“No!” a hundred voices burst forth.
“And should we respect these foul villains?”
“No!”
“We starve in the midst of plenty, my brothers and sisters, and they who call themselves noble oppress us beyond reason, for they believe it is their God-given right to do so. Better by far to be a horse or a dog than a commoner in Perquaine. But let us consider this but yet a bit further, my brothers and sisters. We have lived out our lives under the heels of our oppressors, and we know them well. Has anyone here ever seen a noble who could with any certainty tell his right hand from his left?”
The crowd roared with laughter.
“Or tie his own shoes?”
They laughed again.
“Or scratch his own backside when it itches?”
“He’s pushing that a little,” Emdahl growled.
“He’s playing to his audience, your Eminence,” Althalus explained. “Peasants tend to be a little earthy.”
“Since our unspeakably noble nobility is too stupid to tell night from day,” Argan continued, “it’s fairly obvious that someone or something is leading them down the path of oppression and injustice. Who or what do you suppose that might be, brothers and sisters?”
“The Church!” a deep voice came from the center of the throng.
“That was smooth,” Exarch Yeudon noted.
“Surely you don’t agree with that apostate!” Aleikon said in a shocked voice.
“I was talking about his skill, not his message, Aleikon,” Yeudon explained. “He’s good. There’s no question about that.”
“Then cruelty and oppression are a part of the nature of the true God?” Argan asked the crowd.
“No!” a dozen voices responded.
“Then it would seem that the Church of Perquaine has strayed from the true course set forth by God himself. That’s not particularly surprising, though. The Brown Robes are notorious for twisting the words and intent of God in their quest for wealth and power. They preach submission to us and oppression to the nobility. We are dressed in rags and live in crude hovels that cannot protect us from the weather, but the nobility wears velvet and rich furs, and their houses are palaces. And just who has told the pampered—and stupid—nobility that this is right and proper?”
“The Brown Robes!” a voice thundered from the midst of the crowd.
“Our womenfolk are forced to submit to highborn lechers, and who tells the aristocracy that the rape of peasants is no sin?”
“The Brown Robes!” the crowd shouted.
“And what must we do to follow the true teachings of the God of all mankind?”
“Kill!” a solitary voice barked.
“And who is it that we must kill?”
“The nobles!”
“And who shares the guilt of the nobles?”
“The Brown Robes!”
“Then must we also kill the Brown Robes?”
“Yes!”
“But man must have priests, lest he stray from the true path. Tell me, citizens of Perquaine, into the hands of which order would you place your souls?”
“The Red Robes!” Koman’s well-placed underlings responded.
Then a stout fellow with a deep, thunderous voice stepped out of the crowd. “Lead us, Brother Argan!” he pleaded. “Tell us what we must do, lest we die in the clutches of our oppressors.”
Argan’s face took on an expression of exaggerated humility. “I am unworthy, my brother,” he replied meekly.
“Not as unworthy as Exarch Aleikon, Brother Argan,” the stout man disagreed. “Free us from our oppressors. Give us justice!”
“And is this the will of all here assembled?”
“Yes!” The great shout echoed across the frozen plain.
“Then follow me, my brothers and sisters, through the gates of Dail, and when Dail has been purified, whither shall we go?”
“Maghu!”
And the vast mob surged forward, and the gates of Dail could not withstand them.
“He twisted everything,” Exarch Aleikon protested weakly. “Things aren’t really all that bad in Perquaine.”
“Oh, really?” Exarch Yeudon said with heavy sarcasm. “You Brown Robes are notorious for your greed. I hate to admit it, but that fellow in the red robe was telling the absolute truth, and if we were the least bit honest, we’d be forced to admit that this peasant rebellion’s fully justified.”
“Not here, Yeudon,” Emdahl rasped. “I think it’s time for the three of us to discuss this situation—extensively, and in private.” He looked at Althalus. “We need a room where we can talk, Althalus—quite some distance from here, I think.”
“The tower at the far end of the west corridor, I think,” Dweia suggested. “Why don’t you show them the way, Eliar?”
