Aharon said nothing, but he felt a deep repulsion. Dear God, what was he going to have to witness?

“The punishment for heretics is brutal. It will be bloody, even grotesque. You cannot react.”

Aharon moved his arm sluggishly to clutch the chair. “Must I go? Why?”

“Because,” Kobinski said coolly, “it will benefit me. And I, in turn, am your only chance of survival. I told you my position is tenuous. The sight of you will impress the masses—if you don’t do anything stupid. Don’t show your emotions. Don’t do anything at all. If you can’t bear what you’re seeing, look down at your lap. Do you understand?”

Aharon nodded. He wanted to refuse, but he knew that wasn’t an option.

“In a way, you’re quite fortunate to have arrived so close to Festival. It means Argeh has been too busy to bother with you—yet. You learn to milk good fortune for all it’s worth on Fiori.” Kobinski smiled thinly.

“I have you,” Aharon said. “That is the greatest good fortune.”

“Is it? We shall see.”

They left town by carriage—a crude, heavy thing that made Aharon feel as if he had gone back in time, was riding to a shetl in the frozen Polish countryside in the Middle Ages. The coach had small windows cut into the door. There was no glass, and the icy wind howled through. Gravity pinned Aharon to the hard seat. He pressed his hands down on the bench to keep himself upright—a straining, monumental task—as the wheels jarred against the rocky ground. Across from him was Kobinski in his mask, and next to him was Tevach. The Fiore’s big dark eyes darted between him and Kobinski, as if trying to figure out their relationship. Not so dumb, that one.

The town consisted of little more than a few large stone buildings, numerous hovels, mud and rocks, filthy beggars. Aharon averted his eyes from the hanging carcasses of meat in the town square—carcasses that looked squat and muscled and horribly familiar. He tried not to think of the food that had been forced on him since he’d been here.

They hadn’t gone far when something struck the carriage. There was a hard crash on the door, followed by three or four smaller missiles. My Lord stiffened and grasped the edge of his seat. Outside, Aharon heard the snarls of Kobinski’s guards who rode into the crowd to find the culprits. The mask revealed nothing.

“Friends of yours?” Aharon asked.

“I told you there were problems. There’s been some… vandalism to my images. Organized, it seems.”

“Argeh?”

“No.” Kobinski paused. “I don’t think so.”

Tevach was plucking at Kobinski’s sleeve repeatedly.

“What is it, Tevach?” Kobinski turned to him irritably.

“Forgive me, My Lord, but… there… there is a prisoner… a heretic…”

Before the cringing Tevach could get his full sentence out or Kobinski take the umbrage he was gathering himself to take, the carriage slowed and one of the guards looked in the window. He addressed Kobinski in the growling Fiorian language.

Which meant, Aharon surmised with profound dread, that they had arrived.

My Lord made his appearance in the official box to the usual fanfare. He was greeted with cheers, though they were weaker than they had been even last year. Argeh was present, his own chair a few steps down and to the right of My Lord’s. He turned, a challenge in his eyes. My Lord ignored him.

My Lord waited until the audience was distracted with one of the events; then he motioned to Tevach to carry Aharon in and place him in the next seat. As the Fiore caught sight of “the messenger” an electrified tension rushed around the arena, a kind of mass inhale. Soon everyone was looking at the box, rising to their feet to see over one another’s heads.

Aharon, feeling their stares, began to shake.

“Everything’s fine,” My Lord said, putting his hand on Aharon’s arm.

The gesture was one of domination, and it was meant for the crowd. For maximum effect he had left Aharon unmasked. Years ago, when he’d first arrived, it had been Ehlah’s idea to mask him so that his face would not cause undue alarm. It worked, but not for that reason. What the Fiore imagined behind the mask was even more awesome than what was really there. But that dread had worn off. They needed a reminder. And as he’d told Aharon, when you lived on Fiori you milked good fortune for every drop you could get.

My Lord stood and held up his arms. “You have heard that Mahava sent me a messenger from Heaven,” he spoke loudly. “Today we welcome him to our festival and show him the depth of our devotion!”

The crowd did not respond with quite the hysterical jubilation he had hoped for, but there was moderate pounding of staves. My Lord sat down. He glanced at Argeh, who rose and, without commenting on the visitor or even looking at him, motioned for the ceremonies to go on.

Aharon spoke low at his side: “Why do you do it? Why do you trick these people into thinking you’re some kind of divine being?”

“Be silent,” My Lord said. “Unless you want to get us both killed.”

He was angry with himself that he had not spent more time preparing Aharon. It would be dangerous if the Jew made a fool of himself today. But he had avoided the mere sight of the man, with his long, proud beard, the yeshiva cadence of his voice, those burning, self-righteous eyes—these things triggered too many memories, were too much of an immediate window back to a time and place that was gone and buried. By avoiding Handalman, My Lord was avoiding Kobinski.

Yet the Jew seemed different today, softer. Perhaps it was simply that he wasn’t talking so much.

Down in the arena, they brought in the great statues of Mahava and Magehna. Magehna was squatting, in her divine position of elimination, and Mahava was standing imperious, above it all. They looked like Fiore, naturally, though taller and lighter of bone, with the smooth, round features that My Lord had learned to recognize as a standard of beauty. The statues were made from stone, and the great carts that wheeled them groaned under the crushing weight. Around the statues were piled displays of the meager harvest of Fiori: sheaves of their plant staple, gha, berries, and newly sacrificed animals, including dressed Fiore carcasses. On Earth, it would have been impossible to conceptualize having every remotely edible thing on the planet in attendance, but here they could manage it, though not easily. Some of the foodstuffs had been brought from around the world, traveling as long as several years to get here. The seas on Fiori were notoriously treacherous and the land endlessly dull and unsustaining. The crowd stood and cheered at the bountiful display.

My Lord, more to keep Aharon calm than anything else, explained the ritual to his guest. He told him the story of Mahava and Magehna, his wife, who shat out Fiore.

Aharon questioned him with a frown, “You told me that you thought the souls who were embodied here were…”

“Gevorah/chochmah.”

“Yes. I was reading about that in your manuscript.”

My Lord was surprised at the mention of the work. He kept forgetting it was here. It was another incongruous bit of the past that didn’t fit into the present.

“If the religiously strict of Earth reincarnate here—” Aharon said.

“Not just Earth, from all over the ladder.”

“Yes, but some are from Earth.”

“Probably.”

“So how could they worship these idols? If they were so rigid in their faith, wouldn’t they worship the One True God here as well?”

My Lord snorted incredulously. “What do you expect? That they’d call Him Yahweh? Make him look like a long-bearded human patriarch?”

The Jew looked embarrassed. “No… but… but there are two of them, and one is a female. Shouldn’t they at least be monotheists?”