The excited tumult in the large chamber continued for some time as Patriarch Emban of Ucera stood gravely in the centre of the long marble floor, just happening to have placed himself in the precise centre of that elongated circle of light streaming down through the round window behind the vacant throne. As the babble of voices began to die out, Emban raised one pudgy hand. ‘Indeed, my brothers,’ he continued, his voice carrying just that right note of gravity, ‘the invincible Knights of the Church could easily defend Chyrellos, but the knights are committed at this time to the defence of Arcium. The Preceptors are here, of course, taking their rightful places among us, but each of them has but a token force here, certainly not enough to fight off the armies of darkness encircling us. We cannot whisk the full might of the militant orders from the rocky plains of Arcium to the Holy City in the twinkling of an eye; and even if we could, how could we convince the commanders of the army in that sorely beset kingdom that our need is greater than theirs and thus persuade them to release the knights to come to our aid?’
Patriarch Ortzel of Kadach rose to his feet, his severe face framed by his pale, greying hair. ‘If I may speak, Emban,’ he said. The Patriarch of Kadach was the compromise candidate of the faction opposed to Annias, and he spoke with a certain authority.
‘Of course,’ Emban said. ‘I eagerly await the wisdom of my esteemed brother from Lamorkand.’
‘The paramount duty of the Church is to survive so that she may continue her work,’ Ortzel said in his harsh voice. ‘All other considerations must be secondary to that. Will we all concede that point?’
There was a murmur of agreement.
‘There are times when sacrifices must be made,’ Ortzel continued. ‘If a man’s leg be caught between the rocks at the bottom of a tidal pool and the rising waters be lapping at his chin, must not the man regretfully sacrifice the limb in order to save his life? Thus it is with us. In sorrow must we sacrifice the whole of Arcium if need be to save our life – which is our holy mother Church. What we are faced with here, my brothers, is a crisis. In times past, the Hierocracy has been extremely reluctant to impose the stern and stringent requirements of this most extreme of measures, but the situation facing us is doubtless the severest trial facing our holy mother since the Zemoch invasion five centuries ago. God is watching us, my brothers, and He will surely judge us and our fitness to continue our stewardship of His beloved Church. I, therefore, as the laws which govern us require, demand that an immediate vote be taken. The question upon which we will vote can be stated most simply. “Does the current situation in Chyrellos constitute a Crisis of the Faith?” Yes or no?’
Makova’s eyes were wide with shock. ‘Surely,’ he burst out, ‘surely the situation is not that critical! We have not even tried negotiation with the armies at our gates as yet, and –’
‘The Patriarch is not in order,’ Ortzel said abruptly. ‘The question of Crisis of the Faith is not open to discussion.’
‘Point of Law!’ Makova shouted.
Ortzel looked intimidatingly at the weedy monk who served as law clerk. ‘Speak the law,’ he commanded.
The monk was trembling violently, and he began to desperately paw through his books.
‘What’s happening here?’ Talen asked in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Crisis of the Faith is almost never invoked,’ Bevier told him, ‘probably because the kings of western Eosia object so violently. In a Crisis of the Faith, the Church assumes control of everything – governments, armies, resources, money – everything.’
‘But wouldn’t a Crisis of the Faith require a substantive vote?’ Kalten asked. ‘Or even unanimity?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Bevier said. ‘Let’s see what the law clerk has to say.’
‘Isn’t it sort of redundant at this point anyway?’ Tynian asked. ‘We’ve already sent for Wargun and told him that there’s a Church crisis.’
‘Somebody probably neglected to tell Ortzel,’ Ulath replied. ‘He’s a stickler for legalities, and there’s no real point in disturbing his sensibilities, is there?’
The weedy monk, his face absolutely white, rose and cleared his throat. His voice was squeaky with fright as he began. ‘The Patriarch of Kadach has correctly cited the law,’ he declared. ‘The question of Crisis of the Faith must be put to an immediate secret vote.’
‘Secret?’ Makova exclaimed.
‘Such is the law, Your Grace, and the vote is to be decided by a simple majority.’
