Читать книгу The Hidden City - David Eddings - Страница 7

Professor Itagne of the Foreign Affairs Department of the University of Matherion sat on the platform reviewing his notes. It was early in the evening of a fine spring day, and the windows of the auditorium where the faculty of the college of Political Science had gathered were open to admit the smell of flowers and grass and the faintly distracting sound of bird-song.

Professor Emeritus Gintana of the International Trade Department stood at the lectern droning on interminably about twenty-seventh century tariff regulations. Gintana was a wispy, white-haired, and slightly vague academic customarily referred to as ‘that dear old man’. Itagne was not really listening to him.

This was not going to go well, he concluded wryly, crumpling up and discarding yet another sheet of notes. Word of his subject had been broadcast across the campus, and academics from as far away as Applied Mathematics and Contemporary Alchemy packed the hall, their eyes bright with anticipation. The entire faculty of the Contemporary History Department filled the front rows, their black academic robes making them look like a flock of crows. Contemporary History was here in force to ensure all the fireworks anyone could hope for.

Itagne idly considered a feigned collapse. How in the name of God – any God – was he going to get through the next hour without making a total ass of himself? He had all the facts, of course, but what rational man would believe the facts? A straightforward account of what had really happened during the recent turmoil would sound like the ravings of a lunatic. If he stuck to straight truth, the hacks from Contemporary History would not have to say a word. He could destroy his own reputation with no help from them at all.

Itagne took one more brief glance at his carefully prepared notes. Then he bleakly folded them and thrust them back into the voluminous sleeve of his academic robe. What was going to happen here tonight would more closely resemble a tavern brawl than reasoned discourse. Contemporary History had obviously showed up to shout him down. Itagne squared his shoulders. Well, if they wanted a fight, he’d give them one.

A breeze had come up. The curtains at the tall windows rustled and billowed, and the golden tongues of flame flickering in the oil lamps wavered and danced. It was a beautiful spring evening – everywhere but here inside this auditorium.

There was a polite spattering of applause, and old professor Gintana, flustered and confused by this acknowledgement of his existence, bowed awkwardly, clutched his notes in both hands, and tottered back to his seat. Then the Dean of the College of Political Science rose to announce the evening’s main event. ‘Colleagues,’ he began, ‘before Professor Itagne favors us with his remarks, I would like to take this opportunity to introduce some visitors of note. I’m sure you will all join with me in welcoming Patriarch Emban, First Secretary of the Church of Chyrellos, Sir Bevier, the Cyrinic Knight from Arcium and Sir Ulath of the Genidian Order located in Thalesia.’

There was more polite applause as Itagne hurried across the platform to greet his Elene friends. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he said fervently. ‘The whole Contemporary History Department’s turned out – except for the few who are probably outside boiling the tar and bringing up bags of feathers.’

‘You didn’t think your brother was going to hang you out to dry, did you, Itagne?’ Emban smiled. ‘He thought you might get lonesome here, so he sent us to keep you company.’

Itagne felt better as he returned to his seat. If nothing else, Bevier and Ulath could head off any physical attacks.

‘And now, colleagues and distinguished guests,’ the Dean continued, ‘Professor Itagne of the Foreign Affairs Department will respond to a recent paper published by the Department of Contemporary History under the title, “The Cyrga Affair: An Examination of the Recent Crisis”. Professor Itagne.’

Itagne rose, strode purposefully to the lectern and assumed his most offensively civilized expression. ‘Dean Altus, distinguished colleagues, faculty wives, honored guests-’ He paused. ‘Did I leave anybody out?’

There was a titter of nervous laughter. Tension was high in the hall. ‘I’m particularly pleased to see so many of our colleagues from Contemporary History here with us this evening,’ Itagne continued, throwing the first punch. ‘Since I’ll be discussing something near and dear to their hearts, it’s much better that they’re present to hear what I say with their own ears rather than being forced to rely on garbled second-hand accounts.’ He smiled benignly down at the scowling hacks in the front row. ‘Can you hear me, gentlemen?’ he asked. ‘Am I going too fast for any of you?’

