Children of God

Daniel Iron Horse closed his eyes briefly, perhaps in prayer. There was a burst of talk, but Da

"The basses, of course, are male Jana’ata. The others are of a much higher register," Sandoz observed calmly.

"Scuzi," Nico said politely. "What does emanci—. What is that word?"

" ’Emancipation.’ It means, to set free," Emilio told him. "When slaves are legally freed, it is called emancipation."

"Runa have much higher voices, don’t they?" Nico suggested. "Maybe they’re singing because they’re happy they’re free."

Iron Horse’s eyes were steady on Emilio’s. "Sandoz, what if Kitheri’s emancipated the Runa?"

It was the first time he’d dared to say this aloud. Around the room, the men sat straighter, blinking, and reconsidered what they’d just heard.

"My God, Emilio," John cried, "if the Runa are singing—. If emancipation is the theme of that song…"

"That would change everything," Sean whispered, as Carlo sighed theatrically, "I’m too late!" and Frans Vanderhelst cried, "Congratulations, Joh

"Sandoz," Da

Sandoz cut the rising noise of speculation off, staring at Da

There was an uneasy quiet.

"I am sorry to disappoint Nico and the more romantic among you," Sandoz continued, "but the voices don’t sound to me like those of Runa. Also, the song is in High K’San, which does not disprove Da

"But even if it’s Jana’ata women he’s liberated—" Da

"Father Iron Horse, I detect a certain indulgence in wishful thinking," Sandoz said with the acid courtesy they all had come to dread. "Why do you credit Kitheri with precipitating such an event, instead of merely observing it, for example? Is it possible that you are imposing your own desire for self-justification on a situation and a man you can know nothing about?" Da

"But a small change can perturb a system," Joseba remarked, still taken by the idea. "What if something you said or did influenced Kitheri or one of the other Jana’ata? That would make what happened—" He stopped when Sandoz rose abruptly and walked to the other side of the room.

"What, Joseba? Forgivable?" Sandoz asked. "Tolerable? Okay? All better?"

"It would redeem what happened to you," Sean Fein suggested quietly. He nearly recanted under the sear of the black-eyed stare, but forced himself to go on. "Look, y’never know, Sandoz!" he cried. "What if that bloody Austrian admissions committee had accepted young Mr. Hitler for art school? He was pretty decent with landscapes and architecture. Maybe if he’d gotten his wretched arts degree, everything would have been different!"

"A few words, Emilio!" said John with urgency. "An act of kindness, or love, or courage—"

Sandoz stood still, his head turned down and away from them. "All right," he said reasonably, looking up. "For the sake of argument, let’s assume that unintended consequences can be for good as well as ill. The trouble with your proposition, as applied to my case, is that there was never any opportunity for me to give Hlavin Kitheri or his associates a stirring sermon on liberty or the value of souls—Jana’ata, Runa or human." He stopped, waited, eyes closed. He was tired, naturally. That was part of it. "I don’t recall being allowed to say a single word, actually. I did scream quite a bit—fairly incoherently, I’m afraid." He stopped again and took in an uneven breath, letting it out slowly before lifting his eyes to their faces. "And I fought like a sonofabitch to keep those fuckers off me, but I doubt even the most charitable of observers would have called that a display of courage. ’An amusing exercise in futility’ may have come to mind."

He paused again, breathing carefully. "So you see," he resumed calmly, "I don’t think there is a shred of hope that anyone abstracted any edifying lessons about the sanctity of life or the political virtues of freedom during my… ministry to the Jana’ata. And I suggest, gentlemen, we drop this subject for the duration of our journey together."

THE OTHERS WATCHED, BLINKING IN THE AFTERMATH, AS SANDOZ LEFT the room under his own power. No one noticed when Nico, standing unobserved in the corner, left the commons as well and went to his cabin.

Opening the storage cabinet on the wall over his desk, Nico rummaged through his small collection of personal treasures and located two hard cylinders of unequal length: one and a half Genoa salamis he had hoarded away. Laying them on his desk, he sat down and breathed in the fragrance of garlic while giving serious thought to the issue of salami. He considered how much he had left, and how long it would be before he could buy more, and how Don Emilio felt when he had a bad headache. It would be a waste to give salami to a person who was only going to throw it up. Still, Nico thought, a present could make a person feel better, and Don Emilio could save it for later when the headache was gone.

People often laughed at Nico for taking things too seriously. They would say something seriously, and he would take it seriously, and then be embarrassed when it turned out that they were only joking. He could rarely tell the difference between that kind of joking and sensible talk.

"It’s called irony, Nico," Don Emilio had explained to him one night. "Irony is often saying the opposite of what is meant. To get the joke, you must be surprised and then amused by the difference between what you believe the person thinks and what he actually says."

"So it would be irony if Frans said, Nico, you’re a smart boy."

"Well, perhaps, but it would also be making fun of you," Sandoz said honestly. "Irony would be if you yourself made a joke by saying, I’m a smart boy, because you believe you’re stupid and most other people believe this of you as well. But you’re not stupid, Nico. You learn slowly but thoroughly. When you learn something, you have learned it well and don’t forget it."

Don Emilio was always serious, so Nico could relax and not try to find hidden jokes. He never made fun of Nico and he took extra time to teach him and made it easy to remember the foreign words.

All that, Nico decided, was definitely worth half a salami.

THE LAST THING EMILIO SANDOZ WANTED WAS A VISITOR, BUT WHEN HE responded to the knock on his door with a parsimonious "Piss off!" there were no footsteps and he could tell that whoever it was intended to stay there as long as necessary. Sighing, he opened the door and was not surprised to find Nico d’Angeli waiting expectantly in the curving hall.