High Deryni (14 page)

Morgan picked up several pieces of fruit from a market stall and flipped a small coin to the proprietor, then pushed his way back into the crowd and continued to watch and listen. He and Duncan had been in the square for nearly an hour now, mingling with the local citizens and asking the occasional question; but thus far, they had been unable to discover a way to get into the Bishop's Palace undetected. It was essential that they guard their tongues, for there were soldiers scattered all through the crowded marketplace. But they dared not wait too long to act, or the square would clear with the coming darkness and they would risk exposure. As things now stood, they had no place to go once darkness fell.

The sights and smells and sounds of market day pervaded the square in a tangle of brilliant color, boisterous voices and complaining pack animals, the smells of spice and dung and new-baked bread, meat roasting on spits, the squeals of pigs and sheep, the frantic cackling of chickens and other feathered things.

Morgan glanced idly at a troupe of jugglers performing outside a silk-hung pavilion, catching a whiff of overly sweet perfume as a soldier lurched through an opening in the curtains. An airy, tinkling music and the sound of female laughter floated from beyond the silk, and the man had a slightly glassy look to his eyes as he staggered into the crowd and was lost from sight. A pair of saucy serving maids jostled him from behind, their laden baskets pushing a wide swath through the crowd, but the girls were unkempt and dirty looking; definitely not to Morgan's taste.

Morgan shifted the saddlebags slung across his shoulder, then bit into one of the apples in his hand, savoring the tart crispness between his teeth. Continuing to glance around as he walked, he spotted his cousin a few stalls down, buying fresh bread and a slab of crusty country cheese. Duncan paused to peer at the stall of the sweet smells and tinkling music for just a moment; then he frowned and began to move away.

Morgan suppressed a grin and began to stroll in the direction Duncan had gone, watching and munching as he walked. At length, Duncan settled on a ledge beside a public well and began eating bread and cheese, cutting off thick chunks of the cheese with his dagger. Morgan made his way to the well and deposited saddlebags and fruit on the ledge beside Duncan. As he leaned against the wall and continued to scan the busy market square, it was a distinct effort to keep his manner casual. One could never tell who might be watching.

“Busy place, isn't it?” he said in a low voice, finishing his apple and tossing the core to where a heavily laden donkey could reach it. He tore off a chunk of bread and cut himself some cheese, gray eyes continuing to scan as he tucked into the more substantial fare. “I hope you've found out more than I did.”

Duncan swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese and looked around cautiously. “Little of any immediate use, I'm afraid. But I'll tell you this: the bishops are going to have trouble on their hands, if they don't do something fairly soon. Popular support is with Cardiel and his army right now, but there are many who aren't happy about his plans. They consider it a disgrace that leaders of the Church should quarrel among themselves to the point of schism, and I can't say that I blame them. Especially on the eve of war.”

“Humph.” Morgan cut off another piece of cheese and glanced behind him before leaning closer to Duncan. “Did you hear about old Bishop Wolfram?”

“No, what happened?”

“There was an assassination attempt a few weeks ago. It didn't succeed, but—” He broke off as a pair of soldiers strolled nearby, and took another bite of bread, chewing nonchalantly until the two men were out of earshot.

“Anyway, that's why the gates to the palace are so closely guarded. Cardiel doesn't dare risk anything happening to one of his bishops. If one of the Six were to be killed now, Loris and Corrigan in Coroth would appoint his successor. And we all know to whom that successor would owe his loyalty.”

“Thereby giving Loris the twelve voices he needs to make his decretals legal in fact as well as in name,” Duncan whispered.

Morgan finished his cheese and dusted his gloved hands against his thighs, then turned to dip water from the well. His eyes flicked to the palace gates as he drank, and then to the towers of the palace beyond. He filled the dipper again and handed it across to his cousin, sinking down on the ledge once again as Duncan drank.

“Y'know,” Morgan murmured, studying the crowd in the square, “I think the crowd is beginning to thin. We're going to be conspicuous soon, if we don't decide what to do.”

Duncan handed the dipper back to Morgan and wiped his mouth against his sleeve. “I know. Fewer soldiers, and more and more clergy.”

Bells began to chime in a tower far away and to the rear of them, and were soon echoed by the great bells within the walls of the Bishop's Palace. Duncan paused as the bells began to ring, his eyes still scanning the crowd, then slowly straightened, an intense look coming upon his face.

“What is it?” Morgan murmured, careful not to betray his emotion by voice or gesture. There were soldiers striding by again.

“The monks, Alaric,” Duncan whispered, nodding toward the gates. “Look where they're going.”

Morgan turned slowly and let his eyes follow the direction of his kinsman's gaze. A postern gate had opened in the lower left portion of the huge palace gates to permit a handful of cowled monks to enter. He glanced back at Duncan to find his cousin stuffing the last of the bread and cheese into the saddlebags. As he looked askance, Duncan shot him a quick, conspiratorial wink and took the last apple, polishing it against his sleeve. Mystified, Morgan picked up the saddlebags and followed as Duncan started to stroll slowly in the direction of the gates. He touched his cousin's right elbow in question as the two of them headed along the edge of the square.

“Do you see where the monks are going?” Duncan murmured around a bite of apple.

“Yes.”

Duncan took another bite and continued walking. “And they aren't being challenged, are they?” he said. “Now, look where they're coming from, around to your left. Mind you don't stare.”

Morgan glanced casually in the direction indicated and finally saw a door leading into a deeply shadowed background, apparently the side door to a monastic church. Periodically, the door would open to disgorge one or two monks in cowled black habits. As far as Morgan could see, all the monks who left the church were heading toward the palace gates. And none of them were being turned away.

