"What's a clottin' bayonet?" another voice asked.
"Y'dinnae need to know. Jus' keepit silent an' list'n. So this braw Brit sol'jer goes chargint opp yon hill. An' in a wee second, his head come bumpit. bumpit. bumpit back down.
"An' then yon giant skreekit e'em louder. 'Ah'm Red Rory ae th' Glen! Send opp your best squad!'
"Ah the Brit gen'ral, who's turnit purple, sae, 'Adj'tant! Ah wan' that mon's head! Send opp y'best squad.' An' th' adj'tant sae
'Sah!' an' opp go thae regiment's best fightin' squad.'"
And Sten, wondering if he'd ever hear the end of the Red Rory saga, walked into the bar.
Alex saw him. read the expression, and grunted to the two totally swacked guardsmen who were pinned against the wall by the table. "Ah gie y' a wee bit more ed'cation some other time. Be on wi' ye. lads."
He pulled back the table, and, relieved, the two guardsmen stumbled away. Sten slid into an empty chair.
"Gie me th' worst, lad. An kin handl't."
And Sten repeated Mahoney's briefing, the anti-tap pak on his belt turned up to high.
"Ah wae wrong! Ah noo can handl't,'.' Alex moaned. He was even too depressed to order more quill.
"Whae m'mither sae i' she findit out Ah been cashier'l frae th' Guard?"
"It's just a cover, dammit. Your mother'll never hear."
"Y'dinnae ken m'mither." Alex groaned. "Ah whae y'be't, lad, if Ah'm a busted-out Guards RSM?"
"Obvious. I would like you to meet ex-Captain Sten, Third Guards, decorated, wounded, mentioned in dispatches, and cashiered for committing nameless atrocities."
Alex groaned again, brought a paw out in what Sten thought would be mock-salute, and turned into a grab for Sten's mug.
"Ah knewit, Ah should'a stayed Laird Kilgour." He sighed.
CHAPTER NINE
ACCORDING TO CHURCH dogma, Talamein had ordered his fleet of emigres to set down on Sanctus because a vision told him that the waterworld was particularly blessed by the spirit of the cosmos.
Actually. Talamein had diverted for the first E-normal world that swam onto the scopes since he was faced with near-mutiny and his people were developing a moderate case of the cobblies.
Sanctus had one major city—the City of Tombs—a few minor fishing villages, one minor port, and hundreds of villages. Its population was composed of those in the theocracy, those who exploited the pilgrims to the World of Talamein, and peasants—fisherfolk or farmers.
And Sten.
He shifted uncomfortably on the stone bench and massaged the stiff place in his neck. A cold breath of air needled his spine. The Prophet's guardsman eyed Sten just as coldly as the breeze caressing his spine. Sten grinned at him and the guard turned away.
He had been sitting on that bench for three hours, but patience was a virtue learned quickly on Sanctus. Especially in the City of Tombs, with its drab bureaucratic priests, massive monuments to the long-dead, and ghostly cold spots.
Not exactly soft duty, Mahoney, Sten thought, looking around the ancient anteroom in pure boredom. Like everything else in the City of Tombs, it was constructed of yellowing stone that had once been white. The chamber was enormous, decorated here and there with chiseled faces, gilded statuary, and elaborate tapestries.
And the room was thick with the scent of incense.
But like everything else on Sanctus, everything in the room was worn and threadbare. The tapestry had been torn and then mended, the gilded figures chipped.
Even the guard, with his ceremonial halberd and unceremonial projectile weapon, was threadbare, his uniform far from clean and patched many times.
Sten, on the other hand, wore the brown undress of the Guards division, his chest hung with the decorations he and Mahoney had decided were appropriate. Conspicuously absent was a Guards Division patch on the sleeve—but there was a dark patch where it might have been ripped off following a court-martial. He stood out in the poverty that was Sanctus.
Money was the number-one problem on the World of Talamein, far more important than the state of a being's soul. Bribery, Sten had learned, was a surer path to salvation than prayer.
Fortunately, Mahoney had supplied Sten with more than enough credits. He had already been a week on Sanctus, humbly seeking an audience with Theodomir the Prophet, but it had taken awhile to grease his way up the chain of command.
A helluva way to run a religion, Sten thought.
He had paid a last big bribe the day before to purchase a bishop. So far the bishop had kept his promises.
Sten had been ushered through the streets of the "awesome" City of Tombs, with its vast monuments and towering chimney-like torches. A few of the torches spouted huge columns of flame. They were turned on, like fiery praywheels, when the 'families of the very rich made their offerings for the recently departed.
To Sten, the city looked like a huge valley of factories in mourning.
Sten eased himself down the bench another half meter to escape the cold. Besides the tawdriness of the place, the cold spots were one of the first things Sten noticed. They seemed to be scattered all through the long hallways and chambers, rising strangely from seemingly solid stone. Careful, Sten warned himself, or pretty soon you'll start seeing Talamein ghosts.
He heard a click click click in the distance and looked up just as the guard snapped to attention. The clicking footsteps stopped for a moment, and then a huge door boomed open. And Sten rose to greet the man his bribe had bought.
"Welcome. Welcome to Sanctus."
And Mathias, son of the Prophet, strode over to greet Sten.
Even though Sten had studied his fiche, Mathias' appearance was a surprise. In a world of fishbelly-pale ascetics, the tall young man had the ruddy look of an outdoorsman. He wore an unadorned red uniform that smacked more of the military than the priesthood.
And, more interestingly, he greeted Sten with the palm-out gesture of equal meeting equal.
Sten hesitated, then muttered the proper greetings, trying to get a measure of the young man, as he found himself taken by the arm and escorted down a long, dark hallway.
"My father is most anxious to meet you," Mathias said. "We have heard much of you."
Of me and my money, Sten thought a little cynically.
"Why did you not approach us straightaway? The Faith of Talamein is most ready to accommodate a man of your... abilities."
Sten mumbled an excuse about wanting to look around Mathias' delightful city.
"Still. You should have come direct to the palace. To me. I have been hoping to meet a man such as yourself."
It occurred to Sten that Mathias meant what he was saying and, possibly, knew nothing about how one bribed one's way into the Presence.
"I hope my father and yourself reach an—an understanding,"
Mathias said.
"As do I."
"Perhaps... if such is the case... you will find time to meet some of my Companions. My friends."
"That would be interesting," Sten said. Prayer meetings! The things a man must do to kick over a dictatorship.
Mathias suddenly smiled, warmly, humanly. "I suspect you are thinking my friends sit around by the hour and drone from the Book of Talamein?"
Sten looked away.
"We are familiar with the words of the Prophet. But we find our faith is... best realized... away from the cities. Trying to teach ourselves the skills that Talamein used to find freedom.
Nothing professional, of course. But perhaps you might offer us some pointers."
He stopped as they stopped at the end of the corridor, and the double doors thundered open.
And Sten found himself standing in what could only be described as a throne room. Threadbare, for sure, but a throne room just the same. Here the tapestries were much thicker and (originally) richer. And it was crammed with statuary. And at the far end, nestled in thick pillows on a huge stone chair, was Theodomir, the Prophet. Behind him was a huge vidmap of the waterworld that was Sanctus. With the single island continent that was the Talamein Holy of Holies. A large ruby glow lit the location of the City of Tombs. The picture was framed by two immense torches—the cleansing symbol of the religion.