Isrulian snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Not only does the Crown stand to benefit from our apprehension of these dangerous heretics, but we’ve already expended considerable Church resources fighting their fires. The Crown would be better served by appreciating what it’s been given instead of threatening to charge its benefactors for their freely given aid.”
“The Crown appreciates your efforts on its behalf. However, now that we are aware of the problem, we can track down the arsonists without further assistance. Of course, we could do that more effectively if we had access—”
“Which we will not be able to grant until we have apprehended the heretics. These sacrilegious attacks on the Church cannot go unpunished.”
“Perhaps we could compromise and open the gates very briefly,” Cartier interjected. “Just long enough to admit a small number of the Crown’s agents to observe our efforts. If we did it quickly, we’d minimize any chance that the heretics could escape. At the same time, the Crown could rest assured that we are doing everything possible to resolve this crisis expeditiously. Would that be acceptable?”
“I believe the Crown Prince would be agreeable to that arrangement. I will relay the proposition and return shortly with his answer. In the meantime, should you reconsider our offer to assist with the fires, we will stand ready below.” The blond man bowed to Isrulian and then to Cartier, and the delegation retreated down the ramp.
Isrulian’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”
Cartier smiled brightly. “Why thank you for noticing, Your Ordinence. I pride myself on anticipating people’s needs.” He dashed back down the stairs before Isrulian could formulate a suitable response.
Upon reaching the plaza, Cartier noticed another crowd gathering in front of Canasty hall. As he drew closer, he could make out a crude horse cart parked in its midst, with two women seated at the front. They wore the distinctive red-trimmed amber habits of the Sisters of Solace.
As Cartier pushed his way through the crowd, one of the Sisters rose from her seat. Her voice was heavy with a Caprian accent. “Can anyone tell me who is in charge? I have grave tidings to bestow.”
“Can I be of service, Sister?” Cartier asked.
“Are you in charge then, Father?”
Cartier was hesitant to offend Isrulian further, but since Isrulian seemed not to have followed him, he felt safe risking a quick nod.
“Oh, praise be.” The Sister touched her lips and then her forehead in thanks. “I am Sister Matriana, and this is Sister Cappeletrea from the infirmary. We come to warn you—we are doomed.”
Cartier sighed. “Doomed in what way?”
“Do you know not of the curse then?”
“Curse? What curse?”
“The Curse pronounced by Omenahm Mavrenuto, High Priest of the death god Chervil, cut down before these very gates by the combined might of Trifienne and the holy Church.” At Cartier’s blank look, she went on. “It is written that with his last gasp, he laid a curse on these gates, that if ever they be closed, a great plague shall decimate the usurpers, sparing only those who remain true to the death god.”
Cartier rubbed his temples. “Meaning no disrespect, Sister, but surely you don’t believe this nonsense?”
“Once, I too thought as you, back when I was a wee lass in Aylesford, the village of my youth.”
“I’m sure it was all very tragic. and I assure you we’ll do our best to be careful, but if you’ll excuse me, I have an Inquisition to run.”
“I was afraid you’d not take me seriously. Only those of us who lived through it can know its terrible power.”
As she spoke, students and Inquisitors continued to gather.
“When the Aylesford town fathers discovered the Ossarium, they did not heed the warnings either. In their pride and their greed, they defiled Chervil’s sanctum and incurred the death god’s wrath.”
Cartier turned slowly back. “They found an Ossarium?”
“Aye, and their deaths.”
“Just how did they die?”
“The death god’s vengeance was swift as it was terrible—he unleashed the Red Death.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Aye, I’m not surprised you do not know. Few who encounter it survive, and those who do are loath to speak of it. I was one of the lucky ones, and in thanks, I have dedicated my life to the calling. But I know when I am overmatched.”
She inclined her head toward the sheet covering the bed of the cart. “Sister, if you would.”