‘But –’
‘I must remind the Patriarch of Coombe that further discussion is not in order.’ Ortzel’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘I call for the vote.’ He looked around. ‘You,’ he snapped at the clergyman sitting not far from the goggle-eyed Annias, ‘fetch the instruments of the vote. They are, as I recall, in the chest at the right hand of the Archprelate’s throne.’
The clergyman hesitated, looking fearfully at Annias.
‘Move, man!’ Ortzel roared.
The priest jumped to his feet and ran to the shrouded throne.
‘Somebody’s going to have to explain this to me a little better,’ Talen said in a baffled tone.
‘Later, Talen,’ Sephrenia told him softly. Sephrenia, wearing a heavy black robe that looked slightly ecclesiastical and concealed her race and sex, sat amongst the Church Knights, almost totally concealed by their armoured bulk. ‘Let’s watch the exquisite dance being performed before us.’
‘Sephrenia,’ Sparhawk chided her.
‘Sorry,’ she apologized. ‘I’m not poking fun at your Church, Sparhawk, just at all this involuted manoeuvring.’
The instruments of the vote consisted of a fairly large black box, quite dusty and totally unadorned, and two plain leather bags securely held shut with stamped leaden seals.
‘Patriarch of Coombe,’ Ortzel said quite concisely. ‘You hold the chair at the moment. It is your duty to break the seals and cause the ballots to be distributed.’
Makova glanced quickly at the law clerk, and the little monk nodded. Then Makova took up the two bags, prised open the leaden seals and took an object from each. They were perhaps the size of a common penny. One was white and the other black. ‘We will vote with these,’ he declared to his fellow Patriarchs, holding the counters up. ‘Is it agreed that the black means no and the white yes?’
There was a rumble of agreement.
‘Distribute the counters then,’ Makova instructed a pair of youthful pages. ‘Each member of the Hierocracy shall receive one white counter and one black.’ He cleared his throat. ‘As God gives you wisdom, my brothers, vote your consciences in this matter.’ Some trace of colour had returned to Makova’s face.
‘He’s been counting votes,’ Kalten said. ‘He’s got fifty-nine, and he thinks we’ve only got forty-seven. He doesn’t know about the five Patriarchs hiding in that closet. I’d imagine those five votes will come as quite a surprise to him. He’ll still win, though.’
‘You’re forgetting the neutrals, Kalten,’ Bevier reminded him.
‘They’ll just abstain, won’t they? They’re still looking for bribes. They’re not going to offend either side.’
‘They can’t abstain, Kalten,’ Bevier told him, ‘not on this vote. Church Law says that they have to come down on one side or the other of this question.’
‘Where did you learn so much about this, Bevier?’
‘I told you that I’d studied military history.’
‘What’s military history got to do with this?’
‘The Church declared a Crisis of the Faith during the Zemoch invasion. I looked into it as part of my study.’
‘Oh.’
As the two pages were distributing the counters, Dolmant rose and walked to the huge doors. He spoke briefly to the members of the Archprelate’s guard standing outside and returned to his seat. It was when the two boys distributing the counters were nearly at the end of the fourth row of the crimson-cushioned benches that the door opened, and the five nervous Patriarchs who had been in hiding filed in.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Makova was goggle-eyed.
‘The Patriarch of Coombe is not in order,’ Ortzel reminded him. Ortzel seemed to enjoy saying that to Makova. ‘My brothers,’ he began to address the five, ‘we are presently voting on –’
‘It is my responsibility to instruct our brothers,’ Makova said vehemently.
‘The Patriarch of Coombe is in error,’ Ortzel said in a clipped voice. ‘It was I who put the question before the Hierocracy, and, therefore, the responsibility is mine.’ He quickly explained the vote to his five fellow Patriarchs. He stressed the gravity of the situation to them, something Makova surely would not have done.
Makova regained his composure.
‘He’s counting votes again,’ Kalten muttered. ‘He’s still got more than we have. It all hangs on the neutrals now.’
The black box was placed on a table in front of Makova’s lectern, and the Patriarchs filed by, each depositing one of his counters in the slot on the top of the box. Some were quite obvious about which counter they were depositing. Others were not.
‘I’ll take care of the tallying,’ Makova declared.
