by K. J. Parker
That made him laugh so much he nearly fell off his horse, and he was still chuckling when he rode up to the main gate of Deymeson.
‘You’re in a good mood,’ Brother Porter said accusingly as he opened the sally-port. ‘What’s up? Killed someone famous?’
Monach shook his head. ‘Better than that,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a valid excuse for getting Father Tutor out of his pit in the early hours of the morning. Do me a favour and—’
‘I’m not waking him up,’ Brother Porter replied quickly. ‘Last time I did that I couldn’t taste vinegar for a week after.’
Monach frowned. ‘I could give you a direct order,’ he said.
‘And I could tell you where to stick it. Goodnight.’
He took his horse to the stables, where they weren’t particularly pleased to see him, and stopped off at his own quarters to dump his sodden coat and towel his hair dry. He kept his wet boots on, though; the squelching was loud enough to wake up all but the heaviest sleepers, and he’d have to walk past the quarters of several high-ranking members of the order to get to Father Tutor’s rooms. He thought about the god in the cart and grinned. Then he remembered Cric, and the old man who was probably General Allectus, and the grin faded. The more I think about it, he muttered to himself, the harder it gets.
There was Father Tutor’s door; dark, grubby oak, and a plain blacked latch. He balled his fist, thumped twice, lifted a lamp down from the nearest wall-sconce and pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
There were some senior members of the order who you’d expect to find absent from their beds in the middle of the night. Father Tutor wasn’t one of them. Even if he had occasion to work late, he’d do it in his rooms, requiring anybody who needed to see him to come here and sit in the straight-backed uncomfortable chair while he perched at ease on the edge of the bed. Monach stood still in the doorway without a clue as to what he should do next.
‘Was that you?’ said a voice behind him. It turned out to belong to the Father Bursar, the particular terror of Monach’s youth; he was standing in the corridor wearing nothing but a thick wool cap and holding a distinctly pornographic candle-stick.
‘I’m sorry,’ Monach stammered. ‘I—’
‘Making that bloody horrible noise,’ Father Bursar explained. ‘Was it you?’
‘Yes.’ Monach kept his eyes fixed on the wall six inches left of Father Bursar’s ear. ‘I need to see Father Tutor, it’s—’
‘You don’t know? Dear God, where have you been the last two days?’
‘I—’ Monach forced out the words. ‘Father Tutor sent me on a mission,’ he said, clinging to the authorisation like a drowning man holding on to a tiny piece of driftwood. ‘To Laise Bohec, and—’
Father Bursar frowned, but it wasn’t anger. ‘Father Coiroven died the night before last,’ he said quietly. ‘His heart, we think. What did you say your name was?’
Father Coiroven, Monach thought; never heard of him. He’d already told Father Bursar his name and date of orders by the time he made the connection. ‘Father Tutor?’ he said, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘Dead?’
‘That’s right. I just told you.’ Father Bursar fitted a sympathetic stare to his face, like someone buckling on a piece of armour. ‘My condolences,’ he said. ‘I take it you were a pupil of his?’
‘Since I was ten,’ Monach replied automatically, though he knew Father Bursar didn’t really want to know that. ‘Was that his name, Coiroven? I never knew.’
‘No reason why you should,’ Father Bursar replied, in a tone of voice that suggested that this was meant to be a comfort. ‘Did you say you have something important to report?’
‘Yes,’ Monach replied, as a terrible thought struck him. ‘But who should I report to? Nobody else knew what Father Tutor was working on, not even me.’
Father Bursar smiled. ‘I promise you,’ he said, ‘anything of importance will be known to at least one other member of senior chapter, or else recorded in his files and logs. We’re a society governed by old men, we’re used to taking precautions. ’
Monach took a deep breath. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘In that case, can you tell me who I should report to? It’s fairly urgent.’
Father Bursar rubbed his chin. ‘Not to me, at any rate,’ he said. ‘In the circumstances, I suggest the only person you can responsibly give this information to, whatever it is, would be Father Abbot.’
