And he knew, as soon as he hobbled out behind Socia, into that hall where she decided who owed what to whom, and who the chicken belonged to if it laid eggs somewhere other than in its proper coop …
The logic people brought to these sessions boggled a rational mind.
He knew the news had raced around the city, growing fat on the popular imagination. Everyone became nervous when they looked at him-Bishop LaVelle being a serious exception.
The Bishop lived life in an alternate reality.
Brother Candle wanted to cringe away from people who looked at him the way they looked at Bernardin about to go on a rampage.
The assizes started as they always did, with stupid arguments that had no business being brought before the Countess. All three cases should have been handled at the neighborhood level.
The Perfect leaned down to one of three scribes recording the proceedings. (Three because one could not scribble fast enough by himself. The trio would later unify their notes into an official transcript.) “Tomorrow. Noon. In this hall. I want every justice of the peace and local magistrate. No excuses. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Scribble scribble. “It shall be done.” So this was what power felt like.
Better get shot as soon as he could. Even this small taste was seductive. What wonders might he perform if no one dared deny him!
The cases were the usual nonsense. Bishop LaVelle’s matter was not unusual, either. He was so confident of the righteousness of his Church’s doctrine that he argued that it should be the basis of all civil law. At the moment he had a problem with fines levied on a church that had granted sanctuary to three brothers convicted of multiple murders, arguing that the killings could not be considered crimes because they had been done on behalf of the Church.
The brothers belonged to the Society.
Though LaVelle was frustrating he remained untouched. He was the least villainous bishop in living memory.
“Your time is nearly up, Bishop,” Socia said. “Your petition says nothing about these matters. Are you here to present a false case?”
False case meant a case sneaked into proceedings without prior warning, not a case based on lies or deception. Those were part of all trials.
This time the Countess allowed some leeway. Complaining publicly filled the Bishop’s need to do something. He stirred no trouble elsewhere while he was free to vent in court.
“My heartfelt apologies, Ladyship. Again I let myself drift from the critical subject. I meant to protest the vandalism in the churches.”
“Vandalism?”
“Yes, Ladyship.”
“You have two more minutes. Don’t waste them. Vandalizing a sacred place is something I won’t tolerate. Speak.”
The Bishop did so but failed to articulate clearly the reasons for his distress.
Socia said, “We’ve heard all this before. That isn’t vandalism. You haven’t identified any actual damage. As the Church reminds me frequently, sacred matters are none of my business. But I will, for thoroughness’s sake, ask: what did you think I could do to help?”
Bishop LaVelle had no answer.
“All you do is register complaints. Bring specifics. What happened? Where did it happen? How do you know it happened? None of this vague, ‘it doesn’t feel right anymore’ stuff. Do you understand?”
The Churchman filled with new hope simply because Socia had listened and given instructions.
Clever girl, she said nothing that LaVelle could not have worked out for himself.
The bailiffs brought the next matter forward, a classic concerning the ownership of almonds fallen from branches extending over a fence.
* * *
Bernardin said, “I need you to come with me, Master.”
“Where? Why? For what?”
“We’re going church hopping to see why the Bishop is upset.”
“All right.” Though he felt uncomfortable leaving the citadel. He might run into somebody whose enmity would waken his serpents. “Have your tattoos done anything, Bernardin?”
“What? Oh.” It took a moment. “No. They aren’t tattoos, though. They’re scars.”
“Whatever. No unexpected behavior?”
“Not yet. Quit stalling.”
Brother Candle realized that he was, indeed, stalling. “I’m ready.”
Bernardin started with the nearest chapel.
“There’s definitely something not right here,” the Perfect said immediately. “I can’t say what, though.”
He roamed the place, touching, sensing. Bernardin trailed him. He felt the wrongness, too, though less sharply. “There’s no pastor here anymore. The last one turned out to be a Society don.”
They and their bodyguards visited a dozen Episcopal Churches. Most had been abandoned by their parishioners. Each had the same dead feel.
Bernardin’s answer was not original. “It’s like the holiness has gone away. I know. The priests keep saying that. I guess it’s true, even if we never considered Episcopal churches true holy places.”
“We need to visit churches that aren’t Brothen Episcopal.”
“Good idea. There aren’t so many of those.”
“Let’s start with some that recognized Viscesment instead of Brothe.”
That made no difference. Every church was the same. Each was just a building, now.
Brother Candle grew increasingly depressed.
Bernardin said, “We should check the temples of the Deves and Dainshaus, too.”
The Perfect understood his own mood, then. He was afraid they would find Maysalean holy places barren of grace, too. His faith was not secure enough to defy a Night that penetrated the fastnesses of his own religion.
Bernardin headed for the Devedian temple where Brother Candle had consulted Radeus Pickleu.
The story remained the same.
The Perfect observed, “It wasn’t like this the other night.”
The beadle explained, “The sanctification went the morning after you visited us, Master, some think because a nonbeliever was allowed inside.”
Bernardin said, “It’s happened at every church in town.”
“Pickleu made that argument. We’re not superstitious savages like Pramans.”
Pramans did believe nonbelievers polluted a temple just by entering. The temple so fouled had to be cleansed and consecrated anew.
“A loss of consecration?” the old man muttered. “Is that what it is? Assuming all things are possible inside the Night…” He was not sure where he was headed but knew he was tramping alongside the frontiers of enlightenment.
How could a holy place become unconsecrated without the collusion of its priests and congregation?
“No choice now,” Brother Candle said. “We have to check meeting places used by Seekers After Light.”
“Want to try the Dainshau place?”
“No. They’re worse than Pramans about pollution.”
The beadle said, “They are. But they do have the same problem. Their holiness went the same day ours did.”
The plague had not spared the meeting places of the Seekers After Light.
Brother Candle and Bernardin returned to the citadel, to the small room off the kitchen, for supper. The old man toyed with his food.
Spiritually, he was devastated.
Bernardin finally hazarded, “It must have something to do with that woman. That Instrumentality.”
The Perfect grunted.
“The changes started after she visited us.”
“So she’s the real, true God?”
“She’s the bull Instrumentality around here, right now. That’s all.”
Maybe. But how could one weird adolescent be more powerful than any traditional deity? Assuming all things were true in the Night-a premise no established religion entirely accepted-faith alone should leave even the God of the Dainshaus able to withstand the demon. Unless every established religion included a fatal flaw in its foundation.
The absolute, root question would be, how could an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God fail to deal with some previously unknown entity possessing the ability to amble in and suck the holiness out of His consecrated sites?