Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [65]
Molin had one weapon to wield against his red-handed enemies, at least in the early days. He paid the guards in Sanctuary’s garrison, and they repaid him with loyalty. Walegrin and the others would have carried out any orders he gave them, no questions asked, but not even the Architect of Vashanka dared send armed men into the courtyards of Sanctuary’s elite houses, and that was where the Servants laired once they’d gotten hold of aristocratic ears.
Loath as Molin was to admit it, then or now—Dyareela’s Servants were clever and subtle, and they were one step ahead of him from the start. They’d looked at the palace and realized that neither he nor his garrison could pose a threat to their plans, even after the bloodshed started, so long as they catered to the fears of the wealthy and self-righteous.
Two types of people met their deaths at the Servants’ hands. There were those who sacrificed themselves willingly—hysterics who swallowed the Servants’ theological clabber whole. They believed that their deaths would hasten the mortal paradise the Servants promised at the end of every sermon. There was no saving a man or woman from sheer stupidity. The other early victims were those who, like Molin Torchholder, saw through the Servants’ plans and opposed them. Unfortunately for Molin, these natural allies were also the heart and soul of Sanctuary’s underbelly—the gangs that ran its rackets, traded its drugs, and hosted the least savory houses on the Street of Red Lanterns.
Molin was a practical man, but he drew the line at joining forces with the likes of Basho Quarl, even though Quarl had the right measure of the Servants. The king of beggars and lord of thieves sent his minions to the palace offering gold and information in exchange for protection as the Servants closed in on him. Molin said no, he wouldn’t trade the stewpot for the fire. He watched from his palace balcony when white-robed justice dragged Quarl, naked, bruised, and pleading for his life, into the palace courtyard, where a platform built from charred wood had replaced the Hall of Justice. The Servants accused Quarl of every crime he’d committed and more besides. They judged him, then bled him out slowly, to the cheering satisfaction of the crowd.
Despite the false accusations, Quarl deserved every cut he got; but on his balcony, Molin couldn’t help wondering if he hadn’t been outfoxed again.
After Quarl’s “sacrifice” the peers eagerly paid tithes to the Servants rather than taxes to the palace. Molin saw how the wind blew. He released the garrison and told them to leave Sanctuary, fast. He made plans to travel with Walegrin to the city of Lirt, about as far to the north and west as a man could go and remain in what could still be called the Rankan Empire. He got as far as converting all his property into gold and jewels, then his gout flared up. His big toe swelled to the size of a melon, and despite his best efforts with mineral soaks and witchcraft combined, it stayed that way until an early winter put an end to all thoughts of following Walegrin to Lirt.
That winter, the eighty-fourth winter of the Imperial calendar, Dyareela’s Servants insinuated themselves into every temple ringing the Promise of Heaven. They wanted the palace, too—for an orphanage, they said. Dyareela was a mother-goddess, they said. She couldn’t bear to see a child’s tears, they said. Molin knew better; there wasn’t a priest in the world who didn’t know better: Innocent children were ever the easiest to shape for good … or evil. He sent messages to his remaining friends among Sanctuary’s peers; with his grossly swollen toe, travel, even across town, was out of the question. A few replied, but none was in the mood to listen.
Molin told Hoxa to find them a place outside the palace, a place where they could disappear until spring when—gods willing—his toe would have shrunk and they could set out for Lirt.