“Hold on a little longer,” Alphonse said. “We’ve found rope.”
“We need it now.”
Alphonse and Dona rushed back to the bridge. “I’m going across,” Alphonse said.
“Plunging to your death doesn’t help anyone,” Dona said. “See if you can find something back in the room to test it first.”
Alphonse couldn’t argue with her logic. “Wait here.”
When he returned a with a hook, Dona was already halfway across.
“What are you doing?” You could be killed.”
“I weigh less—it only makes sense that I should cross. And they need your strength. We can’t afford to lose you.”
“We can’t afford to lose anybody.” He cast frantically about for something to help, but there was nothing. He couldn’t even pursue her—adding his weight might push the bridge over its limit. All he could do was watch.
Moments later, Dona had made it across.
“Don’t ever do anything like that again.”
“Don’t worry,” she called back. She began sawing at the thick fibers of one of the handholds to the bridge using the funerarium’s brass blade. After a few more minutes the rope’s tension dropped.
“All right,” Alphonse said. “Now let go and I’ll pull it over here.”
“Just a second,” Dona said.
“Hurry.”
After several minutes, Dona started sawing again.
Alphonse held up the locket. “Wait, what are you doing?”
Half of the bridge dropped toward the rushing water. “I’m cutting down the bridge.” She started sawing the other half.
“Why?”
“Because we need to save them as soon as possible.”
“But how will you get back?”
“We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”
The second half was severed, and the entire bridge, save a single length of rope that had served as a handhold, dropped into the churning rapids.
“But we could have saved them with just the first rope.”
“Not in time. We’ve seen how well you tie knots.”
“You could have tied them.”
“I was joking—even with perfect knots, you couldn’t lift the Monsignor to the balcony, and he’s in no condition to climb a rope. Now, listen carefully. I’ve tied the guide rope I cut first to the last slat on the bridge. If you pull that rope, you can now pull all the bridge slats up onto the landing. Then, free the bridge by cutting the ropes on your side, and the slats will be strung between the ropes like rungs on a ladder. Drag the improvised ladder to the balcony and tie one end to the railing. Then, throw the rest of the rungs over the railing down to Alexi and the Monsignor—they should be able to climb right up. I’m not sure what you’ll do about Mr. Brent, but I’m sure the three of you can work something out.”
“I can’t just leave you there.”
“I’ll think about what to do while you rescue the others. Now go.”
Seeing no reasonable alternative, Alphonse did as he was told.
. . . . .
Lightning split the sky as the carriage surged through the gates. Ahead, Trifienne’s silhouette flickered against a backdrop of electric gloom. Gale-force winds raked the carriage with watery talons. The driver hunched in his greatcloak to present a smaller target. He only barely controlled his team—his four black steeds snorted and foamed, their eyes white-rimmed with fear.
Marguerite Serrola, fury etched in every line of her face, steadied herself as the carriage was bounced from below and buffeted from above. The instant they left the gate, the howling winds extinguished the carriage lanterns, leaving them at the mercy of intermittent semi-darkness. Perversely, the carriage increased speed, since the lantern light, reflected by the lashing rain, had only served to decrease visibility.
A fortuitous lightning strike revealed a donkey-drawn cart blocking the road. The driver avoided a collision only by throwing his full weight against the reins. Inside the carriage, Marguerite skidded across the floor. She threw open a small window in the front of the carriage near the driver.
“Now what?”
“Cart in the road, ma’am. Couldn’t hardly see it for the rain.”
Marguerite’s jaw clenched. “And just what is a cart doing in the road in this weather?” The moment she asked, she knew.
The driver cried out. The carriage lurched to one side. Something scratched at the doors. She touched one of her rings and lunged for her seat. A panel in the wall fell open, but it was too dark to make out its buttons. A familiar creak signaled the door latch was turning. She slapped the panel, pushing several buttons at once.
With a satisfying click, all the carriage doors locked. At the same time, the carriage lanterns lit, not with flame, but with an unearthly glow far brighter than fire. The carriage rocked. Through the window she spied a dark figure struggling with the latch. Marguerite’s pulse quickened—his features were completely obscured by a hood.
“They know,” she breathed.
She jabbed another button.
A moment later, the man cried out and dropped. The door latches sizzled and sputtered. At the touch of another button, the windows darkened, becoming one-way mirrors. Satisfied she could no longer be seen, Marguerite risked a peek outside. Several hooded figures skulked around the carriage, the closest shaking his hand—now conspicuously gloveless. She muttered something, and the man dropped.
“One down.”
A struggle near the front of the carriage caught her eye. Her driver Maxwell was grappling with another of the attackers.
Her eyes narrowed. “Poor dear—I bet they told you that hood would protect you.”
Moments more, and the grappler lay motionless.
“Two.”
Maxwell scrambled toward the carriage. Marguerite reached for the panel to let him in, but just as he made it to the door, he toppled forward.
She cried out, thinking he’d been shot, but the light revealed no evidence of a wound. Either he’d been knocked cold, felled by a wound she couldn’t see, or….
