He stood up and pointed over the bowed heads of the congregation. “That one. There he is,” and Abu saw a hairless old man, asleep in the prisoners’ pews. “That one. Drunken fool! He’s asleep, the last night of his life,” said Abject, the tears starting to his eyes.

Abu led him to the side aisle, and they hurried down the narrow row of columns and arches toward the sanctuary, where the parson was already being helped into his litter. Behind him stood the entrance to the prison, an ornamented filigree of iron bars, and all around slouched soldiers of the purge. Two stepped forward to block the prince’s way. They scowled and snarled like dogs, but when they saw his hand their expressions congealed, and all their viciousness seemed to drain away from underneath, until the scowls meant nothing. Abu passed without a word, Spider Abject close behind him.

The parson had his back to them. He seemed a hill of red-robed fat, his bulk was so tremendous.

Acolytes strained to lever him into his seat, but however hard they pushed, the fat seemed to flow away from underneath their hands, and they seemed no closer to lifting his essential frame than if they had stood across the room.

Abu waited, and then he cleared his throat. “Cousin,” he began, tentatively, but one of the guards said,

“Wait. He’s deaf, sir. Wait until he turns around. Then he can read your lips.”

In the sanctuary, the choir started to sing again, their castrate voices rising to the vault. Spider pulled the prince’s sleeve, for in the prisoners’ pews the turnkeys were getting to their feet. But still the acolytes grunted and pushed, and cursed behind the parson’s back. And even when he was in place, bundled like a red bag of fat onto the velvet cushions of his chair, the prince could only catch his blind eye. Several acolytes moved to the litter poles, and some went up to open the iron gates to the prison. Behind the prince, the aisle, separated from the nave of the church by a row of columns and arches, had begun to fill with prisoners, chained in groups, waiting to pass through the same gate.

The parson’s acolytes spat on their hands and bent down to the litter poles. As they did so, Abu crossed in front and stood between the foremost, and held up his hand. The parson turned his head, so that the fat living side faced forward. “Cousin,” he said in a loud deaf voice. The acolytes stood up again, happy to delay their burden. In the aisle, the prisoners and turnkeys waited patiently, and the guards, who had been talking among themselves, were suddenly quiet.

Abu looked around, embarrassed. Then he turned back to the parson, but when he spoke, he spoke with his lips only, making no sound. He was careful to form his words clearly, so that the parson would understand, but he was going to tell a lie, though only a small one, and he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Cousin,” he said, forming the words, no breath escaping. “Your sermon was very fine. It makes it easy to request a favor.”