Luria was carried up the steps to the right of the platform and Daphoene to the left. The senior servants took their place on the steps above as the bearers, their gray skins gleaming with oil, carefully set the palanquins on the platform. The landscape cloth, which had been showing a field of green grass ceaselessly winnowed by wind, now changed to show blue sky. The change raced out from the two pythonesses, so that they seemed to be couched on air, the heaps of white flowers at their feet like clouds.
Syle stood beside Yama while the pythonesses were set in place. “I am so pleased to see you return,” he whispered. “I had thought all was lost, but now I know that we are saved.”
Before Yama could ask what he meant by this, Syle moved off, taking a position in the center of the platform, in front of a little brazier which stood between the pythonesses. Syle bowed to both of them—Luria acknowledged him with a regal nod, but Daphoene had turned her blind face toward the light which shone from the mirrors on the far side of the plaza—and threw a handful of dried leaves on the glowing charcoal in the bowl of the brazier. Instantly, heavy white smoke billowed over the sides of the brazier and spread across the platform. The white smoke had a powerfully sweet smell. It spilled over the edges of the sky-colored platform and rolled down the stairs.
Syle stepped to the front of the platform, the hem of his red robe swirling through white vapor. His fireflies spun above his head like a spectral crown. He looked hierophantic, uncanny, terrifying. He pulled a slate from his robes and read from it in a conversational voice. “The merchant, Cimbar, would ask the avatars of the Preservers this question. Will his business prosper if he leases an additional two ships to supply the loyal army of the will of the Preservers?”
There was a silence. Then Luria began to intone sonorously, “There is no end to the war—”
Daphoene shuddered violently and bent over, squealing like a stricken shoat. It was as if she had been struck in the belly. Syle covered his confusion by stepping backward and casting a pinch of dried leaves on to the brazier.
Daphoene straightened. Everyone was watching her, even Luria. Yama could hear her breath whistling through her narrow lips. The faint sense he had of the ghosts of many machines inhabiting her intensified for a moment, like a sea of candle flames flaring in a sudden draft.
Daphoene said in a thick, choked voice, “No one profits from war but the merchants,” and fell back on the couch of her palanquin. Blood spotted the front of her white gown; she had bitten her tongue.
The fat man in the central chair smiled and nodded as two of his advisers whispered in his ear. At last he waved a beringed hand, clearly satisfied with his answer.
Syle cleared his throat and said, “The avatars of the Preservers have answered, and the answer is acceptable.”
He raised his arms, the sleeves of his red robe falling like wings around him, and framed the second question, concerning plantations of green wood which were not growing properly.
This time Luria answered, and at some length. Yama was watching Daphoene, and Tamora the small audience; it was Pandaras who raised the alarm. When he cried out, half of those in front of the platform stared up at the little balcony where the boy and Eliphas stood, high above the door of the Basilica; the rest turned to look at where he pointed.
Huge shadows flickered across the cavern. Yama realized that there were men on the roof of the House of the Twelve Front Rooms, small as emmets against the glare of the mirrors. One of the tiny figures fired an energy pistol. A thread of intense red light burned above the plaza. Fire splashed above the turrets of the Gate of Double Glory, and a curtain of rock plunged down with a roar that echoed and re-echoed in the sounding chamber of the cavern.
After that, there was very little resistance. Most of the thralls threw down their partisans and fled; when Tamora tried to rally the others, one drew a knife and ran at her.
It was the thrall with the streaks of gray in his mane who had been humbled by Yama two days before. Tamora parried his clumsy stroke, killed him with a single thrust to his throat and turned to face the others, the point of her bloody sword held up before her face.
Yama drew his knife and started toward her, but Syle caught his arm and thrust the muzzle of a slug pistol into his side and said, “You should have listened to me when I asked for your help, but perhaps this is for the best. If you stay calm, all of your friends will live. One word from you, and they die. Drop the knife please.”
“Perhaps you should take it. I do not want to damage the blade.”
“I know what it can do. Drop it.”
Soldiers were rappelling down the wall of the House of the Twelve Front Rooms; some were already running across the plaza toward the Basilica. Luria lifted the ivy wreath from her head and dashed it into the fumes at her feet. She pointed at Syle and bellowed, “You said you’d wait!”
Syle told her calmly, “I promised I’d wait until he returned, and so he has. My first duty is to the Department of Vaticination, not the dead past.” He said to Yama, “Tell your friends to come down. I’ve no desire to see them killed if they should try and defend their position. Besides, the Basilica might be damaged.”
Tamora swung around when Yama called to Pandaras, and Syle showed her his pistol. She spat and sheathed her sword and ordered the thralls who remained to lay down their partisans.
“I demand that ransom is paid for my freedom,” she said.
“I would give it to you at once,” Syle said, “but it is not mine to grant.”
Pandaras and Eliphas came out of the main door of the Basilica as the attacking force began to disarm the thralls. Pandaras held the arbalest above his head. A soldier plucked it from his hands and pushed him toward the thralls.
A man in homespun tunic, the black pelt of his face marked by a bolt of white, vaulted on to the stage. Syle thrust Yama forward and said, “Here he is, dominie.”
“I am the master of no man,” Prefect Corin said. He had a strip of translucent cloth tied across his eyes. “We meet again, Yama. How I wish this little drama was not necessary, but you provoked me.”
“Let my friends go,” Yama said. “They are no part of this.”
“They know about you. More than I do, I think. Your stepfather kept much from the Department. That trick with the fireflies, for instance.” Prefect Corin touched the cloth over his eyes. “Do not think to try that again, by the way. This will shield my eyes, and all my men are protected in the same way.”
Yama remembered the little machine which had saved him from Cyg by piercing the cateran’s brain. He could kill everyone in the plaza and walk free. He forced the thought away. He would not murder to save himself. He said, “The Aedile told you all he knew. I have learned much since I came to Ys.”
Prefect Corin nodded. “And you will learn more, with the Department’s help.”
Syle said, “You remember our agreement.”
“Perfectly. Will you kill her with that silly little pistol, or shall I order one of my soldiers to do it for you?”
Syle blushed with anger. “Do not presume to tell me what to do. I give you this territory, but the Department is not the territory.”
Luria struggled to her feet. White smoke billowed around her. She pointed at Syle and said loudly, “Traitor! You are disowned, Syle. I so rule.”
Prefect Corin said dryly, “You have claimed the Department of Vaticination for yourself, Syle. I hope you can control it. Do be careful. I believe that she has a knife.”