panes visoring the front of the dormitory.
Anja, Trope’s mercurial sun, hovered above the J’beij. A deepening purple spread over everything as it descended beyond the acropolis.
“Here,” Seth said, removing the dairauddes and handing it to Magistrate Vrai. “I’ve been remiss in failing to give this to you before now. Once it belonged to Lady Turshebsel. Her chief advisor among all the aisautseb, Narthaimnar Chappouib, placed it in my keeping the day before we left Gla Taus as a gift to you and an emblem of our cooperation in the endeavor ahead.” The phrasing was Pors’s, but Douin had rehearsed Seth in its delivery a hundred times.
Magistrate Vrai accepted the dairauddes and turned it in his hands as if it were a flute and he an inexperienced musician.
“Is it true, then,” he asked, “that the administrative head of Kier is perpetually sh’gosfi and that her shamans are exclusively male?”
“The priests are men,” Seth replied, puzzled. “And Lady Turshebsel is of course a woman. Is that what your question means?”
The Magistrate, without answering, hefted the dairauddes. He took a sighting through it as if it were an abbreviated telescope. He inserted his finger in the wider end. He tapped it in his palm. He blew, to no purpose, across the smaller end. He plugged the wider end with the tip of his thumb and again blew across the smaller opening, this time producing an ear-splitting whistle. He shook the dairauddes like an old-fashioned thermometer. He twirled it gently on its chain, as if it were a winding tool. He pointed it at Seth.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
“A dairauddes, Magistrate. That’s what the Kieri call it. A literal translation is—” Seth caught his breath. The Kieri had played a vicious trick on him. Or, if not the Kieri, then Chappouib and all the aisautseb. For an entire E-month he’d been carrying about with him, almost unquestioningly, a specimen of instrument that—in bloody orchestration with others like it—had slain his isosire. Was he buying his trip home in the coin of Kieri mockery?
“Yes?” the Magistrate urged him.
“A literal translation is demon killer, Magistrate Vrai.” He was too confused to weep, but the impetus was there somewhere, biding its time. “It’s a spiritual weapon, they say.”
The Magistrate handed it back to Seth. “I’m sorry, Kahl Latimer, but the statutes of the Mwezahbe Legacy don’t permit me to accept such a gift. The Magistrate of Trope never goes armed.”
“Not to carry, then, sir; to keep as a memento among your other possessions. As I say, this is a spiritual weapon.”
Seth looked despairingly across the tablerock at the J’beij. Trope’s small, orchid-blue sun was balancing on the northern end of the building’s long entablature. The sky around it seemed to be in a state of lush, organic rot. To return to Pors without having presented the dairauddes . . .
“But it’s wounded you, this weapon, hasn’t it?”
“Magistrate?” Seth asked.
“Never mind, Kahl Latimer. I can’t accept it, not even as a memento to put in a museum case. Not only does the Legacy forbid me the possession of weapons, it likewise prohibits me from collecting or wearing the products of superstition or religious ritual.” Vrai suddenly grasped the amulet hanging at his breast. “With one exception, that is, and by this we all acknowledge the ultimate mystery of origins.”
Seth started to replace the dairauddes about his own neck.
The Magistrate’s cool hand checked him. “No,” he said. “Wear this in its place.” Fumbling briefly at the chain, Vrai slipped the amulet over his head and placed it in Seth’s free hand. Then, gesturing, he urged Seth to don it, which the young isohet did bemusedly.
—Being men of one mind, we may safely share what’s most important.
Seth closed his eyes. He had registered the Magistrate’s cerebration as a series of piquant, encephalic pin pricks—even though he knew full well
Anja, Trope’s mercurial sun, hovered above the J’beij. A deepening purple spread over everything as it descended beyond the acropolis.
“Here,” Seth said, removing the dairauddes and handing it to Magistrate Vrai. “I’ve been remiss in failing to give this to you before now. Once it belonged to Lady Turshebsel. Her chief advisor among all the aisautseb, Narthaimnar Chappouib, placed it in my keeping the day before we left Gla Taus as a gift to you and an emblem of our cooperation in the endeavor ahead.” The phrasing was Pors’s, but Douin had rehearsed Seth in its delivery a hundred times.
Magistrate Vrai accepted the dairauddes and turned it in his hands as if it were a flute and he an inexperienced musician.
“Is it true, then,” he asked, “that the administrative head of Kier is perpetually sh’gosfi and that her shamans are exclusively male?”
“The priests are men,” Seth replied, puzzled. “And Lady Turshebsel is of course a woman. Is that what your question means?”
The Magistrate, without answering, hefted the dairauddes. He took a sighting through it as if it were an abbreviated telescope. He inserted his finger in the wider end. He tapped it in his palm. He blew, to no purpose, across the smaller end. He plugged the wider end with the tip of his thumb and again blew across the smaller opening, this time producing an ear-splitting whistle. He shook the dairauddes like an old-fashioned thermometer. He twirled it gently on its chain, as if it were a winding tool. He pointed it at Seth.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
“A dairauddes, Magistrate. That’s what the Kieri call it. A literal translation is—” Seth caught his breath. The Kieri had played a vicious trick on him. Or, if not the Kieri, then Chappouib and all the aisautseb. For an entire E-month he’d been carrying about with him, almost unquestioningly, a specimen of instrument that—in bloody orchestration with others like it—had slain his isosire. Was he buying his trip home in the coin of Kieri mockery?
“Yes?” the Magistrate urged him.
“A literal translation is demon killer, Magistrate Vrai.” He was too confused to weep, but the impetus was there somewhere, biding its time. “It’s a spiritual weapon, they say.”
The Magistrate handed it back to Seth. “I’m sorry, Kahl Latimer, but the statutes of the Mwezahbe Legacy don’t permit me to accept such a gift. The Magistrate of Trope never goes armed.”
“Not to carry, then, sir; to keep as a memento among your other possessions. As I say, this is a spiritual weapon.”
Seth looked despairingly across the tablerock at the J’beij. Trope’s small, orchid-blue sun was balancing on the northern end of the building’s long entablature. The sky around it seemed to be in a state of lush, organic rot. To return to Pors without having presented the dairauddes . . .
“But it’s wounded you, this weapon, hasn’t it?”
“Magistrate?” Seth asked.
“Never mind, Kahl Latimer. I can’t accept it, not even as a memento to put in a museum case. Not only does the Legacy forbid me the possession of weapons, it likewise prohibits me from collecting or wearing the products of superstition or religious ritual.” Vrai suddenly grasped the amulet hanging at his breast. “With one exception, that is, and by this we all acknowledge the ultimate mystery of origins.”
Seth started to replace the dairauddes about his own neck.
The Magistrate’s cool hand checked him. “No,” he said. “Wear this in its place.” Fumbling briefly at the chain, Vrai slipped the amulet over his head and placed it in Seth’s free hand. Then, gesturing, he urged Seth to don it, which the young isohet did bemusedly.
—Being men of one mind, we may safely share what’s most important.
Seth closed his eyes. He had registered the Magistrate’s cerebration as a series of piquant, encephalic pin pricks—even though he knew full well
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