Книга - War in Heaven

War in Heaven
David Zindell


A triumphant close to The Requiem for Homo Sapiens – an epic tour de force that began with The Broken God and was followed by The Wild.Danlo wi Soli Ringess now has the greatest mission of his life to complete. With Bertram Jaspari’s evil Architects terrorising the universe with their killing star – the morrashar – and Hanuman’s Ringists intent on converting the rest of humanity to the Way of Ringess, Danlo must somehow try to prevent War in Heaven.Behind him travels an army of lightships, commanded by the ever-larger-than-life Bardo, falling from fixed-point to fixed-point throughout the deep, dark spaces of the Vild, ready to do battle, if they must, with the Ringists’ fleet, lying in ambush for them beyond the Star of Neverness.War in Heaven brings to a cataclysmic finale the most amazing and awe-inspiring journey in modern science fiction, combining the ultimate in space adventure with philosophy, mathematics, spirituality and superb characterization. It is truly the greatest romantic epic of modern sf.







DAVID ZINDELL

War in Heaven

BOOK THREE

of A Requiem for Homo Sapiens
















COPYRIGHT (#ulink_fff34c32-1708-57af-b354-d7a5df622c99)


This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1998

Copyright © David Zindell 1998

David Zindell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780586211915

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2016 ISBN: 9780008116774

Version: 2017-07-26




PRAISE (#ulink_e1e589d6-16dc-547f-bfba-8c8b2d1d9e84)


Gene Wolfe declared Zindell ‘one of the finest talents to appear since Kim Stanley Robinson and William Gibson – perhaps the finest’. His first novel, Neverness, was published to great acclaim. A reviewer in the New Scientist wrote of it in 1992: ‘David Zindell writes of interstella mathematics in poetic prose that is a joy to read.’

The Broken God, Book One of A Requiem for Homo Sapiens, is a sequel to Neverness. It has been hailed as Dune for the 1990s and was equally well-received: ‘SF as it ought to be: challenging, imaginative, thought-provoking and well-written. Zindell has placed himself at the forefront of literary SF.’

Times Literary Supplement

The Wild, Book Two of A Requiem for Homo Sapiens, was also published to great acclaim: ‘A disturbing vision of the impending collapse of a transgalactic society … the ideas are hard SF with philosophical undertones, and the story is compelling.’

New Scientist

With War in Heaven Zindell completes A Requiem for Homo Sapiens, bringing to a cataclysmic finale the most amazing journey in modern science fiction. He lives in Boulder, Colorado.




CONTENTS


Cover (#u469dfedc-b128-5b98-a1c9-9e9bf20d23d8)

Title Page (#u92842ef8-54cb-5966-ba25-ef791e8ed288)

Copyright (#ulink_e620de22-5e47-551f-814c-2b78fa607e31)

Praise (#ued91e9c2-c870-50de-9695-740263f44601)

Chapter I: In the Hall of the Lords (#ulink_94ef8a5d-f866-5047-9a96-da80eaba100b)

Chapter II: Fate (#ulink_dcc9b8f7-9a47-5bb5-a3af-4ffcb8300de7)

Chapter III: The Two Hundred Lightships (#ulink_b423d086-55c9-55b4-9b9a-36480a2e8879)

Chapter IV: Sheydveg (#ulink_64019c66-e021-5129-92df-b12b7a32700f)

Chapter V: The Golden Ring (#ulink_f7d09434-ab12-5fda-b038-909193276c35)

Chapter VI: The Lords of Neverness (#ulink_b95e8a69-4d8c-55bc-87d1-4a16a64e1e9a)

Chapter VII: A Law for Gods (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter VIII: Pain (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter IX: Mora’s Star (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter X: The Nine Stages (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XI: The Paradox of Ahimsa (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XII: The First Pillar of Ringism (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XIII: Hope (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XIV: The Face of a Man (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XV: Tamara (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XVI: The Starving (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XVII: A Piece of Bread (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XVIII: The Hunt (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XIX: The Breath of the World (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XX: The Ringess (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XXI: The Battle of Ten Thousand Suns (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XXII: The Universal Computer (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XXIII: The Face of God (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XXIV: Love (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XXV: The Asarya (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XXVI: The Lord of the Order (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XXVII: Peace (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XXVIII: Halla (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Other Books By (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER I (#ulink_d2368309-8679-500d-a5b4-10ab3b453251)

In the Hall of the Lords (#ulink_d2368309-8679-500d-a5b4-10ab3b453251)


Everything is God.

God is the wild white thallow alone in the sky;

God is the snowworm dreaming in his icy burrow;

God is the silence out in the great loneliness of the sea;

God is the scream of a mother giving birth to her child.

Who has beheld the world through God’s shimmering eyes?

God can see all things but cannot see himself.

God is a baby blind to his own terrible beauty.

Someday God will be a man who has learned how to see.

— from the Devaki Song of Life

I know little of God, but all too much of that godly race of beings that some call man. As gods we are destined to be – so teach the scryers and prophets of religions new and old. And yet few understand what is required to be a god, much less a true man. There are those who view the gods of the galaxy – the Degula Trinity, Iamme, the Silicon God, and all the rest – as perfect beings beyond pain or strife or death. But it is not so. The gods, though they be made of a million crystalline spheres as large as a moon, can die: the murder of Ede the God gives proof of the ultimate doom awaiting all beings whether made of diamond circuitry or flesh and blood. The gods, too, make war upon each other. Two million years ago, it is said, the Ieldra defeated the Dark God and thus saved the Milky Way from the fate of Dichali and the Aud Spiral and other galaxies that have disappeared down the black hole of the gods’ lust for the infinite. It is also said that the Ieldra have fused their souls into the light streaming out of the core of our galaxy, but other gods have evolved to replace them. There is Ai and Pure Mind and the April Colonial Intelligence and the One. And, of course, the greatest god of all, the Solid State Entity, She who had once been a woman named Kalinda of the Flowers. Compared to Her love of the stars and the life born in their fiery, hydrogen wombs, the ardour of a man and a woman for each other is only as a flaming match held up to the sun. And compared to Her hatred of the Silicon God, the passion of all the human beings who have ever lived is less than a drop of water in a boiling sea. And yet the human urge to destroy is no small thing. Human beings, as well as gods, can make war. They can destroy the stars. And yet they can say yes to the unfolding of new forms throughout the universe and create, too. This is the story of a man who was both creator and destroyer, my son, Danlo wi Soli Ringess – a simple pilot wise in the ways of peace who brought war to the heavens of many worlds.

One day as the galaxy turned slowly about its celestial centre, a lightship fell out into the near-space above a watery world named Thiells. The Snowy Owl was a long, graceful sweep of spun diamond, and it had carried Danlo across the galaxy from the Star of Neverness to lost Tannahill. His journey across the stars, and through the wild spaces of the manifold that lies beneath the stars, had been dangerous and long. Nine other pilots in their individual ships had set out on his quest to talk with a goddess, but only he had survived to fall on to the far reaches of the galaxy’s Perseus Arm. He had crossed the entire Vild, that hellish region of fractured space and dust and stars blown into dazzling supernovas. And then he had returned coreward across many light years to Thiells at the other edge of the Vild. Although he had fallen farther than any pilot in history, he was not the only one to have made a great journey. His Order – the Order of Mystic Mathematicians – had begun the great Second Vild Mission to save the stars. Other pilots on other quests had flung their lightships into the Vild like so many grains of sand cast into a raging sea. They were Peter Eyota and Henrios li Radman and the great Edreiya Chu, she of the Golden Lotus and the golden eyes that could see deeper into the manifold than could most pilots. Still others – Helena Charbo, Aja, and Alark of Urradeth – had already found their way back to Thiells or were returning to the safety of the Order only now, even as Danlo returned. Of course, no place in the Vild (or the universe) was truly safe, for even such a peaceful world as Thiells must turn its soft, round face to the killing radiation of the stars. These great white blisters of light erupted from the black heavens all about Danlo’s ship. All were old supernovas, and distant – too weak to burn the trees or birds or flowers of Thiells. But no one knew when a more murderous light might suddenly devour the sky and put an end to the new academy that the Lords of Danlo’s Order had decided to build on this world. It was, in part, to tell of one such supernova that Danlo had come to Thiells.

And so he took his shimmering ship down through the sky’s cold ozone into the lower and warmer layers of the atmosphere. It was a perfect, blue inside blue day of sunlight and clarity. Flying was a joy – falling and gliding down through space on wings of diamond towards the Order’s new city, which the Lord Pilot had named, simply, Lightstone. As with Neverness, whom the pilots and other ordermen had abandoned a few years before, this was to be a City of Light – a great, gleaming city upon a hill that would bring the Order’s cold enlightenment to all the peoples of the Vild. Actually, Lightstone was built across three hills on the peninsula of a large island surrounded by ocean. It shimmered in the noonday sun, for all its buildings were wrought of white granite or organic stone. As Danlo fell down to earth, he looked out of the windows of the Snowy Owl and caught the glint of rose and amethyst and a thousand other colours scattered from street to street and hill to hill. Soon his ship swooped down to one of the many runs crossing the city’s light-field. There, a mile from a neighbourhood of little stone cottages, out on a plain covered with flowering bushes and rocks, the Snowy Owl at last came to rest. And for the first time in many days, Danlo felt the long, heavy pull of gravity deep within his bones. It took him little time to gather his things together into the plain wooden chest that he had been given as a novice years ago. He dressed himself in his formal, black pilot’s robe before breaking the seal to the pit of his ship. And then he climbed down to the run’s hard surface. For the first time in more than a year, he stood squinting at the bright light of a real and open sky.

‘Hello, Pilot,’ a voice called out to him. ‘You’ve fallen far and well, haven’t you?’

Danlo stood holding his wooden chest while he turned to look towards the end of the run and the great sweeping buildings beyond. There waited the usual cadre of programmers, tinkers and other professionals who attended the arrival of any lightship. He recognized a red-robed horologe named Ian Hedeon, but it was a pilot who had spoken to him. This was the Sonderval, an impossibly tall man dressed in black silks, as was Danlo. He was as straight and imposing as a yu tree, and as proud – in truth he was prouder of his brilliance than any other man whom Danlo had ever known.

‘Master Pilot,’ Danlo said, ‘it is good to see you again.’

‘You may address me as “Lord Pilot”,’ the Sonderval said, stepping closer. ‘I’ve been elevated since last we met.’

‘Lord … Pilot, then,’ Danlo said. He remembered very well the evening when he and the Sonderval had talked beneath the twilight sky of Farfara some few years ago. It had been a night of the new supernova – the last night before the Second Vild Mission had left the last of the Civilized Worlds for Thiells. ‘Lord Pilot … can you tell me the date?’

‘The date on this planet or on Neverness?’

‘The date on Neverness, if you please.’

The Sonderval looked off at the sky, making a quick calculation. ‘It’s the 65th of midwinter spring.’

‘Yes,’ Danlo said, ‘but what year is it?’

‘The year is 2959,’ the Sonderval said. ‘Almost three thousand years since the founding of the Old Order.’

Danlo closed his eyes for a moment in remembrance. It had been almost five years since he had set out with the Second Vild Mission from Neverness, and he suddenly realized that he must be twenty-seven years old.

‘So long,’ Danlo said. Then he opened his eyes and smiled at the Sonderval. ‘But you look well, sir.’

‘You look well, too,’ the Sonderval said. ‘But there’s something strange about you – you look different, I think. Gentler, almost. Wiser and even wilder, if that can be believed.’

In truth, Danlo wi Soli Ringess was the wildest of men. In the time since Neverness his hair had grown long and free so that it fell almost to his waist. In this thick black hair, shot with a strand of red, he had fastened a white feather that his grandfather had given him years before. Once, as a young man, he had made a blood-offering to the spirits of his dead family, and he had slashed his forehead with a sharp stone. A lightning-bolt scar still marked him to remind others that here was an uncommon man, a fierce man of deep purposes who would listen for his fate calling in the wind or look inside the secret fires of his heart. It was his greatest joy to gaze without fear upon the terrible beauties of the world. His marvellous eyes were like the deepest, bluest cobalt glass, and they held light as a chalice does water. And more, they shone like stars, and it was this mysterious deepening of his gaze that the Sonderval had remarked, the way that light seemed to pour out of him as if fed by some wild and infinite source.

‘You look sadder, too,’ the Sonderval continued. ‘And yet you’ve returned to your Order as a pilot should, having made discoveries.’

‘Yes, truly, I have made … discoveries.’

Danlo looked past the field’s other runs, noisy with the rocket fire of lightships and jammers and other craft. Towards the ocean to the west, the city of Lightstone spread out over its three hills in lovely crystalline buildings, each house or tower giving shelter to human beings who had risked their lives to come to the Vild. Whenever Danlo pondered the fate of his bloody but blessed race, his face fell full of sadness. He always felt the pain of others too easily, just as the men and women whom he met almost always sensed his essential gentleness. Once, when he was only fourteen, he had taken a vow of ahimsa never to kill or harm any animal or man. And yet he was not only kind and compassionate, but strong and fierce as a thallow. With his quick, bold, wild face, he even looked something like that most noble of all creatures. Like the thallows of Icefall – the blue and the silver and the rare white thallows – his long, graceful body fairly rippled with animajii, a wild joy of life. That was his gift (and curse), that like a man holding fire in one hand and black ice in the other, he could always contain the most violent of opposites within himself. Even when he was saddest, he could hear the golden notes of a deeper and more universal song. Once, he had been told that he had been born laughing, and even now, as a man who had witnessed the death of stars and people whom he loved, he liked to laugh whenever he could.

‘Important discoveries, I think,’ the Sonderval said. ‘You’ve called for the entire College of Lords to convene – no pilot has done that since your father returned from the Solid State Entity.’

‘Yes, I have much to tell of, sir.’

‘Have you succeeded in your quest to speak to the Entity?’

Danlo smiled as he looked up at the Sonderval’s long, stern face. Although Danlo was a tall man, the Sonderval stood more than a foot and a half taller.

‘Can any man truly speak with a goddess?’ Danlo asked, remembering.

‘It’s been some years since we last met, and still you like to answer my questions with questions.’

‘I … am sorry, Lord Pilot.’

‘At least you’re not wholly changed,’ the Sonderval said.

Danlo laughed and said, ‘I am still always I – who else could I be?’

‘Your father asked the same question – and arrived at a different answer.’

‘Because he was fated to become a god?’

‘I still won’t believe that Mallory Ringess became a god,’ the Sonderval said. ‘He was Lord Pilot of the Order, a powerful and brilliant man – I’ll allow that. But a god? Simply because half his brain was replaced with biological computers and he could think faster than most other men? No, no – I think not.’

‘It … can be hard to know who is a god and who is not.’

‘Have you found your father?’ the Sonderval demanded. ‘Is this why you’ve asked the Lords’ College to convene?’

‘Well, I’ve found a god,’ Danlo said, almost laughing. ‘Shall I show you, sir?’

Without waiting for the Lord Pilot’s response, Danlo set down his wooden chest. He bent and opened the heavy lid. A moment later he drew out a cubical box covered along its six faces with many jewelled computer eyes. In the bright sunlight, they glittered like hundreds of diamonds. Just above the box, in truth projected out of it into the clear air, floated a ghostlike hologram of a little dark-skinned man.

‘This is a devotionary computer,’ Danlo said. ‘The Architects of some of the Cybernetic Churches carry them about wherever they go.’

‘I’ve seen suchlike before,’ the Sonderval said as he pointed his long finger at the hologram. ‘And this is the likeness of Nikolos Daru Ede, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Danlo said, smiling with amusement. ‘His … likeness.’

The Sonderval studied Ede’s soft lips and sensuous black eyes, and he declared, ‘I’ve never understood why the Architects worshipped such a small man. He looks like merchant, doesn’t he?’

‘But Ede the Man became Ede the God, and it is upon this miracle that the Architects have built their church.’

‘Have you found Ede the God, then? Is this what you’ve discovered?’

‘This is Ede the God,’ Danlo said. ‘What is left of him.’

The Sonderval thought that Danlo was making a joke, for he laughed impatiently and waved his long hand at the Ede hologram as if he wanted to sweep it back into its box. And because the Sonderval was staring at Danlo, he didn’t see the Ede hologram wink at Danlo and flash him a quick burst of finger signs.

‘A god, indeed!’ the Sonderval said. ‘But you have spoken to a goddess, I’m sure. At least, that monstrous computer floating in space that men call a goddess. The son of Mallory Ringess wouldn’t return to call the Lords together if he hadn’t completed his quest to find the Entity.’

‘Truly? Would he not?’ Danlo asked. For the first time, he was more vexed than amused by the Sonderval’s overweening manner.

‘Please, Pilot – questions I have in abundance; it’s answers that I desire.’

‘I … am sorry,’ Danlo said. He supposed that he should have been honoured that the Lord Pilot himself had chosen to meet him at the light-field. But the Sonderval was always a man of multiple purposes.

‘It might help us prepare for the Lords’ conclave if you would tell me what you’ve discovered.’

Yes, Danlo thought, and it would certainly help the Sonderval if he were privy to information in advance of Lord Nikolos. Everyone knew that the Sonderval thought that he should have been made Lord of the Order on Thiells in Lord Nikolos’ place.

‘Have you found a cure for the Great Plague?’ the Sonderval asked. ‘Have you found a group of lost Architects who knew the cure?’

Danlo closed his eyes as he remembered the faces of Haidar and Chandra and Choclo and others of his adoptive tribe who had died of a shaida disease that he called the slow evil. For the ten thousandth time, he beheld the terrible colours of the plague: the white froth upon their screaming lips, the red blood pouring from their ears, the flesh around their eyes blackened in death. The many other tribes of Alaloi on Icefall were also infected with this plague virus, which might yet wait many years before falling into its active phase – or might be killing his whole people at that very moment.

‘I … almost found a cure,’ Danlo said as he clasped his hand to his forehead.

‘Well, what have you discovered, Pilot?’

Danlo waited a moment as he breathed deeply the scent of flowers and rocket fire filling the air. He swallowed to moisten his throat; he had a warm and melodious voice but he was unused to speaking. ‘If you’d like, I will tell you a thing,’ he said.

‘Well, then?’

‘I have found Tannahill, sir. I … have been with the Architects of the Old Church.’

At this astonishing news, the Sonderval stood as still as a tree and stared at Danlo. The Lord Pilot was the coolest of men and seldom betrayed any emotions other than pride in himself or loathing for his fellow man. But on that day, under the hot, high sun, with a crowd of people watching him from the end of the run, he punched his fist into his open hand and shouted out in envy, joy and disbelief, ‘It can’t be true!’

And then, noticing that a couple of olive-robed programmers were staring at him, he motioned for Danlo to follow him away from the run. He led him down a little walkway leading to one of the run’s access streets. Danlo looked over his shoulder to see the cadre of professionals converge upon his ship like hungry wolves around a beached seal. Then he walked with the Sonderval up to the gleaming black sled which would take them into the city of Lightstone.

‘We’ll talk as we ride,’ the Sonderval said. He opened the sled’s doors and invited Danlo to sit inside. He explained that this long, wheeled vehicle should have been named differently but for the Lord Akashic’s nostalgia for Neverness and the sleek sleds that rocket down her icy streets.

‘On Tannahill, I have been inside such vehicles before,’ Danlo said. ‘They call them choches.’

While the Sonderval piloted the sled along the streets leading from the field into Lightstone, Danlo told of another city far across the Vild – and of hard plastic choches armoured against bombs and ancient religious disputes and war.

‘You amaze me,’ the Sonderval said. ‘We’ve sent two hundred pilots into the Vild. And no one has returned with even a breath of a hint as to where Tannahill might be found.’

‘Truly?’

‘I, myself, have searched for this world. From Perdido Luz to the Shatarei Void. I, myself. Pilot.’

‘I … am sorry.’

‘Why is it that some men have so much luck? You and your father – both born under the same lucky star.’

Just then, as Danlo gazed at the colours of the city looming up beyond him, an old pain stabbed through his head. He thought of the sudden death of the entire Devaki tribe: his found-father and mother and sisters who had raised him until he was fourteen years old; he remembered the betrayal of his deepest friend, Hanuman li Tosh, and the loss of Tamara Ten Ashtoreth, she of the golden hair and golden soul – the woman whom he had loved almost more than life itself. With the hurt of his head pressing deeply into him like an iron fist, he recalled the very recent War of Terror on Tannahill, the eye-tlolts and burning lasers and hydrogen bombs. In a way, he himself had brought this war upon the Architects of the Old Church. In a way, although a kind of victory had been achieved, this war was not yet over.

‘I … have not always been lucky,’ Danlo said. He pressed his palm against his left eye, which seemed to be the source of his terrible headaches. ‘In my life there has been much light, yes, and I have always sought its source, its centre. But sometimes I am afraid that I am only like a moth circling closer to the flames of what you call my star. Sometimes I have wondered if I am only being pulled towards a terrible fate.’

For a while, as they moved down a sunlit boulevard towards the three hills gleaming with new buildings, they talked about fate: the fate of the Order, the fate of the Civilized Worlds, the fate of pilots on desperate quests to the Vild’s deadly stars. The Sonderval told of pilots who had returned to Thiells having made significant discoveries. Helena Charbo, out by the great Bias Double, had found a world of lost Architects who had been sundered from the Old Church for almost two thousand years. And the fabulous Aja had befriended another group of lost Architects whose only means of journeying across the stars was to destroy them one by one: to cause a star to explode into a supernova, thereby tearing open great rents in the manifold into which their vast ships might fall and emerge light years away into the sun-drenched vacuum of realspace. All these lost Architects longed for reunion with their Mother Church, but they didn’t even know of Tannahill’s existence, much less where it might be found. They longed to interface the Old Church’s sacred computers and let the High Holy Ivi guide them through wondrous cybernetic realms straight to the mysterious face of Ede the God. It was the Order’s hope that if they could find Tannahill and win the Holy Ivi to their purpose, then the Church might re-establish its authority over the lost Architects and command them to stop destroying the stars. This was the essence of the Order’s mission to the Vild. And so the Order on Neverness had sent its finest pilots and professionals to Thiells to build a city. The ancient Order had divided in two, weakening itself, so that a new Order might flourish and grow.

‘The city will be complete in another year,’ the Sonderval said, pointing out of the sled’s window. ‘Of course, there’s enough space if needed to expand over the next fifty years – or fifty thousand.’

Danlo looked behind them past the light-field to the open plains covered with flowering bushes and little trees hung with red ritsa fruits. Truly, the city could expand almost infinitely down the mountainous peninsula and into the interior of this island continent that was as yet unnamed. But the heart of Lightstone would always be the three hills overlooking the ocean. There, to the west, on the gentle slopes of the centremost hill, the Order had almost finished building its new academy. There were the new dormitories to house novice pilots, and the new library, and the Soli Pavilion, and the great Cetic’s Tower rising up from the top of the hill like a massive white pillar holding up the sky. Just below it, on a little shelf of land overlooking the sea a few miles away, stood the circular Hall of the Lords. And all these buildings swept skywards with the grace of organic stone, a marvellously strong substance flecked with bits of tisander and diamond. Everywhere Danlo looked new houses and hospices and apartments and shops were arising almost magically like crystals exploding out of the earth. But it was no magic that made these lovely structures. Over the faces of every unfinished building swarmed billions of little black robots, layering down the lacy organic stone as efficiently as spiders spinning out the silk of their webs. In the hold of their deep-ships, the Order had brought some of these robots to Thiells, and had brought still other robots programmed to make yet more robots: disassemblers to mine minerals from every square foot of the rocky soil, and assemblers to put these elements together in beautiful new ways. The result of this outlawed technology (outlawed on Neverness and most of the Civilized Worlds), was that a city could almost be built overnight. The only thing Lightstone lacked was people, for the Order had sent scarcely more than ten thousand men and women into the Vild. But many of the peoples of the Vild, perhaps excited that a new power had arisen to save them from the fury of the stars, were pouring into the city. From the nearby worlds of Caraghar, Asherah, Eshte, Kimmit and Skalla they came to be part of this glorious undertaking. And on more distant Worlds further along the Orion Arm where the stars glittered like diamonds, the Order’s pilots spread the news of their great mission, and invited programmers and priests, artists and arhats and aliens to join them on Thiells. And so these people came to Lightstone, and the sky day and night shook with the thunder of rocket fire, and the new city grew. The Sonderval estimated its population at a hundred thousand. In another year, he said, more than a million human beings (and perhaps a few thousand aliens) would call her home.

‘We must train some of these to be pilots,’ the Sonderval said. ‘Now that you’ve been so lucky as to have found Tannahill, we’ll need many more pilots, won’t we?’

Soon the Sonderval’s sled rolled on to the hilly grounds of the new academy. Danlo, who knew every spire, stone and tree of Neverness’ academy, immediately felt like a stranger come calling on an alien world. Everything about this academy was different from the old, from the lawns of green grass to the sleds rolling down the academy’s stone streets. In truth, there were only a few of these gleaming black monstrosities, for only the Lords of the Order or a few illuminati from the rest of the city were permitted to take a sled down the academy’s tree-lined streets. But the Sonderval, after all, was the Lord Pilot of the Order, and it was with great pride that he guided his sled through a maze of unfamiliar streets and arrived in front of the Hall of the Lords.

‘The lords are waiting for you to address them,’ the Sonderval said. ‘I thank you for telling me of Tannahill, as little as that was.’

‘I … am sorry,’ Danlo said. ‘Sometimes it is difficult for me to talk very much, now. But soon you will hear the whole story of my journey.’

The Sonderval climbed out of the sled, and his face was set with a strange smile. ‘Yes, I will sit at table with a hundred other lords and listen to how the son of Mallory Ringess, alone of all pilots, accomplished his Order’s mission. Well, I am proud of you, Pilot. I’m proud that I tested you to be a novice and tutored you in topology – I suppose I knew that if anyone found Tannahill, it would be you.’

So saying, the Sonderval strode up the white steps of the hall. Danlo, bearing the large wooden chest of his possessions in his arms, hurried to follow him. Though far from the largest of the academy’s buildings, it was one of the most beautiful, with its circles of delicate stone sweeping into the air and suspended in space almost as if its makers had discovered the secret of cancelling gravity. The sunlight poured down its walls like liquid fire, and the organic stone seemed to gleam from within as if burning with billions of living jewels. Splendid it was, and Danlo who had spent too many days in the darkened pit of his ship, squinted against its dazzling light. Inside the doorway – in the curving entrance corridor filled with paintings and sculptures of some of the Order’s greatest Lords – the intense brightness softened to a warm radiance of colour. After the dull white and green plastics of Tannahill, Danlo was as thirsty for colour as a newly hatched thallow chick drinking in his first glimpse of the sky. And then the Sonderval led him through a set of doors opening into the main chamber. High above, surmounting the bright, open spaces of the hall, was a dome of clear organic stone. Its millions of tiny facets scattered the sunlight like many diamond prisms so that the whole of the hall danced with streamers of red and green and violet and blue. Lower down, there were yet more colours, not only the amethyst and golden flecks of the white floor, but all the colours of Danlo’s Order. At circular tables curving around the room waited all the Lords of the Order, each of the hundred and twelve men and women wearing a uniquely-hued silken robe. At the centre table sat Lord Nikolos, the Lord of the Order, in his bright yellow akashic’s robe. And next to him the ever- plump Morena Sung filled out the folds of an eschatologist’s blue silks. At this same table was the Lord Holist, Sul Estarei, wearing a robe of deep cobalt, and the mysterious Mithuna, the eyeless Lord Scryer, dressed all in white. Behind them were other lords: the Lord Horologe, Historian, Semanticist, Cetic, Programmer and all the other princes of the Order. As they sat close together whispering and wondering why a mere pilot had called them together, they formed a sea of colours from purple and pink to indigo and brown and orange and tens of others. The last lord to take his place that day was the Sonderval. He sat in the empty chair to the right of Lord Nikolos, and his black pilot’s robe almost overshadowed Lord Nikolos’ yellow. Black, as Danlo had been taught, was the colour of deep space and infinite possibilities, for out of the universe’s primeval blackness comes light and form and all things. For three thousand years, the pilots of the Order had always worn black, and now Danlo in his formal black robe took his place in front of the assembled lords as his father had before him.

‘We will now hear from the pilot, Danlo wi Soli Ringess,’ Lord Nikolos said as he stood to address his fellow lords. That was all the introduction that Danlo received. Lord Nikolos was a small but energetic man always eager to accomplish whatever task lay before him. He hated wasting words as a merchant does coins, and so he sat back down in his chair and studied Danlo coolly with his bright blue eyes.

‘My lords,’ Danlo began. He took a deep breath, relieved to have put his heavy wooden chest down on the floor. He stood at the centre of the chamber where a circle of black diamond had been set into the floor’s white stone. According to tradition, no pilot or anyone else who had taken vows could tell any untruth while standing in this circle. ‘My lords and master pilots, and master academicians,’ Danlo continued, ‘I would like to tell you of my journey. I … have found Tannahill.’

For a moment no one moved as more than a hundred faces stared straight at Danlo in wonderment. And then Danlo began to speak, and the men and women of his Order sat entranced while they listened to the story of a lone pilot who had possibly accomplished more than any other – more even than Dario the Bold or Danlo’s own grandfather, Leopold Soli, who had penetrated almost to the galaxy’s core and learned of the gods’ mysterious secret wisdom known as the Elder Eddas. Danlo began his story with an account of his journey to the Solid State Entity. He told of the great chaos storm near the heart of the Entity that had killed Dolores Nun and Leander of Darkmoon and his seven other fellow pilots as they fell through swirling black spaces as deadly as any danger of the manifold. He had found his way through this storm, he said, only to fall out above an earthlike world upon which the Entity had imprisoned him for many days while She tested him. He spoke little of these tests. He had no liking for fame or glory, and so he stood breathing deeply under the watchful eyes of the lords as he tried to convey the essence of what he had learned from the Entity with as little focus as possible upon himself. But neither was he falsely modest, for he prized truth as some do gold. And the truth was that the Entity had entrusted him with great knowledge because he had shown great virtue in surviving the chaos space as well as Her tests.

‘There is war in heaven,’ Danlo told the assembled masters and lords. Hillel Astoret, the brown-robed Lord Historian sitting behind Lord Nikolos, would later remark this as a great moment when the knowledge of universe-shaking events first came into the halls of the Order. ‘It is truly a terrible, shaida war. The Silicon God has made war upon the Solid State Entity. He has allies, other gods of the galaxy: they are Chimene, Maralah, Hsi Wang Mu, Iamme, and what we call the Degula Trinity. And the Entity is not alone, either. I believe that Pure Mind and the One are allied with her. And possibly even the April Colonial Intelligence. And my father, Mallory Ringess, if he truly became a god, is somehow involved with the Entity’s design. Somewhere among the stars. I … was not able to find out where.’

Usually the Lords of the Order are as polite as women and men can be. But that day, despite the rule that anyone standing in the circle be allowed to speak without interruption except by the Lord of the Order himself, a dozen different lords turned their faces close to each other and began whispering urgently.

‘I would like to ask for silence, please,’ Lord Nikolos said as he stood and held up his hand. Although he was physically smaller than almost anyone in the room, his calm, clear voice seemed to fill the hall and to sober the excited lords. Even the Sonderval, who was talking with Kolenya Mor, heard the call to obedience and immediately fell silent. ‘Let’s allow the pilot to finish his story.’

Danlo went on to tell of a crucial battle in this cosmic war between the gods: it seemed that the Silicon God had found a way to destroy Ede the God. This had been no small feat. Ede, as a man, as a human being living in the flesh, had been almost as small as Lord Nikolos. But after his great vastening, when he had carked his consciousness into a computer and become a god, he had grown. As a seed ice crystal may build into a hailstone many billion times larger than itself, this computer that was Ede had added neurologics and circuitry until Ede the God’s body was vaster than whole worlds and filled the spaces of many star systems.

‘The Entity told me where I might find Ede the God,’ Danlo said. ‘It was deeper into the Vild. There were many stars; many old supernovas. And I found the Star of Ede: it is a blue-white hotstar. And Ede himself, what was left of this god. It, he, was all wreckage. Fused neurologics and dead assemblers and hydrogen clouds spread out over light years of space. Ede must have been … truly vast. And now he was dead. The Entity had said that he was dead, but that it might be that he was also somewhat alive.’

Danlo paused to stare down at his wooden chest where it rested just outside the black diamond circle. Its top was carved with a great sunburst, and he closed his eyes for a moment as he dwelt in the remembrance of all the suns and light he had ever beheld.

‘Pilot!’ a voice called as if from far away. Danlo opened his eyes to see Lord Nikolos addressing him. ‘Pilot, the Entity is famous for speaking in paradoxes and riddles – did you ever discover what She meant?’

‘Yes,’ Danlo said. ‘I did.’

‘Will you please share your discovery with us, then?’

‘If you’d like,’ Danlo said, smiling. He stepped over to the wooden chest, opened it and drew out the devotionary computer, holding it up so that all the assembled lords could see the little glowing hologram of Nikolos Daru Ede.

‘What is this?’ Lord Nikolos demanded.

Hillel Astoret and several of the lords behind Lord Nikolos began talking all at once, pointing at the computer’s jewelled eyes and shaking their heads in disapproval. Then Lord Nikolos turned his head at this interruption and caught the lords with his icy eyes until they fell silent.

‘This,’ Danlo said, ‘is Nikolos Daru Ede. Ede the God – what is left of him.’

The Ede hologram, with its seductive face and bright black eyes, seemed to stare straight at Lord Nikolos.

‘Pilot, please remember where you are – this is no place for jokes!’

‘But I am not joking.’

‘This,’ said Lord Nikolos, pointing at the glittering box that Danlo held in his hands, ‘is nothing more than a religious artifact.’

Lord Nikolos was well known for despising man’s irrational or mystical impulses, which was one reason he had been chosen to lead the Mission to the Old Church. He continued, ‘The Architects carry these idols around in order to worship an image of Ede, don’t they? Aren’t these devotionary computers programmed to speak Ede’s blessings and other such nonsense?’

‘Yes,’ Danlo said. ‘But it is possible … for them to be programmed otherwise.’

‘Please explain yourself.’

Danlo glanced at the Ede imago, and he almost smiled to see the eyes of the hologram flick sideways to catch his gaze.

‘The Silicon God,’ he said, ‘did not slay Ede in a moment. The battle lasted many seconds. And at the end, a whole nebula of stars was destroyed. And Ede’s brains were all destroyed – almost all. At the very end, Ede wrote a program compressing and encoding his essential self. It is this program that this devotionary computer now runs.’

‘Impossible!’

‘Not … impossible,’ Danlo said. He turned to see Lara Jesusa and some of the other master pilots smiling to give him encouragement in the face of Lord Nikolos’ intense scepticism. ‘Ede the God is dead, truly. But it may be … that he is also somewhat alive.’

‘This machine?’ Lord Nikolos asked in his quiet but steely voice. ‘And where did you find this dead god that might be alive?’

‘On an earth that Ede had made.’

From far in the back of the hall came the sound of muffled laughter, perhaps from Sanura Snowden, the Lord Semanticist, or the Lord Imprimatur who sat nearby. At times Lord Nikolos was capable of a dry sense of humour, but he would not tolerate anyone making jokes at his expense.

‘Please watch your words,’ Lord Nikolos chided Danlo. ‘You’re a full pilot of the Order, and you’ve been taught to speak precisely. We do not refer to engineered worlds, no matter how earthlike their biospheres, as “earths”.’

‘Neither do I, sir,’ Danlo said, and his dark blue eyes shone with amusement at Lord Nikolos’ doubt. ‘The gods make earths. Truly. The Solid State Entity, and especially Ede the God – from the elements of dead stars, they have built these earths. Whole continents and oceans, forests and mountains and rocks, in exact duplication of Old Earth.’

Danlo went on to describe a succession of blue-white earths that he had discovered around the stars of Ede the God. Now all the lords in the hall had fallen very quiet, and even Lord Nikolos sat back down in his chair and regarded Danlo with something like awe.

‘I didn’t know the gods had such power to remake the universe,’ Lord Nikolos said quietly.

Danlo looked boldly at Lord Nikolos and said, ‘But this is just what it means to be a god, yes? They make war upon each other … in order to remake the universe according to their different visions of what must be.’

‘But why earths, Pilot?’

‘I … do not know.’ Danlo closed his eyes as he remembered the sandy beach and dark green forest of the earth upon which the Entity had imprisoned him. The Entity, at least, had certainly made Her earth as a laboratory for experimenting with the evolution of human beings. From images stolen from his mind, She had created a slel of Tamara Ten Ashtoreth, an almost perfect copy of the woman whom he had loved. The slel was meant to be a perfect woman – or rather a creation of a perfected humanity as it might someday be. ‘The Architects of the Cybernetic Churches have a doctrine. They call it the Program of the Second Creation. At the end of time, when Ede has grown to absorb the whole of the universe, then a miracle will occur. From his own infinite body, Ede will make an infinite number of earths. And all the Architects who have ever lived will be reincarnated into new bodies. Perfect bodies that will live for ever in these paradises.’

At this piece of nonsense, Lord Nikolos pressed his lips together as if someone were trying to force a piece of rotten meat into his mouth. ‘But Ede the God is dead, you say.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you really believe that Ede was making his earths as a home for the souls of dead Architects?’

‘I … do not like to believe anything.’

‘Nor I,’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘It’s too bad that we can’t simply ask the Ede of your devotionary computer what his original plan was.’

Danlo smiled because he had asked the Ede exactly this question – and many others – to no avail.

‘And now,’ Lord Nikolos went on, looking at Danlo, ‘I suppose I should ask you to give this devotionary to the Lord Tinker and Lord Programmer. They will take it down and disassemble it to discover the source of any programs that it might run.’

