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Chapter Twelve
ERUMARDIL
So it was surprising to hear a kind voice. He had been sitting on the pavement for some time, soaked through, weakly calling for help. Aldred lay beside him, stunned. The robbers had stolen the money they had been carrying for the doctor’s fee, and their swords, and the ponies and the cart. Folk had passed by, mostly Men, a few of them Women; none had stopped to help. Waltrot’s recollection of the attack was confused. He had been dragged from his seat, he had been kicked in the belly by a heavy boot; the pain of that was receding, and he thought he would soon be able to walk; but his back was a sheet of flame, and he did not dare leave Aldred. He had no idea how Aldred had been knocked out. He knew, however, that one of the cartwheels had passed over Aldred’s injured hand. He had heard the breaking of Aldred’s fingers.
‘Dear me! Whatever has happened here?’
The speaker carried a small lantern which he now shone into Waltrot’s face.
‘Help,’ groaned Waltrot: ‘Robbers.’
‘I see,’ said the other. ‘And you – I believe you are the Punchkins, the visitors, are you not?’ He was dressed in some kind of dark uniform, with a round white collar that gleamed in the lamp-light.
‘Two of them,’ said Waltrot. ‘Are you a doctor? Look at the Master.’
The Man squatted down beside him and placed the lantern on the pavement. ‘Not as such,’ he said, ‘but I have had a little training. I am a priest of the Temple. Erumardil is my name. Among the tasks of our calling is a basic medical ministry to people who can’t afford doctors’ fees. Ah, your master is coming round.’ Aldred moaned and stirred. ‘Be careful of that hand, sir! Now, where are you lodging?’
Waltrot explained that they had actually been on their way to get a doctor for somebody else. Little discussion was required before the priest decided to see them back to the inn, and there himself to examine the stricken Egwise. He was a short Man, but possessed of some skill and grace: he picked Aldred up and heaved him over one shoulder, secured him at the front with a firm grip on the unwounded hand and proceeded to carry him all the way back to The Dragon’s Head. Waltrot walked painfully at his side.
They found an altercation going on in the public bar of the inn. Mr. Gough was arguing fiercely with Tim Bottlebanks, who was being supported by Mrs. Gough. The argument was being watched and listened to by the clientele of the inn – a score of Men and about half as many Women. The former were listening impassively, while the latter were being more forthright in taking the landlady’s side. Cries of ‘That’s right!’ and ‘Shame!’ died away as the newcomers entered and, seeing the priest, all rose.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the Man of the Cloth, in a pleasant public manner. ‘Peace be in this house. These Punchkins have told me that another of their number requires urgent attention.’ His small silver lamp, still burning with a clear radiance, hung from his right hand; he wore a long black cassock-like coat, tied round his waist with a green and silver cord, and his fine hair gleamed in the lamplight of the room. He still had Aldred slung over one shoulder. Aldred’s wounded hand swung free, swathed in its gory bandage, and all present saw with some horror the dark drops that fell from it, bespattering the sawdust and the floorboards.
‘That’s as may be, Your Reverence,’ returned Mr. Gough from behind the bar, ‘but this is an inn for respectable folk, not nobodies from Punchkinland who’ve provoked the King’s anger! They must leave! I can’t have trouble in this house!’
‘For shame, Bentliman!’ cried Mrs. Gough.
‘Madam, pray excuse me,’ said Erumardil. ‘Will you and your good man first allow me to attend to the sick; then to return and compose this disagreement?’
‘Yes, Your Reverence,’ said Mrs. Gough.
‘You’ll find him upstairs,’ said Mr. Gough. ‘Half an hour, and then out they go!’
‘Please, sir, doctor,’ said Tim, plucking at Erumardil’s sleeve. Aldred was set down. He staggered up the stairs behind them. The Punchkins’ sitting-room was deserted; they led the priest into the dark bedroom and found Mr. Proudfoot still lying on the bed, with Fortinbras sitting close beside him and holding his hand. Fortinbras was crying. Mr. Proudfoot suddenly breathed: a short, distinct breath with a peculiar rasp or rattle. He exhaled and then lay motionless again. Erumardil picked up his hand and felt for the pulse.
‘He’s almost gone,’ said Fortinbras.
‘You are right. As a doctor I’m too late for him, but still – what do your people know of the religion of Dru?’
‘Almost nothing,’ Fortinbras answered sadly. ‘We’re just peasants.’
