"Go and help Dainsey," Pony said to him. "I wish to remain out here alone." Belster started to respond, but Pony kept on talking. "I shall consider your words," she promised. "Perhaps we can avoid a war, after all."
Belster held his ground for a moment longer, but he realized that he had gotten as much of a concession as would be coming from one as stubborn as Pony. He came forward again and gave her a hug —one she returned— and then he headed back out of the alley, saying only, "You be careful with that belly before you even think about going up that pipe!"
The woman only smiled, and that was enough to allow Belster to return to his duties in the Way.
As soon as he had gone, Pony made it to the roof without a problem, quietly and quickly using a malachite to aid her. She slipped into her customary spot, leaning against the back of a dormer. She did indeed want to consider Belster's words, but she could not give the reasoning any credence. Every time she tried to think of the possible gain to Palmaris in letting go of the past, in judging the new leaders by their present actions, she thought of Graevis and Pettibwa, dear and innocent Graevis and Pettibwa. No, this new Bishop was no better than the last, she realized, and the Father Abbot was the worst and most dangerous of the lot.
They had done nothing to improve life in Palmaris, not if one considered where the city had been before the deaths of Bildeborough and Abbot Dobrinion. Yet no one seemed to remember that! All they could chatter about in the Fellowship Way was that this Bishop treated them better than the last, and that the monies demanded by the Church had lessened, and the sermons sounded less judgmental. And that, to Pony's distress, seemed to be enough for them.
It was all too pat for Pony, and she even looked beyond that and wondered just how much of this present situation had been carefully orchestrated.
* * *
A grand caravan made its way to the banks of the Masur Delaval. Twenty wagons strong, armed monks riding all around, the procession of Father Abbot Markwart came to the riverbank with the intent of using the magical powers of the amber to walk across. But when Markwart saw the splendor of the ferries and the accompanying fleet awaiting him, he instructed his monks to put their amber away.
More than a score of ships bobbed in the waters just beyond the docks at Amvoy, and several barges were tied to the wharves, awaiting the wagons. On one of these sat the new carriage for the Father Abbot, a magnificent gilt affair, with a team of four perfectly groomed, shining white horses pawing the planks, eager to pull. The driver, a city guardsman, wore a splendid uniform, the full regalia of Baron Bildeborough's personal guard.
As the flotilla started across the wide river, trumpeters on flanking ships took up the welcoming call, a song that was repeated by every ship in the line, trumpets answering trumpets, the blaring call telling of the impending arrival. So impressive was Francis' plans that the call reached all the way across the miles of water to the docks at Palmaris, where answering horns echoed the notes.
One thing that Francis could not avoid was the slow progress across the water of the bulky, square boats; the minutes became an hour, and then two. Finally the docks of Palmaris came into sight, and the noise of trumpets reached the Father Abbot's ears, along with cheering.
Cheering!
"How different this is from my last visit," the old man said to the two masters, Theorelle Engress and a much younger man, flanking him. "Perhaps they have come to appreciate the glory of the Church at long last."
"A testament to the work of Bishop De'Unnero," the younger master replied.
Markwart nodded, for he had no desire to explain, but he knew the truth, knew that any sincere applause he might receive in Palmaris would be the work of Headmaster Francis. Beyond that, of course, it was truly the work, the master planning, of himself.
The crowds reached down to the docks, lining the way. Markwart noted that many Behrenese were there as well, gathered all over the docks, and though their cheering was not nearly as exuberant as that of the white-skinned Palmaris folk, many of them were clapping their hands and calling out the name of Father Abbot Markwart.
"Oh, Francis," the old man muttered under his breath, "truly you have made my task here easier."
Pleased, Markwart took his seat in the gilded carriage and bade those monks who had been chosen as personal bodyguards to step onto the running boards at either side. The masters organized many other monks to flank the magnificent coach, including one skilled with horses to take a seat up beside the soldier driver.
And then the parade began, the song of trumpets calling from every section of the city, the yells and cheers drowning even those. Entertainers of every persuasion —jugglers, sleight-of-hand magicians, and many bards—filtered behind the crowds, singing and laughing. And there, as well, were the soldiers, trying to keep out of the Father Abbot's sight as they prodded the crowd to be more enthusiastic.
Markwart basked in it all, reveled in the glory he believed that he deserved. Had he not brought Honce-the-Bear through the war, including personally leading the victory over the main powrie flotilla at St.-Mere-Abelle itself? Had he not restored order to the beleaguered city of Palmaris while the inept King remained in Ursal, no doubt riding his private stock of horses and women?
Of course, the Father Abbot did not consider the more covert and less glorious actions that had led him to this point, any more than to remind himself that Dobrinion and Bildeborough had proven ineffectual and could not see the broader and more important possibilities in the wake of the war. Yes, that was dark business to consider on another day; for now, Markwart merely sat back, waving occasionally, and then even smiling when his wave brought more enthusiastic cheers.
