The King's Justice Page 4

  But half a league deeper in the forest, he finds a fourth corpse—and after another half-league, the shredded remains of three women tossed into the pit left by the falling of a dead tree. The count now stands at seven. If it reaches ten, it will be enough, if the ritual is of a kind that Black knows. If it climbs still higher, he will be in serious danger.

  It does not stop at ten. Eventually he locates seven more bodies, men and women, all brigands by their apparel and weapons. Their odor tells him that their deaths are more recent than the first seven. In two instances, the condition of the corpses allows him to see that the lungs and livers have been harvested.

  To himself, Black acknowledges that the perpetrator of this ritual is clever. Brigands who raid from coverts are ideal victims. Their absence will be noticed with gratitude. The reason for their absence will interest no one.

  Alarmed now, he suspects that if he wanders the woods around Settle’s Crossway for days, he will find a number of similar deaths. Some will be older than those he has already found. Perhaps some will be more recent. The source of this evil is growing stronger. Its intent must be extreme, if it requires such bloodshed. Why else has its culmination been delayed?

  He judges, however, that he cannot afford to search farther. Unseen events are accumulating. Incomprehensible purposes gather against Settle’s Crossways, or against the kingdom itself. He must try to forestall them.

  With as much haste as his horse can manage, he returns to the road. Then he gallops back toward the town like a man with hounds and desperation on his heels.

  But he does not reenter Settle’s Crossways on the road. He is unwilling to be delayed by the guards, and he has no wish to silence them with sterner persuasions than he used the previous evening. Leaving the road, he returns to the glade where Tamlin Marker is buried, then re-crosses the plague-midden to reach Jon Marker’s house by its neglected street.

  There he does not pause to trouble the wounded father again. He loops his horse’s reins around one of the roof-posts of the porch, knowing that his mount will remain until he needs it. Unaffected by the mud underfoot, he strides by streets and alleys toward the town’s center.

  At the crossroads where the temples of Bright Eternal and Dark Enduring face each other, comfortable in their proximity, Black finds good fortune. A modest caravan is dragging its clogged wheels toward the town square from the west, and already the streets teem with merchants and townsfolk, hawkers and mountebanks, some surely hoping to buy what they lack, others intending to both buy and sell, still others striving to gull the unwary. Also the caravan will have its own needs for resupply. Therefore Black is sure that the wagons, their owners, their drivers, and their guards will remain in the square for some time. Since noon is near, they will likely remain until the morrow. He will have opportunities to speak with the caravan-master later.

  Rubbing his left forearm, he sways a distracted matron to direct him to Father Whorry’s dwelling. She is a milliner, avid to purchase fine fabrics and threads from one wagon or another before her competitors acquire them, but she forgets her hurry briefly in order to answer Black. Then she rejoins the surge of the crowd.

  Black separates himself from the townsfolk, touching his hat to everyone who gazes at him directly. Then he follows the matron’s instructions.

  The priest’s residence is a mansion compared to Jon Marker’s house, yet it is humble enough to suit the servant of a god. Like every other dwelling that Black has seen here, it has a wide porch linked to its neighbors’ to provide passage safe from the sludge and traffic of the streets. The door has only an emblazoned yellow symbol, a stylized sun, to indicate that this is the home of a Bright priest. Black knocks politely, though he senses that the house is empty.

  But Father Whorry is already hastening homeward after a night in his preferred common house. He is a small man, rotund, with an anxious smile on his round face and a few long wisps of hair on his pate. He wears the brown cassock and yellow chasuble of his office, and might therefore be expected to walk with dignity. However, he clings to the notion that all Settle’s Crossways does not know of his pleasure with women, and so his movements have an air of furtiveness as he attempts to pass unnoticed.

  When he gains the privacy of his residence, he closes the door quickly, then sighs and slumps before turning to discover a stranger waiting for him in the gloom of the unlighted lamps.

  Father Whorry aspires to a priest’s imperturbable calm, but he cannot stifle a startled gasp as he regards the stranger. For a moment, his legs threaten to fail him.