In a moment – in the time it took for the devotionary computer to modulate the coherent light beams of its hologram – the glowing face of Nikolos Daru Ede fell into a mask of panic. And then a loud, almost whiny voice issued into the hall as Ede cried out, ‘No, please don’t take me down!’

At this startling event. Lord Sung pointed her plump finger at the devotionary and gasped. Sanura Snowden and several other lords cried out, ‘What? What’s this?’

Lord Nikolos just stared at the hologram of Nikolos Daru Ede while he sat blinking his icy blue eyes. And then he said simply, ‘It speaks.’

‘Oh, indeed, I do speak,’ the Ede said. ‘I see and hear, as well. The jewels on the devotionary’s sides are computer eyes and—’

‘We’re familiar with such technologies,’ Lord Nikolos said. He, too, had been bred to politeness, but he had no compunction at interrupting a machine.

‘I think, as well,’ the Ede said, ‘and therefore I am, as are you, self-aware, and I am—’

‘A clever program, nothing more,’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘We’re also familiar with Ai programs, though it may be that this one is more sophisticated than any our Order has seen. The Lord Programmer will be able to determine —’

‘No, I must ask you not to take me down!’ the Ede cried out again. Lord Nikolos and one hundred and twenty other lords gaped at the Ede hologram. No one had ever experienced an Ai program interrupting a human being.

Ede turned his frightened face to Danlo.

‘Lord Nikolos,’ Danlo said, ‘I have borne this devotionary halfway across the Vild. I have valued its … information.’

‘Are you asking to keep it for yourself?’

‘Yes.’

‘But a pilot may not keep any discovery to himself. You know our rule.’

‘Truly, I do. But this devotionary, this Ede, has aided me on my journey. I … have made promises to him.’

For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Lord Nikolos asked, ‘You made promises to an idol programmed out of a machine?’

‘Yes. In return for helping me find Tannahill, I promised not to take him down. I promised to help him … accomplish a thing.’

‘What thing?’

‘His … purpose.’

‘And do I dare ask what purpose you might think this machine could be programmed to achieve?’

Again, Danlo looked at the Ede hologram. He looked at Lord Nikolos and the Sonderval, and at the many other lords and masters. He felt his heart beating hard up through his throat and his face burning as if he had stood all day in the sun. He did not want to tell these cold-eyed men and women of Ede’s purpose.

‘Well, Pilot?’

‘He, this Ede, wants to …’

The Ede flashed Danlo a hand sign, and Danlo suddenly stopped talking. And then Ede addressed Lord Nikolos and the other lords, and said, ‘I want to be a man again.’

Lord Nikolos stared at the glowing hologram as if he couldn’t understand the simple sounds of human (or artificial) speech. None of the lords in the hall seemed to know what Ede might mean.

‘The pilot, Danlo wi Soli Ringess, promised to help me recover my body, if that is possible. To help me live as a man again.’

Seeing Lord Nikolos’ bewilderment, Danlo smiled and said, ‘I must tell you of his body.’

‘Please do,’ Lord Nikolos said with a sigh.

Danlo bowed his head, and then told the Lords of the Order of the body of Nikolos Daru Ede which the Architects had kept frozen in a clary crypt for three thousand years. He explained how the entire crypt had been stolen from Ede’s Tomb on Tannahill. The Ede hologram hoped that his body might someday be recovered; he prayed that the Order’s cryologists might be able to revive this body after reconfiguring the damaged neurons and synapses of its brain to instantiate the program of the devotionary computer. And thus to raise the dead. ‘We … were going to ask the Architects for the return of this body,’ Danlo said.

‘I see,’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘You didn’t by chance bear this body across the Vild in the hold of your ship?’

‘No, there were terrible events. I … was unable to recover it.’

Again Lord Nikolos sighed as if a weight had been taken from his shoulders. ‘Why don’t you finish your story, Pilot?’

And so Danlo stood within the circle of black diamond and continued his story. He told of dead worlds burnt black in the fire of supernovas and ruined alien civilizations. And stars, millions of red or yellow or blue stars burning like flame globes in the long black reaches of space. Around a star named Gelasalia he had come across a great rainbow system of seventeen ringworlds from which the resident human beings had vanished in the most mysterious of ways, seemingly transcending their bodies, perhaps to live as beings of pure information (or light) as the Ieldra had done two million years before. He had followed this trail of transcendence deeper into the Vild where the radiations of exploded stars grew thick and deadly. On the world of Alumit Bridge just inside the galaxy’s Perseus Arm, he had found a civilization of people who lived for the transcendence of the glittering cybernetic spaces inside their computers. They called themselves the Narain. They were, he said, a pale and wormlike people who wanted to be as gods. In truth, they were Architects in their lineage, heretics who had left Tannahill some two hundred years before in a bitter schism with the Church. ‘I … made friends with the Narain,’ Danlo said. ‘They feared war with the Old Church and asked me to speak for them to the Holy Ivi. To journey to Tannahill – it was the Narain who pointed out Tannahill’s star.’

And so finally after having crossed thirty thousand light years of blazing and broken stars, Danlo had come to lost Tannahill. There he had won the favour and friendship of Harrah Ivi en li Ede, the High Holy Ivi of the Cybernetic Universal Church. Because of him, she had installed new programs for her church, completely reversing the Architects’ mandate to procreate wantonly and destroy the stars. There, too, he had won the enmity of the Elder Bertram Jaspari, Harrah’s rival for the architectcy and a man who would kill for power like a mad sleekit ravening through a nest of its own family. Bertram Jaspari was also the leader of the Iviomils, a fanatical sect who preached religious purity and called for religious war. Bertram Jaspari would carry the burning torches of this facifah to other sects of Architects on Tannahill, and to the Narain on Alumit Bridge – and even out to the peoples of the Vild and beyond. ‘The Iviomils fought a war with the other Architects,’ Danlo said. ‘I … became involved in this war.’

He stared up at the brilliant colours of the dome, and he did not explain how Harrah Ivi en li Ede – and billions of other Architects across Tannahill – had come to regard him as the Lightbringer foretold by their prophecies.

Lord Morena Sung, sitting next to Lord Nikolos, turned to the Sonderval and sadly shook her head. Both these lords had known Danlo since his novice years on Neverness, and it was obvious to them that Danlo’s involvement in this war had been neither accidental nor slight. The Hall of the Lords, so bright with dancing shards of light, suddenly seemed gloomy and grim, as if the mood of one hundred and twenty women and men could darken the air itself with their dread. No one liked all this talk of war. No one liked the pain they saw on Danlo’s face or the presentiment of death burning in his deep blue eyes. Many remembered his mother, Katharine the Scryer, and they wondered if he, too, was gifted with visions of terrible moments yet to be.

‘Please tell us about this war,’ Lord Nikolos said gently.

Danlo stood at the centre of his circle as he looked out upon many faces falling heavy with fear. He remembered that once, as a young man, he had wanted to journey to the centre of the universe so that he might finally see the true nature of all things. Although he had long since abandoned this quest as hopeless, he knew that it was his fate to bring a truth to the Lords of the Order. He was like a pilot unlocking a window to the dark and depthless spaces of the manifold, except that the opening he now showed these anxious lords was into his own soul. And from the bright, black centres of his eyes and the deeper centre of himself came the memory of all that he had sensed and seen. Like the long, dark roar of a stellar wind it blew through the hall carrying the scent of hydrogen bombs and burnt flesh and stars exploding into light. And so Danlo told of how the Iviomils had slaughtered their fellow Architects, only to be utterly defeated in the end. Bertram Jaspari had assembled a fleet of the surviving Iviomils and had fled Tannahill into the stars. But before his disappearance into the galaxy’s wastelands, he had completed two acts. The first was the theft of Ede’s body. And the second was the destruction of a star.

‘The Iviomils hated the Narain people,’ Danlo said. ‘They called them heretics, apostates. They … had called for a facifah against them. A holy war to cleanse the Church of anyone who had betrayed it. So Bertram Jaspari led his Iviomils to Alumit Bridge. To the star that lights the Narain’s world. And they … destroyed it.’

Because Danlo’s mouth was dry, he stopped speaking for a moment. He bent over to place the devotionary computer on top of his wooden chest. Then, from a pocket sewn into the leg of his robe, he drew out a long bamboo flute. It was an ancient shakuhachi that his teacher had once given him. It smelled of woodsmoke and wind and wild dreams, and of all his possessions it was the most beloved. In silence he pressed its ivory mouthpiece to his lips and tongue, but he played no music. He let the soft coolness of the ivory touch off the flow of water in his mouth, and suddenly he found that he could finish his story.

‘In one of their ships, the Iviomils have a machine,’ he said. ‘A … morrashar, they call it. A star-killer – the Architects are masters of this technology, yes? They have at least one star-killer. Bertram Jaspari used it to destroy the Narain people. I … confirmed this crime. After I left Tannahill, I journeyed to where the Star, of Alumit Bridge should have been. But there was only the remnant of a supernova: radiation, hydrogen, glowing gases, light. And of Alumit Bridge, itself, only dust.’

Again, Danlo placed the shakuhachi to his lips, and closed his eyes in remembrance of Shahar and Abraxax and all the people and the great beings he had known among the Narain.

‘This is a terrible story,’ Lord Nikolos said as he stared at Danlo. Behind him, too, almost every face in the hall was turned towards the pilot who had brought such tragic news. Then, for a while, he and the other lords talked about another supernova, called Merripen’s Star, which had exploded near Neverness some thirty years before. At the end of the year 2960, less than two years hence, the radiation of the supernova was due to fall upon Neverness. It seemed that only the growth of the Golden Ring – a mysterious ecology of gases and new, golden life that had appeared in the sky above the city – might protect the peoples of Neverness from death. Supernovas everywhere blossomed among the stars like flowers of evil, Lord Sung observed, but on many worlds, ever since the disappearance of Mallory Ringess, these rings had mysteriously appeared in the heavens like protective bands of gold.

‘These are terrible times in which we live,’ Lord Nikolos observed. And then he turned back towards Danlo. ‘But it’s also a time of great hope, as well. You, Danlo wi Soli Ringess, have found Tannahill. And the Architects of the Old Church. And this man, Bertram Jaspari and the Iviomils have been defeated. And, it would seem the Architects’ Holy Ivi awaits the arrival of our Order’s emmissaries. Your accomplishment. Pilot, is of a magnitude beyond any—’

‘Please, Lord Nikolos,’ Danlo broke in. ‘There … is more.’

Lord Nikolos was unused to being interrupted by young pilots, but so great was the pain in Danlo’s voice that he did not chastise him.

‘I … made an enemy of Bertram Jaspari,’ Danlo said. ‘I believe that he blames me and our Order for his defeat in the war. I believe that he wishes for revenge.’

Now Lord Nikolos sat as still as stone. Next to him, the Sonderval did not move, nor Kolenya Mor, nor anyone else at their table.

Then Lord Nikolos asked, ‘It’s not possible, is it, that Bertram Jaspari might have learned the fixed-points of our star?’

Danlo would rather have cut off his own hand than give away such a secret, and so he smiled in grim amusement and then said, ‘No, I do not think that it is possible. But it is not only our Order here on Thiells that Bertram Jaspari blames and hates. It is the Order on Neverness. Neverness herself. I believe that the Iviomils would bring their facifah to the Civilized Worlds and destroy the Star of Neverness.’

And they would do this shaida thing, Danlo said, out of reasons other than mere vengeance. Danlo recounted how on Neverness only a few years before, a new religion had arisen to teach that men and women could become gods. They dreamed of following the example of Danlo’s own father, Mallory wi Soli Ringess, and thus they called their faith the Way of Ringess. Bertram Jaspari had learned of this new Way. For any Iviomil – in truth for any Architect of the Old Church – the teaching that any human being other than Ede could become a god was the worst of blasphemies. Any person who aspired to such transcendence was called a hakra, and it was the Old Church’s duty to cleanse them totally of such hubris; or to annihilate them. This, especially, was the program of the Iviomils, to annihilate the Ringists of Neverness before they spread their poisonous teachings to the rest of the Civilized Worlds and to the stars beyond.

‘I believe that Bertram Jaspari might want to become a power among the Civilized Worlds,’ Danlo said. He listened to his voice carry out over the tables of the lords and fill the sun-streaked spaces of the hall. ‘He has a star-killer. He has deep-ships full of missionaries. He has dreams. He has … much hatred.’

Lord Nikolos stared unblinking at Danlo, and then said, ‘What you’ve told us is terrible. But I think we need not fear that these Iviomils could ever find the Star of Neverness. Even though its fixed-points be known, they could never find their way across the Vild. Thirty thousand light years! Even our finest pilots have failed in attempting such a crossing.’

‘But some … have succeeded,’ Danlo said softly.

‘Only you. Pilot, and it’s not—’

‘Not only I,’ Danlo said. He gripped his bamboo flute. ‘On Farfara, before we entered the Vild, I met a man. In Mer Tadeo’s garden just before the supernova lit the sky. Malaclypse Redring of Qallar – that was his name. A warrior-poet. He … wore a red ring on each hand. He, too, sought Tannahill. It was his intention to follow our Mission into the Vild.’

‘A warrior-poet, by himself?’

‘He was not alone. A ronin pilot had brought him to Farfara. Sivan wi Mawi Sarkissian, in his ship, the Red Dragon.’

The Sonderval rapped his black diamond ring against the tabletop. ‘I knew Sivan well before he became a renegade during the Pilots’ War. Other than myself, and perhaps Mallory Ringess, he had no equal as a pilot.’

The Sonderval’s arrogant observation did not please Aja, or Helena Charbo – or any of the other master pilots sitting by the wall. It did not please Lord Nikolos, who bowed to Danlo and grimly said, ‘Continue your story.’

Danlo returned his bow and said, ‘Malaclypse and Sivan followed me into the Solid State Entity. Across the entire Vild. They … pursued my ship to Tannahill. They became involved with the Architects’ war, too.’

‘It seems that this was a popular war,’ Lord Nikolos said drily.

‘Malaclypse Redring allied himself with Bertram Jaspari,’ Danlo continued. ‘Truly, it was he who enabled the Iviomils to fight as long as they did.’

‘Warrior-poets allied with Architects,’ Lord Nikolos said, shaking his head. ‘This is not good.’

‘It is Sivan in his Red Dragon who leads the Iviomil ships. Sivan and Malaclypse.’

‘This is bad,’ Lord Nikolos said.

‘The Entity believes that the Silicon God is using both the warrior-poets and the Architects in His war,’ Danlo said. ‘She believes that the Silicon God would destroy the whole galaxy, if He could.’

Or possibly the whole universe, Danlo thought.

He went on to speak of Bertram Jaspari’s dream of establishing his Iviomils in a new church somewhere among the stars coreward from Neverness. Like the fanatical Architects they were, they would continue destroying the stars in their God-given program to remake the universe.

‘I am afraid … that they could eventually create another Vild,’ Danlo said. ‘Or worse.’

And what could possibly be worse than the creation of a new region of dead and dying stars? As Ti Sen Sarojin, the Lord Astronomer, observed, if the Iviomils began destroying stars among the densely-packed stars of the core, they might possibly set off a chain-reaction of supernovas that would explode outward star by star and consume the galaxy in a vast ball of fire and light.

‘This is very bad,’ Lord Nikolos said quietly. Throughout the hall the lords sat at their tables in deathly silence. Never in living memory had the calm and cool Lord Nikolos used the words ‘very’ and ‘bad’ together.

‘I am sorry,’ Danlo said.

‘Religious fanatics and facifahs and star-killers and renegade pilots and gods! What a story you bring us. Pilot! Well, we can do nothing about the wars of gods, but it is upon us to —’

‘Lord Nikolos,’ Danlo interrupted.

Lord Nikolos took a quick breath and said, ‘What is it, then?’

‘There is something that the Entity told me about the Silicon God. About all the gods.’

‘Please, do tell us as well.’

‘The Entity believes that we ourselves hold the secret of defeating the Silicon God. We human beings.’

‘But how can this be?’ Morena Sung, the Lord Eschatologist broke in.

‘Because this secret is part of the Elder Eddas,’ Danlo said. ‘And the Eddas are believed to be encoded only in human DNA.’

In truth, no one knew what the Elder Eddas really were. Supposedly, some fifty thousand years ago on Old Earth, the mythical Ieldra had written all their godly wisdom into the human genome. Now, millennia later, trillions of men and women on countless worlds carried these sleeping memories in every cell of their bodies. And it was through the art of remembrancing alone (or so the remembrancers claimed) that the Elder Eddas could be awakened and called up before the mind’s eye like living paintings and understood. Some experienced the Eddas as a clear and mystical light. Some believed that this wisdom was nothing less than instructions on becoming gods – and possibly much more. Danlo, who had once had a great remembrance and apprehension of the One Memory, sensed that the Eddas might contain all consciousness, perhaps even all possible memory itself. If true, then it would certainly be possible for a man – or perhaps even a child – to remember how the Ieldra long ago had defeated the Dark God and saved the Milky Way from annihilation. This was the grail that the Solid State Enity sought in Her war against the Silicon God, and it was possible that Danlo and the Sonderval and Lord Nikolos in his bright yellow robe – and everyone else sitting in the hall that day – carried this secret inside them.

‘I haven’t heard our remembrancers speak of any war secrets contained in the Elder Eddas,’ Lord Nikolos said. Here he turned to exchange looks with Mensah Ashtoreth, the silver-robed Lord Remembrancer who sat at a table nearby shaking his head. ‘As for the Neverness remembrancers, who knows what they have discovered in the years since the Order divided and our mission came here to Thiells?’

He did not add that the many thousands of converts to the new religion of Ringism sought remembrance of the Elder Eddas as well. Lord Nikolos could scarcely countenance an information so mysterious as the Elder Eddas, much less the possibility that some wild-eyed religionary on Neverness might uncover secrets unknown to his finest academicians.

‘And yet,’ Danlo said, ‘the Entity hopes that some day some woman or man will remember this secret.’

‘But not,’ Lord Nikolos said, ‘some god?’

‘Possibly some god,’ Danlo said. ‘Possibly my father. But most of the gods are nothing more than vast computers. Neurologics and opticals and diamond circuitry. They … do not live as a man lives. They cannot remember as we remember.’

‘And do you believe that the Solid State Entity would have us remember for Her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then She would use us – our Order – as the Silicon God uses the Architects and the warrior-poets?’

‘My father,’ Danlo said, smiling, ‘once wrote that the Entity referred to man as the instrumentum vocale. The tool with a voice.’

‘And you find this amusing?’

‘Truly, I do,’ Danlo said, looking down at the flute he held in his hand. ‘Because these tools that we are also have free will. And our lives are the songs that sing the universe into existence.’

‘What songs will we sing, I wonder, if we become involved in the gods’ wars?’ Lord Nikolos asked.

‘I do not know,’ Danlo said. ‘But if we could remember this secret of the Eddas, then in a way it would be we human beings who used the Entity to destroy the Silicon God, yes?’

‘Is this what you advise, Pilot? That the Order use its resources in helping the Entity fight Her war?’

Danlo suddenly fell into silence, and he gripped his flute so hard that the holes along the shaft cut into his skin. He said, ‘I … do not believe in war at all. The Lord Akashic must know that I have taken a vow of ahimsa.’

Never to harm any living thing, Danlo thought. Even at the cost of one’s own life, never to dishonour another life, never to harm, never to kill.

‘Well, I don’t believe in war either,’ Lord Nikolos said from his chair. ‘War is the stupidest of human activities, with the possible exception of religion. And as for the kind of religious war of which you’ve spoken today …’

Lord Nikolos let his voice die for a moment as he turned to catch the eyes of the Sonderval and Morena Sung and the other lords sitting near him. He shook his head sadly as if all agreed that religious war was by its very nature insane. Then he continued: ‘Nevertheless, it is upon us to consider this war that the Architects fought among themselves and would bring to other worlds. Perhaps we must also consider the wars of the gods.’

Danlo looked at Lord Nikolos then, and quickly bowed his head.

‘Pilot,’ Lord Nikolos asked, ‘have you finished your story?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I must ask you to wait outside while we consider these stupidities and crimes that you have brought to our attention.’

Danlo bowed his head. He knew of the rule that only lords and masters may attend the most serious deliberations of the Order. He stepped out of the black diamond circle and moved to pick up his wooden chest where it sat on the floor.

‘A moment,’ the Sonderval said suddenly. He slowly stood away from his chair and stretched himself up to his full eight feet of height. ‘I would like to applaud the Pilot’s accomplishment in discovering so much and falling so far.’

So saying he rapped his diamond pilot’s ring against the table. Helena Charbo and Aja, sitting across the room at the master pilots’ table, knocked diamond against wood, as did Lara Jesusa and Alark of Urradeth. But none of the other lords and masters in the hall that day wore rings, and so they had to content themselves with clapping their hands together and bowing their heads in honour of Danlo’s great feat.

‘And now,’ the Sonderval said, ‘I would like to ask Danlo wi Soli Ringess to remain here with us today.’

At this unexpected presumption. Lord Nikolos turned abruptly and shot the Sonderval a puzzled and offended look.

‘I would like to ask him to remain as a master pilot,’ the Sonderval explained. ‘Can anyone doubt that his accomplishments merit his elevation to a mastership? I think not. And therefore, as Lord Pilot, I welcome him to the rank of master. We will hold the ceremony later in the Pilots’ Hall.’

For a long time Lord Nikolos and the Sonderval stared at each other like two cats preparing to spring at each other’s throat. True, as Lord Pilot, the Sonderval had the power to make new masters as he chose. But he was supposed to put the names of all candidates before a board of master pilots who would make their recommendations according to each candidate’s prowess and worthiness. And then by tradition, if not rule, the Lord of the Order himself would approve the elevation and make the first welcoming of the new master. Precipitous times often require precipitous decisions, but the Sonderval usurped Lord Nikolos’ prerogatives less from need than pure arrogance. Since the Sonderval thought that he himself should have been made the Lord of the Order on Thiells, he exulted in acting in Lord Nikolos’ place whenever he could.

‘Very well,’ Lord Nikolos finally said, forcing the words from his tight, thin lips. He turned to Danlo, who still stood at the centre of the hall watching this little drama between the most powerful lords of his Order. ‘Very well, Master Pilot, would you please remain here while we make our decision as to what must be done?’

Danlo bowed formally, then smiled and said, ‘Yes.’ Then he carried his wooden chest over to the table where the master pilots sat and took his place on a chair between Lara Jesusa and Alark of Urradeth. Alark, a quick, hot-tempered man who had once crossed the Detheshaloon solely as the result of a dare, embraced Danlo and whispered his welcome as he rapped his ring against the table.

‘And now,’ Lord Nikolos said, standing to address the lords, ‘we must reconsider our mission in light of all that Danlo wi Soli Ringess has told us.’

So began the great war debate in the Hall of the Lords. At first, it was more a personal argument between the Sonderval and Lord Nikolos. Although no one favoured full war, the Sonderval wanted to lead a group of lightships to the Civilized Worlds, there to intercept and destroy Bertram’s Jaspari’s fleet along the stellar Fallaways before they could reach Neverness. Lord Nikolos, however, a frugal man always concerned to husband his resources, pointed out that the New Order’s lightships were few in number, and every ship would be needed now that Tannahill had been found. For the Order’s mission. Lord Nikolos suggested, was still to the Architects of the Old Church. An embassy would have to be sent to Tannahill. The Order would have to provide the Architects with ships and pilots so that the Church’s missionaries could spread their new programs to every corner of the Vild. Architects everywhere must know that they were no longer permitted (or encouraged) to blow up the stars.

‘We must not become involved in these wars between religions and their sects,’ he told the assembled lords. And here he turned to smile at Danlo. ‘And as for the wars between the gods, unless one of us suddenly remembrances these war secrets of the Elder Eddas, then we cannot become involved, for there is nothing we can do to touch the gods or influence them in any way.’

Most of the lords accepted the logic of Lord Nikolos, but the Sonderval turned to him and asked, ‘But what of the Iviomil fleet that the warrior-poet and the renegade lead towards Neverness? Are we simply to abandon the world from which we came?’

‘Have you heard me speak of abandonment?’ Lord Nikolos asked.

‘I haven’t heard you speak of protecting our brothers and sisters on Neverness!’ the Sonderval said with great passion. Once, years before, he had lost his beloved when a comet struck her planet, and since that time he had never been with another woman. ‘I would hope this isn’t because you’re afraid of risking a few tens of lightships.’

‘There are always risks no matter what course of action we choose,’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘But risks must be calculated. Costs must be assessed.’

‘Calculations and costs!’ the Sonderval mocked. ‘Thus do the merchant-pilots of Tria speak.’

‘Thus does any sane man speak who must accomplish difficult things with limited means.’

‘As Lord Pilot of our Order,’ the Sonderval said with great pride, ‘it’s my charge to encourage my pilots to attempt impossible things beyond what we conceive as our limitations.’

Here he bowed to Danlo, honouring him as an exemplar of the pilots’ greatest traditions. Many of the lords suddenly looked his way, and Danlo freely met their eyes even though he hated such public attention.

‘As Lord Pilot of the Order nothing more could be asked of you,’ Lord Nikolos said to the Sonderval. ‘But as Lord of the Order, I must constrain the heroics of my pilots, even such a great pilot as yourself.’

This mixture of compliment and veiled criticism momentarily flustered the Sonderval, who sat glaring at Lord Nikolos. Lord Nikolos seized this opportunity to deliver his crowning jewel of logic in avoidance of conflict. ‘I propose that we send three pilots to Neverness. Three of our finest pilots in our swiftest ships. They will warn the lords of Neverness of Bertram Jaspari’s Iviomils and this star-killer that their fleet brings with them. The Old Order has more pilots than we – let the pilots of Neverness fight this war with the Iviomils, if indeed any war is to be fought.’

Lara Jesusa traded a quick look with Alark of Urradeth, and the brilliant Aja turned her dark eyes to meet Danlo’s. Already, it seemed, the master pilots had accepted Lord Nikolos’ plan and were vying to see who might be selected to journey home to Neverness. The lords, too, could find nothing to argue with. They sat silently in their seats, looking back and forth between Lord Nikolos and the Sonderval. For a moment, it seemed that the lords would make the obvious decision and that war had thus been averted.

But the universe is a strange place, always alive with irony and cosmic dramas. Sometimes the play of chance and impossible coincidence may persuade us that we are part of a larger game whose purpose is as infinite as it is mysterious. Sometimes, in a moment, a woman may act or a man may speak and history will be changed for ever. As Lord Nikolos called for a formal vote as to his plan, such a moment came to the Hall of the Lords. The great golden door through which Danlo had passed scarcely an hour earlier swung suddenly open, and three men made their way into the hall. Two of these were novice horologes, young men in tight red robes who had volunteered to guard the hall and act as guides for any ambassador or luminary who had business there. The third was an uncommonly large man dressed all in black. He had a thick black beard and blackish eyes and purple-black skin, and his mood at the moment was pure black because the horologes were harrying him, clutching at his arms and trying to prevent him from entering the hall. ‘Let go of me, goddammit!’ he shouted as he swung his great arms and flung off the two small novices as if they were insects. ‘Let go – haven’t I explained that I’ve important news for your lords and masters that won’t wait? What’s wrong with you? I’m no assassin, by God! I’m a pilot!’

Although a score of lords had risen in alarm, Danlo smiled and his eyes filled with light because he knew this man. He was Pesheval Sarojin Vishnu-Shiva Lal, commonly known as Bardo, a former pilot of the Order and one of Danlo’s oldest friends.

‘Please restrain yourselves!’ Lord Nikolos commanded in his steely voice. ‘Please sit down.’

‘Yes, sit down before your knees buckle and you fall down,’ Bardo said as he strode to the black diamond circle at the centre of the hall. ‘I’ve much to tell, and you’ll need all your courage to hear it.’

‘You,’ Lord Nikolos said pointing at Bardo, ‘are no longer a pilot of the Order.’

Twelve years before, in the Hall of the Lords on Neverness, Lord Nikolos and many other of the lords (and Danlo) had watched as Bardo had flung his pilot’s ring against a granite pillar, shattering it and abjuring his vows as a pilot. And then, after drinking the sacred remembrancers’ drug and preaching the return of his best friend, Mallory Ringess, he had gone on to found the religion known as the Way of Ringess.

‘No,’ Bardo said. ‘I’m no longer of the Order. But I’m still a pilot, by God! And I’ve crossed half the galaxy to tell you what I must tell you.’

‘And what is that?’

Bardo took a moment to fill his huge lungs with air. He looked at the Sonderval, with whom he had shared his journeyman years at the Pilots’ College, Resa. He looked at Lord Nikolos and Morena Sung and Sul Estarei, and lastly he looked at Danlo wi Soli Ringess. ‘There will soon be war in Neverness,’ his great voice boomed out into the hall. ‘And war among the Civilized Worlds. For the first time in two thousand years, a bloody, stupid war. I’ve journeyed twenty thousand light years to tell you how this tragedy has happened and what we must do.’

Lord Nikolos sat rigidly as if his chair had been electrified, and the eyes of every lord and master were fixed straight ahead on this huge man who commanded their attention. And so it happened that in the Hall of the Lords, a former pilot of the Order brought them news of a war that would change each of their lives and perhaps the face of the universe itself.




CHAPTER II (#ulink_ec36422b-163f-5626-81d5-ac0d466ccaac)

Fate (#ulink_ec36422b-163f-5626-81d5-ac0d466ccaac)


There is a war that opens the doors of heaven;

Glad are the warriors whose fate is to fight such a war.

— Bhagavad Gita 2.32

At the centre of the floor of the Hall of the Lords, Bardo stood in the circle of inlaid black diamond. It might be thought that Bardo, standing in this circle with his black skin and black garments, would almost disappear into this purest of colours. But Bardo was not a man to be overshadowed, not by man nor woman nor events nor the onstreaming black neverness of the universe itself. Like a hot giant star floating in the middle of the intergalactic void, he demanded attention. He had been born a prince of Summerworld, and he still thought of himself as a luminary among lesser lights, even though his innate nobility (and compassion) obliged him to help others rather than scorning them as beneath his concern, as did the Sonderval. He was a natural dramatist. His huge voice filled the hall and fired the imagination of every master and lord. His whole manner touched others deeply, and yet little of this display resulted from conscious calculation, but was rather an expression of his deepest self. For instance, his clothing that day was as eye-catching as it was strange, for he wore neither wool kamelaika nor formal black silks. A suit of spun nail, a fibre both exquisite and rare, covered his body from neck to ankle. Spun nail, of course, is harder and stronger than diamond, proof against lasers or knives or exploding projectiles. And to guard against blows, the suit’s upper piece had been reinforced with sheets of plate nall moulded to conform to his muscles. Between his legs he wore a huge nall codpiece to safeguard the most vulnerable and valuable of organs. A huge shimmering cape of shesheen, in which he might swaddle himself in the event of radiation bursts or plasma bombs, completed his raiment. And all this grandiloquent battle armour was of Bardo’s own design. Having once been killed in defence of his best friend’s life and subsequently resurrected, he placed great value on his own flesh and spared no expense in protecting it. As he told the assembled lords, he had gone off to war, and he entertained no illusions as to the terrors that he – and they – must soon face.

‘There’s already been a battle in Neverness,’ he said. ‘Oh, it was a small enough battle, and some will call it no more than a skirmish, with only three pilots killed, but it’s a harbinger of worse to come, soon enough, all too soon – I don’t have to be a goddamned scryer to tell you that.’

Bardo went on to describe the events leading up to this battle. What had occurred on Neverness since the Vild Mission departed almost five years before was complicated, of course, as all such history truly is. But here, briefly, is what Bardo told the lords: that he had originally founded the religion known as the Way of Ringess to honour the life and discoveries of his best friend, Mallory Ringess. Mallory Ringess had shown the Order – and all humankind – that any man or woman could become a god through remembrance of the Elder Eddas. Bardo had brought this teaching to Neverness, and more, in his joyances and ceremonies where the sacred remembrancers’ drug, kalla, was drunk, he had made the experience of the One Memory available to the Order’s academicians and the swarms of seekers who peopled the city. But Bardo, as Bardo said, was better at beginning great works than completing them: he was no prophet, but only a man with a few uncommon talents, a former pilot of the Order who simply wanted to help his friends and followers towards the infinite possibilities that awaited them. From almost the very beginning of the founding of Ringism, he had become involved with the cetic, Hanuman li Tosh.

‘Ah, you all know of Hanuman,’ Bardo said. He paused to exchange a quick look with Danlo. Once, before they had become enemies, Danlo and Hanuman had been the deepest of friends. ‘But how many of you really know Hanuman?’

He went on to admit that Hanuman li Tosh was a brilliant and charismatic young man – and also a religious genius who had shaped the explosive expansion of Ringism in the city of Neverness and throughout the Civilized Worlds. But Hanuman was secretly cruel and vain, Bardo said, and monstrously ambitious. Hanuman, Bardo said, had been like a cancer in the belly of his church: making secret alliances with other luminaries within the Way; devising and leading new ceremonies to control directly their followers’ minds; and worst of all, spreading lies about Bardo and undermining Bardo’s leadership in any way that he could. As Ringism spread its tentacles (this was Bardo’s word) into the halls of the Order and the cities of the Civilized Worlds, the new religion was sick at its centre, with Hanuman robbing it of true life in his terrible hunger for power. Finally, on a day that Bardo would never forget, Hanuman had challenged his authority directly and ousted him as Lord of the Way of Ringess.

‘He stole my goddamned church!’ Bardo thundered at the astonished lords. His face was purple with rage, and he stamped his black, nall-skin boot against the black diamond circle. ‘My lovely, blessed, beautiful church!’

For a moment no one spoke. Then Lord Nikolos fixed his icy eyes on Bardo and asked, ‘Do you refer to the cathedral which your cult purchased from one of the Kristian sects, or the organization of believers whom you gulled into following you?’

Bardo, who knew very well what Lord Nikolos thought about religions, decided to take no offence at this. He simply said, ‘Both. At first, it was the cathedral, and then Hanuman poisoned the Ringists’ minds against me. Ah, too bad! Too bad.’

‘And how does one steal a cathedral?’ Lord Nikolos asked.

Bardo looked straight at Lord Nikolos and sighed. ‘Do you remember how the cathedral was financed?’

‘I’m not sure I ever cared to know.’

‘Well, it was an expensive building,’ Bardo said. ‘Hideously expensive – but the grandest building in all the city. I had to have it. That is we had to have it, we Ringists who followed the Way. So we decided to buy it in condominium. The money for it came from the pockets of each Ringist. There was a problem of course, with some of the Ringists owning a share in such a building.’

‘Because these Ringists were also Ordermen?’

‘Exactly. Since the Order’s canons forbade ownership of property, they had to turn their shares over to others outside the Order who held it in trust for them. Hanuman, in secret, began to win these trustees to his confidence – and many other Ringists as well. And then one day, on the fourteenth of deep winter, he —’

‘He called for a vote setting rules as to who was permitted entrance to the cathedral,’ Lord Nikolos said.

‘How did you know that?’ Bardo called out, less suspicious than amazed.

‘It seems an obvious enough stratagem’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘How is it that you didn’t foresee it?’

‘Ah, well, at first I did. Is Bardo a stupid man? No, indeed I’m not, and I thought that I was full aware of who among the trustees was loyal to me and who was not. But I’m afraid I miscounted. I was, ah, busy with other concerns. It’s no simple thing, you know, founding a goddamned religion.’

Here Danlo looked at Bardo across the hall and smiled. It was a shameful admission for a pilot steeped in the art of mathematics to admit that he had miscounted. But Bardo, for all his cunning, could be the most careless of men. Most likely his ‘other concerns’ were the seduction and sexing of the many beautiful young women who sought to serve the Way of Ringess in any way they could.

‘It seems,’ Lord Nikolos said, ‘that Hanuman has his own concerns.’

‘He barred me from my own church, by God! He installed himself as Lord of the Way!’

‘And the Ringists followed him?’

‘Too many did, too many,’ Bardo admitted. ‘Ah, they were sheep anyway – who else would have originally followed such an ill-fated man as I? Oh, at first I tried to lead the remembrancing ceremonies from my own house. For half a year, there were two Ways of Ringess in Neverness. But I no longer had the heart for it. I saw what Hanuman was doing with my church, and it made me want to cry.’

And what Hanuman was doing, Bardo said, was the total suborning of the Order – not for the sake of remembrancing the Elder Eddas and honouring Mallory Ringess’ journey into godhood, but solely for the sake of power. Years before, Hanuman had made a secret pact with the Lord Cetic, Audric Pall, whom he had helped become Lord of the Order. Lord Pall had manoeuvred to have the Order’s canons amended, and for the first time in history, the lords and masters and academicians of Neverness were permitted formal association with a religion. Indeed, they were encouraged, even pressured, to profess their faith in the Three Pillars of Ringism and interface Hanuman’s computers, in which the remembrance of the Elder Eddas had supposedly been stored as compelling images and vivid surrealities. Lord Pall gained for the stale, old Order the energies of an explosive new religion. And Hanuman gained alliance with the Order’s many pilots who might set forth in their sparkling lightships and bring the Way of Ringess to the Civilized Worlds and to the stars beyond. Soon, Bardo said, the Way of Ringess and the Order would be as one: a single religio-scientific entity whose power would be without constraint or bound.

When Bardo had finished speaking, all the lords sat motionless in stunned silence. Then Lord Nikolos blinked his eyes in disbelief and said, ‘This is very, very bad.’

In truth neither he nor any other lord could have foreseen that Ringism like a ravenous beast would gobble up the Order and many of the Civilized Worlds in only five years.

