"Brother!" Biul looked up from where he sat busy with papers and rose as Eldon entered the office. "You must be frozen! Why must you be so stubborn? You are too old to act this way."
Older than Veac the monk cared less for diplomacy and long friendship had given him a casual familiarity. Now he bustled around, fetching a warm blanket, filling a bowl with soup, standing over Eldon while he ate. Only when the bowl was empty did he permit the older man to speak.
"Biul, you have all the attributes of a bully," said Eldon mildly. "If I didn't know you meant well I might even be annoyed."
"As I will be unless you take better care of yourself. We need you-and do I have to remind you that self-injury is a sin?" Biul cleared away the bowl, rearranged the blanket then said, "Well?"
"Little. A few coins."
"And?"
"Bad news." Eldon felt his shoulders sag. "War on Craig. The first engagements are over but there will be others that is certain. Help will be needed. Contact the seminary on Pace and have them notify those on Hope. A full medical team if possible, as many monks as they can spare at least. And perhaps influence could be brought to bear on those responsible to cease the hostilities."
It was possible, the Church had friends in high places, and it would be tried, but inevitably there would be delays and in a war situation delay meant suffering, disease, degradation and death.
To alleviate a little of it was the most they could hope to do.
As Biul left Eldon sank back in his chair, conscious of the warmth of the blanket, the snug comfort of the room. It was bleak enough, the walls ornamented with small mementos and a few paintings of worlds known when young, but it held everything he had come to value since, when a youth, he had applied for acceptance into the church and had commenced his training.
There was trust there, and faith, and the desire of one to help another. There was truth and tolerance and compassion. There was an acknowledgment that life was more than could be seen on the surface and that, without the belief in something greater than Man, then Man could not be greater than what he was.
A point on which he had argued when young and had still not understood what it really meant to be a monk.
Brother Hoji had stripped away his illusions.
He was old, stooped, withered, crippled, acid. He was in charge of indoctrination and had not been gentle. Leaning back, half-asleep, Eldon could hear again the voice which had rasped like a file through the confines of the room into which had been packed a score of youngsters like himself.
"Why did you apply to become monks? What motive drives you? That question must be answered before any other. Look into the mirror of your soul and search for the truth. Is it in order to help your fellow man? Is it that and nothing more? If not then you don't belong here. You are wasting my time and your own. Rise and leave and none will think the worst of you. Be honest. Above all, be honest!"
Someone had coughed; strain triggering a near-hysterical giggle covered too late into the resemblance of a normal expulsion of air.
"You!" The twisted fingers of. the old monk had been an accusing claw. "You laughed-why? Did you think I was a fool? That I tended to exaggerate? That I distorted the truth? Don't bother to answer." Then, in a lower voice, he had continued. "If you hope for personal reward or high office or the love and respect of those you are dedicated to serve, then you do not belong here. If you yearn for power or pain the same applies. Pain you will get and discomfort and suffering. You will know disappointment and see the work of years destroyed in a moment. You will be scorned and held in contempt, robbed and beaten, used and ignored, hated and despised. Yet, if in the deepest recesses of your heart, you long to be so treated, then you have no place here. Man is not born to suffer. There is no intrinsic virtue in pain. Those who seek it are enemies of the Church. If any sit here I tell you now to go. Go!"
No one coughed when he paused, no one giggled, but still there remained a little doubt. It vanished as the old monk stripped off his robe and displayed his naked body. His flesh-and the things which had been done to it.
"God!" whispered the man next to Eldon. "Dear God!"
"The reward of patience," said Hoji. "It happened on Flackalove. A small settlement that, I thought, had accepted me. For three years I was with them and then came a drought. Plague followed and children died. They needed someone to blame." Pausing he donned his robe then added, quietly, "God gave me the strength to live and to continue helping my fellows. Now it is safe for a monk to stay on that world."
Eldon felt again the cold shiver which had touched him at the calm understatement. How the man must have suffered! The injuries, even though now healed-he could not bear even now to think of them. Nor understand how the man had found the courage to continue on the path he had chosen.
Half the class had left at the end of the first three months. Half the remainder at the end of the first year. By the time the training period was over only two others had stayed together with himself. Three from twenty-a good average.
And now it was pleasant to sit in the warm and drift into worlds of memory in which old friends came to greet him and old places became new again: Even remembered pain became less demanding, became a part of the joy in serving, of his dedication. And it had not always been pain, though rarely had there been comfort. And now, old, in charge of this church, he could afford to relax a little. To let others share the burden. Others who…
After a while Brother Biul came in to rewrap the blanket and to ease the old man's limbs so as to avoid the danger of cramp. He looked, he thought, surprisingly young, the seamed and wrinkled face now plumped a little, the lips curved as if, in his dreams, he smiled.
Then he saw the stillness of the throat, the flaccidity of the great arteries and knew the old man would never smile again.
* * *
"Dead?" Kars Gartok frowned. "The old monk dead? But how? I was talking to him only hours ago."
"I know." The officer was polite. "That is why I am here. A routine matter, you understand. A formality. Did he say anything? Complain of feeling unwell, perhaps?"
"No."
"He mentioned no one who had threatened him?"
"No."
"Your cooperation would be appreciated."
"You're getting it," snapped Gartok. He turned and strode across the room, faced the wall, turned and took three steps back again. Like the hotel the chamber was not of the best, the furnishings worn, the carpet faded, the walls stained. One pane of the window was cracked and the radiator which should have warmed the place was failing in its duty. Even the light was dim. "He was at the gate, begging, you know how the monks operate. We talked for a while, he was eager for news and I gave him what I had. Then I left. Is there suspicion of foul play?"
"No." The officer relaxed and tucked away his notebook. "As I said this is a routine matter. The Church has friends on Ilyard and, well, you understand."
Friends of influence, who else could have given the monks permission to establish themselves here? No planet dedicated to war would welcome those who preached the doctrine of peace. The officer was naturally being cautious.
Gartok said, "How did he die?"
"He was old. He should have known better than to stand in the cold. It could have been the final straw. Personally I think that he'd just lived out his life." The officer glanced around the chamber. "No luck on your last engagement?"
"No."
"Too bad, but we can't all win." He spoke with the casual indifference of a man who couldn't care less. "Well, thank you for your patience. If you're looking for work you could do worse than try the High Endeavour. It's on Secunda Avenue close to Breine."
"I know where it is, but isn't Delthraph in business now?"
"He was shot in an argument last month. Creditors sold his business and the new owner isn't established yet. Try the High Endeavour. It's your best choice."
Like the hotel the place was dingy, a little decayed, a building which had known better times. Luck could have brought them. Money could buy paint and workers to refurbish the exterior. New furnishings would brighten up inside. Rich employers would come to sound out what was offered and winners would make the place their headquarters. Fame followed success and success bred riches. But that had yet to come.
Kars Gartok stepped from the street into the vestibule. A girl smiled at him and a man looked up from where he sat behind a counter. A guard-receptionist, the hand he kept hidden would be holding a weapon. His eyes checked the mercenary, noting the thin cloak, the hat with the feather, the pistol belted at his waist. All were of local manufacture bought less than a couple of hours ago.
"Your first time here?"
Gartok nodded. "I've been away. Delthraph would have known me."
"He's dead."
"That's why I'm here. Upstairs?"
"The front room. You won't be alone. The girl will provide anything you want. Food? Wine?"
"Wine. A flagon."