  “Father Whorry?” Black’s tone is pitched to reassure this servant of Bright Eternal. “I must speak with you.”

  At once, the priest begins to babble, an incoherent spate of words to fill the silence while he struggles to recapture his wits. However, the stranger rubs his left forearm, and Father Whorry’s alarm fades. When the stranger says, “You do not lock your door, Father. I took that for an invitation. Was I mistaken?” the priest has a reply ready, though he speaks too quickly for dignity.

  “No, of course not, of course not, my son. All are welcome. You are welcome. I am considered a servant of Bright Eternal, but in fact I serve all who hold our god in their hearts.” He intends to ask the stranger’s name, but the question escapes him. Instead he asks, “You wish to speak with me?”

  Black pretends to smile under the brim of his hat. “I do.” His voice is soothing silk. Beneath the scents of women, wine, and sweat, Father Whorry smells as innocent as a bathed babe. “But since I must put the same questions to Father Tenderson as well, we will spare ourselves effort and time if I speak to him and you together. Will you accompany me?”

  Staring, Father Whorry manages to say, “Father Tenderson? He is an apostate. A former son of Bright Eternal. There is no truth in him.” But the way the stranger rubs his forearm is unaccountably calming, and the priest has no difficulty adding, “But of course, of course. We are friends, that old blackguard and I. Bright Eternal forgives even those who do not wish it.” He is pleased by the quality of his own smile. “Shall we go?”

  Black touches Father Whorry’s arm as though he, too, is the priest’s friend. He guides Father Whorry from the house in a way that allows the small man to lead him.

  Explaining that the crowds in the square will make passage there impossible, Father Whorry takes Black by side-streets and alleys to a residence that closely resembles his own. Of its external details, the only significant difference is that the symbol emblazoned on the door is a stylized stroke of lightning entirely black. Here, however, the windows are warm with lamplight, and a flicker at one of the panes suggests a fire in the hearth.

  The Bright priest ascends the porch without hesitation. He is often a guest here, more often than he entertains his apostate friend. Father Tenderson’s home is more comfortably furnished, and the Dark priest serves better wine. Father Whorry knocks on the emblem of Dark Enduring and waits at ease for an answer, sure of his welcome.

  Black hears slippered feet on a rug before Father Tenderson opens the door, spilling light and good cheer over the arrivals.

  The Dark priest is a tall man, and too lean to disguise the old sorrow in his soul. Yet his sadness does not mar him. His long face crinkles with ready smiles, the pleasure in his eyes promises easy laughter, and his open arms are full of greeting. Unlike his Bright friend, he would have hair aplenty on his head, though much grizzled, if he did not wear it cropped short.

  In appearance, he is an odd man to urge vengeance and the King’s Justice. But his preaching arises from bitter disappointment as well as deep grieving, from too much experience of pettiness and spite, and from more personal losses. For that reason, he believes, his words touch the hearts of many townsfolk. He gives them the only comfort he knows. And when he has preached with the eloquence of his own pain, he resumes the cheerfulness that is his nature.

  “Father Whorry!” he exclaims. “
And a stranger. Enter!” He stands aside with a sweep of his arm. “Enter and be welcome. I cannot feed you. It is early for my noonday meal. Nothing is prepared. But wine I have, and my fire is too good for one man alone.”

  Father Whorry ducks his head to enter, then raises it as he embraces his friend. He feels stronger in Father Tenderson’s presence, as he often does, and now considers himself better able to face the stranger.

  Father Tenderson pats his nominal opponent’s head affectionately, then turns his gaze on the hatted and cloaked stranger. “And you are, sir? I believe I have heard mention of your arrival yesterday, but I do not know your name.”

  It is Black’s immediate intention to sound ominous, to suggest threats. “My name is of no use to you.” He has brought the priests together because he hopes to provoke revelations. “It cannot command me.” As he speaks, however, he smells only cleanliness on the Dark priest. Like his friend, Father Tenderson has no malice in him. By that sign, Black knows that he must alter his approach. Resuming his silken tone, he adds, “But for convenience, I am known as Black.”

