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Chapter 15
Pantelleria II
 

There are those who say that bittersweet is better than no sweetness at all.
For all my failings, I am not one of those fools.

—Cully

It probably should have been a surprise that Gray was waiting for them at the Punta Karascia docks, but Cully found himself nodding, and smiling. It seemed right, somehow.

Gray stood out in the hot sun, on the worn boards, with apparent patience, seemingly oblivious to how all the dockside activity seemed to flow as far away from him, giving him a wide berth.

"Ah," Kechiroski said. "Sir Joshua has preceded us."

Cully turned to him, not bothering to try to conceal his irritation. "You expected him to? Strange that you didn't mention it to me."

Kechiroski hesitated but a moment. "No, Sir Cully, I didn't expect him to be here. But it makes sense, when you think on it. Just as the Admiral wasn't surprised that you decided to come here, there's no reason to think that Sir Joshua would be."

Cully didn't much like the idea of being so predictable, and he didn't think much of it, besides, so he just gave Kechiroski a nod, and gave quick instructions to have the girl brought up from her room, then climbed down the ladder to the dock, Guy right behind him, without so much as a by-your-leave.

Dockside at Punta Karascia was, thankfully, back to normal. The flotilla of Dar fellucas that had crowded the harbor last time was long gone, replaced by just a few small fishing fellucas, none of them flying the Scimitar and Star, and dwarfed by a Guild carrack, its naked mizzenmast boom swinging freely out in the wind.

That was just as well, and it would make it possible for the captain to allow some liberty, without having to worry about conflicts with the Arabs.

Still, there were no navy ships, which was strange—had Gray taken passage in the Guild carrack? And, if so, where was his gear? The only thing that he carried, other than his swords, was a small rucksack, slung over his right shoulder.

"Father Cully," Gray said, formally, with a bow. "Sir Guy."

"What are you doing here?" Guy asked, without so much as a polite greeting.

Well, somebody had to, but . . . 

"I don't care for your tone, Sir Guy," Gray said, his eyes searching Guy's. "And I'd rather not share any disagreements we might have in public."

Guy started to say something—something stupid, no doubt—and Cully had decided to intervene. As much as the thought of Gray slapping Guy silly was amusing, it would hardly do, and it could happen.

But, instead, Gray simply reached his hand into his jacket, and produced a sheet of parchment, and handed it over to Guy. "I'm not going to insist that you call me Vicar, Sir Guy," Gray said. "But I do insist that you show due respect for my station."

Guy read the parchment at least twice, and then started to hand it back to Gray, sniffing in irritation when Cully took it.

Cully smiled. "I see," he said. "So you're my superior in the Order once more?"

"Superior, no, Father Cully." Gray didn't smile back. "Senior? Yes."

Trust Gray to make such a fine point, eh? "Well, then Sir Joshua, my senior, what are your orders?"

Gray gave one of his rare smiles. "Best to know what they are before you decide how to disobey them?"

"More or less," Cully said. "More like: best to know what they are before I decide whether or not to go along with them." He laughed, and clasped a hand to Gray's shoulder. "Although, truth to tell, it is good to see you, Joshua," he said, both because he knew that the boy—that Sir Joshua would be warmed by him saying that, and because it was true.

Gray didn't answer for a moment. "As it always is for me to see you, Father." He glanced over Cully's shoulder, and his brow furrowed. "What is that?"

Cully turned. The sailors were bringing up Penelope's stretcher. Brave girl—she was biting on a rag to avoid screaming, and her quiet whimpers were barely audible above the sounds of the wind and the waves.

"That is a whom," Cully said, watching Gray's face go all blank and inexpressive at the implied rebuke, "and the whom is a very brave young lady named Penelope, to whom I am very grateful. We've much to discuss," Cully said. "I assume you've found quarters?"

Gray nodded. "I hadn't expected so many of you. But . . ."

"We'll see if there's room at the inn."

"Yes, Father Cully." Gray unslung the rucksack from his shoulder and handed it to Cully. "She said to give this to you."

He looked like he was going to say something more, but he just turned, and led the way.

"And you didn't try to get any more information from the Wise?" Cully didn't seem angry—more curious than anything else.

Gray shook his head. Despite the neutral tone, he still felt like a schoolboy, being upbraided. "It was difficult enough to get him to tell me you were coming."

