“Our current stoneworker’s grandfather,” said Veltanezh, and opened the door to the stairs up to the ulimeire, which were as white and square and well-lit as the stairs at the Ulzhavadeise end. Ulmavonee proved to be well-lit and well-squared throughout, although the costly white marble was used only for the ulimeire and the catacombs. Plaster walls and parquet floors did for the rest: the prelates’ house, the archive, the map room.

At first hesitantly, and then with great interest, Othalo Tomasaran asked Veltanezh questions. She was particularly intrigued by the cemetery map and the registers, how Veltanezh and his prelates kept track of who was buried where and for how long. It was, as I knew from my own experience in Lohaiso and Aveio and from watching Anora, an endlessly time-consuming occupation. “The process of tending to death is like a waterwheel,” said Veltanezh. “The death itself, then the preparation of the body, the funeral, the burial, the reveth’osrel—the time in the earth—the exhumation, and the transfer to the revethmera, and then when you come up from the catacombs, another body is waiting.”

“At many points along the way, a body is waiting,” I said.

“True, but injurious to my comparison,” said Veltanezh. “My meaning is that the work of a municipal prelate, by which we worship Ulis, is a never-ending cycle, just as in the prayer of compassion for the dead, the last word is also the first word.”

“And you have many waterwheels turning at once,” I said, grasping what he was trying to say.

“Yes!” said Veltanezh. “Each at a different point in its revolution. It is why we must keep accurate records, lest we fail to keep the wheel spinning.”

“Therefore, your worship of Ulis is the water,” I said.

He looked at me oddly. “Yes, I suppose it is. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Tomasaran said, “But how do you keep track?”

“With the ledgers,” said Veltanezh. “And the map. Here, let me show you.”

They bent together over the ledgers, and Ulzhavar said to me, “I looked up ‘hezhelta’ last night, to refresh my memory, and aside from the smell, there are very few signs we’ll be able to detect after three months. It stains the tongue black, and the hands clench violently in the final spasm of the heart. But the junior prelates would have straightened her fingers, and who knows about the condition of the tongue?”

“Perhaps one of the junior prelates might remember straightening her fingers?” I said.

“Well, I suppose that’s possible,” said Ulzhavar. “Othala Veltanezh, are any of your junior prelates here?”

“Yes,” Veltanezh said, turning away from the map. “Do you need them for something?”

Ulzhavar said, “We might get some interesting information by talking to the person who prepared the Marquise Ulzhavel’s body.”

“Oh, well, that’s easy,” said Veltanezh. “I did.”

“You did?”

“There’s nothing improper in it,” Veltanezh said stiffly.

“No, I beg your pardon,” Ulzhavar said, “of course not. It was just my understanding that that is part of the duties of the junior prelates.”