commons, atop a good-sized hill. If I were a true prophet, he thought, I'd know things now. I'd know whether I'd stay here for a day or a week or a month. I'd know whether Armor would be my friend, as I hope, or my enemy, as I fear. I'd know whether his wife would someday win herself free to use her powers in the open. I'd know whether I'd ever meet this Red Prophet face to face.
But that was nonsense, he knew. That was the sort of seeing that a torch would do - he'd seen them doing it before, more than a few of them, and it filled him with dread, because it wasn't good, he knew, for a man to know too much of the path of his own life ahead. No, for him the knack he wanted was prophecy, to see, not the small doings of men and women in their little corners of the world, but rather the great sweep of events as directed by God. Or by Satan - Taleswapper wasn't particular, since both of them had a good idea of what they planned to do in the world, and so either one was likely to know a few things about the future. Of course, it was likely to be more pleasant to hear from God. What traces of the devil he had touched so far in his life had all been painful, each in its own way.
The church door stood open, this being a warmish day for autumn, and Taleswapper buzzed right in along with the Ries. It was as fine a church inside as out - obviously Scottish rite, so it was plain - but all the more cheerful for that, a bright and airy place, with whited walls and glass-paned windows. Even the pews and pulpit were of light wood. The only thing dark in the whole place was the altar. So naturally his eye was drawn to it. And, because he had a knack for this sort of thing, he saw traces of a liquid touch upon the surface of it.
He walked slowly toward the altar. Toward it, because he had to know for sure; slowly, because this sort of thing ought not to be in a Christian church. Up close, though, there was no mistaking. It was the same trace he had seen on the face of the man in DeKane, who tortured his own children to death and blamed it on the Reds. The same trace he had seen lingering on the sword that beheaded George Washington. It was like a thin film of filthy water, invisible unless you looked at a certain angle, in a certain light. But to Taleswapper it was always visible now - he had an eye for it.
He reached out his hand and set his forefinger carefully on the clearest trace. It took all his strength just to hold it there for a moment, it burned so, setting his whole arm to trembling and aching, right to the shoulder.
"You're welcome in God's house," said a voice.
Taleswapper, sucking on his burnt finger, turned to face the speaker. He was robed as a Scottish Rite preacher - Presbyterian, they called them here in America.
"You didn't get a splinter, did you?" asked the preacher.
It would have been easier just to say Yes, I got a splinter. But Taleswapper only told stories he believed.
"Preacher," said Taleswapper, "the devil has set his hand upon this altar."
At once the preacher's lugubrious smile disappeared. "How do you know the devil's handprint?"
"It's a gift of God," said Taleswapper. "To see."
The preacher looked at him closely, unsure whether or not to believe. "Then can you also tell where angels have touched?"
"I could see traces, I think, if goodly spirits had intervened. I've seen such marks before."
The preacher paused, as if he wanted to ask a very important question but was afraid of the answer. Then he shuddered, the desire to learn plainly fled from him, and the preacher spoke now with contempt. "Nonsense. You can fool the common people, but I was educated in England, and I am not deluded by talk of hidden powers."
"Oh," said Taleswapper. "You're an educated man."
"And so are you, by your speech," said the preacher. "The south of England, I would say."
"The Lord Protector's Academy of Art," said Taleswapper. "I was trained as an engraver. Since you're Scottish rite, I daresay you've seen my work in your Sunday school book."
"I never