Cully picked up the wine bottle and poured himself a third glass, ignoring Guy's scowl. "Well, that's for the morning, then," he said. "We could just ask, I guess."

"You've hope that the Wise will be of help? Just for the asking?" Guy's expression could hardly have been more scornful. Gray let his hand drop to the hilt of the Khan.

It would be interesting to see if my flame is stronger than that pitiful little saint's.

Cully caught the movement, and smiled over his wineglass. "I've always hope, Guy," he said. "It's a bad habit, but I'm too old to learn better. But if I'm going to lean on something, it'll be a stout staff, not a wisp of hope for gratitude." He drained his glass of wine in a gulp, reached for the bottle, and stopped himself. "Leaning on hope is like relying on gratitude, decency, good sense. All of them exist, all of them I've seen, but not a one as reliable as a good piece of wood."

Kechiroski came out through the curtains, moving slowly and carefully, as though the rustling of them would cause an alarm. "She's sleeping, again," he said. He dropped down into the chair across from Cully, who had seated himself between Gray and Guy—likely through no coincidence.

The Montagne Grande rose above the slated roof of the dammusa, looming in the darkness. Guy looked at it for a moment. "I'm tempted to draw the Albert and dash up there right now. Seems to me that ingratitude for the help we've given him isn't right or proper."

"We?" Sir Guy was as irritating as ever. "I don't recall seeing you at the—"

"Shush. Be still, Joshua." Cully's face was stern. " 'We' is correct. It was three knights of the Order who saved the Wise, acting on behalf of the Order, of which Sir Guy of Orkney is a member, just as you are."

Kechiroski grinned. "Actually, Sir Cully, as I recall—and I was there—it was four knights of the Order. Were you omitting Sir Niko, or yourself?"

Gray was furious at the impertinence, but Cully just smiled. "Myself, actually," he said. "And I shouldn't have. Nor should I have omitted you, or Sigerson and Bigglesworth, or Fotheringay, simply because you're not of the Order."

Kechiroski shrugged, and cut himself off another bite of sausage, wolfing it down. "Makes no nevermind to me, Sir Cully; an ordinary seaman learns not to take offense—at least, from his betters."

Cully sat silent for a long moment. "I owe you apologies for offense I've given, albeit unintentionally, Sir Stavros. You've been a faithful servant of His Majesty, and a good companion."

Guy sniffed.

Gray was irritated, too, for reasons he didn't quite understand. Kechiroski's familiar tone with Cully was far more infuriating than it should have been, and Gray had the feeling that he had lost control of the discussion.

As you have. As you always do, around Cully. So pour yourself enough glasses of wine until it dissolves the irritation, the Khan said.

I don't think so.

Well, if you're not going to cut his head off, it's not a bad second choice.

Cully laughed. "Ah, I find that I've even missed that cursed Khan of yours." He smiled at Gray's start. "No, I'm not hearing him, Joshua—but I know what the Khan thinks is a solution to any irritation, and your dismissing him was written on your face as big as your letters on the chalkboard used to be. I take it I'm to live for the moment?"

Gray didn't know what to say to that.

I see no problem. Just tell him that you're too weak, and too much of a woman, to do what's necessary, if that involves raising your hand to Cully.

"Well." Sir Guy frowned. "All this talk is getting us nowhere."

Cully cocked his head to one side. "And what would you have us do, then?"

"I'd have us march up to the top of the Montagne Grande, first thing in the morning, and have some words with the Wise—and firm ones at that. He—"

"And you think the Wise is a man?"

Gray would have wanted to slap Cully silly. Baiting Sir Guy might be entertaining, but it was entertaining but one person: Cully.

Sir Guy's jaw clenched. "I don't care what he, she, or it is. It knows something, and it knows something that we simply must learn."

Gray expected some sort of argument from Cully, but the old man just shrugged. "Well, it's not up to me, after all, any more than it's up to you, is it?"

"I'm the senior—"

"And Joshua carries the abbot's vicarship." He held Sir Guy's eyes for a long moment, then turned to Gray. "The tradition is that when knights of the Order meet, the junior speaks first, so that he'll not be influenced by the words of his seniors, and can speak his mind freely and openly, and without his thoughts being molded by the others. While I think there could be an argument that my . . . recent return to service makes me the junior, Sir Guy has accepted that as his role, by speaking his mind so openly, and—"

"Cully. Enough." It was one thing to love the man, but another to fail to notice that Cully had, once again, let his disdain for Sir Guy rule his mouth.