‘No,’ Ortzel said flatly, ‘at least not alone. It was I who placed the question before the Hierocracy, and I will assist you.’
‘I’m beginning to like Ortzel more and more,’ Tynian said to Ulath.
‘Yes,’ Ulath agreed. ‘Maybe we misjudged him.’
Makova’s face grew more grey as he and Ortzel began to tally up the votes. There was a hushed, almost breathless silence as the tallying continued.
‘And done,’ Ortzel said curtly. ‘Announce the totals, Makova.’
Makova threw a quick, apologetic glance at Annias. ‘The vote stands at sixty-four yes and fifty-six no,’ he muttered almost inaudibly.
‘Say it again, Makova,’ Ortzel prompted. ‘Some of our brothers have failing hearing.’
Makova gave him a look filled with hatred and repeated the totals in a louder voice.
‘We got the neutrals!’ Talen exulted, ‘and we stole three of Annias’s votes as well.’
‘Well then,’ Emban said mildly, ‘I’m glad that’s been settled. We have much to consider, my brothers, and very little time. Am I correct in assuming that it is the will of the Hierocracy that we send immediately for the Church Knights – and the armies of western Eosia as well – to come to our defence with all possible haste?’
‘Will you leave the kingdom of Arcium totally defenceless, Emban?’ Makova demanded.
‘Just what’s threatening Arcium at the moment, Makova? All the Eshandists are camped outside our gates. Do you want another vote?’
‘Substance,’ Makova said flatly, insisting on a 60 per cent majority on the question.
‘Point of Law,’ Emban replied. His fat face had an almost saintly expression. He looked at the law clerk. ‘What is the law on matters of substance under these circumstances?’ he asked.
‘Saving only the election of an Archprelate, a substantive vote is not required in time of Crisis of the Faith, Your Grace,’ the monk replied.
‘I rather thought that might be the case,’ Emban smiled. ‘Well, Makova, do we vote or not?’
‘I’ll withdraw the question of substance,’ Makova conceded grudgingly, ‘but exactly how do you propose to get a messenger out of a besieged city?’
Ortzel rose again. ‘As my brothers may be aware, I am a Lamork,’ he said. ‘We are well accustomed to sieges in Lamorkand. Last night I sent twenty of my own men in disguise to the outskirts of the city and beyond. They are awaiting only that signal which even now rises as a plume of red smoke from the dome of this very Basilica. I would surmise that they are already riding hard for Arcium – at least they’d better be, if they know what’s good for them.’
‘I’m going to like him,’ Kalten grinned.
‘You dared to do this without the consent of the Hierocracy as a whole, Ortzel?’ Makova gasped.
‘Was there ever any doubt concerning the outcome of the voting, Makova?’
‘I begin to catch a strong smell of collusion here,’ Sephrenia said lightly.
‘My brothers,’ Emban continued, ‘the crisis we presently face is clearly a military one, and for the most part, we are not military men. How may we avoid the errors, the confusion, the delays which untrained and unworldly Churchmen must inevitably cause as they flounder through unfamiliar complexities? The leadership of the Patriarch of Coombe has been exemplary, and I’m sure we join together in expressing our heartfelt gratitude to him, but, regrettably, the Patriarch of Coombe is no more well versed in military science than I, and I’ll confess it freely, my brothers, I can’t tell one end of a sword from the other.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Quite obviously, my training has been with eating implements rather than with those of war. I’d be happy to accept any challenge in that area, however. My opponent and I could happily duel to the death on a well-roasted ox.’
The Hierocracy laughed at that. The tension was somewhat relaxed by the laughter.
‘We need a military man, my brothers,’ Emban continued. ‘We need a general now instead of a chairman. We have four such generals in our very midst. These, of course, are the Preceptors of the four orders.’
There was an excited stir, but Emban held up one hand. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘do we dare distract one of these towering military geniuses from the vital task of defending Chyrellos? I think not. Where then should we look?’ He paused. ‘I must now break a solemn promise I made to one of my brothers,’ he confessed. ‘I pray that both he and God will be able to find it in their hearts to forgive me. We do, in fact, have a man with military training in our midst, dear brothers. He has modestly concealed this fact, but a modesty which deprives us of his talent in this time of crisis is no virtue.’ His broad round face took on an expression of genuine regret. ‘Forgive me, Dolmant,’ he said, ‘but I have no choice in this matter. My duty to the Church comes even before my duty to a friend.’
