"Perhaps it is inhabited by a god," Perkar offered, leaning against a nearby building, hoping that would not give any offense.
"Barbarian," the boy said, clearly disgusted. "The River is the only god."
"There are many gods where I come from," he replied reasonably.
"Demons, you mean. Ghosts, maybe. No gods."
He shrugged, remembering Balati, the Huntress, Karak. They certainly were not ghosts.
"Are you a shaman?" he asked, hoping that was the correct word.
"A witch, you mean? An old midwife? You are a barbarian. I am a priest of the River."
"Priest." Perkar knew the word—ghun—of course, but the concepts connected to it were vague. "What is a priest exactly?"
The man eyed him with a new, more intense disdain—which Perkar would not have thought possible. He spoke very slowly, spacing his words. "Priests… serve… the… Ri-ver," he said.
"I know your language," Perkar said, restraining himself from snapping. "I don't know your ways as well."
"Why are you, an outlander, even concerned?"
"I'm curious."
The boy nodded. "I will tell you then. Listen to the sound of Running Water. Long ago, our people lived in the great desert. We had nothing, and monsters surrounded us. The daughter of one of our primitive chiefs had a child by the River, and he freed us from the demons, brought us here, to the River, and began the city of Nhol."
Perkar nodded. "My people have children by gods, as well."
The boy's face reddened again. "If you continue to blaspheme, I will cease speaking to you."
"I apologize," Perkar said. "You were saying?"
"The Chakunge—the Son from the Water—was the first of the Waterborn, the first of our kings. In them the blood of the River flows most deeply."
"And you priests? You are also Waterborn? Relatives of this Chakunge?"
"No," the boy said. "No, that is another story. The Waterborn, you see, are a part of the River and so they cannot serve him, worship him. They let us know his will, they wield his power. But to those of us who serve him, the River sent another man—a stranger. This man was known as Ghun Zhweng, the Ebon Priest. He taught us how to worship the River, built the Great Water Temple, established the flow of water into the palace. The River gave us his blood and thus our rulers, but it was Ghun Zhweng who brought us civilization. He gave us our rites, the spirit brooms, the knowledge of writing."
Perkar nodded. "I understand. The priests serve the River, the Waterborn are the River. So, then, does your priesthood serve the Waterborn?"
"Yes, of course," the boy said—but Perkar sensed a hesitation in that answer. "Though we serve the River more directly, sometimes."
Perkar allowed himself to look puzzled, even exaggerated the expression.
"What I mean to say—" The priest frowned and looked down at his palms. "Do not mistake me," he said. "The Waterborn are the children of the River, and so we worship them, especially the Chakunge, the emperor—may he live a thousand years. But there are others who have far less of the blood, whom the River is not so much a part of. They are ruled by their coarser, Human half— which we as priests understand. We are also closer to the people—we mediate between the Waterborn and these people you see in the streets."
Perkar thought that somewhere in that rambling answer was the implication that the priesthood did not always bow to the will of the Waterborn—but he was confused enough not to be certain. What did seem certain was that this priesthood served the Changeling directly, though they were not related to him. Those who were of the Changeling's blood ruled the city.
This girl he was seeking, then. She was a part of the River. Who could her enemy be? Why did she call him?
"Do the Waterborn have any enemies?" Perkar asked.
That startled the young priest. "What do you mean? Barbarians like yourself, I suppose. Foreign tyrants who wish to conquer our city. Foes of the Waterborn are the foes of us all."
"None in the city? Criminals, treacherous men?"
The priest shook his head. "Absolutely not."
Perkar thought he had enough to absorb for the moment, and though the boy seemed to have warmed a bit to talking, he had not become much more pleasant.
"How long have you been a priest?" Perkar asked.
"I was initiated three years ago, and have attained the third stitch," he said, some pride glowing through the words.
Perkar nodded. "You seem very young to have such responsibility. Congratulations."
The boy—dark, of course, like everyone in Nhol—became a peculiar shade of purple. "I am twenty-two years of age," he snarled.
"But… your voice," Perkar stammered.
The priest appeared to be trying to decide whether to swallow his tongue. "I forgive you because you are a barbarian," he finally said in a tight voice. A tight, eleven-year-old voice. "Priests of the River are… removed from certain gross physical realms."
Perkar stared at the man in horror as that sank in. "You…" He didn't say it, didn't say gelding, for he had no desire to become engaged in a duel at the moment. He finally settled for a polite "Ah."
The man continued to glare at him for a moment, adjusted his robe and kilt, fiddling with the incense.
"Do you mind," Perkar said, uncomfortable now, "do you mind if I watch the boat for a while?"
"For what reason?"
"I want to see if it will move again. That would be interesting, I think."
The priest snorted. "Do what you will. It doesn't violate any laws, though I must caution you against approaching the boat. It belongs to the priesthood."
"I'll just watch then," he assured the priest, and sat down next to the wall. He was not certain why he did so, not sure why he shouldn't. It seemed reasonable that the boat would go where the River wanted him to, in which case he was where he belonged. Of course, he might be too late for whatever-it-was, or, without him in it, the boat might have wandered about aimlessly. Still, the immense palace was only a stone's throw away; the canal vanished into a black hole with a steel grate, and he suspected the water went into the royal dwellings themselves. Perhaps that was all the boat meant by being here, that he should enter the palace. Surveying it critically, Perkar could not imagine scaling its walls or avoiding the many guards and soldiers who would likely question him. In that case, he shouldn't be here, he should be back at the Crab Woman, pursuing the possibility that some noble might hire his sword. That was probably the only way he was likely to enter such a daunting fortress. And if he got in, if he found this girl, what then? She was the River's child, or at least of his blood. Here she was in his city. What would she need with him, a "barbarian" from a thousand leagues away? And most critically of all, when he found her, would he kill her or save her? He wondered, briefly, if he could kill a little girl, and was overcome by a sudden, almost dizzying burst of anger. Yes, he thought, remembering the ghost of his king, Eruka's empty eyes. Yes, if it will thwart the River I can kill anyone.
He was turning all of this over in his mind for at least the third time, when a great, deep voice rang out, just down the street.
"That has to be him," it said. Perkar was startled to see the Giant—or another man much like him—striding toward him. With the Giant was a small, wizened man in dark blue robes. It seemed that he had seen those robes back at the Crab Woman, too, and so it stood to reason they had followed him here intentionally. He scrambled to his feet, hand on Harka's hilt.
The old man was bald, Perkar could now see, though he had tied a sort of cloth around his head. It was he, not the Giant, who spoke when the two stopped before him.