Francis would become the bishop, he decided then and there. If De'Unnero returned a hero, with the head of Nightbird and the stolen stones —and perhaps even with the five heretics in tow—he would find another use for the man, a duty more suited to one who was more a creature of action than of politics. Yes, it was all falling neatly into place, the completion of the puzzle that would allow the Abellican Church to steal more and more of King Danube's domain, a completed picture that would return Honce-the-Bear to the theocracy it had been in more glorious days.
It all started here, in Palmaris, and the dream resounded in Markwart's ear with every cheer and trumpet blast.
And nearly everyone in the crowd was cheering, and those cheers were sincere, a prayer from the common folk that their lives could now return to normal and the dismal days of the war and its immediate aftermath would be put behind them. The Father Abbot saw it all very clearly and basked in the glory of this, his greatest moment.
Several hundred feet away, leaning against the slanted roof of a taller building, watching the procession, Pony, too, recognized the cheering for what it was: a desperate plea for leniency. They would forget the past —not all the folk, but a significant number, certainly too many for her to find continuing support for any major resistance against the Church rule. They would turn a blind eye to the murders and the injustices, would lament the name of Chilichunk whenever they came into the Fellowship Way, but would call it "a pity," or an "unfortunate consequence," rather than "an atrocity," a crime that needed to be avenged. The beleaguered people had seen too much of war, had found their world turned upside down several times over the last few months after years of constant and stable rule. How many years had Abbot Dobrinion overseen St. Precious and the spiritual needs of Palmaris? How many decades —centuries even!—had the family Bildeborough ruled rather benignly from their seat in Chasewind Manor? It had all come undone in a matter of weeks, and now the common people wanted only a return to that safe existence.
And to their thinking, Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart was the only one who could give it to them.
The thought brought bile into Pony's throat, made her hands tremble with outrage. She chewed her lip and tried to think of something she could scream, that she didn't have to hear the cheering.
The cheering! The cheering! It went on and on and
on —and for Markwart, for the man who had persecuted Avelyn, who had tortured Graevis and Pettibwa and Grady to death! The man who had ordered heroic Bradwarden dragged from the bowels of Mount Aida, locked in chains, and slung into the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle. The man who had ordered the assassinations of Abbot Dobrinion and Baron Bildeborough!
And now they were cheering, and it went on and on, hammering at Pony's heart and soul, pushing her further and further from her desire to strike back at this man and the corrupt institution he represented. It would all die here, she realized. Any hopes that she might have allowed to flicker about a potential revolution against the Church would all die here on the streets of Palmaris, buried beneath a chorus of "prettyface" cheers.
Pony clenched her hand tightly, and only then realized that she had fished one of the gemstones from her pouch. She looked down at it, but knew what it was before she did. Magnetite, the lodestone, and it was no accident that she had plucked this particular stone.
She looked from the stone back to the man in the gilded carriage. He was closer now, and rolling along a course that would bring him barely a hundred paces from her.
Pony could focus and loose a lodestone over a hundred paces.
"Come on, ye rotten waifs!" the soldier prompted, giving a shove to what he thought was a young boy.
Belli'mar Juraviel accepted the treatment stoically, for he, like all the other elves in the area, understood that they were observers who were to take no action to cause any disturbance whatsoever. He glanced over at Lady Dasslerond, apparently next in line for the pushy soldier's abuse, and the lady winked at him to indicate that he should play along.
She started cheering for the Father Abbot before the soldier reached her, and her companions all joined in.
For Lady Dasslerond, though, this sight was particularly unnerving. She wanted to deal with the King, if she had to deal with any human at all to ensure the security of her people, but this reception for the Father Abbot, so completely and professionally orchestrated, made her understand that this dangerous man would play a much larger role in determining the fate of Palmaris, and any potential expansion of the human kingdom, than she had believed.
She cheered, and her kin cheered, and the soldier moved along to the next less-than-enthusiastic onlookers in the seemingly endless line.
"Am I an assassin?" Pony asked aloud, and her face crinkled in disgust at the thought. She was a warrior, trained in bi'nelle dasada and in the use of gemstones, a warrior who could meet her enemy on an open field, sword against sword or magic against magic. So she had hoped ultimately to meet Markwart.
But it would not come to that, she realized painfully. There would be no rebellion, no open fight.
She held her arm extended over the roof ridge now, looking down it as if it were a drawn arrow at the rolling carriage. More out of curiosity than intent, the woman slipped into the magic of the stone, looked through it toward her intended target. Every metallic item along the route shone clearly to her: the swords of the soldiers behind the crowd, the shoes of the horses, even the jewelry and coins of the onlookers.
Pony narrowed her focus, eliminating all but the metal on the carriage, and then even narrower, seeing clearly only the metallic items worn by Father Abbot Markwart. She noted the three rings on his hands, the brooch clasping the top of his brown robes. Yes, that brooch. It was off center, and too high above his heart, but a strike through it would surely cause a grievous wound, probably a fatal one to a man as old as Markwart.
Pony's arm gradually slipped lower. Could she murder a man, any man, like this? Was she an assassin? The man was defenseless. .. .
