The cells beneath the Great Temple had never been designed for comfort. Normally, the big bronze doors were left open, since the cells were designed for the penitential prayers of erring acolytes, but if it was necessary to close the doors, it could be done.
They were closed now, all of them. The Hundred Men had been jammed in, four to a cell, but Kris had been given a cell all to himself.
After a day and a half in the bowels of the Temple since the unexpected ambush in the Square of Holy Light, Kris was both miserable and furious. He had had no food, no one to talk to, not even a decent place to stretch his long legs.
The air in the cell seemed to be about half water vapor; the walls, although only slightly cooler than the steaming atmosphere, were dripping with condensation. A stream of tepid water poured out of a small pipe in the back of the cell and splashed endlessly into an open hole below it, thus providing both drinking water and sewage disposal. From above, a dim light filtered down through the tube, and only at midday was there enough light. The chimney was slanted at just the right angle to allow the Great Light to hit the floor at midday, so that praying acolytes who occupied the cell might make their proper devotions.
Kris shook his head at the thought of acolytes praying down here. How anyone could bring himself to stay in this dank place voluntarily was beyond him.
"Guard! Guard! Get me some food!"
His voice echoed down into the distance, but no one came. He had scarcely expected anyone, but he was determined to let them know from time to time that he was still down there and angry about it.
But if he was uncomfortable, what must the Hundred be suffering, jammed as they were four to a cell? Kris had no way of knowing; the walls were so thick that no sound had come to him in a day and a half.
He whacked his fist against the bronze door and roared again. "Are you leaving me to rot down here?"
This time, there was a sound in response—a scraping at the door that indicated that the bar was being raised. Then the door swung open. Air that was relatively fresh drifted in.
"It's about time," Kris snapped.
He watched as two rifle-bearing acolytes filed into the cell. Behind them came a third man, a young priest with a cast in one eye and a look of almost intolerable arrogance about his face.
"Where's my food?" Kris demanded.
The priest chuckled. "Food? Hah!"
The three stared menacingly at him, and for just an instant Kris thought they were going to execute him on the spot, without even the formality of a trial.
Then the priest gestured and said, "Come along, devil. The judges are waiting."
Kris hung back. "Am I to be tried?"
"It's the custom, before a blasphemer is stoned," the priest replied evenly. "Come, now."
The acolytes seized him roughly by the arms and pushed him to the door. They were small men, and ordinarily he could have flicked them away with two swipes of his hands. But they were armed, and there was little sense resisting. Even if he got away from these three, he'd never find his way out of the Temple alive.
Kris marched ahead of them, down a long, clammy-walled corridor, toward the steep, narrow stairway which led up to the Temple itself. For a while, he nursed the idea of running up the steps and getting away, but he realized that the men behind him could hardly miss, at this range.
As he started up the steps, he saw that they had been thinking a step ahead of him. Another acolyte stood at the top of the stairs, holding one of the three-foot peych-knives that had been taken from his men. Even if the rifles had missed, he would never have gotten past that.
His face was unsmiling and hard as he strode down the upper corridor toward the main auditorium. Somewhere in the background, a bell was tolling solemnly. He didn't like the sound of that.
Once, when he was eight, he had attended a Passing Service in the Temple. It was a mass service, for those killed in the rioting after the Peych Panic, and among those dead had been Kris' parents. He remembered the awe-inspiring solemnity of that service, the far-off shuddering of the great Temple gong and the low, constant murmur of priestly voices. It seemed to him now that he was marching steadily forward toward his own Passing Service, and the thought was not a cheering one.
He entered the auditorium. As he stepped over the threshold, a ringing voice cried, "Stand where you are!"
Kris stopped and looked up. On a dais at the front of the auditorium, the Council of Elders was arrayed in full panoply; sixteen stern faces glared coldly at him. Along the sides of the auditorium was an assemblage of priests, their blue tunics forming a solid wall down either side of the auditorium. In the center, a small, probably highly select, group of layman sat quietly.
Two small platforms had been erected at opposite ends of the auditorium, and a fierce light played down from above on each—not the Great Light, but an artificial illumination which hurt Kris' eyes.
One of the platforms was already occupied. A man stood bathed in light, arms folded, staring belligerently at Kris. Kris wrinkled his forehead, wondering where he had seen the man before.
On the platform, old Kiv pointed to Kris peKym.
"Show the blasphemer to his station!"
Guards and acolytes bustled around behind Kris, pushing him to the unoccupied platform. He ascended it and stood there, blinking in the harsh light.
"The trial shall now begin," Kiv said.
"Hold it!" Kris said loudly. His voice sounded harsh in his own ears. "Where are my men?"
"Your men are below," said the Elder Grandfather. "It is awkward to have all of them here at once— so you shall stand proxy for all!"
"I see. How convenient."
The Elder Yorgen stepped forward on the platform and delivered a long, rambling, and extremely solemn invocation. Kris listened to only the first few words, then let his attention drift away. He'd heard enough such speeches to know their general tenor.
The matter at hand was serious, though. He was in Grandfather Kiv's hands—and, battered as the Priesthood was, it could still muster enough strength to stone a hundred men quickly and quietly, before the populace knew exactly what was happening. The transition from adored hero to revered martyr would be a quick one.
Kris frowned. Had sacking Bel-rogas been a mistake? No. The School had to be destroyed.
But could they try him for it? Was there any proof that he, Kris peKym Yorgen, had actually led the onslaught? In truth, he hadn't—he'd merely brought the people there and shown them the buried money.
They had done the rest unbidden.
And this business of proving that Kris had planted the money at Bel-rogas. Could it be done? Kris knew his men were loyal; none would testify against him. In any event, the accusation was too fantastic to be credible, even though it happened to be true.
Then he stiffened. Did the Elders need proof? All they had to do was to put up a reasonably convincing prosecution and hustle Kris off the scene quickly. They could do to Kris what Kris had done to the School— squash first, answer questions later. Come what may, there was no more School now. Perhaps the Elders were figuring the same way—come what may, at the end of the trial there would be no more Kris peKym.
"The trial will now proceed," Grandfather Kiv said suddenly. Kris snapped his head up. "We charge you, Kris peKym of the Clan Yorgen, of blasphemy, murder, and sacrilege! How do you answer this charge?"
"I answer that the charge is false!" Kris declared. "Totally false!"
"We shall see," Grandfather Kiv said. "Let us hear the witness."
A priest came forward to the other small platform, stood in the glare of the light, and recited something to the mysteriously familiar man who stood there. The witness for the prosecution, Kris thought. Who is he?