will not be a sudden rush, unsupported and ill-disciplined. Tomorrow we will see Shahr Baraz assault in earnest.”
H UNDREDS of miles away to the west. Follow the Terrin river northwards to where the gap between the Cimbric Mountains and the Thurians opens out. Pass over the glittering Sea of Tor with its dark fleets of fishing boats and its straggling coastal towns. There, in the foothills of the western Cimbrics, see the majestic profile of Charibon, where the bells of the cathedral are tolling for Vespers and the evening air is thickening into an early night in the shadow of the towering peaks.
In the apartments that had been made over to the new High Pontiff Himerius, the great man himself and Betanza, Vicar-General of the Inceptine Order sat alone, the attending clerics dismissed. The muddy, travel-worn man who had been with them minutes before had been led away to a well-earned bath and bed.
“Well?” Betanza asked.
Himerius’ eyes were hooded, his face a maze of crannied bone dominated by the eagle nose. As High Pontiff he wore robes of rich purple, the only man in the world entitled to do so unless the Fimbrian emperors were to come again.
“Absurd nonsense, all of it.”
“Are you so sure, Holiness?”
“Of course! Macrobius died in Aekir. Do you think the Merduks would have missed such a prize? This eyeless fellow is an impostor. The general at the dyke, this Martellus, he has obviously circulated this story in order to raise the morale of his troops. I cannot say I blame the man entirely—he must be under enormous pressure—but this really is inexcusable. If he survives the attack on the dyke I will see to it that he is brought before a religious court on charges of heresy.”
Betanza sat back in his thickly upholstered chair. They were both by the massive fireplace, and broad logs were burning merrily on the hearth, the only light in the tall-ceilinged room.
“According to this messenger,” Betanza said carefully, “Torunn was informed also. Eighteen days he says it took to get here, and four dead horses. Torunn will have had the news for nigh on a fortnight.”
“So? We will send our own messengers denying the validity of the man’s claim. It is too absurd, Betanza.”
The Vicar-General’s high-coloured face was dark as he leaned back out of the firelight.
“How can you be so sure that Macrobius is dead?” he asked.
Himerius’ eyes glittered. “
“What are you going to do?”
Himerius steepled his fingers together before his face.
“We will send out riders at once—tonight—to every court in Normannia—all the Five monarchies. They will bear a Pontifical bull in which I will denounce this impostor and the man who is behind him—this Martellus, the Lion of Ormann Dyke.”
Himerius smiled.
“I will also send a private letter to King Lofantyr of Torunna, expressing my outrage at this heretical occurrence and telling him of my reluctance to commit our Knights Militant to the defence of his kingdom whilst that same kingdom harbours a pretender to my own position, an affront against the Holy Office I occupy, a stink in the nostrils of God.”
“So you will withhold the troops you promised Brother Heyn,” Betanza said. He sounded tired.
“Yes. Until this thing is dealt with Torunna shall receive no material aid from the Church.”
“And Ormann Dyke?”
“What of it?”
“The dyke needs those men, Holiness. Without them it will surely fall.”
“Then so be it. Its commander should have thought of that before he started elevating blind old men to the position of High Pontiff.”
Betanza was silent. As the Knights Militant were quartered in Charibon they were nominally under the command of the head of the Inceptine Order. But never in living memory had a Vicar-General flouted the wishes of his Pontiff.
“The men are already on the march,” Betanza said. “They must be halfway to Torunna by now.”
“Then recall them,” Himerius snapped. “Torunna shall receive nothing from me until it extirpates this impostor.”
“I beg you to consider, Holiness . . . What if this man is who he says he is?”
“Impossible, I tell you. Are you questioning my judgement, Brother?”
“No. It is just that I do not want you to make a mistake.”
“I am directly inspired by the Blessed Saint, as his representative on earth. Trust me. I know.”
“By rights we should reassemble the Synod and put this to the convened Colleges and Prelates.”
“They’re happily trekking homewards by now. It would waste too much time. They will be informed in due course. What is the matter with you, Brother Betanza? Do you doubt the word of your Pontiff?”
One of the powers inherent in the Pontifical office was the nomination or removal of the Vicar-General of the Inceptines. Betanza looked his superior in the eye.
“Of course not, Holiness. I only seek to cover every contingency.”
“I am glad to hear it. It is always better when the Vicar-General and the Pontiff have a good working relationship. It can be disastrous if they do not. Think of old Baliaeus.”
Baliaeus had been a Pontiff of the last century who had quarrelled with his Vicar-General, removed the man from office and assumed the position himself in addition to his Pontiffship. The event had scandalized the entire Ramusian world, but none had attempted to reinstate the unfortunate head of the Inceptines. The man had died a reclusive hermit in a cell up in the Cimbrics.
“But you are no Baliaeus, Holiness,” Betanza said, smiling.
“I am not. Old friend, we have worked too hard and striven too long to see what we laboured for torn away from us.”
“Indeed.” So if Himerius went, Betanza went. That much was clear at least.
“In any case,” Himerius went on suavely, “we may be worrying over nothing. You have said yourself that the dyke must fall. If it does, the impostor will fall with it and all those who believe in him there. Our problems will be at an end.”
Betanza stared at him, open-mouthed.
“That will do, my lord Vicar-General. Have the scribes sent to me when you leave. I will dictate the dispatches this evening. We must strike whilst the iron is hot.”
Betanza got up, bowed and kissed his Pontiff’s ring. He left the room without another word.
Brother Rogien was waiting for him as he exited. He strode along the wide corridors of Charibon with Rogien silent at his side. He could hear Vespers being sung from half a dozen college chapels and smell the enticing aromas from the kitchens of the monastery.
Rogien was an older man, broad-shouldered and stooped, with hair as white and fine as the down on a day- old chick. He was Betanza’s deputy, experienced in the ways of Inceptine intrigue.
“He will not even investigate it!” Betanza raged at last, striding along at a swift, angry pace.
“What did you think, that he would tamely lie down and accept it?” Rogien asked caustically. “All his life he has coveted the position he now occupies. He is more powerful than any king. It is not a thing to be abandoned lightly.”
“But the way he goes about it! He will recall the Knights promised to Torunna; he will alienate Heyn and the Torunnan king. He will gladly see Ormann Dyke fall rather than risk his own position!”
“So? We knew that was what would happen.”
“I have been a soldier of sorts, Rogien. I commanded men in my youth and maybe that gives me a different outlook. But I tell you that this man will see the west riven by fire and ruin if he thinks it will advance his own cause one jot.”
“You have attached yourself to him,” Rogien said implacably. “His fortunes are yours. You worked with him to
