shivering as soon as he woke, and he could tell that his body temperature had dropped a long way during the night

in the light trance required

for altering the skin cells on his wrists. He strained at the ropes, testing for some give, the

slightest tearing of fibers or strands. There was

nothing, just more pain from the palms of his hands where some sweat had

run down onto skin unchanged and therefore unprotected from the

acid his sweat glands had been producing. He worried about

that for about a second, recalling that if he was ever to impersonate Kraiklyn

properly he would need to lift the man’s finger

and palm prints and so would need his skin in perfect Changing condition. Then he laughed at

himself for worrying about that

when he wasn’t even likely to see the day out.

He vaguely considered killing himself. It was possible; with only a little internal preparation, he could use one of his own

teeth to poison

himself. But, while there was still any chance, he could not bring himself to think of it seriously. He wondered

how Culture people faced the war;

they were supposed to be able to

decide

to die, too, though it was said to be more complicated than simple poison. But how did they resist it,

those soft, peace-pampered

souls. He imagined them in combat, auto-euthanizing almost the instant the first shots landed, the first wounds

started to

appear. The thought made him smile.

The Idirans had a death trance, but it was only for use in cases of extreme shame and disgrace, or when a life’s work was

completed, or a

crippling disease threatened. And unlike the Culture—or the Changers—they felt their pain to the full, undampened

by genofixed inhibitors. The

Changers regarded pain as a semi-redundant hangover from their animal evolution; the Culture

was simply frightened of it: but the Idirans

treated it with a sort of proud contempt.

Horza looked across the beach, over the two big canoes toward the open rear doors of the shuttle. A pair of brightly colored

birds were

strutting around on its top, making little ritualized movements. Horza watched them for a while, as the Eaters’

camp gradually woke up and the

morning sun brightened. Mist rose from the thin forest and there were a few clouds, high up

in the sky. Mr. First came yawning and stretching

out of his tent, then took the heavy projectile pistol out from under his

tunic and fired it in the air. This seemed to be a signal for all the Eaters to

wake and set about their daily business if

they hadn’t already done so.

The noise of the crude weapon frightened the two birds on the roof of the Culture shuttle; they took to the air and flew away

over the trees

and shrubs, around the island. Horza watched them go, then let his eyes drop, staring at the golden sand and

breathing slow and deep.

“Your big day, stranger," Mr. First said with a grin, coming up to the Changer. He put the pistol into the string holster

under his tunic. Horza

looked at the man, but said nothing.

Another feast in my honor,

he thought.

Mr. First walked around Horza, looking down at him. Horza followed him with his eyes where he could and waited for the man

to spot

whatever damage the acid-sweat had succeeded in inflicting on the rope round his wrists, but Mr. First didn’t notice

anything, and when he

reappeared in Horza’s view he was still smiling slightly, nodding his head a little, seemingly satisfied

that the man tied to the stake was still well

enough restrained. Horza did his best to stretch, straining at the bonds at

his wrists. There was not even a hint of give. It hadn’t worked. Mr. First

left, to supervise the launching of a fishing canoe.

* * *

Fwi-Song was brought out of the forest on his litter not long before noon, as the fishing canoe was returning.

“Gift of the seas and air! Tribute of the great Circlesea’s vast wealth! See what a wondrous day awaits you now!" Fwi-Song

had himself

brought up to Horza, and was put down to one side of the fire. He smiled at the Changer. “All the night you have

had time to think of what the

day now holds; for all the darkness you have been able to look into the fruits of the Vacuum.

You have seen the spaces between the stars, seen

how much there is of nothing, how little there is of anything. Now you can

appreciate what an honor lies in store for you; how lucky you are to be

my sign, my offering!" Fwi-Song clapped his hands

with delight, and his enormous body shook up and down. The chubby hands went to his

mouth as he spoke, and the folds of flesh

over his eyes lifted momentarily to reveal the whites within. “Ho-

hoo!

What fun we all shall have!" The

prophet made a sign, and his litter carriers took him down to the sea to be washed and anointed.

Horza watched the Eaters prepare their food; they gutted the fish, throwing away the meat and keeping the offal and skins,

heads and

spikes. They removed the shells from the animals inside and threw the animals away. They ground up the shells with

the weeds and some

brightly colored sea slugs. Horza watched all this happen in front of him, and saw just how run-down the

Eaters really were; the scabs and

sores, the deficiency diseases and general weakness. The colds and coughs, peeling skin

and partly deformed limbs all spoke of a very

gradually fatal diet. The dead meat and animals from the sea were returned to

the waves via great blood-soaked baskets. Horza watched as

closely as his gag and the distance would allow, but none of the

Eaters seemed to take a surreptitious bite of the raw meat as they threw it from

the baskets into the waves.

Fwi-Song, being dried on the sand just up the beach from the line of breakers, watched the food being thrown into the sea

and nodded with

approval, speaking quiet words of encouragement to his flock. Then he clapped his hands, and the litter was

slowly carried along the beach to

the fire and the Changer.

“Offertory thing! Benefaction! Prepare yourself!" Fwi-Song warbled, settling down in his litter with little movements which

sent ripples all over

the great folds and sweeps of his massive body. Horza started to breathe harder, felt his heart pound.

He swallowed, and strained again at the

rope holding his hands. Mr. First and the two women were digging at the sand for the

thin robes in their buried sacks.

All the Eaters gathered round the fire, facing Horza. Their eyes looked blank or vaguely interested, nothing more. There was

a listlessness

about their actions and expressions which Horza found even more depressing than outright hatred or sadistic

glee would have been.

The Eaters began to chant and sing. Mr. First and the two women were twisting the dull lengths of cloth around their bodies.

Mr. First looked

at Horza and grinned.

“Oh happy moment in the ending days!" Fwi-Song said, raising his voice and hands, his choked tones ringing out toward the

center of the

island. The smells of the Eaters’ foul cooking drifted past the Changer again. “Let this one’s unmaking and

making be a symbol for us!" Fwi-

Song continued, letting his arms drop back in enormous rolls of white flesh. The golden-brown

surfaces gleamed in the sunlight as the prophet

clasped his fat fingers together. “Let his pain be our delight, as our unmaking

shall be our joining; let his flaying and consummation be our

satisfaction and delectation!" Fwi-Song raised his head and

spoke loudly in the language the others understood. Their chanting altered and

grew louder. Mr. First and the two women approached

Horza.

Horza felt Mr. First take the gag from his mouth. The paleskinned man spoke to the two women, who went to the bubbling vats

of stinking

liquid. Horza’s head was feeling very light; there was a taste he knew too well at the back of his throat, as

though some of the acid from his

wrists had somehow found its way to his tongue. He strained again at his bonds behind him,

feeling the muscles shake. The chanting went on;

the women were ladling the foul broth into bowls. His empty stomach was churning

already.

There are two main ways to escape bonds apart from those open to non-Changers [the Academy’s lecture notes said]: by acid-sweat

pulse on a sustained level where the binding material is susceptible to such an attack, and by malleable preferential tapering

of the

limb-point involved.

Horza tried to coax a little more strength from his tired muscles.