He was a rebel angel, one of an ancient sect of revolutionaries. Their cosmology was as orthodox as any parson’s—predetermination, the doctrine of inevitability, the prison world. Yet they did not conclude from this, as parsons did, that the poor were damned, the rich saved. The history of their rebellions was as old as Angkhdt. Six thousand days before, they had risen in small towns along the southern coast and driven the parsons and the Starbridges out naked into the countryside. Many had died of exposure, though some were taken in by pious folk. The rebels had opened all the prisons, drawn up new constitutions, and celebrated in the streets until the army came. Even then, some had escaped in the long boats they had used to farm the sea, for they had been fishermen, harvesting sea vegetables with woven nets. Some had escaped beyond the ocean’s rim, though many drowned, and boats and bodies had washed up all along the shore.

They had been a black-skinned people, and the captain, too, was very dark. He leaned toward Abu.

“The world is our prison, yes,” he said. “But God cannot love our jailers more than He loves us. It cannot be the mark of a good man, how meekly he suffers. No. God loves the proud. He has made this world so hard a place. Does it make sense that He should love the weak more than the strong? Does it make sense that He should love the man who fails the test? But defy Him, defy them all and break away—those are the men He will choose for Paradise.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then He is a God to be hated. If we are wrong, and He damns us down to the ninth planet, then still He is a God to be defied. And if we can defy Him in this world, then maybe we can chance it in the next.

Maybe there’ll be a way there too.” His face, which had grown fierce, softened again as his wife caught his eye and smiled. “I’m not wrong,” he said. “I’ve had many blessings.”

The prince said, “If . . .” but he was interrupted by the captain’s hand upon his arm. Darkheart was smiling at his wife as if he longed to touch her; she was sitting in a corner near the door with her breast uncovered, feeding the child. “Enough talk,” he said. “My mind is my own. No proud man could live differently. But I don’t expect you to believe me. It’s not in your interest. The question is, now that I have you, how can I use you? Do you need alcohol to live? I can get you some.”

“No,” said Abu, smiling. “It’s not as bad as that.”

“Don’t be ashamed. There’s decadence in your blood. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m afraid it is.”