The priest bent forward. ‘Go now, Egwise Proudfoot,’ he said softly. ‘Go forth on the hidden path. Go courageously. Go to the timeless realm. Go swiftly. Go beyond the horizon, beyond the gates of the sun, beyond the moon and the high paths of the stars. Go now. Go where all wounds are healed, all disappointments and bitterness cleansed. Go to the joys of Pellanor.’
Mr. Proudfoot had ceased to breathe, but he was hearing the words. As he looked back at the priest the friends saw the faint recognition that dawned in his eyes. And the relaxing of the brow.
‘Dru bless you and keep you. Dru make the light of His countenance to shine graciously upon you. Dru be merciful unto you and give you peace.’
Mr. Proudfoot’s eyes closed, and he peacefully died.
The priest passed into a murmuring prayer, in the temple form of the old elvish language. The Punchkins understood nothing of it, but it soothed them and answered their need to remain together in the presence of death. For a few more minutes they recalled the acts of their brave leader. The spell was broken by a loud knocking on the door. The Punchkins’ saviour (for such he was to prove) went to answer it, leaving them with Egwise’s body. Mr Gough entered. His smothered angry mood was not at all improved by the news of what had just happened. Aldred sat down at the table and began grimly to undo his bandage. Erumardil, noticing this, sat down with him and began to help. Aldred caught sight of his own grey face in a mirror that hung on the wall. The innkeeper continued to insist that they must go: the reputation of his house, and his very livelihood, were at stake. Should he appear to be acting against a royal preference, his publican’s license might well be revoked. Erumardil the priest nodded his head as he attended to the two difficulties.
‘I see your point of view, my dear fellow, I really do, and I shall endeavour to present it to these gentle Punchkins. A possible solution has just occurred to me. Now we’re going to need some warm water, some clean cloths, some bandages and some kind of small splints. Could you please send Mrs. Gough up to us?’
The innkeeper retreated again. Erumardil laid bare the hand and frowned at the damage. He began to wash off the blood and dirt. As he carried out the task he kindly provided a distraction for Aldred’s mind, by explaining:
‘Nowadays the Palace and the Temple are fairly friendly towards each other, but it was not always so. Before the last king, Asuldo, seized power, in which he was supported by the priests, there existed a tradition of the Temple protecting and acting on behalf of those who, falling foul of the laws of the City, believed themselves likely to be punished unjustly.’
‘A bit like helping folk who can’t afford the doctors?’ asked Waltrot.
‘Exactly,’ said Erumardil. ‘Ah, thank you, good Mistress. These will do admirably… And the name of this tradition is, Chamber of Sanctuary. There is a place, a room in the Erumar where the City Guards and the Arostiri are not allowed to go. At least by custom and in theory. I don’t think the Chamber of Sanctuary has actually been used within the last generation. But my superiors won’t mind. In fact I think they’ll be actively interested, especially if you, er, gentle Punchkins should feel able to say that you are impressed by our religion, and that you might be converted, and become missionaries of Dru to your own people. So you can rest and recover there for a day, or perhaps two.’ He deftly tied a small tight knot.
‘But the King has banished us,’ said Fortinbras anxiously. ‘From dawn tomorrow.’
‘H’mm. That is awkward. But he’s not the vindictive sort, after all. He’s just practical. I doubt if you’re important enough to justify a row with the Temple.’
The Punchkins conferred. ‘What about Mr. Proudfoot?’ asked Tim, with tearful indignation. ‘It ain’t right, just leaving him here!’
‘I might be able to help you there too, especially if you’ve got enough cash to pay for a burial plot.’
‘Burial?’ said Fortinbras. ‘Where?’
‘There’s a cemetery on the other side of the City, not far from Treatygate South.’
‘That would be good,’ said Aldred. ‘He’d like that better than a bonfire. He set his heart on this City.’ In silence Erum completed the binding-up, and then fashioned a sling for Aldred’s hand to rest in. ‘Thank you so much, Your Reverence.’
‘Oh, don’t go on calling me that. I’m Erum to my friends.’
‘Very well,’ said Fortinbras, the four Punchkins exchanging a glance of agreement, ‘we’ll accept the kind offer. For a day. Egwise can lie here tonight.’
‘Mr. Gough will object, I think. Perhaps if I –’
‘No he won’t,’ Fortinbras interrupted. ‘Not if he’s paid enough, he won’t.’
