A Prison Unsought by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge

sensed that it was
politeness, not interest. She sighed. She was too new to her position, let
alone her lodgings, and events had taken her away from Desrien before she’d
even fully recovered from the spectacularly unconventional way in which she’d
become High Phanist. Eloatri’s hand panged and she winced, reflexively rubbing
it, and noting Omilov’s gaze flickering away. She put her hands in her lap,
stretching out the scar tissue as she had been instructed by the chirurgeon.
    Eloatri did not suppose that she would ever be entirely free
of the pain of the burn inflicted on her by the Digrammaton in its inexplicable
leap across the light-years between Arthelion and Desrien. Not that she often
had time to reflect on that: her time since then had been spent in learning a
radically new—and often uncomfortable and even distasteful—religious tradition,
and in seeking the persons the Dreamtime had bidden her follow. Except one,
still unidentified, all had come to Desrien, had been seized by the Dreamtime,
and now were here, with her, on Ares.
    Now what?
    It was with some relief that Eloatri saw her secretary Tuan
approaching with a bit more urgency than he usually displayed, his undyed
woolen tunic immaculate as always, in contrast to his wild hair. He had that
hint of a crooked smile that warned her of another manifestation of the holy
fool; Tuan was a Nazirite Woolgatherer. She sighed. She’d inherited him with
the Cloister and could no more discharge him than remove one of the gargoyles
that leered from unexpected perches throughout the Cloister, especially since
he’d been appointed by Tomiko, her predecessor.
    Tuan could barely contain the bubble of amusement behind his
ribs as he reached them. He wished he could have arranged to spring on the
gnostor without warning what had just been delivered, but seeing the man’s face
upon the telling would have to do.
    Tuan took a steadying breath, catching a sharp glance from
the High Phanist. She already knew him too well.
    “Your pardon, Numen, gnostor.” He
bobbed a slight bow toward Omilov. “Basilea Risiena has sent your wardrobe.” He
paused, making certain of his voice. Then: “Thirty-seven left shoes, fourteen
right boots, and it appears that at least some of the jackets and pantaloons
have had their sleeves or legs sewn shut. A decon team has already dealt with
the underwear.”
    “Tuan,” said the High Phanist, a
line appearing between her eyes.
    Omilov’s lips parted, and he chuckled, forestalling the High
Phanist with an upraised hand. “Let us just say that her tastes along those
lines were somewhat . . . esoteric. Thank you, Tuan.”
    Omilov thought Tuan looked disappointed as he bowed and
departed. But the secretary’s mention of underwear had triggered an image of
Barrodagh with one of Risiena’s vile toys leeched to his thumb, and Omilov’s
dark mood began to fade; he’d become expert at not thinking about what had
followed. I hope he does trigger it.
    “I did not see the Basilea at the
ball last night,” said Eloatri.
    Omilov winced. Such blunt statements were something he’d
come to expect from the High Phanist, especially when her odd little secretary
was involved. But Omilov had already endured the verbal consequences of his
wife’s failure to obtain an invitation for herself and her two daughters. The
vandalism of his wardrobe left him unmoved. Two suits of clothes were all he
required. But. “I fear my son Osri will bear the brunt of that . . .
oversight.”
    Eloatri shifted in her chair. The disorienting pekeri fog of Desrien had its parallel
in the house-of-mirrors existence of the Douloi. “Would it help were I to
invite her to tea?”
    She saw the answer in an undisguised flash of horror, then
he smiled, urbane again. “My wife has styled herself a head of state, as her
position entitles her. That would make your tea a diplomatic event.”
    “A ladder to heaven for her,” said
Eloatri. Risiena, at least, was easy to