"I might."
"Then how can you blame Breck and those like him for doing the same?"
"I'm not blaming them," said Dumarest. "They can do as they like. It's none of my business. But if I was starving and had a woman depending on me and she was starving too and some thug came and tried to rob me-well, who knows?"
They reached the end of the path, turned left, moved into a cleared space formed by the junction of crossings, headed up a slope to where the church rose against the sky.
Before it, silhouetted against the brightly colored plastic, two men were beating a robed figure to the ground.
It was a scene from nightmare, the men tall, broad, their clubs the yard-long weapons carried by Gengiz's guard. The monk was crouched, hands lifted to protect his face, body bowed as if he were a suppliant accepting a merited penance.
A stagelike vista broken as Angado yelled and ran forward.
"Stop that! Stop it! Leave him alone!"
A command obeyed only momentarily as the men turned at the shout, clubs lifted, contemptuous of the new arrivals.
Dumarest said, sharply, "Angado! Leave it!"
An order ignored if heard and he ran in turn, passing the other, heading to where he had left the broom leaning against the fabric of the church. Set far to one side of where the men stood over the monk he was ignored. As he snatched it up Angado came to a halt.
"Back off!" His breath was ragged, his voice hard but shaking a little. "You filth! Beating up a monk! Is that the best you can do?"
He was talking instead of acting, a mistake repeated by the thugs.
"Listen to the insect." The man on the right hefted his club. "Doesn't all that big talk frighten you, Rayne? Maybe we should get down on our knees and beg his forgiveness."
"Maybe we should, Kay." The other thug played along. "For all we know this thing could be his father." His foot kicked at the monk. "I've heard they have some strange ideas of how things should be done."
"We could make them show us, eh? If-"
Rayne broke off as Dumarest came running toward him, broom in hand, the wide fan of bristles aimed at his eyes. Spines which circled to avoid the sweep of his club and dug into cheeks and forehead. Lifting as Dumarest reversed the pole to send it rising sharply between the thighs to smash against the groin. As the thug doubled, retching, the end of the pole slammed into his throat, rupturing the larynx and filling the windpipe with blood and congested tissue.
As he fell Angado lunged at the other man.
He had his knife in his hand, the point slanted upward, thumb to the blade as he had seen trained fighters do in a dozen arenas. A hold, stance and motion designed to deliver a killing thrust. But he was slow. Slow!
Dumarest saw the lifted club, the practiced response of a man who had made violence his trade. Held like a sword the weapon gave him the advantage. Before he could drive the knife home Angado would be dead.
Dumarest yelled, throwing the broom as he yelled, the sound shocking in its harsh timbre. As the thug slowed his advance the pole, hurtling like a spear, glided between his legs causing him to stumble, to fall helplessly on the lifted blade of Angado's knife.
As the thug twitched, spilling his life in a carmine flood, Dumarest said, bitterly, "Well, I hope you're satisfied."
"It was him or me, Earl."
"It needn't have been either. You shouldn't have interfered."
"They were beating up a helpless man. A monk!"
"That makes them special?" Dumarest shrugged as Angado made no answer. "Well, it happened, let's get him inside."
Pollard had taken the beating but he wasn't the only one in the infirmary. Dexter lay on another cot, supine, his eyes closed, hands lying limp at his side. A bandage made a white swath across his forehead.
"Concussion," explained Kollar. "A cracked clavicle and a badly bruised elbow. In that he was lucky."
"When?"
"About thirty minutes ago. Two men arrived and demanded to see him. Brother Dexter guessed what they wanted and ordered us not to interfere. After the attack they left and we brought him inside. Then they returned and Brother Pollard went out to remonstrate with them. The rest you know."
Dumarest said, "You stood by while they beat up an old man?"
"We had no choice."
"You could have gone out there. Shouted. Gathered a crowd if nothing else."
"No," said Angado. "They couldn't. They were under orders and had to obey." He looked at the limp figure lying on the cot, at the groaning shape of the younger monk. "Gengiz cheated. He gave them until sunset. The attack took place before then. Brother Dexter must have thought they came to talk. In any case he would have wanted to avoid a battle."
Taking the beating himself. Willingly offering his own body as a sacrifice. A waste-the men who'd attacked him had lost the meaning of shame as had the man who'd sent them.
"It's the way of the Church," said Angado, "to follow a policy of nonviolence no matter what the cost. If the church here is to succeed then others must protect it. Those who value it and find comfort in its teachings. Once a congregation has been established there'll be no need for the monks to prove themselves. They'll have been accepted. After that the rest will follow."
"Until it does?" Dumarest didn't wait for an answer. "Never mind. I wanted us to stay out of this but now we have no choice. You took care of that. Those thugs are dead and others would have seen how they died. Now we're both marked men." He looked at the monk. "Find us two robes. Large ones."
Kollar shook his head. "I'm sorry, but Brother Dexter made it clear-"
"Look at him now," snapped Dumarest. "Do you want others to join him? But if your conscience troubles you let's do it this way." He spoke directly at the unconscious monk. "Brother Dexter, do you object to us using a couple of robes?" He waited, listening, then looked again at Kollar. "You see, he didn't object."
"But-"
"Get them!" Dumarest looked at the injured men then at Angado. "Violence," he said bleakly. "It's everywhere. The strong bearing down on the weak with demands and threats. Scum like Gengiz or some puffed up lordling or a faceless bureaucrat all issuing their orders. Pay or be punished. Obey or suffer fines, imprisonment, execution. Well, to hell with them. There's only one way they can be stopped." He looked at the robes Kollar had fetched. "Good. Now, Brother, go outside and bring in those clubs."
* * *
As Dumarest had expected the clubs were weighted with lead. Long, slender wands with the vicious capacity to shatter a skull or snap a bone. He hefted one, sent it whining through the air, lifted it in a curve, sent it darting forward to halt an inch from Angado's chest.
"Fast," he said. "See?"
"What are you trying to tell me?"
"When you decide to act don't hesitate. That's the mistake you made out there. Don't waste time in talk. Attack, do it fast and don't be gentle. A hurt man can hit back, a dead one can't. Now hit me with your club." Dumarest shook his head as Angado lifted the weapon, his own reaching out to jab hard against the other's chest. "Not like that. It leaves you too open. Thrust as I did."
Angado was slow. Dumarest swept aside the club and jabbed again. The next attack was faster, the club circling to avoid the parry. Dumarest knocked it far to the opposite side, jabbed, stood waiting.
"Earl, I-"
"Don't talk! Act! Kill me before I kill you! Move, damn you! Move!"