The Temple of God's colonnade soared effortlessly against the springtime blue of the northern sky. The columns were just over sixty feet high, and the central dome which dominated the entire majestic structure rose higher yet, to a height of a hundred and fifty feet. It shone like a huge, polished mirror in the sunlight, plated in silver and crowned with the gem-encrusted, solid-gold icon of the Archangel Langhorne, tablets of law clasped in one arm, the scepter of his holy authority raised high in the other. That icon was eighteen feet tall, glittering more brilliantly even than the dome under the morning sun. For over eight centuries, since the very dawn of Creation, that breathtakingly beautiful archangel had stood guard over God's home on Safehold, and it and the dome under it were both as brilliant and untouched by weather or time as the day they were first set in place.
The Temple sat atop an emerald green hill which lifted it even further towards God's heavens. Its gleaming dome was visible from many miles away, across the waters of Lake Pei, and it glittered like a gold and alabaster crown above the great lakeside city of Zion. It was the city's crown in more than one way, for the city itself—one of the half-dozen largest on all of Safehold, and by far its oldest—existed for only one purpose: to serve the needs of the Church of God Awaiting.
Erayk Dynnys, Archbishop of Charis, strolled slowly towards the Temple across the vast Plaza of Martyrs, dominated by the countless fountains whose dancing jets, splashing about the feet of heroic sculptures of Langhorne, Bédard, and the other archangels, cast damp, refreshing breaths of spray to the breeze. He wore the white cassock of the episcopate, and the three-cornered priest's cap upon his head bore the white cockade and dove-tailed orange ribbon of an archbishop. The fragrant scents of the northern spring wafted from the beds of flowers and flowering shrubs the Temple's gardening staff kept perfectly maintained, but the archbishop scarcely noticed. The wonders of the Temple were a part of his everyday world, and more mundane aspects of that same world often pushed them into the background of his awareness.
"So," he said to the younger man walking beside him, "I take it we still haven't received the documents from Breygart?"
"No, Your Eminence," Father Mahtaio Broun replied obediently. Unlike his patron's, his priest's cap bore only the brown cockade of an upper-priest, but the white crown embroidered on his cassock's right sleeve marked him as a senior archbishop's personal secretary and aide.
"A pity," Dynnys murmured, with just a trace of a smile. "Still, I'm sure Zherald did inform both him and Haarahld that the documentary evidence was necessary. Mother Church has done her best to see to it that both sides are fairly presented before the Ecclesiastical Court."
"Of course, Your Eminence," Father Mahtaio agreed.
Unlike the prelate he served, Broun was careful not to smile, even though he knew about the private message from Dynnys to Bishop Executor Zherald Ahdymsyn instructing him to administratively "lose" the message for at least a five-day or two. Broun was privy to most of his patron's activities, however . . . discreet they might be. He simply wasn't senior enough to display amusement or satisfaction over their success. Not yet, at least. Someday, he was sure, that seniority would be his.
The two clerics reached the sweeping, majestically proportioned steps of the colonnade. Dozens of other churchmen moved up and down those steps, through the huge, opened bas-relief doors, but the stream parted around Dynnys and his aide without even a murmur of protest.
If he'd barely noticed the beauty of the Temple itself, the archbishop completely ignored the lesser clerics making way for him, just as he ignored the uniformed Temple Guards standing rigidly at attention at regular intervals, cuirasses gleaming in the sunlight, bright-edged halberds braced. He continued his stately progress, hands folded in the voluminous, orange-trimmed sleeves of his snow white cassock, while he pondered the afternoon's scheduled session.
He and Broun crossed the threshold into the vast, soaring cathedral itself. The vaulted ceiling floated eighty feet above the gleaming pavement—rising to almost twice that at the apex of the central dome—and ceiling frescoes depicting the archangels laboring at the miraculous business of Creation circled the gold and gem-encrusted ceiling. Cunningly arranged mirrors and skylights set into the Temple's roof gathered the springtime sunlight and spilled it through the frescoes in carefully directed shafts of brilliance. Incense drifted in sweet-smelling clouds and tendrils, spiraling through the sunlight like lazy serpents of smoke, and the magnificently trained voices of the Temple Choir rose in a quiet, perfectly harmonized a cappella hymn of praise.
