‘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.’