“Perhaps escape was not what it wanted,” he said.
Chapter Six
“You may have fooled the godhold’s Captain of the Guards, but I am not so easily fooled,” Priest Andso said to Captain Tephe. The two stood at the door of the god’s chamber on the Righteous. “And if you will question the god, then I will be there as well.”
Tephe, still in pain from the healer’s ministering of his wounds, kept his temper in check but was inwardly irritated with himself. He had indeed withheld from the godhold captain, choosing to keep secret the Talent he had taken from the woman. It was a key to a larger plan, one he would not discover if he were to give it up. A plan that involved the god of the Righteous, and therefore the Righteousitself.
“I saw it, Captain,” said Andso. “That thing which you took from the woman. During the battle. I saw it. I know it well involves the god.”
“Strange how much you saw of the battle from your vantage point under a cart,” Tephe said, naming the place the priest had been discovered in the aftermath.
Andso flared. “Do not blaspheme, Captain Andso.”
“It is not blasphemy to speak the truth, priest,” Tephe said. He started to push past Andso.
Andso blocked him. “Indeed, Captain,” said the priest. “Here is a truth for you, then. You are captain and commander of this ship. But by the rights of the priesthood and the rules of the Bishopry Militant, you must have the blessings and prayers of a priest before your ship can leave port. You must have my blessing, Captain, or the Righteouswill not move an inch.”
“This ship’s orders come directly from the Speaker,” Tephe said, finally naming to himself the third bishop, the sole bishop who spoke directly to The Lord and who therefore carried His word and His orders, uncontested. Tephe watched the priest’s eyes widen involuntarily. “You need to ask yourself, Priest Andso, whether you wish to be the one to explain to him why this ship has not budged when he has bid it depart.”
The priest looked panicked for a moment. Then he smiled at the captain. “By all means, Captain Tephe, let us raise the Bishopry Militant,” he said. “I will explain why I have delayed our departure. And you may explain why you lied to the Captain of the Guards and even now hold a trinket meant for the god. Perhaps you intend to deliver it after all.”
It was Tephe’s turn to flare. “Call me a traitor again, priest,” he said, moving his face directly into the other man’s own. “You will know my response, and gladly will I answer to Our Lord Himself for it.”
Andso swallowed but held his ground. “This ship will not move, captain, until I know what business you have with the god.”
Tephe swore and withdrew momentarily, and then stormed back up to the priest. Then he paused and thought better of what he was about to say.
The priest smiled. “We have understanding, then,” he said, to Tephe.
Tephe said nothing but opened the portal to the god’s chamber and bid the priest enter.
Inside was the god, chained and resting in its circle, and two acolytes standing guard with pikes. Captain Tephe wondered briefly if the pikes were finally genuine second-made iron. “Get out,” he said to the acolytes. The two looked to their priest, who nodded. The two carefully set down their pikes outside the god’s iron circle and departed, closing the portal behind them.
Tephe knelt, drew an object from his blouse pocket and showed it to the god.
“What is this,” he asked.
The god turned its head idly and glanced at the thing, briefly. “A pretty thing,” it said, looking away again. “A trinket. A thing of no importance.”
Tephe held the object closer to the god, edging the iron circle itself. “This is a Talent,” he said. “A thing gods give followers to channel their grace, so the followers may use that grace to their own ends.”
“Perhaps,” the god said.
“This is a Talent you gave to your own followers,” Tephe said.
“Perhaps,” the god rather extravagantly yawned and made to lay in its circle, as if to sleep.
“Talents hold no power in themselves,” Tephe said. “If a god does not choose to allow it, its grace does not flow to one. If a god is enslaved, all its Talents sleep forever.”
“A master you are of things which hold no interest to us,” the god said. “A master of rules. Of little bindings. Of trivium. Of useless things.”
“Indeed,” said the captain. “This is a thing of no use. Certainly not to the god who created it. And yet if this thing is of so little importance, then it is passing strange a dozen women died attempting to bring it to you.”
From the floor the god shrugged. “We cannot say why women do as they do,” it said. “Nor men. You are all without sense to us. We do not see why your lord”—the words, spit as venom—“holds you so dear. Boring little creatures, you are.”
“You will answer me,” Tephe said. “You will tell me what this thing is to you.”
“We have already answered and told,” the god said. “Ask us again, and we will answer these words to you once more. If we do not fall asleep.”
Tephe stared at the god grimly for a moment and turned slightly toward the other man in the room. “Tell me, priest”—he began, and in turning, let the Talent he lightly held graze into the air above the iron circle.
The god snarled something high-pitched and shattering and snatched viciously at the Talent; only the fact the captain had held it so lightly kept him from losing his hand at the wrist. The Talent was airborne for the briefest of moments, the arc of its path exceeding the height of the god’s chains. It fell, and the god lunged at it, grabbing at it with one hand and then pulling it toward itself, clasping it to its bosom. The god wheeled its head around to glare ferally at the captain, a triumphant grin pulling back its lips to reveal teeth.
Then the god screamed, hideously, and flung the Talent from itself. It clattered across the floor as it exited the iron circle. The god fell to the ground, tearing itself at the places the Talent touched.
Captain Tephe watched all of this, calmly. He glanced toward the priest, who was both terrified and fascinated, torn between fleeing the room, and watching the god tear into itself, leaving gobbets of its godflesh on the iron of its circle.
After a minute of this, Tephe went to the table which controlled the length of the god’s chains, and contracted them all to the floor. The god lay, spread out, writhing as it rubbed the places the Talent touched, hard on the iron. Tephe left the table, retrieved the Talent, and knelt, showing it to the twisting god once more.
“This Talent is my own,” he said. “Given to me by My Lord when I was placed as master of this ship. In your studied disinterest and in your haste to claim it, you did not recognize it for what it was. Because it is of My Lord, it burned you when you held it to you, as you would be burned by a Talent of any other god.”
Tephe reached around his neck and removed a second Talent, and showed it to the god. The god cried and bucked in its chains, trying to gain purchase against its restraints to raise itself. It failed, slipping against its own godblood. Tephe held the Talent well outside the iron circle in any event.
“This is the Talent you seek,” Tephe said. “I would know why you want it.”
“It is ours!” screamed the god.
“It is yours but it is of no use to you,” Tephe said. “To whom would you give it? And to what end? Your grace is gone. You could not help your followers even if you wished it. Why must you have this Talent?”