Wheel of the Infinite (15 page)

As the palanquin approached, they could see it was attended by temple guards on horseback and a number of priests, all clutching oilcloth parasols. The traders and travellers who hadn’t ventured out of their wagons for the entertainment peered out now as the palanquin passed.

The play stumbled to a halt as the Ariaden caught sight of it and their audience turned to watch. The temple guards spread out, forming a loose barrier between the camp and the rest of the compound. Beside her, Rian stirred purposefully and Maskelle leaned over to take his arm and pull him toward her. He came reluctantly, and she felt rather like a handler hauling on the harness of a two-hundred-pound hunting cat and hoping it chose to pay attention. He settled against her, watching the guards warily.

The curtains of the palanquin stirred and the priests gathered around it, two of them helping the occupant out. It was the Celestial One. He shook the priests off, leaned on his staff, and picked his way through the mud to the oilcloth shelter. The awestruck audience shifted to make room for him. Undoubtedly many of these people, newly come to Duvalpore, did not know just who the old man was, but it was obvious from his attendance and method of arrival that he was important. Carefully, the Celestial One made to sit down, one of the younger priests hurrying forward to whisk a rattan mat under him before his robes touched the mud. The old man settled himself comfortably, then gestured to the actors. “Continue.”

After a moment the Ariaden rose to the occasion. Doria stammered her next line and the play continued. “Who is that?” Rastim whispered.

“The chief priest,” Maskelle told him.

Rastim stared at her in horror. “This play isn’t fit for him!” he whispered tensely.

“He won’t care.”

Rastim moaned, then subsided into a choked silence.

After a time, when the temple guards did nothing but stoically sit their horses in the rain and the other priests huddled uncomfortably under the edge of the oilcloth, Rian settled against her a little and she felt some of the tension in him uncoil. He said, “Does he do this often?”

“No,” Maskelle said. She saw Rastim was listening alertly too. The Celestial One was watching the play with polite attention, though he hadn’t reacted to anything the actors said or did. He was probably deep in meditation and had no idea what was happening on the makeshift stage. “It’s uncomfortable for him to go too far from the temples and the connecting canals.” She hesitated, not knowing how to explain without using the Koshan words that neither man would understand. “Here in Kushor-At, the symbol is almost the same as the reality, and the temples are very powerful symbols. The Celestial One is a symbol, too, and after being a part of that for so long, it’s not easy to be just a man again.”

Rastim scratched his chin thoughtfully. “How did he become Celestial One? Was there a vote among the other chief priests?”

A vote
? Maskelle thought, bemused. The Ariaden were a strange people. “He died.”

Rastim and Rian both stared at her. “Died?” Rastim repeated.

“To become the Celestial One you have to become so close to the Infinite, so at one with it, that you can merge with it and return at will. One morning he died, and later when they were preparing him for his funeral, he sat up and asked for tea.” She smiled wryly. “There are probably at least one or two other Koshans in the city who can do it and some very advanced penitents hiding out in the jungle. They just aren’t careless enough to let someone see them and force them to take on the duties of Celestial One.”

She could feel Rian and Rastim exchanging a look behind her back, their enmity temporarily forgotten. Then Rian asked, “How do you become Voice of the Adversary?”

Rastim stirred uneasily, nervous of what her answer might be. Maskelle said only, “That’s a long story.”

Abandoning the death issue and returning to the earlier topic of conversation, Rastim said slowly, “So, the chief priest stays in the city?”

“Always in the city, usually in one of the temples. It’s easier for him to travel on the canals than on the streets.”

After a moment, Rian said, “You’re part of that too, aren’t you? The temples and the boundaries. Is it the same for you, when you leave it?”

The question was too perceptive by far. She ran a hand through his hair as a poor attempt at distraction and said, “Not anymore.”

Rian was still watching her, brows drawn together. Rastim said worriedly, “Then why is he here?”

Maskelle saw the gates of the compound opening again, and her eyes narrowed. “That’s an easier question. Look.” She nodded toward them.

