“It could be that their educations aren’t as good as the teaching the officials’ sons get,” Gar pointed out. “Yes—‘sons.’ ” Dirk’s mouth twisted wryly. “So you’ve noticed there aren’t any female officials, huh? And yes, it could be that the sons of magistrates get superior educations, because the Protector provides it—but it could also be that all the officials in a district learn who each other are, and who their children are, in spite of that five-year rotation. They’d feel it’s their duty to the last man who held the post to take care of his children, so they’d learn who all the officials’ children are in their district—and when it came time for the exams, they’d make sure they didn’t pass anyone else’s son.”
Miles managed to pull himself up from the depths of horror long enough to say, “There are a few farmers’ sons who do pass the examinations-always a few.”
“Yes, the ones who are so brilliant that the officials would be taking too much of a chance to let them slip through the net,” Gar agreed. “There are those inspector-generals roving about in secret, after all. An examination board wouldn’t want one to talk to a few townsfolk, then examine their records and find indisputable evidence of corruption.”
“Right—it has to be disputable,” Dirk agreed. “So okay, no son inherits his father’s position—but he does get into the ranks of the officials, and proceeds to rise.”
“Many don’t ever become reeves,” Miles objected.
“Sure. If your father never got beyond magistrate, he can’t pull strings to have you promoted. The only sons who would get promoted to reeve, are the ones whose fathers made it to the top rank.”
“So the Protectorship really is won by merit,” Gar inferred, “at least the merit of backroom politicking and influence-peddling.”
“Yeah, that does prove some ability at manipulating people, and that’s a large part of running a police state,” Dirk agreed. He shook his head in wonder. “How do you suppose these people ever dreamed up such a system?”
“I don’t,” Gar said. “I suspect the first Protector inherited a civil service from the colonial days. Bureaucracies are like living creatures, after all—they fight to survive no matter what happens. When Terra cut off the outer colony planets, and they couldn’t get high-tech equipment or outside funding anymore, the bureaucracy found it was in danger of becoming extinct, since it no longer had Terra’s laws and proclamations to enforce.”
“So it developed its own boss,” Dirk concluded, and nodded bitterly. “Yeah, that makes sense. A period of chaos, with the civil service desperately trying to maintain order in a sudden, drastic depression, skilled people having to become farmers, and reinventing the horse-drawn plow because the machines ran out of fuel—sure, a strong man would rise and conquer town after town until the rest realized they’d better join him voluntarily. Then he’d march into the capitol, and the bureaucrats would shout for joy because somebody had come to give them orders to carry out, and keep their jobs going.”
“And everyone was so happy to have the chaos over with that they welcomed any government, no matter how severe,” Gar said. “But give the system its due—it does provide a very orderly society, and no one seems to starve.”
“Yeah, all the body-needs are met,” Dirk agreed, “food, fuel, shelter, safety—but the emotional needs aren’t, and people get twisted inside trying to satisfy cravings they’re told they shouldn’t even have.”
“Yes—love, support, self-fulfillment.” Gar nodded. “No system can provide those, though, Dirk.”
Miles wondered why his face suddenly seemed so hungry, his eyes so despairing.
“No, but they can at least give you a hunting license,” Dirk answered. “Some systems do give you the right to try to be happy, at least to the point of letting you stay single if you don’t fall in love. But that requires a minimal amount of freedom, and here there’s so little personal liberty that only the lucky are happy.”
“Yes, by sheer chance,” Gar said, “when they should have the choice of striving for happiness themselves.” He sighed. “I suppose we do owe them that much, don’t we?”
“No,” Dirk said, “but we’re going to give it to them anyway.”
“Be welcome among us,” the duke said, extending a hand, his manner courtly and gracious.
Orgoru clasped his hand and rose, overawed. “I-I thank Your Grace,” he stammered, “but how did you know me for what I was?”
“Your nobility fairly shines from you,” said a beautiful older lady, coming up to stand by the duke. “How could we mistake it?”
“Still, we needed some proof,” the duke said. “You have shown it to us.”
Orgoru turned to look where the voice had come from—and stood, frozen. She was young, she was graceful, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—and she was praising him! “Your respect for the city, refusing even to darken its stone with the smoke of your fire, and your mercy in sparing the life of the rabbit who might have made your dinner, show the nobility of your spirit!”
“Come, join our revelry,” the duke bade him, and the brilliantly dressed men and women closed ranks around him. “Sound, music!” the duke commanded, and a harmony of flutes, sackbuts, hautboys, and viols sprang up around them. Orgoru looked about with quick glances, but saw no musician. A chill enveloped him, the chill of fear of the supernatural—until he remembered that these lords and ladies were so noble that even the spirits themselves would delight in pleasing them. The apprehension vanished, and he walked in their midst, giddy with pleasure as they sang a song of welcome. The beautiful maiden caught his eye; she cast him a roguish glance, then turned away, head high, making a point of ignoring him.
Orgoru grinned, understanding the game and, for the first time in his life, beginning to enjoy it.
They paraded to the center of the city, and the younger lords and ladies began to dance and cavort in their joy at discovering one more of their number. The moon had come out and turned all the buildings to silver, set against the midnight blue of the sky. They danced down streets of glowing pavement between walls adorned with bas-reliefs and mosaics toward a vast circular plaza. There, where all the grand boulevards met, a great hill rose with one grand broad way climbing its side. At its top stood a tall, round building of alabaster, its dome gleaming in the night, its portals thrown wide, light streaming out, light and music. The glad crowd swept into it, and Orgoru gazed about him in wonder renewed, for all the walls were inlaid with precious stones, all the panels of the dome were painted with scenes from stories he had heard as a small child, told as fairy tales, but which he had realized held a great significance in themselves. Surely that was Venus with Adonis, that Cupid stealing upon the sleeping Psyche, that Narcissus in love with his own reflection!
But it was to a flat wall that they led him, an alcove at one side of the great curving wall that was decorated with curlicues of gold about a mosaic of jewels, a mosaic that showed no picture of a living creature, but only curves and lines in a composition that took his breath with its beauty.
Then a voice reverberated from it. “Good evening, my lords and ladies. Who is this visitor you have brought me?”
Orgoru stared, frozen in shock. His hair tried to stand on end.
The beautiful maiden seemed to understand; she clasped his arm and whispered, “Our Guardian seems rather fearsome when first you meet him, but he is our mainstay and our comfort, our guard and our provider.”