He was still explaining the intracies of construction and weight-bearing loads, when the priest ascended to his altar. Varona slapped her husband and daughter on the leg to make them shut up. Alexanda did so, grumpily, and as the priest began to drone, he busied himself with thoughts of Petrodor and its circumstances.
If there was one good thing to arise from the current mess, he thought, it was that the power of the provinces and their dukes had been reinforced. Now the squabbling patachis realised they needed them after all, and for more than just decent wine and a good cheese. Most of the men who would march to war would be drawn from the provinces. But they would only obey the instruction of the archbishop, not any fat, greedy patachi. Fathers and mothers would only part with their sons if the gods decreed it. Priests and patachis, so mutually necessary, and such an equal curse upon the land.
Danor was with Patachi Steiner and had participated in the recent attacks against Family Halmady and their allies. So had Vedichi…but that was no surprise; Duke Belary was a leech, sucking the blood from all within his borders until Pazira towns were bursting with poor peasants escaping from Vedichi's harsh masters and harsher taxes. Coroman's support was a given-Petrodor was within Coroman's historical borders and, while Duke Tosci was no fool, Steiner's allied families owned many of Coroman's best lands, and the loyalty of his wealthiest earls. No, Patachi Steiner had Tosci by the balls, and Alexanda could hardly blame the man for his capitulations. Pazira, thank the gods, had distance between itself and Petrodor. That and a healthy, regional contempt that went back many centuries.
Songel was a prospect. Alexanda had met with Duke Abad just the other night. He was clearly unhappy with the Steiners and was leaning Maerler's way. Maerler, it seemed, had offered him terms of trade more favourable than had Steiner…
In addition to Songel, the province of Flewderin was only interested in being left alone, and Cisseren were…well…ambivalent. Add it all together and Patachi Steiner only had three provinces firmly behind him. Four remained, as the serrin Rhillian never failed to point out whenever they met. Four weaker provinces, it was true, but add Saalshen and the balance was just about even. Maerler were not out of this race yet, not by a long way. Now Alexanda just had to think of some way to help extend the deadlock indefinitely. In that sense, his sympathies lay clearly with the green-eyed, white-haired beauty and her strange flock. If only he could find a way, before it drove him mad.
And what of this strange business with Halmady? Who knew that Halmady were plotting against their allies? Patachi Halmady had been known as a most unambitious man-a praiseworthy quality, if one were Patachi Steiner and looking for a safe right hand. Alexanda did not know what to make of it all. Could it have been true? Or were Halmady inconvenient for some other reason? Adding to the strangeness, he now heard that Princess Alythia of Lenayin had survived, and was with her sister in Dockside. Steiner had ordered the others killed, it seemed, but not the princess. Well, hardly surprising, if one were to reckon with the temper of her father, the King of Lenayin. But the king's temper would be sorely tested anyhow in this slaughter of his daughter's betrothed family. Something had arisen within the halls of Steiner Mansion to make such a drastic action seem well worth the risk. As to what that could be, Alexanda could only wrestle with the uncomfortable feeling that he was missing something. Something very big, and very obvious to everyone who knew the secret, and completely puzzling to everyone else…
The temple was very quiet, he realised. The priest was still talking, and usually there were rustles of fabric from the ladies’ dresses, or creaks from the benches as people shifted their weight. Now, nothing. Alexanda looked at the priest. He seemed very…well, tense. A bald man in a black robe, his face an even paler shade of white than usual, reading from a scroll upon the lectern.
“…and have the blasphemous gall to call this slander ‘philosophy.’ They creep through our city in the dead of night, promising murder and mayhem to all who oppose their malicious intent. They spread their misgotten wealth, corrupting those whose souls can be easily bought-the traitors, the blasphemous, the bastards and the fornicators. These evil collaborators have sold their souls for a few golden coins, and now, they are servants of the demons of Loth.
