“All right, Podarge, pretend you don’t understand Mycenaean,” he said. “But watch your tongue. I have no love for you.”
She seemed surprised. She said, “Ah, you are a
priest?”
Wolff, he had to admit, had certainly done a perfect job on her. Her body was magnificent; the skin as white and flawless as he remembered it; the hair as long, black, straight, and shining. The features, of course, were not perfectly regular; there was a slight asymmetry which resulted in a beauty that under other circumstances would have made him ache.
She was dressed in silky-looking light green robes and sandals, almost as if she had been getting ready for bed when interrupted. How in hell had Podarge come to be mixed up with these Lords? And then the answer tapped his mind’s shoulder. Of course, she was in Wolffs palace
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when it was invaded. But what had happened then?
He said, “Where is Wolff?”
“Who, leblabbiyT* she said.
“Jadawin, he used to be called,” he said.
She shrugged and said, “He wasn’t there. Or if he was, he was killed by the Black Sellers.”
Kickaha was more confused. “Black Sellers?”
Wolff had spoken of them at one time. But briefly, because their conversation had been interrupted by a subject introduced by Chryseis. Later, after Kickaha had helped Wolff recover his palace from Vannax, Kickaha had intended to ask him about the Black Bellers. He had never done so.
One of the Tishquetmoac spoke harshly to Clatatol. Kickaha understood him; she was to tell Kickaha that he must talk to these people. The Tishquetmoac could not understand the speech.
The fair-skinned woman, replying to his questions, said, “I am Anana, Jadawin’s sister. This thin one is Nimstowl, called the Nooser by the Lords. This other is Fat Judubra.”
Kickaha understood now. Anana, called the Bright, was one of Wolffs sisters. And he had used her face as a model when he created Podarge’s face in the biolab. Rather, his memory had supplied the features, since Wolff had not then seen his sister Anana for over a thousand years. Which meant that, as of now, he had not seen her for over four thousand.
Kickaha remembered now that Wolff had said that the Black Bellers were to have been used, partly, as receptacles for memory. The Lords, knowing that even the complex human brain could not hold thousands of years of knowledge, had
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experimented with the transfer of memory. This could, theoretically, be transferred back to the human brain when needed or otherwise displayed exteriorly.
A rapping sounded. A round door in the wall at the other end swung out, and another smuggler entered. He beckoned to the others, and they gathered around him to whisper. Finally, Clatatol left the group to speak to Kickaha.
“The rewards have been tripled,” she whispered. “Moreover, this pinkface king, von Turbat, has proclaimed that, once you’re caught, he’ll withdraw from Talanac. Everything will be as it was before.”
“If you’d planned on turning us in, you wouldn’t be telling me this,” he said. But it was possible that she was being overly subtle, trying to make him at ease, before they struck. Eight against one. He did not know what the Lords could do, so he would not count on them. He still had his two knives, but in this small room … ah, well, when the time came, he would see.
Clatatol added,’ * Von TAirbat has also said that if you are not delivered to him within twenty-four hours, he will kill the emperor and his family and then he will kill every human being in this city. He said this in private to his officers, but a slave overheard him. Now the entire city knows.”
“If von Turbat was talking German, how could a Tishquetmoac understand him?” Kickaha said.
“Von Turbat was talking to von Swindebarn and several others in the holy speech of the Lords,” she said. “The slave had served in the temple and knew the holy speech.”
The Black Bellers must be the as-yet unhooded lantern to illumine the mystery. He knew the two
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Teutoniac kings could follow the priest in the services, but they did not know the sacred language well enough to speak it. Thus, the two were not what they seemed.