Either Phaed and his cronies had disbelieved Jep or they thought it wisest to let sleeping beasts lie, for they did not contradict him or amplify his answer in any way.
“Many Voorstod women there in Hobbs Land?” someone asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jep honestly. “I guess kids aren’t very interested in where people came from. I think I’ve heard my mother say that most of the people in my settlement came from Phansure.”
“Not worth making it a target then,” said someone, sotto voce. Jep heard it, was glad of it, pretended he had not heard.
“Hear you’re quite a Gharm lover,” sneered the original questioner, provokingly. “A real Gharm sucker.” The taunt was obviously designed to create fury.
An angry mutter swept through the hall.
“The men who took me put me with two Gharm,” Jep said in as calm a voice as he could muster. “They feed me. I talk to them when I must, and nobody told me not to. I try to keep busy.”
Laughter, one angry voice, others, drunken or amused, the slit-lipped prophet declaiming to his neighbors, the quieter prophet standing before them once more.
“What’s your own preference?” the prophet asked him, as though actually curious. “Whose company would you keep?”
“How would I know,” said Jep. “Preference for what? My preference would probably be to be home with people my own age, since that’s what I’m used to. I miss my school.”
The prophet seemed to find this interesting. “And what do they teach you there? About Voorstod?”
Jep shook his head. “They’ve not mentioned Voorstod to me. I don’t know whether they will later or not. Mostly we learn about agricultural methods. Like how much fertilizer to put on different kinds of crops.”
Despite the efforts of the provocateur, the group was losing interest. Blood might have excited them, but this ignorance of their very existence was merely dull. Jep could feel them cooling, turning away. Only the slit-lipped prophet still glared, balefully. That prophet, left to his own will, would have him killed simply because he was not of Voorstod. That prophet would have him hung upon the walls to die. So much was clear. Cooler heads had prevailed, for the moment. Jep had given them nothing to get angry at. Some of the prophets and others left their seats and went into a neighboring room where food and drink were laid out upon long tables.
“You can go eat if you like,” Mugal told Jep as he stared at the platform where the prophet had sat.
Jep decided Mugal Pye was a fool. The slit-lipped prophet was being served food by his colleagues, and the last thing Jep wanted to do was go where the fanatic would see him. “I’m not hungry,” he said, adding, “Who’s the man who wanted me killed?”
“The Beloved of God, Teacher of the Just.”
“Does he have a name?”
“The prophet, Awateh.”
“How come you have both prophets and priests?”
“We have prophets for men, priests for women, pastors for Gharm and animals,” said Preu. “The prophets are of the Cause. The Cause is for men.”
“Are they the same religion?”
Epheron gave him an intense, weighing look. “No, boy, and yes. Long ago they were of the same lineage, but not of the same strength. Our God is the same, but the Holy Books are different. One book for the priests, a similar book for the pastors. A different book for the prophet.”
Jep raised his eyes to the room where the food was spread. The prophet Awateh was standing there, staring at him. Jep ducked his head and breathed deeply.
“Relax, boy,” said Preu Flandry. “He wanted to eat you, but he didn’t. Enjoy yourself. This is a celebration! Later we’ll be watching how they do it in Ahabar.”
There was laughter among those seated nearby who overheard this comment. Jep tried not to hear it. He sat sweating as workmen came into the hall carrying the parts of a large, portable information stage. They assembled it at the center of the room, then turned it on to disclose a huge concert hall beginning to fill with brightly dressed people. Others were arriving, moving up and down aisles, finding their seats. Jep tried not to watch, afraid of what he might see.
There was a stir at the entrance, and a tall, bulky man came in with a few others. He had an angry face, which grew even grimmer as he saw Mugal Pye and came toward him with a heavy stride.
“What’s this they’ve been telling me?” he demanded. “What fool’s business is this?” His eyes went over Mugal Pye’s shoulder to the stage. His face grew very red, and he cried out in an enraged voice, “That’s Maire!”
Jep’s eyes were drawn to the stage. He saw her at once, Maire Girat. Beside her was Sam Girat, and … yes, Saturday, Saturday dressed in beautiful scarlet, all three of them in colorful, festive clothing, all of them taking seats next to a stout, uniformed man with many medals on the honors sash he wore across one shoulder.
“What in all the demons of hell is she doing there?” screamed the man. “Why wasn’t I consulted about this? What have you sucking idiots been doing with your brains!”
“Now, Phaed,” said Mugal Pye.
“Don’t ‘now Phaed’ me,” he cried. “Is this your doing, Pye?”
One of the younger prophets had drawn near, and he laid an admonitory hand on Phaed’s shoulder. “Our doing, Phaed Girat.”
“You’ve brought her to Ahabar?” Phaed breathed, incredulous. “Why in hell?”
The prophet became threatening. “Enough reason to say the Awateh desired it.”
“Why!” Phaed demanded. “Desired it why?”
“She is to become the symbol of return for the women of Voorstod,” the prophet said stiffly. “If the Sweet Singer returns, so may others.”
Phaed turned away. Jep saw his lips. They did not say the word aloud, but they shaped it several times. “Fool, fool, fool.”
“We didn’t want to tell you until it was time,” whispered Epheron to Phaed. “We didn’t
