A House of Cards

by Douglas Bornemann

  “The Relic is used to bring down the Bastion around you,” Bittern said. “That’s how I was able to bring Laitrech out of the Chapel even though his Relic had been stolen.”

  Marius blinked. “Are you suggesting he brought the demon into the Chapel with him?”

  “No. Laitrech said he had been sitting at the desk for some time when the Curator of Profanities came through the door, and that he remembers little else.”

  “The Curator doesn’t have a Relic, does he? Has anyone talked to him?”

  “The Curator is conveniently missing,” Lavicius said. “It’s possible the Curator could have been another one of the demon’s victims. But as for Relics, as far as we know, only Ordinals carry them. Even the Primal doesn’t have one. And as you know, it’s not merely a matter of possessing a Relic—you need to know how to use it.”

  Cronsett’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t accusing one of us, are you?”

  “I’m simply answering your questions to the best of my knowledge, but if one of us didn’t have something to do with it, what’s the alternative?”

  “That Laitrech is either lying or has been misled?” Marius said. “Both of which I find difficult to believe.”

  “Let’s examine the rest of his story then. He says the demon in the form of the Curator used some sort of spell to make him sleep, and that the next thing he remembered was waking in Ordinal Bittern’s chambers.”

  Bittern raised his hand. “That part is true. I found him down here shortly after he was discovered missing, and I was unable to wake him until late last night.”

  “So, he slept for nearly a full day and night?”

  “Yes.”

  “But if that’s true, doesn’t it mean the demon’s spell lasted far longer than it should have?”

  Cronsett nodded slowly. “I’m certainly not as conversant with these things as I once was, but as I understand it, such a spell should have lasted no more than an hour or so. How does he explain such a spell lasting so long?”

  “Isn’t there a way to nullify the resistance from the Soul?” Marius asked. “I seem to recall such a trick was sometimes used to incapacitate the most dangerous Caprian Heretics during transport to the Holy City.”

  “Indeed,” Lavicius said, “but as far as we know, that type of nullification was a secret the Phrendonic Heretics never mastered. That knowledge would have been available only to Ordinals exceptionally well-versed in the knowledge stored here. Let’s have a quick show of hands. How many think we could actually pull it off?”

  Cronsett was the only one to raise his hand. “Now that you mention it, I recall seeing it done on several occasions back in Caprian. Given several weeks to reacquaint myself with the technique, I might be able to get it to work.”

  “Can you think of anyone else who could do it?”

  “Other than Laitrech, you mean?”

  “You think Ordinal Laitrech could have done it?”

  “Oh, unquestionably. He’s got quite a knack for this sort of thing.”

  Bittern gaped at Lavicius. “Are you insinuating Laitrech put himself to sleep?”

  “If he’s telling the truth, he’s the only person we know who could have. As for why he might want to? Well, let’s see…during the attack on the Primal, that means he would have been both comatose and trapped in the Chapel without his Relic. As an alibi goes, it’s not just airtight, it’s overkill.”

  “How dare you,” Bittern cried. “Ordinal Laitrech was a victim here. He would never collude with a demon. Never.”

  Lavicius shrugged. “My apologies, but in my defense, you did ask—”

  “And the rest of you,” Bittern said. “The least you could do if you’re going to put him on trial is let him face his accuser.”

  “By all means,” Lavicius said. “In fact, I thought you were going to get him some time ago.”

  The door slammed shut behind Bittern.

  “Is an Ordinal even permitted in one of these meetings without his Relic?” Marius asked.

  “I think that rule only applies during an Election,” Cronsett said.

  . . . . .

  All conversation hushed as Bittern ushered Laitrech into the chamber. As Laitrech’s eyes met those of his colleagues, he sensed the change immediately. Where there once had been a sense of collegiality coupled with a certain guarded admiration, all that remained was studied indifference.

  He steeled himself to smile. He was going to have his work cut out for him.

  . . . . .