“Trust none who would serve these demons with the glowing eyes. Like demons, they have no morals. They fornicate with whomever they choose, their women have no concept of feminine virtue, and they have even been known to fornicate with their own brothers and sisters-even with their children. Through their human servants, they seek to spread their vile ways into our midst, to excuse them before our revulsion as ‘philosophy,’ and other such evil words that pretend know no good nor evil. They seek to devour human souls, as they have no souls of their own. It is the moral, godly duty of each and every true Verenthane in Petrodor-nay, in all Torovan-to resist these evil, twisted creatures with every fibre of our being. So have the gods decreed, and so does our blessed archbishop declare to we, his humble supplicants.”
The serrin, Alexanda realised, with horror. This shaven-headed son of a goat was talking about the serrin.
“Chief among the crimes of these wretched animals is blasphemy.” The priest spoke with little of the spontaneity or passion that the words might have appeared to describe. Instead, he read with the air of a man giving a prepared recital before a troupe of learned scholars, determined to get every word correct lest he be later reprimanded for his omission. “Let us consider the principle ‘philosophies’ of Saalshen. Chief amongst them is the shal'ans neel, what these evil ones declare as describing the absence of truth. Not only do these pagans disbelieve in the gods, they disbelieve in everything! There is no love, they declare. There is no peace. There is no right, and no wrong, and therefore all actions are excusable! By this alone, we can see that the only guiding principle of Saalshen is immorality itself. The inhabitants of Saalshen are guided in their course here in the world by the principles of immorality, of evil, of decadence and greed and lust. Surely such a plague could only be visited upon us by demons of Loth and their servants.”
Alexanda's initial shock gave way to fury. He thought of leaping to the altar and throwing the lectern to the ground. He thought of beating the priest to a pulp with his bare hands. He thought of drawing his sword and running the man through as he surely deserved. This was worse than playing with fire. This…this speech, was something that for all his faded faith, he had never thought to hear from the mouths of priests. This was evil.
Alexanda got to his feet. Now there was a stirring in the temple. The priest continued, glancing up from his scroll, wavering for the first time in his diatribe of filth. Alexanda reached for his wife's hand, expecting her protest and well prepared to berate her before the entire temple. Instead, she rose stiffly, reaching in turn for Bryanne. Alexanda gave the priest a long, deadly glare. The priest continued reading, recovering his rhythm with grim determination. It was clear he had not written these words himself.
Without a word, Alexanda turned and walked down the aisle. Guardsmen by the doors scrambled to open them and alert the guard beyond. Varona and Bryanne followed. Behind him, Alexanda could hear others following. The priest's voice droned on, with determined perfection on every syllable.
Alexanda walked out into the light rain to a town grey and deserted, save for the Pazira Guard now scrambling into position in the small courtyard before the steps. Up these steps now ran Captain Faldini, alarm on his face. He met his duke halfway down.
“Send a man to find the groundsman Adrian,” Alexanda told the bewildered captain. “Tell him to send a message by bird. Tell him it's urgent.”
“We have birds?”
“Something a groundsman knows that a captain might not. A gift from Rhillian. They will fly direct to her, or to Saalshen's properties, at least.”
“Yes, Your Grace. What should the message say?”
“Tell her that the archbishop uses the morning sermon to incite fury,” Alexanda said grimly. “Tell her that she shoul
d expect a riot, at the very least. This sermon will be identical, the length and breadth of Petrodor. Gods forbid they hear it in Riverside, though I'm sure they will. Gods curse that bloody-handed tyrant of an archbishop.”
Others were filing down the stairs now, donning furs against the rain. A number were scowling in fury as evident as his own. Some others seemed bewildered, as though they did not know why their duke had stormed out of the sermon, but had felt obliged to follow. Yet more appeared uncomfortable, and hesitated on the wet steps as if wondering if he would now go back inside. Walking out on a sermon would not look good if word got back to their holdings…or indeed to the archbishop himself. Many others, it was clear, remained inside the temple, keeping their seats for reasons of faith, etiquette, dislike of their duke, or outright agreement with the priest's words. Well, Alexanda thought darkly, as Captain Faldini rushed to give orders, at least now he'd know for certain who was who.
