Prison of Night Read online

  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."

  Men with medical skill, with medicines and drugs to heal and to ease pain, with arts to end the torment of the dying. Neutral friends, if nothing else and, always, they could be trusted.

  And yet?

  Gartok was a mercenary, shrewd, hard, selfish. And he had been almost the last man to see the old monk alive.

  "You are kind, brother, but is there nothing else? Some personal regard, perhaps?"

  Gartok shrugged. "You look for what isn't there, monk. I didn't know the old man. We spoke, exchanged a few words, a little news, and that is all. But another, years ago, as old, did me a service once. In fact he saved my life. Call my attendance here a belated tribute to that man." Turning he faced the doors behind which blazed the flame and, again, saluted. "Farewell, brother. May you find the peace you lived to teach." And then, oddly, added, "May we all find it."

  The church never closed and, day or night, always someone was waiting to unburden themselves or to gain a little comfort. The sick too needed attention, mothers with babies covered in sores, older children with eyes thick with pus, themselves asking help and advice in order to avoid further pregnancies. Help and advice which was never refused.

  It was dark by the time Veac had finished his duties, rising from a sick man to ease the ache in his back, looking down at the face now relaxed, the eyelids covering the eyes which flickered a little beneath the lids. One leg had been crushed, the wounds infected, suppurating, stinking with putrescence. The body burned with fever. A hospital could have taken care of the man, any competent doctor, but both would have asked for payment assured or in advance. The aid given by the monks was free.

  "Brother!" Audin was a new arrival, young, fresh, eager to serve. "I am to relieve you. Do you have any special instructions as to the patients?"

  "The man at the end of the first row is in extremis. He will most probably die before dawn. The woman in the second row is close to crisis so make sure that she is not alone for long. This man," he looked down at the figure, "is happy enough for the moment. I've given him subjective suggestion and will reenforce it later. Now we can do nothing but ease his pain and allow the drugs to do their work. Brother Biul?"

  "Is waiting for you with Brother Thotan."

  He was a big man, wide shoulders filling his robe, his head a naked ball, his hands holding the strength of a vice. A man who fought injustice and the ills of the universe as if they were personal enemies. The answer to all who considered the Church to be weak and helpless, those who thought monks to be cringing effeminates. Only his voice was soft and even then iron lurked beneath the gentle tones.

  "I have completed my examination of your reports and findings and must admit there is no doubt as to the cause of Eldon's death. He was murdered. A poison was injected into his hand, probably by a sharpened fingernail or some instrument incorporating a hollow needle."

  Veac said, boldly, "Wouldn't he have felt the pain?"

  For a moment Thotan stared at the young monk, his eyes sunken in pits beneath his brows, the brown flecked with emerald, the white tinged with yellow.

  "A good question, brother. Never be afraid to ask questions-how else can you find answers? Why didn't he feel pain when injected? Two reasons. One is that he simply didn't feel it. He could have been exposed to the cold for too long, his flesh numbed and unresponsive, or the instrument used could have been loaded with an anesthetic." His voice hardened as his finger stabbed at Veac. "The other?"

  "He felt it but didn't comment. A jagged fingernail could have caused it or a broken button and, as you say, his hand must have been chilled." Hesitating Veac added, "The puncture was in the fleshy part of the palm. It is relatively insensitive to pain."

  "And to anything else." Thotan nodded his satisfaction. "You have a sharp mind, brother, cultivate it. It could le
ad you far."

  To a large church of his own, perhaps. To residence in a city where he would counsel the rich and influential. To Pace which held the second largest seminary of the Church, even to Hope which was the heart and fountainhead of the Universal Brotherhood. The world on which the High Monk was to be found, the records, the schools of training, the statues and adornments which generations of those who loved and worked for the objectives of the Church had built and donated.

  Then he blinked, conscious of the sharp stare of the probing eyes. Could Thotan, as Biul had seemed to demonstrate, read minds? Telepathy was not unknown though those who held the talent paid for it in one way or another usually with physical malfunctions. Was the bulk all bone and muscle or the growth of wild cells? Was the head shaved or naturally bald.

  Had the comment and praise, so casually uttered, been a test?

