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Chapter 21

 
"Why should anyone wish to wind up in Hell, except to take charge of it?"
—Conrad Bland

 

Sable paced off the boundaries of his room for perhaps the thousandth time: twelve feet by ten, with a sink and a toilet in one corner. The room was no longer under guard; the door was no longer locked. After their conversation two days ago, Bland had given him run of the church.

The problem was that he didn't want the run of it. The only place free from the sight of torture and unendurable agony was this room, so he remained here, refusing to set foot outside of it until Bland commanded his presence once again.

The room had been stripped of all religious artifacts, as had the rest of the church. A photograph of Bland, taken at night on some distant planet, hung above the bed, and Sable hadn't quite mustered the courage to remove it. There was a small bookcase, filled with magazines containing short articles Bland had written over the years for various fringe groups and extremist political factions. Sable had read them for lack of anything better to do with his time, and decided that Bland had had his tongue tucked firmly in his cheek as he discussed his philosophic principles, which usually were in full agreement with the sponsoring group.

Finally, tired of pacing and in no mood to read any more of Bland's tracts, he sat down on a small wooden chair, put his feet up on the side of the bed, clasped his hands behind his head, leaned back, and thought of home. He hoped Siboyan was keeping the boys out of his garden and remembering to water it, and he made a mental note to naturalize some more daffodils in the front yard if he ever managed to get out of Tifereth alive. He thought his daughter had a birthday coming up, but when he tried to remember the date he found to his chagrin that he couldn't. He could picture her now, studying in her room before dinner, writing pedantic essays with the dignity only a nine-year-old schoolgirl who is out to impress her teacher can muster, and planning what video shows to watch after dinner. Later Siboyan would give the two boys their nightly lecture about getting their homework done on time and send them shuffling and grousing to their room (where they would lock the door, make properly studious noises, and probably engage in a hot game of cards).

He had taken them all—even Siboyan—for granted for years now. If he came out of this alive, he would never do so again. The more he thought of his family the more he physically ached to be with them, to wrestle with the boys and let his daughter explain some obscure scientific or legalistic principle to him, to fall asleep with his arms around Siboyan and his head on her small breasts which looked so firm but felt so soft.

If he got out of this alive.

If . . .

Suddenly his door opened and a tall redheaded woman, wearing the costume of the Daughters of Delight, entered the room.

Sable studied her with a practiced eye. She had been quite lovely once, and she was attractive still, but he could see the tiny scars where silicon forms had been inserted into her breasts, and the too-smooth skin around her eyes was a dead giveaway of a recent facelift. Her hair was a little too red to be natural, her lips were too bright, and even her nipples showed touches of body rouge. He put her age at fifty, though from a distance of thirty-five feet she could have passed for half that.

She stood before him, aware of his gaze, and stared right back at him, unblinking.

"So you're John Sable," she said at last Her voice was low, and with a discernible effort she made it sound almost husky.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am the Magdalene Jezebel."

"The High Priestess?"

"The High Priestess emeritus," she corrected him with a smile that somehow made her face look harsher. "The Magdalene Hecate is the High Priestess of the Daughters of Delight these days."

She walked over to the bed and sat down on it absently testing the springs. "It's very uncomfortable," she announced at last.

He shrugged.

"Believe me, Mr. Sable—beds are my specialty, and this is much too lumpy."

"Possibly you can get me a better one," he said.

"I'll speak to My Lord Bland about it."

"I assume you are not a prisoner here," he said dryly.

"That's correct."

"Why did you come to my room?"

"Just curiosity," said the Magdalene Jezebel. "My Lord Bland seems quite taken with you, so I wanted to meet you for myself."

"And is your curiosity satisfied now?"

"Not even a little bit. For instance, I notice that you wear the amulet of the Cult of Cali. I had rather expected you to be a practitioner of voodoo."

"Why does everyone assume that all black men must necessarily believe in voodoo?" he said irritably. "You go around chopping chickens' heads off and singing Gregorian chants backward and see how you like it."

"I'm sorry if I offended you," she said easily. "Besides, personal beliefs don't really make much difference now that Conrad Bland has arrived."

"Speaking of Bland, do you know what he plans to do with me?"

"He's grown very fond of you for some reason. He truly doesn't want to kill you."

"So he's kidnapped me as a companion?" said Sable with a bitter smile.

