"Many thanks, Grandfather," Korvin peKorvin said humbly. "I'll endeavor to alleviate your confusion."
"Light's blessings," the priest said curtly. "This door out?"
After the young priest was gone, Korvin peKorvin sat quietly, drumming his fingertips against his desk, trying to organize his plans.
So Gelusar had caught on, eh? Well, it had been bound to happen, and he was half glad it had finally come. Gelusar and its tithes had been draining Sugon long enough; the province could not really afford to support a priesthood in the remote central province on its meager income.
The immediate problem was burly young Drelk peShawm, emissary of the Elder Ghevin. These tough young Gelusar priests, Korvin thought reflectively. They need to be taught a lesson.
He smiled and tapped his ledgers. He'd be ready for Drelk peShawm, when he returned.
Nibro peSyg Sesom, Elder Ghevin, stood silently on the edge of the littered Square of Holy Light, watching the workers clear away rubble and clean the black soot from stone which had not been cracked by the heat of the burning thirty years before. On either side of the Elder stood a tall, sharp-eyed priest, one of the numerous ones Nibro peSyg had enrolled in the priesthood since his own accession to power. Each had a heavy handgun in his belt, hidden by the folds of the blue tunics they wore.
Nearby stood Gorm peFulda Hebylla, Gelusar's Uncle of Public Works, who was supervising the rebuilding:
Slowly but surely, the Great Temple of Holy Gelusar was coming to life again. It would not be long now, Nibro thought, before throngs swarmed the Square, before the Great Light glittered from the mighty lens, before once again the priesthood held sway in Gelusar as it had done before the coming of the Earthmen and the coming of the chaos.
Back—back—
Nibro smiled confidently. It would be as it had been, despite the gloomy fulminations of that old madman the New Lawyer. The Temple was going to be rebuilt, wasn't it? Despite the New Lawyer's prophecies, there would be no catastrophe. The plan was smooth.
One thing troubled Nibro, though. Bel-rogas peBel-rogas was a potential troublemaker; not long after their interview, Nibro had decided to have the Lawyer picked up and put out of circulation, lest his "prophecies" disturb the people. But Bel-rogas peBel-rogas had disappeared somewhere out Thyvash way, and there was no finding him. Nibro had a team of priests on the New Lawyer's trail even now—so far, without success.
He turned to the Uncle of Public Works.
"Have any more pieces of the Great Lens been found in the ruins?" Nibro asked the Uncle.
Gorm peFulda shook his head. "No, Elder Leader. Evidently the heat cracked it, and when it fell it hit the stone floor good and hard. That finished the job. The seven pieces we found were all there were."
Nibro thought for a moment, then said, "Find nine more pieces. Of any size; it doesn't matter. I think it might make good propaganda if we could tell the people that the new Lens was made from sixteen pieces of the old—symbolic of the Sixteen Clans."
"But—"
"Find them!"
"Very well, Elder Leader. We can find them."
The Uncle strode off toward the area where the men were working on the Temple.
Nibro smiled to himself. Even if the Uncle never did find the pieces, it would be reported that they had been found, and that was all that was needed.
He strode up and down, impatient for the rise of the new Temple, urging a workman on with blunt, snapped commands, doing everything but actually taking part in the work himself. That, for an Elder Leader, would be unforgivable—though he longed to lend a hand himself. Anything to speed the task of rebuilding.
"Elder Ghevin, could I have a moment?"
Nibro turned. It was his Chief Acolyte, Gwyl peDrang. The smaller man had a somewhat worried expression on his face. Nibro stepped out of earshot of his guards.
"What is it, Gwyl?"
"Trouble."
"Eh?"
"Elder Lokness," Gwyl said. "He's taking the boat downriver to Tammulcor this afternoon. That's definite."
Nibro nodded. "It doesn't overly surprise me. He and Director Ganz used to be quite friendly." He put one foot up on a fragment of stone and leaned forward, peering anxiously out at the city. He nibbled his lip. "What did your spies say?"
"Lokness hasn't had a chance to reach the Director yet. Our men have done such a good job of blocking him off that he's decided to go in person."
"He's had no contact at all with Ganz?"
"I'm pretty sure none of his personal messages have gotten to Tammulcor. And I'm completely sure that the phone lines have been down between here and there all week."
"Good. Let me think, now."
Nibro scowled and tightened his lips. Lokness had sent quite a number of messages to Director Ganz peDel Vyless, and all of them—Nibro hoped—had reached no farther out of Gelusar than the office of the Elder Leader.
The Elder Lokness was trying to warn Ganz that Nibro peSyg was usurping his power. That was obvious. Ganz, thus far, had ignored what the Council was doing, but if Elder Lokness succeeded in stirring him up, the Director might yet prove troublesome. Nibro knew only too well what had happened thirty years before, when the Great Martyr Kris peKym Yorgen had ridden into Gelusar with his Hundred Men.
"So he's going himself, eh?" Nibro thought aloud. "Well, excellent. It is not our business to hinder the comings and goings of an Elder of the Council. He'll undoubtedly go incognito, sneaking out quietly so that none will see him leave." He paused for a moment, then added in an ominously flat tone, "I sincerely hope the Elder Lokness meets with no accidents on the river packet. Eh?"
He stared meaningfully into Gwyl peDrang's gray eyes. The little man seemed to shiver a little as the Elder's deep eyes bored into his, as if he did not like to recognize what he saw there. Then he nodded.
"I understand, Elder Leader."
The riverboat Krand II paddled its way with slow dignity through the murky night, its huge, powerful sidewheels churning the dark water of the mighty Tammul River into streams of white foam.
The gentle rain that fell nightly on Nidor pattered thumpingly on the awnings that covered the main decks, but its soft sound was drowned out by the throb of the big steam engines and the splash of water as it cascaded from the giant paddle-wheels.
Inside the lounge, a quartet of musicians was playing, improvising freely on traditional folk melodies. The soft tootling of a zootibar mingled with the high silvery vibrations of the quiodets. An enthusiastic group of passengers was gathered round, stamping their feet in approval, murmuring occasionally when a particular fine bit of contrapuntal note-spinning was evident, from time to time throwing a weight or two tinklingly to the deck at the musician's feet.
Elder Grandfather Lokness stood in the darkness of the side deck, feeling the muggy warmth of the night drift in around him, listening abstractedly to the sounds of the players and the distant cries of the sea lizards skimming over the water. He ignored these sounds; he was absorbed in thoughts known only to himself.
A footstep sounded beside him, but he paid no attention. There were several people strolling on the deck, some of the men arm-in-arm with their wives, others merely lonely passengers such as himself.
"An unpleasant night, eh, Elder Grandfather?" said a faintly rasping voice.
Lokness jerked his head around and stared at the drab little man at his side, struggling to place him. At last, he remembered. A contemptuous sneer crossed his face.