The Thousandfold Thought Part 7

"I know ... You were angered."

"Not by him."

"Yes ... by him."

"But why? Save loving me, what has he done?"

"We betrayed him, Esmi. You You betrayed him." betrayed him."

"But you said-"

"There are sins, Esmi, that not even the G.o.d can absolve. Only the injured."

"What are you saying?"

"That this is why he angers you."

It was always the same with him, always the same remembrance of things beyond human memory. It was as though she-like every other man, woman, and child-awakened every moment to find herself stranded, and only he could tell her what had come before.

"He will not forgive," she whispered.

There was indecision in his look, frightening for its rarity. "He will not forgive."

The Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires turned, too numb to possess any force of person and too drunk not to. "You live," he said.

Iyokus stood dumbstruck at the threshold. Eleazaras watched the red-irised eyes survey the smashed pottery and congealing wine. He snorted, neither in humour nor disgust, then turned to look back out over the bal.u.s.trade, at the Fama Palace, dun and inscrutable upon its hill.

"When Achamian returned," he drawled, "I had a.s.sumed you were dead." He leaned forward, glanced back at the wraith once again. "Even more," he said, raising a finger, "I had hoped hoped you dead." He returned his gaze to the walls and buildings encrusting the opposite heights. you dead." He returned his gaze to the walls and buildings encrusting the opposite heights.

"What happens, Eli?"

He tried his best not to laugh. "Can't you see? The Padirajah is dead. The Holy War prepares to march on s.h.i.+meh. We We prepare to march on s.h.i.+meh ... Our foot lies upon the neck of our enemy." prepare to march on s.h.i.+meh ... Our foot lies upon the neck of our enemy."

"I've spoken to Sarothenes," Iyokus said, unimpressed, "and to Inrummi ..."

A mawkish sigh. "Then you know."

"I confess, I find it difficult to believe."

"Believe it. The Consult exists exists. All this time, laughing at the Mandati, and it was we we who were the mumming fools." who were the mumming fools."

A long, accusatory silence. Iyokus had always told him he should heed their claims more seriously. It seemed plain enough ... now. Everything they knew about the Psukhe suggested it was a blunt instrument, far too c.u.mbersome to fas.h.i.+on something like these ... demons.

Chepheramunni! Sarcellus!

In his soul's eye he saw the Scylvendi, bloodied and magnificent, hoisting the faceless head for all to see. How the mobs had roared.

"And Prince Kellhus?" Iyokus asked.

"Is a prophet," Eleazaras said softly. He had watched him-he had seen-after they had cut the man down from the Circ.u.mfix ... Eleazaras had watched him reach into his chest and pull out his f.u.c.king heart!

Some kind of trick ... it had to be!

"Eli," Iyokus said, "surely this-"

"I spoke to him myself," the Grandmaster interrupted, "and at quite some length ... He's a true prophet of the G.o.d, Iyokus ... And you and I ... well, we're quite d.a.m.ned." He looked at his Master of Spies, his face screwed into an expression of pained hilarity. "Another little joke we seem to have found ourselves on the wrong side of ..."

"Please," the man exclaimed. "How could you-"

"Oh, I know. He sees things ... things only the G.o.d could see." He swung at one of the earthenware decanters, caught it, shook it in the air to listen for the telltale slosh of wine. Empty. "He showed me," he said, casting it against the wall, where it shattered. He smiled at Iyokus, letting the weight of his bottom lip draw his mouth open. "He showed me who I am who I am. You know all those little thoughts, all those half-glimpsed things that scurry like vermin through your soul? He catches them, Iyokus. He catches them and holds them squealing in the air. Then he names them, and tells you what they mean." He turned away once more. "He sees the secrets secrets."

"What secrets? What are you saying, Eli?"

"Oh, you've no need to worry. He cares nothing whether you f.u.c.k little boys or press broomsticks up your a.s.s. It's the secrets you keep from yourself, you keep from yourself, Iyokus. Those are his interest. He sees ..." A pang gripped his throat so violently he had to look at Iyokus and laugh. He felt tears spill hot across his cheeks. His voice cracked. "He sees what breaks your heart." Iyokus. Those are his interest. He sees ..." A pang gripped his throat so violently he had to look at Iyokus and laugh. He felt tears spill hot across his cheeks. His voice cracked. "He sees what breaks your heart."

