“It is the dying I am afraid of,” said the Beysa. “They will be sacrificing my people, not stallions or bulls, if you do not do something soon!”
Molin Torchholder’s face worked as if he saw the careful edifice of cooperation he had constructed collapsing before him. Without answering, he strode off, and
Shupansea and Kadakithis followed him, leaving Lalo staring after them.
Presently he turned back to the mural he had been working on. On the wall of the
Presence Chamber, Mother Bey stretched out Her hand to the Storm God against a background of the blue sea. It was no accident that the god looked something like Kadakithis, and the goddess had the bearing and wore the robes of
Shupansea, but Lalo had worked from imagination and memory this time, knowing better than to paint the souls of these particular models for all to see.
Technically the work was competent, but the figures seemed lifeless. For a moment Lalo wondered what a little of his breath would do. Then he remembered the wars of Va-shanka and Us, shuddered, and pulled the mask over his nose and mouth again. With Dyareela stalking the streets of Sanctuary, the last thing they needed was two new deities with all the prejudices and failings of the originals fluttering about the town.
He was still struggling with the painting when his daughter Vanda came to him with the news that her sister Latilla had taken the fever, and the Rankans wanted her out of the palace before darkness fell.
There were crowds in the streets outside the Aphrodisia House, but little business inside, men fearing lest the fires of love would ignite a different kind of flame. Their drunken voices sounded like the growling of some great animal. Broken phrases trembled in the still air. “Death to the fish-folk, death and the fire!” At least, thought Gilla, Lalo and the children were safe at the palace, while Dubro was adding his strength to Myrtis’s guards downstairs.