The serrin, Alexanda realised, with horror. This shaven-headed son of a goat was talking about the serrin.
“Chief among the crimes of these wretched animals is blasphemy.” The priest spoke with little of the spontaneity or passion that the words might have appeared to describe. Instead, he read with the air of a man giving a prepared recital before a troupe of learned scholars, determined to get every word correct lest he be later reprimanded for his omission. “Let us consider the principle ‘philosophies’ of Saalshen. Chief amongst them is the shal'ans neel, what these evil ones declare as describing the absence of truth. Not only do these pagans disbelieve in the gods, they disbelieve in everything! There is no love, they declare. There is no peace. There is no right, and no wrong, and therefore all actions are excusable! By this alone, we can see that the only guiding principle of Saalshen is immorality itself. The inhabitants of Saalshen are guided in their course here in the world by the principles of immorality, of evil, of decadence and greed and lust. Surely such a plague could only be visited upon us by demons of Loth and their servants.”
Alexanda's initial shock gave way to fury. He thought of leaping to the altar and throwing the lectern to the ground. He thought of beating the priest to a pulp with his bare hands. He thought of drawing his sword and running the man through as he surely deserved. This was worse than playing with fire. This…this speech, was something that for all his faded faith, he had never thought to hear from the mouths of priests. This was evil.
Alexanda got to his feet. Now there was a stirring in the temple. The priest continued, glancing up from his scroll, wavering for the first time in his diatribe of filth. Alexanda reached for his wife's hand, expecting her protest and well prepared to berate her before the entire temple. Instead, she rose stiffly, reaching in turn for Bryanne. Alexanda gave the priest a long, deadly glare. The priest continued reading, recovering his rhythm with grim determination. It was clear he had not written these words himself.
Without a word, Alexanda turned and walked down the aisle. Guardsmen by the doors scrambled to open them and alert the guard beyond. Varona and Bryanne followed. Behind him, Alexanda could hear others following. The priest's voice droned on, with determined perfection on every syllable.
Alexanda walked out into the light rain to a town grey and deserted, save for the Pazira Guard now scrambling into position in the small courtyard before the steps. Up these steps now ran Captain Faldini, alarm on his face. He met his duke halfway down.
“Send a man to find the groundsman Adrian,” Alexanda told the bewildered captain. “Tell him to send a message by bird. Tell him it's urgent.”
“We have birds?”
“Something a groundsman knows that a captain might not. A gift from Rhillian. They will fly direct to her, or to Saalshen's properties, at least.”
“Yes, Your Grace. What should the message say?”
“Tell her that the archbishop uses the morning sermon to incite fury,” Alexanda said grimly. “Tell her that she should expect a riot, at the very least. This sermon will be identical, the length and breadth of Petrodor. Gods forbid they hear it in Riverside, though I'm sure they will. Gods curse that bloody-handed tyrant of an archbishop.”
Others were filing down the stairs now, donning furs against the rain. A number were scowling in fury as evident as his own. Some others seemed bewildered, as though they did not know why their duke had stormed out of the sermon, but had felt obliged to follow. Yet more appeared uncomfortable, and hesitated on the wet steps as if wondering if he would now go back inside. Walking out on a sermon would not look good if word got back to their holdings…or indeed to the archbishop himself. Many others, it was clear, remained inside the temple, keeping their seats for reasons of faith, etiquette, dislike of their duke, or outright agreement with the priest's words. Well, Alexanda thought darkly, as Captain Faldini rushed to give orders, at least now he'd know for certain who was who.
Varona took his hand on the steps, and squeezed. “I'm sorry, my love,” she said quietly. “You were right, I should have let you stay in bed.”
“Not at all,” said Alexanda darkly. “It's well that you dragged me out in the rain. Now, we must be prepared for anything. That blasted archbishop has no idea of what he's just done.”
When Sasha climbed to the pier from Mari's boat, a box of crabs on her shoulder, she found Errollyn running with long strides along the planks toward her. He looked alarmed, dark grey hair flying, unconcerned of his footing on the wet pier. Sasha lowered her box.
“Father Berin is dead,” Errollyn announced as he arrived, his green eyes hard. “Murdered.”
Sasha swore. “Mari!” she called. “I have to go, there's trouble!” From down on the boat's deck, Mari waved her off impatiently, toiling with several more boxes.
“What do you know?” she asked Errollyn, as their boots thumped on the planks.
“The sculptor Aldano found him in the workshop after morning sermon,” said Errollyn. “His throat had been cut.” Sasha cursed again. “Sasha, the morning sermon was trouble. Elsewhere there's uproar, apparently the archbishop wrote a speech saying nasty things about serrin.”
“Not Father Berin, surely?” Their boots hit the paved dock, and they turned right. There were few stalls this morning, partly thanks to Varansday and partly the rain. It fell light and cold from a grey sky, but Sasha was already sodden from a morning exposed on deck. A few sailors and locals walked the dockfront but most seemed intent on business, not wandering the sparse stalls in search of a bargain.
“No, not Father Berin,” Errollyn agreed. “Those who attended his sermon said he spoke of tolerance. A passage from the scrolls where Saint Tyrone encounters a starving pagan and gives him food and water although he was starving himself.”
“Oh aye,” Sasha muttered as she ran, “I'm sure the archbishop's men would have loved that.”
There was a crowd around the temple doors when they arrived, a forlorn cluster of men and women standing in the rain, and praying. A pair of caratsa let them in and they walked fast down the aisle, beneath the ceiling scaffolding. Several Nasi-Keth were guarding the door to the workshop, Sasha recognised them as Alaine's men. Beyond the doorway, standing amidst statues and ragged blocks of uncarved rock, stood Alaine himself, arguing furiously with another three of his men.
“I don't care if they protest!” Alaine was shouting. “I want every man, woman and child who attended morning service questioned, and their person and residences searched!”
“Alaine,” said Marco, a wide man with long hair, “it is most unlikely to be one of the common folk who did this thing…”
“In the name of the good gods, man, how will you know until you start asking questions?”
“It will require the consent of either Kessligh or Gerrold,” another man warned him.
“Damn Kessligh and Gerrold to the hells!” Alaine exclaimed. “Gerrold's too busy licking the serrin's boots to care what happens to our poor Father Berin, and Kessligh cares only for the greater glory of Kessligh!”
Marco looked at Sasha as she approached, and then others did too. Alaine turned. Sasha ignored his glare and looked to the left. Father Berin's body lay before a magnificent statue of Darshan, the Verenthane God of Fire. He had fallen forward, hunched on his knees, as if in prayer at the feet of the gods, and the statues, he had loved. A round, brown bundle of cloth, the pavings before him awash with blood. Darshan towered over him, strong and beautiful, as his follower had been weak and stunted.
“Take good care of him,” Sasha wished the statue, swallowing hard against the pain in her throat. “He was one of the very few of you lot I ever liked.” No wonder the others had killed him.