by A. C. Cobble
He would have the bishop’s favor, if the plan succeeded. All he had to do was keep Samantha from killing anyone important once they were inside. That was what he’d thought, at least.
Glancing over his shoulder again, he let his gaze slowly pass over the top of the back wall. If she was right behind him, she would be coming in that way. He didn’t see her, though. Still, he was confident she would come, one way or the other. She wanted to kill the bishop, and he was her ticket inside. His role was to confront and distract Yates while she snuck in. She said she wasn’t confident she could handle the bishop alone. Raymond believed that much of her outlandish tale, at least.
Giving up on trying to spot Samantha, he gripped the frieze work that decorated the pillars rising along the back of the building, and he climbed. Sure fingers finding easy grips, pitch-covered boots finding ample toeholds, he scaled the back wall like a spider.
He passed the ground-level floor, which he suspected the bishop never visited. It would be the laundry, storage rooms, and servants’ quarters. The stairs out front passed by that level entirely. The second floor was the public space where Yates would host receptions for local peers or visiting dignitaries and showed off his devotion to the Church with whatever he could scavenge from the Church’s galleries. The third floor held guest spaces which Raymond knew were unoccupied at the moment. He and Bridget had been offered lodging there before they’d agreed it would be better to remain in the city and away from the bishop while they looked for Samantha. He kept climbing. The fourth floor was Gabriel Yates’ private quarters. Raymond knew this late in the evening, he would find the bishop somewhere on that floor.
Climbing the four-story stone pillar like it was a city street, the Knife ascended quickly and paused at the top. He listened for sounds of guards, the bishop, or even Samantha behind him, but there was nothing, just the cold wind and the constant tinkle of water in the fountain. He looked down at the fountain and the moonlit sun-clock near it. From above, it was clear the sun-clock was in the direct center of the stone enclosure. Five granite benches, arranged equidistant from the pattern, were placed like they were distinct points of a star. The fountain lay at the base of the design, spraying water, a medium of both life and death.
He closed his eyes and hung on the stonework for a long moment, extending his senses, trying to hear any sound, feel any disruption that tickled the barrier between this world and the next. There was nothing, but he felt a creeping sense of wrongness. Samantha had wanted to enter this way. It was her plan, and he’d agreed to it as a means to draw her close, to make her show herself to the bishop. Had she suggested this because she knew the back of the estate was unguarded, or because she wanted him to see what lay behind the bishop’s mansion?
Frozen hell, thought Raymond, shaking his head. The pattern… could it be coincidence? Perhaps some mason playing an unfortunate jest on the churchman? The stone workers were known to have a fascination with the occult. Had they done this independently? Did the bishop even understand what the arrangement below signified? Could Yates not understand it, being the scholar that he was?
Grimacing, Raymond traversed the back of the building, moving along the stonework like a monkey in the tropics, peering into each window he passed.
Most of them were dark, sleeping rooms and family rooms, had the bishop had one. At the far corner of the building, he could see a steady, yellow light bleeding from one bank of windows. He knew the bishop would be inside, and he grew sure the man would be waiting for him. If Yates was waiting… Raymond cursed silently. If the man somehow sensed his approach, was there an innocent explanation?
Finally, he reached the last window and peered inside. Bishop Gabriel Yates was sitting in a comfortable-looking chair. He had an open bottle beside him and a small glass at his elbow. Raymond had no doubt it contained a hearty pour of sherry. The bishop was aimlessly flipping through pages in a massive, leather-bound book.
Drawing a deep breath, Raymond scuttled a little farther down to the center of the window. Watching the bishop closely to see if the churchman’s eyes ever looked up, Raymond slid a slender steel lockpick from a tiny pocket in the back of his wide belt.
Studying the window closely, he saw the thing wasn’t locked. He simply inserted the pick and flicked it up, throwing the catch to the window. Raymond yanked it open, and the bishop glanced up, only appearing startled as he saw who was lurking outside of his fourth-story window.
