Hawkwood's voyage

THIRTEEN

Charibon. The oldest monastery in the world, home of the Inceptine Order.

It stood on the shores of the Sea of Tor in the north-west foothills of the wild Cimbric Mountains. Surrounded by the Kingdom of Almark, it was nevertheless autonomous, as Aekir had been, and was governed by the elders of the Church and their head, the High Pontiff.

Some seven thousand clerics lived and worked here, the majority of them in Inceptine black though there were some in the brown of the Antillians and others in the warm saffron of the Mercurians. Very few indeed were robed in the ordinary, undyed wool of the ascetic missionaries, the Friars Mendicant.

Here resided the greatest libraries in Normannia, now those in Aekir were no more, and here were the chief barracks and training grounds of the Knights Militant. They had a citadel of their own higher up in the hills beside Charibon, and there some eight thousand of them were quartered. Usually there were several times that number on hand, but most of them were in the east or had been dispatched to the various Ramusian monarchies to aid in the struggle against heresy. Two thousand were even now riding west, to Hebrion.

Down in the complex of the monastery itself there were the famed Long Cloisters of Charibon, walked by fifteen generations of clerics, roofed over by cedar imported from the Levangore and floored with basalt blocks hewn out of the once-volcanic Cimbrics.

Radiating out from the square of the cloisters and the rich gardens they enclosed were the other structures of the monastery, built in massive stone and roofed with slate from the quarries in the nearby Narian Hills. No humble thatch here.

But the Cathedral of the Saint towered over and dominated the rest. Its outline defined the skyline of Charibon, made it recognizable from leagues away in the hills. A huge, three-sided tower with a horn of granite at each corner formed the apex of the triangle that was the rest of the cathedral. It was the classic Ramusian shape, reminiscent of the Praying Hands but on a scale vaster than anyone had ever envisaged. Only Aekirians might sniff at the cathedral of Charibon, comparing it to their own Carcasson, of which it was a copy.

But Carcasson was no more.

The monastery sprawled out from the twin foci of cloisters and cathedral, the original pure design of the place lost in a welter of later building. There were schools and dormitories, cells of contemplation, gardens restful on the eye and conducive to contemplative thought. Most of the theories which had shaped the Ramusian religion had sprung from here as their authors looked out on the fountain-rich gardens or the green hills beyond.

There were also kitchens and workshops, smithies and tanneries, and, of course, the famed printing presses of the Inceptines. Charibon had its own lands and herds and crops, for there was a secular side to it as well as the spiritual. A town had sprung up around the swelling monastery complexes and a fishing village on the lake’s western shores kept the monks supplied with freshwater halibut, mackerel and even turtle on fast days. Charibon was a self-sufficient little kingdom whose chief exports were the books that the presses ceaselessly turned out and the faith that the Inceptines promulgated and the Knights Militant enforced.

The monastery had been sacked a hundred and fifty years before by a confederation of the savage Cimbric tribes. There had been a war then, with troops from Almark and Torunna sending expeditions into the mountains’ interior along with contingents of the Knights. The tribes had eventually been crushed and brought into the Ramusian fold, finally completing the task which the Fimbrians had attempted and failed to accomplish some four centuries earlier. Since then, a dozen tercios of Almarkan troops had also been stationed at Charibon, even as the Torunnans had garrisoned Aekir further east. Charibon was a jewel, a light to be kept burning no matter how dark the night-especially as the brightness that had been Aekir was now extinguished.

Albrec squinted into the cold, eye-watering wind, looking for all the world like a short-sighted vole peering from its burrow at the close of winter. This high in the hills the winters were bitter, snow lying for four months in the cloisters and the inland sea growing fringes of ice along its shores. His cell then would be like a small cube of gelid air in the mornings, and he would have to break the ice in his washing bowl before spluttering at the coldness of the water on his pointed face.

He wore a habit of Antillian brown, much worn, and the Saint symbol at his breast was of mere wood, carved by himself in the dim, candlelit nights. Though all were clerics alike here in Charibon, some were of a higher order than others. Some indeed were of aristocratic background, the younger sons of noble families whose fathers had nothing to give in the way of inheritance. So they became Inceptines, a different kind of noble. For the commoners, however, there was only the Antillians, the Mercurians, or if one was of a zealous turn of mind, and hardy to boot, the Friars Mendicant.

