A House of Cards

by Douglas Bornemann

  The Bursar hesitated. “If that’s true,” he said slowly, “then why the Monsignor?”

  “I don’t presume to know her mind, but I would guess that whomever she sent would need the assistance of an expert in Chervillian Ossaria. Let’s face it, actual Chervillians are currently a little hard to come by.”

  “Are you suggesting that’s why he was traveling incognito?”

  “I suggest nothing. I just think a person should consider the potential consequences of his decisions before he makes them. Speaking of which, are you going to open this arch or aren’t you?”

  Again, the Bursar hesitated. At last, he shook his head. “I can’t risk it. I’ve spent too many years protecting this place to allow the Morgatuan to fall into Church custody.”

  Dona shook her head. “Only to throw it all away for lack of a few lucifers. Don’t you see? I’m your only hope. If I am just a naïve college student, you lost everything the moment you threw in your lot with the Monsignor to save yourself. If the Church learns this place is here, do you really think they’ll need the Morgatuan to destroy it? On the other hand, if the Mistress did send me, would you really want the Monsignor to leave here without my constant supervision?”

  The lantern wavered in Brent’s trembling hand. “You’ll see he keeps his end of the bargain?”

  “I make no promises.”

  He nodded as though he’d expected as much. Setting down the lantern, he peered through his spectacles at the Morgatuan’s rings, aligning their mysterious markings to recreate the Canticle of Obsequy.

  . . . . .

  St. Sophia’s caretaker rolled over and groaned. Although he frequently rose with the dawn, he had been counting on today being an exception. It was bad enough an Inquisitor had dragged him out of bed to toll the bell for over an hour during the storm, but then the storm kept him awake into the wee hours. At first, he ignored the pounding at the door by dragging a pillow over his head, but the unwelcome visitor was simply unwilling to go away. After indulging himself with a good stretch and an expansive yawn, he pulled a robe over his nightshirt, thrust his feet into a pair of well-worn slippers, and shuffled to throw open the vicarage door. “What in blue blazes is so important that it can’t wait for a reasonable hour?”

  Two soaked and bedraggled men stood before him on the stoop, one of them sporting a militia uniform.

  “Is Father Cartier here? We have to see him right away.”

  The other man nodded. “It’s urgent.”

  The caretaker scratched his head. “Last I heard, the good Father was still up at the College, though I hear tell he could be coming back any day now. Best to try again tomorrow, say, around noonish.”

  The uniformed man blocked the door with his boot. “Can we leave a message? It’s really important.”

  The caretaker sighed. “If you must. What is it?”

  “It’s for Father Cartier’s eyes only. Do you have pen and parchment?”

  “I reckon I can dig some up.”

  He bid them wait at a small table in the dining room while he found the supplies. The militiaman took them without comment. He dipped the pen and paused to look up at the caretaker, who stood watching over his shoulder.

  “Could I also trouble you for sealing wax?”

  The caretaker frowned. “If you really think it’s needed.”

  The uniformed man waited expectantly.

  The caretaker grumbled and ambled toward Cartier’s office. “All right, I’ll see what I can find.” By the time he came back with wax and candle in hand, the parchment was folded and ready for sealing.

  Once he’d imprinted the seal with his signet, the militiaman held out the letter. “See that he gets this as soon as possible.”

  The caretaker graced them with an ill-concealed yawn. “The very moment he arrives.”

  On the stoop, the uniformed man turned to face him one last time. “Remember—as soon as possible.”

  The caretaker’s response was interrupted by a brilliant flash, followed by shrieks from all three men. The visitors’ soggy clothing hissed and steamed, and the caretaker’s robe and nightshirt erupted into flames. The sealed letter fell blazing from his grasp. Several more flashes cut the men’s screams short and set the entire dining room alight.

  . . . . .

