“My government has some concerns,” Toshida said quietly. His voice was utterly neutral in tenor, as befit one whose power was beyond question. “Would you mind clarifying a few issues for me?”
“Of course not,” he responded. Trying not to let his uneasiness affect his tone.
Would it matter if I did?
It began with simple questions, the kind that a government official might be expected to ask of a foreign ship in his harbor. Damien answered those simply and honestly, and when he lacked information he referred Toshida to those who would be able to answer. Then came questions that probed into Damien himself. Was it he who had organized this expedition? Why? Damien answered those questions with care, honestly wherever possible but preferring occasional vagueness to an outright lie. No one on board but Hesseth knew his true motives, thus it was unlikely that Toshida would be able to entrap him. Still he was careful, remembering always that twenty of his co-travelers had already talked to Toshida—possibly about him—and that he was being measured against that template.
At last the Regent seemed satisfied with that line of questioning, and turned to another. “Tell me about the health of the crew.”
“What would you like to know?”
“You were in charge of that facet of the journey, verda?” The dark fingers steepled, casting dual shadows. “Tell me about your preparations.”
It was impossible to tell from Toshida’s expression whether he knew just how revealing this ground might prove. How much had the others told him? Damien cursed his own lack of knowledge, in particular his ignorance of the status of sorcery here. Would the others have thought to protect him? Would they even have realized that such protection was necessary? He chose his words very carefully. “I felt that there would be considerable risk making contact with a colony that had its own disease profile. So I made sure of two things as I signed on my people: that each of them had a good history of resisting illness, and that no one was presently carrying anything which might infect your people. We took every precaution possible,” he assured him. Hoping it would be enough.
“So you relied upon interviews, verda?”
He shook his head. “Everyone was examined. Passengers, officers, crew.”
“By whom?”
He answered without hesitating, because hesitation would be damning. “By qualified professionals.”
I Healed them, you son of a bitch. With my Church-sanctioned powers I Worked the fae and used it on each and every one of them, to make sure that when we got to this precious city of yours we wouldn’t spread eight hundred years of bacterial evolution among your people. I did that. I. And I used the fae to strengthen their immune systems so that they could survive your diseases, and took a few other precautions as well, whose names you wouldn’t even recognize. That’s what I do, Regent. That’s what I am.
He drew in a deep breath, faked a cough to cover it. God, the man was getting to him. That was bad. That was dangerous.
Toshida jotted a few notes on the topmost piece of paper; the light was too poor for Damien to make out what they were. “Reverend Vryce, I’ve been directed to ask you a question which you may find offensive. If so, I apologize. The circumstances we find ourselves in are most unusual, verda? Sometimes that makes for uncomfortable questions.”
“Please go ahead,” he said quietly.
The Regent’s eyes fixed on his, commanding his gaze. They were deep sable brown, Damien noted, nearly black, so dark that in the dim light it was impossible to make out iris from pupil, or tell where the two might be divided. Disconcertingly like Hesseth’s in the darkness.
“Have you ever used sorcery?” he asked. And then added, “For any purpose?”
For a moment there was silence. Utter stillness. How much does he know? Damien thought desperately. What did the others say? To be caught in one lie, no matter how small, meant admitting to the possibility of others. And that meant an endless barrage of questions, with certain condemnation at the end of it.
The dark eyes were fixed on him. Demanding an answer.
“I was ordained in our western Matriarchy,” he said at last. “The Holy Mother taught that sorcery worked in God’s name was a holy enterprise. Later I traveled to the east, where I served that region’s Patriarch. His views were somewhat different, and in accordance with my vows I served his will while I was there.” He drew in a deep breath, choosing his words with care. “My vows demand obedience to the hierarchy of my Church, whatever that may be. That means obedience to your laws, your Eminence, and respect for your customs. The vows of my Order permit no less.”
The Regent’s reaction was strange. He stiffened slightly—but not in response to his words, Damien thought. Perhaps in response to something they implied.
There was something odd in his tone that Damien couldn’t quite define. Something almost . . . hungry.
“Your Patriarch, you say.”
“Yes, your Eminence.”
“A man,” the Regent mused.
Puzzled, Damien nodded.
“Is he your autarch? Is that what the title means?”
He nodded again. “The Church was unified under one leader late in the third century. But the natural barriers between east and west were too great for one man to govern both realms effectively, so it was decided to have an autarch for each region.” And he ventured: “As you would have your own in this region.”
“Each city has its own Matria,” the Regent responded. There was a tightness in him that was almost animal in nature, a tension that belied his smooth, even speech. There’s something in him waiting to explode, Damien thought. Something that’s been ready to explode for a long, long time. “Their communal word is our law.”
“And the Regency?” he dared. “Where does that fit in?”
For the first time since the interview began, the Regent looked away. “The Matria are our visionaries, our oracles. They hear and interpret the Voice of the One God, and live eternally Sanctified in His Name . . . which lifestyle is not particularly well suited to governance, Reverend Vryce. Verda?”
“So you rule in fact?”
“In some things. Always subject to the Matria’s will.” He turned back to face Damien. There was an intensity in his gaze that was hard to meet, an almost predatory alertness. Damien was acutely aware that he was watching him for his reaction. “My rank is as high as a man can aspire to in these lands. But I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Reverend Vryce. Wasn’t it the Prophet himself who established that pattern?”
Was he hearing him right? Was it possible that in this place the autocracy was reserved for women, and this man—this energetic, ambitious man—had been reined in by no more than a perverse sexist custom? He was suddenly very glad that he had played poker as often and as well as he did; he had never had more need of a dispassionate expression. “Customs differ,” he said carefully. “And even the Prophet’s words are subject to interpretation.” He didn’t dare address the question any more directly than that. Not now. Not until he had more of a handle on who and what these people were. To do otherwise would be like throwing a match into a keg of black power, just to see what would happen. Madness.
For a few seconds the Regent was silent. Considering his words. Sifting them for all the messages they contained, voiced and unvoiced.
“You understand,” he said at last, “some of what we’ve discussed here would be . . . upsetting for my people. Verda? This talk of foreign hierarchy, disparate customs . . .” His dark eyes narrowed. “And sorcery. All these things are sensitive issues, best kept to a private forum. Don’t you agree, Reverend Vryce?”
He found that he had been holding his breath; it took effort to speak. “What about my people?” he chanced. In other words, how much is my silence worth to you?