Dolmant’s eyes were frosty.
Emban sighed. ‘I expect that when we conclude this meeting, my dear brother from Demos will thrash me thoroughly, but I’m well padded, and the bruises won’t be all that visible – I hope. In his youth, the Patriarch of Demos was an acolyte in the Pandion order, and –’
There was a sudden amazed babble in the chamber.
Emban raised his voice. ‘Preceptor Vanion of that order, who was himself a novice at the self-same time, assures me that our saintly brother from Demos was a consummate warrior and might very well have risen to the rank of Preceptor himself had not our holy mother found other uses for his vast talents.’ He paused again. ‘Praise God, my brothers, that we were never faced with that decision. Choosing between Vanion and Dolmant would likely have been a task beyond our combined wisdom.’ He continued for a time, heaping praise upon Dolmant. Then he looked around. ‘What is our decision, my brothers? Shall we beseech our brother of Demos to guide us in this time of our gravest peril?’
Makova stared at him. His mouth opened a couple of times as if he were on the verge of speaking, but each time, he clamped it tightly shut.
Sparhawk put his hands on the bench in front of him, leaned forward and spoke quietly to the elderly monk sitting in front of him. ‘Has Patriarch Makova been suddenly struck dumb, neighbour?’ he asked. ‘I’d have thought he’d be climbing the walls by now.’
‘In a very real sense the Patriarch of Coombe has been struck dumb, Sir Knight,’ the monk replied. ‘There’s a long-standing custom – even a rule – in the Hierocracy that a Patriarch may not speak to his own candidacy for any post – no matter how remote that candidacy may be. It’s considered immodest.’
‘Sensible custom, that one,’ Sparhawk said.
‘I feel much the same way, Sir Knight,’ the monk smiled. ‘Makova tends to put me to sleep for some reason.’ Sparhawk grinned at him. ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I suppose we should both pray for greater patience – one of these days.’
Makova looked around desperately, but none of his friends saw fit to speak – either because of a lack of anything flattering to say about him, or because they could see which way a vote would go. ‘Vote,’ he said somewhat sullenly.
‘Good idea, Makova,’ Emban smiled. ‘Let’s move right along. Time’s fleeing even as we speak.’
The vote this time was sixty-five for Dolmant’s assuming the chair and fifty-five against. Another of the supporters of the Primate of Cimmura had defected.
‘My brother from Demos,’ Emban said to Dolmant when the tally had been completed and announced, ‘would you be so kind as to assume the chair?’
Dolmant came forward while Makova angrily gathered up his papers and stalked away from the lectern.
‘You honour me beyond my ability to express my gratitude, my brothers,’ Dolmant said. ‘For the moment, let me merely say thank you so that we may more quickly deal with the crisis at hand. Our most immediate need is for a greater force under the command of the Knights of the Church. How may we address that need?’
Emban had not even bothered to sit down. ‘The force of which our revered chairman speaks is at hand, my brothers,’ he said to the assemblage. ‘Each of us has a detachment of church soldiers at his disposal. In view of the current crisis, I propose that we immediately turn control of those troops over to the militant orders.’
‘Will you strip us of our only protection, Emban?’ Makova protested.
‘The protection of the Holy City is far more important, Makova,’ Emban told him. ‘Will history say of us that we were so cowardly that we refused our aid to our holy mother in her time of need out of timidity and a craven concern for our own skins? Pray God that no such poltroon contaminates us by his presence in our midst. What says the Hierocracy? Shall we make this insignificant sacrifice for the sake of the Church?’
The rumble of assent this time was slightly pained in some quarters.
