Other prophets gathered around the old man, and his voice became muffled. “I have set a price upon the life of the Squire of Wander. I have set a price upon the life of the Queen of Ahabar. I have set a price upon the lives of those who speak evil of Almighty God or of His Holy prophets or of His Holy works. The time draws near when the armies of God …”
One of the younger prophets turned from the group and came hastily down from the dais toward Mugal Pye. “Go,” he said softly, nodding at Saturday and Sam. “Get them out of here. Take them wherever the boy is. Then get them out of Voorstod.”
“If the Awateh wants them dead, I’ve no objection,” muttered Pye, with a sneer at Sam, as though Sam had challenged him.
“The Awateh is not quite fully aware of what is going on,” the prophet said, turning burning eyes upon Pye. “The Awateh sometimes forgets that we are blockaded. The Awateh is at this moment unaware that there are a million armed men surrounding Voorstod. All of us agree with the Awateh that what will happen eventually will be as God wills, but we believe it might be prudent to take this man and this girl where they want to go, Mugal Pye. Just as it might have been prudent not to have done what was done a few days ago.”
“The Awateh agreed …”
“The Awateh was not as well-informed as he should have been. None of us were. We thought the creature was merely another Gharm who deserved death for her faithlessness. We did not know she would become a martyr to move a million men. The Awateh was surprised by that, as were we all. We were not quite ready for this. Now the Awateh suffers from a slight disorientation …”
“Well,” sneered Pye. “The Gharm isn’t dead. She won’t play the harp again, but she isn’t dead.”
“Which may be why we are still alive,” murmured the prophet. “If she had died, so might we. You have much bad judgment to answer for, Pye. Get them out of here.”
Sam looked at his feet, the shock of what he had just heard immobilizing him. Pye was supposedly a friend of his father’s, and from the words just spoken it was clear Pye had been among those responsible for what happened to Stenta Thilion.
“Don’t lie to yourself, boy,” Maire had told him. Had he lied to himself? Would he have been here, if he had not lied to himself? His forehead was wet and he wiped at it.
Mugal Pye led them out. Behind them, the Awateh’s voice rose, raging incoherently. They stopped beside the flier in the courtyard while Saturday removed the kerchief from her face and used it to wipe her neck and forehead, soaked with fear’s sweat. She was still sick with apprehension. At any moment the prophets might boil from that doorway to bring them back.
“What was the fuss about in there when they learned her name?” Sam asked in a shaky voice, taking his eyes away from the burdened hooks he had just noticed on the citadel walls.
“The prophet said Saturday is one of the names for the Sabbath Day of the Cause. Not in System tongue, of course. In one of the dead languages. I wouldn’t know, but prophets study things like that. Great scholars, they are. They know the scriptures from memory.”
“When I was a child, Mam spoke of Sundays.” Sam focused his gaze upon a discolored Door, standing against the wall. He hadn’t known Voorstod had a Door.
“Sunday’s the church Sabbath. We have five work days and two Sabbath days, one for the Cause, one for the church, none for the animals, including the Gharm.” He sniggered. “Nobody in Voorstod would name a girl after the Sabbath. For a moment, it confused the prophets, then the Awateh decided it was blasphemy, another reason to kill her.” He stared at Saturday. “If you’d gone in there with your bare face, he’d have realized you were the one who sang the battle song, there in Fenice, and you’d have had your throat slit, and not his sons nor nobody could have stopped him doing it.”
He turned back to Sam. “You don’t look much like a Girat. You take more after your mother.”
Sam shrugged, hiding anger. “I am as I am.”
“You want to go where the boy is?”
“If we can go to Jep, then we and Jep can turn around and go to the border and Maire will come in. If you still want her with all this going on.” Though Saturday wanted to stay a brief time in Sarby, since they had accomplished one burial, they could leave at once if need be.
Mugal Pye gave him a level look. “This’ll blow over. Queen Willy won’t keep it up. We’ve made sure the Authority will intervene within a day or two and tell her to back off. Yes, we still plan to use Maire Manone. It’s only right she should come back to Voorstod, back to her people. She can be a symbol, one way or the other. You and the kids are no use to us, though, come to think of it, the girl might be.” He grinned at Saturday, like an animal, teeth showing, relishing her obvious fear. “She’s a singer, too.”
“I could not sing in Voorstod,” said Saturday, getting the words out with difficulty. “The mists shut my throat.”
“Likely, oh likely,” sneered Pye. “Well since the Awateh’s sons don’t want us here, let us go find your boy.”
The flier made the long journey to Sarby far easier than the shorter trips had been. Though the mists obscured much of the landscape, Pye flew low enough that they could see something of the countryside. Cloudport, they saw, as they rose, and Scaery, after some time in flight, while Saturday wondered how she could get to either place, and when. She had been scared into immobility in the citadel
