De'Unnero wore a smirk as he studied the man. Bou-raiy had never been a friend of his, had resented him; for, though younger, De'Unnero had been in greater favor of Father Abbot Markwart, and, through deed after deed, had elevated himself above Bou-raiy. Their rivalry had been evident to De'Unnero soon after the powrie fleet had come to St.-Mere-Abelle. De'Unnero had distinguished himself in that fight, while Bou-raiy had spent the bulk of it at the western wall, waiting for a ground invasion that had never come.
De'Unnero wasn't surprised to find that Bou-raiy had used the power vacuum at St.-Mere-Abelle to further his own cause; who else was there, after all, to take up the lead at the great abbey? So now Bou-raiy, a man long buried under Markwart's disdain, had stepped forward, with that lackey Glendenhook at his heels.
"Two masters-former bishops, former abbots, both-returned to bolster St.-Mere-Abelle in this time of trial," De'Unnero said.
"Bolster?" Bou-raiy echoed skeptically, and he gave a sarcastic laugh. De'Unnero pictured how wide that smile might stretch if he drove his palm through Bou-raiy's front teeth. "Bolster? Master De'Unnero, have you not listened to the whispers that hound your every step? Have you not heard the snickers?"
"I followed Father Abbot Markwart."
"Who is discredited," Bou-raiy reminded him. "Both you and Francis found your zenith under Markwart's rule, that is true. But now he is gone, and will soon enough be forgotten." He paused and shook his head. "Offer i97 me not that scowl, Marcalo De'Unnero. There was once a day when you outranked me here at St.-Mere-Abelle, but only because of Father Abbot Markwart. You will find few allies among the remaining masters, I assure you, even with Master Francis, if what I have heard about his admission of error is true. No, you have returned to find a new Church in the place of the old-the old that so welcomed a man of your… talents."
"I'll not defend my actions, nor recount my deeds, for the likes of Fio Bou-raiy," De'Unnero retorted.
"Deeds inflated in your recounting, no doubt."
That statement stopped De'Unnero cold, and he stared hard at the man, felt the primal urges of the tiger welling inside him. How he wanted to give in to that darker side, to become the great cat and leap across the desk, tearing this wretch apart! How he wanted to taste Fio Bou-raiy's blood!
The volatile master fought hard to keep his breathing steady, to restrain those brutal urges. What would be left for him if he gave in to them now? He would have to flee St.-Mere-Abelle and his cherished Order for all time, would have to run and exist on the borderlands of civilization, as he had done over the last months. No, he didn't want that again, not at all, and so he fought with all his willpower, closing off his mind to Bou-raiy's continuing stream of sarcastic comments. The man was a gnat, De'Unnero reminded himself constantly, an insignificant pest feeling the seeds of power for the first time in his miserable life.
"You are nearly ten years my junior," Bou-raiy was saying. "Ten years! A full decade, I have studied the ancient texts and the ways of man and God longer than you. So know your place now, and know that your place is beneath me."
"And how many years more than Master Bou-raiy have Masters Timminey and Baldmir so studied the ways of man and God?" De'Unnero asked with sincere calm, for he was back in control again, suppressing the predator urge. "By your own logic, you place yourself below them, and below Machuso and several others as well, and, yet, it is Bou-raiy, and none of the others, who now sits in the office of the Father Abbot."
Bou-raiy leaned back in his chair, his smile widening on his strongfeatured face. "We both understand the difference between men like Machuso and Baldmir and men like us," he said. "Some were born to lead, and others to serve. Some were born for greatness, and others.. well, you understand my meaning."
"Your arrogance, you mean," De'Unnero replied. "You separate brothers along whatever lines suit your needs. You claim ascendance above me because of experience, yet rebuff the notion in those who would so claim ascendance over you."
"They would not even want the responsibility of the position," Bou-raiy replied, coming forward suddenly, and again, De'Unnero had to hold fast against his surprise and the sudden killer urge it produced.
"And do you intend to have your stooge, Glendenhook, nominate you for father abbot formally at the College of Abbots?" De'Unnero asked bluntly. "They will destroy you if you so try, you know-Braumin Herde and Francis, and the newest master, Viscenti," he said with a derisive chortle. "Je'howith and Olin, and Olin's lackey, Abbess Delenia. They will all stand against you." He paused for
dramatic effect, though he realized there would be little surprise in his proclamation. "As will I."
Bou-raiy sat back in his chair again, obviously deep in thought for a long, long while. De'Unnero thought he understood where the man's line of reasoning might be leading, and his suspicions were confirmed when Bou-raiy announced, rather abruptly, "They will back Abbot Agronguerre of St. Belfour, aswilll."
Yes, it made perfect sense to De'Unnero. Bou-raiy knew that he'd never defeat Agronguerre, and so he would throw all his influence behind the gentle Vanguardsman, the old Vanguardsman, in the hopes that Agronguerre would do for him what Markwart had done for De'Unnero and Francis. The difference, though, was that Bou-raiy was much older than either Francis or De'Unnero had been when Markwart had taken them firmly under his black wing. Thus, when old Agronguerre died-likely within a few years-Bou-raiy would be right there, the heir apparent, and with all the experience and credentials to step in virtually uncontested.
"Abbot Agronguerre is a kind man of generous nature," Bou-raiy said unconvincingly, for though the words were accurate, De'Unnero understood that those qualities of which Bou-raiy now spoke so highly were not admirable in his eyes. "Perhaps our Church is in need of exactly that at this troubled time: a man of years and wisdom to come into St.-Mere-Abelle and begin the healing."
Marcalo De'Unnero knew this game, and knew it well. He almost admired Master Bou-raiy's patience and foresight, and would have said as much to him-except that he hated Bou-raiy.
De'Unnero went about his business acclimating himself to the daily workings of St.-Mere-Abelle. Bou-raiy didn't oppose him at all, to his initial surprise, and even allowed him to step back in as the master in charge of training the younger brothers in the arts martial.
"Your left arm!" De'Unnero cried at a second-year brother, Tellarese, at training one damp morning. The master stormed up to him and grabbed his left arm forcefully, yanking it up into the proper blocking position. "How do you propose to deflect my punch if your arm hovers about your chest?"
As he finished, the obviously weak man's arm slipped down again, and De'Unnero wasted not a second in a snapped jab over that forearm and into Tellarese's face, knocking the man to the ground.
With a frustrated growl, the master turned about and stalked away. "Idiot!" he muttered, and he motioned for another of his students, a firstyear brother who showed some promise, to go against Tellarese.
The two squared off and exchanged a couple of halfhearted punches, more to measure each other than to attempt any real offense, while the other ten brothers at the training exercise tightened their circle around the combatants, keeping them close together.
When Tellarese's arm came down yet again and the first-year brother scored a slight slap across his face, De'Unnero stormed back in and tossed the first-year brother aside, taking his place.
"I th-thought to counter," Tellarese stuttered.
"You offered him the punch in the hope that you might then find an opening in his defenses?"
"Yes."
De'Unnero snorted incredulously. "You would trade your opponent a clear shot at your face? For what? What better counter might you find than that? "