“Gaut pigs is all they are,” said Venicci.
The bishop ignored him. “Tell them to keep those ships in sight and not to bother me so long as they keep their distance. As for the thief—”
“Hang him from the mast, I say!” spat Venicci.
“—he’ll spend the night crated with the cargo, then put him on a skiff tomorrow morning. He’s going to deliver a letter for me. God willing, he’ll even make it back, and perhaps we’ll find out who’s been following us.”
“I told you already; it’s Gautaman slavers!”
“Was there anything else, Sir?”
Gildmane produced an ivory figurine of a blue Saint Maxim. “I found him drowning on deck a moment ago. Is he yours, Your Grace?”
“Like Hell, he is,” Ba’al replied. “That one belongs to the sea dog.”
“No respect!”
The bishop laughed. “You’ve got me; mayhap it’s true. What do you think, Gildmane? What does a clergyman know about respect?”
“More than he shows,” the knight answered: formal, stiff.
Venicci bawled and Ba’al sighed, jabbing the gold-thread lion on the breast of Trey’s doublet, wishing for once he could rouse the knight. But the bishop knew better. “‘More than he shows—’” he started, “—that’s right! And I know what you’re asking, ‘Well, how much is that, Bishop?’ Why don’t you tell me?” He gestured for Trey to take his stool. “Sit down; play. God knows you need the leisure. I’ll make the arrangements for the thief myself. And besides, it’s about time I visited our prisoners.” Gildmane stood still and silent as Ba’al waved more insistently toward his cushioned seat. “Oi, did you hear me? I said sit down and—”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Trey conceded grayly, then he slumped onto the stool and began asking about the rules.
Poor fool. You’ll need more tact than that. Ba’al slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure Venicci can teach you.” Poor fool, he thought again, I’ll have to make it up to him. Though the bishop knew full well there was no way to tell if or when that day would ever come.
†
Delving rung after rung into the cog’s gutted underbelly, Ba’al began to suspect he was descending into Hell. Vapor from rat dung and manure-fueled lanterns—and the beasts themselves, crammed head to tail in makeshift stables—filled the hull with a telltale odor like smoldering lakes. And below mid-deck, the smell did not improve, only transformed from the rank of horses to the rot of mold and human excrement. It was the cargo hold, the end of his descent; and he rued for his boots as they splashed on the floor, his only grace, the dark, guarding his eyes from the horror. Yet, he could still feel the squish through the soles of his boots and the shudder down his spine as he imagined his prisoners, standing in it for days on end, legs aching, their pain made meaningless when they collapsed in exhaustion.
And what if they’re dead? it occurred to him for the first time since their departure from Babylon. His mind immediately made out the images in the dark: three bodies bloated with puss and infection, his efforts wasted—an empty purse, an empty pipe, any possibility that he might learn something from the boy—anything to make up for this empty handed voyage.
His heart was racing. Where in Hell is it? he thought, groping the walls till he stumbled upon the lantern. At once, he tore his thumb across the pinion and watched the sparks. The oil caught on his third attempt, and Ba’al sighed at the dull yellow light, relieved to see his prisoners’ conditions better than expected. They were bound to the scaffold rather than the dank floor by short chains with rusted manacles. There was even canvas enough to keep them warm, and someone had left a bucket to use among the three of them. It was less than half full with no signs of overflow. He took the lantern from its hook and looked for what he’d stepped in—found a broken barrel of spilled salt-fish. Relieved, he squished the mess underfoot and made his way onto the scaffold.
Left to right, he cast his light on each of them in turn: the pastor’s son, the Impii whore, and the half-blood. Ba’al regretted that he could not sell all three. The woman would fetch a fair price on the Gautaman market, and Impii laborers were always in high demand. And the Messah, he alone was worth more than the others combined to a Tsaazaari buyer. This was a losing venture, however. He knew that when he convinced Saint Paul that he’d foreseen the purge of Babylon. Though he did not count on the pastor’s escape. Then there were the mysteries of the half-blood and the Walls of Barzakh and loose ends needing tied up. Ba’al dug a pipe and lamp from his pocket, went to fill the bowl then remembered he’d smoked the last of the opium. His eyes rolled, resentful.
Fine then. Let’s see if we can’t pass the time playing with our new friends. He started with Adam. “You there. You’re David’s son, aren’t you? What in God’s name are you doing locked up with the pagans?” No response, he just laid with his back to the bishop, curled up like a babe, so Ba’al played the part of the priest harder. He begged, “Please, my son. It breaks my heart to see you like this. Tell me a mistake has been made. You can’t possibly be…” he smiled wide despite himself, “…an apostate?”
A clinking rang from the half-blood’s chains.
The bishop turned his attention. “Ah, I remember you. You must be one of David’s converts, only, I don’t see that brand anywhere.” Ba’al rubbed his chest and winced. “I have to say, you Imps were truly committed. David did good work in Babylon.”
“Then why?” Adam whispered. He had turned over so the bishop could see his face. His cheeks were hollow, his body caved, his voice broken.
A searing flashed in the rear of Ba’al’s nostrils—his heart jumped and
