Blindfold

He took a deep breath, then let out a long, sad sigh that made him seem intensely paternal. “It seems that not everyone has understood this.”

Tharion narrowed his eyes, sitting stock-still on the mare’s back. Five users caught in a small village with only a few thousand inhabitants? His stomach knotted with anger and revulsion. His entire life in the Truthsayers Guild had been guided by unforgiving ethical training, knowing what was right and wrong—and this was so wrong. Only Truthsayers were supposed to have access to Veritas. Where had these prisoners gotten it? What trivial and mundane thrills did they use it for?

“You!” Dokken said to the moon-faced woman, who cringed and began to sob again. “So desperate to learn whether your husband was cheating on you, you stooped even to this—and for what? Was he guilty, or did your own groundless suspicions damn you?” Her wail was all the answer Tharion needed to hear. “And what will your family do, your children, your husband, now that you have breached their trust?”

Dokken turned to the flinty-eyed man, who flinched and looked away. “You—a craftsman trying to dredge up hidden knowledge about a competitor, stealing trade secrets rather than developing your own skill.”

Then the young couple. Dokken’s lips flattened into a thin line, and he seemed to be stifling a bemused smile. “And two lovers who wanted to flash into each other’s minds during sex, as if Veritas were a toy!”

He shook his head. “You thought working in the cotton fields was difficult? Hear me, because now I’m acting as Magistrate for my Holding. For the next three months, you are all assigned to hard labor at the dry lakebeds, strip-mining salt and processing nitrates. I doubt you’ll ever wash the chemical stink out of your skin and hair.”

The villagers gasped, but Tharion nodded. Such labor was usually reserved for the worst criminals, and he agreed with the sentence in this case—but sentencing was supposed to be done by a Truthsayer, not at the whim of a landholder.

“These can be punished,” Dokken said, then turned to the last prisoner, the matronly woman, whose sour expression intensified. She turned dull eyes up at Dokken, but said nothing. “But the person who sells the illegal Veritas cannot be tolerated.” He spun his stallion around, turning his back to the drug pusher. “She will be taken a thousand kilometers out into the unreclaimed lands and turned loose. Atlas can do with her what it wishes.”

The villagers moaned at the certain death sentence, but Dokken nodded to the sol-pols, directing them to follow his orders. Tharion sat in shock and anger on the gray mare. He could not grant a simple landholder the right to mete out executions; not even Eli Strone had been sentenced to death. “Franz!” Tharion whispered harshly. “Only the Guild—”

With a decisive sweep of his hand, Dokken shushed him. “Wait until we’re out of the range of lamplight,” he said under his breath. “I know what you’re going to say. But there’s time. Plenty of time.”

One man, muscular and dark-bearded, stepped forward from the crowd, apparently some sort of village leader. “Master Dokken,” he said, averting his eyes in respect, “a village representative should be given the opportunity—”

“Not in the internal affairs of my holding!” Dokken said vehemently. “Guild Master Tharion sits here beside me. I need no other authority.” He turned his stallion to leave. “Just see to it that I don’t need to crack down like this again!”

Tharion’s mare trotted beside Dokken as they hurried out of the village. He twisted the reins in his hands, annoyed at himself for being so easily manipulated. As always. His nostrils flared, and the night air was cold.

As they ascended the path into the bluffs, riding together under the stars and the whistling wind, Tharion finally reprimanded his mentor. “Franz, by dispensing justice yourself, you blatantly damaged my power. The Guild can’t let this go unchallenged!”

Dokken turned to him, his sea-green eyes shadowed but glittering. He smiled, kept his voice low and gentle. “Ah, but if we say you instructed me to do this, Tharion, then nobody is weakened. You were there. Everybody thinks you sanctioned it, probably even ordered me to do the sentencing. You know those people deserved it. Every one of them.”

Tharion was unconvinced. “I’d prefer to make up my own mind.”

Dokken scolded him now. “Tharion, think! I’ve been helping you to see the greater consequences, the second and third levels of power and control, not just the obvious cause and effect. These people could have been brought into First Landing, put to a Truthsayer in the middle of the great plaza—but I wanted it done here. In my holding, where it counts most. I want it known that I, Franz Dokken, will not tolerate black market Veritas.”

“You brought me here so I could pat you on the back, commend your efforts?” Tharion said, his throat tight with frustration.

“No, I wanted you here so we could discuss some new information I have uncovered. It has consequences for your entire Guild as well as my landholding. I’ve already taken care of it, and you will thank me for it.”

“Oh?”

“Let me explain it over dinner,” Dokken said, tapping the stallion’s sides with his heels. The horse moved at a faster pace. “Come to my villa. Garien is preparing fish tonight.”

Unable to think of anything else to say, Tharion rode his mare up the steep hill path to Dokken’s home in the cliffs.

ii

Garien, the chef, served a wonderful broiled trout from Dokken’s fish farms, seasoning it with herbs from the kitchen garden, served with a sautéed medley of tomatoes, onions, and unfamiliar green pods.

Dokken fell to his meal with gusto; after every three bites he methodically dabbed his mouth with a dyed linen napkin. His eyes were half-lidded as he savored the fish, peeling away crisped skin and flaking the delicate white meat.

