Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (26 page)

“Preparations?” said the bishop. “My son, are you aware that the first sign of the prophecy is the religious failing of the clergy?”

“Yes, your holiness.”

The bishop smiled widely.

“Well? We are the clergy!” He chuckled. “That would mean
we
would have to have fallen from the grace of the gods. Wouldn’t it?”

Jerahd looked uneasily between them.

“Are you suggesting we are …
blasphemers
, my son?”

“No, of course not –”

“Of course not!” Then the bishop became very serious. “So let us be more prudent in the future, shall we? And let us avoid making claims that reveal our ignorance.”

Jerahd was speechless.

“Now, what did you say your name was?”

“Jerahd.”

“Right…. Well, you’re just in time for mass. Tell me, my son, have you given to the Church lately? There is no better way to earn the favor of the gods than by supporting their worldly home.”

“I – I have no money.”

“I see.” The bishop stepped forward and placed a hand on Jerahd’s forehead. “May Geithoron, King of kings and Lord of lords, bless you and favor you, my son.” He smiled nauseatingly in Jerahd’s face for a moment before he and the two priests turned around and disappeared into the sacristy.

It was several minutes before Jerahd could move again. He sat silently in a pew and awaited the start of mass.

Owein located Imperial Counselor Pru Lamarioth at the rear of the parade. He stood atop a wagon pulled by a team of horses, waving from within a cluster of other government officials. Though Owein had never seen him in person, he recognized the distinctive black robe of the Imperial Council, and the purple and crimson stole draped over his shoulders.

“Gotcha,” Owein said to himself as he crept closer to the street. When he emerged from the crowd, he turned immediately around and extended his hands, as if warding onlookers away from the dignitaries. He backed toward the wagon. When he turned around to face it, a Gresadian foot soldier was in his face.

“You need to get off the street,” he said, and adjusted the grip on his rifle.

“Watch who you’re talking to,” Owein snapped, glancing at his insignia, “…Corporal. I’m with the Imperial Secret Police. I need to speak with the Councilor. Now.”

“No one gets near the wagon.”

“It’s a matter of national security.”

“Get off the street.”

“I don’t think you quite get it –”

Another soldier arrived.

“What’s the problem here?” he said. He was marked as a major.

“The corporal, here, was just about to get himself court-martialed for interfering with the affairs of the Imperial Secret Police.”

“Secret Police?” said the major.

“That’s right. I need to speak with Councilor Lamarioth six minutes ago.” Owein seared the corporal with a venomous stare.

“Identification?”

Owein shifted his stare to the major.

“Do you have any idea what ‘secret’ means? Does it look like I’m part of the
gweith
parade?! Of course I don’t have identification! There
is
no identification, you
tetsa!
”

The major was clearly in a bind.

“We have orders not to let anyone near the wagon,” he said.

“
Mlec
your orders, Major!” Owein said. “There’s more at stake here than you know.” And with that he pushed his way between them and marched toward Lamarioth. The corporal looked to the major, who was at a complete loss. After a moment of uncertainly, he made a decision and the two chased after Owein.

“Stop!” the major yelled.

Owein was climbing up the side of the wagon when they pulled him down.

“Stop right there!”

“Lamarioth!” Owein yelled. “
Lamarioth!
”

The soldiers dragged him away, but Owein’s shouting caught the councilor’s attention. He squinted at Owein. Did he recognize him?

“You two!” the councilor called out. “Stop right there!” Color fled from the faces of the major and the corporal. Suddenly they were sure they were in a lot of trouble. They brought Owein back to the wagon.

“This man claims to be from the Secret Police,” the major said. “But he doesn’t have any identification. We were going to question him, My Lord.”

Owein and Lamarioth shared a long, tough stare. Owein swallowed dryly. One of the corners of the councilor’s mouth flicked with what might have been a kind of half grin.

“Let him go this instant!” he ordered, and they released Owein. “Of course he doesn’t have identification,” Lamarioth added. “That’s why it’s called the ‘secret’ police.”

Owein straightened his vest and gave the soldiers one last contemptuous glance before pulling himself onto the wagon.

Lamarioth eyed him up and down.

“Councilor,” Owein began. “There’s something extremely important we need to talk about.”

“Of course, of course! Privacy is a concern, I expect?”

“Yeah. It is.”

“There’s an inn just up the road. We can speak privately there.”

“Perfect.”

An enormous pipe organ in the rear of the church bellowed a fury of cascading high notes over a heart-rumbling bass line. Jerahd’s knuckles turned white on the pew in front of him. He had never heard anything like it in his life, and was paralyzed by its power. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine all the choirs of heaven belting in his ears. He felt moisture creeping out from between his eyelids. He shut them tight.

When it was over, Jerahd was breathing heavily. He felt amped. He looked around the church at the other parishioners and saw that the scant few there with him were unmoved by the performance. Had they been oblivious to it? Someone was even drifting off to sleep.

During the canticle, Jerahd hadn’t noticed the bishop appear before the altar with the two priests at his side. He was now dressed in a magnificent chasuble, embroidered with bright oranges and reds and gold over a white alb. An elaborate miter sat on his head. The priests wore simple tunics over their cassocks with hoods cast over their heads. The bishop’s hands were raised to the meager congregation, and a revolting, forced smile was pasted on his face.

“Friends, brothers, and children before the Lord,” he began, his voice a feeble warble in the wake of the mighty organ. “Rise up with me and let us recite together the words that Ravalin taught us….”