Her fellow Sister stepped into the back of the cart and whisked away the sheet to reveal an emaciated husk of a man. He shivered and moaned at the exposure, covering his face in shame with sticklike arms. The assembled crowd gasped. Cartier had seen sick people before and had even tended them, but this was something completely outside his experience—every inch of the man not concealed by his infirmary robe was a deep crimson. Even the whites of his eyes were red.
“Five so far have sought our aid. Four have succumbed. This is the other.”
“Is there anything that can be done for him?”
“You can pray. The Red Death has no cure, it kills nine in ten who contract it, and it spreads like a wildfire.”
“What are the early symptoms? We may need to institute a quarantine.”
“The first sign of infection is feeling faint, for many, to the point of passing out. After that, the telltale red color spreads quickly. The afflicted may then recover for a short time, even thinking they’ll survive despite their ruddy complexions, but alas, not for long. For then the wasting begins, and the organs fail. Vomiting is not uncommon, and in later stages, vomiting of blood. It’s particularly hard on the men, though.”
“The men? Why is that?”
“Because they are ever so sensitive about their manliness. I’ve never seen such terrible shriveling in all my life. And once the putrescence sets in—and it always does—amputation is the only thing for it. Even those few who recover never recover from that.”
The man in the cart moaned and buried his face in the straw on which he lay. A murmur rippled through the growing crowd.
“Why did you bring him here?”
“To convince you that you must not open the gates again until the plague has run its course. Quarantine is our only hope. We all stand exposed.”
The murmur in the crowd became significantly louder.
Isrulian pushed his way through. “Cartier, what’s the meaning of this?”
“Stay clear.” Cartier warned. “It’s the plague.”
“The plague?”
Cartier pointed at the man in the cart. “The Red Death.”
Isrulian snorted. “Red Death? Really, Cartier—I can understand this kind of superstition coming from the Sisters, but I thought you were a man of letters.”
“I don’t know, it looks like it could be pretty serious.”
“Nonsense. Allow me to prove it to you.” Isrulian languidly raised his hand. “Knife.”
A member of his retinue rushed forward with a dagger.
He addressed the wretch in the cart. “Now then, come over here.”
The patient’s terrified eyes fixed on Isrulian’s blade. Instead of moving closer, he cowered in place.
Isrulian pointed the knife at one of the assembled Inquisitors. “You there, bring him to me. Drag him if you have to.”
The Inquisitor gaped as though Isrulian had just sentenced him to death. Trembling, he slowly shook his head.
Isrulian sighed. He pulled his bulk up onto the cart. The poor wretch scuttled farther back until he cowered at the feet of the younger Sister. As he gazed up at her with pleading eyes, Isrulian seized him by the hair and sheared off a handful. The lock in Isrulian’s hand flickered from crimson to dull blond. He held it aloft in triumph.
“There, you see? Proof.”
“You’re terrifying him,” the younger Sister cried. “Leave him be.”
Startled by the outburst, Isrulian e
yed the younger Sister He squinted, first in suspicion, and finally, in recognition.
“Well, well, well, when last we met, you promised to keep that annoying exuberance of yours in check. How fitting, then, that breaking your word is what betrayed you. I do hope you’ll bring the same level of enthusiasm to your interro—”
The Ordinal dropped the dagger. He frowned and shook his head, as though trying to clear it. He blinked several times, then his eyes lost focus and rolled back into his head. Finally, he collapsed, narrowly missing the wretch he had just shorn.
The elder Sister gasped and rushed to his aid. After only a brief inspection, however, she drew back in horror. Eyes wide, arm trembling, she pointed at the stricken Ordinal. “Chervil’s wrath has claimed its next victim. Fear the Red Death. Pray for deliverance.”
Several members of the Ordinal’s retinue leapt to assist their master. As they lifted him down from the cart, they were greeted by the crowd’s collective intake of breath—the Ordinal had turned a brilliant shade of crimson.
