Hawkwood and the Kings: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume One) (27 page)

"The Ravens have always run things their way," Avila said cheerfully. "It'll never be any different."

They walked out of the cloisters and began toiling up the cobbled streets of the town that formed the fringes of the monastery. The buildings here were tall, leaning over the road, and the streets were clean. The entire place had been tidied up for the Synod on the orders of the Vicar-General.

Clerics clogged the streets, climbing higher so as to be the first to catch sight of the man who was favourite for the Pontiffship. Avila helped Albrec along as the little monk: puffed and sweated up the hill. Their breath clouded around them in the cold air, and they could see the snow on the higher slopes above them.

"There," Avila said, satisfied.

They stood on the ridge that curled protectively about the south-west of Charibon. The slope around them was black with people, religious and lay alike. They could stare down and see the entire, beautiful profile of Charibon with its towers and spires kindled by the autumn sunlight, and the inland sea of Tor glittering off to their right.

"I see him," Avila said.

Albrec squinted. "Where?"

"Not there, you ninny, along the northern road. He's coming by way of Almark, remember. See the escort of Knights? There must be close on two hundred of them. Himerius will be in the second coach, the one flying the scarlet Hebrian flag. They're certainly putting on a show for him. I'd say he had the Pontiffship in the palm of his hand already."

One of their neighbours, a hard-faced priest in the plain robe of a Friar Mendicant, turned at Avila's words.

"What's that you say? Himerius as Pontiff?"

"Why yes, Brother. That seems to me to be the way of it."

"And you have looked deeply into these matters, have you?"

Avila's face seemed to stiffen. It was with his full aristocratic hauteur that he replied, "I have a mind. I can examine the evidence and form an opinion as well as the next man."

The Friar Mendicant smiled, then nodded to the approaching cavalcade. "If yon Prelate assumes the High Pontiffship you may no longer be permitted the luxury of an opinion, lad. And many innocent folk will no longer possess the luxury of life. I doubt if that was the way of the Blessed Ramusio when he was on this earth, but it is the way of your brother Inceptines these days, with their Knights Militant, their purges and their pyres. Where in the
Book of Deeds
does it say you must murder your fellow man if he differs from you? Inceptines! You are God's gorecrows, flapping round the pyres you have created."

The grey-clad Friar turned at that and stumped off, elbowing his way roughly through the gathering throng. Avila and Albrec stared after him, speechless.

"He's mad," Albrec said at last. "The Friars are always an eccentric lot, but he's lost his mind entirely."

Avila stared down the hillside to where the Prelate of Hebrion's retinue was thundering along the muddy northern road, raising a spray of water as it came.

"Is he? I cannot ever remember a tale of Ramusio destroying someone who did not believe in him. Maybe he is right."

"He struck down the demon-possessed women of Gebrar," Albrec pointed out.

"Yes," Avila said absently, "there is that." Then he grinned suddenly with his accustomed good humour. "Which is another reason why clerics do not marry. Women have too many demons in them! I believe all clerics have mothers, though."

"Hush, Avila. Someone will hear."

"Someone will hear, yes. And what if they do, Albrec? What would happen? What if they chanced upon that cache of books you have saved? Do you ever wonder what would happen if they did? We had a mage on my father's staff when I was a boy. He used to do tricks with light and water, and no one could heal a broken limb faster than he. He became my tutor. Is that the sort of man the Church wants to destroy? Why?"

"For the sake of the Saint, Avila, will you be quiet? You'll get us into all manner of trouble."

"But what manner?" Avila asked. "What manner, Albrec? When does a conversation, an idea, lead to the pyre? What must one do to earn such a death?"

"Oh shut up, Avila. I won't argue with you, not here and now." Albrec looked round with increasing nervousness. Some of the nearby clerics were turning to listen to Avila's voice.

Avila smiled again. "All right, Brother. We'll chase this hare later. Maybe Brother Mensio can help us out."

Albrec said nothing. Avila loved to carry a conversation to the edge of things - to the limits of orthodoxy. It was worrying. Albrec sometimes thought that the gap between what Avila believed and what he said was widening and even he, the nobleman's friend, could not say for sure just how deep was the gulf between what appeared to be and what was in the younger man's mind.

The Prelate's cavalcade splashed by, one pale hand waving graciously from the depths of the coach at the assembled crowd. Then it was gone. There was a feeling of anticlimax.

"He could at least have got out and given us his blessing," a monk next to them grumbled.

Avila slapped the man on the back. "That was his blessing, Brother! Didn't you see his fingers tracing the Sign of the Saint as he galloped past? A swift blessing, it's true, but none the worse for that."

The monk, an Inceptine novice with the white hood of a first-year student, beamed broadly.

"So I've been blessed by the future Pontiff of the world. Thanks, Brother. I'd never have noticed. You have good eyes."

"And a lively imagination," Albrec muttered while he and Avila made their way back down into Charibon. The bells of the cathedral were tolling the third hour and the flocks of monks were returning to their respective colleges for the morning meal. Albrec's stomach gave a premonitory twinge at the thought.

"Why do you do such things?" he asked his friend.

"You are strangely snappish this morning, Brother. Why do I do it? Because it pleases me, and it brightened that novice's day. By tomorrow the tale will be round his college how Himerius endowed them with his personal blessing, much good may it do them."

"Avila, I do believe you are in danger of becoming a cynic."

"Maybe. Sometimes I think that every man who wears this black habit must be either a pious fanatic or a cold-blooded schemer."

"Or a nobleman's younger son. There are a lot of those, don't forget."

Avila grinned at his diminutive friend. "Come, Antillian. Will you dine with the noblemen's sons this morning? If anyone points a finger at your mud-coloured habit I'll say you're a scholar come to use our library. And our refectory is renowned, as you well know."

