ground, who had been left to him by Mother Bey’s high priest.
Ignoring the holes and the sacrilege, he paced the length of the gold carpet and
back again. “I think a feast is in order: a private feast. Something delicate
and easily shared: shellfish, perhaps, and such fruit as remains in the
pantries. And wine- watered, I should think. It would not do to dull their
appetites.” He paused, waiting to see which shiny head would move first.
“You’ll see to this.” He pointed his finger at the most curious of the lot; with
their bald skulls, bulging eyes, billowing tunics, and pantaloons, the Beysib
men all looked alike to him. He seldom thought of them as individuals.
The Beysib he had addressed cleared his throat nervously and the one at the
front of their triangular formation pushed himself slowly to his knees. “The
priests of All-Mother Bey serve only Her transcending aspects. We… that is.
You, the Regum Bey, do not serve the Avatar,” he explained.
Torchholder leaned forward to grip the other man’s pectoral ornament. Reversing
it with a quick snap, he used the golden chain as a simple garrotte. “The Beysa
will be hungry. My prince will be hungry,” he said in the soft, intense voice
his own people had come to fear.
“It has never been so,” the Beysib protested, his face darkening as the Rankan
priest hauled him to his feet.
“There is a first time for everything. This could be the first time you visit
the kitchens or it could be the first time you die….” Molin gave the pectoral
another quarter turn.