The Third contained within their number a subcaste of elite bronze workers whose guild was controlled tightly by the Thirty-eight Thousand of the Second. The bronze workers made the myriad small bronze shells to house the deities. These bronze shells were then transferred to the care of a caste of priests, known as the God Priests, within the Second, where they were offered up for sale to members of the First and the Second. As yet the bronze shells had no power associated with them at all—the purchaser also had to buy a deity to inhabit the shell. It was the responsibility of the God Priest to infuse the bronze shell with the god, which then created the bronze deity.
StarDrifter thought the entire thing epitomized everything he believed wrong with Corolean society: hopelessly complex and contrived, and mostly entirely morally valueless. But of everything, it was the manner in which the bronze shells were infused with the resident god that sickened StarDrifter and fed his contempt of everything Corolean.
The God Priests empowered the figurines by infusing them with the soul of a man, woman, or child. It was this soul that then gave the figurine its godlike powers. If the soul came from a man with great physical strength, then the deity would impart physical strength to its wearer. Whatever the most dominant trait of the soul-giver, thus the dominant trait of the bronze deity. StarDrifter had once heard that one of the most sought-after souls were those of assassins; every Corolean, it seemed, yearned for an assassin deity to work its deadliness on the bearer’s enemies. Another soul greatly valued was that of the newborn baby—one who had not yet taken suck. This soul was treasured for its purity and strength, and Coroleans believed a bronze deity infused with this kind of soul imparted long, vigorous life to the bearer.
None of these souls were freely given. They were taken from the bodies of the living in horrific religious ceremonies conducted by the God Priests, who drew the soul from the living body in a process they extended over as many hours as possible, and which they made as painful as possible for the soul-giver. Only thus, they argued, would the soul retain all its strength for the bronze figurine it was to inhabit.
It was the mass of slaves and condemned criminals who provided the souls. The soul-givers were picked for their qualities, and wives never knew when their husbands might not return, or when their newborn infants might be snatched from the midwives’ hands for the God Priest pits, or when they themselves might be selected as suitable souls for a bronze figurine. They were snatched from their homes, from the streets, from their beds at night, and they lived in such abject hopelessness that few of them ever struggled against their fate.
Today there was a huddled, miserable group of them set on a dais partway down the colonnade.
They were here to participate in the game of Fillip.
StarDrifter’s carefully constructed mask of remoteness and inapproachability faltered as he stood to one side of the dais and looked at the wretched slaves. There were perhaps fifteen of them: one older man, several males in their prime, two heavily pregnant women, two male youths, three girls in their mid-teenaged years, two toddlers, and two swaddled babies laid on the floor.
Newborns.
StarDrifter’s face went very still as he looked at them. Like all Icarii he loved children: partly because Icarii found it so difficult to fall pregnant themselves, partly because they simply loved the gaiety and innocence of children.
One of the teenaged girls kept looking at one of the newborn babies, and StarDrifter guessed she was its mother. Even so, even though she must have been desperate about both its and her fate, she did not move to touch it.
None of the slaves touched. They all stood alone, islanded by their total despair and subjection.
If he was honest with himself, these slaves were the reason StarDrifter had attended today. He felt he owed them this, at least. A witnessing of their suffering.
In his first year here, StarDrifter had been so appalled by Fillip Day he’d tried to help the slaves. He’d watched in stunned, heart-thumping disbelief as the God Priests started their hellish trade on the slave who had been picked to provide the soul for the bronze deity awarded to the victor in Fillip. StarDrifter had leapt forward, thinking only that he must do something to aid the slave.
He hadn’t got three paces before he was seized from behind by two of the palace guards.
One of the God Priests (along with the entire massed presence of the First, amused by this unexpected interlude) had turned in StarDrifter’s direction, a somewhat curious expression on his face as he listened to StarDrifter scream and desperately try to wrench himself away from the guards’ grip, and then he’d laughed softly.
“Thank you,” the God Priest had said. “You have given me the strength I need to extend this man’s suffering that little bit longer. An extra hour, at least, I think.”
StarDrifter had shut up, but he’d stayed there all that day watching as the slave suffered while the God Priest delicately, torturously, drew out the man’s soul to inhabit the bronze shell.
When it was done, and the deity handed on to the victor of the game, the God Priest stepped down from the altar and walked slowly over to StarDrifter. He wore only a loincloth and a bronze necklet about his throat, from which hung a score of tiny, chiming deities.
He was covered in blood.
The God Priest had stopped before the Icarii, unflinching in the face of StarDrifter’s seething hatred.
“You are a guest here,” the God Priest had said in a flat, emotionless voice. “You are not one of us. You have no right to intervene in our practices. You may stay with us, but only if—”
“You foul piece of dog shit!” StarDrifter had hissed.
The expression on the God Priest’s face had not changed. “I do my duty, and I do what is needed,” he’d said. “I do not lust after my own flesh and blood and then arrange her murder out of spite and envy. Who is the foulest piece of dog shit between us, eh?”
And with that he’d turned his back and walked away. StarDrifter had collapsed to the floor, overcome with guilt and horror and self-loathing. While he had not deliberately arranged Zenith’s murder, he was responsible for it by his careless words to that arch-bitch StarLaughter, who had set the Hawk Childs to murder Zenith.