‘I’ve always mistrusted the religious impulse,’ Lord Nikolos said, pointing his small finger at Bardo. ‘But I never understood the true nature of my mistrust. Now I do. I offer my apology to every lord, master and orderman. Had I known the danger that this man and his cult posed, I never would have allowed the Order to divide in two. We should have remained in Neverness to oppose this abomination with all our will.’

He didn’t add that Lord Pall had originally chosen many members of the Second Vild Mission precisely because they opposed the Way of Ringess. Danlo wi Soli Ringess, who had spoken out against the Way and was now Hanuman’s mortal enemy, had seen his name placed at the top of Lord Pall’s list of exiles. And as for Lord Nikolos himself, he had been only too happy to flee what he now called an ‘abomination’, to take his place as Lord of the New Order far from Neverness.

‘Ah, well, no one can know how the future will unfold,’ Bardo told him. ‘If I had known that a little worm of a cetic named Hanuman li Tosh would steal my church and pervert my golden teachings into sleekit dung, I never would have held my first remembrancing ceremony.’

‘But like any prophet,’ Lord Nikolos said, ‘you thought you had seen the secret of the universe and had to share it with everyone.’

This snide remark wounded and angered Bardo, who said, ‘I’ve seen what I’ve seen, by God! I’ve remembranced what I’ve remembranced. The Elder Eddas are real. I’m not the only one here today who has apprehended this knowledge. Morena has drunk kalla with me in my house, and Sul Estarei, and Alark of Urradeth. The Lord Remembrancer himself has had his own experience of the Eddas, and Danlo wi Soli Ringess is famous for his remembrance of the One Memory. The truth is the truth! You can’t fault the religious impulse that drives us towards it. It’s only what we make of our religions that is so wrong. Somehow, whenever men organize the pursuit of the divine, all that’s most blessed and numinous is ruined like picked apples rotting in the sun. As I, Bardo, of all men should know.’

And I, too, Danlo thought as he sat staring at Bardo and remembering his own involvement with the Way of Ringess.

‘I won’t argue with you,’ Lord Nikolos said, and his voice was cold steel.

‘Ah, well, I didn’t fall across the stars to argue.’

‘Whatever the impulse that initially drove you, the Way of Ringess is what it is. And you’ve made what you’ve made.’

‘By God, do you think I don’t know that!’ Bardo roared. ‘Why do you think I’ve risked my goddamned life to tell you what’s happened on Neverness?’

‘Why, indeed? We’d all like to know that, wouldn’t we?’

‘I must undo what I have done.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ve helped create a wildly growing cancer. Now I would ask for help in cutting it out before it’s too late.’

With a bow towards Lord Nikolos then, Bardo finished his story. After losing his beautiful cathedral and abandoning his attempt to run an opposing church from his house, Bardo had fallen into a terrible melancholy. For five days he shut himself in his room, amazingly (for Bardo) refusing the food and drink that his many loyal friends tried to bring him. He sat alone in an immense bejewelled chair as he contemplated killing himself. But Bardo was no suicide. Even as the days of deep winter darkened and the weather grew as cold as death, his rage turned outwards. It was Hanuman li Tosh whom he should kill, he thought, or Lord Pall, or even his cousin, Surya Surata Lal, an ugly little woman who had once been his most faithful confidante before Hanuman had charmed her into betraying Bardo. He should kill somebody, and in the dark and wild days of deep winter the year before, such murderous intentions were not impossible to fulfil, for the entire city of Neverness had fallen into evil times. At least ten of the Order’s lords and masters died mysteriously, some said of poison or unknown and undetectable viruses. The Order issued oppressive new laws and regulations. For the first time since the Dark Year when the Great Plague had ravaged Neverness, there was a nightly curfew in the city. The sacred drug, kalla, was forbidden to everyone except the remembrancers – and even these silver-robed masters of the mind had to apply to Lord Pall for permission to hold their time-honoured ceremonies in the confinement of the remembrancers’ tower. Various sects such as the autists found themselves suddenly persecuted. Lord Pall himself announced his intention to break the harijan sect, which had challenged the Order’s authority for at least three centuries. During the almost lightless days of midwinter spring, the Order had begun a programme of great works, building new churches across the city and even planning a great new cathedral within the walls of the academy itself. Lord Pall planned to compel all Ordermen to make daily attendance at these churches’ remembrancing ceremonies. There they would place the sacred remembrancing heaumes upon their heads, and open themselves to visions of the Elder Eddas – or so it was said. But in truth, they would open themselves, their very brains, only to whatever dogma, images, secret messages or propaganda that Hanuman li Tosh or Lord Pall wished them to believe.

Of course, the rise of this tyranny in such a historically free and illuminated city as Neverness did not go unopposed. All the aliens – led by the Fravashi – spoke out against the Order favouring this potentially totalitarian new religion. Ambassadors from the worlds of Larondissement and Yarkona made formal objections and threatened to sever relations with the Order. The numerous astriers, most of whom counted themselves as members of one of the Cybernetic Universal Churches, shunned Ringism as they might poisoned wine, and kept to their houses and churches in the Farsider’s Quarter. At this time perhaps no more than a tenth of the city’s residents outside the Order were willing to embrace the Three Pillars of Ringism. But in the fierce struggle for power occurring in Neverness, it was the lords and masters and adepts within the Order who really mattered. Many there were who would never countenance Ringism or their Order’s association with it. Lord Pall had not managed to banish all his potential enemies to the Vild. Especially among the returning pilots – and in Neverness there were always pilots returning in their lightships from years-long journeys to the stars – there were brave men and women inured to the terrors of the manifold. They were far too proud to allow themselves terror of Lord Pall or the cetic assassins which he was rumoured to command. Indeed, some of them such as Alesar Estarei and Cristobel, had fought with Mallory Ringess and distinguished themselves in the Pilots’ War years before. Inevitably, as Bardo told the story, Bardo had made connection with these pilots. They formed a cadre perhaps fifty strong, and they began meeting nightly at Bardo’s grand house in the Old City. Calling themselves the Fellowship of Free Pilots, they planned to form a nucleus round which anyone who opposed Ringism, inside the Order or out, might gather to talk and encourage each other. And to plot revolt.

For Bardo, it was his fifth career. Having begun life as a Summerworld prince, he had journeyed to Neverness to become a famous pilot, and later, Master of Novices. Then, after abjuring his, vows and leaving the Order, he had gained fabulous wealth as a merchant, before returning to Neverness as the prophet of a new religion. And now at last, as he told the Lords of the New Order, after having been rich and poor, famous and scorned, enlightened and despairing (and alive and dead), he had come into his true calling as a warrior.

‘We must fight them, by God!’ Bardo said. ‘What else can we do?’

Bardo told of how Lord Pall – or perhaps Hanuman – had sent an assassin to kill him. The assassin had caught Bardo on the street one evening returning home, and it was only because of the incredible courage of a man named Minowara ni Kei, who was one of Bardo’s followers, that Bardo was still alive. Just as the black-robed assassin had fired a spikhaxo at Bardo, Minowara had thrown his body in front of Bardo, taking the naitarre-poisoned dart in his shoulder and dying a hideous, spasming death. This had given Bardo time to overpower the assassin, in truth to club him to death with his huge hand as a bear might slay a child. Upon realizing how vulnerable his flesh was to such deadly needles, he had gone down to the Farsider’s Quarter the next day and ordered his suit of nall armour.

After this naked attempt to murder Bardo, the Fellowship of Free Pilots decided that their continued existence in Neverness was doubtful. Cristobel believed that their best hope to oppose the Ringists would be for each pilot to journey to as many of the Civilized Worlds as possible and bring the blazing torch of resistance to all who loved their freedom. Bardo himself was to make the perilous journey to Thiells. The only problem with this plan was that Lord Pall knew the names of every pilot in the Fellowship. He forbade them to leave the city. And so one gloomy day near the beginning of midwinter spring, Bardo and his fellow pilots stormed the Cavern of the Thousand Lightships, surprising the Ringists that Lord Pall had set to guard the Order’s most glorious vessels. This was the battle that Bardo had spoken of earlier. In the flash of laser fire and fierce fighting along the steel walkways deep below the earth, Vamana Chu, Marrim Danladi and Oriana of Dark-moon had been killed. But the rest of the pilots escaped with their ships. Since Bardo was no longer formally a pilot of the Order, he of course had no ship. But this lack did not daunt him. After obtaining the entrance codes from a terrified programmer whose jaw Bardo threatened to tear off with his naked hands, Bardo appropriated Lord Pilot’s very own ship: a stately expanse of black diamond named the Silver Lotus. Upon breaking free into deep space above Neverness and falling into the shimmering manifold that underlies all space and time, Bardo had immediately renamed his ship the Sword of Shiva.

Thus had he crossed the stellar Fallaways and entered the unmapped spaces of the Vild. He, who had always considered himself a potentially finer pilot than even the Sonderval, had found his way past the manifold’s infinite trees and the countless supernovas blighting the galaxy’s Orion Arm. From Cristobel he had learned the fixed-points of Thiells, and so after many days he came to this faraway world and to the New Order with a mission of his own. Upon taking the Sword of Shiva down to the very same light-field where Danlo had come to earth only a few hours earlier, he discovered that the Lords of the New Order were meeting at that very moment in conclave. He had tried to send word of his arrival to Lord Nikolos, but a rather self-important young horologe had informed him that the lords were discussing matters of the greatest importance and could not be disturbed. And so Bardo, in his inimitable way, had raced across Thiells in a sled, charmed his way past the academy’s gatekeeper (whom he had once known as Master of Novices years ago), and had stormed into the Hall of the Lords. And now he stood before them, a towering and impassioned man clad in a suit of armoured clothing, a great pilot and would-be warrior who called all the pilots of the New Order to a grand and glorious fate.

‘On the 60th of false winter, Neverness time, there will be a gathering on Sheydveg,’ he said. ‘The Fellowship of Free Pilots is calling each of the Civilized Worlds to send ships and men and women unafraid to fight. We’ll gather a fleet and fall against Neverness like a thousand silver swords – against the goddamned Ringists, against Hanuman li Tosh and Lord Pall. All the New Order’s pilots and lightships will be needed in this war.’

At the centre table in the Hall of the Lords, Lord Nikolos Sar Petrosian sat fingering the silken folds of his yellow robe. He liked to believe that he was the most self-controlled of men, and he usually disdained such fidgeting, preferring to keep his body motions precisely directed at all times. But Bardo’s story had clearly shaken him; despite himself, he reverted to nervous habits he had thought long since overcome.

‘Is there anything more that you need to tell us?’ Lord Nikolos asked.

‘Ah, well, there is one more thing,’ Bardo said. ‘The Order – under Hanuman’s direction – is building something. In the near-space at the first Lagrange point above the city. Hanuman calls it his Universal Computer. It’s a huge thing, and ugly, like a great, black moon. And someday, if the Ringists have their way, it will be as big as a moon. Even now, the Ringists are using disassemblers to mine the moons above Neverness for elements with which to build this hideous machine.’

He did not add that the Old Order’s eschatologists were afraid that the making of the Universal Computer, in using elements from Icefall’s moons, might inhibit and retard the growth of the Golden Ring.

Lord Nikolos gasped in outrage then, and his face fell red with blood. What Hanuman – and the Ringists – had done in using assembler technology to mine the moons above Neverness and build a possibly godlike computer violated the Law of the Civilized Worlds. After managing to get his breathing under control, he looked at Lord Morena Sung sitting next to him as she tapped her plump lips. Even the Sonderval seemed taken aback by this news, for he forgot all protocol and spoke in Lord Nikolos’ place. ‘Will you inform us, Pilot, as to what the Ringists might be doing with this computer?’

Although Bardo was no longer of the Order, it pleased him to be called Pilot, especially by his former rival and the greatest pilot of the Order, New or Old. He said, ‘I know what Hanuman has told the Ringists. You all know how damnably difficult the Elder Eddas are to remembrance. Few have had a clear memory of them. I, myself, almost, and Hanuman li Tosh much more so, and Thomas Rane. And, of course, Danlo wi Soli Ringess, who’s had perhaps the clearest and greatest memory of all.’

Bardo turned in his circle to bow to Danlo, and suddenly Danlo became aware of a hundred lords looking at him.

‘Because only a few geniuses could remembrance the Eddas fully,’ Bardo said, ‘we were forced to copy our experiences of them and store them in the remembrancing computers. In the heaumes that we placed on our heads. How else could we share this wisdom with the multitudes of Ringists who knew nothing of the remembrancers’ art?’

To counterfeit the experience of remembrance, Danlo thought. He held himself very still, gazing at Bardo as he touched his flute to his lips and recalled how Bardo had once asked him to make a copy of his great remembrance. But such an act would only mock true remembrance, and Danlo had refused, thus straining his friendship with Bardo and making an enemy of Hanuman li Tosh altogether.

Despite all that Bardo has said, he is still angry with me for not supporting his cybernetic illusions and lies.

As if Bardo had a private window into Danlo’s mind, he stared into Danlo’s dark, blue eyes and suddenly snapped his fist into the palm of his hand. And then he called out, ‘The Eddas should be for everyone, by God! For anyone. And anyone can put a goddamned computer on his head and interface a simulation of the Eddas. Ah, it’s not exactly remembrancing, too bad, but it’s as close as most will ever come. And Hanuman always said that as we made better and better simulations of the Eddas, the experience would more closely approach that of true remembrance. And if the simulation could be made detailed enough, as well as deep and profound, well, then even the One Memory might be faced by all. This is the reason for Hanuman’s computèr. A universal computer – he’s promised that it will hold a whole universe of memories. If it’s vast enough, the simulation of the Eddas can be made infinitely refined. Ah, infinitely powerful. When it’s finished, if you believe Hanuman, every Ringist on Neverness will be able to look up at this goddamned machine floating in the sky and fall into a rapture of the One Memory.’

Truly, Hanuman would almost die to interface such a computer, Danlo thought. The power of it would be almost as if he were a god.

After a long pause in which the attention of the lords was drawn back to Bardo, Lord Nikolos stared at this huge harbinger of doom and asked him, ‘Have you finished now?’

‘I have finished,’ Bardo said with a bow.

Lord Nikolos drew in a slow breath, then said, ‘What you’ve told us is beyond bad. This is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Ah, well, it is too, too terribly bad, which is why we must decide—’

‘That is true,’ Lord Nikolos interrupted. He looked at the lords and masters of the New Order all around him, and said, ‘We must decide what is to be done.’

At this implied rebuke of Bardo’s abandonment of the Order, Bardo ground the toe of his nall-skin boot against the floor. As nall is almost the hardest thing there is, it left scratches in the smooth black diamond. But Lord Nikolos was devoid of neither compassion nor good sense, and so he said, ‘You know that it’s our way to decide such questions among ourselves. But since you were once a master pilot and are clearly involved in this nightmare which has befallen us, I’d like to ask you to remain.’

So saying, Lord Nikolos indicated that Bardo should take a seat at the master pilots’ table.

‘Thank you, Lord Nikolos,’ Bardo said. He stepped out of the circle and strode across the room. He found an empty chair across from Danlo and, with much huffing and sighing, sat down.

‘This has been a strange day,’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘First Danlo wi Soli Ringess falls out of the stars to tell us that Tannahill has been found and a madman is loose among the galaxy with a star-killing machine. And two hours later, his father’s best friend arrives to tell us that the whole city of Neverness has fallen mad. What are we to make of such strangenesses?’

This was the first anyone had remarked upon the incredible coincidence of Bardo and Danlo meeting each other on a faraway planet in the Vild after so many years apart. But fate itself is strange, and as Danlo looked at Bardo looking at him in astonishment across a few feet of swirling air, he felt something wild and irresistible pulling Bardo and himself (and all the other pilots in the hall) towards a singular point in time not very far in the future.

‘And now we must decide which course of action to pursue,’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘I would like to ask the lords for their wisdom.’

Sul Estarei, the clear-thinking and cautious Lord Holist sitting at the end of Lord Nikolos’ table, suddenly found his voice and said, ‘The Bardo has called us to a gathering on Sheydveg in only ninety-five more days. And what will be the result of this gathering? War – a civil war on a vast scale, for I think it’s clear that many of the Civilized Worlds have already been overwhelmed with this Ringism madness and will support the Old Order. And many more will remain loyal out of habit. We must ask ourselves if we’re prepared to be part of such an inconceivable war?’

‘Are we prepared not to be?’ the Sonderval asked.

‘That’s surely the correct question,’ Lord Morena Sung said. For all the softness of her face and soul, she was a fearless woman driven by a desire to view the truth of any situation no matter how terrible. ‘If we don’t send our pilots to Sheydveg, what will happen?’

‘But our mission is to the Vild,’ said an old lord named Demothi Bede from a table at the rear of the hall. ‘What will come of what Danlo wi Soli Ringess has gained on Tannahill if we send all our pilots to Sheydveg?’

‘Are we just to abandon the Civilized Worlds?’ Morena Sung asked. ‘Neverness, herself, where I was born?’

‘Are we to abandon the Vild and let the supernovas consume the entire galaxy?’ Demothi Bede countered. ‘I’d rather see every one of the Civilized Worlds converted to Ringism than even one of worlds in the Vild destroyed because its star had exploded.’

At this Morena Sung pursed her plump lips and asked, ‘Do you mean, as the star of the Narain people whom Danlo told us about was exploded?’

‘The Lord Sung reminds us,’ the Sonderval said, ‘of what we shouldn’t have forgotten. What of Bertram Jaspari and his Iviomils with their star-killer? How can we let these fanatics loose among the Civilized Worlds?’

For a while, as the sun fell towards the ocean outside and sent rays of light streaming through the hall’s dome in a brilliant display of colour, the Lords of the New Order debated war. During a moment of silence after Lord Fatima Paz recited the names of all the men and women killed during the Pilots’ War, Danlo closed his eyes and whispered a prayer for the spirits of each of these pilots. And then he slowly stood away from his table, squeezed his flute tightly in his hand, and said, ‘Lord Nikolos, there is something I would like to say.’

Lord Nikolos bowed to him and said, ‘Then please speak, if you will.’

Danlo, whose Fravashi teacher had once bestowed upon him the title of ‘Peacewise’ for his devotion to ahimsa, politely returned the bow. Then he looked out over the tables of men and women in all their brightly hued robes, and said, ‘You lords … have spoken of war in abstractions such as “abandonment” of political entities or “support” of causes or of our Order’s “mission” to the Vild. But war is as real as a child screaming in the night. I know. On Tannahill, in my arms, I held a young girl whose face had been burned away by a plastic bomb. On Tannahill I saw … many things. Tannahill is far from here, thousands of light years, and so is Neverness. But war is not something that happens only to people far away. When a man goes over bleeding his life away, for him it is always here. There is always such a terrible hereness about dying, yes? And for each of us, we are always here, too, wherever we are. Who can say that this war of which you have spoken so abstractly will not come here to Thiells? Who here today, at this moment, is prepared to face the fire of a hydrogen bomb and die? Who is prepared to watch us pilots die, as pilots do die, falling into the hearts of suns and cooking like meat or falling mad and lost in the manifold or exploding from the inside out and freezing into blood crystals in the vacuum of space? Why … has no one asked if there must be war at all? What of peace, then? Is there no hope of constraining the Ringists without killing? Or even the Iviomils? I must believe … that peace is always a possibility.’

After Danlo had finished speaking, he met eyes with the Sonderval and Demothi Bede and many other lords. Then he sat down and looked at Bardo. Bardo, he knew, had immense powers of visualization (and a keen memory), and obviously had no difficulty imagining how terrible a full war would be, for his huge face fell soft and compassionate, and he muttered, ‘The poor pilots, the poor children, all the poor people, too bad. Ah, what have I started? Poor Bardo – too, too bad.’

Lord Nikolos, sitting across the room, couldn’t have made out Bardo’s words, but he seemed disquieted even so. And then, to Danlo, he said, ‘Thank you for reminding us that peace is always a possibility. At this moment, unfortunately, it seems a very far possibility. Nevertheless, we must consider every chance. War is real, as you say, and in making our plan, we must consider limiting this war or forestalling it altogether. If you’ve no more to add – or anyone else – here is what I believe our course should be.’

Lord Nikolos’ plan was clear and straightforward. In a reversal of what he had originally proposed, he would send a few pilots to escort ambassadors to Tannahill. But most of the New Order’s pilots would journey in their lightships to the gathering on Sheydveg, either to forestall war if possible or wage it with all their power.

‘I’ll also send ambassadors to Neverness,’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘It’s possible that we still might reason with Lord Pall and Hanuman li Tosh. Since this will be a very dangerous journey, I’ll ask only those of you who really wish to make such a mission to offer your services. I, of course, will lead this embassy and—’

Here Lord Morena Sung shook her head and asked to speak. She smoothed over the folds of her blue eschatologist’s robe, then said, ‘Lord Nikolos, you must not go to Neverness. Your place, as you surely must know, is here on Thiells. But I would like to make this mission, if I could.’

All at once, ten other lords, including Sul Estarei and Demothi Bede, called out that they, too, were willing to journey to Neverness. Then Morena Sung said, ‘There is one present today who knows Hanuman li Tosh’s mind more deeply than any other. Although he’s only a master—’

‘Are you speaking of Danlo wi Soli Ringess?’ the Sonderval demanded.

‘I am.’

The Sonderval, who would lead the pilots to Sheydveg and thence most likely to war, shook his head, then told her, ‘I’m loath to lose such a fine pilot to what will probably be a futile mission. Danlo and Hanuman were once deep friends, this is true, but they also parted enemies. What kind of ambassador do you think he’d really make?’

‘One who won’t be fooled by Hanuman’s deceits or lies,’ Lord Sung said.

‘But we don’t even know if Danlo would wish to make such a mission,’ the Sonderval said.

At this, almost every lord and master in the hall turned to look at Danlo, who gripped his flute and drew in a deep breath. Just as he was about to tell the lords that he would serve the New Order in any way he could, Lord Nikolos smiled at him and said, ‘I had thought to send Danlo back to Tannahill as ambassador. He’s already won Harrah Ivi en li Ede’s confidence – this Holy Ivi has already changed the doctrines of the Old Church because of him. Who better to send on such a mission?’

‘But Lord Nikolos,’ Morena Sung said, ‘surely that is the point? The greatest part of our mission to Tannahill is already accomplished. Thanks to Danlo. Wouldn’t his talents be better used elsewhere?’

‘And his greatest talent,’ the Sonderval said, ‘is as a pilot. I’ll need all my pilots if war comes and we fall against the Ringists.’

At this mention of war, Danlo continued to hold his breath, and he felt his heart beating like a drum at the centre of his chest.

‘To send Danlo to Sheydveg would be cruel,’ Lord Nikolos said to the Sonderval. ‘Have you forgotten his vow of ahimsa? How can one sworn to peace go to war?’

Never to kill, Danlo thought. Never to harm any living being.

‘If I thought about it at all,’ the Sonderval said, staring at Danlo, ‘I had supposed his duty to the Order would overcome his commitment to some private and unworkable ideal.’

Lord Nikolos slowly shook his head, then turned slightly so that his words carried more forcefully. ‘We mustn’t forget that Danlo’s vow preceded the vows he made when he entered the Order. At the time, no one foresaw that such a vow might ever pose a conflict. I don’t believe we should ask him to abjure this vow simply because the circumstances have changed.’

Danlo looked down at his hands which had once held the bloody head of a dying friend named Thomas Ivieehl, and he thought, But I would never abandon ahimsa.

‘Even to send Danlo to Neverness on a mission of peace might prove problematic,’ Lord Nikolos continued. ‘If this embassy fails and war falls upon the Civilized Worlds, bad chance might pose him terrible conflicts. The waves of war might overcome him and sweep him away.’

‘But killing always poses conflicts, and war might sweep any of us away,’ the Sonderval countered. ‘Who among us can escape his own fate?’

‘And who can make another’s journey towards his own fate?’ Lord Nikolos asked. ‘I won’t make Danlo journey to Sheydveg.’

At this news, Danlo sighed and looked at Lord Nikolos eye to eye.

‘I believe,’ Lord Nikolos said, ‘that it would best suit Danlo to be sent back to Tannahill. But it would best suit the Order for him to be one of our ambassadors to Neverness.’

Now Danlo held his flute tightly in his hands and held his breath in his lungs. Lord Nikolos’ gaze was cold but not unkind, and it seemed that he was searching Danlo’s face for some sign of what the future might unfold.

‘It’s unusual for the Lord of the Order to leave such a decision to a pilot,’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘But this is an unusual situation.’

All the lords in the hall looked at Danlo. Bardo smiled at him, and a part of his great strength seemed to flow out of his soft brown eyes and into Danlo.

‘I would ask you to choose between the ambassadorships to Tannahill or Neverness,’ Lord Nikolos said to Danlo. ‘If you need more time to—’

‘No,’ Danlo suddenly said, letting go his breath. ‘I will choose now.’

He closed his eyes and listened to the wind beating against the hall’s crystal dome and to the sound of his own deep breath. Fate, he thought, was calling him to the future with all the force of a star pulling a lightship towards its fiery centre. All people had a fate – or at least a golden path towards the realization of life’s deepest possibilities. Some refused to hear the call or ignored it when it cried out within them. Some fled their fate like a snowhare leaping in zigs and zags away from a diving thallow. Too often a man or a woman lived in a dull, defeated acceptance of the inevitable, all the while hating themselves and bewailing the unfairness of the universe. Only a few rare beings embraced the terrible beauty of life. And only the rarest of the rare loved their fate whether or not their lives were drenched in sunshine and honey or filled with fire, flashing swords, nightmare and death. In all of Danlo’s journeys, he thought that he had found only one such, and that was his onetime friend, Hanuman li Tosh. And now it seemed that Hanuman had made an irreversible crossing of some dark, inner ocean, perhaps towards godly power, perhaps only towards madness – it was hard to know. And now Hanuman waited for him in the icy, shimmering City of Light, just as across the room, Bardo and Lord Nikolos and a hundred other lords watched his face for signs of weakness and waited to see which path he might choose.

For in the end we choose our futures, he remembered.

He closed his eyes tightly then, and time opened like a window on to a deep blue sky, and he beheld the shape and shimmer of moments yet to be. Everything waited for him in Neverness. High in the tower of a great cathedral, beneath a clear dome, a pale and beautiful man stood watching the stars for Danlo’s lightship to fall out of the night. On the ice-locked islands hundreds of miles from Neverness, men and women in white furs looked for Danlo to bring them a cure for a disease that lay coiled in their blood waiting to explode into life. A child waited for him, too. He saw this child lying in his arms, helpless, trusting, gazing up at him with eyes as wild and deeply blue as his own. He saw himself waiting for himself: his future self who was fiercer, wiser, nobler and marked down to his soul with a terrible love of life. The universe itself, from the Edge galaxies to the stars of the Vild, waited for him – waited for him to decide if he would go to Neverness, yes or no.

That is always the deepest question, the only true question – yes or no.

Once, the goddess known as the Solid State Entity had told him that he would someday go to war, and he saw that that terror awaited him in Neverness as well. But what kind of war? Would it be battles of lasers and exploding bombs or a struggle of a deeper and more universal nature? This he could not see. But he knew that even if war should sweep him away in the manoeuvres of lightships, armies and men firing eye-tlolts at each other, even if his own flesh was opened with a nerve knife, he would keep his vow of ahimsa; always he would keep true to the calling of his own soul.

I would never kill another, even though I and everyone I love must die.

When he opened his eyes, it was as if he had only blinked and almost no time had passed. Lord Nikolos and everyone else still waited for his answer. Danlo sat gripping his flute, and he remembered another thing that the Entity had once told him: that he would find his father at his journey’s end. Perhaps his father, too, waited for him in Neverness. He could almost hear his father’s voice carrying along the stellar winds from far across the galaxy, calling him home to his fate.

‘I … will go to Neverness,’ he finally said. He looked at Lord Nikolos and tried to smile as a fierce pain stabbed through his left eye.

‘Very well, then,’ Lord Nikolos said. ‘And now I must decide who the other ambassadors will be. There’s much to be decided, for all of us, but not now. Since the hour is late, we’ll adjourn for dinner, and tomorrow meet again.’

Lord Nikolos suddenly stood away from his table. The other lords followed his lead, and some began talking in groups of two or ten, while others filed out of the hall. Bardo and the master pilots sitting at Danlo’s table immediately began to discuss the forcing of an enemy’s lightship into the fiery centre of a star and other battle stratagems, and for the moment Danlo was left sitting alone to marvel at the terrible energies unleashed by the mere talk of war. He rubbed his aching eye, all the while breathing deeply against the terrible soaring anticipation in the centre of his belly.

I, too, love my fate, he thought. My terrible, beautiful fate.

And then he stood up to greet Bardo and tell the other pilots of new stratagems of mastering the manifold, and the first waves of war swept him under as well.




CHAPTER III (#ulink_eb147707-10b4-5df4-a1e5-0b793c14879d)

The Two Hundred Lightships (#ulink_eb147707-10b4-5df4-a1e5-0b793c14879d)


Only the dead have seen an end to war.

— Plato

During the next few days, Lord Nikolos and the College of Lords made many decisions. All the pilots on Thiells were told to prepare their lightships and make their farewells. Thomas Sonderval, the Lord Pilot, in his gleaming ship the Cardinal Virtue, would lead two hundred others across the Vild’s dangerous stars to Sheydveg. Should death befall this great pilot – if a supernova should catch him in a wild blast of photons or the manifold devour his ship – Helena Charbo would act as Lord Pilot in his place. And if Helena and her Infinite Pearl were to meet a similar fate, Sabri Dur li Kadir would succeed her, and then Aja, Charl Rappaporth and Veronika Menchik, all masters of great renown who had once fought with Mallory Ringess in the Pilots’ War.

Two hundred pilots seemed almost too few to send to the gathering on Sheydveg, but in truth the Order was lucky to muster so many. The pilots had journeyed twenty thousand light years from Neverness not to wait planet-bound for war, but to make great quests into the Vild. Almost fifty pilots still fell among the wild stars towards the galaxy’s Perseus Arm, searching for Tannahill or exploring rainbow star systems or discovering dead, burnt-out alien worlds. Peter Eyota, in his Akashara, Henrios li Radman, Paloma the Elder – none could say when these pilots might return. By sheer good chance (or perhaps ill), on the day before the pilots were to set forth to the stars, Edreiya Chu did return, falling down to Thiell’s only light-field and bringing her ship to rest along with all the others. There, on a long, broad run, the Golden Lotus joined the August Moon, the Flame of God, the Ibi Ibis and other needles of black diamond formed up in twenty rows. There too gleamed the Sword of Shiva, which Bardo had stolen in Neverness, and Danlo’s ship, the Snowy Owl, she of the long, sweeping hull and graceful wings. In less time than it took for Old Earth to turn its face in revolution once to the sun, the pilots would climb inside these two hundred ships and point their way towards Sheydveg’s great red sun. In preparation for this journey, they were supposed to be resting or practising the pilots’ mental art of hallning or praying or saying goodbye to beloved friends.

At least two pilots, however, on this long night of cool sea winds and blazing stars, did not spend their time with goodbyes. Rather they arranged a rendezvous to say hello. Because Danlo had been very busy the last few days describing his discoveries to the cetics and eschatologists (and talking in private with Lord Nikolos), he hadn’t had the chance to greet Bardo properly. And so when they had broken free from their duties, these two old friends met on a grassy lawn outside the glittering stone halls of the Pilots’ College. Beneath tall, alien trees overlooking the sea, they called out in gladness and hurried to embrace each other.

‘Little Fellow, Little Fellow!’ Bardo said as he threw his arms around Danlo and thumped his back. ‘I thought I’d never have the chance to talk with you.’

Although Danlo was taller and stronger than most men, embracing Bardo was like trying clasp a mountain to himself. With a gasp of air (Bardo’s huge arms had nearly cracked his ribs), Danlo stepped away and smiled at Bardo. He said, simply, ‘I … missed you.’

‘Did you? Did you? Well, I missed you, too. It’s been too, too long.’

Bardo turned his huge head right and left, looking for a chair or bench. But Danlo, who had always hated sitting on any kind of furniture, had already dropped down to the soft grass. With a sigh and much groaning, Bardo carefully lowered his huge body until he sat face to face with Danlo. Although there was no need for such precautions within the safety of the academy, Bardo still wore his suit of battle armour, and the stiff plates reinforcing his garments impeded his motions.

‘By God, it’s a miracle to find you here!’ Bardo said, wiping drops of water from his forehead. Despite the coolness of the night, he was sweating in his layers of black nall. ‘To find that you and I have fallen out of the goddamned stars almost at the same hour – the same fateful hour – after having crossed the galaxy from opposite ends!’

As ever, Danlo smiled at Bardo’s enthusiasm, no less his choice of words. ‘Some might call it only an extraordinary coincidence.’

‘A miracle, I said! A goddamned miracle! What more proof do we need that you and I share a miraculous fate?’

‘These last few days … I have often thought about fate.’

‘Can you feel it, Little Fellow?’ Bardo’s eyes, in the light of the flame globes around the lawn, were pools of burning ink. ‘It’s like a star pulling at a comet. It’s like a beautiful woman calling to her man. It’s like … ah, well, it’s each cell in your body coming awake and singing the same song, and that song roaring outwards until it touches every rock on every planet and sets the whole goddamned universe humming.’

‘I have always loved listening to you speak,’ Danlo said, as amused as he was truly delighted.

‘Can you doubt it? You and I – we’ve been chosen to do great things, and this is the moment for the doing.’

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps it is only that we have chosen. Out of all the chances life offers, and out of our pride, Bardo … perhaps we have only chosen the most desperate of chances.’

Bardo shook his head so hard that drops of sweat spun off his thick, black beard into the night. He said, ‘There’s a line from a poem your father once told me: Fate and chance, the same glad dance.’

For a long moment, Danlo sat gazing at Bardo. He thought that he had never seen this huge man so animated, not even during the first breathtaking days of false winter six years ago when he (and Danlo and Hanuman li Tosh) had been busy founding the Way of Ringess and all things seemed possible. Danlo reflected on all that Bardo had said in the Hall of the Lords concerning the corruption of the church and Hanuman’s ousting him as Lord of the Way. Although Bardo was the most sincere of men, the full truth of his life often escaped him because he was wont to fool himself. He liked to believe that he acted from the purest of purposes, usually to serve others, but all too often Bardo served only Bardo. Danlo thought that his true motive in journeying to Thiells was not to save the Civilized Worlds from the cancerous new religion that he had made, but rather revenge and glory. Bardo had always had a sense of his own inborn greatness, and he knew that great men must do great things. But it was the tragedy of his life that he’d never quite found the way to realize his deepest possibilities. At various periods he had sought exaltation through mathematics, women, wealth, drugs and religion. And now war was to be the vessel carrying him towards his glorious fate, and this was perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.

‘Did you know,’ Danlo finally mused, ‘that the Architects of the Old Church – at least the Iviomils – believe that Ede himself has written the program for the universe? And that all we do is part of this program?’

‘Ah, no, I didn’t know that.’

‘Truly, on Tannahill, the very mention of chance is a talaw punishable by a cleansing of the mind.’

‘Barbarians!’ Bardo muttered. ‘It’s a miracle you survived your mission there.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘It’s a miracle, of course, but something much more. I’ve heard the full story of your journey from the Sonderval. How you walked with the dead and went deeper into your own mind than any cetic. There’s something about you now that I’ve never seen before. A fire and light: it’s as if your goddamned eyes are windows to the stars.’

Danlo looked up at the heavens, and a strange look fell over his face. And then Bardo continued to extol his accomplishments. ‘And how you plunged into the chaos space in the heart of the Entity! You’re a braver pilot than the Sonderval, Little Fellow, and a finer. You’re the finest since Mallory Ringess, and he was a goddamned god!’

‘Was, Bardo?’

‘Ah, I mean he was a divine pilot, a god of a pilot who could take his ship anywhere in the universe.’

Danlo smiled at this exaggeration, for no pilot, not even Mallory Ringess who had proved it was possible for a lightship to fenester instantly between any two stars, had ever fallen from the Milky Way to one of the universe’s other galaxies.

‘Have you had news of my father?’ Danlo asked.

The so-called first pillar of the creed of Ringism stated that one day Mallory Ringess would return to Neverness. Although Danlo now rejected the beliefs of all religions, he had always wondered at his father’s fate and waited for the moment of the Return – as had many thousands of others.

‘No, I haven’t, Little Fellow – I’m sorry. In all the journeys of all the pilots, no one has come back telling of anyone who has seen him.’

Danlo ran his fingers through the cool grass next to his crossed legs and listened to the sound of the ocean moving far below the academy. Although it was near midnight, various pilots and professionals, in twos and threes, crossed the walks leading to the dormitories all around them. Their low voices fell across the lawn where Danlo and Bardo sat, and for a moment Danlo was silent.

‘Once, before he left Neverness,’ Bardo said, ‘your father told me that he would journey yet again to the Entity. There was to be, ah, a kind of mystical union between them. Something that they must create together.’

At this, Danlo smiled strangely and said, ‘Truly, the Entity is a passionate goddess – She’s all fire and tears and dreams. It may be that She desires union with our kind.’

He did not tell Bardo that the Entity had tried to capture him on an earth that She had made. Nor that She had tried to seduce him by creating an incarnation of Tamara Ten Ashtoreth from sea water and earth elements and memories stolen from deep in his mind.

‘When the Sonderval told me that you’d spent much time with the Entity, I wondered if you might have learned anything about your father.’

‘She said only that I would find him at my journey’s end.’

‘In Neverness?’

‘I … do not know. The Entity always speaks so mysteriously.’

‘I still believe your father will return to Neverness. It’s where his fate lies, not out in the stars with some capricious goddess.’

For a moment, Danlo looked west at the strange, shimmering stars just over the rim of the sea, but he said nothing.

