McCann went to a window — just a hole in the wall, unglazed. He called, “We need water and food. And tell him, Sprigge! Tell your Praisegod Michael we are Englishmen! It will go worse for you if you fail!”

McCann shook him awake. “We have an invitation to dinner, Malenfant! How jolly exciting.”

A sullen Zealot had brought them a wooden pail of water. They both inspected this suspiciously; they were ferociously thirsty, but in the dim light diffusing from the window, the water looked cloudy.

McCann shrugged. “Needs must.” He plunged his hands into the water and scooped up mouthfuls, which he gulped down.

Malenfant followed suit. The water tasted sour, but it had no odour.

When they were done they used the rest of the water to wash themselves. Malenfant cleaned dried blood and grit out of wounds on his bare feet, wrists and neck.

McCann used the water to slick down his hair. He even produced a tie from one jacket pocket and knotted it around his neck. “Impression is everything,” he said to Malenfant. “Outer form. Get that right and the rest follows. Eh?”

The door was pushed open, its leather hinges creaking. Sprigge walked in, looking as dusty as when they had all walked in from the plains. “You have your wish, gentlemen.” He raised his fist. “But any defiance or dissimulation and you’ll know my wrath.”

McCann and Malenfant nodded silently.

They were led out of the hut, into a broad compound. It was raining, and the evening was drawing in. The ground was just red dirt, hard-packed by the passage of human feet. But it was heavily rain-soaked, and Malenfant felt the mud seep between his naked toes.

People moved between the huts, carrying food and tools or leading children by the hand. They seemed to be humans, but they were small, skinny, stunted folk, dressed in filthy skin rags. There were no lanterns, and the only light inside the huts came from fire hearths.

McCann murmured to him like a tour guide. “They do not approach us; the authority of this Praisegod Michael of theirs is binding. Look there. I think that hut yonder is a house of ill-fame.”

“A what?… Oh. A brothel.”

“Yes, but a brothel stocked with Runners — women and boys, so far as I can tell. There are contradictions here, Malenfant. We have a community run by this Praisegod fellow, seemingly on rigid religious lines. And yet here is a bordello operating openly.”

The rain grew heavier. The Zealot compound was turning to a muddy swamp. The buildings seemed to slump in defeat, as if sliding back down into the earth from which they had been dragged. And the people, humans. Runners and Hams alike were wan figures, all the same dun colour, images of misery.

McCann stamped through puddles contemptuously. “These people don’t know what they are doing,” he barked. “We coped rather better. Culverts! Storm drains!” And with broad sweeps of his arms he sketched an ambitious drainage system.

They were brought to the compound’s central structure, the solid-looking chapel. Well, maybe it really was a chapel; now Malenfant saw it had a narrow spire.

Sprigge led the two of them along a short, dark hallway. Grilles of tightly interwoven wooden laths were set in the floor. Malenfant glanced down. He thought he saw movement, eyes peering up at him. But the light was uncertain.

They arrived at a large, bright room. It had neat rectangular windows unglazed, but covered with sheets of what looked like woven and scraped palm leaves, so that they admitted a cool yellow light. Lanterns burned on the walls, each just a stone bowl cupping oil within which a wick floated, burning smokily. At the head of the room was a stone fireplace, impressively constructed from heavy red blocks — perhaps ejecta from the crater field they had crossed. No fire burned beneath the blackened chimney stack, but there was a large, impressive crucifix set over the fireplace. At the other end of the room was a plain altar, set with goblets and plates, all of it carved from wood.

At the centre of the room was a small, unevenly made, polished wooden table. A man sat behind the table, eating steadily. There were no plates; the man ate bits of fish and meat off what looked like slabs of thick bread.

The man wore a black robe that swept to the ground, with a napkin thrown over his shoulder. A band of silver-grey hair surrounding a crown that looked shaved, like a tonsure. His narrow face was disfigured by warts.

This was, presumably, Praisegod Michael. He ignored Malenfant and McCann.

Behind Praisegod two Ham women stood, backed up against the wall. They were both dressed in modest, all-covering dresses of soft leather, and they kept their eyes on the floor.

Sprigge nudged McCann, and indicated they should sit on the floor before the table. McCann complied readily enough. Malenfant followed his lead. Sprigge stepped back, and took a station at the corner of the room.

As Praisegod Michael ate, everybody in the room waited in silence.

Malenfant couldn’t take his eyes off the food.

There was a puree of what looked like chicken mixed in with rice and some kind of nuts. An animal like a young piglet, roasted, had been carved and set before Michael, and he picked at its white flesh. Other side dishes included some kind of beans cooked in what smelled like meat stock, and mushrooms in a kind of cream, and a green salad. There was even wine — or anyhow it looked like wine, served in a delicately carved wooden goblet.

At length Praisegod Michael slowed down. More than half the piglet was left on its serving plate. Michael belched, and mopped his lip with a scrap of cloth.

Then he looked up, directly into Malenfant’s eyes. Malenfant was jolted by the intensity of his gaze.

One of the Ham women behind him stepped forward. Malenfant was startled to recognize Julia. With heavy grace she took the unfinished dishes from Michael, and set them on the floor before McCann and Malenfant.

Malenfant reached straight for the pork, but McCann touched his arm.

McCann closed his eyes. “For this blessing. Lord, we thank you.”

Michael watched coldly. Now McCann began to eat, using his fingers to tear at the pork.

Malenfant followed suit.

Michael spoke. “Your Ham girl is well-tempered,” he said to Malenfant. His voice was deep, commanding, but his accent was powerfully strange.

Malenfant said, “She isn’t my anything.”

McCann said quickly, “She has an even nature, and is wise for a Ham.”

Michael’s gaze swivelled to McCann. “I know of you, or at least men who speak like you. Once one was brought here.”

McCann blanched. “Russell. Is he—”

“He died for his sins.”

There was a long silence. McCann’s eyes were closed, even as he chewed steadily on the meat. Then he said carefully, “There are only a handful of us — a handful, and Hams and Runners. We have no women, no children. We are weak old men,” he said, looking directly at Michael. “We are no threat to your — umm, your expansion.”

Michael got out of his chair. Tall, cadaverously thin, his arms clasped before his belly, he walked around the table and studied McCann and Malenfant. “My soldiers will spare them.”

“They live in God,” McCann said fervently.

Michael nodded. “Then let them die in God. But you talk of an expansion.”

McCann said hastily, “I am sorry if—”

“Whenever anything in this world is exalted, or exalts itself, God will pull it down, for He alone will be exalted,” said Praisegod Michael. His speech was rapid, his delivery flat. He laid his hand on Julia’s flat brow; she did not react. “My language is not of kingdoms and kings, empires and emperors. No king I, but a Protector,” he said.

McCann was nodding vigorously. “I see that. Yes, I see that. As men we are different — we come from different worlds — but differences between men are as nothing compared to the gulf between men and animals. There are few enough strong men scattered over this world, Praisegod Michael, to shoulder the responsibility.”