“What are you doing here?” asked Yates, closing his book and setting it on the table near his sherry.
Climbing into the window and then closing it behind, Raymond turned to Yates. “Not going to ask why I came in the back window instead of the front door?”
Yates steepled his fingers. “Very well. Why did you come in the back window and not the front door?”
“I have a package I was sent to deliver to you.”
“A package?” questioned Yates. “Sent by who?”
“Our mutual friend,” remarked Raymond. He slung his pack off his back and spotted a silver tray on the side of the room. He collected it and walked back toward Yates.
“Is that…” began Yates, but he trailed off when Raymond emptied the pack and a severed head rolled out. “It is not, is it?”
“No, it is not,” snapped Raymond.
“Bridget, then?” asked Yates calmly. “What happened to her?”
“Our friend did this, I believe,” said Raymond, “but she blamed it on you.”
Yates laughed. “No, not me. She must have found out you were hunting… Wait, you said she blamed it on me? Did you speak to her? Did you kill her?”
“You asked me to bring her in alive, did you not?” responded Raymond. “Our plan is for her to follow me into this room. She should be here any moment.”
Yates stood and strode across the room. The Knife’s eyes followed his progress then widened when the man stopped in front of a yard-wide map of the mansion. Pale white lines glowed in complex geometric patterns on the paper surface of the map. They pulsed with energy, like the light of the fae. He’d never seen a map like it before.
“What is that?” he asked, walking to stand beside the bishop.
“It’s a little experiment I rigged up,” replied Yates. “It’s a warning system, you could say. If anything crosses these barriers, I will know it. It’s how I knew you entered the grounds and why I didn’t leap out of my seat when I saw you. It seems your partner has not yet breached the barriers, though. You are sure she is coming behind you?”
“Why would she not be?” he asked. He glanced at the table where Bridget’s decapitated head sat, the skin of her face peeled away. How had Yates known it was Bridget? Samantha had instructed him to watch the bishop’s reaction to see if… Frozen hell. How had he known?
“Sam isn’t my partner,” muttered Raymond.
“Sam now, is it? She set you up, boy,” said the bishop, still studying the faintly glowing map.
“How… how did you do this?” asked Raymond, gesturing at the map. “This is like nothing I’ve seen before. Is it… is it powered by technology?”
Yates smirked at him, turned, and headed back to his chair.
“Sir…” began the Knife.
“Bishop Constance was here just three months gone,” said Yates over his shoulder. “The Whitemask has seen my map, and she had no qualms about it. It’s important here, away from the seat of the Church, for those of us in leadership to protect ourselves. There was only one Knife in Enhover, you know, and that man was recently killed. I’m not like you, au Clair, able to hide in the shadows and strike from behind. I’m a public figure, an easy target for those like this girl.” He shrugged. “I do what I must to survive. As do you. As do we all.”
“You thought I was her, sneaking in over your back wall,” guessed Raymond. “What would you have done if she’d been the one outside of your window?”
“Die, I suppose,” said the bishop dryly.
Raymond shook his head. “I don’t think
so, Bishop. You weren’t surprised to see me. You were calm. You had a plan. How did you know the head was Bridget’s, not Sam’s?”
“It’s a dangerous world, Raymond au Clair,” said the bishop, cutting his eyes to the lifeless head of Bridget. “One must always have a plan.”
“You bound spirits to create the map,” said Raymond, fighting the tension in his body. “What did you intend if Sam had turned up outside of your window?”
“What did you intend, coming in that way?” retorted Yates. “The guards out front have been instructed to allow you entry. There was no need for this. What did the girl say to you with her silver tongue and black heart? What did… Ah, I think I know. She did as so many women have done before her throughout history. You’ve been fooled, au Clair, by a pretty smile and a warm body.”