“Where are they all going?” Morgan murmured, as his cousin finished his apple and hitched up his sword under his cloak. The main doors to the church were farther to the left, below the stubby stone towers, and they could see townspeople going in, several monks standing at the church doors to greet those who entered.

“I should have realized,” Duncan said under his breath, “that in any city where there's a large monastic community, it's customary for the brethren to attend services in the bishop's basilica, if there is one. They're on their way to Vespers.”

“Vespers,” Morgan breathed. He kept silent as they continued to walk toward the church, now heading away from the palace gates. Then: “Duncan, we are not going to attend Vespers in that church, are we?” It was less a question than a statement.

Duncan shook his head lightly, and Morgan had to control a smile.

“That's what I thought.”

Ten minutes later, two more monks joined the line of brethren filing slowly into the Bishop's Palace. They walked briskly to catch up with their fellows, these two laggard monks in their tall, black cowls and floor-length robes. They bowed their heads humbly as they passed between the sentries guarding the postern gate, hands piously folded in long, loose sleeves. Inside, as they passed sedately along the glistening corridors, an occasional footstep sounded oddly hollow amidst the sandaled tread of their brother monks.

But the two moved with care, anxious to do nothing that might cause them to stand out from their fellows, for these were no ordinary monks. They bore steel beneath their coarse black robes: swords girded close against their sides, and daggers in boots and sleeves and belts, and bright mail beneath the riding leathers the robes covered.

And something more telling there was, to distinguish these particular monks, had anyone known. For the two at the end of the line were Deryni, and carried magic in their souls.

Morgan and Duncan drew aside as the rest filed into the basilica, blending into the shadows of a cul-de-sac at the end of a nearby corridor. After a short while, they could hear the sound of the monks' voices raised in song and praise, and then the sung responses of the service itself. Several times the doors opened to admit latecomers, and once Duncan thought he heard Cardiel's voice within.

Finally the office of Vespers ended, and the doors were flung wide. Servants of the bishop's household, pages and squires, several lords and their ladies, and several prelates filed from the chapel, some engaged in low conversation, all heading in different directions where the corridor branched before the doors. In the midst of them all came Bishops Cardiel and Arilan themselves, followed shortly by a number of priests and clerks and then more lords and their ladies.

Duncan nudged Morgan in the ribs as the two bishops appeared, for he knew Arilan and had seen Cardiel at a distance before. But Morgan froze with an intake of breath at the sight of a woman and child who followed a short distance behind the lords and ladies. The woman, dressed all in sky blue, was speaking in a low voice to another, darker lady, her hand on the shoulder of a boy about four years of age. She was tall and slim, her carriage regal without being imposing, and Morgan's eyes widened almost involuntarily as he drank in every detail of her presence.

Deep, wide eyes of a cornflower hue, set in a heart-shaped face framed by gossamer silk; hair the color of flame in sunlight, swept wing-like past her temples and caught in a loose knot at the nape; the nose delicate and slightly upturned; the cheekbones high and touched with a blush of rose; the mouth full, generous, tinged with color and inviting; the redheaded child at her side was sleepy-eyed, his silken hair tousled.

Except in his dreams, Morgan had seen the pair only once, what seemed like an eternity ago, in a coach outside the ruined shrine not far from here. But on that occasion their image had been graven on his memory for all time to come. He reminded himself that the woman was married, the child some other man's son, then wondered anew who they might be.

He felt a slight pressure at his left elbow and turned to find Duncan looking at him rather oddly. Morgan flashed him an apologetic look as he gathered his wits about him, then hazarded one last glance back at the corridor before returning his attention to the two bishops. But the woman and her child were gone.

As Duncan drew his hood farther onto his forehead and stepped out sedately, Morgan followed, trying to assume as near a copy of Duncan's humble walk and manner as possible. The two bishops had rounded the turn of the next intersection, but they came back into sight as Morgan and Duncan followed at a discreet distance until the two prelates disappeared through a set of double doors. Uncertainly, the two Deryni came to a halt a short distance from the doors and considered their next move.

“What's in there, do you know?” Morgan whispered.

Duncan shook his head. “I've never been here before either. It could be the Curia chamber, for all I know. We'll just have to chance—”

He broke off as a group of soldiers came around the corner and halted in front of the doors. As one of them knocked respectfully, another glanced aside and saw the two monks loitering there. With a slight frown, he turned to murmur something to one of his companions, then headed toward them purposefully. Morgan and Duncan, with an exchange of apprehensive glances, attempted to appear as innocuous as possible.

“Good evening, Brothers,” the soldier said, eyeing them curiously. “May I ask what you're doing here? Unless you have permission from your superior, you're not permitted in this part of the palace. You know that.”

Duncan bowed slightly, keeping his face carefully averted. “We have urgent business with His Grace of Dhassa, sir. It is vital that we see him.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible, Brother,” the soldier said, shaking his head. “Their Excellencies are already overdue at a convocation meeting.”

“We only need a moment of his time,” Duncan ventured, glancing at Morgan and wondering how they were going to extricate themselves from this one. “Perhaps if we could speak with them as they walked…I know they will wish to see us.”

“I hardly think that likely,” the soldier began, beginning to get a little irritated with these two insistent monks. His prolonged conversation had attracted the attention of several of his colleagues, including the officer of the guard. “However, if you'd care to give me your names, I could—”

“What seems to be the trouble, Selden?” the guard officer asked, approaching slowly with several of his men at his back. “You brothers know you're not meant to be here. Didn't Selden tell you that?”

“Oh, he did, sir,” Duncan mumbled, bowing again. “But—”

“Sir,” one of the guards staring at Morgan interrupted suspiciously, “that man looks like he has something under his robe. Brother, what is th—”