The choir was yet another of the wonders of the Temple, trained and dedicated to the purpose of seeing to it that God's house was perpetually filled with voices raised in His praise, as Langhorne had commanded. Just before the morning choir reached the end of its assigned time, the afternoon choir would march quietly into its place in the identical choir loft on the opposite side of the cathedral, where it would join the morning choir's song. As the afternoon singers' voices rose, the morning singers' voices would fade, and, to the listening ear, unless it was very carefully trained, it would sound as if there had been no break or change at all in the hymn.
The archbishop and his aide stepped across the vast, detailed map of God's world, inlaid into the floor just inside the doors, and made their way around the circumference of the circular cathedral. Neither of them paid much attention to the priests and acolytes around the altar at the center of the circle, celebrating the third of the daily morning masses for the regular flow of pilgrims. Every child of God was required by the Writ to make the journey to the Temple at least once in his life. Obviously, that wasn't actually possible for everyone, and God recognized that, yet enough of His children managed to meet that obligation to keep the cathedral perpetually thronged with worshippers. Except, of course, during the winter months of bitter cold and deep snow.
The cathedral pavement shone with blinding brightness where the focused beams of sunlight struck it, and at each of those points lay a circular golden seal, two feet across, bearing the sigil of one of the archangels. Like the icon of Langhorne atop the Temple dome and the dome itself, those seals were as brilliant, as untouched by wear or time as the day the Temple was raised. Each of them—like the gold-veined lapis lazuli of the pavement itself, and the vast map at the entry—was protected by the three-inch-thick sheet of imperishable crystal which covered them. The blocks of lapis had been sealed into the pavement with silver, and that silver gleamed as untarnished and perfect as the gold of the seals themselves. No mortal knew how it had been accomplished, but legend had it that after the archangels had raised the Temple, they had commanded the air itself to protect both its gilded roof and that magnificent pavement for all time. However they had worked their miracle, the crystalline surface bore not a single scar, not one scuff mark, to show the endless generations of feet which had passed across it since the Creation or the perpetually polishing mops of the acolytes responsible for maintaining its brilliance.
Dynnys' and Broun's slippered feet made no sound, adding to the illusion that they were, in fact, walking upon air, as they circled to the west side of the cathedral and passed through one of the doorways there into the administrative wings of the Temple. They passed down broad hallways, illuminated by skylights and soaring windows of the same imperishable crystal and decorated with priceless tapestries, paintings, and statuary. The administrative wings, like the cathedral, were the work of divine hands, not of mere mortals, and stood as pristine and perfect as the day they had been created.
Eventually, they reached their destination. The conference chamber's door was flanked by two more Temple Guards, although these carried swords, not halberds, and their cuirasses bore the golden starburst of the Grand Vicar quartered with the Archangel Schueler's sword. They came smartly to attention as the archbishop and his aide passed them without so much as a glance.
Three more prelates and their aides, accompanied by two secretaries and a trio of law masters, awaited them.
"So, here you are, Erayk. At last," one of the other archbishops said dryly as Dynnys and Broun crossed to the conference table.
"I beg your pardon, Zhasyn," Dynnys said with an easy smile. "I was unavoidably delayed, I'm afraid."
"I'm sure." Archbishop Zhasyn Cahnyr snorted. Cahnyr, a lean, sparely built man, was archbishop of Glacierheart, in the Republic of Siddarmark, and while Dynnys' cassock bore the black scepter of the Order of Langhorne on its right breast, Cahnyr's showed the green-trimmed brown grain sheaf of the Order of Sondheim. The two men had known one another for years . . . and there was remarkably little love lost between them.
"Now, now, Zhasyn," Urvyn Myllyr, Archbishop of Sodar, chided. Myllyr was built much like Dynnys himself: too well-fleshed to be considered lean, yet not quite heavy enough to be considered fat. He also wore the black scepter of Langhorne, but where Dynnys' graying hair was thinning and had once been golden blond, Myllyr's was a still-thick salt-and-pepper black. "Be nice," he continued now, smiling at Cahnyr. "Some delays truly are unavoidable, you know. Even"—he winked at Dynnys—"Erayk's."
Cahnyr did not appear mollified, but he contented himself with another snort and sat back in his chair.
"Whatever the cause, at least you are here now, Erayk," the third prelate observed, "so let's get started, shall we?"
"Of course, Wyllym," Dynnys replied, not obsequiously, but without the insouciance he'd shown Cahnyr.
