“A lovely accent,” Sasha repeated, scaling fast. “That's far nicer than I've heard it called recently.”
“And what do men call it?”
“Barbarian.”
“My dear girl, I would never.”
Sasha slit the fish, scooped out the guts with her knife, turning to drop them into the water behind. Chopped its head and tail, disposed of them, and looked up at the man. She gave a final, fancy twirl of the knife for effect. “So now you know my name, stranger. What's yours?”
“I am Father Portus,” said the man. “Father Portus Ragini.”
“Ragini?” She blinked. “So you're Patachi Ragini's…?”
“Younger brother.”
Sasha nodded, considering. “And what do you want with me, Father Portus?”
Sasha walked the docks, a short time after Father Portus had departed. Enough time for her to wash, in the vain hope of scrubbing some of the fish smell from her hands, and deliver her fish to the Velo family stall. She'd been planning to go out on the evening boat, but that was before the storm arrived. In bad weather, Mari would want experienced sailors only. The Nasi-Keth being what they were, it was difficult to make time to help on the dawn boats-at that time, most Nasi-Keth were asleep, recovering from long nights. And so, she helped however she could, to pay for her free board.
She walked with a small waterskin under one arm, weaving her way through the early afternoon chaos. Here were a mass of fish stalls, the morning's catch on display with buyers haggling over price. There, a small mountain of octopus, a squeamish writhing of tentacles. Everything smelled of fish, including her. Seagulls wheeled overhead and occasionally scrabbled underfoot, daring the forest of moving legs for a few smelly scraps.
Sasha sipped from her waterskin as she walked, making certain never to let anyone brush against her, keeping her right hand free for the knife at her belt. Despite the crowds, it was unlikely that too many of the wrong sort of people could infiltrate here with ease-upslope men were rarely welcome and could be spotted by their hair, the trim of their beards, or their lack of fish smell even if their clothes were plain. Locals had an unerring eye for such folk, and for every Nasi-Keth amongst the crowds, there were ten more with family who were Nasi-Keth. Still, Sasha had never felt entirely at ease amongst so many people. She'd seen crowds before, at Baen-Tar festivals and the like, but those were nothing compared to this.
Nearing the big ships of the North Pier, she saw a building of whitewashed brick with a single, simple spire above its doors. Rows of vegetable stalls stood in front, doing a brisk trade with dockfront wives and their big wicker baskets. Sasha ducked through the stalls and slipped inside.
Inside was the typical high ceiling and many pews of a Verenthane temple. The entire right wall was a labyrinth of wooden scaffolding, where the pews had been moved to make way. A number of great white sheets now lay across those pews, spattered with coloured paint. Where the scaffolding neared the ceiling, it branched outward, seeming to defy a certain fall. On planks beneath the ceiling, men moved and mixed paints. Sasha walked down the central aisle, gazing upward. Goeren-yai or not, she loved this place. The air smelled of wet plaster and the men's murmured, almost reverent, conversation echoed off the high ceiling. This was a creativity she had never witnessed before coming to Petrodor, and it was mesmerising.
Father Portus stood by the first pew before the altar, gazing upward. Sasha stopped beside him. “You've never been here before?” she asked him.
Portus shook his head. “No. It is…remarkable.” A priest of the high slopes would rarely visit those of the lower. The priesthood of the Porsada Temple were wealthy men of the families. These small, dockfront temples interested them as little as did the poor, uncivilised labourers who frequented them.
“The artist's name is Berloni,” said Sasha. “That's him up there.” She pointed to one man, high on the scaffold. “He drew the original outlines. Now he's filling them in, and his assistants do the details.”
Across one side of the ceiling, a beautiful mosaic was unfolding. Half-naked figures, scenes of the Verenthane Scrolls of Ulessis, in majestic, sensual poses. Sasha recognised no more than a third of the scenes, but it hardly mattered. The mosaic background was blue, like the sky on a warm summer day, and the figures seemed to fly. Indeed, some had wings-angels, the Verenthanes called those.
“I love this fellow here,” said Sasha, pointing to a figure high on the wall opposite. A muscular man with a great beard, mostly naked, holding a babe in the crook of one arm. Both seemed to be emerging from the sea, draped in bits of seaweed, while a beautiful lady in a flowing dress looked on with love in her eyes. “He looks a bit like some Lenay men I know.”
Father Portus gave her an odd look. “You must know these men well. He wears so little. They all do.”
Sasha shrugged. “It's the style in the Saalshen Bacosh. You recognise the scenes?”
“Of course!” Father Portus looked somewhat…uncomfortable. “That's Ronard, God of the Oceans, and his son Trione. The woman is Deyani, Goddess of Love.”
“I didn't do so well in scripture class,” Sasha admitted. “But if classes were this beautiful, I might have done better. Don't you like it?”
“It's…it's…” the priest shook his head, helplessly. “They wear so little! Archbishop Augine would turn green.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked it,” Sasha said edgily. “Who cares what they wear or don't wear, look how beautiful they are! How godly!”
“I fear…I fear these may be considered indecent,” said Father Portus. “The indecent cannot be beautiful. Indeed, it cannot be art.”
“And yet here they are,” said Sasha defiantly. “Beautiful, naked, thoroughly indecent, and most certainly art.”
Father Portus shook his head, and made a holy sign with one hand. “Such thoughts come out of the Saalshen Bacosh,” he murmured. “Whatever shall they dream up next?”
Sasha repressed a smile with difficulty. If he disliked that, what followed would be amusing indeed. “Come, we can talk in private, just through here.”
She led Father Portus through a door at the back of the temple, where the priests’ private quarters might be expected to be, but instead they stepped into a wide, open space of bare brick walls and a plain floor littered with statues. The high ceiling echoed to the rhythmic taps of chisels.
Directly confronting them as they entered the room was a man-sized nude-bearded, muscular, and hauling a great rock on one shoulder. Father Portus stared. Statues of Saint Sadis were common enough in the Endurance, but those were naked only to the waist. Here, even his manhood was lovingly carved in fine detail and (to Sasha's amusement and appreciation) considerable proportion. Father Portus made another holy sign.
“Oh please,” said Sasha, stepping about to admire the statue of Sadis from another angle. “Look at the balance, the shift of weight on his hips from the stone he carries. I fight with the svaalverd, Father-trust me, I know all about balance. He captures it beautifully.”
“Most ingenious,” said Father Portus, averting his eyes. But there was nothing more to see but many other statues in varying degrees of nudity. Some were women, but most were men, fighting, posing, wrestling and stretching. Stone transformed into flesh, so real and sensual in form that it seemed it should feel soft to the touch and not stone-like at all.
“Father Berin loves his art,” said Sasha as she led Father Portus on toward the nearest, loud chiselling. “He could have extended the temple with this space, but instead he lets the artists use it. The serrin love it, and some of the Saalshen Bacosh traders now are taking interest, they say Petrodor forms are unique, and demand grows there as well. Father Berin takes a share of commission for upkeep of this and other temples, and the artists support their families with the rest.”