  Jonas’s pipe billowed smoke as he considered his next play. Amberton had fled the tent when Jonas lit up, and Tilly had already folded, leaving only Reston to contend with. Each man had six cards laid out on the tablecloth, four face up and two face down. Between them lay the Hierophant that Reston had just played as a global trump. Jonas checked his cards again—Eight and Ten of Cups, Page of Swords, and Knight of Wands showing, for a possible straight, should one of his face-down cards happen to be a nine. Not bad compared to what Reston had—Page of Wands high.

  “Personal trump,” Jonas announced. He placed The World on top of the one of his face-down cards, converting it to a wild card and completing his straight. Reston would need a full house to beat him.

  Reston drew a card and replaced one of his face-up cards with the Page of Pentacles from his hand to give him a pair. “I’ll bid fifty,” he said.

  Jonas gave his pipe a vigorous puff. “I’ll match and raise you a hundred.

  Reston rubbed his chin, considering. “I also match.” He moved a stack toward the mound of chips at the table’s center.

  “You can afford to lose all that on a Professor’s salary?”

  “You’re assuming I’ll lose.”

  Jonas drew a card—The Two of Pentacles. He tossed it directly on the discard pile. “Why mess with perfection? I bid another fifty.”

  Reston rubbed his temple and stared at his cards for a long moment. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll match.”

  Reston drew another card. He spent a moment contemplating it, and then grinned wolfishly. He discarded his Page of Wands from its spot on the table and replaced it with a Seven of Cups from his hand.

  Seeing Reston destroy his pair, Tilly chuckled and nudged her brother. “I don’t imagine you thought far enough ahead to keep a trump in reserve. I haven’t seen anyone actually fall for the Hanged-Man’s gambit in a very long time.”

  “Global trump,” Reston announced. “The Hanged Man.” He discarded the Hierophant and replaced it with the card Tilly had foreseen.

  “Just as I suspected,” Tilly said. “If someone calls while it’s in play, the lowest hand wins.”

  “I know how it works,” Jonas growled.

  In fact, he had not thought to retain a trump. Praying for another, he drew his card and turned up the corner to see The Fool peeking back at him. He smirked as he replaced his Ten of Cups with a Knight of Swords.

  “Global Trump, The Fool,” he said. He moved the dreaded Hanged Man to the discard pile.

  With the Fool in play as a global trump, his personally trumped card counted as an Ace instead of a wild card. While that would cost him his straight, he still had two pair—Knights and Aces—far better than the nothing Reston was left with.

  Again, Tilly chuckled. “And what trump could possibly have been more fitting than that?”

  Reston drew another card and replaced one of his face-down cards with a card from his hand. “It seems my luck has changed. I bid another two hundred.”

  “Two hundred?”

  “What? Too rich for your blood?”

  “You’re bluffing. I match and call.”

  “Suit yourself,” Reston said.

  Jonas flipped over his face-down ace. “Hah. I bet you didn’t think I actually had the ace, did you? Combined with the wild card, which, by dint of the Fool, counts as an ace, I’ve got two pair. You have to be mighty careful if you are going to use the Hanged Man gambit and win. One well-placed trump, and the whole strategy f
alls apart like, well, a house of cards.” Jonas reached for the mound of chips.

  “Hold it right there, mister.”

  “What? You have a Four, a Deuce, a Seven, and a Page.”

  Reston turned over a facedown card. “And another Four.”

  “A pair of Fours isn’t going to cut it.”

  “I’m not done yet.”

  Jonas blinked as Reston revealed a third Four.

  “Where I come from,” Reston said, “three of a kind beats two pair.”

  Jonas sat blinking. “But that means you had a full house. Why destroy it if you could have just won outright?”

  Tilly snickered. “He probably noticed that when you think you’re losing, the perfect card somehow has a strange tendency to mysteriously appear. He played you like a violin.”

  “Not to worry,” Jonas said. “The night is young. My deal.”

  Amberton briefly popped his head into the tent, a handkerchief clamped over his face. “Michlos is coming.”

