The Sapphire Rose

by David Eddings

  ‘Sensible custom, that one,’ Sparhawk said.

  ‘I feel much the same way, Sir Knight,’ the monk smiled. ‘Makova tends to put me to sleep for some reason.’ Sparhawk grinned at him. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I suppose we should both pray for greater patience – one of these days.’

  Makova looked around desperately, but none of his friends saw fit to speak – either because of a lack of anything flattering to say about him, or because they could see which way a vote would go. ‘Vote,’ he said somewhat sullenly.

  ‘Good idea, Makova,’ Emban smiled. ‘Let’s move right along. Time’s fleeing even as we speak.’

  The vote this time was sixty-five for Dolmant’s assuming the chair and fifty-five against. Another of the supporters of the Primate of Cimmura had defected.

  ‘My brother from Demos,’ Emban said to Dolmant when the tally had been completed and announced, ‘would you be so kind as to assume the chair?’

  Dolmant came forward while Makova angrily gathered up his papers and stalked away from the lectern.

  ‘You honour me beyond my ability to express my gratitude, my brothers,’ Dolmant said. ‘For the moment, let me merely say thank you so that we may more quickly deal with the crisis at hand. Our most immediate need is for a greater force under the command of the Knights of the Church. How may we address that need?’

  Emban had not even bothered to sit down. ‘The force of which our revered chairman speaks is at hand, my brothers,’ he said to the assemblage. ‘Each of us has a detachment of church soldiers at his disposal. In view of the current crisis, I propose that we immediately turn control of those troops over to the militant orders.’

  ‘Will you strip us of our only protection, Emban?’ Makova protested.

  ‘The protection of the Holy City is far more important, Makova,’ Emban told him. ‘Will history say of us that we were so cowardly that we refused our aid to our holy mother in her time of need out of timidity and a craven concern for our own skins? Pray God that no such poltroon contaminates us by his presence in our midst. What says the Hierocracy? Shall we make this insignificant sacrifice for the sake of the Church?’

  The rumble of assent this time was slightly pained in some quarters.

  ‘Will any Patriarch call for a vote on the matter?’ Dolmant asked with cool correctness. He looked around at the now-silent tiers. ‘Then let the recorder set down the fact that the suggestion of the Patriarch of Ucera was accepted by general acclamation. The scribes will then draw up suitable documents which each member of the Hierocracy will sign, transferring command of his personal detachment of church soldiers over to the militant orders for the defence of the city.’ He paused. ‘Will someone please ask the commander of the Archprelate’s personal guard to present himself before the Hierocracy?’

  A priest scurried to the door, and shortly thereafter a brawny officer with red hair, a polished breastplate and armed with an embossed shield and antiquated short sword entered. His expression clearly showed that he was aware of the army at the city gates.

  ‘One question, Colonel,’ Dolmant said to him. ‘My brothers have asked me to chair their deliberations. In the absence of an Archprelate, do I speak in his stead?’

  The colonel considered it for a moment. ‘You do, Your Grace,’ he admitted, looking somewhat pleased.

  ‘That’s unheard of,’ Makova protested, obviously a bit chagrined that he had not taken advantage of this obscure rule during his own tenure as chairman.

  ‘So is this situation, Makova,’ Dolmant told him. ‘A Crisis of the Faith has only been declared five times in the history of the Church, and in each of the four preceding crises, a vigorous Archprelate occupied the throne which so sadly stands empty before us. When faced with unique circumstances, we must improvise. This is what we’re going to do, Colonel. The Patriarchs are each going to sign documents turning command of their individual detachments of soldiers over to the Church Knights. To save time and unnecessary arguments, as soon as those documents are signed, you and your men will escort each Patriarch to the barracks of their sundry forces where the Patriarch may confirm his written command in person.’ He turned then to look at the Preceptors. ‘Lord Abriel,’ he said, ‘will you and your fellow Preceptors dispatch knights to take command of the soldiers just as soon as they are released and to assemble them in a place of your choosing? Our deployment must be quick and unfaltering.’

  Abriel stood. ‘We will, Your Grace,’ he declared, ‘and gladly.’