For the first time, she was genuinely afraid.
Behind her, a window shattered. Marguerite dropped and rolled away. A gloved hand darted through the opening, thrashing, feeling about until it struck the panel.
The carriage was plunged into darkness. As the hand continued its frantic flailing, Marguerite groped for the opposite lock—until she remembered she needed the panel to release it.
To her surprise, the darkness suddenly vanished. The gloved hand seized the nearest latch and wrenched it.
Confident the lock would hold, Marguerite danced her mind through the requisite mnemonics. The arm went limp and slid back out the window.
“And that’s three.”
As she struggled to regain her feet, the locks released—all of them. Ignoring the scattered window shards, she pounded the button again. The locks did not respond.
Over the storm’s relentless wail, she heard a man laugh. He stood in the open, hood thrown back, arms raised. As she watched, he clapped.
“That was quite a show.”
Marguerite’s jaw tightened. “Wait until you see my encore.” From behind the relative safety of the reflective glass, she compelled her mind to weave the requisite patterns.
“And, four.”
But, she’d spoken too soon—the man still stood, a sardonic smile on his lips.
“Marguerite Serrola, we need to talk. May I come in?”
“Who are you?” She was stalling—buying time to determine why her spell had failed her.
The man bowed deeply. “My name is Josephus Vane.”
The surname struck a chord. “Vane? Of the Pemberton Vanes?”
He strode briskly toward the carriage. “As fond as I am of my Pemberton brethren, I can’t say I generally number myself among them.”
“Stay back.”
“I think not.” His pace didn’t slow.
As he reached for door, Marguerite s
lapped the lock into place manually.
Vane stifled a momentary scowl. “Please don’t make this more distasteful than it already is.”
“What do you want?”
“We need to talk—and I’m not about to do it standing in the rain. I can, however, resolve the matter without your input, if you prefer.”
“What matter?”
“You have been Noticed.”
Marguerite blanched. “That’s impossible—I have been absolutely meticulous.”
“Really? And I suppose this carriage is a testament to your powers of circumspection. I’ll say it one time and one time only. Open this door.”
“Not without proof.”
Vane sighed. “As you wish.” He stripped off his left glove, held out his hand, and closed his eyes.
In the next flash, she saw it. Perched on his flesh was a great fanged monstrosity. Simultaneously awful and magnificent, its eight pallid appendages spanned his entire palm.
Marguerite gasped. “The White Spider.” Overcome with revulsion, she turned away. When she looked again, it was gone.
With trembling hands, she released the lock.
The latch hissed as he threw open the door. Unperturbed, he whisked off his remaining glove and took a seat. The wind slammed the door shut behind him.
“Please,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.” Once she sank onto her seat, he continued.
“As you know,” when a Santine learns someone has been Noticed, he is oath bound to eliminate all evidence of the breach, or barring that, to minimize its consequences.”
“Mr. Vane, spare me the patronizing lecture. Who claims Notice, and have you confirmed it?”
Josephus stood and threw off his cloak to reveal the vestments concealed beneath. “It’s Inquisitor Vane, if you please. As for the Notice—I was informed by Father Cartier directly. There’s no telling how high this goes. Given your familial entanglements, I’m sure you realize how devastating this breach could become.”
Marguerite failed to contain her sarcasm. “I suppose you’ll be recommending the Sacrifice, then.”
“Out of the question. That would be tantamount to an admission. You would only succeed in dragging the Crown down with you. Might I suggest instead a less flamboyant option?” He flicked open a small box to reveal a white tablet nestled inside.
Marguerite paled. “So, it’s to be poison?”
“Yes—shortly after I deliver you to the Inquisition. In return, I shall see that your estate is properly sanitized. Assuming Cartier’s evidence is sufficiently flimsy, that would provide the Crown an opportunity to turn the tables and accuse the Church of abduction and murder for political gain. Perhaps the Crown could even survive it.”
“My apologies, Inquisitor Vane, but am I to understand that you are—and here I quote—‘assuming their evidence is flimsy?’ Does that by any chance mean you don’t actually know?”
Josephus shifted uncomfortably. “I haven’t managed to extract all the details yet, but there is no doubt that they believe you to be a Phrendonic Heretic. Since you clearly are, is it really such a leap to assume they have evidence to support the notion?”
“And whom exactly do you mean by they? I thought you said this Father Cartier knew, and beyond that, there was—what was it again? Oh yes, ‘no telling’ who knew.”
“I seriously doubt Father Cartier has time to investigate such matters on his own. The order must have come from higher up.”
“So, as I understand it, based on the mere possibility that there exists at least one priest who might possess some potentially incriminating evidence, whose nature as yet happens to be unknown, you think this plan of yours is justified?”
Josephus frowned. “I don’t think you understand. I’m not bargaining for your participation—I merely extend the option as a courtesy. Do you want the pill, or don’t you?”
“So you can claim credit with all your little Inquisitor friends for capturing me?”
Josephus shrugged and snapped the pillbox closed.
“Wait. You’ll make certain they can’t trace anything to my children?”