  “Looks like I’ll have to take a rain check,” Reston said.

  Jonas shuffled the cards. “Nonsense. I’ll deal him in, too.”

  Michlos opened the tent flap. “How is everyone doing tonight?”

  “Michlos, my man,” Jonas said. “Come in. Have a seat. The game is Trumps of Doom, two down, four up. Tilly, get the man some chips.”

  Michlos shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t tonight. I do have good news, though. We’ve located Miss Merinne.”

  Reston leapt to his feet. “Did they try to smuggle her out in the last few carriages? Where do we need to intercept them?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. It turns out that as of this afternoon, she’s safe and sound in her dormitory. Apparently, she and Mr. Reysa did have a run-in with the Inquisition, but they managed to escape with the help of Monsignor Goodkin.”

  “The Monsignor?” Reston asked. “Why would he help them escape?”

  “It’s complicated. I’m not sure I completely understand it all myself yet, but it seems there was some sort of plot to discredit the Monsignor, and he was also taken into custody—the three of them escaped together.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Simple, the Monsignor explained it when he rode into camp. I just came from his meeting with the Crown Prince.”

  “Did they say how they are going to resolve this Inquisition?”

  “Given the involvement of an Ordinal and the failing health of the Primal, there are too many unknowns to say, but the Monsignor is promising his full cooperation, which is, I think, a good sign.”

  “And the University?”

  “The Inquisition has pulled out almost completely. With any luck, things could be back to normal within a few days. In fact, Father Cartier has agreed to relinquish control to the Crown as of tomorrow morning.”

  “So, it’s settled, then,” Jonas said. “You can’t go back before tomorrow anyway, which means we have the entire evening. Michlos, you sure you don’t want in?”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ll send word if anything else develops.”

  “Thank you,” Reston said. “And good luck.”

  Jonas started dealing cards before the tent flap had fallen closed.

  Reston held up his hand. “No more cards for me.”

  “It’s poor etiquette to win a big pot and just quit.”

  “He doesn’t want to play anymore,” Tilly said. “I think it’s time to settle up.”

  “Oh, all right. Did you want that in cash or merchandise?”

  “Merchandise?” Reston asked. “I thought you lost your cart in the fire. Besides, I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “It’s true, you aren’t one of my run-of-the-mill customers.”

  “He’s not your customer at all,” Tilly said. “He’s your creditor.”

  “Anyway,” Jonas said, “that’s what makes me think that you, of all people, might be interested in a very special item I just happen to own.”

  Reston perked up. “You mean the color wand?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly part with that, given it’s a family heirloom and all, but there is a certain medallion that I might be willing to sell for the right price. Assuming you’re interested, we could just call tonight’s winnings a small down payment.”

  “You aren’t really suggesting that I buy the fruits of your graverobbing, are you?”

  “If you don’t have any interest in it for your own studies, you could always sell it to the Church. Given what Father Anton was offering, you could pay me off and still turn a tidy profit.”

  “Assuming they don’t just send their Inquisitors after you to claim it,” Tilly said. “If you think I am going to just stand here and let you sell Professor Reston something you’ve already sold, you’ve got another think coming.”

  Jonas glared at his sister. “Do I interfere in your business?”

  “It’s all right,” Reston said. “I’m really not in the market for corpse parts. But there is something I’m interested in, and I suspect your specific skill set could prove quite useful for obtaining it. If you help me acquire this thing, I’d be willing to call it even. It should only take a few hours. What do you say?”

  “I’m listening,” Jonas said.

  . . . . .

  For the fourth time since she’d arrived, the peasants of the great grandfather clock in the library’s Theology wing capered and cavorted, but Verone didn’t even look up. In addition to the tome she was studying, several other musty volumes lay open on her table. She smiled, apparently pleased with what was written on the pages before her. Intent though she was, the telltale squeak of hinges caught her attention. A quick scan through the archway revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Taking no chances, she reached over and doused her lamp, plunging the Theology wing into darkness.

