made weapons, but most fed fires under large smelting cauldrons. Sparks flew out in clouds at each pump of the many bellows, lighting the rock sides of the cavern with flashes of light.
“Here, everyone has a place,” G’azal said, above the noise. As he strolled, he spread out one hand toward the structure. “We take in the criminally inclined and teach the simple, spiritual pleasures of work.” Joseph walked warily alongside G’azal. He noted several armed men in positions around the structure-all dressed in the crimson uniform of priestly guards; a few of these watched him keenly, but most kept an eye on the workers, stepping in now and then to hurry things along.
Near one corner of the structure the bishop moved past a thin worker. The man took ore from within an open wine barrel on the ground, and placed it--piece by piece--into a wheeled cart. The sight of his skinny arms and sunken eyes made a wave of anger wash over Joseph. Briefly, the man’s eyes met his. Misery, itself, seemed to look out of his gaze. Pointing to the man Joseph halted his steps.
“You say there is no judgment here, priest,” he said. “Yet, this man is starving.”
Bishop G’azal looked sideways at Joseph, not acknowledging the prisoner at all.
“Some do not accept our ways,” he said, simply. “To thrive here, you must.” With one hand, he beckoned to some one on the other side of the structure.
After a minute or so, a servant--robed in crimson linen and fine sandals--approached the bishop. He bore a gold platter, loosely covered by a silken cloth.
“My lord... your supper,” the servant said. He knelt reverently upon the ground, holding the platter up high. The Bishop took away the cloth, revealing a bit of steaming, pale meat in some kind of brown sauce. A few curling, green leaves decorated the dish. Taking up a small golden knife, G’azal sliced off a piece of the meat and chewed it meditatively. Smiling, he looked at Joseph.
“Please have some,” he offered. “You’ll find nothing finer, I’m sure.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Joseph caught the figure of the thin prisoner, working behind the priest. The man stood from his work, his hollow eyes fixed on him. Very slightly, the worker shook his head; the miserable gaze took on a tinge of horror. Looking at the plate again Joseph took a step backward, fighting the urge to gag.
G’azal chewed slowly, studying the new prisoner’s expression with interest.
“Some aspire to rise to the top of this great building,” he remarked, gesturing towards the structure. “They want the fresher air of life and the sweet reward of work. Others, however,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the thin worker, “... are satisfied with pig’s gruel. You have that same choice before you. The choice of what to make of yourself, here, with us.”
He waved the plate away and began walking forward again. “Now, about your resting place... follow me.” Moving around the structure and skirting the forges, G’azal led Joseph to the other side of the huge cavern. The weazoned worker looked after them for a moment before resuming his work.
The bishop threaded his way easily around the cavern, to a small door in the rock wall. Another servant opened the door and G’azal stepped through into a long, narrow passageway with a low-slung ceiling. Stepping through the door after the priest, Joseph was obliged to hunch over a little, in order walk freely in the passage. The passage appeared to have been recently cut, and with some haste; the rough-hewn stone of the walls had not yet been smoothed. Stepping over a small stack of planed lumber, Joseph followed the priest past rough-cut doorways; some were fitted with wooden doors, other with stone. Each doorway bore a different symbol over it, cut into the rock and stained with ink.
G’azal stopped in front of the last door, at the very end of the passage.
“Here we are,” he said, slowly turning to look at Joseph. The symbol
“Here, everyone has a place,” G’azal said, above the noise. As he strolled, he spread out one hand toward the structure. “We take in the criminally inclined and teach the simple, spiritual pleasures of work.” Joseph walked warily alongside G’azal. He noted several armed men in positions around the structure-all dressed in the crimson uniform of priestly guards; a few of these watched him keenly, but most kept an eye on the workers, stepping in now and then to hurry things along.
Near one corner of the structure the bishop moved past a thin worker. The man took ore from within an open wine barrel on the ground, and placed it--piece by piece--into a wheeled cart. The sight of his skinny arms and sunken eyes made a wave of anger wash over Joseph. Briefly, the man’s eyes met his. Misery, itself, seemed to look out of his gaze. Pointing to the man Joseph halted his steps.
“You say there is no judgment here, priest,” he said. “Yet, this man is starving.”
Bishop G’azal looked sideways at Joseph, not acknowledging the prisoner at all.
“Some do not accept our ways,” he said, simply. “To thrive here, you must.” With one hand, he beckoned to some one on the other side of the structure.
After a minute or so, a servant--robed in crimson linen and fine sandals--approached the bishop. He bore a gold platter, loosely covered by a silken cloth.
“My lord... your supper,” the servant said. He knelt reverently upon the ground, holding the platter up high. The Bishop took away the cloth, revealing a bit of steaming, pale meat in some kind of brown sauce. A few curling, green leaves decorated the dish. Taking up a small golden knife, G’azal sliced off a piece of the meat and chewed it meditatively. Smiling, he looked at Joseph.
“Please have some,” he offered. “You’ll find nothing finer, I’m sure.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Joseph caught the figure of the thin prisoner, working behind the priest. The man stood from his work, his hollow eyes fixed on him. Very slightly, the worker shook his head; the miserable gaze took on a tinge of horror. Looking at the plate again Joseph took a step backward, fighting the urge to gag.
G’azal chewed slowly, studying the new prisoner’s expression with interest.
“Some aspire to rise to the top of this great building,” he remarked, gesturing towards the structure. “They want the fresher air of life and the sweet reward of work. Others, however,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the thin worker, “... are satisfied with pig’s gruel. You have that same choice before you. The choice of what to make of yourself, here, with us.”
He waved the plate away and began walking forward again. “Now, about your resting place... follow me.” Moving around the structure and skirting the forges, G’azal led Joseph to the other side of the huge cavern. The weazoned worker looked after them for a moment before resuming his work.
The bishop threaded his way easily around the cavern, to a small door in the rock wall. Another servant opened the door and G’azal stepped through into a long, narrow passageway with a low-slung ceiling. Stepping through the door after the priest, Joseph was obliged to hunch over a little, in order walk freely in the passage. The passage appeared to have been recently cut, and with some haste; the rough-hewn stone of the walls had not yet been smoothed. Stepping over a small stack of planed lumber, Joseph followed the priest past rough-cut doorways; some were fitted with wooden doors, other with stone. Each doorway bore a different symbol over it, cut into the rock and stained with ink.
G’azal stopped in front of the last door, at the very end of the passage.
“Here we are,” he said, slowly turning to look at Joseph. The symbol
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