Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Times Crucible - Marc Platt [39]
The neo-technologists were becoming gratifyingly predictable as an opposition. They seized upon any issue to rant and rave, so the Pythia fed them a few tiny morsels now and then, and they went at them with such alacrity that major reforms could be slipped past unheeded. Show them a graffito and they missed the wall it was painted on.
But Gallifrey was still restless. The thoughts of the people had become petty and aimless. Away in the cities of the South, there had been riots and at least two public stonings. How simple it would be for Rassilon's empty promises to catch and turn the mood. Other plans had failed lately. The loss of the Time Scaphe and her agent preyed on the Pythia's thoughts. The auguries of the future had become obscure and uncertain. Yet the Old Order had stood surely for an aeon. It was unthinkable that the Order would crumble. What was needed was a mighty challenge in the Games. A war. Or a legend from the Great Book.
Weary of the bustle in the market, the Pythia elevated the angle of the panoptic so that her screen filled with the cerulean blue of the sky. The morning haze from the still freezing marshlanes had lifted by noon. High in the air, an incoming shuttle from the West Marches glinted in the sunlight.
Deep beneath the Temple, torchlight flickered around the Cavern of Prophecy. Five hundred and seven exalted Pythias had sat in the wicker cage where she sat, slung high above the smoking Crevasse of Memories That Will Be. There she caught the vapours that lifted her mind into the state of the clairvoyant and the clairaudiant.
She watched the City on the retina screen in the corner of her basket. Other sisters ranged around the rock chamber attended her, robed in the rustred devotional vestments of the Pythian Order. Her personal Grelladian guard, the un-man Handstrong, waited at the foot of the granite steps leading to the adytum of the Temple above.
Today's petitioners, most of them expecting miracles, had been cleared from the Temple courtyard. The Pythia prepared to be lowered back to the ground. She fingered the amulets and talismans that hung on gold chains from her robes. One, a jewelled periapt with a tongue of blue ice, slipped through her bony fingers. She cursed and grasped at the thing as it teetered on the wicker frame of her cage. It slid through a gap and fell directly into the unfathomed depths of the crevasse.
A gift to the three hundred and eighty-ninth Pythia from the Legendary Hero Ao, its loss chilled her with a foreboding. She began to count her remaining reliquaries, searching for other losses.
Movement below drew her from her task. A sister, one of the adepts, had entered the Cavern and stood before her.
"Well?"
"Highness, there is a man at the sanctum gate who seeks a private consultation."
The Pythia's screen flicked to a view of the inner Temple. Beside the wrought copper gates barring the innermost chambers stood two figures in fur cloaks, cowled in the pious and correct habit for men who entered the halls of the Gods.
"He is a trader from the South, Highness, with his servant."
"Admit them." Was this what the omen had warned of? So soon? The Pythia had no hesitation in facing what must be faced.
The other sisters withdrew to their daily tasks. Handstrong positioned himself in the hollow pillar, where he could overhear and be called in case of danger.
The adept returned quickly, leading the two hooded figures. "Clean let the hearts be of each seeker," she said to them in turn.
"So shall we never doubt," they responded, and the Pythia knew from their tone that they were liars.
"Well, masters," she called from her cage, "how are affairs in the South?"
The trader stepped forward, a small shape who moved with a deliberate reverence which was too knowing, like a performer in the Jagdagian circus. His face was hidden and his servant lingered in the shadows