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  ‘At Thraish present numbers.’

  ‘Yes, Uplifted One.’

  Sliffisunda hissed. There were only seventy some-odd thousand of the Thraish. Only fifteen hundred of them were Talkers. At one time there had been almost a million fliers. But it would take two hundred million weehar and thrassil slaughtered a year to support that many. Dared he dream of that?

  Power. Power over many. What power was it to be Talker over this pitiful few? He dreamed of the ancient days when wings had filled the skies of Northshore, when wings had flown over the River, perhaps to the fabled lands of the south, in the days before the fear came to prevent their flying over the River at all. But why not? There had been that many once. If the fliers had stopped breeding when the Talkers suggested it, all would have been well. So, somehow the fliers must be brought under control. It would require some new laws, some new legends. The opaque film slid across his eyes as he connived. An elite order of fliers to carry out will of Talkers. Breeding rights given as awards for service. Eggs destroyed if flier did not obey. Number carefully controlled. And yet, that number could be larger than at present. Much larger.

  He came to himself with a shudder. Those crouched before him pretended not to notice his abstraction, though he glared at them for a long moment, daring them to speak.

  ‘Tell me of disturbance among the sloosil,’ he asked at last. ‘I hear there is disorder among humans, near Black Talons, in places called Thou-ne and Atter.’

  ‘It is same person as before,’ murmured Slooshasill. ‘Uplifted One sought same person in year past. Human called Pamra Don.’

  So. Human called Pamra Don. Human who emptied pits in Baris. ‘Rivermen!’ Sliffisunda hissed. It took him a time to recognize that the three before him had not replied. Contradiction? ‘Talkers do not agree?’

  ‘Pits are full,’ ventured Shimmipas. ‘Full. Fliers gorge.’

  ‘Not Rivermen.’ Sliffisunda almost crouched in amazement, catching himself only just in time. ‘Tell!’

  ‘Procession.’ The Talker shrugged. ‘Many humans walking. At sunset Pamra Don speaks to them.’

  ‘Words?’

  ‘Tells of Holy Sorters in sky. Tells of Protector of Man. Says humans must know truth. Says will tell Protector of Man.’

  ‘Shimness,’ snorted Sliffisunda. It was the name of a legendary Thraish flier, one who had always accomplished the opposite of what he tried. In common parlance it meant ‘crazy’ or ‘inept,’ and it was in this sense Sliffisunda used it now.

  ‘Pits are full,’ Shimmipas repeated stubbornly. ‘If procession goes on, more pits will be full.’

  Sliffisunda looked narrowly at the others. They dropped their eyes, appropriately wary.

  ‘See with eyes,’ Sliffisunda said at last. It was all he could do. In the room behind him the chains in the meat trough rattled, reminding him of hunger. He drooled, dismissing the delegation, and returned to his own place. They had brought him a young one this time. Soft little breasts, tasty. Tasty rump. The Tears had softened it nicely, and the mindless eyes rolled wildly as he tore at the flesh. It screamed, and he shut his eyes, imagining a weehar in his claws. It, too, would scream. Why, then, did these human cries always annoy him? He tore the throat out, cutting off the sound, irritated beyond measure, no longer enjoying the taste.

  He went to his spy hole and looked out upon the sky. The delegation was just leaving, three Talkers and three ordinary fliers, flying east along the River against a sky of lowering storm. Foolish to fly in this weather. They could be blown out over water. Sliffisunda postulated, not for the first time, where the fear had come from that prevented the Thraish from flying over water at all. Survival, he told himself. During Thraish-human wars, many Thraish ate fish. Other Thraish killed them. Only Thraish who did not eat fish survived. Perhaps reason some Thraish did not eat fish then was fear of water.

  It was possible. Anything was possible. Even this thing in Thou-ne and Atter was possible.

  He would go to Black Talons. He would see for himself.

  4

  The Council of Seven was gathered in the audience hall of the Chancery, the round council table set just outside the curtained niche where Lees Obol lay. By an exercise of willful delusion, one could imagine the Protector of Man as part of the gathering. The chair nearest the niche was empty. Perhaps the Protector occupied it spiritually. Or so, at least, Shavian Bossit amused himself by thinking.