‘Will any Patriarch call for a vote on the matter?’ Dolmant asked with cool correctness. He looked around at the now-silent tiers. ‘Then let the recorder set down the fact that the suggestion of the Patriarch of Ucera was accepted by general acclamation. The scribes will then draw up suitable documents which each member of the Hierocracy will sign, transferring command of his personal detachment of church soldiers over to the militant orders for the defence of the city.’ He paused. ‘Will someone please ask the commander of the Archprelate’s personal guard to present himself before the Hierocracy?’
A priest scurried to the door, and shortly thereafter a brawny officer with red hair, a polished breastplate and armed with an embossed shield and antiquated short sword entered. His expression clearly showed that he was aware of the army at the city gates.
‘One question, Colonel,’ Dolmant said to him. ‘My brothers have asked me to chair their deliberations. In the absence of an Archprelate, do I speak in his stead?’
The colonel considered it for a moment. ‘You do, Your Grace,’ he admitted, looking somewhat pleased.
‘That’s unheard of,’ Makova protested, obviously a bit chagrined that he had not taken advantage of this obscure rule during his own tenure as chairman.
‘So is this situation, Makova,’ Dolmant told him. ‘A Crisis of the Faith has only been declared five times in the history of the Church, and in each of the four preceding crises, a vigorous Archprelate occupied the throne which so sadly stands empty before us. When faced with unique circumstances, we must improvise. This is what we’re going to do, Colonel. The Patriarchs are each going to sign documents turning command of their individual detachments of soldiers over to the Church Knights. To save time and unnecessary arguments, as soon as those documents are signed, you and your men will escort each Patriarch to the barracks of their sundry forces where the Patriarch may confirm his written command in person.’ He turned then to look at the Preceptors. ‘Lord Abriel,’ he said, ‘will you and your fellow Preceptors dispatch knights to take command of the soldiers just as soon as they are released and to assemble them in a place of your choosing? Our deployment must be quick and unfaltering.’
Abriel stood. ‘We will, Your Grace,’ he declared, ‘and gladly.’
‘Thank you, My Lord Abriel,’ Dolmant said. He looked back at the ranks of the Hierocracy, rising tier upon tier above him. ‘We have done what we can, my brothers,’ he said to them. ‘It seems most appropriate now that we proceed immediately to turn our soldiers over to the Knights of the Church, and then perhaps we might each devote ourselves to seeking counsel from God. Perhaps He, in His infinite wisdom, will suggest further steps we might take to defend His beloved Church. Therefore, without objection, the Hierocracy stands in recess until such time as this crisis has passed.’
‘Brilliant,’ Bevier exclaimed. ‘In one series of master-strokes, they’ve wrested control of the Hierocracy from Annias, stripped him of all his soldiers and forestalled the taking of any votes while we’re not here to stop them.’
‘It’s kind of a shame that they broke off so quickly,’ Talen said. ‘The way things stand right now, we only need one more vote to elect our own Archprelate.’
Sparhawk was elated as he and his companions joined the crush at the door to the audience chamber. Although Martel was still a grave threat to the Holy City, they had succeeded in wresting control of the Hierocracy from Annias and his underlings, and the weakness of the Primate of Cimmura’s grasp on his votes was clearly demonstrated by the defection of four of his bought and paid-for Patriarchs. As he started to move slowly from the chamber, he felt again that now-familiar sense of overpowering dread. He half-turned. This time, he even partially saw it. The shadow was back behind the Archprelate’s throne, seeming to undulate softly in the dimness. Sparhawk’s hand went to the front of his surcoat to make sure that Bhelliom was still where it belonged. The jewel was secure, and he knew that the drawstring on the pouch was tightly tied. It appeared that his reasoning had been slightly faulty. The shadow could make an appearance independently of the Bhelliom. It was even here inside the most consecrated building of the Elene faith. He had thought that here of all places he would be free of it, but it was not so. Troubled, he continued with his friends from the room which now seemed dark and chill.
The attempt on Sparhawk’s life came almost immediately after he saw the shadow. A cowled monk, one of the many in the crowd at the door, spun suddenly and drove a small dagger directly at the big Pandion’s un-visored face. It was only Sparhawk’s trained reflexes that saved him. Without thinking, he blocked the dagger stroke with his armoured forearm and then seized the monk. With a despairing cry, the monk drove his little dagger into his own side. He stiffened abruptly, and Sparhawk felt a violent shudder pass through the body of the man he was holding. Then the monk’s face went blank, and he sagged limply.
