The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold [106]
Cazaril swallowed, and panted, “Are you saying the goddess has turned my belly into a perfect little annex of hell? One demon, one lost soul, sealed together like two snakes in a bottle?” His clawed hands went to his stomach, as if ready to rip his guts apart on the spot. “And you call it a blessing?”
Umegat’s eyes remained serious, but his brows crimped in sympathy. “Well, what is a blessing but a curse from another point of view? If it’s any consolation to you, I imagine Dondo dy Jironal is even less happy about this development than you are.” He added after a thoughtful moment, “I can’t imagine the demon is too pleased with it, either.”
Cazaril nearly convulsed out of his chair. “Five gods! How do I rid myself of this—this—this—horror?”
Umegat held up a restraining hand. “I…suggest…that you not be in a great rush about that. The consequences could be tangled.”
“How, tangled? How could anything be more tangled than this monstrosity?”
“Well”—Umegat leaned back and tented his hands together—“the most obvious way to break the, ah, blessing, would be by your death. With your soul freed from its material locus, the demon could fly away with you both.”
A chill stole over Cazaril, as he remembered how his belly cramp had almost betrayed him to a fall when jumping the roof gap at dawn. He took refuge from his drunken terror in a dryness to match Umegat’s. “Oh, wonderful. Have you any other cures to suggest, physician?”
Umegat’s lips twitched, and he acknowledged the jibe with a brief wave of his fingers. “Likewise, should the miracle cease that you presently host—should the Lady’s hand lift,” Umegat mimed someone opening their hands as if to release a bird, “I think the demon would immediately attempt to complete its destiny. Not that it has a choice—the Bastard’s demons have no free will. You can’t argue with or persuade them. In fact, there’s no use talking to one at all.”
“So you’re saying that I could die at any moment!”
“Yes. And this is different from your life yesterday in what way?” Umegat cocked his head in dry inquiry.
Cazaril snorted. It was cold comfort…but comfort still, in a backhanded sort of way. Umegat was a sensible saint, it seemed. Which was not what Cazaril would have expected…had he ever met a saint before? How would I know? I walked right past this one.
Umegat’s voice took on a tinge of scholarly curiosity. “Actually, this could answer a question I’ve long had. Does the Bastard command a troop of death demons, or just one? If all death miracles in the world cease while the demon is bound in you, it would be compelling evidence for the singularity of that holy power.”
A ghastly laugh pealed from Cazaril’s lips. “My service to Quintarian theology! Gods—Umegat—what am I to do? There has never been any of this, this god-touched madness in my family. I’m not fit for this business. I am not a saint!”
Umegat opened his lips, but then closed them again. He finally said, “One grows more accustomed with use. The first time I hosted a miracle I wasn’t too happy either, and I’m in the trade, so to speak. My personal recommendation to you, tonight, is to get pie-eyed drunk and go to sleep.”
“So I can wake in the morning both demon-ridden and with a hangover?” Granted, he couldn’t imagine getting to sleep under any other circumstances, apart from a blow to the head.
“Well, it worked for me, once. The hangover is a fair trade for being so immobilized one cannot do anything stupid for a little while.” Umegat looked away for a moment. “The gods do not grant miracles for our purposes, but for theirs. If you are become their tool, it is for a greater reason, an urgent reason. But you are the tool. You are not the work. Expect to be valued accordingly.”
While Cazaril was still trying, unsuccessfully, to unravel that, Umegat leaned forward and poured fresh wine into Cazaril’s cup. Cazaril was beyond resistance.
It took two undergrooms, an hour or so later, to guide his slithering steps across