  The rising sun crested the horizon, revealing an ominous finger of dark smoke reaching high over the city. Supervising the Inquisition’s departure from Exidgeon’s barbican, Father Cartier immediately took it as an ill omen, but it would be some time before he learned just how close to home it had touched.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Exeunt

  Alexi reached out to Dona as the dust cleared. “What happened?”

  Dona shot the Bursar a significant look. “Mr. Brent must have awakened disoriented and wandered through the arch. When I went after him, that wall appeared out of nowhere.”

  Brent scooped up the lantern. “I didn’t have any idea where I was. I guess I panicked.”

  The Monsignor crossed his arms. “How fortunate you still had the presence of mind to take the Morgatuan with you.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  Dona nudged Brent’s arm.

  “Oh, here you go,” Brent said, handing over the scepter.

  “The Monsignor eyed him dubiously. “That’s most gracious of you.”

  “Well, then,” Dona said, “let’s get out of here, shall we? I’m freezing.”

  Alexi pulled her in close. “Now that’s something I can help with. I’m sorry for getting mad before.”

  Dona ogled him in surprise. “Alexi Reysa, are you apologizing?”

  Alexi shrugged. “I thought I’d lost you and that it was my fault. I crossed the line—the surest way to lose a free spirit is to cage it, even if it is for its own good.”

  Dona smiled up at him. “That’s pretty sophisticated thinking for a man. Maybe that’s why I’m so inordinately fond of you.”

  “You mean, it’s not my raw animal attraction?”

  She caught hold of a bright floral stretch of harness. “Ah yes, a trait rivaled only by your unerring sense of style.”

  “This old thing? I can’t take credit—it was a gift from someone I care about.”

  “You must love her very much.”

  Brent tapped his toe. “How about we get out of this funerarium before we age enough to need it?”

  “All right,” Alexi said. “We had to cut the the harness to get it off the rope.”

  “I saw how Helena sewed it,” Dona said. “I should be able to fix that.”

  Despite its makeshift appearance, Helena’s harness made the process of crossing the gorge relatively straightforward. Alexi crossed first, while Dona stayed behind to help the Monsignor and the Bursar. With both Alphonse and Alexi to pull them across, they all stood on the far side in short order.

  “What’s next?” the Monsignor asked.

  Dona pointed “There’s a contraption around the bend ahead that lifts a platform to a place where we can get into my dormitory It’s pretty rickety, but it got me up there and Helena and me back, along with everything we were carrying.”

  Brent raised an eyebrow. “The Scales of Ossary, I’ll wager.”

  “You already knew about it?”

  Brent felt his pockets. “There’s a reference—”

  The Monsignor held out the journal. “Looking for this?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Brent flipped through its pages. “Ah, here it is.”

  Translating on the fly, Brent read a passage:

  The Vismort held forth the Morgatuan, and the funerarium was suddenly revealed. At last, Mazaharian saw fit to share his designs: Once assured of the safety of his charges, he would return to this place and, by means of the Scales of Ossary, re-enter the fortress. On this, he was adamant over even the ardent pleas of the Mistress, whom he had ever been loath to deny. And when she declared her intention to accompany him, he denied her yet a second time—for while his duty bound him to the fortress, her
s now lay in securing the welfare of their child.

  Dona blinked. “You mean that Vismort and the Mistress had a child?”

  The Bursar shook his head. “It’s not the same Vismort. The name on the sarcophagus is different, and the journal recounts the fortress’s final days—there wouldn’t have been time to process anyone who died after this point.”

  “Does it say anything more about these so-called scales?” the Monsignor asked.

  The Bursar scanned the next several pages. “I don’t think so. It looks like the Vismort escorted them out and then returned alone—so that part wouldn’t have gotten recorded.”

  “The mechanism’s really not that complicated,” Dona said. “We should be able to get by without directions. After all, I’ve already used it twice now.”

  As they rounded the bend, their lanterns lit up the monstrosity of chains and gears.

  Alexi snorted. “Not that complicated, eh?”