‘Kalten!’ Sparhawk hissed to his friend. ‘Give me a hand! Keep him on his feet.’
Kalten stepped swiftly to the other side of the monk’s body and took his arm.
‘Is our brother unwell?’ another monk asked them as they half-carried the body out through the door.
‘Fainted,’ Kalten replied in an offhand manner. ‘Some people can’t stand crowds. My friend and I will take him into some side chamber and let him get his breath.’
‘Slick,’ Sparhawk muttered a quick compliment.
‘You see, Sparhawk, I can think on my feet.’ Kalten jerked his head towards the door of a nearby antechamber. ‘Let’s take him in there and have a look at him.’
They dragged the body into the chamber and closed the door behind them. Kalten pulled the dagger from the monk’s side. ‘Not much of a weapon,’ he said disdainfully.
‘It was enough,’ Sparhawk growled. ‘One little nick with it stiffened him up like a plank.’
‘Poison?’ Kalten guessed.
‘Probably – unless the sight of his own blood overpowered him. Let’s have a look.’ Sparhawk bent and tore open the monk’s robe.
The ‘monk’ was a Rendor.
‘Isn’t that interesting?’ Kalten said. ‘It looks as if that crossbowman who’s been trying to kill you has started hiring outside help.’
‘Maybe this is the crossbowman.’
‘No way, Sparhawk. The crossbowman’s been hiding in the general population. Anybody with half a brain would recognize a Rendor. He couldn’t have just mingled with the crowd.’
‘You’re probably right. Give me the dagger. I think I’d better show it to Sephrenia.’
‘Martel really doesn’t want to meet you, does he?’
‘What makes you think Martel’s behind this?’
‘What makes you think he isn’t? What about this?’ Kalten pointed at the body on the floor.
‘Leave it. The caretakers here in the Basilica will run across it eventually and dispose of it for us.’
Many of the church soldiers submitted their resignations when they discovered that they were being placed under the command of the Church Knights – the officers did, at any rate. Resignation is not an option available to common soldiers. These resignations, however, were not accepted, but the knights were not totally insensitive to the feelings of the various colonels, captains and lieutenants who felt strong moral compunctions about commanding their forces under such circumstances. They graciously divested such officers of their rank and enrolled them as common soldiers. They then marched the red-tunicked troops to the great square in front of the Basilica for deployment on the walls and at the gates of the inner city.
‘Did you have any trouble?’ Ulath asked Tynian as the two of them, each leading a sizeable detachment of soldiers, met at an intersection.
‘A few resignations was about all,’ Tynian shrugged. ‘I have a whole new group of officers in this batch.’
‘So do I,’ Ulath replied. ‘A lot of old sergeants are in charge now.’
‘I ran across Bevier a while back,’ Tynian said as the two rode towards the main gate of the inner city. ‘He doesn’t seem to be having the same problem for some reason.’
‘The reason should be fairly obvious, Tynian,’ Ulath grinned. ‘Word of what he did to that captain who tried to keep us out of the Basilica has got around.’ Ulath pulled off his ogre-horned helmet and scratched his head. ‘I think it was the praying afterwards that chilled everybody’s blood the most. It’s one thing to lop off a man’s head in the heat of a discussion, but praying for his soul afterwards has a very unsettling effect on most people for some reason.’
‘That’s probably it,’ Tynian agreed. He looked back at the soldiers straggling disconsolately towards the site of what was very likely to be actual fighting. Church soldiers for the most part did not enlist in order to fight, and they viewed the impending unpleasantness with a vast lack of enthusiasm. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Tynian chided them, ‘this won’t do at all. You must try to look like soldiers at least. Please straighten up those ranks and try to march in step. We do have some reputation to maintain, after all.’ He paused a moment. ‘How about a song, gentlemen?’ he suggested. ‘The people are always encouraged when soldiers sing as they march into battle. It’s a demonstration of bravery, after all, and it shows a manly contempt for death and dismemberment.’
