“Lately you have gone up more than once into my prisons. Why?”

“I am doing a study, Monsignor.”

“What kind?”

“I am studying the long-term effects of untreated illnesses.”

“Yet you have been observed carrying medicines and painkillers up into the wards,” pursued the secretary gently. “Surely that would . . . invalidate your results?”

The doctor combed his long black hair back from his forehead with the fingers of one hand. “I have no apology to make,” he said finally.

“I ask for none. You will not go there again.” The secretary’s voice was pitched, once again, midway between a question and a command.

“I go where I want. It is my birthright. You can’t take that away.” Thanakar opened his palm to show the golden key tattooed under his wrist, the mark that opened all doors.

The old man sighed. “You think you have been badly treated. And truthfully, I understand it. I understand. There is a reason for it. You are a cripple. It is . . . unfortunate. Very unfortunate.”

This remark was also a key that opened doors. “Unfortunate!” cried the doctor. “Unfortunate! You did it deliberately. You know you did. You dropped me. It was the only way that you could get your hands on my father’s property.”

“You are wrong. The wealth of the earth belongs to God, and to the ministers of His temple. We lend them generously to some families. Your father has no sons capable of inheriting his name. It is unfortunate. Simply that.”

“Bastard! Eunuch!” shouted Thanakar, stung to rage. “My father always hated you,” and the figure on the bed stirred and groaned, half-awakened by his son’s voice.

There was a long pause before the secretary spoke. “You are talking foolishly, my son. Very foolishly.

But believe me, I understand. Sometimes when I go up to the mountain, the human suffering there is too much to bear. But remember, they are God’s prisoners, not ours. He is punishing them for crimes they committed before they were even born, not on this planet, but in Paradise. As you know. You and I, we are only His instruments.”

“That makes you feel better, does it?”

The secretary eyed him thoughtfully. “You are not a religious man,” he said again.

“There are many kinds of religion.”

“You are wrong. There is one kind. But there are many kinds of criminals. Tell me, when you go down among the atheists with Abu Starbridge, do you drink with him?”

Thanakar stiffened. “Prince Starbridge is my patient,” he said stiffly.

“Yes, it is unfortunate. Yours is not a healthy influence, my son. And I’m sorry for his family’s sake. His malady is an obscure one. Self-destructive, is he not? I think I know. Abu Starbridge has lost his faith.

No wonder he is so unhappy. The world’s too grim to live in without faith.”

“No, damn you. You’re a liar. It’s faith that’s made the world the way it is.”

Chrism Demiurge was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler, higher, more compelling. “I’m sorry to hear you say that,” he said. “Very . . . sorry. It pains me to hear you because, don’t you see, we must stand together, you and I. As a class. The Starbridges must stand together. Our system has its flaws. None knows that better than I. But it has stood the test of seasons. Do you think a weaker system would have kept this city fed? All winter and now spring—more than a lifetime with no food worth the name. You have no conception of the work involved. You are too young to remember, but don’t you see—the rigors of the climate here require strong government. How long do you think we could survive without it? Maybe in your lifetime, maybe you will live to see some loosening of the rope.