Robert Silverberg - Nightwings

“You cover all contingencies,” I said.

“Are we agreed?” Manrule Seven asked.

“We are agreed,” I said.

They brought me a cube and placed me under a privacy screen while I inscribed on its glossy surface the rack number and sequence equations of the document I had discovered. Moments passed; the cube everted itself and the information vanished into its opaque depths. I offered it to them.

Thus did I betray my Earthborn heritage and perform a service for our conquerors, out of loyalty to a blinded wife-stealing Prince.

Dawn had come by this time. I did not accompany the invaders to the Hall of Rememberers; it was no business of mine to oversee the intricate events that must ensue, and I preferred to be elsewhere. A fine drizzle was falling as I turned down the gray streets that bordered the dark Senn. The timeless river, its surface stippled by the drops, swept unwearyingly against stone arches of First Cycle antiquity, bridges spanning uncountable millennia, survivors from an era when the only problems of mankind were of his own making. Morning engulfed the city. Through an old and ineradicable reflex I searched for my instruments so that I could do my Watching, and had to remind myself that that was far behind me now. The Watchers were disbanded, the enemy had come, and old Wuellig, now Tomis of the Rememberers, had sold himself to mankind’s foes.

In the shadow of a twin-steepled religious house of the ancient Christers I let myself be enticed into the booth of a Somnambulist. This guild is not one with which I have often had dealings; in my way I am wary of charlatans, and charlatans are abundant in our time. The Somnambulist, in a state of trance, claims to see what has been, what is, and what will be. I know something of trances myself, for as a Watcher I entered such a state four times each day; but a Watcher with pride in his craft must necessarily despise the tawdry ethics of those who use second sight for gain, as Somnambulists do.

However, while among the Rememberers I had learned, to my surprise, that Somnambulists frequently were consulted to aid in unearthing some site of ancient times, and that they had served the Rememberers well. Though still skeptical, I was willing to be instructed. And, at the moment, I needed a shelter from the storm that was breaking over the Hall of Rememberers.

A dainty, mincing figure garbed in black greeted me with a mocking bow as I entered the low-roofed booth.

“I am Samit of the Somnambulists,” he said in a high, whining voice. “I offer you welcome and good tidings. Behold my companion, the Somnambulist Murta.”

The Somnambulist Murta was a robust woman in lacy robes. Her face was heavy with flesh, deep rings of darkness surrounded her eyes, a trace of mustache lined her upper lip. Somnambulists work their trade in teams, one to do the huckstering, one to perform; most teams were man and wife, as was this. My mind rebelled at the thought of the embrace of the flesh-mountain Murta and the miniature-man Samit, but it was no concern of mine. I took my seat as Samit indicated. On a table nearby I saw some food tablets of several colors; I had interrupted this family’s breakfast. Murta, deep in trance, wandered the room with ponderous strides, now and again grazing some article of furniture in a gentle way. Some Somnambulists, it is said, waken only two or three hours of the twenty, simply to take meals and relieve bodily needs; there are some who ostensibly live in continuous trance and are fed and cared for by acolytes.

I scarcely listened as Samit of the Somnambulists delivered his sales-talk in rapid, feverish bursts of ritualized word-clusters. It was pitched to the ignorant; Somnambulists do much of their trade with Servitors and Clowns and other menials. At length, seemingly sensing my impatience, he cut short his extolling of the Somnambulist Murta’s abilities and asked me what it was I wished to know.

“Surely the Somnambulist already is aware of that,” I said.

“You wish a general analysis?”

“I want to know of the fate of those about me. I wish particularly for the Somnambulist’s concentration to center on events now occurring in the Hall of Rememberers.”

Samit tapped long fingernails against the smooth table and shot a glaring look at the cowlike Murta. “Are you in contact with the truth?” he asked her.

Her reply was a long feathery sigh wrenched from the core of all the quivering meat of her.

“What do you see?” he asked her.

She began to mutter thickly. Somnambulists speak in a language not otherwise used by mankind; it is a harsh thing of edgy sounds, which some claim is descended from an ancient tongue of Agupt. I know nothing of that. To me it sounded incoherent, fragmentary, impossible to hold meaning. Samit listened a while, then nodded in satisfaction and extended his palm to me.

“There is a great deal,” he said.

We discussed the fee, bargained briefly, came to a settlement. “Go on,” I told him. “Interpret the truth.”

Cautiously he began, “There are outworlders involved in this, and also several members of the guild of Rememberers.” I was silent, giving him no encouragement. “They are drawn together in a difficult quarrel. A man without eyes is at the heart of it.”

I sat upright with a jolt.

Samit smiled in cool triumph. “The man without eyes has fallen from greatness. He is Earth, shall we say, broken by conquerors? Now he is near the end of his time. He seeks to restore his former condition, but he knows it is impossible. He has caused a Rememberer to violate an oath. To their guildhall have come several of the conquerors to—to chastise him? No. No. To free him from captivity. Shall I continue?”

“Quickly!”

“You have received all that you have paid for.”

I scowled. This was extortion; but yet the Somnambulist had clearly seen the truth. I had learned nothing here than I did not already know, but that was sufficient to tell me I might learn more. I added to my fee.

Samit closed his fist on my coins and conferred once more with Murta. She spoke at length, in some agitation, whirling several times, colliding violently with a musty divan.

Samit said, “The man without eyes has come between a man and his wife. The outraged husband seeks punishment; the outworlders will thwart that; the outworlders seek hidden truths; they will find them, with a traitor’s help. The man without eyes seeks freedom and power; he will find peace. The stained wife seeks amusement; she will find hardship.”

“And I?” I said into an obstinate and expensive silence. “You say nothing of me!”

“You will leave Perris soon, in the same manner as you entered it. You will not leave alone. You will not leave in your present guild.”

“What will be my destination?”

“You know that as well as we do, so why waste your money to tell you?”

He fell silent again.

“Tell me what will befall me as I journey to Jorslem,” I said.

“You could not afford such information. Futures become costly. I advise you to settle for what you now know.”

“I have some questions about what has already been said.”

“We do not clarify at any price.”

He grinned. I felt the force of his contempt. The Somnambulist Murta, still bumbling about the room, groaned and belched. The powers with whom she was in contact appeared to impart new information to her; she whimpered, shivered, made a blurred chuckling sound. Samit spoke to her in their language. She replied at length. He peered at me. “At no cost,” he said, “a final information. Your life is in no danger, but your spirit is. It would be well if you made your peace with the Will as quickly as possible. Recover your moral orientation. Remember your true loyalties. Atone for well-intentioned sins. I can say no more.”