A uniform shuffling told Jerahd that the congregation was standing up from their pews. He did likewise. Then the church moaned in moribund unity:

“Heavenly Father, Lord of lords and King of kings, supreme Geithoron the Almighty, You alone are the Most Supreme Being, You alone are the Seat of Celestial Majesty. Before Your infinite power we tremble with fear, and as the rightful stewards of your earthly realm we laud Your championship. We pray to You and Your Holy Kin, we prostrate ourselves subserviently before Your Reign, and we make sacrifices unto You of immeasurable worth, for we acknowledge our place on this world, and Yours above it, and we are content only to serve Your Sacred Will. Unworthily we pray.”

“
Threithum corumuligo!
” the bishop called out.

“
Thos shenwemu
,” the congregation replied. Then they all sat down.

The organ started back up again, only this time the song was slow and sad. Low harmonies drifted from one melancholic chord to the next, and something moved within Jerahd, though he couldn’t place what it was. He saw the bishop gesture to someone at the back of the church, and the sound of a braying goat forced him to look in that direction.

It was not one, but two goats. An attendant led them down the aisle on a rope. While backward, facing the congregation, Jerahd saw someone yawn unabashedly. No one but him was paying any attention to the ritual.

The goats were handed off to the priests in black who took them behind the altar. The bishop closed his eyes and lifted his palms heavenward.

“Lord Geithoron in Aelmuligo,” he said. “Please accept this paltry sacrifice in Your honor. We hope that the blood spilt this day will do You homage, and that You will favor us among Your subjects. In Your wisdom, we ask that You might guide this Empire toward righteousness, that You might bend the will of the Empress toward peace with our elvish brethren, and that You might once again accept this nation of sinners and heretics, who are now justly and deservingly excommunicated, back into Your realm of grace and sanctity once more. Unworthily we pray.”

The bishop bowed his head and brought his hands together as the ghastly wail of an injured goat shot through the church and bounced around, echoing. Jerahd could see, through the pillars of the columnar templon, one of the priests hurl a goat onto the altar by its head. Holding it down, the other priest drove a dagger into its ribs again and again and again, until the little animal lay still.

“Pray with me,” said the bishop, and the church was filled with murmuring from all around. Jerahd saw heads bowed, fingers interlaced, and lips chanting. The music picked up a little as the second goat shrieked in pain, and was like slaughtered upon the altar.

The priests scurried around the stone table, and Jerahd saw the flash of polished gold in their hands. When they rejoined the bishop a moment later, each carried a golden chalice. The bishop took one, mumbled something indistinctly, and drank from it. Then the priests mumbled something to themselves and drank as well.

Jerahd was still trying to figure out what was going on when a queue of parishioners walked past him down the aisle. They shuffled despondently toward the clergymen who muttered at them, then handed them a chalice of blood to drink from. Feeling more like a stranger now than ever before, Jerahd chose to remain in his pew until the ceremony was finished.

He bowed his head and prayed to Votoc with his own words.

“Good to see you, Councilor,” the maître d’hôtel said. Owein was asked to check his sword before he and Lamarioth were seated in a corner booth of the inn’s tavern. Not being mealtime, the dining area was empty. The establishment of Pru’s choosing was one of the oldest and most expensive inns in Zarothus, called the Grofzlen. It was solidly built of thick, black timbers, and was luxurious decorated throughout.

A waiter in uniform was with them immediately and asked, “Would you like anything to drink, My Lords?”

“No, nothing for me,” said Owein.

“I’ll take a mug of ale,” said Lamarioth.

“Make that two,” Owein opted.

“Very good, My Lords.” And the waiter was gone.

“So,” began Lamarioth. “Imperial Secret Police, huh?” He chuckled. “My, you are clever, aren’t you? Tell me, did you come up with that on the spot, or had you calculated your scheme in advance?”

“That one was off the cuff.”

“Bravo, Commander. Bravo!” He mocked a clap. Owein’s eyes sharpened. “What?” Lamarioth looked momentarily dejected. “You didn’t honestly think I wouldn’t recognize you, did you?” The councilor scoffed. “Owein Maeriod…. Just what kind of a dunce do you take me for? You’re a very popular man these days. Well, maybe you’re not as clever as I thought….”

The waiter returned with the drinks, placed them on the table, and disappeared again just as fast.

“I did come here to talk,” said Owein, trying hard not to show how unnerved he was.
How the
mlec
does he know my name?
he thought.

“Oh, I know. You’d like to know where you can find your former employer, Mentrat Ranaloc, I suppose.” Lamarioth took a careful sip of his ale. “You probably planned to threaten me with all kinds of terrible things to get me to tell you where he is. But I think you’ll find brute force quite unnecessary in this case.”

“So you know where he is?”

Lamarioth laughed lightly. “Of course I do. I’ll even save you the trouble of asking. He’s here.”

“Here?”

“Right here. Checked into the Grofzlen. His room is right under our feet, as a matter of fact.” He gestured casually to the floor. “He’s in one of the more… shall we say,
historic
, suites.” Owein was glaring at him now. “You know,” Lamarioth continued, “a huge portion of the Inquisition’s legacy is still closed to the public. Underground catacombs and secret passageways lace old structures like these together. Many of the entrances are boarded up… but not all of them.” He paused to take a long drink of his ale. Owein still hadn’t touched his.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m a reasonable…” the councilor belched, “…a reasonable man, Master Maeriod. And, to be perfectly frank, far too old for all that secrecy and
gweith
. I prefer direct dealing, you see. Much simpler. Much more effective.”

“Direct dealing, huh? If that’s the case, why did you bother to kidnap Ranaloc in the first place? And why elaborately try to hijack his ship? If you wanted that engine so badly, why not just –”