“Ass’lim, imp. No, no.” He shook his head at the Quiamboa novice who was herding them. “Let him be, Fulan.” He thumped the boy on his head. “Mind your manners, kimkim, and do what your teachers tell you and then perhaps you’ll live long enough to gain a little wisdom.”
› › ‹ ‹
“Teuzar.”
“Ass’lim, Kasso.”
“Have you done anything about our visitor?”
Anaxo Teuzar smiled tightly. “I sent a messenger to your office, Kasso. I know when I’m out of my depth.”
“Ah. I must have just missed him. Your messenger. Send your novices in, tell them to wait on the kneeling stools while I ascertain the reasons for the visitation. Evensong may be late, but they are to be ready for it nonetheless. Curiosity and rumor will bring others, have ushers ready to get them in place without fuss. I think that’s all. Let it be done.” He waved Teuzar away and went into the Forge Sanctuary.
He smelled the Prophet before he got close enough for a good look. Hasn’t changed his clothes since he left, or had a bath. Or shaved. Ah, the joys of holy dirt. Bless Chumavayal, I wasn’t called to that. Dirt and celibacy, nayo nayo.
He crossed his long slender hands below the Eye; setting them on patches of old thread that showed of his blue-black skin and emphasized the elegance of lire and shape. He moved with a quiet grace around de rough, dirty hermit and stood between him and the fill.
The ecstasy on the man’s face faded with the blocking of the light; he glared up at Juvalgrim. He was almost unrecognizable, twisted, gaunt and hairy, his youh eaten up by the fervor that drove him.
Juvalgrim bowed slightly, the Eye catching the light from the wall lamps, pulsing with it as he moved. “It is time for Evensong, heshim Prophet. You may resume your meditations when our duty has been made.”
Prophet Faharmoy reached for his staff and got to his feet with a wiry nervous surge of his body. His eyes peered out through a fringe of stiff, gray-streaked hair. “Duty,” he cried, his voice hoarse and ugly. “You make a mockery of it, luxuriant whore! I am the Scourge of Chumavayal, hear his words. You who should be the heart of the people, you who should be the example, you have betrayed HIM. Where are the people, High Kasso? Where are the suppliants come to pray for release from their sins? You are the fountain from which corruption flows, High Kasso in Bairroa Pili. You have betrayed caste and upset the divine order of life. You have stepped between servant and master, you have acted for the low against the high. You have pampered the undeserving, you have coddled-no, worse-you have advocated perversion. You want CHANGE!” He spat the last word out as if it were the ultimate accusation. “Chumavayal put his hand upon me. Chumavayal said this to me,” he opened his mouth wide and boomed out the words. “HEAR ME: WHAT IS, IS RIGHT. CHANGE IS BETRAYAL. THOSE THAT TRY TO CHANGE THINGS HAVE BROUGHT UPON THEMSELVES THE DESTRUCTION OF THE LAND. THEY WILL DIE OF HUNGER AND THIRST UNLESS THEY
COME BACK TO ME-UNLESS THEY FOLLOW ME WITHOUT FALTERING OR QUESTIONING.” He cleared his throat and went on in the rasping tones of his first words, “Chumavayal came to me in desert and solitude, saying tell my servants this, my people this.”
Once again he lifted his head, roared the words in his fierce ruined voice:
“YOUR VOICE WILL BE MY VOICE, PROPHET. YOU WILL SCOURGE THE PEOPLE, TURN THEM AWAY FROM THEIR SINS, BRING THEM BACK TO ME.
YOU WILL ERASE FROM THE LAND ALL THAT IS PERVERTED, ALL THAT IS BORN MONSTROUS.
I WILL TAKE THOSE POOR CRIPPLED SOULS TO MYSELF AND HOLD THEM UNTIL THEY ARE HEALED THAT THEY MAY BE BORN ANEW.
I AM NOT A CRUEL FATHER, BUT I DO WHAT I MUST FOR THE HEALTH OF MY PEOPLE.
DISCIPLINE IS NECESSARY.
PAIN IS GIVEN TO MAN TO TEACH HIM THE RIGHT WAY-OTHERWISE, HOW IS HE MORE THAN ANIMAL?
“Thus he spoke to me, thus I speak to you, hear and obey.”
Without waiting-for a response, he swung round and stumped out, his sandals squeaking, the butt of his staff thudding against the tiles of the mosaic floor.
› › ‹ ‹
Iuvalgrim had come to the Sanctuary with a poison phial tucked into his sleeve, resigned to accepting whatever waited for him. With a god involved, there wasn’t much else he could do. At the end of the Prophet’s scold, resignation had turned to indignation; there was new here. He’d listened to the same scold from the Maulapam landlords, from Cheoshim commanders, from Biasharim merchants: you’re pampering the unfit, let them help themselves, let them leave if they can’t feed themselves here. We’ve got our own to worry about. You’re disturbing the order of things. You’re putting desires in these people they aren’t capable of handling. Nothing new. Nothing! And he’d been so terrified of this… this IDIOCY, he’d nearly soiled himself.
But indignation wouldn’t do, not here.
He pulled himself together, pressed palm to palm, bowed his head and intoned: “We are all guilty of doing less than we might in the service of the Iron Father. We are blessed by the gentle care of Chumavayal. I, your High Sasso, do give thanks for the chastisement of the Prophet, I bless HIM for this reminder that I must myself do better. Take to heart what you have heard, my children and give thanks yourself for HIS care.”
For the first time in years he led the Evensong, letting his deep, magnificent voice swell to fill the chamber-and by the time the rite was complete, he knew he’d canceled out most of the effect of the Prophet’s scold.
He kept a gentle smile pasted on his face as he returned to his apartment, answering with genial dignity the greetings of the other kassos, the novices, the acolytes who found reasons to wander by the Sanctuary and exercise their curiosity. He’d won the exchange this time, but it was a temporary victory; he’d have to keep patching cracks and buffing egos. He’d been so busy that he’d forgotten to keep touch with his supporters. You idiot, you really do owe the Prophet gratitude for stirring you out of this laziness.
Faharmoy felt the god leave him.
He stared at the impassive elegant face of the High
Kasso, then swung round and stumped out. He knew in his bones that Juvalgrim had rejected everything the Iron Father said through his mouth. The man WOULD not be saved.
He was tired to the bone. It was time to rest and restore his energies.
Ignoring attempts to speak to him, he strode through the halls of the Camuctarr until he reached the Water Court with the fountain that never went dry even in the worst of droughts.
He drank sparingly from the Fountain and settled for the night in a corner of the Court, ignoring the hunger that closed like a fist about his stomach. After a while, he slept.
› › ‹ ‹
He woke before dawn and went to the towers of the Cheoshim. It was time to begin the cleansing of the High City.
There was a faint pink glow on the eastern horizon and wisps of Riverfog hugging the ground when Faan limped wearily along Southbank Gatt Road. The circle was almost complete, but she was worn to a nub, hungry, thirsty, irritated with the god on her back who seemed to think she didn’t need food or rest or anything as prosaic as that. When she reached the Approach to the Wood Bridge, she sank beside her boots and cloak onto the ancient surface with its mosaic of different colored woods and rested her back against the weathered rails, snapped her fingers, smiled drowsily as Ailiki jumped into her lap and tucked tail about legs. She scraped up enough energy to stroke the mahsar’s back twice, then dropped her hand. “Guards still there?”