The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III (36 page)

“Ponder this, if you will,” he finished. “How soon would it be before something like a Law of Degree was applied, not only to those who do not
look
human, but to those who do not meet some other standard? When have any of you ever seen a law that took away the freedom of one group used
only
against that group? How about if our unknown enemy convinced you all that it should be applied to the indigent—street trash, beggars, and the like? It sounds reasonable, does it not? And who would really choose to have beggars and slackards sleeping in doorways, if they could be out doing useful work—and at least, as slaves, they would not be drinking, robbing, causing trouble in the street. But how if, after a delay of time to make it comfortable, it was then applied to those who—say—do not own property? After all, if you do not own your home, are you not indigent? What if it were applied to those who did not have a business, were not in a Guild, or happened not to have a job at a particular moment? After all, if you have lost your job, are you not indigent?”

Startled looks all around the room showed him that he had not only caught their attention, he had brought up something they had never in their wildest dreams thought of. Very probably the majority of the humans here only rented their tiny living-quarters from someone else—and every manufactory worker lived in fear of losing his job.

“Before you dismiss these truths as fantasy, remember that every one of you who has been robbed, cheated or raped—or knows someone who has, human or nonhuman—knows that there are those in our world who are capable of such evils. Remember that it is
fear
that makes all this possible,” he concluded. “Fear which keeps us from organizing, from questioning to find out the truth, which keeps us divided, human from nonhuman, men from women, those who are prosperous from those who are not. Remember that, go and think and talk and ask questions; and then, if you will, come back to Father Ruthvere. He is a man of caring and courage, and he has tasks that need doing to make certain that this enemy does
not
take all our freedom away from us.”

He stepped down from the pulpit then, in an aura of stunned silence, and Father Ruthvere stepped back up into it.

Then the talk broke out, an avalanche of words, as those of the Chapel and those who were not cast questions up to Father Ruthvere, and he answered them as best he could.

His best was fairly accurate, since he, Nightingale and T’fyrr had been talking about this for the past three days, gathering all the information they could and putting this little meeting together. They had decided that Father Ruthvere, and not T’fyrr, should be the putative leader of this group; he was human and would be trusted by the humans—he was a man of the Church, and presumably honorable and above reproach. Not that the real leader would not be T’fyrr
—

Or rather, the real target. I am the obvious target, leaving Father Ruthvere to do his work.

Fortunately, the Father
was
honorable and above reproach, and he was trained to be a leader of his flock. He had the skills T’fyrr did not; T’fyrr had the skills of rhetoric that he did not.

Perhaps, rather than the leader, I should style myself as a figurehead. Or perhaps an organizer? Oh, no, I believe I like Nightingale’s term better: “rabble-rouser.”

But standing behind the pulpit and filling the choir loft was another group that T’fyrr and Nightingale turned to face—as many of Father Ruthvere’s fellow Churchmen as could be gathered together here at such short notice. T’fyrr had not had a chance to look them over before he stepped up to make his speech, but now he saw that among the grey, black, and brown robes, there were two men dressed in the red robes of Justiciars, two men and a woman in the deeper burgundy of Justiciar Mages, and one iron-faced individual in the white and purple robes of a Bishop.

His hackles rose for just a moment at that—but a heartbeat later, he smoothed them down. While the face of this man might be implacable, his eyes were warm and full of approval. He had heard T’fyrr out, and he seemed to like what he heard.

He knows the truth when he hears it. He is hard and cannot he shaken, but he is no fanatic. He knows reason; he does not let fear blind him. And he is no one’s tool or fool.

It was this man who approached them first, while Nightingale swallowed and groped for T’fyrr’s hand. He clasped it, reassuringly. The Bishop’s eyes flickered down to their joined hands as the motion caught his attention, then they returned to T’fyrr’s face with no less warmth in them than before.

And he sees nothing wrong with a human and one who is not being together. That alone shows more of an open mind than I had dared to hope for.

“You are a remarkable speaker, musician,” the old man said in a surprisingly powerful and musical voice. “Your command of rhetoric is astounding.”

