Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (45 page)

She joined Kessligh at the shutters and peered out. “How big is that going to get?” she asked quietly, so as not to interrupt the holy matters at their backs. And in Lenay, to avoid being understood. Educated priests in Petrodor were more likely to speak a little Saalsi than any Lenay.

“I'm afraid to say,” Kessligh murmured, also in Lenay. His expression was no more readable than usual. He looked tired and drawn, but that was nothing new. Yet somehow, he did not look as concerned as she might have expected. His eyes were slightly narrowed, a thinking look. He saw an opportunity in this, she guessed. And, quite possibly, he simply preferred the prospect of an approaching climax, no matter how bloody, to interminable waiting. Knowing her uman as she did, Sasha was not particularly surprised. “Petrodor is a city of believers, and the poor are the most devout. Not like the rich, who follow the priests only for the power of holy blessings and the archbishop's goodwill. It's real faith here on the lower slopes, Sasha. It's not to be toyed with lightly.”

“You're telling me it'll get huge out there, aren't you?” Sasha said.

“Probably,” Kessligh agreed. “There's no helping it.”

“Is this the best place for…for
it
?”

“Where else?” Kessligh asked.

Even as Sasha watched, she could see more people joining the massed crowd below. Word was spreading.

“How far will the archbishop go to get it back?” she asked Kessligh.

“No limit,” said Kessligh. Sasha glanced at him. “He'll be frantic. The star is the symbol of this coming war. The holiest relic, long separated from its rightful home. Now it's gone. I don't know what he'll do.”

“I met him,” Sasha said grimly. “He didn't strike me a reasonable man.”

“It's not his unreasonableness that bothers me,” said Kessligh. “It's his
stupidity. He doesn't understand the real world, only the priesthood. He sees that only Patachi Steiner is powerful enough to lead the Torovan army, but has no idea of how to handle Patachi Maerler's rival claim. So far he's been as subtle as an ironmonger's hammer, and about as cunning.”

“Men with faith in the gods have no need of reason,” Sasha said with certainty. “What use is reason when heaven is on your side?”

“Or when the spirits guard your flanks?” Kessligh countered, with a raised eyebrow.

Sasha snorted. “That's different. The Goeren-yai follow no dogma from a book.”

“Only silly tales from campfires. People substitute all kinds of things for reason, Sasha. We use different names for it, but it's all unreasonable, just by a different name.”

Behind them, the prayers stopped and Father Berin climbed gingerly to his feet, assisted by one of his companions. Berin was a broad-faced and usually cheerful man, of brown beard and hair, and a wide girth. He walked with a limp from childhood disease, and grasped now the cane a younger priest handed to him. “Yuan Kessligh,” he said, coming across the creaking floorboards. The Lenay title—typical of the man, always interested in foreign peoples and their doings. From the first day she'd met him in the sculpture studio out the back of the North Pier Temple, Sasha had found him far more pleasant and interesting than she'd ever thought possible in a priest. “May I ask, what you have decided to do?”

“I was thinking to ask you that question, Father.”

Berin licked his lips, pale and nervous. “Please, Yuan Kessligh, I am just a humble father of the lower slopes. It is not my place to make decisions…decisions regarding such as this.” His voice lowered at the end as if he feared the star would overhear.

“But you take instruction?”

Father Berin spread his hands in defence and forced a strained smile. “Yuan Kessligh! The archbishop pays me no attention at all! I am a bug beneath his shoe.”

“He never had cause to find you interesting before,” Kessligh agreed. The sharp eyes narrowed. “What about now?”

Berin took a deep breath and glanced out at the harbour. He shook his head shortly. “I have received no instruction from him.”

“And what would you say, should you receive instruction?”

Father Berin met Kessligh's eyes gravely. “I could not tell you if I did.”

“Ah,” said Kessligh, nodding slowly. “Now we come to the truth of it.” Kessligh gestured at the window behind. “There are many people out there
who would like to see you take possession of the star yourself. Would you desire it?”