  As for the other six, they were present in reality. Tharius Don, fidgeting in his chair as though bitten by fleas. Gendra Mitiar, driving invisible creatures from the crevasses of her face with raking fingers. General Jondrigar, his pitted gray skin twitching in the jellied light. Koma Nepor, Ezasper Jorn. And, of course, Shavian himself. A second ring of chairs enclosed the first, occupied by functionaries and supporting members of the Chancery staff. So, Tharius had invited Bormas Tyle to attend, though Bormas was a supporter of Bossit’s and Tharius knew it. Gendra had her majordomo, three district supervisors, and her Noor slave to lend her importance, though Jhilt squatted on the floor behind the second ring of chairs, conscious of her inferiority in this exalted gathering.

  Koma Nepor and Ezasper Jorn supported one another. And Chiles Medman, the governor general of the Jarb Mendicants, was there – supporting whom? Shavian wondered. The Jarb Mendicants were tolerated by the Chancery, even used by the Chancery from time to time, but they could not be considered a part of the hierarchy. So what was Medman here for? Supporting some faction? There were three factions, at least. Tharius, the enigma, who would do the gods knew what if he were in power. Gendra, advocate of increasing the elixir supply and the power of the Chancery with it, and of increased repression. She enjoyed that. And Bossit himself, practical politician, who plotted enslavement of the Thraish and no more of their bloody presumption. And old Obol, of course, behind the curtains, lying in his bed like a bolster, barely breathing.

  The general had no faction. His Jondarites stood around the hall as though carved of black stone. The scales of their fishskin jerkins gleamed in the torchlight; their high plumes nodded ebon and scarlet. Their axes were of fragwood, toothed with obsidian. Only their spear points were of metal. From time to time the general pivoted, surveying each of them as though to find some evidence of slackness. He found none. The soldiers in the audience hall were a picked troop. If any among them had been capable of slackness, that tendency was long since conquered.

  ‘Let’s get to it,’ Shavian muttered at last, tapping his gavel on the hollow block provided for it. It made a clucking, minatory sound, and they all looked up, startled.’ We are met today to consider the matter of this “crusade” – preached and led by one Pamra Don. I might say, this person is the same Pamra Don who caused us some difficulty a year or so ago.’ He stared at Gendra, letting his silence accuse her.

  She bridled. ‘You know we’ve set Laughers after her, Bossit. Including that Awakener from Baris. Potipur knows he would give his life to get his hands on her. His search must have been out of phase. Evidently she has been behind him the whole time.’

  ‘Behind him, or on the River, or hidden by Rivermen, what matter which,’ Shavian sneered, annoyed with her. ‘The fact is, she avoided him, him and all the others who were looking for her. She came to surface in a town where no Laughers were, a town from which your representative had only recently departed, a town ripe for ferment because of some damned statue the superstitious natives had found in the River.’

  ‘The Jondarites should have stopped it,’ growled Gendra through her teeth, glaring at the general. ‘Why have Jondarites in all the towns otherwise…’

  ‘The Jondarites have no orders concerning crusades,’ said the general in an expressionless voice. ‘They are ordered to put down insurrection. There was no insurrection. They are ordered to punish disrespect of the Protector of Man. No disrespect is being shown, rather the contrary. They are told to quell heresy. There has been no heresy they could detect. The woman spoke of lies told to the Protector, of plots
against the Protector.’ His eyes glowed red as he spoke. Who knew better than he of the lies that surrounded Lees Obol? Who knew better than he of the actuality of conspiracies? Scarcely a day went by that Jondrigar did not uncover a plot against the Protector. The mines had their share of Chancery conspirators he had unearthed.

  ‘Enough,’ rapped Shavian. ‘Recriminations will not help us.’

  ‘Where is the crusade now?’ Tharius Don asked, knowing the answer already but wishing to get the conversation away from those around the table and onto something less emotionally charged. He was rigid in his chair, yet twitchy, full of nervous energy. New adherents to the cause were being reported almost daily. For reasons he could not admit even to himself, he had been delaying the strike for months, and it could not be put off much longer. With every week that passed, the fear of discovery grew more imminent and compelling. In his heart he thanked the gods for the crusade, even though it had put Pamra Don at risk. It had drawn the Chancery’s attention, for a time. ‘What’s the name of the town?’