Wyllym Rayno, Archbishop of Chiang-wu, was several years younger than Dynnys, and unlike a great many of Mother Church's bishops and archbishops, he had been born in the province which had since become his archbishopric. He was short, dark, and slender, and there was something . . . dangerous about him. Not surprisingly, perhaps. While Dynnys, Cahnyr, and Myllyr all wore the white cassocks of their rank, Rayno, as always, wore the habit of a simple monk in the dark purple of the Order of Schueler. The bared sword of the order's patron stood out starkly on the right breast of that dark habit, white and trimmed in orange to proclaim his own archbishop's rank, but its episcopal white was less important than the golden flame of Jwo-jeng superimposed across it. That flame-crowned sword marked him as the Schuelerite Adjutant General, which made him effectively the executive officer of Vicar Zhaspyr Clyntahn, the Grand Inquisitor himself.
As always, the sight of that habit gave Dynnys a slight twinge. Not that he'd ever had any personal quarrel with Rayno. It was more a matter of . . . tradition than anything else.
Once upon a time, the rivalry between his own Order of Langhorne and the Schuelerites had been both open and intense, but the struggle for primacy within the Temple had been decided in the Schuelerites' favor generations ago. The Order of Schueler's role as the guardian of doctrinal orthodoxy had given it a powerful advantage, which had been decisively strengthened by the judicious political maneuvering within the Temple's hierarchy which had absorbed the Order of Jwo-jeng into the Schuelerites. These days, the Order of Langhorne stood clearly second within that hierarchy, which made the Schuelerite practice of dressing as humble brothers of their order, regardless of their personal rank in the Church's hierarchy, its own form of arrogance.
Dynnys sat in the armchair awaiting him, Broun perched on the far humbler stool behind his archbishop's chair, and Rayno gestured to one of the law masters.
"Begin," he said.
"Your Eminences," the law master, a monk of Dynnys' own order, said, standing behind the neat piles of legal documents on the table before him, "as you all know, the purpose of the meeting of this committee of the Ecclesiastical Court is to consider a final recommendation on the succession dispute in the earldom of Hanth. We have researched the applicable law, and each of you has received a digest of our findings. We have also summarized the testimony before this committee and the documents submitted to it. As always, we are but the Court's servants. Having provided you with all of the information available to us, we await your pleasure."
He seated himself once more, and Rayno looked around the conference table at his fellow archbishops.
"Is there any need to reconsider any of the points of law which have been raised in the course of these hearings?" he asked. Heads shook silently in reply. "Are there any disputes about the summary of the testimony we've already heard or the documents we've already reviewed?" he continued, and, once again, heads shook. "Very well. Does anyone have anything new to present?"
"If I may, Wyllym?" Cahnyr said, and Rayno nodded for him to continue. The lean archbishop turned to look at Dynnys.
"At our last meeting, you told us you were still awaiting certain documents from Bishop Executor Zherald. Have they arrived?"
"I fear not," Dynnys said, shaking his head gravely.
Zherald Ahdymsyn was officially Dynnys' assistant; in fact, he was the de facto acting archbishop for Dynnys' distant archbishopric and the manager of Dynnys' own vast estates there. Charis was the next best thing to twelve thousand miles from the Temple, and there was no way Dynnys could have personally seen to the pastoral requirements of "his" parishioners and also dealt with all of the other responsibilities which attached to his high office. So, like the vast majority of prelates whose sees lay beyond the continent of Haven or its sister continent, Howard, to the south, he left those pastoral and local administrative duties to his bishop executor. Once a year, despite the hardship involved, Dynnys traveled to Charis for a monthlong pastoral visit; the rest of the year, he relied upon Ahdymsyn. The bishop executor might not be the most brilliant man he'd ever met, but he was dependable and understood the practical realities of Church politics. He was also less greedy than most when it came to siphoning off personal wealth.
"But you did request that he send them?" Cahnyr pressed, and Dynnys allowed an expression of overtried patience to cross his face.
"Of course I did, Zhasyn," he replied. "I dispatched the original request via semaphore to Clahnyr over two months ago, as we all agreed, to be relayed by sea across the Cauldron. Obviously, I couldn't go into a great deal of detail in a semaphore message, but Father Mahtaio sent a more complete request via wyvern the same day, and it reached Clahnyr barely a five-day later. We also notified Sir Hauwerd's man of law here in Zion of our requirements and informed him that we were passing the request along to his client."