“Quickly,” Cartier said. “Take him to the infirmary. He must be quarantined as soon as possible. Any of you who touched him are to report there as well.”
Cartier’s barrage of orders was interrupted by an ear-splitting groan from the gates. At first the left door leaned inward, then the right side broke free from its hinges entirely. The ponderous slab of wood and iron teetered on edge for a long moment before it fell, striking the earth with such force that windows rattled and a cloud of dust obscured the entire archway. The left-hand door wavered, then followed, smiting the ground next to its mate.
Stunned silence was broken by the sound of a single set of galloping hooves. The crowd only got a brief glimpse of the horse’s two riders—one with golden ringlets, the other trailing tobacco smoke—before they disappeared into the billowing dust. Then, a second horse followed, the rider’s academic robe flapping in the wind.
“Stop them,” the elder Sister yelled. “The quarantine must hold.” She hopped into the driver’s seat and urged her team to action. They surged forward, nearly throwing their patient from the cart. Inquisitors scattered before them—many only narrowly avoided being trampled.
A voice screamed after them from the crowd. “Dona—wait up.”
The younger Sister looked up from her charge to see a man sprinting all out toward them.
“Alexi,” she cried. “Hurry.”
She made it to the back of the cart just as he attempted to jump in, but his grip was unstable. The Sister braced herself with one hand and grabbed his shirt with the other, but he was heavy. Desperate, she heaved with both hands. By the time they disappeared into the dust, he was nearly in the cart. Then a wheel struck the fallen gate. The cart lurched. She lost her grip. He cried out as he fell. She winced at the impact as he struck the ground.
“Alexi!” Without hesitation, she leapt after him.
. . . . .
Jonas eyed his surroundings and whistled appreciatively. “Not bad for a tent.”
It spanned twenty feet on a side and was more lavishly draped than the Sultan’s Respite. Tilly and Amberton were seated on silk cushions of red, blue, and yellow around a low central table covered in fabric with the luster of spun gold. Amberton huddled in a blanket, a knit cap pulled down over his forehead. Jonas lounged off to one side against a stack of spare pillows, while Reston paced the plush carpets, his agitation plain.
“Are you saying she jumped off?”
“I don’t know,” Tilly said. “I heard her scream ‘Alexi’ and the next chance I got to look, she wasn’t there. We hit something pretty hard in the gateway. Maybe she was thrown.”
Reston rounded on Amberton. “What about you? You must have seen something.”
“I was far too busy choking from the dust to notice anything else. All I can say is, the next time you need an emaciated plague victim to do your dirty work, don’t look at me. Do you have any idea how long I’m going to be stuck wearing this ridiculous hat? And I’d just been to the barber, too.”
“I swear,” Jonas said, “the man would complain if he found a bag of gold under his pillow. Can you find no bright spot to lighten the burden of your miserable existence?”
“Easy for you to say. All you had to do was pick a few measly locks while Mathilda, Dona, and I kept everyone distracted. And you even had Reston to back you up. If there was a bright spot, though, it was Mathilda’s gripping performance. Absolutely riveting. That bit about shriveling and amputation was positively inspired. And your accent was flawless.”
Tilly blushed. “In my business, you need to know a thing or two about managing men. As for the accent, well, I hail originally from Caprian.”
“Well, brava, even so,” Amberton said. “And Reston’s timing was impeccable. If he hadn’t shown up in the nick of time, there’s no telling what else that crazed clergyman might have tried to cut off.”
“What clergyman?” Reston asked.
“I think he’s talking about the Ordinal,” Tilly said. “You know, the one who gave him the tonsure? Once you Slept him, all I had to do was touch him with Jonas’s wand like I did for Amberton, and presto—insta-plague.”
“I never Slept the Ordinal. Once we released Miss Connelly, I went directly to work on the gates.”
Amerton scowled. “Well, if you didn’t Sleep him, who did?”
