But the caviandis are ancient, ancient as the People themselves.

The story is all there in the minds of these two, as though the memories are inborn, transmitted with the blood from mother to child. Cold winds sweeping across the Great World cities — the noble reptilian sapphire-eyes people waiting staunchly for their doom — the frail vegetal folk withering in the early blasts — the pale, hairless, mysterious humans now and again visible, moving calmly through the gathering chaos—

And the caviandis, adapting, burrowing into shallow tunnels, coming forth now and again to cut through the ice that covered their fishing-streams—

In wonder Hresh realizes that these creatures were able to survive the Long Winter outdoors, unprotected. While we hid ourselves away. While we cowered in holes in the rocks. And now, having lived on into the New Springtime, they find themselves hunted and slain and roasted for their meat by those who have come forth at long last from their hiding-places — or captured and put in pens, so that they could be studied—

Yet they hold no anger toward him, or toward his kind. That is, perhaps, the most amazing thing of all.

Hresh opens himself to them as fully as he can. He wants them to see his soul itself, and read it, and understand that there is no evil in it. He tries to make them realize that he has not brought them here to harm them, but only because he wishes to reach their spirits, which he could not have achieved in the wild lands where they lived. They can have their freedom whenever they want it, he tells them — this very day, even — now that he has learned what he had hoped to learn.

To this they are indifferent. They have their swift cool stream; they have their snug burrows; fish are plentiful here. They are content. How little they ask of life, really. And yet they have names. They know the history of the world. How strange they are, how simple, and yet so complex.

Now they seem to lose interest in him. Or else they are weary; for Hresh himself feels his energy running low, and knows he can’t sustain the contact much longer. A grayness is sweeping over his mind. Fog enfolds him.

There is more he wants to learn from them, much more. But that will have to wait. This has been a fruitful enough beginning. He lets the contact slip away.

Dawn, now. The day of the Games of Dawinno, the annual celebration commemorating the founding of the city and honoring its tutelary god.

For the chieftain a busy day lay ahead. So were they all, all busy days; but this one would be busier than most, for today she faced a conflict of rituals. By coincidence the opening of the Festival and the Rite of the Hour of Nakhaba were both due to be celebrated this day, and she was required to be present at both of them, more or less simultaneously.

At sunrise she’d have to be at the Beng temple to light the candle marking the Hour of Nakhaba. Then she would have to make her way — on foot, no less, no palanquins allowed, humility before the gods! — all the way out to Koshmar Park to declare the Festival officially open. And then back to the Bengs by midday to make sure that Nakhaba had properly achieved his re-entry into the world, after his journey on high to see the Creator and discuss the problems of the world with Him. Off to the Festival of Dawinno again, then, to preside over the afternoon’s round of athletic competitions.

All these gods! All these ceremonies!

In the simpler days long ago some of this would have fallen to Boldirinthe. But Boldirinthe was old and fat now, and turning a little silly, and in any event how could Boldirinthe preside over the Beng rite? To the Bengs she was nothing at all. Whatever authority the offering-woman had, it was confined entirely to those who still thought of themselves only as folk of the Koshmar tribe, and who clung to the old religion of the Five Heavenly Ones.

No, Taniane had to do the Hour of Nakhaba herself, not because she had a drop of Beng blood in her, or because she believed for a moment that Nakhaba existed or that he went on periodic trips to visit some still higher god far away, but because she was the head of the government here, who ruled over Koshmars and Bengs alike. Under the terms of the Act of Union she was in effect the successor to the whole long line of Beng chieftains. So Taniane would be there, at sunrise, to light the candle that sent the god of the Bengs on his way to the home of the Creator-god.

But first, there was this bothersome business with Husathirn Mueri—

He had sent a messenger to her late the night before, begging her for a private audience, telling her it couldn’t be delayed even a single day. “A matter of the highest seriousness,” he said. “Concerning the dangers to the city, and to herself, that certain activities of your daughter are creating. I can hardly underestimate the importance of these affairs.”

Undoubtedly he couldn’t. For Husathirn Mueri everything was a matter of the highest seriousness, especially if he saw something for himself in it. That was the way he was. All the same, Taniane didn’t care to spurn him. He was too useful a man; and he had powerful connections with the Beng community on his father’s side. If this concerned Nialli Apuilana — and if it really was serious, not just a ploy to enable him to get her attention—

She sent word that she would see him at her official residence, in the hour before dawn.

When she came downstairs in the morning Husathirn Mueri had already arrived and was pacing restlessly in the grand vestibule. The day was cool and overcast, with a light drizzle falling. He looked dapper and trim despite the rain. His thick black fur was impeccably groomed, and the white stripes that ran through it, so poignantly reminiscent of his mother Torlyri, stood out brilliantly.

He bowed elaborately as she entered, and made the sign of Dawinno at her, and for good measure wished her joy of Nakhaba’s favor. That was bothersome, all that piety coming from him. It was no secret to her how little faith he had in any of the gods, be they Beng or Koshmar.

Impatiently she said, not troubling to make holy signs at him in return, “Well, what is it, Husathirn Mueri?”

“Shall we talk here? In the vestibule?”

“It’s as good a place as any.”

“I had hoped — someplace a little more secluded—”

Taniane cursed silently. “Come with me, then. Hresh has a little study just off this hallway.”

A nervous look. “Will Hresh be there?”

“He gets up in the middle of the night and goes off to the House of Knowledge to play with his toys. Is this something Hresh isn’t supposed to know?”

“I’ll leave that to you to decide, lady,” Husathirn Mueri said. “My sole interest is in sharing it with you, but if you think the chronicler should be informed, well—”

“All right,” said Taniane. “Come.” She was growing more annoyed by the moment. All this bowing and shuffling, and this making of signs to honor gods he didn’t believe in, and these oily circumlocutions—

She led the way to the study and closed the door behind them. The place was a clutter of Hresh’s pamphlets and manuscripts. Through the narrow window she saw that the drizzle was turning now to heavy rain. The Festival would be ruined. She could see herself standing up there in the chieftain’s seat at the stadium, soaking wet, tossing down the smoldering sputtering torch that was supposed to inaugurate the races.

“So,” she said. “Here we are. A secluded place.”

“I have two things to report,” said Husathirn Mueri. “The first comes to me from the guards of the justiciary, who have been keeping watch on the hjjk ambassador at my orders.”

“You said this was about Nialli Apuilana.”

“So it is. But I also said it concerns a danger to the city also. I’d prefer to tell you that part of it first, if I may.”