fat, but still formidable. His head was shaved in the fashion of the Knights, and his fingernails were broken by years of donning mail gauntlets. His eyes were like two gimlets set deep within a furrowed pink crag, and his cheekbones thrust out farther than his oft-broken nose. Sastro had seen prize-fighters with less brutal countenances.
The Presbyter gestured with one large hand towards the document they had been perusing.
“There you have it. Abeleyn is finished. The letter is signed by the High Pontiff himself.”
“It is hastily written, and the seal is blurred,” one of the other men said, the same one who had complained of the cold. Astolvo di Sequero was perhaps the most nobly born man in the kingdom after King Abeleyn himself. The Sequeros had once been candidates for the throne, way back in the murky past which followed the fall of the Fimbrian Hegemony some four centuries ago, but the Hibrusids had won that particular battle. Astolvo was an old man with lungs that wheezed like a punctured wineskin. His ambitions had been extinguished by age and infirmity. He did not want to be a player in the game, not at this stage of his life; all he wanted of the world now were a few tranquil years and a good death.
Which suited Sastro perfectly.
The third man at the table was hewn out of the same rock as Presbyter Quirion, though younger and with violence written less obviously across his face. Colonel Jochen Freiss was adjutant of the City Tercios of Abrusio. He was a Finnmarkan, a native of that far northern country whose ruler, Skarpathin, called himself a king though he was not counted among the Five Monarchs of the West. Freiss had lived thirty years in Hebrion and his accent was no different from Sastro’s own, but the shock of straw-coloured hair which topped his burly frame would always mark him out as a foreigner.
“His Holiness the High Pontiff was obviously pressed for time,” Presbyter Quirion said. He had a voice like a saw. “What is important is that the seal and signature are genuine. What say you, Sastro?”
“Undoubtedly,” Sastro agreed, playing with the hooked end of his beard. His temples throbbed damnably, but his face was impassive. “Abeleyn is king no more; every law of Church and State militates against him. Gentlemen, we have just been recognized by the holy Church as the legitimate rulers of Hebrion, and a heavy burden it is—but we must endeavour to bear it as best we may.”
“Indeed,” Quirion said approvingly. “This changes matters entirely. We must get this document to General Mercado and Admiral Rovero at once; they will see the legitimacy of our position and the untenable nature of their own. The army and the fleet will finally repent of this foolish stubbornness, this misplaced loyalty to a king who is no more. Do you agree, Freiss?”
Colonel Freiss grimaced. “In principle, yes. But these two men, Mercado and Rovero, are of the old school. They are pious, no doubt of that, but they have a soldier’s loyalty towards their sovereign, as have the common troops. I think it will be no easy task to overturn that attachment, Pontifical bull or no.”
“And what happened to your soldier’s loyalty, Freiss?” Sastro asked, smiling unpleasantly.
The Finnmarkan flushed. “My faith and my eternal soul are more important. I swore an oath to the King of Hebrion, but that king is no more my sovereign now than a Merduk shahr. My conscience is clear, my lord.”
Sastro bowed slightly in his chair, still smiling. Quirion flapped one blunt hand impatiently.
“We are not here to spar with one another. Colonel Freiss, your convictions do you credit. Lord Carrera, I suggest you could exercise your wit more profitably in consideration of our changed circumstances.”
Sastro raised an eyebrow. “Our circumstances have changed? I thought the bull merely confirmed what was already reality. This council rules Hebrion.”
“For the moment, yes, but the legal position is unclear.”
“What do you mean?” Astolvo asked, wheezing. He seemed faintly alarmed.
“What I mean,” Quirion said carefully, “is that the situation is without precedent. We rule here, in the name of the Blessed Saint and the High Pontiff, but is that a permanent state of affairs? Now that Abeleyn is finished, and is without issue, who wears the Hebrian crown? Do we continue to rule as we have done these past weeks, or are we to cast about for a legitimate claimant to the throne, one nearest the Royal line?”
The man has a conscience, Sastro marvelled to himself. He had never heard an Inceptine cleric talk about legality before when it might undermine his own authority. It was a revelation which did away with his headache and set the wheels turning furiously in his skull.
