THREE

 

Merely players

 

 

1

 

The watery space between Sysanasso and the Keriths had many names on the charts. Some called it Middle Sea, or the Midsummer Sea, and others No Man’s Sea because three races claimed it. To the merfolk it was always Death Water. They made jokes about those who tried to make a living on Death Water, but humor that could turn so fast to sorrow had a bitter bite.

Ko-nu-Al was a sailor from East Kerith who had played the odds on Death Water all his life. The God of Chance had granted him favor, and he had risen in middle age to be master and part owner of the trader sloop Seaspawn, carrying a crew of ten and trading to Sysanasso. The ten now included his three sons: Mu-pu-Esh, Po-pu-Ok, and Wo-pu-Al.

Wo-pu was sixteen. This was his first voyage and his last. The God of Chance had claimed Their due; the boy would never see his mother again.

Most merfolk trading with other races was done at sea, at times and places established by long tradition, by vessels known to each other. Their crews were all male. There were also a couple of small trader islets where no woman ever set foot. If such simple precautions were observed, mermen could meet in friendship with fauns, elves, imps, or men of any other race, even jotnar, and do business together.

Seaspawn, though, dealt in a cargo that could not be easily moved from one vessel to another, black sand from the southern coasts of Sysanasso. Such sand lay free for the taking; it was greatly prized by the potters of East Kerith for making their famous green glazes. Although the petty faun princes often tried to tax the trade, there were too many beaches to guard and too many princes to collaborate. Since time forgotten, the merchants of the Summer Seas had merely helped themselves. Ko-nu had prospered by choosing deserted shores and honoring the Gods.

Until this voyage, he had avoided trouble. This was the first on which he had brought young Wo-pu, last of his children and perhaps the dearest. Now the boy was dying in agony, his screams audible at all hours. His brother Po-pu was going insane with guilt and might well take his own life.

It was for those reasons that Ko-nu abandoned the caution of a lifetime and sailed into a foreign port. He did not know its name and would not have cared if he had, but the Gods decreed that it be Ysnoss.

 

The harbor was impressive, a gorge notched back into the cliffs, safe haven in any wind. The village itself was only a mishmash of ramshackle shanties plastered over the steep hillside, many of them supported on stilts. The hot and breathless afternoon stank of sewage. Belowdecks, Wo-pu had fallen silent, perhaps already into his final coma.

Seaspawn drifted in with her sails displaying the blue spiral emblem that proclaimed she hailed from the Keriths. Even before she dropped anchor in the center of the still harbor, people could be heard screaming and running. Dogs barked. Parrots and macaws rose shrieking into the air — faun settlements were invariably rife with livestock. As soon as the hands could stand down from their labors, they began a doleful melody on their sitars, chanting an old lament. Merfolk had songs for all occasions, and this one told of lonely death far from home.

A dory put out from the shore. Ko-nu stalked forward and waited in the bow. The fact that the vessel was holding her stem to the sea suggested that the tide and fragile current would carry her out again when given the chance.

The dory was manned by four husky youngsters. A shriveled, elderly man in the stem was probably the village headman. None of the five was clad in more than a scrap of loincloth, the illusion that they were all wearing black woolen stockings being merely a characteristic of fauns. As soon as Seaspawn reached hailing distance, the headman cupped his hands and began screaming at the intruder to go away before she was the death of everyone, interspersing those instructions with improbable profanities.

Ko-nu had expected such a reaction, and he knew enough about fauns to know that mere logic would have no influence on their behavior. He had therefore thought to bring a speaking trumpet. Now he raised it and drowned out the ancient’s shrill wails.

“I come in peace and in the name of the Gods.”

“Go away! Begone! Lewd menace, you will —”

“I am Ko-nu-Al, master of Seaspawn.”

“I am Shiuy-Sh. Your rotten plague ship is fouling —”

“Have you a doctor in town?”

The old man paused in his invective long enough to say “No!” and then continued without drawing breath. The young rowers rested on their oars, smirking and nodding as they appraised their leader’s tirade.

“An herbalist, then, or one who can provide relief to the suffering?”

