CHAPTER NINE

ACCORDING TO CHURCH dogma, Talamein had ordered his fleet of emigres to set down on Sanctus because a vision told him that the waterworld was particularly blessed by the spirit of the cosmos.

Actually. Talamein had diverted for the first E-normal world that swam onto the scopes since he was faced with near-mutiny and his people were developing a moderate case of the cobblies.

Sanctus had one major city—the City of Tombs—a few minor fishing villages, one minor port, and hundreds of villages. Its population was composed of those in the theocracy, those who exploited the pilgrims to the World of Talamein, and peasants—fisherfolk or farmers.

And Sten.

He shifted uncomfortably on the stone bench and massaged the stiff place in his neck. A cold breath of air needled his spine.

The Prophet's guardsman eyed Sten just as coldly as the breeze caressing his spine. Sten grinned at him and the guard turned away.

He had been sitting on that bench for three hours, but patience was a virtue learned quickly on Sanctus. Especially in the City of Tombs, with its drab bureaucratic priests, massive monuments to the long-dead, and ghostly cold spots.

Not exactly soft duty, Mahoney, Sten thought, looking around the ancient anteroom in pure boredom. Like everything else in the City of Tombs, it was constructed of yellowing stone that had once been white. The chamber was enormous, decorated here and there with chiseled faces, gilded statuary, and elaborate tapestries.

And the room was thick with the scent of incense.

But like everything else on Sanctus, everything in the room was worn and threadbare. The tapestry had been torn and then mended, the gilded figures chipped.

Even the guard, with his ceremonial halberd and unceremonial projectile weapon, was threadbare, his uniform far from clean and patched many times.

Sten, on the other hand, wore the brown undress of the Guards division, his chest hung with the decorations he and Mahoney had decided were appropriate. Conspicuously absent was a Guards Division patch on the sleeve—but there was a dark patch where it might have been ripped off following a court-martial. He stood out in the poverty that was Sanctus.

Money was the number-one problem on the World of Talamein, far more important than the state of a being's soul.

Bribery, Sten had learned, was a surer path to salvation than prayer.

Fortunately, Mahoney had supplied Sten with more than enough credits. He had already been a week on Sanctus, humbly seeking an audience with Theodomir the Prophet, but it had taken awhile to grease his way up the chain of command.

A helluva way to run a religion, Sten thought.

He had paid a last big bribe the day before to purchase a bishop. So far the bishop had kept his promises.

Sten had been ushered through the streets of the "awesome"

City of Tombs, with its vast monuments and towering chimney-like torches. A few of the torches spouted huge columns of flame. They were turned on, like fiery praywheels, when the

'families of the very rich made their offerings for the recently departed.

To Sten, the city looked like a huge valley of factories in mourning.

Sten eased himself down the bench another half meter to escape the cold. Besides the tawdriness of the place, the cold spots were one of the first things Sten noticed. They seemed to be scattered all through the long hallways and chambers, rising strangely from seemingly solid stone. Careful, Sten warned himself, or pretty soon you'll start seeing Talamein ghosts.

He heard a click click click in the distance and looked up just as the guard snapped to attention. The clicking footsteps stopped for a moment, and then a huge door boomed open. And Sten rose to greet the man his bribe had bought.

"Welcome. Welcome to Sanctus."

And Mathias, son of the Prophet, strode over to greet Sten.

Even though Sten had studied his fiche, Mathias' appearance was a surprise. In a world of fishbelly-pale ascetics, the tall young man had the ruddy look of an outdoorsman. He wore an unadorned red uniform that smacked more of the military than the priesthood.

And, more interestingly, he greeted Sten with the palm-out gesture of equal meeting equal.

Sten hesitated, then muttered the proper greetings, trying to get a measure of the young man, as he found himself taken by the arm and escorted down a long, dark hallway.

"My father is most anxious to meet you," Mathias said. "We have heard much of you."

Of me and my money, Sten thought a little cynically.

"Why did you not approach us straightaway? The Faith of Talamein is most ready to accommodate a man of your…

abilities."

Sten mumbled an excuse about wanting to look around Mathias' delightful city.

"Still. You should have come direct to the palace. To me. I have been hoping to meet a man such as yourself."

It occurred to Sten that Mathias meant what he was saying and, possibly, knew nothing about how one bribed one's way into the Presence.

"I hope my father and yourself reach an—an understanding,"

Mathias said.

"As do I."

"Perhaps… if such is the case… you will find time to meet some of my Companions. My friends."

"That would be interesting," Sten said. Prayer meetings! The things a man must do to kick over a dictatorship.

Mathias suddenly smiled, warmly, humanly. "I suspect you are thinking my friends sit around by the hour and drone from the Book of Talamein?"

Sten looked away.

"We are familiar with the words of the Prophet. But we find our faith is… best realized… away from the cities. Trying to teach ourselves the skills that Talamein used to find freedom.

Nothing professional, of course. But perhaps you might offer us some pointers."

He stopped as they stopped at the end of the corridor, and the double doors thundered open.

And Sten found himself standing in what could only be described as a throne room. Threadbare, for sure, but a throne room just the same. Here the tapestries were much thicker and (originally) richer. And it was crammed with statuary. And at the far end, nestled in thick pillows on a huge stone chair, was Theodomir, the Prophet. Behind him was a huge vidmap of the waterworld that was Sanctus. With the single island continent that was the Talamein Holy of Holies. A large ruby glow lit the location of the City of Tombs. The picture was framed by two immense torches—the cleansing symbol of the religion.

Suddenly Sten realized Mathias was no longer standing beside him. He glanced downward. The young man was on his knees, his head bowed in supplication.

