The Warlock Heretical

Chapter Seventeen

The trestles had been folded and laid against the wall, and the tabletops had been stacked. The refectory in the Runnymede chapter house had been converted into a dormitory, each monk rolling out a pallet that wasn't much harder than the cot he'd been sleeping on in the monastery. It was midnight, and the friars slept the deep, dreamless sleep of men exhausted by physical labor. Only the moonbeams through the windows lent a touch of life to the great room.

In the center of the room a ghost appeared, a smokelike form of a man. The smoke thickened, growing more and more substantial, until it began to gain the brown of a monk's robe with the pink of a tonsure atop a lean, lantern-jawed face. The fiery eyes finally became clear, and the monk dropped the few inches to the hard-packed dirt floor with a soft thud. He looked around at the sleeping forms, and a tear rolled from his eye as he lifted a dagger. He stepped up to the nearest monk, gasping, "Fools, poor weak fools, to be so led astray! Yet thou art nonetheless apostates, and must needs die! Eh, Brother Alfonso is right in this!"

The knife stabbed down in a short, vicious arc.

Brother Lurgan convulsed into a ball, coming awake for one searing instant of agony. He made no sound, but his mind let out a tearing shriek of pain and fear before it ceased utterly, and every monk sat bolt upright, staring and crying out in panic as they felt the insubstantial essence of the man lift away from them.

The assassin yanked his knife free and spun, swinging it down at Father Boquilva.

Boquilva shouted, blocking the attacker's forearm with his own and driving a fist into his belly. The lean monk doubled over in breathless pain, and Father Boquilva caught the wrist, slamming the knife hand against his knee. The blade clattered on the floor as Boquilva shouted, "Brother Somnel! Hasten!"

A short, fat monk hurried up, glaring at the lean attacker who was struggling for breath. His glare softened into a brooding gaze, and all at once the assassin's body went slack. He crumpled to the floor. All the monks were silent for a moment of horror; then the assassin's chest rose and fell, and they felt the surge of a sleeping mind. They relaxed with sighs of relief. "Light!" Father Boquilva called, and the tallow lamps flickered into life. Then the monks saw who lay unconscious on the floor and cried out in horror. " 'Tis Brother Janos!"

"Gentle Brother Janos!"

"How can this be?" Brother Axel knelt beside the assassin, tears in his eyes. "He is a true scholar! 'Twas he who did come to know the means by which we appear and disappear!"

"Aye, and did learn thereby to control it more shrewdly, so that he might appear as slowly as he wished, and thereby with as little noise." Father Boquilva frowned. "Nay, certes he would be chosen as assassin!"

"And what hath he done?" moaned Brother Clyde. The monks all turned to stare at Brother Lurgan's dead body curled up in the flickering glow, and caught their breath in sorrow.

Father Boquilva fell on his knees beside the unconscious assassin and caught up his head, holding it between his two hands and staring.

"Brother Janos! That he could do such a deed!" Brother Clyde cried. "He, who was ever a wise and gentle man!"

"Yet he burned with zeal, Brother," Father Hector reminded him, "and was intensely devoted to the Order."

"And therefore to the Abbot." Brother Clyde nodded heavily. "Aye, he might view us as traitors. Yet surely he would not think to slay!"

"He did not." Father Boquilva's voice was weighted with grimness. "Another did put the thought into his mind, nay, did harangue him and accuse him till he was convinced of our wrongness and the need for our slaying—for he was ever great of mind, yet was ever simple of soul. As much as he understood of the cosmos, so little did he understand of human nature. Nay, he was manipulated as surely as a marionette in a Christmas play."

"And who pulled his strings, Father?" Brother Clyde demanded, his face somber.

"Why dost thou ask?" said Father Hector, with a grimace. "Who but Brother Alfonso?"

Father Boquilva looked up and nodded.

Brother Clyde's face darkened, and his fists clenched into cannon balls. "I shall be revenged upon him¹."

" Tis for God to revenge!" Father Boquilva snapped, coming to his feet. "Nay, Brother, be not misled by Satan!"

"Yet may I not be God's instrument in this?" Brother Clyde implored.

"Mayhap, yet I misdoubt me of it."

"Who shall be, then?"

"One who, praise Heaven, hath come!" Father Boquilva turned to Brother Somnel. "Do thou stay by Brother Janos and keep his sleep deep, aye, and dreamless."

