The doors collapsed into a heap of burning boards and, calmer now that he had taken this step, Rosacher kicked them aside as he moved into the nave, catching sight of a priest jumping down from the altar and ducking into the corridor that led away into the rectory. Except for the chuckling of the flames at his back, all was silent and, though his attitude toward the Church was thoroughly cynical, he found the body of the cathedral daunting, with its formidable phalanxes of empty black pews and a ceiling illumined by a mural that depicted the advent of the Gentle Beast (its image not shown, but its presence intimated by a wash of white light before which the lesser beasts, man included, bowed). Aisles carpeted in dark green channeled toward the altar, a stage set decorated in a medley of greens and sectioned off by velvet ropes behind which were displayed seven wooden thrones, each inlaid with a design of gold and lapis lazuli denoting its station; and above it all was suspended a crystal smaller than the one atop the spire, though not so small that it failed to light every corner of the cathedral. Even Arthur looked to be cowed by the setting, but he ordered the militiamen forward and, with Rosacher at their head, they advanced to the foot of the altar.
“Your assassin is dead!” shouted Rosacher. “Must I ferret you from your holes?”
He waited for a reply and, when none was forthcoming, he said, “I want to speak with Bishop Ruiz! I’ll give you two minutes to send him out! Two minutes! Then I’ll send in my men!”
Arthur eased up beside him. “What’s the plan?”
“That’s up to the bishop,” said Rosacher.
“Burning down the doors of a church…it won’t sit well with the prelates in Mospiel.”
“What would you have me do? Kill them?”
“You can’t trust ’em. Might as well be damned for stealing a crown as for stealing a penny.”
“Perhaps I will kill them. But one should never act before one explores the possibilities for negotiation.”
“I thought you were angry,” Arthur said. “When I’m angry I don’t think about nothing.”
Rosacher grunted in amusement. “You may find that instructive.”
A thin, dark priest in a brown robe, his skin a shade lighter than Ludie’s, emerged from the door leading to the rectory. His crispy hair was turning gray, yet his features were those of a handsome man of middle years: wide, full lips, a broad nose and a high forehead.
“Good morning, Bishop,” said Rosacher. “I apologize for disturbing your sleep, but then mine was disturbed this night…and most rudely.”
“If you leave now I may be able to intercede with you before the Beast,” Ruiz said sternly.
He drew himself up, possibly preparing to deliver a vow or an imprecation, but Rosacher stepped into the gap and said, “Put to rest any notion that your animist claptrap has any hold on me. Surely a man who has been in the religion business for as long as you can recognize a confirmed skeptic? I recognize you as such, so let’s do away with pretense and see if we can devise a circumstance that will guarantee your safety beyond morning.”
Ruiz was stoic, yet his anxiety seemed to stir the air. “I will not speak with you so long as your men occupy the church.”
Rosacher ordered the militiamen to withdraw and, once they were out of earshot, he said, “There. No witnesses save for Arthur, and you may think of him as an interested party to our conversation.”
“You dare much,” said Ruiz. “Do you know the force that will be brought against you for this night’s work? Once news of your sacrilege reaches Mospiel, they will move swiftly.”
“The news may never reach Mospiel,” said Rosacher. “At least in no form that you would sanction.”
With a florid gesture he invited the bishop to sit with him in the front pew. Arthur leaned against the altar rail.
“I’ve been speculating on the effect that a weakened church may have upon my enterprise for some time now,” said Rosacher. “I presumed the waning of the church’s influence would be good for business, but I didn’t anticipate the swiftness with which it would wane. Nor did I expect the church would be moved to acts of desperation. I take it the order for the assassination originated with that old fart in Mospiel?”
Ruiz maintained a stiff silence.
Rosacher made a frustrated noise. “There’s no point to your obstinacy. The boy has confessed.”
“If you already know the answer,” said Ruiz, “why ask the question?”
“I wish to confirm that His High Holiness issued the order and not you. It will make a significant difference in my handling of the situation.”
Ruiz deliberated for a matter of seconds and returned a minimal nod. “I have no voice in such decisions.”
“Why send a boy to do the job?” asked Rosacher. “Is the Church’s opinion of me so low?”
“Understand that I was against this from the outset. My opinion aside, they had used the boy previously. He was adjudged competent.”
“Well,” Rosacher said. “He’s no longer capable of competence, let me assure you.”
“They?” said Arthur. “Not we?”
“I deemed it unnecessary,” Ruiz said. “When measured against the life of the church, the life of one man is transitory and unimportant. Even should you live out your natural span, you’ll die soon enough.”
“Most reasonable,” said Rosacher. “But mab will continue to be produced long after I die.”
Ruiz sniffed. “People tire of perfection.”
“A verity that likely explains the longevity of the church.”
Ruiz refrained from comment.
“I suppose we could debate whose drug is superior,” said Rosacher. “But our time might be better spent in coming up with a strategy that will allow the two to co-exist.”
“Are you toying with me?”
“Not at all.”
“I don’t believe you. I’m told you’re the kind of predator who likes to lick his prey all over before biting them in half. I refuse to engage in the process.”
“Whom have I bitten in half recently?”
Ruiz turned from Rosacher and sat facing the green-and-gold depth of the altar.
“You won’t talk to me?” Rosacher asked. “Even though it may be to your advantage?”
The bishop closed his eyes and sighed.
“I’ll talk, then.” Rosacher crossed his legs and leaned back. “Almost fifty years ago the church convened a council to determine whether or not Griaule should be included in its pantheon. Not surprisingly, the decision was a narrow one in favor of the status quo. I’m of the opinion that the council should be re-convened to study the question anew.”
It appeared that Ruiz was about to speak, but he pressed his lips together and maintained his silence.
“But I’m getting ahead of myself,” Rosacher went on. “If war should arise from what I’ve done this morning—and the Church has prosecuted wars with much less provocation—it will be long and costly. I control the militia and the city council. I can promise you that Teocinte will defend itself vigorously no matter how great a force is brought against it. Yet this can all be averted by a simple negotiation.”
“People have also warned me against your negotiations,” Ruiz said.
“Then you are forearmed, are you not?”
The bishop inclined his head. “Do you have a proposal?”
“I do. In exchange for a cessation of hostilities between the Church and myself, I am willing, after the passage of twenty-five years, to hand over all factories and business connections, all my stock, everything relating to the production and sale of mab. Further, I’ll reveal the process by which the drug is refined. In the interim, I’ll cease my ranting about the church.”