Soldiers of Paradise (38 page)

“That’s it,” said the lieutenant. “Come on.” He set off up the street in the opposite direction. The curate followed. Thanakar tried to lag behind, but the other guards grabbed him, forgetting their manners in their fright. Some shots whistled over their heads.

The lieutenant led them cleverly, and in a few minutes they had outdistanced all pursuit. They rested and went on, but the streets around Wanhope Prison had been barricaded. The rain had gotten heavier, and they stood in the mud watching the flow of people past the checkpoint.

“Can’t we go on?” asked Thanakar. “I’m looking forward to a nice dry cell.”

The curate ignored him. He crouched down on his haunches next to the lieutenant, peering at the soldiers at the barricade. “Can you see their markings?” he asked.

“Plain red, sir. They’re parsons sure enough.”

“Yes, but what congregation? Can you see?”

“No, sir. It’s all one to me. We’ll go on.”

The curate fingered his jaw. “Well,” he said. “I-it should be. Things are so complicated since the proclamation. It’s hard to know.” He looked up at the night sky, shrugged, and stood up. “We’ll risk it,” he said. “There’s not much choice.” Behind them, another crowd was gathering, singing drunken songs.

The barricade was a haphazard structure of wooden sawhorses and cinderblocks flung across the street. Wires were strung between the houses, and bare electric bulbs burned from the tops of poles. Soldiers and priests stood under a corrugated iron shelter and warmed themselves before a bonfire. All around, the rain crackled and spattered as it hit the flames, the sugar igniting, the water putting it out. This uncertain balance made the air glow around their heads, and as Thanakar and the rest filed past the sentry box, the doctor heard a roaring in his ears. The curate stood behind him, nervously shuffling, and when he was close enough to see the man in the box, he swore and clutched the doctor by his knotted wrists, trying to pull him back into the street. But there were too many people behind them, and as the curate struggled back, soldiers crossed through the sawhorses on either side of him and plucked him out of line. They were soldiers of the purge, but Thanakar noticed that each carried an additional insignia pinned under the silver dog’s head on his collar, a sprig of lily of the valley made of paper and green wire, the bishop’s own symbol. Their officer wore a chain of it around his neck. He was a monk in the military order of St. Lucan the Unmarred, and Thanakar recognized him—Malabar Starbridge, second cousin to Charity and the prince, and a former patient. He was a small unmutilated man in a red uniform.

“Stop, Cousin. What’s your hurry?” he asked.

“P-p-prisoner for Wanhope,” stammered the curate. “B-b-bishop’s orders.”

Brother Malabar turned to look. “Doctor,” he said. “I hoped they wouldn’t find you. I hoped you were far away.”

“I had to come back.”

The monk looked at him and nodded. “Let me untie you,” he said. And over his shoulder, to the curate: “Have you a warrant for this man?”

The curate shuffled underneath his robe, hesitated, and drew his hands back empty. “I-I seem to have lost it,” he said.

“No, sir,” corrected his lieutenant, grinning. “It’s in your upper pocket, sir.”

The curate gave him a vicious look. “Ah, y—yes. Th—thank you.” He made as if to look for it, but Brother Malabar seized him by the front of his cassock, thrust his hand in, and drew out a crumpled paper. “Thanakar Starbridge,” he read, and flipped it over to look at the signature. “Signed by the usurper’s own hand. Chrism Demiurge. Are you familiar with this name, Doctor?”

“I know him well.”

“I always hated him. We’ll hang him higher than a bird. This signature,” he continued, turning back to the curate, “has no purchase here. Do you know your prisoner’s identity?”

“Y-yes.”

“No. Look here.” Brother Malabar pulled back his long hair to show his silver ear, miraculously curled and delicate, and the silver hinge of his jaw, melting into skin. “The doctor healed me when I was almost dead. Fighting for the bishop back when you were still sucking cocks in seminary. Back when you had a cock to suck. You heard about my cousins?” he asked Thanakar.

“No. I … have to know.”

“I’ll tell you. Demiurge is murdering the old families.” He turned. “You are free to go,” he told the curate. “Tell your master that I’ll tear down Wanhope stone by stone unless he lets them go. The usurper,” he said to Thanakar, “has imprisoned four brothers of my order. For photographing convicts inside the Mountain of Redemption. All relatives of ours.”

“The convicts?”

“The photographers. The convicts, too, soon enough. I tell you it’s critical.”