There were three more men on horseback there, dressed in the lacquered iron breastplates and crested helmets of the Palace Guard. They saw the Celestial One’s palanquin and the temple guards and stopped in the gate. One of them leaned down to question the compound’s attendant, who shrugged elaborately. One of the temple guards spotted them and turned his horse toward them, so the interlopers would be sure to know they had been noticed.

“Are they here to arrest us?” Rastim asked nervously.

Maskelle shook her head. “They can’t. Not unless they catch us stealing or killing someone. I imagine they were sent to ask us—me—politely to leave.”

After a moment, the Palace Guards turned their mounts and left, the attendant swinging the gate closed behind them. Maskelle said, “The Celestial One never travels in state. He came here like this so he could be seen here. To make it plain to certain people that I—we—have his protection.”

Rian was still looking grimly toward the gate. “Whoever sent them won’t go against the Celestial One?” He looked at her again. “Not even for something they want very badly?”

Maskelle started to reply, and for an instant thought she heard the whisper of the Ancestors across the outer edge of her consciousness. She hesitated, but if they had really spoken to her, their message had passed too swiftly for her to understand. She said, “No. No, they wouldn’t. Not for any reason.” Her mouth quirked at the irony of it, but she told herself it was surely true. “Not even for me.”

After the play, the audience hurried back to their wagons through the rain that now fell more lightly but from a steadily darkening sky. The Celestial One stayed planted on his mat, looking around at his hosts with a beneficent smile. Their purpose accomplished, he sent away the temple guards and the priests, with instructions to bring the palanquin back in time to return him to the Marai for the next meditation ring. When the Ariaden realized that the old man meant to spend the rest of the evening with them, they panicked. Rastim, quietly hysterical, practically dragged Maskelle behind his wagon to ask what they could possibly serve their guest for dinner.

“The same thing Old Mali was planning on serving everyone else. Oh, I meant to tell you, don’t buy anything from the post house; there’s a market right across—”

“We found the market! But he’s a— A—” The little man gestured helplessly, speechless for once.

“The Koshans are ascetics, Rastim. And he’s over a hundred years old, there’s not much he can eat anymore. Some melon or taro will do just fine.”

Rastim calmed slightly, peering cautiously around the wagon to where the old man sat. Killia’s daughter, ordinarily wary of strangers, crouched next to him showing off her wooden dolls. The Celestial One was studying them with grave attention and the little girl looked about to climb into his lap. Rastim said, “The highest personage who ever came to our theater in Ariad was the Protector of Oraddell.”

“All right.” Maskelle had never understood the Ariad’s hierarchy. “It’s a good thing the Celestial One came tonight, anyway, whatever the reason. I need to ask him for money.”

Rastim stared at her, aghast.

It took some time for the compound to settle down after all the excitement, but eventually the other inhabitants retired to their own wagons and makeshift shelters, and smoke from braziers and cooking fires mingled with the rain and the mist. The Ariaden hauled out all their mats and some rugs to cover the muddy ground around the fire, and the Celestial One sat down to dinner with them. Old Mali had been to the market, and relatively fresh melon and some papaws were added to the usual baked taro and rice. As Maskelle had predicted, the Celestial One found nothing unusual in the plainness of the fare and ate very little of anything.

Maskelle finally managed to interpret Rastim’s winking and brow-furrowing and realized he wanted her to bring up the subject of Gisar. Obligingly, she turned to the Celestial One and said, “My friends have a little problem. One of their puppets is under a curse.”

“Ah.” The old man nodded, as if this was a problem commonly brought to his attention.

“In Corvalent, by a magister named Acavir.”

“Corvalent,” the Celestial One said, in a tone of mild exasperation. “They are very unwise in their use of power, in Corvalent.”

“And no sense of humor,” Gardick muttered, from over by one of the wagons.

“It was very active before we arrived in the city.” Maskelle shrugged. “One lunar cycle in the outer gallery of the Marai, while you’re present for the Rite, should take care of it.” The Ariaden were all leaning forward in breathless suspense.

The Celestial One nodded. “Bring it tomorrow and I will have it placed there.” There were some gasps of excitement and Rastim buried his face in his hands in pure relief. The Celestial One added, “You will do me the honor of coming to a temple guesthouse tonight.”

