Zweil ran daily services in the temple house, and other notable observances when they cropped up on the calendar. Every morning, without regard to the weather, he walked from Aarlem Fortress to the Templum Ministoria at Aarlem-Sachsen, four kilometres away, and spent an hour there in private worship. This daily, eight kilometre pilgrimage was, he declared, his way of justifying the imhava or ‘roving’ part of his title as imhava ayatani. Years before (how many years Gaunt did not know), Zweil had taken up a life of wandering devotion to travel through the Sabbat Worlds in the footsteps of the Saint, and repeat the epic circuit she had made. When they’d met him on Hagia, he’d claimed that his great journey was nearly finished. He’d walked with them and followed their route ever since, but he had always insisted that, eventually, he would have to finish his devotion. ‘One day, you know,’ he’d said, ‘we’ll part company. Oh yes. You’ll be going your way, and your way won’t suit me any more. So, we’ll say our goodbyes, and I’ll take off on the way I need to go. I’ve spent too much time as it is, following after you. You’ll miss me when I’m gone. I know you will. You’ll all be heartbroken and rudderless. I can’t help that. I’ve got devotions, devotions I must attend to. The Saint expects it of me. In fact, now I come to think of it, I may start tomorrow, or the day after. Is it dumplings tomorrow? It is, isn’t it? Right, I’ll start the day after.’
Every night since they’d taken up post at Aarlem Fortress and converted the temple house, Father Zweil had offered what he described as ‘occasions of enlightenment’. After supper, any member of the regiment without duties, and any member of the regimental train, was welcome to come to the temple house for a couple of hours and listen to him discourse on whatever subject had piqued his interest that day. Sometimes, the occasions were out-and-out sermons, full of piss and vinegar if Zweil’s dander was up. Sometimes, they were more like lectures, methodical and instructive, and delivered with reference to the teetering stack of texts he’d dragged over from the library of the Templum Ministoria. Sometimes, he simply read aloud, covering topics from history to poetics and philosophy or even basic ethics. Sometimes, he handed books out so that everyone present could read privately for an hour. Sometimes, he went amongst them, and used the occasion to help a few of the less-well educated to brush up on their literacy.
In the course of any week, his homilies would veer from the sacred to the profane and back. He would talk about the Saint, or other saints, or the tradition of the ayatani. He would digress at length on the history and customs of the Sabbat Worlds. He would seize enthusiastically on a news story of the day, and use it to ignite animated discussion and debate amongst his congregation. He would teach, directly or indirectly, grammar and numeracy, history and politics, music and poetry. He would air, almost at random, one of the many attics of his mind, and lay out the contents for all to examine.
Gaunt went along whenever he got the chance. Whenever, apropos of nothing, Zweil came out with a fact or detail that he hadn’t previously encountered, Gaunt would make a brief note of it in his copybook. In a year on Balhaut, Gaunt had been obliged to request three copybooks from stores.
That evening, when Gaunt entered the temple house, the chosen subject appeared to be either the history of poetry or the poetry of history. There were about forty Ghosts present, and Zweil, perching at the lectern like a roosting vulture, was getting them to read verses aloud from faded, green-bound schola copies of the Early Sabbatists.
It was Shoggy Domor’s turn. He was on his feet, carefully reading short cantos that Gaunt reckoned were either Ahmud or some middle period Feyaytan. Gaunt waited a while. When Domor had done enough, Zweil gestured for him to sit down, and then picked on Chiria, Domor’s adjutant. She got up, wiped her palm across her scarred cheek uncertainly, and started up where Domor had left off.
Gaunt found a seat near the back, and listened. When Chiria, halting and clumsy, had done, Costin got up and embarked on an over-hasty run at one of the Odes of Sarpedon. After Costin, Sergeant Raglon read a Niciezian sonnet, and after Raglon, Wheln, who offered up a surprisingly fluid and spirited recital of Kongress’s Intimations. After Wheln, it was Eszrah’s turn.
The Nihtgane rose to his feet, a tall and considerable presence, and read one of Locaster’s Parables. It was peculiar to hear his Untill vowel-sounds rounding out Low Gothic. In the two years since Jago, and especially in that last year on Balhaut, Zweil and Gaunt between them had taught Eszrah ap Niht his letters. The Nihtgane virtually never missed one of the ayatani’s ‘occasions of enlightenment’. He read well. He even removed his battered old sunshades when required to read from a book indoors. When he wrote out his name, he spelled it Ezra Night.
If a year on Balhaut has civilised Eszrah, Gaunt thought, what has it done to the rest of us? How soft have we become? How much of our bite have we lost? Is there an edge left on us at all?
When the meeting broke up, Gaunt went down the front to speak to Zweil. The old ayatani looked up from a discussion he was having with Bool, and saw Gaunt approaching.
‘This can’t be good,’ he said.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Gaunt.
‘If it’s about that amasec in Baskevyl’s quarters, somebody had already drunk most of it.’
‘It isn’t about that,’ said Gaunt.
‘Well, if this is about the Oudinot mascot, I didn’t roast it, nor did I suggest to anybody that it should be roasted, and I certainly didn’t supply any recipe for ploin and forcemeat stuffing.’
‘This isn’t about the Oudinot mascot,’ said Gaunt. He paused. ‘What Oudinot mascot?’
‘Oh, they don’t have one,’ said Zweil hurriedly.
‘They don’t?’
‘Not since someone roasted it,’ Zweil added.
Gaunt shook his head. ‘It’s not about any of that. I just need a little help, father.’
‘Help?’
‘That’s right. The benefit of your great experience.’
‘And my wisdom?’
‘And that. There’s a problem with one of the men, and I’d like your advice.’
Zweil furrowed his brow, concentrating. ‘Oh, certainly. No problem. Hit me.’
‘There’s a member of the regimental company–’
‘Do I know him?’ asked Zweil.
‘Yes, father.’
‘All right, go on.’
‘This member of the regimental company, he’s causing a big bureaucratic problem.’
‘Oh, the little fether!’ Zweil hissed, nodding conspiratorially. ‘Are you going to have him flogged?’
‘Flogged?’
‘Flogging’s too good for him. I know, have him tied to a rocket and fired into the heart of the local star,’ said Zweil.
‘Well, that’s certainly on my list of possibilities.’
‘Is it? Good.’
‘The problem,’ said Gaunt, ‘is that the man is refusing to take his medical.’
‘Refusing?’
‘Everyone needs to be certified fit, and he’s refusing to submit himself for the exam.’
‘There’s always one, isn’t there?’ said Zweil. He frowned more deeply and tapped his finger against his chin. ‘I’d make an example of him, if I were you.’