"God and Satan are in their cages; all's right with the world."
—John Sable
Sable stood between Pietre Veshinsky and Orestes Mela in a small cemetery on the outskirts of Amaymon and watched a plain casket being lowered into the ground.
Events had moved rapidly during the past four days. Justice, always swift on Walpurgis, had raced forward as if Satan himself were breathing down its neck. Within two hours after his return to the city, Jericho had been tried in a small courtroom with no jury, no reporters, and no court stenographer in attendance; even Sable had been barred from the proceedings.
He had been found guilty, condemned to death, and taken to a maximum-security cell, where he killed two guards and got as far as a service stairwell before he was apprehended and returned to confinement. While Jericho's escape attempt was occurring, numerous dignitaries from both the government and the clergy were conferring behind locked doors. Their meeting broke up in the early evening and the sentence was carried out before midnight.
Jericho's burial was delayed until Mela, representing the Republic, arrived three days later. He had requested, and was given, measurements and photographs of the body.
And now Sable stood, ignoring the light drizzle that was starting to fall, and watched the grave being filled in with dirt and rubble.
"No headstone?" asked Veshinsky.
"We never knew his name," replied Sable.
"His code name was Jericho," said Mela, drawing his Jacket more tightly about him, "but no one knows who he really was."
"Well," said Veshinsky, "the important thing is that he completed his mission."
"I quite agree," said Mela. "That was the Republic's main concern—and of course we regard the apprehension and execution of Jericho as an extra bonus."
"I wonder how he got so far without being stopped?" mused Veshinsky.
"Who?" asked Sable.
"Bland, of course."
"Who knows?" said Mela. "Anyway, the main thing is that he's dead."
"True," agreed Veshinsky. "We've even established a national day of mourning for him." He chuckled ironically.
"For that monster?" said Mela. "What will happen when the public finds out what really took place in Tifereth?"
"They won't," said Veshinsky.
"Sooner or later they've got to!" persisted Mela.
"Who will tell them, Mr. Mela?" asked Veshinsky dryly. "Will you, who commissioned his death? Will the government, who begged you to send Jericho after him? Will the clergy, who demanded that we give him sanctuary and then lost control of him? No, the only man who might have told them was Jericho, and he's dead now."
"What about the press?"
"We control the press," answered Veshinsky with a smile. "It is in everyone's best interest to believe that Bland was a martyr, just as it is in all of our best interests that the assassin has been brought before the bar of justice and made to pay the penalty for his heinous deed. Isn't that right, John?"
"Yes, Pietre," said Sable. "That's right." Even if, he added mentally, it's right for the wrong reason.
The rain began coming down in earnest, and the three men left the unmarked grave and returned to the parking lot. Veshinsky suggested that Sable's driver take Mela to the spaceport while he and Sable rode in his limousine.
"I just want you to know, John," said Veshinsky as his chauffeur steered the huge car along the slick streets, "that we're all very proud of you. You've got quite a bright future ahead of you."
"Thank you," said Sable.
"There will be a raise and a promotion, of course, and just between you and me, I understand that the City Council is also cooking up a little ceremony to honor you."
"I'm very appreciative."
"You certainly don't sound it, John," said Veshinsky, concern showing on his face. "You haven't been yourself since you got back."
"It takes a little time to adjust to things after Tifereth."
Veshinsky rubbed the mist from his window and watched the rain as it hit the street.
"What was it like?" he asked at last.
"You've seen the carvings on the Church of the Messenger?" replied Sable, and Veshinsky nodded. "This was worse."
"I see," said Veshinsky soberly. "Mela had been to New Rhodesia just after Bland escaped. He told me about it in some detail."
"Whatever he saw, it couldn't have been as bad as Tifereth."
Sable shuddered and turned up his collar as if for warmth.
Veshinsky paused for a moment.
"How's Siboyan?"
"Fine."
"How did she react to the news of Bland's death?"
"Like most of the others," Sable said quietly. "She's sorry I wasn't able to save him."
"You haven't told her about him yet?"
"I don't discuss my cases outside the office."
Veshinsky smiled. "That's a very wise policy, John." He lit a cigar and offered one to Sable, who refused it. "I've got a couple of tickets for the fight next week. Care to come along?"
"Thanks for the invitation, Pietre, but I think I've seen enough bloodshed to last me for quite some time."
The limousine turned onto Sable's street.
"There's one thing that's been puzzling me," said Veshinsky. "If Bland was everything you and Mela say, why didn't you let Jericho go?"
Sable stared long and hard at his old friend, and wondered if he could explain it to him; indeed, if he could ever explain it to anyone. Finally he shrugged.
"He broke the law."
Veshinsky looked at the end of his cigar for a long moment. "If that's the way you want it, John. The subject is closed." The limousine came to a stop in front of Sable's house. "I'll be seeing you. And don't look so glum—you're a hero!"
Sable waved to him as the huge car pulled away, then entered the house. The children were still at school and Siboyan was off shopping. Even the cat seemed to have disappeared.
He walked slowly from room to room, wondering if he would ever get the stench of Tifereth out of his system. As he passed the statue of Cali he toyed with taking it down and putting it away in a closet, as he had done with the statue and baphomet in his office, then decided against it.
Siboyan still believed, and the kids believed as deeply as kids were able to. If they ever came face to face with their own Tifereths—and he hoped they never did—they'd put the statue away quickly enough. In the meantime, it was just plaster and paint; it represented nothing more to him than he cared to have it represent.
He walked to the bedroom and slowly got into his gardening clothes. The rain had stopped, the sun was starting to break through the clouds, and he had work to do. The garden, like his life, was in a state of temporary disrepair; he would have to tend to both, each in its turn.
At least, he thought with a sigh, the weeds had been eradicated from his life. He had survived the dark and the cold of the night. It would take some time, but he would flourish and grow again.
He turned his attention to the garden.