All the Ariaden now looked at Maskelle. Rian, sitting at the edge of the firelight, shifted uneasily.

Maskelle eyed him thoughtfully. She said, “All of us?”

“Of course.”

There was a stirring among the Ariaden, mixed alarm and curiosity. Rastim rolled his eyes with weary resignation. Maskelle shook her head. “We’ve been travelling all day and we’re not going to move again tonight. We’ll come to the guesthouse, but tomorrow.”

The Celestial One raised his gray brows, frowning slightly. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

They eyed each other a moment, then the Celestial One sighed. “Very well. But I will leave some of the guards here, to make sure you are undisturbed.”

Maskelle couldn’t tell what Rian’s reaction was from her place near the fire, but she would bet that he wasn’t happy. She said, “You think there’s that much danger?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” The old man gestured impatiently. “This is too important. I don’t want any . . . unresolved situations from the past to interrupt the progress of the Year Rite.”

Considering how the Year Rite is progressing, interrupting it could be the best thing
, Maskelle thought grimly. “All right.”

Later that night, the palanquin and its attendants returned for the Celestial One. The priests departed with it, but the temple guards remained, one in the shelter near the post house gate and five others scattered through the Ariaden’s encampment. Rastim pulled Maskelle aside and asked anxiously, “What is this place we’re going to?”

“A temple guesthouse. They’re for Koshans travelling in from the provinces. Or anyone who comes to speak to the Celestial One and doesn’t have anywhere else to stay.” Rastim still looked worried. It finally dawned on Maskelle why. “They won’t expect us to pay for the use of it.”

“Oh, that’s all right then.” Rastim looked relieved. “Can we give performances there?”

“Probably. The court should be big enough.”

Rastim returned to the others to take them the good news, and Maskelle retired into her wagon to let them talk it out amongst themselves.

The camp settled down gradually. After a time the wagon board trembled and creaked and Rian hauled open a shutter and climbed in, muttering under his breath.

Maskelle steadied the swinging cage lamp. She was sitting on the faded blankets covering the bunk and had shed her wet clothes, wrapping herself in the last dry robe she had. It was from Meidun, neither white nor Koshan blue, but red with black embroidery on the collar and cuffs. The night had grown cooler as the rain grew harder, and she was glad for the robe’s warmth. She asked, “What were you doing out there?”

“I was making sure they’d let us leave,” he said. He sprawled on the floor of the wagon, dripping muddy water onto the worn boards.

“They’re here to protect us,” Maskelle said earnestly, though she couldn’t quite keep her lips from twitching with amusement.

Rian consulted the ceiling for a moment, apparently asking it for patience.

“They will keep out any uninvited guests,” she pointed out more reasonably.

He sat back on his hands, looking sour.

She eyed him thoughtfully. “You’re getting mud everywhere.”

“There is already mud everywhere. There is nowhere, from the Rijan Pillars to the Gulf of Mais, that is not covered with mud.”

“There’s no mud in this bed, and there’s not going to be.”

That worked.

Later, when Rian’s clothes were a damp pile on the floor and he was stretched out next to her in the narrow bunk, she stroked his back and came to terms with the fact that she was not going to send him away. It was selfish of her, perhaps. Not perhaps. Acknowledging one’s faults was an important step to the acceptance of wisdom, but she seemed to have stalled at that point instead of going on to do something about them. She asked, “Can you read?”

“Read what?” His head was buried against her neck and his voice was muffled.

“Anything. Anrin, maybe?” It was the written form of Kushorit, the everyday language of the Celestial Empire which just about everyone but the half-wild people of the deep forest tribes learned to read and write, either from their village priests or the travelling penitents. The outer provinces had their own written scripts, but she knew that few outside the noble or religious classes there had the skill.

“What’s that?”

“You’ll have to learn it.” If they stayed long in Duvalpore, and it looked as if they would, he would need to know.
You ‘re being overconfident again
, a warning voice whispered.

Rian groaned and nuzzled her neck, apparently in an attempt to distract her.

“Reading is a skill required of personal guards here.”