The black eyes glowed like opals, pulsing with fire. Beran became infected with the madness; the room was unreal, hot gases swirled through his mind. Palafox, losing the appearance of a man, took on various semblances in rapid succession: a tall eel, a phallus, a charred post with knotholes for eyes, a black nothingness.
“A demon!” gasped Beran. “The Evil Demon!” He lunged forward, caught Palafox’s arm, hurled Palafox stumbling to the floor.
Palafox struck with a thud, a cry of pain. He sprang to his feet holding his arm—the same arm that Beran had wounded before—and he looked an Evil Demon indeed.
“Now is your end, gad-fly!” He raised his hand, pointed his finger. From the Cogitants came a mutter.
The finger remained pointed. No fire leapt forth. Palafox’s face twisted in passion. He felt his arm, inspected his finger. He looked up, calm once more, signaled to his sons. “Kill this man, here and now. No longer shall he breathe the air of my planet.”
There was dead silence. No one moved. Palafox stared incredulously; Beran looked numbly about him. Everywhere in the room faces turned away, looking neither toward Beran nor Palafox.
Beran suddenly found his voice. He cried out hoarsely, “You talk madness!” He turned to the Cogitants. Palafox had spoken in Breakness, Beran spoke in Pastiche.
“You Cogitants! Choose the world you would live in! Shall it be the Pao you know now, or the world this Emeritus proposes?”
The epithet stung Palafox; he jerked in anger, and in Breakness, the language of insulated intelligence, he barked, “Kill this man!”
In Pastiche, language of the Interpreters, a tongue used by men dedicated to human service, Beran called, “No! Kill this senile megalomaniac instead!”
Palafox motioned furiously to the four men of Breakness—those who had de-energized Beran’s circuits. His voice was deep and resonant. “I, Palafox, the Great Sire, order you, kill this man!”
The four came forward.
The Cogitants stood like statues. Then they moved as if at a single decision. From twenty parts of the room streaks of flame leapt forth. Transfixed from twenty directions, eyes bulging, hair fluffing into a nimbus from the sudden charge, Lord Palafox of Breakness died.
Beran fell into a chair, unable to stand. Presently he took a deep breath, staggered to his feet. “I can say nothing to you now—only that I shall try to build the sort of world that Cogitants as well as Paonese can live in with satisfaction.”
Finisterle, standing somberly to the side, said, “I fear that this option, admirable as it is, lies not entirely in your hands.”
Beran followed his gaze, through the tall windows. High up in the sky appeared bursts of colored fire, spreading and sparkling, as if in celebration for some glory.
“The Myrmidons,” said Finisterle. “They come for vengeance.”
The sky was filled with explosions of colored sparks in flower-like garlands, three-dimensional snowflakes, heraldic medallions. A dozen great black warships cruised over Eiljanre, circled over the palace, in tighter and tighter circles, funnelling down toward the landing deck.
Finisterle touched Beran’s arm. “Best had you flee while there is yet time. They will show you no mercy.”
Beran made no answer. Finisterle took his arm. “You accomplish nothing here but your own death. There is no guard to protect you—we are all at their mercy.”
Beran gently disengaged himself. “I shall remain here; I shall not flee.”
“They will kill you!”
Beran gave the peculiar Paonese shrug. “All men die.”
“But you have much to do, and you can do nothing dead! Leave the city, and presently the Myrmidons will tire of the novelty and return to their games.”
“No,” said Beran. “Bustamonte fled. The Brumbos pursued him, ran him to the ground. I will no longer flee anyone. I will wait here with my dignity, and if they kill me, so shall it be.”
An hour passed, the minutes ticking off slowly, one by one. The warships dropped low, hovered only yards from the ground. The flagship settled gingerly upon the palace deck.
Within the great hall Beran sat quietly on the dynastic Black Chair, his face drawn with fatigue, his eyes wide and dark. The Cogitants stood in muttering groups, watching Beran from the corners of their eyes.
From far off came a whisper of sound, a deep chant, growing louder, a chant of dedication, of victory, sung to the organic rhythm of pumping heart, of marching feet.
Louder and louder—the sound of a hundred voices, and now the tread of heavy steps could likewise be heard.
The chant swelled, the door burst open: into the great hall marched Esteban Carbone, the Grand Marshal. Behind him came a dozen young Field Marshals, and behind these, ranks of staff officers.
Esteban Carbone strode up to the Black Chair and faced Beran.
“Beran,” spoke Esteban Carbone, “you have done us unforgivable injury. You have proved a false Panarch, unfit to govern the planet Pao. Therefore we have come in force to pull you down from the Black Chair and to take you away to your death.”
Beran nodded thoughtfully, as if Esteban Carbone had come urging a petition.
“To those who wield the power shall go the direction of the state: this is the basic axiom of history. You are powerless, only we Myrmidons are strong. Hence we shall rule, and I now declare that the Grand Marshal of the Myrmidons shall now and forever function as Panarch of Pao.”
Beran said no word; indeed, there was no word to be said.
“Therefore, Beran, arise in what little dignity you retain, leave the Black Chair and walk forth to your death.”
From the Cogitants came an interruption. Finisterle spoke out angrily. “One moment; you go too far and too fast.”
Esteban Carbone swung about. “What is this you say?”
“Your thesis is correct: that he who wields power shall rule—but I challenge that you wield power on Pao.”
Esteban Carbone laughed. “Is there anyone who can deter us in any course we care to pursue?”
“That is not altogether the point. No man can rule Pao without consent of the Paonese. You do not have that consent.”
“No matter. We shall not interfere with the Paonese. They can govern themselves—so long as they supply us our needs.”
“And you believe that the Technicants will continue to supply you with tools and weapons?”
“Why should they not? They care little who buys their goods.”
“And who shall make your needs known to them? Who will give orders to the Paonese?”
“We shall, naturally.”
“But how will they understand you? You speak neither Technicant nor Paonese, they speak no Valiant. We Cogitants refuse to serve you.”
Esteban Carbone laughed. “This is an interesting proposition. Are you suggesting that Cogitants, by reason of their linguistic knack, should therefore rule the Valiants?”
“No. I point out that you are unable to rule the planet Pao, that you cannot communicate with those you claim to be your subjects.”
Esteban Carbone shrugged. “This is no great matter. We speak a few words of Pastiche, enough to make ourselves understood. Soon we will speak better, and so shall we train our children.”
Beran spoke for the first time. “I offer a suggestion which perhaps will satisfy the ambitions of everyone. Let us agree that the Valiants are able to kill as many Paonese as they desire, all those who actively oppose them, and so may be said to exercise authority. However, they will find themselves embarrassed: first, by the traditional resistance of the Paonese to coercion, and secondly, by inability to communicate either with the Paonese or the Technicants.”