Living God Page 8

  “A draft of yam rum, Father?” the captain inquired, producing a flask and two mugs.

  Acopulo’s stomach knotted, perspiration prickled on his forehead. “That is very kind of you, my good man, but thank you, no. I may have to go and lie down very shortly. I just want you to know that I am extremely grateful to you for rescuing me from that pestilential lunatic asylum.”

  The merman’s pinched face displayed shock. “You were being held against your will. Father?”

  “I was indeed! Some neighboring village recently acquired a resident priest and Ysnoss wished to emulate it. I was bound for Zark on a matter of urgency and must now make up all the lost time I can. I am prepared to pay well for your assistance… plus extra for superior accommodation, if available.” Acopulo glanced around thoughtfully. Presumably the captain’s own cabin was the best aboard. How much should he offer for it?

  The merman frowned with eyebrows as blue as his hair. He must be well into his forties, yet there was no spare flesh on him at all — ribs showing, belly as flat as a boy’s. At first sight, Acopulo was prepared to think well of the seaman. He had a sober, businesslike attitude; he had given orders to the crew sparingly, efficiently. Just because he was not imp was no reason to look down on him; his breeding was not his fault.

  Now Captain Ko-nu turned to replace the flask in a chest and produce another. “If the motion of the ship troubles you, Father, then my grandmother’s sea urchin cordial is a proven remedy.”

  Again Acopulo declined, and this time he thrust his head out the window and sucked in all the cool air he could find. The Evilish coast of Sysanasso was already fading into the distance. Gods be praised! Free at last!

  Seven months ago the imperor had entrusted him with letters to the Caliph. Even in winter, seven weeks should have sufficed for such a journey. Weather, elves, and finally the odious fauns — all had conspired to block his progress. Obviously the Gods were punishing him. He had assumed clerical dress only as a disguise, but They must have taken it as an affront, an irreverence. Well, now his penance seemed to be over. He would resume lay costume the moment it became available. The Gods could not be so enraged that They would consider a fishskin loincloth adequate for a man of his eminence.

  Acopulo had even wondered, in his more desperate moments in Ysnoss, whether the Gods were rebuking him for straying from his youthful ambition to take holy orders. He would have made a fine priest, of course. Possibly in a few years, when Shandie was safely established on his throne and in less need of Acopulo’s guidance, that old ambition might be reconsidered. The church would welcome such a recruit, and probably appoint him a bishop in record time.

  He discovered that he was staring glassily down at very unruly green water. He resumed his seat on the dresser and straightened his hair with his hands as well as he could. There wasn’t very much of it these days, although what there was required cutting.

  The captain was hunched over the table with his face in his hands. He looked up with a glum expression. Come to think of it, this did not seem to be an overly jolly ship. The singing in the background was becoming quite depressing. Well, Acopulo was not going to be long aboard.

  “Now, Sailor,” he said cheerfully. “Where can you let me off?”

  “We head home to the Keriths, Father.” The captain’s accent was strange, although he was obviously trying to speak proper impish in place of the crude patois used on deck.

  Acopulo opened his mouth to explain that he was not a priest, but the merman continued, “I hope we shall meet up with some trading vessels to which we may transfer you.” He smiled sadly. “We cannot enter any port outside the Keriths, of course.”

  Mm! Acopulo had overlooked that restriction. “You can put me ashore at some deserted spot, then?”

  The thin man frowned. “In Ilrane? The elves have a poor regard for strangers.”

  “No! Never Ilrane!” Not elves again! Acopulo shivered and wiped his streaming face. He really must go and lie down. His growing nausea was making it hard for him even to recall basic geography — of course there was only Ilrane between Sysanasso and Kerith, nowhere he could acquire respectable layman’s garb, even.

  The merman tried to smile, although the result was more of a grimace. “And we cannot take you home with us, obviously.”

