He finally gave up and slipped quietly from his bed to avoid waking the sleeping Kalten. He put on his soft monk’s robe and padded through the night-dark halls of the house to Dolmant’s study.
Sephrenia was there, as he had about half-expected her to be. She sat before a small fire that crackled on the hearth, her teacup in her hands and her eyes a mystery. ‘You’re troubled, aren’t you, dear one?’ she said to him quietly.
‘Aren’t you?’ He sighed and sank into a chair, extending his long legs out in front of him. ‘We’re not suited for this, little mother,’ he said moodily, ‘neither one of us. I’m not arranged in such a way that I can palpitate with delight over the change of a number, and I’m not positive that you even understand what numbers mean. Since Styrics don’t read, can any of you actually understand any number larger than the sum of your fingers and toes?’
‘Are you trying to be insulting, Sparhawk?’
‘No, little mother, I could never do that – not to you. I’m sorry. I’m a bit sour this morning. I’m fighting the kind of war I don’t understand. Why don’t we frame some sort of prayer and ask Aphrael to change the minds of certain members of the Hierocracy? That would be nice and simple and probably head off a great deal of bloodshed.’
‘Aphrael wouldn’t do that, Sparhawk.’
‘I was afraid you might say that. That leaves us the unpleasant alternative of playing in somebody else’s game then, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t mind that so much – if I understood the rules a little better. Frankly, I’d much prefer swords and oceans of blood.’ He paused. ‘Go ahead and say it, Sephrenia.’
‘Say what?’
‘Sigh and roll your eyes heavenward and say, “Elenes” in your most despairing tone.’
Her eyes went hard. ‘That was uncalled for, Sparhawk.’
‘I was only teasing you,’ he smiled. ‘We can do that with those we love without giving offence, can’t we?’
Patriarch Dolmant entered quietly, his face troubled. ‘Is no one sleeping tonight?’ he asked.
‘We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Is that why you’re up as well?’
Dolmant shook his head. ‘One of my servants fell ill,’ he explained,’ – a cook. I don’t know why the other servants sent for me. I’m no physician.’
‘I think it’s called trust, Your Grace,’ Sephrenia smiled. ‘You’re supposed to have certain special contacts with the Elene God. How is the poor fellow?’
‘It appears to be quite serious. I sent for a physician. The fellow isn’t much of a cook, but I’d rather he didn’t die under my roof. What really happened in Cimmura, Sparhawk?’
Sparhawk quickly sketched in the events which had occurred in the throne-room and the substance of the confession of Lycheas.
‘Otha?’ Dolmant exclaimed. ‘Annias actually went that far?’
‘We can’t really prove it, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘It might be useful at some point to let the information drop in Annias’s presence, however. It might throw him off balance a bit. Anyway, at Ehlana’s command, we’ve confined Lycheas and Arissa in that cloister near Demos, and I’m carrying a sizeable number of warrants for the arrest of assorted people on charges of high treason. Annias’s name figures quite prominently in one of those warrants.’ He paused. ‘There’s a thought,’ he said. ‘We could march the knights to the Basilica, arrest Annias and take him back to Cimmura in chains. Ehlana was talking very seriously of hangings and beheadings when we left.’
‘You can’t take Annias out of the Basilica, Sparhawk,’ Dolmant said. ‘It’s a church, and a church is sanctuary for all civil crimes.’
‘Pity,’ Sparhawk murmured. ‘Who’s in charge of Annias’s toadies in the Basilica?’
‘Makova, Patriarch of Coombe. He’s been more or less running things for the past year. Makova’s an ass, and he’s totally venal, but he’s an expert on Church Law, and he knows a hundred technicalities and loopholes.’
‘Is Annias attending the meetings?’
‘Most of the time, yes. He likes to keep a running count of the votes. He’s spending his spare time making offers to the neutral Patriarchs. Those nine men are very shrewd. They never come right out and openly accept his offers. They answer with their votes. Would you like to watch us play, little mother?’ Dolmant said it with a faint irony.
‘Thank you all the same, Dolmant,’ she declined, ‘but there are a goodly number of Elenes who are firmly convinced that if a Styric ever enters the Basilica, the dome will fall in on itself. I don’t enjoy being spat on all that much, so I think I’ll stay here, if I may.’
