Awakeners by Sheri S Tepper

He reached for the carafe on the table and poured a glass of its waters for her. “Kessie. Oh, Kessie, you did get the drugs I sent? You did get them in time.”

“You know I did.” She drank what he had given her, thankfully. “I’ve told you over and over. It was all that kept me going. Knowing I wouldn’t actually feel the pain, not in my body, at least. Knowing you were here, doing whatever you could to get me out of that … that nightmare.”

“I couldn’t do anything! I saw Shavian Bossit throwing suspicious glances my way when Gendra spoke of putting you and the Awakener to the question. He knows I came from Baristown, and he knows I’ve spoken out against this inquisition atmosphere the fliers want to force us into. Trust Shavian to put egg and fire together and hatch a plot.” “You think he suspects?”

“Suspects? Of course he suspects. Everyone! Of everything! Suspicion is his standard mode of operation. He maintains the household by suspicion.” Tharius gritted his teeth. “I mean, do you think he suspects us? Do you think he is convinced there really is … a heresy? From his point of view, I suppose that’s what it would be.”

“No. Not yet. The thing that’s occupying his mind just now is another matter. There’s supposed to have been a miracle in Thou-ne. Some idiot fished an image out of the World River, and the people demanded it be taken into the Temple. They’re almost worshiping it, calling it the ‘Bearer of Truth.’ It shines, so they say. There are people traveling from six towns east just to visit the Temple, even though they know they can’t come home again.”

“The Bearer of Truth?” Kesseret frowned. “An image? I hadn’t heard about that. Do you think it’s connected in any way?” “Shavian may. He has a habit of connecting everything.

And it may be more man habit. During the last convocation, he spent an unwarranted amount of time with the Talkers. It was almost as though he were trying to usurp Ezasper Jorn’s prerogative as Ambassador. He’s ambitious, is Bossit.”

There was a sound from the next room, a hesitation in the music, then the dissonant fall of a hammer. In the silence they could hear a monotonous thrumming. Martien thrust one hand into the room, knocking on the open door.

“Tharius. Someone’s coming down the private corridor. It sounds like the old weehar. Mitiar.”

“Damn,” Tharius said, unwinding himself from the lady Kesseret. “That’s Gendra’s majordomo with that damn drone. Quick, Kessie. Get yourself into bed.”

“I really should sit up–”

“Quickly. Don’t argue. Back to your hammers, Martien.” Quickly he closed the window, pulled the chair into the center of the room, and seated himself in it, reaching a long arm toward the bookshelves. “Something dull, Kessie? An eschatological essay, perhaps?” He leafed through the volume and began to read, his voice dry and instructional.

The thrumming came closer, a low moaning, “Whoom, whoom.” The sound ceased outside the door to the suite. In the outer room Martien’s music was interrupted once again, this time by a crash as the door opened and a loud voice cried, “Dame Marshal of the Towers, Gendra Mitiar.”

“She didn’t even knock,” Kesseret hissed between her teeth. “Your private corridor, and she didn’t knock!”

“Shh, Kessie. Remember who she is.” He smiled quickly as he leaned back in his chair and called through the open door, “Ah, Gendra! I see you do not need to be invited to come in. Have you come to tender apologies to the lady Kesseret?”

There was a bark of humorless laughter from the outer room. “I’m sure all my subordinates understand necessity.” She came into the doorway, showing a voracious arc of yellow teeth. “We must all make sacrifices. And it is. Necessary to apologize for necessity. Isn’t that so, lady?”

“I’m sure it is, Your Reverence.” Kessie lay pale upon the pillows, not needing to play a part. At the sound of Mitiar’s voice her hands and feet burned agonizingly, and she found herself remembering the flame-bird as unexpected tears flowed unheeded down her face, sudden and unstoppable as the spring spate.