He made a bow of acknowledgment and thanks, constrained only by the fact that he had almost no room to move. “I thank you, my lord. I wish I could persuade you to preserve these stories in writing.”
Qisib was obviously puzzled. “You mean the use of marks that signify speech?”
“Yes.”
“What purpose would that serve? We already communicate without the need for speech.”
“Of course. But because you communicate with your minds, you have kept no records. No spider in this city knows the history of how the great wall came to be built, or how the armies of Kasib the Warrior were destroyed in the Valley of the Dead. Do these things deserve to be forgotten?”
“But they are not forgotten. They are in my brain. That is why they keep me alive.”
“And do you want to be kept alive?”
“No.” A world of sadness was compressed into the syllable. “I would prefer to be allowed to remain in the land of the unliving.”
Niall was unable to restrain his curiosity. “What is it like to be dead?”
“Unfortunately, I cannot remember. As soon as I enter this world, I lose all memory of that other realm, like a dreamer who wakes from sleep. But I know, from my reluctance to enter this world, that the one I have left must be very beautiful.”
“But would you not like to be allowed to remain there?”
“No, for I have promised to remain alive, so that my memories shall never be lost.”
“But if your memories were preserved in writing, you would be absolved of your promise.”
“That is impossible.” Qisib spoke with conviction.
“It is true that writing could not capture the richness of your memories. But it could duplicate all the essential facts.” Sensing Qisib’s objection, he went on quickly: “Listen to me. There was a time when human beings did not possess writing. But they possessed speech, and minstrels and storytellers memorized accounts of great deeds, and kept them alive for generation after generation. Then writing was invented, and it became possible to keep records. From that time on, man was able to know his own history. Now all the known history of the human race is contained in the records of the white tower.”
Qisib was impressed. “That must take many words.”
“Yes. Every page contains many words. And every book contains many pages. And every library contains many books.” Niall accompanied these words with images that made his meaning clear.
Qisib seemed appalled. “That would be a labor of eternity.”
Niall, unaccustomed to expressing ideas, felt overwhelmed with frustration. “You do not understand. You spiders dislike the idea because you think it sounds boring. You live in the present moment, and find it so interesting that you have no concern for the past. That is a kind of laziness.” In terms of spider etiquette, Niall was being appallingly rude; but he was so concerned with what he had to say that this seemed unimportant. “Human beings are also lazy, but there have always been a few among them who were not lazy. It was these men who kept the records of history, and made maps of the stars in the sky, and studied the laws of geometry — all activities that most human beings consider boring. That is how men came to build great cities and to conquer the Earth — by doing things that you consider boring. It is only by doing things that they consider boring that men cease to be slaves and learn to become masters.” As he spoke, he was despairingly conscious that his words were inadequate, and that no spider could understand what he was trying to say. It was only when he was finished that he realized that all the spiders in the room were listening to him with almost breathless attention; only then did it dawn upon him that because he spoke with such passionate sincerity, they regarded his words as a message from the goddess herself.
In the silence that followed, Niall was aware that they were absorbing what he had said, and reflecting on its meaning. Finally Qisib said: “It would not be easy to transcribe my memories in human language.”
“No. But it would be easier than you think. In the white tower there are machines that can read the mind. They could store the contents of your memory so that they would never be lost.”
“The Death Lord would never grant his permission.”
“That is unnecessary. I am the lord of this city.” It embarrassed Niall to make this assertion, but he felt there was no alternative. “It is I who decide these things.”
Qisib turned an astonished gaze on Asmak. “Is this true?”
“Yes, lord. He is the emissary of the goddess and therefore the ruler of this city.”
“And his will can overrule that of the Spider Lord?”
“Yes, lord.”
Qisib mastered his astonishment; not to have done so would have been considered unmannerly. He addressed Niall with the formal respect due to one in authority. “Forgive me, sire. I did not realize who you were.”
Niall replied with a mental gesture signifying that it was unimportant.
But Qisib was still troubled. “My vow to remain alive was made under solemn oath. . .”
Niall interrupted: “By the authority vested in me by the goddess, I have the power to absolve you of that vow.”
Qisib considered this in silence. When he spoke again, it was obvious that he had come to a decision. “Then you also have the power to absolve me of my promise about what passed between Madig and Kasib the Warrior.”
Niall asked with surprise: “You learned the secret, then?”
“The Death Lord finally spoke of it on the night of the great storm, as we waited for the dawn in the Valley of the Dead. He was deeply troubled by the disaster, and needed someone to whom he could unburden his soul. Since I was the only one to share the secret, I was sworn to silence. But there are no secrets that may not be revealed to the emissary of the goddess.”
Niall’s heart began to beat faster. But he restrained his eagerness and remained silent — to show that he had no desire to force Qisib to speak against his will.
The account that followed was couched in the language of images and sensations. Since Qisib himself had not been present during the events he described, it lacked the pictorial clarity of his earlier narrative; yet Niall was fascinated to observe how even this twice-told tale-recounted by Madig to the Death Lord, then by the Death Lord to Qisib — still possessed the authenticity of direct experience.
Qisib described how, sleeping in a sheltered valley in the waste of Kend, Madig and his companions had been attacked in the hour before dawn, and overwhelmed before they could defend themselves. They never saw the faces of the attackers, for they were blindfolded, and warned that if they made any attempt to remove them, they would be instantly killed. On the second day their captors carried out the threat and cut the throat of a man called Rolf the Wheelwright because they said he was trying to peep underneath his blindfold.
For six days they marched across rough and uneven country, and picked their way across marshes that had a stench of decay. Their captors spoke very little, even among themselves. At the end of the sixth day, they halted at dusk in a grassy valley; in the distance Madig could hear a roaring noise like a waterfall or a river in full spate. The sound was a long way off, but Madig’s hearing was exceptionally keen. The prisoners were then given a sweet-tasting drink and soon after this, Madig began to feel sleepy. But he had guessed that the drink was a drug and struggled hard to resist its effects. So he was still awake when their captors were joined by a band of men who came from the direction of the rushing torrent. This was the last thing Madig remembered before he was finally overcome by sleep.
When Madig woke up, he was on a kind of stretcher and was being carried downhill. The sound of the rushing water was now very close. Soon after this, he saw daylight under the blindfold, and knew that it must be dawn. A few hours later their captors gave them a meal, then more of the sweet drink, which sent them to sleep again. But this time Madig succeeded in spilling half his drink down his chest, so he was able to remember something of the next part of the journey. They embarked on a boat and crossed a lake or a wide river. Then they were placed in chariots drawn by animals, and they traveled throughout the rest of the day. At evening, they were given another meal and more of the sweet drink. Again Madig tried to spill it; but this time his captors noticed what he was doing and he was given a brutal beating that left him bruised all over. He was not sorry when, after being forced to drink a large goblet of the sweet liquid, he lost consciousness again.