“None, scum of the four oceans…”

“A priest, then? I must have a priest.”

“We have no priest, either!”

Ko-nu’s heart sank. It was entirely likely that so wretched a hamlet might have no priest. On the other hand… “Then who is that man in black dancing up and down on that balcony?”

The old faun did not even glance around. “He is no priest. He just dresses like one. Now take your bilge-infested barnacle factory out of our harbor before we cleanse it by burning your pestilential —”

Ko-nu glanced around at his crew, nervously clustered nearby, still humming the dirge. “Does he look like a priest to you?”

Pale faces nodded.

“Aye, sir,” said Gi-al-Esh, who had eyes like a jotunn. “And he’s no faun. He’s an imp.”

“I wish to speak with the man dressed as a priest,” the captain proclaimed.

Shiuy-Sh became hysterical and incoherent. Apparently the request was unthinkable, for reasons obscure.

“If you will not bring him to me, then my men and I will come to him!”

The sailors’ dirge lurched and grew louder. They all knew that their captain was threatening a massacre.

“Fool!” the headman screamed. “Imbecile! We have no roads out of town. Our women cannot leave!”

“Then bring me that man dressed as a priest!”

“Never! We have fire arrows…”

Ko-nu knew when he was beaten. Fauns were notoriously men of ideas — one each. Threats impressed them no more than arguments and they had called his clumsy bluff, for he knew what would happen if he went ashore. Apparently the priest would not be brought to him. Reason and logic would not change that decision, nor appeals to mercy, either.

The man on the balcony had disappeared indoors. He now returned with a large wooden chair, which he hurled over the railing. It struck the harbor in a fountain of water and garbage. Then he went after it. This time the fountain was even higher.

After a suspenseful pause, the man’s head reappeared beside the bobbing chair. Using it as a float, he began to swim toward Seaspawn. The journey would take him all day, even if he did not die of overexertion on the way.

“Your imp is apparently intent on coming to me,” Ko-nu said firmly. “Now, will you fetch him, or do I come and get him?”

“You will give him back to us?”

“Of course. I merely want him to comfort a dying boy.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Shiuy-Sh demanded shrilly.

The priest was brought in the dory and passed up like baggage to Seaspawn’s waiting hands. He was small, elderly, exhausted, and reeking of untreated harbor. He collapsed in a dribbling heap on the deck and all attempts to raise him failed, for he merely flopped back to his knees. When he had finally caught enough breath to speak, he lifted both hands to Ko-nu in supplication.

“Save me!” he wailed in cultured Imperial tones. “Take me away from these lunatics, from this pesthole! I have gold. I will pay, but for the sake of all the Gods, I beg you to take me out of here.”

Ko-nu could not recall swearing any oaths to Shiuy-Sh. To succor a priest might appease the Gods and preserve the ship from any further harm on this ill-omened voyage. Most important of all, the holy man would be able to spend a decent amount of time with Po-pu and Wo-pu.

“Up anchor!” said the captain.

And so it was done.

 

 

2

 

Sir Acopulo had not attempted swimming since he was a child and had been very unskilled at it even then. His condition when he was hauled aboard the ship was not improved by the large quantities of indescribable harbor fluid he had ingested. Nevertheless, by the time the ship had cleared the headlands he had disposed of that and been rinsed off with buckets of sea-water and begun to feel better. Not even the onset of inevitable seasickness could dampen his exultation at having at last escaped from Ysnoss.

He had never met mermen before and had never quite believed that their hair could be truly blue. It was though — a very pale blue, but unquestionably blue. Their eyes were silvery. The crew was entirely male, of course, about impish height, slimly built, with skins as pallid as fish bellies, and about as smooth. There was not a hairy chest aboard. He wondered why the sun did not tan them, and why such bleached wraiths should hold such a notorious attraction for women of other races. They seemed a strangely morose bunch, more like a convocation of undertakers than any other sailors he had ever met.

He was offered garments like theirs — cloths tied at the waist, hanging to the calf. They had a pearly shimmer as if made of fishskin and they clung like wet cobweb, although they did not seem to restrict their wearers’ freedom of movement at all. He declined them graciously and retained his soaked clerical habit. Imps, he had always believed, should dress like imps. Furthermore, he did not wish these primitives to see the money belt and dispatches he wore around his waist.