  ‘Thank you, My Lord Abriel,’ Dolmant said. He looked back at the ranks of the Hierocracy, rising tier upon tier above him. ‘We have done what we can, my brothers,’ he said to them. ‘It seems most appropriate now that we proceed immediately to turn our soldiers over to the Knights of the Church, and then perhaps we might each devote ourselves to seeking counsel from God. Perhaps He, in His infinite wisdom, will suggest further steps we might take to defend His beloved Church. Therefore, without objection, the Hierocracy stands in recess until such time as this crisis has passed.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Bevier exclaimed. ‘In one series of master-strokes, they’ve wrested control of the Hierocracy from Annias, stripped him of all his soldiers and forestalled the taking of any votes while we’re not here to stop them.’

  ‘It’s kind of a shame that they broke off so quickly,’ Talen said. ‘The way things stand right now, we only need one more vote to elect our own Archprelate.’

  Sparhawk was elated as he and his companions joined the crush at the door to the audience chamber. Although Martel was still a grave threat to the Holy City, they had succeeded in wresting control of the Hierocracy from Annias and his underlings, and the weakness of the Primate of Cimmura’s grasp on his votes was clearly demonstrated by the defection of four of his bought and paid-for Patriarchs. As he started to move slowly from the chamber, he felt again that now-familiar sense of overpowering dread. He half-turned. This time, he even partially saw it. The shadow was back behind the Archprelate’s throne, seeming to undulate softly in the dimness. Sparhawk’s hand went to the front of his surcoat to make sure that Bhelliom was still where it belonged. The jewel was secure, and he knew that the drawstring on the pouch was tightly tied. It appeared that his reasoning had been slightly faulty. The shadow could make an appearance independently of the Bhelliom. It was even here inside the most consecrated building of the Elene faith. He had thought that here of all places he would be free of it, but it was not so. Troubled, he continued with his friends from the room which now seemed dark and chill.

  The attempt on Sparhawk’s life came almost immediately after he saw the shadow. A cowled monk, one of the many in the crowd at the door, spun suddenly and drove a small dagger directly at the big Pandion’s un-visored face. It was only Sparhawk’s trained reflexes that saved him. Without thinking, he blocked the dagger stroke with his armoured forearm and then seized the monk. With a despairing cry, the monk drove his little dagger into his own side. He stiffened abruptly, and Sparhawk felt a violent shudder pass through the body of the man he was holding. Then the monk’s face went blank, and he sagged limply.

  ‘Kalten!’ Sparhawk hissed to his friend. ‘Give me a hand! Keep him on his feet.’

  Kalten stepped swiftly to the other side of the monk’s body and took his arm.

  ‘Is our brother unwell?’ another monk asked them as they half-carried the body out through the door.

  ‘Fainted,’ Kalten replied in an offhand manner. ‘Some people can’t stand crowds. My friend and I will take him into some side chamber and let him get his breath.’

  ‘Slick,’ Sparhawk muttered a quick compliment.

  ‘You see, Sparhawk, I can think on my feet.’ Kalten jerked his head towards the door of a nearby antechamber. ‘Let’s take him in there and have a look at him.’

  They dragged the body into the chamber and closed the door behind them. Kalten pulled the dagger from the monk’s side. ‘Not much of a weapon,’ he said disdainfully.

  ‘It was enough,�
�� Sparhawk growled. ‘One little nick with it stiffened him up like a plank.’

  ‘Poison?’ Kalten guessed.

  ‘Probably – unless the sight of his own blood overpowered him. Let’s have a look.’ Sparhawk bent and tore open the monk’s robe.

  The ‘monk’ was a Rendor.

  ‘Isn’t that interesting?’ Kalten said. ‘It looks as if that crossbowman who’s been trying to kill you has started hiring outside help.’

  ‘Maybe this is the crossbowman.’

  ‘No way, Sparhawk. The crossbowman’s been hiding in the general population. Anybody with half a brain would recognize a Rendor. He couldn’t have just mingled with the crowd.’

  ‘You’re probably right. Give me the dagger. I think I’d better show it to Sephrenia.’

