Prison of Night

"Then you are more saint than man. I curse people often. Captain Blasco who has a taste for killing. The fool who hired us. The swine who-well, never mind. What is done is done and what point to dwell in the past? But you, Brother, have you any news?" Then, as the monk made no reply, "I forgot, you do not trade in war. But at least tell me this-have any persons of consequence and wealth arrived recently? High lords with ambition and money to hire men?" His eyes narrowed as they searched the old face. Like the monk he had a knowledge of psychology but could read nothing. Then a flicker of the eyes gave him a clue. "They have? You do not deny it? Good. Fortune could be smiling on me at last Where are they staying?"

"You can find out where, brother," said the monk. "As you say, I do not trade in war."

* * *

He shivered a little as the mercenary strode away, the wind was increasing and its chill numbed skin and bone. He could barely feel the bowl in his hands and his feet were like blocks of wood yet he welcomed the discomfort as a reminder of times past when, as a young man newly taken into the Church, he had stood before gates like this begging for alms.

An essential duty but one which he no longer had need to perform but old habits died hard and, always, it was necessary to guard against the sin of pride.

And to beg was to be humble.

A gust of wind caught his robe and drove it hard against his body, the damp material emphasizing the chill of the dying day. From the distance came the shouts of men and the monotonous pounding of feet. Raw recruits were at drill; men engaged on a scatter of worlds and transported here to Ilyard where their contracts were sold at a profit. Those who had already been bloodied, who had been flung into combat and who had managed to survive, fetched a higher price than the rest. Others, like Kars Gartok, long freed of contractual restraint, sold their skills to any who would be willing to pay. Their skill and loyalty for what it was worth, going out to fight, to kill, to bleed, to die if they must to live if they could even at the cost of all they owned.

One day, thought the monk, he might be able to understand what drove men to act in such a manner, but for now it was cold, the field was empty and work still waited to be done.

The shadows were lengthening as he reached the first of a litter of shacks and huts which sprawled away from the town to the side of the field. Lowtowns were all the same no matter on which world they were found. The refuge of the desperate, those stricken with illness, those cursed with poverty. The stench of it rose like a miasma from the ramshackle dwellings; constructions of scrap and discarded plastic, of fabrics salvaged from the garbage of the more fortunate, doing little but to keep out the rain and giving a scrap of privacy.

The church was little better, but from intent rather than need. A building of brick or stone with solid walls and barred windows, of thick doors and heated air would have been an affront to those it had been designed to serve. As a monk wearing silk and gems would have insulted the wretch to whom he preached the virtue of poverty. To gain the confidence of those in need they had to be met at their own level.

Yet, even so, the church was bigger and better than others he had known. They had been the flimsy shacks of portable churches: fabric and poles which could be carried on a back together with the benediction light which was the heart of the structure. Yet tent or palace all were the same. All strove to teach the same message. To persuade all who came to listen or who could be persuaded to pay attention to accept the Universal teaching of complete Brotherhood. That no man was an island. That the pain of one was the pain of all. That all shared the burden of a common heritage. That all belonged to the Corpus Humanite. That once each could look at the other and say, there, but for the grace of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.

He would never see it. No monk now alive would ever see it. Men bred too fast and traveled too far for that. They rested on too many worlds scattered throughout the galaxy and were subjected to too many strains. But, eventually, it would come. It was an article of faith to believe that. The purpose of his being.

"Brother!" A man rose from where he'd been squatting in the dirt and mud at the side of the track. He was thin, his face yellowed with jaundice, his teeth chattering with cold. He smelt of suppurating pus; the sickly sweet odor of tissue-decay. The hand he extended was like a claw, thin, quivering. "Brother. For the love of God help me!"

"Ask, brother, and if it is possible it will be given."

"I'm ill. Rotten with sores and something else. Starving. I can't get work. And I-I've…"

"The church is waiting," said Brother Eldon quietly. "Enter it, kneel beneath the benediction light, confess and receive forgiveness. Medicines are available and they will be given."