  Veac straightened his shoulders. No monk could yield to fear and all had the right to be ambitious. It was only when that ambition became a thing of self rather than of aiding the unfortunate did it become a sin. And yet he had been close and could even have passed over the edge. The vision of Hope, the statues and items of price-avarice and pride of possession were both to be shunned. No monk could wear gems while others starved. No church could be built of gold while poverty reigned. Yet some things, while priceless, could not be sold.

  "So we have an assassination," said Thotan. "Well, it isn't the first and I doubt if it will be the last, but monks are too scarce to be targets." He looked down at his massive hands. They were clenched-at times it was hard to be forgiving. "The question is-who wanted Eldon dead and why? We know how he was killed; the derelict who asked for help when he returned from the field. The man must have been waiting, primed, placed like a weapon ready to fire. Dead, of course?"

  "He was dying when he arrived," said Biul. "He was washed and fed and given drugs to ensure rest and sleep. He never woke. Only after Eldon had been found did we investigate. It seems a natural death but, though old, he was strong and I grew suspicious. Tests showed the presence of poison. More from where it came. The rest you know."

  The report which had been sent over the hybeam and which had brought him from a nearby world to make what investigation he could. As yet he had discovered nothing new.

  "Gartok," he said. "He was cleared at the official inquiry, I know, but that was a casual affair. Anything more?" He pursed his lips as Veac told him about the man's attendance at the cremation, his salute. "Mercenaries are superstitious and he could have told you the truth. And what connection could there be between him and Eldon? Yet a man isn't killed without reason. If possible we must find it."

  As a protection. As a warning to others who might be tempted to attack the monks and the Church which they served. And as a comfort to those same monks who would be bolstered by the assurance that to be humble was not to be weak.

  Things Veac thought about as, later, he searched through Eldon's possessions. They were few-a monk owned only what he could carry, but each held some strong memory and each had helped to soften the harshness of the chamber in which he lived and slept. Light splintered from glass embedded in a polished scrap of wood, the edge of the mineral flecked so as to create a razor-sharp edge. Perhaps it had served as a razor or even as a scalpel. A scrap of fabric bore an elaborate design of knots. A piece of stone had been rubbed into a smooth complexity of curves and concavities over which the fingers traveled in sensuous caress; a worry-stone striped with rippled rainbows. A painting done in oils of a young man with a fresh, open face. Eldon himself? Veac doubted it, few monks wanted to be reminded of their past and the portrait was probably that of a relative or an old associate. Putting it down he looked about the chamber. There had been something else, he remembered, a book in which the old man had written from time to time. A record of his achievements, he had once explained. A slim journal containing fifty years of his life.

  Veac couldn't find it. Searching he found a battered medical handbook, another containing a list of useful herbs together with illustrations and instructions as to preparation, a third which held a collection of poems. But the journal was not to be found.

  Going to the door he opened it. Thotan had arrived accompanied by Audin and another. He waited outside for the room to be cleared, a small, slim man with liquid eyes and a skin like oiled chocolate.

  "Brother Anz, a moment if you please." Veac stepped back into the chamber. When the other joined him he said, "Have you seen anyone enter or leave this room today? Anyone at all?"

  "Yourself and, earlier, Brother Thotan."

  "Anyone else?"

  "A woman. She came to clean, I think, at least she carried a bucket and held a broom. But I only saw her as she walked along the corridor."

  "Describe her," Veac nodded as the man obeyed. The woman was, as the monk had suspected, a cleaner-one of many volunteers probably on her way to the infirmary or kitchen and taking a short-cut through the living quarters. He would speak to her later and advise against her continuing the habit. "Thank you brother."

  The book must have been lost somehow but, as Veac was turning toward the door, Anz said, "A moment, brother. I remember now. Before I saw the woman and before I had entered the passage a man passed me coming from this direction. I suppose he could have entered this room if he had wished but why he should eludes me. Perhaps he wanted an interview with yourself or Brother Biul. He was big with a scarred face and-"

  "A moment!" Veac described Kars Gartok. "Yes?"

  "It is possible. I only caught a glimpse but that could be the man."

  The mercenary a thief? His breed were all thieves even if they called their loot the spoils of war but would such a man steal a book? And of what possible use could the private journal of a dead monk be to such a man?

