Read Online Silence is Deadly by Jr. Lloyd Biggle - Free Book Online
Authors: Jr. Lloyd Biggle
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read them.
Then he understood. All hands were spelling out, over and over, Blood! Blood! Blood!
As Darzek turned away, the loser was being helped from the field. The winner stood in the center of the amphitheater, proudly holding the banner of victory aloft, and the audience was tossing coins to him.
Such were the knights of Kamm.
Such were the Kammians. Darzek had been condescendingly viewing this healthy, sturdy, well-balanced, creative people as almost human. Now he saw them as entirely too human, and their whip had to be one of the most infamous creations of any intelligence. The deadly sjambok of Africa seemed a toy by comparison.
He turned for a final glance at the arena. The next entrants were mounted. One knight sat at either end of the amphitheater on a pawing nabrulk, waiting while the official picked up the winning knight’s money.
Still shaken by the bloody combat he had seen, Darzek returned to the cluttered mart and took a diagonal lane that led directly to the religious monuments. There he stood for a moment, looking from the colorful pyramid to the grim black symbol on the pole. They were light and darkness, or good and evil, or life and death—a dualism probably present in every religious consciousness; a conundrum posed on every world that had given birth to intelligent life. It seemed predictable to Darzek that this bright, peaceful, essentially good people, who could attend a gladiatorial combat and chant—with fluttering fingers— Blood!, should wage a bitter struggle among themselves as to whether they should worship life or death.
The Mound of the Sun was a monument to life—a life pyramid. It was not a cold edifice of tooled or polished stone, but a warm memorial to the living, vibrant with the color and beauty of growing plants and flowers. Paths meandered about it, in gradual ascents, and colored rocks sparkled amid the greenery. The Kammians left their market purchases in orderly rows about its base to climb it, whether a short distance or all the way to the tiny park-like area on its truncated apex, and to sit and meditate the beauties and mysteries of life or perhaps just to admire the view.
The companion monument was stark by comparison—a stereotyped representation of the fabled Winged Beast in a gigantic wood carving: wings outspread, the long, vicious fangs that filled the tapering snout bared, talons poised threateningly, and the whole painted a gleaming black. It towered almost twenty meters above the market on its slender pole. At its base stood two young males in black clothing and black capes—lackeys of the Winged Beast, or apprentice priests, or student soldiers.
In contrast to the relaxed crowds on the Mound of the Sun, few people came near the stark symbol of death. Those who did had a furtive air, as though they were paying off a blackmailer. They fumbled among their purchases and then approached the monument timorously. One of the apprentice priests handed out slender pointed sticks that looked like enormous toothpicks. On these the faithful impaled their offerings—pieces of meat, or bread, or cake, or other edibles. Bowing reverently with a queer, sidewise genuflection, they stepped into the black circle formed at the base of the pole by a mosaic of ebony-colored stones. They inserted the offering stick into one of the multitude of holes bored into the pole for that purpose. Then they backed away, hands raised pleadingly, eyes on the menacing Beast, until they reached their possessions.
They scurried off like one who has had a death sentence repealed.
Light and darkness; life and death.
Darzek set down his shopping pot and climbed the life pyramid all the way to the top. Looking over at the soaring Winged Beast, he pondered the sinister darkness in a people’s soul that could call forth such a symbol, and he wondered what the missing Synthesis agents could have told him about that darkness.
The city lay to the south. From Darzek’s vantage point he watched
Then he understood. All hands were spelling out, over and over, Blood! Blood! Blood!
As Darzek turned away, the loser was being helped from the field. The winner stood in the center of the amphitheater, proudly holding the banner of victory aloft, and the audience was tossing coins to him.
Such were the knights of Kamm.
Such were the Kammians. Darzek had been condescendingly viewing this healthy, sturdy, well-balanced, creative people as almost human. Now he saw them as entirely too human, and their whip had to be one of the most infamous creations of any intelligence. The deadly sjambok of Africa seemed a toy by comparison.
He turned for a final glance at the arena. The next entrants were mounted. One knight sat at either end of the amphitheater on a pawing nabrulk, waiting while the official picked up the winning knight’s money.
Still shaken by the bloody combat he had seen, Darzek returned to the cluttered mart and took a diagonal lane that led directly to the religious monuments. There he stood for a moment, looking from the colorful pyramid to the grim black symbol on the pole. They were light and darkness, or good and evil, or life and death—a dualism probably present in every religious consciousness; a conundrum posed on every world that had given birth to intelligent life. It seemed predictable to Darzek that this bright, peaceful, essentially good people, who could attend a gladiatorial combat and chant—with fluttering fingers— Blood!, should wage a bitter struggle among themselves as to whether they should worship life or death.
The Mound of the Sun was a monument to life—a life pyramid. It was not a cold edifice of tooled or polished stone, but a warm memorial to the living, vibrant with the color and beauty of growing plants and flowers. Paths meandered about it, in gradual ascents, and colored rocks sparkled amid the greenery. The Kammians left their market purchases in orderly rows about its base to climb it, whether a short distance or all the way to the tiny park-like area on its truncated apex, and to sit and meditate the beauties and mysteries of life or perhaps just to admire the view.
The companion monument was stark by comparison—a stereotyped representation of the fabled Winged Beast in a gigantic wood carving: wings outspread, the long, vicious fangs that filled the tapering snout bared, talons poised threateningly, and the whole painted a gleaming black. It towered almost twenty meters above the market on its slender pole. At its base stood two young males in black clothing and black capes—lackeys of the Winged Beast, or apprentice priests, or student soldiers.
In contrast to the relaxed crowds on the Mound of the Sun, few people came near the stark symbol of death. Those who did had a furtive air, as though they were paying off a blackmailer. They fumbled among their purchases and then approached the monument timorously. One of the apprentice priests handed out slender pointed sticks that looked like enormous toothpicks. On these the faithful impaled their offerings—pieces of meat, or bread, or cake, or other edibles. Bowing reverently with a queer, sidewise genuflection, they stepped into the black circle formed at the base of the pole by a mosaic of ebony-colored stones. They inserted the offering stick into one of the multitude of holes bored into the pole for that purpose. Then they backed away, hands raised pleadingly, eyes on the menacing Beast, until they reached their possessions.
They scurried off like one who has had a death sentence repealed.
Light and darkness; life and death.
Darzek set down his shopping pot and climbed the life pyramid all the way to the top. Looking over at the soaring Winged Beast, he pondered the sinister darkness in a people’s soul that could call forth such a symbol, and he wondered what the missing Synthesis agents could have told him about that darkness.
The city lay to the south. From Darzek’s vantage point he watched
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