"Not a companion," said the Magdalene Jezebel, unconsciously shifting her body to present it to best advantage. "More like a mascot. You amuse him. You make him laugh. As long as you continue to captivate him, he'll treat you in much the same way that you would treat a pet." She held up a hand as he opened his mouth to speak. "It's not as demeaning as it sounds, Mr. Sable. After all, there are alternatives."

"I've seen them."

"He does have certain eccentricities," she said uneasily. "But one must look beyond that."

"At all the other corpses?" he replied with a harsh laugh.

"You don't understand!"

"I understand perfectly. He's out to kill every last man, woman, and child on Walpurgis, and when he's done with that he'll probably start in on the animals."

"It's not the way you make it sound at all! He is the Dark Messiah!"

"He's the Butcher of Boriga II!" said Sable hotly. "All he knows how to do is kill!"

"You're wrong!" she shouted at him, her eyes blazing. "He has to eradicate the old order before replacing it with his own!"

"There won't be anything left alive to join his new order!"

"There will! He has gathered about him a few of us, those who were farsighted enough to understand what he is doing, to form the nucleus of the new age that he will bring about. I was the High Priestess of the Daughters of Delight, Mr. Sable. I had power and respect and wealth. Why do you think I gave it all up to come to Tifereth?"

"I couldn't even hazard a guess," he said with dry irony.

"Because I saw the power he wielded, the might he displayed. I realized that all of the rest of us were just dabblers on the surface of things. Why worship Satan when Conrad Bland walked among us, the devil made flesh?"

"In other words, you wanted to get in on the ground floor," he said with a cold, hard smile.

"Why deny it? He is the most potent force in the universe. Why not flock to his banner? Why do you suppose the Messengers disbanded in Tifereth? Because they saw that the Master had arrived, and they had no further justification for their existence. He will create a new world, a new Republic, and we who had the foresight to serve him from the first will help to preside over it."

"Can't you see that he's going to kill every last one of you, followers as well as foes?" said Sable with just a touch of pity in his voice. "Don't you know yet what he is?"

"He is the living embodiment of the power and the might of Lord Lucifer."

"And that is what you worship and serve—his might and power?"

"Yes."

"What if this Republic assassin gets through and kills Bland? Will you then worship him as an even greater killer?"

"He won't," she said decisively.

"But if he does," persisted Sable.

"He won't!" she repeated. "He'll be stopped before he leaves Binah."

"He's reached Binah?" said Sable, startled. "He's actually gotten that close?"

She looked uncomfortable. "My Lord Bland made a statement to that effect this morning."

"Then you'd better give some serious consideration to my question," said Sable. "It may not be academic too much longer."

"He will be stopped in Binah!"

"I thought I could stop him in Amaymon, when he knew nothing of our customs," Sable pointed out. "And Bland has wiped out a couple of cities trying to stop him."

"He would have destroyed those cities anyway," she said uneasily.

"I know. That's why I hope the assassin succeeds."

"I find this entire subject distasteful."

"So do I," agreed Sable with an ironic smile. "What else do you wish to discuss?"

"Nothing. But perhaps I will bring you My Lord Bland's writings."

"I've read them," he said, gesturing toward the stack of magazines.

"Those were written for political expediency," she said, nodding toward the magazines contemptuously. "He is currently at work on a massive tome that codifies his entire personal philosophy."

"Who will be left alive to read it?"

"You're a very difficult man to talk to, Mr. Sable," she said irritably. "I can't understand why My Lord Bland has let you live!"

"I amuse him," said Sable wryly.

"Well, you don't amuse me!"

"On the other hand, you've satisfied your curiosity," he noted with a smile.

"Not entirely," she said, studying him carefully. "Perhaps I should go to bed with you. Possibly you have certain qualities that aren't immediately apparent."

"Doesn't it seem a little contradictory—speaking of pleasure in a place like this?"

"Where better than a place like this?" she countered, starting to remove her clothing.

"I don't know exactly how to tell you this, Magdalene Jezebel," he said, "but I am a married man. I have made a pledge of fidelity to my wife."

"Of course—the Cult of Cali," she said contemptuously. "Now my curiosity is assuaged, Mr. Sable." She got to her feet "You haven't a single thought or trait that I consider admirable or amusing."

"I'm sorry you should feel that way."

"After I speak to My Lord Bland, you may be even sorrier," she promised.

She gave him one last scornful look and left his room.

 

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