You have doomed your School.

"You're drunk," the chanv addict said, his tone both unnerved and disgusted.

Eleazaras raised his hand in a foppish wave. "Go speak to him yourself. He'll discern more than pickled meat through your skin. You'll see-"

He heard the man snort, then kick away a metal bowl as he withdrew.

The Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires reclined in his settee, resumed his study of the Fama Palace through the afternoon haze. The network of walls, terraces, and Fanic colonnades. The faint smoke rising from what had to be the kitchens. The clots of distant penitents filing beneath the square gates.

Somewhere ... He's in there somewhere.

"Oh, yes, and Iyokus?" he abruptly called.

"What?"

"I would beware the Mandate Schoolman if I were you." He absently pawed the table beside him, looking for more wine-or something. "I think he plans to kill you."

CHAPTER THREE.

CARASKAND.

If soot stains your tunic, dye it black. This is vengeance.

-EKYANNUS I, 44 EPISTLES

Here we find further argument for Gotagga's supposition that the world is round. How else could all men stand higher than their brothers?

-AJENCIS, DISCOURSE ON WAR

Early Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Caraskand

The dry season. On the Steppe, it betrayed its coming with a variety of signs: the first sight of the Lance among the stars on the northern horizon; the quickness with which the milk soured; the first trailers of the caunnu, caunnu, the midsummer wind. the midsummer wind.

At the beginning of the rainy season, Scylvendi herdsmen ranged the Steppe in search of the sandy ground where the gra.s.ses grew quicker. When the rains waxed, they drove their herds to harder ground, where the gra.s.ses grew slower but remained green longer. Then, when the hot winds chased the clouds to oblivion, they simply followed the forage, always searching for the wild herbs and short gra.s.ses that made for the best meat and milk.

This pursuit always caught someone, particularly those who were too greedy to cull wilful animals from their herd. Headstrong cattle could lead an entire herd too far afield, into vast tracts of over-grazed or blighted pasture. Every season, it seemed, some fool returned without horse or cattle.

Cnaiur now knew himself to be that fool.

I have given him the Holy War.

In the council chamber of the dead Sapatishah, Cnaiur sat high on the tiers that surrounded the council table, watching the Dunyain intently. He did his best to ignore the Inrithi crowding the seats about him, but he found himself continually accosted-congratulated. One fool, some Tydonni thane, even had the temerity to kiss his knee-his knee! Once again they called out "Scylvendi!" as though in salute.

Flanked by hanging gold-on-black representations of the Circ.u.mfix, the Warrior-Prophet sat upon a raised dais, so that he looked down upon the Great Names sitting about the council table. His beard had been oiled and braided. His flaxen hair tumbled across his shoulders. Beneath a stiff knee-length vestment, he wore a white silk gown embroidered by the forking of silvery leaves and grey branches. Braziers had been set about him, and in their light he seemed aqueous, surreal-every bit the otherworldly prophet he claimed to be. His luminous eyes roamed the room, stirring gasps and whispers wherever they pa.s.sed. Twice his look found Cnaiur, who cursed himself for looking away.

Wretched! Wretched!

The sorcerer, the woman-hearted buffoon whom everyone had thought dead, stood before the dais to the Dunyain's left, wearing an ankle-length vest of crimson over a white linen frock. He, at least, wasn't festooned like a slaver's concubine-as were the others. But he had a look in his eyes that Cnaiur recognized, as though he too couldn't quite believe the lot fortune had cast him. Cnaiur had overheard Uranyanka on the tier below saying that the man, Drusas Achamian, was now the Warrior-Prophet's Vizier, his teacher and protector.

Whatever he was, he looked obscenely fat compared with the rakish Inrithi caste-n.o.bles. Perhaps, Cnaiur thought, the Dunyain planned to use his bulk as a s.h.i.+eld should the Consult or Cishaurim attack.

