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Authors: Marjorie B. Kellogg
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enough time with the use of
animals
for sacrifice.”
“You don’t mean . . . not the poor sucker who . . .”
He nods. “One of the kamikaze squad.”
Paia clamps her eyes shut, mid-pace.
“You see? He was right.” Luco shrugs, shakes his head. “They will do these things for him, you know. Sometimes their truer devotion shames me. Often, in fact. Of course I stood up for you and said you’d do anything the God deemed necessary.”
“Of course you did.”
“Well, I did.”
“Maybe he should just stay around more, instead of going off on all these jaunts of his.” It always rouses Luco when she speaks of the God as if he were some sort of temperamental employer.
“He is busy converting the Infidel. It’s important work.”
“And vital to the Temple revenues, I know.” Paia continues pacing. “But do you know that’s what he’s doing?”
“Of course, if that’s what he says he is.”
Paia stops. She props herself against one of the slim marble columns. “Do you want my job, Luco?”
The priest’s forehead tightens. He leans forward as if in pain. “NEVER! I mean, no, I . . .”
“’Cause if you do, you can have it.” She knows he doesn’t—he’s too scared of the God, no matter how willing he is to plot with him. But she’s not ready to let him off the hook quite yet. “Maybe there doesn’t have to be a High Priestess. Maybe a High Priest. Or maybe they still do sex-change operations somewhere in what’s left of the world.”
She’s so delighted by how badly she’s shocked him that her anger drains away like she’s pulled the plug.
“They used to, you know,” she continues gleefully. “I read up on it in the Library.”
His bright blue eyes grow round at this sacrilege, and instantly she regrets admitting that she’s used her most sacred and solemn privilege—access to the House Comp database, occasional and only when the God allows—for no higher purpose than her own amusement. Merely hoping that he is will not make Luco someone she can talk to this freely.
But he doesn’t scold or lecture. He gasps and says, “Really? Did it work?”
Paia can’t help laughing. It isn’t the sacrilege that’s bothered him after all. “I guess.” She smiles, then goes back out into the sun to lean over and kiss his cheek lightly and smooth back his long hair. “Poor Luco. Just when you thought you had everything you could possibly want . . .”
She’s glad she’s run off most of her rage before confronting the God. He’ll have sensed her turmoil anyway, the way he always does, but by the time she faces him, it’ll have lost its grip on her. And she knows it’s unwise to be too emotional in his presence. The God will take advantage of any vulnerability.
She’s in her rooms, dressing carefully for her scheduled evening audience with him, exposing the correct amount of skin, redoing her makeup with all the art she can muster, when he surprises her by coming whistling down her corridor in man-form. She feels him approaching, like dogs sense lightning—in the days when there were dogs—and she hears the guard detachment outside her door snap to attention with horrified alacrity. Paia sucks in a breath. At least he has the grace not to simply materialize in her bedroom. She wonders why. Probably he enjoys terrifying the guards.
One curt warning, her name barked like an order, and he’s through the door, all aglimmer in the cloth-of-gold business suit he favors for his most casual moments. It’s the same cut Paia’s father used to wear, before there was no more business to transact. But her father preferred sedate browns and blues. The God wouldn’t be caught dead in brown or blue. She’s heard him say as much. He halts grandly in the doorway, claps his hands sharply, then stepsinto the room to let two acolytes whirl in past him carrying a low gilt table and a silver tray glittering with antique glass and a bottle of Paia’s father’s best champagne.
animals
for sacrifice.”
“You don’t mean . . . not the poor sucker who . . .”
He nods. “One of the kamikaze squad.”
Paia clamps her eyes shut, mid-pace.
“You see? He was right.” Luco shrugs, shakes his head. “They will do these things for him, you know. Sometimes their truer devotion shames me. Often, in fact. Of course I stood up for you and said you’d do anything the God deemed necessary.”
“Of course you did.”
“Well, I did.”
“Maybe he should just stay around more, instead of going off on all these jaunts of his.” It always rouses Luco when she speaks of the God as if he were some sort of temperamental employer.
“He is busy converting the Infidel. It’s important work.”
“And vital to the Temple revenues, I know.” Paia continues pacing. “But do you know that’s what he’s doing?”
“Of course, if that’s what he says he is.”
Paia stops. She props herself against one of the slim marble columns. “Do you want my job, Luco?”
The priest’s forehead tightens. He leans forward as if in pain. “NEVER! I mean, no, I . . .”
“’Cause if you do, you can have it.” She knows he doesn’t—he’s too scared of the God, no matter how willing he is to plot with him. But she’s not ready to let him off the hook quite yet. “Maybe there doesn’t have to be a High Priestess. Maybe a High Priest. Or maybe they still do sex-change operations somewhere in what’s left of the world.”
She’s so delighted by how badly she’s shocked him that her anger drains away like she’s pulled the plug.
“They used to, you know,” she continues gleefully. “I read up on it in the Library.”
His bright blue eyes grow round at this sacrilege, and instantly she regrets admitting that she’s used her most sacred and solemn privilege—access to the House Comp database, occasional and only when the God allows—for no higher purpose than her own amusement. Merely hoping that he is will not make Luco someone she can talk to this freely.
But he doesn’t scold or lecture. He gasps and says, “Really? Did it work?”
Paia can’t help laughing. It isn’t the sacrilege that’s bothered him after all. “I guess.” She smiles, then goes back out into the sun to lean over and kiss his cheek lightly and smooth back his long hair. “Poor Luco. Just when you thought you had everything you could possibly want . . .”
She’s glad she’s run off most of her rage before confronting the God. He’ll have sensed her turmoil anyway, the way he always does, but by the time she faces him, it’ll have lost its grip on her. And she knows it’s unwise to be too emotional in his presence. The God will take advantage of any vulnerability.
She’s in her rooms, dressing carefully for her scheduled evening audience with him, exposing the correct amount of skin, redoing her makeup with all the art she can muster, when he surprises her by coming whistling down her corridor in man-form. She feels him approaching, like dogs sense lightning—in the days when there were dogs—and she hears the guard detachment outside her door snap to attention with horrified alacrity. Paia sucks in a breath. At least he has the grace not to simply materialize in her bedroom. She wonders why. Probably he enjoys terrifying the guards.
One curt warning, her name barked like an order, and he’s through the door, all aglimmer in the cloth-of-gold business suit he favors for his most casual moments. It’s the same cut Paia’s father used to wear, before there was no more business to transact. But her father preferred sedate browns and blues. The God wouldn’t be caught dead in brown or blue. She’s heard him say as much. He halts grandly in the doorway, claps his hands sharply, then stepsinto the room to let two acolytes whirl in past him carrying a low gilt table and a silver tray glittering with antique glass and a bottle of Paia’s father’s best champagne.
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