“Have you heard of Rivermen, Dze?” For a moment he could not hear her voice, could not understand her words. Rivermen. What was she talking about? “Yes, of course, Superior. Those who bring cargoes on the boats … “ Suddenly he knew what it was in her voice that so cut at him. Fear. Nothing but fear.
“No. Rivermen have nothing to do with boats, Rivermen are members of an heretical sect who place their dead in the River. They do not trust in the Holy Sorters. A cult of apostates, Ilze. Had you heard that Pamra’s mother was a Riverman?”
“I knew she was a madwoman, Your Patience. A sick woman. A heretic, if you like. I had never heard she was a member of any cult.” He gulped, heard only the silence, went on. “The initiation master told me Pamra was deeply shamed by her mother’s behavior. It was probably her mother’s heresy which brought Pamra to the Tower in the first place. Her dedication had some redemptive quality to it. So he said.”
“So I thought. So you thought … perhaps. But now she is gone, with a pitful of workers. And the … Talkers have sent for you, Ilze. And me. They have questions about our orthodoxy.”
Talkers? In this context the word didn’t make sense. He opened his mouth to ask to ask anything that would help him out of this confusion…
“I think you had best let me speak with him for a moment alone,” she said to the Servant of Abricor, her voice wheedling and groveling. “He is totally ignorant of your existence. As naive, in his way, as Pamra was in hers.” “And did you find this amusing?” croaked a strange voice, not a human voice, though using human words. “Was he amusing to you?”
“No. He knew as much as any senior. Seniors are not privy to the decisions of the Chancery, Uplifted One. May I appeal in the name of the Protector?”
“The Talons do not recognize the Protector.”
“Surely you jest, Winged One.” There was a note of desperation in her voice. “Your treaty is with the Protector, and through him with the Chancery and with the Towers. How can you have a treaty with an office you do not recognize?”
Ilze had heard the Superior’s voice for years, leading the observances, reciting the litany, directing, assigning. He had never heard it as it sounded now, tight as a harp string, aching with strain, almost with panic.
“We do not recognize the Protector in this instance, human. Still, we do not desire further disruption of your duties. I will give you not long,” the inhuman voice croaked again. “Other Talkers await you on the aerie. You will not attempt escape.” There were sounds, wings, clacking of beak, a harsh scrape of talons upon the floor.
“Ilze?”
He breamed deeply, trying not to vomit. “Superior.”
“You must help me in this, Ilze. I am depending upon your strong sense of self-preservation.”
“What was it?” he grated, furious at himself for this loss of control.
“A Talker. A leader among the Servants of Abricor. One of their Superiors, I suppose you could say. Though this one seems rather higher in rank among its people than I consider myself among mine.”
“Talking?”
“They talk, yes. Though not to us. Never to us. This is the first time I have heard one talk. I have been told that only a few of the Servants can talk. The ordinary fliers do not. Only these, these others. Or perhaps only these are allowed to talk. That also is possible.’’
“What does it want?”
“It expects to take us to one of the Talons. The closest one is east of here in a tall mountain range near the Straits of Shfor. The Talons are where their leaders live, as the Chancery is where our leaders live. They want to take us for questioning.” Where I cannot go, she thought. Where I must not be taken. For they will certainly learn what I know, in time, and I know too much. “They want to take you, Ilze. And me, me as well. This is not the way it should been, Ilze. Listen now. In the northlands, the Protector dwells with his people, his retinue, the officers of the icery. You know of the Protector. You have seen him.”