  “Black you are,” observes the Dark priest with merriment in his eyes, “and are not. Yet you are welcome by any name. Please.” He gestures toward the hearth, where three well-cushioned armchairs and a settee are positioned to enjoy the fire. “Be seated. Will you accept wine?”

  Father Whorry nods vigorously. Black shakes his head. While Father Tenderson moves to a cabinet at the side of the room, selects a fired clay flask, and fills three goblets of the same material, the Bright priest scurries to the farthest armchair, hoping to put as much distance as he can between himself and Black. Ignoring both men, Black seats himself upon the settee. It is too close to the fire for comfort, but he does not regard the warmth.

  Carrying three goblets on a tray, the Dark priest offers one to Father Whorry. Black again declines in silence. “Should you change your mind,” Father Tenderson suggests as he places the tray on the rug near the settee. Taking a goblet for himself, he settles his long limbs into the nearest armchair.

  Black has much to consider. If he does not procure revelations by menace, he must use other means. And he suspects that the simple suasion he has used on Father Whorry will not prompt the honesty he requires. Also he believes that he will gain nothing by the form of coercion he imposed on Jon Marker. Answers he will get, but they will only be as useful as his questions, and he does not know enough to ask the right questions.

  He remains silent until Father Tenderson says, “Now, Black. Father. You are here together for some purpose. Let us speak of it before my housekeeper’s bustle interrupts us.”

  This opening surprises Father Whorry. He is easily flustered, but he is also familiar with the Dark priest’s usual manner. He expects his friend to commence with casual inquiries to set the stranger at ease. Where are you from? What brings you to Settle’s Crossways? And so forth. Father Tenderson’s forthrightness makes the Bright priest’s eyebrows dance surprise on his brow.

  “Very well,” begins Black. “You are aware, I hope, that you are both charlatans.”

  The priests stare, Father Whorry anxiously, Father Tenderson with wry sadness.

  Black does not speak as he does to insult his listeners. Rather he attempts to shift the ground under their feet. If he succeeds, he may elicit replies that would escape him otherwise.

  “You worship gods,” he explains. “You encourage others in the same worship. Yet you are old enough to have some memory of a time when there were no temples. If you are not, your fathers were. In those days, no one imagined bright and dark as gods. They were known for what they are, elemental energies, nothing more. They exist, and they are mighty. But they are mindless. They do not think, or care, or answer. They are no more worthy of worship, and no less, than wind and sunlight.”

  Frowning now, Father Tenderson leans forward, his elbows on his knees, to give this visitor his full attention. Black’s gaze stops a protest in Father Whorry’s mouth. The Bright priest gulps wine to appease his indignation.

  “There are four elemental energies,” Black continues, “all potent. Together they make life possible in the world. But of the four, only bright and dark are accessible to shapers.” When he sees that the word perplexes the priests, he says, “You may know such people as sorcerers. They have the knowledge and the means to draw power from one or the other, bright or dark. And when they draw power from one, they make the other commensurately stronger. They create an imbalance.

  “It is true to say that the elemental energies make life possible, but it is also incomplete. The full truth is more fragile. It is both the energies themselves and the balance among them that enable life. Individually they are each too mighty to be survived. Any imbalance among them is fatal. It threatens every aspect of the living world.

  “So much you know. Your fathers did if you do not.”

  “Then why do you tell us?” asks Father Tenderson. But he speaks softly. He is not impatient for Black’s answer.

  “The balance must be preserved,” Black replies. “This task the King has taken upon himself. When one shaper seeks advantage, or several do, by calling upon bright, the King counters by making use of dark. Or the reverse. Thus he mediates between them.

  “Certainly you are old enough to remember the old wars, or to have heard tales.” Black sighs. He remembers too much. “They were terrible in bloodshed. Many good lands were laid waste. And the forces that the shapers called upon grew in ferocity until the King contrived to become the mediator of balance. Until he imposed his peace on the kingdom.

  “He cannot end the evil that lurks in the hearts of our kind, but he can prevent a recurrence of the old wars. He can and does.”

