Choices | Page 7

the heart of the city.
I'm no stranger to the machinations of the underground, but the method
by which I was conveyed to my rendezvous with Kieara Cjhar rivaled
anything I'd ever experienced as an intelligence operative. We moved
under cover of darkness, my guide and I wending our way through the

narrow streets of Tradur's capital, Jehku, avoiding the more built-up
areas of the city. Once we even descended into the murky depths of a
maze of service tunnels, far from the prying eyes of the curatai, the
morality police who patrolled the streets in search of strictures violators.
The curatai made me mindful of the fact that there was a curfew in
effect for Tradurian woman following the setting of the sun. This lasted
until sunrise, at which point the women of Tradur exchanged the prison
of their home for the prison of a society that saw them as little more
than property.
As we moved through the oppressive heat of the tropical night, I was
ever mindful of Burrye's fears. It would be easy for me to disappear in
a situation like this. Or worse, perhaps, to be caught by the curatai
doing what I shouldn't have been doing in the first place.
My fears were quelled somewhat when we reached what my guide
claimed was our destination. I recognized it immediately as the Temple
of Sentai, which, according to my research earlier in the day, was the
known residence of Kieara Cjhar. I was ushered in through a narrow
doorway that was far from the main entrance of the temple. My guide
remained outside. Once within, I found myself alone, standing in my
dark cape in the center of a small antechamber. I drew back my hood
and looked around, but there was little to see. The room was poorly lit
by a single glowtube. There were no markings on the walls, and no
openings, save the door through which I'd come and another opposite
it.
I waited.
Just when I had begun to think I'd been played the fool, a woman
appeared at the other door. She beckoned in silence, gesturing me forth,
deeper into the temple. Sentai was restricted to women. More
particularly, to those women who had devoted their lives to the Church.
They were known as the cjhavari, the daughters of the god-revered. No
Tradurian male--including the prelate himself--was permitted within
the walls of the temple. To violate this sanction was to risk certain
censure from the Church--the least of which was excommunication,
though punishments as severe as death weren't unheard of.

There was nothing impressive about the interior of the temple. It lacked
the ornateness that was to be found in the palace of the cardinali and
the cathedral of the prelate, or in any of the many churches that
dominated much of the skyline of Jehku and the other cities of Tradur.
Indeed, its simple appointments were a rather refreshing contrast to a
faith that seemed mired in the cynicism of gaudy gold and jewel
encrusted trappings.
We walked down several passageways, all of which were dimly lit by
scattered glowtubes. There were doors set here and there in the thick
walls, all of them closed, most of them no doubt concealing the spartan
cells in which I imagined the occupants of the Sentai lived. At length
the young acolyte who had been leading me through this labyrinth
halted before one of these doors. She turned to me and bowed, lifted a
hand indicatively towards the door, and then backed away, finally
retreating down the corridor and leaving me to stand there bewildered.
After a moment or two I did the instinctual thing and knocked.
"Come in, Ambassador Morrisohn. The door is not locked."
I pushed, and the door, made of heavy wood and bound with iron,
swung inwards on well-oiled hinges, opening to reveal a room quite
like what I'd expected to find. It was spare, with a narrow cot in one
corner, a desk placed before a window, and a tall clothes cupboard on
the wall opposite the bed. There were a couple of chairs, one for the
desk and one clearly for a guest--the latter looking somewhat out of
place and no doubt there solely for my benefit.
Kieara Cjhar sat by the desk. She wore a simple white linen shift, quite
unlike the stunning gown she'd worn to the embassy reception. Oddly
enough, she seemed more fetching in this coarse garment, the
simplicity of its design and material a marked understatement that
permitted her natural beauty to radiate unblemished. She wore no
jewellery, and her dark, lustrous hair was bound in a single braid that
hung down her back and reached to her waist.
She smiled warmly, invitingly, and gestured towards the other chair.

I sat, easing myself into