"Theodomir," he intoned. "Your son greets you in the name of Talamein. '

Sten hesitated, wondering if he should kneel, then settled for a courteous half bow.

"Who is that with you, Mathias?"

The Prophet's voice was thin and rasped like sawgrass.

Mathias was instantly on his feet and urging Sten forward.

"Colonel Sten, father. The man we have been speaking of."

Sten blinked at the sudden promotion, then stepped toward the throne, all parade-ground military. He clicked his heels and semirelaxed into a parade-rest stance.

"A poor soldier greets you, Theodomir," Sten intoned smoothly. "And he brings a humble soldier's gift."

There were gasps around the room, and Theodomir went pale as Sten's hand went in his tunic and came out with a knife. Out of the corner of an eye he saw a guard start forward, and Sten laughed to himself, as he very carefully and very ceremoniously laid the knife at the Prophet's feet.

The knife was very valuable and very useless. It was made of precious metals and inlaid with gleaming stones. Sten glanced at Theodomir's frayed robe and wondered how quickly the Prophet would put the gift up for sale. If the fiche was correct and Theodomir's tastes were as earthly as it indicated, Sten figured it would take about an hour.

Theodomir recovered and motioned or a cupbearer to hand him a chalice of wine. He took a long, unholy gulp and then burst into laughter.

"Oh, that's very good. Very good. Slipped it past security, did you? Through the scanners and skin search."

The laughter stopped abruptly. The Prophet turned a yellow eye at an aide cowering nearby. "Have a word with security," he said softly.

The aide bowed and scurried off.

The Prophet took another gulp of wine, then began chortling again. He turned his head to a curtain beside him and toasted the shadowy recess.

"Well, Parral. What do you think? Can we make use of our clever Colonel Sten?"

The curtain parted and a small, thin, dark-faced man stepped out. He gave Theodomir a slight bow and then turned to Sten, smiling.

"Yes," Parral said. "I think we should have a little chat."

They sat in a small, dusty library. The chairs were cracked and ancient, but quite comfortable, and the walls were lined with vidbooks. Sten couldn't help but notice that the dust lay thick on the religious works and reference texts. A few well-worn erotic titles caught his eye.

Mathias refilled their cups with wine—all except his own. The Prophet's son preferred water.

"Yes, we are indeed quite fortunate to find a man of your talents, Colonel Sten," Parral said smoothly. He took a small sip of his wine.

"But I can't help but think we might be too fortunate. By that I mean you appear, shall we say, overqualified for our remote cluster. Why is a man with talents in the Lupus Cluster?"

"Simple," Sten said, "like all things military. After I, ah, resigned from the Guard…"

"Ah. Perhaps cashiered would be a better word?"

"Don't be rude, Parral," Mathias snapped. "From what we've heard of the colonel's background, the Empire appears to hold in low esteem a soldier who fights to win. The details of his leaving Imperial Service are immaterial to us."

"I apologize, Colonel," Parral said. "Continue, please."

"No apologies necessary. We are, after all, both businessmen."

Sten raised the glass to his lips, catching the startled looks around the room. "You are in the business of trading. I am in the business—and I mean business—of fighting."

"But what about loyalties? Don't soldiers fight for causes?"

Theodomir asked.

"My loyalties are to the men who hire me. And once the contract is signed, as a businessman, I must keep my word."

He gave Parral a conspiratorial merchant-to-merchant look.

"If I didn't, who would ever buy what I sell again?"

Parral laughed. A cold bark. He leaned across the table. "And what exactly do you have to sell. Colonel?"

"To you, a vastly expanded business empire. The first trading monopoly in the Lupus Cluster."

Sten turned to Theodomir. "To you, a church that is whole again."

After a moment, Theodomir smiled. "That would accomplish my grandest wish," he said dreamily.

Parral remained unconvinced. "And where is your army, Colonel?"

"Within reach."

"To topple Ingild—and to destroy the Jann—would require an enormous force."

"You have beautiful forests on Sanctus," Sten replied obliquely. "I imagine with very tall trees. Trees that die, but still stand. How much force does the woodsman need to exert to topple that tree?

"Where my force excels," Sten said, "is knowing, just as the woodsman knows, where and how to exert the proper force."

"To destroy Ingild," Theodomir whispered. "All those worlds would be mine again. That's quite a lot." He turned to Parral.

"Don't you think so, Parral? Don't you think that's quite a lot indeed?"

To Theodomir's delight, Parral nodded his agreement.

"Since you come so well, ah, provisioned," Parral said dryly, "I assume you have a budget describing the costs of your operation?"

Sten took the fiche from his inside tunic and passed it to the merchant.

"Thank you. Colonel. Now, if you'll excuse us, the Prophet and I shall discuss your terms."

Sten stood up.

"Although," Parral said quickly, "I'm sure we'll have no difficulty meeting them."

"I will show you to your rooms," Mathias offered. "I assume you will be willing to move into the palace?"

Sten smiled his thanks, bowed to Theodomir, and followed Mathias. The door had hardly closed before Theodomir poured down the rest of his wine and started worriedly pacing the room.

"What do you think, Parral? What do you really think? Can we trust him?"

Parral shrugged and refilled the Prophet's glass. "It really doesn't matter," he said. "As long as we watch our backs."

"Oh, I'd love to see it," Theodomir said. "I'd love to see that idol-worshipper Ingild chased down and crushed—Do you really think we can do it? Is it worth the risk?"

"The only thing we can lose," Parral said, settling back in his seat, "are a few of my credits and the lives of his men."

"But if Sten wins—if he wins, what do we do with him?"

Parral laughed his cold laugh. "What you always do with a mercenary."

Theodomir smiled. And then he joined in the laughter. "I'll find a nice little tomb for him," he promised. "Right beside the place I'm going to put Ingild."