‘This is outrageous!’ a portly, sweating professor protested loudly.

‘It’s going to get worse, Quinsal,’ Itagne told him. ‘If the truth bothers you, you’d better leave now.’ He looked out over the assemblage. ‘It’s been said that the quest for truth is the noblest occupation of man, but there be dragons lurking in the dark forests of ignorance. And the names of these dragons are “Incompetence” and “Political Bias” and “Deliberate Distortion” and “Sheer, Wrongheaded Stupidity”. Our gallant friends here in Contemporary History bravely sallied forth to do battle with these dragons in their recently published “Cyrga Affair”. It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you that the dragons won.’

There was more laughter, and dark scowls from the front row.

It’s never been any secret at this institution that the Contemporary History Department is a political entity rather than an academic one,’ Itagne continued. It has been sponsored from its very inception by the Prime Minister, and its only reasons for existence have been to gloss over his blunders and to conceal as best they might his absolute incompetence. To be sure, Prime Minister Subat and his accomplice, Interior Minister Kolata, have never been interested in the truth, but please, gentlemen, this is a university. Shouldn’t we at least pretend to be telling the truth?’

‘Rubbish!’ a burly academic in the front row bellowed.

‘Yes,’ Itagne replied, holding up a yellow-bound copy of ‘The Cyrga Affair’, I noticed that myself. But if you knew it was rubbish, Professor Pessalt, why did you publish it?’

The laughter in the hall was even louder this time, and it drowned out Pessalt’s spluttered attempt to answer.

‘Let us push on with this great work that we are in,’ Itagne suggested. ‘We all know Pondia Subat for the scheming incompetent he really is, but the only thing that most baffles me about your “Cyrga Affair” is its consistent attempt to elevate the Styric renegade Zalasta to near sainthood. How in the name of God could anyone – even someone as severely limited as the Prime Minister – revere this scoundrel?’

‘How dare you speak so of the greatest man of this century?’ one of the hacks screamed at him.

‘If Zalasta’s the best this century can manage, colleague, I think we’re in deep trouble. But we digress. The crisis which Contemporary History chooses to call “The Cyrga Affair” has been brewing for several years.’

‘Yes,’ someone shouted with heavy sarcasm, ‘we noticed that!’

‘I’m so happy for you,’ Itagne murmured, drawing another loud laugh from the audience. To whom did our idiot Prime Minister turn for aid? To Zalasta, of course. And what was Zalasta’s answer to the crisis? He urged us to send for the Pandion Knight, Prince Sparhawk of Elenia. Why would the name of an Elene nobleman leap to Zalasta’s lips in answer to the question – almost before it was asked – particularly in view of the sorry record of the Elenes in their relations with the Styrics? To be sure, Prince Sparhawk’s exploits are legendary, but what was it about the man that made Zalasta pine so for his company? And why was it that Zalasta neglected to tell us that Sparhawk is Anakha, the instrument of the Bhelliom? Did the fact somehow slip his mind? Did he think that the spirit which creates whole universes was somehow irrelevant? I find no mention at all about Bhelliom in this recently published heap of bird-droppings. Did you omit the most momentous event of the past eon deliberately? Were you so caught up in trying to give your adored Pondia Subat credit for policy decisions he had no part in that you decided not to mention Bhelliom at all?’

‘Balderdash!’ a deep voice roared.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Professor Balderdash. My name’s Itagne. It was good of you to introduce yourself. Thanks awfully, old boy.’

The laughter was tumultuous this time.

‘Fast on his feet, isn’t he?’ Itagne heard Ulath murmur to Bevier.

Itagne looked up. ‘Colleagues,’ he said, ‘I submit that it was not Prince Sparhawk that Zalasta so yearned for, but the Bhelliom. Bhelliom is the source of ultimate power, and Zalasta has been trying to get his hands on it for three centuries – for reasons too disgusting to mention. He has been willing to go to any lengths. He has betrayed his faith, his people, and his personal integrity – such as it was – to gain what the Trolls call “The Flower-Gem”.’

