Monarchies Of God - Hawkwoods Voyage Part 26

"In any case," Himerius went on suavely, "we may be worrying over nothing. You have said yourself that the d.y.k.e must fall. If it does, the impostor will fall with it and all those who believe in him there. Our problems will be at an end."

Betanza stared at him, open-mouthed.

"That will do, my lord Vicar-General. Have the scribes sent to me when you leave. I will dictate the dispatches this evening. We must strike whilst the iron is hot."

Betanza got up, bowed and kissed his Pontiff's ring. He left the room without another word.

Brother Rogien was waiting for him as he exited. He strode along the wide corridors of Charibon with Rogien silent at his side. He could hear Vespers being sung from half a dozen college chapels and smell the enticing aromas from the kitchens of the monastery.

Rogien was an older man, broad-shouldered and stooped, with hair as white and fine as the down on a day-old chick. He was Betanza's deputy, experienced in the ways of Inceptine intrigue.

"He will not even investigate it!" Betanza raged at last, striding along at a swift, angry pace.

"What did you think, that he would tamely lie down and accept it?" Rogien asked caustically. "All his life he has coveted the position he now occupies. He is more powerful than any king. It is not a thing to be abandoned lightly."

"But the way he goes about it! He will recall the Knights promised to Torunna; he will alienate Heyn and the Torunnan king. He will gladly see Ormann d.y.k.e fall rather than risk his own position!"

"So? We knew that was what would happen."

"I have been a soldier of sorts, Rogien. I commanded men in my youth and maybe that gives me a different outlook. But I tell you that this man will see the west riven by fire and ruin if he thinks it will advance his own cause one jot."

"You have attached yourself to him," Rogien said implacably. "His fortunes are yours. You worked with him to gain the Pontiffs.h.i.+p; he helped vote you into your position. You cannot turn around now and forsake him. It will ruin you."

"Yes, I know!"

They reached the Vicar-General's quarters, dismissed the Knights at the door and went inside, lightingcandles as they did so.

"You would never have become head of the order were it not for him," Rogien went on. "Your age and your late vocation counted against you. It was Himerius' lobbying that swung the Colleges. You are his creature, Betanza."

The Vicar-General poured himself wine from a crystal decanter, made the Sign of the Saint with a clenched fist and drank the wine at a gulp.

"Yes, his creature. Is that what they will say in the history books? That Betanza stood by whilst his Pontiff brought down the west? Can the man be so blinkered that he is unable to see what he is doing?

By all means, denounce the impostor; but withhold the Torunnan reinforcements as well? That smacks of paranoia."

Rogien shrugged. "He is willing to take no risks. He knows it will bring Lofantyr to heel quicker than anything else. And you have to admit it would look odd were the High Pontiff to send troops to bolster the garrison of a fortress which has raised up a rival High Pontiff."

"Yes, there is that, I suppose." Betanza smiled wryly and poured his colleague and himself more wine.

"Mayhap I am losing my skill at the Inceptine game."

"You bring to it the wisdom of a man who has not worn a black habit his whole life. You were a n.o.bleman once, a lay-leader. But that is in the past. If you are to survive and to prosper, you must learn to think wholly as an Inceptine. The order must retain its pre-eminence. Let the kings worry about the defence of the west; it is their province. We must concern ourselves with the spiritual welfare of the Ramusian world-and what would happen to it were there to be two Pontiffs? Chaos, anarchy, a schism that might take years to heal. Think on that, Brother."

Betanza regarded his subordinate with sour humour.

"I think sometimes that you would be better off sitting in my chair and I in a soldier's harness before Ormann d.y.k.e, Rogien."

"As you are Himerius' creature, I am yours, lord."

"Yes," the Vicar-General said quietly. "You are."

He threw back his wine. "Send a half-dozen of our quickest scribes to the High Pontiff's chambers. He will be wanting to dictate his dispatches at once. And warn off a squad of our dispatch-riders to be ready for a long journey."

Rogien bowed. "Will there be anything else? Shall I have your meal sent up, or will you eat in hall?"

"I am not hungry. I must be alone for a while. I must think, and pray. That will be all, Rogien."

"Very well, my lord." The older man left.

