Beneath an Opal Moon (27 page)

He hauled the bos'un topside. He found a suitable length of hemp and tied Armazón's wrists above his head, then he slung the man up over his shoulder and began to ascend the mast.

Terrified, Armazón screamed, “I'll see you pay for this! Gods, what are you going to do to me? I'll see that the Senhora Seguillas y Oriwara hears about this!”

“You do that,” Moichi said grimly as he tied a knot to the crosstree. He let Armazón go so that he hung there by his wrists.

Back on the deck, Moichi turned to the man on watch, saying: “Tell the men. Whosoever cuts this man down will answer to me.”

The sailor, switching his gaze from Moichi to the strung bos'un, swallowed convulsively and said, “Aye, piloto. I will tell them.”

Dawn was just breaking and the gulls had begun their echoing cries as they began skimming the sea in search of food. Apparently, the storm had changed course during the night and brushed by the city; there had been no rain.

Moichi went away from the rising pink sun, from the coming warmth, from Armazón's cries.

After a while, there was only the sound of the hungry gulls.

“It is descanso,” he said. “She is at the iglesia.”

“I have come to see her.”

“Yes, I know.” His eyes were hooded in the shadows of the doorway, his long drooping mustache giving him the aspect of a lean and hungry animal. “She asked me to give you the directions.”

“I do not have much time.”

“She anticipated this also.”

“She did? Or you?”

Chimmoku's thin eyebrows lifted but his gaze remained impassive. “I? I had nought to do with it.”

“Do you miss Sha'angh'sei?” Moichi asked abruptly.

The man stirred uneasily. “Perhaps,” he said, “sometimes. But the Senhora lives here in Corruña. Here, too, am I.”

“Did you meet her there?”

“In Sha'angh'sei? Yes.”

“Along the bund?”

“Along the bund, yes. Is this important?”

“I thought you might be the man—”

“Here are the directions.”

The bells were tolling from its tall spire, shining gold in the newly wakened sunlight. Bronze turned bright and brittle as they swung in the belfry. The sound was somehow melancholy.

It was a towering structure, brilliant white now at the top, in shadows lower down near its arched open doorway: the last pools of the night. To left and right, flanking plane trees, large, ancient, whispered in the wind.

The doors were of oak on their lower half; thin strips of hardwoods, one light, the other dark, above so that a kind of natural toning was achieved without the use of paints or lacquers.

A wide white stone stairway led up to the doorway.

Daluzans drifted in, wrapped in cloaks of muted colors. The women, who dominated this early in the morning, all wore lace shawls about their heads.

Inside it was cool and echoey. Incense drifted in the still air and there seemed to be a distant drone of muted chanting. Low backless benches of highly polished wood ran the length of the interior from back to front, separated by three aisles. Where the seats ended in the front, there was a flight of low steps leading up to a platform. On the right was a carved wooden pulpit and on the left was what looked like a miniature balcony. Stone figures lined the walls on either side.

He went down the center aisle and found her near the front. He slid in beside her.

“I'm glad you came,” she said without turning her head.

“Senhora, I have little time—”

But she merely smiled and put a long forefinger against her lips.

There was movement at the front of the iglesia and the congregation rose. A priest appeared behind the pulpit and Moichi was astonished to see Don Hispete, the cura with the spade beard on whose conversation he had eavesdropped at dinner the night before.

Don Hispete lifted his arms, said, “
Todos y cada uno, sea ustedes bienvenidos a la iglesia del Dihos Santo.
”

The congregation knelt, bowing their heads. Moichi found himself again surprised. The cura's voice—his public voice—was totally different from the one he had previously heard. This was persuasive and charismatic.

“Bien.”

The congregation returned to their seats.

“This is the day of descanso,” Don Hispete said. “A most important and, indeed, significant day on our calendar. For it recalls to us the sufferings of our forefathers. This is a day for sorrow; for us to feel deeply the loss of those departed and those far from home and, by this day, remembering, to free our daily lives.