Albrec’s father had been a fisherman from the shores of northern Almark. A dour man, from a hard country. He had never quite forgiven his son’s fear of the open sea, or his ineptness with the nets and the tiller. Albrec had attached himself to a small monastery of Antillians from a nearby village, and found a place where he was not reviled or beaten, where the work was hard but not frightening as the days on an open boat had been frightening. And where his natural curiosity and inherent stubbornness could be put to good use.

He worked in the library of St. Garaso, his hand not being apt for the rigour of the presses or the finer of the illustrating that went on in the scriptorium. He lived in a dusty, half-subterranean world of books and manuscripts, old scrolls and parchment and vellum. He loved it, and could lay his hands on any tome in the entire library within a few minutes.

It was because of his labyrinthine knowledge of the shelves and chests and stacks that he was kept on as assistant librarian, and in return he was allowed to read anything he chose, which for him was a reward beyond price. There were levels to the library which were rarely visited, ancient archives and forgotten cupboards, their contents mouldering away in dust and silence. Albrec made it his mission in life to explore them all.

He had been here for thirteen years, his eyesight progressively worsening and his shoulders becoming more bowed with every book he squinted over. And yet he knew he had not yet unearthed one-tenth of the riches contained in the library.

There were scrolls there from the time of the Fimbrian Hegemony, works which he spent days coaxing open with sweet oil and a blunt knife. Most of them were dismissed by Brother Commodius, the senior librarian, as secular rubbish, or even heresy. Some had been burned, horrifying Albrec. After that he had shown no more of his unearthed treasures to the other brothers, but had hoarded them secretly. Books should not be burned, he believed, no matter what they contained. To him all books were sacred, fragments of the minds of the past, thoughts from men long gone to their graves. Such things should be preserved.

And so Albrec hid the more controversial of his finds, thus unintentionally beginning a private library of his own, a library of works which, had his spiritual superiors discovered them, would have consigned him to the flames in their company.

This morning he was staring out of one of the library’s rare windows to the hills beyond. His Excellency the Prelate of Hebrion was expected to arrive today to join the three other Prelates who were lodged in Charibon already. The entire monastery was abuzz with gossip and speculation. There were rumours that since Macrobius was dead, God have mercy on his soul, the Prelates were meeting to choose a new High Pontiff. Others said there was heresy brewing in the western kingdoms, sorcerers willing to take advantage of the confused state of the Ramusian monarchies in the wake of Aekir’s fall. This synod would be the beginnings of a crusade, it was said, a holy war to rid the west both of its enemies within and the Merduks who bayed at the gate.

Momentous times, Albrec thought a little nervously. He had always considered Charibon as a retreat of sorts, isolated as it was up here in the hills; but he saw now that it was becoming one of the hubs upon which the world turned. He was not sure if the feeling thrilled or frightened him. All he asked for was the peace to continue his reading undisturbed, to remain in his dusty, candlelit kingdom in the depths of the library.

“Gathering wool again, Brother?” a voice drawled casually.

Albrec backed away from the window hurriedly. His addresser was in rich Inceptine black, and the symbol clinking at his breast shone with gold.

“Oh, it’s you, Avila. Don’t do that! I thought you were Commodius.”

The other cleric, a handsome young man with the pale, spare visage of a nobleman, laughed.

“Don’t worry, Albrec. He’s closeted with the rest of the worthies in the Vicar-General’s quarters. I doubt if you’ll be seeing him today.”

Albrec blinked. He had an armful of books which he was cradling as tenderly as a young mother might her first child. They shifted in his grasp and he gave a grunt of dismay as they began to topple. But Avila caught them and set them to rights.

“Come, Albrec. Lay down those dead tomes for a while. Walk in the cloisters with me and watch the arrival of Himerius of Hebrion.”

“He’s here, then?”

“A patrol has reported his party to be approaching. You can lock the library after you-no one will be needing it for the next few hours. I think half of Charibon is outside indulging their curiosity.”

“All right.”

It was true that the library was deserted. The cavernous place resounded to their voices and the patient dripping of the ancient water-clock in a corner. They turned the triple locks of the massive door behind them-it was always a source of pride to Albrec, a pride that he immediately chastised himself for, that he carried on his person the keys to one of the great libraries of the world-and, tucking their hands in their habits, they journeyed out into the cold clearness of the day.

“What is it about this Hebrian Prelate that has the monastery in such a fuss?” Albrec asked irritably. The broad corridors they traversed were crammed with fast-walking, gabbling monks. Everyone, from novices to friars, seemed to be on the move today, and twice they had to stop and bow to an Inceptine monsignore.

