Zeffer’s estimation of the size of the place, and of the complexity of its construction, had been conservative, it now turned out. The chamber was fully thirty-five feet long; and almost as broad, the ceiling (which was indeed divided into eight elaborately-vaulted sections, divided by pillars) higher than the passageway by six feet or more. The floor was littered with furniture and crates; the place plainly filled by hands that had little or no respect for the objects they were moving; wishing only to put them quickly out of sight. It occurred to Zeffer that if indeed there were treasures here the chances of finding them — or indeed of their being in reasonable condition when discovered — were remote. Still, the Father had brought him this far at no little inconvenience to himself; it would be discourteous to now show no interest in what the chamber contained.
“Did you have a part in moving all of this?” he asked Sandru, more out of a need to fill the silence between them than because he was genuinely curious.
“Yes, I did,” the Father replied. “Thirty-two years ago. I was a much younger man. But it was still a back-breaking labor. They built things big here. I remember thinking that maybe the stories were right … ”
“Stories about — ”
“Oh … nonsenses. About this furniture having been built for the retinue of the Devil’s wife.”
“The Devil’s wife.”
“Lilith, or Lilitu. Sometimes called Queen of Zemargad. Don’t ask me why.”
“This is the same woman Katya spoke about?”
Sandru nodded. “That’s why the locals don’t have much hope for the sick if they stay here. They think Lilith’s curse is on the place. As I say: nonsenses.”
Whether it was nonsense or not, the story lent some flavor to this banal adventure. “May I look more closely?” Zeffer asked.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Father Sandru replied. “I hope there’s something that catches your eye, for your sake. All these stairs and doors. I’d forgotten how far down it was … ”
“I’m sorry to have made this so burdensome,” Zeffer said, quite sincerely. “If I’d known you were going to go to so much trouble I wouldn’t have — ”
“No, no,” Sandru said. “It’s not a trouble to me. I only thought there might be an item here that pleased you. But now I’m down here I doubt it. To be truthful I believe we should have taken all this trash up the mountain and thrown it in the deepest gorge we could find.”
“Why didn’t you do just that?”
“It wasn’t my choice. I was just a young priest at the time. I did as I was told. I moved tables and chairs and tapestries, and I kept my counsel. Our leader then was Father Nicholas, who was very clear on the best thing to be done — the safest thing for our souls — and would not be moved on the subject. So we did as we were told. Father Nicholas, by the way, had the foulest temper of any man I ever knew. We all lived in fear of him.”
Zeffer moved into the room, talking as he went: “May I say something that I hope won’t offend you?”
“I’m not easily offended, don’t worry.”
“Well … it’s just that the more I hear about your Order, the less like priests you seem to be. Father Nicholas’s temper and the brothers all familiar with Theda Bara. And then the brandy.”
“Ah, the sins of the flesh,” Father Sandru said. “We do seem to have more than our share, don’t we?”
“I have offended you.”
“No. You’ve simply seen the truth. And how can a man of God be justly offended by that? What you’ve observed is no coincidence. We are all … how shall I put this? … men who have more than our share of flaws. Some of us were never trusted with a flock. Others, like Father Nicholas, were. But the arrangement was never deemed satisfactory.”
“His temper?”
“I believe he threw a Bible at one of the parishioners who was sleeping through the good Father’s sermon.” Zeffer chuckled; but his laughter was silenced a moment later. “It killed the man.”