With his damp garments clinging to him in clammy embrace, he was conducted to the captain’s cabin. It was cramped, with barely room for a table and two chairs, although admittedly clean and cozy enough. It had an odd, musky odor, sweetish but not unpleasant. He refused the chair offered him; he moved some books and instruments from a dresser to the bunk and then sat on the dresser. There he was alongside an open window and could breathe deeply of the cool sea wind. Already his stomach registered every dip and roll of the ship. Upstairs, men were singing a jigging chantey that kept time with the motion. He wished they would stop; it didn’t help.

“A draft of yam rum, Father?” the captain inquired, producing a flask and two mugs.

Acopulo’s stomach knotted, perspiration prickled on his forehead. “That is very kind of you, my good man, but thank you, no. I may have to go and lie down very shortly. I just want you to know that I am extremely grateful to you for rescuing me from that pestilential lunatic asylum.”

The merman’s pinched face displayed shock. “You were being held against your will. Father?”

“I was indeed! Some neighboring village recently acquired a resident priest and Ysnoss wished to emulate it. I was bound for Zark on a matter of urgency and must now make up all the lost time I can. I am prepared to pay well for your assistance… plus extra for superior accommodation, if available.” Acopulo glanced around thoughtfully. Presumably the captain’s own cabin was the best aboard. How much should he offer for it?

The merman frowned with eyebrows as blue as his hair. He must be well into his forties, yet there was no spare flesh on him at all — ribs showing, belly as flat as a boy’s. At first sight, Acopulo was prepared to think well of the seaman. He had a sober, businesslike attitude; he had given orders to the crew sparingly, efficiently. Just because he was not imp was no reason to look down on him; his breeding was not his fault.

Now Captain Ko-nu turned to replace the flask in a chest and produce another. “If the motion of the ship troubles you, Father, then my grandmother’s sea urchin cordial is a proven remedy.”

Again Acopulo declined, and this time he thrust his head out the window and sucked in all the cool air he could find. The Evilish coast of Sysanasso was already fading into the distance. Gods be praised! Free at last!

Seven months ago the imperor had entrusted him with letters to the Caliph. Even in winter, seven weeks should have sufficed for such a journey. Weather, elves, and finally the odious fauns — all had conspired to block his progress. Obviously the Gods were punishing him. He had assumed clerical dress only as a disguise, but They must have taken it as an affront, an irreverence. Well, now his penance seemed to be over. He would resume lay costume the moment it became available. The Gods could not be so enraged that They would consider a fishskin loincloth adequate for a man of his eminence.

Acopulo had even wondered, in his more desperate moments in Ysnoss, whether the Gods were rebuking him for straying from his youthful ambition to take holy orders. He would have made a fine priest, of course. Possibly in a few years, when Shandie was safely established on his throne and in less need of Acopulo’s guidance, that old ambition might be reconsidered. The church would welcome such a recruit, and probably appoint him a bishop in record time.

He discovered that he was staring glassily down at very unruly green water. He resumed his seat on the dresser and straightened his hair with his hands as well as he could. There wasn’t very much of it these days, although what there was required cutting.

The captain was hunched over the table with his face in his hands. He looked up with a glum expression. Come to think of it, this did not seem to be an overly jolly ship. The singing in the background was becoming quite depressing. Well, Acopulo was not going to be long aboard.

“Now, Sailor,” he said cheerfully. “Where can you let me off?”

“We head home to the Keriths, Father.” The captain’s accent was strange, although he was obviously trying to speak proper impish in place of the crude patois used on deck.

Acopulo opened his mouth to explain that he was not a priest, but the merman continued, “I hope we shall meet up with some trading vessels to which we may transfer you.” He smiled sadly. “We cannot enter any port outside the Keriths, of course.”

Mm! Acopulo had overlooked that restriction. “You can put me ashore at some deserted spot, then?”

The thin man frowned. “In Ilrane? The elves have a poor regard for strangers.”