“Don’t you know, Albrec? By the Saints, you spend so much time with your head buried in the spines of books that you let the events of the real world roll over you like water.”

“Books are real, too,” Albrec said obstinately. It was an old argument. “They tell of what happened in the world, its history and its composition. That is real.”

“But this is happening now, Albrec, and we are part of it. Great events are afoot, and we are lucky enough to be alive to see them happen.”

Avila’s eyes were shining, and Albrec looked at him with a curious mixture of affection, exasperation and awe. Avila was a younger son of the Dampiers of Perigraine. He had gone into the Inceptines as a matter of course, and no doubt his rise in the order would be meteoric. He had charisma, energy and was devastatingly attractive. Albrec was never sure how the two of them had become friends. It had something to do with the ideas they pummelled each other with, the arguments that they flung back and forth like balls between them. Half a dozen novices were hopelessly in love with Avila, but Albrec was sure that the young noble was not even aware of them. There was a curious innocence about him which had survived the rough and tumble of his first years here. On the other hand, no one could play the Inceptine game better than he. Albrec could not help but feel that his friend was wasted here. Avila should have been a leader of men, an officer in his country’s army, instead of a cleric tucked away in the hills.

“Tell me, then, what I should know in my ignorance,” Albrec said.

“This Himerius is the champion of the Inceptines at the moment. Hebrion has a young and irreligious king on the throne, one who has scant respect for the Church, I am told, and who regularly consorts with wizards. Abrusio has become a haven for all sorts of heretics, foreigners and sorcerers. Himerius has instigated a purge of the city and is coming here to try to persuade the other Prelates to do likewise.”

Albrec screwed up his pointed nose. “I don’t like it. Everyone is panicked after Aekir. It smells like politics to me.”

“Of course it does! My dear fellow, the Church is leaderless. Macrobius is dead and we no longer have a High Pontiff. This Himerius is establishing his credentials as soon as he can, putting himself forward as the sort of strong leader that the Church needs at a time like this-one not afraid to cross swords with kings. Everyone is already talking of him as Macrobius’ successor.”

“Everyone except his fellow Prelates, I take it.”

“Oh, naturally! There will be deals done, though, with the Vicar-General brokering the whole thing. He is barred of course from the Pontiffship by virtue of his present office, but I do not doubt that he will have another Inceptine at the Church’s head in a short while.”

“Over a century, it has been, since we have had a non-Inceptine High Pontiff,” Albrec said, stroking his brown Antillian habit reflectively. “And of all the Prelates, only Merion of Astarac is not an Inceptine, but an Antillian like myself.”

“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 neighbors, 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.

The 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.

“Abrusio is a colourful city, perched as it is on the edge of the Western Ocean. Ships call there from every part of Normannia, both Ramusian and Merduk. The population of the place is a hybrid, a conglomeration of the dregs of a hundred other cities. And in such a soil, Brothers, heresy takes root easily.

“The King of Hebrion is a young man. He had a great father, Bleyn the Pious whose name you all know, but the son is not hewn out of the same wood. He had a wizard as a tutor in his youth, scorning the wisdom of his Inceptine teachers and as a result he lacks a certain. . respect for the authority and the traditions of the Church.”

Escriban of Perigraine grinned. “You mean he’s his own man.”

“I mean nothing of the sort,” Himerius snapped, suddenly peevish. “I mean that if he is left to do as he will the Church’s influence in Hebrion may be irrevocably damaged, and then the Saint knows what flotsam and jetsam from the corners of the world will take root in Abrusio. I have acted to prevent this, seeking to cleanse the city and eventually the kingdom, but my sources tell me that the moment I left the place the scale of the purge was reduced, no doubt on the orders of the King.”

“Nothing like a few burnings to bring them flocking to the Church on their knees,” Marat of Almark said gruffly. “You did right, Brother.”

“Thank you. At any rate, dear colleagues, I mean to bring the whole affair up at the Synod once it is convened. Abeleyn of Hebrion must be taught not to flout the authority of the Church.”

“What do you mean to do, excommunicate him?” Heyn of Torunna asked incredulously.

“Let us say that the threat of excommunication is sometimes as effective as the act itself.”

“You forget one thing, Brother,” Betanza said, his fingers playing restlessly with his Saint symbol. “Only the High Pontiff has the authority to excommunicate-or otherwise chastise-an anointed Ramusian king. As mere Prelate, you cannot touch him.”

