He heard the door, soft, quiet sounds, and when he opened his eyes Tevach stood by his chair. Aharon had made himself get out of bed for the past two days, fighting his way to the chair and back. His muscles were stiff and painful, but walking was easier.

“Tevach,” he said, genuinely glad to see him. “And how is Ko— How is My Lord?”

“He talks to no one.” The Fiore’s nose twitched like a rodent’s. He seemed to push himself to speak. “I came—I came to see the new Scriptures. I wished you would be sleeping.”

Aharon wasn’t sure he cared for the word Scriptures, but he had the manuscript on his lap, and he offered it to Tevach. Tevach gazed down at it in his hands with awe.

“I read a little. The night you came, when My Lord slept.”

Aharon was surprised Tevach would admit it, and more surprised that he was able to read Hebrew as well as speak it.

“He does not care for the Scripture.” Tevach spit on the floor.

“Tevach, My Lord wrote it.”

Tevach looked confused. “He…”

“Long ago.”

Tevach gazed at the manuscript with new bewilderment. “I did not understand what I read.”

Aharon made a nu gesture. “It’s not easy. I have a hard time myself.”

“Would you teach me?” Tevach cowered, as if expecting to be punished for making such an outrageous request, but his eyes had a mind of their own. They gazed into Aharon’s openly.

He felt the answer in his heart. “I’ll try to teach you, yes. If you wish.”

Tevach looked tremendously pleased. He glanced nervously toward the door. “Would you… Would you also please… yes?… to speak to another Fiore about it? Very important. I could take you tonight.”

This was something else entirely. Aharon knew at once that it was a treacherous idea—to leave his room? To speak with other Fiore about something Argeh would consider heresy? And yet the answer was in his heart just as clearly and immediately as the previous answer had been.

“Yes, Tevach. I believe that I would.”

Tevach returned long after darkness had fallen. Aharon had spent the time in meditation, struggling with waves of uncertainty and fear. But he felt no better by the time Tevach arrived. The Fiore was carrying one of Kobinski’s cloaks and a golden mask.

“This is an old mask he won’t miss,” Tevach said in response to the look on Aharon’s face. “My Lord sleeps now.”

“But, Tevach—”

“Fiore can see us in halls.” Tevach thrust the disguise at him. “Wear this.”

Aharon reluctantly took the things. He’d pictured a short distance to the carriage with almost everyone asleep. Now he was not so sure. But Tevach didn’t give him time to change his mind. He helped Aharon into the robe and mask, as he must have helped Kobinski a thousand times; then his hand was around Aharon’s waist, supporting him out into the hall.

The guards Kobinski had posted at his door paid no attention to them. They made a show of not looking at Aharon, contemplating the ceiling, the walls, scratching their chins, picking their teeth. It would have been funny if Aharon were not so afraid. He wondered if Kobinski knew how influential his little servant was. They moved through the halls with Aharon’s arm slung over Tevach’s shoulder, his legs struggling to keep up. They saw no one as they left the House, a blessing for which Aharon gave thanks; then they were out into the icy night.

A carriage was waiting. Inside, Aharon could not make out Tevach’s face across from him in the dark. Again his courage failed him. He was suddenly afraid to be alone with this strange beast, defying Kobinski, his only human protector. He was afraid to be back out in the bloody streets, afraid of where he was going. He had agreed to speak, god have mercy. What would Argeh do to him if he was caught? Would he die in the arena on one of those black devices?

He closed his eyes and gripped the rough plank seat inside the rocking carriage. Where had that quiet, sure voice gone? He prayed again for chesed, fill me with love, but this time fear kept his heart curled tight as a fist.

They didn’t travel far. When the carriage stopped they were outside a large building. Its dark stones and craggy lines sent his heart knocking. It was a terrible place; he could feel it—pure evil. Although it was very late, there were guards in front of the door.

“Tevach, what is this?”

“We go see Ahtdeh.”

“Ahtdeh?”

“The one from the Festival—you remember. You said, ‘No.’ ”

A terrible understanding filled Aharon. He blanched. “But… ! You didn’t say… ! This is a prison!”

“No worry. My Lord comes here all the time.”

“I can’t!” Aharon shook his head, looking at the awful place. “No. I can’t.”

Tevach was quiet. The carriage sat in front of the building. The guards stood outside, glancing at them from time to time. They carried torches, and their faces seemed more bestial, more demonic, than any Fiorian faces Aharon had ever seen. He kept shaking his head. Finally he looked at Tevach. The Fiore was staring out the window at nothing, his eyes dry, his mouse-face perfectly defeated. It was a face used to defeat, and that only made Aharon feel guiltier.

But the heretic is going to die! Aharon wanted to shout. Why should I teach him? It’s useless!

Had he doubted there was a God? Oh ho! And ah ha! He was there all right, and when He wanted to test you, to see if the “big changes” you claimed to be making were all talk or otherwise, He really knew how to stick it to you!

“Yes, Tevach,” Aharon sighed. “Okay, yes, all right already, what are we waiting for?”

Tevach helped him from the carriage, led him up the steps of the prison supporting his weight, just as he supported My Lord’s. Kobinski must come here often, because the guards didn’t question him. They fell to the ground at the sight of the mask and stayed that way until the two of them were inside. Well. Good then. He might actually survive this night.

Inside, the place was lit by torches. The cramped stone corridors, low-ceilinged and filthy, were empty. There were only the sounds of moans and sobs, enough to curdle your blood. Tevach helped him down several flights of stairs and turned into an arched hall so low Aharon had to stoop. It was lined with cells. Aharon kept his eyes on the floor, knowing that he didn’t want to see what was in them. The heretic’s cell was at the end of the hall, fitted with a heavy door with a grilled window. This cell had guards, two of them, tough Fiorian priests. But the mask was fierce and confident, even if Aharon was not, and Tevach—thank god, who could have guessed the mouse had it in him?—spoke authoritatively and the guards let them inside without any fuss.

“I am clever,” Tevach whispered gleefully in the darkened cell. “I told them My Lord wished to question the heretic about the vandalism to his images. Is that not clever?”

“Yes, Tevach,” Aharon sighed. Clever enough to get us killed.

“Here is Ahtdeh.”

As Aharon’s eyes adjusted to the light in the cell, he could make out a shape lying in the corner. It looked like a heap of bloodstained rags, but when Tevach went to it and gently turned it over, his paws stroking, soothing low sounds coming from his throat, Aharon recognized the bundle as the Fiore from the arena. The way he looked, he should have been dead, but he was not dead. He responded to Tevach’s urgings, gathering himself up slowly from the floor. When he saw Aharon, he stiffened, hate on his face.

Tevach growled and whined in that beast-tongue; then he came over and took the mask away. They looked at each other, Aharon and the heretic, man to man, yes, man to man. If you looked into the heretic’s eyes, you knew, without any doubt, that he was a man.

The heretic motioned with his eyes to Tevach, and Aharon had the distinct feeling he had been accepted. He felt his heart stir again with that simple act of trust.