“Is it one of our tasks, then, to hunt out a successor to our heretical monarch?” he asked incredulously.
“Perhaps,” Quirion grunted. “It depends on what my superiors in the order have to say. No doubt the High Pontiff will have a more detailed set of commands on its way to us already.”
“If we put it that way, it may make clerical rule easier to swallow for the soldiery,” Freiss said. “The men are not happy at the thought of being ruled by priests.”
Quirion’s gimlet eyes flashed deep in their sockets. “The soldiery will do as they are told, or they will find pyres awaiting them on Abrusio Hill along with the Dweomer-folk.”
“Of course,” Freiss went on hastily. “I only point out that fighting men prefer to see a king at their head. It is what they are used to, after all, and soldiers are nothing if not conservative.”
Quirion rapped the table, setting the decanters dancing. “Very well then,” he barked. “Two things. First, we present this Pontifical bull to the admiral and the general. If they choose to ignore it, then they are guilty of heresy themselves. As Presbyter I am endowed with prelatial authority here, since the office is vacant; I can thus excommunicate these men if I have to. Charibon will support me.
“Two. We begin enquiries among the noble houses of the kingdom. Who is of the most Royal blood and untainted by any hint of heresy? Who, in fact, is next in line to the throne?”
As far as Sastro knew that privilege was old Astolvo’s, but the head of the Sequero family, if he knew it himself, was saying nothing. Whoever ruled would be a puppet of the Church. With two thousand Knights Militant in the city and the regular tercios hamstrung into impotence by the delicate consciences of their commanders, the new king of Hebrion, whoever he might turn out to be, would have no real power—whatever appearances might suggest. Power as Sastro had defined it to himself earlier. The kingship was not necessarily to be coveted, whatever prestige it might bring with it. Not unless the king were a man of remarkable abilities, at any rate. Clearly, the High Pontiff meant the Church to control Hebrion.
“The situation requires much thought,” Sastro said aloud with perfect honesty. “The Royal scribes will have to look through the genealogical archives to trace the bloodlines. It may take some time.”
Astolvo stared at him. The old nobleman’s eyes were watering. He did not want to be king and thus said nothing; but no doubt there were young bloods aplenty in his house who would jump at the chance. Could Astolvo keep them in check? It was doubtful. Sastro did not have much time. He must arrange a private meeting with this Finnmarkan mercenary, Freiss. He needed power. He needed the muzzles of guns.
A true northerly, one that the old salts liked to call the Candelan Heave, had blown down as steady and pure as an arrow’s flight to take them out of the gulf of the Ephron estuary and into the Levangore. South-southeast had been their course, the mizzen brailed up and the square courses bonneted and full before the stiff stern wind.
On reaching the latitude of Azbakir, they had turned to the west, taking the wind on the starboard beam. Slower going after that, as they forged through the Malacar Straits with their guns run out and the soldiers lining the ship’s side in case the Macassians cared to indulge in a little piracy. But the straits had been quiet, the shallow-bellied galleys and feluccas of the corsairs beached for the winter. The northerly had veered after that, and they had had it on their starboard quarter ever since: the best point of sail for a square-rigged vessel like a carrack. They had entered the Hebrian Sea without incident, passing the winter fishing yawls of Astarac and pointing their bows towards the Fimbrian Gulf and the coast of Hebrion beyond, three quarters of their homeward voyage safely behind them. The northerly had failed them then, and a succession of lesser breezes had veered round to east-south-east, right aft. Now the wind showed signs of backing again, and the ship’s company were kept busy trying to anticipate its next move.
Forgist had begun, that dark month which heralded the ending of the year. One month, followed by the five Saint’s Days which were for the purification of the old year and the welcoming in of the new, and then the year 551 would have slipped irrevocably into the annals of history. The unreachable past would have claimed it.
King Abeleyn of Hebrion, excommunicate, stood on the windward side of the quarterdeck and let the following spray settle rime on the fur collar of his cloak. Dietl, the master of the swift carrack beneath his feet, kept to the leeward rail, studying his mariners as they braced the yards round and occasionally barking out an order which was relayed by the mates. The northerly was showing signs of reappearing as the wind continued to back; soon they would have it broad on the starboard beam.