Brother Somnel only nodded, his gaze on the sleeping assassin.

"Come with me now, and call." Father Boquilva beckoned Brother Clyde and turned away to heft the bar out of its staples and open the door. He stepped out into the night with the friar hot on his heels, crying, "Wee Folk, hear me!"

"Wee Folk, hear!" Brother Clyde called.

"I beg thee, call the High Warlock! Bid him bring our Father-General to us as soon as he may, for we have grievous, woeful tasks laid upon us now! Call him, I beg thee!"

"Call him, call him," Brother Clyde echoed with tears in his eyes.

Moonlight striped the middle of the bed, enough to show Rod and Gwen, loosely embraced, deeply asleep.

A small figure approached their bed slowly, then climbed the headboard to call softly, "Lord Warlock."

Rod lay absolutely still, but his eyes opened wide. He glanced about until he saw Puck. The elf laid a finger across his lips, then sprang silently to the floor, beckoning.

Rod slid out of bed, stepped to the closet, and pulled on his doublet and hose. He stepped out into the main room, buckling his sword belt. "Speak softly; we have a guest."

"I am awake," Father McGee's voice said in the dark. "May I light the lamp?"

"No need." Rod frowned at a candle and its wick glowed to life.

Father McGee stared at the foot-and-a-half-tall humanoid before him.

Puck glared up at him, arms akimbo. "At what dost thou stare?"

"Oh! Pardon my rudeness." Father McGee pushed himself to a sitting position and looked up at Rod. "It's reassuring to know how accurate Father Uwell's report is."

"That may be the only thing that's reassuring about seeing Puck in the middle of the night." Rod turned to the elf. "What moves, hobgoblin?"

"Bloody murder," the elf answered with a scowl. "Thou must needs come to the friars. Lord Warlock, and be not anxious for the harmony of thy garb."

Somewhere the monks had found some black cloth to drape on the wall in a makeshift archway. The dead monk lay under it, hands folded over his breast, his robe neatly patched where the knife had entered.

McGee stood over him, burning with suppressed rage. "An abbot! That an abbot could so forget morality as to command the murder of one of his own monks!"

"He wasn't one of the Abbot's own any more," Rod pointed out. "Widdecombe thought of him as a traitor."

"As Christ, thought of Judas, Lord Warlock! Yet He did not slay His betrayer, and neither should have Abbot Widdecombe!"

Rod wondered why he was taking the Archbishop's side. Pure cussedness, probably. "But the Abbot thought of him as a heretic."

"The unity of the Faith is not worth men's lives, Lord Warlock, as Rome has learned to its sorrow."

"Just because they lost the Beta Crucis Crusade—"

"Yet we did learn! When faith is used as an excuse for war, the warriors have lost faith, and morality has been corrupted into immorality!"

Rod felt the impulse to continue the argument, but recog-nized McGee's wrath from his own paternal instincts—the Father-General was filled with grief and guilt because one of his spiritual sons had died. For a brief, dizzying moment, Rod had a glimpse of what it must feel like to be responsible for hundreds of thousands of monks on fifty different planets, and shuddered. McGee didn't have to take his title so seriously.

Or did he? Judging from the man, he didn't have much choice.

Rod looked for a change of subject. "I think one of your monks is managing to dredge some information out of the would-be mass murderer. Father. Could we go eavesdrop?"

"Mm?" McGee looked up, frowning, then nodded. "Yes. Of course. There may be something we should know." He turned away from Rod, Father Boquilva beside them.

Brother Janos lay on his side on a cot, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. Brother Somnel sat beside him, sad gaze fixed on the assassin's face. He didn't seem to be doing anything, and Rod wondered why he was there. Another monk sat beside Somnel, murmuring, "He did command thee to slay us all?" Then he waited patiently; finally. Brother Janos nodded.

Rod stared.

"Who did so command thee?" the inquisitor asked gently.

"Brother Alfonso," Brother Janos answered with a sigh.

McGee stood, face wooden.

Rod regarded Brother Somnel. puzzled. "Are you a hypnotist?"

Brother Somnel looked up at him, silent for a moment, then slowly nodded.

Rod felt his spine prickle. "Well. Your Order is just full of surprises."

Brother Somnel gazed at him a moment longer, then turned back to Brother Janos.