"—and I'm minded to accept that," Cully said, acknowledging the correction with the very slightest duck of the head. "I'll go next, and say that I'm frankly puzzled, that I'm no closer than I was a year ago to knowing what it is that's going on all about us, other than to say that I fear it, for reasons both obvious and subtle.

"As Sir Guy's senior, I'll say that I'm always tempted to do just the opposite of what he suggests, just because I hold his sagacity in less than high esteem, and I say that," he went on, raising a hand that surprisingly actually cut off Guy's beginning of a protest, "as a criticism of myself, more than him.

"So: I don't know. But I don't know what else to do, not here and now. The scent trail in Izmir ended with the Baba Yaga; we might pick up another in Hostikka, or anywhere near the Zone—or in the Empire."

"But you don't think so," Gray more asked than said.

"I don't know, Joshua. I just don't know." Cully's expression was incredibly sad under the mask of indifference and objectivity; Gray could see that, even if he doubted that Guy could. "Tell me again, what She said to you."

Gray shook his head. "Little, as always. She said that She had no Sight to help us, and little feeling as to what was going on." He smiled. "She said to give you the bag, and suggested that you not become accustomed to Her doing your laundry for you."

Cully smiled. "Nor should She. And what else did the Lady say . . .?"

"And the rest was personal, between Her and me." He cocked his head to one side. "Or am I not to have a private word with Her?"

Cully didn't rise to the bait. "Yes, of course you are. So: we have no help from common sense, none from the Lady, and all sorts of wild geese to chase around not only the Mediterranean, but across half of Europe, while whatever is going on, goes on. My advice might surprise you: send me, unarmed and alone, to plead with the Wise, and when I'm turned down—and I shall be—take ship back to England, rendezvous with the admiral as we go, and lay it all before the king. I'll go to the Wise, as you already have, but what help you've been given was scant and niggardly. Going again so would be pointless, but likely harmless, unless we go in force, ruled by those with more anger than common sense. Doing it my way will cost us but a day."

And it might well cost them Father Cully, as well. But Gray could not and would not allow that to rule his decision.

"That would be giving up!" Sir Guy was almost shouting. "After all we've been through?"

Cully shook his head. "It's just service, Sir Guy.

"But I will say this: if we face the Wise in his—or her, or its—own home, we ought to go either as supplicants begging a favor, or as creditors demanding one, for there is no in-between here. It's up to you, Joshua. As your old teacher: I advise you: think carefully, and prayerfully, and then make your decision, Vicar."

It was all wrong. It shouldn't have been his decision; he just wasn't up to it.

Oaths were useless.

Mercy tempered only by justice; justice tempered only by mercy.

If there was something that the Wise knew, it wasn't just that they leave not knowing, but it wasn't safe to go try to demand anything out of the ancient one.

Was it avoidable? Of course. What was the right decision?

They were all looking at him, and he let his hand drop to the hilt of the Khan.

Go ahead, the Khan said, take your tentative steps. Don't grasp the nettle firmly. Let it hurt you all the more that way.

I don't have to go to the Wise; we can just leave.

Of course we can. Of course you can decide that. The Khan seemed more amused than disgusted. I'm sure that the abbot would approve, after all, and—

And you'd think to distract me with arguments that you know are false, and about which I care little.

I don't think to distract you at all. I'm trying, Gray, to help you face what you are: you're like me. We keep our friends close, and get our enemies closer, and we don't turn and walk away from either, not if we have a choice. So choose. Choose tentatively, as though you think that will make any difference, but choose.

"You've not spoken, Kechiroski," Cully said. "Your eyes watch everything while seeming not to, and I can't imagine that your ears are any less attentive. But your mouth is another matter—have you no words of advice?" He gestured toward Gray. "The vicar would, I'm sure, want to consider your words, as well."

Kechiroski reached out a thick hand, and poured himself a glass of wine, then drank it with unseemly haste, as though fortifying himself for something dangerous.

