“Where you and he are concerned—” von Düsberg began angrily, then caught himself in time. “Or… or indeed any members of the Holy Office, the thoughts of ordinary people seem irrelevant.”
“Just so long as those thoughts are not irreverent nor heretical,” said Arnald softly, “their relevance is no concern of ours.” He looked from Grand Master to Treasurer then back again. “I ask again: who is suspicious?”
Von Salza sighed. “You’re very persistent, Father-Inquisitor. To the point of being stubborn.”
“It’s one accepted way to get an answer to a question.”
The Grand Master flicked a single glance at that bland face and thought for a moment about the other accepted ways: the lash, the hook, the hot irons, the knotted cords. And behind them all, the fire.
Hermann von Salza, Dieter Balke, even Albrecht von Düsberg in his own quiet way were all violent men, their violence proclaimed by the armour they wore and by the swords they carried to cut down the infidel in the name of God. But that violence and those swords were cleaner by far than what Father Arnald and his kind would do, still in the name of God. The company of Baba Yaga was preferable. Almost; at least Arnald and the other friars washed once in a while.
“Then the answer you want is simple enough. The suspicions we fear are those of the Russian lords and Princes we’re trying to deceive. The Order wants them to waste their strength against each other, so when the knights of Christ ride against them many of our lives will be saved.”
“You’re planning a crusade, yet you talk of hoarding the lives of your knights as a miser holds tight fists around his gold.” If the outrage on the inquisitor’s face was simulated, then it was skilfully done. “Do you, Grand Master, not believe in what the Pope himself has said, that those slain on crusade go straight to Heaven with all their earthly sins forgiven?”
“I’d heard something of the sort. From a Saracen mullah calling the faithful to prayer from the top of a mound of Christian corpses. Except that he said ‘jihad’ not ‘crusade’ and ‘Paradise’ instead of ‘Heaven’.” Von Salza smiled at Arnald, a bleak stretching of lips that was as much a threat as anything said aloud, but a great deal harder to describe in whatever report young Brother Peachbottom was compiling.
“It’s as well for you, Hermann von Salza, that this conversation isn’t taking place in Rome.”
“And it’s as well for you, Father-Inquisitor,” snarled Albrecht von Düsberg, “that words in Rome will be of no concern to the Teutonic Order after our victory in the East. Otherwise steps would be taken to ensure that no such words ever went beyond the walls of this fortress.” Von Düsberg glowered at the Dominican friar for several seconds, then drained his cup. He managed to do even that with a ferocity unlike his usual easy-going manner.
Von Salza glanced in well-concealed astonishment at his Treasurer and hid a smile with the back of his hand. He remembered how Albrecht had lost his temper in the exercise yard with a sword in his hand, and found it entertaining to watch the same thing happen now, when fortunately there was nothing more dangerous to hand than the wine-jug.
Whether von Düsberg’s dislike was of the Inquisition in general or this inquisitor in particular, the Grand Master neither knew nor cared. But it was a useful trait if harnessed and properly directed. Hermann von Salza had broken horses to his will and trained the fiercest of falcons to take meat from his fist, so tutoring the ill-tempered whims of one fat, choleric knight wasn’t likely to cause him many problems.
And had it not been an impolitic thing to do, he would have given von Düsberg a sack of silver as reward for the expression his outburst had created on Father Arnald’s face.
The inquisitor recovered himself quickly, though von Salza guessed it was an interesting experience for the Dominican to be the subject rather than the source of threats, and in circumstances where those threats could be made bloody reality. The terrified bravado of a suspected heretic strapped to the rack was vastly different to the looming presence of the black-crossed knights in Castle Thorn, especially when those knights plainly owed their first and best allegiance to someone other than the Pope.
“Enough of this,” he said. “Father Arnald, I presume you came here for some reason besides making cryptic comments. What was it?”
