Babnol had brought a hand up to cover her horn. “The handiwork of God is perfection—by definition.”
“But the creatures here are not perfect,” said Toroca. “It’s in the imperfections, the making-do with what’s available, that we see evidence for a mechanism of creating new species other than God’s own hand.”
Babnol turned now to face him, the ship swaying back and forth beneath her. “Changing from one thing to something else?” she said. “Toroca, all my life I’ve tried to fit in, despite this deformity.” Her voice was edged like a hunter’s claw. “And now you’re saying it means I’m less of a Quintaglio than you are.”
Toroca immediately rose to his feet. “No, I’m not saying that at all—”
But it was too late.
Babnol stormed out the cabin door.
The new Hall of Worship was different from its predecessor. The old one had reflected Larsk’s worldview. It was bisected by a channel of water, representing what was once thought to be a vast river down which the rocky island of Land floated, and its roof was a high dome, painted in roiling bands, representing the Face of God.
That Hall had been damaged beyond repair in the last great landquake. This one, at the order of Dybo, had been built with no reference to the outdated view of creation. It was vital that everyone accept and understand that the world was a water-covered moon, companion to a giant, gas-shrouded planet. Henceforth, Halls of Worship would not contradict that truth.
Fortunately there was much more to Quintaglio religion than just the relatively recent prophecies of Larsk. This new Hall resurrected much of the ancient imagery. Central was a giant sculpture of God Herself, a pre-Larskian rendition, looking every bit like a regal and serene Quintaglio. God’s arms were gone, chewed off between the shoulder and the elbow.
The circular chamber had ten niches built into its perimeter, and each niche contained a sculpture of one of the ten original Quintaglios, hunters alternating with mates. No direct worship of the original five hunters was practiced here, but they, and the five males that came after them, were still revered as the first children of God, born from her very fingers. The niches were just out of touch, for a channel of water ran around the circumference of the room. Ceremonies involving marching through water still figured prominently in Quintaglio worship, but the water was no longer thought of as a representation of the great mythical river.
Afsan entered through the secondary doorway, an arch outlined with polished agate tiles, between the niches holding the statue of the hunter Katoon and that of the first-crafter, Jostark.
“Det-Bogkash?” Afsan called into the chamber. The name echoed off the stone walls.
A moment later, from the far side of the circular room, Priest Bogkash appeared. He entered through a hidden doorway, sculpted to look like part of the ornate bas-relief that covered the curving walls, a portal to his inner sanctum nestled between the statues of Mekt, hunter and original bloodpriest, and Detoon the Righteous, first member of the clergy.
“Permission to enter your territory?” called Afsan.
“Hahat dan.” said Bogkash, peering in Afsan’s direction. “Is that you, Sal-Afsan? I can barely see you in this light.”
“You still have me at an advantage,” said Afsan, teeth clicking in forced good humor as he stepped farther into the room. “Yes, it’s me.”
Bogkash closed the gap between them, but only slightly—a gesture of peace that did not arouse territoriality. “It’s rare to see the palace’s chief savant at the Hall of Worship.”
Afsan accepted the gibe stoically.
“You need perhaps some comforting?” offered Bogkash. “I heard, of course, about Haldan and Yabool. I didn’t know them well, but I understand they were friends of yours.”
“They were my children,” said Afsan simply.
“So it is said. Frankly, I don’t know what that means. I don’t understand these matters at all. But I do know what it is to lose a friend, and I take it, child or not, that Haldan and Yabool were indeed your friends.”
“Yes. Yes, they were.”
“Then accept my condolences. I’ve been to Prath for Haldan, and plan to make it out there again to say a prayer over Yabool’s body.”
“That would be most welcome,” said Afsan. “They had each taken both rites of passage, but, well, the circumstances of their deaths were not normal—”
“Oh, their acceptance into heaven is not in danger, Afsan, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. But, no, that’s not what’s worrying me, not exactly.”
“Well?” Bogkash said.
“I’ve come to ask you if you know anything about the disappearance of Mek-Maliden.”
“Afsan, I am a priest in the order of Detoon the Righteous. Maliden is a bloodpriest in the order of Mekt. These are entirely different categories of the ministry.”
“Maliden is imperial bloodpriest,” said Afsan, “and you are Master of the Faith, and, therefore, primary priest to the Emperor. Surely you and Maliden must have interacted often and known each other well.”
“Afsan, you were training to be an astrologer; that was a science. Do you therefore automatically know Pas-Harnal, a metallurgist who lives in this city? He is a scientist, too. All holy people no more make up a single community than do all savants.”
“In point of fact, I do know Harnal, although not well.” Afsan’s tail swished. “Surely you must know something of the bloodpriest?”
“Yes, of course, I know Maliden, but we rarely had contact, and no, I do not know where he’s gone, although I must say that if I had done what he is accused of—tampering with imperial succession—I’d have left town, too.”
“We have reason to suspect that Maliden has not left town.”
“What? Why?”
In the flickering light, Afsan couldn’t avoid a direct question. “We think he may have had something to do with the murders.”
Bogkash’s teeth clicked derisively. “Maliden? A murderer? Afsan, first, he’s very, very old. Second, he’s gentle to a fault.”
“Well,” said Afsan, “I’m open to other suggestions. Do you know anything that might help identify the killer or killers? Anything you might have learned in your professional capacity?”
There was a moment’s silence. Perhaps Bogkash was thinking. “Why, no, Afsan, not a thing.”
Pal-Cadool moved out of the shadows.
“He’s lying.”
Suddenly the priest wheeled, his white robe flowing around him, claws glinting in the wan torchlight. “What is this impudence?” said Bogkash.
“Forgive me,” said Afsan, “but my associate says you are not telling the truth.”
“I am. He’s the one who is lying.”
“Cadool would not lie to me.”
“Cadool, is it? A butcher? You take the word of a butcher over a priest?”
“Cadool is no longer a butcher. He is my assistant. And I take his word over anyone’s.”
“But I’m telling the truth,” said Bogkash.
“You thought to lie to me,” said Afsan simply. “A blind person can’t see if you are lying. But Cadool is my eyes in these matters. Now, I ask you again, do you have any knowledge of the death of my daughter and my son?”
Bogkash looked at Afsan, then Cadool. “Surely what happens here, in the Hall of Worship, is private.”
“Is it? Whenever I had to do penance here as an apprentice, your predecessor, Det-Yenalb, would later discuss it with my master, Tak-Saleed.”
“Saleed and Yenalb died ages ago. You must have been just child then.”
“Shy of my first hunt. That makes a difference?”