Raymond shook his head. “No, Bishop, that’s not—”
“You’re not the first one she’s slept with, you know,” remarked Yates. “Not the first by a long way. You’ve been tricked, boy! That girl was trained from birth to fool the likes of you, and you fell right into her sultry trap. The Church employs legions of fallen women trained in the softer arts. Not all of our diplomacy is the cold steel of your dagger. I’m disappointed. One such as you should have seen through her temptation.”
Blinking, Raymond stared at the older man.
“Well?” asked Bishop Yates, stabbing a finger toward Raymond. “The girl tricked you. By your own admission, she killed your partner. What will you do about it?”
Against the bishop’s chest, a glittering silver pendant swung with his movement. A quill bisecting the Church’s circle.
“She did trick me,” muttered Raymond, his eyes fixed on the symbol hanging around the bishop’s neck. “She killed Bridget and pulled the wool over my eyes, all to get me here.”
“Exactly!” cried Yates, smacking a fist into his palm. “Now go find that ruthless bitch and bring her back to me. You’ll have your revenge, both for your partner and yourself.”
Raymond, moving slowly, let his hand fall toward his hip. “I worry she is here, Bishop. I think that was her trap, to get me to come in and trigger whatever designs you had laid for her. She sacrificed Bridget, and she sacrificed me.”
“Did she now?” questioned Yates, standing before his chair. He laughed, both hands holding his jiggling belly. “Was I meant to kill you, or were you meant to kill me?”
“I don’t think she cared either way,” replied Raymond. He glanced back at the glowing map. “I’ll ask again. If it had been her outside of the window, what would you have done?”
“If she’d given me time, I suppose I would have shouted for the guards,” said Yates. “Go on now. Do what you do and find her. A temptress and a murderer. A sorceress! If she does turn up here, I’ll have my men handle it.”
“Do what I do,” murmured Raymond, his hands clenching involuntarily. “That’s what she told me as well. Call your men, then, Bishop.”
“What?” asked Yates.
“Call them,” instructed Raymond. “Sam said she was going to be right behind me. Why not call the men now and have them waiting for her?”
“It’s unnecessary,” claimed Yates, moving from his reading chair and table toward the far wall of the room.
Raymond let his hand rest on his sword. “There are no men who will be rushing in, are there? You meant to deal with Sam yourself. You are what she said you were. A sorcerer, hiding within the ranks of the Church! How could you?”
Yates smirked. “It was quite easy, boy. There is no one easier to fool than those who are certain they are right. The Church, so sure their path to strength is the one, so sure the nations will fall under a populist tide, so foolish. What can the crowded masses do against the might of Enhover’s technology, the airships, and their bombs? What can the crowded masses do against the strength of the underworld? Nothing, boy, they can do nothing. The Church has turned the wrong way, turned from the true sources of power. I saw as much in the histories, but no one would listen. When the opportunity arose to become a strength in my own right, I took it.”
Raymond drew his rapier. “The Church does not seek… It does not seek power. Not like you say. The Church is there for—”
“You kill people!” shrieked Yates, his face locked in a rictus of mad glee. “You kill people! Maybe it helps you sleep at night to think they are all terrible sorcerers on the verge of calling dark power upon the lands, but you are wrong. The people you kill are innocents. Hedge-witches, healers, and a few of the foolishly curious. You think those people you murdered in Harwick had any idea what true sorcery is? They did not, boy. They did not even know they danced upon my strings. Those people had no idea what walking the dark path entails. They just liked getting drunk, having an orgy, and play-acting at serving some darker force. They had no forbidden knowledge, but you spilled their blood. You reveled in it, all while I watched from the shadows. I watched as you and they both conducted my bidding. Raymond au Clair, you’re guiltier of sorcery than your victims ever were!”
From his belt, Raymond removed a thin glass vial and smoothly cracked it upon the steel of his exposed blade, tilting the weapon down so the liquid coated the surface. In the space of two heartbeats, it burst into shimmering red flame. The light from the blade cast an awful glow across the room, the flames burning furious and low, roiling up and down the edge of the sword like a jungle cat preparing to pounce.
“So be it,” growled Yates.
