The Demon Apostle

Chapter 10 The Humanist

"I will bring the city in line," the new bishop determinedly said - with his mouth and not through the telepathic communication of spirit! And Markwart heard him, and clearly, though the Father Abbot's corporeal form was resting a hundred miles away in his private quarters in St.-Mere- Abelle.
"I have already begun taking action in that very direction," De'Unnero went on, regaining the composure that had been shattered by the unex-pected appearance of this so-solid apparition of the Father Abbot.
Markwart nodded - and how strange it seemed to him that even such nonverbal language was crystal clear through this spiritual communication. The last time he had come to De'Unnero by means of the soul stone, he had only been able to manage rudimentary communication, imparting to the abbot of St. Precious that he should go get his soul stone that they might meet more fully in the spiritual state. This time, though, that extra step had proven unnecessary, for Markwart had so fully transported his spirit to Chasewind Manor that he could speak directly to the physical De'Unnero, a level of communication far beyond what they had achieved before, even though De'Unnero now held no complementing soul stone. It almost felt to Markwart as if he could simply step his own physical form through the connection, could fully transport himself to this distant place!
And clearly De'Unnero, too, was impressed.
Markwart watched him closely, noting the hunger on his face. Always had Marcalo De'Unnero been an intense man, especially when some mea-sure of power was at stake. Always, though, he had maintained self-control. Even when jumping into the middle of a group of goblins, he had always kept his head clear, had always let his mind guide his body.
"You must be careful not to overstep your bounds," Markwart ex-plained. "The King will be watching closely, to see how well having a bishop replace one of his barons suits his needs."
"Then I am to pay special care to any emissaries from Ursal," De'Unnero replied. "And I assure you that the King's soldiers, led by Captain Kil-ronney, shall be excluded from many of the more distasteful duties I must carry out to meet my ends. The city guard will suffice.
"I intend to retrieve all the gemstones in the city," the Bishop explained, "and thus, if the friends of the heretic are about, I will have them."
"The merchants will complain to the King," Markwart warned. But the Father Abbot was thinking of something else - was concentrating on De'Unnero's last statement and the man's nonverbal cues as he had spoken. Markwart had gotten the impression that the Bishop was playing him for the fool now, for he perceived De'Unnero did not really believe that confiscating the gemstones in the city would lead to the capture of Avelyn's former companions. No, Markwart realized, De'Unnero had only said this to placate him. However, the deception pleased Markwart, for if De'Unnero knew better than his false claim, he likely had a good idea where the fugitives might be.
De'Unnero smiled widely, drawing the Father Abbot back into the pres-ent conversation. "The merchants will do as they are told," the Bishop explained. "They fear me too much already to plead to King Danube."
Markwart knew De'Unnero was playing a dangerous game. He could not keep track of all the merchants and the many guards and scouts they employed. News of the Bishop's actions against the merchant class would surely be open gossip in Ursal before much time had passed, if it wasn't already. But still, the Father Abbot hesitated in demanding that his pawn cease. The possibilities here intrigued him. Suppose the Church reclaimed all the sacred gemstones, claiming it to be the divine order of God himself? As long as the King didn't oppose the move, the merchants would be powerless to resist.
"And even if they do inform the King," De'Unnero went on, his smile wider than ever, "we have an excuse for the action. King Danube knows of the stolen stones - was it not his own troops who took the traitor Jojonah to the pyre? So if we present the missing gems as a threat to him and his kingdom ..." The Bishop stopped and let the enticing thought hang in the air.
And, indeed, it was enticing to Father Abbot Markwart. Perhaps it was time for the Abellican Church to repossess the gemstones,all the gem-stones. Those taken back from the merchants would more than make up for the ones lost to the thief Avelyn. Perhaps it was time for the Church to assert itself, to follow the wake of war by again becoming the dominant force in the life of every person in the civilized world.
What legacy would Dalebert Markwart then leave behind?
"The Behrenese enclave in Palmaris is considerable," Markwart said on sudden inspiration.
"Down by the river," De'Unnero confirmed.