Eliar nodded. “Come with me, gentlemen.”
Emdahl looked intently at Leitha, and then he gave her a sly wink.
“What was that all about?” Bheid asked the pale girl after the churchmen had followed Eliar from the room.
“Your Exarch just invited me to sit in during their conference,” Leitha replied. “He knew I was going to do it anyway, but he actually wants me to eavesdrop. He’s planning what Althalus calls a ‘flimflam,’ and he wants us to go along with it.”
“Could you be a little more specific, Leitha?” Andine asked her friend.
“Emdahl views this current unrest in Perquaine as a golden opportunity, dear,” Leitha explained. “The Brown Robe order’s totally corrupt, and Emdahl has a sort of grand plan to jerk the Brown Robe power base right out from under Aleikon. Without the support of the nobility of Perquaine, the Brown Robes are likely to be reduced to a mendicant order, begging at the roadside.”
“What a splendid idea,” Andine giggled. “How does Emdahl plan to pull that off?”
“He’s still working on the details, but in a general sort of way he wants to use Argan’s sermon to frighten Aleikon into pulling all his priests out of Perquaine. He’ll throw the words ‘temporary’ and ‘interim’ around to keep Aleikon from realizing that he won’t be coming back to Perquaine when this is all over.”
“My Exarch’s very shrewd,” Bheid said proudly. “When things quiet down here in Perquaine, Aleikon’s going to discover that the Black Robes have replaced him.”
“Not exactly,” Leitha said with a sly little smile. “Emdahl’s still working on some details, but a direct, open confrontation between the Black Robes and the Brown Robes would probably start a war that’d make the peasant revolt look like a stroll in the park by comparison, wouldn’t it?”
“You’re hiding something from me, Leitha,” Bheid accused.
“Would I do that?” she said with feigned, wide-eyed innocence. “Little old me?”
Bheid threw his hands in the air. “Women!” he said.
The conference in the tower at the end of the west corridor lasted for several days, and Eliar, who’d been carrying meals to the three ecclesiasts, reported that it was a fairly lively affair.
Then, about midafternoon on a snowy day, the churchmen returned to Dweia’s tower. Exarch Aleikon looked a bit sullen, but Emdahl and Yeudon wore expressions of bleak satisfaction. “We are agreed,” Emdahl announced. “The crisis in Perquaine is the direct result of our policies. Aleikon’s most responsible, of course, but there’s enough blame to go around. We’ve all concentrated our efforts on powerful men and neglected the commoners. We’d thought that men of power could command the commoners to accept our doctrines, but that, of course, was a mistake. Powerful men can command the actions of weaker men, but not their thoughts or beliefs. The Scarlet Robe Argan has saddled our blunder, and he’ll ride it straight through the doors of the temple in Maghu unless we take certain steps immediately.”
“Immediately might not be quite soon enough, Exalted One,” Andine said rather pointedly. “The aristocracy of Perquaine’s notorious for its treatment of the poor, and the Brown Robe order’s been painted with the same brush. I may be ju
st a silly girl, but even I know that the wellbeing of any society depends far more on the peasantry and the city laborers than it does on the nobility. The three orders have betrayed the commoners so often that they’ll never trust you.”
“My point exactly,” Emdahl replied. Then he smirked at Yeudon and Aleikon. “Notice, dear friends, that even this tiny child has seen directly to the core of our blunder.”
“All right, Emdahl,” Aleikon said acidly, “you don’t have to beat us over the head with it. Get to the point and let’s get on with this.”
“What a splendid idea, Aleikon,” Emdahl agreed. “We need someone to counter the exaggerations of this Argan, and no commoner in his right mind would ever believe anything that came from the mouth of any member of the established clergy.”
“That pretty well sums it up, yes,” Althalus agreed. “What are you gentlemen going to do about it?”
“We need a new voice, that’s all,” Emdahl said, shrugging, “a voice untainted by our past mistakes.”
“What exactly is this surprise you have for us, Emdahl?” Dweia asked.
