Then she lost her smile as the communicator hummed. Answering it, Shamarre turned, her face a mask.
"The monk," she said. "He is waiting, my lady. In the Octagonal Room."
He stood in the exact center as if taking up the position to maintain the symmetry of the chamber. Eight walls, each elaborately carved with depictions of men and animals locked in attitudes of combat or mutual caresses; the skill of the artist made it impossible to be certain. Tints and colors interwoven to give the impression of garments, of fur and feather and scale, of gossamer and hair and glitters which could have been the exudations of natural fluids. Lights were carefully positioned to accentuate suggestive shadows and, together, the panels formed a series designed to catch and hold the attention, to intrigue, to shock, to startle.
The roof matched the walls, groined, fluted, carved and colored to give the appearance of the interior of a shell. The floor was a polished mosaic which traced a complex pattern. There were no furnishings. Had he wanted to sit, the monk would have had to squat on the floor, but Brother Remick had no desire to sit. He was accustomed to waiting.
He was tall, old, the thrown-back cowl of his brown, homespun robe framing a near-bald skull, a face lined with privation and relieved only by the burning intelligence and compassion of his deep-set eyes, the lips which curved in gentle humor. Rough sandals hugged his naked feet and the hands which he held folded before him displayed swollen knuckles and wrists.
A dedicated man who had chosen to serve the Universal Church which preached that all men were brothers and the pain of one was the anguish of all. And that if all could but recognize the truth of the credo, there, but for the love of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.
He would never live to see it. No monk now alive would see it but, one day, it would come and until it did he would do what he could to ease the lives of those who needed help.
Now he could only wait until Kathryn Acchabaron, Matriarch of Esslin, should condescend to hear his report.
She came sooner than he expected and one look at his face was enough.
"You failed!" From the first she had known it and yet hope had survived. Now the old, familiar sickness and despair turned into a sudden and vicious rage. "You failed! I should have you stripped and beaten and impaled! You fool! You useless fool!"
"Sister-"
"Don't call me that! I'm not one of your spineless flock! I am the ruler of this world and you had best not forget it!"
Pride blazed from her as if she had been a fire and with it came the arrogance of wealth, the indifference to the concern of others which he had met so often before. He dealt with it now as he had then, standing, waiting for the emotional storm to pass, ready to submit without argument to any punishment she might choose to inflict. The way of those serving the Church which had gained scars and dealt for many of them, respect for many more. Always the strong can recognize an equal strength even if demonstrated in a manner different from their own.
Now, calming, she said, "What happened? Report!"
"As you say, my lady, I did not succeed. I found it beyond my skill to aid the poor creature you placed in my care. But how could it be otherwise?"
"You are a master of hypnotism and skilled in medical science." As he lifted his head she made an impatient gesture. "Don't bother to deny it. I've had you watched and know of your work among the poor. The medications you give them, the operations you perform, the manner in which you eradicate pain."
"Herbs," he said gently. "The lancing of boils and the setting of broken limbs. A little suggestion-there is nothing harmful in that, my lady."
"Did I say there was? Am I even blaming you? I'd hoped-God, how I'd hoped-but never mind." She drew in her breath, accepting what she could not avoid, another failure to add to the rest. "Your work is done here. You may go."
Brother Remick said, "Before I do, my lady. May I have a word?"
"Well?"
"You asked too much of my poor skill. How could I hope to succeed where others have failed. And there have been others? Men trained in the field of mental sickness?"
Men and women both and all demanding high rewards for accomplishing nothing. As she had expected the monk to make a demand. As he still might make it.
"Yes," she admitted. "So?"
"Let others make the attempt. We have those in the Church more skilled than myself. If you could arrange passage I am confident that some progress could be made."
"Passage? To where?"
To Hope, she assumed, where the Church had their headquarters or to Pace where they had their great medical establishment. She blinked at the answer.
"To Elysium, my lady. A world not too distant from Esslin."
"And the cost?"
Again he surprised her. "The cost of the journey naturally, but once on Elysium there will be no charge. You will merely donate what you wish to give." He added quietly, "If you were sick, dying of a malignancy which could be cured, would you appreciate your life being set in the scales against what you owned? Or if one dear to you were ill would you thank those who refused to cure her because you could not afford to meet their fees?"
"Charity?" Her laugh was strained. "You believe in charity?"
"We believe in doing to others as we would like them to do to us. You may have heard that before, my lady. It is known as the Golden Rule."
Was he rebuking her? For a moment she suspected it then recognized the ridiculousness of the suspicion. On this world no man, not even a monk, could have been such a fool.
"My lady, you summoned me and I came and did what I could, for we of the Church never refuse any in need. Now you have given me leave to go. Before I do may I crave a boon?"
The reward he wanted-what would it be? Cynicism sharpened her tones.
"You disappoint me, monk. For once I had hoped to have found a man who practiced what he preached. One willing to give without demanding a return. Well, what do you want? Money?"
"Permission, my lady." Startled, she heard him press on. "Your permission to set up the Church at the edge of the field. Twice we have tried and each time the guards have thrown it down. Brother Juba was injured the last time and Brother Echo is tending him at this moment. Both are old."
"And?" She waited for him to continue. Some comforts for his companions, surely. If he called them old they must be almost doddering. What brought men like that to share such poverty? "Speak, man," she demanded. "What else?"
"Nothing, my lady."
"Nothing?" She gave a curt laugh. "Just my permission to set up your church? You have it. A hundred square yards- not closer than the same distance from the gate."
The reward of failure. How would Gustav take it? She must go to him at once.
He was within his study, seated at his desk, busy with a litter of papers, old books, mouldering tomes from a host of worlds brought by traders who knew of his interest. For a moment she stood watching him from the open door then, as if sensing her presence, he turned and rose to face her.
"Kathryn!"
He gave his usual, impeccable bow, a gesture which was as much a part of him as the trick he had of touching his left eyebrow when mastering his anger. A thing she had not seen since the fool from Elkan had given his verdict and made his suggestion. She wondered if his back still bore the scars she had ordered to be placed there.
"Gustav!" She lifted her hands as he advanced and smiled as he took them and lifted them to his lips. A smile which vanished as he looked at her. "No, my dear. Again-no!"
She felt him near her, his arms around her, all protocol forgotten in this moment of her need. A weakness, no Matriarch could ever lean on another, but it was good to know that she was not alone, that there was another to share her grief, her empty yearning. And he had the right. Of all men he had the right.