The song which rose from the ranks was feeble, and Tynian insisted that the soldiers start again – several times – until the full-throated bawling of the column satisfied his need for a display of martial enthusiasm.
‘You’re a cruel sort of fellow, Tynian,’ Ulath noted.
‘I know,’ Tynian agreed.
Sephrenia’s reaction to the news of the failed attack by the disguised Rendor was almost one of indifference. ‘You’re sure you saw the shadow behind the Archprelate’s throne just before the attack?’ she asked Sparhawk.
‘Our hypothesis still seems quite valid then.’ She said it almost with satisfaction. She looked at the small, poison-smeared dagger lying on the table between them. ‘Hardly the sort of thing you’d want to use against an armoured man,’ she observed.
‘A scratch would have done the trick, little mother.’
‘How could he have scratched you when you were wrapped in steel?’
‘He tried to stab me in the face, Sephrenia.’
‘Keep your visor closed then.’
‘Won’t that look a little ridiculous?’
‘Which do you prefer? Ridiculous or dead? Did any of our friends see the attempt?’
‘Kalten did – or at least he knew that it happened.’
She frowned. ‘I was hoping that we could sort of keep this between ourselves – at least until we know what’s going on.’
‘Kalten knows that someone’s been trying to kill me – they all do, for that matter. They all think it’s just Martel and that he’s up to his usual tricks.’
‘Let’s sort of leave it at that then, shall we?’
‘There have been some desertions, My Lord,’ Kalten reported to Vanion as the group gathered on the steps of the Basilica. ‘There was no way we could keep word of what we were doing from reaching some of those outlying barracks.’
‘It was to be expected,’ Vanion said. ‘Did anybody happen to look over the outer wall to see what Martel’s doing?’
‘Berit’s been keeping an eye on things, My Lord,’ Kalten replied. ‘That boy’s going to make an awfully good Pandion. We ought to try to keep him alive if we can. Anyway, he reports that Martel’s almost completed his deployment. He could probably give the order to march on the city now. I’m surprised that he hasn’t, really. I’m sure some of Annias’s toadies have reached him by now to report what happened in the Basilica this morning. Every moment he delays just gives us more time to get ready for him.’
‘Greed, Kalten,’ Sparhawk told his friend. ‘Martel’s very greedy, and he can’t believe that his greed’s not universal. He thinks we’ll try to defend the whole of Chyrellos, and he wants to give us time to get spread so thin that he’ll be able to walk over us. He’d never be able to bring himself to believe that we’d abandon the outer city and concentrate on defending the inner walls.’
‘I suspect that many of my brother Patriarchs feel much the same way,’ Emban said. ‘The voting might have been much tighter if those of them with palaces in the outer city had been aware of the fact that we’re going to abandon their houses to Martel.’
Komier and Ulath came up the marble steps to join them. ‘We’re going to have to pull down some houses just outside the walls,’ Komier said. ‘Those are Lamorks to the north of the city, and Lamorks use crossbows. We don’t want any rooftops out there for them to shoot at us from.’ The Genidian Preceptor paused. ‘I’m not very experienced at sieges,’ he admitted. ‘What kind of engines is this Martel likely to bring against us?’
‘Battering rams,’ Abriel told him, ‘catapults, assault towers.’
‘What’s an assault tower?’
‘It’s a sort of high structure. They roll it up until it’s flush against the wall. Then the soldiers come spilling out right in the middle of us. It’s a way to cut down on the sort of casualties they’ll take with scaling ladders.’
‘Roll?’ Komier asked.
Komier grunted. ‘We’ll leave the rubble from the houses we pull down lying in the streets then. Wheels don’t run too well across piles of building blocks.’
Berit came galloping into the broad square and along the quickly opened path through the ranks of the church soldiers massed in front of the Basilica. He leapt from his saddle and ran up the stairs. ‘My Lords,’ he said a little breathlessly, ‘Martel’s men are beginning to assemble their siege engines.’
‘Will someone explain that to me?’ Komier asked.
‘The engines are transported in pieces, Komier,’ Abriel told him. ‘When you get to the place where you’re going to fight, you have to put them together.’