That tears it!’ the corpulent Quinsal declared, rising to his feet. ‘This man is mad! Now he’s talking about Trolls! This is an academic affair, Itagne, not the children’s hour. You’ve picked the wrong forum for fairytales and ghost stories.’

‘Why don’t you let me do this, Itagne?’ Ulath said, rising to his feet and coming to the podium. I can settle this question in just a moment or two.’

‘Feel free,’ Itagne said gratefully.

Ulath set one huge hand on each side of the lectern. ‘Professor Itagne has requested me to brief you gentlemen on a few matters,’ he said. I take it that you’re having some difficulties with the notion of Trolls.’

‘None at all, Sir Knight,’ Quinsal retorted. ‘Trolls are an Elene myth and nothing else. There’s no difficulty in that at all.’

‘What an amazing thing. I spent five years compiling a Trollish grammar. Are you saying that I was wasting my time?’

‘I think you’re as mad as Itagne is.’

‘Then you probably shouldn’t irritate me, should you? Particularly in view of the fact that I’m so much bigger than you are.’ Ulath squinted at the ceiling. ‘Logic tells us that no one can prove a negative. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to amend your statement?’

‘No, Sir Ulath. I’ll stand by what I just said. There’s no such thing as a Troll.’

‘Did you hear that, Bhlokw?’ Ulath raised his voice slightly. This fellow says that you don’t exist.’

There was a hideous roar in the corridor outside the auditorium, and the double doors at the rear splintered and crashed inward.

‘Stay calm!’ Bevier hissed as Itagne jumped. ‘It’s an illusion. Ulath’s amusing himself.’

‘Would you like to turn around and tell me what you see at the back of the hall, Quinsal?’ Ulath asked. ‘Exactly what would you call my friend Bhlokw there?’

The creature hulking in the doorway was huge, and its bestial face was contorted with rage. It stretched its paws forth hungrily. ‘Who has said this, U-Lat?’ it demanded in a hideous voice. I will cause hurt to it! I will rip it to pieces and eat it!’

‘Can that Troll actually speak Tamul?’ Itagne whispered.

‘Of course not,’ Bevier smiled. ‘Ulath’s getting carried away.’

The hideous apparition in the doorway continued to bellow horribly graphic descriptions of its plans for the faculty of the Contemporary History Department.

‘Were there any other questions about Trolls?’ Ulath asked mildly, but none of the assembled academics heard him over all the shouts, screams and the tipping over of chairs.

It took the better part of a quarter of an hour to restore order once Ulath had dismissed his illusion, and when Itagne reapproached the lectern, the entire audience was huddled closely together near the front of the auditorium. ‘I’m touched by your eagerness to hear my every word, gentlemen,’ Itagne smiled, ‘but I can speak loudly enough to be heard at the back of the hall, so you needn’t draw so close. I trust that the visit of Sir Ulath’s friend has cleared up the little misunderstanding about Trolls?’ He looked at Quinsal, who was still cowering on the floor, gibbering in terror. ‘Splendid,’ Itagne said. ‘Briefly then, Prince Sparhawk came to Tamuli. Elenes are sometimes a devious people, so Sparhawk’s wife, Queen Ehlana, proposed a state visit to Matherion and concealed her husband and his friends in her entourage. Upon their arrival, they almost immediately uncovered some facts which we had somehow overlooked. First, Emperor Sarabian actually has a mind; and second, the government led by Pondia Subat was in league with our enemies.’

‘Treason!’ a thin, balding professor shrieked, leaping to his feet.

‘Really, Dalash?’ Itagne asked. ‘Against whom?’

‘Why – uh -’ Dalash floundered.

‘You still don’t understand, do you gentlemen?’ Itagne asked the faculty of Contemporary History. ‘The previous government has been overthrown – by Emperor Sarabian himself. Tamuli is now an Elene-style monarchy, and Emperor Sarabian rules by decree. The previous government – and its Prime Minister – are no longer relevant.’

‘The Prime Minister cannot be removed from office!’ Dalash screamed. ‘He holds his position for life!’

