Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Fate

“As you say,” Romm told him in a dour tone.

Were they deliberately trying to butter him up? If he was in their place he might do the same. After all, they had to suspect there was more to the plot than had been shared with them; this was a reasonably nonconfrontational probing gambit to see what other information they might easily glean. Chas V’Halila, the talkative one, had just stated more than they’d officially been told, subtly underlining their own capabilities and resources while at the same time seeming to praise Fradi, himself. They clearly understood the role of the smokescreen in shielding the central thrust...

It was most likely just habit. An endemic symptom of plotters was their desire to understand the full scope of a scheme in which they might be merely supporting players. “Just be certain you wait for the signal,” Fradi reminded them. The most complicated element here - and consequently the one most worth worrying about - was the sequencing of events.

“Shall we maintain our guard detail?” Gadol, the leader, ventured.

“Why not?” said Fradi. “It gives your people practice.”

“Just so,” agreed Gadol. Casting a last reluctant glance at it, he set down his glass. “Well, I suppose we should check in with the civic authorities. Especially since we’re officially under their command.”

“We’ve never worked for this branch of Peridol before,” Chas reminded him. “If we play things off right we could be in for some serious long-term employment. Replenish the coffers and all that.”

“It is possible that we might have occasion to work together in the future as well,” suggested Fradjikan. “One does not come across a resource such as the Hand every day.”

On that note of mutual congratulation, the threesome departed. Things had been developing remarkably well, and at a lively pace. When mapping things out originally, there had been an outside chance that events would move rapidly enough to stage this denouement at the Running of the Squids; he had hoped, but it had still been no better than a toss-up. It was indeed gratifying that this would now be the case. The appropriate canvas would set this act off with that extra flair of memorability.

There was still the issue of his patron. At least he had been able to program in some insurance. Not as much as he liked, granted, but it should be enough. And then there was the Scapula ...

Perhaps Fradi should have lined up more insurance against him, too. Well, at this stage it couldn’t be helped. His greatest hedge was that of nonthreatening future utility. Although...

What about that woman, the librarian? She had obviously become to the Scapula a thorn. Perhaps there was some move to be played there. Yes, perhaps there was.

On that other hand, there was a danger of overbooking. Fradi was already up to his neck managing his female-related intrigues. Did he want to add another? Some thought was called for here. Perhaps it would be better to ride with events; a target of opportunity might present itself.

Thinking of events, what time was it? Oh! - later than he’d expected. It was time to be out and about. Plots or no plots, one had to keep one’s hand in.

“You got to keep your ears open to what these sects are talking about,” Max had admitted. “Sometimes they get on to something.” So here Jurtan was with these loonies.

It was turning out to be a waste of a good day. He could be out jamming with the Underlings or checking out one of the other clubs the guys had told him about, or practicing on his own for that matter, but instead he’d wanted to be part of the plan that had dragged him halfway across the world.

So here he was. He hadn’t thought streets could get any more crowded than they’d already been, but regardless of his attitude they’d accomplished that anyway, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, the temple Eden had arranged for him to visit wasn’t located in the district of the gods at all. No, it was down by the Tongue waterfront. The address had been off along a lane of warehouses, of all things, their whitewashed walls glistening with salt-spray mist and the street cobbles scarred from the passage of over-laden wagons. These streets were jammed too, filled with overflow from the banks of the Tongue. Even though the traditional squid-spectacular wasn’t supposed to start until tomorrow, revelers and vendors of everything from refreshments to choice bleacher seats were jockeying for position wherever there was a space big enough to plant a foot. Jurtan had clearly been in the wrong place, since the street number on his note proved to yield just another anonymous warehouse door, but he’d knocked anyway, and a bearded man had arrived to let him in. The man had led him through a small entry hall into the warehouse proper, which indeed turned out to be a temple, pointed out a place for him in an empty pew, and returned to his station by the door.

The interior was given over to a high-ceilinged chamber of assembly more stylishly appointed than the shabby outside facade had implied. It wasn’t the appointments that fostered the image of refinement; in fact, the temple was strikingly clear of the usual fetishes and effigies and altars. Aside from a few stained-glass windows on abstract themes which he thought mainly involved fire and trees, with here and there a recognizable chicken or sheep or fish, and a raised presentation-area in front, the chamber was undecorated. The ranks of pews in a dark polished wood, and the similarly paneled floor, however, were set off dramatically against the cream-colored walls, contoured into a cunning series of setbacks and alcoves beneath the undulating ceiling. As far as Jurtan could remember, this was his first experience of architecture motivated by deliberate tact and restraint, but he found he rather liked it.

The religionists and their mysterious service already in progress, though, were a different matter. As soon as he’d come through the door, his internal music had begun imitating their ongoing ritual, a sort of a wailing minor-key chant built out of repeating melodic units. Up in the front on the podium, a line of four or five readers were eschewing the comfortable chairs behind them for a cross-legged position sitting on the floor, from which they were singing aloud in turn from a text, chapter by chapter. The congregation, matching them privation for privation, were also arrayed on the floor in the aisles, occasionally humming along with the reader of the moment for a choice passage or two. Everyone sounded thoroughly miserable. But what was the point? Mass hypnosis, maybe - if all this kept up much longer he’d probably be humming along too. Jurtan had tipped his head back to better study the way the skylights were tucked into the folds of the roof, and to watch through them the declining light of evening, when he realized that someone had slipped into the pew next to him. The man was alternately paying attention to the keening from the stage and twisting in the pew to scrutinize Jurtan.

“Blessed be those who join with us,” the man whispered after a moment.

“I’m not joining anything,” Jurtan said. “I’m only here because my friends thought you might be able to help us.”

The fellow adjusted his headdress, a sort of flat turban, before responding. “Within a traditional greeting may still be a message of deeper truth.”

Creeps and kooks, what other kind of person did the world contain? “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve showed up at a bad time. Why don’t I come back when you’re not in the middle of a service?” Or better yet, maybe he’d manage not to come back at all. In fact -

“Eden Shaa is not one to watch her calendar too closely,” the man commented. “Yet any request from her is one we are only too happy to rush to fulfill. This has nothing to do with her endowment of this building, you understand.”