‘Do you see me smiling, Makova?’ Emban’s tone had quite nearly the bite of a dagger-thrust to the kidneys. He rose, grunting. ‘What my people report, dear brothers, is that this horde of so-called pilgrims at our gates is anything but friendly.’
‘Nonsense,’ Makova snapped.
‘Perhaps,’ Emban said, ‘but I’ve taken the liberty of having one of these “pilgrims” brought here to the Basilica so that we may examine him more closely. He may not choose to speak very much, but much can be gleaned from observing a man’s demeanour, his bearing, his origins – even his clothing.’ Emban clapped his hands sharply together before Makova could object or exert his authority.
The door to the chamber opened, and Kurik and Berit entered. They each held an ankle of the black-robed man they were bringing in to be interviewed, and they dragged the inert body across the marble floor, leaving a long crimson smear of blood on the white stone behind them.
‘What are you doing?’ Makova half-shrieked.
‘Merely presenting evidence, Makova. No rational decision can be made without a thorough examination of the evidence, can it?’ Emban pointed at a spot not too far in front of the lectern. ‘Put the witness there, my friends,’ he instructed Kurik and Berit.
‘I forbid this!’ Makova howled.
‘Forbid away, old boy,’ Emban shrugged, ‘but it’s too late now. Everybody in the chamber has already seen this man, and we all know what he is, don’t we?’ Emban waddled over to the corpse lying spread-eagled on the marble floor. ‘We can all tell by this man’s features what his nation of origin was, and his black clothing confirms it. My brothers, what we have here was obviously a Rendor.’
‘Patriarch Emban of Ucera,’ Makova said desperately, ‘I arrest you on the charge of murder.’
‘Don’t be an ass, Makova,’ Emban said. ‘You can’t arrest me while the Hierocracy’s in session. Besides, we’re inside the Basilica, and I claim sanctuary.’ He looked at Kurik. ‘Did you really have to kill him?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ the burly squire replied. ‘The situation made it necessary – but we said a brief prayer over him afterwards, though.’
‘Most exemplary, my son,’ Emban said. ‘I will therefore grant you and your young companion here full absolution for your part in sending this miserable heretic to face the infinite mercy of God.’ The fat man looked around the chamber. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘to return to our interrogation of this “pilgrim”. We have here a Rendor – armed with a sword, you’ll note. Since the only Rendors currently on this part of the Eosian continent are Eshandists, we must conclude that this “pilgrim” was one as well. Given their views, would we expect Eshandist heretics to come to the Holy City to celebrate the elevation of a new Archprelate? Has our dear brother Makova somehow miraculously converted the heretics of the south to the worship of the true God and rejoined them with the body of our holy mother Church? I pause for the reply of the esteemed Patriarch of Coombe.’ He stood looking expectantly at Makova.
‘I’m certainly glad he’s on our side,’ Ulath murmured to Tynian.
‘Truly.’
‘Ah,’ Emban said as Makova looked at him helplessly. ‘It was too much to hope for, I suppose. We must all apologize to God for our failure to seize this opportunity to heal the wound in the body of our holy mother. Our regret, however, and our bitter tears of disappointment must not dim our eyes to the harshness of reality. The “pilgrims” at our gates are not what they seem. Our dear brother Makova has been cruelly deceived, I’m afraid. What stands at the gates of Chyrellos is not a multitude of the faithful, but a ravening army of our most hated foes bent on destroying and desecrating the very centre of the true faith. Our own personal fate, my brothers, is of no moment, but I should advise you all to make your peace with God. The horrors the Eshandist heretics inflict upon members of the higher clergy are too well known to require repeating. I myself am totally resigned to facing the flames.’ He paused, then grinned. He clapped both hands to his huge paunch. ‘I’ll make a jolly fire, though.’
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?’