"I'm not sure that I have many good words for this, Sir Cully. I'm just an old seaman, raised far beyond any estate I deserve, but I don't like either choice. I've been to the home of the Wise, and it scared me out of several years' growth. Truth to tell, Sir Cully, I'm beginning to wish that I had not been seconded into all of this, and had taken His Majesty's advice and returned to my homeland, to sit under an olive tree and sip at a glass of retsina.

"But I'll give you the seaman's answer: when you see a storm on the horizon, make your way as quickly as you can toward the nearest port away from the storm, and hope that it turns aside before it overtakes you."

Cully nodded. "So, Gray, you have two words of advice. Sir Guy says confront the Wise; Sir Stavros says make for the nearest safe port, by which I presume he means home. And you have my advice, too, such as it is—consider carefully, and make your own decision, because. . ."

"Because why?"

"Because the abbott was correct: you tend to defer far more to my supposed wisdom than is wise. If I thought I had any wisdom to offer in this, I would unmercifully prey upon your weakness in that. I've done that before; I shall do it again, when I think the situation warrants." His eyes went all distant; it was as though he was looking at something, or someone, far, far away. "She and I have had this discussion. I will not substitute Her judgment for my own. When I have no judgment to offer, and the decision seems to me to be balanced on the blade of a very, very sharp knife, I'll remind myself, I hope, once again, that it was She who told Ralph to give you this authority, and I shall hope and pray—and to the extent that I can, trust—that She decided wisely. So I'll say this to you, Brother and Father and Vicar, Joshua: whatever we do shall likely be the wrong thing. What we do, I fear, may matter, but it feels to me as though we play a game of chess, with the rules ever-changing, and an opponent who we can't see, but who is a hundred moves ahead of us."

"Very well," Gray said. "Once more to the Wise, but neither with threats nor pleas. We'll talk, and we'll listen. And then I'll decide what to do."

"In the morning, then."

"No," Gray said. "Now. If we're lucky, we'll arrive at daybreak."

Cully's mouth twitched. "Doesn't sound all that lucky to me, truth to tell."

Gray's thumb, as if of its own volition, fell to the Khan's hilt, and the mad, silent laughter of the Khan would have chilled his soul.

If he still had one.

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Framed

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Chapter 15
Pantelleria II
 

There are those who say that bittersweet is better than no sweetness at all.
For all my failings, I am not one of those fools.

—Cully

It probably should have been a surprise that Gray was waiting for them at the Punta Karascia docks, but Cully found himself nodding, and smiling. It seemed right, somehow.

Gray stood out in the hot sun, on the worn boards, with apparent patience, seemingly oblivious to how all the dockside activity seemed to flow as far away from him, giving him a wide berth.

"Ah," Kechiroski said. "Sir Joshua has preceded us."

Cully turned to him, not bothering to try to conceal his irritation. "You expected him to? Strange that you didn't mention it to me."

Kechiroski hesitated but a moment. "No, Sir Cully, I didn't expect him to be here. But it makes sense, when you think on it. Just as the Admiral wasn't surprised that you decided to come here, there's no reason to think that Sir Joshua would be."

Cully didn't much like the idea of being so predictable, and he didn't think much of it, besides, so he just gave Kechiroski a nod, and gave quick instructions to have the girl brought up from her room, then climbed down the ladder to the dock, Guy right behind him, without so much as a by-your-leave.

Dockside at Punta Karascia was, thankfully, back to normal. The flotilla of Dar fellucas that had crowded the harbor last time was long gone, replaced by just a few small fishing fellucas, none of them flying the Scimitar and Star, and dwarfed by a Guild carrack, its naked mizzenmast boom swinging freely out in the wind.

That was just as well, and it would make it possible for the captain to allow some liberty, without having to worry about conflicts with the Arabs.

Still, there were no navy ships, which was strange—had Gray taken passage in the Guild carrack? And, if so, where was his gear? The only thing that he carried, other than his swords, was a small rucksack, slung over his right shoulder.

"Father Cully," Gray said, formally, with a bow. "Sir Guy."

"What are you doing here?" Guy asked, without so much as a polite greeting.

Well, somebody had to, but . . . 

"I don't care for your tone, Sir Guy," Gray said, his eyes searching Guy's. "And I'd rather not share any disagreements we might have in public."