‘And when he does return, by God, there will be an accounting! He’ll open his eyes to every barbaric thing that Hanuman li Tosh has done in his name, and fall across the city in wrath. He’ll chastise him, perhaps even slay him – your father, despite his compassion, was always such a murderous man.’

‘But, Bardo, don’t you believe he is now a god?’

‘Do you think the gods don’t slay human beings as easily as flies – or even each other?’

Danlo thought of the Silicon God’s destruction of Ede the God, and he said, ‘I know that they do.’

For a while, beneath their tree’s silvery leaves rustling in the wind, they gazed out at the stars and talked about the galaxy’s gods – and fate and war and other cosmic things. Then Danlo turned to look at Bardo, and asked him about something closer to his heart.

‘Have you seen her, Bardo?’

‘Tamara?’

Danlo held his head still in total silence, but his eyes, gleaming in the half-light like liquid jewels, spoke for him.

‘Well, no, I haven’t seen her,’ Bardo said. ‘You know I’d heard that she had left the city – I never heard that she returned.’

‘But where did she go?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s only a rumour.’

‘Did Hanuman ever speak of what he did to her? Did he ever say that there might be a way to restore her?’

Bardo sighed and laid a heavy hand on Danlo’s shoulder. ‘Ah, Little Fellow – he never said anything, too bad. You still hate him, don’t you?’

Lightning flashed in Danlo’s eyes, then, and he said, ‘He raped her mind! He destroyed her memories, Bardo! All her memories of us together, everything blessed.’

‘Little Fellow, Little Fellow.’

Danlo chose that moment to take out his flute and press the hard ivory mouthpiece against his forehead. He drew in a deep breath, then said, ‘But I … must not hate. I try so hard not to hate.’

‘And I love you for such nobility,’ Bardo said, ‘but as for myself, I try to let all my hatred for that worm of a man fill my belly like firewine. It will make it easier to destroy him when the time comes.’

Slowly Danlo shook his head. ‘You know that I would not wish to see any harm come to him.’

‘Well, perhaps you should. Perhaps it would be best if you’d forswear your vow and find a way to move close to him. And then …’

‘Yes?’

‘And then kill him, by God! Slip a knife into his treacherous heart or squeeze the breath from his lying throat!’

At the mere invocation of such terrible images, Danlo’s own breath caught in his chest. He gripped his flute as tightly as a drowning man being offered a stick to pull him out of icy, black waters. And then, as he realized the impossibility of what Bardo had suggested, he slowly relaxed and smiled in deep amusement. ‘You know that I could never harm him,’ he said.

‘Well, I do know that, too bad. And that is why, short of war, there’s little hope of stopping him.’

‘But there is still our mission, yes? Our hope for peace.’

Bardo laughed softly, then said, ‘I remember that your Fravashi teacher once gave you the title of Peacewise. But it takes two to make a peace, you know.’

‘But all people long for peace.’

‘There speaks your hope,’ Bardo said. ‘There speaks your will to make reality conform to the dreams of your lovely heart.’

‘But Hanuman has a heart, too. He is still just a man, yes?’

‘I’m not so sure. Sometimes I think he’s a demon from hell.’

As Danlo thought of Hanuman’s hellish ice-blue eyes, he smiled gravely in remembrance. And then he said, ‘In a strange way, I think he was the most compassionate man I have ever met.’

‘Hanuman li Tosh?’

‘You did not know him as I did, Bardo. Once a time, as a boy, and before, he was so innocent. Truly … he was born with such a gentle soul.’

‘What changed him, then?’

‘The world changed him,’ Danlo said. ‘His religion, the way his father would read negative programs in his littlest misdoings and force a cleansing heaume on his head to rape his mind – that changed him, too. And he changed himself. I have never met anyone with such a terrible will to change himself.’

‘Well, you never knew your father, Little Fellow.’

Danlo stared down at the dark holes along the shaft of his flute, and waited for Bardo to say more.

‘But your father finally found his compassion, while Hanuman has lost his. And where your father became a light for the whole damn universe, Hanuman has embraced the darkness – like a slel necker sucking at a corpse.’

‘I would still like to believe that, somehow, there is infinite hope for everyone.’

Infinite possibilities, Danlo remembered as he closed his eyes. Inside everyone, everything, this infinite light.

‘Well,’ Bardo said, ‘Hanuman’s hope for himself is certainly infinite.’

‘Because he speaks of becoming a god?’

The second pillar of Ringism was that each man and woman could become a god by following the way of Mallory Ringess, and in this ambition, Hanuman was no different from a million others.

‘But he has done much more than speak of this,’ Bardo said. ‘Why do you think he has torn apart most of a moon to build that goddamned computer that floats in space like a death mask?’

‘But you yourself once taught that the way to godhood was only in remembrance of the Elder Eddas.’

‘I did? Ah, I suppose I did. Well, there are different ways of becoming gods, aren’t there?’

‘I … would not know.’

‘When his universal computer is finally assembled and Hanuman interfaces it, he’ll have power as godly as any god. He’ll be like the Entity, only smaller – for a while.’

‘He would not be the first to attempt such a thing.’

‘But he’d be the first in the history of the Civilized Worlds!’ Bardo said. ‘And the last. I think he wouldn’t care if he destroyed every world from Solsken to Farfara.’

Danlo brought his flute closer to his lips as he brooded over everything Bardo had told him. Truly, he thought, the danger of Ringism corrupting the Civilized Worlds was the least of what Hanuman might accomplish.

‘Hanuman always had a dream,’ Danlo said softly. ‘A beautiful and terrible dream.’

‘What kind of dream?’

‘I … do not know. Not wholly. Once, like city lights glittering through a snowstorm, I thought I saw the shape of it. The colours. He has dreams of a better universe, truly. And something more. I am afraid … that he would become more than a god, if he could.’

‘Ha! What could be more than a goddamned god?’

But now Danlo closed his eyes and played a long, low note upon his flute as he lost himself in memories of the past and future. In the centre of some inner darkness bloomed a tiny flower of light that grew and grew until it filled all possible space within the universe of his mind.

‘Well, I say he’ll never even become a god,’ Bardo growled. ‘We won’t let that happen.’

Danlo suddenly put aside his flute and looked at Bardo. ‘No?’

‘We’ll stop him. Of course, it’s really too bad that the Ringists themselves won’t stop him, but they’ve been gulled into believing that the Universal Computer is only a tool to help them remembrance the Eddas.’

Danlo sighed, then breathed deeply of the cool night air. He said, ‘You believe in the power of war to change the face of the universe. And truly, war is a refining fire that can touch almost anything. But what if it is our own faces that are burnt to char, Bardo? What if we lose this war?’

‘Lose? By God, we won’t lose, what are you saying?’

‘But along with the Old Order, the Ringists will have more lightships than we.’

‘Well, even if chance spat on us and we did lose, Hanuman would still be stopped, eventually. Do you think the Entity and Chimene and all the galaxy’s other gods would just let Hanuman’s computer gobble up the Civilized Worlds?’

‘But the gods have their own war,’ Danlo said. ‘Do they note our actions any more than we would worms in the belly of a dog?’

‘Ah, I suppose you’re right not to hope for the help of the gods. Now is the time for rocket fire and lasers, boldness and valour.’

‘Bardo, Bardo, no, there must be a—’

‘Do you think you’ll stop Hanuman with that?’ Bardo blurted out as he pointed to Danlo’s flute. ‘He always hated the mystical music that you played, didn’t he?’

Danlo made no reply to this, but simply sat watching the starlight play upon his flute’s golden length.

‘You’re really a prideful man, like your father,’ Bardo said. ‘You still hope to touch Hanuman’s heart, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Tamara, if she could be found – you still believe there’s a way to restore her to her memories.’

To heal the wound that cannot be healed, Danlo thought. To light the light that never goes out.

And then he said, ‘The remembrancers say that memory can be created but not destroyed.’

Bardo looked at Danlo with his big brown eyes and sighed. Then he said, ‘It’s dangerous for you to return to Neverness, Little Fellow. I think the Sonderval is right: you should abjure your vow and come with us to Sheydveg. You’ll be safer in battle than in the tower of Hanuman’s goddamned cathedral. Fight with us! Your father was such a formidable fighter, and his father – all your bloody line. Can’t you feel it inside yourself, the holy fire? By God, why don’t you do what you were born to do?’

‘I … will go to Neverness,’ Danlo finally said.

‘Ah, well, I think I knew you would.’ Bardo yawned hugely and turned to watch the stars setting over the ocean to the west.

‘It is far past midnight,’ Danlo said. ‘Perhaps we should sleep before tomorrow.’

‘Sleep? I’ll sleep when I die. There’s still too much to do tonight to waste time sleeping.’

Danlo caught a strange, sad gleam in Bardo’s eyes, and he said, ‘Yes?’

‘Well, I’ve sworn not to drink beer any more, so I suppose I should find a woman. Someone plump and fertile – it’s been too, too long, and who knows if this will be the last time.’

Danlo waited for Bardo to stand up, but the huge man remained like a rock almost stuck to the earth.

‘Ah, the truth is, I don’t want to leave you now, Little Fellow. Who knows if this will be the last time I see you?’

As tears began to flow freely in Bardo’s eyes, Danlo smiled and laughed softly. He jumped up, then pulled Bardo to his feet. ‘I shall miss you,’ he said as he embraced him.

‘Ah, Little Fellow, Little Fellow.’

‘But of course we’ll see each other again,’ Danlo said. ‘Even though a million stars and all the lightships of Neverness lie between us.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes. It … is our fate.’

With that, Bardo thumped Danlo’s back one last time, bowed, and ambled off towards the academicians’ apartments to find his woman – probably some young journeyman whom he had met during the last few days. Danlo watched him disappear into the shadows; then he turned and waited for the sun to rise over the plains and the light-field to the east.

That morning most of the New Order on Thiells assembled at the light-field to bid the pilots farewell. Some nine thousand Ordermen lined the field’s main run for a mile on either side. Their formal silk robes, in amber, red, indigo, cobalt and violet, rippled like banners in the wind. Akashics, horologes, historians, cetics and remembrancers – it was their pride to honour the two hundred pilots who would risk war to protect them. And to protect the Order’s ancient dream of awakening a star-flung humanity to the light of reason and truth’s bright, ineffable flame. No one knew when these brave pilots might return. No one knew what might befall them – and the New Order – if they never returned, but it was also their pride to match the pilots’ bravery with their own, and so almost every face was smiling and bright with cheer.

Much of the city of Lightstone, as well, turned out to watch the spectacle of the pilots’ departure. There were some eighty-nine thousand of these people jostling and vying for position, craning their necks for a better view of the two hundred lightships shimmering in the early sun.

At precisely the first hour after first light, Lord Nikolos arrived at the field in a gleaming red sled and took his place on the middle of the run. There, in front of their ships, the pilots had been called together to receive his final charge and blessing. The Sonderval, as Lord Pilot, stood foremost among them, a great tree of a man nearly eight feet tall dressed in his formal black robe. The master pilots waited near him in order of precedence of the date on which they had taken vows. Helena Charbo, with her great shock of silver hair and her fearless face, was the first of these, followed by Charl Rappaporth, Aja and Sabri Dur li Kadir. Fifty other masters were arrayed in line, Veronika Menchik, Ona Tetsu, Edreiya Chu, Richardess, and others, as well as Peter Eyota and Henrios li Radman who had recently returned from the deepest part of the Vild. The last of the master pilots, of course, was Danlo wi Soli Ringess. He stood watching the sky with his deep blue eyes – and watching Lord Nikolos and all the thousands of men and women pressing up against the run from the east and west. He might have traded a few last words with Lara Jesusa and other full pilots drawn up behind him, but Lord Nikolos had called out to speak and was waiting only for the throngs to stop talking and cheering and fall into a proper silence.

Two other people standing on the run off to the side were not pilots of the Order. These were Demothi Bede, the Lord Neologician robed in ochre and, of course, Pesheval Lal, whom Danlo and everyone else always called Bardo. Once, this huge man might have stood in the Sonderval’s place, or not far behind, but no one had forgotten how he had abjured his vows and abandoned the Order. However, he was still a great pilot, if now a ronin, and his stolen ship, the Sword of Shiva, was lined up last with all the others. He too wore black, the dréadful black of nall armour and his swirling shesheen cape. If he had accomplished his purpose of the previous night, he gave no sign, for his face was as stern as any other. He traded serious looks with Demothi Bede, who would soon set forth as an ambassador and passenger in Danlo’s ship. In only a few more moments they would both leave this soft and beautiful world – Bardo to go to war and Demothi to journey to Neverness to prevent it.

‘Silence, it’s time!’ a red-robed horologe called out from a crowd of academicians waiting not far from Lord Nikolos. Others picked up the cry, and passed it voice to voice for a mile down the run: ‘Silence, it’s time.’

Then, in the sudden quiet, Lord Nikolos spoke to the pilots in his calm, clear voice. He began by discussing the meaning of being a pilot and reminding them of their vows, especially their fourth vow, that of restraint. For in the coming days, he said, they would need restraint above all other virtues, even courage and faith. ‘The Order was founded to illuminate the peoples of all worlds, not to make war upon them. We keepers of the ineffable flame are no warriors, nor shall we ever be. Nevertheless, it may be that we must act as warriors for a time. Therefore we must act in clear conscience of what is permitted and what is not.’

He then enjoined them above all else to avoid war if they could. Danlo, along with the Lord Bede, was to be given a chance to reason with Hanuman li Tosh. If a display of virtuosity and threat might bring peace, they were to use their lightships towards this end only. And if battle came to them howling on an ill-wind of fate, pilots were to fall in violence only against other pilots and ships of war. They were not to attack merchant ships, nor any world or peoples supporting Hanuman and the Way of Ringess. Specifically, Lord Nikolos charged them with upholding the Laws of the Civilized Worlds. They were not to arm their lightships with hydrogen bombs or other weapons of genocide. They were not to infect planetary communications’ systems with information viruses or disable them with logic bombs. The purpose of the war must be as clear to them as a diamond crystal: first, they were to stop Hanuman from using the Old Order to spread Ringism to the Civilized Worlds. If possible, they were to restore the Old Order to its original vision and age-old injunction against associating with any religion. And last, he said, at any cost to themselves in wounds or death, Hanuman’s Universal Computer must be destroyed. To this end, he asked them to pledge their honour and lives.

After they had made their vows, he reminded them that the meaning of the ancient word for pilot was ‘steersman’. He told them that they must always find their way between the hard rocks of pride and the whirlpool of self-deception to the truth shining always beyond. And so he led them in a prayer for the most essential of all the pilot’s arts, which was vision. And then he said, ‘I wish I could go with you, but since I cannot, I wish you well. Fall far, fall well, and return.’

He bowed to them, deeply, and the pilots returned his bow. Led by the Sonderval, they each walked up to their ships and climbed inside. It took some little time for Demothi Bede to enter the passenger room of Danlo’s ship and prepare for his journey. But when he had shut himself inside his sleeping cell and Lord Nikolos and everyone else had moved to safety, the Master of the Fields gave the signal for the pilots to depart. One by one, the lightships began rocketing down the run, where the swarms of the city formed a gauntlet on either side of them. Of course, the lightships, having no wheels, did not need to use the run to gain the blueness of the sky beyond. But the pilots wanted to make a show of their art, and so the Sonderval took his silver-black Cardinal Virtue roaring into the air. Helena Charbo, in the Infinite Pearl, followed his line of ascent only seconds behind, and then came the other ships, the Montsalvat, the Blue Rose and the Bright Moon, and the August Moon, the Sagittarius Bridge, and all the others strung out like diamonds on a necklace connecting earth to the heavens.

The Snowy Owl, with its long, graceful lines and sweeping wings, was only one ship among two hundred of these jewels. Although Danlo would soon enough leave his brother and sister pilots behind, he felt in his pounding blood the sense of shared purpose that connected him to them. And then, when the world of Thiells lay spinning beneath him like a great blue ball, the manifold opened before him. He entered into the raging deeps of the universe, and then he, like all the pilots in their two hundred lightships, had only his vision and his heart to guide him.




CHAPTER IV (#ulink_698d6144-e088-51b3-9312-ab065a80cd2d)

Sheydveg (#ulink_698d6144-e088-51b3-9312-ab065a80cd2d)


We call our region of the galaxy the Civilized Worlds. We believe that we seek for ourselves an ideal state of human culture beyond barbarism or war. If this be true, however, how are we to think of Summerworld, with its silver mines and slaves, as civilized? Or Catava where the Architects of the Reformed Churches use their holy cleansing computers to mutilate their own children’s minds? Or Simoom, or Urradeth, and so on, and so on? The truth is that we have come to define civilization very narrowly: we are civilized who honour and keep the Three Laws. And what is the essence of these laws? Very simply, that we agree to limit our technology. To be civilized is to make a choice to live as careful and natural human beings in harmony with our environments. The Civilized Worlds, then, are nothing more than those three thousand spheres of water and earth where man has chosen to remain as man.

— from A Requiem for Homo Sapiens by Horthy Hosthoh, Lord of the Order of Mystic Mathematicians and Other Keepers of the Ineffable Flame

And so the pilots of the New Order returned across the stars as they had come only a few years before. Although this part of their journey from Thiells to Farfara was much the shortest, in distance, as measured in time it took many days to fall even a few hundred light years between such stars as Natal and Acayib the Brilliant, for the manifold underlying the Vild was as changeable as quicksand and mappings made one moment might prove worthless the next. The Sonderval, though, led the lightships with panache and good order past Kefira and Cho Chumu, and Rhea Luz, all hot and swollen with its angry red light. Perhaps it was good chance – or only fate – that no pilots were lost during this first fenestration of window to window giving out on the treacherous stars. Once, when they fell through a Danladi fold caused by the explosion of some recent supernova, Ona Tetsu’s Ibi Ibis almost vanished into an infinite series of infoldings. But with great presence of mind characteristic of all her famous line, that wily pilot found a mapping which took her through a window to the Birdella Double, which was the next star pair in the sequence of stars that the Sonderval had set. There she waited for the two hundred lightships to rejoin her – waited with great coolness as if she hadn’t almost lost her life like a child smothered in sheets of wildly flapping plastic.

Most of the pilots, of course, would have liked to prove their virtue by finding mappings independent of the others, but accidents such as Ona’s befell few of them, and the Sonderval had ordered them to stay together. And so they moved through the Vild as one body of ships, remaining always within the same neighbourhood of stars. They passed Ishvara, Stirrit and Seio Luz, a cool yellow sun almost identical in shape and colour to the Star of Neverness. And Kalkin and Vaishnara, and others, and finally they came to Sattva Luz, a brilliant white ball of light just within the inner envelope of the Vild. From here, their mappings would carry them only a few more stars to Renenet and Akar, and thus to Shoka and Savona, where they would break free from the Vild’s outer envelope and look out on Farfara and the stars of the Civilized Worlds. It was here, just beyond Sattva Luz’s intense gravity field, that they came upon a quite deadly phase space. Or rather this menace of the manifold came upon them. Some of the surviving pilots were to describe it as like an earthquake; others spoke of boiling oil or point-set correspondences that shattered like a dropped cup. For Danlo wi Soli Ringess, caught in the worst part of the phase space, it was as if one moment he were floating on a calm blue sea and the next, a tidal wave of every colour from ruby to violet was breaking over him. He had almost no time to find a mapping to a small white dwarf near Renenet. Others, however, were not so lucky. (Or skilful.) Three pilots died that day: Ricardo Dor, Lais Blackstone and Midori Astoret in her famous Rose of Neverness. None will ever know how the manifold appeared to them in the last moment before they were crushed into oblivion. But all the survivors agreed that they had lived through one of the worst mathematical spaces ever encountered and were very glad when the Sonderval called a halt near Shoka to speak the dead pilots’ names in remembrance.

When the pilots finally reached Farfara several days later, many desired to make planetfall as they had done on their way into the Vild. They wanted to feel earth beneath their boots again, to stand in Mer Tadeo’s garden beneath the stars drinking firewine and talking of brave deeds. But the Sonderval would not allow this. They had reached the Civilized Worlds, he said, and though it might be unlikely, it was always possible that pilots from Neverness might fall out of the manifold like birds of prey at night and destroy their ships while they were on the ground.

‘We must begin to think strategically,’ he told them. ‘We must not regard ourselves as wayfarers needing a little comfort, but as warriors going to war.’

That there truly might be a war was no news to Mer Tadeo dur li Marar or any of the other merchant princes of Farfara. As Bardo had promised, his friends of the Fellowship of Free Pilots had journeyed to the most important Civilized Worlds to tell of the gathering at Sheydveg. They had called for ships, robots, water and food – and men and women armed with lasers, eye-tlolts, or even knives. The Farfarans, of course, had no experience of war. But then almost none of the peoples of the Civilized Worlds did. Farfara was a rich planet whose merchant élite opposed the spread of Ringism. And so they decided to send their own contribution to the gathering on Sheydveg: food and firewine, but also twenty deep-ships each carrying ten thousand hastily trained soldiers and secretly armed with lasers and neutron bombs. And they provided seventy-two black ships, which were really much like the Order’s lightships except that they were clumsier and duller, with hulls wrought of black nall and pilots who had only enough mathematics to take them along the well-established mappings of the Fallaways. In battle against the Order’s sleek, gleaming lightships, they might prove more of a hindrance than a help, but the Sonderval reluctantly thanked the Farfarans and quite peremptorily commanded their pilots to follow the two hundred lightships into the manifold as best they could.

From Farfara they fell on to Freeport, where they gained ten more deep-ships and thirty-eight black ships. And at Vesper their fleet increased similarly, and so at Wakanda. Their journey took them through the most ancient part of the Fallaways, through worlds colonized well before the Lost Centuries when the First Wave of the Swarming had reached its crest. Only some of these worlds supported the New Order’s mission to Farfara. Many chose to remain neutral in the coming strife. And many more favoured the Old Order out of age-long loyalties or welcomed Ringism as a force that would save them from millennia of stagnation. Some unfortunate worlds were divided against themselves, half their people embracing Ringism, while their brothers and sisters fought to oppose this wild and criminal religion. By the time the lightships passed their way, Zesiro and Redstone had nearly fallen into civil war.

The peoples of Fostora, too, were close to killing each other. The Fostorans, of course, were famous throughout the Civilized Worlds for creating the Silicon God. They well remembered this great crime against the Three Laws, and many Fostorans, in their undying shame, were ready to give their lives that such an abomination would never come into being again. But others on this dark, cold world had more ancient dreams. Like their forefathers five thousand years before, they chafed at the limitations of the Three Laws. While they were not willing to make another god-computer that might threaten the Civilized Worlds and perhaps all the galaxy’s stars, they fell into love with the idea that they might make themselves as gods. And so they became Ringists mind, body and soul. They fought to nullify the Three Laws and remake the Civilized Worlds as a paradise where men and women might move towards godhood. How this miracle of evolution might occur, no one quite knew. But they believed the words of Hanuman li Tosh’s missionaries, that for them to blaze like stars, they must be willing to endure fire, burning and, ultimately, war.

Each man and woman is a star. Even as the New Order’s fleet fell through the manifold after gathering another fifty black ships on Monteer, Danlo floated inside his ship and fell into remembrance. Once, on a long night years ago on Neverness, he had stood in the bitter cold listening to Hanuman deliver these words to thousands of cheering people. How could you wish to become new unless you had first become ashes?

He remembered that over the millennia there had been other attempts to break away from the Laws of the Civilized Worlds and shape a new face for humanity. As the Fifth Mentality of Man reached its limits, anarchists from Fostora had founded Alumit as a world where all things might be possible. It was no mistake, Danlo thought, that Nikolos Daru Ede had been born on Alumit, and there carked his consciousness into a computer that had grown to be almost the greatest of the galaxy’s gods. And the warrior-poets of Qallar, after perfecting the art of using computer neurologics to replace parts of the human brain, had begun a campaign of terror and extreme proselytization to convert others to their way. They would have rewritten the Three Laws to allow for terrible mutilations of the bodysoul, but the Order of Scientists, as the Order had then been called, under the implacable Timekeeper, had opposed them. The first war fought with the warrior-poets had nearly destroyed the Order, but the Order’s superior command of lightships and the manifold allowed them to impose a peace upon Qallar. The warrior-poets agreed to many hated limits to their technologies of the mind – and over the seven thousand years since the Third Dark Age they had broken their agreement many times.

This, Danlo thought in the quiet of his ship, had been the deepest tension on every Civilized World almost for ever: that human beings were always secretly dying to break out of their old ways and turn their faces to something new. And human beings needed newness as a hungry thallow chick does meat, but the Third Law was right to proclaim that man may not stare too long at the face of the computer and still remain as man. How then should they turn? If women and men were not to fall as cold and mechanical as silicon computers, in what direction might they look to take on a new face, one truly human and yet beyond the fearful yearning and pride that had marked man’s visage for so long? No one knew. No one had ever known, neither the first Homo sapiens who had looked up at the stars in longing for the infinite lights, nor the warrior-poets, nor the god-men of Agathange. But many were the prophets who had understood that the pressure to evolve was the deepest, most terrible of all man’s drives. Hanuman li Tosh was only the most recent of these firebrands. But he was a religious genius, and more, a man with a terrible will to fate. And perhaps most importantly, he brought his Way of Ringess to the stars at a fateful time in history when people were prepared to burn worlds and turn a whole civilization to ashes if only they might create themselves anew.

Terrible pressure, Danlo thought as he fell deeper into the Civilized Worlds. The terrible light – people do not know what is inside them.

At last the lightships – and deep-ships and black ships – came to Madeus Luz at the edge of the galaxy’s Orion Arm. This blue-white giant was like a signpost lighting their way into the darker spaces into which they soon must pass. Only a score of stars lay along their pathway now to Sheydveg, itself one of the few stars to brighten this part of the Fallaways. The pilots fell on to Jonah’s Star Far Group, where the world of Shatoreth added to their numbers, and then they made a series of mappings towards Sheydveg.

For Danlo, floating in the pit of the Snowy Owl, this was the longest and most uneventful segment of his journey. According to Lord Nikolos’ orders, at Sheydveg he would say goodbye to his fellow pilots and fall on alone to the dense stars of the Sagittarius Arm and then to Neverness, but now there was almost nothing outside his ship to occupy his attention. The manifold between these two arms of the galaxy flattened out like a sheet of burnished gold. To enlighten himself, he might have taken conversation with Demothi Bede, but this lord of the Order stayed in his passenger cell, either sleeping or interfaced into quicktime, where the ship-computer slowed his mind as cold does tree sap so that time for him passed much more quickly. Danlo did speak with his devotionary computer. The hologram of Nikolos Daru Ede, with its bald head and black, mystic’s eyes, floated like a glowing ghost in the ship’s omnipresent darkness. Danlo had long since tired of Ede’s warnings as to the manifold’s dangers and his continually-voiced desire to get his body back and incarnate again as a human being. But he did not know the word that would take this noisome computer down, and in truth, he had been alone in stars so long that he welcomed almost any form of companionship. And rarely, Ede might even amuse him. Once, when they had just fenestered past a fiery white double, Ede reminded him for the thousandth time that the fleet of Bertram Jaspari’s Iviomils was likely falling among similar stars on their way to Neverness to destroy it.

‘And they have my body, Pilot. If the Iviomils destroy the Star of Neverness and flee into the core stars, how will I ever recover my body?’

‘We will not let them destroy Neverness,’ Danlo said for the thousandth time.

‘I should like only to feel the world through my body once more.’

‘And then?’ Danlo asked yet one more time. ‘What will you do with this resurrected body?’

The expression on Ede’s face froze into a kind of mechanical wistfulness. ‘I shall drink the finest firewine; I shall bask in the sunlight on the sands of the Astaret Sea; I shall smell roses; I shall suffer and weep and play with children; I should like to fall into love with a woman.’

Usually this conversation went no further, but because Danlo was in a playful mood, he asked, ‘But what if your body no longer has the passion to be a body?’

For a moment Ede seemed lost in computation (or thought), and then he asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your body has been frozen for three thousand years, yes?’

‘Only two thousand, seven hundred and forty-five years.’

Danlo smiled and said, ‘My friend Bardo once died and was frozen in preservation for only a few days. When the cryologists thawed him, he found that he had lost certain of his powers.’

‘What powers?’

‘He found it impossible … to be with a woman.’

‘But I always found it so easy to be with women.’

In truth, Nikolos Daru Ede, the man, had always been too absorbed with his computers and his journey godward to love any woman deeply. But as for swiving them, he had been the founder of humanity’s greatest religion, and as with most such charismatic leaders, his bed had rarely been empty.

‘Bardo always had an easy way with women, too,’ Danlo said. ‘But after he was restored to himself, his spear would not rise.’

‘Then in the thawing of my body, I shall have to take precautions that my spear remains risen.’

‘Remains?’

‘Have I never told you the story of my vastening?’ Ede asked.

‘Yes, truly you have – you told me that after your brain had been copied in an eternal computer, your body was frozen.’

‘Of course, but what was I doing in the hours before I carked my consciousness into the computer and became a god?’

‘How … would I know?’ Danlo asked. But then he immediately smiled because a vivid image came flashing into his mind: the plump, naked Nikolos Daru Ede sexing with three beautiful women whom he had married that morning in honour of the great vastening to occur that afternoon.

‘Before I was vastened, I wanted to be a man one last time,’ Ede said. ‘So I took my three new wives to bed for the day. But I became overstimulated – I think due to the kuri drink that Amaris mixed to fortify me. When it came time for my vastening, I’m afraid I was still tumescent.’

Danlo was now struggling hard not to laugh. ‘You went to your vastening with your spear pointing towards the heavens, yes?’

‘Well, I wore a kimono, Pilot. It was voluminous. No one could see.’

‘But after you had died … that is, after the programmers had torn apart your brain and scanned and copied its pattern, after this vastening into what you believe is a greater life, could it be that your body returned to a less excited state?’

‘My vastening lasted only nine and a half seconds. Pilot.’

‘I had thought it took much longer.’

‘Of course, the ceremonies lasted for hours – a great event requires great pageantry, don’t you think?’

‘Yes – truly.’

‘I had ordered the cryologists to freeze me the moment that my vastening was accomplished. Nine and a half seconds – not enough time for my spear to fall.’

‘And thus the Cybernetic Universal Church has preserved you through the ages?’

‘They froze me in my kimono. It was all quite dignified.’

Now Danlo laughed openly, deep from his belly in waves of sound that filled the pit of his ship. Then he said, ‘There is something funny about religions, yes? Something strange, the way men worship other men – even a fat little bald man who went into his crypt swollen between the legs like a satyr.’

‘You insult me, Pilot.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Of course, the Architects of the Cybernetic Churches don’t worship me as a man. They worship the miracle of my becoming a god.’

‘I see.’

‘But it would be an even greater miracle if we could recover my body and restore me to a life in the flesh.’

‘Truly, it would.’

‘You will help me recover my body, won’t you. Pilot?’

‘I have promised I would.’

‘Even if my spear no longer rises, I would still like to hold a woman again.’

Danlo closed his eyes, then, as he remembered holding Tamara Ten Ashtoreth in the morning sun and the intense fire of their love. ‘I … understand,’ he said.

The Ede imago seemed to respect this sudden silence, for it was many moments before he asked, ‘Pilot?’

‘Yes?’

‘Whatever happened with Bardo’s spear? Did he ever regain his powers?’

‘Yes, truly he did. He … found a cure. Bardo is more Bardo than ever.’

‘I’m happy for him. It’s bad to be without a woman.’

Now Danlo opened his eyes and stared at Ede’s sad, shining face. It was the first time he had ever heard this flickering hologram express any concern for a human being. ‘I would like to believe … that we will recover your body,’ he said.

Other conversations with Ede were of more immediate moment. This little ghost of a god proved to know much about war. When he computed how quickly the fleet was adding ships, he observed that the Sonderval would soon face the problem of how to coordinate and command them. And then at Skamander they received an unexpected boon of fifty-five deep-ships and ninety-two black ships, and the Sonderval’s command problem became critical. It was hard enough for the Order’s finest pilots to move through the manifold as a single, coordinated body of ships. It was harder still for the Sonderval, as the lone Lord Pilot, to aid the black ships’ pilots in mapping through the swirling spaces of the manifold. In his overweening arrogance, the Sonderval’s first impulse was simply to abandon this huge fleet and let them find their own way to Sheydveg. Time was pressing upon him like the overpressures of an approaching winter storm. And he doubted the black ships’ and deep-ships’ worthiness in battle. He might actually have left them with a few lightships as escorts, but then an event occurred that made this strategy unthinkable.

It was just after they had fallen out into realspace around a red-orange giant named Ulladulla. The lightships had kept in good order, gathering as a group near point-exits only a few million miles from Ulladulla’s flaming corona. But the black ships and deep-ships, as they fell out from the manifold’s point-exits, scattered themselves through space like hundreds of dice cast onto black felt. As always, the Sonderval, in his brilliant Cardinal Virtue, would have to wait for them to make their corrective mappings and rejoin the lightships. This always took time, and the Sonderval always counted the moments like a merchant begrudgingly fingering over golden coins to a tax collector. And this time, the regrouping was to take more than a few moments because further in towards the sun, half-concealed by Ulladulla’s fierce radiance, five lightships from the Order on Neverness waited to ambush them.

So blindingly quick was then attack that neither the Sonderval nor any other pilot save one identified the names of their ships. But it was certain that they were Neverness lightships which had journeyed to this star to terrorize the black ships and their pilots. Any ship, of course, as it opens windows in and out of realspace will perturb the manifold like a stone cast into a quiet pool of water. A skilful pilot, if she has manoeuvred close enough to another, can read these faint ripples and actually predict another ship’s mappings through the manifold. But if many ships are moving as one towards point-exits around a fixed star, it requires much less skill to make a probability mapping, for the perturbations merge like a streaming river and are easy to perceive. If the pilots of Neverness had known of the gathering on Sheydveg – as they must have known – then it would be a simple thing for them to divide their forces and lie in wait along the many probable pathways leading to Sheydveg. In time, one of their attack groups would be almost certain to detect the raging river of the Sonderval’s fleet. It would be a simple stratagem, yes, but a foolish one, or so the Sonderval had calculated when he had weighed the risks of various approaches to Sheydveg. For there were many pathways through the manifold, as many as sleekit tunnels through a forest, and whoever led the Neverness pilots would have to divide his ships too thinly.

If the purpose of this attack had been to vanquish the New Order’s fleet, then the Sonderval’s reasoning would have proved sound. But the five lightships’ purpose was only terror. In truth, the lightships of the Sonderval’s fleet were never in danger, nor were the main body of black ships and deep-ships. But a few of the most scattered of these were in deadly danger. The Old Order’s lightships fell out of the sun upon them like hawks among a flock of kitikeesha birds. Using a tactic devised in the Pilots’ War, they manoeuvred close to then target ships and fixed a point-source into the manifold. In essence, they made mappings for their victims. Death-mappings: their spacetime engines opened windows into the manifold and forced a deep-ship or black ship to fall along a pathway leading straight into the heart of the nearest star. These mappings took only moments. And so in less than nine and half seconds, the pilots from Neverness darted in and out of realspace like needles of light. They sent two deep-ships and thirteen black ships spinning to their fiery deaths inside Ulladulla. And then as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone, five wraithlike ships vanishing into the manifold towards other stars far away.

This lightning raid stunned the Sonderval’s fleet. Almost no one had expected such a disaster, for the two Orders were not yet at war. Only one pilot had the presence of mind (or courage) to act in vengeance. This was Bardo, who had long since proved his prowess in the Pilots’ War. When he looked out into deep space and saw how easily the Neverness pilots had destroyed fifteen ships, he cried out after them ‘You’re barbarians, by God! They were as helpless as babes – oh, all the poor men and women, too bad!’

So saying, he used his Sword of Shiva to slice open a window from the black fabric of realspace, and then he and his great diamond ship fell into the burning pathways of the manifold.

When he returned to the spaces of Ulladulla three hundred seconds later, he found that the Sonderval had drawn his shaken fleet together. He gave a quick account of his pursuit of the Neverness ships. By light-radio he told the Sonderval and all the pilots of the lightships (and only these) what had happened during the brief time he had been gone. In the pit of the Snowy Owl, a glowing hologram of Bardo fairly popped out of the air, and this is what Danlo heard the huge man say: ‘Five ships, and they scattered in five different directions. So I had to choose one pathway, one ship. I was lucky, by God! I was still within a well-defined region of one of them, and was able to close the radius of convergence quickly. I came upon him by a blue hotstar five light years from Ulladulla. When I fell out into realspace, I saw that it was Marrim Masala in the Golden Rhomb. He has the ugliest little ship with its ugly straight wings and ugly tail. Had, that is – I sent him and his goddamned ship to hell inside the star, too bad. But I’ve no regrets, for he slaughtered innocents. And in the Pilots’ War he killed Lahela Shatareh, and who could forgive him for that?’

The battle that Bardo had fought with Marrim Masala had been much like any contest between two lightships: nerve-shattering, fierce and quick. Like two swords flashing in the night, Bardo’s and Marrim’s ships slipped in and out of the manifold seeking an advantageous probability mapping. Bardo, the more mathematical and cunning of the two pilots, in some hundred and ten seconds of these lightning manoeuvres, had finally prevailed. He predicted which point-exit the Golden Rhomb would take into realspace, and he made a forced mapping. And then the Sword of Shiva swept forwards and sliced open a window into the manifold. And the Golden Rhomb instantly fell through this window into the hotstar’s terrible fires.

