“Padaborn!” said Oschous in a hoarse whisper, and a sykes-knife six thumbs long sang from its scabbard.
“Padaborn!” echoed Eglay Portion, matching the gesture. It was well-known that the ancient sykes-knife was never to be used with any thought of mercy in a fight.
Soon enough, a steel forest waved in the air, and whispered cries of, “Padaborn!” lifted from every pair of lips. Gidula smiled and joined them. Not that they expected an old man like him to participate in the personal mayhem the knife implied. But ever the traditionalist, he added, “Deadly Ones! To the blood, and to the bone!”
Eglay Portion, whose own magpies had been left to stand watch aboard Gidula’s slider, volunteered as brevet section leader over Section Padaborn. Then, after the others had dispersed on their assignments, he held a hand out to Pyati. “Let’s see it.”
Pyati, instantly dry eyed, unrolled the cloth on the floor of the tunnel and found wrapped in it: an ankle bangle, the inner mechanism of a comm. link, three smooth river pebbles, fourteen seeds of some plant, and a green ribbon. Pyati studied the array with pursed lips and said, “Good news. But not entirely clear.”
Eglay squatted with them. “What is it?”
“It is what Terrans call ‘ñēymōlai’ or ‘message of objects.’ A code Terrans use. He signaled us beforehand that two messages would be left: one public, one private.”
“I caught that. But … What does it mean?”
Pyati shook his head. “Ñēymōlai are not easily read, but a bangle always means a Terran, and you can see it is whole.”
Eglay nodded. “Yes, and…?”
“Well, sir. How many Terrans are in the play? Only one, and this says he is whole.”
Eglay Portion sank back on his heels, and his breath hissed out. “I … see. Clever. But the objects cannot have fixed meanings. Too much would depend on what objects were available.”
“Right, sir. Terrans always have bangles on them, but context changes meaning.”
Eglay deduced that since the objects had been jumbled together in the cloth their order did not matter. “What means this board?” He picked up the guts of the communicator and turned it around in his fingers. No enlightenment came. “And the pebbles?”
“Repetition of an object,” said Number Two, “strips particular meanings and makes it a mere tally.”
“So. Three stones and fourteen seeds are but three and fourteen?”
Number Three picked up the ribbon. “He told us on a field exercise that the Colors of Old Earth had various meanings. In the Red–Yellow–Green scheme, Red means ‘stand, stop, hold fast,’ or suchlike instruction. Yellow is ‘take care, proceed with caution.’ Green—”
Eglay Portion finished the leap. “Green means ‘go, come, proceed.’”
“You have it, sir.” Pyati examined the green ribbon. “He wishes us go somewhere. Proceed to … where?”
Number Three said, “Why, to three-fourteen, surely! Is that a code for one of our target sites?”
Eglay shook his head. “And neither is fourteen-three. And why stones and seeds?”
Pyati said, “Told you, sir. Repetition—”
Number Five cried, “I know!” He had been pacing while the others debated. Now he stood framed in the entance to the tunnel. “Look out there.”
Eglay Portion and the other magpies joined him and looked out on the moonlit river. The Major Moon was high overhead now, and the Minor Moon was closing the distance. “What?”
Number Five shook the stalk of a plant, and seeds like those Padaborn had used sprinkled the floor of the tunnel. “There is a line of these plants from here to the river. Now look at the river’s edge. The stones run along the edge. So…”
“North-south,” said Eglay Portion, “versus east-west. The map grid.”
They returned to their place and opened the grid on Eglay’s tablet. It was populated now with a nearly complete network of tunnels beneath the surface map. “Third grid from the north.” Eglay turned to Pyati. “Because the river runs north to south. And … fourteen grids from the river. That puts our goal … Right there!”
The blue-and-greens overhung the map like so many boughs. Pyati said, “Many buildings there, sir. Which one? We won’t get but one chance.”
“Office district…,” said Eglay. “Only skeletoned at night. The Mayshot Bo … The Gayshot Bo … That’s one thing we’ll change when we rectify the regime. No more dilettante government … Hai!” He turned and picked up the circuit of the comm. unit. “The Gayshot Bo. The Ministry of Technology. He wants us there tonight.”
They stood and Pyati shook the cloth, scattering the objects; but the bangle he put in his left calf-pocket. “One,” said Eglay Portion. And the man turned to him with an inquiry on his features. “Padaborn placed much trust in you, and it was not mislaid.”
“Thank you, Lord Eglay. I wondered at the time why he drilled us so on these object-messages. He knew. Oh, he thought many layers deep. He put some trust too in you, sir.”
“In me!” That startled Eglay Portion. “I was ready to maim him in what was supposed to be a fair fight at the Iron Bridge.”
“Nishywah. I know only what he told me. May he not have mislaid that trust.”
Eglay looked into the faces that surrounded him and saw that their loyalties were beyond question. How many others teetered on the brink? He suddenly realized that, had he wanted, Gesh could have assumed control of the Revolution itself. “Do you have an extra brassard?”
Pyati nodded to Two, who pulled a blue-and-green armband from his scrip. Eglay Portion removed Gidula’s comet and replaced it with his own rose-on-tan. He fastened the Padaborn colors just below them but wound the one through the other, there being no time for a proper cantoning. When he had finished, he bobbed his head at the others and without another word set off at the trot down the tunnels that led toward the Gayshot Bo. The others followed, their feet falling in silent unison.
Zanzibar Paff had once been an important man. He had been the Bountiful Name. But the burdens of supply and distribution had proven irksome. He had preferred being important to doing anything important. More and more of it he had delegated to assistants and minions, until one day the upstarts—he could never bring himself to call them by their own self-important name—had suggested that he delegate the Name along with the duties.
He preferred to roll with the punch and make the best of the deal. And so the Bountiful Name had become the Contemplative Name, a comfortable fig leaf. (He could not possibly become Nameless!) He had moved into a smaller Residence with a smaller staff, hard by the White Gate, perhaps the better to contemplate matters, and bided his time. He saw how others in his situation bided insufficient time and, like quick-burgeoning weeds, were mown down when they sprouted too soon. When his old colleagues fomented the Shadow War, he was content to watch from the sidelines. Time enough to join the winning side when once that side became clear.
The Contemplative Name resumed his contemplation of his bedmates. Three chubby sheep personally selected from his Estate, cheeks red from repeated usage. The man lay now in exhausted slumber, but the two women were still ready. They had learned early that they had better be. The Contemplative Name took a tablet from the salver by the bedside and swallowed it down with Atwah Spring Water. “Wait for it, darlings,” he told the two women, and they giggled most dutifully.