The song went on and on, adding travails to Kiscomaskin's route to redemption until Miowee laughed, ruffled Kaya's hair, laughed again as Kikun was suddenly there, handing her a mug of hot tea.
After they rolled Kiscomaskin into the water for the slithers to feed on, they sat and drank tea and ate stale biscuits and waited for Rohant to get back so, they could argue out what was best for them to do.
They were still arguing when the Na-priests came for them.
WATCHER 12
1
Cursing with concentrated malevolence, his voice a shrill whine that sent the Pet shuddering onto the back of the Chair where it sat with its hands pressed over its ears, Ginbiryol Seyirshi watched Shadith and Kikun roll Kiscomaskin's body into the murky water. He glanced at Ajeri, saw her shudder (absurdly like the Pet) and fix her eyes on her magazine; she was too afraid of him to open her mouth, but he knew she was dreading a Praisesong with him in this mood. That gave him a savage satisfaction which was momentarily pleasing, but he knew it wasn't prudent; he needed her. He didn't like it, he loathed the truth in it, but he considered himself above all a practical man. He made a note to start looking for candidates to replace her and Puk, then went back to wrestling with the current crisis.
When he had his rage under control, he touched a sensor, gave a set of coordinates to the listener below, and followed with sour satisfaction the arrival of the Na-priests.
2
The days rolled on. The EYEs continued to collect scenes and send them to the satellites which fed them to Ginbiryol while a third of the world's population poured into Wapaskwen-only a third because the Pakoseo fervor dissipated considerably as it reached the more ratified levels of power; the crowd of pilgrims was heavily weighted toward Maka and Tanak with a salting of Kawas and Kisar and a very few Pliciks. There was a complex web of consinships, of shared attitudes, most of all a shared hatred of the Plicik AUTHORITY and all the brightsider priests who collaborated with that AUTHORITY to wring everything possible from the low, to pile the chains on the workers and keep them on. There was kinship and a common history, a common enemy. Perhaps because of this, perhaps because there were whole families, infants to grandmothers, walking together, perhaps because the Pakoseo fervor exhausted them, the immense throng was extraordinarily peaceful. Elbow to elbow they marched without much clashing; there were a few fights, none with weapons, a few screaming matches curiously muted and soon over, nothing more.
In Wapaskwen, especially in Aina'iril, the Five fought a chaotic battle. The city was burning and Mohecopa's fieldcorps were scattered along the Pilgrim Road, most of them impossible to contact. The few kipaos left in the city retreated to their blockhouses and ignored whatever happened in the streets.
Makwahkik's death was proving one of the Five's larger mistakes. The kanaweh had slipped beyond anyone's control; in addition to their nightly raids on the Quarters, individual kana were breaking into armories, taking flits and going on killing sprees among the Pilgrims, concentrating on Maka and Tanak groups but not worrying where their stray shots went; others were looting Kawa storehouses, even some Kisar compounds; shrines were losing their votive tokens, the gold and jeweled bits, and what the raiders didn't take, they destroyed and desecrated. The Gospah Ayawit tried to calm them and reinstate discipline, but they wouldn't listen to him and beat or shot the Na-priests he sent out to them. The Nistam didn't bother trying; he stayed in the Kiceota behind rank on rank of Royal Guards and puttered in his garden. For the most part, the other Pliciks were cheering the kanaweh on, only having second thoughts when their own houses got singed.
Ginbiryol tasted, dumped, selected, saved, excised, drowning his anger in the flood of satisfaction at the savagery and chaos below, in the familiar, comfortable work of compiling his images, the anticipation of the final cut, the pulling together of those images into a unified work of art, that final satisfaction that was greater than any other.
CELL 9
Asteplikota lay back in the longchair as the girl brushed and braided his hair, pulling the shining blond loops around to cover the ridged scarring where his scalp had been sliced away. It was a pleasant attention, but it made him uneasy; he had a strong aversion to such pampering.
And he was worried about his brother, uncertain, now that Kiscomaskin wasn't here to reassure him-not with words, because words were unimportant and unreliable, but with the flash of his smile and the warmth of his fondness. It was at those moments when they were alone and wrapped in bloodcaring that he felt Kiscomaskin's posturing was only that, the mask of a man protecting himself from his gentler side.
The girl finished her task, dipped and backed out. As if he'd waited outside for her to be done and begone, Lihtaksos tapped lightly on the doorpost, came in without ceremony, a measure of his disturbance. "Oppla Bless, Aste my friend. Kiscomaskin, has he been here in the past week?"
Asteplikota sat up. "No. I haven't seen him since he left for the Main."
Lihtaksos dropped on the hassock by Asteplikota's feet, seemed to crumple In on himself. "The Three are in the Gospah's hands, have been for the past two weeks, but he doesn't have your brother, even in his deepest pit, we're sure of that. And he's nowhere else. We've looked. I'm sorry, Aste, but I think he's dead. I don't know how or who, but I can see no other answer."
Asteplikota closed his eyes, touched the tips of his fingers to his brow, hiding his face. Grief was cold in him, it was a loss he couldn't comprehend. He'd half been expecting it, but that didn't help. Somewhere distant, almost beyond reach, he felt anger, he knew it was anger, but it was meaningless right then. He dropped his hands. "I see. So?"
Lihtaksos brushed absently at the wrinkles in his shirt. "Killing Makwahkik was a mistake," he said wearily. "Maybe there was satisfaction in it, perhaps even justice. But it was most definitely a mistake. There was a center to what we were fighting, now there's none. We hit at clouds and gain nothing from it. People die now for nothing, nothing at all, Aste, nothing at all Come back with me. We need you. Dencipim is at everyone's throat; Wetakisoh is drawing back into himself his caution is becoming paralysis; Mohecopah goes around in a permanent gloom saying I told you so. He warned us against killing Makwahklk and now he's proved right." Lihtaksos smiled wryly. "Much more of that and I'll strangle him myself. Kiscomaskin was our balance wheel, Aste: we could defer to him. None of us is willing to give that power to the others, none of us is big enough to take it. We need you."
"I don't have Kisca's talent, Lihto. I have enough trouble driving myself, I can't..
"You don't have Kisca's flash, my friend, but we can do without flash now, be better off for the loss of it. We, know whose mind devised the strategies that kept your brother afloat, we know who helped him polish away his excesses. We need you."
"Well then, I'll come, do what I can. Are things on the Main as bad as we've been hearing?" He held out his hand, let
Lihtaksos pull him onto his feet. "The scenes we get over the corn are enough to make a slither cringe."
CELL 4
The flatwagon was assembled outside the city on the Road itself, guarded by the Nistam's troops who were nervous enough to shoot without warning anyone who came too close, and their idea of close was a measure that changed with the changing tensions.
The wagon was fifteen meters wide and thirty long with six sets of double wheels individually mounted along each side and an additional four in front with twin tongues for the two teams of twenty kekelipis that pulled it.
Once the basic assemblage was finished, with the shell stage for the Three made ready, the throne of the Nistam installed above the warded cabins where the passengers would retreat for meals and sleep, teams of Kisar and Plicik women decorated everything with silk flowers, bright ribbons and gilded lace.