He dropped onto his knees in the center of the kariam, lifted his face to the smoke smudged sky, the red flags of the setting sun, closed his ears to the sound of-axes coming from the house. Tears of sorrow and adoration streaming unheeded past his ears and onto his ashy robe, he began to chant the Iron Litany, the. Praises of Chumavayal.
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The Honey Dancers circled around the Honeychild in the kariams of the Biasharim; the spiraling towers caught the hum, played it back to them, immensely amplified. The Biashar women came out and danced with them, mothers with babies in their arms, children came, boys and girls alike, danced with their mothers, danced with the Honeygiris. The HUM grew louder and louder, rose in a solid column from the kariam.
They turned into the Inner Ring Road, went round the city, dancing, calling, more and more women coming, more and more children coming, dancing in the Ring Road, Abeyhamal forming out of the sunset before them, forming out of the HUM, her fimbo lifted into the sky, the ivory point glowing with yellow fire.
Silver bees swarmed about the Honeychild, zipping round and round in horizontal figure eights, trapped within the aura of the Honey Mother.
Round the city until they reached the first kariam, down the kariam to the Sok Circle…
As the Cheoshim came with the Fundarim for flogging.
Abeyhamal shouted a soundless WORD that shook the air. From her translucent shape small lightnings jagged out, striking with hot zizzles and a thread of smoke.
Gasping with fear and annoyance, the merchants and their customers fled for whatever cover they could find.
The Wildings rose in a roaring spiral and fell among the Cheoshim like rain, but rain with a sting in every drop.
Batting at the air, cursing, the Cheoshim fled.
The little Fundarim crawled away; no one paid any attention to him.
Caught in the maelstrom of the ecstatic trance, the women danced round and round the Circle, trampling everything that lay before them, round and round until the sun was fully down and night was on them.
Exhausted and hoarse, Faan came to herself in the middle of a crowd of unsure, rather frightened women. “K’lann,” she muttered, looked round uncertainly, pinching up a small smile when she saw a friendly face. “Ma’teesee, you here?”
“Choo-ee, Fa. That was some stomp.” She giggled, wrinkled her nose. “We better get out of here.”
“Where’s Dossy?”
“Don’t think you got her this time.”
Ailiki chittered impatiently by Faan’s bare feet. The mahsar reached up, scratched at her ankle. “G-g-g-g,” she chittered.
“Lilci says its time to vacate.” She held out her arms, cuddled the mahsar as the beast leapt into them. “Let’s get out of here, Teesee. This place stinks.”
Chapter 17. The General’s Conversion
The Royal Barge moved ponderously along the shrunken River, the pilot peering anxiously at leadsmen in boats far ahead; they signaled with flags the water depths, he translated these and passed orders to the helmsmen at the sweeps.
Wenyarum Taleza paced back and forth on the quarterdeck, cursing the River, the stupidity of the bargemen, the heat, the dust, the stinking water, anything he could dredge up. Most of all he cursed Abeyhamal and all her works. He couldn’t afford to be angry at the Amrapake or at Faharmoy his idiot son-it was dangerous even to think of blaming them for his discomfort and the precariousness of his position. He cursed his wife, but under his breath. One moment he wanted her to sicken and die, the next he was nauseated by the fear that she would-leaving him the sole credible witness to what was essentially her murder. That beating had dug a pit in his future that he saw no way of escaping.
The sky was white with dust, the sun hammered the Land; the River glittered at him, the glare knives in his eyes.
As the barge crawled down the River, he paced the deck, angrier every day, no place to dump his anger but Abeyhamal and the pernicious upstarts who were using her to seize power. Back and forth, back and forth. His armor rubbed rashes wherever it touched. Back and forth, back and forth…
Three days after it moved away from the pier at Gom
Corasso, the barge tied up at the Camuctarr Gatt at Bairroa Pili and the General marched off, followed by the eleven-man hosta from the Corassana Royal Guard, knowing the Amrapake sent them to make sure he did what he was told and brought the boy home.
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Wenyarum Taleza, Hereditary General of the Armies of the Amrapake of Zam Fadogurum, brushed past the young acolyte guarding the door and strode into the receiving room of the High Kasso of Bairroa Pili.
Juvalgrim was seated in his audience chair, his embroidered robe pulled into graceful folds about his lean body, shining black hair with streaks of gray like polished pewter hanging loose and long over his shoulders. He was calm and smiling and a perfect Maulapam. The General hadn’t met Pili’s High Kasso before, though he’d heard things about him that displeased him; it was hard to believe them now he saw the man. This was his own kind he was facing, born if not bred into his own caste.
Juvalgrim lifted a hand. “It’s all right, Fitchon. Close the door.” He nodded at Wenyarum. “We are honored, heshim General.-
Wenyarum Taleza swung round, glared at the youth with the yellow face and the spiky copper hair. “Close it with you on the other side, kuk.”
The acolyte’s eyes narrowed and a muscle ticked beside his mouth, but he bowed, backed out, and shut the door with a controlled, decisive click.
“Pollutes. Hunh!” Wenyarum snorted. “This being the Camuctarr, I suppose you have to put up with them. Had my way-well, didn’t come here to waste time with compliments and chit-chat. Amrapake sent me to look into this Prophet thing. We hear rumors of rebellion and the flouting of authority. What’s your opinion of the boy?”
224 Jo Clayton
“That he’s far from a boy. Your son, isn’t he? Or am I misinformed?”
“Got nothing to do with this, but diyo, my son. Well, he a Prophet for real or has he got knots in his head?”
“Oh, I think there’s no doubt of his call. Chumavayal has walked with him.”
“Who says so? Some potzhead with an overheated imagination?”
The High Kasso smiled, tented his hands, touched the tips of his fingers to his chin. “I have never considered my imagination overheated, heshim General, yet I have seen Chumavayal beside him more than once.” He stroked his thumb across the curve of the Eye. “I have seen the god before so I know what I’m talking about. The Call is real… Your son has been Chosen.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Verna. At the moment he’s elsewhere. In the city, I suppose. If you wish, I will send novices out hunting him, but I have no power to say to him, come here, go there. Only the god can tell him that. Once they know where he is, the youngsters could take you to him.”
The General grimaced. “With every nose in the city poking into my business.”
“I see. Perhaps this will serve; he usually comes to us for Evensong and a few hours rest. Evensong must proceed as is prescribed, heshim General, and without interruption, but I can turn his followers from the Court and you can speak to him there with no one listening in.”
“That will be adequate.” The General bowed perfunctorily and marched out.
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The General stood outside the pointed arch that gave entry to the Fountain Court until the hosts eleven had passed through it and established themselves with their backs to the wall, then he strode into the Court, his bootheels ringing on the flags. He stopped before his son, appalled at what he saw.
“Is this what you’ve made of yourself, Mal?”
Faharmoy’s eyes were closed, his lips moving steadily as he passed his fingers along the bronze chain. He finished the prayer, draped the chain across his knees and looked up at his father. “Not I, but one far greater than I.”