“Good news, my friend,” Himerius said, mastering himself. He was once more the sober cleric, weighed down with dignity and gravitas. “The courier came from Alstadt. It would seem that our devoted son of the Church, King Haukir of Almark, has died at last, may the Saints receive his flitting soul into their bosoms. This pious king, this paragon of dutiful faith, has left his kingdom to the Church.”
Betanza gaped. “You’re sure?”
“The courier carried a missive from Prelate Marat of Almark. He has been named regent of the kingdom until such time as I see fit to organize its governance. Almark is ours, Betanza.”
“What of the nobles? Have they aught to say about it?”
“They will acquiesce. They must. Almark has a strong contingent of the Knights Militant in its capital, and the Royal armies are for the most part billeted further east, along the line of the Saeroth river. Almark is ours, truly.”
“They say that events of moment are like nodes of history,” Betanza mused. “Where one occurs, others are likely to happen at the same time, sometimes in the same place. You may face these Fimbrians with new confidence, Holiness. The timing could not have been more opportune.”
“Precisely. It is why I will receive them now, though it is so late. I want the news to be a shock to them.”
“What do you think they want?”
“What does anyone these days? The Church owns Almark, it controls Hebrion. It has become an empire. Accommodation must be sought with it. I have no doubt that these Fimbrians are come to test the waters of diplomatic exchange. The old imperial power is bending in the new wind. Come: we will go down and meet them together.”
The Pontifical reception hall was full of shadows. Torches burned in cressets along the walls, and glowing braziers had been brought in to stand around the dais whereon rested the Pontiff’s throne. Knights Militant stood like graven monuments every ten paces along the walls, blinking themselves awake and stiffening the moment the Pontiff entered and sat himself down. Betanza remained standing at his right hand, and a pair of scribes huddled in their dark robes like puddles of ebony ink at the foot of the dais, quills erect. To one side Rogien, the old Inceptine who was also the manager of the Pontifical court, stood ready, his bare scalp gleaming in the torchlight.
The Fimbrians had to walk the length of the flame-and-shadowed hall, their boots clumping on the basalt floor. Four of them, all in black, except for the scarlet sash that one wore about his waist.
Hard-faced men, wind-burn rouging their cheeks and foreheads, their hair cropped as short as the mane of a hogged horse. They bore no weapons, but the Knights who lined the walls on either side of them watched them intently and warily with fists clenched on sword-hilts.
“Barbius of Neyr, marshal and commander in the Fimbrian army,” Rogien announced in a voice of brass.
Barbius inclined his head to Himerius. Fimbrians did not bend the knee to anyone save their emperor. Himerius knew this, yet the slight bow had so much of contempt in it that he shifted in his throne, his liver-spotted hands tightening on the armrests.
“Barbius of the electorate of Neyr, you are welcome in Charibon,” the Pontiff said calmly. “The urgency of your errand is written in your face and those of your companions, and so we have deigned to grant you an audience despite the lateness of the hour. Quarters appropriate for your rank have been set aside for you and your comrades, and as soon as the audience is over there will be food and drink served to help sustain the flagging spirit.”
Barbius made the slight bow again in acknowledgement of this graciousness. His voice when he spoke was the grate of sliding rock to Himerius’ deep music.
“I thank His Holiness for his hospitality, but am grieved to say that I shall not be able to take advantage of it. I and my men are in haste: the main body of our force is encamped some five leagues from here and we hope to rejoin them ere the morning.”
“Main body?” Himerius repeated.
“Yes, Holiness. I am here to reassure you that the troops under my command bear the monastery-city nothing but goodwill, and you need not fear—nor need Almark fear—any rapine on their behalf. We are merely passing through, obeying the orders of the Electors.”
“I don’t understand. Are you not an embassy come from the electorates?” Himerius asked.
“No, Holiness. I am merely the commander of an eastwardbound Fimbrian army come to pay my respects.”
The statement fell in the room like a thunderclap.
“A Fimbrian army is encamped five leagues from Charibon?” Betanza said, incredulous.
“Yes, excellency.”
“Whither are you bound?” Himerius inquired, and the music was gone from his voice. He sounded as hoarse as an old crow.
“We are bound for the relief of Ormann Dyke.”
“At whose behest?”
“I am ordered by my superiors, the Electors of Fimbria.”
“But who has asked for your help? Lofantyr the heretic? It must be.”
Barbius shrugged, his red-gold moustache concealing any expression his mouth might have conveyed. His eyes were as flat and hard as sea ice. “I am only following orders, Holiness. It is not for me to question the doings of high policy.”
“Do you realize you are imperilling your immortal soul by succouring a heretic who has repudiated the validity of the holy Church?” Himerius snapped.
“As I said, Holiness, I am merely a soldier obeying orders. If I do not obey them my life is forfeit. I called in on you here as a courtesy, to ask your blessing.”
“You march to the aid of he who shields the heresiarch of the west, and you ask my blessing?” Himerius said.
“My army marches east to stem the Merduk invasion. It is performing a service for every kingdom in the west, be they Himerian or Macrobian,” Barbius said. “I ask you, Holiness, to look on it in that light. The dyke will fall in the spring if my forces do not reinforce it, and the Merduks will be hammering at the gates of Charibon within a year. It may be that King Lofantyr is paying our wages, but the service we render is of value to every free man in Normannia.”
Himerius was silent, thinking. It was Betanza who spoke next.
“So you are mercenaries, you Fimbrians. You hire yourselves out to kings in need and fight for the gold in their coffers. What if the Merduk sultans offered you a greater wage than the western kings, Marshal? Would you then fight under the banners of the Prophet?”
For the first time, emotion crossed the face of the Fimbrian marshal. His eyes flared and he took one step forward, which made every guard in the chamber tense on the balls of his feet.
“Who built Charibon?” he asked. “Who founded Aekir and hollowed out Ormann Dyke and reared up the great moles of Abrusio Harbour? My people did. For centuries the Fimbrians were the buckler behind which the people of the west sheltered from the steppe hordes, the horse-tribes, the Merduk thousands. The Fimbrians made the western world what it is. You think we would betray the heritage of our forefathers, the legacy of our empire? Never! Once again we are in the foremost rank of those defending it. All we ask”—and here the marshal’s tone softened—“is that you do not see our reinforcing of the dyke as an assault on the Himerian Church. We intend no heresy, and would keep on good terms with Charibon if we could.”
Himerius rose and lifted his hand. The torchlight made his face into an eagle mask, eyes glittering blackly on either side of the aquiline nose.
“You have our blessing then, Marshal Barbius of Neyr. May your arms shine with glory, and may you hurl the Merduk heathen back from the gates of the west.”
“W HY did you do it?” Betanza demanded. “Why did you legitimize the farming out of Fimbrian troops to heretics? It is senseless!”