"Make life particularly difficult for them," Markwart instructed. "Let us create as many common enemies between Church and state as possible."
De'Unnero's smile showed that the prospect did not displease him at all. "And what of the gemstones?" he asked. "May I continue?"
Now it was Markwart's turn to smile, for he understood that the upstart Bishop would continue with or without his permission. "Yes, do," Markwart said. "But do not overstep. We can keep King Danube on our side, I am confident, but only if we do not anger the entire merchant class."
Markwart let the connection lapse then, his spirit flying fast from Chasewind Manor back to his waiting body in St.-Mere-Abelle. In truth, he wasn't too worried about angering the merchants, or even the King. Markwart was beginning to gain a sense of his true power now. The war had changed the balance within the kingdom, he believed, in favor of the Church. This appointment of De'Unnero as bishop had opened so many intriguing corridors for the Father Abbot.
Possibilities . . . possibilities. How far might he reach?
Back in his private room at St.-Mere-Abelle, the Father Abbot looked down at the hematite resting in his hand. He thought again of how com-plete this last spiritual journey had been, of how he felt as if he could actu-ally pull his corporeal form along with him instead of sending his spirit back to it. What power that might bring! To be in any place at any time, and without leaving any hint of a trail.
Possibilities . . . possibilities. Perhaps he could reach all the way to Ursal, all the way to King Danube's court, all the way to the King himself.
Brother Francis had found the Father Abbot in fine spirits that day, and it had given him hope that his news concerning Braumin and the others would be received with some measure of tranquillity. And after a brief moment when Markwart's face had gone bright red and he'd seemed on the verge of an explosion, the Father Abbot had calmed considerably, had even managed a crooked grin.
"And they, all five, have run off?" Markwart asked calmly.
Francis nodded.
"You are certain of this - Braumin Herde and the other conspirators have left St.-Mere-Abelle?"
"They are gone, Father Abbot," Francis dutifully answered, lowering his gaze.
"St.-Mere-Abelle is a large place," Markwart remarked. "There are many shadows."
"I believe that they are gone," Francis replied, "out of the abbey alto-gether, and I doubt they mean to return."
"And what did they take with them?" Markwart asked, his voice a growl of rising rage.
Francis shrugged, surprised by the question.
"The gemstones," Markwart clarified, barking out the words. "Did they take any of the sacred stones? "
"No, Father Abbot," Francis blurted. "No, I am certain they did not."
"The words of a fool," Markwart retorted sharply. "Have a dozen brothers inventory the sacred stones at once."
"Yes, Father Abbot," Francis replied, turning to go, and thinking him-self foolish for not anticipating that Markwart would fear another theft. Certainly news of more heretics fleeing the abbey would cause the Father Abbot to wonder if the curse of Avelyn Desbris had visited him again.
"Where are you going? " Markwart yelled as Francis took a step away.
"You said to see to the inventory," the flustered brother protested.
"When we are done!"
Francis rushed back to the desk, standing straight as if waiting for a judg-ment to be passed upon him.
Markwart paused for a long while, rubbing his wrinkled old face many times. As the seconds passed, and as he considered all the ramifications, his face seemed to brighten.
"And, Father Abbot, I fear that the kitchen boy, Roger Billingsbury by name," Francis went on, "has also fled the abbey."
"And I should care about this because ..." Markwart prompted.
Brother Francis stared long and hard at the surprising man. Was it not Markwart who had asked him to compile a list of workers at the abbey? And was it not Markwart who had told Francis that he believed there might be a spy working within the abbey? Suddenly Francis wondered if he had been wise to mention Roger. He had assumed that the Father Abbot had scrutinized his list, been led to the same conclusions that Francis had drawn; for, given the lack of other potential enemies, it had not been diffi-cult for Francis to discern that Roger was the most likely prospect.
"The hired peasants often leave," Markwart reminded him, "by your own words. A complaint you had concerning compiling the list, if I recall."