Betanza moved to the window and threw back the heavy shutters. A keen air smelling of snow wafted into the dim room. He could see where the majestic Cimbrics loomed right at the sh.o.r.es of the Sea of Tor, the last light of the sun touching their white peaks while the rest of the world was sinking into shadow. Eighteen days the messenger had been on the road. The d.y.k.e had most likely already fallen and his worries were academic. The largest army yet seen could be even now resuming its march westwards, and he remained here splitting hairs with an egocentric Churchman.He smiled. What Inceptine was not egocentric, ambitious, imperious? Even the novices behaved like princes when they walked the streets of the fisher villages.

It would cause trouble. He could feel it in his bones. It was not just the Merduk war; there were other straws in the wind tonight. The Conclave of Kings would be convening very soon; he would know more then. He had his informants in place.

A time of change was approaching. Att.i.tudes were s.h.i.+fting, not just among the common people but among kings and princes. Himerius already had the aspect of a man on the defensive. But perhaps his efforts would be no more effectual than the efforts of those few unfortunates who were fighting and dying along the Searil River at this very moment. The mood of the age could not be turned around by a few ambitious men, even ones as powerful as the High Pontiff.

He wondered if Macrobius were truly alive. There was little chance of it, of course, and the likeliest explanation for the dispatch they had received that afternoon was the one proffered by Himerius. But if the impostor were the old Pontiff, Betanza doubted very much whether Himerius would step down.

There would be a schism: two Pontiffs, a divided Ramusian continent with the Merduks baying at its borders. Such a scenario did not bear thinking about.

He left the window, shutting out the cold air and the sunset-tinted mountains. Then he knelt on the stone floor and began to pray.

NINETEEN.

A N unending expanse of ocean, blue as the cerulean vault which arced down to meet it, unbroken on every horizon. Limitless as the s.p.a.ce between stars.

And on that unruffled ocean a minuscule speck, a tiny piece of flotsam overlooked by the elements. A s.h.i.+p, and the souls contained within its wooden walls.

T HE Osprey was becalmed. After three days and nights the storm had veered off to the north-west, having had its diversion and driven the carrack uncounted leagues off her course. Then the wind had died, leaving the sea as gla.s.sily calm as the water in a millpond on a still summer's day. The s.h.i.+p's company had watched the black towering banners of the storm billow off into the distance, taking the darkness and the cold with them, and they had been left with an eerie silence, an absence of noise that they could not quite account for until they remembered the absence of the wind.

The s.h.i.+p was a battered hulk, a relic of the proud vessel which had sailed out of Abrusio harbour a scant month before. The main topmast had gone, and its pa.s.sing had torn chunks out of the larboard sterncastle. The gun that had been wrenched overboard had also ripped a hole in the s.h.i.+p's side so that the carrack looked as though some immense monster had been chewing on it. Rags and loose ends of rigging dangled everywhere and the normally smooth lines of the ropes which formed the rigging itself were bunched and untidy after being knotted and spliced countless times throughout the storm.

The s.h.i.+p was floating in a greasy pool of her own filth. Around the hull floated human waste and detritus, fragments of wood and hemp, and even the bloated corpses of a pair of sheep. The miasma of the stagnant surroundings stank out the s.h.i.+p along with the familiar reek of her bilge, now somewhat sluiced out by the tons of seawater the s.h.i.+p had made and pumped away throughout the tempest. The s.h.i.+p's boats were full of holes so the crew could not even tow the carrack out of the area. And the heat battered down relentlessly from a sun that seemed made of beaten bra.s.s. The pitch bubbled in the seams and, as the upper deck dried, so the planking opened and let water drip down through the s.h.i.+p, soaking everything. The s.h.i.+p's company became accustomed to finding mould and strange fungi sprouting in theunlikeliest of dark corners throughout the carrack.

19th day of Midorion, year of the Saint 551.

Flat calm. The fourth day with no wind. The s.h.i.+p is still in the doldrums. By my estimate we have been blown some one hundred and eighty leagues off our course to the south-west or sou'-sou'-west. From cross-staff observations I believe that we are on the approximate lat.i.tude of Gabrion, but my calculations must needs be largely guesswork. In the middle of the worst of the storm the gla.s.s was neglected for almost half a watch, and so our timings must begin anew and dead-reckoning becomes ever more unreliable.