Guy started to say something—something stupid, no doubt—and Cully had decided to intervene. As much as the thought of Gray slapping Guy silly was amusing, it would hardly do, and it could happen.

But, instead, Gray simply reached his hand into his jacket, and produced a sheet of parchment, and handed it over to Guy. "I'm not going to insist that you call me Vicar, Sir Guy," Gray said. "But I do insist that you show due respect for my station."

Guy read the parchment at least twice, and then started to hand it back to Gray, sniffing in irritation when Cully took it.

Cully smiled. "I see," he said. "So you're my superior in the Order once more?"

"Superior, no, Father Cully." Gray didn't smile back. "Senior? Yes."

Trust Gray to make such a fine point, eh? "Well, then Sir Joshua, my senior, what are your orders?"

Gray gave one of his rare smiles. "Best to know what they are before you decide how to disobey them?"

"More or less," Cully said. "More like: best to know what they are before I decide whether or not to go along with them." He laughed, and clasped a hand to Gray's shoulder. "Although, truth to tell, it is good to see you, Joshua," he said, both because he knew that the boy—that Sir Joshua would be warmed by him saying that, and because it was true.

Gray didn't answer for a moment. "As it always is for me to see you, Father." He glanced over Cully's shoulder, and his brow furrowed. "What is that?"

Cully turned. The sailors were bringing up Penelope's stretcher. Brave girl—she was biting on a rag to avoid screaming, and her quiet whimpers were barely audible above the sounds of the wind and the waves.

"That is a whom," Cully said, watching Gray's face go all blank and inexpressive at the implied rebuke, "and the whom is a very brave young lady named Penelope, to whom I am very grateful. We've much to discuss," Cully said. "I assume you've found quarters?"

Gray nodded. "I hadn't expected so many of you. But . . ."

"We'll see if there's room at the inn."

"Yes, Father Cully." Gray unslung the rucksack from his shoulder and handed it to Cully. "She said to give this to you."

He looked like he was going to say something more, but he just turned, and led the way.

"And you didn't try to get any more information from the Wise?" Cully didn't seem angry—more curious than anything else.

Gray shook his head. Despite the neutral tone, he still felt like a schoolboy, being upbraided. "It was difficult enough to get him to tell me you were coming."

Cully picked up the wine bottle and poured himself a third glass, ignoring Guy's scowl. "Well, that's for the morning, then," he said. "We could just ask, I guess."

"You've hope that the Wise will be of help? Just for the asking?" Guy's expression could hardly have been more scornful. Gray let his hand drop to the hilt of the Khan.

It would be interesting to see if my flame is stronger than that pitiful little saint's.

Cully caught the movement, and smiled over his wineglass. "I've always hope, Guy," he said. "It's a bad habit, but I'm too old to learn better. But if I'm going to lean on something, it'll be a stout staff, not a wisp of hope for gratitude." He drained his glass of wine in a gulp, reached for the bottle, and stopped himself. "Leaning on hope is like relying on gratitude, decency, good sense. All of them exist, all of them I've seen, but not a one as reliable as a good piece of wood."

Kechiroski came out through the curtains, moving slowly and carefully, as though the rustling of them would cause an alarm. "She's sleeping, again," he said. He dropped down into the chair across from Cully, who had seated himself between Gray and Guy—likely through no coincidence.

The Montagne Grande rose above the slated roof of the dammusa, looming in the darkness. Guy looked at it for a moment. "I'm tempted to draw the Albert and dash up there right now. Seems to me that ingratitude for the help we've given him isn't right or proper."

"We?" Sir Guy was as irritating as ever. "I don't recall seeing you at the—"

"Shush. Be still, Joshua." Cully's face was stern. " 'We' is correct. It was three knights of the Order who saved the Wise, acting on behalf of the Order, of which Sir Guy of Orkney is a member, just as you are."

Kechiroski grinned. "Actually, Sir Cully, as I recall—and I was there—it was four knights of the Order. Were you omitting Sir Niko, or yourself?"

Gray was furious at the impertinence, but Cully just smiled. "Myself, actually," he said. "And I shouldn't have. Nor should I have omitted you, or Sigerson and Bigglesworth, or Fotheringay, simply because you're not of the Order."

Kechiroski shrugged, and cut himself off another bite of sausage, wolfing it down. "Makes no nevermind to me, Sir Cully; an ordinary seaman learns not to take offense—at least, from his betters."