"-'Two months ago' doesn't leave very much time for any documentation to arrive from so far away. Particularly at this time of year, given the sort of storms they have in the Cauldron every fall," Cahnyr observed in a deliberately neutral tone, and Dynnys showed his fellow prelate his teeth in what might possibly have been called a smile.
"True," he said almost sweetly. "On the other hand, the message was sent over two months ago, which seems more than sufficient time for Zherald to have relayed my request to Sir Hauwerd and for Sir Hauwerd to have responded. And for a dispatch vessel from Charis to cross back to Clahnyr, weather or no weather, with at least a semaphore message to alert us that the documents in question were on their way. In fact, I've exchanged another complete round of messages with Zherald on other topics over the same time frame, so I feel quite sure the dispatch boats are surviving the crossing, despite any autumn gales."
Cahnyr looked as if he was tempted to launch another sharp riposte of his own. But if he was, he suppressed the temptation. Rayno and Myllyr only nodded, and Dynnys hid a mental smirk.
He often found Cahnyr's brand of personal piety rather wearing, although he had to admit it gave his rival a certain cachet in the Temple's hierarchy. He wasn't quite unique, of course, but most of the archbishops and vicars charged with administering God's affairs were too busy for the sort of simpleminded pastoral focus Cahnyr seemed to prefer.
Dynnys was prepared to admit that that was even more true in his case than in many others'. It could scarcely be otherwise, with Charis so far from Zion and the Temple. Cahnyr's archbishopric was less than half as distant, although, to be fair, most of the weary miles to Glacierheart were overland, and Cahnyr made two pastoral visits per year, not just one. But he could also make the journey without being totally out of touch with the Temple. Thanks to the semaphore chains the Church maintained across Haven and Howard, the two-way message time between Glacierheart and the Temple was less than three days.
Dynnys had occasionally wondered if a part of Cahnyr's enmity might not stem from the differences between their archbishoprics. He knew that at least a portion of the bad blood between them came from the fact that Cahnyr had been the son of a minor Dohlaran nobleman, whereas Dynnys was the son of an archbishop and the grandnephew of a grand vicar. Cahnyr stood outside the traditional great ecclesiastic dynasties which had dominated the Temple for centuries, and he'd never seemed to quite grasp how those dynasties played the game.
That game, as Dynnys was well aware, explained how he'd gotten Charis and Cahnyr . . . hadn't. Despite the other prelate's ostentatious piety, he couldn't be totally dead to ambition, or he would never have attained a bishop's ruby ring, far less his present rank, and Cahnyr's archbishopric was a mere province of the Republic of Siddarmark, whereas Dynnys' was the entire Kingdom of Charis. It was always possible that fact did, indeed, account for Cahnyr's hostility, although Dynnys rather doubted it in his calmer moments. Craggy, mountainous Glacierheart was barely a quarter the size of Charis proper, and sparsely populated compared with the rest of Haven, but it probably had almost as many inhabitants as the entire kingdom.
Although not, he reflected complacently, a tenth as much wealth.
Haven and Howard were the principal landmasses of Safehold, and Langhorne and his fellow archangels had planted humanity far more thickly across them than anywhere else. Even today, eight, or possibly even as many as nine, out of every ten inhabitants of Safehold were to be found there, so it was little wonder Mother Church's attention was so fully fixed there as well. The long chains of semaphore stations, reaching out from Zion in every direction, allowed the Temple to oversee its far-flung archbishoprics, bishoprics, cathedrals, churches, congregations, monasteries, convents, and ecclesiastical manors, as well as the intendants assigned to the various secular courts, parliaments, and assemblies. Those semaphores belonged to Mother Church, and although she permitted their use by secular authorities, that use was always subject to availability. And as more than one prince or king or governor had discovered, "availability" could be quite limited for anyone who had irritated his local ecclesiastical superiors.
But not even Mother Church could erect semaphore stations in the middle of the sea, and so the only way to communicate with such distant lands as Charis, or the League of Corisande, or Chisholm, was ultimately by ship. And ships, as Dynnys had long since discovered, were slow.
