"They probably did—but after five hundred years of intermarriage, I would expect their genes to be so thoroughly dispersed among the population that they wouldn't show much. May I ask why Father Al didn't come himself?"
"Because there was no cause for concern."
"No cause … !"
"None that we knew of at the time." The monk raised a hand, palm out. "It was simply good luck that I happened to arrive at a time when I could be of use. Father Aloysius Uwell sends his regards, of course, but didn't know there was any particular reason for him to come himself."
"Well, I'm glad to hear he's well, at least," Rod sighed. "So he didn't have a hunch about things going wrong here on Gramarye?"
"Not in this case. I am not here in response to any emergency, Commander Gallowglass…"
It had been long years since anyone had called Rod by his military title. It felt odd, somehow—strangely ill-fitting.
"… nor to any concern of the Vatican's. I am only here out of scholarly interest."
Rod couldn't dispute anyone else's right to visit the planet—after all, it wasn't his personal property. Nonetheless, he said, "I would have appreciated your checking in with me, Father—just as a matter of courtesy, if nothing else. I do have some concern about who's visiting and who isn't."
"I understand, Lord Warlock—and my apologies for not having contacted you immediately. I had intended to, but had scarcely acclimatized myself before the Abbot asked me to attend to this little problem that has come up."
"Scarcely 'little'—it's one of the larger threats I've seen. I hope that means you'll be able to take care of it easily?"
"Sadly, no—I am an excellent scholar, but not terribly able as an engineer."
Rod had heard the same thing before, from men who had moved mountains with little help—or asteroids, at least, which could be classified as flying mountains. "How are you on R&D?"
"Research and development? Oh, I'm quite able—as long as I have a laboratory assistant." He nodded toward Brother Dorian. "This young fellow seems very competent. He's Gramarye-born, by the way."
"That's reassuring. Should I interpret this to mean that the Abbot gave you a local guide, but expects you to solve the problem?"
"Oh, no! Brother Dorian is much more than a guide. He is quite talented, and very skilled for so young a man."
Rod noticed who was left solving the problem, though. "Skilled in what area?"
"As a musician. And a projective."
"Oh." Rod left his lips in the form of the letter. He glanced at the younger monk, chatting amiably with Gregory and Cordelia. "Isn't music a little—odd, for an engineer?"
"Not entirely, when you consider that he is continually trying to learn more about the interrelationships between psionic powers and music."
Insight exploded in Rod's mind. "Perfect combination, in light of the current crisis. But everybody thought what he was doing was pure research, without any practical application?"
"Oh, it was—until now."
"Yes, of course." Rod nodded. "As soon as you find some use for it, you stop calling it pure research. Might I infer, Father, that his interest is in some way allied to your own?"
"Quite accurately." The black man smiled. "I trained as an electrical engineer and managed to make a living designing musical intruments. But the more heavily involved I became, the more I realized that the computer programs involved might bear some resemblance to the musician's mental processes—and the more deeply I delved into that, the more I became convinced that musical talent had some kinship to psionic talent. Then, of course, I began speculating on the nature of talent—which led me to my vocation, and the Order."
"Of course." Actually, Rod didn't really see any link between talent and religion, but he wasn't about to open that topic just then. "So your research led you to Gramarye."
"To the only pool of operant espers in known space, yes—and I seem to have arrived at the ideal time for my researches."
"Ideal for us, too. When this is all over, I'll have to introduce you to Ari the Crafter—but only if you promise not to try to lock him up in a laboratory."
"The man who made these musical rocks? Excellent! But in the meantime, I think we have to deal with people whose talents may be exceptional, but are devoted to using mtfsic rather than making it."
"You mean they want to make a living from music, but don't want to go to the trouble of learning how to play?"
"I see you're familiar with the syndrome. Yes, the idea seems to be that if you have the talent, you don't need to learn anything—it will all come naturally, without any effort. It doesn't, of course—and in their disappointment, the young hopefuls become cynics, seeking to exploit those who have taken the time and trouble to learn how to play."
"And you think we're facing such a person?"
"It is possible. Certainly the young woman—excuse me, she might not be young, might she?—the woman, this Ubu Mare I've heard of, seeks to use music to gain power and status, not for the sheer exhilaration of it."
"She's getting something out of it, that's for certain—and doesn't mind who gets hurt in the process."
"Ever the way of them." Father Thelonius sighed, shaking his head. "We have known them for a long time, Lord Warlock—the vampires who batten on people's souls, who drain the joys and hopes of youth as Dracula drained the heart's blood, leaving only dessicated carcasses behind. We have fought them, they who seek to grow rich from works that should be freegiven, since Philip the Deacon turned the people of Samaria away from the sorcerer. We have protected the weak and gullible from these wolves for three millenia and more, and we will protect them now."
"Then we'd better hurry," Rod told him, "because the wolves are coming in packs these days."
"Haven't they always?" Father Thelonius flashed him a smile. "Be of good cheer, Lord Warlock—vampires thrive by night, but we bring the sun."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Brother Dorian said, "It cannot be much farther now, for I do sense such a morass of psi power about me that I feel as though I wade."
"Morass of psi?" Rod looked up in surprise. "I thought it was the music!"
"Mayhap 'tis psi power reflected through the music-rocks," Gregory suggested.
Rod stared at him. "A field of psi power that's active even though it's separated from the crafter who began it? I never heard of such a thing!"
"That will not prevent it from being invented, Papa," Cordelia pointed out.
"No, apparently not," Rod said, feeling numb.
"What are these music-rocks, if not just such an invention, husband?" Gwen said gently.
"Yes," Rod acknowledged. "It does make sense, doesn't it? Sorry to be the slow one in the family."
"Thou art not." Gwen squeezed his arm. "None of us could have seen it, plain though it was, had it not been for these good friars."
"And for thy bauble, Papa," Gregory piped up.
"Why, yes," Rod said, feeling stunned, "that was kind of the main clue, wasn't it?" Then he snapped out of his mental fog. "No, it wasn't! That's technology, not magic!"
Gwen only raised her eyebrows.
"I know, I know," Rod conceded. "Don't say it."
"Father," Cordelia said to Thelonius, "if the Judas priest sought to mislead us—where was't he sought to mislead us to?"
"Aye," added Magnus, "and wherefore?"
Father Thelonius shook his head. "I can but conjecture, children."
"Then do," Gregory urged.
The monk sighed. "I fear he meant to lead thee into bondage, to enslave thee to the sorcerer who hath gained dominion over this fall of rock."
"For what purpose?" Cordelia asked.