And so one pilot of the Old Order had been slain against fifteen pilots of the Civilized Worlds – and twenty thousand soldiers helpless in the holds of the two deep-ships. Helpless, yes, but they were not innocents as Bardo had said, but rather full men and women armed for war. Still, no one had thought war would come to them so soon. With the loss of the Kaliska and the Ellama Tueth, both deep-ships from Vesper, terror spread among the Sonderval’s fleet. The fifty-five deep-ships and ninety-two black ships recently gained at Skamander might have immediately deserted for that rich world, but their pilots were afraid that the Neverness lightships might intercept them on their way home. To quell the fears of these soft, over-civilized pilots – and to protect them – the Sonderval immediately reorganized his command. Henceforth the lightships would not move as a separate body from the hundreds of deep-ships and black ships. (After the Old Order’s ambush, there were now some twelve hundred and sixty-eight of these.) The Sonderval divided his two hundred lightships into ten battle groups, each to be led by a master pilot who would act as captain and commander of the twenty pilots beneath him – as well as the tens of black ship and deep-ship pilots assigned to his group. In effect, the lightship pilots would act as shepherd dogs keeping the deep-ships and black ships together and protecting them against wolves.

For these ten pilot-captains the Sonderval chose masters who had fought with him in the Pilots’ War: Helena Charbo and Aja, of course, and Charl Rappaporth and Veronika Menchik. He elevated as well Richardess, Edreiya Chu, Ona Tetsu, Sabri Dur li Kadir, and Alark of Urradeth in his famous ship, the Crossing Maker. For the tenth pilot-captain, the Sonderval might have favoured Matteth Jons or Paloma the Younger or a score of others. But he astonished almost everyone by naming Bardo to command the Tenth Battle Group. By light-radio, he told the assembled pilots of his reasons for this strange decision: although no longer of the Order, Bardo was perhaps the master pilot with the most talent for war. And next to the Sonderval, as the Sonderval said, he was the finest of tacticians, and quick-minded and valorous as his recent pursuit of the five Neverness lightships had proved. Although no one disputed Bardo’s prowess as a pilot, Peter Eyota and and Zapata Karek doubted his ability to lead other pilots and their ships to war. And Dario Ashtoreth stridently denied a ronin pilot’s right even to associate with other pilots, much less command them. But the Sonderval was a practical and imperious man. He brooked no argument with his decisions. He had said that Bardo would act as pilot-captain of the Tenth Battle Group, and so it came to be.

After this the Sonderval’s fleet fell on without incident to Sheydveg. This was the name of a cool, orange star shining almost exactly halfway between two arms of the galaxy. Its name meant ‘crossing of the roads’, not only for its physical location at the centre of the Civilized Worlds but because of its famous thickspace where millions of pathways through the manifold converged. Before Rolli Gallivare had discovered the great thickspace near the Star of Neverness, it had been the topological nexus of the Fallaways, the one star to which pilots might fall and easily find a series of pathways leading to any other. Sheydveg was also the star’s single world, a fat blue-white sphere of deep oceans and broad, mountainous continents. It was an old world well-settled by its two billion human beings. With its many light-fields and vast robot factories, it was the perfect world to host the gathering that Bardo had spoken of so many days before in the Hall of the Lords.

‘Well, Pilot, it seems that there really will be war after all,’ the Ede imago said in the darkness of the Snowy Owl. ‘I’ve never seen so many ships.’

When Danlo looked out of the diamond-paned windows of his lightship, out into the black swirls of space, he saw what others saw: the Sonderval’s thousand ships merging with the vast fleet already gathered there. There were deep-ships from Darkmoon and Silvaplana, and black ships from nearly a thousand worlds. Solsken had sent twenty long-ships, and these glorious, monstrous engines of destruction spun slowly in the silence of the night. From Ultima had come a hundred fire-ships, and the Rainbow Double had contributed sixty similar vessels. Even as Danlo watched, more ships arrived, falling out of the manifold like snowflakes from a shaken cloak. These thousands of ships came from Fiesole and Avalon, as well as the carked worlds of Anya, Hoshi and Newvannia, and many others. Altogether, Danlo counted some thirty thousand ships gathered above Sheydveg in a vast, shimmering swathe of diamond and black nall.

Only a few of these, however, were lightships. Two hundred lightships had set forth from Thiells, and these (less the five already lost) were now joined by a hundred and ten others rebelling against the madness on Neverness. The Fellowship of Free Pilots, they called themselves – and some of these were the very pilots whom Bardo had led in the storming of the Lightship Caverns and thereafter sent to the Civilized Worlds to call them to war. Cristobel, in his beautiful Diamond Lotus, commanded them, along with the master pilots Alesar Estarei and Salome wu wei Chu. Although they politely greeted their brother and sister pilots of the New Order, there was an immediate coolness between these two groups. Cristobel, a quick-eyed lion of a man, told the Sonderval that the Fellowship of Free Pilots was the soul of the opposition to the Old Order and the Way of Ringess.

‘It is we of the Fellowship who have suffered to watch the evils of Ringism spread across the stars,’ Cristobel explained when the pilots of both Neverness and Thiells held a conclave by light-radio. ‘It is we who have journeyed far among the Civilized Worlds, and we who have called all these ships and warriors here today. And we have given our name to those who would fight against Hanuman li Tosh and the Ringists: we have gathered here the Fellowship of Free Worlds, and it is we who should lead them.’

And as to who should lead the Fellowship of Free Pilots, Cristobel didn’t hesitate to put forth himself, although it had been Bardo who had organized the Fellowship. Upon hearing Cristobel speak thus, Bardo fell wroth.

‘By God, you’re a treacherous little worm of a man!’ Bardo’s voice thundered in the pits of three hundred lightships as he instantiated as a blazing hologram. His face was purple-black, his fist like a club pounding against his hand. Although Cristobel was in truth a large man, next to Bardo, whether by hologram or actual presence in the body, he did seem rather small. ‘Who was it who called the Fellowship of Free Pilots together at his house when everyone was quaking at Lord Pall’s goddamned edicts against assemblage? Who gave them then name? Who led the attack on the Lightship Caverns? It was Bardo, by God!’ Bardo said. ‘It was Bardo, too bad.’

‘We honour you for your efforts,’ Cristobel said with a sneer. ‘But it seems you’ve already found your place beneath the Sonderval.’

Here the Sonderval’s hologram appeared in the pits of the lightships. His handsome face had fallen as hard as the granite of Icefall’s mountains. To Cristobel, he said, ‘He is pilot-captain of twenty lightships and a hundred and twenty other vessels beneath the Lord Pilot of the New Order.’

‘But he’s still only a ronin pilot, after all,’ Cristobel said.

Now, as if regarding a wormrunner or some loathsome species of alien, the Sonderval slowly shook his head. ‘When you speak to me, Cristobel, you may address me as “Lord Pilot”.’

‘But you are not my Lord Pilot, after all.’

‘No – is that Salmalin the Prudent, then?’ the Sonderval asked, naming the Old Order’s present Lord Pilot.

‘I have no Lord Pilot.’

‘Then if you’ve left the Order and are without a Lord Pilot, you are as much of a ronin as Bardo.’

‘Not so,’ Cristobel said. ‘We of the Fellowship carry the spirit of the Order with us. The true Order, before Ringism corrupted it.’

‘And I honour your spirit,’ the Sonderval said. ‘But is it your intention to appoint yourself Lord Pilot of the Fellowship?’

Here several pilots of the Fellowship began to speak in favour of Cristobel becoming Lord Pilot of the Fellowship. It was obvious to Danlo, as it must have been to others, that they had planned this power play immediately upon learning that Bardo had been successful in reaching the New Order on Thiells.

‘By God, if anyone is to be Lord Pilot of the Fellowship, it’s Bardo!’ Bardo roared.

‘Why should the Fellowship have a Lord Pilot at all?’ Richardess quietly asked when Bardo’s voice had faded to a hum. In his body and face, he was as delicate as Yarkona glass, but he was the only pilot ever to have dared the deadly spaces of Chimene. ‘We already have a great Lord Pilot in the Sonderval. Why don’t you pilots of the Fellowship simply join us?’

‘Why don’t you pilots of the New Order join us?’ Cristobel countered.

‘Because you’re ronins!’ Zapata Karek said.

‘And you’re ignorant of what is really occurring in Neverness,’ Vadin Steele said.

‘Ignorant! Well, you’re as power-hungry as a Scutari shahzadi.’

For a long time, the pilots argued among themselves like novices unable to choose captains for a game of hokkee. Danlo listened to then words grow wilder and more belligerent with every pilot who spoke. Their childishness might have amused him, but a great many lives hung on the slender thread of then reaching an understanding. Although Danlo felt time slipping away like sands on a windswept beach and was eager to complete his journey, he felt that he should be sure of who led the Fellowship of Free Worlds before acting on their behalf as an ambassador to Neverness. And Demothi Bede, when Danlo roused him from the half-sleep of quicktime, agreed with him. Lord Bede seemed particularly shocked at the unforeseen play of events.

‘But this is madness!’ the thin, reedy Demothi Bede said in his thin, old voice. He crowded with Danlo into the pit of the Snowy Owl. ‘If we don’t do something, we’ll be at war with each other instead of the Ringists.’

‘Truly, we should do something,’ Danlo said as he floated in his formal black robes. ‘Since we’re supposed to be ambassadors and peacemakers.’

‘It’s obvious that the ronin pilots must join us,’ Lord Bede said. He was very much a traditionalist, and his face fell dour and smug. ‘They should take vows to the New Order.’

Now Danlo did smile, for although a thousand Civilized Worlds were represented in the ships sailing through space all around them, Cristobel and the Sonderval – and the Lord Bede – acted as if only the pilots of the two Orders mattered. But what right did they have, Danlo wondered, to choose the fates of thirty thousand ships and millions of men and women? These lords and masters of his Order obviously assumed that after they had decided upon a Lord Pilot, they would parcel out the other ships to their command like colourfully-wrapped presents given at Year’s End – or rather as the Sonderval had already done with the black ships and deep-ships he had escorted to Sheydveg. Or if the Sonderval and Cristobel could not decide who should lead whom, then the two hundred pilots from Thiells and the Fellowship of Free Pilots might fight independently of each other – after first fighting each other for the prize of the vast fleet waiting in the light of a cool, orange star.

‘I must speak to the pilots,’ Danlo told Demothi Bede. For the moment, he was faced away from his fellow pilots’ arguments, and the pit of his lightship was quiet. ‘This fighting among ourselves, this arrogance of ours … is shaida.’

‘Do you have a plan, then, Pilot?’ Demothi Bede asked.

Danlo nodded his head, then told him his plan.

‘Very well,’ Demothi said, smiling his approval. ‘If you’re to try to stop a war, you might as well begin now.’

And so Danlo added his voice to the cacophony filling the pits of three hundred and five lightships. As a master pilot he had as much right to speak as anyone, and he too instantiated as a hologram among them. Because of his renown at mastering a chaos space and crossing the entire Vild – or perhaps because of his blazing blue eyes – the other pilots fell silent and listened to him.

‘We pilots,’ he said, ‘have thought of ourselves as the spirit of the Civilized Worlds. But we have never been their rulers. The Fellowship of Free Worlds – but where is our fellowship when we call each other names like barbarians? And where is the freedom of these worlds if they must simply wait for us to order them to war? Do they, who have homes and children, risk less than we? If we cannot stop this war, they will die like snowworms caught in the sun, perhaps a thousand or a million of them for every pilot who loses his ship. Truly. Where is their freedom, then, to choose their own fate? We are pilots of three hundred and five lightships. Outside my window I have counted … a hundred times as many other ships. Shouldn’t we let their pilots choose who will lead them to war?’

Most of the lightship pilots, upon listening to Danlo, immediately saw the sense of what he said. In truth, few of them really wanted to wage war as two separate Orders of ships, and they dreaded the uncertainties of Cristobel’s dispute with the Sonderval. The Sonderval, for his part, was loath to surrender any important decision to such inferior beings as the pilots and peoples of the Civilized Worlds. But he was at heart a shrewd man whose farsightedness overshadowed even his arrogance. And so, with carefully feigned reluctance, after trading knowing looks with Danlo, he approved this proposal. Only Cristobel, really, and a few of his closest friends such as Alesar Estarei, argued against Danlo. But the tide of passion – the tide of history – had already turned against him. In the pits of their ships, two hundred and fifty pilots struck their diamond rings against whatever hard surface they could find, and called out that the Fellowship of Free Worlds should decide its own fate.

Of course, there was never any real doubt as to what the Fellowship would decide – if indeed they could decide anything at all. More than thirty thousand ships now orbited Sheydveg, and these held at least five million men and women representing a thousand Civilized Worlds. Many of these were princes or gurus, exemplars or elders or arhats. Many there were who might have wished to command the fleet themselves, but except for Markoman of Solsken and Prince Henrios li Ashtoreth, no one was so deluded as to imagine that he could match the skills of even the youngest of lightship pilots. Their debate, then, centred round how they should choose between the Sonderval and Cristobel as Lord Pilot of the Fellowship. (Or if they should favour Helena Charbo or some other master pilot less vainglorious.) Some held that each man and woman of the Fellowship should cast a vote for whomever he believed to be the greatest pilot. Some thought this unfair since a few worlds had sent more than fifty deep-ships carrying thousands of soldiers in each, while many worlds had sent only a few score of black ships; each individual world, it was argued, should cast a single vote.

There isn’t space here to describe the tortuous pathways by which these many people of many worlds came to a decision. It took them sixteen days to agree that each world would indeed have one vote. It took them much less time to cast these votes in favour of allowing the pilots of both Orders to lead them; as Danlo had hoped, they chose the Sonderval as Lord Pilot of the Fellowship of Free Worlds. But the Sonderval was not to be their autarch or ruler; his power was as a warlord only, to command them in battle if they should decide on war. This crucial decision – and many others relating to grand strategy – they would make for themselves. And if they should win against the Ringists and force a peace upon Neverness, it was they who would decide its terms.

The effect of allowing the Civilized Worlds a greater part in wielding power was profound. Although it limited the Sonderval’s freedom to impose his will upon those he led, it actually strengthened his leadership, for it strengthened the feeling of fellowship just beginning to flower among these many worlds like a delicate, new bud. Among those who would die together in war, between leader and led, there can never be too much fellowship. This, too, was part of Danlo’s plan. Many thanked him for his part in ending the stalemate between Cristobel and the Sonderval and playing midwife to the birth of the true Fellowship of Free Worlds. But when Lord Demothi Bede congratulated him on a fine work of diplomacy, his response was strange.

‘Truly, I have helped close the rift between our two Orders of pilots,’ he said in the quiet of his ship’s pit. As he spoke to Demothi Bede (and to the Ede imago), he touched the lightning-bolt scar cut deeply into his forehead.

‘Even Cristobel has accepted the inevitable,’ the Ede imago said with a programmed smile.

‘As well he should,’ Demothi Bede said, ‘considering the Sonderval’s graciousness.’

The Sonderval, after being chosen to lead the fleet, had invited Cristobel and the other ronin pilots to take vows as pilots of the New Order. As an incentive, he had offered to make Cristobel and Alesar Estarei pilot-captains of the newly-formed Eleventh and Twelfth battle groups – and even named Cristobel as his counsellor in all matters of tactics and strategy. Given the Sonderval’s private ways, this would prove an empty honour, but it seemed to cool the fiery Cristobel nevertheless.

‘All has fallen out as you’d hoped,’ Demothi Bede said to Danlo as he played with a mole on the side of his face. ‘Even Prince Henrios has agreed to lead his ships under Alesar Estarei’s command – a prince of Tolikna Tak under orders from a simple master pilot!’

‘Yes,’ Danlo agreed, ‘there is peace among the Fellowship, now.’

‘Then why do you seem so sad?’

Danlo stared out of his lightship’s window at the flashing lights of thirty thousand other ships spread out through near-space above Sheydveg. His eyes fell grave and deep, and he said, ‘What if I have brought a peace to the Fellowship … only to have created a better engine for the waging of war?’

‘That’s possible, Pilot. But what if you’ve helped create a stronger Fellowship dedicated to avoiding war? Isn’t it possible that there will be no war?’

But the Fellowship was already at war, or so Sabri Dur li Kadir and many others argued during the days that followed. The Ringists’ ambush and destruction of fifteen ships certainly constituted an act of war, so why should the Fellowship pretend that there still might be peace? Could they trust the Ringists not to fall against them in full strength out of the howling black forest of the manifold? Should they themselves avoid destroying the Ringists’ ships if offered such a chance?

‘We must fall against them before they fall against us,’ Sabri Dur li Kadir said in full conclave with all thirty thousand ships of the Fellowship. His face was as black as obsidian and as sharp. ‘We must lay our plans as soon as possible and then attack.’

There were, however, voices of peace as well. Danlo and Lord Bede argued that the Fellowship should use its power to discourage the Ringists from war, while Makara of Newvannia, a well-known arhat, suggested that the Ringists’ raid might be overlooked as an unfortunate accident. And one of the Vesper exemplars, Onan Nayati, who was either a coward or a very wise man, told everyone that they would be mad to make war upon the Ringists for they would be as a hawk attacking an eagle. This led to a measuring of their respective strengths. The Fellowship comprised one thousand and ninety-one worlds opposed to Ringism – and four more if the alien worlds of Darghin, Fravashing, Elidin, and Scutarix could be counted, which of course they couldn’t because they would never send ships to fight in a human war. Perhaps four hundred worlds had decided to remain neutral, and an equal number warred with themselves as to whom they would support. That left some twelve hundred and two worlds as fervently Ringist, many of them the richest and most powerful of the Civilized Worlds. Onan Nayati estimated that they could gather a fleet of at least thirty-five thousand deep-ships and black ships. And as for the lightships of Neverness, the shining swords of the night, Cristobel said that Lord Salmalin would command four hundred and fifty-one. The odds, then, had fallen against the Fellowship, especially considering that in battle one lightship would be worth at least twenty black ships. The pilots and princes of the Fellowship might very well have decided to wait upon war, but then something happened that broadened their field of vision and reminded them that stars burned with a terrible purpose far beyond their own.

On the 83rd day of false winter a single lightship fell out to join the others in orbit above Sheydveg. This was the Infinite Rose, piloted by Arrio Verjin, a master pilot of the Old Order. That is, he had been of the Order before returning to Neverness from a journey lasting several years. But when he had seen how Ringism had ruined his beloved Order and made virtual slaves out of pilots whom he had respected all his life, he had fled across the stars to the gathering at Sheydveg. And he brought with him the most astonishing news: he had witnessed with his own eyes a battle fought among the gods. In the spaces towards the core – beyond the Morbio Inferiore where the stars blaze as densely as exploding fireworks – the god known as Pure Mind had been slain. The moon-sized lobes of his great brain had been pulverized into a glowing dust. Arrio told of the destruction of a whole region of stars, impossibly intense lights erupting out of blackness, the detonation of the zero-point energies of the spacetime continuum itself. The radiations from this apocalypse were vaster than that of a hundred supernovas. Only the gods, he said, could wield such technologies. He did not know why one god would wish to slay another. When Danlo told him of the Solid State Entity and the war among the gods, Arrio said, ‘Perhaps it was the Silicon God, then, who did this terrible thing. Or perhaps one of his allies, Chimene or the Degula Trinity. How will we ever know? But the effects of what has happened will run deep.’

And the first and most terrible effect, Arrio said, was that these explosions had created huge distortions beneath spacetime, a kind of deadly bubbling known as a Danladi-set expansion. For Arrio Verjin it had been like a tidal wave sweeping towards his fragile ship. He had barely escaped, but the Danladi wave was still spreading through the manifold like a wall of white water, expanding outwards towards the stars of the Sagittarius Arm. Soon it would reach Neverness and other worlds of the Fallaways, and then the manifold there might prove as treacherous as the spaces of the Vild.

‘We must prepare ourselves for tremendous distortions,’ Arrio told the assembled fleet. ‘The Danladi wave will perturb the entire manifold until it dies out towards the edge stars.’

The second effect of Pure Mind’s destruction was to quicken the Fellowship’s move towards war. It reminded even the lightship pilots that their power was nothing compared to the fire and lightning of the gods, who could destroy whole constellations of stars as easily as the Architects of the Old Church could blow up a single sun. If the gods were provoked, their wrath might fall upon any of the Civilized Worlds: Summerworld or Clarity or Lechoix or Larondissement. Or Neverness. As Cristobel pointed out, the gods might regard Hanuman li Tosh’s building of his Universal Computer as a bid for godhood. The eschatologists have a word for this kind of break-out from human being into something much vaster: hakariad. Throughout the galaxy over the past ten thousand years, there had been many hakariads, and perhaps many wars fought to stop such transcendent events. The gods, it is said, are jealous and do not like company. If the Silicon God saw Hanuman’s acts as a hakariad, then he might destroy the Star of Neverness – and a hundred others nearby. Therefore, Cristobel said, the Fellowship must destroy Hanuman’s Universal Computer before the gods did. This must be the first of their purposes, and to accomplish it, they must fall against Neverness in full war.

Almost all the warriors of the worlds represented in the Sonderval’s fleet saw the logic of Cristobel’s argument. It took the Fellowship, casting votes world by world, only two days to make a formal declaration of war. And so on the 85th of false winter in the year 2959 since the founding of Neverness, the War of the Gods, as it would be called, began.

That night, as Danlo prepared the Snowy Owl for his journey to Neverness, the Sonderval summoned him to a meeting. While their ships orbited Sheydveg, they manoeuvred these sleek diamond needles so that they touched side to side. And then Danlo broke the seal of his ship and entered the Cardinal Virtue, the first pilot that the privacy-loving Lord Pilot had honoured in this way. Danlo floated in the darkness, and he looked about the rather large interior of the Sonderval’s lightship, taking note of the design of the neurologics which surrounded both the Sonderval and himself like a soft, purple cocoon. The Sonderval, stern and serious in his formal black robe, waited in his ship’s pit. He greeted Danlo warmly. ‘Welcome, Pilot,’ he said, ‘I’m glad you could join me.’

‘Thank you for asking me here tonight.’

‘It is I who should thank you,’ the Sonderval said. He began to play with a large diamond brooch pinned to his black silk robe just over his heart. ‘If not for your foresight, we might have lost Cristobel and the others. And I might have been Lord Pilot over a much smaller fleet.’

Here Danlo smiled and said, ‘But no one could have known how the Fellowship would decide. There was always a chance … that Cristobel would have been chosen Lord Pilot, and not you.’

‘Chance favours the bold – as you’ve proved, Danlo wi Soli Ringess.’

Danlo bowed his head quickly, then studied the Sonderval’s wide smile and the wide, white, perfect teeth. He said, ‘Your fleet … is small enough as it is.’

‘We’ve slightly fewer deep-ships and black ships than the Ringists,’ the Sonderval said. ‘But I believe that we’ll have a more coherent command of them.’

‘And the lightships?’

‘True, they’ve half again as many as we,’ the Sonderval said. ‘But don’t forget that the best pilots went with us to the Vild. The best and the boldest, Pilot.’

‘You seem so confident,’ Danlo said.

‘Well, I was born for war – I think it’s my fate.’

‘But in war … there are so many terrible chances.’

‘This is also true, which is why I would still stop this war if I could.’

‘There … must be a way to stop it,’ Danlo said.

‘Unfortunately,’ the Sonderval said, ‘it’s easier to forestall a war than to stop one once it’s begun. Your mission won’t be easy.’

‘No.’

‘It might be difficult for you even to reach Neverness.’

Danlo nodded his head that this was so, then said, ‘But I will return there. I … will speak with Hanuman once again. My fate, Lord Pilot. Only I must ask you for time. Hanuman burns like a thallow flying too close to the sun, and it will take time to cool his soul.’

‘I can’t promise that. We’ll fall against Neverness as soon as possible.’

‘How … soon?’

‘I’m not sure,’ the Sonderval said. ‘We won’t be able to approach Neverness directly, and the ships will require some time before they’re able to perform the manoeuvres I’ll require of them. But soon enough, Pilot. You must make your journey as quickly as you can.’

‘I see.’

For a long time the Sonderval regarded Danlo with his hard, calm eyes. Then he said, ‘I don’t envy you your mission, you know. I wouldn’t like to be there when you tell Hanuman that he must dismantle his Universal Computer.’

At this Danlo smiled gravely but said nothing.

‘Perhaps,’ the Sonderval said, ‘it would be best if Lord Bede presented the Fellowship’s demands.’

‘If you’d like. Lord Pilot.’

‘And if by some miracle you’re successful and Hanuman sees the light of reason, you must bring me word as soon as you can.’

‘But once the fleet has left Sheydveg, how will I find you?’

‘That’s a problem isn’t it?’ Again the Sonderval fingered the brooch that adorned his robe, then sighed. ‘I could give you the fixed-points of the stars along the pathway I’ve chosen towards Neverness.’

Danlo waited silently through the count of ten heartbeats for the Sonderval to say more.

‘I could do that, Pilot, but it might not prove wise. The chances of war might cause us to choose different pathways. Then, too …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, the chances of your reasoning with Hanuman aren’t very great. Why should I burden you with information you’ll probably never need?’

‘I … see.’

‘Vital information,’ the Sonderval said. ‘If Lord Salmalin knew our pathway, he could lie in wait for our fleet and destroy it.’

Danlo watched the Sonderval squeezing the diamond brooch between his long fingers; he watched and waited, saying nothing.

‘Nevertheless, I’ve decided to give you this information – it might possibly keep us from a battle for which there’s no need. And I must give you something else as well.’

So saying, the Sonderval unpinned the brooch with infinite care and closed it safely before giving it to Danlo. For the count of twenty heartbeats, Danlo stared at this piece of jewellery waiting like a scorpion in his open hand.

‘Thank you, Lord Pilot,’ Danlo said politely. But his voice was full of irony and amusement – and with dread.

‘If your mission fails and you’re imprisoned, you mustn’t let the Akashics read your mind. And you mustn’t let the Ringists torture you.’

‘Do you truly think that Hanuman would—’

‘Some chances would be foolish to take,’ the Sonderval said. ‘The brooch’s pin is tipped with matrikax. If pushed into a vein, it kills instantly.’

‘I see.’

‘Your vow of ahimsa doesn’t prevent you from taking your own life, does it?’

Never killing or harming another, not even in one’s own thoughts, Danlo remembered. And then he said, ‘Some would say that it does.’

‘And what do you say, then?’

‘I … will never tell anyone the stars along your pathway.’

‘Very well,’ the Sonderval said.

He moved closer to Danlo and bent his long neck down as might a swan. For a few moments, he whispered in Danlo’s ear. Then he backed away as if he couldn’t bear such closeness with another human being.

‘Before you leave, I’ll meet with Lord Bede by imago,’ the Sonderval said. ‘But I won’t tell him what I’ve just told you.’

‘But is he not a lord of the New Order?’

‘He is not a pilot. There are some things only pilots should know.’

Danlo bowed, then fixed his burning eyes on the Sonderval. For a time, in the deep silence of space, the two men held each other’s gaze and looked into each other’s heart. And then finally the Sonderval had to turn away.

‘I was both wrong and right about you,’ the Sonderval said. ‘Wrong, because you’ll serve us very well as an ambassador. But you would have made a great warrior, too. As I know you secretly are. The fire, Pilot, the light. Hanuman would do well to fear you.’

‘But it is I … who will be at his mercy.’

‘Perhaps, perhaps.’

For a moment, the Sonderval looked at Danlo strangely before bowing to him. Perhaps some presentiment of doom came flooding into him like an ocean wave then, for his eyes misted and his perfectly shaped chin trembled slightly. Considering that he was the Sonderval, the most perfect and aloof of all men, this was one of the most remarkable things Danlo had ever seen.

‘I wish you well, Lord Pilot.’

‘And I wish you well. I hope I shall see you again.’

Danlo smiled and said, ‘When we have stopped the war – when the war is over.’

‘When the war is over,’ the Sonderval repeated. And then he said, ‘Fall far and fall well, Pilot.’

With a final bow, Danlo returned to his ship. It took only moments for the two pilots to disengage the Cardinal Virtue and the Snowy Owl. These beautiful lightships orbited above Sheydveg like a pair of silver thallows while Lord Demothi Bede spoke with the Sonderval and received his final instructions. And then the Snowy Owl rocketed away from the thirty thousand other ships towards Sheydveg’s orange-red sun. Danlo opened a window into the manifold, and so he began the last part of his journey to return home and to bring an end to war.




CHAPTER V (#ulink_ce83c1a2-396e-5846-972d-4c6df7dfc8f6)

The Golden Ring (#ulink_ce83c1a2-396e-5846-972d-4c6df7dfc8f6)


Life is light trapped in matter.

— saying of the gnostics

Life is the ability of matter to trap light.

— saying of the eschatologists

In mapping his pathways from Sheydveg to Neverness, Danlo had a choice between two conflicting purposes. Since his mission cried out for speed, he might have fallen from star to star by the shortest pathway, which would have taken him to Arcite, Darkmoon and Darghin, and thence to Fravashing and Silvaplana before falling on to Qallar and Neverness. But his safety – and Demothi Bede’s – was important, too; dead ambassadors stop no wars. Since the Ringists were already at war, a lone lightship falling suddenly out of the manifold near some hostile world might find itself attacked by ten others. Certainly, therefore, Danlo would best avoid such worlds, for Ringist pilots might be lying in wait along such an obvious pathway. It would be safest for him to make a great circle through the Fallaways, past the great red sun of the Elidi and then on to Flewelling, the Nave, Simoom and Catava. Safest, truly, but such a journey would take long, long. In the end, he decided upon the shorter pathway. Once, his friends and fellow pilots had called him Danlo the Wild. But he was not wild beyond the cooling draughts of reason, and so he began his journey with a falling off towards Agathange instead of Arcite and planned to approach Neverness by way of Kenshin or Tyr.

His journey across the stars was both the easiest and hardest he had ever made. Easy, because he fenestered through the most ancient and well-mapped part of the Fallaways, and the spaces he crossed were almost as familiar to him as the snowy islands of his childhood. If Arrio Verjin was right and a Danladi wave would soon rip through the Fallaways and turn the manifold into a raging black sea, Danlo saw no sign of this. The manifold before him – the emerald invariant spaces and Gallivare sets – was no more dangerous than a forest brook. He passed well-known stars, Baran Luz and Pilisi, a red giant almost as lovely to look upon as the Eye of Ursola. As always, he marvelled at the colours, the hot blue stars, the red and orange, and those loveliest of lights whose tones shone more as pale rose or golden yellow. This, he thought, was the glory of being a pilot. To behold a star with such closeness as if it were a bright red apple hanging from a tree was very different from standing on an icy world and looking up at the sky. Then, at night, the stars hung from the heavens like a million tiny jewels. And they were almost all white. From far away, the stars were like white diamonds because the human eye’s faint-light nerve cells couldn’t respond to colour, while the colour receptors couldn’t feel the faint touch of starlight. Once, as a child, he had hoped to see the stars just as they really were. And some day, he thought, he still might look out at the galaxies with his eyes truly open and naked to the universe. But now it was very good just to gaze at the colours of Cohila Luz or Tur Tupeng through the clearness of his lightship’s windows.

The hard part of this journey came from his continual surveillance of the manifold. For many days, he studied this space beneath space with the intensity of a tyard bird watching a snowfield for the slightest sign of a worm. Always, within a well-defined region about him known as a Lavi neighbourhood, the manifold rippled with undulations, most as faint as a whisper of wind upon a starlit sea. These he ignored, indeed, scarcely even noticed. What he sought – and hoped not to find – were the tells of a lightship, those violet traceries and luminous streaks made when a ship perturbed the manifold. Just as he passed by a spinning thickspace near the Valeska Double, he thought that he descried such tells. For the count of ten heartbeats, he didn’t breathe. But upon deeper scrutiny, it proved to be only the reflection of the Snowy Owl’s own tells, an unusual phenomenon when the manifold flattens out like a clear mountain lake. Four more times between Darkmoon and Silvaplana, Danlo was to detect such reflections, and each time he felt his heart in his throat and the blood pounding behind his eyes.

‘If you continue like this. Pilot, you’ll kill yourself.’

This came from Demothi Bede, who temporarily crowded into the pit of the Snowy Owl. No pilot, of course, while falling through the manifold would permit such a violation of his sacred space by another. And very few would share this sanctum of the soul at any time. But in order to rest, Danlo had fallen out into the quiet of realspace near Andulka. And because he loved company – sometimes – he didn’t mind talking with Demothi Bede. And so after he had finished sleeping, he had invited this crusty old lord inside the very brain of his ship.

‘But I have just slept … so deeply,’ Danlo said with a yawn.

‘But not for long. Six hours of sleep you’ve had in the last sixty, by my count.’

‘I did not know … that you were keeping count.’

‘There’s little else for me to do,’ Demothi said. Although his face was as old and forbidding-looking as a cratered moon, when he spoke there was a flash of good white teeth and true compassion that Danlo thought endearing.

‘I cannot sleep safely in the manifold,’ Danlo said. ‘And I cannot risk too many exits into realspace.’

In truth, the most dangerous part of their journey, as far as being detected by other ships, lay in opening windows to and from realspace. Then, when the Snowy Owl’s spacetime engines tore through the luminous tapestry of the manifold, there was always a release of light. Through telescopes or the naked human eye, other pilots could watch the blackness for flashes of light and so mark the coming or passing of a lightship.

‘But you could sleep longer,’ Demothi said.

‘If only I did not have to sleep at all.’

As Danlo said this, he glanced at the Ede hologram floating in the darkness. Nikolos Daru Ede, as a program running inside his devotionary computer, never slept. And he never kept silent, either, if he perceived any threat to his continued existence.

‘The Lord Demothi is right, you know,’ the Ede imago said. ‘If you exhaust yourself, you might map us into a collapsing torison space.’

Danlo smiled at this because the Ede program had learned enough mathematics of the manifold to speak almost as if he were a pilot or a real human being.

‘And what will you do if we cross pathways with another lightship? If you’re too tired to think?’

‘I have never been that tired,’ Danlo said. Once, as a boy out hunting in the wild, he had stood awake for three days by a hole cut into the sea’s ice – awake and waiting with his harpoon for a seal to appear.

‘This machine asks a good question, though,’ Demothi Bede said, pointing at the imago. ‘What will we do if we cross pathways with a Neverness lightship?’

‘Or ten ships?’ the Ede imago asked.

‘How … could I know?’

‘You don’t know what you’d do if ten lightships fell upon us?’

‘No, truly I do not,’ Danlo said. And then he smiled because sometimes he liked playing games with the Ede imago. ‘But part of the pilots’ art is knowing what to do … when you do not know what to do.’

‘But shouldn’t we at least agree upon a strategy?’ Demothi Bede broke in. ‘It seems that if we’re discovered, we’ll have only two choices: to flee into the stars, or to declare ourselves as ambassadors and trust we’ll be escorted to Neverness.’

‘Have you so great a trust of others, then?’ Danlo asked.

‘We’re speaking of pilots of the Order, not barbarians.’

‘But these pilots are also Ringists,’ Danlo said. ‘And they are at war with the Fellowship.’

Here Demothi Bede sucked in a breath with such force that his lungs fairly rattled. He said, ‘We don’t know that with certainty. It might be that the ambush near Ulladulla was an accident or only the belligerence of those five pilots who committed this massacre.’

‘No,’ Danlo said, closing his eyes. ‘It was no accident.’

‘Then you’ve decided to flee?’

‘I have decided nothing.’

‘But how will you make your decision?’

‘That will depend on many things: the configuration of the stars, how many ships we meet and who their pilots are.’ And, Danlo thought, on the pattern of the N-set waves rippling through the manifold or the whispers that he heard in the solar wind if they had fallen out near a star.

Now the Ede imago spoke again, and it was his turn to play with Danlo. ‘Do you really think you could escape ten lightships?’

‘Why not?’

‘On your journey to Tannahill, Sivan wi Mawi Sarkissian pursued you across the entire Vild.’

‘That is true,’ Danlo said. He remembered how Sivan, in his ship the Red Dragon, for a distance of twenty thousand light years, had hovered ghostlike always just at the radius of convergence in the same neighbourhood of space as the Snowy Owl. He remembered, too, Sivan’s passenger (and master), Malaclypse Redring of Qallar, the warrior-poet who hoped that Danlo would lead him to his father. The warrior-poets had a new rule, which was to kill all potential gods, and so Malaclypse had fallen halfway across the galaxy to find Mallory Ringess.

‘Well, Pilot?’

‘There is no pilot in Neverness the equal of Sivan wi Mawi Sarkissian,’ Danlo said.

‘Are you certain of that?’

Danlo, of course, was not certain, but to reassure the Ede imago, he said, ‘The best pilots went with the Sonderval to the Vild.’

‘And the very best of these is here before you,’ Demothi Bede said to the Ede imago. One of the old lord’s virtues was that he would defend a pilot of his Order against anyone, especially a glowing hologram projected out of a computer. ‘And isn’t it possible, Pilot, that you learned new aspects of your art in being pursued by Sivan?’

‘It is possible,’ Danlo said with a smile.

‘Then it’s clear that if the Ringists should surprise us, we’ll have to trust to your judgement and your art. But now, we should leave you alone so that you may take a few hours more sleep.’

‘No,’ Danlo said. ‘Now we must open a window and journey on – and pray that Arrio Verjin’s Danladi wave doesn’t smash through the manifold just as we are making a mapping.’

And so the Snowy Owl fell on past Aquene, all aflame like a plasma torch, and then entered into the spaces of the alien worlds of Darghin and Fravashing. During this time of haste and sleeplessness, Danlo saw no sign of an approaching Danladi wave or another lightship. But he never ceased the searching of his eyes or his deeper mathematical senses. And deeper still burned memories that lent urgency to his return to Neverness. He could never forget his people, the Alaloi, and how they were slowly dying from an incurable disease. Incurable, truly, by any known medicines or technologies, and yet it might be that Danlo carried the cure inside himself like an elixir of light. It would be terrible, he thought, if he found the secret of this cure only to arrive home too late.

