The King's Justice (6 page)

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 Enduring 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.

“The King, if I have understood you, sir, would not disapprove of either of us.”

“He would not,” Black confesses. He has his own faith. The Balance Wars must not be permitted to resume. He has faith in
his purpose. “Still there is evil to consider. There is Tamlin Marker's murder to explain.”

Father Whorry remains angry. “And you expect that of us? An explanation?”

Black shrugs. “You have knowledge of the townsfolk that I do not. Perhaps that will suffice.

“You know what was done to Jon Marker's boy?”

Father Tenderson nods with sadness in his eyes, but the Bright priest speaks first. “All Settle's Crossways knows.”

“Do you also know how it chanced that Tamlin Marker was alone? That his killer was able to take him and remained unwitnessed?”

Now it is Father Tenderson who replies. “We have heard poor Jon's account. Directly or by rumor, we have heard it. He sent the boy home to fire the stove.”

Black sits motionless as a stone. He reveals nothing. “And you do not call it
unlikely
that Tamlin's killer was ready to take him at the moment when mere chance provided his opportunity?”

Both men are struck by the question. They have not considered the matter in that light. Father Whorry's brows squirm. He rubs his hands together like a man attempting to wash away some stain. Father Tenderson stares with his eyes wide. He is too full of chagrin to contain it. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“I call it unlikely
now
. Fool that I am, I did not think—” For a moment, he cannot continue. Then he asks, “How is such readiness possible? Do these shapers—?”

Black cuts him off. “No. Shapers are not seers. They do not
foresee. If they did, some among them would see cause for restraint. The explanation I seek does not rely on sorcery.”

“Then how?” demands Father Whorry. “It is impossible. How was it done?”

Black cannot answer. The priests must help him. He changes his approach.

“Jon Marker,” he states, “lost his living in Ing Hardiston's store after his wife's passing.” He does not tell the priests how he knows this. “You, Father Whorry, went to his aid. You found employment for him with a wheelwright named Haul Varder.

“But Jon Marker is not a temple-goer. He does not belong to your flock. Indeed, he scorns both temples and priests. How does it chance that you alone in Settle's Crossways sought to aid him?”

The Bright priest wants to shout a retort. He believes that now he is surely being accused. Yet he is out of his depth, and much of his anger is directed at himself. For that reason, he twists and cringes. How had he failed to grasp the unlikelihood of Tamlin Marker's taking? He has spent too much time besotted with wine and women. Though Black does not compel or confuse him, Father Whorry cannot refuse to answer.

“The man needed help.” He is shamed by the smallness of his voice, or by his own smallness. “What else could I do? Bright Eternal does not discriminate. You say my god does not care. If that is true, it is also true that he does not judge. I offered Jon consolation, but he would not take it. Yet his need was severe. I did what I could.”

To Black, Father Tenderson murmurs softly, “His service is pure. There is only kindness in his heart.”

“And kindness in Haul Varder's,” the Bright priest asserts more stoutly.

The taller man turns to his friend. Still softly, he urges, “Be honest, Father. Haul Varder is not known for kindness.”

The Dark priest makes Father Whorry squirm. He feels driven to bluster. “His childhood was one of misery. All Settle's Crossways knows this. He did not learn kindness from his mother. Now his manner is dour and ungiving. What of it? He is known for self-interest, yes. He is much in demand, especially by caravans and wagoneers. But he could have readily found another to bend his iron and lathe his spokes. Settle's Crossways does not lack young men who want work. It was kindness that chose Jon Marker.”

With the mildness of affection, Father Tenderson says, “More honest, Father.”

The small man surprises himself by blurting an oath. Then he recants. “Bright Eternal forgive me.” He speaks to his friend rather than to Black. “
More
honest? Well, if I must. For Tamlin Marker's sake.

“Haul Varder is also known for absences. He is commonly absent. If he did not have a good man to tend his forge and his iron, his business would founder.

“But”—Father Whorry sees a gleam of hope that he can win free of his friend's insistence—“he was present on the last day of Tamlin's life. The boy worked with his father, sweeping floors
and such. Jon Marker would not have sent his son home without Haul Varder's leave. He is too courteous and diligent to be presumptuous with the man who pays his labor.”

An instant later, the Bright priest claps his hand to his mouth as though he has just heard himself utter an obscenity. In his heart, he is crying, Bright Eternal! God forgive me! Have I
accused
Haul Varder?