‘Even if that were true, it suggests a rather simple solution to the problem, doesn’t it?’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Not me, old boy. That’s the Emperor’s decision. Don’t cross him, gentlemen. If you do, he’ll decorate the city gates with your heads. Let’s press on here. I’d like to cover a bit more ground before our customary recess. It was the aborted coup-attempt that finally brought things to a head. Pondia Subat was a party to the entire conspiracy and he fully intended to stand around wringing his hands while the drunken mob murdered all of his political enemies, evidently including the Emperor himself. If Professor Dalash wants to scream “treason” he might take a look at that. We discovered much in the aftermath of that failed coup, not only concerning the treason of the Prime Minister, but of the Minister of the Interior as well. Most important, however, was the discovery that it had been Zalasta who had engineered the entire plot, and that he was secretly allied with Ekatas, High Priest of Cyrgon, the God of the supposedly extinct Cyrgai.

‘At this point Prince Sparhawk had no choice but to retrieve Bhelliom from its hiding place and to send to Chyrellos for reinforcements. He enlisted other allies as well, not the least of which were the Delphae – who do in fact exist in all their glowing horror.’

‘This is absurd!’ Contemporary History’s reigning bully-boy, the crude and muscular Professor Pessalt sneered. ‘Are we supposed to believe this nonsense?’

‘You’ve already seen a Troll this evening, Pessalt,’ Itagne reminded him. ‘Would you like a personal visitation by a Shining One as well? I can arrange it, if you’d like – but outside, please. We’d never get rid of the stink if you were dissolved into a puddle of slime right here in front of the platform.’

Dean Altus cleared his throat meaningfully.

‘Yes sir,’ Itagne assured him. ‘I’ll just be a few more minutes.’ He turned back to the audience. ‘Now then,’ he continued quickly, ‘since the subject of the Trolls has come up again, we might as well go into that and clear it away once and for all. As you’ve noticed, the Trolls are real. They were lured to Tamuli from their home range in northern Thalesia by Cyrgon, who posed as one of their Gods. The real Troll-Gods have been imprisoned for eons, and Prince Sparhawk offered them an exchange – their freedom in return for their aid. He then led a sizeable force to northern Atan, where the misguided Trolls had been stirring up turmoil in hopes of forcing the Atans to return to defend their homeland – which would have left us effectively defenseless, since the Atans comprise the bulk of our army. Sparhawk’s move seemed to play right into the hands of our enemies, but when Cyrgon and Zalasta unleashed the Trolls, Sparhawk called forth their Gods to reclaim them. In desperation, Cyrgon reached back in time and produced a huge army of his Cyrgai. Then the Trolls, true to their nature, ate them.’

‘You don’t really expect us to swallow this, do you, Itagne?’ Professor Sarafawn, Chairman of the Department of Contemporary History and brother-in-law of the Prime Minister, demanded scornfully.

‘You might as well, Sarafawn,’ Itagne told him. ‘Your wife’s brother isn’t dictating official history any more. From now on, the Emperor wants us to give our students the plain, unvarnished truth. I’ll be publishing a factual account in the next month or so. You’d better reserve a copy, Sarafawn, because you’re going to be required to teach it to all your students in the future – assuming that you have a future at this institution. Next year’s budget’s going to be a little tight, I understand, so a number of departments will probably have to be dropped.’ He paused. ‘Are you any good with tools, Sarafawn? There’s a very nice little vocational school at Jura, I hear. You’d just love Daconia.’

The Dean cleared his throat again, a bit more urgently this time.

‘Sorry, Dean Altus,’ Itagne apologized. ‘I’m running past time, gentlemen, so I’ll just briefly sum up one more development. Despite their crushing defeat, Cyrgon and Zalasta were by no means powerless. In a bold stroke, Zalasta’s natural son, one Scarpa, crept into the imperial compound and abducted Queen Ehlana, leaving behind a demand that Sparhawk give up the Bhelliom in exchange for the safe return of his wife.

‘Following the recess Dean Altus has been so patiently awaiting, I will take up Prince Sparhawk’s reaction to this new development.’