  After only a few moments, the light of another lantern became visible.

  “You got off easy,” Reston said. “I had expected the door to be locked.”

  “A deal’s a deal,” Jonas said. “This little escapade still makes us even.”

  “As long as I get my book back, as far as I’m concerned we’re even.”

  “Well, let’s get it and get out of here. It’s past my bedtime.”

  “Not so fast. We have to find it first.”

  “What do you mean? She didn’t tell you where it was?”

  “Only that it was in the Theology wing. But I know what it looks like. It shouldn’t take long.”

  Jonas eyed the stacks dubiously. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Well, here’s the Theology wing. You may as well look too. It should say Practical Phrendonics on the spine.”

  “What about these books on the table here?”

  “I certainly hope not. Too many people know about it already.”

  “Hmm, somebody has a guilty conscience.”

  Reston started scanning shelves. “Don’t be ridiculous. The whole point of heresy is to enable the Church to censor the thoughts of its unwitting followers—they’re terrified of what might happen if people actually contemplated the dogma they peddle. People willing to risk studying and debunking their myths and propaganda should feel heroic, not guilty.”

  “Umm, I meant whoever was reading these books here on the table. They’re all open to pages that deal with Indulgences.”

  “Oh?” Reston said. “Probably just some student’s class project. Students rarely reshelve books, and no doubt Mathers has been busy with too many other things to keep up.”

  “Your student must have left in a hurry,” Jonas said. “He forgot to take his lantern with him.”

  “Happens all the time. They pull an all-nighter, fall asleep at the table, and when the morning sun wakes them, they rush off to class, totally forgetting they brought one.”

  Jonas reached for the lantern. “It would be a lot easier for me to help you look if we could light this one too.”

  Reston pulled out a large book swathed in red fabric. “That may not be necessar
y. I’m not sure if this cover was stupid or brilliant, but I guess it does hide the title, and even though it’s red, you’d probably only really notice it if you were looking for something that didn’t fit in.”

  “I don’t think your student pulled an all-nighter…”

  Reston placed the tome on an open shelf and paged through it. “Yes, this is it.”

  “…this lantern is still warm.”

  “Uh, what did you say?”

  Jonas pulled his knife. “This lantern is still warm. We’re not alone.”

  “Put that thing away. It’s probably just some student who didn’t want to be caught out studying after curfew.”

  Jonas eyed the rest of the darkened wing suspiciously. “Or some Inquisitor who didn’t get the message that the Inquisition was leaving.”

  “Honestly, are you always this paranoid?”

  Jonas pointed to the stacks beyond Reston. “There—something moved.”

  “Put the knife away. I’ll handle this.”

  Reston took a deep breath as if to make some sort of announcement, but it never came. Instead, he wavered for a moment and collapsed. His fall extinguished the lamp, plunging the wing into darkness.

  Jonas ducked and rolled toward the archway. He misjudged and bumped the clock as he regained his feet, causing the chimes to ring out his position. He dashed out through the archway and put his back against the wall, listening intently for pursuit.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Golden light blazed through the archway. A glowing inkwell flew into the main library. It rolled for several moments before coming to rest against a chair leg.

  Now fully illuminated, Jonas fought to control his panic. Not daring to breathe, he pressed his back against the wall and waited.

  Nothing. The longer he waited, the harder he found it to keep from bolting, even though he knew doing so would put him in plain sight. Then, at long last, he heard a footfall, soft, but unmistakable. Then another. Then a third, each one closer than the last. So close now he swore he could hear breathing. Finally, out of the corner of his eye, a glimmer of movement. In a flash, he slipped behind his adversary, wrapping his left hand around the waist and bringing his knife up to the throat. But then he wavered. Something didn’t feel right—his opponent was a woman. Sharp pain pierced the back of his hand. Woman or no, he resolved to drive his knife into her throat, but his arm refused to work. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled helpless on the floor, unable to move, unable even to open his eyes.