There is only one recourse that I can see to help us make up our lost northing, and that is Pernicus, the weather-worker. If he can be prevailed upon to conjure up a favourable wind then we may yet make landfall ere the winter storms begin. But I know what prejudices such a line of action would evoke. I must talk to the man Bardolin, who seems to have become a spokesman of sorts for the pa.s.sengers since the storm, and, of course, Murad. But I will be d.a.m.ned to the bottom if I will endanger my s.h.i.+p any further for the religious fanaticism of a cursed Raven whom no one wanted on this s.h.i.+p in the first place.

Hawkwood looked over what he had written and then, cursing under his breath, he scored out the last sentence heavily and retrimmed his quill.

Ortelius will surely see reason. It may be a choice between utilizing the abilities of the weather-worker or, at best, extending the voyage by a good two months. At worst it could mean our deaths.

Crew employed about the s.h.i.+p on repairs. We will be swaying up a new topmast in the first dog-watch, and then working on the s.h.i.+p's boats. I must report the deaths of Rad Misson, Essen Maratas and Heirun j.a.para, all able seamen. May the Company of the Saints find a place for their benighted souls, and may the Prophet Ahrimuz welcome Heirun to his garden.

Four men, including First Mate Billerand, confined to their hammocks with injuries sustained in the storm. Velasca Ormino acting first mate for the duration.

I must report also the deaths of three pa.s.sengers, who were consigned to the sea during the storm itself. They were Geraldina Durado, Ohen Durado and Cabrallo Schema. May G.o.d have mercy on their souls. Brother Ortelius today conducted a ceremony to mark their pa.s.sing and preached a sermon about the consequences of heresy and disbelief.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Hawkwood said aloud.

Of Haukal and The Grace of G.o.d there is no sign. I cannot believe that such a well-found s.h.i.+p under such a captain could have foundered, even in the blow that we went through.

Unless, Hawkwood thought with that persistent hollow feeling in his stomach, they had been p.o.o.ped and broached-to whilst running before those enormous waves. The Grace's stern was not as high as the carrack's, and a wave might have overwhelmed her whilst Haukal had been putting her before the wind.

And those lateen yards were less handy than the square-rigged ones of the carrack. Frequently sail wastaken in by lowering the yards to the deck, and in such a sea there might not have been time to do that.

He had a man in the foretop round the clock, and from up there the lookout could survey at least seven leagues in any direction, despite the haze that was beginning to cloud the horizon with the growing heat.

There was just no telling.

Hawkwood looked up from his desk. Beyond the stern windows he could see the glittering, unmoving sea, and the darkness on the northern horizon that was the last of the storm. The windows were open to try and get some air circulating, but it was a fruitless gesture. The heat and the stench were hanging in the throats of every soul on the s.h.i.+p, and the hold was a shattering wooden oven, humid as the jungles of Maca.s.sar. He must get the animals out of there for a while, and rig up a wind sail to get some air below-decks. If there were any wind to fill it.

There was a knock at the cabin door.

"Enter."

He was startled to see Ortelius the Inceptine standing there when he turned.

"Captain, do you have a moment?"

He was half inclined to say "no," but he merely nodded and gestured to the stool behind the door. He closed the s.h.i.+p's log, feeling absurdly s.h.i.+fty as he did so.

The cleric pulled out the stool and sat down. He was obviously uncomfortable with the low perch.

"What is it you would say to me, Father? I cannot give you long, I am afraid. We'll be swaying up the new topmast in a few minutes."

Ortelius had lost weight. His cheeks seemed to have sunk in on themselves and the channels at the corners of his nose were as deep as scars.

"It is the voyage, my son."

"What of it?" Hawkwood asked, surprised.

"It is cursed. It is an offense against G.o.d and the Holy Saint. The smaller vessel is already lost and soon this one will be also if we do not turn back and set sail for the lands that are lit by the light of the Faith."

"Now wait a moment-" Hawkwood began hotly.

"I know you are Gabrionese, Captain, not from one of the five Ramusian bastions that are the Monarchies of G.o.d, but I say this to you: if you have any piety about you whatsoever, you will heed my words and turn the s.h.i.+p around."