A short shake of the head, eyes staring at the floor. “I am not worthy of such an honour,” Berin muttered.

“And yet you come here, and give blessing and perform ritual. And verify.”

Father Berin looked up, his eyes desperate. “Yuan Kessligh, I do not spy against you, nor against the Nasi-Keth! I…I have heard how this blessing came into your possession, and while I cannot conceive of it, I can only surmise that the gods must have had their purpose in bringing it to you. It is not my intention to work against the will of the gods.”

“I understand, Father,” said Kessligh. “You are caught between two worlds. Long have the priests of the upper slopes ignored their lower-slope brethren. They preach that the Nasi-Keth are a pagan influence opposed to Verenthane teachings, yet you live here and you have seen differently. Now, these two worlds come into conflict. Your order says you must obey the archbishop, yet in your heart, you cannot do anything to betray your flock. You do not know whether to work with me, or against me.”

Father Berin shook his head and managed a small smile. “I could never call the Nasi-Keth pagan, Yuan Kessligh, when they produce from their ranks men as wise as you.”

“Whatever wisdom I have, Father Berin, comes mostly from knowledge of my own limitations. I have no knowledge of this artefact, nor its meaning to the people of Petrodor. Tell me what you think I should do.”

Berin looked at Kessligh for a long moment, his head faintly to one side. “And how is it that you became so lapsed in your faith, Yuan Kessligh?” His manner suddenly wise and assured, as though he now found his slippered feet upon confident ground. “I know a little of your upbringing amongst these alleys. Your childhood was hard, but no harder than many others.”

Kessligh folded his arms. Sasha watched curiously. Searching his face for signs that she alone might notice. “The faith and I had a little disagreement,” Kessligh said simply.

Father Berin nodded, lips pursed. “Please tell.”

“The Nasi-Keth offered solutions. The priests offered prayer. I preferred solutions.”

“But prayer itself is a solution, Yuan Kessligh. And most of your Nasi-Keth brethren insist that Verenthane and Nasi-Keth teachings each complement the other. The Nasi-Keth teach knowledge that improves people's lives, and prayer gives the Nasi-Keth members a sense of how to implement such knowledge so that it shall best serve the will of the gods.”

“Exactly,” Kessligh said firmly. “There should be no division. The Nasi-Keth are not just a society of useful skills, Father Berin. We are not merely a collection of scholarly learnings on medicines and advanced trades. We exist to expand minds, Father. What is the use of wise and clever hands, when the head remains as clumsy and stupid as before?”

“Ah!” said Father Berin, the twinkle returning to his eyes. “So this is the source of your contention—your brethren should believe what
you
believe, or else they are stupid. How does this make your beliefs more enlightened than my faith?” Sasha grinned, and smothered it behind her hand. Berin glanced at her, smiling. “Your uma is familiar with this train of debate, I see.”

“You have no idea,” said Sasha, with feeling.

“Of course they should not believe what I believe,” Kessligh replied, as calmly as he'd ever instructed his argumentative uma. “The Nasi-Keth have no dogma, that's the whole point.”

“No dogma except that they should ideally not be Verenthanes,” Berin countered. “Which is a dogmatic view, no?”

“A philosophy of tolerance cannot be tolerant of all things, Father,” said Kessligh, with an edge to his voice. “A philosophy of tolerance cannot tolerate intolerance. A philosophy of freedom cannot tolerate slavery. A philosophy of plenty cannot tolerate starvation and a philosophy of abstinence cannot tolerate gluttony. That would be to welcome the wolf into the chicken coop, to encourage the very thing that would be the philosophy's destruction. I promise you, the day that the leaders of the Verenthane faith can prove to me that the faith need not be dogmatic, I shall become more tolerant of your beliefs. Until then, we are helplessly at odds.”

“Tell me, have you seen the beautiful paintings Master Berloni puts on the ceiling of my temple?” asked Father Berin. “Ah, they are marvellous. Such free expression, such unrestrained artistry and creativity. There are freedoms of expression within the faith that you fail to credit us with.”

