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of the skiff and sat down. Lewis loaded the water and the FlameCube into the bow, and handed Mendoza up onto one of the thwarts; when he stepped in himself, Orocobix handed him the pole.
    “Due east,” he instructed. He reached over and took the flamecube from Mendoza’s hands, and, holding it up critically, brushed some of the mud off.
    “How does it burn?” he inquired.
    “I think it has to dry out first,” said Lewis, pushing them off from the shallows. The skiff went gliding across the water. “I hope you’ll pardon us, great Orocobix, but I’m certain our god will have a lot of questions to ask us about you. He was under the impression that this part of the world was deserted.”
    “Oh, no,” said Orocobix, leaning back. “This has always been our country. We created all this kingdom.” He waved an arm at the surrounding landscape. “Sadly, we have been without subjects for some time now. It is very inconvenient.”
    “I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.”
    Bloody mortal aristocrats, Mendoza transmitted, glowering.
    Orocobix shrugged. “So it goes. Even gods may be obliged to endure difficulties. When did the august lord of the dead extend his dominion this far east, may I ask?”
    “Actually, he hasn’t,” said Lewis, leaning into the pole to send their boat gliding forward. “We’re just visiting.”
    “Of course.”
    “Though of course his kingdom is perfectly immense, you know,” Lewis improvised. “What with mortals dying on a regular basis.”
    “How very interesting,” said the old man, stroking his chin. “Has he many wives?”
    “Well—not so many, no,” said Lewis.
    “Indeed,” said Orocobix. He gave a slight smile and leaned back, clasping his hands in his lap. Seen close to, it was apparent that his garments were a little threadbare, and the feathers of his crown had a somewhat moth-eaten appearance.
    Four miles more or less due east, they drew near to an island that was larger than any other they had yet seen. Its sides seemed to be terraced; some stonework was visible here and there. Mendoza stared hard at it.
    Cultivation! she transmitted. Lewis, somebody’s farming those slopes. See the manioc? I don’t notice any maize, though…
    “You are to be commended on the admirable silence of your sister,” said Orocobix, a little uneasily. “Does your lord prefer his women without voices?”
    “No,” said Mendoza.
    “She’s just, ah—loath to chatter in the presence of gods,” said Lewis hastily. That seemed to please Orocobix.
    “Very wise policy,” he said. “We have reached the sacred mountain, by the way. Put in there, at the boat dock.”
    Lewis poled them up to a fairly ramshackle little causeway built out over wooden pilings, and tied off the painter. Several boats had been moored there, but lay now just under the water in various stages of ancient decay. The old man did not trust his weight to the rotten planks of the dock. He hopped straight ashore. Lewis and Mendoza followed his example.
    “Do bring the water gift as well, won’t you? You may ascend to the Royal Palace,” said Orocobix, waving a hand at the stone staircase that led up from the landing, a flight of a hundred moss-grown steps. As they gazed at it, a furious commotion broke out somewhere above.
    “Merely the sacred birds,” said Orocobix. “Pray do not mind them; they are kept penned up.”
    Animal domestication! Lewis transmitted, hefting the case of bottled water to his shoulder.
    Whatever, Mendoza replied. She started up the long stair, peering at the terraces as she passed them. By contrast with the island on which they had camped, it was quite a tidy cultivation; manioc, sweet potatoes, small fruit and nut trees Lewis was unable to identify. Several plantings of what were apparently medicinal herbs, to judge from the fragrance. Some terraces seemed to be given over to fish ponds; there were also withy enclosures where geese came to the fence and put their heads over, honking dire