Nate studied it, eyes narrowed. After a moment he stepped back so abruptly that he banged into the row of tables behind them. The blood drained from his face.
“Nate?” For a moment Jill thought he’d been poisoned or invaded by some alien parasite, that something had happened to him when he’d been out of the room, so extreme was his physical response. But he was staring in horror at the page.
“The equation for the one-minus-one…”
“What?”
“Don’t you see?” He looked up, his eyes feverish. “This wave function assumes a wave with seventy percent crest and thirty percent trough. Kobinski was right, Jill! We’re not just on another planet. We’re not even in our own universe anymore.”
16.4. Thirty-Seventy Aharon Handalman
Kobinski did not show his face again until the first day of Festival. Aharon was seated in a chair when he came in. A nurse was finishing dressing him, putting hard sandals on his still-heavy feet. The Fiorian robe she had given him was smelly and uncomfortable, not to mention a little immodest, since he wore nothing underneath.
Aharon kept his mouth shut at the sight of the golden mask. He had wished so hard for the man’s return, now he had nothing to say. He was angry at Kobinski, his host, for leaving him alone and vulnerable for so long. He was in awe of Kobinski, the kabbalist, whose work in the past few days had taken the blasted and empty plain of Aharon’s soul and had whispered to it, had started something new growing there. That man, the kabbalist, the mystic, the writer of the manuscript, seemed to have no part of this being before him, and Aharon decided it was better, for his own sanity if for no other reason, to divorce the two here and now. He needed the manuscript like a drowning man needed a life raft. He could not risk being disappointed in its author.
The king of Gehenna waited until the nurse had finished, then sent her and Tevach from the room. He was dressed in a purple robe decorated with gold thread. His belt was hammered gold; his mask sparkled cruelly. But when he took it off, Aharon could see that underneath all that savage finery the human being sweat.
“I should explain what you will see today.”
“That would be helpful.” Aharon clenched his hands in his lap.
“This is Fiore’s largest sacred holiday. There will be idols, speeches, religious trappings. The Fiori religion emphasizes…” Kobinski hesitated. “…They’re extremely stringent against those who question the faith. Their belief system is absolutely rigid. After all, that’s why they’re here.”
Aharon said nothing, but he felt a deep repulsion. Dear God, what was he going to have to witness?
“The punishment for heretics is brutal. It will be bloody, even grotesque. You cannot react.”
Aharon moved his arm sluggishly to clutch the chair. “Must I go? Why?”
“Because,” Kobinski said coolly, “it will benefit me. And I, in turn, am your only chance of survival. I told you my position is tenuous. The sight of you will impress the masses—if you don’t do anything stupid. Don’t show your emotions. Don’t do anything at all. If you can’t bear what you’re seeing, look down at your lap. Do you understand?”
Aharon nodded. He wanted to refuse, but he knew that wasn’t an option.
“In a way, you’re quite fortunate to have arrived so close to Festival. It means Argeh has been too busy to bother with you—yet. You learn to milk good fortune for all it’s worth on Fiori.” Kobinski smiled thinly.
“I have you,” Aharon said. “That is the greatest good fortune.”
“Is it? We shall see.”
They left town by carriage—a crude, heavy thing that made Aharon feel as if he had gone back in time, was riding to a shetl in the frozen Polish countryside in the Middle Ages. The coach had small windows cut into the door. There was no glass, and the icy wind howled through. Gravity pinned Aharon to the hard seat. He pressed his hands down on the bench to keep himself upright—a straining, monumental task—as the wheels jarred against the rocky ground. Across from him was Kobinski in his mask, and next to him was Tevach. The Fiore’s big dark eyes darted between him and Kobinski, as if trying to figure out their relationship. Not so dumb, that one.
The town consisted of little more than a few large stone buildings, numerous hovels, mud and rocks, filthy beggars. Aharon averted his eyes from the hanging carcasses of meat in the town square—carcasses that looked squat and muscled and horribly familiar. He tried not to think of the food that had been forced on him since he’d been here.
They hadn’t gone far when something struck the carriage. There was a hard crash on the door, followed by three or four smaller missiles. My Lord stiffened and grasped the edge of his seat. Outside, Aharon heard the snarls of Kobinski’s guards who rode into the crowd to find the culprits. The mask revealed nothing.
“Friends of yours?” Aharon asked.
“I told you there were problems. There’s been some… vandalism to my images. Organized, it seems.”
“Argeh?”
“No.” Kobinski paused. “I don’t think so.”
Tevach was plucking at Kobinski’s sleeve repeatedly.
“What is it, Tevach?” Kobinski turned to him irritably.
“Forgive me, My Lord, but… there… there is a prisoner… a heretic…”
Before the cringing Tevach could get his full sentence out or Kobinski take the umbrage he was gathering himself to take, the carriage slowed and one of the guards looked in the window. He addressed Kobinski in the growling Fiorian language.
Which meant, Aharon surmised with profound dread, that they had arrived.
My Lord made his appearance in the official box to the usual fanfare. He was greeted with cheers, though they were weaker than they had been even last year. Argeh was present, his own chair a few steps down and to the right of My Lord’s. He turned, a challenge in his eyes. My Lord ignored him.
My Lord waited until the audience was distracted with one of the events; then he motioned to Tevach to carry Aharon in and place him in the next seat. As the Fiore caught sight of “the messenger” an electrified tension rushed around the arena, a kind of mass inhale. Soon everyone was looking at the box, rising to their feet to see over one another’s heads.
Aharon, feeling their stares, began to shake.
“Everything’s fine,” My Lord said, putting his hand on Aharon’s arm.
The gesture was one of domination, and it was meant for the crowd. For maximum effect he had left Aharon unmasked. Years ago, when he’d first arrived, it had been Ehlah’s idea to mask him so that his face would not cause undue alarm. It worked, but not for that reason. What the Fiore imagined behind the mask was even more awesome than what was really there. But that dread had worn off. They needed a reminder. And as he’d told Aharon, when you lived on Fiori you milked good fortune for every drop you could get.
My Lord stood and held up his arms. “You have heard that Mahava sent me a messenger from Heaven,” he spoke loudly. “Today we welcome him to our festival and show him the depth of our devotion!”
The crowd did not respond with quite the hysterical jubilation he had hoped for, but there was moderate pounding of staves. My Lord sat down. He glanced at Argeh, who rose and, without commenting on the visitor or even looking at him, motioned for the ceremonies to go on.
Aharon spoke low at his side: “Why do you do it? Why do you trick these people into thinking you’re some kind of divine being?”
“Be silent,” My Lord said. “Unless you want to get us both killed.”
He was angry with himself that he had not spent more time preparing Aharon. It would be dangerous if the Jew made a fool of himself today. But he had avoided the mere sight of the man, with his long, proud beard, the yeshiva cadence of his voice, those burning, self-righteous eyes—these things triggered too many memories, were too much of an immediate window back to a time and place that was gone and buried. By avoiding Handalman, My Lord was avoiding Kobinski.