None moved out of the way until the last possible moment, when the conductor applied the car's shrieking, ear-piercing whistle-which he was obliged to do almost every few irals.
All too often, they thundered past burned-out, roofless buildings-abandoned and left gaping at the sky. Many of the side streets Brim could see were filled with piles of tumbled brick and stone-clearly impassable for the duration of the war. Sometimes, whole blocks, had been gutted, with narrow paths cleared through the rubble to uncover the alleyways. The motorman sped through these pursued by billowing specters of gray dust. They made Brim shiver. No glory here, only the remains of fragile homes, crushed and broken by the wild, blind lashings of wartime insanity. He shook his head, Somehow, sights like this never seemed to register with the leaders. Usually, he supposed, their homes were well protected....
In due course, the car crossed a stone bridge over a deep ravine. Brim glimpsed the distant harbor far below. Admiral Hober and his battlecruisers were just putting out to space: Iaith Galad, Oedden, and Benwell, great hovering shapes on the placid morning waters.
Even while he watched, Benwell began her takeoff run at the head of a towering cloud of water vapor. In spite of himself, he felt shivers of thrill race along his back while the interurban's windows rattled in the rolling thunder. Battlecruisers were the stuff of dreams for him. Especially Benwell-built as replacement for Nimue, on which the legendary Star Admiral Merlin Emrys had disappeared mote than five years ago. Like every young man in the Empire-even in Carescria-he had worshiped Emrys and the great ebony battlecruiser that ghosted in and out of harbors all over the galaxy, showing the colors-and power-of Greyffin IV's Galactic Empire. Their loss had been devastating at the time. Now, both man and ship were only half-remembered entries in a casualty list that would have seemed unbelievable at the time. But they would always hold a special place in his heart.
At length, the car thrummed across two intricately filigreed metal trestles, glided through a long, pillared colonnade, and came to rest on a spacious plaza planted with ancient, ocher-colored trees and paved with complex patterns of reddish-gold paving stones. On one side it fronted a colossal saffron granite crag at least two hundred irals in height and half a c'lenyt in circumference. A spectacular staircase and balustrade-sculpted from the granite itself-wound through a dozen switchbacks to the monastery above. It was occupied by black-garbed priests with high orange collars, Friars and Sisters in their long crimson gowns, novices wearing short robes of rough cloth, and an occasional, brightly outfitted layperson.
Opposite this stairway, the plaza was bounded by another ornate balustrade, also of saffron granite, but interspersed by graceful, flower-filled urns twice as tall as a man. From here, Brim got a spectacular view of the harbor and the great Imperial base thousands of irals below. He could feel the morning sea breeze on his face, cool and fresh at this altitude.
He picked out Defiant on her gravity pool and grinned to himself. He'd seldom had a chance to see her at such a distance. "Graceful" was the word that came to his mind first. She was a beautiful ship, long and lean as she hovered-impatiently, as it seemed-to break the bonds that kept her from her own element.
With a whole day on his hands, he relaxed a few extra cycles at the balustrade, looking down at the many-hued roofs of Atalanta. Behind him, he heard the coach's doors rattle shut; presently it ground its way out of the plaza. Somehow its departure severed a symbolic tie with the war, and he suddenly felt freed-no matter how temporarily-from the death and destruction that swirled through the galaxy. He took a deep breath while a feeling of peace swept over him in the quiet, breeze-swept plaza.
Fifty irals to his right, another staircase-this built into the steep hillside-connected with the streets below. Like its opposite, it also carried considerable traffic. High overhead, a colorful little Gradygroat Zuzzuou lifted from the monastery and crackled up into the morning sky. As the archaic little spaceship banked steeply over the harbor, Brim saw that it was filled to capacity. He shook his head and smiled. A whole spaceship of Gradygroats flying, out to service weapons systems that generations of Admiralty scholars dismissed as mere artifacts-unworthy of further study. He laughed to himself. Talk about wasting manpower! Yet the forts held a certain fascination for him. Silently, he promised himself that if he ever had more than a single day on leave, he would try to fly out and see one for himself. Then he laughed. Fat thraggling chance of extended leave in a place like Atalanta....
At length, he turned and made his way through the dusk-blue tree shadows-boots clicking among gently dancing puddles of golden sunlight-until at length he came to the foot of the great staircase. He followed a trio of Friars onto the marble treads, and quickly discovered that Gradgroat-Norchelite clerics set a rapid pace on the way up. He laughed to himself as he found himself breathing deeper and deeper. Clearly, the staircase was a daily occurrence for them-and considerably longer than Defiant's longest companionway.
He paused at a landing near the top while he caught his breath. From this high angle, he could see car 312 with its three orange stripes following a twisted route back down the hill.
He idly watched the streets he would follow were he walking to intercept its course. An easy route, he discovered to his surprise. The hilltop was so steep that the heavy car required numerous switchbacks to negotiate the slope, and although it had clearly traveled a long way since leaving the plaza, its actual distance from the monastery was little more than an easy c'lenyt's walk from the lower staircase. He even strongly considered making the walk himself once he completed his visit to the monastery. When he reached the top a few cycles later, however, all thoughts concerning possible walks-or anything else, for that matter-were swept away by the mind-boggling structure looming before him.
Blazing in Hador's afternoon brilliance like a golden icon, the monastery's colossal, flame-shaped spire stood at least a thousand irals higher than the two massive, disk-shaped tiers that formed its base. The bottom story was nearly a quarter again as large as the top, and both were surrounded by lofty alabaster colonnades formed of pointed arches and graceful columns that were easily more than a hundred irals high at their apex. A second grove of gigantic ocher trees surrounded the sprawling campus, shading what appeared to be veritable c'tenyts of quiet paths dotted by rushing fountains and quiet glens.
Before Brim's nearly unbelieving eyes, a wide avenue lead across the first-story colonnade and into a pair of massive, ebony doors that themselves were at least sixty irals high. At present, both were open to a darkened space beyond. The Carescrian shook his head. Never-anywhere-had he encountered such an extraordinary structure. Greyffin IV's palace in Avalon actually paled in comparison.
Above the massive door frame was a carved motto written in Xantos, the archaic Universal script that even Carescrian youngsters were required to learn: IN DESTRUCTION IS RESURRECTION; THE PATH OF POWER LEADS THROUGH TRUTH
Brim chuckled as he stepped across the threshold into a darkened anteroom-Gradygroats made about as much sense as Sodeskayan Bears when it came to mottoes. When his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, he pushed open a second, inner door, and...
Unconsciously, he caught his breath. Sensible or not, the great circular commons room they had constructed was in many ways as impressive as the whole monastery.
From a stupendous balcony formed by the monastery's second tier, men's voices intoned one of the Gradgroat-Norchelite anthems-ancient words and music that stirred the hearts of believers and nonbelievers alike: