which contain the sweetness. Thus it is here: below the surface of the world we see, touch, smell, taste, and feel there are networks of invisible forces. Where these come together they create ‘nexus points,’ and there the power is stronger, mightier. Where no force lines run, there are ‘bare’ areas in which no sorcery operates. Long before Llyan of Tsamra the ancients learned to ‘reach through’ to this network with instruments and shape this power to their needs. Their wisdom created devices which pull, push, focus, and mould this energy to many purposes.”
“I have heard that the devices of the ancients are similar in their powers to the magical spells employed by the higher Circles of the Sorcerer Priests within the temples.”
“So it is. The ancients performed their wonders with instruments, but later our savants learned-to produce similar effects with no more than the strength of their minds. It may be for this reason that the arts of making these devices are forgotten. That knowledge was lost before the Time of Darkness, though a few maintained it even into the Latter Times which preceded all of our historical empires. Now those who have the talent use their minds to ‘reach through,’ employing such aids as mnemonic words, gestures, thought attitudes, and even substances. This is what is called ‘magic’ by those who know not the truth.”
“I have seen such spells. On the day of the Visitations of the Wise the senior priests of our monastery create mighty illusions to entertain the populace: ancient sages who stride forth from the high altar chamber bearing books and scrolls and emblems. Some of these phantasms are even made to speak learned words and give moral instruction; 'others scatter fantastic flowers over the crowd, and these turn into bright Kheshchal-birds and fly away-”
The Pe Choi opened his long, toothed beak in a copy of a human smile. “As you say. But all is not illusion. There are ways of ‘reaching through’ and turning energy into substance-or substance into nothingness.” He took up a reed pen from the table. “Observe.”
The skeletal fingers made a twisting gesture, and the Pe Choi hummed a single sonorous syllable deep in his throat. The pen appeared to turn over in his hand. Then it was gone.
Harsan was intrigued. The supercilious Sorcerer Priests of the monastery had performed such tricks, but he had not been considered advanced enough to study these arts. “Can you make it return?”
“Certainly. It is just a sort of ‘reaching around the comer.’ ” The Pe Choi made a second gesture, and the pen was back in his hand again. Harsan put out a finger to touch it-and jerked back in surprise. The pen was now deathly cold.
“One must be cautious; an object thus brought back cannot be held long in soft human fingers! ‘Around the comer,’ as I call it, is not a place for the living. I have heard that certain sages have put their heads there to see what is to be seen, and have been dragged back with eyes burst and blood running from their noses and frozen upon their cheeks. Dead as stones, and all within a trice!”
“Can you teach me to do this thing?”
The lambent green eyes came near, and the yellow-slit pupils looked full into Harsan’s own brown eyes. “I can try, if you are so willed, and if you have the talent. Teach me Llyani, and I shall teach you this.”
“Agreed.” In spite of himself Harsan felt himself warming to this strange travesty of a Pe Choi.
They spent the better part of the afternoon at it. The two priests of the Lords of Change did not return, and none came to disturb them until they heard the evening guard detail clattering down the corridor to relieve their comrades. By this time Harsan had at least touched the terrible cold of “around the comer” twice or thrice, although he had no success at making anything travel to or from that curious, alien space.
