“Mazoc Szaba put himself in the way of the Capa’s justice. Again, how do you explain what you’ve done?”
“I don’t understand much about being a priest,” said Locke. “In fact, I don’t understand anything yet, but I know what you’ve told me. I know how you think. And I just knew… I knew standing there, that if I shut up like everyone else and pretended it wasn’t my business, I would remember it forever. And I would never feel like I was a real priest, ever. I would never feel like I deserved… to find out whatever it is I don’t know yet.”
Chains loomed over him, settled his big hands on Locke’s shoulders, and sighed out a heavy breath.
“You are a vexation,” he said. “You are a terror and a frustration and you know it because I tell you these things. But perhaps… perhaps I am remiss in not also telling you often enough how very, very proud you make me.”
Locke had reached an age where he did not frequently find himself hugging Father Chains, but suddenly he was enfolded in the old man’s robes and hands, shaking with simple relief of being back home, to be alive, to have made himself do something he barely understood, to not have disappointed in doing it.
“I’m sorry I screwed up the money,” he said.
“I’ll spot you eighteen solons for the Capa. Your two makes twenty; you can give it to him yourself in a couple nights. Doubtless he’ll have been told about what happened at the Unbroken Jar, and he might ask you questions. Be ready to answer.”
Locke nodded.
“You’ll owe me, for the eighteen. It’s not a gift. You’ll pay it back plus a quarter on the principal, compounding. Compounding daily.”
“Ouch,” whispered Locke. “Punishment numbers.”
“You did the right thing, Locke. And I need you to see and choose the right things whenever you have a choice.”
Chains stepped back, smiled, and cracked his knuckles.
“But I also need you to understand that when you do the right thing, there are consequences. Consequences that can bite you in the ass good and hard, my boy. Good and fucking hard.”