He closed his eyes and gripped the rough plank seat inside the rocking carriage. Where had that quiet, sure voice gone? He prayed again for chesed, fill me with love, but this time fear kept his heart curled tight as a fist.
They didn’t travel far. When the carriage stopped they were outside a large building. Its dark stones and craggy lines sent his heart knocking. It was a terrible place; he could feel it—pure evil. Although it was very late, there were guards in front of the door.
“Tevach, what is this?”
“We go see Ahtdeh.”
“Ahtdeh?”
“The one from the Festival—you remember. You said, ‘No.’ ”
A terrible understanding filled Aharon. He blanched. “But… ! You didn’t say… ! This is a prison!”
“No worry. My Lord comes here all the time.”
“I can’t!” Aharon shook his head, looking at the awful place. “No. I can’t.”
Tevach was quiet. The carriage sat in front of the building. The guards stood outside, glancing at them from time to time. They carried torches, and their faces seemed more bestial, more demonic, than any Fiorian faces Aharon had ever seen. He kept shaking his head. Finally he looked at Tevach. The Fiore was staring out the window at nothing, his eyes dry, his mouse-face perfectly defeated. It was a face used to defeat, and that only made Aharon feel guiltier.
But the heretic is going to die! Aharon wanted to shout. Why should I teach him? It’s useless!
Had he doubted there was a God? Oh ho! And ah ha! He was there all right, and when He wanted to test you, to see if the “big changes” you claimed to be making were all talk or otherwise, He really knew how to stick it to you!
“Yes, Tevach,” Aharon sighed. “Okay, yes, all right already, what are we waiting for?”
Tevach helped him from the carriage, led him up the steps of the prison supporting his weight, just as he supported My Lord’s. Kobinski must come here often, because the guards didn’t question him. They fell to the ground at the sight of the mask and stayed that way until the two of them were inside. Well. Good then. He might actually survive this night.
Inside, the place was lit by torches. The cramped stone corridors, low-ceilinged and filthy, were empty. There were only the sounds of moans and sobs, enough to curdle your blood. Tevach helped him down several flights of stairs and turned into an arched hall so low Aharon had to stoop. It was lined with cells. Aharon kept his eyes on the floor, knowing that he didn’t want to see what was in them. The heretic’s cell was at the end of the hall, fitted with a heavy door with a grilled window. This cell had guards, two of them, tough Fiorian priests. But the mask was fierce and confident, even if Aharon was not, and Tevach—thank god, who could have guessed the mouse had it in him?—spoke authoritatively and the guards let them inside without any fuss.
“I am clever,” Tevach whispered gleefully in the darkened cell. “I told them My Lord wished to question the heretic about the vandalism to his images. Is that not clever?”
“Yes, Tevach,” Aharon sighed. Clever enough to get us killed.
“Here is Ahtdeh.”
As Aharon’s eyes adjusted to the light in the cell, he could make out a shape lying in the corner. It looked like a heap of bloodstained rags, but when Tevach went to it and gently turned it over, his paws stroking, soothing low sounds coming from his throat, Aharon recognized the bundle as the Fiore from the arena. The way he looked, he should have been dead, but he was not dead. He responded to Tevach’s urgings, gathering himself up slowly from the floor. When he saw Aharon, he stiffened, hate on his face.
Tevach growled and whined in that beast-tongue; then he came over and took the mask away. They looked at each other, Aharon and the heretic, man to man, yes, man to man. If you looked into the heretic’s eyes, you knew, without any doubt, that he was a man.
The heretic motioned with his eyes to Tevach, and Aharon had the distinct feeling he had been accepted. He felt his heart stir again with that simple act of trust.
“Teach him the manuscript, Messenger,” Tevach said. “I try to, but I understand little.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Hours. Till almost morning. I will tell you.”
Aharon nodded. He felt the burden of fear and anxiety slip from his shoulders, as if he were someplace safe, though nothing could be further from the truth. He saw clearly the risks these poor creatures were willing to take, and for what? For the truth. For love’s sake—they still had faith in the idea of God’s love. His heart was moved.
He didn’t understand what was happening, why he was really here, or if anything he could do or say would make any difference. But as he began to speak, searching inside his own beginner’s understanding for the right words, he knew that none of that mattered. He could only let compassion flow through him and let the consequences fall where they may.
They talked longer than they should have. The heretic was slow but thought deeply. His questions were often basic and sometimes hostile, but he had the true heart of a student. If only Aharon had had such a one among the boys at his yeshiva!
Tevach paced by the door and was literally whining by the time he got Aharon to leave the cell. The guards posted outside did not bother them, but Aharon could feel their eyes pinned to his back as he and Tevach crouched toward the stairs.
Before they had gone up one flight a Fiore was suddenly in front of them, looking at Aharon and bowing up and down from the waist. He spoke rapidly, gestured, and Aharon didn’t need to understand the words to know he was being summoned. He froze; Tevach, too. Unfortunately, the wily schemer under his arm had been swallowed up again by the mouse. Aharon had no idea what to do.
“We must go downstairs,” Tevach whispered.
“What? Why?”
“We must!”
Down they went. As they moved into the bowels of this vile place, Aharon got the feeling he was descending into a grave and would never climb out again. Every step he took away from the night—if it was even still night outside—away from the relative safety of the carriage was tightening a noose around his neck.
At the bottom of the stairs was a single short hall with a thick door and two guards. And also… Argeh. Tevach trembled, his eyes on the ground, useless. Aharon could smell his own stinking sweat. His heart—well, the only good thing that could be said about pain in his chest was that it was going to kill him before Argeh did. Small mercies. He had feared the worst and the worst had come to pass. He had left his room, he had to admit it, with every understanding of the danger. There was no one to blame but himself. The sages say, “He who takes the bread must pay the baker.”
The high priest barked something at him, gave him weird sideways glances. Something was happening, but Aharon had no idea what. So he tried silence. Argeh barked again. Aharon gave an imperious gesture with his hand. Argeh gave him a look like he had completely lost his mind but stomped up the stairs, growling to himself.
The other Fiore bowed his head nearly to the floor and backed away also. The two guards followed. Then it was only Aharon and Tevach and that door.
The House of Cleansing was just beginning to stir when My Lord arrived at dawn. A carriage pulled away from the front steps as his carriage pulled up. My Lord frowned at it. Carriages were few and far between on Fiori—they were too expensive to maintain. Then he realized it must be Gehvis, going to fetch medicines. The message from the physician had been urgent and succinct: He’s dying. Come.
Joints screaming, My Lord made his way into the prison. The pending death of Wallick seemed to have infected the whole place. The guards at the door groveled with even more fear and confusion than usual. Inside, Fiore scattered at his presence. Down the treacherous stony stairs he went, each level colder than the one before. And with every step he cursed Tevach, that ingrate. When My Lord needed him most the Fiore had disappeared, forcing him to rely on Decher. As competent as Decher was as a bodyguard, he made a miserable leaning post, always out of step, hesitant in his support of My Lord’s weight.