T’fyrr bowed a little, acknowledging the compliment. “It is not just rhetoric, my Lord Bishop,” he said in reply. “Every word I spoke was the truth, all of it information gathered not only across this city, but across the Twenty Kingdoms.”

“That is what makes it astounding,” the Bishop said with a hint of a smile. “Rhetoric and the truth seldom walk side-by-side, much less hand-in-hand. And that was what I wished to ask you, for some of those rumors I had not heard in this city. So the poison spreads elsewhere?”

T’fyrr nodded, and the Bishop pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That seems to match some things that I have observed within the Church,” he mused. “And—I believe I agree with you and your friends. There is a force moving to destroy our freedoms, a secular force, but one with fingers into all aspects of life, including the Church. Would you not agree, Ardis?” he called over his shoulder.

The woman in the robes of the Justiciar Mages stepped forward, regarding T’fyrr with eyes that were remarkably like that of a Haspur—clear, direct and uncompromising. “I would agree, my Lord Bishop,” she said in a challenging voice as remarkable as the Bishop’s. “That, in fact, was why I was visiting my friend Ruthvere. His letters indicated to me that there were some of the same elements moving in Lyonarie as had been at work in Kingsford just before the fire that destroyed our city. I wanted ta see if that was the case and do something to prevent a similar tragedy if I could.”

A thread of excitement traced its way down T’fyrr’s back, but it did not come from him but from Nightingale. She knew something about this woman—something important. He would have to ask her later
—

But then the woman turned her eyes toward Nightingale and said, in a tone as gentle as her voice had been challenging before, “Please tell my good cousin, Talaysen, that I miss his company—and far more than his company, his wisdom and his gentle wit, and if his King can spare him for a month or two, I have need of both in Kingsford. It need not be soon, but it should be within a year or so.”

Nightingale bowed her head in deepest respect—something T’fyrr had never seen her do before to anyone. “I shall, my Lady Priest,” she replied. “I believe that I can send him word that will reach him before the month is out. I will tell him to direct his reply to you with all speed.”

The Justiciar Mage smiled. “I had thought as much,” she said, and turned back to the Bishop. “My noble lord, are you satisfied now that Ruthvere and I told you nothing less than the truth?”

“More than satisfied—I am in fact convinced that there is more amiss than even you guessed.” He extended his hand to T’fyrr, who took it—a little confused, since he was not certain if he was to shake it or bow over it. The Bishop solved his quandary by simply clasping it firmly, with no sign that the alien feel of the talon disturbed him. “Sire T’fyrr, I thank you for your courage and your integrity—and your dedication. Rest assured that there are enough men and women of God in the Church to take the reins of the situation there and bring it under control. I wish that I could promise you help in the secular world as well, but I fear it will be all our forces can muster to cleanse our own house. At least you need not look for attack on one front.”

He let go of T’fyrr’s hand then, and turned toward the rest of the Priests. “My brothers and sisters—it is now our task to go and do just that. Let us be off.”

With that, he strode through the group, which parted before him and formed up behind him, and led the way to the Priest’s door at the rear of the choir loft. They were remarkably well organized and regimented; within moments they were all gone, with no milling about or confusion.

He glanced over at Nightingale. “What was that business with the woman all about?” he asked.

Nightingale shivered, but not from any sense of fear, more of a sense of awe, a reaction he had not expected a Priest to invoke in her.

“Lady Ardis is Master Wren’s cousin,” she said quietly. “Talaysen trusts her more than anyone else in the world, I think. I knew she was a Priest, but I
didn’t
know she was a Justiciar Mage! They may be the strongest mages in the Twenty Kingdoms—and I know that they are the best schooled. Could you hear the power in her?”

Now that he thought about it, there
had
been a deep and resonant melody about her, though not of the land he associated with Bardic Magic. Not precisely droning—more like the kind of chant that he recalled from Nightingale’s healing magic. But stronger, richer, with multiple voices. He nodded.