Thanakar’s curate had already gone. His guard, too, seemed to have disappeared, except for the lieutenant, who stood grinning. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “You wouldn’t have an extra one of those flowers.”

“Certainly,” answered the monk, unpinning one from his own collar.

“Thank you. I gave my oath to the bishop herself, when I came of age. My old mother had a growth …”

“Good man,” said the monk absently. He pointed to the bonfire, where soldiers were roasting turnips on the ends of bayonets. “Are you hungry?” And without waiting for an answer, he led Thanakar across the street and through a broken shopfront window into a makeshift wardroom. Officers of various services sat smoking marijuana in small groups. It was a cheerless, cavernous place, lit with dim bulbs.

Malabar Starbridge was a forceful man, but he lacked dignity. “That piece of scum,” he remarked, lugging chairs into an empty corner. They sat down, and the monk leaned back so that his trousers rode up tight around his thighs. “That piece of scum,” he repeated, his fingers clasped behind his neck. “He means to burn her. Cosro Starbridge’s own daughter. I saw the pyre in Kindness and Repair. It’s higher than this ceiling. Witchcraft—damn!” He swiveled forward. He was constantly in motion, scratching, twisting, as if he could never find a position that was comfortable. He would contort his face into odd shapes and keep them until everyone around him was uneasy. It was a habit that made people expect him to stammer or stutter, but in fact he spoke fluidly and extremely fast. This combination of mannerisms made him a hard man to take seriously. Thanakar was grateful to him. Bad news might seem bearable from such distracting lips.

“Have you ever seen her?” demanded the monk, twisting his arm over his head to grab hold of his ear. He was talking about the bishop.

“From a distance.” Thanakar paused, then continued. “Tell me about Charity Starbridge.”

“You’re to blame for it,” exclaimed the monk severely, screwing the heel of his hand into one eye. “By God you’re to blame.” He glared at him and sat back.

“I know.”

“Don’t say that. They’re to blame. The evidence wasn’t enough to swing a cat. A washerwoman’s testimony—there was something on the sheets. A laundress—her blood wasn’t even good enough to make a deposition. Charity Starbridge never even could have been arrested on the evidence they had, not without a full confession. By that time she was a widow, for God’s sake. And she wouldn’t tell them anything. Not one word. Not her. But Chrism wanted her confession. So he lied to her. He told her you yourself had brought the charge, claiming you had been infected. Morally infected; physically … I don’t know. He didn’t care. It was you he wanted. He wanted her testimony so that he could hang you. But she refused to say a word against you. She poisoned herself. Two days ago.” The monk broke off, tears in the corners of his eyes. He flicked them away with his thumbnail, a gesture so unnatural that it absorbed all of Thanakar’s attention.

“And did she confess?”

“Not one word, I tell you. Not one word,” the monk repeated, a little bitterly. “She was a proud woman. But look at this. She left a note.” He pulled a paper from his sleeve. “I received it this morning. Next-of-kin. It’s tragic. The old families are almost gone.” He spread the paper out on his knee. It was filled with a complicated, beautiful, unknown script, illuminated with gold and scarlet.

“What does it say?” asked Thanakar.

The monk peered at it. “It’s the language of the prophets,” he said doubtfully. “She always was a clever girl. I didn’t think anyone still knew it.”

“What does it say?”

“It says, ‘Goodbye.’ ”

“Just … goodbye?” asked Thanakar, looking at the maze of paint and letters.

“Goodbye,” repeated the monk, twisting up his face. “That is a rough translation. Those prophets never meant exactly what they said.” He turned away, stroking his silver ear.

“May I have it?” asked Thanakar.

Uncomfortable, the monk got up. He paced behind his chair, making quick, random gestures with his arms. “I’m not sure she meant it for you,” he said.

Thanakar stayed seated, looking at the floor between his feet. “This might sound strange to you,” he said. “But I didn’t know her very well.”

The monk made an irritated gesture. “Who knows women well?” he asked. “Who knows anybody well? This is not the season for sentimental friendships,” he said, tears in his eyes. “Not the weather for it. They say my grandparents loved each other. A family legend. No. Don’t flatter yourself. Charity Starbridge had a fine marriage. The commissar was like a father to her.”

“He was a good man.”

“I’m glad you thought so,” said the monk bitterly. “Did you see him die?”

“I was with him. Then I left.”

“Was it a good death?”

“Beautiful.”

