At his side Zehava said, "Look at them, Earl. Ready for anything. They'll go wherever you want. Do anything you order. Why not help me make the final decision?"
"The Council gave you that job. You know these people better than I do. Just avoid selecting hotheads. We want no trouble."
"You or Nadine? Why take her? She's paranoid."
"She comes with us," he said flatly. "Nigel too." The young man could be a potential ally. He pointed at a man on the field. One going through the movements of unarmed combat. "What about him?"
"Atsuo? He's good but getting slow." Stubbornly she added, "I still can't see why you want to take Nadine."
Dumarest ignored her objection, concentrating on those busy at exercise. Zehava had assumed too much. She believed they would follow him without question, but he knew better. Killing Toibin had won him a certain respect, but it wasn't enough. To gain rank and loyalty he needed to prove himself in a manner they would accept, yet do it in a way which would not injure their pride.
He had made his choice. A sharp rattle of shots made it easy for him to close in on his selected target. "Automatic fire?"
"That's Nowka. He's fast and accurate. Come and watch."
Targets had been set up at the edge of the field. A dozen, man-sized silhouettes balanced to fall at the impact of a bullet. A man stood facing them, a stubby weapon cradled in his arms. Others clustered behind him, among them a girl with braided hair with a chronometer in her hand. As she called the signal Nowka fired, crouching, twisting as he emptied the magazine. Half the targets toppled to the dirt.
As the applause died Zehava said, "See? I told you he was good."
By her definition and those watching but Dumarest had other standards. Joining the group he said to the man with the gun, "That's a fine weapon. May I see it?"
It was simple, but effective, designed for hard wear. A short-range weapon favored by mercenaries for street and house fighting. The magazine held thirty cartridges. A stud determined the style of fire.
"I've smoothed and polished the action," explained the owner. He was hard, brash, in his early twenties. He wore the ubiquitous martial garb and the weapon had been personalized with engraving and brilliant stones. "I can clear the load in less than four seconds."
"So I noticed."
"You don't approve?"
Dumarest said, dryly, "It seems to me that if you hit the target with the first shot the rest aren't necessary. Use them all and you could be in trouble."
"Meaning?"
"Think about it." Dumarest looked at the targets, noting their distance, the way they had been grouped. The space between them was too great for effective sweep-fire. "Anyone can shoot at things which can't hit back, but suppose those targets were a real enemy? Armed men ready and able to kill. What then?"
"I'll show you." Nowka snatched back the gun and rammed home a fresh magazine. "Give the word, Kathi." He bettered his previous performance sending nine targets to the ground.
As he lowered the gun and turned, smiling, Dumarest said, "Well? What do you do now?"
"What are you getting at?"
"They are the enemy." Dumarest pointed at the targets still standing. "You've just shot down their comrades. Your gun is empty. You're at their mercy. If you're lucky they'll give you a quick death."
"Could you do better?"
"I think so."
"Let's see you do it." Nowka added, "If you've the guts to bet I'll lay a thousand you can't beat my score."
"Load the gun." Dumarest took it, checked the action, set the stud for single fire. To those watching he said, "Just shooting at targets doesn't teach you much more than how to aim your weapon. To improve the skill which could save your life you need to use intelligence and imagination. Think of those targets as enemy soldiers on patrol, alert to catch any hint of movement, primed to open fire in triggered reflex. If you attacked and gave them the slightest chance then, no matter how good you are at hitting targets, you're dead. Dead," he repeated. "Useless. To me. The expedition. Your comrades."
"The talk of a coward," sneered Nowka. "You can only die once. What matter how as long as it's done with honor? Toibin knew that. He never hesitated to take a risk. Not even when it came to fighting a man trained in the arena."
"It was his choice," said Dumarest. "As making that wager was yours." He turned to face the targets. "Kathi!"
He opened fire as the girl gave the signal, moving and firing in a blur of coordinated movement, the sound of the shots blending into one.
As the last target fell Kathi said, her voice high,
"That's perfect! They never knew what hit them! They were dead before they hit the ground! They -" She broke off, recognizing the false reality induced by the demonstration.
Then, defiantly, she added, "I've never seen anyone move so fast or shoot as straight. Right, Nowka?"
He glared his rage. "I'll take the gun!"
It still held a third of its load. Dumarest emptied it, working the action to spill the cartridges on the ground before throwing it into the extended palm.
The last of the suppliants had gone, the benediction light now dark, the interior of the church a place of shadowed gloom. Brother Weyer rose, stretching, feeling old muscles register their protest, old sinews making their complaint. It had been a long session, but now it was over and he could relax. He stepped from the chair and out of the enclosed space where tormented souls had found comfort and forgiveness. A bolt rolled beneath his sandal and he staggered and almost fell, conscious of the sudden pain around his heart. An accident and a warning, but the fault was equally his. Knowing of the danger he should have carried a light. Certainly he needed to avoid stress.
Outside he leaned against a stanchion and looked at the sky. The Lonagar Drift burned in an awesome splendor, its light silvering the bulk of the newly constructed church, shadowing the materials lying bulked within. Soon now the task would be completed, the debris cleared away and the church once again would dominate the area.
Until some fool would amuse himself and all would have to be done again.
A bad thought and Weyer dismissed it. To anticipate disaster was to invite it and to stand in judgement on others was to ape divinity. It was not for him to determine how others should lead their lives. Instead he listened to the noises of the night. Distant laughter, metallic clangings from the field, the working chant of teams of ganni blending with the soft keening of those mourningtheirdead.Loudersounds swamped the others; a formless yammering stemming from a dozen throats, the noise quelled by a sudden blast of searing anger.
"Shut up, damn you! The Council made the selection! You'll abide by it! And remember – stowaways will be evicted!"
Dumarest and, from the sound of him, at the end of his patience. Weyer lifted a hand in greeting as he came forward in the starlight.
"Welcome. You look as if you could use a drink. I have some wine inside. Would you care to share it?"
Dumarest followed the monk into the church. A lantern glowed into life at his touch, yellow light illuminating a closed area holding a cot, a table, chairs, a cabinet of charred wood. From it Weyer produced a bottle and goblets.
"Some food?"
"Just the wine."
It was better than he'd expected and the monk smiled as he refilled the goblet. "A gift from the one of the Kaldari," he explained. "A lady we were able to comfort. In return we gained her gratitude."
"A rare achievement," said Dumarest. He sipped at his wine. "You sent a message. It sounded urgent. You want to see me. Why?"
"It was good of you to come. You must be very busy."
"Completing final checks," agreed Dumarest. "We leave at dawn. What is it you want? A berth? I can arrange it if you wish."