Prison of Night

The service would be short as these things always were. A man had died, leaving his body to commence the final journey into the infinite, and what he had left was nothing of real importance. It would be disposed of; a mass of decaying tissue fed to the cleansing flames, the ashes to be scattered so that, even in death, he would continue to serve as fertilizer if as nothing else.

And yet it was hard to think of the old monk as a heap of corruption.

Harder still to accept that never again would he be close at hand to help, to guide and advise, to lend his strength, to understand.

A loss which Brother Veac felt as he stood beside the door watching those assembled in the hall. Their smell rose from the benches to cling to the ceiling and walls; an odor of sweat and rancid oil, of dirt and natural exudations, of fear and privation. The stench of sickness, the reek of poverty. Yet not all were poor.

Among the crowd could be seen the flash of expensive fabrics, the gleam of gems, the sheen of rich cloaks. Men and women both who had cause to hold the dead monk in high regard and who had come to pay their last respects. Others too, hard men, one in particular with a flat, scarred face. A mercenary by the look of him and, as such, hardly a man to follow the Church.

"Kars Gartok," said a voice at his side. "I saw him enter."

Brother Biul, demonstrating again his seeming ability to read minds. He smiled as his companion turned.

"I noticed your interest-one I share. Why should a professional killer attend the last rites of an old monk? A mystery, brother, but one which will have to wait for a solution. It is time we began."

There were words, ceremonies deliberately kept devoid of mysticism, the throb of bells. Always there were bells, deep, musical notes captured on recorders, now filling the air with the melody gained on Hope where tremendous castings of bronze, silver and brass throbbed and droned with a solemn pulse which touched the wells of life itself. Here, in this place, with damp mottling the walls and the floor little more than tamped clay covered with tough but bleak matting, the sound was that of an outstretched hand closing in warm friendship.

Veac felt his eyes sting with tears.

It was the pain of personal loss and yet a little more than that. A man had been born, had chosen, had lived to spend his years in the service of others. He had suffered willingly and without complaint. He had helped and asked for nothing and, in return, murder had come to him in the guise of a plea for aid.

Who could have wanted the old man dead?

The tears streamed as the doors opened and flame showed waiting to embrace the small, withered figure on the bier. Veac let them fall, unashamed of his display of emotion and he was not alone. In the body of the hall a woman cried out and tore at her hair. A man called something, a farewell, in a tone gruff with anguish. Even the scarred mercenary lifted a hand and snapped a military salute, lowering his palm only after the doors had closed and the small body vanished from sight.

Veac stepped before him as Kars Gartok made his way toward the door.

"A moment, brother, if you would be so kind."

"I have time, brother." Gartok took two steps to one side, watching as a woman, heavily veiled, shoulders bowed and a handkerchief held to her eyes stumbled past. The man with her, rich in his puffed and pleated tunic, his cloak thick and lined with scarlet material, looked over her head at the monk.

"Later, brother, I shall return for audience. Such a man as that must not be forgotten. An extension, perhaps? Some little thing to remind those who come later what we have lost today?"

"You are most kind, brother." Veac was genuine in his response. "Brother Eldon will be missed but his work-the work of the Church-must continue."

"Of course. Of course." The man nodded, one hand on the arm of the woman. "I know the Church does not encourage personal enhancement-the whole embraces the part-but I have a personal regard and, well, later we shall speak of it. I will send word. Now, my dear, be brave. Soon we shall be home."

The mercenary drew in his breath as the couple moved on their way.

"Charl Embris," he murmured. "And his lady Othurine. He's rich enough to build you a Church of marble faced with gold. What did he owe the monk, I wonder? What service had he performed?" One he would never know, the Church retained its secrets, but the sight of the man emphasized the power which could be used to aid the monks. "Well, brother, you had something to ask me."

"Yes," said Veac. "Why are you here?"

"Does a man need a reason to attend a Church?"

"No, brother."

"But you are curious." Gartok nodded. "And I have no wish to insult those for whom I have a regard. A man in my trade never knows when he may need help. Doctors aren't always available but, on every world where there is war, monks are to be found."