  ‘A few days ago, she was in Chirubel,’ Bossit answered in a weary, irritated voice. He did not want the fliers stirred up any more than they were, and though this matter had not yet seemed to upset them, who knew what it might mean in the future. And with Lees Obol failing so fast… though he had only the Jondarites’ word for that. No one else could get nearer to him than across the room. He shook his head and rasped, ‘A watchtower relay brought word. The pits in Chirubel are full. There was a great storm there, and many of her followers died.’

  ‘Died?’ Tharius had not heard this.

  ‘Old people, mostly. The great mob of them have no proper provision of food or shelter. The towns have been instructed to put their own surplus foodstuffs under guard, and the Jondarites have been ordered to prevent looting. So, there is a good deal of hunger. Which begets a regrettable tendency to eat off the land, as it were.’

  ‘Violence?’

  ‘Some. Fights break out. Mostly the deaths are old people dying of lung disease brought on by cold and hunger. Some younger ones, too, through accidents or violence. Some children and babies, the same.’

  ‘So, the pits are full,’ Gendra mused. ‘Well, the fliers wanted the quota of bodies increased. They should be happy.’

  ‘Ezasper Jorn,’ queried Bossit, ‘what mood are the fliers in?’

  Jorn, huddled in his chair wrapped in three layers of blankets, blinked owlishly at them from his cavern of covers. ‘Voiceless as mulluks. They may not understand what’s going on so far as a crusade is concerned. They don’t seem curious, but then they’ve seen these little skirmishes before. We’ve had intertown wars; we’ve had rebellions put down by the Towers. That kind of thing has filled the worker pits from time to time over the centuries, so they might not think much of it. In short, they do not seem to be concerned. It’s a local phenomenon, after all.’

  ‘They’ll scarcely change their reproductive habits on the basis of this temporary glut, which, at most, affects ten or a dozen towns.’ Koma Nepor was using his best pedant’s voice, reserved for meetings such as this where chortle and giggle would not serve. ‘I agree with Jorn. They’ll stuff themselves for a time; then the movement or whatever it is will fizzle out as these things always do; and they’ll go back to normal.’

  ‘Hungry normal,’ commented Gendra with a vast grinding of teeth. ‘In those towns, at least. With all the oldsters gone, the death rate will be low for a time.’ She reflected upon this. There was no reason the average life-span should not be somewhat shortened. For parents, say, fifteen years after the birth of the last child. Or even twelve. For nonreproducers, earlier, unless they filled some important niche in the town economy. She would send word to the Towers. Fuller pits around the world would please the fliers, and if she could start currying the favor of the Talkers even now…

  ‘So, the Talkers will tell the fliers to move across town lines and share.’ Shavian was heartily weary of the entire discussion. ‘The point is not what the fliers will or will not do, though it may come to that later. The point is, what are we to do?’

  Tharius stirred uneasily. He had been arguing the proper course of action with himself for days now, first yes, then no, both sides with reasons that seemed equally good. Now he must choose.

  ‘Have her brought before me,’ he said firmly, nothing in his voice betraying either how little faith he had in his own recommendation or how deeply he was invested in its success. ‘Have her brought here. We know where she is. We do not need to wait for Laughers to find her. They were instructed, had they found her, to bring her here, so let us get on with it. Send word to the Jondarites in – what’s the next town west, Gendra?’ He knew perfectly well. Pamra Don had surfaced in a hotbed of the cause. The dozen towns west of Thou-ne were all rife with rebellion, and their Towers were full of Tharius’s men.

  ‘Rabishe-thorn,’ she responded absently, even as she peered at him with searching eyes. What was he up to? ‘Rabishe-thorn, then Falsenter. If we send word now, they should be able to intercept her in one or the other.’

