to whit, foreigners who are not of the Five Ramusian Kingdoms of the West, or of states in vasselage to the above, are to be denied entry to their kingdoms, lest they with their unholy beliefs contaminate still further the sorry souls of our peoples and bring further calamities upon their heads.”
Hawkwood stood rigid with anger, but the brother went on in a rushed monotone, as if he had said the words many times before:
“I am therefore bound to search your ship, and on finding any persons on board who come under the writ of the Prelate, am to escort them from this place to a place of security, there to retain them until our spiritual guides at the head of the august order of which I am a minuscule part have decided what is to be their fate.” The brother wiped his brow and appeared slightly relieved.
Hawkwood spat with feeling over the side of the wharf into the oily water. The Inceptine did not seem offended. Sailors, soldiers and others of the lower orders often expressed themselves similarly.
“So if you will stand aside, Captain . . .”
Hawkwood drew himself up. He was not tall—the brother topped him by half a head—but he was as broad as a door with the arms of a longshoreman. Something cold in the sea-grey of his eyes halted the Inceptine in his tracks.
Behind the cleric the marines broiled silently.
“I am Gabrionese, Brother,” Hawkwood said in a quiet voice.
“I have been made aware of that. Special dispensation has been granted to your countrymen in recognition of their gallant efforts at Azbakir. You need not worry, Captain. You are exempt.”
Hawkwood felt Galliardo’s hand on his arm.
“What I am saying,
He spoke hotly, thinking with rage of Julius Albak, a secret worshipper of Ahrimuz but who as a boy, a mere child out of Ridawan, had stood on the deck of a Gabrionese war-carrack as three Merduk galleys rammed and boarded, one after the other. That was at Azbakir. The Gabrionese, consummate seamen but proud, wilful and stubborn, had stood alone that day and turned aside the fleets of the Sea-Merduks off the Calmaric coast as they sought to invade southern Astarac and Candelaria, the soft underbelly of the west.
“What were you at the time of Azbakir, Brother? A seed in your father’s loins? Or were you out in the world and still shitting yellow?”
The Inceptine flushed dark, and behind him Hawkwood saw the marine sergeant’s face struggling to maintain a wooden blankness.
“I should have expected no more from a Gabrionese corsair. Your time will come, Captain, and that of all your stiff-necked countrymen. Now stand aside or you will share the fate of the unbelievers in our midst a little early.”
And when Hawkwood did not move: “Sergeant, shift me this impious dog!”
The sergeant hesitated. He met Hawkwood’s eyes for a second. It was almost as if they had made an agreement on something. Hawkwood stood aside, hand on dirk.
“Were it not for your calling, Priest, I would spit you like the black, liverless fowl you are,” he said, his voice icy as spindrift off the northern sea.
The Inceptine quailed. “Sergeant!” he screeched.
The marine moved forward purposefully, but Hawkwood let him and his fellows clank past him towards his ship, closely followed by the cleric. The brother turned once they were past.
“I know your name, Gabrionese. The Prelate will soon know it also, I promise you.”
“Flap away, Raven,” Hawkwood jeered, but Galliardo pulled him along.
“For the Saint’s sake, Ricardo, come away. We can do nothing here but make things worse. Do you want to end up on a gibbet?”
Hawkwood moved stiffly, a sea creature out of its element. The blood had filled his face.
“Come to my offices. We will discuss this. Maybe we can do something.”
The marines were boarding the
Then there was a splash, and one of the crew had leapt over the side and was swimming with no visible destination in mind. The Inceptine shouted and Hawkwood, as if in a nightmare, saw a marine level his arquebus.
A sharp report that seemed to stun the port into silence for a moment, a heavy globe of smoke that obscured the ship’s rail, and then the man was no longer swimming but was a dead, bobbing thing in the filthy water.
“Holy God!” Galliardo said, shocked, staring. Around the wharves work ceased as men paused to look on. The marine sergeant’s voice could be heard bellowing angrily.
“May God curse them,” Hawkwood said slowly, his voice thick with grief and hatred. “May He curse all black-robed Ravens that practice such foulness in His name.”
The dead man had been Julius Albak.
Galliardo pulled him away by main strength, the sweat pulsing down his dark face in shining beads. Hawkwood let himself be dragged from the wharf, but stumbled like an old man, his eyes blind with tears.
A BELEYN IV, King of Hebrion, was not happy either. Though he knelt in the required manner to kiss the Prelate’s ring, there was a stiffness, a certain reluctance about his gesture that betrayed his feelings. The Prelate laid a hand on his dark circleted head.
“You wish to speak to me, my son.”
Abeleyn was a proud young man in the prime of life. More, he was a king, one of the Five Kings of the West; and yet this old man never failed to treat him like an erring, wilful but ultimately amiable child. And it never failed to irritate him.
“Yes, Holy Father.” He straightened. They were in the Prelate’s own apartments. High, massive stone walls and the vaulted ceiling kept out the worst of the heat. Far off Abeleyn could hear the brothers singing Prime, preparing for their midday meal. He had misjudged the timing of his visit: the Prelate would be impatient for his lunch, no doubt. Well, let him be.
Tapestries depicting scenes from the life of the Blessed Ramusio relieved the austere grandeur of the chamber. There was good carpet underfoot, sweet oil burning in censers, the glint of gold in the hanging lamps, a tickle of incense in the nostrils. On either side of the Prelate an Inceptine sat on a velvet-covered stool. One had pen and parchment, for all conversations were recorded here. Behind him Abeleyn could hear the boots of his bodyguards clumping softly as they knelt also. Their swords had been left at the door: not even a king came armed into the Prelate’s presence. Since Aekir, and the disappearance of the High Pontiff in the wreck of the city’s fall, the five Prelates of the Kingdoms were God’s direct representatives on earth. Abeleyn’s mouth twitched. It was rumoured that the High Pontiff, Macrobius IV, had wished to leave Aekir early on in the siege to preserve the Holy Person, but John Mogen and his Torunnans had convinced him otherwise, saying that for the Pontiff to flee the city would be to acknowledge defeat. It was said that Macrobius had had to be locked in a storeroom of his own palace to convince him.
Abeleyn’s mood soured. The west would need men like Mogen in the times to come. He had been worth half a dozen kings.
As Abeleyn rose a low stool was brought for him, and he sat at the Prelate’s feet, for all the world like an apprentice at the foot of his master. Abeleyn swallowed anger and made his voice as even as silk.
“We have spoken about this edict concerning the heretics and foreigners of the city, and we have agreed that it is necessary to root out the disloyal, the unbelieving, the treacherous . . .”
The Prelate inclined his head, smiling graciously. With his large nose and keen eyes he looked like a liver- spotted eagle nodding on a perch.
“. . . but, Father, I noticed you have included in the wording of the edict the cantrimers, the mindrhymers, the petty Dweomer-users of the kingdom—the folk who possess any kind of theurgical ability. Already my soldiers, under the leadership of your brothers, are rounding up these people. What for? Surely you cannot mean to consign
