Chapter 9

"A soldier can serve the Gods, the Council, and the people in one of two important ways: that is, he can either be dead or alive, but he will still serve. A soldier might choose either but one of the two has proved extremely popular, and for good reason. As a soldier myself with as much experience as any can hope to amass over the years, I can only share with you a rough guideline on how to live long enough to write your own manual: Avoid the meaningless battles, and especially politics."

-General Ret. Normo Mimmot, Didagmata

"He hasn't spoken a word, your Reverence. He could be a mute for all we know," the man with the bloodied iron scraper said to the Inquisitor. Bits of raw flesh were still hanging off the tool of torture, the man shackled to the wall limp, probably passed out.

The Patriarch stood still, his attention drawn to a few pieces of clothing and some belongings that were gathered on a shabby old table with jutting splinters and worn-away cuts all over its rough surface. He picked at some of the clothing with the edge of his patriarchal Rod, the sigils and High Helican scripts etched on its golden knob top barely visible in the dim torchlight of the torture chamber.

He sniffed the air around the ragged, bloodied clothing, and a grimace of distaste and scorn appeared on his otherwise solidly expressionless face. Some said he sometimes looked as if he was wearing a mask, rather than a real human face. And then there were the tales of him sitting idly in the dark without ever sleeping, or that he never asked for food or drink to be served. Fewer still feared he might not be a man. It was indeed wondrous what the human mind could attribute to persons of unimaginable power. The rumours made the Patriarch laugh sometimes.

None were brave or stupid enough though to point out such troubled thoughts in the presence of his Holiness. Others were too eager to circulate such rumors as well as the names of those who commented on such impertinent views of the Holy Avatar, the Patriarch.

All these kinds of curious, imaginative and disrespectful people who could not impose self-discipline and mind their own business ended up in deep rivers, forever reaching for breath. Others met a similar fate in shallow graves, their bones exposed for wild dogs to chew on. Some simply vanished with neither body nor bone left behind, not even as a gruesome reminder.

The Patriarch smiled at the thought of people being capable of voicing such audacity and felt almost impressed. Naturally, such phenomena had subsided considerably after it became a well-known fact that people with much to talk about can be heard the most. There was a popular saying that applied well to that fact: 'When people talk, the Patriarch listens'. Still from time to time people tend to forget what has come to pass before their time, but they are on occasion grimly reminded not to speak of the Holy Avatar in anything less than reverent hymns to his Holiness, divine origin, and purpose.

The Chief Inquisitor stood in reverent attention a few steps next to the Patriarch with his head bowed and his gaze averted from the Holy Avatar's face. It was a sign of reverent servitude and deference, which was in fact nothing less than proper adherence to protocol. Before speaking, the Inquisitor cleared his throat and licked his lips momentarily, his forehead glistening slightly with perspiration. He stood in a bowed position with hands knitted together, hidden inside the sleeves of his surplice. With a deep voice full of worshipful tones, he simply said:

"Your Holiness."

The Patriarch was still examining the small pile of clothes; the contents of a leather pouch and a small sack that were found on the man shackled against the wall, seemed to attract his attention. His visage showed a man detached from his surroundings, seemingly deeply engrossed in a detailed cataloguing of what the prisoner was carrying on his person. It was as if he was searching for something his servants and people might have missed, something important that he had to make certain of himself alone.

There followed a brief period of silence with only the sputtering flames of the torches and the hollow sound of drops of water on damp stones accentuating it. A faint echo filled the otherwise almost empty chamber.

The Patriarch then spoke, addressing the Inquisitor without turning his head or gaze with his examination of the prisoner's belongings uninterrupted and now seemingly even more thorough:

"Hmm? Speak your mind Inquisitor."

The Patriarch's voice was commanding but calm, quite unassuming.

The Inquisitor then bowed deeper before speaking. There was stiffness in his voice, the words coming out of him as if with pained difficulty:

"The prisoner, your Holiness ... He has not given up any information yet, sir. The procrastinators found him where you indicated he would be, but there was no sign of his accomplices, your Reverence. His name is Philo Dutur. These are his belongings you are examining sir, in case you didn't know."

The Patriarch cast a gaze of subdued anger at the Inquisitor, his otherwise serene face the cause of a disturbing, fearful sensation. The effect was rather unsettling and the Inquisitor bowed deeper still as a physical reaction to the Patriarch's menacing look. It was evident he felt real fear afflicting him to the bone.

The Patriarch took notice of the Inquisitor's fear and felt pleased. Fear was a most useful tool he liked to regularly employ. He paused his examination of the items on the table, and turned to face the Inquisitor offering him his complete focus and attention:

"You should be careful not to recite the obvious, Chief Inquisitor. One might have mistaken you for a blabbering fool of little use beyond shoveling dung in the heat-pipes. Or even for someone committing blasphemy in taking me for a fool. That would be most unpleasant. I would have to choose a new Chief Inquisitor and the technicalities of such an affair, though sometimes I must admit I find somewhat pleasant, tend to bore me. Not to mention there are ongoing issues that demand my attention and there's little precious time. So please Chief Inquisitor, spare me the mundane and tell me something I can make use of."

The Patriarch seemed calm and restrained but his last phrase was uttered with such venom and malice that his uncannily melodic voice suddenly took on a sickeningly sweet quality. It felt like his last few words dripped of thick, clotted blood.