Hawkwood could have sworn that the man was sincere-more, that he was genuinely afraid. The sweat was pouring off him in drops as big as pearls, and his chin quivered. There was an odd glitter to his eyes that somehow made Hawkwood uneasy, as though they had something lurking behind them. For an instant he was inclined to agree with the distressed priest, but then he dismissed the notion and shook his head.

"Father, what reasons can you give for this, beyond the usual disquiet of a landsman at being far out to sea? It affects all of us at one time or another-the absence of land on any horizon, the limitless appearance of the ocean. But you will grow used to it, believe me. And there is no reason to think thecaravel is lost. It is as fine a vessel as this one, and I'll be surprised if we ever have to weather a worse storm than the last in our crossing of the Western Ocean."

"Even if we are upon it when winter comes?" the Inceptine asked. He had one hand white-knuckled round his Saint's symbol.

"What makes you think we will still be at sea by then?" Hawkwood asked lightly.

"We have been blown far off our course. Any fool can see that. Can you even tell us where we are, Captain? Could any man? It could be we will be sailing until our provisions run out." His hand tightened further on the symbol at his breast until Hawkwood fancied he could hear the fine gold creak. "And we will thirst or starve to death, becoming a floating graveyard upon this accursed sea. I tell you, Captain, it is rank impiety to suppose that any man can cross the Western Ocean. It is a border of the world set there by the hand of G.o.d, and no man may breach it."

Here he looked away, and Hawkwood could have sworn that the priest knew these words were false.

"I cannot authorize the abandonment of the voyage," Hawkwood said in measured tones, hiding the exasperation he felt. "For it is not I who bears the ultimate responsibility. While the s.h.i.+p floats and is in a condition to carry on, the broader decisions are left to Lord Murad. I can only override him if I feel that my technical knowledge renders my decisions more valid than his. The s.h.i.+p can go on, once we have made our repairs, so the decision to turn back is not mine to make, but Murad's. So you see, Father, you have come to the wrong man."

Let Murad muzzle this priest, not I, he was thinking. The pious dastard thinks of me as common sc.u.m, to obey the orders of the Church n.o.bility without question. Well, I will not disabuse him of that notion. Let him go to Murad for his refusal. He may take it more easily from one of his station.

"I see," the priest said, bowing his head so that Hawkwood might not see his eyes.

They could hear the shouts of the sailors out on deck, the creak of rope and squeak of pulleys. The crew must have been hauling the new topmast out of the hold. Hawkwood chafed to be away, but the Inceptine continued to sit with his head bowed.

"Father-" Hawkwood began.

"I tell you there is a curse on this s.h.i.+p and those aboard her!" the priest blurted out. "We will leave our bones upon her decks ere we ever sight any mythical Western Continent!"

"Calm down, man! Making wild claims like these will help no one. Do you want to panic the pa.s.sengers?"

"The pa.s.sengers!" Ortelius spat. "Dweomer-folk! The world would be better rid of them. Do they even know where they are headed? They are like cattle being driven to the slaughter!"

With that he leapt up off his stool and, throwing open the cabin door, launched out into the companionway. He barked his s.h.i.+n on the storm sill and went sprawling, then gathered himself up and billowed off, out to the glaring brightness of the deck. Hawkwood stared after his black flapping form in wonder and disquiet. He had the strangest idea that the Inceptine knew more of the s.h.i.+p's destination than he did himself.

"The old Raven is going mad," he said, slamming the bulkhead door and laughing a little uneasily.

Another knock at the just-closed door, but before Hawkwood could say anything it had opened andMurad was standing there.

"I heard," the n.o.bleman said.

"Thin bulkheads. There are few secrets on board s.h.i.+p," Hawkwood said, annoyed.

"Just as well. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say." Murad perched on the edge of Hawkwood's desk nonchalantly. He had taken off his leathers and was in a loose linen s.h.i.+rt and breeches. A scabbarded poniard hung from his belt.

"Do you believe him?" Murad asked.

"No. Seamen may be superst.i.tious, but they are not fools."

"Will we be at sea through the winter then, trying to regain our course?"

"Not necessarily," Hawkwood admitted. Murad looked terrible. They all did in the aftermath of the storm. Most of the crew were like badly animated zombies, but Murad was as lean as a well-gnawed bone and there were muddy puddles under his eyes, red lines breaking across his corneas. He was like a man who had forgotten how to sleep.