Father Tenderson spreads his hands. To Black, he says, grieving, “You see how matters stand. I do not regard the wheelwright as charitably as my friend does. He bargains meanly for his services. He treats men who cannot pay with disdain. He has neither wife nor child, and does not regret his lack—or does not acknowledge that he regrets it. His absences are many. Some are prolonged. All are unexplained.

“Yet I also must be honest. I know no ill of the man. Like Jon Marker, he is no temple-goer, but that is not a fault in him.”

There the Dark priest turns away. He gazes into the fire, searching the flames as he searches himself. “Father Whorry's kindness serves as courage.
I
did not aid Jon Marker. I had not the heart to approach that harmed man. His losses filled my veins with weakness.

“I talk and talk. My good friend occasionally bridles at my profusion of talk. But when I open myself to my god and my flock, I obscure more than I reveal. The truth is that I am weak. My friend is the better man. He is the better priest.”

Black remains motionless. He considers what he has heard. He does not doubt either priest. They have given as much
guidance as they possess, and it is more than they expect. Still he is baffled. He is both thoroughly shaped and well taught. His experience of sorcery, ambition, and greed is long by any measure. It has cost him pieces of his soul. Yet he knows of no ritual, even among those most vile, that requires lungs and livers. The King himself cannot draw upon air and heat.

Abruptly, Black stands. While his hosts scramble, surprised, to their feet, he says, “I have troubled you enough. A simpler question remains. Then I will disturb you no longer.”

Father Whorry only gapes. He is much distressed, though less by what he has said than by what he has been caused to think. Against his will, he wonders whether he is culpable for Jon Marker's loss. He asks himself why he trusted Haul Varder's apparent kindness. Father Tenderson would not have committed that cruel error.

For his part, however, the Dark priest recovers from painful concerns more swiftly. He is practiced at submerging his anger and woe, his many regrets. Black has given him cause for consternation, but it does not stifle his native curiosity.

“Answer one query, sir, and I will answer yours,” he replies with a semblance of his customary cheer. “You spoke of four elemental energies. Bright and Dark are two. What are the others?”

Black frowns. He finds that he does not wish to speak of such things. Naming them dismays him. It gives them a substance that he desires to deny.

Yet he is indebted to these men. Some debts he avoids when
he can, as Bailey, the barkeep, will attest. Others he repays in full. And on its face, Father Tenderson's inquiry is a small matter.

“They are air and heat,” he replies, “as necessary as bright and dark. But they cause no concern. No shaper calls upon them. They are too diffuse. The knowledge to concentrate them does not exist.”

He hopes that he speaks truth.

“Accept my thanks, sir,” returns the Dark priest warmly. “I am edified. And your question?”

Black feels a need for haste that he cannot explain. “The caravan,” he says. It has come from the west. Perhaps it comes from lands unknown to him. “I must speak with its master, but I do not know the town. Where do such men spend the night?”

Father Tenderson laughs. “Or women, in this case,” he answers without hesitation. “Her name is Kelvera, though her men call her Blossom for obscure reasons. As for where she spends the night—” With a glance, he refers the question to his friend.

Lost in acid thoughts, Father Whorry names an inn without realizing that he is addressed or knowing that he answers.

Father Tenderson sees Black's desire to depart. In a few words, he directs Black to the inn. Then he says with wry mirth, “You will not think me rude, sir, if I do not escort you to the door. I am concerned for my friend. He needs the solace of more wine. I recognize the signs.”

Black bows by inclining his head. Then he goes. Within himself he is running, though his stride is unhurried. He is sure of
his ability to locate Haul Varder, but there are questions to which he desires answers before he approaches the wheelwright.

Among them is this. What use can a shaper make of lungs and livers? However, he does not expect to find an explanation in Settle's Crossways, or from any caravaner. Instead he hopes to understand a more practical matter.

How had one shaper attracted enough followers to kill so many brigands and suffer no losses without some rumor of those followers finding its way to the priests, or attaching itself to Haul Varder?

If the wheelwright is innocent, the shaper and his followers must have come to this region from a considerable distance—and must have contrived to remain entirely secret for an unlikely number of days.

B
lack means to go directly to the inn Father Whorry named. As he skirts the edges of the crowded square, however, he encounters the mother and daughter who addressed him when he first entered Settle's Crossways.