The inquisitor looked at the Grand Master for a few seconds, then pushed his hands – clenched into fists, from the bulky outline visible through the cloth – further up inside each sleeve. “I have examined ledgers, chronicles and records,” said Arnald. “They contain the history of this Order since it was granted official recognition by Pope Innocent. Thirty-five years of information.”
“And?”
“And why is it here, not at the headquarters commandery in Montfort?”
“Starkenberg.”
“What?”
“Montfort was a Frankish castle. We’re a German Order. We call that castle Starkenberg now.”
“What does a name or the language of a name matter? Has the Order of Teutonic Knights decided to abandon the defence of the Holy Land without reference to the wishes of the Pope and the rest of Christendom?” Arnald’s voice went shrill during the recitation, and von Salza waited while the tension-laden seconds stretched to minutes before delivering his reply.
“Yes,” he said.
Father Arnald looked as if he’d been struck in the face, and for just that instant Hermann von Salza felt almost sorry for him. It was only ‘almost’, because the instant was washed away by a glowing flare of anger that anyone, especially this creature, would dare rummage through the Order’s private papers without so much as a request for permission.
“But…” The Holy Inquisitor was actually at a loss for what question to ask next, and von Salza had to frown an impending smile off Albrecht von Düsberg’s face. “But why?”
“Why not? The principal officers of the Order, from myself and our Brother Treasurer von Düsberg down, have concluded that the defence of Jerusalem is a losing battle, a waste of time, effort and lives that could be better employed elsewhere. Our castles will remain manned, of course – we aren’t cowards – and Acre will continue to seem our headquarters. But the Holy Land will be lost, and when that happens, Christendom will turn on the survivors for a scapegoat. Let them find the Templars. Let them ask the Hospitallers for excuses. Those worthies have tried to exclude all rivals, even those willing to help them. They wanted to keep the land, the influence, the glory. Let them keep the blame for losing it.”
Von Salza poured himself more wine, to refresh a mouth gone very dry and to rinse away the foul taste of that long betrayal. If the other Orders, and especially the Templars, had been more concerned with their sworn duty and less interested in amassing a fortune through their banking activities, then perhaps he wouldn’t have had to say such things. If the Holy Land was to be lost, then it should be lost cleanly, by fighting men beaten in a fair battle rather than by petty rivalries and pointless negotiations.
“The accusations will begin to fly,” he said, his voice bleak and his eyes unfocused as though they looked beyond Burg Thorn to another time and another place. “We are envied, Father Arnald, we of the military Orders, but some, the richest, the most powerful, the most arrogant, are hated and feared as well. Almost as much as the Holy Inquisition.”
Arnald said nothing; he sat quite still, and listened with all the patient intensity of a cat outside a mousehole. Von Salza looked at him and smiled.
“No heresy, Father-Inquisitor. Just truth, that most unpalatable dish. I speak nothing but the truth, even if some of it will be years in the making. Once the Holy Land is gone, the purpose of the Orders who defended it will also be gone. Funds no longer needed to finance a war already lost will be plundered. Wilier enemies will allege such crimes – treason, heresy, and why should sorcery be ignored? – that if, no, when a guilty verdict is pronounced, all lands and goods fall forfeit.”
“To the crown of whichever country hosts the trial, Grand Master,” said von Düsb
erg, pedantic as always. “No private citizen could bring such charges.”
“No private citizen would dare. Am I not right, Father Arnald? Well?”
“You are,” said the inquisitor. He spoke reluctantly, unwilling to tolerate such thoughts against a Christian monarch yet driven by some need to appear reasonable even when his own judgments had already been formed and carved in immutable stone. “Only a king would dare make such monstrous accusations.”
“Because only a king would dare to covet wealth on such a scale. Who then? England? Spain? France? The Holy Roman Emperor? Or the Pope?”
