‘There was that time,’ Bondri intoned, the words conveying a time some fifty years before, in the spring of the year, when one troupe had been surprised by a (foreign, weird, off-world) creature. ‘He had a (noise creator, song stealer, abomination) machine.’
‘Do any now live who remember that time?’ crooned the troupe in unison and with deep reverence.
‘None,’ hymned the priest, closing the litany of recollection. ‘Only the holy words remember.’ The words were quite enough, of course. Though individual viggies died, words were immortal. Words and melodies and the lovely mathematics of harmony, these were the eternal things, the things of the gods. So long as they were remembered accurately – and the Prime Priests had the job of remembering them all – everything could be reconstructed as it had happened at the time. The surprise. The fleeing. The creeping back to see what the strange creature was doing. The horror as they heard the stolen song, captive in the machine, the attempt to rescue the song – to no avail. Several had died in the effort, but the song was still captive. Captive, no doubt, until this very day. And now, perhaps that same (grieved for, sorrowed over) song had been used against its will to speak to the Mad One, the Presence Without Innerness, the Killer Without Cause, called by the Loudsingers, the Enigma.
‘Poor (predestined to sorrow, condemned, doomed) creatures,’ caroled a young giligee, solo voice. ‘If the Mad One has done this thing, the next time it will kill. The Mad One always talks once, then kills the next time. The Loudsinger(s) will undoubtedly die.’ The giligee voice soared, and Bondri closed his eyes in appreciation of that voice, even as he shivered at the words.
‘True,’ quavered the old priest, taking a comforting bite of fruit. ‘If any Loudsingers go trying to sing to the Enigma again, undoubtedly the Enigma will kill them all.’
10
In his hovel on the outskirts of Splash One, Brother-minor Jeshel, whip-hand of the Society of Crystallites, Worshippers of the Holy Ones, Gods Incarnate on Jubal, finished beating his handmaid and looked around for someone else who might need admonishment. Brother Jeshel was almost certain the Gods Incarnate had spoken to him in a dream. He seemed to remember something of the kind happening, and had his handmaid not interrupted him, he would have remembered it clearly enough to tell The Three and maybe be allowed to testify to a vision in temple.
Sister Sophron lay on the floor, half naked and weeping.
‘Get up,’ he snarled. ‘And don’t wake me up like that again.’
‘A messenger came,’ she sobbed. ‘From her. I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘The messenger could wait. Cover yourself. You’re disgusting like that.’
Since Sister Sophron had not removed her gown, the accusation was unjust. Nonetheless, she pulled the rent fabric to cover her back and shoulders and tried to tie it in front, noting in passing that several of the ties were pulled off. Brother-minor Jeshel had wakened in a rage.
‘What does he want?’
‘The messenger?’
‘Who else are we talking about, slut! Of course, the messenger.’
‘He says he’s from her, the wife.’
‘Ah. Tell him I’ll talk to him in a bit. Get yourself dressed. You’ll need to get yourself into town, to your job.’
Shuffling and holding the gown together at her waist, Sister Sophron left the room. She did not meet the messenger’s eyes when she repeated Jeshel’s remarks, nor did she look back to see how they were received. At the moment she could think only of getting to the privy before she threw up. It wasn’t right of Jeshel to beat her when she was like this. She had thought it would be better on Jubal, but it was no better, not at all. Brother-minor Jeshel was no different from comrade-insurgent Jeshel. He used slightly different words, that was all. Back on Serendipity Jeshel had said ‘Revolt’ and ‘The Cause’ and ‘The-rotten-management, with all its bootlickers.’ Now he said ‘Presences’ and ‘Evangelism’ and ‘The-rotten-BDL with all its flunkeys’ – Tripsingers and Explorers included – but it still came down to yelling and burnings and killing people from behind. It still came down to Sophron earning their living while Jeshel conspired. It still came down to blood and bombs and being beaten on when you were pregnant. Vomiting copiously, Sister Sophron cursed Brother-minor Jeshel and wished for the moment she had never told him what that Explorer knight had said when Sophron had been cutting her hair.
Behind her in the filthy hall, Rheme Gentry made a face to himself and went on humming quietly. He was very weary, having returned from Northwest only very late last evening, but he would not sit down. There was nothing clean enough to sit on. Eventually Jeshel would show up, dirty and uncombed, probably bug infested as well, though that would be difficult on this planet. There were no human parasites. Perhaps Jeshel had evaded quarantine in order to have some shipped in. Rheme had not yet met Brother-minor Jeshel, but he had heard about him: a lower level functionary in the Crystallite hierarchy, but one reputedly responsible for a good deal of general terrorism and disruption. After sending Tasmin Ferrence to find, and one hoped to assist, Don Furz, the four conspirators, Vowe and Vox, Middleton, and Gentry, had discussed various Crystallites as a possible source of information, and Brother Jeshel had been their unanimous choice. Rheme, it was decided, should put on a modest disguise and a false name to interrogate the man. Rheme amused himself by thinking what his uncle would say to all this. The director of CHAIN wouldn’t be delighted at the risk, that much was sure.
He set that uncomfortable thought aside and considered various names for the group that was getting itself together here on Jubal. They might name it the Quarter-nine Conspiracy. Or perhaps the Card Game Connivance. The most accurate title could be
