A titter of nervous laughter rippled through the chamber.
‘Our own fates, my brothers, are not important,’ Emban continued. ‘What matters here is the fate of the Holy City and the fate of the Church. We face a cruel but simple decision. Do we surrender our mother to the heretics, or do we fight?’
‘Fight!’ one Patriarch shouted, springing to his feet. ‘Fight!’
The cry was quickly taken up. Soon the entire Hierocracy was on its feet, roaring out the word, ‘Fight!’
Emban clasped his hands behind his back somewhat theatrically and bowed his head. When he lifted his face, tears were actually streaming down his cheeks. He turned slowly, giving everyone in the audience chamber ample opportunity to see those tears. ‘Alas, my brothers,’ he said in a broken voice. ‘Our vows forbid us to lay aside our cassocks and vestments and to take up the sword. We stand helpless in this dreadful crisis. We are doomed, my brothers, and our holy mother Church is doomed with us. Alas that I have lived so long that I must witness this terrible day. Where can we turn, brothers? Who will come to our aid? Who has the power to protect us in this darkest hour? What manner of men are there in all the world who can defend us in this dreadful, fatal conflict?’
There was a breathless pause.
‘The Church Knights!’ a feeble old voice wheezed from one of the red-cushioned benches. ‘We must turn to the Knights of the Church! Not even the powers of Hell can prevail against them!’
‘The Church Knights!’ the Hierocracy roared as in one voice. ‘The Church Knights!’
Chapter 11
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 shroude 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 on 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 V
anion 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.’