Evidence of sacred disease.

??? Repeat.

Genetically engineered micro-life that moves from man to man, killing.

Verified?

No. No time. Attack. Your whole camp may be destroyed overnight.

Not enough data.

This may be deadly. You may have no choice but to sack Soebo.

??? Repeat.

Burn the place! Raze it! Sterilize it!

Drastic.

Your choice. Concentrate on the Temple of the Raging Seas. Attack.

Who is involved?

Any member of the Swift Wind. The Liethe are suspect.

Who?

Your cuddly friends. I have three sources of information pointing to Liethe involvement. How much time do I have? Attack yesterday! May God be with us. May God be with you.

47

A man who has been afraid all his life thinks that fear is the only winning strategy because he has been conquered by fear. Thus when an oppressed mind strikes in rebellion, he becomes the oppressor.

THE LIGHT-HEARTED se-Tufi Who Walks in Humility had been too long independent during the easy life of her lengthy journey between hives. The crones of Soebo were well aware of her loose behavior. They put her on a rigorous schedule to rebuild her discipline.

Mind Control occupied her attention after waking — the Resting Power Positions rebalanced her body and the Oina Thought Frameworks rebalanced her mind. Then, after morning meal, whenever the se-Tufi Who Pats Flesh was available, Humility was drilled in the ways of High Wave Ogar tu’Ama so that she might know the persona of Comfort, a sympathetic woman sensitively aware of the peculiar nature of a widower who had loved only one woman for two-thirds of his life and still grieved.

But Flesh was not always available to train Humility. Flesh specialized in political intrigue and she had lucked onto a bigger game than Ama, who was, after all, only a spokesman for the Mnankrei who did not follow the Swiftness Faction. Winterstorm Master Nie’t’Fosal, of the Central Watch of the Swift Wind, was demanding. She could no longer afford to give Ama the attention the Liethe clan thought desirable but, simultaneously, much as she needed an alter ego, she had little time to be a tutor. Thus Humility caught her when she could, and tu’Ama pined away for a woman who could seldom meet him.

To keep their young assassin under strict crone control, Humility was given other assignments than her Comfort role.

Many of the crones were fascinated by the rayvoice. Their link with Kaiel-hontokae still astonished them. Such magic was arcane and seemingly beyond the powers of the most able seducer of men, but they were not unaware of their extraordinary fortune in having a woman among them who had some small skill with the mysteries of the voice that was everywhere.

Humility was granted a team of ten Liethe, some of them still too young to be apprenticed as courtesans and concubines, but quick and dexterous and patient and accustomed to ruthless discipline, some older and wise in the ways of logic. Two had high jeweler skills, as full in their knowledge of metals and gems as Humility was in her knowledge of death. One of the Liethe knew the working of tungsten, a rare metal which was malleable in its ultra-pure form and a metal more resistant to the depredations of heat than any other substance known to Getan chemistry.

When she was not with Flesh, Humility guided the rayvoice team until the dusk of high sunset dimmed the tower rooms. The darkness was used for Body Control, building again the supple performance of the dancer (and fighter). At low dawn she assumed various house duties — garbage disposal, cleaning, cooking, weaving — then again went to work with the rayvoice until the thankful arrival of low sunset, a sparse meal, and finally the surcease of the mat on her stone floor.

She had no trouble teaching the winding of coils and rolling of electron absorbers and the making of the copper maps. She could even explain the formulae by which the numbers on the maps were changed so that the devices might stay within the realm of magic, but the electron jars were beyond her abilities. She knew when a jar was moral and when one was stubbornly useless; she even had pictures of their assembly — but she did not know how to make them.

And so it was with some wonder that she watched a woman who could spin the finest gold filigree sit down at the table and fashion nets from silver. Small jeweler’s tools built the docks and posts while, as a group, the women debated the tiny dimensions and gaps. Delicate blowing with a torch produced the glass house. Still it was not enough. The electrons needed their vacuum. This obstacle was overcome when a Liethe sister borrowed a clever mercury pump from one of the Mnankrei’s dormant gene-synthesis programs.

Their first four jars were totally immoral. With the fifth they learned how to precipitate out the final oxygen by oxidation inside the jar. But their real success only came with the twelfth jar. By the eighteenth jar they could consistently duplicate their efforts.

Soon after the first triumphant demonstration to the crone mothers, the entire rayvoice program was abruptly terminated. Humility’s teammates, all long residents of Soebo, some emotionally committed to their lovers, were shipped off one night by the new crone mother. They were angry, and yet obedient in the haste with which they prepared themselves. More and more of the established residents of the hive had been leaving. There was a heavy influx of newcomers — like herself — who had been imported for a purpose. She wondered what it meant.

Unexpectedly, Humility met’t’Fosal in her Radiance persona before she met tu’Ama in her role as Comfort.

The One Who Pats Flesh had been putting too much sureness in the Radiance she was creating for Fosal. It made him uneasy. He was a man who believed that women who were not afraid of men were dangerous. He beat her for no other reason than to restore the dominance-submissive balance. He did not stop. His rage at her willfulness subsided and still he beat her for pleasure. She had never witnessed such behavior. To have it directed against her was terrifying.

The crone mother who was in charge of investigating Nie’t’Fosal was a se-Tufi, the se-Tufi Who Rings the Soul’s Bell, and so she thought she could convince this young sister to continue her affair with Fosal. Flesh refused. The crone argued with guile and cunning. Flesh begged for another assignment, anything, a task no matter how demeaning, anything except to be touched by Fosal again. Soul’s Bell finally laughed and called Humility.

“You are to see him tonight.”

“But I have not been fitted to the mask of Radiance.”

“Flesh will drill you until the highnode sun.”

“That is not enough time.”

Flesh made a noise of contempt. “He cannot perceive even the grossest differences. I could train you during the fall of a pebble from my toe to the ground! He’ll beat you; that’s what you have to know!”

Part of Humility’s training had been Kontaing, the art of being beaten without being injured. There were ways to absorb blows harmlessly. “I will not know what to say to him.”

Soul’s Bell folded her hands. Her face was inscrutable. “You will have a sharp change in personality due to the beating. You will be afraid, unsure of yourself, desperate to please. You will have found the man you could be willing to die for if he would but ask of you such sacrifice.”

“Is he so insensitive he would believe that?” asked Humility.

“Yes,” said the crone.

“How can you bear to be with such an insect!” Flesh stormed with scorn, directed not at her sister but at the man.