“You’re drunk,” Arnald said icily. “That can be your only excuse for—”
“—Telling the truth? But that’s what your people always ask, before they start the cutting and the crushing and the tearing. Tell the truth.” He stared hard at Father Arnald, and saw perhaps for the first time on that emotionless scholarly visage a flicker of something other than zeal and pious wrath. Von Salza saw instead an anger that was defensive, embarrassed because of it and maybe, just maybe, a little ashamed.
“Do you claim you’ve never used torture?” the inquisitor snapped. His hands were out of the sleeves now, and only an iron control that the Grand Master hadn’t expected to see in a mere priest was keeping Arnald from banging his fists on the table to drive home the point that he was trying desperately to make. “Because if you are, you’re lying!”
“And what do you claim?” said von Salza quietly. “Your own Black Book states that any confession given freely before the Extreme Question – oh, how circumspect a term – is just an attempt to avoid pain, and thus not sincere. We torture, yes. But when we wring the secrets from some poor wretch, we do it for necessity. Not in an attempt to save his soul.”
Hermann von Salza knew that was more than enough to confirm his own rendezvous with the spiked machinery of supposed salvation, and Albrecht von Düsberg looked appalled. It might have been concern for the Grand Master, or because accusations of heresy were like flung mud and tended to spatter bystanders as thoroughly as their target.
“What about Baba Yaga, Grand Master?” Father-Inquisitor Arnald leaned forward slightly, cool and predatory and patient once more, all trace of shame and embarrassment forgotten. His patience had been fully rewarded; this had to be mere curiosity. “She continues to squat in your library even though,” and he slapped down an exact copy of the parchment in front of von Düsberg, “your Constable Dieter Balke has done all this. Or have you other reasons for employing witchcraft? It was never a form of sorcery approved by any Pope.”
“Harsh times and harsh places breed harsh people and harsh measures,” said von Salza, showing his teeth. “Surely an inquisitor can understand that…?”
*
The Independent Principality of Koldunov
“Feeling better?”
“Much better, I think.”
Prince Ivan stirred, stretched, yawned until his jaw went click then spent a moment taking inventory to make sure what he’d said was true. He had a crick in his neck, as usual when he slept in a chair rather than stretched out on a proper bed. One of his feet hadn’t properly woken up yet and was playing host to a gathering of pins and needles. His mouth tasted as if it had been used as a barrow for mucking-out stables after a long winter, and he suspected that Mar’ya Morevna had best kiss him only at her own risk.
Other than that, he felt fine.
Mar’ya Morevna herself looked disgustingly fit and cheerful. For someone who had been awake since – Ivan glanced out of the window at the sun, already westering past its zenith – since just after dawn of the previous day, she showed no trace of the weariness that might have been expected from such an effort. She looked as though she had taken time to bathe, and had changed her clothing from bulky furs to the more comfortable blouse and boots tucked into baggy Cossack trews that she preferred when she had no need to be the Fairest Princess in all the Russias or even any sort of princess at all.
“Did you sleep?” he asked.
“Yes. Enough that I needed.”
Ivan looked at a sky outside which told the time as plain as any clock, then raised an eyebrow at her. “When?”
“While you were sleeping. You didn’t notice.”
“If you slept while I slept, then how did you do this?” Ivan gestured at the table. Instead of the serried ranks of books and scrolls and parchments that covered it when he went, no, was sent to sleep – the realization struck him with annoying force – there was no more than a neat ribbon-tied pile of manuscript in Mar’ya Morevna’s distinctive hand.
Every page was new. These weren’t leaves pulled from notebooks, a straightforward task which might, just might, have given her enough time for a nap. Everything in that all-too-thick bundle had been painstakingly copied from an original in the many, many books of this library.
“And when did you do it?”
“When you slept,” repeated Mar’ya Morevna.
“But that was when you said you had been sleeping,” said Ivan stubbornly. “There’s enough work here to keep you busy from the time we came back from Khorlov, never mind the few hours I was asleep. So…?”
“All right,” she said. “I would have told you eventually, or you would have found out for yourself. Even though I don’t trust the Gate sorceries for travelling – at least, not yet – I trust them well enough for privacy within the walls of my own kremlin.”