“I guarantee nothing other than that I shall make the attempt.”
“I have your word?”
“Of course.”
“Very well, then—I’ll take it.”
Vane cracked a wan smile. “I thought you might.”
As she took the pillbox, she flexed her wrist, and one of her rings brushed against his finger. Belatedly, he realized his error, but before he could react, his eyes lost their focus, and he slumped in his seat.
Marguerite pocketed the pillbox and shook her head in disdain.
“Four,” she said.
Chapter Fourteen
Machinations
The Curator of Profanities lifted his head from his desk, stretched, and opened his eyes.
“Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” the old priest said.
The Curator started, but relaxed when he realized who sat across from him. “Did I nod off again?”
“I’m afraid so, and for quite some time, too. I was beginning to worry.”
“What time is it?”
“Late—four or five, I’d expect.”
“My class?”
“It’s all right. I sent them away.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked exhausted. I thought you could use the rest.”
“I suppose I was a little overextended. I don’t remember ever sleeping this late. I had such odd dreams.”
“I’m not surprised. You need to take better care of yourself. What if someone needed you in the field?”
“Those days are long gone.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“Look around you. In the minds of the youngsters who will soon be running things, I’m a pitiable old man spending his declining years dusting a room filled with irrelevant curiosities. Caprian isn’t even a memory for them—it’s ancient history.”
“History has a way of repeating itself.”
The Curator sighed. “I know. I do my best to impress upon my students the importance of learning the lessons the Profanities teach us, but it’s an uphill battle.”
“I didn’t mean that rhetorically.”
The Curator roused himself from his nostalgic fog. “What are you saying?”
“Thurman is back from Trifienne. Armand has need of your expertise there.”
The Curator blinked in surprise. “He does? Whatever for?”
“I’m sure he’ll brief you fully once you get there, but rumors of Phrendonic Heresy are rampant.”
“How soon does he need me?”
“Immediately. Thurman has a carriage waiting.”
“And you let me sleep all this time? I have so much to prepare.”
“You needed the rest—it’s several days’ ride. Everything else you’ll need is already in the carriage. I’ll be sure to cancel your classes.”
“Where is the carriage?”
“There’s some drill taking place in the palace complex. To keep from getting caught up in that, Thurman has the carriage waiting by Yanshee’s pub. Simply show the driver this letter, climb aboard, and you’re off.”
The Curator’s hands trembled with excitement. “I hope this turns out to be a false alarm, but would it be a sin to say it’s wonderful to feel needed again?”
The old priest ushered the Curator to the door. “If it is, I’m happy to absolve you.”
“Very funny. Any messages for Armand?”
“Thurman’s already left one for him in the carriage. Travel safely.”
“You’ll lock up?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you for all your help.”
The old priest waved as the Curator ambled off to find his carriage.
. . . . .
“Welcome, my boy,” the Primal said.
As Thurman approached the Primal Throne, he took careful note of his Uncle’s circumstances. Pale a
nd weak, His Primacy sat upright, a posture he maintained using a bevy of strategically positioned cushions. Flanked by armed guards, he presided over a bustling chamber—messengers came and went, dropping sealed missives into a bin at the Primal’s left hand. A thin-lipped secretary primly opened each and skimmed its contents, occasionally leaning to whisper into the Primal ear. Small groups of grim Inquisitors milled about, awaiting an audience. A flurry of servants flitted throughout, seeing to the needs of the assembled and slaving tirelessly to ensure the chamber remained seemly.
“Why all the commotion?”
The Primal struggled to his feet. He leaned heavily on Thurman as they embraced and then sank back into his pillows, wheezing from the exertion.
“We’ve been invaded.”
“By whom?”
“A demon in Laitrech’s skin tried to make off with me—stole me right out of my bed.”
“A demon? How do you know?”
“It changed form as I watched.”
“Where is it now?”
“Escaped, and no one has seen Laitrech since. I’ve initiated a search of the palace, but it’s a big place.”
“What makes you think he’s in the palace?”
“You’ve got to start somewhere. Where’s your father? Did he come back with you? I could use him.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that—is there somewhere we could speak privately?”
Murmurs erupted from nearby Inquisitors whose place in line Thurman had usurped.
“It would be a little difficult for me to get away just now. Is there a problem?”
Thurman leaned in close, but before he could say anything, a booming voice echoed through the chamber.
“Gentlemen. The call has gone out, has been heard, and has now been answered. As once I served the father, now, humbly, I shall serve the son.”
“Oh, you didn’t. Not him?” Thurman whispered.
Into the chamber strode a caped figure. His black boots were polished to a mirror-like sheen, and the starched collar of his crisp white shirt stood tall and proud. Dangling from his neck was an outlandish golden trinket, and his left eye played host to a sparkling crystal monocle. Atop his head an enormous broad-brimmed hat trailed vermillion plumage. He paused briefly for dramatic effect, stroking his waxed mustache. He might even have been dashing in an over-the-top sort of way, if only his head had reached higher than Thurman’s nose and if he’d been somewhat less stout.
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