Pony noted something, then, a strange feeling in the lodestone, almost a repulsion. She brought her arm back up and looked through the magic again; and then, as she focused more closely on the ring on the index finger of Markwart's left hand, she had her answer. The ring was set with magnetite. Of course, Pony realized, the Father Abbot was protected from metal-tipped missiles, his magical ring sending off a defensive deflection shield. Likely he wore other shielding items —an emerald, perhaps, to bring a defensive shield against wood as the magnetite protected him from metal.
Pony clenched her stone more tightly. He wasn't defenseless, and somehow that challenge pushed her past her emotional barrier.
"Do you think you've the power to stop this?" she whispered grimly, focusing on that brooch, thinking to blow a hole through the man's chest and shoulder. She sent her energy into the lodestone, let it build and build an attraction to that one item. In mere seconds, the stone was pulling against her grip, but Pony held on, sending even more energy into the stone, charging it to tremendous levels.
She noted something else then, a sudden impulse as the Farther Abbot flashed a wide grin to the cheering crowd.
The man had a metal tooth, likely a golden one.
She shifted her angle only slightly and blocked out the brooch as she had blocked out all other metal in the area; and now her focus was on that one tooth halfway down the Father Abbot's jaw on the right side of his face.
The lodestone was humming now, vibrating with power, begging Pony for release. Still she held, throwing all of her strength into that stone. "Do you think you've the power to stop this?" she asked again, and she unclenched her hand.
It flew with the speed many times that of a diving falcon, had reached its target before Pony had even finished opening her hand, and yet she saw it as if it were moving slowly, as if all the world were moving very slowly. It soared past the rooftops, nearly clipping an eave, diving in a straight line. She saw one woman turning her head right into its path, but too slowly, and the stone zipped past, startling the woman.
And then the way was clear to the Father Abbot, to his gold tooth. On the stone tore, blasting into the side of the old monk's face, exploding bone, tearing flesh, and then ripping on, through the man's tongue, smashing bone and teeth on the other side of his jaw, driving up and out through the side of his skull and then burrowing into the side of the carriage.
Pony watched Markwart's head snap violently to the side, watched the man jump out of his seat, then fall back limply, blood spraying all over his robes and the carriage, all over the attendant monks rushing to the Father Abbot's side, and all over the back of the soldier driving the carriage, the man still oblivious of the disaster behind him.
Absolute chaos exploded around Lady Dasslerond and her companions, for the carriage was almost directly in front of them when the Father Abbot got hit. Elves scrambled to get some sense of what had happened, but Dasslerond and Juraviel had already figured it out.
"Gemstone," Juraviel said grimly.
"It would seem that your friend is ambitious," Lady Dasslerond replied in less than complimentary tones. Dasslerond shook her head in disgust and turned her attention back to the chaos at the carriage. Soldiers and monks closed ranks about the stricken man, yelling for the driver to race to St. Precious.
Dasslerond could only watch as her scouts fanned out, trying to give her the most complete and accurate information possible. The situation had just become even more complicated, she knew. And so did Juraviel, who hoped that their suspicions about the method and source of the attack would be proven wrong.
* * *
Pony rolled to her back and slid down the sloping roof so that she was below the crest. And so she was an assassin —at least, if the old wretch died before the monks could get to him with any soul stones. "No," she said aloud, shaking that thought away. She had seen the impact and knew the power of the gemstone. Markwart had died the instant it hit him.
A strange emptiness washed over Pony, a hollow feeling that was not the sweet taste of revenge she had expected. That man, that dangerous wretch, had killed her parents and her brother; he was an evil man in a position to continue hurting people, so many people, and the world was a better place without him. Pony knew all that, but it mattered little at that horrible moment.
She heard the commotion behind her, the screams.
>
Pony blanked it out, couldn't bear it at that time. She felt unclean and tainted. She moved lower on the roof and vomited until her sides ached.
CHAPTER 27
Looking Death in the Eye
They watched him climb the stony cliff with some amusement, but also with a fair amount of pride, for Elbryan moved with a grace and agility beyond that of most humans, especially one his size. For the Touel'alfar, those movements, so natural and animallike, served as a testament to their training and their way of life. To their thinking, Nightbird's achievements were their achievements; but by their estimation, he still could not match the agility of even the most clumsy elf.
Far down below, across the rocky remnants of an old riverbed and under the canopy of a large cluster of pines, Bradwarden, Roger, and the monks busied themselves setting up camp. The two elves had watched them start unseen and unnoticed, as they had been for almost all this journey, and then they had followed Nightbird so inconspicuously that even the elven-trained ranger had taken no note of them
The ranger inched his hand above him, fingers walking up the stone, seeking a crack. He closed his eyes, focusing on his sense of touch, letting his fingertips "see" for him. He found, so high above him that he had to rise on tiptoe, a crack barely deep enough to admit his fingertips and only wide enough for one hand. The ranger fell into a state of absolute calm, allowing the muscles in his hand to go rigid. He inched up, up, barely noting the move, deep in thought, all his willpower focused squarely on that hand.
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