  “Oh, I think I should be safe enough at my age.” Acopulo spoke modestly, but he knew he would have been safe enough at any age. Even in his youth, he had never been susceptible to storms of passion. No woman had ever interested him much; his only experiment in intimacy, at the age of fifteen, had brought him nothing but embarrassment. He had shunned messy affairs of the flesh ever since. Other men’s inability to do so he regarded with tolerant contempt. Chastity was merely a matter of willpower and self-discipline.

  The ship was rolling harder and the chanting had taken on a slower, melancholy tone. Suddenly someone shrieked, as if being tortured. Acopulo jumped. The captain groaned, but seemed unsurprised. Then came another, longer cry.

  “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 fingers. “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 impostor, 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.

  3

  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 back-alley 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.

  Two of those dry eyes belonged to a very obese man clad in incongruously soiled finery. His eyes were not merely dry, they were stretched wide with horror and terror.

  Lurking well back in the crowd around the collapsed Temple of Love, Lord Umpily had come upon the Imperial inspection by mere chance. He had been working his way home on foot to the palace after attending the sumptuous birthday party of Senator Ishipole the previous night. He had been abducted from that glittering function to experience a harrowing interview with the long-lost Warlock Olybino. At dawn he had been released to his own devices. Within minutes he had been relieved at knifepoint of all his valuables — some money, a few rings, even his boots, the golden tracery ripped off his doublet. He had been more than content to part with all of those in return for being allowed to retain a whole skin. Since then he had wandered in his socks, in agonies of indecision.

  Better than most, he knew that the wholesale destruction could be blamed on the wardens, or at least on one warden, the deposed Warlock Olybino. Even Umpily did not know the details, though — much as he would like to. The former East had certainly been planning some challenge to the Almighty. One or the other had caused the devastation, or they both had. One or the other must have died in it, and Olybino was the most likely loser. What he had achieved or even hoped to achieve was beyond Umpily’s utmost imagining.

  He had too many problems of his own to worry very much about the former warlock. The city swarmed with starving peasantry. Even after he had been looted, other thugs had accosted him without success. Sooner or later some such band would take out their disappointment in random violence and kill him from spite. He was penniless and friendless. The only refuge open to him was the palace itself, yet even worse danger lurked there.

  He was no longer bewitched by the Covin. Olybino and his companions had removed his occult delusions. They had laid some sort of protection spell on him instead, but had warned him that it would not bear close inspection. How long could he hope to survive in the palace before being closely inspected?

  Typically, he had wandered to and fro until growing hunger stiffened his resolve. At least
in the palace he could eat, and anything was easier to face on a full stomach. Thus he was heading homeward almost resolutely when he came upon the smoking ruins of the Temple of Love. It had been one of the largest and richest shrines in the city, easily the most popular. Even by day it had usually been crowded. Legionaries were overseeing gangs of workmen removing bodies, laying out rows of mangled corpses that almost blocked the roadway, many of them women. The death toll must have been enormous.

  For some time Umpily stared in horrified fascination at this gruesome spectacle, making mental notes that he could later transcribe to his journal. He was still there when shouts and cheering alerted him to the arrival of the Imperial visitors.

  It was then, cowering back in a doorway, that he had his worst experience of that whole dreadful day. Even through the cordon of guards, he could see the royal couple in their carriage. He also saw the officers and officials standing stiffly alongside, answering the royal queries with solemn respect. He watched as the parade moved on, but he heard the cheering through thick walls of solid fear.

  Shandie and his wife. Emshandar V and Impress Eshiala. Umpily had seen them quite clearly — royal and gracious, somber and concerned.

  At the same time and in the same places, he had seen her sister and his cousin, Ashia and Emthoro. They had been wearing totally different clothes, and he had seen both sets of garments, just as he had seen both sets of people.

  He had known for months that those two were impersonating the imperor and his wife. Then, for other months, he had been deluded into not knowing it. Last night he had been forcibly disillusioned.