“That would still be harming my school, albeit indirectly.”

Manford shrugged. “You waste too much time on minutiae. In my mind, the matter is clear-cut — just as the new oath is.”

Outside the tent, he heard Deacon Harian’s voice. “I must see Leader Torondo. Let me in — I have the proof we need!”

“Then I hope your dead lips can speak it, because you will not enter the tent,” Anari said. “I am commanded not to allow any interruption.”

Manford had no doubt Anari would give her life before allowing the deacon to pass, but he also knew that Harian would continue his ruckus until he was finally allowed in. He called out, “Anari, let us see what the deacon has discovered.” He added a warning edge in his voice. “You can slay him if he wastes my time.”

Deacon Harian did not balk, nor did Manford expect him to; if nothing else, the man was resolute. Anari opened the tent flap, and the bald deacon strode in, carrying a tome. Sister Woodra accompanied him, as if she served as his personal Truthsayer rather than Manford’s.

Harian glared at Gilbertus Albans, who sat straight-backed at the table. With the delicate touch of a forefinger, the Headmaster pushed his spectacles higher up on his nose.

Harian thumped the heavy book down on the camp table, then turned to a page that featured the image of a face. “This was brought to my attention by one of our loyal followers, an archivist who found this volume in his large collection. It was published shortly after the Battle of Corrin.” He pushed the book forward onto the table, demanding that Gilbertus look at the image.

Manford had seen the picture many times: the historical record from the climactic battle of the war against thinking machines, when the Army of the Jihad rescued the hostages that Omnius placed in harm’s way, using them as human shields at the Bridge of Hrethgir. In the image, frightened people crowded together, liberated from their long nightmare.

Harian continued, “The book includes details of humans who collaborated with thinking machines, the demon robots — and how some of the turncoats escaped in the confusion by mingling with refugees.”

Gilbertus looked at the picture, then back up, showing no apparent interest. With his eidetic Mentat focus, he had probably memorized every detail with a single glance.

Harian stabbed his finger at one of the figures, a face that was plain on the high-resolution image even after all these years. “This is you, Headmaster Albans.

Manford stared down in disbelief. The image showed a man who was perhaps in his midthirties, with facial features that appeared to match those of the Mentat Headmaster.

“There is a resemblance,” Gilbertus said, “but it proves nothing.”

Harian smiled cruelly. “Nevertheless, it is you. I’ve had my suspicions about you for some time now, Headmaster, and finally I have proof.”

“How could that possibly be me? The person in that image would be…” He waved a hand. “… extremely old. Far beyond a normal human life span.”

“An ancient machine sympathizer was recently caught and executed,” Sister Woodra pointed out. “A man named Horus Rakka. He changed his identity, lived among normal humans, and hid from his past, but eventually he was found out and met the fires of Butlerian justice.”

“Yes, I heard about that, but Horus Rakka was a very old man. I may have a few gray hairs, but I’m not decrepit.”

Harian flipped open the tome, looking for the page he wanted. “This book also contains records of refugees who were saved from the Bridge of Hrethgir, those given passage from Corrin after the fall of the thinking machines. The archivist spent days poring over the long list of names.”

“One of my Mentats could have done it in an hour,” Gilbertus said with only a hint of a flippant tone.

Harian found the right page. Among the thousands of names listed in the book, he pointed to one specific entry. “That’s your name, isn’t it, Headmaster? Gilbertus Albans.”

The Mentat glanced at Sister Woodra, then looked at Manford as he answered. “That name is the same as mine. Again, it proves nothing. If you examined all historical records, across all settled worlds, you will probably find other identical names as well.”

“Ah, but the demon robot Erasmus had a special ward, chosen from the slave pens and trained specially. Gilbertus Albans was his name. Several of the refugees from the Bridge of Hrethgir recorded that fact to accompany their oral statements. But Gilbertus Albans was never found after the Battle of Corrin.”

The Mentat’s expression remained mild. “Corrin was leveled in the attack. Many humans were never found. Your story grows more absurd by the moment.”

Harian leaned forward, raising his voice. “I believe that when you were raised on Corrin, the demon robot found some way to prolong your life. We know the thinking machines had that technology. I am convinced you slipped away during the confusion, posed as one of the refugees, and created a new life for yourself. You’ve been hiding here on Lampadas all this time, haven’t you? Assuming no one would remember.”

Manford couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Anari looked ready to explode, her emotions boiling across her face.

Shaking his head, Gilbertus said, “Your evidence is circumstantial, and your conclusion strains credulity. You haven’t even proved that the person in the image matches up with a name found on a long list.”

Harian sniffed. “Your resemblance to the man in this image, and the identical name, could be nothing more than a coincidence.” And now he smiled, as if delivering a coup de grâce. “But Sister Woodra is a Truthsayer. Speak now, Headmaster. Tell the Truthsayer that you are not the man in the image, that you’re not the Gilbertus Albans who was raised by Erasmus. She will know if you are lying.”

Sister Woodra stared intently at him. Gilbertus remained still, seemingly at peace and smiling slightly, whereas a guilty man might squirm and perspire.

“I’m not the man in the image,” Gilbertus insisted. He stared calmly at the Salusan Sister.

“You’re lying, aren’t you?” she said.

“The fact that you have framed that as a question shows your uncertainty.” A small smile worked at the edges of his mouth.

“You’re probably the best liar I’ve ever seen, but you are lying. I hear it in your voice, a tremor so slight that no one but a Truthsayer would ever notice it. But it is there, nonetheless. And I see the soft glistening of your skin. Not perspiration, but a barely perceptible change on the surface of the epidermis. These things are even more apparent to me, Headmaster Albans, because I have watched recordings of you giving speeches and talking to your students — obtained by the Butlerian students in your midst. Your voice and skin were never like they are now, because you were not lying on those occasions.” She looked even more intently at him. “There is something in your eyes, too. Fear, perhaps.”

“I am not afraid of the truth,” Gilbertus said.

“Fear for the fate of your school, then,” she said. “Fear that Manford will destroy it because of your crimes.”

After a long, tense silence that seemed like a void, Gilbertus said, “Manford has promised he will not harm the school or my students. But perhaps you are right, Sister Woodra, perhaps I am still worried for their safety.”

“You are only worrying because of your true identity. You are the Gilbertus Albans from Corrin. You were the ward of the robot Erasmus. You are an enemy of humanity.”

“I am not an enemy of humanity,” he said, but pointedly did not deny the rest.

Manford stared. “This is not possible.” His gaze intensified, like a scalpel cutting away the Headmaster’s secrets, and he cut deep. “But I can see it is true.”

Gilbertus remained silent for a long moment, and then turned to the Butlerian leader with a solemn nod. “Yes, I am the man in the image, and I am more than one hundred eighty years old.”