The fire was small, a meager pile of split wood set in the center of the Altar. Faharmoy paced slowly up the wide center aisle between the angled lines of kneeling stools, his face grim as he watched the small weak flames. The donors were scanting their dues. Maulapam, Cheoshim, Baisharim, all of them were drawing in, hoarding their resources, letting their god-duties lapse. The High Kasso in Bairroa had gone soft, or he’d have kept them shivering in their sandals and contributing their proper share. Corruption in little, corruption in all.
He knelt on the floorstones before the Forge, black basalt blocks worn by generations of knees into smooth ripples like wind-ruffied water. Dropping his hands on his thighs, palm up, he gazed at the fire and sank into deep communion with Chumavayal, pierced by an, ecstasy indistinguishable from pain.
Three Anaxoa novices came down the aisle, heads bent, two of them with hands hidden in the sleeves of their robes, the third pushing the cleaning cart ahead of him; it thumped and squeaked, the instruments on the top tray rattled and scratched, the wood in the bin rubbed and tunked dully.
Faharmoy heard none of this; his breathing was so slow he might have been carved from stone like the black stones he knelt on.
The novice with the cart stopped, blinked at the long tangled hair and beard of the praying man, the torn rough robe, the staff laid beside him. He caught the sleeve of the novice behind him, pointed. “Prophet?” he whispered.
“Don’t know.”
The third crowded up to them. “What we supposed to do?”
“Don’t know.”
“We better go ask.”
“Diyo. But who? Prime?”
“Nayo, nay, not the Prime. Teuzar, he’ll know.” They left the cart and hurried out, heading for the office of the House Master to the Anaxoa novices.
Acolyte Fitchon caught the tail of rumor and ran to the Forge Sanctuary, crept round the edge of the chamber until he could see the Prophet’s face. He sucked in his breath, went running out again.
Outside the private apartment of the High Kasso, Fitchon smoothed his stiff coppery hair into a semblance of order, pulled his robe straight, his sleeves down to cover his knuckles. He knocked at the Chambermassal’s wicket, sagged into a loose-kneed bow when the slide opened a crack. “Acolyte Fitchon, heshim Chambermassal,” he said head down and humble, though Palag Rambazich had known him for over a decade, knew he was in charge of the High Kasso’s rooms and wardrobe, knew he was free to come and go by the High Kasso’s own orders. But Palag Rambazich could make Fitchon’s life one long misery if he didn’t go through the proper forms.
“Pass.” The slide crashed shut.
Fitchon stuck out his tongue and shimmied his hips, then went more sedately along the corridor.
A brisk ta-tump on a panel of the deeply carved door, a squeeze on the latch and a shove and he was inside. He smoothed a hand across his chin, grimaced at the sandpapery rasp. Too bad the rules didn’t allow beards, or maybe arranged it so his grew with a little less enthusiasm; this shaving business was getting booooring. Or maybe I should turn Prophet. Tchah! I’m wasting time. He scratched at his palm, shrugged, and went through into the sitting room.
Juvalgrim was sitting at a table by an open window, eating an apple and making notes in his journal. He shut the book when he heard Fitchon come in, set the apple on the plate at his elbow. “You’re early, Fitch. Finally developed an eagerness for work?”
“Not dead yet, my friend.” Fitchon dropped onto a bench, clasped his hands “Um… might be trouble.”
“Minh?”
“A prophet. Trancing in front of the Forge Fire, throwing the little Anaxoas into a tizzy when they came to trim the Fire for Evensong.”
“Teuzar will deal with him.”
“Not this one.”
Juvalgrim reached for a napkin, began wiping his fingers. “Why?”
“I recognized him.” He worked on a grin, but it didn’t come easy; he was worried. “Two years ago, remember, when what’s his name, Faharmoy? did the I-renounce-everything thing? It’s him.”
“Faharmoy?”
“Vema. Looking like five years bad luck in one lump.”
Juvalgrim stared out the window. “I see,” he said finally, still turned away. “Lay out the red robes, I’ll take Evensong myself.”
“Vema. Anything else?”
“No. You might as well go to bed, be ready for anything tomorrow.”
“You need someone at your back, High One…” Juvalgrim laughed, swung round again. “You haven’t called me that in ears, Fitch.”
He scratched at his nose. “Guess not.”
“Ahsan, friend. There is one thing. After you get the robes ready, I want you to take a note to the Verakay Beehouse. All the usual cautions, Fitch. Hmm?”
“Gotcha, High one.” He grinned again, more easily this time. As Juvalgrim drew a sheet of paper from a drawer and began writing, he jumped to his feet and hurried to finish his work.
› › ‹ ‹
Juvalgrim smoothed his hands down the embroidered panels on the front of his robe; it was a familiar feel, but not a comfortable one, not now. He took the iron chain from its hook, dropped it over his head, centered the hemisphere of cloudy crystal. The Eye of Chumavayal. It was heavy, but no weightier than usual; the god was dozing or had his attention elsewhere. He drew shaking fingers across the stone, across again, wondering if he’d at last run out of wiggle-room, if the sudden appearance of this high-born Prophet meant that Chumavayal was tired of his Whites and about to squash him.
He paced. Back and forth, back and forth across the oval rug that children from the Edgeschool had made for him, the Hammer and Anvil worked in black on a rusty orange ground. He was fond of that rug, told Reyna it kept him honest, but he wasn’t seeing it now. He was terrified, his knees threatened to fold, and his sphincters needed only half an excuse to let go. Back and forth, back and forth.
He thrust his hand inside the robe, closed his fingers over the wax-sealed phial with the poison in it. Why wait for the stake and the fireman? Do it now. Get it over with.
Back and forth.
Can’t keep this up, I’ve got to do something. If I’m going, I’d better get started.
Back and forth.
Send for him? Bring him here? Keep him quiet, keep it all quiet? But what if he won’t come? “Chumvay!” He flung his arms wide. “Do it, idiot! Do something!”
He felt at his hair, walked quickly to the dressing table with its glass mirror, took a brush and began smoothing down the long black mass, settling it into ordered waves. He inspected his face, touched balm to his lips and along his cheekbones, worked it into his skin until it had a supple sheen, then slid on the heavy gold rings that marked his rank. “Good as it’s going to get.” He smiled at himself, amused at his own reactions, how this small bit of pampering had driven out a very large terror. “Vanity, oh vanity,” he murmured. “How Reyna would laugh…”
As he moved through the corridors of the Camuctarr, he was surprised by a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t expected that, but the fervent boy for whom Chumavayal was father, protector, and source of all good was still there under the embroidery and the gold. There were oaths he’d sworn and later broken, promises implicit and explicit he’d made, then forgot as he maneuvered his way to power.
Forgot. Until now. Too late, of course.
He paced along, automatically smiling when he passed kassos, novices, and acolytes moving busily about their duties. Guilt? Was it really? He wasn’t sorry for anything he’d done, only the things he’d left undone. Not guilt. NO: Just fear congealing in his belly. He smiled broadly, amused again at his own reactions, then blinked as the leader of a line of foundling boys heading for supper responded to the smile with a giggle. “Ass’lim, High One,” the boy called out, giggled again, impressed with his own daring.