'A merchant may speak words he does not believe in order to avoid the tax fixed on barbarians.'
'Yes,' agreed Kesh without flinching, his gaze steady. 'So he may.'
'You will be cleansed today?'
'I will. In truth, holy one, I was waiting for the line to shorten. My feet hurt.'
The priest nodded, and turned to leave.
'Holy one,' said Kesh, 'if I may be permitted a question.'
The man turned back as smoothly as if he had expected the words. 'What do you wish, believer?'
'I am a Hundred man, a foreign merchant. Our compound has been locked down, and we are not permitted into the market to trade. All will be as the Exalted One ordains, and I am a patient man, but I admit that I am concerned about my business. Might I be permitted to know if trade will resume today, or another day soon, or if we will be permitted to leave Sarida and return to our homes if the market has been closed indefinitely?'
No wind stirred the air, but men's voices filtered everywhere. Tense murmurs. Choppy gestures. Glances sent close and far as if in fear that some other man, listening, might call them to account for reckless words. And indeed, the prayers still winding from the inner courts had also a tight coil to them, every man clinging to the familiar cycle as a man in a storm huddles under the shelter he knows, the only place he feels safe.
'It is hard to know what will happen next,' said the priest thoughtfully, looking intently at Kesh, as if measuring the sincerity of his heart.
But he didn't scare Kesh. What man could, now that he had been emboldened by Miravia's face and enigmatic smile?
'We wait for word from Dalilasah as to how to proceed. Meanwhile, the regulations and restrictions will be observed fourfold, as is proper.'
'What do you mean, holy one? I am ignorant, truly.'
Men filtered out the gate to vanish down the alley, and in the inner courts, the singing faded and died. A bell rang thrice, and a trumpet blew twice, and then came silence, a vastly populated and crowded city caught in a hush like the world waiting to discover from which way the storm would thunder in upon them.
The priest smiled awkwardly, which was perhaps an attempt to show sympathy and perhaps the curling bite of lofty scorn and perhaps only the man's own anxiety peeping through his stern facade.
'You have not heard, of course. Emperor Farazadihosh is dead, killed in battle by his cousin.'
