The Cat Who Knew How to Cry

8. HATE-YOU-ALWAYS (part 1)

Hell hath no fury like a Naerite when someone's trying to steal his Path.

Fellshior the Two-tongued

The auditorium was bathed in darkness. Irson Trimm scooted around in his armchair, making himself comfortable. From the height of his "director's box" the oval stage resembled a curious silver dish, covered in the center with a dark gray cloth of Elidanite lace. The exact, concise pattern, woven from bows and thin arrows that looked like blades, called to mind cobwebs in ancient sepulchers. The set established the mood superbly. It depicted a part of Silver Square in Briaellar. A statue of Veindor the Merciful in the form of a phantom dragon, sculpted from tinted glass and dingy metal, shone coldly to the left. To the right the steps of his temple, made of gravestones according to tradition, faded off into the darkness of the coulisse. The actresses were already in place: Talia Murr an Kamian, the red-headed star of attics and basements (transitting from the Abyss), in the role of Militant Justice, and the modest debutante Twana Anote, portraying the latest victim of the Merciful's servants' cruelty (at the Elidanite border they confiscated a broach containing the soul of her dear mommy). The audience scurried around them like mice scavenging scraps after a funeral feast. Some of them addressed Talia, but she only waved them away. She couldn't speak to them now - the show was about to begin!

"And here's our prima-ballerina now," Irson groused upon seeing Inon.

He was downright allergic to the priest. At first Inmelion acted surprisingly normal. Apparently, the remaking of the Nalarite's body had had the desired effect on him. He was dryly polite, very attentive and did not even hint of his intention to steal Talia and Irson's adventure. It seemed he was repentant for his xenophobic outburst and wanted to smooth things over. But later on... later on, the wise, well-mannered, courageous and straight-as-an-arrow priest of the Merciful unmistakably demonstrated that in addition to the praiseworthy qualities associated with his race, he also possessed the full range of flaws thereof.

The idea of provoking Veindor's opponents appealed to Inon only until he realized that one of the roles in the ruse had been set aside for himself. The priest pursed his lips and declared he had no intention of partaking in such a farce.

"Why a farce?" asked Irson, trying to keep things light. "Verily, this is a dramatic production!"

The priest remained painfully serious. With all the composure of a seasoned kindergarten teacher, he began to lecture the Tanae to the effect that different races have different ideas of acceptable and unacceptable behavior, and that it was our duty as upstanding Naerites to respect others' values and not try to pressure a friend into doing what he considered inappropriate.

There was nothing subversive in this sermon itself. Irson was prepared to both "respect others' views" and "not pressure anyone," only... could Inon say the same? Like all Tanae, Irson had perfect pitch when it came to others' emotions. And in the priest's voice he sensed ever more clearly contempt, arrogance and impatience, especially when, citing himself as a paragon of tolerance, Inon began describing in living color "the objectionable manners of Lady an Kamian," which he'd had to silently endure for many years now. "However, there is a limit to everything. Going to the circus is one thing. Dressing up as a clown yourself is quite another. Forgive me, but that is too much to bear!" "jested" the priest.

Irson clenched his teeth, but not one muscle moved on Talia's face.

"Why must you be so rude to Master Trimm?" she sang, swallowing her half of the insult without a word.