They went down. They settled their bill and left The Dragon’s Head for the last time, after a smile and a kiss for each from Mrs. Gough, a handshake with young Barley and a sullen tight-lipped nod from the master of the house. Very powerful and very deeply mixed were the Punchkins’ feelings as they trudged off through the stones, the mud and the wet refuse of the streets. The rain had passed; a watery half-moon was now gleaming through the clouds. Erum led the way, carrying his own light. He commented on the recovery the Punchkins had made, following punishment that had been quite severe.
‘Oh, a flogging’s not so much,’ said Fortinbras. ‘Punchkins are tough. Poor old Aldred’s the only one of us who –’
‘It’s just my hand,’ said Aldred shortly.
The noise of the City became distant and subdued as the party entered the temple precinct. In front of them rose up the immense dark bulk of the Erumar, the moonlight playing over its mysterious, hard-to-make-out carvings, glancing off the wet slates of some of the many gables and buttresses and casting a great shadow, into which the party now advanced, on the broad expanse of smooth shining flags. Erum led his followers to the inmost angle of two of the seven great transept-rays, where there was a small black door with heavy iron studs. Waltrot held up the lantern while Erum brought out a large key-ring, chose a key and opened the door.
Inside, the long misty lines of the moonbeams, seeming to fall somewhat irregularly and out of parallel from the tall clear lancet windows, spilt themselves across the floor, around the bases of pillars and over the rows of chairs and benches like splashes of glistening paint. The effect was labyrinthine, yet the plan and the sightlines of the building were clear enough. From every point the eye was led to the centre, where the Tree of Thandor stood beneath the dim glass of the great dome. Moveless it stood, as if paralysed, or like an artificial tree wrought full-size in black metal. Amidst its boughs, suspended by a hundred and fifty feet of chain, a sphere of green and silver glass shone like a single fruit: the lamp of vigil.
‘This is the centre of the temple and the heart of all our faith,’ said Erum in a clear voice, leading the Punchkins onward. ‘Our sacred Tree is descended from the First of Trees, that Vanna herself planted on the sacred mound of Pelmar. As you see, the Temple surrounds it in the form of a star with seven rays: galier we call them. Beyond the Kegyaina, that is the tall hedge or screen that we are coming to, lies the Numengali, the Ray of Blessing where all things most sacred to Almighty Dru are done. To the left, as we see it, stands the Targali, the Ray of the Kings, which now belongs not to us but to the King’s soldiers. To the right is the Melangali, the Ray of Charity, which houses all those who do the many tasks of the daily work of the Temple. And now behind us are the four Rimbegalier, the rays that are open to the people during the daytime.’
Walking on, soft-footed beneath the huge vault and the enormous silent limbs and branches, the Punchkins followed Erum’s light into the Ray of Charity; then a short distance down a pillared side-aisle, through another doorway and up a steep spiral staircase. The stone steps were worn, but clean, sound and dry. After many twists the light passed onto a landing, and then into the black arch of a doorless entry.
‘The Chamber of Sanctuary,’ said Erum. ‘Lord Dru bless and protect your sojourn. Please enter.’
Inside the chamber it was not quite pitch-dark; a little of the moonlight glimmered in through what looked like the summits of great arched windows. The air was cold and fresh, indeed draughty, with a strong smell of birds. And the birds were there, doves or pigeons, ruffling and fluttering, roused by the light, and then surprisingly swooping down towards it from their roosts. The startled Punchkins beheld Erum standing in the middle of the chamber, surrounded by flapping wings, spread tails and glowing white breasts. A dozen birds fluttered round him like enormous moths. He set the light down on the wooden floor, which was marked with many grey and white stains, and allowed the creatures to rest for a moment on his head, arms and shoulders. Then, with a laugh that sounded a little affected, he shook them off. At once they all flew away. They disappeared into the dark corners or crevices or roofbeams from which they had emerged.
‘Bless me,’ said Fortinbras, ‘why did they do that?’
‘Oh, it’s one of the tricks of the trade,’ said Erum obscurely. ‘Does no harm, and it’s useful when they fly in and can’t find their way out again. Lord Mindir is the patron of the Temple, and all birds, not only eagles, are sacred to him. Now I think there are some old pallets and mattresses.’
