emphasise her point.
He didn't bother arguing. Legana, even as near death as a person could be and still remain conscious, had proved to be as stubborn as a mule. 'Very well, the Beristole it is.'
Her smile returned.
The streets in Breakale were narrower than in Hale, the buildings taller and more regular. They found a walking rhythm soon enough, shuffling along with their eyes fixed on the ground ahead. For the main part passers-by gave the pair pitying looks, but from time to time Antil found himself jostled; fear of being caught stopped him from commenting. The first woman to do it had continued without even a glance back as Antil stumbled, and only Legana's strength had stopped him from falling in a sprawl into the street.
It didn't take him Icing to realise that the anger emanating from the temples, both in sermons and proclamations, was reaping the only crop it deserved. The fact that he wore the yellow robes of Shotir, God of Healing and Forgiveness, seemed to make no difference.
Can I blame them? Antil wondered as he was elbowed in the ribs by a man whose face was bruised yellow and purple all down one cheek. Where were my exhortations for calm? When Death's priests were baying for the blood of sinners, my objections were too softly spoken.
The wind picked up as the sun dropped to the horizon and light from windows started to glow into the street. When they paused at a crossroads for Antil to recall the way, he felt suddenly exposed. Since becoming high priest he had left Hale only rarely, and then usually for Eight Towers; calls for ministration from Wheel and Burn – the ramshackle shantytowns of workshops, tanneries and every other sort of physical labour – were attended by younger priests. Even before the recent tensions, these had not been safe places for a high priest to walk without escort.
He looked around, getting his bearings. Left would take him into the heart of Wheel, bisected by the two swift rivers that drove many of the district's water-wheels. Beyond were the miles of cul-tivated fields running towards the treacherous fens. In the place of
temples and statues the buildings in Wheel tended to be haylofts, water-wheels and warehouses.
Burn, to the right, was a cramped and squalid imitation of Breakale. It straddled a deep fissure in the ground from which, every year or so, a great gout of gas and flame would erupt, killing
anyone up to a hundred yards downslope. The hot springs dotting
the area meant folk had to pretty much ignore the danger.
Criminals ran both districts. Byora's rulers had long ago realised that as long as poverty remained rife there, their control would only ever be tenuous. An unofficial but well-known accommodation had proved cheaper and easier for all involved.
Legana gave his arm a tug as he stood still, the urgency plain on her face.
There was a statue in the centre of the crossroads around which
the crowds hurried, presumably representing a God or Aspect since
its arms and head had been broken off and filth smeared down one side. That wasn't why he'd stopped.
'The sun's going down,' he explained. 'I can't remember exactly how far the Beristole is, but I know the Byoran Guard don't go there after dark.'
She checked her dagger in the long sleeve of her robe before drugging him forward once more.
'Yet here we go, perhaps to our deaths,' Antil said under his
breath before moving ahead of Legana to guide her to the safer part of the road, away from the carts and horses. As he did so he felt a body thump into his back and he crashed first to his knees, his hand slipping from Legana's, then fell face-first onto the cobbled ground, too quickly to even cry out before his head struck the stones.
'Whoa, sorry about that, Father,' said a man behind him. Antil moaned as a jolt of pain ran up his arm from his already cold hand.
Before he knew what was happening a pair of hands had gripped his under the arms and lifted him upright. Antil winced, letting the man take most of his weight, his feet wobbling underneath him.
'You hurt, Father?' asked the man, a dark blur wavering in front of his face until Antil blinked and the details resolved into a youngish face, rounded features and tufts of black hair poking out from under the hood of his cape. He didn't sound like a local, and from the scars on his face, Antil guessed he was a mercenary of some sort, but the man was grinning like a monkey and sounded genuinely apologetic.
'I… No, I am fine, I think,' he said, touching a finger to his temple and not finding anything hurting too badly there. 'Thank you,' he added, rather belatedly.
'Ah, don't worry about it,' the man said, making a show of dusting Antil down, though it was apparent from the smell that dust was the least of his problems. 'Should've been watching where I was going.'
'Death's bony cock,' growled a voice behind the man. The grin fell from the man's face and he looked over his shoulder at the speaker.
'Steady on, boyo, man's a high priest,' he remonstrated, but his companion paid no attention. He was staring at Legana. Her hood had slipped a little and she stood in the emerging moonlight like a ghost, her skin pale and her eyes unfocused.
The first man squinted at her for a moment. 'Shitting fuck,' he breathed, frozen with surprise. His companion shoved him out of the way and grabbed Antil by the collar, hard enough to make the priest cry out.
'You better pray to Shotir that you weren't the one to do that do her,' he hissed, pushing his face into Antil's. He was not as scarred, but he was more heavily-built and looked just as well-used to violence. Antil picked out a small tattoo, on his earlobe of all places. 'If you were, you're in more trouble than you could possibly imagine.'
'Got some strange luck on you, Father,' muttered the first man, 'running into us like that. Pissed off the Lady recently?'
Fat Lonei did not like the Land outside Hale.' Whenever he was asked to travel elsewhere in the city, he was obedient and mindful of his vows. He performed his task as best he could, then scampered back to Hale, his heart pounding nervously until he was once again in familiar streets. He was a foundling, and had been nicknamed Fat Lonei in his fourth year in the temple, less out of malice – he was an amiable child and hard to dislike – more a statement of fact. He had never given anyone the impression he was unhappy with the name; it was simply who he was. His was a life of humble wants. Had the Gods themselves offered to make his every dream come true, Fat Lonei would have wondered what they wanted to hear from him.
He had been watching High Priest Antil head off down the street with the strange blind woman on his arm when he was suddenly struck by the notion that events of importance were afoot. A braver man would have followed the high priest and his charge to ensure they reached their destination safely, but one moment of imagining himself doing that was enough to make him realise that would leave him, Fat Lonei, out in the open, all alone. The chaos and bustle of Breakale frightened him and even the image of people lurching and shouting and barging brought the prickle of sweat to his brow. He saw himself surrounded by darkness, looking big and bright and obvious in his yellow priestly robe, while the filthy masses edged closer, baying for the blood of priests. No, that he could not do, but there was another option and this he embraced with the relief of a man who'd found a way around his conscience.
Scuttling from shadow to shadow, hanging well back, Fat Lonei followed the column of soldiers through the streets of Hale. The locals, clerics and laymen alike, scattered like frightened rabbits in the face of their advance. He heard the authoritative voices of the sergeants breaking the evening quiet, calling pointless orders, keeping their lines in order – anything to impose their presence on the cowed district.
Only when a halt was called did Fat Lonei realise their destination was the black needle-tipped dome of the Temple of Death, but not even seeing the carts brought clattering to the head of the column made him guess their purpose. He crept closer, careful to ensure that there were others nearer than him to provide ready targets, should the soldiers turn.
He saw the troops fan out, their weapons at the ready. A band of men, Byoran Guard, jumped to work when a big sergeant with a cruel face shouted. Lonei saw he was dressed as a Ruby Tower Guard, though he was, unusually, a foreigner, set apart not just by his tanned face, but also by the strange elbow-length gauntlets he wore that seemed to wink slivers of bluish reflected light.
He heard cries of dismay emanate from inside the temple, swiftly echoed by many of those watching from a safe distance. Entreaties, angry shouts and the wail of young novices accompanied the bustle around the open
