"Del peFenn," he said softly to himself, "I bid you farewell. From now on, Kris peKym Yorgen is doing this his way."
The next thing to come out of the bag was a much-tattered but carefully folded sheet of paper. It was a standard seaman's map of Nidor, but it bore markings that Kris himself had made.
As he looked at it, he could picture men moving—men as well-trained and efficient as his own sailors; men trained to fight together as seamen worked together on a ship; men who could follow orders without question; men who combined the fighting efficiency of Peacemen with the co-ordination of a ship's crew.
And he saw their target: The Bel-rogas School of Divine Law.
The Earthmen had no weapons; nearly a hundred years of dealings with them testified to that. But— what of their supernatural powers?
Kris glanced at the spot on the map which indicated the Holy City of Gelusar. There was his answer.
If the Earthmen were demons, if they were simply impostors, then the Great Light Himself would aid those who fought them. Their supernatural powers would be of no avail.
If they were, on the other hand, the true Messengers of the Great Light, then Kris peKym Yorgen, self-convicted of blasphemous sin, would die.
There was no necessity for decision now; he had decided long ago. The Earthmen must go. So far as any Nidorian knew, none of them had ever died, but there was always a first time—and that time would come soon.
He would still need Del, of course. It was Del's money—his private fortune plus the money he had solicited and wrung from the merchants and seamen for fourteen years—that was being spent in this effort to bolster the economy of Dimay and bring it under control of the Merchants' Party.
Kris looked at the map again and smiled grimly.
No, he corrected. Not under the control of the Merchants' Party.
Under the control of Kris peKym Yorgen.
The Council of Elders had been led astray; it would take a man who could see clearly to bring them back to their senses.
Beyond the fighting men, he could see another scene—a hundred or perhaps a thousand years in the misty future. A time when Nidor was as it should be, as it had once been—quiet and serene, with each following the Law and the Way of the Ancestors.
And perhaps—perhaps—the name of Kris peKym Yorgen would rank high, near the name of his Ancestor, Bel-rogas Yorgen, the Lawyer. Perhaps it would be—Kris peKym, the Exorcist.
Kris shook his head as though to clear it. The peych-beer was giving him delusions of grandeur, he decided.
He sketched idly in the margin of his map, thinking. Norvis had told him strange things about the Earthmen—about their secret city in the depths of the Mountains of the Morning, the city which only a few Nidorians knew was there; about their unfathomable schemes, and devious craftiness.
Kris was not sure how true all these stories were. But the facts spoke for themselves. Since the coming of the Earthmen, Nidor had undergone change.
Ergo, the Earthmen had done something to Nidor.
Conclusion: drive the Earthmen off the planet.
It was a concept he had broached unsuccessfully to Del peFenn. Del, with a merchantman's dislike for the priesthood, had been far more interested in going after the Elders than in bothering with the remote and incomprehensible Earthmen.
Kris licked his lips reflectively and peered close to the map. If we approach from the west, he thought, we can by-pass Gelusar and still wipe out the School. Yes, that ought to do it.
Del would kill him if he knew Kris was planning any such maneuver on his own hook. But Del was safely up there in Vashcor, and Kris had the situation completely to himself down in Tammulcor.
But I need an army, Kris thought. He stood up and glanced out the window at the straggling wanderers in the street below.
Tammulcor was full of bewildered, unhappy people looking desperately for someone they could put their faith in. What better material for my army? Kris thought, with savage glee.
During the next few weeks, Kris began to feel almost as though he was a disembodied spirit. He was detached from reality, watching what was happening in Tammulcor without actually being a part of it. It was an odd feeling for a man who was accustomed to shape events around himself.
For one thing, the money-changing business dropped off sharply. People no longer seemed willing to make the two-for-one exchange.
Kris kept close touch with what was happening in the troubled city. Combining business with pleasure, he adopted his role as ordinary seaman and went the rounds of the taverns again, saying nothing, simply standing to one side and observing.
At one place, he watched a small-time merchant enter and order a brew. The merchant, a chubby, surprisingly cheerful little man, stood around a while, and then said to the bartender:
"Have you got any Dimay notes about? I suppose you've thrown most of them away, but if you want to get rid of them for cash, I'll—"
"Forget it," said the barkeep crisply. "Dimay money is just as good as any other, these days. I'll take your Dimay notes, if you have them."
A flicker of surprise passed over the merchant's face. "But they aren't backed by cobalt! They're worth nothing whatsoever!"
The tavern-keeper grinned toothily. "Oh, so? Then why are you willing to pay for them?"
There was a moment of silence. Then the merchant smiled and shrugged without self-consciousness. "You're on to it, then. Well, it was a good racket while it lasted. For nearly a week, I was getting two and a half weights Dimay for one weight Pelvash."
"Sure," the barkeep said. "And at the same time, this Kris peKym Yorgen was offering two for one. And he isn't getting any more offers these days either."
Kris finished his drink and strolled out into the street. He had heard all he wanted to hear. It had worked! By offering a false backing to the notes of Dimay, he had made them worth something again. And as long as he wanted to, he could control the situation.
The net was starting to tighten. Even at this moment, Dran peDran was busily spreading another rumor. The people of Tammulcor were learning that the reason that the Council had held up replacing the cobalt in the Bank of Dimay was because the Earthmen had ordered the Council to stay away from the whole affair.
Dimay money was hanging in abeyance—and, for the time being, it had recovered its old value.
Three weeks after his arrival in Tammulcor, Kris was sitting in his office—alone. No one had come in to have money exchanged in the past two days. Why should anyone, when Dimay money was again on a par with Pelvash? But Kris was expecting company at almost any moment. A third rumor had gone fluttering through the town.
He didn't have long to wait. A visitor arrived not much past mid-meal.
"Come in," Kris said sharply.
"I am Venk peDor Ghevin," said the man who entered. He was short and heavy, with something oily about his appearance. "You are Kris peKym Yorgen?"
"Correct."
"I am in the jewel trade. I understand you are offering one Pelvash weight for each two Dimay notes. Is this true?"
"No longer," Kris said. "I've just received word that the Earthmen have ordered the Council not to back the bank, as they were intending to. I'm sorry. Dimay money no longer has value."