A code message would be deciphered in the instant.
So, how to send a message to the dinka-jins?
Boarmus peered into a monitor that watched the moon rise over New Athens. He joined an intent group watching a scene in Derbeck, the images flashing up on the array, only to be succeeded by others, then others still.
“Stop it there,” said the Charge Monitor for Derbeck, with a bow of deference toward Boarmus. “Right there! Provost, I’m glad you’re here to see this. That deity of theirs has actually been showing up on visual recently!”
They watched together as Chimi-ahm, the tripartite deity of Derbeck, strode through the streets of Houmfon.
“Take that eye down,” demanded the Charge Monitor, her voice shaking. “I want to see its feet!”
The eye extended its distant lens and focused upon the great crushing feet that broke the cobbles to leave imprints there, feet that crushed the herbage as they crossed a verge, that shattered structures as they smashed through walls.
“It’s leaving footprints,” cried an observer. “And destruction, real destruction! It can’t do that! It’s not a material thing!”
“How long has this been going on?” demanded Boarmus, the sickness inside him surging as he watched the striding image. “Am I correct in recalling that the Derbecki god has always been hallucinatory!”
“Has been,” said the Charge Monitor tersely. “But is something else now, Provost. The damned thing’s real.”
“Sort of,” said another Monitor, bending over a flickering instrument panel. “Not entirely. Almost.”
“Make up your mind,” the Provost snarled. “Which is it?”
“It varies,” the Monitor muttered. “It sometimes is and sometimes isn’t. See for yourself.”
And they did, watching as the needles flickered and rose and fell. The thing was real, sometimes, for moments. And not real too. Unquestionably, however, real or unreal, the thing was. Not quite synchronized, yet, but it was, nonetheless.
Boarmus swallowed. The monitors were looking at him, waiting for him to tell them what to do. They would expect him to investigate this, at once. Perhaps they were expecting him to do it himself, but Derbeck was nowhere near City Fifteen and just now it was absolutely essential for him to get to City Fifteen.
He kept his voice firm and decisive. “We have a team near Derbeck. Danivon Luze’s group. Send instructions from me saying they’re to make an investigation of this manifestation in Derbeck, as soon as possible.” His voice sounded right: concerned but not panicky. Those working as monitors nodded, accepting that he had done the proper thing.
He thought: New Athens is near City Fifteen. Denial is near City Fifteen. Enarae is near City Fifteen. Zasper Ertigon is in Enarae. I would have legitimate reason to inquire from Zasper Ertigon about Danivon Luze, about Fringe Owldark.
“I’m going to Enarae,” he loudly informed an underling. “I want to talk to former Council Enforcer Zasper Ertigon about two of his Enforcer protégés. Arrange quick transport and be sure Ertigon will be available when I get there.” Let the dead men listen, let them hear. What he was doing was appropriate. They could not fault what he was doing.
The underling scurried and returned. “Transport, sir. Down in the garage momentarily. Zasper Ertigon located and holding himself in readiness, sir.”
Boarmus made no thanks for this efficiency. Though originality and innovation were rare or totally absent in Tolerance, efficiency was the usual thing.
“Does the Provost wish his travel things packed? Does the Provost wish to take a secretary?” A flunky is what the underling meant. Did Boarmus want somebody along to do the running and fetching. But of course he did.
“Have my travel things packed, yes. And that cousin of Syrilla’s. That young man. What’s his name?” Boarmus knew what his name was, the one who’d been standing about, spying on him, watching him. The one he’d seen hiding in the corridor last time he’d returned from the Core. Jacent.
“Jacent, sir.” Jacent of the lambent eye, the laughing mouth, Jacent the manic, the madcap, the servant-hall comedian. The underling smiled, thinking of Jacent.
“That’s him. Get him.” Youths of that age had been well educated and well trained and were still fresh enough to have some gumption. Five years from now he would have substituted opinion for fact, pose for reaction, and would be useless—as useless as the rest of Council Supervisory—but just now, Jacent would do. Besides, the boy had been hanging about, obviously curious, and he had a certain daredevil air to him, as though he might be capable of more than mere duty. Boarmus would need more than mere duty.
And in very little time they were aloft, two of them and the pilot.
“We’re going to Enarae,” Boarmus told Jacent, keeping it to a whisper, his mouth a finger’s width from the boy’s ear. Even if there was some spying little ear on the flier, likely they couldn’t hear him over the whine of the gravitics. “I have reason to think we will be overheard once we are on the ground, so once we are on the ground, you won’t say one word about this. You will accompany me to the hotel. You will go with me to the Swale. That’s a—”
“I know about the Swale,” said Jacent, preening himself in his excitement.
Boarmus seized him with scarcely controlled fury. “Shut up! Don’t talk! Listen! In the Swale we’ll meet Zasper Ertigon. I’ll excuse you, and you’ll go off to a gambling house run by Ahl Dibai Bloom. You’ll play a little of whatever game you’re good at, assuming you’re good at anything. You’ll watch for a chance to put this packet secretly into the hands of Bloom himself, letting no one see you do it.”
The packet was a small one, fitting into the palm of one hand. Boarmus had prepared it after they were aloft, hiding it as he did so. If there was an ear, there could also be an eye. If there were both an ear and an eye, Boarmus was already lost. Best pretend there