An additional semaphore chain had been extended across Raven's Land and Chisholm, on the far side of the Markovian Sea, but even there, messages must cross the Passage of Storms, a water gap of almost twelve hundred miles between the semaphore stations on Rollings Head and Iron Cape. That gave Zherohm Vyncyt, the Archbishop of Chisholm, a two-way message time of almost seventeen days, but the situation was even worse for Dynnys. It took only six days for a message to travel from the Temple to the Clahnyr semaphore station in southern Siddarmark, but then it had to cross over three thousand miles of seawater to reach Tellesberg. Which meant, of course, that it took twenty-five days—five five-days—on average for one of his messages just to reach his bishop executor.
The actual voyage from the Temple to Tellesberg, however, took two full months . . . one way. Which explained why Dynnys simply could not absent himself from Zion and the Temple for more than a single pastoral visit per year, usually in late autumn. That got him out of the Temple Lands before Hsing-wu's Passage froze over and let him spend the Temple's ice-blasted winter in Charis, which was not only in the southern hemisphere but less than thirteen hundred miles below the equator. Summer in Tellesberg was ever so much more pleasant than winter in Zion! Of course, that same distance from Zion (and the Temple) also explained why some of those more distant lands—like Charis itself, upon occasion—were sometimes just a bit more fractious then those closer to Zion.
"Erayk has a point, Zhasyn," Rayno said now. "Certainly everyone involved in this dispute has been arguing back and forth long enough to recognize how important it is to comply with any documentary requests we may have. If Breygart hasn't seen fit even to acknowledge the receipt of our request, that speaks poorly for him."
"It may speak more poorly of the quality of his purported evidence," Myllyr pointed out. "If he truly has proof Mahntayl's claims are false, he ought to be eager to lay that evidence before us."
Cahnyr shifted in his seat, and Rayno quirked one eyebrow at him.
"Yes, Zhasyn?"
"I only wanted to observe that from the very first, Sir Hauwerd Breygart—" the Archbishop of Glacierheart stressed the title and surname very slightly "—has maintained that Mahntayl's claim to descent from the fourteenth earl was false. And," he looked around the conference table, "he accompanied his initial arguments with depositions to that effect from over a dozen witnesses."
"No one is disputing that he did, Zhasyn," Dynnys pointed out. "The point under consideration is Breygart's assertion that he's uncovered proof—not depositions, not hearsay evidence, but documented proof—that Tahdayo Mahntayl is not Fraidareck Breygart's great-grandson. It was that 'proof' we asked him to share with us."
"Precisely," Rayno agreed, nodding solemnly, and Cahnyr clamped his lips firmly together. He glanced at Myllyr, and his lips thinned further as he read the other prelate's eyes.
Dynnys could read the others' expressions just as well as Cahnyr could, and he couldn't quite completely suppress his own smile. Myllyr's support for his position was hardly a surprise; not only were they both Langhornites, but the two of them had been scratching one another's backs for decades, and both of them knew how Mother Church's politics worked. Rayno had been a bit more problematical, but Dynnys had confidently anticipated his support, as well. The Inquisition and Order of Schueler had been less than pleased by Charis' growing wealth and power for almost a century now. The kingdom's obvious taste for . . . innovation only made that worse, and the energy the Charisian "Royal College" had begun displaying over the last ten or fifteen years rubbed more than one senior Schuelerite on the raw.
The view that religious orthodoxy waned in direct proportion to the distance between any given congregation and Zion was an inescapable part of most Schuelerites' mental baggage. Rayno, despite his own sophistication and ecclesiastical rank, still regarded such distant lands as Charis with automatic suspicion. In Charis' case, the power of its trade-based wealth and apparent inventiveness, coupled with the "Royal College's" active support for that inventiveness and the Ahrmahk Dynasty's domestic policies, made him even more suspicious. And the fact that Haarahld of Charis, unlike the majority of Safehold's rulers, had stayed out of debt to the Temple's moneylenders was one more worry for those—like Rayno—who fretted over how to control him if the need should arise.
The Schuelerites' dominant position in the Church hierarchy would have been enough to put Charis under a cloud in the Church's eyes all by itself. But the kingdom's steadily growing wealth, and the influence its vast merchant fleet gave it in lands far beyond its own borders, made a bad situation worse in many respects. While most of the more mundane suspicion and ire of the Council of Vicars focused on the Republic of Siddarmark simply because of the Republic's proximity to the Temple Lands, there were those—including the Grand Inquisitor himself—who felt that Charis' attitudes and example were even more dangerous in the long run.
