predecessor, as a courtesy.
Stur placed his hand back on the envelope.
Before you open this, go to speak to the god.
About what?
Asked Tephe.
About anything,
said Stur.
It hardly matters. The point is not the conversation. The point is to observe it, and to see how it observes you. Talk to the god as long as you can bear to. If when you are done you do not believe that the god represents a danger to you, your faith, or the
Righteous
, then open this envelope and read what it contains. But as a favor to me, speak to the god first.
I will,
said Tephe, and then the two of them moved on to matters of personnel.
Two days after Tephe’s formal installation as captain of the
Righteous
, and after he had walked every inch of the ship and spoke to every member of his crew, the new captain stood at the edge of the iron circle that held the god and spoke to it for the length of an entire watch. No one was present other than the captain and the god.
When the captain had finished, he returned to his quarters, took the parchment envelope that he had kept out on what was now his desk, and buried it as far back in the captain’s personal safe as it would go, unopened.
Tephe had not thought about it again until now.
The priest and the acolytes chanting became subtly louder, and the god closed its eyes and its face took on a look whose meaning the captain could not fathom. There was the moment of vertigo, and then the slippery flash of some indefinable emotion outside of the human experience, gone before it could be confirmed that it had been there at all. And then it was over.
“It is done,” said Priest Andso, and for the first time looked up toward the captain. Tephe glanced at his robes and noticed something new resting on top of them; the Talent which Tephe had taken from the woman during the parade. The captain’s eyes shot back up toward the priest’s own.
The priest fingered the Talent. “An experiment, captain,” he said. “To see how the Defiled would respond—”
Tephe did not wait for the rest. As he turned, he saw the god’s gaze back on him, and its grin, silent, mocking, malevolent. The god’s name rose up again in his memory, oxidized ochre on vellum, and Tephe left the chamber before it could resolve itself any further.
Chapter Eight
Lieutenant Ysta frowned as the headman spoke, using his Talent as Gavril to decipher the burbles and clicks that came out of this other man’s mouth and render them into intelligible speech. Behind Ysta and the headman stood the leaders of the planet’s largest settlement, Cthicx, a village of perhaps ten thousand souls. Behind them, on a field the village used for games and ceremonies, stood the entire population of Cthicx, there for the ceremony to come. In front of Ysta and the headman stood Tephe, the priest Andso, and Kon Eric, commander of the Bishop’s Men.
“This is taking too long,” said Eric, to Tephe.
“Quiet,” Tephe said, and turned his attention back to Ysta and the headman. He would not know what the headman said until Ysta spoke, but courtesy demanded the appearance of attention. Tephe wanted to pay attention to the headman’s expressions and movements in any event. So much of communication was not what was said but how it was said. Eric, who was something of a blunt instrument, did not appear to understand or appreciate this.
At the Tephe’s admonition, the commander fell silent and glowered. He and the rest of his men had assumed that they would be called upon to subdue the Cthicxians in battle, quickly and violently; Tephe had had a different plan.
Ysta nodded to the headman, clicked something at him and turned to Tephe. “Headman Tscha says that they will willingly follow Our Lord,” he said.
Tephe smiled and nodded to the headman, who nodded back. “That is good news indeed,” Tephe said.
Ysta smiled thinly. “He does have conditions, sir,” he said.
Priest Andso straightened in his finery, giving himself something to do. “This
Stur placed his hand back on the envelope.
Before you open this, go to speak to the god.
About what?
Asked Tephe.
About anything,
said Stur.
It hardly matters. The point is not the conversation. The point is to observe it, and to see how it observes you. Talk to the god as long as you can bear to. If when you are done you do not believe that the god represents a danger to you, your faith, or the
Righteous
, then open this envelope and read what it contains. But as a favor to me, speak to the god first.
I will,
said Tephe, and then the two of them moved on to matters of personnel.
Two days after Tephe’s formal installation as captain of the
Righteous
, and after he had walked every inch of the ship and spoke to every member of his crew, the new captain stood at the edge of the iron circle that held the god and spoke to it for the length of an entire watch. No one was present other than the captain and the god.
When the captain had finished, he returned to his quarters, took the parchment envelope that he had kept out on what was now his desk, and buried it as far back in the captain’s personal safe as it would go, unopened.
Tephe had not thought about it again until now.
The priest and the acolytes chanting became subtly louder, and the god closed its eyes and its face took on a look whose meaning the captain could not fathom. There was the moment of vertigo, and then the slippery flash of some indefinable emotion outside of the human experience, gone before it could be confirmed that it had been there at all. And then it was over.
“It is done,” said Priest Andso, and for the first time looked up toward the captain. Tephe glanced at his robes and noticed something new resting on top of them; the Talent which Tephe had taken from the woman during the parade. The captain’s eyes shot back up toward the priest’s own.
The priest fingered the Talent. “An experiment, captain,” he said. “To see how the Defiled would respond—”
Tephe did not wait for the rest. As he turned, he saw the god’s gaze back on him, and its grin, silent, mocking, malevolent. The god’s name rose up again in his memory, oxidized ochre on vellum, and Tephe left the chamber before it could resolve itself any further.
Chapter Eight
Lieutenant Ysta frowned as the headman spoke, using his Talent as Gavril to decipher the burbles and clicks that came out of this other man’s mouth and render them into intelligible speech. Behind Ysta and the headman stood the leaders of the planet’s largest settlement, Cthicx, a village of perhaps ten thousand souls. Behind them, on a field the village used for games and ceremonies, stood the entire population of Cthicx, there for the ceremony to come. In front of Ysta and the headman stood Tephe, the priest Andso, and Kon Eric, commander of the Bishop’s Men.
“This is taking too long,” said Eric, to Tephe.
“Quiet,” Tephe said, and turned his attention back to Ysta and the headman. He would not know what the headman said until Ysta spoke, but courtesy demanded the appearance of attention. Tephe wanted to pay attention to the headman’s expressions and movements in any event. So much of communication was not what was said but how it was said. Eric, who was something of a blunt instrument, did not appear to understand or appreciate this.
At the Tephe’s admonition, the commander fell silent and glowered. He and the rest of his men had assumed that they would be called upon to subdue the Cthicxians in battle, quickly and violently; Tephe had had a different plan.
Ysta nodded to the headman, clicked something at him and turned to Tephe. “Headman Tscha says that they will willingly follow Our Lord,” he said.
Tephe smiled and nodded to the headman, who nodded back. “That is good news indeed,” Tephe said.
Ysta smiled thinly. “He does have conditions, sir,” he said.
Priest Andso straightened in his finery, giving himself something to do. “This
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