the demon’s feet. Which has to be as
close to personal heaven as a Gunni historian can imagine. If the historian does
not remain too determinedly wedded to Gunni religious doctrine.
Shivetya’s motives for refusing categorical declarations may stem from
bitterness about his lot. By his own admission he has met most of the gods
face-to-face. His recollections concerning them are even less flattering than
those spicing most of Gunni mythology, where few of the gods are extolled as
role models. Almost without exception the Gunni deities are cruel and selfish
and untouched by any celestial sense of rajadharma.
A tall black man stepped into the light cast by Baladitya’s lamps. “Learned
anything exciting today, old-timer?” The copyist’s fuel expenses are prodigal.
He is indulged.
The old man did not respond. He is almost deaf. He exploits his infirmity to its
limits. Not even Blade insists that he share routine camp chores any longer.
Blade asked again but the copyist’s nose remained close to the page on which he
was writing. His penmanship is swift and precise. Blade cannot decipher the
complicated ecclesiastical alphabet, except for some of those characters it
shares with the only slightly simpler common script. Blade looked up into the
golem’s eye. That appeared to be about the size of a roc’s egg. The adjective
“baleful” fit it well. Not even naive old Baladitya has ever proposed that the
demon be delivered from the restraint guaranteed by the daggers nailing its
limbs to the throne. Neither has the demon ever encouraged anyone to release it.
It has endured for thousands of years. It has the patience of stone.
Blade tried another approach. “I’ve had a runner come from the Abode of Ravens.”
He prefers the native name for the Company’s base. It is so much more dramatic
than Outpost or Bridgehead and Blade is a dramatic man fond of dramatic
gestures. “The Captain says she expects to acquire the needed shadowgate
knowledge shortly. Something is about to break loose in Khang Phi. She wants me
to get cracking getting more treasure brought up. She wants you to finish
finding everything out. She’ll be moving soon.”
The copyist grunted. “He’s easily bored, you know.”
“What?” Blade was startled, then angry. The old man had not heard a word.
“Our host.” The old man did not lift his eyes from the page. It would take them
too long to readjust. “He’s easily bored.” Baladitya cared nothing about the
Company’s plans. Baladitya was in paradise.
“You’d think we’d be a change that would distract him.”
“He’s been distracted by mortals a thousand times before. He’s still here. None
of those people are, except those remembered in stone.” The plain itself, though
older and vastly slower than Shivetya, might have a mind of its own. Stone
remembers. And stone weeps. “Their very empires have been forgotten. How much
chance is there that this time will be different?”
Baladitya sounded a little empty. Not unreasonable, Blade thought, considering
the fact that he looked into the time abyss represented by the demon all the
time. Talk about vanity and chasing after wind!
“Yet he’s helping us. More or less.”
“Only because he believes we’re the last mayflies he’ll see. Excepting the
Children of Night when they raise up their Dark Mother. He’s convinced that
we’re his last chance to escape.”
“And all we got to do to get his help is skrag the nasty Goddess, then put his
ass away for the long night.” The demon’s gaze seemed to drill right through
him. “Nothing to it. Piece of cake, as Goblin used to say. Though the saying
doesn’t make any literal sense.” Blade lifted his fingers to his eyebrow in a
salute to the demon. Whose eyes seemed to be smouldering now.
“God killing. That should be perfect work for you.”
Blade was unsure if Baladitya had spoken or Shivetya had
close to personal heaven as a Gunni historian can imagine. If the historian does
not remain too determinedly wedded to Gunni religious doctrine.
Shivetya’s motives for refusing categorical declarations may stem from
bitterness about his lot. By his own admission he has met most of the gods
face-to-face. His recollections concerning them are even less flattering than
those spicing most of Gunni mythology, where few of the gods are extolled as
role models. Almost without exception the Gunni deities are cruel and selfish
and untouched by any celestial sense of rajadharma.
A tall black man stepped into the light cast by Baladitya’s lamps. “Learned
anything exciting today, old-timer?” The copyist’s fuel expenses are prodigal.
He is indulged.
The old man did not respond. He is almost deaf. He exploits his infirmity to its
limits. Not even Blade insists that he share routine camp chores any longer.
Blade asked again but the copyist’s nose remained close to the page on which he
was writing. His penmanship is swift and precise. Blade cannot decipher the
complicated ecclesiastical alphabet, except for some of those characters it
shares with the only slightly simpler common script. Blade looked up into the
golem’s eye. That appeared to be about the size of a roc’s egg. The adjective
“baleful” fit it well. Not even naive old Baladitya has ever proposed that the
demon be delivered from the restraint guaranteed by the daggers nailing its
limbs to the throne. Neither has the demon ever encouraged anyone to release it.
It has endured for thousands of years. It has the patience of stone.
Blade tried another approach. “I’ve had a runner come from the Abode of Ravens.”
He prefers the native name for the Company’s base. It is so much more dramatic
than Outpost or Bridgehead and Blade is a dramatic man fond of dramatic
gestures. “The Captain says she expects to acquire the needed shadowgate
knowledge shortly. Something is about to break loose in Khang Phi. She wants me
to get cracking getting more treasure brought up. She wants you to finish
finding everything out. She’ll be moving soon.”
The copyist grunted. “He’s easily bored, you know.”
“What?” Blade was startled, then angry. The old man had not heard a word.
“Our host.” The old man did not lift his eyes from the page. It would take them
too long to readjust. “He’s easily bored.” Baladitya cared nothing about the
Company’s plans. Baladitya was in paradise.
“You’d think we’d be a change that would distract him.”
“He’s been distracted by mortals a thousand times before. He’s still here. None
of those people are, except those remembered in stone.” The plain itself, though
older and vastly slower than Shivetya, might have a mind of its own. Stone
remembers. And stone weeps. “Their very empires have been forgotten. How much
chance is there that this time will be different?”
Baladitya sounded a little empty. Not unreasonable, Blade thought, considering
the fact that he looked into the time abyss represented by the demon all the
time. Talk about vanity and chasing after wind!
“Yet he’s helping us. More or less.”
“Only because he believes we’re the last mayflies he’ll see. Excepting the
Children of Night when they raise up their Dark Mother. He’s convinced that
we’re his last chance to escape.”
“And all we got to do to get his help is skrag the nasty Goddess, then put his
ass away for the long night.” The demon’s gaze seemed to drill right through
him. “Nothing to it. Piece of cake, as Goblin used to say. Though the saying
doesn’t make any literal sense.” Blade lifted his fingers to his eyebrow in a
salute to the demon. Whose eyes seemed to be smouldering now.
“God killing. That should be perfect work for you.”
Blade was unsure if Baladitya had spoken or Shivetya had
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