Varona took his hand on the steps, and squeezed. “I'm sorry, my love,” she said quietly. “You were right, I should have let you stay in bed.”
“Not at all,” said Alexanda darkly. “It's well that you dragged me out in the rain. Now, we must be prepared for anything. That blasted archbishop has no idea of what he's just done.”
When Sasha climbed to the pier from Mari's boat, a box of crabs on her shoulder, she found Errollyn running with long strides along the planks toward her. He looked alarmed, dark grey hair flying, unconcerned of his footing on the wet pier. Sasha lowered her box.
“Father Berin is dead,” Errollyn announced as he arrived, his green eyes hard. “Murdered.”
Sasha swore. “Mari!” she called. “I have to go, there's trouble!” From down on the boat's deck, Mari waved her off impatiently, toiling with several more boxes.
“What do you know?” she asked Errollyn, as their boots thumped on the planks.
“The sculptor Aldano found him in the workshop after morning sermon,” said Errollyn. “His throat had been cut.” Sasha cursed again. “Sasha, the morning sermon was trouble. Elsewhere there's uproar, apparently the archbishop wrote a speech saying nasty things about serrin.”
“Not Father Berin, surely?” Their boots hit the paved dock, and they turned right. There were few stalls this morning, partly thanks to Varansday and partly the rain. It fell light and cold from a grey sky, but Sasha was already sodden from a morning exposed on deck. A few sailors and locals walked the dockfront but most seemed intent on business, not wandering the sparse stalls in search of a bargain.
“No, not Father Berin,” Errollyn agreed. “Those who attended his sermon said he spoke of tolerance. A passage from the scrolls where Saint Tyrone encounters a starving pagan and gives him food and water although he was starving himself.”
“Oh aye,” Sasha muttered as she ran, “I'm sure the archbishop's men would have loved that.”
There was a crowd around the temple doors when they arrived, a forlorn cluster of men and women standing in the rain, and praying. A pair of caratsa let them in and they walked fast down the aisle, beneath the ceiling scaffolding. Several Nasi-Keth were guarding the door to the workshop, Sasha recognised them as Alaine's men. Beyond the doorway, standing amidst statues and ragged blocks of uncarved rock, stood Alaine himself, arguing furiously with another three of his men.
“I don't care if they protest!” Alaine was shouting. “I want every man, woman and child who attended morning service questioned, and their person and residences searched!”
“Alaine,” said Marco, a wide man with long hair, “it is most unlikely to be one of the common folk who did this thing…”
“In the name of the good gods, man, how will you know until you start asking questions?”
“It will require the consent of either Kessligh or Gerrold,” another man warned him.
“Damn Kessligh and Gerrold to the hells!” Alaine exclaimed. “Gerrold's too busy licking the serrin's boots to care what happens to our poor Father Berin, and Kessligh cares only for the greater glory of Kessligh!”
Marco looked at Sasha as she approached, and then others did too. Alaine turned. Sasha ignored his glare and looked to the left. Father Berin's body lay before a magnificent statue of Darshan, the Verenthane God of Fire. He had fallen forward, hunched on his knees, as if in prayer at the feet of the gods, and the statues, he had loved. A round, brown bundle of cloth, the pavings before him awash with blood. Darshan towered over him, strong and beautiful, as his follower had been weak and stunted.
“Take good care of him,” Sasha wished the statue, swallowing hard against the pain in her throat. “He was one of the very few of you lot I ever liked.” No wonder the others had killed him.
“Father Berin did not read the archbishop's prescribed sermon this morning,” Sasha bluntly told Alaine and his men. “It seems he made the archbishop angry.”
“You're very quick to assign blame,” Alaine snarled at her. “I'm sure the notion appeals to your pagan notions of Verenthanes.”
Errollyn paid them no attention, and walked slowly around the body of Father Berin, green eyes searching.
“You'll search the homes of hundreds of local worshippers before you suspect the archbishop of wrongdoing?” Sasha asked Alaine. “You'd blame your own people before that perfumed lunatic on his clifftop?”
