Mother of Demons by Eric Flint

Her cunning mind saw another possibility as well. But she pushed it aside. There would be time enough to deal with that later. For the moment—

Again, she repressed her emotions.

I will not live much longer, in any event. The steps I will need to take to enable so many Pilgrims to flee Shakutulubac will certainly come to the attention of the Tympani. I will be put in the torture cells.

In her mind, she whistled derision.

But they will learn nothing from my corpse. I have carried poison with me ever since I gave my soul to the Way.

And there is this, to bring comfort. Ushulubang will live. Ushulubang will live.

The sage interrupted her thoughts.

“Such an idiot.”

Rottu stared at her, surprised.

“What does that mean?”

“Do you really think I would leave you behind? To receive the blue fury of the awosha? You are coming with us, Rottu.”

“What? Impossible! I need to—”

Ushulubang’s mantle flashed black. The sight of that implacable color on the sage’s mantle stopped Rottu in mid-sentence. It was a color she had almost never seen on the opoloshuku of the Way.

“I command, Rottu. In this, I command. We will need your skills to assist us in fleeing the city. But only so much as you can do without throwing yourself into the torture cells.”

“I can save—”

“You will save enough, Rottu. And you are not thinking clearly. You are only thinking of the escape. What of the arrival?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just so. Just so. I am casting the fate of the Pilgrims into the coil of demons, Rottu. You may be a fool, but I am not. Do you think I would do so—without the assistance of my other eyes? Without your cunning at my side? Fool.”

Rottu considered the question in this new light. And concluded, as she had so many times in the past, that Ushulubang was truly a sage.

“You are correct, opoloshuku.”

Ushulubang whistled. Rarely did Rottu allow that word of respect to issue from her siphon.

The two gukuy stared at each other in silence for a moment. They had known each other for many, many eightyweeks. Ever since a young Tympani had been assigned as one of Ushulubang’s interrogators, following the first persecution of the Pilgrims. A very young Tympani. Old enough to be sickened at the cruelty she had seen in the torture cells. Young enough not to have absorbed the cruelty into her own soul. An interrogator who had found, looking for answers from Goloku’s only surviving pashoc, a Question to which she had devoted her life.

Mistress of shoroku, Rottu’s mantle remained gray. Ushulubang, though she was an even greater mistress of the art, allowed hers to glow green.

After a moment, Rottu turned away.

“I must be gone, or my absence will be missed.”

“A moment, Rottu. I have a last question.”

“Yes?”

Ushulubang gestured to the sheets on the bench.

“You have read them. Do the Pilgrims of the mountain continue to claim that the Answer is known? By the Mother of Demons?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe it?”

Rottu whistled. “I leave philosophy to you, old sage. I have enough secrets to keep me busy.”

Ushulubang’s whistle echoed the amusement.

“Just so. I myself do not believe. I believe the Pilgrims on the mountain have lapsed into the great error. I believe in the teachings of Goloku. There is no Answer. There is only the Question.”

“As you say, Ushulubang. In this you are always my guide. We will know soon enough.”

She turned and left the chamber.

Back on the streets, Rottu resumed her cautious movements. She thought of nothing, beyond the immediate needs of the moment, until she was quit of the slums. Then, however, she allowed her thoughts to flow freely. If she were seen now, she would be able to explain her whereabouts to the satisfaction of the Tympani. Awkwardly, and not without being the object of derision. An old gukuy, seeking pleasure in an unseemly manner.

Let them whistle. They will not whistle long.

Her thoughts raced down well-known corridors. Weaving her stratagems. It would be a cunning weave—the warp and the weft so utterly tangled that the thugs set loose on the streets would flail themselves. She would see to it that the names of true Pilgrims were lost. In their place, she would insert the names of informers. It would be those informers who would be forked during the pogrom. Their bodies dragged through the streets by the mob.