Toby looked up, frowning.
"They have succeeded in the task he set them," Father McGee explained, "permeating this society with Christian ideals, ameliorating the brutality of a medieval culture."
"Great!" Rod burst out. "Why don't you ameliorate some of the squalor, while you're at it? Cure some of the sicknesses? Prevent a few deaths?"
"We have done what we can," Boquilva grated. " 'Tis why our folk do ever go about among the people, cloistered or not. We wreak 'miracle' cures when we can—but dost thou truly believe there would be more of us if we let modern knowledge be open?"
Rod hesitated. There had always been a very limited number willing to go to the mental toil of learning medical science.
"And there are cures, too, that we know of, yet know not how to effect," Boquilva went on. "Father Ricci was an engineer, not a physician. Yet some of our Brothers, with the necessary gift, have sought to discover these cures."
Rod lifted his head, eyes widening. " 'Discover'? You mean research?"
"Of course, Lord Warlock," McGee said. "Every Catho-dean has always had the duty of attempting some form of the search for knowledge."
Puzzle pieces connected in Rod's mind. "And… just what sorts of knowledge would a monastery full of espers be looking for?"
"You have the answer, Lord Warlock, or you would not ask the question." McGee nodded. "Yes. Most of the Cathodeans in the monastery research new psionic techniques."
"Monastery?" Rod exclaimed. "That isn't a cloister—it's a research lab!"
"I would be indebted to you if you could explain the difference between the two," McGee said with irony.
"My lord!" Rod stared at a vision of a voracious theocracy gobbling up all the planets of the Terran Sphere. "That means the Archbishop isn't just a threat to the King, he could be the death knell of democracy for all of humanity!"
"Yes, Lord Warlock." Father McGee nodded gravely. "That is the other reason I've come."
" 'Other'?" Rod glared. "Not too worried about the truth, are you?"
McGee lifted his head, eyes widening with outrage.
Rod frowned, puzzled. "Wait a minute—you really meant it! Not losing one of your Order's chapters is more important to you than the future of democracy!"
"It is," McGee agreed. "Not much more important, perhaps, but still my first priority."
Rod's face slackened, appalled by another realization. "But… but… that means you've been taking the most talented espers on Gramarye out of the gene pool for five hundred years!"
"That is an old charge," McGee sighed, "though the gift you mention is not the one usually spoken of. And in answer, Lord Warlock, I can only ask how many of our Brothers would marry even if they did not come here."
"You mean they wouldn't fall in love?"
"Perhaps, but that does not mean they would be good husbands. Most religious are unworldly enough not to be terribly good providers, Lord Warlock, and are of the sort to take their work as being the most important element in their lives."
"You're saying Fathers might not make the best fathers?" Rod frowned. "Still, I get the point. And in this case, their work is whatever the Archbishop tells them to do."
"In the current crisis, yes."
"Which means that, if we want to stop the hauntings, we have to stop the Archbishop. And he's got the most highly trained espers on the planet working for him! Just great!"
Chapter Eighteen
The moon rays glanced down, blackening the rusted masses of broken iron that bedecked the Archbishop's garden wall, and casting a huge, monstrous, misshapen shadow of one who worked there, heaving and tearing the Cold Iron from the stones.
"Only a few more, Dread Lord, and thou shalt have this whole side of the wall clear," sang a baritone from the shelter of a nearby pear tree.
" 'Tis a foul crop espaliered against these blocks," Brom O'Berin grunted as he tore away the last horseshoe. "Yet now must I examine mine own trail most carefully, Robin, lest a single nail be left to score the flesh of one of mine elves."
Puck shuddered in the shade. "May the grove's spirits forefend! 'Twould be certain death."
But Brom worked his way along the wall crabwise, and finally pronounced himself satisfied. " 'Tis all cleared, Robin. Come now, and see what we may espy."
Puck leaped to the top of the wall with him, hiding among some thick old ivy vines while Brom hid in the branches of an espaliered fruit tree. They waited in silence as the moon rose higher, with only an occasional whispered word between them—or any of the other elves who crept over the wall and hid themselves among the flowers.
Finally the door at the base of the tower opened, and the elfin watchers stiffened like hounds scenting prey. The Archbishop came strolling out with Brother Alfonso beside him. He stopped to inhale the perfume of the flowers and sighed, feeling the weight of his cares rolling off his shoulders. "Ah! A nook of blessed peace in this troubled world!"
"True, my lord. Yet the troubles never vanish—they are only held at bay."
"Peace, my conscience," the Archbishop sighed. "Can I never have a moment free of care?"
"Art thou Archbishop, my lord?"
"I had almost as lief I were but an abbot again," the Archbishop grumbled. "Yet thou hast the right of it, as when hast thou not? What matter's so great that I must needs contemplate it presently?"
"A host of matters, my lord, all of which come together as one, videlicit: now that thou hast broke from Rome, thou canst now break also with all these stances 'gainst which thou hast railed in years past."
The Archbishop stilled, his imagination caught.
"Thou hast inveighed against the buying of indulgences," Brother Alfonso reminded, "and 'gainst lending for interest."
"Aye," the Archbishop muttered. "How can Rome condone a man making profit of aiding his neighbor?"
"And celibacy, my lord. Thou hast already dealt with that. Word has it the common folk are pleased with thy stance."
The Archbishop paused at his companion's remark.
Brother Alfonso hid a smile. "Thou hast often said a monk may not truly comprehend the burdens of a husband. And thou hast said that, if a priest be devoted to God, he must needs raise up more souls for Him."
"And that if we tell the plowman 'tis his vocation to rear children, we had ought to do so ourselves," the Archbishop added. "Aye, I remember."
Brother Alfonso wiped a hand down across his lips.
Chanting drifted to them on the evening breeze. The Archbishop looked up sharply. "Vespers! And we are late! Come, Brother Alfonso!"
"Directly, my lord," Brother Alfonso murmured; but he stayed rooted to the spot, watching till the Archbishop's form had passed through the door and gone.
Then he threw back his head and laughed, not loudly, but long. He was still laughing as his feet flew out from under him, and the laugh turned into a cry of alarm that lasted only a second before a solid thud cut it off. Elves darted out from bushes as a leprecohen straightened up, tapping his hammer against his palm. They whisked threads about and about the unconscious monk as Brom O'Berin came up, rumbling, "Well done, stout hearts. Now take him where he shall do no further harm."
The elves ducked down about Brother Alfonso's form; then the body seemed to lift itself up on dozens of legs. It turned about in a complete circle, then oriented on a huge old chestnut tree and shot toward the roots just as a large hole gaped between them, letting out a shaft of golden light. The body dodged down into the hole; Puck leaped in after it, then Brom O'Berin. The hole seemed to close itself, as gnomes pitched in merrily; then the light was gone, and the garden lay quiet under the moon.