“I’ve never heard anyone like that,” Nightingale continued. “Never! With power like that, she doesn’t
need
rank; in fact, high rank would only get in her way.” Exultation crept into her voice. “And she’s on
our
side! Oh, T’fyrr, this is the best thing that could have happened to us!”

Father Ruthvere turned his head toward them for a moment. “Between Ardis and the Lord Bishop, we do not need to worry about the Church aiding our enemy, I think,” he said, his voice sounding more relaxed and confident than in the past several days. “As the Bishop said, this means one less front to guard; it means that I have leave to do whatever I can to help you, including offering you the sanctuary of the Church if you need it.”

“And it means one less ally for our enemy,” T’fyrr added. But Father Ruthvere was not finished.

“I do have another concern that Lady Ardis’ presence reminded me of. There is one other thing I believe you have not made accounting for,” he said, and worry entered his voice again. “Magic. Our enemy has not been able to silence you by direct attack, or by indirect. That leaves Magic. Ardis and her companions cannot stay for they will be needed in Kingsford, and there are no Justiciar Mages in Lyonarie who can devote themselves to your protection.”

Magic!
That
was
one thing he had not counted on! He had witnessed so little magic in his life, and most of it was of the subtler sort, the kind that Nightingale used. “But what can they do?” he asked, puzzled. “Surely anything magical can be countered.”

But Nightingale’s hand had tightened on his own spasmodically. “They can do quite a bit, T’fyrr,” she said hesitantly, “if they have a powerful enough mage. I have seen real Magic, the kind that the Deliambrens do not believe exists. If I told you some of what I have witnessed, you would not believe it either. I think perhaps I had better call in someone I had not intended to ask favors of
—
”

He shrugged, unconvinced. “If you will,” he said. “You know more about this than I do. But in the meantime, I will not be stopped. We have momentum now, and we must keep it going! Any hesitation at this moment will bring everything to a standstill!”

Father Ruthvere nodded agreement, and turned his attention back to the assembled group below. The crowd had thinned somewhat, but those remaining were the leaders of their own little coteries. And all of them, human and nonhuman, seemed inspired to work together.

“We need to get back to Freehold,” T’fyrr said in an aside to Nightingale, as the bells in the tower overhead chimed the hour. “We still have the meeting there this afternoon.
That
will be as much your meeting as mine.”

She knew the folk of Freehold, the customers, the staff. She knew them the way he never could, for she had been reading their feelings for the past several weeks. He might be able to make a fine speech to rouse those who were unaware of what was going on around them, but for those of Freehold who knew only too well the rumors circulating, the harassment, and the sabotage, it would take another skill to rouse their courage and show them that they must work together—that they literally
dared
not stand aside at this moment.

She squeezed his hand. “I think Father Ruthvere has this end well in hand,” she agreed. “Let’s go.”

###

Perhaps T’fyrr didn’t realize it, but Nightingale knew only too well how much of a target he had made himself.
He
was the obvious focal point of this new organization;
he
was the King’s Personal Musician, the one who came and went from the Palace, who presumably had the King’s ear at least part of the time. On his own, he had no more power or wealth than any of the denizens of the neighborhoods around Freehold, but
they
didn’t know that. The folk of the streets saw only that here was a powerful courtier, a Sire, no less, who was urging them to .stand up for their freedom and their rights against the nobles, the fearful or uneducated, and this unknown enemy.

And Ruthvere had been absolutely right. Their enemy had tried every other way to eliminate T’fyrr’s influence, and that had been
before
he went on his campaign to organize the nonhumans and their human supporters and friends. Now he was not only an influence, he was a danger. He reminded them all that the Twenty Kings, the Court, and the High King himself ruled only as long as the people permitted it.

Those were frightening words to someone whose ultimate goal was surely more power.

If there was one thing that the powerful feared, it was that those they sought to rule discovered that ultimately the real power lay only in their own acquiescence to be ruled.

Lions can only be convinced that they are sheep as long as no one holds up a mirror to show them their true faces.