“God bless him for it,” said the monk, picking his nose. “Abu, too, they say, and who could have expected that? A prince at last, they said. Blood will tell, I suppose.”

“Tell me about Abu.”

In another corner of the room, men sat talking in low voices, passing a cigarette. Brother Malabar glanced at them moodily, and gestured past them through the window, towards the glow above the town. “He’s responsible for this fire,” he said.

“Was that the charge against him?”

“No. Drunk and disorderly.”

Thanakar smiled. “That’s not a capital offense.”

The monk shrugged and sat down. “Homicide, then. I don’t know. Seven people died in the first explosion, and more than sixty beggars. I know, it’s not much of a crime, for a prince, but Demiurge is mad, I tell you. The inquisition has been sitting day and night. Ten Starbridges have been condemned, and the others in batches of a hundred. He was the first of such high rank.”

“Was it a public execution?”

“I didn’t see it. Brother Lacrima says he stood up straight. The rest all begged for mercy, but he didn’t. I’m glad to hear it. Of course, they’d locked a mask over his face and gloves on his hands. I’m not sure he could have spoken even if he’d wanted to. Unnecessary, really—everybody knew who he was. Anyway, he made a good impression. He never made a sound, even when the fire was around his legs, and God knows that’s uncommon.”

“I heard he was canonized,” said Thanakar softly.

“That. Oh yes, well—that’s just foolishness. You know how things get started. Beggars get excited in the calmest times. They’re desperate now.”

“Tell me.”

The monk closed both his eyes and stuck his thumb into his ear. “At first, when he was arrested, they didn’t know who he was,” he said after a pause. “That was last Friday. They had him in a common cell. He was so dirty, and he didn’t draw attention to himself. It was only when he came to trial that he was recognized. By that time it had been five days. You know—he let them touch him. They were always touching him, even when he was asleep. You know what they’re like. Most of them had never seen a Starbridge up close before, let alone a prince. And when he was awake, they sat around him in a circle. He promised he’d take them all with him to his palace up in Paradise. He heard their confessions, gave them absolution. It was like playing with children. And when two old women were freed on some technical grounds—innocence or something, they called it a miracle. He was executed yesterday. There must have been twenty thousand people there.”

The monk leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “That much is fact,” he said. “The rest is lies. They say they saw him drinking in a bar yesterday evening. And then these same two women spread the story that when they took him down out of the ashes, his body was as clean as if he had died in his sleep—no trace of fire on him. That’s an obvious lie. But listen to this. This was unusual. A man dressed up as a parson—he had only one leg, or else it was tied up—or I don’t know, maybe he was a parson. He said he was the bishop’s messenger, sent to crush the rumors. He was going to exhibit the prince’s ashes publicly. So he rang the bells in Durbar Square and collected a huge crowd, and broke the seal off some casket he had brought. It had birds in it. Red pigeons and white doves. Why are you laughing?”

“It’s a miracle,” said Thanakar.

“It’s a fucking scandal,” said the monk. “It’s a mockery of holiness. What are they going to call him? Abu the Inebriate?”

“Abu the Fool.”

“Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.”

Thanakar laughed. “I’m happy for him,” he said. “It’s perfect for him. He was … such a stupid fool,” he said, putting his fingers to his forehead.

“You think he should be canonized for that? I tell you it’s a mockery.”

“Don’t be a prude. It’s not such an exclusive club, the saints. Others have deserved it less.”

“Don’t say that,” said the monk, dropping his voice, looking around.

“Come on. I thought you people were revolutionaries.”

“No. Chrism’s the usurper. We’re loyalists. We’ve got our own inquisition.” He motioned with his head towards the far corner, where some officers sat smoking. “They’ve already had a man whipped for perversion. A captain of the purge.”

“What for?”

“It’s not important. Something about a runaway named Pentecost. A nobody.”

This coincidence struck Thanakar so forcibly that he allowed the conversation to progress a little further before he brought it back. It seemed astonishing that his odd, twitching man had carried in his mind a name so vital; astonishing that their talk had uncovered it in such a way, when so easily he could have chosen some other combination of remarks, and Thanakar never would have known. It made him wonder how many other people that he met, at parties, perhaps, or people that he passed in the streets without a word, carried vital information with them like unopened packages, and he never knew. He was happy, now, that when this man had appeared on his table months before, almost dead, he had worked so carefully as to leave a sense of debt behind with that new ear, inserted in that new piece of brain.