The bishop shook his arm and out of his sleeve fell a fluted, crystal wand.
Raymond charged, his sword, the steel shimmering with crimson fire, thrusting ahead of him.
Yates tossed the wand into the air, and it spun, flashing with light from the fireplace and Raymond’s sword. Halfway before it fell to the floor, it exploded. Crystal shards blasted out and then contracted, a punch of cold air mimicking the motion.
Raymond was knocked onto his heels by the wave of frigid air. He didn’t let it stop him, though, and he charged back as soon as he regained his balance, lashing out with his sword, only to have it deflected by a flashing reflection of firelight. He staggered away, confused. The coruscating reflection moved, following him.
“Frozen hell,” he gasped.
“Yes, something like that,” chortled the bishop, his arms raised, his eyes fixed on the moving flickers of light.
Light, reflected as if it was shining upon animated crystal, stalked closer. Raymond, backing to the wall of the study, saw he was facing two constructs, seemingly formed of pure reflection. Despite their insubstantial appearance, from the way one of them had parried his blade, he knew they were devastatingly solid.
He circled backward, putting the bishop’s desk between himself and the constructs. They pursued, and he could see from the reflected light that they were fashioned into humanoid shapes, bright orange-red flickering along their arms and legs. Their torsos were small, their heads barely visible shadow.
Knowing there was no other choice, he slowed his steps, letting one of the constructs draw closer. Then, he lunged.
The thing moved fast but not as fast as him. The tip of his burning rapier thrust past a swinging arm and struck the reflected shape of the chest. The steel point bounced off, like he’d struck it against a rock or hunk of glass.
The creature’s arm smashed into his blade, catching against the side. With a sharp crack, the rapier snapped in two, crimson flames bleeding into the air where they drifted like bird feathers, falling to the floor and sputtering out.
“Spirit-forsaken…” muttered Raymond, back-pedaling and tossing his broken blade aside.
On the other side of the room, Bishop Yates watched, mumbling silently, his fingers dancing like a puppeteer commanding his marionettes.
The two monsters came closer, and Raymond gave up. If his spirit-blessed sword wasn’t going stop them, then his dagger wasn’t going to either. He needed to retreat, to prepare, and to come back when he had the upper hand.
He spun and da
rted to the bishop’s door, grasping the handle and tugging on it. It didn’t move. Behind him, he heard the churchman laughing. Raymond pulled again, but there was no movement, not even the door rattling against a locked bolt. Somehow, the bishop must have sealed the thing with sorcery. Turning, Raymond drew his dagger. It would be useless against the transparent constructs, but what about their master?
Flipping it, he caught the narrow steel blade and flung it between the two approaching shards of hell, straight at Bishop Yates.
Yelping, the sorcerer raised his arm, but he was too late to stop the flying weapon from thunking into his shoulder, a hands-length of steel sinking into his fatty flesh. The man screamed and his hold on his summonings wavered. The reflected light broke and fell to the floor like shattered ice, where it quickly melted into nothing.
Grinning, Raymond advanced.
He still had his boot knife left, but he didn’t think he would need it for the portly churchman. Without his sorcerous tricks, Gabriel Yates would be no match for a trained Knife of the Council. Raymond would kill the man with bare hands.
Yates looked up, his hand clutching the bloody hilt of the dagger, hatred in his eyes. Without blinking, the old priest yanked the blade free. His blood sprayed in a hot arc across the rug. With his other hand he swept his book and sherry from the reading table and stabbed the blood-covered blade into it.
“Ah, hells,” muttered Raymond.
He sprinted forward, his pitch-covered toes stitching across the fibers of the rug as he ran. Just three running paces from Yates, the floor in front of him exploded, knocking him back, flopping him onto his bottom.
Over the sound of snapping floorboards and shredding fabric, he heard Bishop Yates calling loudly and shrilly. “Minion of Set, by my steel, I hold you! By my blood, I bind you! By my spirit, I command you! Kill that man.”
