Page 67 of Crucible of Chaos

‘Exactly!’ The pistol in Sir Daven’s right hand was shaking dangerously. ‘You Greatcoats stopped the Blacksmith from committing the worst act of tyranny imaginable– the whole country should be on its knees thanking you!’

‘We have never been especially fond ofanyonekneeling,’ Estevar said, but he understood now where the knight was going with this. ‘So you believe the factions among the monks of Isola Sombra were not fighting over which gods they believed would return to Tristia, but rather which gods tocreate?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Abbot Venia would nev—’

Sir Daven rose to his feet, causing the boat to list dangerously, before having the sense to settle himself back down. ‘Don’t you dare try to tell me about what a meek and gentle soul Venia was! The man was a superstitious lunatic, Estevar. For the past two years, every time the margrave would venture out to that island to discuss taxes or trade, Venia would dismiss such matters as incidental. “We are engaged in a matter greater than economics here,” I heard him tell the margrave once. “This country enters a new age, and we must give our people new gods to meet it.”’

‘New gods to do what?’ Estevar asked.

‘Who in the name of Ebron-who-steals-breath knows? Give the clerics new speeches with which to bore the rest of us into somnambulance while they pilfer the pennies from our pockets, I’d imagine.’ He slammed his fist on his thigh again, heedless of the pistols that might go off at any moment. ‘Damn it, man! We might not agree on much, but surely we can agree that a few hundred monks– men and women with no authority save that they happen to occupy a ground holier than anyone realised–have no business deciding which gods should rule over the rest of us!’

The rumble of thunder punctuated Sir Daven’s outrage. The next storm was coming on fast– perhaps the last one Estevar would ever see– and he still hadn’t drawn from the knight the testimony needed to solve this case. ‘So, rather than three factions of monks debating which gods would best serve the country, the Margrave of Someil appointed himself our new spiritual leader?’

Sir Daven didn’t try to hide his discomfort with the prospect. ‘I won’t pretend the nobility are any more suited to making such decisions than theocrats.’

‘Then who—?’ But Estevar didn’t need to hear the answer. He felt a loosening in his chest, the easing that came when at last the convoluted constructions of those seeking to deceive him and themselves fell apart. ‘You aren’t bringing me to the margrave because he’s convinced he can’t invade without some token legal sanction. You think you can win me to your side so that the two of us can. . . how might I put this?Guideyour employer in his use of whatever power resides beneath Isola Sombra.’

Even as he made the accusation, Estevar sensed it was incomplete. Sir Daven, for all his pretensions of cleverly setting his will upon the world, was not unlike Brother Syme. He was a born lackey. After Abbot Venia had died, the novice had made himself an underling to Brother Agneta, even though her religious views were the mirror-opposite of Venia’s. Sir Daven, though, was more cunning. He’d found his new master before the old one met with whatever fate awaited the Margrave of Someil.

They were nearing the halfway mark between the island and the mainland, which meant time was running out. ‘Who is it?’ Estevar asked.

Sir Daven, proving he was very nearly as clever as he thought himself, understood the question instantly. ‘Those who once ruled this country, Eminence. Those who will soon rule it again.’

Those who once ruled and will soon rule again, Estevar thought. The phrasing of the question made clear the knight would reveal no more than that.But who could he mean? The country’s nine dukes called themselves princes a century ago, before Tristia was united into a single country. The Avareans ruled for two centuries before that.Neither made sense, however; the dukes had only recently failed in a bid for power and last year the Avareans signed an armistice treaty which their sense of honour would never allow them to betray.

Sir Daven was smiling again, pleased to see his ‘peer’ so out of his depth. Overhead, the thunder rumbled once more. ‘A storm is coming, Estevar. A tempest has been brewing for decades without anyone noticing. It comes from further away than any could foresee. In the coming years, everything you and the rest of the Greatcoats have fought for will come crashing down around you. But there’s still a chance– a chance for those like you and me, who perceive the flaws in this foolish nation. We can decide the country’s future, within the bounds of what its new rulers will require from it. They’ll even let us choose our own gods, after a fashion.’

Estevar didn’t reply at first, too consumed with the struggle to calm the anger rising inside him, especially the desperate desire to wrap his hands around the knight’s throat and shake him as the waves did the boat until he yielded his secrets. But there were the two pistols in Sir Daven’s hands, and the look in his eyes that said he feared his mysterious employers more than he let on.

‘Think of it, Estevar,’ the younger man urged, kicking the side of the boat and sending it rocking again. ‘You claim to serve justice? Imagine if you and I could engineer the rise of a Godof Justice for Tristia! Why should our people worship outdated gods born of antiquated values? War? Coin?Death?’

‘Craft?’ Estevar asked.

The knight chuckled. ‘Craft can stay, I suppose. Love, too, if you’re feeling sentimental. Hells, I don’t even mind the Unnamed if people want to believe there are limits to human knowledge. But surely you and I can get behind the idea of offering a God of Justice to a nation that has known so little of it?’

‘You truly believe such a thing is possible?’

‘I do, I swear it. I told you, Estevar, I’ve seen things on that island– things that would make your soul weep. But I’vefeltthe potential there, too. Venia was mad, but not deluded. The sigils he was marking on some of his monks– they can be used as a means to focus the power of faith in ways not even the ancients imagined.’ He set one of the pistols down on the bench and reached out a hand. ‘Let’s give our people a better breed of god than they’ve ever known before. They can never be free– that part of their fate is settled– but even servants can prosper when the masters are just.’

Estevar looked at the hand and let the oars go slack. ‘You would have me believe you could worship a God of Justice?’

Sir Daven retracted his hand. ‘You think I murdered Venia, is that it?’

‘I know for a fact you didn’t.’

‘Then what?’

Estevar gazed towards the mainland. He could see the pavilions now, the supply tents and horses, all of it. ‘You were the one who contrived the poisoning of the wine in the abbey, the architect of the plan to justify the mass slaughter of its brethren.’

‘I won’t deny it,’ Sir Daven admitted, without a trace of guilt. ‘The margrave needed a pretextto ensure the support of his lesser nobles and his generals–not to mention those superstitious old biddies in armour who call themselves my fellow knights–to stop them fretting over whatever judgments will await them after they die and instead, get off their arses to do something for the living!’ He jabbed a gauntleted finger back towards the island again. ‘Once we’ve liberated the island and the toxins slowly wear off, you think the monks will care who rules Isola Sombra? Most of themhatedAbbot Venia. Eliminate the madmen who lead the Hounds and the Trumpeters– and that lunatic old Cogneri Inquisitor, of course–and the rest will happily pray to whomever we tell them. Hell, Estevar, if it sweetens the deal, I’ll put Isola Sombra under the jurisdiction of the Greatcoats!’

‘So long as we never rule against your employers’ interests.’

Sir Daven laughed. ‘You really don’t have the faintest idea what we’re dealing with, do you? The forces coming for Tristia? They could hardly care less what verdicts you render in trials so insignificant they’re barely worth. . .’ He trailed off and shook his head. ‘I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I?’

Estevar responded by slipping the oars from the rowlocks and letting them drop into the water.

---