“No! Never Ilrane!” Not elves again! Acopulo shivered and wiped his streaming face. He really must go and lie down. His growing nausea was making it hard for him even to recall basic geography — of course there was only Ilrane between Sysanasso and Kerith, nowhere he could acquire respectable layman’s garb, even.

The merman tried to smile, although the result was more of a grimace. “And we cannot take you home with us, obviously.”

“Oh, I think I should be safe enough at my age.” Acopulo spoke modestly, but he knew he would have been safe enough at any age. Even in his youth, he had never been susceptible to storms of passion. No woman had ever interested him much; his only experiment in intimacy, at the age of fifteen, had brought him nothing but embarrassment. He had shunned messy affairs of the flesh ever since. Other men’s inability to do so he regarded with tolerant contempt. Chastity was merely a matter of willpower and self-discipline.

The ship was rolling harder and the chanting had taken on a slower, melancholy tone. Suddenly someone shrieked, as if being tortured. Acopulo jumped. The captain groaned, but seemed unsurprised. Then came another, longer cry.

“We shall do what we can for you. Father, even if we have to take you on to Zark ourselves. In the meantime, our need for your services is very great.”

“Actually I am not —” The sweat running down Acopulo’s face seemed to cool markedly. “Services?”

The gaunt sailor sighed. “The Gods may ease great suffering with small mercies. Evidently They brought us together in our mutual need. Father.”

Another scream, louder… Unspeakable torment!

“Er, need. Captain?”

Blue eyebrows lifted. “Only in dire distress would a merfolk ship ever visit an outlander port, Father. It was to enlist the aid of a priest that we took that risk.”

Acopulo stammered, appalled that he had not seen that possibility.

The merman shifted his feet, as if about to rise. “The Gods in Their wisdom have brought misfortune upon us. We have a young man aboard who is dying and in need of solace.”

Acopulo babbled something appropriate while his mind turned cartwheels. He should have realized that the presence of a band of mermen in Ysnoss had threatened orgy — sexual madness leading to homicidal jealousy between the mermen and the faun males, and also among the women of the village. He should have seen that a responsible master would not expose himself and his entire crew to such danger for any trivial reason. To inform the captain now that his venture had been in vain might be extremely unwise.

Staring fixedly at his knees, the merman said softly, “My son! My youngest child!”

“The Good is everywhere,” Acopulo mumbled, “only our sight is lacking.” Given a few minutes he could find a hundred better texts than that to comfort a grieving father.

“You will come to him now. Father?” The sailor stood up.

“Tell me the details, please,” Acopulo said, and almost added, “my son.”

The captain sat down again, not looking at his guest. The silver of his eyes seemed to shine brighter, as if laved in tears. “The hands were ashore, loading sand. It was a beach I have visited many times without ever meeting anyone, but this time a woman came wandering out of the woods.” He shook his head mournfully. “There was nothing special about her. She was not young or beautiful, just a faun come to dig clams, but she was a woman. The men dropped tools and ran toward her, of course.”

“Er, of course.” Acopulo schooled his face not to show his revulsion.

The captain bowed his head and stared at the glittery cloth covering his thighs. “We were fortunate, I suppose. Such encounters rarely leave survivors. We were saved by the wind.”

“I don’t think I understand. Wind?”

“It is rarely talked of,” the merman told his knees, “but wind can be a factor.”

Acopulo became aware again of that curious musky odor he had noticed earlier. Was that the cabin or the merman himself? If Acopulo were a woman, would he find that scent attractive? Would a merwoman be drawn to him because he smelled otherwise? How utterly disgusting!

“She saw her danger,” the sailor said, “and turned to flee. The wind was blowing strongly from her direction, or of course she would have run the other way. She escaped into the woods. Once she was out of sight — and out of the wind, I suppose — the older hands managed to regain control of themselves and tried to restrain the youngsters. In the struggle, my youngest son was knifed.” He covered his face. “Oh, Father, he is only sixteen!” He choked, and began to sob into his fingers. “What do I tell his mother?”

