Jo Clayton - Wild Magic

“No, Houen, we won’t let that happen.” Juvalgrim swung the boy back to the floor. “Tettin, keep quiet about this. Do I have any appointments this next hour?”

There was a gray tinge to the young acolyte’s face and his hands were shaking. He scurried around behind the table and consulted his lists. “Anaxo Pelekal with a list of complaints about supplies, a petition from the Sok merchants about moving the flogging posts.”

“If any of them arrive before I’m back, have them wait.”

“High One, the Prophet…”

“Even a Prophet can make’ a mistake, young Tettin. Remember that.” He smiled down at the page. “Give me your hand, Houen. Show me where your friend is.”

In the classroom Sivvy was stripped naked and stretched over a desk, held down by two of the Prophet’s Cheoshim followers. A third waited for the Prophet to finish his scold before laying on with the five-thong flagellum which he was slapping idly against his leg.

The young Quiambo Kasso teacher struggled in the hands of another pair of Cheoshim. “You have no right here, Prophet or not, you have no right here. Leave the boy alone…” He grunted as the Cheoshim twisted his arms higher behind his back.

Out in the hall, Juvalgrim tightened his grip on Houen’s hand. “Be quiet,” he said sternly. “Stay here. I mean it.”

Houen caught his lower lip between his teeth. He blinked past the High Kasso at the scene in the classroom, nodded reluctantly.

Juvalgrim tapped him on the head, then swept into the room. “What’s this? Let that man go.”

The Cheoshim looked insolently at him. “The Prophet tells us, not you, old man.”

“The Prophet has no authority here. Let him go.” All the arrogance years of power had given him he focused on them, anger giving yet more force to his words.

They shifted their eyes after a moment, took their hands off the teacher, and backed away.

“Prophet, come here.”

The gaunt bearded man turned slowly. “You do not command me, O Kasso.”

“In these walls, I do, O Prophet.”

“That… is… true,” the Prophet said slowly. He came across the room, his feet moving more slowly than his words had. The humility that he felt was proper before man and God was struggling against Mal pride subtly reinforced by his status as the Chosen of God, the Scourge of Chumavayal. He stopped before Juvalgrim, stood with his body tense but his head bowed.

“O Prophet, explain why you have violated the quiet of this place.”

The Prophet’s head snapped up. “As the child, so the man. The fractious and froward boy is seed ground for evil. You are lax, O Kasso.”

“I am not here to trade aphorisms with you, O Prophet, though I could say break the boy, break the man. If that’s what you want, then you’re well on your way to getting it. Silence! You can speak when I have finished. What you do in the city is your business, O Prophet, but you are a guest here and I require of you the demeanor and acts of a guest. You and your companions will leave. Now.”

The Prophet’s face hardened, his nostrils flared. “That boy…”

“That boy will be punished. Appropriately. Not by flogging his skin off.” Juvalgrim ran his eyes scornfully over the man before him. “Consider this, O Prophet, it is your pride that has suffered, your soaring self-exalting pride. It was not Chumavayal the boy played the trick on, it was you; it is not for Chumavayal you wish him punished, it is because he made you look a fool.”

“You’re the fool, pretty man,” the Prophet roared, his eyes reddening with fury and a hint of the God-inhim. “You and your kind have brought the drought on us by your stubbornness and your corruption, O Kasso. Think well what you are doing. Sooner than you expect it, you will be required to answer for all yciu have not done.”

“But not to you, O Prophet. I do not expect to see you and your…” he ran his eyes over the sullen Cheoshim bunched behind the Prophet, “your cohorts within these walls again. The Fountain Court is open to all, be free of it; as for the Forge Room, come and worship as all are free to come. At other times and other places, you are not welcome.”

The Prophet thrust out his arms, lifted his face, his eyes turned back. He waited. A moment later he shook himself straight. A last fulminating glare, then he swung round and marched out.

Juvalgrim snorted, turned to the boy hastily pulling his clothes on. “Sivvy?”

The boy went still.

The young Quiambo teacher sighed. “You know better, Siv. Answer the High Kasso, and politely, if you please.”

Sivvy did a perfunctory bow, his face tight with rejection, his eyes like blue stones. “High ICasso,” he said.

“Consider this a punishment for your foolishness, Sivvy. What you did has understandable reasons behind it, but passion, young Wascram, is a very bad master. You accomplished nothing but putting your teacher in danger and alarming your friends. I want you to consider this and remember how little you got from your joke as you are scrubbing out the offal bins for the next five days.” He nodded as Sivvy started to protest, then clamped his mouth shut. “Diyo, you’re not stupid, merely rash. Finish dressing. You’ll find a friend of yours waiting outside. You can have half an hour with him, then report to the Kan Lougatar in the kitchen.” He watched Sivvy’s eyes shift. “You wouldn’t make it down the mountain, boy.” He didn’t wait for a response, but turned to the Quiambo Kasso. “Have you had trouble before from outsiders?”

“Nayo, heshim Kasso.” The young Quiambo glanced at the boy. “Not outsiders.”

“I see. You’re Darslin, aren’t you? I remember you when you were giving your teachers fits. Your favorite word seemed to be why.”

“True, heshim. The Housemaster would tell you I haven’t changed.” He signed permission for Sivvy to leave and the boy went trotting out. “That was close to being a declaration of war, High One. He won’t forget it.”

“I don’t expect he will.” Juvalgrim resettled his robes, grimaced. “I have more problems waiting, I’d better get to them.” In the doorway he paused. “If you have trouble because of this-or for other reasons-let me know immediately. It’s easier to fight devils when they’re new-born.”

Juvalgrim sat in the window looking down on Bairroa Pili. The River was a curving thread of silver, the High City on the North Bank a black mass with a few red glows from smoldering fires and the scatter of torches being fired up along Verakay Lane where the Edgers struggled to keep going. He smiled fondly at the staccato red line. My scum; takes more than a jegging Prophet to squash you.

On the South Bank, the windows of the Low City showed yellow between the dark masses of the groves, the spray of lights muted by the dwindling rain.

He folded the letter the courier had given him an hour ago, tore it in half, tore it again and again. The Amrapake was coming with his army to reclaim his sister and clean out the Low City. “It won’t be long now,” he said aloud. “Ah Rey, I wish you’d been sensible and got out.” He shook his head, slid off the windowseat, dropped the bits of paper into the fire and went to bed.

Goddance. The Twelfth Year

Abeyhamal towers over the forge, taller, juicier, stronger by far than she’d been as the dance began. Her fimbo is as thick as the Ancient God’s arm; it shines with a darkly golden light. She dances power around the Iron Father, around and around as if she is spinning a web about him, gradually tightening the strands so his movements grow more restricted with every circle, more feeble.

With the Kassian Tai and the Honeychild reinforcing her commands, the Falmaree Penhari Banadah pulled the Low City into order.