"What if Sister Weranda had killed your precious Baron?” Quelgrum recognised the voice as that of Sister Judan. “There may be many other Sisters down there, who deserve help more than our Prioress’ murderer. He despoiled our home and besmirched our faith. He violated Weranda, back in the world, and he kept her prisoner!"
The murmurs grew uglier, and Quelgrum heard a few assenting shouts:
"Why save such an evil man?"
"He's just a Names-cursed destroyer!"
"Down with him!"
Quelgrum made to slip his pistol from its holster before remembering that he had no ammunition. The situation was becoming untenable, as the white-clad women began to close in from all sides. He shot a nervous glance at Sergeant Erik, but the younger man, his face ashen-pale in the cold glare of Numal's mage-light, shook his head; it was plain he had no idea of how to quell this growing rebellion.
Some of the nuns had picked up the beams they had used as levers in the rescue effort, but it was plain they now had a darker purpose in mind as they moved towards the General and his companions. Tordun twisted and turned, his damaged eyes flicking back and forth as if trying to locate an unseen tiger in a dense jungle. Numal's hands were raised in a threatening, spell-casting pose, but Quelgrum knew the Necromancer had little magic that could stem the advancing horde.
"Stop!"
At the high-pitched, tremulous cry, the General spun to see a diminutive figure standing a few paces behind him, her hands raised in supplication.
"Stop, I say!"
Sister Mercia's voice might not carry the weight of Shakkar's booming bass or Quelgrum's parade-ground bellow, but it stopped the women in their tracks, except for the dumpy, grey-haired Sister Judan.
"Who are you, Sister, to countermand a member of the Score?” she demanded, her eyes blazing. “Have you thrown your lot in with this monstrous group of male destroyers?"
"How dare you!” Mercia's tone cracked like a whip. “While you and the other members of the score sat in judgement over the rest of the Order, eating veal and quails’ eggs, I toiled for the good of us all, receiving no thanks and expecting none. I have only ever worked to help my Sisters."
Speaking louder, she demanded, “How many here have been tended by me? Show yourselves!"
A forest of hands arose from the milling throng of women.
"I have treated pneumonia, bloody flux, marsh fever and a hundred other ailments during my time here. At times, I was sick to my stomach from the diseases I treated. Often, I caught the same diseases myself, but I never quailed, and I never complained about my allotted tasks.
"When was the last time you treated a case of bowel-wrack, Sister Judan?"
Quelgrum heard a few amused chuckles, and he realised he had been holding his breath. He drew fresh air into his lungs in a convulsive gasp, but he felt transfixed; in a heartbeat, this tiny woman might be dashed away like a sapling in a flash-flood, but she stood firm and seemingly unafraid.
"Pretty rhetoric, Sister.” Judan's voice was a low hiss. “Each must play her part in our Order. Even we of the Score have-"
"When was the last time you were whipped because your curtsey was not deep enough, or because your gown was untidy? Three months ago, you condemned me to kneel on sharp stones and hold a heavy stone over my head for two hours; just because you considered my morning devotional chant insufficiently sincere."
Judan's mouth opened to speak again, but Mercia continued: “I had been awake for three days, dealing with a virulent outbreak of measles. I told you so, but you added three hours of third-level Contrition to my punishment, for insolence."
Turning to the crowd, she demanded, “How many of you suffered similar injustices?"
A loud chorus of affirmation greeted this last question, and Quelgrum guessed that peremptory punishment had been a prominent feature of Priory life. His heart went out to Mercia; this tiny, courageous slip of a girl was winning the argument, beyond doubt.
Judan shook her head as if confirming some painful doubt."You fool nobody, Sister,” she said. “You have proved the justice in my opinion of you. You are insolent and ungrateful. We will-"
"We?” Mercia cried, and the soldier saw tears gleaming like jewels in her eyes. “Who is ‘we'? I have served the Order since I was a small child, and my only reward was pain and humiliation.
"I once revered the Score, accepting my punishment as the Names’ judgement on my fallible soul; I now see you and your kind as bloated betrayers of your fellow women."
Mercia reached behind her, and Quelgrum heard the tearing of cloth. She spun in a slow circle, to show a complex map of livid scars on her young back. Many were bordered in pink, showing recent abuse.
"How many women here bear similar marks?” she screamed. “Why do you not show us all your own, fresh scars, Sister Judan?"
A feral, angry cry arose from the crowd in response to this demand.
"I would never be so immodest,” Judan blustered. “As all can see, you have proved yourself unworthy-"
"Questor Grimm killed Prioress Lizaveta,” Mercia continued, again interrupting her senior. “He also brought down this foul palace of pain and suffering. I and several other Sisters were in the Great Hall when the fall came. He saved us at the risk of his own life, using his last magic to hold up the collapsing roof as we escaped. That was not the act of a mindless, heedless destroyer."
She pulled a small bag from between her breasts and held it over her head. “He also gave me the herbs that helped to save lives from the plague that Prioress Lizaveta unleashed on us all… he saved your life, too, you ungrateful woman! For recognising that, you wish to punish me again.
"I do not accept your judgement, Sister! You will never beat me again!"
The crowd surged forward again, screaming imprecations, but Quelgrum could see that their angry eyes were now locked on Judan.
"Please, Sisters, no more vengeance!” Mercia cried, snatching up a broken, four-foot length of wood. “We have had enough of that! We must work to save Questor Grimm, who saved us from slavery! Then, we must work to save our dear, lost Sisters!"
"Yes,Sister Mercia!"
The huge cry almost rocked Quelgrum on his feet, and he saw Judan's face fall. He was close enough to touch the older woman, and he whispered in her ear, “You've lost, lady. Better get out while you still can."
Judan looked at the angry faces around her and bustled away towards Merrydeath Road.
The other nuns moved towards the excavation, still bearing their wooden planks and beams. Erik told the nuns where they should place their levers, and the General smiled as they hurried to carry out the Sergeant's instructions.
"Well done, Sister,” Quelgrum said, as Mercia turned towards him. “That was a spectacular performance."
She snorted. “That was no performance, General. I was acting only as my conscience guided me. I trust you will do the same."
"Steady, Sisters!” Erik shouted to the workers. “Let it down slowly!"
"I always have, sweet Sister, even if you don't believe it,” Quelgrum said to the nun. “I was beaten every day when I was your age, and I rebelled against my masters, too. You did well."
Mercia opened her mouth, but her words were stolen by a loud thump that rocked the ground. Quelgrum held his breath while Erik surveyed the excavation, and he felt sure the young nun felt no less involved in the work.
"It's good, General!” the Sergeant said. “The rock's stable. Now we can start clearing away the rubble. Hurry, now!"
From the corner of his eye, Quelgrum saw Numal tumbling to the ground in a dead faint, but he hardly noticed; he had eyes only for the beautiful, courageous nun. Since he had first rebelled against his masters, he had felt only the inexorable demands of real and imagined duty. He had never known any love but that for his army, and he found it hard to imagine that any woman could ever love him, but he now felt the strong, undeniable stirrings of long-denied and forgotten man-feelings within him.