  ‘Martel really doesn’t want to meet you, does he?’ ’What makes you think Martel’s behind this?’ ’What makes you think he isn’t? What about this?’ Kalten pointed at the body on the floor.

  ‘Leave it. The caretakers here in the Basilica will run across it eventually and dispose of it for us.’

  Many of the church soldiers submitted their resignations when they discovered that they were being placed under the command of the Church Knights – the officers did, at any rate. Resignation is not an option available to common soldiers. These resignations, however, were not accepted, but the knights were not totally insensitive to the feelings of the various colonels, captains and lieutenants who felt strong moral compunctions about commanding their forces under such circumstances. They graciously divested such officers of their rank and enrolled them as common soldiers. They then marched the red-tunicked troops to the great square in front of the Basilica for deployment on the walls and at the gates of the inner city.

  ‘Did you have any trouble?’ Ulath asked Tynian as the two of them, each leading a sizeable detachment of soldiers, met at an intersection.

  ‘A few resignations was about all,’ Tynian shrugged. ‘I have a whole new group of officers in this batch.’

  ‘So do I,’ Ulath replied. ‘A lot of old sergeants are in charge now.’

  ‘I ran across Bevier a while back,’ Tynian said as the two rode towards the main gate of the inner city. ‘He doesn’t seem to be having the same problem for some reason.’

  ‘The reason should be fairly obvious, Tynian,’ Ulath grinned. ‘Word of what he did to that captain who tried to keep us out of the Basilica has got around.’ Ulath pulled off his ogre-horned helmet and scratched his head. ‘I think it was the praying afterwards that chilled everybody’s blood the most. It’s one thing to lop off a man’s head in the heat of a discussion, but praying for his soul afterwards has a very unsettling effect on most people for some reason.’

  ‘That’s probably it,’ Tynian agreed. He looked back at the soldiers straggling disconsolately towards the site of what was very likely to be actual fighting. Church soldiers for the most part did not enlist in order to fight, and they viewed the impending unpleasantness with a vast lack of enthusiasm. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Tynian chided them, ‘this won’t do at all. You must try to look like soldiers at least. Please straighten up those ranks and try to march in step. We do have some reputation to maintain, after all.’ He paused a moment. ‘How about a song, gentlemen?’ he suggested. ‘The people are always encouraged when soldiers sing as they march into battle. It’s a demonstration of bravery, after all, and it shows a manly contempt for death and dismemberment.’

  The song which rose from the ranks was feeble, and Tynian insisted that the soldiers start again – several times – until the full-throated bawling of the column satisfied his need for a display of martial enthusiasm.

  ‘You’re a cruel sort of fellow, Tynian,’ Ulath noted.

  ‘I know,’ Tynian agreed.

  Sephrenia’s reaction to the news of the failed attack by the disguised Rendor was almost one of indifference. ‘You’re sure you saw the shadow behind the Archprelate’s throne just before the attack?’ she asked Sparhawk.

  He nodded.

  ‘Our hypothesis still seems quite valid then.’ She said it almost with satisfaction. She looked at the small, poison-smeared dagger lying on the table between them. ‘Hardly the sort of thing you’d want to use against an armoured man,’ she observed.

  ‘A scratch would have done the trick, little mother.’

  ‘How could he have scratched you when you were wrapped in steel?’

  ‘He tried to stab me in the face, Sephrenia.’

  ‘Keep your visor closed then.’

  ‘Won’t that look a little ridiculous?’

  ‘Which do you prefer? Ridiculous or dead? Did any of our friends see the attempt?’

  ‘Kalten did – or at least he knew that it happened.’

  She frowned. ‘I was hoping that we could sort of keep this between ourselves – at least until we know what’s going on.’

  ‘Kalten knows that someone’s been trying to kill me – they all do, for that matter. They all think it’s just Martel and that he’s up to his usual tricks.’

  ‘Let’s sort of leave it at that then, shall we?’

  ‘There have been some desertions, My Lord,’ Kalten reported to Vanion as the group gathered on the steps of the Basilica. ‘There was no way we could keep word of what we were doing from reaching some of those outlying barracks.’

  ‘It was to be expected,’ Vanion said. ‘Did anybody happen to look over the outer wall to see what Martel’s doing?’

