Del Azarchel leaned back in the chair. “One day you will die and at my hand, I swear it. But let us not speak of such unpleasant matters now. The fate of worlds, of the destiny of man, hangs in the balance.”
Menelaus turned to Vigil. “Remind Blackie he ain’t got the floor to talk. Blackie is a big liar. He did not want the Empyrean to know that he was Mr. Rebound Guy, the one to whom Fake-a-Rania turned in sorrow for comfort when I walked away from her.”
Vigil said to Menelaus, “But she rejected you, not you her! That is what the histories say.”
“No kidding? I betcha they also say Blackie built the pyramids of Egypt all by hisself when he was a toddler. To have a place to stay while he wrote Plato’s dialogue in Shakespeare’s Hamlet? You know the one: To be, or not to be? And what is ‘Being’?”
Vigil said, “No, but history says you went mad and fled here, to the farthest star where mankind dwells—”
“If you read stuff in history books that sounds made up, trust me, they was probably made up. Son, I could have just unplugged by brain-phone gizmo and gotten on a slow boat to China, or whatever is occupying that part of Asia these days, and stayed on Earth, and had air and weight, bugs and diet like I’m damned used to, and been plenty alone. You don’t take two centuries and cross one hundred lightyears just to have a place to get drunk, get into a bar fight, and puke on someone. I arrived on the Errantry by way of Rasalhague and 12 Ophiuchi, and been here over a thousand years. What the hell you think I been doing all this time, wandering around in my skivvies, cussing at your pink sun and howling at your fat moon, with a five-o’clock shadow on my chin and a jug of cheap rotgut in my fist?”
“Ummm.…” Since this was exactly the mental picture Vigil has entertained of the fate of the Judge of Ages ever since he heard the tale in childhood, Vigil thought it more discreet not to say.
Montrose said, “It weren’t that hard to figure. She had all Rania’s memories all right, down to the last drop, but something was missing. She could not read the Monument no more, for one thing. She talked about divorcing man and wife like that was normal, for another, and didn’t bother with confession nor mass. It weren’t her.” He pointed his finger at Del Azarchel. “And that fellow there had the poets and tale-spinners spread the story that I was fooled for a season, and he coupled with her, defiling my marriage bed—and I would kill you just for that, you twin-tongued spirochete infecting the descending colon of a donkey with the clap.” He turned back to Vigil. “Don’t look surprised. I never been fooled by fake Ranias before. Yellow Door tried it, for one.”
Del Azarchel said wryly, “For the benefit of future historians who may interview you gentlemen about this hour, the Cowhand is referring to the highly evolved Sarmento Esteban Rolando i Illa d’Or, the Golden of Hermetic Order of the Irenic Ecumenical Conclave of Man, born A.D. 2196, died A.D. 10650, last ghost deleted A.D. 10927; he is the father of the Nymphs, from which the Joys of Charm, the Delectables of 47 Ursae Majoris all their posterity take their form, as well as the Rakshasi of Gliese 31.5 in Tucana and HR 6 in Phoenix. These in turn are the remote ancestors of your Meanderers, Exiles, and Expelled.” Del Azarchel hefted the pearl in his hand, his voice growing slower and more solemn as he spoke. When he finished, he looked at the Potentate of Torment. What the gaze meant, none in that chamber could say, since only he saw her eyes. “Eons turn and turn again, and all things pass away, and I would prefer he not be forgotten.” He smiled his dazzling smile. “All things, save me, of course.”
“Only damn Hermeticist who could shoot worth a damn,” said Montrose. “Sarmento, I mean. Nicked me once but good.”
“I regularly group better than he did in target shooting and pigeon,” said Del Azarchel. “I am eager to compare my skill with the pistol with yours. At times I wonder if these other matters will never cease to distract us.”
Vigil said harshly, “Matters like whether your servants will dash this world to bits, as we have vowed to do, with the sword you bestowed, sir?”
Del Azarchel leaned back. “By all means, take your time, come to the correct decision as I have ordained, find a way to find yourself alive to see another dawn! Whatever motions of thoughts or words are needed for his happy event to come to pass, I will wait as patient as a stone until … ah, let us say … for another twelve minutes and a half before unleashing weapons deadly beyond the conception of mortal or Angel, Potentate or Domination.”
Montrose said to Vigil, “Hey. If you use that sword, what exactly does it do?”
Vigil said, “Erases all human records and ghosts out of the Noösphere of Torment and the extended information systems of Iota Draconis. Our libraries, finances, laws, intellectual assistance formulae, ship brains, ecological controls, nanotech regulators, stored personalities, serving angels, everything that is ours, including any records and recorded ancestors. Just the diseases caused by nanotechnology malfunctions of every living spore and mite in the city severed from networked controls would suffice to kill all life on the surface, and the mudra and mandala would be meaningless gestures and lines. Cliometry shows a mutual extermination by the hostile clans and races of Torment within a century and a half.”
“So you cannot actually ignite Del Azarchel’s groin?”
“It is an informational weapon, more potent than those made of matter.”
“Just asking.”
“Torment would bring replacements from the buried cities of slumber near the core, and restore a working society to rule this world, and with a working Stability to maintain contact with far worlds. This happened once before in our history, when the Stability of this world failed and all were slain. From this event, the world takes her sad name.”
“Well, only eleven minutes left. Better get a move on. Have you figured what to do?”
Vigil stared at Montrose. “You seem not to care.”
“You seem a bright feller. Course I don’t care. None of this affects me. I played through all these jigs and antics on account of a Swan asked me to. You guessed my plans?”
Vigil said, “No. Only one clue is missing.” He turned. “Torment! You spoke of your fear. Of what are you afraid?”
Torment said, “I fear the long-term consequences of my acts will return to haunt me. In this, I am no different from lesser beings.”
“And these consequences are?”
“Triumvirate must know Rania is false: but the Dominion is as far above me as he is above you. To both of us, he is a mind whose workings none can know nor understand. If I keep faith with Rania, then I must oppose Ximen, who is in rebellion against her, and see that his vessel never makes port. But if I keep faith with the true Rania, or with her dream, she who never returned from M3, then I must rebel against the False Rania, and this puts me in the company of Ximen, whereupon I must welcome his vessel, war or no war.
“So, I fear the signals reaching me from other minds in the Empyrean Polity, including those of Powers and Principalities who can overwhelm my thoughts as easily as Foxes bedevil Men. Parts of my mind are swift, and parts are slow, so that to my swift thoughts, a century hence is too remote for worry, but to the slow, the retaliation is immediate. I do not dare defy the Dominion. Triumvirate is for the False Rania and upholds her.”
Vigil threw the sword on the table so that it rang like a bell, and slid, and came to rest just in front of Del Azarchel, who looked pleased and surprised.
Vigil said, “My Lords of the Stability, you may escape your penalty if you dissolve and adjourn forever. There will be no further meetings of this body, nor any need of them. The command of the Lighthouse, by terms of a covenant older than our planet, will return to the Starfarer’s Guild, whose only living member is seated here before us. The penalty for your disobedience I mitigate: instead of being destroyed at my hands, I leave to the mercy of the Emancipation. With this same one stroke, I can avenge my father, not with death, for Torment does not understand death, but with exile.”