“We shall do what we can for you, Father, even if we have to take you on to Zark ourselves. In the meantime, our need for your services is very great.”
“Actually I am not—” The sweat running down Acopulo’s face seemed to cool markedly. “Services?”
The gaunt sailor sighed “The Gods may ease great suffering with small mercies. Evidently They brought us together in our mutual need, Father.”
Another scream, louder . . . Unspeakable torment! “Er, need, Captain?”
Blue eyebrows lifted. “Only in dire distress would a merfolk ship ever visit an outlander port, Father. It was to enlist the aid of a priest that we took that risk.”
Acopulo stammered, appalled that he had not seen that possibility.
The merman shifted his feet, as if about to rise. “The Gods in Their wisdom have brought misfortune upon us. We have a young man aboard who is dying and in need of solace.”
Acopulo babbled something appropriate while his mind turned cartwheels. He should have realized that the presence of a band of mermen in Ysnoss had threatened orgy—sexual madness leading to homicidal jealousy between the mermen and the faun males, and also among the women of the village. He should have seen that a responsible master would not expose himself and his entire crew to such danger for any trivial reason. To inform the captain now that his venture had been in vain might be extremely unwise.
Staring fixedly at his knees, the merman said softly, “My son! My youngest child!”
“The Good is everywhere,” Acopulo mumbled, “only our sight is lacking.” Given a few minutes he could find a hundred better texts than that to comfort a grieving father.
“You will come to him now, Father?” The sailor stood up.
“Tell me the details, please,” Acopulo said, and almost added, ”my son.”
The captain sat down again, not looking at his guest. The silver of his eyes seemed to shine brighter, as if laved in tears. “The hands were ashore, loading sand. It was a beach I have visited many times without ever meeting anyone, but this time a woman came wandering out of the woods.” He shook his head mournfully. “There was nothing special about her. She was not young or beautiful, just a faun come to dig clams, but she was a woman. The men dropped tools and ran toward her, of course.”
“Er, of course.” Acopulo schooled his face not to show his revulsion.
The captain bowed his head and stared at the glittery cloth covering his thighs. “We were fortunate, I suppose. Such encounters rarely leave survivors. We were saved by the wind.”
“I don’t think I understand. Wind?”
“It is rarely talked of,” the merman told his knees, “but wind can be a factor.”
Acopulo became aware again of that curious musky odor he had noticed earlier. Was that the cabin or the merman himself? If Acopulo were a woman, would he find that scent attractive? Would a merwoman be drawn to him because he smelled otherwise? How utterly disgusting!
“She saw her danger,” the sailor said, “and turned to flee. The wind was blowing strongly from her direction, or of course she would have run the other way. She escaped into the woods. Once she was out of sight—and out of the wind, I suppose—the older hands managed to regain control of themselves and tried to restrain the youngsters. In the struggle, my youngest son was knifed.” He covered his face. “Oh, Father, he is only sixteen!” He choked, and began to sob into his forgers. “What do I tell his mother?”
Acopulo wanted to scream. Why should he be involved in such a sordid disaster, just because a gang of savages had succumbed to a frenzy of animal lust? Yet he should not even be thinking that way, because the insane jealousy provoked by the presence of merfolk was not a sin in the eyes of the Gods. Neither church nor Imperial law condemned crimes committed under such circumstances. Whatever his personal feelings on the subject, he must not reveal them.
“And his brother!” the captain mumbled. “He needs you even more, Father.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Acopulo demanded, feeling worse by the minute.
The sailor raised a tearstained face. The rims of his silver eyes were raw wounds. “In his madness he thrust the knife into his brother’s back!”
Acopulo very nearly yelled, “And you expect me to tell him to cheer up?”
But that was what a true priest would do. It was what he would have to do. The captain had risked his entire crew to obtain a priest and if the supposed priest admitted now that he was an imposter, he was going to be swimming again in no time.
So the charlatan would have to maintain his clerical masquerade, ministering to the invalid and the tormented culprit. That would be sacrilege, a crime much worse than mere imposture. His sin would be infinitely greater than that of the murderer he must absolve.
Cold as a winter tide, the awful truth flooded into Acopulo’s heart. It was not true that the Gods spoke in riddles. Very rarely in his life had he ever had difficulty in choosing the correct course of action, or felt doubts that he had done the right thing afterward. To those with the will and courage to listen, the Gods spoke plainly. Their message now was clear.
He had angered Them by wearing a costume to which he was not entitled. They were demanding that he end the deception—not by discarding the clerical habit, but by retaining it. He had thought his penance over, but it had barely begun.
Clasping his hands, he bowed his head in acceptance. He spoke a brief prayer. He made a vow. As soon as he reached safe landfall—preferably within the Impire, if They would allow him that mercy—then he would return to the ambition of his youth and enter into holy orders. Meanwhile, he would do what good he could on this stinking boat.
And with that resolve, he suddenly felt better. His conscience and his gyrating gut seemed to steady together. He let himself slide into the role he must play as a hand slides into a glove.
He looked up. “Take me to them now, my son,” he said calmly.
Hub was in turmoil. For months, the capital had been crammed with refugees fleeing the goblins’ atrocities. Terror and famine ruled its streets, crime and disease spawned in its alleys. The entire XXth Legion had been brought in to reinforce the city watch and was still unable to maintain order. Every night was brightened by fires, every day blackened by riots. Men cursed the wardens and the new imperor; they spoke darkly of the coming of the millennium; already some prayed for a new dynasty.
The Festival of Law was a very minor celebration, but that day in 2999 was destined to be long remembered in the history of the great city. It began with hope of victory. Hasty rumors told of a prophecy made the previous evening by the imperor himself, that the goblins’ destruction was imminent. The hungry multitudes took heart and spoke excitedly of returning to their wasted homelands.
The sky was cloudless, promising another fine day. Yet, shortly after dawn, an enormous blast struck the junction of Arave Avenue and Basketmakers Street. Scores of pedestrians were fried or smashed and many buildings collapsed. Moments later, an even greater explosion flattened the botanical gardens near the Opal Palace. Then a bridge over the Old Canal was blown to dust, and its occupants, also.
The barrage continued for several minutes, bolts of destruction raining upon the city without reason or pattern. Temples and mansions collapsed; pillars of smoke rose into the sky. Hysterical mobs rampaged aimlessly, wreaking more havoc than the sorcery itself. The torment ended as suddenly and inexplicably as it had begun. The final death toll was estimated to be somewhere around five thousand, but was never reliably established. Efforts to dig victims from the ruins continued for many days.
No official explanation was forthcoming, but sorcery was the obvious cause. Thus the wardens were the obvious culprits—if they had not caused the devastation, they had not acted to prevent it. The population cursed the Four, and some braver souls demonstrated outside their palaces.
Late in the afternoon, the imperor and impress made an inspection of the worst disasters. The Imperial couple rode in an open landau drawn by eight pure-black horses, escorted by an entire cohort of the Praetorian Hussars. Whatever the backalley mutterings, imps were invariably loyal to the imperor in public, and the cheering was very nearly as loud as usual.
Although old Emshandar was still mourned, young Shandie held the loyalty of his people. He was a striking figure in his golden armor and purple-crested helm, but it was the beautiful young impress who swayed the crowd. Slim and gorgeous in a simple black dress, pale and sad, Eshiala won the heart of every man who set eyes on her, and most of the women’s, also. The Imperial couple made no speeches. They never alighted from their carriage. They looked over the devastation, they spoke to some of the officers in charge of rescue efforts, and then they went on their way, but that was enough. Their mere presence showed that they cared, and they left few dry eyes behind them when they departed.
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