mudflats, it was the redhats who did it.
Ioratth turned to look at the priest. It was like the turn of a hawk's head, a quick, how-dare-you frown. But he spoke mildly. "Most Blessed of Atth," he said, "my ears are dull. I heard no blasphemy. I beg you to open my understanding."
The man in the red headdress spoke with great assurance. "These are godless words, Gand Ioratth. There is in them no knowledge of Atth, no belief in the revelations of his sacred interpreters. It is all blind worship of demons and false gods, talk of base earthly doings, and praise of women."
"Ah, ah," Ioratth said, nodding, not contradicting but not seeming shaken by this denunciation. "It is true
that the heathen poets are ignorant of Atth and his Burnt Ones. They perceive darkly and in error, yet let us not call them blind. The fire of revelation may yet come to them. Meanwhile, we who were forced to leave our wives long years ago, do you begrudge even our hearing a word about women.? You the Blessed, the Fire-Burnt, are above pollution, but we are only soldiers. To hear is not to have, but it gives some comfort none the less." He was perfectly solemn saying this, but some of the men about him grinned.
The man in the headdress began to reply, but the Gand abruptly stood up. "In respect for the sacred purity of the Fire-Burnt," he said, "I will not ask the Blessed Rudde or his brothers to stay and listen longer to words that offend their ears. And any other man who does not wish to hear the heathen poet's songs may go. Since only he is cursed who hears the curse, as they say, those who have dull ears, like me, may stay and listen safely. Maker, forgive our disputes and our discourtesy."
He sat down again. Iddor and the redhats—there were four of them—and the rest of Iddor's group all went back into the great tent, talking loudly, discontented. One man who stood near Ioratth also slunk
away as unnoticeably as he could, looking anxious and unhappy. The rest stayed. And Orrec struck the lyre, and spoke the opening of
The Transformations
again.
The Gand let his people applaud at the end, this time. He had another glass of water brought to Orrec ("Fortune in crystal," Chy hissed to me), and then he dismissed his retinue, saying that he wished to speak with the poet "beneath the fern-palm," which evidently meant in private.
A couple of guards remained standing at the tent entrance, but the officers and courtiers went back into the big tent or to the barracks, and Chy and I were dismissed by the officious slave with the fan. We went to the stable side of the courtyard, following several men who, I realised now, had come from the stables or elsewhere to hear the poetry and had been standing all along unobtrusively on the fringe of the group. Some were soldiers, others hostlers, a couple of them were boys. Most of them were interested in Shetar. They wanted to get closer to her than Chy would let them get. They tried to strike up conversation, asking all the usual questions—what's her name, where did you get her, what does she eat, has she killed anybody. Chy's answers were curt and haughty, as befitted a lion tamer.
"Is he your slave?" a young man asked. I didn't realise he was talking about me until Chy answered, "Prentice groom."
The young man fell into step with me, and when I reached the shady wall and sat down on the cobbles, he sat down too. He looked at me several times and finally said, "You're an Ald."
I shook my head.
"Your dad was," he said, looking very shrewd.
What was the use denying it, with my hair, my face? I shrugged.
"You live here? In the city?"
I nodded.
"Do you know any girls?"
My heart went up into my throat. All I could think was that he'd seen I was a girl, that he'd start shouting about pollution, defilement, blasphemy—
"I came here from Dur with my dad last year," he said in a depressed tone, and then said nothing for a while.
Sneaking a longer glance at him I saw that he was a boy rather than a man,
Ioratth turned to look at the priest. It was like the turn of a hawk's head, a quick, how-dare-you frown. But he spoke mildly. "Most Blessed of Atth," he said, "my ears are dull. I heard no blasphemy. I beg you to open my understanding."
The man in the red headdress spoke with great assurance. "These are godless words, Gand Ioratth. There is in them no knowledge of Atth, no belief in the revelations of his sacred interpreters. It is all blind worship of demons and false gods, talk of base earthly doings, and praise of women."
"Ah, ah," Ioratth said, nodding, not contradicting but not seeming shaken by this denunciation. "It is true
that the heathen poets are ignorant of Atth and his Burnt Ones. They perceive darkly and in error, yet let us not call them blind. The fire of revelation may yet come to them. Meanwhile, we who were forced to leave our wives long years ago, do you begrudge even our hearing a word about women.? You the Blessed, the Fire-Burnt, are above pollution, but we are only soldiers. To hear is not to have, but it gives some comfort none the less." He was perfectly solemn saying this, but some of the men about him grinned.
The man in the headdress began to reply, but the Gand abruptly stood up. "In respect for the sacred purity of the Fire-Burnt," he said, "I will not ask the Blessed Rudde or his brothers to stay and listen longer to words that offend their ears. And any other man who does not wish to hear the heathen poet's songs may go. Since only he is cursed who hears the curse, as they say, those who have dull ears, like me, may stay and listen safely. Maker, forgive our disputes and our discourtesy."
He sat down again. Iddor and the redhats—there were four of them—and the rest of Iddor's group all went back into the great tent, talking loudly, discontented. One man who stood near Ioratth also slunk
away as unnoticeably as he could, looking anxious and unhappy. The rest stayed. And Orrec struck the lyre, and spoke the opening of
The Transformations
again.
The Gand let his people applaud at the end, this time. He had another glass of water brought to Orrec ("Fortune in crystal," Chy hissed to me), and then he dismissed his retinue, saying that he wished to speak with the poet "beneath the fern-palm," which evidently meant in private.
A couple of guards remained standing at the tent entrance, but the officers and courtiers went back into the big tent or to the barracks, and Chy and I were dismissed by the officious slave with the fan. We went to the stable side of the courtyard, following several men who, I realised now, had come from the stables or elsewhere to hear the poetry and had been standing all along unobtrusively on the fringe of the group. Some were soldiers, others hostlers, a couple of them were boys. Most of them were interested in Shetar. They wanted to get closer to her than Chy would let them get. They tried to strike up conversation, asking all the usual questions—what's her name, where did you get her, what does she eat, has she killed anybody. Chy's answers were curt and haughty, as befitted a lion tamer.
"Is he your slave?" a young man asked. I didn't realise he was talking about me until Chy answered, "Prentice groom."
The young man fell into step with me, and when I reached the shady wall and sat down on the cobbles, he sat down too. He looked at me several times and finally said, "You're an Ald."
I shook my head.
"Your dad was," he said, looking very shrewd.
What was the use denying it, with my hair, my face? I shrugged.
"You live here? In the city?"
I nodded.
"Do you know any girls?"
My heart went up into my throat. All I could think was that he'd seen I was a girl, that he'd start shouting about pollution, defilement, blasphemy—
"I came here from Dur with my dad last year," he said in a depressed tone, and then said nothing for a while.
Sneaking a longer glance at him I saw that he was a boy rather than a man,
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