Monach’s jaw fell open like a loose tailgate on a bumpy road. ‘Oh,’ he said. He’d seen Father Abbot nearly every day of his life but never been close enough to him to hit him with a slingshot. The thought of talking to him was terrifying. The thought of waking him up in the early hours of the morning—‘I’m sure it can wait,’ he gabbled. ‘Really.’
Father Bursar gave him a thoughtful stare. ‘I’m not sure that’s your decision to make,’ he said. ‘You should consider the possibility that your news is far more important than you realise – unless, of course, you were fully apprised of everything Coiroven was dealing with at the time of his death, and all their implications for other areas of policy.’
It was tacitly acknowledged that sword-monks had no need to be afraid of any living thing on Earth; if it could be killed, they could kill it, so fear was irrelevant. It was generally implied that a sword-monk who’d attained orders could probably hold his own against most minor gods, given a fair fight and choice of weapons. With all his experience outside Deymeson, Monach had better grounds than most for believing in this principle, and genuine fear, as against worry or concern or apprehension, was something he’d tasted about as often as he’d drunk vintage sweet white wine at thirty quarters a bottle. But he was definitely afraid of Father Abbot.
‘Right,’ he said, very quietly. ‘I don’t suppose you could tell me where I might find him?’
Father Bursar looked at him. ‘In the abbot’s lodgings, of course,’ he said. ‘You do know where they are, don’t you?’
‘Sorry.’ He’d been seven when the prior of novices had first pointed out to him the small grey stone box where the abbot lived; he’d been made to promise not to run or shout or do anything naughty within two hundred yards of it, on pain of vivisection. ‘I forgot.’
Father Bursar didn’t say anything, but he nodded slowly. He turned to go back to his rooms, then stopped and looked back. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I always liked Coiroven. We were novices together sixty-five years ago. If he’d lived another ten years, I might have started to get to know him, but there it is.’
Naturally, there were guards outside Father Abbot’s door, two of them, lay brothers, both of whom Monach had taught, six or seven years ago. As soon as he was close enough to the door for his shadow to touch it they snapped to attention and blocked his way by crossing their pikes in front of his face. They didn’t say anything, of course. That would have made it too easy.
Monach cleared his throat. ‘I need to see the abbot,’ he said.
The guards looked at him.
‘I have a report,’ he said, feeling as if he was drowning in hot sand. ‘Originally it was for Father Tutor, but since he’s dead—’ (Did they know that? Were they authorised to know that?) ‘—since he’s unavailable, I thought I’d better take it to Father Abbot. To be on the safe side.’
The guards continued to stare at him for three very long seconds; then one of them (Cormista, Monach remembered; good with the pike and staff, competent swordsman, hopeless at theory and protocols) reached behind him and shoved open the door. Monach, who’d been hoping that one of the guards would do the actual waking-up, felt his shoulders slump forward as he went past and into the lodgings.
From the outside, the abbot’s quarters looked small and bleak. Inside they were smaller and bleaker. The room Monach found himself in was the office. Because there was only one small pottery lamp, resting on a bare board table, he couldn’t make out much in the way of detail, but he could see that the walls were lined with pigeonholes, with rolls of parchment or pa
per shoved into them, and in the middle of the room there was a single table and a single chair. The floor was covered in neat piles of documents, arranged in arrow-straight rows. The place was as cheerful as an abandoned graveyard.
He took three steps forward, taking pains to avoid the document piles, until he was able to locate the inner door, which led to the abbot’s bedroom. Then he stopped, as if he’d just bumped into an invisible wall. He could feel the abbot’s circle pressing against his kneecaps, and more than anything else in his whole life he didn’t want to break into it.
He’d been standing there for ten, possibly twelve seconds, when he heard a giggle.
