The Vampire Megapack. Nina Kiriki Hoffman

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      The gate groaned open, revealing a narrow courtyard and the two rows of cells lined up back from the chapel. A group of about forty monks in rough-spun habits with raised cowl-hoods stood just beyond the swing of the gate. A few carried oil-lamps, but most were nothing more than dark spaces in the night. As Sant-Germainus entered the monastery, one man stepped forward, a thick-bodied man not quite so tall as Sant-Germainus, his features hidden by his hood. “I give you welcome on this holy night,” he said, his voice still rough. “Enter and be welcome, if you are unarmed.”

      “I thank you, good Brother, for your kindness to me and the men of the ship.” He held out his right hand, showing it empty. “My mission is peaceful.”

      “So you have said,” the blocky man said. “I am Brother Theron, named for my patron saint, the senior of the monastery. I am leader of these monks. Come with me to our dining hall. There is a fire burning and you can warm yourself while we prepare to fetch your shipmates.” His smile was not very convincing, but it might have been because the man had a long scar through the corner of his lip and down to the jaw, which was as much of his face as Sant-Germainus could see. “We will do what God gives us to do.”

      “Thank you, Brother Theron,” he said, going toward the building the monk had indicated. “You are most gracious.” Even as he spoke, he thought the name—meaning hunter—an odd one for a monk, but he kept his reflection to himself; this region was filled with all manner of legends and tales of old demi-gods transformed by piety into stories of saints—undoubtedly Theron was one such.

      “It is, as you said, the time of the Christ, and we should emulate Him to His glory.” He pointed to another of the Brothers. “This is Brother Hylas. He will help you, and stay with you.”

      “That is kind, but unnecessary,” said Sant-Germainus. “I will take you back to the ship. I can show you the way.”

      “Nevertheless, he will do it. Together you can offer up prayers for our success. There is no need for you to accompany us.” Brother Theron motioned to the others. “You say they need food and water, and that the ship requires repair?”

      “I do.” Sant-Germainus hesitated. “Some of the oarsmen are captives, others are part of the original crew.”

      “Ah. Then you must be one of the captives,” said Brother Theron.

      “What makes you believe that?” Sant-Germainus asked, startled by the observation.

      “It is what I would do,” said Brother Theron obscurely. “The Captain needs his men to contain you captives, doesn’t he?”

      A cold knot formed itself under Sant-Germainus’ ribs and he strove to keep steady. “Yes, he does.”

      “We will keep the plight of the captives in mind. We may even turn it to our advantage.” He signalled to the monks. “We will take as much as we can carry—food and water, and make for the south coast on our mission. We will leave as quickly as we can. Brother Hylas, guard the gate and the monastery while we are gone. Admit no other stranger. You must not mind the care we take,” he went on to Sant-Germainus, “but sometimes desperate men have sought to seize this haven through arms or stealth, and to turn it to their own uses. We have become cautious. But, as you reminded us, God provides for those who have faith in Him. Tonight you have brought us a gift from God.”

      “Caution is wise—guile is often the nature of men,” said Sant-Germainus, thinking that Brother Theron was guileful in his own way.

      Brother Hyals, who did not resemble the handsome young Argonaut for whom he was named, set a meaty paw on Sant-Germainus’ shoulder and prodded him in the direction of the dining hall. “Come. First you will get warm, and I will prepare food for you.” There was enough pressure in his grip that Sant-Germainus realized he was under guard; he held his oil-lantern more tightly. These monks, he thought, must have had more than a few encounters with pirates in the past, and had come by their distrustful posture through those conflicts.

      “I am hungry,” Sant-Germainus admitted, and noticed that the monks were taking up spears. He felt a new certainty come over him: the monks were planning to do more than defend themselves. There had been pirates in these waters for as long as Sant-Germainus could remember, a period of more than twenty-five centuries, and as long as there had been pirates there had also been men who preyed on the pirates, benefitting from pirate misfortunes.

      “You will be cared for,” said Brother Theron over his shoulder.

      Sant-Germainus allowed himself to be ushered toward the squat building with narrow windows along the side facing the courtyard and a door at either end of its length. “Your Brothers are most…gracious.”

      Brother Hylas said nothing, his hand weighing heavily as he increased the length of his stride. He lifted the outer latch and all but shoved Sant-Germainus into the dining hall, then closed the door and set the latch again. “I am going to the bakery,” said Brother Hylas through the door. “Stay where you are and you will soon be fed. You have nothing to fear if you are not unruly. But become fractious and I will lock you into the dining hall until my Brothers return and give you nothing to eat.”

      This reassurance only increased Sant-Germainus’ certainty that he was a captive; how much experience the Brothers must have, to have developed such safeguards against attack. “So be it,” he said aloud in his native tongue. He decided to take stock of his prison until Brother Hylas returned; he lifted his oil-lantern to begin his exploration.

      The dining hall was long and narrow with a single plank table flanked on both sides by benches. The open hearth at the back of the chamber showed only a few glowing embers, and nothing to replenish the fire. Near the door through which Sant-Germainus had come stood a statue, very old, of weathered wood. Studying it, Sant-Germainus recognized the statuary smirk of Etruscan portrait carvings, and the simple coronet offered to athletes and artists of high achievement. The figure held a cup in his right hand; his left hand had been broken off. As always, seeing this art from the descendants of his own people struck him with a profound loneliness, and he turned away. Distantly he wondered if he should expect food, and if any was offered, how he would explain his refusal; he felt more precarious, for if he stayed here, men of his crew would be killed, but if he attempted to leave, Brother Hylas might well do his best to stop him. He paced the length of the room, then returned to the door through which he had been shoved, and called out to Brother Hylas, who gave no answer. For the next while, Sant-Germainus remained by the door, listening intently, curious to know what was transpiring beyond the dining hall. He closed his eyes, hoping to concentrate more fully on listening. Finally he went back to the hearth to see if he might bring the few embers to life.

      “I’ve fired up the bake-oven,” Brother Hylas announced from beyond the door. “The dough is rising. There will be loaves ready at the time of first devotions, three hours before dawn.” The monk chuckled. “We will have to delay our prayers, but we will say them in gratitude and thanksgiving.”

      “The men will be grateful for any food you provide,” said Sant-Germainus.

      “There will be meat, too, once I make the spit ready.”

      “If you let me out, I might help you,” Sant-Germainus suggested.

      “I am not permitted to do that, and well you know it,” said Brother Hylas. “I am required to keep you where you are.”

      “Because I might be a diversion, or my story could be a ruse?” he guessed.

      “Or you might warn your comrades: we СКАЧАТЬ