“They are very pretty,” Sasha agreed. Father Berin favoured her with a smile.

“And they would not exist should the high-slopes priesthood care even a little what goes on in a lower-slopes temple, and what adorns its ceiling,” Kessligh said firmly. “And they should not exist had the inspiration not first arrived from the Saalshen Bacosh, where the faith and the serrin have mingled so much more forcefully than here.”

Father Berin shrugged. “Even so.”

“Could you refuse the archbishop?” Kessligh asked, bluntly. “Could you defy his instruction, in any matter?”

“The archbishop rarely gives such instruction,” Berin replied, somewhat less ebullient than before. “Such is not how the parishes function, we are—”

“You could not,” Kessligh answered for him. “He is your lord, and you owe him your obeisance. And you claim an absence of dogma in your faith? A freedom of thought? Do you see why I can't let you have the star, Father Berin? Why it would be profoundly foolish of me?”

Father Berin sighed and scratched at his beard. From the docks below, the sounds of human commotion seemed even louder—argument and conversation, and many people pressed close together.

“The people grow restless, Father,” said Kessligh. “What do they want?”

Father Berin pursed his lips. Tested the grip upon his cane, adjusting his weight and stance. “To know why,” he said at last. “Fate is a precarious matter in calamitous times. They wish to know their fate. They wish to know if they have been blessed, or cursed. They fear for their families, especially for the little ones. And so they look for a sign.”

“And of course, I have to give them this sign,” Kessligh added, with evident sarcasm. “As if it were from the gods themselves; who are evidently far too tardy and bored with human concerns to offer one themselves.”

Another priest might have taken offence. Father Berin smiled. “The gods will show what the gods will show. If you feel the need to make a sign, that is their will. If you feel no need and curse them to the stars, that is also their will.”

“My will is my own,” Kessligh replied, irritated.

“If you say so,” said Father Berin, still smiling. “Yuan Kessligh, do not fear the flock at your door. Neither insult them, nor patronise them as you now patronise me…” and he paused for an impish smile. Kessligh looked unimpressed. “And nor should you think them stupid or unwise. They follow their path as you follow yours. Is it not a serrin saying that two paths, separated by half the world, may still arrive at the same destination?”

“No,” said Kessligh. “If two paths continue for far enough, they will
inevitably
arrive at the same destination. The world is round, Father Berin.”

Father Berin blinked at him. “Round?” And shook his head briefly in bafflement. “A figure of speech, no doubt. Serrin are so clever with their wordplay, no?”

“If you say so,” said Kessligh, with a faint smile.

“I'm sorry about Kessligh,” Sasha told Father Berin as she helped him down the narrow stairs. “He's not always subtle.”

“He is a man who says what he means, and does what he says,” Berin replied. “The gods admire such a man, whether he follows them or not.”

Downstairs was filled with Velo relatives and neighbours, seated about the dining table or standing, while Mariesa and her daughter Frasesca served them with grapes, cheese and bread. Sasha knew grapes and cheese did not come cheaply to the Velos. But most of the relatives seemed unconcerned, talking loudly amongst themselves, mostly about the crowd outside. It occurred to Sasha that not everyone would view the coming of Verenthane's most holy artefact as a curse.

All rose as Father Berin entered and he blessed the household, and in particular the agitated Mariesa. The Velo boys, Valenti and Rasconi, were probably out preparing the boat for the afternoon trip. The boat stuck in Sasha's mind. A memory of Yulia seated by the mast on that last trip to the Cliff of the Dead, the sun across her face.

On an impulse Sasha took Father Berin's arm just as he was about to open the door. “Father,” she said quietly, “can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course, Sasha,” the priest replied in surprise. And added, as it occurred to him, “Would you like to speak in private?” Sasha nodded. Father Berin excused them both and walked to the rear door beneath the stairs. Some odd looks followed them, but animated conversation continued as before.