  ‘Send word she is not to be harmed,’ Tharius went on in an emotionless voice, praying the quivering of his hands clasped in his lap could not be seen. ‘As Propagator of the Faith, I need to know everything she knows, and I won’t get it if she’s too frightened or abused or – forbid it – dosed with Tears. It will take months for her to reach us overland. During that time, the crusade will be effectively stopped since she will not be there to lead it.’ And this was the bait he hoped would bring them. Though he was thankful for the distraction she had provided, he wanted Pamra safe. With the day of the strike approaching, with his own inevitable mortality close at hand, he wanted to know she was well. I want to leave something behind me, he told himself, as though talking to Kessie. Kessie, I want to leave a posterity – silly though that may seem. I want it.

  None of this was the business of the gathering. He pulled himself into focus and said again, ‘The crusade will dissipate while she is on her way here.’

  Gendra would have liked to find something wrong with his reasoning, but she couldn’t. Gendra wanted Pamra Don killed, both because it was her nature to dispose of wild factors in that way and because some instinct told her it would be a very good idea. Pamra Don and Tharius Don. And the lady Kesseret. An odd group, that. An untrustworthy group. When she, Gendra, became Protector of Man, her first order to the Jondarites would be to do away with certain of the Chancery staff. And certain Tower Superiors. And others. She smiled, a rare, awful smile, showing her teeth.

  Shavian, his eyes darting between them as though watching a game of net-ball, nodded in approval. The general glared but did not object. Why would he? He would sooner believe in plots than in no plots.

  Ezasper Jorn and Koma Nepor simply watched, listened, said little. Having plans of their own, they didn’t care about these things. And as for Lees Obol, his voice came to them plaintively from the curtained niche behind them. ‘Somebody get me my pot.’

  The Jondarites outside the niche moved to the Protector’s service. Gendra stood up and ordered tea in a loud voice, at least partly to disguise the sounds emanating from the curtained room. There was general babble for a few moments, for which Tharius Don was very grateful. A Jondarite brought the Protector’s teapot into the hall and set it upon a distant table, over a lamp, ready when the Protector asked for it. Behind it, the curtain glowed red as blood in the light of the warmer. Tharius found his eyes fixed on it, as though it were an omen.

  He joined the babble, adding to it. When they came to order once again, his suggestion would be remembered, but his own connection with it would be somewhat overlaid by later conversation. A subtlety, he felt, but nonetheless acceptable. Even subtlety was welcome.

  And yet, except for his own emotional needs, why bother? He had asked himself this more than once in the preceding days and weeks, ever since the first word of the crusade had come via seeker bird and watchtower. Servants of the cause had passed
the word along, knowing Tharius Don would want to know. Mendicants of the Jarb had passed the word along, for Chiles Medman had asked them to. The Jarb Houses were firm supporters of the cause, to Tharius’s amazement, though Chiles had explained why.

  They had met by chance on one of the outer walls of the Chancery compound, brought there by a day of inviting sun and more than seasonable warmth, encountering one another quite by accident and remaining together because not to have done so would have looked suspiciously like avoidance or disaffection. Avoidance was as suspect as propinquity. There were always watchers. They had fallen into conversation, the first they had ever held outside the context of the conspiracy. They had spoken of the nature of fliers.

  ‘Look at a flier through the smoke sometime, Tharius Don.’ Chiles Medman had held out his pipe, as though inviting Tharius to do it then and there. There were no fliers closer than Northshore that anyone had reported, though there might have been a dozen of them spying from the high peaks for all anyone knew.

  ‘What do you see, Medman? A differing reality?’ Tharius was touchy about this.

  ‘We see them stripped of our own delusion, Tharius Don. Through the smoke they look like nothing much except winged incarnations of pride.’

  ‘Pride?’ He had not really been surprised. Everyone knew how stiff-necked the Talkers were.

  ‘They would be happy to see every human dead if they did not need us for food. They would rend all intelligence but their own. They kill, not out of bloodthirstiness, but out of pride. They have a word for sharing, horgho. It means “to abase oneself.” Their phrase for sharing food, horgha sloos, means also “dirtying oneself.” Did you know they call us sloosil?’

  Tharius Don could not help snorting at the word. ‘No. What does it mean?’

  ‘Meat. Simply that, in the plural. Meat. I met one of the Fourth Degree Talkers at a convocation once. His name was Slooshasill. “Meat manager.” He was responsible for providing bodies for Fifth and Sixth Degree Talkers.’