“Yet descanso has another purpose. For it is this day that we devote ourselves to the acknowledgment of evil so that we may know its many shapes and therefore rise up against it and protect ourselves from its wickedness.

“Thus, my children, we should feel the diablura's great wings flutter in the air about us, for without him we could not understand the eternal goodness of Dihos. Thus, we reflect on the deeper meaning of the descanso and its difficult revelation of the darker side of ourselves and, in that recognition, we better define our own goodness.…”

Afterward, she ascended the stairs with Moichi and took him behind the pulpit, through a plain but quite solid wooden door. They went down a short stone corridor at the end of which was another door. She knocked and immediately opened it.

They were in Don Hispete's rectory. It was small and cozy and cluttered in a quite homey way. There were several overstuffed chairs, a functional wooden desk and high-backed chair and shelves upon shelves of books all the way to the ceiling. Half of the left-hand wall was a leaded-glass window, beyond which he could see a leafy garden. A small door, half open, led out to it.

Don Hispete had apparently just sat down behind his desk but, when he saw them enter, he rose and came around the side to greet them.

“Senhora,” he said, smiling almost reverentially, and, bowing, he put his lips against the back of her proffered hand.

“Don Hispete,” the Senhora murmured, “we loved your sermon.” She turned as if startled to find someone standing next to her. “Oh, by the way, this is Moichi Annai-Nin, a friend of mine.”

“Bienvenido, senhor.” The priest inclined his head but did not extend his hand. The social amenities, it seemed, were reserved for those he knew well. “May I offer you a drink?” He was looking directly at the Senhora.

“Please.”

He reached out a tall crystal decanter three-quarters filled with deep red wine. He poured them all drinks and then, lifting his own goblet, said, “Salhud!” He drank deeply and they followed suit.

Don Hispete put his goblet down on the desk beside him and returned to his high-backed chair. He folded his hands across his stomach. “How may I be of assistance to you, senhora?”

“Has Hellsturm returned to Corruça?” she said abruptly.

The priest stroked his spade-shaped beard with one forefinger before spreading his hands. “Senhora, I cannot—”

But she had already risen, had gone across the small room. Now she stood before the window, apparently regarding the foliage of the garden.

“Such beautiful trees,” she said. “You know, Don Hispete, those olive trees, there, are old, very old indeed. Grandfathers of their line.”

“Yes, senhora. Indeed they are.”

“It's such a pity to destroy them.”

Once more, the priest spread his hands. They reminded Moichi of a sea anemone about to ensnare an unwary fish. “One hates to see the destruction of nature, senhora, wherever it might be. But in this case it serves the purpose of Dihos because it will further His glory.”

“Oh, yes.” Her voice was as sweet as honey. “The glory of Dihos must indeed be served, for that is the primary function of the Palliate. But, Don Hispete”—she turned away from the window to face the cura—“the Palliate cannot function without the support of the congregation, is that not so? I cannot imagine that the Palliate would pay for—well,
everything
.”

Two thin vertical lines had appeared in the center of the priest's brow.

“Is that not so?” she repeated.

Reluctantly, Don Hispete said, “It is so, senhora. But I fail to see what—”

“And this expansion that the iglesia is contemplating is expensive, is it not? Almost exorbitantly so, one might say.”

“Now really, senhora, I must—”

“And it requires the support—the
complete
support—of every parishioner, does it not, Don Hispete?”

“Yes, senhora, it does. But everyone must know he is expected to—”

“But those with, oh, shall we say, above-average wealth are being called upon with somewhat more, er, zeal than are the others.”

Don Hispete sat as still as a statue now.

“I am one of those, so I know firsthand, as it were.”

The priest tried to speak, had to clear his throat before beginning again. “The Senhora is not contemplating withdrawing her pledge.” His voice seemed thin and strangled now.

“Why, I
contemplate
nothing of the sort.” Her voice was still sweet but it was now obvious that she was mocking him. “Wherever did you get that idea? How absurd!”

She sat down beside Moichi. “Now,” she continued, “shall we return to my first query?”