The Great Names sat about the table as before, though now stripped of the hauteur belonging to their station. Where once they had been bickering kings, the Lords of the Holy War, they were now little more than counsellors, and they knew it. They were silent for the most part, pensive. Occasionally one of them would lean to mutter something in his neighbour's ear, but nothing more.

In the course of a single day, the world these men had known had been struck to its foundation, utterly overturned. There was wonder in that-Cnaiur knew this only too well-but there was an absurd uncertainty also. For the first time in their lives they stood upon trackless ground, and with few exceptions they looked to the Dunyain to show them the way. Much as Cnaiur had once looked to Moenghus.

As the last of the Lesser Names hunted seats across the tiers, the rumble of hushed voices trailed into expectant silence. The air beneath the corbelled dome seemed to whine with a collective discomfort. For these men, Cnaiur realized, the Warrior-Prophet's presence collapsed too many intangible things. How could they speak without praying? Disagree without blaspheming? Even the presumption to advise would seem an act of outrageous conceit.

In the safety of unanswered prayers, they had thought themselves pious. Now they were like boasting gossips, astounded to find their story's princ.i.p.al in their midst. And he might say anything, anything, throw their most cherished conceits upon the pyre of his condemnation. What would they do, the devout and self-righteous alike? What would they do now that their hallowed scripture throw their most cherished conceits upon the pyre of his condemnation. What would they do, the devout and self-righteous alike? What would they do now that their hallowed scripture could talk back? could talk back?

Cnaiur almost barked with laughter. He lowered his head and spat between his knees. He cared not if others marked his sneer. There was no honour here, only advantage-absolute and irremediable.

There was no honour-but there was truth truth. Was there not?

The insufferable ritual and pageantry, which seemed obligatory to all things Inrithi, began with Gotian reciting the Temple Prayer. He stood as rigid as an adolescent in vestments that appeared newly made: white cloth with intricate panels, each embroidered with two golden tusks crossing a golden circle-yet another version of the Circ.u.mfix. His voice shook as he spoke, and he halted once, overcome with pa.s.sion.

Cnaiur found himself looking about the chamber, his breath tight in his chest, quietly astounded that men wept rather than jeered. And then, for the first time, the depths of the dread purpose that moved these men became palpable palpable.

He had seen it. He had witnessed it on the fields beyond Caraskand's wall-the lunatic determination, enough to shame even his Utemot. He had watched men vomit boiled gra.s.s as they stumbled forward. He had seen others who could scarce walk throw themselves upon the weapons of the heathen-just to disarm them! He had seen men smile-cry out in joy!-as the mastodons descended upon them. He could remember thinking that these men, these Inrithi, Inrithi, were the true People of War. were the true People of War.

Cnaiur had seen it, but he had not understood-not fully. What the Dunyain had wrought here would never be undone. Even if the Holy War should perish, the word word of these events would survive. Ink would make this madness immortal. Kellhus had given these men more than gestures or promises, more even than insight or direction. He had given them of these events would survive. Ink would make this madness immortal. Kellhus had given these men more than gestures or promises, more even than insight or direction. He had given them dominion dominion. Over their doubts. Over their most hated foes. He had made them strong.

But how could lies lies do such a thing? do such a thing?

The world these men dwelt within was a fever-dream, a delusion. And yet it seemed as real to them, Cnaiur knew, as his world seemed to him. The only difference-and Cnaiur was curiously troubled by the thought-was that he could, in meticulous detail, track the origins of their world within his, and only then because he knew the Dunyain. Of all those congregated in this room, he alone knew the ground, the treacherous footing, beneath their feet.

Suddenly everything Cnaiur witnessed was pa.r.s.ed in two, as though his eyes had become enemies, one against the other. Gotian had completed the Temple Prayer, and several of the Dunyain's high priests, his Nascenti, had begun a Whelming for those among the Lesser Names who'd been too ill to partake in the ceremony previously. A flaming basin of oil had been set before the Warrior-Prophet, who sat idol still. The first of the initiates, a Thunyeri by the look of his braids, knelt beside the tripod, then exchanged inaudible orisons with the administering priest. Though his face had been battered by pestilence and war, his eyes were those of a ten-year-old, pinned wide in hope and apprehension. In a single motion the priest dipped his hand into the burning oil then drew it across the Thunyeri's features. For a heartbeat the man gazed from a face aflame, until a second priest doused him with a wet towel. The room thundered with exultant cries, and the thane, his expression bent by profound pa.s.sion, staggered into the jubilant arms of his comrades.