“All the more reason for choosing the new Pontiff as soon as possible,” Himerius said, unperturbed.

There was a silence as the others digested this.

“Is this really the time to be picking arguments with kings?” Heyn asked at last. “Are there not enough crises facing the west without adding more?”

“This is the best time,” Himerius said. “The prestige of the Church has been badly damaged by the fall of Macrobius, of Aekir and the loss of the army of Knights Militant there. We must regain the initiative, use our influence as a coherent body and prove to the west that we are still the ultimate authority on the continent.”

“Do we let Ormann Dyke fall, then, in order to prove how powerful we are?” Escriban asked.

“If we do, then later generations will abhor our names-and rightly so,” Heyn said hotly.

“There is no reason that the dyke should fall,” Himerius said, “but it is the responsibility of Torunna, not of the Church.”

Heyn stood up at that, scraping back his chair. His black habit flapped around his thin form as he put his back to the fire, his eyes smouldering like the gledes at its heart.

“This talk of responsibility. . the west has a responsibility to aid Torunna at this time. If the Merduks take the dyke, then Torunn itself will almost certainly fall and the heathens will have no other barrier to their advance save the heights of the Cimbrics. And what if they turn north, skirting the mountains? Then it will be our precious Charibon next in line. Will it be our responsibility then to defend it-or should we wait until the Merduk tide is lapping at the gates of Abrusio?”

“You are excited, Brother,” Betanza said soothingly. “And with reason. It cannot be easy for you.”

“Yes. I’ll bet Lofantyr has all but got the thumbscrews on you, Heyn,” Escriban said. “What did you promise him before you came here? An army of the Knights? The Lancers of Perigraine? Or perhaps the Cuirassiers of Almark.”

Heyn scowled. His face was like a bearded skull in the firelight.

“Not all of us see life as one big joke, Escriban,” he said venomously.

Betanza thumped a large hand on the table, setting the glasses dancing and startling them all.

“Enough! We did not assemble here to trade insults with one another. We are the elders of the Church, the inheritors of the tradition of Ramusio himself. There will be no pettiness. We cannot afford the time for it.”

“Agreed,” old Marat said into his white beard. “It seems to me there are two issues confronting us at this time, Brothers. First, the High Pontiffship. It must be decided before anything else, for it affects everything. And secondly, these purges which our Hebrian brother has instigated and wishes to see extended. Do we want to see them across the Five Kingdoms? Personally, I’m in favour of them. The common folk of the world are like cattle; they need to feel the drover’s stick once in a while.”

“Merion of Astarac is one of your cattle, Marat,” said Escriban. “He will not vote for a continent-wide pogrom, I’ll tell you now.”

“He is only one man, and there are five of us.” Marat glanced about the table, and then smiled. He looked like a benevolent patriarch, but his eyes held no humour. “Good,” he said.

Heyn remained by the fire, isolated. At last he said:

“Torunna has not the resources to undertake a purge at the moment. We will need outside help.”

Betanza nodded, his bald head shining. “But of course, Brother. I am sure I can let you have a sizeable contingent of the Knights to aid God’s work in your beleaguered prelacy.”

“Six thousand?”

“Five.”

“Very well.”

Himerius drained the last of his wine, looking like a hawk which had just stooped on a fat pigeon. “It is good to have these things out in the open, to talk them over with friends, amicably, without rancour.” His eyes met Betanza’s. He nodded imperceptibly.

Escriban of Perigraine chuckled.

“What about the Pontiffship?” Betanza asked. “Who here wishes to stand?”

“Oh, please, Brother Betanza,” Escriban said with feigned shock. “Must you be so blunt?”

Another silence, more profound this time. In accepting Himerius’ proposals the decision had more or less been made, but no one wanted to voice what they all knew.

“I will stand, if God will grant me the strength,” Himerius said at last, a little annoyed that no one had publicly urged him to.

Betanza sighed. “So be it. This is entirely informal, of course, but I must ask you, Brothers, if there are any objections to Brother Himerius’ candidature.”

Still, no one spoke. Heyn turned away to face the fire.

“Will no one else put themselves forward?” Betanza waited a moment and then shrugged. “Well, we have a candidate to put to the Synod. It remains to be seen what the College of Bishops makes of it.”

But they all knew that the Bishops voted with their respective Prelates. The High Pontiffship of the western world had effectively been decided: by five men in a firelit room over dinner.