He took a dribbly candle-stub from a wall-bracket, lit it at the lamp and set it back in its place. The flame danced and flared wildly, as if frightened. The Punchkins watched him move away, towards the other end of the long low room; then, with an effort, Tim and Waltrot roused themselves to follow him. The hour was not very late, but all four of them had a tremendous sense of exhaustion. There were indeed pallets, and some ancient flat horsehair mattresses. Erum, Tim and Waltrot laid out four beds, side by side.
‘Blankets?’
‘We have our own, thank you,’ said Fortinbras.
‘Water – there’s a covered cistern over there, and the, you know –’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Fortinbras.
‘You’re all weary, I see. I’ll come back first thing tomorrow. You stay here. Stay out of sight: don’t lean out of the arches and wave to people! And mind the candle. Good night!’
Lying curled up on their musty, unwelcoming beds, the Punchkins slept fairly well during the first half of the night. Towards morning, however, they began to be disturbed by new cold draughts and by a dreamy awareness of their unusual height above ground-level. Aldred was the first to awake. He felt as if he had lapsed into a new fever; his whole arm was throbbing and pains were shooting up it from his hand. He lay awake, or dozed at intervals, until the daylight began to steal in. His comrades moved uneasily. He clearly heard Fortinbras say, in his sleep, ‘some new gate, some new garden.’ And then Tim was addressing Mr. Proudfoot, or else Mr. Bavour: ‘You can rest here, Master, I’ll take it on as long as I can.’
The light strengthened. By now Fortinbras, Tim and Waltrot were banished from the City, on pain of King Oresgal’s more severe displeasure: a vague but disquieting formula. Aldred himself had no desire to remain in the City, but he knew that he was in no fit state to travel that day, nor would be, perhaps, for many days more. He tried to distract himself from his pains and worries. He turned his head from side to side and examined his surroundings. The chamber was long and unceiled, the joists sloping up from a low wall on one side to a high wall on the other. Above the joists were dark rafters. The low wall was about punchkin-height; along its length, small round sept-foil windows gave glimpses of a pink dawn sky, their tracery beginning to glow golden in the light of the sun. The room contained a number of crates and cases but was otherwise empty. The high wall, hardly in truth to be described as a wall, consisted of open arches, beyond which the upper storeys of the transept-ray were being drenched with sunlight. He could see the higher branches of the Tree, and they were stirring; the dome held glass louvers that were now open, allowing fresh air to reach the Tree and causing the uncomfortable draughts. Early as the hour was, considerable activity was going on down below: footsteps, scrapings and heavy bumps, with the noise of talk and an occasional echoing shout. The other three Punchkins got up, washed and combed themselves, offered concern to Aldred and started to wonder where their breakfast was going to come from.
At last Erumardil came in. He carried a heavy piled-up tray, which he had nobly borne all the way from the priests’ refectory. Behind him another Man stepped into the room, an imposing figure, tall and dark-haired. He wore a long-sleeved robe, embroidered with a green and silver star, and a black rimless hat with a bunch of silver tassels hanging from its crown. Erum introduced him to the Punchkins as the Deputy of the Temple, Atan the Second Highest Priest. For them he embodied an extreme, or a near-extreme of religiosity, of alienism, of the disturbing formal consciousness of Dru. Although his manner to them was affable, in that meeting they found themselves awkward and shy, instinctively disliking him even as they reminded themselves how much they depended on his goodwill. His full title, Erum said, was Atan-Hostakyermo.
‘That’s old Elvish, isn’t it?’ said Aldred, raising himself up. ‘Er, “He who is second in prayer of the multitude”?’
‘Indeed, though Elvish of the revival, not of ancient days,’ he replied. ‘You may address me simply as “Atan”.’
With considerable effort Aldred sustained the conversation on the subjects of the Olosturian revival of Elvish, its continuing use in the liturgies of the Temple and his own connexion with the famous old library at Kingsbridge. The other Punchkins quietly ate their breakfasts. Atan sat on a wooden box, drinking tea from an earthenware mug and beaming as he discoursed in answer to Aldred’s questions.
‘Well well. So delightful,’ he said at last. ‘I’m grateful to have had this chance to meet you, and I do wish we could go on chatting all day. But I’ve a busy morning ahead, and you have problems that need to be resolved. The first thing I need to know is this: are you prepared to receive instruction from my colleague here, on the rudiments of the faith of Dru, and then to disseminate them, to the utmost of your powers, among your fellow-countrymen?’
‘Yes, Atan,’ lied Aldred, feeling a new wave of pain and sickness as he said the words. He was echoed, resolutely enough, by all the others.