"He did not, then, have his orders from the Abbot," McGee said slowly. "Who is this Brother Alfonso?"

"The Archbishop's secretary, Father-General," Boquilva said at his shoulder.

"McGee," the Father-General replied absently.

Rod leaned closer to McGee and muttered, "We have reason to believe Brother Alfonso is the agent I mentioned earlier."

"Oh. You have a spy in the monastery?" McGee murmured, and when Rod didn't answer, he nodded. "So the orders may have come from the Abbot, or may not."

"Ask, Brother Comsoph," Father Boquilva instructed.

The inquisitor leaned forward again. "Did Brother Alfonso say this was the Archbishop's will?"

After a moment Brother Janos breathed, "Nay. He did say we must protect our Lord Archbishop from his enemies, for he is too kindly to take arms against them."

"I wronged the man," McGee admitted.

Rod frowned. "Sounds as though Brother Alfonso did a full-scale persuasion job on Brother Janos."

"Do not doubt it, Lord Warlock." Brother Comsoph looked up at him. "Brother Janos was ever a good and gentle man, but scholarly and quite naive."

"He always tried to see the good side of everybody around him, hm?" Rod knew the syndrome. "But if he was so gentle, how could he be maneuvered into murder?"

"He was very fervent in his faith," Father Boquilva explained. "Such zeal can be twisted."

Rod murmured into McGee's ear, "If it helps any, we should have Brother Alfonso in custody soon."

Father McGee looked up at him in surprise, then nodded slowly. "That may go a long way toward solution of the problem, yes—if Brother Alfonso is as bad an apple as he seems to be."

"Very bad," Rod assured him. "In fact, we're pretty sure he lied his way into the monastery."

"Lied?" Father Boquilva asked. "Dost say he had no true vocation?"

"Oh, he has a vocation, all right—but I don't think it's very holy. I'm saying he lied about wanting to live the pure life, and deliberately wormed his way into the Abbot's favor so that he could manipulate His Lordship."

"Then the oaths he swore were falsely taken," Father Boquilva said, wide-eyed.

"And therefore have no validity." Father McGee's face had turned thunderous again. "He is a Judas priest indeed."

Rod looked down at the sleeping monk, his face grave. After a minute he said, "How did he get in here?"

An explosion rocked the hall, and a young man stood in its center, glaring about him in anger.

The monks leaped to their feet, all shouting and demanding at once.

Rod was on his feet, too, staring, dumbfounded. He had never, but never, seen Toby angry before.

Then he found his voice. "Toby! What do you think you're doing?"

"Fear not, Lord Warlock." The young man's lip curled. "There is no longer need to fash ourselves over scandalizing these monks!"

Father Boquilva reddened and looked away.

Rod noticed it, frowned, and turned back to Toby. "Want to tell me what's happened?"

"Brom O'Berin's folk have brought him a witch-moss crafter. Lord Warlock. He did make false monsters to afright the villagers."

"Well, we suspected that was how it was done." Rod shrugged. "What's so outrageous about that? Because he was working for the Archbishop? We knew the monks were using witches."

"Nay, Lord Warlock—the monks are witches. For thy wife hath read the mind of this rogue, and hath seen there the memory of the Archbishop's secretary commanding him to go forth and wreak havoc—-and not him only, but many others too. And all were monks!"

Rod's eyes widened. "All?"

Toby nodded, watching Father Boquilva coldly.

"Wait a minute," Rod protested. "There couldn't be a lot of espers in the monastery, without the other monks knowing about it."

Toby still watched Boquilva, waiting.

"But who says there were any others, eh?" Rod said slowly. Then the full impact of the idea hit him. "Holey soles! It's not just one esper in a monastery—it's one monastery full of espers!" He turned on Father Boquilva. "Isn't it?"

The monk glanced at Father McGee. The Father-General nodded, very slightly, and Boquilva said, " 'Tis true, Lord Warlock, and hath ever been. Yet I could not tell thee, for we are all sworn to secrecy when we take Holy Orders."

"My lord!" Rod's eyes widened. "No wonder they can tell, just from a simple interview, which postulants qualify for the cloister and which ones don't! The interviewer knows whether or not he's talking to a telepath within the first two seconds!"

"There is always some feedback effect, yes," Boquilva admitted.

"Feedback?" Rod said. "Kind of a funny word for a simple medieval friar!" He turned on McGee. "Anything else your people haven't been telling us, Father?"