“We’ve founded a new order of clergy. The new order will wear different robes from ours, so they’ll be uncontaminated by the things we’ve done in the past. They’ll minister to the poor and the despised, they won’t live in palaces, and they won’t associate with the aristocracy.”
“It’s a start, perhaps,” Bheid noted a bit dubiously, “but if you’ll excuse me, my Exarch, will there be time enough for this new order to counter the preachings of Argan? He’s already gathered a multitude of followers, and he’ll be leading them toward Maghu before the week’s out.”
“I expect it’ll take a certain amount of inspired preaching, Brother Bheid,” Emdahl agreed, “but I’m positive that you’re up to it.”
Bheid’s face went suddenly dead white. “Me?” he gasped.
“It was one of the few things we agreed upon, Exarch Bheid,” Yeudon told him. “You’re the only possible choice. Your order will wear robes of grey, and they’ll take vows of poverty. The issue of chastity came up during our discussions, but we decided that we might offend Divine Dweia if we were to insist.”
“Wise decision,” Leitha observed.
“Absolutely out of the question,” Bheid announced quite firmly. “I’m not even a priest anymore.”
“The vow is permanent,” Emdahl rasped. “You can’t give it and then take it back.”
“I murdered a man, my Exarch,” Bheid said in a flat, emotionless voice.
“You did what?”
“I drove a sword through a man in Arya Andine’s throne room. I am damned.”
“Well, now,” Aleikon said, his plump face suddenly creased with a broad smile. “That changes everything, doesn’t it, Emdahl? I guess I won’t be leaving Maghu after all.”
“This is a problem, Emdahl,” Yeudon said gravely. “A murder automatically disqualifies any priest.”
“Be serious, Yeudon,” Emdahl rasped. “We’ve all arranged occasional assassinations.”
“But we don’t personally do the killing. It’s a technicality, probably, but it is one of the hard and fast rules. Until Brother Bheid’s sin is expiated—some sort of penance, I’d imagine—he most certainly can’t be elevated.”
“Who was this fellow you killed, Bheid?” Emdahl demanded.
“His name was Yakhag, your Eminence,” Andine stepped in, “and I think Brother Bheid was exaggerating. Yakhag was not a man in the usual sense of the word. He was more demon than man. Even Ghend was afraid of that one. Then, too, Yakhag had just butchered a young fellow Brother Bheid was grooming for the priesthood. Exarch Yeudon can tell you about the young man. He was a shepherd from Wekti named Salkan.”
“Salkan is dead?” Yeudon exclaimed in a stricken voice.
“I’m afraid so, your Eminence,” Andine replied. “Argan ordered Yakhag to kill Brother Bheid, but Salkan grabbed Eliar’s sword and jumped in front of Bheid to protect him. Yakhag killed him, and then Bheid killed Yakhag. Since it happened in Treborea, our laws would take precedence, and in Treborean law, what happened was not murder. It was fully justified.”
“Brother Bheid’s subject to Church law,” Aleikon said stubbornly. “Until he has served out his penance, he cannot hold any office in any order.” He smirked at Emdahl. “Your clever scheme just flew out the window, didn’t it?” he said smugly.
Emdahl scowled at him.
“Perhaps not,” Yeudon said. “Define the word ‘penance,’ Aleikon.”
“Prayer, fasting, isolation, hard labor—whatever punishment his Exarch decides is appropriate. Stop trying to get around this, Yeudon.”
“Let’s take a look at ‘hard labor,’ shall we?” Yeudon said smoothly. “The present situation in Perquaine sort of suggests to me that the Exarch of the Grey Robes will have to work harder than just about any other man in the world. Brother Bheid can expiate his crime by taking on the most difficult job in the world.”
“Expiation through service,” Emdahl agreed. “Brilliant, Yeudon.”
“That’s pure sophistry!” Aleikon protested.
“Of course it is,” Emdahl agreed, “but it’s good sophistry. Brother Bheid is still technically a Black Robe, so that gives me final authority over him, doesn’t it?”
“Well . . . technically, I suppose,” Aleikon reluctantly agreed.
