Angado

good idea of whom it might be.

'It looks good.' Angado nodded toward the church. 'Big and clean and it stands out a mile. A nice position too, it can be seen both from the field and the town. Brother Dexter knows his stuff. I'll bet this isn't the first time he's set up a church. Brother Lloyd was telling me something about him. Old, stubborn, but clever.'

A man shrewd enough to have selected the best spot available and surely he must know what could well happen? Dumarest turned as the monk came toward them. Dexter was genial but firm.

'It is time you returned your borrowed robes,' he said. 'Brother Kollar reported the incident in the infirmary. I do not blame you but your attitude is not ours. A suppliant could have gained the impression that we terminate the lives of the sick placed in our care.'

'I told Worsley I wasn't a monk.'

'He may not have believed you.'

'It may be as well for you if others don't either.' Dumarest glanced at the men who seemed to be waiting. 'There could be those who don't welcome your presence here. They might hesitate to object if they think you stronger than you are.'

'Eight instead of six.' Dexter shook his head. 'You mean well but I must insist. Our foundation here must not rest on deception. Your robe, please.' The old monk turned to Angado who had stood quietly by, listening. 'And yours also. We are on this world by sufferance of the authorities and dare not risk the possibility of a misunderstanding. You both lack the training necessary to follow the philosophy of the Church.'

'Peace,' said Dumarest. 'But that's something you have to fight for.'

'To achieve,' corrected the monk. 'The robes?'

'Are they really that important?'

'The garments, no, what virtue lies in a piece of cloth? But as a symbol of what we are and are trying to accomplish-'

'The credo,' Dumarest met the old monk's eyes. 'There,' he said softly, 'but for the grace of God, go I. The thing you want all to remember; the rich, the whole, the comfortable when they look at the sick, the poor, the deprived. But it works both ways and, at times, you could forget that. The sick and maimed and hopeless you feel so concerned about look at the spoiled and pampered, the strong, the ruthless. They can see the benefits of being cruel and arrogant, and they too could think that there, but for the grace of God, they could be. And they might want to alter things a little. Correct the balance in their favor. Could you blame them if they tried?'

'The Church can never condone violence.'

'Just accept it and preach that others should do the same? To be meek? To believe that to bend the head is to avoid the kick in the rear? How much punishment do you expect people to take?'

'There are worlds even now where criminals are maimed as a punishment for their crimes,' said Dexter. 'Once such things were common but now are rare. Soon that barbarism will vanish. As will other things.' He held out his hand. 'The robes, please. A monk, above all, must practice humility.'

Angado watched as the monk moved away, the robes over his arm. Beneath his own he had worn clothing similar to Dumarest's, a knife thrust into his boot, the axe dumped with them riding in his belt.

He said, 'You were hard on him, Earl. Why? Dexter does his best and isn't a bad man.'

'He's too good for this world.' Dumarest gestured at the huddle comprising Lowtown. 'And for any other like it. He's a fool. He's done his stint in the past and should now be taking things easy.'

'Monks never do that.'

'They should.'

'They can't. That's what dedication is all about. It was unfair you talking to him the way you did. Brother Dexter's not stupid, he knows human nature as well as anyone, but he has to keep doing what he believes in.' Angado paused then added, 'As you would in his position. But then I suppose you'd run classes in unarmed combat and teach suppliants to use a knife. All in the name of peace.'

'No,' said Dumarest. 'Survival.'

'Kill or be killed.' Angado shook his head. 'God, but you're hard. People don't live like that, not even in this slum. They share a common misfortune and make the best of it. Brother Dexter and the other monks know that. That's why they're so against violence. Once it starts who knows where it will end?'

Dumarest shrugged, not answering. He looked at the sky then to where a knot of men had gathered to the far side of the church. Among them he noticed those he had spotted earlier. All looked toward the heart of Lowtown.

To Angado he said, 'Find Worsley and bring him to me.'

'Why do you-'

'Do it! And don't get involved no matter what happens. Remember that, don't get involved.'

'Trouble?' The younger man looked around. The monks had gathered in front of the church, Dexter still holding the reclaimed robes. 'I can't see anything.'

'It hasn't happened yet. Well, I tried to warn him but he wouldn't listen.'

'Who?'

'Brother Dexter,' said Dumarest. 'He's due a visitor.'

* * *

He came as such men always did, confident, smiling, enjoying the moment, the pleasure to come. A man middle-aged, middle-sized, his face bland, his clothing good and clean but not too obviously expensive. Heavy rings glinted on his fingers and his hair, thick and dark, framed prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes.

He wasn't alone. At his side trotted a smaller version of himself, thinner, older, the sharply pointed nose and darting eyes betraying the questing, curious nature of the man. Two others, big, stocky, followed at the rear. Both carried staves a yard long and, Dumarest guessed, loaded with lead.

Worsley said, 'That's Gengiz. The small one is Birkut. He keeps the accounts and tallies the score. The two big ones are his bodyguard.'

'The take?'

'A zobar a person a week.'

'How much is a zobar?'

'The price of half a day's work at the field-if you can get it.'

'And if you don't pay?'

'You know the answer to that.'

'I know,' said Dumarest. 'But he doesn't.' He gestured toward Angado. 'Tell him.'

'You pay or your shack gets ruined. Your things get stolen. Your food spoiled. After that you start getting hurt.' Worsley was bitter. 'He calls it insurance. He'll even lend you the premiums but, after a while, if you still don't or can't pay, he collects.'

'Nice,' said Dumarest. 'Just think of all the good things that money would have provided. Your wife's sick-she would have liked the soup and drugs you didn't get because you avoided trouble and paid.'

'I paid,' said Worsley tightly. 'But I didn't like it. And you're wrong about one thing, mister. My wife isn't sick- she's dead. And to hell with you!'

He strode away and Dumarest looked at his companion.

'You see?'

'See what? I-'

'The reality of that garbage you were spouting. The rubbish about people sharing a common misfortune and making the best of it. You live in a jungle and you'd better realize it. You can't stop violence. All life is a continual act of violence. In order to survive you have to fight every step of the way and keep on fighting. Against disease, starvation, thirst, heat, cold, nakedness. Against the parasites wanting to feed off you. Lice and insects and ordinary predators. And against scum like Gengiz.'

'He should be stopped.'

'Maybe, but not by you. It's none of your business.'

'But-'

'Forget it.'

Dumarest held a broom, a pole tipped with a wide fan of bristles, and he used it as he followed Angado as the