“And so it may yet be,” agreed the old man, caught up in Mugal’s drunken reverie. He nodded in time, as he joined the chant, the two voices rising in unison: “They do not know their death awaits them all. They do not know it comes from us. Yet it comes.”
Flandry gulped in air, making a tiny orgasmic sound, a grunt of pure pleasure, as though something had touched him intimately. When he had been a boy, the telling of apocalypse had been accompanied by such touching so that he might always associate the words with pleasure. His chin was wet, and he dabbed at it impatiently.
In the hallway, just outside their vision, the Gharm slave who had been cleaning the stairs heard the crooning and huddled against the wall. At times like these it was not wise to draw attention to oneself. He put his head down and thought, silently, of a snake.
The Gharm often thought of Voorstod so. Like the snake, Voorstod could lie in full sight and look like something else. Like the snake, it could secrete a poison for which there was no antidote. Like the snake, it did not care what it bit, and it could kill before the victim quite realized it had been touched.
The room where the men sat throbbed like a heart clenched tight in a fist. Gradually, the chant faded. The men’s eyes lost their ecstatic opacity and saw the world once more.
“So, if apocalypse dawns tomorrow as we’ve been told it will, what need have we of sons?” Mugal Pye demanded harshly.
“There’s been a delay,” gasped the older man, gulping air through his engorged throat.
“What delay?”
“Somethin’ happened on Enforcement. Somethin’ that wasn’t planned for. Our agents there failed in their duty, so it’s said. The Prophet was white with fury, but when he got control of himself a little, he said he felt we must plan for another generation, just in case. If the end comes soon, there’s plenty of us to do the job, but if we must go on longer than that. …” Preu Flandry’s voice trailed away to angry silence.
Mugal whined, “But the end was to come soon! Practically tomorrow, that’s the word I had. We stood upon the doorstep of the end! I’ve been savoring it, Flandry. Since I was a mere boy.”
“Well, and so have I, but there’s this postponement for some reason or other. What’s certain is, if we must go on longer, we’ll need another generation to do it.”
“Well, then, what’s this nonsense about Sam Girat’s wife? We’ve Armageddon to bring upon the System, and here we are, talking of one silly woman!”
The old man sighed windily, wiping his chin again. “I’ve only told you half. Because there’s so few women left in Voorstod, the hot-bloods have been followin’ their lechery out into Ahabar, out among the Abolitionists in Jeramish, where they’ve been takin’ women by force. And if that goes on, it won’t be long before Ahabar mobilizes the army.”
Mugal Pye shrugged and sneered. “So? That means less than nothing. Authority won’t let ‘em act.”
“Oh, we’ve paid the Theology Panel enough to assure they never give an answer on the slavery question, but rapin’ and abductin’ is another question entirely!”
“They won’t consider that a religious matter, eh?”
Preu scowled at this levity. “Not likely, no. And the army of Ahabar is nothin’ to make light of. Though the Queen hasn’t struck at us over the Gharm, the prophets think it likely she will strike at us over a few hundred rapes in Jeramish, and the one thing the prophets do not want, not so close to the end, is an army of occupation!”
Mugal went to the cupboard and found himself a bottle and brought it back to the table, together with two glasses. He poured and drank deeply, considering this.
“You’ve told me nothing yet to say why we’d want Maire Manone brought back! She’s an old woman by now! Past childbearing. And it’s not likely you want her to preach abstinence to the hot-bloods.”
The white-haired man snorted. “Mugal Pye, I gave you credit for more imagination than that! We need her for propaganda! We must do somethin’ to keep the women here and bring others back, some voice to rally them. And what woman was listened to in all Voorstod more than Maire Manone?”
“Propaganda, you say? No more than that?”
“A symbol, so say the prophets. What I say ten times is true, as we well know, but the thing has to be believable! The prophets have told us a symbol is needed. Someone whose voice will be heard, a woman to make the business seem real. Who better than she who was called the Voice of Voorstod? The Sweet Singer of Scaery?”
“Only propaganda!”
“Ostensible, at least, though it’s likely there’ll be recruitin’ done as well. If we’re accused, we can say, ‘A girl kidnapped? Nonsense. The maiden saw Maire Ma-none singing and she came of her own free will.’ ”
Mugal Pye shook his head, considering how far from apocalypse it seemed, this fiddling about with abduction. How small a thing. How insignificant and unworthy. He pursed his mouth, as though to spit, then thought better of it. The true Faithful did unquestioningly as the prophets commanded, and if this had been commanded. …
“That’s why we wanted to see how Phaed might stand on the matter,” said Preu. “He’s her husband still, after all.”
“But you’re not telling him about this.”
“Not yet. Not until we’re closer.”
“And how do you intend to bring her back?”
“We’ll give her good reason to come.”
“You’re not thinkin’ Phaed will go get her, are you?”
“We’ve not quite settled on that yet, Mugal Pye. She must seem
