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how to deal with them; you asked a courtier and got them to check how they'd
been dealt with in the past. Still, times changed on the outside even if they
didn't change here, and it never did any harm to have people in the world
beyond who sympathised with Pharpech, and it had always annoyed the King that
so few people out there seemed to have heard of his realm.
He'd quiz this monk. `How many of there are you?'
`Here in your realm, your Majesty? Only myself, of our Order-'
He shook his head. `No, everywhere. How many of you altogether?'
The skinny monk looked sad. `Vile number only a few thousand at the moment,
your Majesty,' he admitted.
`Though many of us are in positions of some power where we must, of course,
keep our beliefs secret.'
'Hmm,' said the King. `Who's your leader?'
`Majesty,' the monk said, looking troubled, `we have no leader. We have a
parliament, a gathering of equals in which each man is his own high priest,
and in that lies our problem.' The skinny monk looked up and smiled with more
warmth. `You see, your Majesty, I have come humbly, on behalf of all my
fellows, to petition you to become our spiritual leader.'
Petitions petitions petitions. The King was heartily sick of petitions. But at
least this one was from outside the
Kingdom, from people who didn't owe him everything anyway and so had a damn
cheek petitioning him for anything . . . No, this came from people who were
doing it because of their respect for him and what he represented.
He rather liked the idea.
`Spiritual leader?' he said, trying not to sound too taken with the title.
`Yes, your Majesty,' said the skinny monk. 'We seek your approval of our
humble creed because you are the head of a like-minded faith which has
survived for many centuries, and so gives us hope. We wish to ask for your
blessing, and - if you would be so kind as to grant it - for the ultimate
blessing of your becoming head of our church.
We would undertake to do nothing to disgrace your name, and to do everything
to help honour the name of yourself and the Kingdom of Pharpech.' The monk
looked touchingly modest. `Majesty, please believe we do not wish to impose
upon your renowned good nature and generosity, but such is our heart-felt
respect for you, and so great is our desire to gain your approval -
undeserving wretches though we may be - that we felt we would be derelict in
our duties to our faith if we did not approach you.'
The King looked confused. He didn't want to give his blessing to people who
were undeserving wretches. He had enough of those already.
`What?' he said. `You're saying you're undeserving wretches?'
The skinny monk looked uncertain for a second, then bowed his head. `Only
compared to you, your Majesty.
Compared to the unbelievers, we are the deserving and enlightened. As the
saying has it; modesty is most effective when it is uncalled for.' The skinny
monk smiled up at him again. His eyes looked moist.
The King didn't quite understand that last remark - probably due to the skinny
monk's odd accent - but he knew the little fellow thought he'd said something
mildly witty, and so made a little polite laughing noise and looked round his
courtiers, nodding at them, so that they laughed and nodded at each other too.
The King prided himself on being able to put people at their ease in this
manner.
`Good monk,' he said, sitting back in the Stom Throne and adjusting his
day-robe around him as the great throne swung gently, `I am minded to accept
your humble request.' The King smiled. `We shall talk further, I think.' He
put on his wise expression, and the skinny monk looked almost pathetically
pleased. He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands.
How touching! the King thought.
He waved one hand graciously to the side, making a curl in the thick incense
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smoke. He indicated a couple of clerks standing to one side, holding cushions
on which sat large flattish objects: ornate metal boxes. `Now, I
understand you have brought Us some presents . . .'
`Indeed, your Majesty,' the skinny monk said, glancing round as the clerks
came shuffling forward. They stood in a line at his side. He took the box from
the first of the clerks and held it up to the King. It looked like a larger
version of the little box on the thong round his neck. `It is a book, your
Majesty.' He fiddled with the lock on the metallic box.
`A book?'
the King said. He sat forward in the throne, gripping the edges of the Stom's
wings. He hated books. `A
book?'
he roared. His courtiers knew he hated books! How could they let this
simpering cur come before him if they
knew he'd come bearing books?
He looked furiously at the. nearest courtiers. Their expressions changed
instantly from smirking satisfaction to shocked outrage.
`But it is God's book, your Majesty!' the skinny monk whined, jaw trembling as
his thin hands struggled to open the book's jewelled metal casing.
`God's book?' the King bellowed, standing up in the Stom Throne. This was . .
. what was it called? Sacrilege! The great throne swung to and fro while the
King glared down at the hapless monk. `Did you say God's book?' he shouted. He
raised his hand, to order the heretical . . . heretic be taken away.
`Yes, your Majesty,' the monk said, suddenly pulling the book apart, pages [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]