Of course the shaida disease called ‘the slow evil’ was not the only threat to the Alaloi tribe’s survival, nor were they the only people on Icefall exposed to sudden doom. If war came to Neverness, the entire city – and much of the planet – might be destroyed by hydrogen bombs. And Bertram Jaspari and his fleet of Iviomil fanatics might be falling towards Neverness at that very moment. On Tannahill, this prince of the Old Church Architects had subtly threatened to end the Ringism abomination and cleanse the galaxy of all would-be gods. With their great star-killing engine called a morrashar, the Iviomils certainly wielded the means to destroy the Star of Neverness – as they already had the great red sun of the Narain people far across the Vild. The gods, too, might destroy all space itself in the stars near Neverness, by design or perhaps only by accident of the vast war that they waged across the heavens. It was said that the Silicon God’s deep programs prevented him from directly harming human beings. But Danlo took little solace from this fact. The Silicon God, like any other god, was certainly clever enough to find a thousand ways to menace humanity indirectly. And even if no god or bomb or star-killing machine ever touched Neverness, there was always the malignant light of Merripen’s Star. This supernova had exploded nearly thirty years before, and for all that time a wavefront of radiation had fallen outwards across the galaxy. Soon its terrible energies would fall upon Neverness and bathe all of Icefall in a shower of death. Or life. In truth, no one knew how intense its radiation would be, nor if the Golden Ring growing above Icefall’s atmosphere would simply absorb this cosmic light and burst into a new phase of its evolution. Sometimes, in the darkest wormholes of the manifold, Danlo prayed for this new life, just as he prayed for his people. But sometimes his words seemed only words, no more potent against the forces of the universe than a whisper cast into a winter wind.

As Danlo continued along his pathway towards Silvaplana, Tyr and then Neverness, he fell out around a worldless star named Shoshange. It was a subdwarf, small but of very high density, and hot and blue much like the central star of the Ring Nebula in Lyra. He might have spent many moments gazing at this rare star, but immediately upon exiting the manifold, he found that seven lightships were waiting for him. Through his telescopes he made out the lines of the Cantor’s Dream, with its curving diamond wings, and the Fire Drinker, and each of the others. Once, as a journeyman, Danlo had memorized the silhouette and design of every lightship of the Order; he knew the these ships’ names and those of the pilots who belonged to them. The seven pilots must have seen the Snowy Owl fall out of the manifold: Sigurd Narvarian, Timothy Wolf, the Shammara, Marja Valasquez, Femi wi Matana, Taras Moswen and Tukuli li Chu. Their names, unfortunately, were almost all that Danlo knew of these seven, for he had never met any of them. Only two – Sigurd Narvarian and Tukuli li Chu – were master pilots. And certainly Marja Valasquez deserved a mastership, but her famous evil temperament had alienated every elder pilot who might have helped to elevate her. It was said that in the Pilots’ War she had destroyed the ship of Sevilin Ordando, who had surrendered to her, but this slander had never been confirmed.

It took Danlo only a moment to decide to flee. He closed his eyes, envisioning the colours and contours of the manifold in this neighbourhood of space; he listened to the whispers of his heart, and then he reached out with his mind to his ship’s-computer to make interface. And then he was gone. The Snowy Owl plunged into the manifold like a diamond needle falling into the ocean. He knew that the other ships would follow him. Very well, he thought, then let them follow him into the darkest part of the manifold, where the spaces fell deep and wild and strange. In the gentle topology of the Fallaways few such spaces existed, but there were always Flowtow bubbles and torison tubes and decision trees. And, of course, the rare but bewildering paradox tunnels. No pilot would willingly seek out such a deranged space – unless he were being pursued by seven others determined to destroy him. By chance (or fate), such a tunnel could be found beneath the blazing fires of Shoshange. From a journey that the Sonderval had once described making as a young pilot, Danlo remembered the fixed-points of this tunnel. And so he made a difficult mapping. He found the paradox tunnel all infolded among itself like a nest of snakes. His ship disappeared into the opening of the tunnel – and to any ship pursuing him it would seem as if the Snowy Owl had been swallowed by twenty dark, yawning, serpentine mouths, all at once.

‘We’re in danger, aren’t we, Pilot? We’ve been discovered, haven’t we? Shouldn’t you alert the Lord Bede?’

As always, Danlo’s devotionary computer floated in the pit of his ship near his side. And the Ede imago floated in the dark air, talking, always talking. But when Danlo was fully faced into his ship’s-computer and his mind opened to the terrors and beauties of the manifold, he scarcely noticed this noisome hologram. Only rarely, when he had need of making mathematics at lightning speed in order to survive, did he ask for complete silence. And so when the Snowy Owl began to phase in and out of existence like a single firefly winking on and off from a dozen cave mouths all at once, Danlo lifted his little finger, a sign that Ede should be quiet. Unfortunately, it was also a sign that they were in deadly danger, and Ede must have found it paradoxical that just when he needed to talk the most, he must keep as silent as a stone.

As for rousing Demothi Bede from quicktime, Danlo never considered this. He was too busy making mappings and applying Gallivare’s point theorem in order to find his way out of this bizarre space. Danlo always perceived the manifold both mathematically and sensually, as a vast tapestry of shimmering colours. Always, there was a logic and sensibility to these colours, the way that the intense carmine of a Lavi space might break apart into maroon, rose and auburn as one approached the first bounded interval. But here, in this disturbing paradox tunnel, there seemed to be little logic. One moment a deep violet might stain his entire field of vision, while in the next, a shocking yellow might spread before him like an artist’s spilled paint. And then there were moments of no colour, or colours such as smalt or chlorine which somehow seemed so drained of their essence that they appeared almost black or white. And too often white would darken to black, and black mutate into white like the figure and ground in a painting shifting back and forth, in and out. Twice Danlo thought that he had escaped into a flatter, brighter part of the manifold only to find himself falling through a part of the tunnel as dark and twisting as the bowels of a bear. How long he remained in this cavernlike place he could never say. But at last he made a mapping and fell free into a simple Lavi neighbourhood; his relief must have been as that of an oyster miraculously coughed out of a seagull’s throat.

‘We’re free, aren’t we, Pilot?’ On his journey towards Tannahill, Danlo had programmed his ship’s-computer to project a simulation of the manifold for Ede to study. With its geometric and too-literal representations of the most sublime mathematics, this hologram wasn’t really like the way that Danlo perceived this space beneath space. But it allowed Ede a certain intake of information, and more than once, Ede had pointed out dangers that Danlo himself might have overlooked. ‘We’ve lost the other ships, haven’t we? I can’t find a trace of a tell.’

At that very moment, Danlo was scanning the neighbourhood about him with all the intensity of a hunter searching a snowfield for signs of a great white bear.

‘We’re alone now, aren’t we? There’s no other ship within the radius of convergence.’

Once, Danlo had explained that past the boundaries of a Lavi neighbourhood the radius of convergence shoots off towards infinity and it becomes almost impossible to read the tells of another lightship.

‘You escaped that strange space, whatever it was, and now we’re alone.’

For a moment, Danlo thought that they had lost the other ships. With his mind’s eye and his mathematics he delved the aquamarine depths all about him searching for the slightest streak of light. He held his breath, counting his heartbeats: one, two, three … And then, in a low, soft voice, he said, ‘No, we are not alone.’

Outwards in the direction of the paradox tunnel, at the very boundary of this neighbourhood of space, two tiny sparks lit the manifold.

‘Where, Pilot? Oh, there – now I see them. Which ships are they?’

It is, of course, impossible to identify a lightship solely from tells it makes in the manifold. But when Danlo closed his eyes, he saw two ships spinning towards him like drillworms: the Cantor’s Dream and the Fire Drinker, piloted by the bloodthirsty Marja Valasquez.

‘What shall we do – shall we flee?’

Even as the Snowy Owl fell deeper into the manifold towards the core stars, Danlo searched this neighbourhood’s flickering boundary, waiting to see if any more ships pursued him. After he had counted ten more heartbeats, he said, ‘Yes, we shall flee.’

And so Danlo took his ship into other spaces, the blue-black invariant spaces and segmented spaces and klein tubes that bent back upon themselves like a snake swallowing its tail. For four days this pursuit lasted. When Danlo grew so tired that his eyes burned and his head ached as if pressed by the slow grind of glacier ice, the Ede imago reminded him that he couldn’t go for ever without sleep. Danlo’s reply, when he finally managed to force the words from his cracked, bleeding lips, was simple and to the point: ‘Neither can the other pilots.’

Somewhere beyond the double star known as the Almira Twins, Danlo lost one of the other ships. For half a day he fell through a Zeeman space as flat and green as a field of grass, and he descried the tells of only one other ship. After he had mapped through a short but particularly tortuous point-set tunnel and only a single spark emerged from its black, empty mouth, he felt certain that only a single ship followed him.

‘Must we still flee?’ the Ede imago asked Danlo. ‘You’re so tired you can scarcely keep your eyes open.’

Danlo was tired, so dreadfully tired that he felt it as a burning sickness deep in his belly. The one reason that he kept his eyes open at all was to look at the glowing Ede hologram. To pilot the Snowy Owl he need only reach out to his ship with the seeing centre of his brain, and its computer would infuse mathematical images directly into him. To pilot his ship with elegance and grace, he thus most often kept his eyes closed. In truth, when he interfaced the manifold and the beauty of the number storm swept over him like ten thousand interwoven rainbows, his eyes fell as blind to the sights around him as a newborn child’s.

‘I can lose this ship,’ Danlo said. At the boundary of this neighbourhood of space, a glimmering ripple now told of another ship. He was certain that it was the Fire Drinker. He remembered what the Sonderval had once said about her pilot, Marja Valasquez: that as ferocious and bold as she was, she had a peculiar dread of phase spaces.

For a while, as the manifold began curving into a blueness as gentle as the watery world of Agathange, Danlo searched for a phase space. But he never found one. He kept well-distanced from the Fire Drinker, however; always this other lightship remained just at the boundary of whatever neighbourhood of space Danlo passed through.

‘This Marja Valasquez,’ Ede said, ‘seems almost as good a pilot as Sivan wi Mawi Sarkissian. He, too, followed you at the boundary for almost your entire journey into the Vild.’

Danlo smiled grimly at this, and rubbed his burning, bloodshot eyes. He wiped the blood from his lips, then said, ‘Many times I tried to lose Sivan but never could. Even in the inversion spaces of the Vild. I always thought … that he could have closed the radius and caught me whenever he wanted.’

‘But not Marja Valasquez?’

‘No. I think that she follows me only with the greatest difficulty.’

‘Then you still hope to lose her?’

‘I … will lose her. Even if I must stay awake for ten days.’

‘But perhaps she was better rested than you before this ordeal began. Or perhaps she uses forbidden drugs to give her a greater wakefulness.’

‘Then I will lose her in a phase space, if I can find one,’ Danlo said. ‘Or perhaps a Soli tree.’

‘But if you enter these spaces, might not the probability mappings fall against you? Aren’t you at a terrible disadvantage in letting her pursue you?’

‘Do I have another choice?’

‘You might fall out into realspace and signal for a parlay.’

‘No, I will not do that. Floating in space, waiting in the star’s light like a dove with a broken wing … we would be so helpless.’

‘Then why not pursue her?’

At this suggestion a sudden pain stabbed through Danlo’s eye, and he asked, ‘Towards what end?’

‘Towards destroying her, of course! As you pilots do with your ships, dancing the dance of light and death.’

For a moment, Danlo’s deep blue eyes filled with a terrible radiance, and he stared at Ede in silence.

‘At least your chances would be even. Much more than even, if you’re the better pilot, as I’m sure you are.’

‘I will not fall against her,’ Danlo said.

The program running the projection of Ede must have called for persuasion, for now his dark, plump face glowed with all the craftiness of a merchant selling firestones of uncertain virtue. ‘You’ve made your vow, of course. But isn’t the spirit of this vow to serve life? You’d never harm another’s life – but consider the great harm that might come to many lives if you let Marja destroy you. Wouldn’t you best serve your vow by ensuring that you reach Neverness however you can?’

‘No,’ Danlo said.

‘But, Pilot, this one time – who would ever know?’

‘No.’

‘But think of it! You’ve let this other pilot follow you across four thousand light years. It would be so easy to take her into a klein tube. To quickly klein back across your pathway and fall against her, she might never suspect such a—’

‘No, I will not!’

‘But if you—’

‘Please do not speak of this any more.’

For a moment, the Ede program caused his countenance to fall into the appearance of contrition. And then he asked, ‘But, Pilot, what will you do?’

‘I will stay awake,’ Danlo said. ‘I … will fall on.’

And so Danlo fell, taking the Snowy Owl through the manifold as fast as he could. He made his mappings and artfully arrayed the windows upon the Fallaways, and he fenestered from star to star with a rare grace. And still Marja Valasquez in her Fire Drinker followed him. Soon, if he continued on this pathway, he must make a final sequence of mappings that would cause him to fall out near the Star of Neverness. And Marja would fall out too, and if he didn’t want to confront her ship to ship in realspace, then he must find some way to lose her before then.

He was wondering how he might accomplish this purpose when he entered an unusually flat null space. The manifold fell very calm; its colours quieted from quicksilver to emerald and then to a gentle turquoise without flaw or variegation of tone. Other than the Snowy Owl’s perturbations and the faint tells of Marja’s ship, no other ripples touched the almost deathly stillness of this space. Something was wrong here, he thought, something that he had never encountered before, not even in the endless null spaces of the Vild. There was a strangeness all about him and inside him, a waiting for some terrible event to occur; it was almost like standing on the sea’s ice on a clear winter day and watching the horizon for the whitish-blue clouds of a storm. He sensed such a storm. How this could be he did not know, for his mathematics told him that the manifold was peaceful – even if he extended his search outside the boundary of this neighbourhood to other neighbourhoods within a rather vast and ill-defined region. He might have sought the tells of this topological event for ever, for outside the radius of convergence, the perturbations of the manifold become infinitely faint. But he was keen of vision, both in his eyes and in his deeper mathematical senses; something like a shimmer of light caused him to look deep into the manifold, inward towards the fixed-points of the Morbio Inferiore. And then, from far away, after his heart had beat nineteen times, he saw it. There was, in truth, a swelling whiteness like that of a storm. Or a wave – a tidal wave of the manifold. As his heart beat more quickly, he knew that the Danladi wave told of by Arrio Verjin would soon sweep through the manifold and fall over any ship caught in its path.

‘Pilot, what is it?’ the Ede imago asked. ‘What do you see – my simulation shows nothing.’

‘I see a wave, far off, towards the core singularity. It … builds. It is a Danladi wave.’

‘A Danladi wave! Are you sure? Then soon it will sweep through this neighbourhood and twist the toplogy beyond calculation.’

‘Yes.’

‘If we’re caught here, it will sweep us under and destroy us.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Then we must flee immediately! We must fall out into realspace where we’ll be safe.’

‘We will flee,’ Danlo said strangely. His voice was low and yet strong like a building wind; suddenly the weariness seemed to melt from him, and his eyes grew as bright as double stars.

‘What do you wait for, then?’

‘We will flee, but not into realspace, not yet,’ Danlo said. ‘We will flee into the Danladi wave.’

‘Are you mad, Pilot? Would you destroy us for the sake of your wilfulness?’

‘I pray … that I will not destroy us.’

Then with a flick of his hand for Ede to be silent, he made a mapping and pointed the Snowy Owl towards the Danladi wave. He began falling from window to window as quickly as he could and still maintain a sense of interfenestration. Because he knew that Marja Valasquez would follow him, he spared not a moment searching for the tells of the Fire Drinker behind him. His whole awareness concentrated on what lay ahead. He fell through the manifold like a streak of light, and yet the Danladi wave swept towards him even more quickly. For it did not ‘move’ as he moved, but rather deformed the manifold almost instantaneously in all directions. In a way, it was the essence of motion itself. Danlo could scarcely believe how quickly it built. One moment it was no more significant than the hump of a snow hut on a frozen sea. But in the next, it began to brighten and swell as if a flat plain of ice had suddenly heaved itself up into the highest of mountains. Soon, in moments, it would fall upon him, and then he must make the choice either to look for a mapping and dive under this impossibly monstrous wave, or to escape into realspace as Ede had advised.

Ahira, Ahira – what shall I do? For a moment, Danlo prayed to the name of the snowy owl, his spirit animal whom he had once believed held half his soul. Ahira, Ahira.

By now, Danlo thought, Marja Valasquez must have descried the shape of the Danladi wave. But so fast did they race towards its boiling centre – and it towards them – that she might have had too little time to understand its true nature. Arrio Verjin, after all, would not have warned the Order’s pilots of its coming. She might perceive it as only a Wimund wave or even the much simpler N-set waves of a Gallivare inversion. She must assume that he would try to use its topological complexities to escape her, perhaps diving beneath the wave into calmer regions of the manifold at the last moment. But for many moments, Danlo had been making lightning calculations and going through every known theorem pertaining to Danladi waves; he felt almost certain that there could be no escaping such a wave simply by ‘diving’ beneath it. Its perturbations were too powerful, and it propagated much too quickly for that. Already, as the wave began to crest, rising, rising, he descried an astonishing density of zero-points, like trillions of bacteria churned into a huge, black, sucking mass. The wave itself began to suck at him now as he crossed the last bounded interval; now, in less than a moment, he must either make a mapping into realspace or prepare to die.

Ahira, Ahira – give me me the courage to do what I must do.

He waited as long as he could, waited until the Fire Drinker crossed the last bounded interval, too. And then, in the terrible topological distortions of the wave that was almost upon them, all possible windows into realspace suddenly closed, and there could be no escape in that direction. There could be only pathways downwards into the swirling blackness beneath the wave. Or pathways into the wave. Since the moment that Danlo had first sighted the wave far across the shimmering manifold, he had contemplated this other possibility. It would be seeming-madness to take his ship into the wave itself, but all his mathematics told him that diving under it would be suicide. Marja Valasquez, however, obviously hadn’t had the chance to make such calculations, for she made a mapping at the last moment and found a pathway beneath the wave. Danlo watched the Fire Drinker disappear like a diamond pin dropped into a cauldron of molten steel. And then he pointed the Snowy Owl straight into the bore of the wave, and it fell upon him with a terrible weight, breaking into colours of cobalt and rose and foaming violet.

Ahira, Ahira – give me your golden eyes that I might see.

Almost immediately he lost his mappings. Supposedly, no pilot could survive such a disaster, for without a map from point to point within the swirling complexities of the manifold, one became hopelessly lost. But once before, when he had entered the chaos space in the heart of the Entity, he had found a way out of what should have been a fatal topological trap. New mappings always existed if a pilot were artful enough to discover them. Even as the wave swept the Snowy Owl along at a tremendous speed, he searched for such mappings. If he had had endless time, he might have found a mapping very quickly, for the greatest of his mathematical skills lay in seeing the pattern that connects. But he had almost no time. In truth, he was fighting to stay alive. The wave broke all around him in colours of jade and virvidian; only the lightning rush of its momentum outwards balanced the almost impossible suck of its dark emerald weight. He lived in this balance. He piloted the Snowy Owl into a pocket along the wave front, and there he remained perfectly poised within its hideously complex dynamics. He called upon the three deepest virtues of a pilot: fearlessness, flawlessness and flowingness. If he let himself be afraid, even for a moment, he might try to flee the wave in the wrong direction and be swept under like a piece of driftwood in a raging sea. And if his piloting were anything less than flawless, he would lose the flow of his perfect balance, and the wave’s terrible energies would crush his ship to pieces as if it were only a clam shell.

Ahira, Ahira – I must not be afraid.

There was a moment. For Danlo in his Snowy Owl riding the crest of an almost impossible topological wave far beneath space and time, as for everyone, always only a moment between life and death. It was a moment of intense awareness. Colours swirled all around him and broke into bands of magenta and brilliant blue, into flaming scarlet traceries and thousands of other patterns. There were always patterns, always a hidden order beneath the surface chaos. As the Danladi wave propagated through the manifold, Danlo perceived subtle, silvered reflections at each encounter with the various topological structures it swept across. There were refractions, too, the way that the wave continually broke upon itself in intense showers of light and re-formed into a vast moving mountain only a moment later. The wave orthogonals appeared as parallel lines of silver-blue. After a while he noticed something about these orthogonals: although they changed direction from moment to moment as the wave distorted the very substance of the manifold, making the discovery of a mapping into realspace almost impossible, there was a pattern to these changes. He tried to find a mathematical model to fit this pattern. He tried Q-sets and Gallivare fields and a hundred others before he found that orthogonals’ spinning motions could be best represented by a simple Soli set. If his timing were almost perfect, he might predict the exact moment when the orthogonals would line up away from the wave and point towards an exit into realspace. If his piloting were flawless, he might make a mapping in this moment and accomplish what only the maddest (or wildest) of pilots would ever have dared to attempt.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …

At exactly halfway through the seventh beat of his heart, he made a mapping. And instantaneously, the vast Danladi wave disappeared, and the Snowy Owl fell out around a cool white star. In the emptiness of space, it was quiet around this star. It showered the Snowy Owl with its lovely white light. Danlo floated in the quiet, looking out at the star as he gasped for breath and continued counting his heartbeats: thirteen, fourteen, fifteen …

‘Pilot, we’re free!’ This came from the Ede imago, floating near Danlo who was looking out the ship’s diamond window. ‘We’re free, and we’ve lost the other ship, haven’t we?’

‘Yes,’ Danlo said. He pressed his hand against the scar above his eye and grimaced in pain. ‘We … have lost her.’

‘How did you lose her, then? I’m afraid that in the distortions of the wave, my simulation showed little.’

Danlo felt his heartbeats in the throbbing of his eye, and then he told Ede exactly how he had lost Marja Valasquez and the Fire Drinker.

‘That was very clever of you,’ Ede said. ‘To slay her that way.’

‘I did not slay her!’

‘You lured her to her death.’

‘No, she had choices. Before she crossed the last interval, she might have escaped into realspace.’

‘But you knew that she would follow you.’

‘I knew … only that she would want to follow me.’

‘And you knew that she would dive beneath the wave and be destroyed, didn’t you?’

‘How could I truly know which pathway she would choose?’

‘How could you not know?’

‘But she might have tried to ride the wave out, as I did.’

‘Oh, Pilot.’

‘Truly, she always had a choice. And she dived beneath the wave. Her will, not mine.’

The Ede imago glowed softly as it regarded Danlo. Then it said, ‘How was it that you once defined this vow of ahimsa that you’ve made? Never harming another, not even in one’s own thoughts.’

‘I … never wished Marja dead. I only wanted to lose her.’

‘And yet you led her to lose her life.’

‘Yes.’

‘It would seem that the practice of ahimsa can be difficult subtle.’

‘Yes.’

Ede continued staring at Danlo, then said, ‘I’m sorry – this must be hard for you.’

At this, a sudden pain shot through Danlo’s eye and filled his head like an explosive tlolt. His eyes began to water and he blinked hard against the cool but hurtful light of the star outside his ship.

‘I … am sorry, too,’ he said.

Then he closed his eyes and whispered a prayer for Marja’s spirit, ‘Marja Evangelina wi Eshte Valasquez, mi alasharia la shantih.’

Some time later he roused Demothi Bede from the sleep of quicktime and invited him into the pit of his ship. The sleepy-eyed Demothi took a long look at the star outside the pit’s window, yawned and said, ‘It looks like the Star of Neverness – are we home, then?’

‘No,’ Danlo said, smiling despite his aching head. ‘The colour of this star is white, not yellow-white. We are still far from Neverness.’

‘How far, then? What is this star’s name?’

‘It has no name that I know,’ Danlo said. ‘But it lies close to Kalkin.’

‘Kalkin!’ Demothi exclaimed. He might have had poor eyes for stellar spectra, but he remembered his astronomy lessons. ‘Kalkin is only ten light years distance from Summerworld!’

‘Yes,’ Danlo said. ‘We … have departed from our pathway.’

After wiping away the salt crusts from the corners of his eyes, he told Demothi of Marja Valasquez and the Fire Drinker and their long pursuit through the manifold. He tried to describe the vastness of the Danladi wave, its terrible beauty, but he found that his words failed him. He said only that the wave had swept them far along the galaxy’s Sagittarius Arm almost to the stars of the Jovim Cluster.

‘Why didn’t you wake me, Pilot? Would you have had me go to my death half-asleep?’

Again Danlo smiled because he remembered something that his Fravashi teacher had once said: that the manswarms of the human race went about their whole lives half-asleep and stumbling towards death.

‘I did not want to alarm you,’ Danlo said.

‘What will we do now?’

‘Continue our journey.’

‘How much longer has our journey become, then? The wave has caused us such a vast dislocation.’

‘As measured in light years this is true,’ Danlo said. ‘But the pathways between Kalkin and Neverness are well known. The mappings are very easy. Our journey will not have grown much more difficult or timesome.’

‘But what if the wave has changed or broken the old pathways? Aren’t such permanent distortions of the manifold possible?’

‘Yes – truly this is possible.’

‘Well, then?’

‘It is possible, too, that the pathways remain unbroken.’

‘You must be eager to discover if this is so.’

‘Truly, I am,’ Danlo said, yawning. He closed his eyes for moment, and the rising swells of unconsciousness swept towards him in black, rolling waves. Then with a sudden snap of his head, he looked at Demothi and smiled. ‘But I am even more eager for sleep. I will sleep now. When my computer wakes me in two more hours, then we shall see if we can find an easy pathway towards Neverness.’

With that he closed his eyes again and fell instantly into a deep and peaceful sleep. So total was his exhaustion that when his ship’s-computer touched his brain with soft musics two hours later, he did not awaken. Nor twenty hours later. Both Demothi Bede and the Ede hologram seemed astonished to discover how long Danlo could sleep when he was really tired – in this instance, for most of three days. When he finally broke back into consciousness and looked out on the stars, he realized that he had slept too long.

‘We will fall on, now,’ he said, angry with himself though well rested. ‘I only hope that war hasn’t come to Neverness while I was dreaming.’

And so they fell. Danlo took the Snowy Owl back into the manifold, and they fell on past Kalkin and Skibbereen and the great red giant star known as Daru Luz. Although the Danladi wave had slightly flattened these familiar spaces and broken a few of the familiar Fallaways as a windstorm might snap a tree’s twigs, most of the pathways through the manifold remained untouched. He made a mapping to a little star near Summerworld, and then on past Tria, Larondissement and Avalon. All these stars lay along the rather roundabout pathway towards Neverness that he had once rejected as too lengthy. But the Danladi wave had made it so that this journey required little more time than his original and more straightforward approach. And it required much less risk. Even in the spaces near Larondissement, one of the Civilized Worlds most devoted to the new religion of Ringism, he descried no tells of any Ringist ship which might be lying in wait for him. On this last segment of his surprisingly peaceful journey, he encountered no other ships at all, not even the vast deep-ships of the Trian merchant-pilots which usually plied the Fallaways filled with cargoes of gossilk, neurologics, firestones, firewine, Gilada pearls, sulki grids, bloodfruits, jook, jambool, blacking oil, and a million other things grown or manufactured on the worlds of man. When he reached Avalon, a pretty blue star so close to the star of his birth, he made a final mapping. It was the famous Ashtoreth mapping, named for the pilot Villiama li Ashtoreth who had discovered it at the beginning of the Order’s Golden Age in the year 681. It carried the Snowy Owl across three hundred light years of space in a single fold, where it fell out in the thickspace near the Star of Neverness.

‘Home,’ Danlo whispered as he looked out at the soft, yellow star that had lit all the days of his childhood. ‘O, Sawel, miralando mi kalabara, kareeska.’

In truth, however, he wasn’t quite home, not yet. He looked out with his telescopes across seventy million miles of vacuum where he spied the planet Icefall spinning like a white and blue jewel in the blackness of space. He might have instantly made a mapping to a point-exit only a few hundred miles above Icefall’s atmosphere, but such a rash act would have set off the planetary defence systems, and he and his ship would surely have been destroyed. As it was, his peril was still great. The Snowy Owl gleamed in the radiance of the Star of Neverness like a dove with a broken wing. Its opening of a window from the manifold had surely created tells that any lightship in this neighbourhood of stars would detect. And surely, with war so near, the Lord Pilot, Salmalin the Prudent, would have deployed many ships to protect Neverness from surprise attack. Danlo waited for the arrival of these ships. It was almost all that he could do. But first he aimed a radio signal at the city of Neverness informing the Lords of the Order of the Snowy Owl’s mission. He did not think that the Old Order’s Ringists had sunk so far into barbarism that they would simply murder two ambassadors out of hand. The danger was that one of the arriving lightships might act without waiting for instructions from Neverness. Some reckless young pilot might perceive the Snowy Owl as only the vanguard of an invasion fleet and fall immediately against him.

And so Danlo waited in the pit of the Snowy Owl, counting heartbeats as he searched for the tells of other lightships. He began counting the seven hundred and fourteen seconds that his radio signal would take to cross seventy million miles of realspace and be returned as a command to all the Order’s lightships that Danlo and Demothi Bede were not to be harmed. He waited exactly eighty-eight seconds, and then a lightship fell out of the thickspace near him, followed only a few seconds later by four more of these deathly diamond needles. He recognized these ships. There was the Infinite Dactyl, piloted by Dario of Urradeth, and the Golden Lotus and the Bell of Time. And Nicabar Blackstone’s Ark of the Angels, with its lovely, curving wings. The fifth ship he knew well because he had been at Resa with its pilot, Ciro Dalibar, as chance would fall. He had even helped Ciro design the heuristics for this uniquely pointed ship, which Ciro had named the Diamond Arrow.

Ahira, Ahira, Danlo prayed, and he beamed a radio signal to each of these ships. And now he waited for the five pilots either to accept his parlay or to destroy him. That was the true terror of war, that often one had to accept danger and simply wait to live or die.

Much later he would learn that these five pilots, floating in the dazzling void near the Star of Neverness, had held a conclave among themselves. Ciro Dalibar, with his cruel, thin lips and jealousy of Danlo, had argued that as a pilot of the Order of the Vild – and thus of the Fellowship – he should be slain as a just act of war. But Cham Estarei of the Blue Lotus had spoken against such bloodthirstiness. As had Nicabar Blackstone. Nicabar, a master pilot and eldest of the five, told the others that it would do no harm to wait to hear from the lords on Neverness. If they wished to accept Danlo’s and Demothi’s embassy, well and good. If they did not, then the Snowy Owl could be sent back to Sheydveg or wherever the Order of the Vild’s fleet might be. Or they could send Danlo into the Star of Neverness. The five ships, acting together, could open a window into this blazing star whenever they wished and send Danlo’s ship into the fires of hell.

‘We’ll wait for the wishes of the lords,’ Nicabar Blackstone told Danlo and Demothi. Nicabar’s imago, with its glowing green eyes and deathly white countenance, had appeared in the pit of the Snowy Owl. ‘We must ask that you attempt no motion in realspace nor open any windows into the manifold. If you do, we’ll fall against you and destroy you.’

And so, with the noses of five ships pointing at him across only a few miles of space, Danlo waited. It took more than two thousand seconds for the Lords of Neverness’s message to arrive. Neither Danlo nor Demothi Bede were to be harmed. Danlo wi Soli Ringess was instructed to make a mapping to a certain point-exit above Neverness. The five lightships were to ensure that the Snowy Owl fell out into near-space exactly where it should. Then they were to escort the ambassadors down through the atmosphere to the Hollow Fields, where a sled would carry them to an emergency session of the Lords’ College.

‘I’d advise caution,’ the Ede hologram said in the privacy of the Snowy Owl. ‘The Ringists might wish to trap you.’

‘Yes,’ Danlo said. ‘Of course they will – we will be as prisoners the moment we touch the ice of Neverness.’

Demothi Bede drew his hand across his old, wrinkled face and said, ‘Still, it will be good to see the city again. And my old friends. I never thought I would.’

‘To see old friends,’ Danlo repeated softly. His eyes were grave yet full of light. He felt a terrible burning behind his eyes, and terrible images began streaming into his mind as if he were looking far across space and time. ‘To see the city again – and what lies above.’

A few moments later, at Nicabar Blackstone’s command, Danlo made a mapping to the point-exit above Neverness. The Snowy Owl fell out exactly as arranged, and Danlo gasped at the changes that only a few years had wrought in the once-empty reaches of space encircling Icefall. To begin with, the sky above his world’s sky was swarming with ships. There were deep-ships and long-ships, fire-ships and gold ships and many, many black ships armed for war. He counted more than forty-eight thousand ships spread out below him in a vast moving carpet of steel and diamond and black nall. He counted two hundred and ten lightships, too; a much larger fleet than that of the Fellowship of Free Worlds, even though all the Ringist lightships were not present. Some of these two hundred and thirty-one missing ships would be off on raiding missions such as the one that had surprised the Sonderval’s ships near Ulladulla. Others would try to detect the movements of the Fellowship’s fleet when it finally fell away from Sheydveg on its unknown pathway towards Neverness. Surely Salmalin would have positioned more than a few lightships in a protective cordon around the Star of Neverness. And at least twenty of these lightships protected something else, something more precious to the Ringists than firestones or pearls or even the icy ground beneath their feet.

This was Hanuman li Tosh’s Universal Computer, floating many miles above Neverness like a dazzling, black moon. In a way, it was a moon, for it was huge and made from the elements of Kasotat, Vierge and Varvara, three of the six moons that Danlo had beheld shining in the sky since the year of his birth. With his ship’s telescope he looked out at these nearby moons. The surface of each one swarmed with robots and disassemblers smaller than bacteria. These infinitesimal engines of destruction were tearing apart earth and rocks even as he watched, reducing layer after layer of the moons into their constituent elements. Their once-silvery surfaces were grey and pitted as a hibakusha’s face. Truly, as Bardo had said, Hanuman and the Ringists had ordered the mining of these moons, this shaida act that was a crime against the laws of the Civilized Worlds. At any moment, from any of the three moons, there might issue a flash of light as a deep-ship filled with silicon or carbon or gold would disappear into the manifold only to fall out an instant later at a point-exit above the Universal Computer. There, in vast floating factories, its cargo would be assembled into diamond chips and neurologics and opticals – the very substance and circuitry of the Universal Computer. More robots assembled these parts into an ungodly (or perhaps just the opposite) machine. One day, if nothing were done to halt this monument to one man’s hubris, it would grow to the size of a moon.

Ahira, Ahira, ki los shaida, shaida neti shaida.

‘If you’re ready, Pilot, we’ll make our planetfall now.’ This was Nicabar Blackstone’s voice, spilling into the pit of the Snowy Owl like an overturned goblet of honey-wine. He was a master pilot whose sweet-rich voice almost belied his innate ruthlessness. ‘We’ll make a straight fall for the Fields. I’ll lead the way, and you must follow – and then Dario of Urradeth, Cham Estarei, Ciro Dalibar and the Visolela will follow you.’

With that, the Ark of the Angels dipped its diamond nose towards the planet below them, followed in line by the Snowy Owl, the Infinite Dactyl, the Blue Lotus, the Diamond Arrow and the Bell of Time. The six ships slowly fell towards Icefall. And now, even as they passed through the ships of the fleet like needles through a thick carpet, Danlo had a moment to gaze upon the most profound of the changes that had come to his world. This was the Golden Ring. Ahead of him, and below, enveloping all of Icefall in a sphere of living gold, was this miracle of evolution that had taken root in the uppermost atmospheres of many worlds throughout the galaxy. Many believed the Ring to be the Entity’s handiwork, or rather the child of her vast stellar womb. For the Ring was life itself, newly created to flourish in the harsh environment of near-space. A few hundred miles below Danlo’s ship floated the Ring organisms, the nektons and triptons and sestons, the vacuum flowers and pipal trees and fritillaries. And of course, the little makers. These were the fundament of the Ring, the trillions of trillions of single-celled plants drifting in the faint solar wind that blew down upon Icefall. Each of the little makers was a tiny sphere of thin diamond membranes encasing the cellular machinery of enzymes and acids and red chlorophyll. The little makers would breathe the exhalations of the stars, absorbing light and transforming this most universal of energies into food that would feed the other life of the Ring. It was the red chlorophyll that gave the Ring its colour, for when the light of the sun fell through the tissues of the uncountable little makers and refracted from diamond sphere to diamond sphere, it appeared to the naked eye in hues of ruby-amber and gold. The whole of the world below was swathed in a tapestry shimmering gold as lovely and diaphanous as a courtesan’s silks. Through this living veil, Danlo could make out the jagged coastline of Neverness Island far below him and the deep blue sheen of the sea. Someday, perhaps, the Ring would grow more opaque to light, and it might grow difficult to see the mountains of Neverness from near-space or the six moons of Icefall from the surface of the planet. But it would be sad beyond tears, Danlo thought, if the Ring ever grew to obscure the light of the stars themselves.

Fara gelstei, he whispered, speaking the name of the Golden Ring that he had learned as a child. Loshisha shona, loshisha halla – sawisha halla neti shaida.

Soon the Snowy Owl entered the Ring with less moment than if it had fallen through a cloud. The Ring itself was much more tenuous than any cloud, and Danlo had no trouble seeing his way through the faint tinge of gold staining the sky. He looked for the largest Ring organisms, the predatory goswhales whose nerves were woven of neurologics, a kind of biological lightship that could swim through the cold currents of space. The Order’s eschatologists believed the goswhales to be more intelligent than human beings; some called them godwhales in honour of their considerable powers. But however one named them, they were very rare; in all his life, Danlo would never lay eyes upon one. But through his diamond window he did see a swarm of fritillaries, with their huge silver wings like solar sails to catch the light of the sun and drive them across space. They were lovely creatures but also strange; they had telescopic eyes which could pick out a vacuum flower across two hundred miles of space, and long, graceful metallic antennae for receiving and transmitting radio signals. Once, as a boy looking up from the sea’s ice to the gold-streaked sky, Danlo had wondered about the rapidly evolving life of the Ring. He had wanted to journey to the heavens, to ask such creatures as the fritillary their true names and to give them his own. ‘Ahira, Ahira,’ he said, whispering the name of his other-self, the Snowy Owl. He would have liked to stay here falling slowly through this ocean of gold for a long time, but the Ark of the Angels pointed down towards Neverness, and he had to follow her. Lokelani miralando la shantih.

