Master Of The Hashomi

Blade rewound his sash and retrieved both knives. Then he turned toward the watchers outside the tent. From the first moment of the fight they had ceased to exist as far as he was concerned. Yet it still lay with the Master to decide what Blade had won by defeating two picked Hashomi in a matter of minutes. The sun was no higher in the sky than it had been when the fight began, so it had to have been a matter of minutes, even though it felt like several hours.

The Master had risen and was walking slowly toward Blade, carrying his staff in one hand, his other thrust inside his robe: His face was blank, but the subtle quivering of his body told Blade that the Master was not as calm as he was pretending to be.

«So it is done,» the Master said quietly. «You have been tested and found-more than adequate.» His face twisted for a moment with some emotion Blade could not read-fear, rage, surprise, uncertainty? «In fact, you have made the testing as we conceived it a thing for children to laugh at!»

«I am sorry if I have done the Hashomi an injury by this,» said Blade, with an elaborate politeness he was far from feeling.

«Do not fear that,» said the Master. «It is not the way of the Hashomi to believe that we know everything merely because we are the Hashomi. There are those who know what we do not, and from whom we may learn if they are willing to teach us.

«As for your two opponents-«The Master broke off, and raised his staff. Blade's hands dropped to within inches of his knife hilts, fingers curling ready to grip. Then he forced himself to relax. The internal discipline of the Hashomi was not his affair, particularly when the price of trying to make it so could easily be death.

The Master's hands moved in a delicate pattern along his staff. A glossy red needle thrust itself out of the silver ball on the striking end. The Master walked over to the vomiting man, raised the staff, and brought it down. The needle drove deep into the man's neck. He straightened out, throwing his arms wide, his eyes rolling up in his head until only the whites were visible. Then he arched his back so violently and so far that Blade heard the spine crack, and went limp, blood trickling from his mouth, ears, and nose. The man with the disabled arm was still mercifully unconscious, and he died more peacefully.

Blade was waiting, arms crossed on his chest, when the Master came back to him. «Certainly you seem to have told the truth about what you learned as a British agent. It seems to be a strong and wise Order. Will you teach us as much of the agents' skills as we may need?»

«I do not know how much you may need. I can certainly teach you as much as I know. I trust that will be enough.»

«Of course,» said the Master, smiling with everything except his eyes.

«And in return,» said Blade, «I trust you will agree that I learn the ways of the Hashomi, without submitting to the drugs or being caged like an animal.» He made the words a flat statement, not a question. He would be polite to the Master if necessary, but never humble.

«You may trust me in that,» said the Master. «My word is law in the Valley of the Hashomi, and my word will be that the British agent Blade is to call the Valley of the Hashomi his home from this time onward.» The Master turned away, indicating that Blade should follow him.

Blade did so, his smile masking thoughts the Master might not have found agreeable. The Master could be trusted-to do anything that his own power or the power of the Hashomi might demand. For the moment, both demanded that he leave Blade alive and free. That moment would not last forever, and by the time it ended, Blade knew he would do well to be somewhere far from the valley, where the Master's word was not law and the hands of the Hashomi could not reach him easily.

Chapter 7

The Master of the Hashomi kept his promise. Blade still lived in his room in the hospital, but now he could come and go when he pleased, and go very nearly anywhere in the whole Valley of the Hashomi.

That covered a good deal of territory. The valley was ten miles wide and stretched over fifty miles from end to end. It was well-watered, the soil was fertile, and the crops were luxuriant. There were easily accessible deposits of iron, gold, silver, and copper in the nearby mountains. There were several large stretches of forest, and a number of places where good building stone could be quarried.

In fact, there was room and resources in the valley for two or three times its actual population. Blade estimated that it held no more than thirty thousand people, no more than five thousand of them fully trained and sworn fighting Hashomi. Perhaps that was why the Master laid such stress on bringing up every suitable male child as a Hashom. The five thousand he had now were barely enough to defend the valley against a determined attack.

Some of these suitable male children were found among the families of the craftsmen and farmers, but not many. Most came from the Houses of the Red Water, which were literally breeding pens for future Hashomi. Three hundred carefully chosen women lived in the Houses. Each was expected to bear three male children in six years before being released to go about her business. The fathers were chosen from among the best of the sworn Hashomi.

There were also the Houses of the Forge, where skilled craftsmen produced weapons and metalware. There were the Houses of Healing, five of them, including the hospital where Blade was living.

There was the House of the Ephraimini-a term for which there was no really adequate translation. Blade mentally labeled them «the Wise Men.» They were the scholars, the priests, and above all, the men in charge of producing the various drugs that lay at the heart of the Hashomi way of life. Most of the drugs were produced from various parts of the poppy-like flower, the handr. The House of the Ephraimini was one of the places Blade was not allowed to enter, but he saw it from a distance. It was a squat building of massive stone blocks, looking as grim and aged as the mountains themselves. It was completely surrounded by broad fields of handr and the other plants from which the drugs and medicines of the Hashomi were extracted.

Finally, there were the Houses of the Iron Flower, the barracks of the fighting Hashomi. Blade was allowed to enter one of these and look around-with an escort of twelve grim-faced Hashomi, led by the Master himself.

The daily life of a sworn Hashom was thoroughly Spartan. Each had a room to himself, but it was no more than a stone cell ten feet on a side, with whitewashed walls, a tiled floor, and a ceiling of rough-hewn beams black with age. The only furnishings allowed were a thin sleeping pallet with two blankets, a water jug, and a plain chest of polished wood to hold clothes and weapons. A Hashom could use his cell for sleeping or meditating. Everything else-eating, bathing, answering the calls of nature, and above all training and exercising-was done communally.

They took Blade to one of the communal dining halls and let him sample the food being prepared for the evening meal. The food was. . well, it existed, and presumably there was enough of it to keep the Hashomi from dying of starvation. It had no other virtues that Blade could discover. A Home Dimension mess sergeant who served up food like this would be court-martialed-if he wasn't lynched on the spot by the men who had to eat what he prepared.

The Hashomi trained, exercised, and meditated at least fourteen hours a day, every day of the year except on certain religious festivals. They drank nothing stronger than water, and they were allowed sexual intercourse no more than once a month-if they had conducted themselves well during that month.

«What is bad conduct, according the the laws and customs of the Hashomi?» asked Blade.