“You should have foreseen this difficulty.”
“I abase myself, Holy One.” How in all Satan’s realm was he supposed to have foreseen that a damned Ahabarian would drink too much and make a pass at a Baidee woman!
The prophet snarled. “How long, then?”
“We have already learned the new password. We have already put together those words in the voices of the two men available to us. Mobilization requires three voices, however, and Subcommander Thees’s replacement has not yet been selected. Nothing moves very fast on Authority, and Enforcement is dependent upon Authority for this particular decision.”
As soon as it had happened, Faros had sent word to Voorstod, to this old man, giving every detail. Patience, he had said. A small delay. Patience. This old man already knew what had happened. He had been told!
But Voorstod had long ago learned what passed for patience among the prophets: a rage they barely bothered to suppress. According to the prophets, if a man failed in his mission, he failed because Almighty God was unhappy with him and willed it so. If God were happy with him, he could not fail. If he failed, God was unhappy with him, and so were the prophets. It was all very logical.
“I understand,” said the prophet in a lofty and unforgiving tone. “A pity I did not understand earlier that the delay may not have been entirely due to your own dalliance and negligence. I am afraid your family may have suffered somewhat because of your lack of foresight.”
Faros held his breath again.
“No doubt Almighty God has forgiven you,” said the prophet. “No doubt His victory over the false Gods of the unbelievers is imminent. No doubt your destiny is in His hands.”
Faros abased himself. Vagrantly, for no reason, he had a vision of some other man, somewhere, kneeling before some other prophet or some other God, hearing these same words. Somewhere, was there another poor vassal being assured of his destiny? Some servitor of a false God, perhaps? Faros caught his breath and fought down an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh hysterically. Perhaps it was not Almighty God who had allowed him to fail. Perhaps Almighty God had an unknown enemy. Perhaps, somewhere, some other God was unwilling to lie down and die before the feet of the Faithful.
Altabon Faros choked and said nothing. His thoughts were enough to condemn him. “I would like to visit my family,” he murmured at last, when it was clear the prophet had nothing more to say.
The prophet smiled peculiarly and signaled his permission. As Faros took up his robe in the foyer, Halibar Ornil entered. There was to be another inquisition, just checking, to be sure they both told the same story.
“Holy One,” he heard Halibar Ornil say in the adjacent chamber.
The prophet’s voice came fatefully, as Faros went through the door. “Explain this delay. Explain from the beginning, as though I knew nothing …”
The women’s quarters were at the back of the citadel, where it touched the forests of the mountains above Cloud. There were a number of houses set in forest glades, surrounded by high walls and guarded by the Faithful. Faros was taken to one of these, and the tall, solid gate was unlocked for him.
The Gharm woman he had seen last time he had been here was inside, sweeping the walks of the garden. She looked up at him from under her eyelids, pityingly.
“My wife?” he asked.
She pointed down a path toward the pool. When he had gone a little way, he saw Silene and the children, beside the pool where flowers bloomed, very ancient flowers, brought from the gardens of Ire and Iron on Manhome, thousands of years ago. The boy was seven now. He had grown. The little girl was still a baby. Only three. Faros went swiftly toward them. The children saw him and ran away from him, scattering like birds. His wife turned a startled face on him and did not move.
“Silene!” he cried, reaching out his hands.
She looked down, her own hands writhing in her lap.
“Silene!” he cried again, gathering her into his arms. She was stiff, like a carving, all bones, no softness, nothing yielding. Her black hair cascaded halfway down her back, untidily, as though she had not combed it recently. The skin of her face looked rough, untended. The nails of her hands were torn.
“What?” he said. “Why?” He shook her, making her look at him.
She opened her mouth and showed him that she had no tongue.
“The prophet had it cut out,” said the Gharm voice from behind him. “He came here, raging at her, telling her you were not doing your duty. She should have knelt down and kept quiet, but she wasn’t wise enough to do that. She defended you. She told him he should not be angry at you, you were doing your best. At first he threatened to kill the children because she spoke so, but in the end he only had the guards cut out her tongue.”
Silene made a gargling sound, as though she were trying to speak. Tears ran down her face in runnels.
“Next time, if there is more delay, it will be worse for her,” said the Gharm. “Next time it will be her hands, her breasts, her eyes. Or maybe it will be the children’s hands and eyes. The prophet told her that.”
Silene looked at him with terrified eyes and he pulled her close to him. She was not Voorstod. She was Ahabar. The children were not Voorstod, they were Ahabar. In his heart, was he Voorstod? Or Ahabar? Or something else, which had no name?
The Gharm servant gazed into his face and said wonderingly, “They do it to us Gharm all the time. I was surprised when I saw them doing it to you, too.”