Ivan cleared his throat. “I think I missed something there. You’d better explain some more.”
Mar’ya Morevna smiled ruefully. “I’ve been anticipating this for months. I had my explanation prepared and rehearsed like an actor’s speech, all the questions you might have asked, all the answers I had to give, so you could understand what was happening. And now I’ve forgotten all of it. The words are still there, but the sense has gone. All I can think of is the Firebird.”
“Then try guessing.”
“All right,” said Mar’ya Morevna. She sat down at the table, pushed the manuscript to one side, and gestured to Ivan that he should sit opposite. After a moment of doubt, not liking the secrecy of all this, he did so.
“The way the Gates work, more or less, is like this: when you step through a Gate that you’ve created in one location, you step out of the Gate you’ve already prepared – and concealed, if you were wise – in another place entirely.”
“I follow you so far,” said Ivan. “But what if you created more than one Gate? How do you, er, know where you’re going?”
“There are protocols in every Gating spell that determine your destination. Otherwise…Well, remember the last time this subject came up, and I told you all the things that could go wrong?”
“Yes.”
“This is another one.” Mar’ya Morevna’s words were flippant enough, but there was nothing flippant about the expression on her face. It was grim, with that stony set that comes from recalling an unpleasantly personal experience.
“And this is when it starts to get complicated?”
“If by complicated you really mean dangerous but don’t want to say the word aloud, yes. More complicated than you can imagine, more dangerous than your worst nightmare. As for when it starts to get complicated… Is the time between the stepping in and the stepping out soon enough for you?”
“As quick as that?”
“Yes, just as quick as that. Now you understand my caution. There are so many refinements in the spell, and an equal number of ways for it to twist asunder. Instead of the spell simply failing – you’ve seen that happen – it can warp the most innocent intended use into something horrible. Like passing through an entry Gate without having an exit ready.”
“Is that what happened to your father? Lost between Gates?” Ivan was only guessing, but her father’s death was something that Mar’ya Morevna seldom mentioned, and from her haunted look he suddenly suspected the reason why.
“God forbid, no,” she said, making the sign of the life-giving cross over her breast. “My
father is only dead, God send him rest. This was worse.”
“Worse than being dead?”
“Sometimes death can be turned back on itself. You of all people should know that. But… But a place ‘between Gates’ can’t exist because there has to be more than one Gate for, for it to be between! And if there isn’t…”
“Was he a friend?”
“Of my father. Another sorcerer. I’d spoken to him once or twice, but otherwise I hardly knew the man. I would have forgotten him by now, like the others who came and went in this kremlin, if I hadn’t been there when he went in and – and never came out. The Gate he used was the simplest, one way between two fixed points. But the end-Gate hadn’t been secured. He couldn’t go forward, he couldn’t come back, and… And there was nowhere else to go.”
“Yet you still play with this? I’d rather give a child an open razor.”
“I don’t play with it, loved, and I’m no child. I use it, carefully, and manipulate the enchantments so no one else has to live with my memories. I’ve learned things my father Koldun the enchanter never knew.”
You finished what your father started, and I called it ‘playing’. That wasn’t a good choice of words. Ivan sat in silence until Mar’ya Morevna came back from her past. “What was there to learn,” he asked eventually, “besides the dangers and how to avoid them?”
“I learned about the empty void that took Gregor. And I learned it wasn’t empty after all. There are indeed places between the Gates, empty places, still places. Private places. And it’s possible, once you understand the subtleties of the spell, to pause a while, alone and undisturbed in all that emptiness. Even to sleep.”
“Ah,” said Ivan. “I begin to understand. I think. And because this still and private place between the Gates is neither one thing nor another, neither here nor there, time runs differently. Yes?”
“My, my,” said Mar’ya Morevna, and Ivan was glad to see her smile again. “You really have been studying after all.”
Firebird (Tales of Old Russia Book 2) Page 19