At first he assumed it had come from outside: one of the very young novices, perhaps, who’d broken out of his dormitory and was trying to climb in through a window or the chimney. But Father Abbot’s lodgings didn’t have windows or chimneys, he’d spotted that by the time he was ten. Furthermore, although the giggle was as high-pitched as a child’s voice, it was quite definitely female. He’d heard giggles like that many times before, while staying at inns. It was one of those sounds that you immediately recognise, like a sword being drawn behind you, or rain in a gutter.
No, he thought. Definitely not. Must’ve been something else.
There it was again; no shadow of doubt about it, particularly since it was followed by the sort of soft male chuckle you always hear a fraction of a second after that sort of female giggle. One of the guards, he thought; one of the guards has been stupid enough to bring his girlfriend in here – probably the abbot’s a really heavy sleeper, nothing wakes him up short of the roof falling in, so it’s perfectly safe, though horrendously sacrilegious and blasphemous. Somewhere in this room, unaware that he was standing there just inside the door, was a sentry and—
The giggle, again, and unmistakably coming from the other side of the inner door. There was no way past it, the conclusion was that obvious. The abbot—
The abbot was busy and not to be woken. The news would wait till morning – which couldn’t be far off now in any case, and what possible difference could an hour or so make? After all, even if the news was so vital that the abbot mobilised the entire order in marching kit with three days’ rations, a couple of hours would be neither here nor there. It could wait; and it was high time he got out of his sopping wet clothes and had something to eat. After all, he couldn’t go in front of the abbot looking like a terrier who’s just crawled out of a drain, now could he?
Very slowly and carefully, petrified in case his boots squelched or he knocked something over, Monach crept back the way he’d come in, gently eased the door open to give the guards notice he was coming out, and fled across the yard to the gate into the middle quadrangle, across it into the west cloister, and up three flights of spiral stone steps to his own door. Once it was safely behind him he let out the breath he’d taken in the abbot’s office somewhere between a minute and forty years ago, and slumped on to his bed as if all his bones had suddenly melted.
When he woke up it was light, and he could tell from the angle of the shaft of light spearing through his cell’s small, high window that the sun had been up for several hours. Then he realised that he’d fallen asleep in his wet, clammy travelling clothes, and that he had pins and needles in both feet.
It’s difficult to hurry when you can’t bear to let either foot touch the floor, but he didn’t have any choice in the matter; he was washed, shaved, tonsured, respectably dressed and outside the abbot’s lodgings in less time than it’d take to milk a cow. His speed and efficiency didn’t alter the fact that he was sinfully, dangerously late, or that he had no idea how he was going to face the abbot after what he’d heard the previous night. At least the night watch had been relieved, and he didn’t have to face the same guard who’d let him go in and experience that.
Somehow he found the words to explain his business to the guard, who stared at him in silence for a very long time before telling his colleague to watch Monach like a hawk until he got back from consulting the duty sergeant. The guard was gone a very long time, during which the other guard drilled fret-work patterns in Monach’s face with his eyes. The duty sergeant eventually appeared looking absolutely furious (what had he been doing when the guard interrupted him? God alone knew) and forcing himself to be polite. Monach recited his speech once more, a little less coherently this time. The sergeant scowled at him and stumped off to find the duty officer. Fortunately, the duty officer turned out to be Lammis, a sparring partner from a dozen or so years ago, who vouched for him (though even he had to think about it first). At last the guard pushed the door open, and Monach went in.
Father Abbot was sitting behind his desk, sharpening a pen. Monach’s first impression was that he’d somehow both aged and shrunk since the last time he’d been in chapter; he looked thinner and bonier, but there were folds of drooping, empty skin under his chin and at the corners of his mouth that suggested that he’d recently lost weight faster than his skin could take up the slack. He was genuinely bald rather than tonsured – there were a few white bristles on either side of his ears, but not enough to make a clothes-brush from – and his hands were small and plump.
‘Yes?’ he said.
Beyond question it was the same voice that had chuckled the night before. Monach felt his throat freeze; he could hardly breathe, let alone say anything. He knew he was staring, but couldn’t do anything about it.