Acopulo wanted to scream. Why should he be involved in such a sordid disaster, just because a gang of savages had succumbed to a frenzy of animal lust? Yet he should not even be thinking that way, because the insane jealousy provoked by the presence of merfolk was not a sin in the eyes of the Gods. Neither church nor Imperial law condemned crimes committed under such circumstances. Whatever his personal feelings on the subject, he must not reveal them.

“And his brother!” the captain mumbled. “He needs you even more, Father.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Acopulo demanded, feeling worse by the minute.

The sailor raised a tearstained face. The rims of his silver eyes were raw wounds. “In his madness he thrust the knife into his brother’s back!”

Acopulo very nearly yelled, “And you expect me to tell him to cheer up?”

But that was what a true priest would do. It was what he would have to do. The captain had risked his entire crew to obtain a priest and if the supposed priest admitted now that he was an impostor, he was going to be swimming again in no time.

So the charlatan would have to maintain his clerical masquerade, ministering to the invalid and the tormented culprit. That would be sacrilege, a crime much worse than mere imposture. His sin would be infinitely greater than that of the murderer he must absolve.

Cold as a winter tide, the awful truth flooded into Acopulo’s heart. It was not true that the Gods spoke in riddles. Very rarely in his life had he ever had difficulty in choosing the correct course of action, or felt doubts that he had done the right thing afterward. To those with the will and courage to listen, the Gods spoke plainly. Their message now was clear.

He had angered Them by wearing a costume to which he was not entitled. They were demanding that he end the deception — not by discarding the clerical habit, but by retaining it. He had thought his penance over, but it had barely begun.

Clasping his hands, he bowed his head in acceptance. He spoke a brief prayer. He made a vow. As soon as he reached safe landfall — preferably within the Impire, if They would allow him that mercy — then he would return to the ambition of his youth and enter into holy orders. Meanwhile, he would do what good he could on this stinking boat.

And with that resolve, he suddenly felt better. His conscience and his gyrating gut seemed to steady together. He let himself slide into the role he must play as a hand slides into a glove.

He looked up. “Take me to them now, my son,” he said calmly.

 

 

3

 

Hub was in turmoil. For months, the capital had been crammed with refugees fleeing the goblins’ atrocities. Terror and famine ruled its streets, crime and disease spawned in its alleys. The entire XXth Legion had been brought in to reinforce the city watch and was still unable to maintain order. Every night was brightened by fires, every day blackened by riots. Men cursed the wardens and the new imperor; they spoke darkly of the coming of the millennium; already some prayed for a new dynasty.

The Festival of Law was a very minor celebration, but that day in 2999 was destined to be long remembered in the history of the great city. It began with hope of victory. Hasty rumors told of a prophecy made the previous evening by the imperor himself, that the goblins’ destruction was imminent. The hungry multitudes took heart and spoke excitedly of returning to their wasted homelands.

The sky was cloudless, promising another fine day. Yet, shortly after dawn, an enormous blast struck the junction of Arave Avenue and Basketmakers Street. Scores of pedestrians were fried or smashed and many buildings collapsed. Moments later, an even greater explosion flattened the botanical gardens near the Opal Palace. Then a bridge over the Old Canal was blown to dust, and its occupants, also.

The barrage continued for several minutes, bolts of destruction raining upon the city without reason or pattern. Temples and mansions collapsed; pillars of smoke rose into the sky. Hysterical mobs rampaged aimlessly, wreaking more havoc than the sorcery itself. The torment ended as suddenly and inexplicably as it had begun. The final death toll was estimated to be somewhere around five thousand, but was never reliably established. Efforts to dig victims from the ruins continued for many days.

No official explanation was forthcoming, but sorcery was the obvious cause. Thus the wardens were the obvious culprits — if they had not caused the devastation, they had not acted to prevent it. The population cursed the Four, and some braver souls demonstrated outside their palaces.

Late in the afternoon, the imperor and impress made an inspection of the worst disasters. The Imperial couple rode in an open landau drawn by eight pure-black horses, escorted by an entire cohort of the Praetorian Hussars. Whatever the back-alley mutterings, imps were invariably loyal to the imperor in public, and the cheering was very nearly as loud as usual.