‘When have the meetings usually been commencing?’ Sparhawk asked the Patriarch.
‘It varies,’ Dolmant replied. ‘Makova holds the chair – that was a simple majority vote. He’s been playing with his authority. He calls the meetings on a whim, and the messengers delivering those calls somehow always seem to lose their way when they come looking for those of us who are opposed to Annias. I think Makova started out by trying to slip through a substantive vote while the rest of us were still in bed.’
‘What if he calls a vote in the middle of the night, Dolmant?’ Sephrenia asked.
‘He can’t,’ Dolmant explained. ‘Sometime in antiquity, some Patriarch with nothing better to do codified the rules dealing with meetings of the Hierocracy. History tells us that he was a tiresome old windbag with an obsession about meaningless detail. He was the one responsible for the absurd rule about the one hundred votes – or 60 per cent – on substantive matters. He also – probably out of pure whim – set down the rule that the Hierocracy could only deliberate during the hours of daylight. Many of his rules are stupid frivolities, but he talked for six straight weeks, and finally his brothers voted to accept his rules just to shut him up.’ Dolmant touched his cheek reflectively. ‘When this is all over, I may just nominate the silly ass for sainthood. Those petty, ridiculous rules of his may be all that’s keeping Annias off the throne now. At any rate, we’ve made a practice of all being in place at dawn, just to be safe. It’s a rather petty form of retaliation, actually. Makova’s not customarily an early riser, but he’s been greeting the sun with the rest of us for the past several weeks. If he’s not there, we can vote in a new chairman and proceed without him. All sorts of inconvenient votes could take place.’
‘Couldn’t he just have those votes repealed?’ she asked.
Dolmant actually smirked. ‘A vote to repeal is a matter of substance, Sephrenia, and he doesn’t have the votes.’
There was a respectful knock on the door, and Dolmant answered it. A servant spoke with him for a moment.
‘That cook just died,’ Dolmant said to Sparhawk and Sephrenia, sounding a bit shocked. ‘Wait here a moment. The physician wants to talk with me.’
‘Strange,’ Sparhawk murmured.
‘People do die of natural causes, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia told him.
‘Not in my profession – at least not very often.’
‘Maybe he was old.’
Dolmant returned, his face very pale. ‘He was poisoned!’ he exclaimed.
‘What?’ Sparhawk demanded.
‘That cook of mine was poisoned, and the physician says that the poison was in the porridge the man was preparing for breakfast. That porridge could have killed everyone in the house.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to reconsider your position on the notion of arresting Annias, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk said grimly.
‘Surely you don’t believe –’ Dolmant broke off, his eyes suddenly very wide.
‘He’s already had a hand in the poisoning of Aldreas and Ehlana, Your Grace,’ Sparhawk said. ‘I doubt that he’d choke very much over a few Patriarchs and a score or so Church Knights.’
‘The man’s a monster!’ Then Dolmant started to swear, using oaths more common to a barracks than a theological seminary.
‘You’d better tell Emban to circulate word of this to the Patriarchs loyal to us, Dolmant,
’ Sephrenia advised. ‘It appears that Annias may have come up with a cheaper way to win an election.’
‘I’d better start rousing the others,’ Sparhawk said, rising to his feet. ‘I want to tell them about this, and it takes a while to get into full armour.’
It was still dark when they set out for the Basilica accompanied by fifteen armoured knights from each of the four orders. Sixty Church Knights, it had been decided, was a force with which few would care to interfere.
The sky to the east was beginning to show that first pale stain of daylight when they reached the great domed church which was at the very centre of the Holy City – its thought and spirit as well as its geography. The entrance into the city of the column of Pandions, Cyrinics, Genidians and Alciones the previous night had not gone unnoticed, and the torchlit bronze portal leading into the vast court before the Basilica was guarded by a hundred and fifty red-tunicked church soldiers under the command of that same captain who, at Makova’s orders, had attempted to prevent the departure of Sparhawk and his companions from the Pandion chapterhouse on their journey to Borrata. ‘Halt!’ he commanded in an imperious, even insulting tone.
