The exchange ended there, and on they went, altogether less voluble now. Indeed they didn't say more than a word or two until their wandering brought them to a bridge that looked to be made of porcelain, which arched over a pool so tranquil it formed an almost perfect mirror.
they gazed down into it awhile, Joe almost mesmerized by the sight of his own face laid against the billows of the lad. "it looks kinda comfortable," he said to Wexel.
"You would lie on it, huh?"
"Lie on it. Make love on it."
"It would swallow you up," Fee said.
"Maybe that wouldn't be so bad," Joe said. "Maybe there's something wonderful inside."
"Like what?"
Joe thought of their exchange among the columns. "Another dream, maybe," he said. Wexel didn't reply. Joe looked round at him to see that he was walking back the way they'd come. "Listen to that," he said. There was a murmur of shouts, and what seemed to be the clash of arms. "Hear it?"
"I hear it. You want to stay here or see what's happening?" Wexel asked him. Plainly he was going to do the latter; he was already off the bridge.
"I'll come," Joe told him, and took his reflection from the pool.
The elaborate construction of the streets made the sounds difficult to follow. Joe and Wexel were several times tricked by echoes and counter-echoes before they found the battle they'd heard from the bridge. When they finally turned a corner and came in sight of it they discovered their search had brought them by some obscure route back to the plaza of columns, which had become a battlefield in the little time since they'd walked there. The ground between the columns was littered with bodies, through which the survivors of this fracas fought, most of them armed with short stabbing blades. they were by no means all male. A goodly portion of them were women, fighting with the same mixture of finesse and brutality as their brothers. Overhead, swooping down between the columns to pick off their opponents, were perhaps a dozen winged Ketherians, the first Joe had been close to. they were frail creatures, their bodies the size of a human child of six or so, their bare limbs thin and scaly. Their wings were brilliantly colored, as were their voices, which rose in whoops and squeals and hollers sufficient for half a hundred species.
Like so much else Joe had witnessed on this journey, the scene won a confusion of feelings from him. He'd grown out of his appetite for fighting a long time ago; the sight of wounding and death was simply revolting. But the furious passion of these people could not help but excite him a little; that and the spectacle of the winged Ketherians rising up with their pavonine wings spread against the dark wall of the lad. "What are they fighting about?" Joe yelled to Fee over the din of battle.
"The dynasty of Summa Summamentis and that of Ezso Aethefium have fought forever," he said. "The reason is deeply obscure."
"Somebody must know."
"None of these," Fee said, "that's certain." "Then why do they continue to fight?" Joe said.
Wexel shrugged. "For the pleasure of it?" he ventured. "There are as many dreams of war as of peace, are there not? It expresses something in the nature of your species that must be necessary."
"Necessary.. " Joe said, looking at the bloodshed in front of him. If it was indeed an expression of human necessity then perhaps his species had lost its way.
"I don't want to watch this any longer," Joe said. "I'm going back to the pool."
"Yeah-?"
"You stay, if it turns you on... I just don't want to spend my last minutes watching people killing each other."
"I will stay," Wexel said, a little awkwardly.
"Then I'll say goodbye," Joe said.
The sometime slave extended his hand. "Goodbye," he said.
they shook, and Joe headed back towards the bridge, but he'd gone less than ten yards when he heard a cry behind him, and turned to see Wexel stumbling towards him, clutching his belly. There was blood spurting between his fingers, splashing down his legs.
"Afrique!" he sobbed. "Afrique! He's here-"
Joe started back towards him, but the man shouted for him to keep his distance.
"He's crazy, Afrique! He's@'
At that moment, Noah appeared round the corner behind Fee. In his hands, a stabbing sword, soiled with blood. In his eyes, the pleasure of harm. His time in b'Kether Sabbat had brought him to full flower: his body had thickened, his limbs swelled.
"Joe... " he said lightly, as though the dying man did not stand between them. "I thought it must be you." He caught hold of Wexel by the back of his neck. "What were you doing with this?" he said. "He's probably got more fleas and sicknesses-"
"Leave him alone," Joe said.
"Run, Afrique@'
"I think he's afraid I'm going to do you some harm," Noah said.
"And are you?"
"He calls you Af7ique, Joe. Is that some term of endearment?"
"No, it's@'
"An insult, then?" He pulled Wexel's head back. "I thought so." In an instant he had the blade to Fee's neck. Joe started towards them, an appeal on his lips, but before he could finish Noah slid the sword across Wexel's neck. Blood came. Noah smiled, and let the dying man drop. "There," he said. "He won't insult you any longer."
"He wasn't insulting me!" Joe yelled.
"Oh. Well. No matter. Should I be calling you Afrique?"
"Don't call me anything! Just get the fuck out of my sight."
Noah stepped over Wexel's body and strode towards Joe. "But I want us to go on together," he said.
"Go on where?"
"to get what's owed to you," Noah said. "When I saw you across the plaza, I knew that was why you'd come. We have unfinished business, you and me. I promised you power, and then I lost you-I thought you were dead, Afrique-and now here you are again, in the flesh. I must assume our destinies are interwoven."
"I don't."
Noah strode towards him, until the blade was inches from Joc's belly.
"Allow me to prove it to you," he said.
"Isn't it a little late for this?" Joe said.
"Late?"
"The lad's going to come down on this city any moment."
"I think something's holding it back," Noah said. "Do you know what?"
"I have a suspicion," he said. "But I'll need you to help me confirm it." He studied Joe a moment. "Well?" he said. "Do we go as friends, or do I threaten you with this?" He jabbed the sword at Joe. "We're never going to be friends," Joe said. "But I don't need that either." Noah lowered his sword. "I'll come with yo u, if you'll tell me something."
"Anything."
"You're promising me?"
"Yes. I'm promising you. What do you need to know that's so important?" There was a twinge of anxiety in Noah's voice, which Joe took pleasure in hearing. "I'll tell you when I choose," he said. "Now, where are we going?"
On the far side of the plaza of columns stood a building that was in some ways the paradigm of Ketherian aesthetics. It was at first sight a simple two-story structure, but as Noah and Joe approached it, skirting the now-dwindling battle, it became clear that every stone of its unadorned walls had been chiseled to illuminate some particular felicity, so that each was in its simple way a different form of perfection. The sum was breathtaking: like a page of poetry, laid line on line.
But Noah had not time for the study of stone. He led them round to a simple door, and there, taking Joe by the arm, he said, "I promised you power. It's in there."
"What is this place?"
"A temple."
"to whom?"
"I think you know."
"The Zehrapushu?" Joe said.
"Of course. they like you, Afrique. If anybody is allowed access to this place, it'll be you."
"And what's inside?"
"I told you. Power."
"Then why don't you go in?"