Tilly’s eyes widened. “He didn’t die for real, did he?”
Amberton rubbed his hat. “Would serve the butcher right. Why’d he want to go and cut my hair off like that anyway?”
Michlos slipped in through the tent flaps. “Presumably to prove you were afflicted by heresy rather than the plague.”
Tilly’s brow furrowed. “How would a haircut show that?”
“It’s an application of the 80-percent rule,” Reston said. “If you sever something on which a spell is vested, the spell only survives on pieces that retain at least 80 percent of the original.”
“Quite so,” Michlos said. “Though it works a bit differently for spells vested on people, the result in this case is the same: The spell on the severed hair breaks, but the remainder of the spell on Amberton continues. It’s a subtle technical point, but I suppose an Inquisitor who specializes in Phrendonic Heresy might be aware of it. And, it’s a pretty definitive test.”
“So the Ordinal saw through it?”
Michlos scratched his ear. “I’d be shocked if he didn’t, but judging by the number of Inquisitors we’ve caught sneaking out past the fallen gates, it doesn’t look like his demonstration convinced many they weren’t actually doomed. You’ve done the Crown quite a service. By holding Miss Connelly hostage, the Inquisition acquired considerable leverage. Even if the Church declined to exercise it, the Constable’s decisions would be suspect. Not only that, you’ve greatly reduced the stronghold’s defensive advantage. The Inquisition will be far more amenable to compromise now that those gates are down.
“What about Miss Merinne?” Reston asked. “I don’t suppose you’ve caught her sneaking out of the gate, have you?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“Which means she’s still trapped in there, with an Ordinal hunting for her who knows she’s working with heretics who attacked him.”
“So it would seem. If it comes to that, at least we now have a better position to negotiate her release.”
“Not before they torture out of her what she knows. We were in a better position before. They had no real reason to question Miss Connelly about heresy. For Miss Merinne, they have every reason. We have no choice—we must rescue her.”
“That could prove difficult. They’ve stationed archers on the barbican. No doubt they have taken other precautions as well. A surprise attack is unlikely to succeed now that they know they need to guard the gates, and under the circumstances, any more overt uses of Phrendonics is ill-advised. The last thing we need is for the Church to send reinforcements.”
“What if it’s not an attack? You said the Crown was going to
try to negotiate. We can be part of the negotiating team.”
“And risk having the Church uncover a conspiracy of Crown-sanctioned heresy? I’m afraid the Crown is unlikely to find that possibility appealing.”
“What do you suggest, then? We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
“Until something changes or we come up with a better idea, that’s exactly what I suggest. By overreacting, we could cause far more damage than we stand to correct. We don’t even know whether she’s been taken captive. If she hasn’t, where does that leave you and your rescue party”
“She’ll still need to get out of the University.”
“As will every other person currently trapped there. If that’s all she really needs, we must be patient and rely on the negotiators to do their jobs. Count Laslo is very good at what he does. If there’s a way, he will find it.”
“Speaking of finding things,” Amberton interrupted. “You haven’t come across any clothing that might fit me, have you? This infirmary garb is a little breezy for my taste.”
“Oh, I’m sorry Professor,” Michlos said. “It slipped my mind. I’ll see to it immediately.” He ducked back outside.
Reston resumed his pacing.
“I don’t get why you’re so worried about her specifically,” Amberton said. “She’s not the only one with toxic knowledge who’s trapped in there.”
Tilly laid a sympathetic hand on Reston’s arm. “You feel responsible, don’t you?”
“I can’t help it,” Reston said. “The others knew they were taking a risk when they got involved, but Miss Merinne had no choice, and ultimately, that was my fault.”
“She’s a resourceful young woman. Maybe with the Inquisition suffering from the ill effects of our ‘plague,’ she’ll be able to give them the slip.”
“If Jonas were stuck in there, could you just sit by and hope for the best?”
A House of Cards Page 8