  ‘Berit’s been keeping an eye on things, My Lord,’ Kalten replied. ‘That boy’s going to make an awfully good Pandion. We ought to try to keep him alive if we can. Anyway, he reports that Martel’s almost completed his deployment. He could probably give the order to march on the city now. I’m surprised that he hasn’t, really. I’m sure some of Annias’s toadies have reached him by now to report what happened in the Basilica this morning. Every moment he delays just gives us more time to get ready for him.’

  ‘Greed, Kalten,’ Sparhawk told his friend. ‘Martel’s very greedy, and he can’t believe that his greed’s not universal. He thinks we’ll try to defend the whole of Chyrellos, and he wants to give us time to get spread so thin that he’ll be able to walk over us. He’d never be able to bring himself to believe that we’d abandon the outer city and concentrate on defending the inner walls.’

  ‘I suspect that many of my brother Patriarchs feel much the same way,’ Emban said. ‘The voting might have been much tighter if those of them with palaces in the outer city had been aware of the fact that we’re going to abandon their houses to Martel.’

  Komier and Ulath came up the marble steps to join them. ‘We’re going to have to pull down some houses just outside the walls,’ Komier said. ‘Those are Lamorks to the north of the city, and Lamorks use crossbows. We don’t want any rooftops out there for them to shoot at us from.’ The Genidian Preceptor paused. ‘I’m not very experienced at sieges,’ he admitted. ‘What kind of engines is this Martel likely to bring against us?’

  ‘Battering rams,’ Abriel told him, ‘catapults, assault towers.’

  ‘What’s an assault tower?’

  ‘It’s a sort of high structure. They roll it up until it’s flush against the wall. Then the soldiers come spilling out right in the middle of us. It’s a way to cut down on the sort of casualties they’ll take with scaling ladders.’

  ‘Roll?’ Komier asked.

  ‘The towers are on wheels.’

  Komier grunted. ‘We’ll leave the rubble from the houses we pull down lying in the streets then. Wheels don’t run too well across piles of building blocks.’

  Berit came galloping into the broad square and along the quickly opened path through the ranks of the church soldiers massed in front of the Basilica. He leapt from his saddle and ran up the stairs. ‘My Lords,’ he said a little breathlessly, ‘Martel’s men are beginning to assemble their siege engines.’

  ‘Will someone explain that to me?’ Komier asked.

  ‘The
engines are transported in pieces, Komier,’ Abriel told him. ‘When you get to the place where you’re going to fight, you have to put them together.’

  ‘How long’s that likely to take? You Arcians are the experts on castles and sieges.’

  ‘Quite a few hours, Komier. The mangonels will take longer. He’ll have to construct those here.’

  ‘What’s a mangonel?’

  ‘It’s a sort of oversized catapult. It’s too big to transport – even if you break it down. They use whole trees when they build them.’

  ‘How big a rock can it throw?’

  ‘A half-ton or so.’

  ‘The walls won’t take too many of those.’

  ‘That’s sort of the idea, I think. He’ll be using the standard catapults at first, though. The mangonels will probably take at least a week to build.’

  ‘The catapults and battering rams and towers should keep us occupied until then, I suppose,’ Komier said sourly. ‘I hate sieges.’ Then he shrugged. ‘We’d better get at it.’ He looked disdainfully at the church soldiers. ‘Let’s set these enthusiastic volunteers to work tearing down houses and cluttering up the streets.’

  At some point not long after dark, some of Martel’s scouts discovered that the outer walls of Chyrellos were undefended. A few of them, the stupider ones, reported back. For the most part, however, these scouts proved to be the vanguard of the looters. An hour or so before midnight Berit woke Sparhawk and Kalten to report that there were troops in the outer city. Then he turned to leave again.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Sparhawk asked bluntly.

  ‘Back out there, Sir Sparhawk.’

  ‘No you’re not. You stay inside the inner walls now. I don’t want you getting yourself killed.’

  ‘Somebody has to keep an eye on things, Sir Sparhawk,’ Berit objected.

  ‘There’s a cupola on top of the dome of the Basilica,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Go and get Kurik, and then the two of you go up there to watch.’