“Very well, then. Let’s take care of certain formalities before we go any further. May I use your table, Divinity?” he asked Dweia.
“Of course, Exarch Emdahl,” she replied.
The harsh-faced Emdahl seated himself at the marble table and pulled up his hood. “Would you be so good as to present the charges to the court, Yeudon?”
“That’s not the way it’s done,” Aleikon protested.
“That depends entirely on who’s running things, Aleikon,” Emdahl said. “Brother Bheid’s a Black Robe, and that puts him under my jurisdiction. The trial—and the final judgment—is in my hands. The court will hear the charges, Exarch Yeudon.”
Yeudon rose to his feet, also pulling up his hood. “The prisoner is charged with murder, Holy Emdahl,” he intoned, “and freely has he confessed to this crime.”
“How says the prisoner?” Emdahl demanded sternly. “Quickly, quickly, Bheid. It’s almost suppertime.”
“I am guilty, my Exarch,” Bheid answered in a broken voice, “for I de-liberately killed the man called Yakhag.”
“And will you submit to the judgment of this court?”
“In all things, my Exarch,” Bheid agreed.
“The prisoner will kneel to hear the judgment of the court,” Emdahl announced sternly.
Trembling, Bheid sank to his knees.
Emdahl absently placed his hand on the Book. “The prisoner stands convicted of the crime of murder,” he announced in a formal tone. “Has the prisoner anything to say before the court passes judgment?”
“I . . .” Bheid faltered.
Emdahl cut him off. “I didn’t think so. It is the judgment of this court that you shall serve out the remainder of your life at hard labor, and, moreover, the labor which you shall undertake shall be to serve as the Exarch of the Grey Robe order—and may the Gods have mercy on your miserable soul.”
“But—”
“Shut up, Bheid,” Emdahl snapped. “Now get on your feet and go to work.”
“That was slick, Emdahl,” Althalus complimented the Black Robe Exarch as they followed the others downstairs to supper.
“I’m glad you liked it.” Emdahl smirked. “I can’t take all the credit, though. Expiation through hard labor was Yeudon’s idea in the first place. I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourself.”
“I don’t look at the world in quite the same way you priests do,” Althalus replied. “I’m a professional criminal, so I don’t get very worked up about my assorted sins. Yakhag needed killing, but I couldn’t quite get that across to Bheid. I had a certain amount of success by slamming him against a wall, though.
”
“Interesting variation,” Emdahl noted. “Bheid was suffering from his sense of guilt. We needed him in a certain position, so all I did was define that position as a punishment. He wanted to be punished, so now we’re both getting exactly what we want.”
“And I’m getting what I want as well.”
“That went by a little fast.”
“Bheid’s sense of his guilt was separating him from Leitha, and that was starting to make her come unraveled.”
“The witch? I didn’t think anything could bother that one. She’s made of steel, isn’t she?”
“Not really, Emdahl. She’s very fragile, and she needs love. She’s chosen me to be her father. Me, of all people.”
“She could do worse,” Emdahl noted. “You’ve got more than your share of faults, Althalus, but you do love everybody in your little group of followers. With a little training, you’d make a good priest—of course that’s what you really are, isn’t it? You’re the Exarch of the Church of Dweia, aren’t you?”
“We aren’t quite that formal, Emdahl. Emmy’s a lot more relaxed than her brothers are. As long as we love her, she’s perfectly happy. She even purrs.”
“Purrs?”
“It’d take much too long to explain,” Althalus told him.
“It’s probably the best we can do on such short notice, Bheid,” Emdahl said when they’d all returned to the temple at Maghu a few days later. “Aleikon wasn’t very happy about it, but we all finally agreed that our orders were going to have to give the Grey Robes a free hand. Your order won’t be very large. That vow of poverty makes most priests start to choke, so you won’t have very many voluntary followers at first.”
“There’ll be some, though, who’ll be involuntary,” Yeudon added drily.
“No,” Bheid declared adamantly. “You gentlemen aren’t going to use the Grey Robes as a garbage heap for your undesirables.”
The Redemption of Althalus Page 68