As the lightships fell down towards the white-capped mountains of Neverness Island, the Ring began to thicken. The little makers fed on sunlight like any plant, but they also breathed carbon dioxide, hydrogen and nitrogen, and other nutrients of Icefall’s upper atmosphere. Some eschatologists believed that the rarity of these gases would place a severe upper limit on the Ring’s potential for growth. Others thought that the sestons and nektons would eventually evolve into something like robot disassemblers and learn how to mine the six moons for their vast store of elements. It might be thought that the Ring would simply grow lower through the troposphere and begin colonizing Icefall’s islands and oceans like some alien invasion of wild, new life. But it seemed that this would never happen. On no known world had the Ring grown in this direction. Indeed, the Ring seemed designed to grow outwards like a sunflower opening into darkness, perhaps into the deep space as far as the Star of Neverness’s ten other planets. Already a goswhale had been sighted orbiting Berural as if in contemplation of the brilliant swirling reds and violets of that gaseous world. Someday, perhaps, the Ring would find a way to thrive in interstellar vacuum or even in the great loneliness between the galaxies themselves.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Pilot?’ Demothi Bede, still sharing the pit of Danlo’s ship, gazed out of the window at the Ring shimmering like gold dust in the light of the sun. ‘Who would have thought I’d live to see such miracles?’

Truly, Danlo thought, the Ring was a miracle – but perhaps no more miraculous than snowworms or human beings or any other kind of life. The miraculous thing was life itself, the way that matter had moved itself from the beginning of time, moved and evolved and reached out into ever more complex and conscious forms. And now life everywhere was moving off planets made of water and rocks out towards the stars. In a way, this astonishing event should have astonished no one. For space is cold, and low temperatures favour order. And what was life except matter organized into the highest degrees of order? As Danlo looked out at the little makers of the Ring, he remembered something that a master biologist had once told him:

The rate of metabolism of energy varies according to the square of the temperature.

This was true for the fritillaries and jewel-like nektons floating above Icefall no less than the bears he had once hunted as a child or the mosquitoes that had drunk his blood. In the vast coldness of deep space, a pipal tree or a golden, glittering goswhale could be very thrifty in its use of energy. That was a grace of the Ring, its thriftiness. The little makers, for example, utilized almost every molecule of carbon dioxide and other nutrients that floated up from the lower atmosphere. As with a tropical ecosystem, the Ring concentrated these nutrients within the individual plants and organisms themselves. They excreted little waste into the stratosphere, mostly oxygen in its diatomic state which would quickly react with the sun, break down and then recombine into ozone. It was this building blanket of pale blue ozone miles above Icefall that would shield its forests and oceans from the worst of the Vild’s radiations. Soon, in less than two years, the light of the supernova that had once been Merripen’s Star would fall over Danlo’s world with a terrible intensity of illumination. Whether or not this wavefront of hard light would be mostly reflected or absorbed by the Ring and its life-protecting ozone, not even the eschatologists could say.

The Ring is not growing as it should, Danlo thought. How he knew this was a mystery, but he was as certain of its truth as his next breath of air. It is Hanuman’s Universal Computer – it is keeping the Ring from growing.

‘It’s a miracle,’ Demothi Bede repeated. ‘A miracle that this creation of the gods will keep Neverness safe from the supernova.’

For a moment Danlo closed his eyes and listened to the silence of the deep sky. It was almost as if he could hear the ping of each of the millions of diamond-like little makers striking the diamond hull of his ship and spinning off into the air like tiny, ringing bells. Almost as if the Golden Ring itself could speak to him. It was possible, he knew, that this miracle of new life would protect his world from the supernova. But which one? There was the radiation of Merripen’s Star which had crossed some thirty light years of space on its journey towards Neverness. Perhaps if the Universal Computer were unmade, through war or the grace of Hanuman himself, the Ring would shield against this killing light. But if Bertram Jaspari and his Iviomils ever succeeded in exploding the Star of Neverness, neither the Ring nor the greatest god of the galaxy could save his world from being vaporized.

‘Don’t you think it’s a miracle, Pilot?’

‘A miracle – yes,’ Danlo said.

With that he pointed his ship down a steep angle of descent, following the Ark of the Angels into the thick air of the lower atmosphere. He fell down towards Neverness, the City of Light, where he sensed that the greatest of miracles still awaited him.




CHAPTER VI (#ulink_25035f35-9d63-5be5-a235-c89285df00e6)

The Lords of Neverness (#ulink_25035f35-9d63-5be5-a235-c89285df00e6)


Where are we really going? Always home.

— Novalis, Holocaust century poet

The poets say that there are only two ways to come to Neverness for the first time. A child might arrive through the bloody gate between his mother’s legs, gasping his first breath of air and crying at the dazzling light of the City of Pain. Or a man might fall down from space in a lightship or ferry and step out on to an icy run of the Hollow Fields where a friend might greet him with smiles, embraces and perhaps a mug of peppermint tea steaming in the cold air. Among the singularities of the life of Danlo wi Soli Ringess was the miracle that he had first come to the city otherwise. When only fourteen years old, he had left the island of his birth and crossed six hundred miles of the frozen ocean with his dogsled and skis. In the middle of a storm so fierce that he could hardly see his frozen feet through the wind-whipped snow, he had stumbled on to the sands of North Beach half-dead and alone. Alone and yet not alone: strangely, by chance or fate, a white-furred alien called Old Father had been waiting there to greet him and give him the bamboo flute that would become his most cherished possession. As Danlo now stepped from the pit of the Snowy Owl, he reflected on the irony of his homecoming. Although many must have heard the news of his arrival, neither Old Father nor any friend awaited him with musical instruments or mugs of tea. Almost the moment that his boots touched the hard surface of his world, twenty journeymen dressed in variously coloured robes – but each sporting an armband of gold – converged upon him. Unbelievably, Danlo thought, the journeymen wore lasers holstered in sheaths of black leather at their sides.

‘Danlo wi Soli Ringess, have you fallen well?’ One of the journeymen, a rather haughty young man in the green robe of a mechanic, greeted him formally. He stared at Danlo’s black robe and the diamond brooch pinned above his heart. And then he turned to Danlo’s fellow ambassador. ‘Lord Demothi Bede, have you fallen well?’

That was the only welcome they received. Quickly, with a cold manner that bordered on rudeness, the journeymen ushered Danlo and Lord Bede into a large sled waiting on one of the nearby glidderies. One of the journeymen sat at the front of this black-shelled sled to pilot it while two others sat beside Danlo and Lord Bede in the passenger seat. The remaining seventeen journeymen took their places in the seventeen other sleds lining the gliddery. Although they extended no friendship towards these two enemy ambassadors of their Order, they would escort them through the streets of Neverness in safety and great style.

Before they began their short journey through the city, however, five pilots dressed in light wool kamelaikas approached the open sled. They stepped carefully across the gliddery’s slick, red ice. Each of these five, too, wore a golden band around the upper arm – gold against midnight black, the very symbol of Ringism.

‘Hello, Pilot,’ the first of them said to Danlo. This was Nicabar Blackstone, a hard-faced man with hard grey eyes and a shock of precisely-cut grey hair. His lightship, the Ark of the Angels, lay ready on the run for a return to near-space. Lined up behind it like long silver beads on a strand of wire were the Infinite Dactyl, the Blue Lotus, the Diamond Arrow and the Bell of Time. Behind Nicabar stood Dario of Urradeth, Cham Estarei, Ciro Dalibar and the Visolela. Each of them greeted Danlo and Demothi Bede in turn. And then Nicabar said, ‘Word has arrived that the Vild Mission has been successful. It’s said that Tannahill has been found, and that Danlo wi Soli Ringess was the pilot who found it. That he crossed the entire Vild into the Perseus Arm. Thirty thousand light years through the Vild! Is that true, Danlo wi Soli Ringess?’

‘Yes,’ Danlo said, and then bowed his head slightly. ‘It is true.’

‘Then you are to be honoured.’

‘Thank you … for honouring me,’ Danlo said.

Nicabar Blackstone bowed deeply to Danlo, as did Cham Estarei, Dario of Urradeth and even the Visolela, with her thin, old body and stiff joints. Only Ciro Dalibar held back, snapping his little head at Danlo in a quick mockery of a bow as if he were a turtle. His little eyes regarded Danlo coolly and jealously, but when Danlo tried to look at him, he turned his face down towards the gliddery as if he were a newcomer to Neverness marvelling that the streets of the city were made of coloured ice.

‘But I won’t honour your embassy to our Order,’ Nicabar said. ‘It isn’t worthy of a pilot who has mastered the Vild – and the son of Mallory Ringess himself!’

‘We seek only to stop this war,’ Danlo said. ‘Is this so dishonourable?’

‘You bring war to our city – to all the Civilized Worlds. You who have betrayed our Order to join what you call a Fellowship of Free Worlds.’

‘No – we would bring peace. There must be a way towards peace.’

‘Peace on your terms,’ Nicabar said. ‘Such a peace can only inflame the desire for war.’

Until now Demothi Bede had remained silent, letting the two pilots argue between themselves as pilots are wont to do. But then he looked at Ciro Dalibar who was staring at Danlo openly with a silent, burning rage. ‘It would seem,’ Demothi said, ‘that there are those of your Order who desire war merely for the sake of war.’

Ciro scowled at this, looking back and forth between Demothi and Danlo. In his high, angry voice, he said, ‘It’s too bad that you ambassadors will be safe in the city while we pilots risk our lives in space to protect you from your own Fellowship when it attacks us.’

‘And as for that,’ Nicabar broke in, ‘you should be aware that things are very different in Neverness than when you deserted her five years ago. We’ll try to ensure your safety, but there are many who won’t welcome you, either as ambassadors or as wayless.’

‘I am sorry, but I am not familiar with that word,’ Danlo said.

Ciro Dalibar shot Danlo a quick, cruel look, and he was only too happy to explain this term in Nicabar’s place. ‘There are those who follow the way of Mallory Ringess into godhood. And there are those who refuse to realize the truths of Ringism and turn their faces from the way. These are the wayless.’

‘I see.’

‘Some, of course, have never heard the truth so it’s our glory to bring it to them.’

‘I see,’ Danlo said in a voice as deep and calm as a tropical sea.

But his equipoise seemed only to enrage Ciro further, for he stared at Danlo and half-shouted, ‘And you – you’re the worst of the wayless! You helped make Ringism into a force for truth, and then you just betrayed us! You betrayed your own father and everything he lived for.’

Danlo had no answer for this, in words. He only looked at Ciro, and suddenly his dark blue eyes deepened like liquid jewels alive with an intense inner light. Because Ciro couldn’t bear the sheer wildness and truth of this gaze, he muttered something about traitors and then stared down at the ice in silence.

‘We’ll say farewell, now,’ Nicabar Blackstone said. ‘The lords are waiting for you and we must return to the stars. I’m only sorry that in the coming battles, I won’t have the chance to test myself against the pilot who mastered the Vild.’

With that he bowed to Danlo with perfect punctilio and led the other pilots back across the gliddery’s ice to their ships. It took them only a moment to fire their rockets and a few moments more to shoot off into the deep blue sky.

The tall, serious journeyman who had his hand on the throttle of Danlo’s and Demothi’s sled, turned to look at his two passengers.

‘Are you ready, Pilot? Lord Ambassador?’

‘Yes,’ Danlo said. ‘Please.’

‘Very well. My name is Yemon Astoret, if you should need to address me.’

All at once the seventeen sleds fired their own rockets, and eight of these thundered down the gliddery ahead of Danlo’s sled. Then, with a jolt, he felt his sled begin to move, sliding across the red ice on its gleaming chromium runners. The remaining eight sleds followed them across the Hollow Fields northwards into the city that had once been his home.

‘So this is Neverness.’ The Ede hologram, projected out of the devotionary computer that Danlo carried on his lap, seemed to be drinking in the splendour of the city as if he were as alive as Demothi Bede or Danlo. ‘The City of Man.’

Many call Neverness by many names, but all call her beautiful. Once, Danlo had thought of this beauty as shonamanse, the beauty that men and woman make with their hands. But there is always beauty inside beauty, and Neverness had been built inside a half-ring of three of the most beautiful mountains in the world. Adjoining the Hollow Fields, almost so close that Danlo could have reached out his hand into the cold air and touched it, was Urkel, a great cone of basalt and granite and fir trees gleaming in the sun. And to the north, Attakel the Infinite, with its jagged, white-capped peak pointing the way towards the heavens for all to see. Just below Attakel, where the city rises up against the mountain, Danlo could make out the stunning rock formations of the Elf Garden where he had once gone to meditate as a journeyman. And far across the city to the northwest – across a narrow sound of the ocean which froze hard and fast in winter – he saw his favourite of the three mountains, Waaskel. It was Waaskel, this shining, white horn, that had guided him when he had first come to Neverness from a very different direction so many years before.

Losas shona, he thought. Shona eth halla.

Halla was the beauty of nature, and the glory of Neverness as a city was to mirror the natural beauty of Neverness Island itself. As Danlo rocketed slowly along the broad orange sliddery connecting the Hollow Fields to the academy, he marvelled at the great gleaming spires built of white granite or diamond or organic stone. There were the spires of the Old City, numerous, lovely and ancient, and the more recently-built spires such as those named for Tadeo Ashtoreth and Ada Zenimura. And the most recent of all, Soli’s Spire, named for Danlo’s grandfather. This needle of pink granite was the tallest in the city. At the end of the Pilots’ War, when a hydrogen bomb had destroyed much of the Hollow Fields and the surrounding neighbourhoods, Mallory Ringess had ordered it raised up as part of his rebuilding programme. This newly-made part of the city he called, simply, the New City, and it was these well-ordered blocks and graceful buildings through which the procession of sleds escorting Danlo now passed.

‘I was in the Timekeeper’s Tower when the bomb exploded,’ Demothi told Danlo above the wind whipping through the open sled. ‘I saw the mushroom cloud rise over this part of the city. And after, the utter ruin of streets that I had skated as a child. Every tower of the Fields broken, blown down. Almost every building. And look at it now! There’s no sign of the war, is there?’

Danlo looked out at the shopfronts and the many people coming and going from the various apartments giving out on to the street. Many of these buildings, with their pink granite and sweeping garlands of icevine flowers, reminded him of similar architecture he had seen throughout the Old City. All kinds of people thronged the sliddery itself, making travel slow. He saw wormrunners, courtesans, astriers, harijan, hibakusha and of course many Ordermen skating in the lanes to the side of them. The Academy Sliddery, as this street had been called for three thousand years, was one of the oldest in the city and usually one of the busiest. And now, on this 98th day of false winter in the year 2959 since the founding of Neverness, it seemed much as it always had at this time of day in this fairest of seasons. The air had fallen warm enough to melt the sliddery’s orange ice, and a sheen of water slickened its smooth surface. Songbirds warbled from their roosts in the elaborate stonework of the buildings while fritillaries swarmed the icevine flowers or the snow dahlia bursting from the planters in front of many restaurants. These were real fritillaries, insects with their lovely violet wings, not the organisms of the Golden Ring named for them. They added to the brightness and gaiety of the street; looking at them fluttering about in their thousands, it was almost impossible not to feel a certain peace.

And yet beneath the surface serenity of a typical false winter day, Danlo saw signs of war. Not the Pilots’ War that had befallen Neverness when he was still a child, but the coming war, the one he must stop even if it cost him his life. To begin with, too many people were wearing gold. Wormrunners and astriers and even harijan in their billowing pantaloons – many of them wore at least one garment that had been dyed a golden hue. All the courtesans, he saw, in their two- or three-piece silken pyjamas, were dressed wholly in gold, a clear sign that their Society had wholly converted to Ringism. And all the Ordermen wore bands of gold, often sewn into the very fabric of their robes. Five times he saw Ordermen actually wearing golden robes, and these were not grammarians as their colour once would have shown, but rather a horologe, a librarian, a cantor, a notationist and a holist. These five women and men wore armbands coloured red, brown, grey, maroon and cobalt to distinguish their respective professions. The most devoted of the Order’s Ringists, who called themselves godlings, prided themselves on beginning a trend which they hoped would spread throughout the halls of the academy; soon, it was said, even the Lord of the Order himself, Audric Pall, would take off his cetic’s orange robe and don one of purest gold.

Even the bustle of the street heralded the opposite of peace. Danlo saw too many sleds laden with furs or foodstuffs or other goods that people might hoard if the times grew violent. With the sliddery so crowded, it was the slowest journey he ever remembered making between the Fields and the academy. At the intersection of the great East–West Sliddery, the second longest street in the city, a sled had run out of hydrogen and stood blocking traffic. There was a snarl of stalled sleds and frustrated skaters backed up along both slidderies; many people were shouting and pushing their way through the manswarms as if they had forgotten every social grace. A fight broke out between two wormrunners. One of these, a large, black-bearded man bedecked in black sable furs and diamonds, whipped out a laser from a hidden holster and fairly shoved it in the other wormrunners’s face. He threatened to burn through his eyes and boil his brains. And then, realizing that the penalty for the crime of keeping a laser would be banishment from the city, he put away this vicious weapon and quickly skulked off into the crowd. That wormrunners might now carry lasers instead of their usual knives alarmed Danlo; that no one tried to chastise the wormrunner or seemed to regard his open display of outlawed technology as unusual alarmed him even more.

But they traversed the remaining seven long blocks to the academy without further incident. And then they came to the scorched steel doors of the Wounded Wall, which surrounded the academy to the south, west and north. The gates to this high granite barrier stood open awaiting their arrival. Danlo remembered that when he had been a journeyman, they always closed at night, making it necessary for him and Hanuman li Tosh and other friends to climb its rough stone blocks in then forbidden forays into the Farsider’s Quarter. Now, Yemon Astoret said, the gates were often closed during the day – for the first time since the Dark Year when the Order’s schools on eight hundred worlds had been burned in the Architect religious riots and the Great Plague had come to Neverness. Now, Yemon said, as if addressing two novices, the Lords of the Order feared that the astrier and harijan sects might riot under intense pressure to convert to Ringism. Or warrior-poets might try to storm through the gates on a mission of assassination. There were too many warrior-poets in the city; over the last year, these bringers of death in their rainbow robes had flocked to Neverness like goshawks gathering for a killing frenzy.

As the procession of sleds passed through the South Gate and threaded through the academy’s narrow red glidderies, Danlo filled with memories as if he were drinking an ocean. He gazed at the beloved Morning Towers of Resa, the Pilots’ College where he had spent his early manhood learning the mathematics of the manifold. Almost in the shadow of these twin pillars of the sun were the Rose Womb Cloisters, the buildings housing the salt water tanks where he had floated and practised his arts of hallning, adagio and zazen. He saw many journeyman pilots in their black kamelaikas skating the glidderies leading to the Cloisters or to Resa Commons. He couldn’t help but feel a camaraderie and compassion for them; many of them, he supposed, would be pressed into piloting lightships in the coming war before they had quite mastered their art. He wanted to stop his sled, to skate over to a group of these young pilots and tell them that he, too, had been elevated to a full pilotship at a very young age and had taken a lightship into the Vild before he was quite ready. But in their flashing eyes and anxious faces, he saw no welcome. They well knew who he was and why he had returned to Neverness. One of them, a burly man who was said to be the secret son of Lord Burgos Harsha, actually spat at the ice as Danlo’s sled moved past, and in a rather loud, braying voice called out, ‘The wayless return.’ Several of his friends, who all wore golden armbands, picked up the cue and cried out the newly popular saying, ‘Wayless, godless, hopeless.’

As they passed beneath the great old yu trees lining the streets and gracing the academy’s lawns, other Ordermen – akashics, tinkers, mechanics and imprimaturs – greeted them in a similar manner. Danlo could only imagine what insults might await him in the College of the Lords. He didn’t have to wait long. Soon the sleds rounded the gliddery that runs past the Timekeeper’s Tower, and in a few more moments glided to a rest outside a square building faced with huge slabs of white granite. The College of the Lords was nestled between the academy’s cemetery to the south and the lovely Shih Grove just to the north; to the east, the grounds gave way to the rising slopes of the Hill of Sorrows, still covered with purple and white wildflowers, late in the season though it was. Danlo and Demothi thanked Yemon Astoret and the other journeymen for their accompaniment, but, of course, their little mission was not finished. They insisted on escorting them up the steps and into an anteroom off the College’s main council chamber. There, a red-robed horologe named Ivar Luan bowed to them and immediately led them through a pair of sliding wooden doors into a circular chamber where the Lords of the Order had gathered.

Once before Danlo had been invited into this place of history and great moment. With its circular walls of polished white granite and the great clary dome high above, it was a dazzlingly bright room but also draughty and always cold. He remembered how he had once knelt on the cold black floor stones before some of these very men and women. (One of whom had been Demothi Bede.) But now, since he and Demothi were no longer of the Old Order, they were not bidden to kneel on a Fravashi carpet according to tradition, but rather provided chairs on which to sit before the watchful eyes of a hundred and twenty lords. These tense men and women waited at their little crescent tables arrayed in a half-circle around four chairs in the centre of the room. Danlo, who had always hated sitting in chairs, took his seat with great disquiet, and he wondered at the two empty chairs next to him. As before, he smelled jewood polished with lemon oil and the reek of many old people’s fear. The greatest lords sat directly across from him at the two centre tables. Danlo knew many of them quite well, especially Kolenya Mor, the Lord Eschatologist, who played with the silken folds of her new golden robe. Kolenya was plump, moon-faced, intelligent and kind – and utterly beguiled by this new religion called Ringism. She was a bold women and also the first lord to trade in her traditional robe for a new one of gold. Also at her table were Jonath Parsons, Rodrigo Diaz, Mahavira Netis and Burgos Harsha with his plain brown robe and glass-pocked face. At the other centre table sat lan Kutikoff, the Lord Semanticist, and Eva Zarifa in a purple robe displaying not one but two golden armbands. Next to her, old Vishnu Suso shifted about in his chair, all the while staring at Danlo and fingering his armband as if he suddenly found it too tight. He seemed uncomfortable sharing so close a physical space with the other lord at the end of the table, Audric Pall, the Lord of the Order himself. And no wonder, for Danlo had never seen a more horrible human being in all his life. It almost hurt him even to look at Lord Pall, with his pink, albino’s eyes and skin as white as bleached bone. This rare genetic deformity was accentuated by his black teeth, revealed whenever he spoke or smiled, which was not often. Lord Pall liked to communicate only by using his hands and fingers, making the little cetic signs which the journeyman cetic sitting by his side like a parratock bird translated into spoken language. He was as silent as a cetic, as the saying goes, and also cynical, subtle and wholly corrupt in his spirit.

Eli los shaida, Danlo thought. Shaida eth shaida.

Lord Pall lifted his finger slightly, and the cetic sitting at his side – a handsome young man with the blond hair and ferocious blue eyes of a Thorskaller – spoke in his place: ‘Have you fallen well, Lord Demothi Bede? Danlo wi Soli Ringess? We wish you well. We accept you as the legitimate ambassadors of the Fellowship of Free Worlds, though you should know that we do not accept the legitimacy of the Fellowship itself.’

‘Perhaps in time that will change,’ Demothi said.

‘Perhaps,’ Lord Pall said through his mouthpiece. But his little pink eyes betrayed no sign that he thought this might be possible. ‘Time is strange, isn’t it? We have so little of it. At this moment, the wavefront from the supernova is falling towards us at the speed of light. And perhaps the fleet of your Fellowship approaches even more quickly. And these aren’t even the most immediate dangers that we face.’

‘Of what dangers do you speak, my lord?’ Demothi asked.

‘That you will soon know,’ Lord Pall replied. He turned to look at a journeyman horologe standing by the doors to a second anteroom across the chamber. The horologe bowed his head, then drew the laser that he wore in a holster at his hip. He very warily opened the anteroom’s doors. Two men were waiting for him there, and, with a wave of his laser, he escorted them into the chamber towards Danlo and Demothi Bede and the two empty chairs.

‘No!’ Danlo suddenly said, forgetting all restraint. Then, realizing that he had spoken out of place, he held his head as still as a thallow as he locked eyes on these two men whom he knew too well.

‘I see that you’re acquainted,’ Lord Pall said. ‘But allow me to present our guests to the rest of the College: Malaclypse Redring of Qallar, and Bertram Jaspari of Tannahill.’

At the saying of this name, a hundred lords gasped as if sharing a single breath. From lost Tannahill, thirty thousand light years across the stars, Bertram Jaspari had come to Neverness even as Danlo had come. With his pointed, bald head and skin discoloured blue from the mehalis disease common to Tannahill, he was an ugly man – perhaps the ugliest whom Danlo had ever known. His mouth was as small and puckered as a dried bloodfruit and his eyes cold and dead-grey like rotting seal flesh. His whole face seemed set with a permanent sneer. And all these eye-catching physical features bespoke only the work of his surface self; his true ugliness went much deeper. Danlo knew him to be devious, vain, stingy, cruel and utterly lacking in grace. And worse, he had no care for any human being other than himself, and worse still, he liked using others in his lust to grab power. And perhaps worst of all, he was small in his spirit, small and twisted like a plant deformed by lack of water and sunlight. If he had competed with Lord Pall to see which one of them could best embody pure shaida, it would have been hard to judge the winner.

‘You are a liar and a murderer,’ Danlo whispered as Bertram Jaspari let himself down into the chair next to him. ‘A murderer of a planet and a whole people.’

Bertram Jaspari pretended that he hadn’t heard these soft yet fierce words of Danlo. He seemed afraid to meet Danlo’s blazing blue eyes. He just sat in his jewood chair, adjusting the folds of his kimono, the traditional garment of the Architects of the Infinite Intelligence of the Cybernetic Universal Church. Scarcely a year earlier, in the War of Terror which he had inflicted upon Tannahill, he had dyed his kimono a bright red as a sign of his willingness to shed blood. (Though as far as Danlo knew, he had shed only the blood of his fellow Architects and never his own.) All of the fanatical sect called the Iviomils now wore these same ugly kimonos. Somewhere in space, perhaps hiding behind a nearby star, Bertram’s fleet of Iviomils would be waiting to shed more blood or to accomplish a much more shaida purpose.

Next to him, above the remaining empty chair, stood a man who seemed his opposite. He wore a dazzling, rainbow-coloured robe and a single red ring on the little finger of either hand. Like all warrior-poets, Malaclypse Redring was physically beautiful. His skin was like burnished copper; his hair was black and shiny as a sable’s fur. Everything about him rippled with an intense aliveness, especially his eyes, all violet and deep and quick. He, at least, dared to meet Danlo face to face. While the eyes of every lord in the chamber nervously regarded him and wondered why he remained standing, he turned his head to look at Danlo and seek out his fierce gaze. As they had twice before, they locked eyes and stared at each other for a long time. The light streaming deep in Danlo’s eyes seemed to draw him like a fritillary to a star, and yet something he saw there must have unnerved him, too, for without warning he suddenly looked away. No one, it is said, can stare down a warrior-poet, especially only the second one in history to wear two red rings, and the hundred and twenty lords sitting safely behind their tables looked back and forth between Danlo and Malaclypse, afraid to believe the truth of what they had just seen. Malaclypse Redring, too, was afraid, though he had no qualms about letting his fear be known. Once more he looked at Danlo, and told him, ‘You’ve changed, Pilot. Again. Every time I see you, you grow closer to who you really are. And what is that? I don’t know. It’s something almost too bright. I look at you, and I see a terrible beauty. I’m afraid of you, and I don’t know why.’

It is said that warrior-poets fear nothing in the universe, especially death, which they seek with all the concentration and joy of a tiger stalking his prey. For all Malaclypse Redring’s words about being afraid of Danlo, he was still very much like a tiger: beautiful and dangerous. In truth, he was no less a murderer than Bertram Jaspari. The horologe who had escorted him into the chamber waited only a few paces away with his laser targeting the back of his neck. He never took his eyes off this deadly warrior-poet; if Malaclypse should suddenly decide to assassinate Danlo or Demothi Bede – or even Lord Pall – the horologe stood ready to execute him instantly.

‘Won’t you please take your seat?’ Lord Pall said to him.

Slowly, with exquisite control of every nerve and muscle, Malaclypse sat down next to Bertram Jaspari. But he ignored Lord Pall and everyone else in the room. Again, he locked eyes with Danlo, and this time he held his gaze for the count of twenty heartbeats.

‘I must apologize,’ Lord Pall said, ‘for not informing the College of these men’s arrival. But you must understand: a warrior-poet who wears two red rings and the leader of the Iviomil Architects who —’

Here, Bertram Jaspari broke in, saying, ‘You may address me as the Holy Ivi of the Cybernetic Universal Church.’

Lord Pall hated to be interrupted, but he showed little sign of his emotions. As he stared at Bertram Jaspari, his face remained as silent as a cetic’s. Only the artery of his throat, which Danlo could see jumping beneath his white, withered skin across thirty feet, betrayed his sudden and secret wrath.

‘Holy Ivi, as you say,’ Lord Pall said, speaking in his own voice, which hissed with venom like that of a Scutari seneschal. ‘The Holy Ivi has led a fleet of ships from Tannahill, and around which star they wait, no one knows. The Holy Ivi must soon send word of his safety to this fleet; if he does not – or cannot – he threatens terrible things. To ensure his safety, I have withheld the fact of his arrival from the College until now. Again, my apologies, my fellow lords.’

Burgos Harsha, who had never supported Lord Pall’s rise to the Lordship of the Order, called out in his raspy voice, ‘What things does he threaten, then? Why weren’t we told of this threat?’

‘That you will soon know,’ Lord Pall said – this time through the mouth of his interpreter.

‘How soon, then?’ Burgos Harsha bellowed out with all the forbearance of a shagshay bull in rut.

‘Soon, soon,’ Lord Pall said. He began drumming his bony white fingers against the resonant jewood of the tabletop. This might have been a secret communication to the cetic attending him – or merely a sign that he was as impatient as Burgos Harsha.

‘What do we wait for?’

‘For Hanuman li Tosh to arrive,’ Lord Pall said. ‘I’ve asked him to attend this meeting.’

This news, while exciting the hopes of Kolenya Mor and other lords who fairly worshipped Hanuman as the Lord of the Way of Ringess, did not please everyone. Vishnu Suso sat quite close to Lord Pall, and he eyed him suspiciously as he fingered the folds of his old, black skin. ‘Is this wise?’ he asked. ‘Is this a precedent we wish to set?’

And Burgos Harsha quickly added, ‘He’s Lord of the Way, but no lord of the Order.’

Eva Zarifa, an elegant woman with a rather quick and sardonic smile, reminded the lords, ‘Having abjured his vows five years ago, Hanuman li Tosh is no longer even of the Order.’

For some time, the lords debated the proper relationship between the Way of Ringess (and Hanuman li Tosh) and the Order. Some lords, such as Burgos Harsha, argued for a strict separation between these two powers; while the Order might change its ancient rule against allowing its members any sort of religiosity and actually encourage the following of the Way, it would be wrong to identify the Order’s purpose too closely with this new religion. Others, however, pointed out that most Ordermen had already become Ringists. Their purpose was to become gods, and therefore the Order must evolve towards an exploration of how this great purpose might be achieved. They favoured an evolution of the Order to include the tenets of Ringism and a co-operation with Hanuman and his godlings in bringing word of the Way to the stars. But the Order, they said, must always remain the Order; and the power to decide the Order’s fate must remain in the hands of the College of Lords.

Still a third group of these exalted men and women – led by Kolenya Mor – believed that the Order and the Way of Ringess were destined to merge as a single and gloriously powerful entity. Already, most of the peoples of the Civilized Worlds saw the Order as merely an arm of Ringism – or Ringism as a tool of the ancient and still mighty Order. Kolenya Mor told her peers that the sooner they exchanged their coloured robes for ones of gold, the easier would be the inevitable transition of the Order into a truly irresistible power.

‘We should all accept Hanuman li Tosh’s vision and leadership,’ she said. ‘Even if he isn’t technically a lord, he has earned the right to be called Lord Hanuman – no one more so. We should welcome him here today as if he is still of the Order. He never abjured his vows, as some believe. After all, he was forced to leave us only because of the injunction against the holding of religious office. This was the Timekeeper’s rule and has since been changed. Indeed, I propose that all such as Hanuman who have been unjustly driven from the Order should be allowed to renew their vows and —’

‘This isn’t the time for such a discussion,’ Lord Pall interrupted through the young cetic next to him. ‘I’ve asked Hanuman here today because events have moved to threaten all our lives. And Hanuman is involved in deciding how this threat must be met.’

As if Lord Pall had given a cue, at that moment the doors to the first anteroom slid open and Hanuman li Tosh strode into view. Moulded to his shaved head was a diamond clearface, a glittering computer that enabled him almost continually to interface other and greater computers, perhaps, Danlo thought, even the Universal Computer itself. This symbol of his secret powers riveted the stares of Lord Pall and everyone else sitting at their little tables. Although Hanuman had grown no taller since he and Danlo had last parted, he seemed mysteriously to have gained in stature. Dressed as he was in a long and perfectly fitted robe of gold, with his dazzling smile, he was like a sun filling up the room. But it wasn’t just his charisma or other-worldly beauty that transfixed the lords. There was something deeper, an intense inner fire connecting him to the suffering of his own soul – and to the secret suffering of all those who came close to him. He seemed always to be looking inside himself at a fiery and terrible place that others refused to see. It was his pride that he could bear a burning that would destroy a lesser being. And burn he did, not only in his spirit, but in his body which moved as if each cell were being heated by a separate, tiny, red-hot flame. Danlo felt certain that if he could have touched Hanuman’s forehead, the skin would have been hot as with fever; watching Hanuman as he glided over the black floorstones, it was almost as if his eyes could see into the infrared and thus descry the waves of heat emanating from Hanuman’s hands, his heart, his nobly-shaped head. Strangely, little of this inner fire communicated itself through his eyes. Hanuman had cold eyes, hellish eyes, ice-blue like a sled dog’s. Shaida eyes, Danlo thought for the ten thousandth time, In Hanuman’s eyes were impossible dreams and cold, crystalline worlds devoid of love or true life – as well as a cold, terrible, beautiful will towards perfection. It was his will, above all else, that marked him as different from others. It was why even Lord Pall feared him. In all Hanuman’s life, he had met only one other man whose will matched his own, and that was Danlo wi Soli Ringess. Once, he had loved Danlo as his deepest friend, but now the hatred was there for all to see, filling up his eyes with a pale, cold fury.

‘Hello, Danlo,’ Hanuman said as he paused before his chair at the centre of the room. He spoke fluidly and easily as if he had happened to meet an acquaintance on the street. He took little notice of Bertram Jaspari or Malaclypse Redring and none at all of the hundred and twenty lords waiting for him to sit down. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again – but somehow I knew I would.’

‘Hello, Hanuman. I am glad to see you.’

‘Are you? Are you?’

Danlo tried to smiled at Hanuman but could not; he touched eyes with him, and it was as if two blue icicles were being driven into his brain.

I must not hate him, he thought. I must not hate.

‘I am glad to see … for myself what you have become,’ Danlo said. He gazed into Hanuman’s eyes, and he disappeared into a world of memory and pain.

‘You shouldn’t have returned, you know. But you always had to follow your fate, didn’t you?’

‘But, Hanu, it was you who always spoke of the need to love one’s fate.’

‘And you who wanted to love one’s life.’

‘Truly, to love life, itself … yes.’

‘Is that why you’ve returned, then, out of love?’

The strange turn of this conversation amused Danlo, but it also disturbed him deeply. He felt the eyes of a hundred lords searching his face for falsity or truth. From the chair next to him, Malaclypse Redring watched like a tiger for any sign of hesitation or weakness, and Bertram Jaspari stared at him as well. It was unseemly to hold such an intimate discussion with all the Lords of Neverness and the whole universe watching and waiting. But if his fate had truly led him to such a strange moment, then he would embrace it, wildly, with all the force of his will.

‘I still love you,’ he said to Hanuman without shame. In his marvellous voice there was an utter openness and truth. ‘I always will.’

This simple statement fairly astonished the lords. It astonished Hanuman, too. He looked at Danlo, and for a moment all the hurts and betrayals of the past years evaporated like ice crystals beneath a hot sun, and there was nothing between them except the truth of who they really were. For a moment, there was love. But then there was the other thing, too. Hanuman couldn’t bear the light in Danlo’s dark, wild eyes, and he wanted to look away. It was his hell that he could not. It was both their hells that Danlo always reminded him of the one thing in the universe that he feared above all else.

How he fears, how he hates, Danlo thought. And I have made him hate; I have made him who he is.

Without another word, Hanuman bowed to Danlo and then stepped over to take a seat at the table nearest Lord Pall’s. From this central position he could easily observe the faces of Danlo and the others sitting near him, or turn to exchange meaningful looks with Lord Pall.

‘We will now hear from the Holy Ivi Bertram Jaspari, as he calls himself,’ Lord Pall said. ‘And then I will ask the warrior-poet to speak. And lastly, the ambassadors from the Fellowship. I invite any lord to interrupt with questions as necessary. This may seem an unprecedented barbarism, I know, but these are unprecedented times. Never in our history have we held a conclave with so many different powers. And never – not even during the War of the Faces – has the potential for power to destroy us all been so grave. So then, Holy Ivi, if you please.’