Cully sat silent for a long moment. "I owe you apologies for offense I've given, albeit unintentionally, Sir Stavros. You've been a faithful servant of His Majesty, and a good companion."

Guy sniffed.

Gray was irritated, too, for reasons he didn't quite understand. Kechiroski's familiar tone with Cully was far more infuriating than it should have been, and Gray had the feeling that he had lost control of the discussion.

As you have. As you always do, around Cully. So pour yourself enough glasses of wine until it dissolves the irritation, the Khan said.

I don't think so.

Well, if you're not going to cut his head off, it's not a bad second choice.

Cully laughed. "Ah, I find that I've even missed that cursed Khan of yours." He smiled at Gray's start. "No, I'm not hearing him, Joshua—but I know what the Khan thinks is a solution to any irritation, and your dismissing him was written on your face as big as your letters on the chalkboard used to be. I take it I'm to live for the moment?"

Gray didn't know what to say to that.

I see no problem. Just tell him that you're too weak, and too much of a woman, to do what's necessary, if that involves raising your hand to Cully.

"Well." Sir Guy frowned. "All this talk is getting us nowhere."

Cully cocked his head to one side. "And what would you have us do, then?"

"I'd have us march up to the top of the Montagne Grande, first thing in the morning, and have some words with the Wise—and firm ones at that. He—"

"And you think the Wise is a man?"

Gray would have wanted to slap Cully silly. Baiting Sir Guy might be entertaining, but it was entertaining but one person: Cully.

Sir Guy's jaw clenched. "I don't care what he, she, or it is. It knows something, and it knows something that we simply must learn."

Gray expected some sort of argument from Cully, but the old man just shrugged. "Well, it's not up to me, after all, any more than it's up to you, is it?"

"I'm the senior—"

"And Joshua carries the abbot's vicarship." He held Sir Guy's eyes for a long moment, then turned to Gray. "The tradition is that when knights of the Order meet, the junior speaks first, so that he'll not be influenced by the words of his seniors, and can speak his mind freely and openly, and without his thoughts being molded by the others. While I think there could be an argument that my . . . recent return to service makes me the junior, Sir Guy has accepted that as his role, by speaking his mind so openly, and—"

"Cully. Enough." It was one thing to love the man, but another to fail to notice that Cully had, once again, let his disdain for Sir Guy rule his mouth.

"—and I'm minded to accept that," Cully said, acknowledging the correction with the very slightest duck of the head. "I'll go next, and say that I'm frankly puzzled, that I'm no closer than I was a year ago to knowing what it is that's going on all about us, other than to say that I fear it, for reasons both obvious and subtle.

"As Sir Guy's senior, I'll say that I'm always tempted to do just the opposite of what he suggests, just because I hold his sagacity in less than high esteem, and I say that," he went on, raising a hand that surprisingly actually cut off Guy's beginning of a protest, "as a criticism of myself, more than him.

"So: I don't know. But I don't know what else to do, not here and now. The scent trail in Izmir ended with the Baba Yaga; we might pick up another in Hostikka, or anywhere near the Zone—or in the Empire."

"But you don't think so," Gray more asked than said.

"I don't know, Joshua. I just don't know." Cully's expression was incredibly sad under the mask of indifference and objectivity; Gray could see that, even if he doubted that Guy could. "Tell me again, what She said to you."

Gray shook his head. "Little, as always. She said that She had no Sight to help us, and little feeling as to what was going on." He smiled. "She said to give you the bag, and suggested that you not become accustomed to Her doing your laundry for you."

Cully smiled. "Nor should She. And what else did the Lady say . . .?"

"And the rest was personal, between Her and me." He cocked his head to one side. "Or am I not to have a private word with Her?"

Cully didn't rise to the bait. "Yes, of course you are. So: we have no help from common sense, none from the Lady, and all sorts of wild geese to chase around not only the Mediterranean, but across half of Europe, while whatever is going on, goes on. My advice might surprise you: send me, unarmed and alone, to plead with the Wise, and when I'm turned down—and I shall be—take ship back to England, rendezvous with the admiral as we go, and lay it all before the king. I'll go to the Wise, as you already have, but what help you've been given was scant and niggardly. Going again so would be pointless, but likely harmless, unless we go in force, ruled by those with more anger than common sense. Doing it my way will cost us but a day."

