Sam ignored most of this. “So, what are you afraid of? That some priest will be with your nephew, to drag you back to Ahabar?”
She shook her head. “It’s so strange, his being here. It smells of conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy!” he laughed. “Mam, you’re being as paranoid as Zilia Makepeace! The boy is here, he wants to see you because you were famous. Conspiracy!”
She stood up straight, glaring at him, “Sam, I say to you what my grandma once said to my mother in my hearing when I was yet a child. I’ve remembered her words all my life. She said, ‘Conspiracy is dark and dirty, and vengeance is heavy as rock, and being a slaver presses a man down until he can see nothing but black dirt around him, like the walls of a grave. Men become accustomed to that darkness when they are in the habit of death. It pains such men to come into the light.’ Now, Sammy, this nephew of your dad’s is one of them, and it would pain him to come into the light, as it would pain Phaed himself. Dream your dreams of a kingly father all you like, Sam—oh, don’t think I can’t tell what you’re thinking, you, my own flesh—but believe me, these men sit in the dark still, conspiring with their fellows, deep in that black pit with the stones of hate above them, and there is something dreadful portending. I know it as I know my own name.” She broke off, half-choking, leaving Sam amazed and hurt.
He recovered himself and made excuses for her. So she was getting old. She was remembering troubled times, and it hit her hard. He should make allowances, but he didn’t need to believe everything she said. “Well, if you’re afraid, or for whatever reason, I’ll go with you to keep you safe.” Her fear made no sense to Sam at all. Still, this might well be the happening he had waited for, the stone under which he’d find his way back to Voorstod, and if she was involved, he would accept that she was afraid and get on with it.
Maire and Sam went up to CM for the meeting, and both of them were surprised to find two persons awaiting them when they arrived.
“Mugal Pye, at your service, Madam,” the older one said, eyes crinkled in his best attempt at a pleasant smile. “Young Ilion here is part of our Archives party, and he did want to say hello to his famous aunt.”
“You’re Domal’s son,” Maire said to the younger man, ignoring the fatuous comments of the older one. She knew men like Mugal Pye all too well. Phaed was one of the kind, and he too had smiled and smiled and said soft words.
“Yes, I’m Domal’s son,” the youngster said, staring at her curiously. “Are you really Maire Manone?”
“They called me that, yes.”
“The Sweet Singer of Scaery?”
“They called me that too, long ago.”
“Mugal Pye,” the older man said again, holding out his hand to Sam. “You’d be Sam Girat.”
“That’s right,” said Sam, wondering why he felt squeamish touching this man’s hand. Squeamish he felt, and he could not say why.
“Do you sing here, in this place?” Ilion asked Maire, looking around himself, as though wondering if anyone could sing in this place. “It seems very bare and open.”
She laughed without humor. “Compared to Scaery? Where the mists make walls and a roof for any homeless man? Where a man may have a dry bed only if he puts his blankets beside the fire?”
“It is damp in the north counties,” he agreed.
“Did you have some special reason for wanting to see me, boy?”
He shook his head. “I just wanted to hear about your life here, Maire Manone. People ask about you, you know. I thought I might carry word of you back.”
“Tell them Mary Manone is no more, that Mary Girat cares for the babies of Settlement One on Hobbs Land, and that she is satisfied. Tell them that, boy.” It seemed innocent enough, and she could not explain why she felt so cold.
Maire and Sam stayed only a little while longer, exchanging compliments and sending messages. Sam took Mugal Pye aside, despite the revulsion he felt for the man, and asked him to convey his best wishes to his dad. “Ask him to write to me,” he said. “I think of him often.”
Mugal Pye only smiled, without promising, for he had no intention that Phaed Girat be told about this, as yet. He asked Sam and Maire only a few more meaningless questions, to cover up the fact Maire had already told him everything he needed to know.
• The message written by Shan Damzel upon Hobbs Land was received on Thyker by Holorabdabag Reticingh, Chief of the Circle of Scrutators of the Divine Overmind, who judged it went overfar into the subject of inscrutable “feelings.”
Shan said in his message he felt something was wrong. Shan felt something was happening. Shan didn’t know what. Shan couldn’t prove anything, but Shan was decidedly nervous. He thought whatever-it-was Zilia Makepeace had felt, he too felt. It was inimical. It was threatening. It should be stopped.
Reticingh was at first concerned. about Shan Damzel’s health and welfare. “He may be ill,” he confided to his plump and sad-eyed assistant, one known as Merthal. “I thought he looked fine-drawn before they left. Sometimes I wonder if he ever recovered from his stint among the Porsa, may they rot.”
“Rotting would probably delight them,” suggested Merthal, who was not above an occasional jibe. “When Shan came back, he looked half-rotted himself.”
The two of them stood upon a small balcony which jutted from the