After that, StarDrifter had been unable to interfere. He was as bad as the God Priests, and while he loathed the Coroleans, he loathed himself more. He had caused Zenith’s death through his own selfish thoughtlessness, and he couldn’t aid the slaves, not so much because he believed himself of worse character than the God Priests, but because he didn’t want to be thrown out in the cold.
At least in the Palace of the First he had a good bed and decent food to eat and permission to while away his hours as he liked.
So, helpless, inadequate, self-loathing, StarDrifter never tried to aid the slaves again.
But he did come to Fillip Day every year to stand witness to their suffering.
CHAPTER TWO
Palace of the First, Yoyette, Coroleas
Salome strolled slowly through the colonnade, happier than she’d been in months. She adored Fillip Day. For the past six years she had contrived to have herself crowned Fillip Queen and, having put in the footwork, bribes, threats, and intrigue over the past few months, expected the same today.
She’d dressed for the part. Salome wore a filmy gown of pale blue that set off her coloring and features beautifully. It also revealed most of her body, for it was so diaphanous as to appear almost nonexistent. She wore very little jewelry—a spot of gold at her ears and about one ankle—sandals of the finest leather, and no bronzed deities at all.
That made the best statement of all: Look at me, envy me, for I am the one who controls access to the greatest deity of them all, the Weeper. What need I a score of pathetic lesser deities?
As she moved through the gathering, Salome made the best possible use of the light, walking in and out of pools of sunlight, appearing suddenly from shadows, and dazzling all who saw her virtual nakedness spotlighted in the golden li
ght streaming down from the roof windows, before slinking off again into the shadows, making people glance nervously over their shoulders, wondering where she was, and what she might be plotting.
Everyone deferred to Salome, but no one loved her.
No one save her son, Ezra. Salome had been making her slow, dramatic way toward the emperor’s dais at the eastern end of the colonnade when Ezra, standing just to the side of the dais, saw her. He gave a cry of glee, making the emperor wince, and walked down to greet Salome.
Ezra did not take after his mother in anything save her height. He was dark, somewhat heavy of feature and body, and had none of her grace.
Ezra and Salome kissed in the Corolean manner, touching foreheads before a decorous brushing of lips, then Salome turned and gave a light bow in the emperor’s direction. “My Gracious Lord,” she murmured, despising him as he looked on her with lust.
“I hear you are to be Fillip Queen this year, Salome,” the emperor said. “Again.”
“Will you fight for me, Gracious Lord?”
That was going too far, even for Salome, and for a moment the emperor reddened under her forthright gaze.
“Will you service me if I win?” he countered, and now Salome looked slightly uncomfortable before recovering.
“Fight for me,” she whispered.
“I wouldn’t lift a finger for you, bitch,” the emperor hissed back.
Salome smiled, inclined her head, and turned back to the colonnade. There was an hour to spare yet before the fun began, and she could use that hour to her benefit.
StarDrifter watched her from the side aisle, where he’d taken a glass of golden wine to sip. He well knew who Salome was—there was no one who attended the court at the Palace of the First for more than five minutes without learning her identity—and had amused himself on many occasions in watching her from some shadowed corner.
He didn’t like her—he didn’t know of anyone who actually did—but she intrigued him. Salome’s exotic looks and grace made him suspect a sprinkling of Icarii blood somewhere in her heritage. It certainly wouldn’t be impossible, given that Icarii had been coming here for years even before the Tencendorian disaster, and, combined with the total immorality of the Corolean court, a few Icarii bastards on Corolean women might not be totally unexpected. Stars, even Axis had come down here as a young man, and it wouldn’t have surprised StarDrifter to learn that he’d left a few by-blows scattered about the country. StarDrifter thought that few people other than himself would have picked up on Salome’s Icarii heritage. It was only because of his familiarity with Axis and Azhure that StarDrifter had suspected Salome. Both StarDrifter’s son Axis and Axis’ wife, Azhure, were almost full-blooded Icarii and yet did not look it.
If it had been anyone other than Salome, StarDrifter wouldn’t have cared less. He would have shrugged and lost interest immediately. But Salome…StarDrifter took a mouthful of his wine, his eyes still on the woman as she trailed treachery and sex through the gathering…Salome was virtually the most powerful member of the First, second only to the emperor. She commanded power and fear beyond knowing.
And yet the First had a rule, their most basic and rigid rule: the First admitted no new blood.
All members of the First could trace their ancestry back three thousand odd years to the original founders of their caste, and had admitted no new blood to the First since then. The instant a member was corrupted with outside blood, he or she (as well as any children of their body) was dropped into the Second. Outside blood was a total disaster.
Sometimes, in his most despairing moments, StarDrifter lifted his mood by imagining himself being able to prove the feathered shame in Salome’s past and watching her and her son topple from their position within Corolean society.
He thought Salome would be dead within hours. She’d made so many enemies (virtually the entire population of Coroleas hated her) that the instant this dirty secret (should it actually exist) was made known, daggers would be sliding out of sheaths all over the empire.