Tharion sat at the polished rose-granite table, resting his elbows on the cool, slick surface. He tasted one of the sliced green pods, not a familiar vegetable raised in the greenhouse levels of Guild Headquarters. He found it tasty, but with an odd texture. “What is this? A new vegetable from the Platform gene library?”

Dokken speared a pod with his fork and held it up from his glazed terra cotta plate. “Okra. It’s a relative of cotton, and the kenaf we plant for paper fiber. I decided that since my kenaf was thriving so well, I would try the okra. You should taste Garien’s gumbo sometime.” He popped the vegetable into his mouth. “It amazes me what still remains untapped up in the Platform’s genetic bank.”

They finished their dinner with small talk about the season’s newly recovered lands, novel crafts and products emerging from the villages, and the annoying activities of the other landholders. Tharion maintained an impassive expression, since landholders always complained about their rivals.

One of the servants came in to clear away the dishes and to refill their wineglasses. Dokken swirled the dark red liquid in his clear glass, then sipped. Tharion drank the sour wine out of politeness, but he didn’t like the taste. Dokken seemed torn between criticism and enjoyment of the vintage.

“This is a Chianti,” he said, “a dark wine that’s traditionally Italian. The bottles are supposed to be wrapped in wicker, but nobody has cultivated the right kind of reeds for old-fashioned basketry. Maybe Sardili will try it down at the delta.” Dokken took another sip of the wine. “Let’s go sit by the fire.”

The landholder’s leather clothes creaked as he rose. To Tharion, in his loose white cotton garments and overrobe, Dokken’s breeches and tunic looked heavy and uncomfortable.

Tharion followed Dokken across the tiled floor to the sitting room. He took one of the chairs next to a snapping fire that did more to drive off the night’s chill than any of the villa’s corner thermal units. “Where’s Maximillian?”

“Away.” Dokken pushed his boots close to the fire and stared at the glowing embers. “I also just returned from another sojourn a few days ago. He’ll be back soon.”

By now, Tharion had learned not to be bothered by Dokken’s evasiveness. He relaxed in a comfortable chair, staring into the flickering flames, uneasy to see such an outrageous waste of wood, which had to be cut and shipped in from the pine forests in Toth Holding.

He sipped his bitter wine again. Dokken began one of his tangential lectures. “Trust me, this isn’t how Chianti is supposed to taste. The ground and climate here is dry and rocky, like parts of old Italy, and it should be perfect for growing grapes and olives. But the fruit tastes awful, even after decades of conditioning the soil. I’m still working on it, though. Either I’m improving, or my sense of taste is irreparably damaged. Maybe I’ll try coffee next, I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve had a good, rich cup of real coffee.”

Tharion made a noncommittal sound, though he couldn’t imagine where Dokken had ever tasted “real” coffee. He didn’t interrupt, though, but tried instead to relax and enjoy the fire.

All through dinner, Dokken had not broached the subject of the allegedly important new information he had learned. He knew better than to push his mentor; Franz Dokken was a master at playing his hints in the right order, drawing inevitable conclusions, manipulating results by virtue of his wise perspective and generous patience.

They sat in silence by the fire, sipping wine. Waiting.

Finally, Dokken raised himself out of his chair and refilled their glasses with the bad wine. “All right, my friend, I know you’re getting anxious,” he said. “Let’s go out onto the balcony.”

iii

Dokken set his wineglass on the polished ledge and placed both hands on the stone rail, looking down at the courtyard below. Clay pots filled with explosively colorful geraniums sat in the corners of the balcony.

The main towers of the villa rose up above them, walls of creamy stucco, roof overhangs of red tile, and a satellite dish antenna on the tallest tower, pointed out toward the stars. Below, mulberry bushes adorned the grounds, carefully watered and fertilized.

Dokken turned to his guest. “In civilized Earth society, I would be offering you a fine cigar.”

“A cigar?” Tharion asked. He’d never heard of the thing. “What is that?”

Dokken looked up at the veiled stars, as if trying to find the Earth system out in the galactic forest of lights. “Carefully selected tobacco leaves dried and rolled into a cylinder. You light the end, then inhale the smoke. It contained a mild narcotic, which was also a carcinogen. Rather pointless, I suppose, but there was a time when cigars allowed for wonderful social affectations. I hear Hektor Carsus is contemplating cultivating tobacco at his holding, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“One too many vices from Earth?” Tharion asked, wondering if Dokken would ever get around to the point.

The landholder waved away the thought. “No, the soil and the climate are lousy for tobacco. Not rich enough yet. I looked into it. Give us another few centuries of working the land.”

Tharion finished his Chianti and found that he didn’t want any more. Dokken would toy with him all night long, avoiding the question unless Tharion pushed. “Franz, about this important information you were going to tell me—”

Dokken smiled, as if he had been wondering how long his protégé would wait—but an interruption from the firelit sitting room disturbed them. Garien was setting out two small glazed saucers of honeyed strawberries, but a dark, slim woman pushed past him.

“No, I don’t want a third place setting, thank you,” she told the chef with weary patience, heading straight for the balcony.