Authority was incapable of imagining its own demise, a demise that was already hovering over it, implacable fate held in the trembling hands of Altabon Faros and the hard, unfeeling ones of Halibar Ornil.
Ornil. Stocky and thick-skinned Ornil, whose forehead was low and whose eyes were narrow. Who walked with a lurching stride, like a wrestler, and whose hands hung away from his body, as though they were not quite part of him. Whose uniform was always slightly untidy, even moments after he put it on, and whose connection with the aristocratic Overmajor Faros had never been understood. Only Faros knew that Ornil was there to keep watch on him, and he to keep watch on Ornil. The prophets trusted no one. Trust had no part in the Cause.
Occasionally, when it would seem natural for them to do so, the two Voorstoders spent some time together. They did not drink stimulants or take any recreational drug. They did not patronize the brothel maintained at Authority’s expense—Faros from lack of appetite, Ornil from prudence. But they might take a meal together while Ornil muttered his assessment of what he assumed was closest to them both. The successful culmination of their mission.
“Thyker first,” Ornil had postulated on the most recent occasion. “We’ll send the Enforcement army against Thyker first.”
Faros knew it would not be Thyker first. To say so would make him suspect, however, as though he questioned the will of the Awateh, to which he was not privy. So, he said, as he always did, ‘That’s up to the Awateh,” being careful to give nothing away, stroking his long, tapering fingers as though they ached and wishing Ornil could talk about something else.
Ornil ruminated, chewing over his ideas as he did his food, messily, noisily. After a time, he said, “Except Thyker does have all those biological weapons. If not Thyker, I’ll bet we go against Phansure first.”
Faros sipped at the lukewarm drink before him. “If the Cause conquers Phansure, then it can force the Phansuris to build as many more soldiers as it might need for any purpose. So it would seem Phansure could be an early target.”
“Not first?” Ornil glared at him from beneath his brows. “Why not first?”
“Perhaps the Awateh has considered Authority as the first target.” The only one that made any sense. Which was not to say the Awateh would necessarily do it. Much of what the Awateh did had no sense to it. Only cruelty and pain.
“Authority?” Ornil thought about this, laboriously, as he thought about most things. Then he smiled. “Of course. Authority.”
Faros sighed and tried not to think of Silene. “Whatever they do, it will be very soon now. The new man arrives shortly.”
Ornil’s eyes gleamed. He had no wife in Voorstod. He had no children. He had no family for the prophet to chop up like meat for the pot. Ornil was a dedicated man.
While Ornil gloated, Faros went back to writing scenarios in his head. If the army was dispatched against Phansure and Authority, and if the prophets followed the army, would it be possible for him, Faros, to get to Voorstod and rescue his family while the Faithful were otherwise engaged? While Ornil muttered and chuckled and muttered, Faros plotted how he might get his wife and children to safety.
• • •
• Maire, Sam, and Saturday arrived in Fenice to find themselves in the midst of a festival. The quincentennial, they were told. The city fluttered with banners; there were musicians on every corner, a parade down every street.
“You’ll stay for the concert this evening,” said the young officer who had met them, one who had stared curiously at Maire Girat as he wondered what it was about this woman that had made his commander seem so nostalgic and faraway. “Commander Karth insists that you be his guests for dinner and the concert. He says he’ll escort you on to Jeramish tomorrow.”
“If Commander Karth wishes us to stay,” said Maire. “Another day will make no difference. What is the concert to be?”
“A new work commissioned by the Queen. Stenta Thilion is to play for us on the harp.”
“A Gharm harpist playing for the Queen?” queried Maire, with a wry twist to her lips. “Have things progressed so far?”
“She is much admired,” said the officer, defensively. “By all men of goodwill.”
“And by us,” said Maire, defusing him with a smile and a shake of her head. “I have no sympathy for Voorstod views, lad. It’s why I came away, long since. And I would not be here now, hating the idea of returning, if I had a choice.”
Saturday was regarding her clothes with dismay. “But we have nothing to wear to a fancy concert, Maire. We have only our farm clothes.”
The young officer smiled. Girls were all alike, no matter where they came from. His own wife had said the same, and when he had laughed at her, she had told him uniforms made it easy for men.
“If you’ll accept the Commander’s hospitality, Ma’am,” he said to Maire, nodding to show that the other two were included. “His daughter would be pleased to provide something suitable.”
• • •
• Without warning, on the very morning of the day Maire arrived in Ahabar, Epheron and Preu seized Jep up and carried him off on a trip to Cloud. They took him, so they said, because “The Faithful wanted to get a look at him.’’ They left the collar on him, taking the box that controlled it along to prevent his running off or causing trouble. He was given a coat to hide the collar and a cap to hide his head, very much like the caps the Voorstoders wore to keep their long hair clean and
