The Cat Who Knew How to Cry

8. HATE-YOU-ALWAYS (part 3)

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Talia had not decided on a thistle glade in vain. While other garden inhabitants hid behind a thick hedge of vegetation, here the green curtain was parted. The an Kamian was proud of her prickly collection. A whimsical set of scenery topped the area between the garden's grubby wings – a veritable labyrinth of garden beds, weaved into spirals. It would have been a creative feat to pass through without a scratch, especially in the twilight, like now, but Talia decided not to subject her soon-to-be victim to such a painful trial and settled herself down right at the edge of the glade, in the light of the garden lanterns.

Almost an hour and a half went by before Enaor snickered nastily:

"We got a bite on the line. He'll be here in ten."

"By himself?" Irson asked.

"Yes. And no one's following him. As far as I could tell, anyway. Good luck, Talia!"

The an Kamian barely nodded in reply. She was feeding a withered black-and-white bush with her own blood, having carefully placed a finger on one of its thorns. The thistle stems – crowned with bright red flowers, grotesquely thick, with patterned spiny leaves growing in tiers at even intervals – resembled monstrous lighthouses.

Finally there came the sound of approaching steps, and the conspirator appeared from behind a hawthorn bush. It was a heavyset man of roughly forty, dressed in a soft dark-colored outfit and traditional Anlimorean skate-skin sandals. He had narrow eyes and a little pigtail beard.

"Ah, it's you," Talia sighed upon seeing him. "Are you here to gloat? What can I say. You have every right. I wasn't expecting that."

"What? Of course not. I've come to support you, Talia. And to express my admiration," said the man, pressing his palm to his breast. "Very few people are brave enough to speak in that tone with those death worshippers."

"Believe me, I didn't think I was risking anything," Talia raised her brows. "There... there are no words. Smiting me with an affliction! What barbarism, what utterly archaic nonsense!"

"Yes! Yes, dear Lady an Kamian. That's exactly the kind of barbarism I was trying to speak to you about a few days ago. But you did not believe me. And who could blame you: before I saw for myself cities, countries, whole worlds mowed down by epidemics by order of this supposedly merciful Nae, I didn't believe it either."

"May the fire go out in my eyes..." Talia sighed.

"That, Lady an Kamian, almost happened not hours ago," said the man in a didactic tone. "And indeed this was, in a manner of speaking, just a warning shot."

"If it was, it sure made the blinders fly right off my eyes. I'd always thought it was only in undeveloped worlds that the gods tamed their subjects using all manner of afflictions. Worship only me, live by my rules, lick the priests' feet, and you'll be fine. Disobey, and you have only yourself to blame! The slightest deviation, just one glance toward another's temple, and you get struck with sores all over your face. I knew, of course, that in the beginning Veindor himself didn't shy away from such methods of... enlightening. But I thought that later on he'd given up on such a twisted form of blackmail!"

"Alas, my lady, alas!"

"So what do you suggest we do about all this?"

"We fight!" the man proclaimed with a tight fist.

Irson's eyes narrowed. The conspirator's body language suggested something suspiciously familiar.

"May my tongue grow together if it isn't Uncle Restes in a different body!" he whispered finally.