‘Excellent! Then I’m sure we’ll want to do all we can to help you. Erum, what are your duties today?’
‘None of much significance, Atan,’ answered Erum.
‘Then how would it be if you stayed with them for the whole morning? You can tell them what’s most important, and maybe, for the ceremony, they’ll get more out of it, enjoy it more, if you can explain to them what’s going on.’
‘Certainly, Atan.’
‘Goodness me, whatever are they doing down there?’ said Atan – this was in response to a loud crash from floor-level, followed by a lot of shouting.
Erum went to look. ‘The dais collapsed at one end,’ he said. ‘They’re fixing it.’
Sounds of hammering followed, and Tim managed to say: ‘Atan, sir, excuse me, sir, if I make so bold, but what is going on down there?’
For a moment the priests both looked at the Punchkins with the same blank surprise. Then Erum chuckled. ‘We assumed you knew all about it,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that red-headed chap a friend of yours? It’s the wedding. Lord Melohtar and Princess Nometh. Noon today. That’s a little under four hours.’
‘And I have various matters to attend to,’ said Atan the Second Highest. ‘My feeling is, Erum, that we won’t mention these friends of ours to the palace just yet. Let ’em know afterwards. That would be best. But you must all be very discreet. Watch, but don’t let yourselves be seen. Then, this evening, Erum, you can take a funeral cart to pick up their friend, and be off early tomorrow morning to Parth Indengin for the burial. You can supervise that too. Use my seal to authorise any expenses.’
‘We still have money, sir, Atan,’ said Fortinbras.
‘Splendid,’ was the blandly approving answer. ‘Enjoy your day now – I’m sure you’ll find it interesting. I’ll come along to the Southgate myself, first thing, to make sure they open it for you. Until then, Dru bless you and keep you all.’
With a complicated wave of his hand, a gesture of benediction, he turned and departed from them. The Punchkins finished their breakfast. They then helped Aldred to a corner in which he could be raised up so as to look down on the unfolding spectacle. They grouped themselves around him and Erum stood behind. Abruptly he asked:
‘Do you really want to preach our religion to the Demesne?’
Tim, Walt and Fortinbras looked down at their feet.
‘Do you feel Dru’s call to do it? Is He calling you in your hearts?’
Aldred shook his head.
‘I thought not,’ said Erum. ‘You did right to conceal it from Atan. He wouldn’t have been pleased. You’ll need to pretend a bit. He’ll catechize you, I expect – that means ask you questions, to make sure you understand it all correctly. So you’ll have to be prepared. I’ll teach you what you’ll need to tell him. All right?’
‘All right, and thank you very much,’ said the grateful Fortinbras.
And so the lesson proceeded. It was interspersed and enlivened with comments as the stage of the marriage-scene was set out below. Despite what the Punchkins had been told by Bentliman Gough, it was evident that the ceremony now being prepared was to be sumptuous. Scores of servants were bustling about; great stands and sprays and banks of flowers were being arranged; festoons of white and yellow silk were being hung up, garlands wreathed round the pillars and long rich carpets unrolled. The marriage itself, Erum explained, would take place behind the iron hedge or screen, immediately below the tree. Bridegroom and Bride would hallow themselves by placing their hands on its trunk. Then after the marriage the banquet would be held in front of the screen, in the concourse between the four public Rays, which would accommodate the thousand invited guests.
A detachment of the Palace Guards came marching resplendently from the gates of the Targali. Before them strode two glittering officers, one plumed with gold, the other with scarlet.
‘Glad to see old Sorquid’s on the job,’ observed Waltrot.
