Also, junior Awakeners had to be kept busy. All juniors-like the populace at large-were supposed to believe that the labor provided by worker crews was necessary. They were supposed to believe it until officially told otherwise during senior retreat. Most of them did believe it, or pretended to. Therefore he stalked across the field, a solemn junior trailing behind as he commented aloud on rows that were uneven or corners that were scamped, twitching his whip suggestively from time to time to enjoy her shudder.
He lunched in Bans in a small cafe where he went from time to time and was a familiar-enough figure that the tables did not automatically empty as soon as he entered. Townsmen had a way of sniffing the air when Awakeners entered a shop or tavern, sniffing ostentatiously, then moving away, perhaps leaving the place. Ilze had known since childhood that Awakeners didn’t smell. Still, the rudeness rankled, and he went to the town tavern from time to time to exercise his fury. They did not dare press too far, and Ilze was readier than most to make them pay for each jot of license. The Superior of the Tower occasionally ordered a conscription of townspeople. One or two, usually, for some mysterious purpose of her own. Next time Ilze was sent on that errand, he had certain individuals in mind.
A singer enlivened the hour at the cafe. Perched in a shadowy corner, the boy’s voice crept over the conversation, into the pauses, into the hesitations.
“Devious as fire, Ubiquitous as care, Cruel as the flame-bird’s byre and the waiting air, your love encompassed me And left me dying there.”
Ilze smiled. It was a kind of love he recognized, his own particular kind. He knew the singer’s voice very well but had no intention of recognizing him. That was over. Superficially enjoyable, slightly dangerous, and over.
“High as the flier soars, To Abricor’s breast, from such height I fell onto my nest, to burn, to bum, to die, like all the rest.”
Ilze snorted. Why was it they all thought reproaches gained anything? He fingered in his purse for the smallest coin possible, summoning a servitor. “Give this to the singer.” He smiled. “Tell him his song is pretty, but boring.”
He stayed to see the message delivered, delighting in the bonelike pallor that suffused the boy’s face and the tears swimming in his eyes. Stupid. He would end as a living worker, a felonious boy-lover brought to justice. Ilze considered turning him in. No. Not yet. Perhaps later, when he needed amusement.
The boy picked at his instrument, sang again, sadly:
“When we are sunk so deep in madness’ sleep who, who shall be our Awakeners? … “
After lunch there was pretty little Seesa, the fish merchant’s wife. The fish merchant had been one of those who moved away in a tavern while making some ostentatious statement about the odor in the place. He and his wife had since learned how dangerous such an impudence could be. Now they took no license with Ilze whatsoever, though the lesson had taken them some time to learn an interesting time for Ilze. Seesa’s submissiveness bored him now. Soon he would find another woman or another boy. What he needed he could not find among colleagues in the Tower-that is, not yet. When Pamra came to senior status, perhaps then. With her naiveté she would not know she was allowed to refuse him. Until she learned that, perhaps he could enjoy her. In anticipation of that day, he had never whipped her, though the thought of her body tied to the stake made him grunt explosively at odd times, his penis twitching in spasms almost like orgasm.
He returned to the Tower very late. There were no juniors at the trough, none who had been with the workers enough to need the cold ritual bath, and it was not required of seniors. He passed it by, humming, not dissatisfied with the day, a little puzzled at the unusual buzz of conversation in the junior dining hall, the air of mystery. The puzzlement gave way to amazement and then to baffled anger as he learned that Pamra seemed to be involved in’ some strange occurrence. Pamra! Obedient as any dog from the first day, with only that dazzling beauty to make him hold his hand! Never even whipped, and now this?