“If only I knew,” StarDrifter whispered, and took a new glass of the golden wine from the tray of a passing member of the Third. “If only…”
At that very moment Salome turned, and their eyes met.
StarDrifter lifted his glass to her—they had never talked, never made any connection until this moment—and was somewhat amused to see her eyes narrow speculatively at him for a moment.
Why? Was she pitying him? Marking him for seduction?
She moved away, the moment gone, but StarDrifter stood watching her for a long time, wondering what he would do if he received a command to her bed.
Eventually he shook himself out of his speculative mood. She had pitied him, no doubt. There would be no invitation.
And thank the stars for that, StarDrifter thought, for I would not wish to risk my life refusing the vile woman.
Some ten paces away a man watched StarDrifter with considerable interest. Ba’al’uz had arrived in Yoyette four days ago, and had wasted no time in acquiring an invitation to the Fillip Day celebrations. He’d wanted to come here to observe Salome, and to discover for himself the best and safest way to steal the deity known as the Weeper.
Ba’al’uz had realized he was staring at the solution to his dilemma.
StarDrifter SunSoar.
He could hardly believe his luck—or was it that Kanubai had arranged this for him? When Ba’al’uz had first entered the Diamond Colonnade earlier he’d spotted StarDrifter almost immediately. Then the Icarii man had only pricked at Ba’al’uz’ interest. There’d been something about him, something that intrigued Ba’al’uz, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it…
So he’d asked a passing and more than half-drunk nobleman who the blond, wingless Icarii man was.
StarDrifter SunSoar.
Axis’ father.
Ba’al’uz was not one to ignore coincidences. They were not accidents, they were chances handed you by fate, yours to seize or ignore as your abilities dictated.
Ba’al’uz was not going to disregard this coincidence.
StarDrifter was not only going to acquire the Weeper for Ba’al’uz; he was also, if Ba’al’uz could manipulate circumstances skillfully enough, the means by which to manage Axis.
The festivities began with a sounding of trumpets and a cry of delight.
The emperor lumbered to his feet, and took a card from a golden platter held out for him by a nobleman.
“Ahem!” the emperor called, his voice surprisingly strong and elegant for such a fat man. “I have before me the name of she who the First love before any other, and who they desire to be their queen on this special day!”
StarDrifter smiled around the rim of his wineglass. He could almost hear the stomachs curdling throughout the vast hall.
“The Dowager Duchess of Sidon!” the emperor cried, flinging his arms wide. “The Greatly Beloved Salome!”
Feigning surprised delight, Salome stepped forward, bowing at the scattering of applause that broke out (started, StarDrifter thought, by those too drunk to realize who they were applauding). He finished off his wine, then snatched yet another glass from a passing waiter.
Salome clapped her hands, once, twice, then a third time, demanding silence. “I thank the gracious emperor,” she said, bowing now at the emperor, who was struggling to get back onto his throne without overturning it. “And,” she continued, once more facing the masses crowding the colonnade, “I declare the Day of Fillip begun! Come now, who will compete for my hand?”
The game of Fillip was, so far as StarDrifter was concerned, as tasteless, as cheap, and as tawdry as was the rest of Corolean society. There was no finesse to it, nothing but the promise of violence and blood and sex and humiliation and pain—the five prime ingredients for a successful Corolean life.
Hated as Salome was, there were no shortage of takers for her challenge. The winner, after all, not only enjoyed the services of Salome for a night, but also won the bronzed deity of his
choice, freshly made for him once the game was over. This was the aspect of Fillip that StarDrifter loathed above all else: the winner, often badly hurt, making his bloody way down to the slave dais to select a soul from the slave of his choice, who was then slowly murdered before the victor’s eyes as the God Priest withdrew the slave’s soul from his or her body into the bronze figurine.
Added to these two exquisite pleasures, the winner also won the admiration of the entire collected First, and could look forward to a year of privilege, free dinners and sex, and perhaps even a small fortune to be had from listening to the whispered secrets about the bedrooms and dinner tables of the First’s most rich and fortunate.
The loser died.
Normally this did not happen in Fillip. Usually the loser was the one who lapsed into unconsciousness first, but this was just a very special day.
Salome slowly walked about the small throng of men who had stood forward, all high-ranking members of the First. There were elderly men and youths who had yet to beard up, thin men in the final stages of the wasting disease (no doubt hoping for a loss and a relatively quick exit from their suffering), and men as obese as the emperor. There were generals and diplomats, princes and scoundrels, assassins and cheats—men representing all the qualities for which the First were known. It was Salome’s task to select from this menagerie two men to battle it out for her favors, the deity, and a year of delights.
Her reward came not only in the selection (which would clearly indicate her current bedroom tastes), but in the choice of weapon. The woman over whom the men battled always chose the weapon with which they tried to beat themselves unconscious (or into death, on this day). The weapon could be anything at all, not necessarily something of great value on the battlefield. Thus was derived Salome’s greatest joy in this shambolic tragedy—choosing the weapon that would most humiliate her two suitors.
She stopped, her finger to her chin in a parody of thoughtfulness, then slowly smiled, seductive and murderous.
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