Bertram Jaspari, sitting in his chair next to Danlo, smoothed out the folds of his clumsily-dyed red kimono. He opened his little mouth to speak, but precisely at that moment, Danlo interrupted him before he could give voice to his first word.

‘The Holy Ivi of the Cybernetic Universal Church,’ Danlo said, ‘is Harrah Ivi en li Ede. This man tried to murder her and take her place.’

At this, Bertram Jaspari glared hatred at Danlo for a moment, but said nothing.

‘That may be true,’ Lord Pall said. ‘But he comes to us as the leader of the Iviomils whose fleet of ships has set forth among the stars. For the time, we’ll respect whatever title he chooses to bestow upon himself. So then, Holy Ivi, if you please.’

Bertram Jaspari adjusted the padded brown dobra covering the pointed bones of his head and again began to speak.

‘My Lords of the Order of Mystic Mathematicians and Other Seekers of the Ineffable Flame,’ he said with grave formality. ‘You must know that we Iviomils are the true Architects of the Infinite Intelligence of the Cybernetic Universal Church. You must know that the name of this Intelligence is Ede, the God, the Infinite – the Master Architect of the Universe.’

At the saying of this name, the Ede hologram glowing above Danlo’s devotionary computer flashed Danlo a knowing look and actually winked at him. Danlo had set the computer on the arm of his chair in plain sight of Bertram Jaspari, who had seen millions of such computers on Tannahill. But he had never seen a hologram of Nikolos Daru Ede programmed to act in such an intimate – and irreligious – manner. For the moment he seemed affronted and deeply suspicious. And then he returned to his speech.

‘In our holy Algorithm it is written that, “No god is there but God; God is one, and there can be only one God.” You must know that it is the gravest of errors for any man or woman to try to become a god in emulation of Nikolos Daru Ede. To become an accursed hakra and challenge the divinity of God, Himself – could there be a worse negative program than this? However, it is an error all too easy to fall into, which is why our Church has taught compassion for any and all who might become hakras. Is it not written that, “It is a thousand times easier to stop a thousand men from becoming hakras than to stop one hakra from poisoning the minds of a million men”? This is why we of the Church have come to the Civilized Worlds, to help you through this difficult time when many are tempted to write their own programs and become hakras.’

Bertram Jaspari delivered these devious words smoothly, devoutly, and with great energy. Having learned the Language of the Civilized Worlds only on his journey from Tannahill, he spoke with a heavy accent, but he had no trouble communicating his meaning to the Lords of Neverness or to Danlo or Demothi Bede. To these two ambassadors he implied that the Iviomils would make natural allies with the Fellowship if the Order should fail to restrain the greater ambitions and hubris of Ringism. And, as slippery as a water snake, at the same time, he appealed to the Lords of Neverness, promising that the Iviomils could help the Ringists temper their doctrines to bring their new religion in line with Ede’s Program for the Universe. But beneath his seeming congeniality and reasonableness coiled the threat of naked power. At first he was loath to show this power for what it was. He didn’t wish to shock anyone into an unreasoning opposition. He spoke only in promises and platitudes, telling the assembled lords of his hope of returning the peoples of the Civilized Worlds to Ede. As he reminded Lord Pall and everyone else, Nikolos Daru Ede had been born on Alumit, and all peoples everywhere must return to the truth which He had first shown the Architects of Alumit – and all the other Civilized Worlds.

When he had finished speaking, the lords sat muttering and looking at each other, not quite wanting to believe this Holy Ivi’s immense effrontery. And then Danlo, in his clear, strong voice, said, ‘On Tannahill, during the war that the Iviomils inflicted upon their families and friends, the Iviomils often talked of returning people to Ede. This meant … murdering them.’

At this, Lord Pall flashed Hanuman a quick look and then sucked in a quick breath between his black teeth. He looked at Danlo and said, ‘If you please, will you tell us what you know about this war?’

And so Danlo told the Lords of Neverness about the War of Terror and his part in this latest schism of the Cybernetic Universal Church in which Architect had murdered Architect. He described his friendship with Harrah Ivi en li Ede; it was this remarkable woman, he said, who had found the courage to redefine the Program of Increase and the Program of Totality, the two doctrines which had led the Architects to destroy the stars of the Vild.

‘Bertram Jaspari never accepted Harrah’s New Program,’ Danlo said. ‘And so he began a facifah and brought this war to every part of Tannahill. He … destroyed the city of Montellivi. With a hydrogen bomb, he murdered ten million people.’

Just then a pain shot through Danlo’s head as if his eyes were still open to the light-flash of this bomb. Lord Pall watched as Danlo pressed his palm to his forehead, and told him, ‘Please go on.’

‘But Bertram Jaspari … couldn’t kill every Architect who fell against him by exploding bombs,’ Danlo said. ‘When he saw that the war was lost, he fled Tannahill. All the Iviomils fled. He assembled a fleet of ships and disappeared into the stars. But before the Iviomils left the Vild, they did one more thing. A … truly shaida thing. There was a star. Thirty-seven light years from Tannahill, the star that shone upon the planet of the Narain people. The Narain once were Architects, too. Only, they had left Tannahill to find their own way towards Ede. Heretics, Bertram Jaspari called them. And so he brought his facifah to the Narain. He returned them to Ede. In one of his ships, the Iviomils carry a morrashar. A star-killer. Bertram Jaspari ordered his Iviomils to use this machine to destroy this star. To destroy a whole planet, a whole people. I … know he did. I saw the star explode. On my return through the Vild, I found the remnants of this star, the gases and radioactive dust. But there was nothing left of the Narain people.’

Almost the moment that Danlo had finished speaking, Burgos Harsha slapped his hand against the top of his table so that a loud crack rang out into the room. He glared at Lord Pall and asked, ‘Is what the pilot says true?’

Cetics – the Lord Cetic above all others – are supposed to be able to read falsity or truth from the tells that mark a man’s face. Lord Pall looked at Hanuman, who had been looking at Danlo. Hanuman softly tapped his knuckles together and held his eyes unblinking. It seemed that he was passing secret knowledge to Lord Pall and controlling him in a secret and subtle way. After a moment, Lord Pall made a sign to his interpreter, who said, ‘Danlo wi Soli Ringess has always been the most truthful of men – as far as he can see what is true and what is not. But we needn’t accept his word only. Look at this Holy Ivi, Bertram Jaspari! One doesn’t have to be a cetic to see what is written on his face.’

In truth, Bertram Jaspari, far from denying the murder of the Narain people, now fairly exulted in this terrible act. Danlo had shown him for who he really was; very well, then, he would pretend to friendship no longer. His bluish face fell through the shallow emotions of sanctity and ambition, perhaps touched with an underlying sadism. In truth, it was much to his purpose that his power be known. He looked at Lord Pall, smiled at Danlo, and then quoted from his holy Algorithm: ‘The Iviomils are those vastened in God who shall wield the light of the stars like swords.’

Most of the lords sitting at their tables that day were old but far from senile. No one supposed that Bertram Jaspari was speaking metaphorically, in a spiritual sense. They looked at Bertram Jaspari and no one doubted that this ugly man meant to rule the Civilized Worlds through the threat of destroying them.

‘Harrah en li Ede had fallen into negative programs,’ Bertram Jaspari explained. ‘The Algorithm tells us that anyone who has so fallen must be cleansed – by the fire of a facifah, if necessary. All peoples who deny Ede’s Program for the Universe must be cleansed.’

At this, Morasha the Bright, a white-haired exemplar from Veda Luz, pointed a bony finger at Bertram and asked the lords, ‘If this man holds the power to destroy stars, why didn’t he use this morrashar against Tannahill’s star before he fled the Vild?’

Bertram Jaspari smiled at this obvious question, then explained, ‘Despite what the pilot has told you, we Iviomils are not murderers. Most of our fellow Architects on Tannahill know Harrah’s redefinitions of the Programs of Increase and Totality to be in error. Would you have us cleanse an entire planet merely for the negative programs of an old woman and those who support the oppression of her architectcy?’

He hopes to return to Tannahill, Danlo suddenly knew. Someday, after regaining power, he hopes to return and rule Tannahill as the Church’s Holy Ivi.

Lord Pall watched Hanuman pursing his thin lips, and then, with a flick of his fingers, he said, ‘I’m afraid we must assume that Bertram Jaspari is willing and able to use this morrashar to destroy the Star of Neverness.’

For a moment, no one spoke and no one moved. Bertram Jaspari sat staring at the lords, and his face had fallen implacable with his purpose.

Burgos Harsha, whose face had been scarred when a hydrogen bomb had blown in the windows of the Timekeeper’s Tower, had a particular hatred of any man willing to explode hydrogen into light. He glared at Bertram, and in his growly old voice, he said, ‘It may be that this “Holy Ivi” possesses the means to destroy our star. I’ve often warned against the tolerance of the forbidden technologies. But how is he to use this technology, this morrashar of which Danlo wi Soli Ringess has spoken? Wouldn’t his fleet have to manoeuvre close to the Star of Neverness if he wishes to destroy her? And aren’t our pilots adept enough to detect the Iviomil ships the moment they fall out of the manifold and destroy them?’

This touched off a wild round of argument as the lords broke into groups of three or four and debated the strategies that the Iviomils might use to explode their star. Finally, Lord Pall waved his hand, blinked his little pink eyes, and said, ‘I see that Danlo wi Soli Ringess has more to tell us.’

‘I do,’ Danlo said. He squeezed the black diamond pilot’s ring that he wore around his little finger, and then said, ‘There is a ronin pilot who followed me into the Vild. He provided passage for Malaclypse Redring, who hoped that I would lead him to my father. Both these men followed me through the stars, all the way to Tannahill. I could not lose them.’

‘What was this pilot’s name?’ Lord Pall asked.

The lords had now fallen deathly silent, and the room was so quiet that Danlo could hear his heart beating like a drum.

‘It was Sivan wi Mawi Sarkissian in the Red Dragon,’ Danlo said. ‘I believe that he pilots the deep-ship containing the Iviomils’ morrashar.’

Again Bertram Jaspari smiled, affirming what Danlo knew to be true.

‘Sivan wi Mawi Sarkissian!’ Rodrigo Diaz said. Many of the lords sighed and groaned at this name, but most just continued to stare at Bertram Jaspari as if they wished their vows permitted them the indulgence of murder.

‘Before Sivan left the Order,’ Jonath Parsons said, ‘he was a pilot of the first rank. Perhaps the equal of Salmalin or even Mallory Ringess.’

‘But why would he serve a sect of star-killing fanatics?’

None of the lords had an answer to this question, not even Lord Pall who could read most men’s minds as easily as he might a map of the city’s streets. Hanuman’s face was silent as he closed his eyes and disappeared for a moment into a private, interior world illuminated by the clearface that covered his head. And then Malaclypse Redring, who flashed Danlo a quick, almost secret smile, said, ‘He serves me; he serves the Order of Warrior-Poets.’

‘Traitor!’ twenty lords shouted at once. And then fifty other voices: ‘Ronin! Wayless! Renegade!’

Malaclypse held up his red-ringed hands for the lords to regain their restraint and compose themselves. Then he told them, ‘You might do better to ask why my Order has allied itself with these Iviomils of the Cybernetic Universal Church.’

‘Well, why have you?’ Burgos Harsha asked.

‘That’s no mystery,’ Kolenya Mor said. ‘The warrior-poets have been trying to destroy our Order for seven thousand years.’

‘It … is more than that,’ Danlo said. He paused to see Hanuman eyeing him coolly, then told the lords a secret that he had shared with no one except Bardo for more than ten years. ‘I learned this from the warrior-poet, Marek, in the library – it was the day that he tried to kill Hanuman li Tosh.’

Now Hanuman’s eyes were as hard and cold as frozen pools of water. He must have well remembered how Marek had threatened to push his killing knife slowly up the optic nerve of his eye. Certainly he remembered the pain of his torture at Marek’s hand for Marek had touched him with a dart tipped with ekkana: a drug that continued to poison him and would cause the nerves of his body to burn like fire for the rest of his life.

‘Please go on,’ Lord Pall said to Danlo.

Danlo bowed his head to Hanuman in honour of the terrible pain that he would have to bear moment by moment for ever – or until the cold hand of death fell upon his face and relieved him of his agony. Then he said, ‘The warrior-poets have a new rule. They would slay all potential gods. This is why Malaclypse followed me across the Vild. He hoped that I would lead him to my father. He … hopes to slay him.’

‘But your father is Mallory Ringess!’ Kolenya Mor said. ‘He’s a god!’

‘How can a warrior-poet slay a god?’ Nitara Tan wanted to know.

‘Perhaps Mallory Ringess will return to Neverness and slay him,’ Kolenya Mor said. And then, quite pleased for the chance to affirm her faith in the First Pillar of Ringism, she went on, ‘One day, he will return to help show us the way towards godhood. We will become gods one day. If the Order of Warrior-Poets’ new rule is to slay all potential gods, they should be prepared to slay half the peoples of the Civilized Worlds.’

The warrior-poets, who believe that the universe eternally recurs in endless cycles of death and rebirth, eagerly await the supreme Moment of the Possible when all things return to their divine source. If indeed the universe had evolved close to this Moment of fire and light, then, Danlo thought, the warrior-poets might well be prepared to see everyone and everything slain in order to fulfil this terrible fate.

The light pouring down through the dome found the colours of Malaclypse’s robe and enveloped him in a rainbow of fire. He smiled and said, ‘We don’t seek to slay everyone who professes a wish to move godward – only those such as Mallory Ringess who may already have done so.’

But why slay gods at all? As Danlo lost himself in Malaclypse’s marvellous violet eyes, he wondered about the deeper purposes of the warrior-poets. Once, they had sought mental powers very like personal godhood, but now it was almost as if the gods themselves restrained them from this dream. If there truly is a moment for the universe when all things become possible, if they accept the limitations of their humanity and seek this moment, why not let the gods hasten its coming?

It was strange, he thought, that the warrior-poets should share a similar eschatology with the Architects. The Algorithm of all the Cybernetic Churches taught that there would come the Last Days at the end of time when Ede the God would grow to absorb the entire universe and, as Master Architect, make it anew in what they called the Second Creation. To test the warrior-poets’ purposes, Danlo caught Malaclypse’s gaze and then pointed at the devotionary computer sitting on the arm of his chair. ‘Did you know that Ede is dead? The program that runs this devotionary is all that remains of him.’

Danlo then went on to recount his journey to the Solid State Entity and then to the spaces out near Gilada Luz where he had discovered the wreckage of the god that had been Ede. Ede, he said, had fought a terrible war with the Silicon God. In the last moments of their last battle, Ede had encoded the program of his selfness into a radio signal that had been received by this very devotionary computer. Now the program ran the circuitry of this little jewelled box instead of a vast machine the size of many star systems.

‘Liar!’ Bertram Jaspari suddenly called out. His usually blue face had reddened to a livid purple. Whatever Malaclypse thought of Danlo’s story, the effects of this news on Bertram were immediate and profound. ‘Naman, liar – all namans are liars because they don’t accept the truth of Ede’s divinity. But I must tell you, Pilot, that Ede is God. The only God, the Infinite, the Inevitable, the Eternal. Whatever god you found dead in the galaxy’s wastelands must have been a hakra slain by Ede for his hubris.’

He believes his Church’s myths literally, Danlo suddenly realized. Until this moment, he had supposed that Bertram had only played at devoutness, mostly for the purpose of gaining power. This is his true danger, that he truly believes.

‘And if your father ever does return,’ Bertram said, ‘it won’t be necessary for the warrior-poets to slay him. Ede, Himself, will slay him.’

He stared straight at Danlo, then, and quoted from one of the books of the Algorithm: ‘And so Ede faced the universe, and he was vastened, and he saw that the face of God was his own. Then the would-be gods, who are the hakra devils of the darkest depths of space, from the farthest reaches of time, saw what Ede had done, and they were jealous. And so they turned their eyes godward in jealousy and lust for the infinite lights, but in their countenances God read hubris, and he struck them blind. For here is the oldest of teachings, here is wisdom: No god is there but God; God is one, and there can be only one God.’

As Bertram Jaspari finished speaking with a flourish of pomposity and false reverence, Danlo looked down at the Ede hologram floating above the devotionary computer. Ede’s large sensuous lips were set with determination, and his black eyes shone brightly. He flashed Danlo the cetics’ finger signs that Danlo had taught him. Many of the lords in the room, of course, knew how to read such signs, but they sat too far away and their eyes were too old to descry what passed between Danlo and Ede. Hanuman, though, sat close and his vision was nearly as keen as Danlo’s. So it must have mystified him to read Ede’s secret communication: ‘I suppose this isn’t the best moment to tell Bertram Jaspari that Ede, the Infinite, the Inevitable, the Eternal, asks for the return of his human body.’

Danlo smiled as he stared at this representation of Nikolos Daru Ede. Ede’s coffee-coloured skin fairly glowed with hope and humour; once again Danlo wondered if a bit of a program running a box-like computer could possibly be conscious in the same way as a man.

Finally, for the first time that day in the College of the Lords, Hanuman li Tosh spoke to the lords. He had a silver tongue and a beautiful, golden voice; his voice was his sword, and through his cetic’s art he had polished and honed it until it cut to the heart of people’s dreams and deepest fears.

‘Of course Mallory Ringess will return to Neverness,’ he said. He closed his eyes suddenly, and the clearface covering his head glowed and glittered for all to see. When he turned to stare at Bertram Jaspari a moment later, he seem to blaze with renewed energy. ‘Of course Mallory Ringess won’t let a warrior-poet slay him. He, the greatest pilot in the history of the Order, will return to lead our ships to victory. Or he will return after Salmalin has destroyed the Fellowship’s fleet. But return he will, as he promised before he left Neverness to become a god.’

He turned to address Lord Pall with his hypnotic voice while his face flickered with eye shadings and little movements that only Lord Pall would understand. There were two cetic sign languages, as Danlo knew. There was the secret language of the hands and fingers, and then there was the truly secret system in which a tightening of the jaw muscles combined with a slight pause in breathing, for example, might convey light-streams of information. But only from one cetic to another. And only some cetics, those of the higher grades, ever learned this second sign system, and so it was something of a mystery how Hanuman li Tosh had acquired this knowledge. But Danlo saw that he truly had – just as he saw Hanuman’s subtle and sinister power over Lord Pall.

‘My Lord Cetic,’ he said to his former teacher and master, ‘something should be done with the warrior-poet.’

‘What do you mean?’ Lord Pall asked, although he knew precisely what Hanuman meant.

‘We shouldn’t live in fear that he’ll try to assassinate Mallory Ringess when he returns.’

‘No,’ Lord Pall agreed.

‘We shouldn’t live in fear of him, now, as he sits before us free to move as a tiger.’

Malaclypse sat lightly in his chair and stared at Hanuman and the muscles beneath his rainbow robe fairly trembled with tension as if he might at any moment spring into motion.

‘But he is restrained,’ Burgos Harsha observed, bowing to the horologe behind Malaclypse. The horologe, whose red robe showed dark sweat-stains beneath his arms, still pointed his laser at the back of Malaclypse’s neck.

‘It’s impossible to restrain a warrior-poet thus,’ Hanuman said. ‘Having no fear of death, the warrior-poet could slay as he wishes. You should know, he could stick a poison needle in one of our ambassadors’ necks before the horologe even realized that he had moved.’

Danlo, who remembered how blindingly quick a warrior-poet could move, simply sat next to Malaclypse looking at him deeply. Demothi Bede looked at him, too; but his were the eyes of a hunted animal, and he nervously fingered the collar of his robe as if he suddenly found it too tight.

‘And how would you restrain him, then?’ Burgos Harsha asked Hanuman. ‘Since you think our Order’s precautions insufficient?’

Hanuman smiled then, and turned to Lord Pall. He said, ‘With my lord’s permission, I’ve arranged other precautions.’

Lord Pall, caught in the freeze of Hanuman’s ice-blue eyes, fluttered his fingers for a moment and said, ‘We can’t be too cautious with the warrior-poets. What arrangements have you made, Lord Hanuman?’

This was the first time that Danlo had heard Hanuman addressed as ‘lord’, and he saw that Hanuman accepted this title as a warlord might tribute from a defeated enemy.

‘These arrangements,’ Hanuman said in his golden voice that filled the Lords’ College like sunlight. He nodded to another horologe who stood outside the door to one of the room’s antechambers. The horologe opened the door, carved with the figures of some of the Order’s most famous lords. And then a cadre of Ringists – six strong-looking men wearing the golden robes identical to Hanuman’s – strode across the black floor and surrounded the chair where Malaclypse sat waiting for them.

‘This is uncalled for!’ Burgos Harsha protested. ‘These men aren’t of the Order, and they have no place here!’

‘No, it’s just the opposite,’ Hanuman said. ‘I have called them here – they’re my personal guard. My godlings. And their place is by my side.’

So saying, he nodded at the first of the Ringists, a hard and cruel-looking man who had once been a warrior-poet before he had deserted his Order to turn ronin. His own eyes, perhaps destroyed in some private war or torture among his violent kind, had been replaced with jewelled eyes: cold, glittering, mechanical orbs that were horrible to look upon. And yet Malaclypse Redring, who sat so close to where this fearsome man stood, looked at him as easily and penetratingly as if he could see through these twin computers straight into the man’s soul. In truth, it was the ronin warrior-poet who had difficulty looking at Malaclypse. With great wariness, he removed a spinneret from a pocket of his robe. He thumbed the trigger, causing a fine jet of liquid proteins to squirt out of the nozzle. Upon contact with the room’s cool air, the proteins immediately hardened into an incredibly tough filament known as acid wire. It took the ronin warrior-poet only a few moments to make many circles with the spinneret about Malaclypse, binding his arms and legs to the chair. Now, if Malaclypse made the slightest motion, the glittering wire would cut into him and touch his nerves like acid.

‘This is really too much!’ Burgos Harsha protested again. He, like every other lord in the room, must have wondered (and feared) how Hanuman had managed to convert a former warrior-poet to the Way of Ringess

And Hanuman replied, ‘No, Lord Historian, again, it’s just the opposite. It’s really not enough.’

Hanuman nodded at the ronin, whose name was Jaroslav Bulba. Jaroslav – and one of the other golden-robed godlings – immediately began to search Malaclypse for weapons.

‘But surely Malaclypse Redring has already been well searched!’

‘No, Lord Historian,’ Hanuman said. ‘He’s a warrior-poet, and so surely he hasn’t been searched well enough.’

While the second godling, who was also a ronin warrior-poet, ran a scanner over Malaclypse’s arms, torso and legs, Jaroslav Bulba dared to pick through his thick, shiny hair. Hanuman had chosen Jaroslav as leader of his personal guard for his loyalty and courage (and cruelty), and Jaroslav could scarcely wait to inflict his rage at his former Order upon a warrior-poet who wore two red rings. Because he secretly feared this man who might well be able to kill him as easily as he might a furfly, he sought to face his fear in the crudest of ways. Courageously – but stupidly and for no good reason – he clamped his fingers in Malaclypse’s hair and jerked his head to the right and left. It must have emboldened him to manhandle Malaclypse so, for his jewelled eyes glowed red like plasma lights. And then, as he examined the black and white curls above Malaclypse’s temples, suddenly, without warning, Malaclypse opened his mouth – like a serpent about to strike with venomed fangs, or so Jaroslav must have perceived. For he immediately jumped back and knocked into the other godling, nearly causing him to drop his scanner. But Malaclypse had neither drug darts to spit at Jaroslav nor venom, but only words. ‘I’ll remember you,’ he said. ‘When your Moment of the Possible comes, I’ll remember who you really are.’

After that, Jaroslav completed his search with the greatest circumspection if not gentleness. As did the other ronin warrior-poet. In little time, they had amassed a truly astonishing cache of weapons: red-tipped needles sewn into the fabric of Malaclypse’s robe; acid wire sewn as the fabric of his robe; plastic explosive moulded into the lining of his boots; two poison teeth; a heat-tlolt; two finger knives; three flesh pockets containing biologicals, most likely programmed bacteria or some sort of murderous virus; and perhaps most astonishing of all, the warrior-poet’s killing knife: a long blade of diamond-steel set into a black nall haft. Surely, Danlo thought, even the most cursory of searches would have uncovered this most revered of all a warrior-poet’s weapons. How Malaclypse had smuggled it into the College of Lords remained a mystery.

‘It’s done, Lord Hanuman,’ Jaroslav said. He held the double-edged killing knife in his sweaty hand and pointed it at Malaclypse. ‘This warrior-poet is no danger now.’

Now completely unarmed though he was, Malaclypse’s eyes cut into Jaroslav like violet knives. ‘It’s said that whoever touches a warrior-poet’s knife, that knife shall touch him.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ Jaroslav said, as he slipped the long knife through the black belt he wore around his robe. ‘I’ll keep your knife, should it ever be necessary for me to touch you.’

Hanuman looked at Lord Pall, and he raised one eyebrow, slightly. And Lord Pall said, ‘It’s time that we heard from the ambassadors of the Fellowship. Lord Bede, Danlo wi Soli Ringess – if you please.’

‘Lords of the Order,’ Demothi Bede began. As eldest, both he and Danlo thought it seemly that he should speak first. ‘My lords, Lord Hanuman li Tosh, we’ve been charged with a mission to end this war before the worst of it begins. We’ve been charged with the power to negotiate a peace acceptable to both the Fellowship and the Order. Danlo wi Soli Ringess and I are to remain on Neverness as long as is needed to conclude these negotiations.’

He went on to make a fine little speech as to the great traditions of the Order in bringing the light of reason and the ineffable flame of truth to the Civilized Worlds. It was his hope, he said – and the hope of everyone – that reason and truth would eventually prevail.

When he had finished speaking, Hanuman glanced in Lord Pall’s direction and tapped his thumbs together as he rolled his left shoulder forwards slightly. And Lord Pall said, ‘We, too, hope that truth will prevail. In the service of truth, then, we invite you to state your demands.’

‘My Lord Pall, I should hardly like to begin negotiations by characterizing the Fellowship’s concerns as—’

‘State your demands,’ Lord Pall fairly snapped. Because he chafed at Hanuman’s intimidation and control of him, he now sought to intimidate and control others. ‘We’ve little time for the niceties of diplomacy. With every word we waste, your fleet falls nearer to Neverness.’

And so, without further ado, Demothi Bede was forced to tell the College of Lords the Fellowship’s purpose in waging war. He accused the Order of violating the Law of the Civilized Worlds in using assembler technology to mine the moons of Neverness and construct Hanuman’s Universal Computer. The Fellowship’s foremost ‘demand’, he said, must be that the Order cease the mining of these moons and disassemble the Universal Computer before the wrath of some jealous god fell upon the Civilized Worlds and destroyed them.

‘Of course, the Order will be free to pursue the religion of Ringism – any person on any of the Civilized Worlds will be,’ Demothi said. ‘But the Law of the Civilized Worlds must be inviolate. We’re here, in part, to negotiate a set of agreements that will ensure that Ringism doesn’t lead any person or world into the black whirlpools of chaos outside the Law.’

With a sigh at what he saw in the stony faces of a hundred and twenty lords staring at him. Lord Demothi Bede bowed to Danlo to indicate that he had no more to say. And then Danlo touched the poison diamond brooch pinned to his silken robes; he drew in a deep breath and began, ‘My lords, there must be a way towards peace. Truly, peace is—’

But he got no further than this before Bertram Jaspari interrupted him. ‘This naman,’ he said, pointing at Danlo, ‘has called us Iviomils terrorists and murderers. We call him a hypocrite. He speaks of peace, and of stopping war. But how does he think to bring this peace? By threatening war. By threatening Neverness with the armed terror of the Fellowship’s fleet if you lords refuse to accede to his demands. Danlo wi Soli Ringess has been called Peacewise and Lightbringer, but we call him Murderer: for surely the deaths of those murdered in this war will be upon his hands as much as any pilot of any lightship.’

Bertram Jaspari was a sadistic and shallow man, but he was also quite shrewd in his way. He knew Danlo well enough to hurt him – or at least to cause him the gravest of doubts.

Truly, the Fellowship threatens violence no less than do the Iviomils, he thought. And I am of the Fellowship as a hand is part of an arm.

For a moment, it seemed that Bertram had shamed Danlo into silence. And then Danlo drew in another deep breath and said, ‘The Fellowship has murdered no one. I … have come to Neverness so that no one murders anyone. There must be a way for men and women beyond murder.’

Although this was the essence of all that he had to tell the lords, he might have said still more, but just then one of Hanuman’s most devoted lords, an old woman named Tirza Wen, called out from the rear of the room, ‘The wayless dares to tell us of a way!’

And the Lord Phantast, Pedar Sulkin, said, ‘There is a way for man, of course. The Way of Ringess.’

‘A way for woman,’ Kolenya Mor said, eyeing Lord Sulkin with a smile. ‘A way for women and men to become gods. A new way for humankind.’

‘A new way,’ Hanuman said in his golden voice. He spoke with compassion and grace, but with fire, too. He looked to his right and to his left to draw the attention of all the lords in the room. ‘We must remember that the Way of Ringess is new. We must be new. We must be as godlings breaking out of the shells of the old thoughtways that have kept us from our destiny. We must fly on golden wings as we were meant to fly. Which is why we need a new law. The Law of the Civilized Worlds was made for human beings. In truth, it was made precisely to keep human beings human – all too human. And why? Because its makers feared our infinite possibilities. They were cowards but who can blame them? The greater the height, the greater the fall, or so it’s said. But a time comes for any race when it must dare to soar beyond its deepest dreams – either that or become mired in the mudsands of evolutionary failure. This is our time. We must choose the clouds and the Golden Rings of the universe or else the mud. And haven’t we already chosen? Half of the Civilized Worlds have chosen the Way of Ringess. We who wear the gold would never seek to tell the wayless which way they must choose. But neither will we be told what our law must be. A new law – isn’t it time we made a new law for the new beings we are becoming? A law for gods.’ He paused a moment and then said, ‘But I’m only Lord of the Way of Ringess. I would never think to tell the Lords of the Order how they should respond to these ambassadors who demand such a blind adherence to the old laws.’

Now, as he looked at Lord Pall, his eyes flicked to the right and to the left, and then he blinked twice, slowly. And Lord Pall, controlled by these nearly invisible strings of light, said, ‘It would be silly to pretend that the Order isn’t involved in the Way of Ringess. Therefore, I think it appropriate that we of the Order ask Lord Hanuman’s advice.’

Burgos Harsha opened his mouth as if to protest Lord Pall’s suggestion. But before he could speak, quicker than a silver knife flashing in the sun, Hanuman slid his voice into the room.

‘These are dangerous times, and there’s danger in whichever way we choose,’ he said. He bowed his head to Bertram Jaspari and the warrior-poet bound in gleaming filaments of acid wire. And then he bowed to Demothi Bede and finally to Danlo. ‘The representatives of two powers sit before us. The Fellowship demands that we disassemble the greatest of our works and obey their law. The Iviomils demand even more: that they should rule the Civilized Worlds and we become their slaves. You should know, this is what they really desire. But who can become a slave who has almost become a god? For myself, I would choose death rather than submission to another’s power. But even if I were willing to be a slave – even if we all were – there’s no safety in such cravenness. We live in dangerous times – I can’t say that often enough. The gods make war upon each other, and if Danlo wi Soli Ringess can be believed, even Ede the God has been destroyed. And then there are the Iviomils. With their morrashar, the Iviomils destroy the stars. They threaten to destroy our star. Are we to face such power with the weakness of slaves? Or with the glory of gods? This I know; this I’ve seen: it’s only in becoming gods that we shall ever be safe from the gods. And safe from those such as the Iviomils and the warrior-poets who would slay all godlings. It’s a paradox, I know, but the way of the greatest danger is also the safest. We are millions of millions; we are stardust; we are golden – can even the greatest of gods stop us from exploding across the universe?’

Few of the lords sitting at their tables that day had any wish to become anyone’s slave. For three thousand years, the Order had been the greatest power among the Civilized Worlds, and the Lords of the Order had grown as sure of their power as a wealthy man is of a never-ending supply of wine and food. But at this critical moment in history, they feared losing their power – and losing the war that threatened not only their lives but their very world.

‘What shall we do about the Fellowship, then?’ Burgos Harsha asked. ‘And the Iviomils: we can’t simply expect them to be awed by our dreams and go away.’

‘No,’ Hanuman said, ‘that’s true. Which is why we must awe them otherwise.’

‘How, then?’

‘We shall hunt them down as thallows do sleekits. Sivan wi Mawi Sarkissian may be the equal of Salmalin, but he can’t evade the Order’s finest pilots for ever.’

‘But he doesn’t have to evade them for ever. Only long enough to destroy the Star of Neverness.’

‘I’ve considered this danger,’ Hanuman said. He placed his fingertips against his temple, and the neurologics inside the diamond clearface covering his head glowed like a million purple snakes. ‘The chances of Sivan successfully falling out around our star while our lightships guard her approach is zero. Therefore the Iviomils must have a secret strategy – and what is that?’

‘I’m a historian, not a warrior,’ Burgos Harsha said. ‘How should I know their strategy?’

‘I’m no warrior either,’ Hanuman said. This, as Danlo knew, was not really true. Hanuman had studied the killing arts since childhood, and he came to war as easily as a snow leopard comes into his claws. ‘But I am a cetic,’ Hanuman continued. ‘That is, the cetics once graced me with training in their art. It’s as a cetic that I look at Bertram Jaspari now. And what do I see?’

At this, Burgos Harsha and a hundred lords turned to look at Bertram Jaspari, who sat beaming hatred at Hanuman. And then Kolenya Mor said, ‘What do you see, Lord Hanuman?’

‘He is waiting,’ Hanuman said. ‘If the Fellowship’s fleet should attack ours here, in the spaces near the Star of Neverness, the manifold will blaze with lights like fireworks at Year’s End. In this chaos, the tells of a single deep-ship falling out into realspace would be almost impossible to detect.’

As Hanuman revealed Bertram’s secret strategy, Bertram’s face fell mottled into shades of red and cyanine blue. Clearly, he had gambled on cowing the Order into submitting to his demands – otherwise he never would have risked himself in coming to Neverness. But now that it seemed his strategy had failed, he glared at Hanuman in deathly silence.

‘As I’ve said, I’m no warrior,’ Hanuman continued. ‘But surely this suggests our strategy. We must attack the Fellowship’s fleet before they attack us.’

‘And leave Neverness and our star naked to the Iviomils?’ Burgos Harsha asked.

‘Oh, no – of course not,’ Hanuman said. ‘We’ll leave fifty lightships to guard her. And twenty-five more to hunt down the Iviomils. Even thus diminished, our fleet’s ships will still outnumber the Fellowship’s almost two to one.’

‘And what if our fleet doesn’t find the Fellowship’s fleet before they’ve fallen almost all the way to Neverness?’

Hanuman fell silent for a long time as he looked out into the centre of the room where Danlo sat. In the light falling down through the dome, Danlo’s deep blue eyes shimmered like the ocean.

‘There may be a way to descry the Fellowship’s path through the Fallaways,’ Hanuman said. ‘We must ask our scryers if they can see such a path. If so, then we might fall upon the Fellowship’s fleet by surprise and destroy them.’

Now Hanuman faced Lord Pall, and their eyes danced over each other’s body and face. Although Danlo knew almost nothing of the cetics’ secret system of signs, he knew Hanuman well enough to read his fierce will in the sudden coldness of his gaze. And Lord Pall still possessed a will of his own; Danlo could see this as a twitching of his pink, albino’s eyes. As Lord Pall and Hanuman stared at each other, and fingers and eyelids fluttered, a great deal of silent communication flowed between them. But mostly, Danlo thought, even as he and Malaclypse Redring and Bertram Jaspari watched – and a hundred lords as well – these two powerful men engaged each other in a fierce contest of wills. In the end, Hanuman won. Lord Pall’s old shoulders shook with anger, and his old vocal cords quivered hoarsely as he addressed the Lords’ College in his own voice.

‘My lords,’ he said, ‘it would be best if we asked our ambassadors to leave us now so that we may confer among ourselves. Hanuman li Tosh has offered to guard the warrior-poet during the time of negotiations, and I think this would be best. Also, he has asked for a private meeting with Danlo wi Soli Ringess and is willing to provide accommodations for him in his cathedral. Of course this won’t interfere with the negotiations; the pilot will be free to journey to the academy daily to join Lord Bede in trying to stop this war that we all must dread. We’ve provided an apartment for Lord Bede – his old one in Upplyssa, as it happens. Bertram Jaspari is to remain within the academy’s walls as well. He’ll be allowed to send word of his safety to his fleet, if he so wishes.’

All at once many men and women protested Lord Pall’s strange decision. Bertram Jaspari, too, added his voice to the dissenters. ‘Lord Pall,’ he said. ‘Malaclypse Redring and I have come to Neverness as a single embassy, and we must not be separated.’

Lord Pall almost smiled, glad at last for the chance to exert the full power of his will. ‘No, it is just the opposite: you must be separated, for you can’t imagine what a danger the warrior-poet might be to you. As you’ve claimed, you are the Holy Ivi of the Cybernetic Universal Church, and as long as you are in Neverness, we of the Order mustn’t allow any harm to befall you.’

With that he looked at Hanuman, who nodded his head at Jaroslav Bulba. Jaroslav then motioned for four of the golden-robed godlings standing near him to pick up the chair to which Malaclypse was bound. With much puffing and sighing, they each managed to get a grip on one of the chair’s four legs and heave it – and Malaclypse Redring – to the height of their shoulders.

‘I’d like to thank the lords for asking me into their College today,’ Hanuman said as he stood and bowed. Then he walked over to join his godlings at the centre of the room where Danlo still sat silently in his chair. ‘Are you coming, Danlo?’ Hanuman asked softly.





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