Although old Emshandar was still mourned, young Shandie held the loyalty of his people. He was a striking figure in his golden armor and purple-crested helm, but it was the beautiful young impress who swayed the crowd. Slim and gorgeous in a simple black dress, pale and sad, Eshiala won the heart of every man who set eyes on her, and most of the women’s, also. The Imperial couple made no speeches. They never alighted from their carriage. They looked over the devastation, they spoke to some of the officers in charge of rescue efforts, and then they went on their way, but that was enough. Their mere presence showed that they cared, and they left few dry eyes behind them when they departed.

Two of those dry eyes belonged to a very obese man clad in incongruously soiled finery. His eyes were not merely dry, they were stretched wide with horror and terror.

Lurking well back in the crowd around the collapsed Temple of Love, Lord Umpily had come upon the Imperial inspection by mere chance. He had been working his way home on foot to the palace after attending the sumptuous birthday party of Senator Ishipole the previous night. He had been abducted from that glittering function to experience a harrowing interview with the long-lost Warlock Olybino. At dawn he had been released to his own devices. Within minutes he had been relieved at knifepoint of all his valuables — some money, a few rings, even his boots, the golden tracery ripped off his doublet. He had been more than content to part with all of those in return for being allowed to retain a whole skin. Since then he had wandered in his socks, in agonies of indecision.

Better than most, he knew that the wholesale destruction could be blamed on the wardens, or at least on one warden, the deposed Warlock Olybino. Even Umpily did not know the details, though — much as he would like to. The former East had certainly been planning some challenge to the Almighty. One or the other had caused the devastation, or they both had. One or the other must have died in it, and Olybino was the most likely loser. What he had achieved or even hoped to achieve was beyond Umpily’s utmost imagining.

He had too many problems of his own to worry very much about the former warlock. The city swarmed with starving peasantry. Even after he had been looted, other thugs had accosted him without success. Sooner or later some such band would take out their disappointment in random violence and kill him from spite. He was penniless and friendless. The only refuge open to him was the palace itself, yet even worse danger lurked there.

He was no longer bewitched by the Covin. Olybino and his companions had removed his occult delusions. They had laid some sort of protection spell on him instead, but had warned him that it would not bear close inspection. How long could he hope to survive in the palace before being closely inspected?

Typically, he had wandered to and fro until growing hunger stiffened his resolve. At least in the palace he could eat, and anything was easier to face on a full stomach. Thus he was heading homeward almost resolutely when he came upon the smoking ruins of the Temple of Love. It had been one of the largest and richest shrines in the city, easily the most popular. Even by day it had usually been crowded. Legionaries were overseeing gangs of workmen removing bodies, laying out rows of mangled corpses that almost blocked the roadway, many of them women. The death toll must have been enormous.

For some time Umpily stared in horrified fascination at this gruesome spectacle, making mental notes that he could later transcribe to his journal. He was still there when shouts and cheering alerted him to the arrival of the Imperial visitors.

It was then, cowering back in a doorway, that he had his worst experience of that whole dreadful day. Even through the cordon of guards, he could see the royal couple in their carriage. He also saw the officers and officials standing stiffly alongside, answering the royal queries with solemn respect. He watched as the parade moved on, but he heard the cheering through thick walls of solid fear.

Shandie and his wife. Emshandar V and Impress Eshiala. Umpily had seen them quite clearly — royal and gracious, somber and concerned.

At the same time and in the same places, he had seen her sister and his cousin, Ashia and Emthoro. They had been wearing totally different clothes, and he had seen both sets of garments, just as he had seen both sets of people.

He had known for months that those two were impersonating the imperor and his wife. Then, for other months, he had been deluded into not knowing it. Last night he had been forcibly disillusioned.

He had wondered — in his periods of sanity — just how the deception was being worked. Did Emthoro really believe that he was Shandie and Ashia that she was her own sister? Or were the two of them merely puppets, willing or unwilling?

