He should have known better.
An elf popped up next to his shin. "Lord Warlock! The friars in the log house do call for thee!"
"Father Boquilva?" Rod asked. "What's wrong now?"
"I do not know, save that he did step without his door and cry, 'Wee folk, if thou dost hear me, call the High Warlock!'"
"Oh. He did." Rod nodded. "Interesting. Practicality wins out over theology. You elves are supposed to be superstition, but when he needs you badly enough, he calls. Yes, this order does derive from the Jesuits. Okay, tell him I'm coming."
Rod turned into the lane toward the chapter house and saw Father Boquilva hurrying toward him with a lamp in his hand. At least, the priest's face looked as though he were hurrying, but his pace matched the slower movements of the stocky man beside him, who was strangely dressed for a Cathodean. For any Gramaryan, for that matter. He was wearing a black coverall—with a Roman collar.
Rod stood taut, all his danger signals screaming. The man was from off-planet.
Then he remembered that the man was also clergy, and if he wasn't trying to disguise himself, was probably a friend.
"Good evening," he said. "Did I send for you?"
Father Boquilva gasped, but the stranger looked up with a merry glint in his eye. "In a manner of speaking, you did—and as I remember, your manner of speaking was a bit abrupt. You're the, uh, 'High Warlock,' I take it?"
"They call me that, even though I have less to do with spirits than you do." Rod held out a hand. "Rod Gallowglass, Father."
"A pleasure." The man took his hand. His grip was warm and strong, and his smile broadened. As his face came close to the lamplight, Rod could see that he had thinning, close-cropped graying hair, and a neatly trimmed, grizzled beard. "But how did you guess my alcohol intake?"
"Easy—you're a priest. Mass once a day, with at least a thimbleful of wine. Not to mention the other kind of spirits."
"Thank you; I'll try not to. I'm McGee."
"The Reverend Morris McGee," Father Boquilva said stiffly, "Father-General of our Order!"
Rod froze, staring at the priest. "You just may be the answer to the prayer I didn't quite phrase."
"I remember it being closer to a threat, actually. His Holiness was good enough to read it to me." McGee turned back to Father Boquilva. "If you would, Father, we would appreciate the hospitality of your house for a few hours longer."
"Of course, Reverend Father. Our house is yours—in more than name." Father Boquilva turned away toward the door, his back ramrod straight.
And his tone had been stiff enough to iron a shirt on. Rod fell in beside McGee and leaned over to mutter in his ear, "Who's being rebuked, me or you?"
McGee looked up at him with delight. "Quite so. Lord Warlock, quite so! I believe I am a trifle too, ah, informal, for Father Boquilva's taste."
Rod nodded. "After all, you're almost a legendary figure to him. You could at least have the courtesy to be tall, lean, and grim."
"Oh! Yes, I must try." McGee stood up a little straighter and went a few steps with a stiff-legged stride, scowling fero-ciously. Then he relaxed and looked up at Rod. "Something along that line?"
Rod held up a thumb-and-forefinger circle. "You have it down pat."
"Thank you—and thank you for the guidance," McGee chuckled. "I think we shall get along famously."
The monks were moving about in a daze, and whenever they sneaked a peek at the Father-General, their faces were loaded with awe, even fear.
"They'll grow used to it," McGee said, but he eyed them sympathetically. "They never should have been left so completely out of touch with the rest of the Order for so long, Lord Warlock."
" 'Rod,' please…"
"No, 'Lord Warlock,' by your leave-—I must learn to think in your terms, and quickly."
Rod bowed his head. "As you wish, but if you really think the situation's so urgent, why didn't you come sooner?"
"Ah! I began trying to clear my schedule as soon as Father Uwell reported to me, but there are so many chapters, with the good souls of fifty planets under their care! And from Father Al's report, matters were in good order here." The Father-General shook his head. "I should have realized that, if the Abbot had been tempted toward opposing the King once, he might be so again."
"Well, don't blame him too hard. I'm pretty sure it's not just his idea alone, Father."
"Oh?" McGee's gaze seemed to probe into Rod's brain. "Who would have helped him?"
"Secret agents." Rod gave him back stare for stare. "I have reason to believe there are two separate off-planet groups trying to subvert the government and take over the planet, Father. I think one of them got to him."
McGee nodded, without taking his gaze away. "I'd think you were paranoid, if I didn't know you were an agent of SCENT."
"Why doubt it?" Rod shrugged, impressed by the thoroughness of McGee's briefing. "I could be both."
"True," the Father-General admitted. "Still, Widdecombe has declared a schism, Lord Warlock, and Rome earnestly wishes to heal the breach."
"They won't tolerate it, you mean? But at this point, Father, the only way to eliminate the schism is to eliminate the Archbishop."
"Abbot." McGee raised an admonishing forefinger. "Only an Abbot, Lord Warlock—we mustn't forget that. The congregations of Gramarye are of the Church of Rome, no matter what a misguided soul has told them."
"And the Cathodeans of Gramarye are part of your Order?" Rod smiled. "Do you think the Abbot will accept that. Reverend?"
"Whether he does or not is of no consequence." McGee waved a hand, palm flat and level. "I have faith in my monks."
Rod could have raised the question of ownership, but he liked McGee's attitude—for his own purposes, of course. "Well, most of the current crop of friars seem to have been very willing to follow the Abbot off the straight and narrow path. If you'll pardon my saying so, they're a little weak on the virtues they preach."
McGee winced. "You must not judge them too harshly, Lord Warlock. Be mindful, the Abbot and his clergy are only human; they, too, are fallible. The Word of Christ, and His Sacraments, are a treasure more precious than gold, but we hold—"
"'… this treasure in an earthen vessel.'" Rod finished the quotation, nodding. "Yeah, yeah, I know the song, too, Father. But why does there have to be so doggone much earth in the vessel?"
"How else can one make ceramics?" McGee countered.
Rod's mouth twisted in impatience. "Father, if I tried to fire a vessel with that much earth in it, it would fall apart in the kiln—which is exactly where I'm tempted to put His Grace the quondam Archbishop."
"Patience, Lord Warlock, patience." McGee lifted the forefinger again. "That kiln you speak of is only for God's stoking, and if the Abbot and his monks are fallible, they are also redeemable. We may yet find a way to woo himself and his adherents back to the Church."
"Good luck, Father," Rod sighed, "but you'll pardon me if I remain skeptical. A power-hungry ecclesiastic is power-hungry first, and an ecclesiastic second. In fact, he's probably an ecclesiastic only as a means of gaining power. Personally, I think the clergy started with a Paleolithic con man."
McGee reddened, but didn't mention anything about courtesy. "Why Paleolithic?"
"Because there are signs that Neanderthals buried their dead, and I personally doubt they were trying to salt away stores for the winter. And you have to admit that the ancient Egyptian priests pretty effectively took over the government when they decided that the Pharaoh was a god."
"Ah! But that could just as easily have been the government taking over the priests," McGee countered. "Still, I take your point, Lord Warlock—when Church and government have mixed, the results have generally been unhealthy. Nonetheless, you must admit that even though there have always been some opportunists in holy orders, there have also been many truly dedicated religious people who happened to have an aptitude for administration, and have naturally tended to move up in the hierarchy."