Wild Magic

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Four days later Juvalgrim sat sweltering in his Visitation Robes and contemplated the group gathered before him in the Council Chamber.

Tchah, I thought Manasso spite went with Kutakich. Looks like I removed a constrictor and got a viper in its place. Fuaz Yoyote, Manasso Prime. Does the office do it to them, or does it take that kind of man to make it there? Never been sure which it is. Sure? Fuaz surely knows how to chose a time for his strike.

Juvalgrim leaned forward, looked slowly from face to face. His strongest supporters were both away, Quiatnbo Prime in Corasso, Aboso Prime in the Infirmary recovering from a small stroke. He lingered on the Adjo Prime, saw him look away, drops of sweat oozing out of his burnt caramel face, as if he were starting to melt under the pressure. He always was a feather in the wind. Anacho looked troubled, but he was a man of ritual and pattern, with little imagination or empathy; he didn’t like having to stand against a High Kasso, but he hadn’t the strength to oppose the Prophet. Anaxo… Juvalgrim slid a hand across his mouth to hide the twitch of his lips. Anaxo Prime had put off his black robes for the Prophet’s coarse brown, let his beard and hair grow; his eyes were fierce and his posture so humble it shouted hubris. And there was young Fuaz, smug and serious.

The Prophet himself stood apart from the Primes with the General crouched at his feet like a dog. An adoring dog.

“And so?” Juvalgrim said. “What is this about?”

Fuaz bowed. “High Kasso, we have come to say the conduits from the Fountain to the city cisterns have been closed off.”

Juvalgrim straightened. “My instructions were to leave them open.”

“Chumavayal the Father of Waters requires it. The Prophet has given Chumavayal’s command and we have obeyed.”

Juvalgrim leaned back, pressed his palms together and set his middle fingers against his lips, his-forefingers fitting into the dip above his chin. He was angry, very angry, but he didn’t think it politic to show it. He brought his hands down, crossed them above the crystal of the Eye, and spoke softly, reasonably, using his deepest, most musical tones. “There are good people in that city, poor people, hardworking people, who can’t afford to pay Mal prices for aqueduct water-if there is any water left after the Maulapam and Cheoshim are finished with it. They will be driven to the River and you know it is unclean; do you want disease in the city along with everything else? And what of the true and faithful Ironmen in the Edge, families that give generously from the little they have? Are they worth nothing to Chumavayal?”

The Prophet strode forward, banged the butt of his staff on the floor. “Chumavayal is just and compassionate. If those you speak of are truly good and faithful servants, let them come to the Fountain and be blessed. They will be given what they need. If they are sinners and recreant, it is better that they die.” His eyes widened, went suddenly a brilliant red. “Chumavayal says: Look to your own soul, foolish man, it may be that I will require it soon.” His mouth worked, half-lost in the tangle of mustache and beard. “Chumavayal says: Water is MY Gift. If it is misused, I will take it back.” He shivered, the red faded. “The Fountain will go dry if the conduits are not sealed off.”

“I see.” I do indeed; the lot of you are so frightened by this stinking fanatic, you’d castrate yourselves to please him. He snorted. And I’m no better. If I had a spine… ah well, the third way, Ju, remember what you told Fitchon. Find the third way. There’s no point in disputing with this lot. “Chumavayal’s will be done.” He paused, straightened and let his anger show. “Next time, however, be more faithful to the Rule. Inform me before you act, not after. For your lapse,” he smiled sweetly at the new Manasso Prime, “I decree to each of you a penance; a Chant of ten Chains before the Forge. Blessed be Chumavayal.”