Now he had the answer: They were puppets. They knew what was happening and could not prevent it, could not stop their lips and limbs from obeying orders that came from outside themselves. Their treason was not of their own choosing, but they were aware of it. They were to be pitied, not despised! They had looked sick, disgusted, terrified. Their mouths had spoken the words he had heard, but their expressions had been conveying totally different messages. The wildness in their faces suggested they might both be close to madness now, and that could hardly be surprising.

Moreover, one of the coachmen had been a dwarf and another a jotunn. They had been imps at the same time. Two of the mounted guards closest to the carriage, although genuine imps, had displayed twin personas also. All four, in fact, must have been sorcerers, members of the Covin. That dwarf might even have been the Almighty himself.

Umpily staggered away, trembling. Now he could see through the deceptions. That was Olybino’s doing! The warlock had given him defenses against delusion and told him to go away and record events as they truly were.

Fine! From now on Umpily would see events as they really were. But when the fake imperor summoned him to a dinner party or a reception — as he still did sometimes and would probably do much more often in future, with the official mourning almost over — then Umpily was going to see both the Shandie illusion and the Emthoro reality inside it. How could he possibly conceal his own knowledge? There would always be sorcerers nearby, and he would not stand close inspection.

He might even run into the Almighty himself in a corridor when the dwarf was being invisible. His reactions would give him away at once, wouldn’t they?

Lord Umpily had spent most of his life at court. He had learned very well how to conceal his true feelings.

But he wasn’t that good an actor!

Was he?

If he wasn’t, then he wasn’t going to last very long.

Was he?

 

 

4

 

The ever-restless ocean had fallen strangely still; a sad wind sighed gently. Seaspawn lay hove to, hardly rolling, and even the inevitable creakings of a wooden ship were barely audible. The waning moon hung low in the night, painting a silver ladder on the Summer Seas. A single small lantern cast an orange glow over the priest’s breviary as he read the service. The hushed crew listened without a sound. Captain Ko-nu let his tears flow unashamed, knowing they would not be noticed in the darkness.

Then the priest closed the book and doused the lamp. His black-draped form disappeared. After a moment’s silence, his voice continued.

“Now we usually call for the eulogy.” He was speaking slowly and distinctly, so that his audience could follow his unfamiliar accent. “But you do not need anyone to tell you of your lost mate. Even I can testify to his quality, who only knew him for a few hours. I saw him bear his pain with courage beyond his years. I heard him freely forgive the hand that struck him, conceding that there was no sin to forgive.”

Someone began to sob.

“I tell you all,” the priest said, “that the Good has been increased because he lived, and that the Gods will scarce need to use Their balance to judge Wo-pu-Al. He goes to the last weighing as we shall all go there in our time; we shall do well indeed if our souls increase the Evil no more than his does, or prosper the Good as much.”

Waves slapped gently at the hull. Ropes creaked.

The priest spoke a soft cue. Gi-al’s sitar sounded a chord, and the crew began the final dirge. Ko-nu wiped his eyes to watch the muffled shapes of his two surviving sons lift the locker door on which their brother’s shrouded body lay, bearing it between them to the rail.

“Farewell, brother,” Father Acopulo said loudly, in the last words of the Burial at Sea. “Go to the Gods; we shall follow in our time.”

Mu-pu and Po-pu tilted the plank. The chant surged louder, hiding the splash as Wo-pu-Al departed on his last journey, one more victim of the merfolk’s ancient curse. The two pallbearers stood with heads bowed for a moment, then Mu-pu took the shutter and laid it on the deck.

The priest moved over to them and laid his hands on their shoulders. Whatever he said was inaudible through the singing, but Ko-nu was confident that the words would be appropriate, and reassuring.

Truly, Father Acopulo was a fine priest! Like any imp, he was prone to seasickness, but he had ignored it. He had spent many hours with the dying boy, and with his guilt-laden slayer, also. He had greatly comforted Wo-pu’s passing and had already worked a vast improvement in Po-pu, restoring his faith, easing his load of guilt. The family would not lose a second son.

And now the imp had conducted a wonderfully moving service also. Finding him had been great good fortune.

The Gods had been kind.

 

Merely players:

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And each man in his time plays many parts.

Shakespeare, As You Like It, II, vii