  “It looks complicated, but it really is just a scale. You have the platform there, which is opposed by the counterweight hanging somewhere up near the cave’s ceiling. If the counterweight is heavier than the platform, the platform rises, but if the counterweight is lighter, the platform drops back down. The gears probably slow the process. And this lever here freezes everything in place.”

  Helena peered upward. “But what were they weighing?”

  Alphonse gulped. “Corpses, probably. They had to get the dead down here somehow.”

  Helena shuddered. “Sorry I asked.”

  Dona inspected the lever. “I’d suggest only one of us go at a time to minimize the stress on the machine. Since Helena and I came down together, it ought to be able to hold any one of us without breaking.”

  The Monsignor paused to eye Brent. “What are you doing?”

  “Just cleaning up around the platform.”

  “Are those books?”

  When Brent didn’t answer, the Monsignor inspected them himself. “This is written in Tep’Chuan—as is this one.”

  “I think you’ll find most of them are,” Brent said.

  “These appear to be scriptural.”

  “Some are, but they address other subjects as well.”

  The Monsignor flipped from one title to the next. “This is incredible. It’s a treasure trove of early Chervillian texts. We must get them back to the Holy City for study.”

  Brent looked up from his gathering. “You will do no such thing.”

  “Well, we can’t just leave them here. Many have already suffered irreparable damage.”

  Brent crossed his arms. “The books stay here.”

  The Monsignor’s eyes flashed. “I don’t see how that is your decision to make.”

  “I didn’t make it, you did—when you agreed to keep this place secret in return for my aid. Or hadn’t you considered that your scholars might want to know where these books came from? Which reminds me—it’s time you made good on the rest of your bargain. The Morgatuan, if you please.”

  “We could say we found them in a different cave.”

  “And start a rush to find additional caves stuffed with ancient treasures? I think not. Please don’t make me ask for it again.”

  Dona put her hand on the Monsignor’s arm. “We can’t take them right now anyway. The Inquisition is still up there.”

  The Monsignor sighed and handed Brent the scepter. “Very well—a deal is a deal. I appreciate your upholding your end.”

  Brent’s hands trembled as he took it. “Thank you.” Ostensibly Brent said it to the Monsignor, but his eyes were on Dona.

  Helena rubbed her shoulders. “Can we go? It’s really cold down here.”

  “All right,” Dona said. “I’ll go first. Helena, you come next, followed by the Monsignor.”

  “How does the next person get the platform back?” Brent asked. “If it works like a balance, won’t you have to load the platform with something up there?”

  “Oh, I think you’re right,” Dona said. “Last time I just brought Helena with me, but it can’t have been convenient for the Chervillians to load it every time they wanted to use it. Let’s have a look.”

  They studied the scales for several minutes before Alphonse pointed out a gear with a handle. “What about this?”

  “I don’t know. Try it.”

  “It won’t budge.”

  “Oh—just a second.” She released the safety lever. Immediately Alphonse’s gear spun, and the platform rose.

  Seizing the handle, he stopped the platform’s ascent, and with concerted cranking, reversed its direction until the platform sank onto its customary spot on the cave floor. The instant it touched, Dona engaged the safety again.

  “There’s your answer. We’ll load the counterweight with just enough rocks to lift one person, and then as each person gets off the platform, Alphonse will ratchet it back down, engage the safety, and start the process over again. “

  “Who releases the lever for Alphonse?”

  “Hmm, good question. Helena, do you have any more of that twine?”

  “Just a second,” She rummaged through her bags. “Here’s some.”

  Dona looped the twine and slipped it over the lever. “Let’s see if this works.” Stepping on the platform, she gave the twine a stiff tug, releasing the lever.

  Nothing happened.

  “Now what?” As she stepped off it to investigate, the platform shot upward.

  “Oh, that’s right. We need to refill the counterweight.”