‘Yes,’ said Erum, ‘and the other is Crabanir, captain of the Arostiri.’ The two leaders were met by the two chief priests. ‘Atan you’ve met. The smaller one is Ar, that’s short for Ar-Hostakyermo the High Priest.’ ‘I thought he’s called Ruddle,’ said Waltrot. ‘Rudhol!’ said Erum, amused. ‘That’s his own personal name. Oh, and there’s Engwe the Lord Secretary.’ The latter was a short white-haired figure in an elaborate herald’s tabard and a long purple cloak. ‘Lady Vornis, his wife. I suppose they’ll sit together.’ The priests and the officers finished their discussion. The two officers saluted smartly, then led their company off, stationing men at regular intervals all round the four rays of the Rimbegalier. The Punchkins heard the sound of singing: somewhere a large choir was rehearsing. More and more figures began to appear, many arrayed in magnificent vesture. ‘Lord Lefnui and Lady Daeranna. Lady Arloth and – oh, isn’t that your friend?’ So it was: Swin’s red hair was quite noticeable as he escorted Arloth up the central aisle, and then sat down with her near the front. He was dressed in a neat grey suit. ‘Lord Ostendil, father of the Bridegroom. Lord Megiluin. He’s reckoned to be the most powerful baron of our whole realm. His estates are greater than the King’s. That’s the ambassador of Turmal – you see the golden flower on his surcoat? I don’t know his name.’ ‘Who’s the tall lady with the white hair?’ asked Tim. ‘I don’t know which one you mean,’ said Erum. ‘The one with the green scarf over her shoulders.’ ‘Oh, that lady in green is Lady Sisilas,’ said Erum. ‘And ugh, there’s Lord Hriveor.’
Some time after half past eleven the last guests were in their places. A great choir of Men and Women, all clad in white apparel, filed along the high galleries and began to sing. The Punchkins listened to the music, rapt and delighted as chorus replied to chorus through ever-varying changes of harmony, line danced with line, male voices played and made love with female. At last they all fell silent. A dozen of the Palace Guard, ranged on either side of the main doorway, brought up shining trumpets. At the sound of the first fanfare the whole assembly rose. The royal procession appeared. First came three temple vergers, robed in black and carrying silver wands; then half-a-dozen palace functionaries, variously and elaborately costumed, including Quendil and the Lord Chamberlain; then Melohtar, whom the Punchkins now saw for the first time, in richly-coloured doublet and hose; then Oresgal with Nometh on his arm, he in his crown and full cloth-of-gold, she veiled and gowned in silver; then four bridesmaids in white and silver, including the sisters, Miriel and Alquessiel; then Atan, with a long black train held up by a page; then Ar, with an even longer train, held up by two pages; and finally another verger. The whole procession advanced through the open gates of the Kegyaina and arranged itself around the Tree. The fanfares ended.
The Punchkins were at a loss, perhaps a little bored, during the wedding itself, which was conducted entirely in the temple language. But they enjoyed the singing, and they were aroused at the culminating point of the service, when, joining Melohtar’s and Nometh’s hands, and raising the two joined hands up together, the High Priest cried aloud:
Aiya siner a siniel! Ea i eru kenessen Pelmarion!
And the congregation responded:
Nai uner te met kiruva tennoio!
And the Punchkins understood that the knot was now tied. But it was at this moment, most incongruously, that Fortinbras recognised the page who stood holding up the train of Atan the Second Highest. Short in stature, light-haired, chubby and pale of countenance, a demure youth rather than a boy, he looked the very model of an acolyte or lesser servant of the Temple. Fortinbras nudged Tim and Waltrot, and whispered to them, and both of them gave startled agreement. Fortinbras then whispered to Erum:
‘That train-bearer of the second-priest – how did he get there? Who is he?’
‘Oh,’ said Erum, focussing his eyes on the individual in question, ‘oh, his name’s Melda, I think. He was a homeless lad – turned up a couple of weeks ago. The Temple has a ministry to the poor and destitute, and Lord Dru knows they need it. There are more and more of ’em all the time. Terrible famines in the country, we hear.’
‘But that lad,’ said Waltrot sharply, ‘he’s a robber. A criminal. He was one of the gang that waylaid us. Swin spared his life.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ replied Erum. ‘He seems to be a good lad, even if he had fallen among bad companions. He came in for a meal at the soup-kitchen. I was on the ladle that night, and Atan had dropped in too: he has a great zeal for bringing the true message to those who most need it.’
‘But he’s dressed up like some sort of assistant priest!’ said Fortinbras. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘Why, nothing. He’s just a junior. We’re a wealthy community, as you see – the Temple has swarms of servants – there’s always room for one more, so long as they’ve got a little bit of real devotion.’ To the Punchkins it was obvious that Erum, with Atan and perhaps all the rest of the temple staff, must have been gulled by a false display of piety; but they forbore from saying so. Nor did Aldred – who alone remembered the lesson of Bryd – detect the least trace of innuendo in Erum’s tone, as he mildly continued: ‘Yes, I thought him a nice-looking lad, just right for an acolyte; and besides that, it seems Atan’s taken a real fancy to him. So kind.’
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