Francis considered these words carefully, surprised that the Father Abbot was attempting to dispel the notion of a conspiracy between Braumin's group and the suspicious kitchen boy. Up to now, Markwart's suspicions had bordered on paranoia - or at least had seemed the result of a carefully constructed plan to divert all blame for everything that had happened at St.-Mere-Abelle over the last few years to Avelyn, Jojonah, and their followers.
"I do not understand, Father Abbot," Francis replied.
Markwart looked at him quizzically.
"Your present demeanor," Francis explained. "I had thought that you would be outraged by this desertion."
"Outraged?" Markwart echoed incredulously. "Outraged that our ene-mies would take an action so helpful to our cause? Do you not understand, young brother? Braumin Herde's desertion of the abbey spells the end of Jojonah's little conspiracy, as sure an admission of guilt as I have ever seen."
"Or an admission of fear, Father Abbot," Francis dared to say.
He backed off a step from Markwart's great desk as the Father Abbot stared at him. "They would have had nothing to fear if they had followed the rules of the Order," Markwart stated with a wry smile. "It brings me great pleasure to know that I inspire fear among heretics. Perhaps when they are caught - and they will be caught, do not doubt - we might study them closely, that we can measure and record their level of terror."
Francis shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as he thought of the pun-ishments Markwart might exact, as he considered the fate to which he might have inadvertently led Braumin and the others.
"You seem distressed, brother," Markwart remarked.
Francis felt as if he were withering under the old Father Abbot's scrutiny. "I only fear ..." he started to say but then paused, seeking a dif-ferent, and better, direction for his argument. "That Brother Braumin has strayed, I do not doubt," he said at length, "as well as the others."
"But..." Markwart prompted.
"But there was once a true calling in their hearts - in Brother Braumin's, at least," said Francis.
"And you believe that we might help them to find their way back to the proper road?"
Francis nodded. "Perhaps with leniency," he said, "perhaps with gener-osity. Would it not be better for the Church, and for your legacy, if you could take the proteges of Jojonah and bring them back into the flock? Would it not serve our God better if someone of Brother Braumin's talent was brought back to the proper road? And then, in all likelihood, he would become a credible and fanatic critic of Jojonah and Avelyn, a prime example of one who had sunk to the darkness, but was climbing again into the light." Francis was desperately improvising here, for he did not want to see any more executions of brothers of the Order. But while he liked the simple logic and the sound of his words, the monk understood that he was chasing a shooting star. Even if Markwart agreed, would Braumin Herde? Francis doubted it. More likely, the stubbornly principled fool would denounce Markwart all the way to the stake. Still, Francis, more desperate about this matter than he would have previously guessed, pressed on. "I only wonder if we might not turn this situation into an even greater gain."
"No, Brother Francis, that is not what you wonder," Father Abbot Markwart said solemnly, standing up and walking around the desk. "No, what I recognize here is not pragmatism but compassion."
"And compassion is a virtue," Francis said quietly.
"True," Markwart agreed, draping his arm about Francis' shoulders, an unusual gesture for the normally detached man and one that made Francis more than a little uncomfortable.
"But true only if the empathy is placed upon one deserving," Markwart went on. "Would you offer leniency to a goblin? To a powrie?"
"But they are not human," Francis started to argue, his voice rising at first, but falling off weakly as Markwart began to laugh at him.
"Nor are heretics human," Markwart retorted suddenly, angrily, but again he calmed quickly and continued in a cool, controlled manner. "In-deed, heretics are less than goblins and powries because they, formerly being human and thus possessed of a soul, have thrown aside the gift of God, have insulted the One who created them. Pity the powries before the heretics, I say, for powries are devoid of this gift, are wretched creatures indeed. Powries and goblins are evil, because evil is their nature; but the true heretic, the one who turns his back on God, is evil by choice. That, my brother, is the epitome of sin."
"But if one is lost, Father Abbot, can we not rescue that soul?" Francis reasoned.
This time, the Father Abbot didn't mock the notion with laughter but rather silenced Francis with a stern and uncompromising glare. "Take care, Brother Francis," he warned gravely. "You are bordering on the very tenets that brought about the downfall of Jojonah, and of Avelyn before him, the very idealistic and foolish notions that forced Braumin Herde and his fellow conspirators out of St.-Mere-Abelle."