For the Inrithi, the man had crossed an intangible threshold. They had watched a profound transformation, a base soul raised to the a.s.sembly of the elect. Where before he'd been polluted, now he was cleansed. And they had witnessed this with their own eyes with their own eyes. Who could question it?

But for Cnaiur, the only threshold crossed was that between foolishness and outright idiocy. He had watched an instrument, not a sacred rite-a mechanism, like the elaborate mills he had seen in Nansur, a way for the Dunyain to grind these men into something he could digest. And this too was something he had seen with his own eyes.

Unlike the Inrithi, he did not stand within the circle of the Dunyain's deceit. Where they saw things from within, he saw them from without. He saw more more. It was strange the way beliefs could have an inside and an outside, that what looked like hope or truth or love from within could be a scythe or a hammer, things wielded for other ends, when seen from without.

Tools.

Cnaiur breathed deeply. This thought had tormented him once. It had been one too many.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, absently watching the farce unfold.

The Inrithi, Proyas had told him once, believed it was the lot of men to live within the designs, inscrutable or otherwise, of those greater than themselves. And in this sense, Cnaiur realized, Kellhus truly was was their prophet. They were, as the memorialists claimed, willing slaves, always striving to beat down the furies that drove them to sovereign ends. That the designs-the tracks-they claimed to follow were auth.o.r.ed in the Outside simply served their vanity, allowed them to abase themselves in a manner that fanned their overweening pride. There was no greater tyranny, the memorialists said, than that exercised by slaves over slaves. their prophet. They were, as the memorialists claimed, willing slaves, always striving to beat down the furies that drove them to sovereign ends. That the designs-the tracks-they claimed to follow were auth.o.r.ed in the Outside simply served their vanity, allowed them to abase themselves in a manner that fanned their overweening pride. There was no greater tyranny, the memorialists said, than that exercised by slaves over slaves.

But now the slaver stood among them. What did it matter, Kellhus had asked as they crossed the Steppe, that he mastered those already enslaved? There was no honour, only advantage. To believe in honour was to stand inside inside things, to keep company with slaves and fools. things, to keep company with slaves and fools.

The Whelming had come to a close, and Saubon, the t.i.tular King of Caraskand, was standing-called to account by the Warrior-Prophet.

"I will not march," the Galeoth Prince said in a dead voice. "Caraskand is mine. I will not relinquish it-even if I be d.a.m.ned as a result."

"But the Warrior-Prophet has demanded demanded that you march," silver-haired Gotian cried. Something about the way the man said "Warrior-Prophet" made Cnaiur's hackles rise-something febrile and unmanly. The Grandmaster of the Shrial Knights, who had been the Dunyain's most implacable foe before the exposure of Sarcellus, had since become his most fervent devotee. Such fickleness of spirit only deepened Cnaiur's contempt for these people. that you march," silver-haired Gotian cried. Something about the way the man said "Warrior-Prophet" made Cnaiur's hackles rise-something febrile and unmanly. The Grandmaster of the Shrial Knights, who had been the Dunyain's most implacable foe before the exposure of Sarcellus, had since become his most fervent devotee. Such fickleness of spirit only deepened Cnaiur's contempt for these people.

"I will not march," Saubon repeated, as though speaking from a nightmare. The Galeoth Prince, Cnaiur noted, actually had the temerity to wear his iron crown to this particular Council. Even though tall, ruddy with sun and warlike health, the man looked an adolescent playing king beneath the Warrior-Prophet. "By my hand I have seized this city, and by my hand I shall keep it!"

"Sweet Sejenus!" Gothyelk cried. "By your your hand? And a thousand others, maybe!" hand? And a thousand others, maybe!"

"I opened the gates!" Saubon retorted fiercely. "I delivered the city to the Holy War!"

"You delivered precious little that you haven't kept," Lord Chinjosa quipped. He looked pointedly at the iron crown as he spoke, smirking as though recalling a joke traded in secret.