Dynnys' own view, buttressed by reports from Zherald Ahdymsyn and Father Paityr Wylsynn, the Order of Schueler's own intendant in Tellesberg, was that Rayno's suspicions of Charis' fidelity to Mother Church's doctrines were baseless. True, Charisians' willingness to find new and more efficient ways to do things required a certain degree of vigilance. And, equally true, the Charisian branch of the Church was rather more permissive on several issues than the Council of Vicars would truly have preferred. And, yes, it was even true that this "college" of Haarahld's was actively seeking new ways to combine existing knowledge, which could only enhance that national fetish for "efficiency." That, however, was exactly why Father Paityr was there, and his reports—like those of his immediate predecessors—made it quite clear that nothing going on in Charis came remotely close to a violation of the Proscriptions of Jwo-jeng.
As for domestic policies and dangerous examples, Dynnys was willing to grant that King Haarahld's great-grandfather's decision to legally abolish serfdom throughout his kingdom could be construed as a slap in Mother Church's face, if one were determined to view it that way. Dynnys wasn't, especially given the fact that there'd never been more than a relative handful of serfs in Charis even before the institution was officially abolished. Nor did he believe the claims—mostly from the Charisians' competitors—that his parishioners' focus on trade and the acquisition of wealth was so obsessive that it inspired them to ignore their obligations to God and Mother Church and skimp on the kingdom's tithe. Bishop Executor Zherald and his tithe-collectors would certainly have made their own displeasure known if they'd suspected there was any truth to those tales! Ahdymsyn might not be the most brilliant man ever to attain a bishop's ring, but he was no fool, either, and Mother Church had centuries of experience with every way kings or nobles might try to hide income from the tithe-assessors.
And the Church's—and Inquisition's—grip on the mainland populations was surely firm enough to suppress any dangerous notions which might creep across the seas aboard Charisian merchantmen.
No, Dynnys had no fear Charis was some sort of hotbed of potential heresy. Not that he hadn't been prepared to play upon Rayno's suspicions and the Council of Vicars' basic distrust and dislike for the kingdom.
Which, he reflected, made the fact that Haarahld was clearly one of Breygart's strongest supporters the kiss of death as far as Wyllym was concerned.
He supposed it was actually a sign of Rayno's moral integrity that it had taken him this long to come openly out in support of Tahdayo Mahntayl's claim.
His fraudulent but extremely well-paying claim, Dynnys reflected silently, allowing no trace of his inner satisfaction to show. And the fact that Lyam Tyrn, the Archbishop of Emerald, was going to owe him a substantial favor for supporting Prince Nahrmahn's candidate wasn't going to hurt, either.
"I think," Rayno, as the senior member of the court, continued, "that in light of Breygart's failure to provide his supposed proof, or even to respond to our request in a timely fashion, we must make our decision based upon the evidence already presented. Rather than rush to a conclusion, however, I would suggest we adjourn for lunch and afterwards spend an hour or so meditating upon this matter in privacy. Let us reconvene at about the fifteenth hour and render our decision, Brothers."
The others nodded in agreement—Cahnyr a bit grudgingly—and chairs scraped as the archbishops rose. Cahnyr nodded to Rayno and Myllyr, managed to ignore Dynnys completely, and strode briskly from the conference room. Rayno smiled slightly, like an indulgent parent with two sons who were continually at odds, then followed Cahnyr.
"Will you share lunch with me, Erayk?" Myllyr asked after the others had left. "I have a small matter which will be coming before the Office of Affirmation next five-day that I'd like to discuss with you."
"Of course, Urvyn," Dynnys replied brightly. "I'd be delighted to."
And it was true, he reflected. He actually looked forward to the inevitable dragon trading with Myllyr. It was part of the game, after all. The sizable "gift" about to land in his private purse, and the opportunity to remind Haarahld Ahrmahk where the true authority in Charis lay, would have been enough to place him firmly on Mahntayl's side, but even more seductive than mere wealth was the exercise of power. Not simply within his own archbishopric, but within the only hierarchy which truly mattered, right here in the Temple.
"I understand the kitchens have something special waiting for us this afternoon," he continued. "Shall we partake of it in the main dining hall, or would you prefer to dine on the plaza?"