  Once they dealt with the counterweight and waited for Alphonse to ratchet the platform down again, Dona was ready to test it for real. A quick tug on the twine, and up she went. At last, the platform came gently to rest beneath the garderobe. She remained there only long enough to make sure the platform was descending once more, and then she was off down the hallway, wracking her brain for a solution to her next problem. She obviously had to involve Miss Maxtine, but she hadn’t the foggiest notion what she could possibly say that would convince her to harbor four fugitive men in her all-female dormitory.

  . . . . .

  Long lines of Inquisitors and their associated horses stretched down the Exidgeon ramp. First, they waited near the entrance to be searched by their appointed brethren for anything that could be deemed heretical, and then they waited again near the bottom of the ramp to be searched by representatives of the Crown for evidence of looting. Cartier and Verone threaded their way slowly among them, conversing amidst the chaos.

  “Thank you again for seeing me,” Verone said. “From the look of it, evacuations are exhausting.”

  “You have no idea,” Cartier said. “For every decision I make, at least five more demand my immediate attention. Be that as it may, I’d be foolish to turn away my best advisor.”

  “You are too kind. I trust the Ordinal is pleased with your progress?”

  “I suspect very little pleases His Ordinence at the moment. Last I heard, the Sisters had him quarantined in the infirmary as an exotic-disease risk.”

  “They can keep an Ordinal against his will?”

  “Their rules on quarantine are quite explicit, although I confess I might have provided a little encouragement. Of course, I had only the best interests of the University at heart.”

  “Oh, of course. Can they keep him indefinitely?”

  “Alas, all good things must come to an end. With any luck, though, we’ll be long evacuated by then.”

  “Where will you house all these Inquisitors, if not at the University?”

  “Oh, most of them will head back to the Holy City. I’ll keep only a small contingent, most of whom I’ll house at the vicarage. All these Inquisitors only served to antagonize the Crown and distract me from the investigation.”

  “So, I take it you haven’t yet captured the heretics responsible for the attacks?”

  “Not yet, but I’m pursuing some significant leads.”

  “Well if anyone can get to the bottom of these crimes, it’s you. I certainly hope the Church appr
eciates your value.”

  “Just doing my part.”

  “Listen. I know you’re dreadfully overbooked, but I wonder if you’d be interested in taking on just one more little task?”

  “I’d be happy to help, provided I can fit it in.”

  “Well, I was chatting with Princess Celeste over at the Artist’s Colony yesterday. She expressed an interest in reconciling with the Church, but she wasn’t sure how best to go about it. Of course, I immediately suggested you as the perfect candidate to mediate the discussions, since you are familiar with both the situation and the relevant Church doctrines.”

  “If she’s serious, I’d be a fool not to. Bringing the Princess and the Colony back into the fold would be a noteworthy achievement.”

  “I thought the opportunity might appeal to you.”

  Cartier paused. “Wait a minute. You encouraged her to reconcile, didn’t you?”

  “I suppose it’s possible I pointed out it might be a good idea.”

  “Once again, I am in your debt. If ever there’s something I can do in return—”

  From the crowd, a bedraggled man in a filthy hooded cloak lurched directly toward Cartier. His boots held enough moisture that the leather spit bubbles where they flexed. His white-rimmed eyes bulged with either desperation or madness.

  “I have to warn you.”

  Cartier had barely enough warning to sidestep. The man stumbled and sprawled in the dirt. Several Inquisitors threw themselves on top of him.

  “Did he touch you?” Cartier asked.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Verone said.

  The Inquisitors dragged the man to his feet. Once again, he tried to speak. “Father, you must listen—”

  “Silence,” Cartier bellowed.

  When the man ignored Cartier’s command, an Inquisitor struck him across the face. “What do you want done with him, Father?”

  “Poor soul,” Cartier said. “He’s probably just looking for his next drink. Give him a few coins and help him get a good start back to Trifienne. Let’s hope our charity inspires him to greater wisdom in the future. In the meantime, please see to it that he meditates on his good luck—silently.”