‘Would you attempt to deny entrance to Patriarchs of the Church, Captain?’ Preceptor Abriel asked in a level tone, ‘knowing that you thereby imperil your soul?’
‘His neck too,’ Ulath muttered to Tynian.
‘Patriarch Dolmant and Patriarch Emban may freely enter, My Lord,’ the captain said. ‘No true son of the Church could refuse them entry.’
‘But what of these other Patriarchs, Captain?’ Dolmant asked him.
‘I see no other Patriarchs, Your Grace.’ The captain’s tone hovered on insult.
‘You’re not looking, Captain,’ Emban told him. ‘By Church Law, the Preceptors of the militant orders are also Patriarchs. Stand aside and let us pass.’
‘I have heard of no such Church Law.’
‘Are you calling me a liar, Captain?’ Emban’s normally good-humoured face had gone iron-hard.
‘Why – certainly not, Your Grace. May I consult with my superiors on this matter?’
‘You may not. Stand aside.’
The captain started to sweat. ‘I thank Your Grace for correcting my error,’ he floundered. ‘I was not aware that the Preceptors also enjoyed ecclesiastical rank. All Patriarchs may freely enter. The rest, I’m afraid, must wait outside.’
‘He’d better be afraid if he’s going to try to enforce that,’ Ulath grated.
‘Captain,’ Preceptor Komier said, ‘all Patriarchs are entitled to a certain administrative staff, aren’t they?’
‘Certainly, My Lord – Uh, Your Grace.’
‘These knights are our staff. Secretaries and the like, you understand. If you deny them entrance, I’ll expect to see a long file of the black-robed underlings of the other Patriarchs filing out of the Basilica in about five minutes.’
‘I can’t do that, Your Grace,’ the captain said stubbornly.
‘Ulath,’ Komier barked.
‘If I may, Your Grace,’ Bevier interposed. Bevier, Sparhawk noted, was holding his lochaber axe loosely in his right hand. ‘The captain and I have met before. Perhaps I can reason with him.’ The young Cyrinic Knight moved his horse forward. ‘Though our relations have never been cordial, Captain,’ he said, ‘I beseech you not to so risk your soul by defying our holy mother, the Church. With this in mind, will you freely stand aside as the Church has commanded you to do?’
‘I will not, Sir Knight.’
Bevier sighed regretfully. Then, with an almost negligent swing of his dreadful axe, he sent the captain’s head flying. Bevier, Sparhawk had noted, did that on occasion. Just as soon as he was certain that he was on firm theological ground, the young Arcian habitually took sometimes shockingly direct action. Even now, his face was serene and untroubled as he watched the captain’s headless body standing stock still for several seconds, and then he sighed as the body collapsed.
The church soldiers gasped and cried out in horror and alarm as they recoiled and reached for their weapons.
‘That tears it,’ Tynian said. ‘Here we go.’ He reached for his sword.
‘Dear friends,’ Bevier addressed the soldiers in a gentle but commanding voice, ‘you have just witnessed a truly regrettable incident. A soldier of the Church has wilfully defied our mother’s lawful command. Let us join together now to offer up a fervent prayer that All-Merciful God shall see fit to forgive his dreadful sin. Kneel, dear friends, and pray.’ Bevier shook the blood off his axe, spattering a number of soldiers in the process.
First a few, then more, and finally all of the soldiers sank to their knees.
‘Oh, God!’ Bevier led them in prayer, ‘we beseech Thee to receive the soul of our dear brother, but recently departed, and grant him absolution for his grievous sin.’ He looked around. ‘Continue to pray, dear friends,’ he instructed the kneeling soldiers. ‘Pray not only for your former captain, but for yourselves as well, lest sin, ever devious and cunning, creep into your hearts even as it crept into his. Defend your purity and humility with vigour, dear friends, lest you share your captain’s fate.’ Then the Cyrinic Knight all in burnished steel and pristine white surcoat and cape, moved his horse forward at a walk, threading his way through the ranks of the kneeling soldiers, bestowing blessings with one hand and holding his lochaber axe in the other.
