They say they saw him drinking in a bar yesterday evening. And then these same two women spread the story that when they took him down out of the ashes, his body was as clean as if he had died in his sleep—no trace of fire on him. That’s an obvious lie. But listen to this. This was unusual. A man dressed up as a parson—he had only one leg, or else it was tied up—or I don’t know, maybe he was a parson.

He said he was the bishop’s messenger, sent to crush the rumors. He was going to exhibit the prince’s ashes publicly. So he rang the bells in Durbar Square and collected a huge crowd, and broke the seal off some casket he had brought. It had birds in it. Red pigeons and white doves. Why are you laughing?”

“It’s a miracle,” said Thanakar.

“It’s a fucking scandal,” said the monk. “It’s a mockery of holiness. What are they going to call him? Abu the Inebriate?”

“Abu the Fool.”

“Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.”

Thanakar laughed. “I’m happy for him,” he said. “It’s perfect for him. He was . . . such a stupid fool,” he said, putting his fingers to his forehead.

“You think he should be canonized for that? I tell you it’s a mockery.”

“Don’t be a prude. It’s not such an exclusive club, the saints. Others have deserved it less.”

“Don’t say that,” said the monk, dropping his voice, looking around.

“Come on. I thought you people were revolutionaries.”

“No. Chrism’s the usurper. We’re loyalists. We’ve got our own inquisition.” He motioned with his head towards the far corner, where some officers sat smoking. “They’ve already had a man whipped for perversion. A captain of the purge.”

“What for?”

“It’s not important. Something about a runaway named Pentecost. A nobody.”

This coincidence struck Thanakar so forcibly that he allowed the conversation to progress a little further before he brought it back. It seemed astonishing that his odd, twitching man had carried in his mind a name so vital; astonishing that their talk had uncovered it in such a way, when so easily he could have chosen some other combination of remarks, and Thanakar never would have known. It made him wonder how many other people that he met, at parties, perhaps, or people that he passed in the streets without a word, carried vital information with them like unopened packages, and he never knew. He was happy, now, that when this man had appeared on his table months before, almost dead, he had worked so carefully as to leave a sense of debt behind with that new ear, inserted in that new piece of brain.

“Pentecost,” he said.

“Yes, do you know him? Chrism gave special orders to have them rounded up, I don’t know why.

Though if you know them, perhaps that explains it.”

“Yes. That explains it.”

“They were hung,” said the monk, sucking one finger.

Thanakar looked down at the floor. “There was a little girl . . .”