little,
he was told.
With our intelligence, we can do much. Soon now all this will change and we will become perfect.
Until that day, they worked to achieve their goal through surrogates. Similin had no idea how many surrogates there were apart from himself, nor what the goal was towards which he worked. All he knew was that he obeyed them, and he was rewarded: not only with the sweet bliss he had learned to crave, but with worldly success. His unseen mistress had guided each step of his journey and smoothed away all obstacles in his path. Now here he was, at the heart of the court of Radiance, on the point of accomplishing his greatest mission. He would solve the last outstanding problem and so would please the one he sought above all others to please, and she would raise him to power.
Now the crowd in the square below fell silent, and the voice of a solo singer rang out over the golden roofs of the city.
"Receive our tribu-u-ute!"
The red-robed priests led the drooping man in white to the towering rock's edge. Here they released their hold on his arms. The tribute must never be pushed. He must be seen to go of his own volition to his death.
As the sun sank into the lake, the tribute crumpled to his knees. From this position, slowly, unstoppably, he toppled over the edge and turned over and over as he fell.
The solo singer sang.
"Return to us!"
The tribute fell down and down, black against the red sky. His arms flailed out, but he made no cry. The timing was perfect. Just as the last of the setting sun dropped below the horizon, the tribute struck the water with a smacking hiss. Then came the sound of a more muffled impact, as he smashed onto the rocks just below the water's surface. A low sigh, like a passing breeze, rose from the crowd. Another day was ended. Another tribute paid. The dawn was secured, the sun would rise again. Life would go on.
The people started to leave.
As the royal children filed out with their mothers, one of them said, in a plaintive whine, "I didn't see the blood! I never see the blood!"
Soren Similin, standing beside the broad open stairway that led down the levels, heard this complaint and was struck by a sudden, brilliant idea. Of course! he thought to himself. All this time the solution had been staring him in the face.
The king called out to the Handler of the Corona.
"Get this damn thing off me! It tickles my neck."
The Handler of the Corona, a wealthy oil merchant proud to perform this ceremonial task, hurried forward with hands outstretched.
"Coming, Radiance!"
As he unbuckled the Corona, he murmured in the king's ear,
"It will be my name day soon, Radiance. I have the honor of supplying the tribute for that day."
"I hope he'll be an improvement on the riffraff they drag out these days," said the king. "They think I don't know they're drugged, but I can always tell."
"I believe you'll be proud of my offering," said the oil merchant.
"Let's hope so. I've had enough droopy tributes."
"My name is Cheerful Giver, Radiance," said the merchant, not sure that the king knew who he was.
"Good, good."
Waving a hand vaguely behind him as he went, the king hobbled off to his private quarters, one level below. His secretary waited for him to go, his mind filled by the idea that had just come to him. It was a simple and elegant solution, and as such, profoundly satisfying. And if it worked, he would soon be able to deliver the first of the mighty shocks that would raise him to glory.
12. The Secret Weapon
T HE GREAT TEMPLE OF R ADIANCE WAS BUILT ON SIX levels, rising from the big public sanctuary at the bottom, through royal and priestly offices and quarters, to the grand terrace at the top. The temple was a complete world in itself. There were kitchens here, and storerooms packed with provisions; armories, where smiths worked before blazing furnaces; wash yards and laundry yards; slaughter yards for meat; and dairy yards for milk and cheese. There was a tailor and a barber and a
he was told.
With our intelligence, we can do much. Soon now all this will change and we will become perfect.
Until that day, they worked to achieve their goal through surrogates. Similin had no idea how many surrogates there were apart from himself, nor what the goal was towards which he worked. All he knew was that he obeyed them, and he was rewarded: not only with the sweet bliss he had learned to crave, but with worldly success. His unseen mistress had guided each step of his journey and smoothed away all obstacles in his path. Now here he was, at the heart of the court of Radiance, on the point of accomplishing his greatest mission. He would solve the last outstanding problem and so would please the one he sought above all others to please, and she would raise him to power.
Now the crowd in the square below fell silent, and the voice of a solo singer rang out over the golden roofs of the city.
"Receive our tribu-u-ute!"
The red-robed priests led the drooping man in white to the towering rock's edge. Here they released their hold on his arms. The tribute must never be pushed. He must be seen to go of his own volition to his death.
As the sun sank into the lake, the tribute crumpled to his knees. From this position, slowly, unstoppably, he toppled over the edge and turned over and over as he fell.
The solo singer sang.
"Return to us!"
The tribute fell down and down, black against the red sky. His arms flailed out, but he made no cry. The timing was perfect. Just as the last of the setting sun dropped below the horizon, the tribute struck the water with a smacking hiss. Then came the sound of a more muffled impact, as he smashed onto the rocks just below the water's surface. A low sigh, like a passing breeze, rose from the crowd. Another day was ended. Another tribute paid. The dawn was secured, the sun would rise again. Life would go on.
The people started to leave.
As the royal children filed out with their mothers, one of them said, in a plaintive whine, "I didn't see the blood! I never see the blood!"
Soren Similin, standing beside the broad open stairway that led down the levels, heard this complaint and was struck by a sudden, brilliant idea. Of course! he thought to himself. All this time the solution had been staring him in the face.
The king called out to the Handler of the Corona.
"Get this damn thing off me! It tickles my neck."
The Handler of the Corona, a wealthy oil merchant proud to perform this ceremonial task, hurried forward with hands outstretched.
"Coming, Radiance!"
As he unbuckled the Corona, he murmured in the king's ear,
"It will be my name day soon, Radiance. I have the honor of supplying the tribute for that day."
"I hope he'll be an improvement on the riffraff they drag out these days," said the king. "They think I don't know they're drugged, but I can always tell."
"I believe you'll be proud of my offering," said the oil merchant.
"Let's hope so. I've had enough droopy tributes."
"My name is Cheerful Giver, Radiance," said the merchant, not sure that the king knew who he was.
"Good, good."
Waving a hand vaguely behind him as he went, the king hobbled off to his private quarters, one level below. His secretary waited for him to go, his mind filled by the idea that had just come to him. It was a simple and elegant solution, and as such, profoundly satisfying. And if it worked, he would soon be able to deliver the first of the mighty shocks that would raise him to glory.
12. The Secret Weapon
T HE GREAT TEMPLE OF R ADIANCE WAS BUILT ON SIX levels, rising from the big public sanctuary at the bottom, through royal and priestly offices and quarters, to the grand terrace at the top. The temple was a complete world in itself. There were kitchens here, and storerooms packed with provisions; armories, where smiths worked before blazing furnaces; wash yards and laundry yards; slaughter yards for meat; and dairy yards for milk and cheese. There was a tailor and a barber and a
Similar Books
