“Yes.”
“What are your crimes? Do tell me. We needn’t bother with the little things. Just the really shameful stuff’ll do.”
“I’ve had dealings with a Eurhetemec.”
“Have you indeed?” Dowd said. “However did you get back to Yzordderrex to do that?”
“I didn’t,” Chant replied. “My dealings . . . were here, in the Fifth.”
“Really,” said Dowd softly. “I didn’t know there were Eurhetemecs here. You learn something new every day. But, lovey, that’s no great crime. The Unbeheld’s going to forgive a poxy little trespass like that. Unless . . .” He stopped for a moment, turning over a new possibility. “Unless, the Eurhetemec was a mystif. . . .” He trailed the thought, but Chant remained silent. “Oh, my dove,” Dowd said. “It wasn’t, was it?” Another pause. “Oh, it was. It was.” He sounded almost enchanted. “There’s a mystif in the Fifth and—what? You’re in love with it? You’d better tell me before you run out of breath, lovey. In a few minutes your eternal soul will be waiting at Hapexamendios’ door.”
Chant shuddered. “The assassin . . .” he said.
“What about the assassin?” came the reply. Then, realizing what he’d just heard, Dowd drew a long, slow breath. “The assassin is a mystif?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Oh, my sweet Hyo!” he exclaimed. “A mystif!” The enchantment had vanished from his voice now. He was hard and dry. “Do you know what they can do? The deceits they’ve got at their disposal? This was supposed to be an anonymous piece of shit-stirring, and look what you’ve done!” His voice softened again. “Was it beautiful?” he asked. “No, no. Don’t tell me. Let me have the surprise, when I see it face to face.” He turned to the voiders. “Pick the fucker up,” he said.
They stepped forward and raised Chant by his broken arms. There was no strength left in his neck, and his head lolled forward, a solid stream of bilious fluid running from his mouth and nostrils. “How often does the Eurhetemec tribe produce a mystif?” Dowd mused, half to himself. “Every ten years? Every fifty? They’re certainly rare. And there you are, blithely hiring one of these little divinities as an assassin. Imagine! How pitiful, that it had fallen so low. I must ask it how that came about.” He stepped towards Chant, and at Dowd’s order one of the voiders raised Chant’s head by the hair. “I need the mystifs whereabouts,” Dowd said. “And its name.”
Chant sobbed through his bile. “Please,” he said. “I meant. . . I. . . meant—”
“Yes, yes. No harm. You were just doing your duty. The Unbeheld will forgive you, I guarantee it. But the mystif, lovey, I need you to tell me about the mystif. Where can I find it? Just speak the words, and you won’t ever have to think about it again. You’ll go into the presence of the Unbeheld like a babe.”
“1 will?”
“You will. Trust me. Just give me its name and tell me the place where I can find it.”
“Name . . . and . . . place.”
“That’s right. But get to it, lovey, before it’s too late!”
Chant took as deep a breath as his collapsing lungs allowed. “It’s called Pie ‘oh’ pah,” he said.
Dowd stepped back from the dying man as if slapped. “Pie ‘oh’ pah? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. . ..”
“Pie ‘oh’ pah is alive? And Estabrook hired it?”
“Yes.”
Dowd threw off his imitation of a Father Confessor and murmured a fretful question of himself. “What does this mean?” he said.
Chant made a pained little moan, his system racked by further waves of dissolution. Realizing that time was now very short, Dowd pressed the man afresh.
“Where is this mystif? Quickly, now! Quickly!”
Chant’s face was decaying, cobs of withered flesh sliding off the slickened bone. When he answered, it was with half a mouth. But answer he did, to be unburdened.
“I thank you,” Dowd said to him, when all the information had been supplied. “I thank you.” Then, to the voiders, “Let him go.”
They dropped Chant without ceremony. When he hit the floor his face broke, pieces spattering Dowd’s shoe. He viewed the mess with disgust.