‘How long’s that likely to take? You Arcians are the experts on castles and sieges.’
‘Quite a few hours, Komier. The mangonels will take longer. He’ll have to construct those here.’
‘What’s a mangonel?’
‘It’s a sort of oversized catapult. It’s too big to transport – even if you break it down. They use whole trees when they build them.’
‘How big a rock can it throw?’
‘A half-ton or so.’
‘The walls won’t take too many of those.’
‘That’s sort of the idea, I think. He’ll be using the standard catapults at first, though. The mangonels will probably take at least a week to build.’
‘The catapults and battering rams and towers should keep us occupied until then, I suppose,’ Komier said sourly. ‘I hate sieges.’ Then he shrugged. ‘We’d better get at it.’ He looked disdainfully at the church soldiers. ‘Let’s set these enthusiastic volunteers to work tearing down houses and cluttering up the streets.’
At some point not long after dark, some of Martel’s scouts discovered that the outer walls of Chyrellos were undefended. A few of them, the stupider ones, reported back. For the most part, however, these scouts proved to be the vanguard of the looters. An hour or so before midnight Berit woke Sparhawk and Kalten to report that there were troops in the outer city. Then he turned to leave again.
‘Where are you going?’ Sparhawk asked bluntly.
‘Back out there, Sir Sparhawk.’
‘No you’re not. You stay inside the inner walls now. I don’t want you getting yourself killed.’
‘Somebody has to keep an eye on things, Sir Sparhawk,’ Berit objected.
‘There’s a cupola on top of the dome of the Basilica,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Go and get Kurik, and then the two of you go up there to watch.’
‘All right, Sir Sparhawk.’ Berit’s tone was slightly sullen.
‘Berit,’ Kalten said as he pulled on his mail-shirt.
‘Yes, Sir Kalten?’
‘You don’t have to like it, you know. All you have to do is to do it.’
Sparhawk and the others went through the ancient narrow streets of the inner city and mounted to the wall. The streets of the outer city were filled with bobbing torches as the mercenaries under Martel’s command ran from house to house, stealing what they could. The occasional screams of women clearly said that looting was not the only thing on the minds of the attacking force. A crowd of panicky and wailing citizens stood outside the now-closed gates of the inner city, pleading to be admitted, but the gates remained steadfastly closed to them.
A somewhat delicate Patriarch with sagging pouches under his eyes came running up the stairs to the top of the wall. ‘What are you doing?’ he almost shrieked at Dolmant. ‘Why aren’t these soldiers out there defending the city?’
‘It’s a military decision, Cholda,’ Dolmant replied calmly. ‘We don’t have enough men to defend the whole of Chyrellos. We’ve had to pull back inside the walls of the old city.’
‘Are you mad? My house is out there!’
‘I’m sorry, Cholda,’ Dolmant told him, ‘but there’s nothing I can do.’
‘But I voted for you!’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘My house! My things! My treasures!’ Patriarch Cholda of Mirischum stood wringing his hands. ‘My beautiful house! All my furnishings! My gold!’
‘Go and take refuge in the Basilica, Cholda,’ Dolmant told him coldly. ‘Pray that your sacrifice may find favour in the eyes of God.’
The Patriarch of Mirischum turned and stumbled back down the stairs, weeping bitterly.
‘I think you lost a vote there, Dolmant,’ Emban said.
‘The voting’s all over, Emban, and I’m sure I could live without that particular vote anyway.’
‘I’m not so sure, Dolmant,’ Emban disagreed. ‘There’s still one ballot yet to come. It’s fairly important, and we might just need Cholda before it’s over.’
‘They’ve started,’ Tynian said sadly.
‘What has?’ Kalten asked him.
‘The fires,’ Tynian replied, pointing out across the city as a sudden pillar of golden orange flame and black smoke shot up through the roof of a house. ‘Soldiers always seem to get careless with their torches when they’re looting at night.’
‘Isn’t there something we can do?’ Bevier asked urgently.
‘Not a thing, I’m afraid,’ Tynian said, ‘except maybe pray for rain.’
‘It’s the wrong season for it,’ Ulath said.
‘I know,’ Tynian sighed.