  Under his cloak, Black touches two sigils. He rests one hand in a place among his scarifications. He has not slept, and has eaten little. These invocations refresh his strength.

  Again Father Tenderson asks, “Why do you tell us this?” Unlike Father Whorry, he is neither alarmed nor indignant. He has not tasted his wine. His curiosity is growing.

  Black answers by completing his explanation.

  “The King’s mediation is an arduous task. It requires a more than human vigilance. And his reserves are not limitless. Also those who serve his will are few. Many were lost in the wars. For that reason, he named bright and dark gods, and he commanded temples for their worship. By so doing, he hoped to gain several forms of aid.

  “First, he sought to make the communities of the kingdom stronger by uniting them in shared beliefs. Second, he desired the priests of his temples to teach respect for forces too great to be controlled. From respect, humility might grow, humility to counter the arrogance that encourages men and women to tamper with their gods. Last, he believed that worship itself might steady bright and dark. It might make them less susceptible to abuse.”

  Black gazes deeply into Father Tenderson. Drinking, Father Whorry avoids Black’s scrutiny.

  “I have named you charlatans,” Black concludes, “and so you are. You encourage the folk of Settle’s Crossways in false beliefs. But you are also the King’s best servants here. Indeed, your service as it appears to me is flawless. You, Father Whorry, preach forgiveness, while you, Father Tenderson, demand the King’s Justice. You balance each other. And you are friends. Together you lessen the peril of Bright Eternal and Dark Enduring.”

  Black shows the priests his open hands. Then he knots them together. “Still there is evil among you. Jon Marker’s son was murdered by a shaper.”

  This is too much for Father Whorry. He cannot contain his anger longer. He cries, “Do you upbraid us, stranger?” Emptying his goblet, he slaps it upended to the rug so that his hands are free. “Are we accused?” His hands make fists that tremble as he raises them. “There are no shapers among us, none. We do not condone evil.

  “When you say that they—these sorcerers—that they draw upon Bright Eternal or Dark E
nduring for power, do you mean that they pray to their chosen god, and their prayers are answered? I do not preach that any god answers prayer. Father Tenderson does not. We mislead no one. I tell my flock only that their god accepts and pardons them, as he does all living things. Why must we doubt ourselves now? What have we to do with shapers and foul murder?”

  Black means to pursue his needs, but Father Tenderson intervenes. Turning to the Bright priest, he urges gently, “Calm yourself, Father. Put your mind at rest. Black does not accuse us. Unless I am much mistaken, he has not named his reasons for bringing us together yet.”

  Then he faces Black once more. “Let us be clear, sir.” There is no good cheer in him now. Though he considers himself cowardly, he has his own anger in addition to his sorrow, and they speak for him. “I do not boast when I say that neither of us would hesitate to stand between any child of Settle’s Crossways and murder.”

  Black watches him in silence, waiting. He does not doubt what he hears, but it is not enough. Unfortunately he cannot teach the Fathers to recognize the smell he seeks. He cannot ask them about their parishioners.

  After a moment, the Dark priest recalls that he has not been blamed, though he is quick to blame himself. Ruling his emotions sternly, he settles his sorrow back to its depths and his limbs in his chair.

  “Our good Father Whorry’s theology is simplicity itself,” he begins. As he speaks, he recovers his composure. “His heart is pure. Therefore his service is pure. I take a more oblique view. Perhaps I spend too much time alone.” He attempts a smile, then exchanges it for a rueful frown. “But leave that aside. I admire the King’s efforts to provide peace. I am grateful to him. But I am not troubled by his reasons for creating our temples, and I am not diminished by my role as his charlatan.

  “To my mind—Father Whorry will forgive me for repeating myself, we have argued the matter often enough—the faith is more necessary than the god. Worshipping together is more necessary than the god. And speaking what is in our hearts—as a form of worship, you understand—is more necessary than all else. Dark Enduring”—he raises a placating hand to his friend—“please, Father, I know your objections—is merely an excuse for wounded souls to come together so that they can say or hear what is in their hearts.