Rhavas wished he had a copper for every time he'd heard that question. By now, the coppers would have added up to several goldpieces—for charity, of course, he thought. "They aren't much good to anyone if he doesn't read them, are they?" he returned.
"Are they any good to anyone if he does read them?" Toxaras asked.
Before Rhavas could get angry, he realized the mason was serious. "I think so," he said. By the way Toxaras' mouth twisted, he wasn't convinced. The prelate continued, "I fear you are stirring up unrest in the city."
"Not me, very holy sir." Toxaras shook his head. "No, not me, by the good god. It's these cursed thieving peasants. They're the trouble. I just want to be rid of 'em."
"You want to leave them at the mercy of the Khamorth, you mean," Rhavas said, "the only trouble being that the Khamorth know no mercy."
Toxaras' bushy eyebrows drew down and together in a frown. "You make me out to be a villain, and a heartless man. I am no Skotos-lover." He spat on the floor. So did Rhavas. Frowning still, Toxaras said, "I am no villain. I am a man of Skopentzana. I want the best for my city. When I see these people eating up our food and stealing from the ones who took them in, when I see none of them in the militia, I think they put us all in danger. I don't see how anyone else could think any different, either." He glared defiance at the prelate.
In a struggle of good against evil, figuring out what to do was child's play. Not so when two conflicting visions of good collided. What did count for more, sheltering those peasants in Skopentzana or protecting the city against both them and the plainsmen? It was less clear-cut than Rhavas wished it were.
Sighing, he said, "If a man steals, no one can quarrel with forcing him out of the city. But how can you say the like when you speak of men who have done no wrong, of women who will have to suffer the nomads' lusts, of children who will be murdered while the nomads laugh? Where is the justice in expelling them?"
"They eat, very holy sir," Toxaras said patiently. "If Skopentzana holds twice as many people as usual, its food will last only half as long. That puts all of us in twice the danger we'd know otherwise."
"No." Rhavas' voice was sharp. "That would put us in twice the danger. But the peasants have not doubled our numbers, nor anything close to it. And since they have not, the danger has not come close to doubling, either." If Toxaras tried to chop logic with him, the mason would be sorry. Rhavas had been a prize student at the Collegium in Videssos the city.
But Toxaras didn't try. Shrugging broad shoulders, he said, "Have it your way. There's more people in Skopentzana right now than there ought to be. That means we're in more danger than we ought to be. And that means we ought to run those peasants out."
Rhavas folded his arms across the chest. "I say the risk is acceptable."
"Maybe it would be, if we had the garrison here," Toxaras said. "Now? I know the militia. I'd cursed well better, eh? We'll do our best, and that's the truth. But we aren't real soldiers, as much as I wish we were. We haven't got the weapons, we haven't got the armor, we haven't got the drilling regular soldiers get. We'll do the best we can, yes, not that those peasants will thank us for it. But I have to tell you, I don't know how good it will be."
"This also would be true regardless of whether we had refugees in the city," Rhavas replied. "Here is what I say to you as prelate of Skopentzana: if you expel people who have done nothing to deserve it, I shall anathematize you in the temple for all to hear. No one will treat with you after that, and Skotos' ice will await you on your death. You say you do not love the dark god. Now is your chance to prove it."
The mason's glare looked hot enough to melt all the snow for miles around. "All right. All right," he said heavily. "Have your way, very holy sir." He turned Rhavas' title into one of contempt, even of hatred. "Yes, have your way. But here is what I have to say to you: if Skopentzana falls, on your head be it. If the Khamorth sack this town, on your head be it. If they rape my wife and kill my kids, on your head be it. And if they slaughter all your precious peasants, too, on your head be it. I've done what I can for Skopentzana. You're doing what you can to Skopentzana." He sprang to his feet and stormed from the study. A moment later, the outer door to Rhavas' residence slammed thunderously.
Rhavas looked up past the ceiling to the heavens. Slowly, he nodded, as if at a bargain in the market square. "Lord with the great and good mind, I have done that which is right in my eyes," he said. "Grant the benefit of our salvation to this, the city I serve. And if Skopentzana should fall to the barbarians because I prove to be in error, let the blame be on my head. Let others be free of it. So may it be."
He waited, his head cocked a bit to the side, one eyebrow quizzically raised, as if expecting some answer from the good god. None came, of course. Phos was not in the habit of answering prayers in so many words. The play of events showed which were answered, which denied.
Not for me, the prelate thought. Not for me, but for the city. That part of the prayer stayed silent, but the good god surely heard it as well as he heard the part Rhavas had offered aloud.
Matzoukes poked his head into the study. "Am I right in guessing Toxaras was less than happy at what you told him?"
"I fear you are," Rhavas replied. "He disagrees with me down to his very bones, but he will do as I have asked him. The peasants will stay in Skopentzana. No one will be cast out of this our city without good cause. No one, do you hear me?"
"I certainly do, very holy sir." The young priest sketched the sun-circle over his heart. "May everything come to pass as you desire."
"Yes. May it indeed." Rhavas got to his feet. Weariness—not just of body but of spirit—shrouded him. He felt as if he'd been in a physical brawl with Toxaras, not just a battle of wills. He wasn't altogether sure he'd won it, either, even if the head of the militia had yielded to him. He was bruised inside, if not on his arms and shoulders and face.
Rhavas was used to getting his way in all things, partly because of who his ancestors were but more because of who he was. He'd got his way here, too, even if he'd had to threaten to hurl anathemas at Toxaras to do it. He'd got his way, but he hadn't mastered the other man's will. Toxaras remained as convinced of his own righteousness as Rhavas was of his.
The prelate sighed and stretched and sat down again. He said, "Would you be kind enough to fetch me a cup of wine? I have a bad taste I should like to wash out of my mouth."
"Of course, very holy, sir. I'll be right back." Matzoukes hurried away.
When Rhavas took the wine, he relied as much on the ritual accompanying it as on the drink itself to calm his nerves. Raising his hands to the heavens, rejecting Skotos with his spittle . . . How many times had he done that before drinking? More than he could count. That very familiarity—was it like what husband and wife enjoyed after years together? He could not truly judge that. He did know the ritual was the one thing he might have known better than his own name.
Today, though, neither it nor the sweet wine soothed him as he had hoped. Toxaras' defiance still roiled his spirit. I am not wrong, Rhavas told himself again and again. I am not wrong.
Unable to sit still, he strode out of the study, draped himself in his warmest robe, and left the residence. A man in ragged, threadbare clothes was staring at the great bronze of Stavrakios as if he'd never seen such a marvel. He probably hadn't—he had to be one of the peasants Toxaras so despised.