The Chief Inquisitor who in his long years of service had witnessed and performed countless acts of relentless and inhuman torture, was apparently terrified at the prospect of incurring the Patriarch's wrath. He physically recoiled and took a step back before kneeling to the wet, hard stone floor, pleading in all fours:

"I beg your forgiveness most revered and wise of All, the Holy Avatar of the Gods. I have nothing more of interest to offer you, your Holiness. I spoke out of nervousness and feel ashamed for my failure. I have faith, you know it in your heart to be true. Shall I ever once again even imply blasphemy or sin strike me down with all your might, but not because of a slip of the tongue, merciful Luminous One."

The Patriarch could see the man was visibly trembling. He was just another weak minded fool. He would have to be dispensed of sooner rather than later, but not immediately. Other matters would have to take precedence. These were the traitors, more aptly sinners, that liked to pronounce themselves as rebels. The Kinsfolk, he believed they called themselves now. Delusional fanatics, sprouts of a seed long thought extinct, dire remnants of a long lost cause.

He should have personally eradicated the lot of them, a long time before they developed the propensity to spread their mewling half-truths and insidious propaganda. Their riotous myths were always the preferred fodder of the easily deceived masses. He knew, he used such tactics himself.

He had knowledge of certain noble Houses to be either sympathetic or actively participating in the heresy. Remis would have to be made acquiescent in this matter, compliant and pliable as the Patriarch believed he was. If needed though, he would be forcefully removed.

He thought that he should have known better, he should have seen it would come to this before long. But there were niceties to be observed, rules to be followed before they were bent and finally broken. 'There were always the rules, ' the Patriarch thought with a hint of exasperation in his brow.

His hands were finally, figuratively speaking of course, loose. He would break down their spine, their will, and their determination. He had the means to accomplish that and with some careful steps it would all seem so natural, so typical of all failed revolutions; blood-soaked affairs of chasing wild dreams that turn into ashes when the night is through.

His part would be small as always; the stage would be filled with other characters, some willing and some not very so. But he would conduct the opening and closing lines of the chorus, and they would all dance to his tune. It would be a performance truly fit for Gods, if only for a limited audience. Nevertheless he felt he would genuinely enjoy crushing the fools utterly; they would offer a fitting diversion indeed.

He had been absorbed in these thoughts for a rather discomforting period of time, the Inquisitor hanging by his ever word and even their absence. None dared break the forced uneasy silence and his apparently thoughtful concentration. The prisoner stirred, awaking from a merciful sleep.

His moans drew the flogger's attention who immediately reached for a barbed whip from a motley of tools and instruments, some evidently specific in their use and other much more common items put to such a use with surprising ingenuity.

As he distanced himself back from the wall to have more room to lash out to the chained man, a shout from across the chamber halted him with his whip barely halting in mid-air:

"Stay your hand!", the Patriarch's voice boomed deafeningly, matching and perhaps surpassing the authority he was imparted with however impossible that would sound. The torture chamber reverberated with his voice for mere moments, the flames of the torches quivering in response as if the air had been momentarily sucked out of the room.

The flogger set down his instrument of torture and bowed reverently as fast as it would seem prudent, and then stepped completely away from the chained form of Philo, standing still and averting his gaze from the direction of the Patriarch.

The Inquisitor managed a slightly expectant look towards the Patriarch, awaiting for the casual flick of the Rod that would sentence him to excruciating torture at the hands of the Patriarch himself, who had far more delicate and much more painfully agonizing unseen methods of torment at his disposal.

No such move was ever made. The Patriarch instead motioned with his left hand, the one unadorned, his Mourning hand, for the Inquisitor to rise, before he added:

"You are a pathetic fool, Inquisitor. Stop groveling, it sickens me. I never suffer fools gladly, but by necessity I shall. Serve your purpose and you might be able to redeem yourself and avoid my personal chamber of torture. You might even be able to save your insignificant little life you seem to value so much. I might feel less inclined to throw you to the boars, if you actually provide me with some names."

The Inquisitor was a middle aged man, lean and of austere face. Normally he would have looked menacing and unyielding to a common townsfolk in his elegant robes embroidered with his sigils of office and rank; he would have looked like someone important and powerful, someone to be feared and respected.

He now seemed instead a hollow, reduced man: his surplice spoiled and mudded, his face contorted from the imagined agony in the hands of the Patriarch. His feet were barely able to support his weight and slight tremors coursed through his body. He simply managed to croak:

"As is your bidding, your Holiness. But we need more time with the prisoner. He has proved, quite resilient."

The Patriarch was studying the prisoner intently with a deeply frowned face, as if trying to uncover everything he needed to know merely by watching him hard enough. His right hand, the one adorned with the Holy Diadems, was scratching his chin in a rather detached and insouciant way, in stark contrast to his earlier searing demeanor. He addressed the Inquisitor without turning around or barely moving his head, his voice carrying hints of aggravation:

"What you need Inquisitor, are lessons in silence. You would have killed him without getting a word out of him. I will break him myself. Your crude methods can only serve as instruments of death, nothing more. Vacate the chamber now, the both of you."

The Patriarch's voice carried a finality that could not be challenged. The flogger did not even bother picking up his tools, bowing once more hastily but affording time enough for what would seem to be proper reverence and then quickly heading towards the badly lit staircase that led to the upper levels of the tunnels.

The Inquisitor had no intention of uttering a single sentence that could very well be his last and with a series of deep bows and small steps made his way to the staircase as well, being very cautious not to turn his back to the Patriarch at any one point. The moment he reached the base of the stairs as ready as he was to turn and hurriedly run them up, the Patriarch raised his left hand and with his gaze still fixed on Philo, he asked the Inquisitor:

"The men you sent after the sinners deep into the tunnels, did you take care of them as instructed to?", his tone sharp like clear ice.