And it might well cost them Father Cully, as well. But Gray could not and would not allow that to rule his decision.

"That would be giving up!" Sir Guy was almost shouting. "After all we've been through?"

Cully shook his head. "It's just service, Sir Guy.

"But I will say this: if we face the Wise in his—or her, or its—own home, we ought to go either as supplicants begging a favor, or as creditors demanding one, for there is no in-between here. It's up to you, Joshua. As your old teacher: I advise you: think carefully, and prayerfully, and then make your decision, Vicar."

It was all wrong. It shouldn't have been his decision; he just wasn't up to it.

Oaths were useless.

Mercy tempered only by justice; justice tempered only by mercy.

If there was something that the Wise knew, it wasn't just that they leave not knowing, but it wasn't safe to go try to demand anything out of the ancient one.

Was it avoidable? Of course. What was the right decision?

They were all looking at him, and he let his hand drop to the hilt of the Khan.

Go ahead, the Khan said, take your tentative steps. Don't grasp the nettle firmly. Let it hurt you all the more that way.

I don't have to go to the Wise; we can just leave.

Of course we can. Of course you can decide that. The Khan seemed more amused than disgusted. I'm sure that the abbot would approve, after all, and—

And you'd think to distract me with arguments that you know are false, and about which I care little.

I don't think to distract you at all. I'm trying, Gray, to help you face what you are: you're like me. We keep our friends close, and get our enemies closer, and we don't turn and walk away from either, not if we have a choice. So choose. Choose tentatively, as though you think that will make any difference, but choose.

"You've not spoken, Kechiroski," Cully said. "Your eyes watch everything while seeming not to, and I can't imagine that your ears are any less attentive. But your mouth is another matter—have you no words of advice?" He gestured toward Gray. "The vicar would, I'm sure, want to consider your words, as well."

Kechiroski reached out a thick hand, and poured himself a glass of wine, then drank it with unseemly haste, as though fortifying himself for something dangerous.

"I'm not sure that I have many good words for this, Sir Cully. I'm just an old seaman, raised far beyond any estate I deserve, but I don't like either choice. I've been to the home of the Wise, and it scared me out of several years' growth. Truth to tell, Sir Cully, I'm beginning to wish that I had not been seconded into all of this, and had taken His Majesty's advice and returned to my homeland, to sit under an olive tree and sip at a glass of retsina.

"But I'll give you the seaman's answer: when you see a storm on the horizon, make your way as quickly as you can toward the nearest port away from the storm, and hope that it turns aside before it overtakes you."

Cully nodded. "So, Gray, you have two words of advice. Sir Guy says confront the Wise; Sir Stavros says make for the nearest safe port, by which I presume he means home. And you have my advice, too, such as it is—consider carefully, and make your own decision, because. . ."

"Because why?"

"Because the abbott was correct: you tend to defer far more to my supposed wisdom than is wise. If I thought I had any wisdom to offer in this, I would unmercifully prey upon your weakness in that. I've done that before; I shall do it again, when I think the situation warrants." His eyes went all distant; it was as though he was looking at something, or someone, far, far away. "She and I have had this discussion. I will not substitute Her judgment for my own. When I have no judgment to offer, and the decision seems to me to be balanced on the blade of a very, very sharp knife, I'll remind myself, I hope, once again, that it was She who told Ralph to give you this authority, and I shall hope and pray—and to the extent that I can, trust—that She decided wisely. So I'll say this to you, Brother and Father and Vicar, Joshua: whatever we do shall likely be the wrong thing. What we do, I fear, may matter, but it feels to me as though we play a game of chess, with the rules ever-changing, and an opponent who we can't see, but who is a hundred moves ahead of us."

"Very well," Gray said. "Once more to the Wise, but neither with threats nor pleas. We'll talk, and we'll listen. And then I'll decide what to do."

"In the morning, then."

"No," Gray said. "Now. If we're lucky, we'll arrive at daybreak."

Cully's mouth twitched. "Doesn't sound all that lucky to me, truth to tell."

Gray's thumb, as if of its own volition, fell to the Khan's hilt, and the mad, silent laughter of the Khan would have chilled his soul.

If he still had one.

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Framed