“Your Holiness,” said Marlen, walking slowly with the help of his cane. He passed between the Holy Guard, and knelt on one knee. He kissed the archbishop's extended hand, where the large gold ring bulged on the finger. His knee hurt as he rose, a familiar ache. Marlen considered the archbishop, he looked tired. Marlen doubted the man had slept much. From his windows, he must have had a grand view of Dockside all through the night.
Greetings done, the archbishop clapped his hands and the caratsa filed for the door. They moved quickly, Marlen noted. Their manner spoke of fear. The Holy Guards retreated several steps.
“Your Holiness,” Marlen said once more, with as low a bow as his aching joints would allow him. “How good of you to see me at such short notice.”
Archbishop Augine managed a thin smile. “How remiss would it be if the archbishop did not listen to his people?” Fear. Again, Marlen smelled it. Guards everywhere. No priests in sight. The archbishop's private chambers rearranged for most intimidating effect. The man had rolled the dice, and lost. Now, he feared. Perhaps he had cleansed his fellow priests too thoroughly. Perhaps those priests now forgot their holy vows in turn, and sought revenge, providing access to the temple for armed men of their respective families. So long as the archbishop seemed strong and commanded the respect of his allies and his guards he was safe. But the cold light of this fine morning had shown Augine's failure.
“I have news, Holiness,” Marlen continued, resting his weight heavily upon his cane. “I have spoken with Patachi Maerler.”
Augine's eyebrows raised with attempted off-handed interest. “Oh yes?”
“The patachi sees that his position has changed. He informs me that he no longer claims command of the great Torovan army. He concedes that Family Steiner is the logical choice for such a command. I feel that the issue is resolved.”
Augine blinked at him. His chin rested in one hand, gold-ringed fingers tapping nervously on his jaw. “Resolved, you say? Resolved how?”
“Patachi Maerler concedes to my authority,” said Marlen Steiner, his stare firm and level. There could be no mistaking his meaning.
“I…see.” The archbishop replaced the hand on his leather-bound book. “And how shall you recover the Shereldin Star? This matter seems…much unresolved.”
“There are ways,” said Marlen.
“Ways?”
“Yes. Ways.”
Augine's jaw trembled in rage. “I shall not be kept from your plans like a child! Without the star, you shall have nothing! No Verenthane holy warriors shall follow you on a crusade while that symbol remains held to ransom by pagans on Dockside!”
“Perhaps,” said Marlen Steiner, cooly, “you might have thought of that. Before you launched your mob.”
“I will not be lectured to by a-” Augine cut himself short with difficulty. Marlen was surrounded by armed men, yet he did not fear. The archbishop needed him. Family Steiner was perhaps the only protection the archbishop had left.
“Your Holiness,” Marlen said grimly, “I shall be brief.” He took a measured step forward, his cane creaking. “The mobs are the crudest of weapons. They have destroyed Saalshen's presence here, and made an enemy of Saalshen far earlier in the game than was either wise, or safe. Trade shall suffer from Saalshen's retribution. Trade that pays for weapons, you understand, and soldiers. Saalshen's warriors strike from the shadows, Holiness. Be assured that the mobs did not kill them all. Guard yourself well.”
The archbishop paled.
Marlen continued, with dark satisfaction. “Worse yet, you have united Dockside against us. Where before the Nasi-Keth were split, I now hear that Kessligh Cronenverdt has emerged a leader and a hero.”
“He was gravely wounded!” Augine snapped. “I have spies too, Master Steiner.”
“Not gravely,” said Marlen, shaking his head. “Serrin medicines heal fast. Be assured that Kessligh Cronenverdt is most difficult to kill. Many thousands have been killed. Yes, thousands. Most of them poor folk from Riverside. These were your most willing followers, Your Holiness. They were your coin, and you have spent them unwisely. There is discontent amongst the dukes. Our good dukes need men of strong health and loyal hearts to work the land. They are alarmed to see commonfolk transformed into a raging mob at the deliverance of a mere speech. They feel a precedent has been set. They wonder if the serrins’ mansions were only the first, to be followed by their own castles and holdfasts.”
“The country folk are not like the Riversiders,” Augine muttered, in great discomfort. “The Riversiders had nothing.”
“And you offered them eternity.” Marlen spread his hands and gave a small, sarcastic smile. “How generous.” The archbishop glared. “The dukes’ fears may not be well placed, but they are roused all the same. They do not seek the leadership of priests, Your Holiness. Yours is the dominion of the heavens. The dukes seek the leadership of men in this earthly realm, and no other.”
Augine looked at Dukes Tarabai and Belary. Neither said a word. Each of these men could raise thousands of soldiers and had declared their intent to do so as soon as a leader for the army had been chosen. What was the archbishop's power now beside the weight of thousands of armed men? Real soldiers, unlike the mob?
The archbishop took a deep breath. “What do you propose?”
“That all future dealings in these matters be left to me, and to me alone, in consultation with my loyal friends. You have gambled and lost, Your Holiness, and you have weakened the authority of the priesthood. Now, the question shall finally be solved. My way.”
At first, Jaryd heard a muffled thump. He sat on a small chair by a window overlooking the square, hands behind his back, chained about the chair legs and in turn to his ankles. Rhyst had made sure he had a good view of the square and the wedding of his sister. The last loose end of Family Nyvar, Rhyst had said, with a nasty smile. Or the second-last, rather. That would come later.
About him were boxes and barrels, and a lot of dust. The room was narrow, barely more than an afterthought between apartments. He'd never been here before, but he knew exactly what it was and had no doubt benefited from the fine stash now stacked around him.
Jaryd heard another muffled thump. Someone was moving up the stairs, perhaps. He stared out at the sunlit square, at the crowds of townsfolk and the cordon of guards holding them back from the temple entrance. Galyndry would probably be an Iryani by now. He wondered if she went willingly. He wondered if she even believed the tales of who'd killed their little brother Tarryn. Galyndry was not a brave soul. In fact, she'd been a girlish fool for most of Jaryd's memory, but he knew himself well enough now to doubt his own judgments, particularly about people he'd thought he'd known well. Possibly he was wrong. But if he was not, why was the wedding progressing? Surely she could have protested? Fled? Schemed…he didn't know, something? Women, in Jaryd's experience, would scheme as hardened warriors fought-tenaciously and without mercy. And yet here were the crowds, and the flags, and the carnival fools and cavorters. Delya was down there somewhere too, already wed to Family Arastyn, Tarryn's murderers. And Wyndal, whose life he'd thought in danger. Fancy coming all this way, to suffer this fate, for the ungrateful likes of Wyndal.
Another thump and a muffled crash. The lordling on guard was Gyl Ramnastyr…Rhyst had wanted to guard Jaryd himself but the others hadn't let him. No one trusted Rhyst Angyvar alone in a room with the man who had sliced open his face. They hadn't beaten him badly, nor even hurt him much. Perhaps Great Lord Arastyn had other plans in mind. But Gyl was now on his feet, listening at the door.