“This is my kinswoman, a virgin girl, pledged to a young man you have taken hostage. Our way requires that she go to him in his captivity, be where he is, and come with him out of danger if such is to happen.”
“Virgin, pfah,” the aged prophet hissed. “My sons say she does not even know enough to cover her face before the prophets of Almighty God.”
“It’s true she does not,” agreed Sam, descending from myth to practicality. “We’ve come from Hobbs Land, where there are no prophets. We’re ignorant of your ways.”
“Hobbs Land’s lack will be remedied in the fullness of time.” The words were a promise. “Why have you come here?”
“It would be unsuitable for her to travel alone. She is pledged to my son. It is my duty to my son to protect his honor.” He was back with legend again, dragging the words up out of the Archives, from the time of horsemen and genies and knights. On Hobbs Land they would have had little meaning. People there did not talk of honor much, or of pledging. Honor was in what a man did; pledging was what a man said he would do.
Silence.
“There are no fathers or sons of men in Hobbs Land,” the prophet declared in a weaker voice.
“That is true. However, we are not in Hobbs Land, and your captive is my son.”
The prophet gloomed at him, his mouth making tiny chewing motions. Then his eyes widened, lost their focus, stared blindly at the far wall. His mouth opened and closed. “Our Cause is just,” the mouth said loudly, as though independent of the rest of the face. “Death to all unbelievers.” A tiny froth of spittle appeared at the corner of the mouth. The eyes wandered, wildly.
Sam bowed his head and said nothing.
“Almighty God gave us the Gharm,” the prophet cried, lifting his staff with one stiff arm to hold it above his head. “They are ours to do with as we will. Those here, those elsewhere, they are ours. Their blood is ours. Their seed is ours, for God has made of them a separate servant, that the purity of our people be kept uncorrupted!”
Sam said nothing at all, feeling cold sweat rolling down the back of his neck, under his shirt. Under his hand, Saturday quivered. On the platform, two younger prophets moved to the old man and talked quietly to him, soothing him. After a time they seemed to have some success, for the staff was lowered and the old man leaned upon it, panting.
One of the younger prophets turned toward them. “Ahabar has set a fence about us, Sam Girat. Unholy Ahabar at the order of its whore-Queen. What do you know about it?” He glanced at the old man, worried wrinkles between his eyes.
Sam looked up. “Who am I that I should be privy to the deliberations of Ahabar.”
“Do not evade. You were with Karth! We saw you!”
“We were with him because it was his wish to honor the Sweet Singer of Scaery,” said Sam, his throat dry. He coughed. If they had seen him, then they knew the reason for the blockade. What was this man playing at? “Maire Manone, who is waiting now, at the border of Voorstod.”
“Is she now?” asked a silky voice. Not the prophet. A man lounging at one side of the room, a man with hair flowing to his knees. On the dais, the younger prophet stared at the man who had spoken, then turned away to join the urgent colloquy which was going on behind him.
Sam thought he knew who the speaker was, though he wasn’t sure. He stiffened his knees and said nothing, waiting for more.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.
“I think we met in Hobbs Land,” said Sam. “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Mugal Pye, at your service. A friend of your father’s.”
“No friend of mine. You’re one of those who stole my son.”
“Maire Manone will come into Voorstod, will she? When the boy goes back there?” Mugal drawled the words, as though they were not important.
“When Saturday and the boy and I go back to her …”
There was consternation upon the dais. A prophet turned suddenly to ask, “What is the girl’s name?”
“Saturday Wilm,” said Sam.
“The boy’s name is Wilm.”
“They are cousins.”
“And she is pledged to him?”
Sam nodded. Now what?
Muttering upon the dais. Mugal Pye sat down, glaring at Sam. After a time, when the prophets quieted, he said, “So Maire Manone will come into Voorstod.”
“She will.”
“She’ll come sing for us?”
“She said she’ll do whatever she can,” said Sam. “She misses the oceans and mists of Scaery, the sweet hills of Cloud. She has written some new songs.” Maire had said as much. They were Hobbs Land songs, but Maire had written them.
“The Satan-named infidel whore must be killed now,” the old prophet cried, thrusting the men around him aside, coming to his feet. “He who stands beside her must be cut down. Their bodies shall hang on the walls of the citadel of the Faithful. The Squire of Wander shall hang beside them. All Gharm who have fled into Ahabar shall hang beside them. Thickly clustered as grapes, hanging upon the vine, so shall hang the enemies of the Almighty. Let it be seen. Let it be known. God will hang them upon the walls. Those from the counties to the south, they will hang upon the walls …”
Under Sam’s hand, Saturday shook. The old man meant every word he was saying. His malice and hatred pounded at her like a hammer. He wanted them dead. If he had the strength, he would kill them himself. He was all evil, and if his God was real, it was an evil God. The thought came and went, swiftly, and she concentrated on standing where