"I know. All right. So long as you fend off the antics of the novices. I'm in no mood for a bread fight this morning."

The two of them picked a path down the cobbled streets into the monastery proper, the tall Inceptine and the plump little Antillian. No one looking at the unlikely pair could have guessed that between them they would one day change the course of the world.

T
HE BELLS OF
the cathedral tolled the hours of Charibon away. The inhabitants of the monastery-city said their devotions, ate their meals and read their offices in fast mumbles, but in the splendidly appointed quarters of the Vicar-General a more select company sat at their ease and sipped the Candelarian wine that had come with the meal. They had pushed their chairs back from the long table, said their thanks to God for the bounty which had presented itself before them and were now enjoying the fire burning in the huge hearth to one side.

Five men, the most powerful religious leaders in the world.

At the head of the table sat the Vicar-General of the Inceptine Order, Betanza of Astarac, formerly a duke of that kingdom. He had found his vocation late in life, helped, some said, by the sea-rovers who had destroyed his fief in a lightning raid one summer thirty years ago. He was a big, powerful man edging into corpulence, with a ruddy face and a pate that would have been bald even had it not been tonsured. The Saint symbol that hung from his neck was of white gold inset with pearls and tiny rubies. He was fingering it absently as he stared into the candlelit depths of his wine.

The other men represented four kingdoms. Merion of Astarac was not yet present, delayed, it was believed, by early snowstorms in the passes of the Malvennor Mountains, but Heyn of Torunna was there, as were Escriban of Perigraine and Marat of Almark. And seated at the foot of the table, delicately drinking the last of his wine, was Himerius of Hebrion whose arrival this morning had caused such commotion throughout the monastery.

All the men present were Inceptines and all had served their novitiate in this very monastery. For all except Betanza, it was the home of their youth and held fond memories, but their faces were grave now, even disgruntled.

"I cannot let go any more of the Knights," Betanza said with the weary air of a man repeating himself. "They are needed where they are."

"You have thousands of them on the hill, sitting on their hands," Heyn of Torunna said. He was a thin, black-bearded man. He looked ill, so dark were the circles under his eyes and the hollows at his temples.

"They are our only reserve. Charibon cannot be left defenceless. What if the tribes grow restive?"

"The tribes!" Heyn scoffed. "They did not stop you sending two thousand men to Hebrion to do Brother Himerius's policing for him. Are there
tribes
in Hebrion, or Merduks at the gate?"

The Hebrian Prelate raised his eyebrows slightly at that, but otherwise maintained an aloof, patrician air that irritated his colleagues intensely.

"Lofantyr needs men, needs them desperately. Even five thousand would be a boon at this time," Heyn went on doggedly.

"And yet he is withdrawing troops from Ormann Dyke," Himerius said mildly. "Is he so confident in the dyke's impregnability?"

"Torunn must be adequately garrisoned in case the dyke falls," Heyn said.

"God forbid!" said Marat of Almark.

"Really, Brothers," Betanza said. "We are not here to argue politics, but to debate the spiritual needs of the time that is upon us. It is for the kings of the world to be the buckler of the faith. We are merely guides."

"But -" Heyn began.

"And the resources of the Church surely should be reserved for the needs of the Church. We have been free enough with our help so far. How many thousands of the Knights perished in Aekir? No, there are other issues at hand here which are every bit as important as the defence of the western fortresses."

Escriban of Perigraine, a long, languid man who would have looked more at home in court brocade than a monk's habit, laughed shortly.

"My dear Betanza, if you are referring to the High Pontiffship, then surely there is nothing to decide. If the acclaim of your own monks is anything to go by, then our esteemed Brother Himerius already has the position in his lap."

The men around the table scowled. Even Himerius had the grace to look embarrassed.

"The High Pontiffship is decided by the votes of the five Prelates of the Ramusian monarchies and the Colleges of Bishops under them. Nothing else," Betanza said, his red face growing redder. "We will discuss it at the proper time, and pray for God's guidance in this, the most important of decisions. Besides, our number is not complete. Brother Merion of Astarac has yet to join us."

"Your countryman, the Antillian - of course. I meant no offence," Escriban said smoothly. "What way will he vote, do you think?"

Betanza glowered. "Brother Escriban, as referee and overseer of these proceedings I advise you to take a more responsible tone."

"What proceedings? My dear friend, we are only colleagues in the Church talking over dinner. The Synod is not even convened as yet."

The men around the table knew that. They also knew that the real business of the Synod would probably be resolved before it even began. Merion was a nonentity, a non-Inceptine, but if the Prelates were evenly divided his vote would be decisive. He could not be ignored.

"How did he ever become a Prelate anyway?" Marat muttered. "A man of no family and from another order."

"King Mark thinks the world of him. He was the only Astaran candidate put forward," Betanza said. "The College of Bishops had little choice."

"They order these things better in Almark," Marat said. He was stockily built, with a huge white beard that coursed down over his broad chest and belly. His homeland, Almark, had been the last land to be conquered by the Fimbrians before their Hegemony ended, yet it was widely seen as the most conservative of the Five Kingdoms.

"What of these purges our learned colleague has instigated in Hebrion?" Heyn asked, rubbing his sunken temples with bone-white fingers. "Are we to make them a continent-wide phenomenon, or are they merely a local problem?"

Himerius was studying his crystal goblet, his bird-of-prey features revealing nothing. He knew they were waiting for his word. For all their bluster and confidence, he realized that they looked to him at the moment; he was the only one among them who had dared to cross the wishes of his king.

He put down the glass and paused to make sure he had their attention.

"The situation in Hebrion is grave, Brothers. In its way it is every bit as grave as the crisis in the east." The firelight flickered off his wonderfully aquiline nose. He had the features of a Fimbrian emperor, and knew it.