He was conscious that there were in fact two Silas Glotes: one who was shy and uncertain of himself, who disliked attending social gatherings where he was expected to mix with strangers; and another who could dazzle people he had never seen before with wit and insight. In fact, all of the masters seemed to display, to a degree, this tendency toward a dual personality. Bent Capa, for example, mumbled at dinner but rose to eloquence in the courtyards.
In the seminars, subjects were designated, but once started, a discussion might lead anywhere. There was no formal curriculum, and the philosophy of the institution saw more benefit in exposure to a wise master than to a formal body of instruction. Given the level of interest among those in attendance, the system could hardly fail to work.
The death of Karik Endine had ignited discussions in many of the seminars, particularly with regard to Haven and the Abraham Polk legend. Librarians reported that both copies of The Travels were in constant use. Polk became the issue of the hour: Was he historical? Or mythical? If he was historical, had he indeed devoted himself to rescuing the knowledge of the Roadmakers?
Silas was of several minds on the matter. He wanted to believe in the tale of the adventurer who lived on the edge of a dying world, who with a small band of devoted companions carried on a desperate campaign to save the memory of that world against the day when civilization would come again. It was a magnificent story.
And it was possible. Not all the trappings, of course. There had certainly never been a Quebec, the mystical boat that possessed neither sails nor oars, that was capable of diving into the depths of the sea. Nor the undersea entrance to Haven, accessible, presumably, only to the submersible. Nor could Polk have rescued all the people for whom he was credited.
Maybe Polk had existed. Maybe someone tried to save something. And the stories got blown out of proportion. In that sense, there might well be a Haven somewhere.
On the day after his conversation with Quait, a visitor from the Temple, a priest, took her place among the participants in Silas’s assigned conference room. There were nine others, all young men. The seminar’s announced topic was: “Can Men Know the Divine Will?”
Although women were not expressly forbidden from attending Imperium seminars, they were not encouraged, on the grounds that space was limited and intellectual development was essential for the males from whom the League’s leaders would eventually be selected. But women did visit from time to time, and they were particularly welcome if they had specialized knowledge to contribute or a professional interest in the proceedings.
Silas took a few minutes to have each of his participants identify himself. Only the priest was an unknown commodity.
“My name is Avila Kap,” she said. “I represent no one, and I’m here solely because the topic is fascinating.” She smiled dis-armingly.
Avila was about thirty. She wore the green robe of her calling, hood drawn back, white cord fastened about her waist, white sash over her right shoulder. The colors of the prime seasons. Her black hair was cut short. She glanced around the table with dark, intelligent eyes. There was an almost mocking glint in them, as if they were dismissing the Imperium’s reputation as a rationalist institution. Silas thought that her good looks were enhanced by the robe.
He set the parameters for the dialogue: “In order that we avoid spending the afternoon on extraneous issues, we will assume for purposes of this discussion that divine beings do exist, and that they do take an interest in human affairs. The question then becomes, have they attempted to communicate with us? If so, by what characteristics can we know a divine revelation?”
Kaymon Rezdik, a middle-aged merchant who had been sporadically attending the seminars longer than Silas could remember, raised his hand. “Considering that we have the Chayla,” he said, “I’m surprised that we’re even having this discussion.”
“Nonsense,” said Telchik, an occasional visitor from Argon. Most of the others present nodded approvingly. Telchik was a handsome youth, brown-haired and blue-eyed. “If the Chayla is the work of the gods, they speak with many voices.”
Among the group that day, only Kaymon and one of the younger participants and, of course, the priest, could be described as believers. Most of the others, in the fashion of the educated classes of the time, were skeptics who maintained that either the gods did not exist, or that they took pains to keep well away from the human race. (The view that the gods were survivors from the age of the Roadmakers had been losing ground over the past decade, and had no champions in the field that day.)
“What characteristics,” asked Silas smoothly, “would you demand of a communication before you would pronounce it to be of divine origin?”
Kaymon looked puzzled. “The official sanction of the Temple,” he said, glancing hopefully toward Avila.
“I think,” said Avila, “that, in this case, you are the Temple.”
“Exactly,” said Silas. “If a message were laid before you, with supernatural claims, how would you arrive at a judgment?”
Kaymon’s gaze swept left and right, seeking help. “There is no way to be sure,” said Telchik, “unless you are standing there when it happens. And even then—”
“Even then,” said Orvon, an advocate’s son, “we may be seeing only what we wish to see.”
“Then we may safely conclude,” said Telchik, “that there is no way to know whether a communication does in fact have divine backing.”
Several of the disputants glanced uncomfortably at Avila, to see how she was taking the general assault on her career. But she watched placidly, with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“And what have you to say of all this?” Silas asked her. “They may be right,” she said matter-of-factly. “Even assuming that Shanta exists, we cannot know for certain that she really cares about us. We may well be living in a world that has come about by accident. In which everything is transient. In which nothing matters.” Her eyes were very dark. “I don’t say I believe this, but it is a possibility. But that possibility is outside the parameters of the discussion. I would propose to you that the gods may find us a difficult subject for communication.”
“How do you mean?” asked Orvon. She pressed her palms together. “Orvon, may I ask where you live?”
“Three miles outside the city. On the heights above River Road.”
“Good.” She looked pleased. “It’s a lovely location. Let us suppose that, this evening, when you are on your way home, the Goddess herself were to walk out from behind some trees to wish you good day. How would you respond?”
“He would lose his voice,” laughed Telchik.
“I suppose it would be a little unnerving.”
“And if she gave you a message to bring back to us?”
“I would most certainly do so.”
She nodded and raised her eyes to encompass the others. “And how would we respond to Orvon’s claim?”
“Nobody’d believe it,” said Selenico, youngest of the participants.
“And what,” asked Silas, “if the Goddess had said hello instead to Avila? Would we believe her?”
“No,” said Orvon, “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” asked Avila.
“Because you are not objective.”
“No,” said Silas. “Not because she is not objective, but because she is committed. There is a difference.”
“Indeed,” rumbled Telchik. “I should like to hear what it is. Shanta would do better to give her message to me.”
“Yes,” said Avila, brightening, “because if you came with such a story, we still might not believe it, but we would know that something very odd had happened.”