“This is our faith!” Alaine shouted, dark eyes blazing, his jaw tight. “We shall not be dictated to by highlanders, pagans or little girls! Where the hells is Kessligh, anyhow? Does not the murder of Dockside's most loved father concern him enough that he should make the journey here himself?”
“Kessligh has the concerns of Petrodor on his shoulders,” Sasha retorted, “as did Father Berin.”
“I think it quite likely that your great uman did it!” Alaine said. “To then point the finger at the Torovan holy father and sow division amongst Verenthanes! Nothing would please Kessligh better than to convert all the Nasi-Keth to his pagan ideologies and win support away from me!”
“Is this another of those childish accusations that you know you'll never have to back with cold steel?” Sasha asked him. Alaine's words did not sting or anger her as they might. “So brave you men of Petrodor become when you know you'll never have to suffer the consequences of your accusations.”
“If it were up to me,” Alaine snarled, “I would revoke that rule in an instant!”
“And you'd die as much the fool as you were born.”
“The murderer was left-handed,” came Errollyn's voice from the foot of Darshan's statue. Both Sasha and Alaine turned and looked. Errollyn was crouching alongside Berin's body, examining the wound on his throat. “The cut begins on the father's right, then across. It's a clean cut, the mark of someone who has experience. I've seen murders committed by common thieves, they lack precision, sometimes they make a terrible mess, their hands are shaking so. This assassin is an expert. There are also no signs of struggle, no bruises on the face or neck, although there may be some on his body.”
“So he knew the killer?” Sasha wondered.
“Perhaps,” said Errollyn. “Also, his neck chain is missing. There is a mark here that suggests it might have been torn.”
“Someone thought he no longer deserved it,” Sasha said darkly.
“Whatever evidence you find, your mind is already made up,” Alaine snorted, turning away in exasperation.
Sasha looked at the other three men, Marco in particular. He looked uncertain. Wary. “What do you think, Marco?”
“I think all these dead priests make a trend,” said Marco. “I think there shall be a special hell reserved for whomever has been killing them.” Sasha gazed at him, almost pleadingly, wanting more. Marco looked uncomfortable.
“It's sad,” said Errollyn, sombrely, gazing down at Father Berin. “He dies amongst the statues of his gods. His faith was free, open to reason, to art and interpretation. I think whoever killed him found that offensive.”
“We should have posted guards,” Alaine muttered, running a hand th
rough his hair.
“Father Berin would never have accepted,” Marco replied. “We could never have anticipated that the archbishop would…” He stopped himself short. Alaine glared at him. And then beyond, as Errollyn made a holy sign to his forehead, and rose.
“You!” Alaine demanded. “You have no business making that sign in this place! You have no idea what it means!”
Errollyn regarded him coolly. “Wear your sword at your hip and no longer fight with svaalverd, Master Nasi-Keth,” he replied. “You have no idea what they mean.”
“That's completely different!” Alaine bristled.
“Most serrin would be intrigued at the debate you propose,” said Errollyn, returning to Sasha's side. “I find you boring, Alaine. Tedious and predictable. Come,” he said to Sasha, “let's go. If that sermon was as bad as I hear, we'll be needed elsewhere.”
“I don't know!” Sofy exclaimed in anguish, pacing in the little inn chamber. Teriyan stood by the curtains that had been pulled across the patio windows, leaving only a little of the morning light spilling through. Byorn sat on one of the two single cots, and Ryssin leaned by the door, one ear to the outside. “I don't know how they knew!”
It had been Ryssin who'd seen them bundling Jaryd out the rear exit of the inn. Ryssin was a tracker and hunter who lived in the woods a short ride from Baerlyn. He was a skinny, weathered poker of a man, who Teriyan insisted could turn invisible in the faintest shadow. He and Byorn had taken a different route to Algery than the others. He'd been watching the inn from the stables, suspecting any dangerous activity would come through the rear way, not the front, where half the guests were cavorting. They'd taken Jaryd down a narrow alley, posting several guards behind. Ryssin had tried to skirt around, but his quarry had disappeared. The tracker was apologetic, not liking to hunt in cities half as much as he did in the wilds.
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