  The auctioneer's hammer fell with a thud.

  "Fifty men, semi-trained, sold to Ophren Hyde! The next lot consists of three trained weapon-guidance engineers. All fully experienced having fought with Arkill's Avengers and the Poloshenic Corps. I start with five thousand… five… five…"

  A man called, "Their contract?"

  "Open to negotiation. Purchase price refunded if transfer arranged. One tour of duty mandatory. Do you bid six?"

  "Six."

  They would go for nine and the buyer would be either Kuang Tao or Brod Lacour. Only they owned the equipment which would make such a price worth the outlay. And, if either bought, then something must be moving which as yet he was still ignorant.

  Damn Othurine and her tears!

  Chart Embris shifted irritably in his seat as another parcel was offered for sale. This time it was a score of battle-hardened mercenaries, good men and reliable and far better than the cheaper semi-trained and basic material which usually was to be found on the block. But times were hard and even good men were willing to sign up for bed and board and a few basic comforts which certain women, also on contract, were willing to supply.

  "Three," droned the auctioneer. "No? Gentlemen you amaze me. Two then, let us try two. Still you hesitate? Then let us forget the reserve. Name your own figure. What am I bid for a score of experienced fighters?"

  Embris touched the button of the instrument in his pocket. Far to one side a man said, "Five hundred!"

  "Five-surely you jest!" The auctioneer, an old man, had his pride. "I will start with one thousand. If there are no bids the lot will be withdrawn. The reputation of Ilyard must be maintained. These are trained and skilled soldiers, gentlemen! Do I have to remind you of that? Now, who will open the bidding?"

  "One thousand."

  "Thank you. I will accept bids in hundreds."

  Again Embris thumbed the button and, like a marionette triggered by the radioed impulse, his agent lifted his hand.

  "Eleven."

  Another man, "Twelve!"

  "Thirteen!"

  "Fifteen!"

  That would be Gin Peng always impatient or intent on forcing up the price so as to weaken later competition. His bid was secret, o
f course, as was any dealer's of note. Even a good reputation would inflate the price and, unknown factions were opposed, then the fur really flew.

  "Fifteen? Any advance on fifteen?" The auctioneer poised his hammer. "Going… going… gone!"

  Well, if Peng had made the bid, then good luck to him. There would be other lots and more men and it would do no harm to conserve wealth and outlay until he had a market for anything he might decide to buy. A conservative outlook and one which would hardly make a man a fortune but he could afford to coast for a little. Forever if it came to that-he had money enough to retire. But how else could he occupy his time? What could ever replace the thrill of buying and selling men, of manipulating supplies, of weighing the scales against an opponent and arranging private alliances, deals, surrenders?

  "My lord!" His aide was deferential, his voice low as he stooped over the back of the chair. "There is a man requesting an audience. A mercenary. Kars Gartok-I have his record."

  It was a good one, at least the man knew his trade and wouldn't waste his time as so many others did or tried to do. Embris looked up and around, seeing nothing of interest either on or near the block, noting too that several seats were empty. He would lose nothing by leaving and could gain much.

  "Give me an hour. Have the man wait in the iron-room of my house. See that he is fed. A meal will take up most of the time."

  And the wine which went with it helped to ease his tongue. Kars Gartok recognized the danger and sipped sparingly at the rich and potent liquid an attendant kept pouring into his glass. The food was another matter and he ate well, chewing at succulent meats and spiced vegetables, dabbing at the juice which ran from his mouth and over his chin.

  Once he saw the look of disdain the attendant threw at him and smiled behind the napkin. Let the fool sneer-the food he ate now would see him through days if necessary. And the report the man would make would serve its purpose later.

  A game, he thought, as the dishes were cleared and only the wine left standing before him. In life everything was a game, A man gambled for riches, for comfort, for ease and, if he had to set his life on the board to win them, well, that was the nature of the play. Win all or lose all- a fair wager. Only the weak were afraid to take the chance, clinging to a life little better than a hell in order simply to survive. Fools who overvalued the few years of existence they could expect. What difference if life ended now or in a score of years? Ten? One? Against the immensity of time what a small thing a year was.