“What did you say? I can’t hear you,” the prophet said, grinning.
“Great Baila,” moaned Harut.
“Will you please repeat what you said?”
“We… couldn’t find him,” whispered Harut, a bit louder this time.
“And where do you think he ran?” Baila asked in a chilly voice, sending shivers along the ratrap’s tail.
“We raked the western fields many times with our inductors, thermal sensors, and orbital eyes, as you requested, Great Baila! We searched the mountains, the caves; we left no stone unturned. Four days of searching and nothing! He vanished somewhere!”
“And you have no theory of where he could hide?”
Harut dared to glance around him, searching for a glimmer of support from the others, but as expected, everyone pretended to ignore him, watching the holograms in front of them.
“If he had stayed in the town, we would have found him!”
“How many years you were a seeker, Harut?” said Baila with a fake gentle smile, barely holding back his wrath.
“I… the instruction lasted for twelve years, Your Greatest!”
“And after twelve years, can you tell me, what does it mean to be a seeker?”
“The seeker is someone who searches for all his life,” he began to recite in one breath. “He doesn’t necessarily know what he’s looking for and hopes not to find rewards in our world, knowing that the most precious things lie hidden at Zhan’s bosom. A seeker is a state of mind, the kyi in constant anxiety. In the white domes of the temples, the seeker becomes the ultimate weapon of the gods. He knows how to find his target and follows the path without taking his smell from the purpose.”
“And how is that helping you? Abrian disappeared from under your nostrils. How many tarjis were in the city? One million? Two million? And you sit on your tail to sift the dust? Why don’t you just find him? You’re a seeker. Why don’t you tell me where he is? Why don’t you feel him; why don’t you see through his eyes? You left the acajaa squeezers and inductors to search his scent! I expected you to find him!”
The ratrap didn’t say anything, crushed by the weight of Baila’s reproach. He gazed at the floor, hoping to find a crack large enough to fit inside. Now he saw all too well what a terrible mistake he made to rely on the profane technology captured from the enemy. He let himself get carried away, thinking that the orbital platforms that allowed him to track hundreds of targets around the clock were the answer he needed. It was wrong, and he would have to pay for it.
He knew deep within his kyi, even though he didn’t have the courage to admit it to anyone—much less to Baila—why he couldn’t find Abrian. He let his initiates lead the search. They and the Shindam’s operators, without whom they were powerless in handling the cursed technology, hunted Abrian with the digital eyes in the sky. They, and not he, operated the devices. They, and not he, looked at the screens. They may have blinked in the instant when Abrian became visible. They may have looked away or swept insignificant grooves because Arghail blinded their feeble minds to force them to overlook the fugitive.
How naïve he had been to fall into the trap skillfully laid by the god of darkness, like a layman unaware of the night’s tricks. Blinded by the technology he knew was corrupt, he tried to find the servant using Arghail’s diabolical tools, as if the god would have betrayed his child with his own hands. He should have let his inner smell guide him, let the purity of the calling sing into his gills. But he was afraid. Afraid to look after Abrian because it would have meant opening his kyi. A seeker emphatically connects to his target; he understands it up to the point of identification with it. The seeker sees the world through his victim’s eyes. But now, he had to open the door to something way too frightening, something that wouldn’t let him close it again. He had to open his kyi to the thorns of heresy. For behind the gate was Arghail, the father of darkness. The gate would have been his personal sacrifice, the challenge he had to pass to earn a place at Zhan’s bosom. Unfortunately, he had let the moment pass and failed the test of faith. And everything had happened so unfairly quickly! If only he had listened to Alala’s advice to move in Abrian’s dome for a few days, maybe—
“Harut, Harut,” Baila said, cutting into his thoughts. “Why did I make you ratrap? You come from a good coria; you have healthy origins,” he told him with a fatherly tone. “Look at you! How do you help me?”
“Forgive me, Your Greatness,” babbled the ratrap, lowering his eyes to the floor.
“I rushed my judgment when I made you ratrap. What shall I do with you now? You all know that I’m everyone’s father. But even parents scold their children when they’re wrong. For sweet is the punishment coming from your hand, kind Zhan! Wherever you hit will grow fresh meat! You make clean water flow from the driest stones and fields blossom in the spring! You melt the ice under your feet!”
When they heard the Gondarra’s swamp oration invoked by the prophet, everyone in the room bowed their heads and put their hands on their shoulders as a sign of obedience.
Baila’s life-size hologram slowly rose from the throne and approached Harut.
“Your Greatness, I betrayed your trust!” the ratrap shouted while falling on his knees, but he held his head high with renewed courage. “Give me a week to reach Ropolis as a simple soldier and die in Zhan’s service, taking a hundred traitors with me!”
Baila smiled and fondled his chin, pleased by the offer. After all, even though he had to lose a skilled servant, he was placated by his example of devotion. He would give him a chance to save his honor. Hmm, maybe… maybe he could still use Harut far from everyone’s eyes.
“I’ll give you a month,” he concluded magnanimously.
“Thank you, Your Greatness!” exclaimed Harut, excited by the prospect of washing the stain on his name with the blood of the unbelievers. His heroic deeds would be remembered with…
“You can embark on the first transport,” Baila said. “And if you happen to meet Abrian on Ropolis, give him my regards.”
“Abrian on Ropolis?” exclaimed another Antyran. “But—”
“You idiots!” exploded Baila. “The fields near the spaceport. You checked them with your platforms shortly after he disappeared into the sewers. You didn’t find him! You didn’t find him in the fields, on the streets, in the tubes, or anywhere else on this planet! What would you have done in his place? Didn’t Abrian have the intention to meet the ‘visitors’? And if he reached the western fields, wouldn’t it be logical to hide in the nearby spaceport? It’s the only place where he wouldn’t have been seen by your precious orbital sensors!”
I trained them, he thought, angered. Everything came from me, and yet they can’t handle it. How was it possible that an archivist without seeker training could do something like that?
Of course, he was aware of the limitations of the training—there always have been—and he knew right from the beginning he would have to make some difficult choices. The full control of the change, learning by memorization, and killing the initiative were the three pillars of his governing. They stood the test of time and never betrayed him. But that left him without the sharpness of their collective minds, forcing him to think for everyone. He felt the huge burden pressing on his shoulders, wearing him down, crushing him under its weight. The prophet had no idea how many times he would have to do it, and he always wanted it to be the last time.
He experimented with the seekers. There were some good ones, and things had started to look promising, but the teachings had to be—again—extremely limited and controlled, which adversely affected their efficacy. But if he would have given them a free tail, he would have risked losing control of a terrible weapon.