‘Yes?’ the abbot repeated.
Monach tried to remember his name, but couldn’t. He could remember that he had important news to deliver, but not what it was. The abbot was frowning at him. He needed a miracle, and he needed it right away, which meant praying to the appropriate god. The only god he could think of offhand was Poldarn, so he prayed to him; and Poldarn must have heard, because quite suddenly his memory came back with a snap. He told Father Abbot his name and business without stuttering once.
And Father Abbot seemed inclined to take him seriously. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So, tell me what you’ve found out.’
Take it slowly, said a voice inside Monach’s head, you’ll be all right. Don’t rush the draw or you’ll get your sword jammed in the scabbard mouth. It was good advice, and he followed it. When he’d finished Father Abbot folded his hands and looked down at them, giving Monach a fine view of the liver spots on the top of his head.
‘I wish you’d told me this earlier,’ he said. ‘I’ve just sent out most of the available sword-brothers; now I’ll have to call them back, it’ll be late afternoon before they’ll be ready to go. Still,’ he went on, with a remarkably human-sounding sigh, ‘that can’t be helped now. You’ll have to go with them, of course.’
Monach shuddered, as if he’d just swallowed something unexpected and nasty. ‘Me?’
Father Abbot frowned. ‘Yes, you,’ he said. ‘I’m putting you in charge of the whole operation. Most people would be pleased.’
In charge? Me? Absolutely not. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with a total lack of sincerity. ‘But I’ve never commanded a field unit before, I don’t know how—’
Father Abbot smiled up at him. ‘You’ve got four hours,’ he said. ‘Learn.’ He rubbed his ear with the palm of his hand. ‘First, though, it’d probably be just as well if I told you what you’re actually going to do.’
Monach nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘It’s quite simple,’ the abbot went on. ‘Find General Cronan, get him away from his men, and kill him. Try and keep a low profile if you can,’ he went on, writing something as he spoke. ‘A direct attack’s not out of the question, of course, if there’s absolutely no other way. It’d probably be the order’s death warrant, we’ll be disbanded, arrested and sent in chains to Datmia once the emperor finds out we’ve killed one of his generals, but in the circumstances, you can regard the order as expendable. Do you understand what that means?’
Yes, it means you’ve gone mad and we’ll have to murder you discreetly and hide your body in a culvert. ‘Yes,’ Monach said. ‘At lea
st, I think so. This is very important.’
‘That’s right,’ the abbot said. ‘Do you know why?’
‘No.’
The abbot looked annoyed. ‘Coiroven was a great man and a fine strategist, but a little too fond of secrecy for his or anybody’s good. Very well, listen carefully. You know, I assume, about the long-standing enmity between Cronan and Prince Tazencius. Yes?’
Monach nodded.
‘Good, that’s something. And you know that many years ago, Tazencius provoked – or at least tried to provoke – a duel between Cronan and himself, that Cronan humiliated Tazencius on that occasion and there’s been bad blood between them ever since?’
‘Yes. Yes indeed,’ Monach said.
‘Splendid. You probably also know that the emperor, quite reasonably, favours Cronan – he’s our best general and, I believe, genuinely loyal to the emperor and the empire (not always the same thing, as you’ll appreciate) – and has ignored all his brother’s warnings about the danger of Cronan going to the bad and staging a coup – perfectly legitimate concerns, given the history of the last hundred and fifty years, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ The abbot leaned back as far as the chair’s straight back would allow, and gazed for a moment over Monach’s shoulder. ‘The sad fact is,’ he went on, ‘that we have the first good emperor for at least a century, the first reliably loyal general for about as long, who also happens to be the only man in the empire who might conceivably be capable of beating the raiders, and a crown prince whose only concerns are the welfare of his brother and the well-being of the empire; and we’re on the verge of probably the worst civil war in the empire’s history. What’s worst of all, I think, is that our only hope of averting it rests with a disgracefully conniving and devious priest who’s also the head of our order, and an unscrupulous thug with a private army.’