‘I told you he was a good boy,’ Ulath said to Tynian as the party followed the beatifically smiling Bevier.
‘I never doubted it for a moment, my friend,’ Tynian replied.
‘Lord Abriel,’ Patriarch Dolmant said as he guided his horse past the kneeling soldiers, many of whom were actually weeping, ‘have you questioned Sir Bevier of late on the actual substance of his beliefs? I may be wrong, but I seem to detect certain deviations from the true teachings of our holy mother.’
‘I shall catechize him most penetratingly on the matter, Your Grace – just as soon as I have the opportunity.’
‘There’s no great rush, My Lord,’ Dolmant said benignly. ‘I don’t feel that his soul is in any immediate danger. That is a truly ugly weapon he carries, however.’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ Abriel agreed. ‘It truly is.’
Word of the sudden demise of the offensive captain at the gate had spread rather quickly. There was no interference from the church soldiers at the massive doors of the Basilica – indeed, there seemed to be no church soldiers around at all. The heavily armed knights dismounted, formed up into a military column and followed their Preceptors and the two Patriarchs into the vast nave. There was a noisy clatter as the party knelt briefly before the altar. Then they rose and marched off down a candlelit corridor towards the administrative offices and the Archprelate’s audience chamber.
The men standing guard at the door to the chamber were not church soldiers, but rather were members of the Archprelate’s personal guard. Their loyalties were to the office itself, and they were totally incorruptible. They were also, however, sticklers for the letter of Church Law, in which they were probably more well versed than many of the Patriarchs sitting in the chamber. They immediately recognized the ecclesiastical eminence of the Preceptors of the four orders. Coming up with a reason why the rest of the entourage should be admitted took a bit longer, however. It was Patriarch Emban, fat, sly and with a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of Church Law and custom, who pointed out the fact that any Churchman with proper credentials and at the invitation of a Patriarch must be freely admitted. Once the guards had agreed to that, Emban gently pointed out that the Church Knights were de facto Churchmen as members of technically cloistered orders. The guards mulled that over, conceded Emban’s point and ceremoniously opened the huge doors. Sparhawk noticed a number of poorly-concealed smiles as he and his friends filed inside. The guards by definition were incorruptible and totally neutral. This did not, however, preclude their having private opinions.
The audience chamber was as large as any secular throne-room. The throne itse
lf, massive, ornate, constructed of solid gold and standing on a raised dais backed by purple drapes, was at one end of the hall, and on either side, rising in tier upon tier, stood the high-backed benches. The first four tiers were crimson-cushioned, indicating that those seats were reserved for the Patriarchs. Above those seats and separated from them by velvet ropes of deepest purple were the plain wooden seats of the galleries for the spectators. A lectern stood before the throne, and Patriarch Makova of Coombe in Arcium stood at the lectern, droning out a speech filled with ecclesiastical bombast. Makova, lean-faced, pockmarked and obviously sleepy, turned irritably as the huge doors opened and the knights followed the Patriarchs of Demos and Ucera into the vast chamber.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Makova demanded in an outraged tone.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary, Makova,’ Emban replied. ‘Dolmant and I are merely escorting some of our brother Patriarchs in to join in our deliberations.’
‘I see no Patriarchs,’ Makova snapped.
‘Don’t be tiresome, Makova. All the world knows that the Preceptors of the militant orders hold rank equal to ours and are, therefore, members of the Hierocracy.’
Makova glanced quickly at a weedy-looking monk sitting off to one side at a table piled high with massive books and ancient scrolls. ‘Will the assemblage hear the words of the law clerk on this matter?’ he asked.
There was a rumble of assent, though the looks of consternation on the faces of at least some of the Patriarchs clearly showed that they already knew the answer. The weedy monk consulted several large tomes, then rose, cleared his throat and spoke in a rusty-sounding voice. ‘His Grace, the Patriarch of Ucera, has correctly cited the law,’ he said. ‘The Preceptors of the militant orders are indeed members of the Hierocracy, and the names of the current holders of those offices have been duly entered in the rolls of this body. The Preceptors have not chosen to participate in deliberations for some two centuries past, but they have the rank nonetheless.’
The Sapphire Rose Page 15
