Oh, he told himself calmly, he would hold someone responsible, yes, he would. But first, first he had to find the war machines, somewhere down here, and put them into action, to drive away the invaders, the Aresians, the faithless, the false, the traitorous, the terrible . . . The adjectives were enough. He did not need to feel anything. So long as he knew they were dreadful people, that was enough.
He hummed a little as he went, licking a finger now and then before thrusting it into the small jar he carried, bringing it out laden with P’naki to be sucked off, like a child with a lolly as he went singing-tinging, crown-acock, down the lanes of his fortune, his treasury, his wonderful, wonderful things. So, they were a bit tattered, but they could be mended. They were quite all right, really, quite fixable, once he had found the machines, he would set about putting things to rights . . .
But, obviously, someone had erred. People down here had not Done Their Jobs Correctly. Things were Not in Good Order. Why, here, here, see! His pets! How long had they been here? When had they arrived? And why had no one told him they had come? Pretty things. Oh, pretty things. Well, now, he would put that to rights himself! It was only a matter of pulling the little tabs and setting the little valves into motion. He would let them out into the world, he would, of course, where they belonged. There, one. And there, another. And here a whole bunch of them in a row, eyes staring out through glassine and vitreon, eyes staring deep into his own. And here others, and there, down a twisting aisle barely wide enough to wriggle through, more, and more yet.
So the tabs were pulled and deep within lights began to glow and wheels began to turn and fluids began to pulse in tubing as creatures long, long asleep began to waken. And he, Lord Paramount of Haven, burrowed into the stack, finding them all, setting them all in motion before he came out, humming, to continue down the dusty way, seeking the person responsible for this inadequacy, this disorder, this mismanagement of the dream, this corruption of his Eden.
27: Shah Mahtt
When Ybon Saelan woke after an uncomfortable night in the bare and waterless refuge, the others were still sleeping, except for the sentry officer who stood bolt upright in the outer gateway, pivoting to keep each of his dune-top sentries in view.
“Report,” grated the minister.
“Nothing to report, sir. The night was quiet. We didn’t see anyone or hear anyone. Marshal came to take a look at the sentry posts early this morning, before dawn. That’s the sum total of it.”
Ybon seated himself on a convenient rock. “Was the Marshal satisfied with your sentries?”
“Don’t know, sir. Haven’t seen him since he went out there. He’s quite the soldier, sir. Came out in full pack.”
“Ah,” said Ybon again, puzzled.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Guardsman.”
“I … maybe I shouldn’t mention it, sir, but the men are muttering and turning quarrelsome. It’s worrisome. They’re not regular guards. They don’t have the discipline to go along without knowing all the details . . . well sir, it’s the Shah’s manner that’s got them uneasy. He’s headed us off nobody knows where, and he’s ready to cut out the tongues or chop off the heads of most anybody, maybe the whole lot of us . . .”
“Ah,” mused Ybon. “I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’ll see if I can’t calm him down.”
He went back into the refuge, to the room where the Shah’s bedding and furniture had been set up, where the Shah himself was still noisily asleep, the rasp of his breath clearly audible. On the small table by the door stood a carved box, an ornamental water cooler of porous clay, a folded napkin, a cup, and a small spoon carved of seabone. The box contained P’naki. The Shah had a spoonful of it on his morning cup, every day. The Shah, as a matter of fact, was by now using almost as much of the lichen as the rest of Mahahm put together.