“How may I assist the servant of the Chancery?” Haranjus had asked, taking refuge in formality. It would not do to be indiscreet to a Laugher. It was not smart to relax convention or ritual. “The Laugher’s need is my command.”
“I need to get word to the Talkers, up there,” and he had pointed to the heights of the Talons, looming at Thou-ne’s eastern border.
“I … I can summon a flier,” Haranjus had stuttered. He had expected anything but this, anything at all. “What is it you wish me to say?”
“I will say it myself. Just take me to the roof and summon one of them, however it is you do it.”
There was a way, of course. Twice each month, Haranjus was expected to provide a living body for the Talker’s meat. He saw that these bodies were taken, almost always, from among the travelers through Thou-ne. The town was too small to accommodate the loss, otherwise. Certainly it was too small to accommodate it without comment. Now that the Temple attracted so many travelers, it was no trick to abduct one here, one there, as they traveled on westward. His few trusted seniors had become expert at the exercise.
And when the living bodies were ready, they were trussed up on the roof of the Tower and fliers were called. At evening. In the low of sunset, so the fliers might return to the Talons with their burden well after dark.
“Yes. There is a bell,” Haranjus said. “But I don’t have … I mean, there’s no reason to call them. They may be very angry.”
“Leave their anger to me,” said Ilze. “They will be more angry yet when they hear what I have to tell them.”
He went with Haranjus to the roof, not unlike the roof at Baris, surrounded by a low parapet, fouled with shit, littered with feathers, and reeking with the musty, permeating smell of Thraish. They waited there, not speaking, Ilze because he had no inclination to speak, Haranjus because he was afraid to. When the blaze of sunset was at its height, Haranjus struck the bell.
The plangent tone stole outward, away from the Tower, rising like a bird, lifted upon the air, winging to the Talons tops, a reverberation now softly, now loudly feeding upon itself, intensifying its own sound with echoes. When the blaze of the west began to dim, dark wings detached themselves from the distant peaks and came toward the tower. When those wings folded upon the tower top it was almost dark. The flier croaked, “It is not time for meat.”
“This man asked for you,” Haranjus said. “I have brought him at his command, as I am sworn to do.” He turned then and left the roof. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to be involved in it. Nothing could have stopped him from listening at the door, however. He leaned there, ear applied to the crack, holding his breath.
“I have a message for Sliffisunda of the Talons,” Ilze said. “There is heresy abroad upon Northshore, and Sliffisunda of the Talons must be told of it.”
The fliers gabbled, croaked, not sure of whether they would or would not.
“Sliffisunda will command it if you tell him I am here,” Ilze said at last. “He knows me. Return and ask him.”
Sliffisunda, it appeared, could be asked. He was at Black Talons. He had come there fairly recently. The fliers would return and ask him, albeit unwillingly. Sliffisunda was evidently in a temper.
“Tell him to send a basket for me!” shouted Ilze as the great wings lifted from the Tower. He stumped to the door and down the stairs, finding Haranjus somewhat out of breath in the study at their foot.
“Give me food,” Ilze commanded. “And something to drink. They’ll be back within the hour.”
“You’re going to the Talons?” He could not help himself. Despite all promises to himself not to ask questions, his traitor tongue did it for him.
“One way or the other,” Ilze sneered. “It was here the crusade started, wasn’t it. I shouldn’t wonder if you were involved in it.”
“Oh, no. No. A man came from the Chancery. He said I did right to ignore it. . . .”