"By the words of St. Gwendolyn, does not love beget love?" Francis replied, taking great care to control his tone so that he sounded as if he was merely asking for clarification and guidance, not disagreeing with the Father Abbot.
"St. Gwendolyn was a fool," Markwart said casually.
Francis fought hard to control his expression, but his eyes did widen and he had to bite his lower lip to keep from gasping. No words of insult were permitted against saints - that much Francis knew clearly from his years of study, a tenet that was spelled out again and again in Church canon.
"Do not seem so surprised," Markwart said. "You are soon to be a master ... perhaps," he added slyly, casting a sidelong glance at him. "And as a master, you must understand and admit the truth. Gwendolyn was a fool; most of my colleagues know that beyond doubt."
"The process of her canonization was without protest," Francis argued.
"Again, out of pragmatism," Markwart explained. "Gwendolyn was the only potential candidate among the women of the Church, and if you care-fully read the history of that troubled time, you will understand that it was necessary to placate the women. Thus, a saint was born. Do not misunder-stand me, my young student, Gwendolyn was possessed of a generous heart and a warm nature. But she never - as Jojonah never -  appreciated the larger truth of our purpose.
"Take care," Markwart said again. "Fear that you might become a humanist."
"I do not know the term," Francis admitted.
"Fear that you might place the rights of the individual above the greater good," Markwart explained. "I thought that I had dispelled this weakness in you during our dealings with the Chilichunks, but apparently it is rooted deep. And so I make it clear to you now, the last warning I shall ever offer you. There are those, Avelyn and Jojonah among them - and this was their biggest sin - who believe the Abellican Church should be the caretaker of the flock, the healer of all wounds, spiritual and physical. They would have us live as paupers, and walk among the peasants with the sacred stones, bet-tering the lives of all."
Francis cocked his head curiously, for that did not sound very much like sin.
"Fools!" Markwart snapped sharply. "It is not the place of the Church to cure the ills of the world; it is the responsibility of the Church to offer a greater hope of a world beyond this world. Would St.-Mere-Abelle inspire anyone if it became nothing more than a collection of hovels? Of course not! It is our splendor, our glory, our power that offers hope to the rabble. It is the simple fear of us, the emissaries of a vengeful God, that keeps them walking the true path of enlightenment. I cannot stress this truth to you enough, and I warn you never to let it out of your thoughts. Are we to open the doors of our abbey? Are we to hand out gemstones to peasants? Where, then, will be the mystery, young brother? And without the mystery, where, then, will be the hope?"
Francis was trying desperately to digest this surprising speech; and surely some of Markwart's argument resonated profoundly. But Francis could not help but see some inconsistencies. "But wedo hand out gemstones, Father Abbot," he dared to remind him, "to merchants and nobles."
"It is a balance," Markwart admitted. "We do sell, and even give away, some of the stones, but only in exchange for greater wealth and power. Again, we have a standing to support that the peasants might look to us for hope. It is our solemn duty to maintain the Church above the common rabble, and sometimes, sadly, that forces us to work beside the secular powers of state and the merchant class." Markwart chuckled ironically then, but he sounded somewhat sinister to Brother Francis.
"But fear not, young brother," the Father Abbot finished, leading Francis to the door, "for now the Abellican Order is blessed with a leader who has both will and way to correct some of the more distasteful necessi-ties of the past."
Overwhelmed, Brother Francis bowed to his superior and walked off in a stupor. He was honestly afraid for Brother Braumin and the others, but he was more afraid that he would have to witness their eventual punishment -  was even more afraid that Braumin, or more likely one of his weaker cohorts, would be brought back to St.-Mere-Abelle and would break under the inevitable torture and name Francis as the one who had ushered them out of the abbey.
Would Father Abbot Markwart consider the loyalty Francis had always shown him and be lenient, or would the "greater good" dictate a very dif-ferent course of action?