“The traditional conflict between Church and Crown,” Fess’s voice murmured behind his ear, “revolved over two issues: secular justice versus ecclesiastical, specifically in the matter of sanctuary; and Church holding of vast tracts of tax-exempt land.”

“Aye, and more difficult,” Tuan said somberly. “He thinks we take too little care of the poor.”

Well, it was reassuring to know that even a computer could miss. “I’d scarcely call that a disaster.”

“Would you not?” Catharine challenged. “He wishes us to cede all administration of charitable funds unto himself!”

Rod halted. Now, that was a Shetland of a different shade! “Oh. He only wants to take over a major portion of the national administration!”

“Only that.” Tuan’s irony was back. “And one that yields great support from the people.”

“Possible beginnings of a move toward theocracy,” Fess’s voice murmured behind Rod’s ear.

Rod ground his teeth, and hoped Fess would get the message. Some things, he didn’t need to have explained to him! With a theocracy in the saddle, what chance was there for the growth of a democracy? “That point, I don’t think you can yield on.”

“I think not.” Tuan looked relieved, and strengthened—and Catharine glowed.

Which was not necessarily a good thing.

“We are come.” Tuan stopped before two huge, brass-bound, oaken doors. “Gird thy loins, Lord High Warlock.”

A nice touch, Rod thought—reminding him that he ranked equally with the man they were about to confront.

The doors swung open, revealing an octagonal, carpeted room lit by great clerestory windows, hung with rich tapestries, with a tall bookcase filled with huge leather-bound volumes…

… and a stocky, brown-robed man whose gleaming bald pate was surrounded by a fringe of brown hair running around the back of his head from ear to ear. His face was round and rosy-cheeked, and shone as though it were varnished. It was a kind face, a face made to smile, which made it something of a shock to see it set in a truculent frown.

Tuan stepped into the room; Catharine and Rod followed. “Lord Abbot,” the King declaimed, “may I present Rod Gallowglass, Lord High Warlock.” The Abbot didn’t get up—after all, he was the First Estate, and Rod was the Second. His frown deepened, though he bobbed his head and muttered, “My lord. I know thee by repute.”

“My lord.” Rod bobbed his head in return, and kept his tone neutral. “Take my reputation with a grain of salt, if you will; my magic is white.”

“I hear thy words,” the Abbot acknowledged, “but every man must judge his fellows for himself.”

“Of course.” Determined to be a hard case, wasn’t he? But that was it, of course—“determined.” He had to work at it; it didn’t come naturally.

“Majesties,” the Abbot was saying, “I had thought my audience was with thy selves.”

“As it is,” Tuan said quickly. “But I trust thou wilt not object to Lord Gallowglass’s presence; I find him a moderating influence.”

The Abbot slipped for a second; relief washed over his face. Then it was gone, and the stern mask back in place; but Rod warmed to the man on the instant. Apparently he didn’t mind being made more moderate, as long as their Majesties were, too. It meant he was looking for a solution, not a surrender. Rod kept his eyes on the Abbot’s chest.

The monk noticed. “Why starest thou at mine emblem?”

Rod started, then smiled as warmly as he could. “Your indulgence, Lord Abbot. It’s simply that I’ve noticed that badge on every priest on Gramarye, but have never understood it. In fact, I find it unusual for a cassock to have a breast pocket; it’s certainly not pictured so, in the histories.”

The Abbot’s eyes widened—he was concealing surprise. At what? Rod filed it, and went on. “But I can’t imagine why a priest would wear a screwdriver in the breast pocket—that is what that little yellow handle is, isn’t it?”

“Indeed so.” The Abbot smiled as he slipped the tiny tool out of his pocket, and held it out for Rod to inspect—but his eyes were wary. “ ‘Tis only the badge of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode, nothing more.”

“Yes, I see.” Rod peered at the screwdriver, then sat down at Tuan’s left. “But I can’t understand why a monk would wear it.”

The Abbot’s smile warmed a little. “On a day when no grave matters await us, Lord Warlock, I will rejoice to tell thee the tale of our founder, St. Vidicon.”

Rod cocked a forefinger at him. “It’s a date.”

“Amen!”

And the ice was broken.

The Abbot laid both palms flat on the table. “Yet now, I fear, we must turn to weighty matters.”

Rod felt the temperature lowering noticeably.

The Abbot drew a rolled parchment from his robe, and handed it to Tuan. “It is with sorrow, and all respect, that I must present this petition to Your Majesties.”

Tuan accepted the parchment, and unrolled it between himself and Catharine. The Queen glanced at it, and gasped in horror. She turned a thunderous face to the Abbot.

“Surely, Milord, thou canst not believe the Crown could countenance such demands!”

The Abbot’s jaw tightened, and he took a breath.

Rod plunged in. “Uh, how’s that phrased, Your Majesty?”

“ ‘In respect of our obligations to the State and Your Majesties,’ ” Tuan read, “ ‘we strongly advise…’ ”

“Well, there you are.” Rod sat back, waving a hand. “It’s just advice, not demands.”

The Abbot looked up at him, startled.

Catharine’s lips tightened. “If the Crown feels the need of advice…”

“Uh, by your leave, Your Majesty.” Rod sat forward again. “I fear I lack familiarity with the issues under discussion; could you read some more of it?”

“ ‘Primus,’ ” Tuan read, “ ‘we have painfully noted Your Majesties’ encroachment upon the authority of Holy Mother Church in the matter of appointment of…’ ”

“I see. There, then, is the substance of the case.” Rod leaned back, holding up a forefinger. “I beg your indulgence, Your Majesties; please excuse the interruption, but I believe we really should settle this issue at the outset. Authority would seem to be the problem. Now, the people need the Church, but also need a strong civil government; the difficulty is in making the two work together, is it not? For example…” Rod took a quick look at the parchment for form’s sake, and plowed on. “For example, this item about administering of aid to the poor. What fault find you in the Crown’s management of such aid, my lord?”

“Why… in that…” Rod could almost hear the Abbot’s mind shifting gears; he’d been all set for a hot debate about appointment of clergy. “Why, in that, quite plainly and simply, there is too little of it! That is the substance of it!”

“Ah.” Rod nodded, with a commiserating glance at Tuan. “So we come down to money, so quickly.”

They hadn’t, but Tuan picked up a cue well. “Aye, so soon as that. We are giving all that the Crown can spare, Lord Abbot—and a bit more besides; we do not keep great state here, the Queen and I.”

“I know thou dost not.” The Abbot looked troubled. “And there is the cause of it. We do not feel we should eat off gold plate, if our people go hungry. Yet they do go in hunger, for there’s simply not enough coin flowing to the Crown, for us to be able to channel back more than we do.”

“Thou couldst levy greater taxes,” the Abbot offered, half-heartedly.

Tuan shook his head. “Firstly, an’ we did, the barons upon whom we levy it would simply wrench it out of their villeins, who are the same poor we speak of here; and secondly, because, if the barons did not, the villeins would rise in rebellion. No, Milord Abbot—the taxes are already as high as we may push them.”

“For example,” said Catharine sweetly, “thou thyself, Lord Abbot, would be first to protest if we levied a tax on all the vast lands of the Church!”

“And little would you gain thereby,” the Abbot declared stiffly. “The Order’s holdings are scarcely a fortieth part of thy whole kingdom!”