"Such as the monks having kept knowledge of technology?" McGee nodded. "Yes, Lord Warlock. But they only begin learning science and engineering after their final vows, when they have been sworn to secrecy."

"How nice of them to wait so long! May I ask how you knew about it? Wait a minute, strike that—Father Al included it in his report, didn't he?"

"He did, yes. But he saw no reason to burden you with the information."

"Gee, the good guy didn't want me to worry! Do me a favor, Father—give me an anxiety attack!"

"Why, so I do," McGee said calmly. "You, at least, should have full knowledge of the situation. Lord Warlock."

"I trust you will not divulge it," Father Boquilva said.

Rod glanced at Toby, then back to Boquilva. "Any reason why I shouldn't?"

"Excellent reasons, as Father Ricci told us when he founded our chapter."

"The original fugitive from Terra?" Rod asked. "How did he keep his knowledge of technology?"

"An accomplice reprogrammed the computer that erased the colonists' memories of technology, ensuring that he would retain his mental records intact."

"No Cathodean could have volunteered to come here otherwise, Lord Warlock," Father McGee said quietly. "We are an order of priestly engineers, after all."

"Did he consider staying at home?"

"He did," Boquilva said, "but was the only priest available when the Romantic Emigres left Terra; and he thought that a priest was a necessity for a medieval colony."

Toby looked up, frowning.

"They have succeeded in the task he set them," Father McGee explained, "permeating this society with Christian ideals, ameliorating the brutality of a medieval culture."

"Great!" Rod burst out. "Why don't you ameliorate some of the squalor, while you're at it? Cure some of the sicknesses? Prevent a few deaths?"

"We have done what we can," Boquilva grated. " 'Tis why our folk do ever go about among the people, cloistered or not. We wreak 'miracle' cures when we can—but dost thou truly believe there would be more of us if we let modern knowledge be open?"

Rod hesitated. There had always been a very limited number willing to go to the mental toil of learning medical science.

"And there are cures, too, that we know of, yet know not how to effect," Boquilva went on. "Father Ricci was an engineer, not a physician. Yet some of our Brothers, with the necessary gift, have sought to discover these cures."

Rod lifted his head, eyes widening. " 'Discover'? You mean research?"

"Of course, Lord Warlock," McGee said. "Every Catho-dean has always had the duty of attempting some form of the search for knowledge."

Puzzle pieces connected in Rod's mind. "And… just what sorts of knowledge would a monastery full of espers be looking for?"

"You have the answer, Lord Warlock, or you would not ask the question." McGee nodded. "Yes. Most of the Cathodeans in the monastery research new psionic techniques."

"Monastery?" Rod exclaimed. "That isn't a cloister—it's a research lab!"

"I would be indebted to you if you could explain the difference between the two," McGee said with irony.

"My lord!" Rod stared at a vision of a voracious theocracy gobbling up all the planets of the Terran Sphere. "That means the Archbishop isn't just a threat to the King, he could be the death knell of democracy for all of humanity!"

"Yes, Lord Warlock." Father McGee nodded gravely. "That is the other reason I've come."

" 'Other'?" Rod glared. "Not too worried about the truth, are you?"

McGee lifted his head, eyes widening with outrage.

Rod frowned, puzzled. "Wait a minute—you really meant it! Not losing one of your Order's chapters is more important to you than the future of democracy!"

"It is," McGee agreed. "Not much more important, perhaps, but still my first priority."

Rod's face slackened, appalled by another realization. "But… but… that means you've been taking the most talented espers on Gramarye out of the gene pool for five hundred years!"

"That is an old charge," McGee sighed, "though the gift you mention is not the one usually spoken of. And in answer, Lord Warlock, I can only ask how many of our Brothers would marry even if they did not come here."

"You mean they wouldn't fall in love?"

"Perhaps, but that does not mean they would be good husbands. Most religious are unworldly enough not to be terribly good providers, Lord Warlock, and are of the sort to take their work as being the most important element in their lives."

"You're saying Fathers might not make the best fathers?" Rod frowned. "Still, I get the point. And in this case, their work is whatever the Archbishop tells them to do."

"In the current crisis, yes."

"Which means that, if we want to stop the hauntings, we have to stop the Archbishop. And he's got the most highly trained espers on the planet working for him! Just great!"