“Senhora, you put me in quite a difficult position.” His face held a pained expression. “You know well that I cannot break my sacred trust to the Palliate.” A thin line of sweat was rolling slowly down one side of his face.

“I do so love those olive trees, Don Hispete. I had not realized until I came here just how much I would miss them if they were cut down. And, you know, now that I think of it, there are others who feel just the same way I do. Now—”

“Senhora, please—” His voice was a whine now. But her eyes had locked onto his and, at length, his gaze lowered to the hands clasped in his lap.

“He has been in the city,” he said softly. “Here and gone. He left at dawn.”

“What was he doing here?” Her voice was as sharp as a whiplash and Don Hispete winced under its dominance.

“That I do not know, senhora. This I swear.”

“It was not on business of the Palliate?”

The priest looked up, ashen-faced. He made a quick sign across his chest. “Dihos, no, senhora! We—we dismissed him after that last, uh, incident.”

“‘Incident.'” Her voice was filled with loathing and contempt. “Is that what you call it now? Well, you were always quick with the euphemisms.”

Don Hispete shuddered. “Please, senhora.” His voice had been reduced to a whisper.

“Who does he work for now?”

“I—I am not certain. I—”

She stood up and somehow it became one of the most threatening gestures Moichi had ever seen.

“I cannot tell you, senhora,” the priest babbled, clutching the gold chain about his neck as if he feared she might lose control altogether and strangle him.

“Don Hispete, this interview is terminated.” It had the finality of a door slam. She turned and, on cue, Moichi stood up.

“Wa—wait, senhora.” The cura rose, still fingering his chain. “Please.” She turned back, waiting calmly now that her victory was assured. He blew air in and out of his mouth in rapid gusts; the skin of his face was gleaming. “I have heard that he works now for La Saqueadora: Sardonyx.”

The Senhora cried out as if she had been run through with a blade.

Don Hispete came around the desk, his face filled with fear. “Senhora! What-?”

Moichi grabbed her, felt her trembling uncontrollably as if gripped by some terrible force.

“Get me out of here!” she gasped at him.

“What is it?”

“Quickly. For the love of Dihos!” she cried.
“Quickly!”

He picked her up and took her out, down the corridor, through the now empty iglesia proper.

On the wide stone steps, dazzling in the sunlight, he set her down.

“Senhora,” he said. “What happened?”

She kept her arms around him for support as she said, “You were right. Dihos, you were right. I understand it all now.”

“For God's sake, senhora, tell me!” he cried.

“Moichi, Sardonyx is the freebooter who was my partner so long ago.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “She vowed a terrible vengeance upon me and now it has come. Hellsturm will not honor his pact with me now; that was but part of the deceit. Dihos, he has taken her to Sardonyx! I am undone!” She sobbed against his shoulder.

“Senhora,” he said softly. “Senhora.” He stroked her hair, felt her soft-strong body quaking against him. He only partially understood her grief, he knew. But a tightening knot in his stomach made him realize his concern for Aufeya. The danger to her was not only real; it was dire. It was the northwest for him now, upon the fleetest of steeds. “Senhora,” he said, “I must go after Hellsturm. Now. And you can help me.”

She looked at him, tears still rimming her eyes. He tried to smile. “How ridiculous,” she said, “to continue to call me that. I cannot continue to be so formal with you, Moichi. Not now and not ever again.” He saw the dancing motes in her large jade eyes. “Call me Tsuki.”

He felt that all his breath had left him and, for a moment, he thought he might stumble. Kossori, he thought. Oh my God, Kossori! She is your love.

THREE:

The Firemask

Intimations

NORMALLY THE RAIN WOULD have worked against him but now he blessed its delayed arrival. The storm had stalled off the coast and now had turned around, heading inland with much of its initial force dissipated out at sea.

It did not matter to him that the hoofprints of the caravan were all but obliterated by the dust turned to mud, because he knew where they were bound.

He had Tsuki to thank for that as well as for the luma he now rode and the one whose reins were attached to the back of his saddle.