Of Limited Loyalty cc-2

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Bumble grasped the top of the podium and gave himself a moment. He nodded toward Benjamin Beecher, and then turned and nodded to the Prince and his family. He let his gaze wander over the congregation. Vlad had been right about one thing: the delay had packed the Cathedral. Which is perfect for my performance.

  “Presiding over a heresy trial is a terrible thing, my friends. Reverend Beecher, Bishops Harder and Southfield have been a comfort. At the times when I might have shrunk from the enormity of the situation, they supported me. Their clear-headed counsel kept me focused on one point. The reason for the trial was in the hopes that the defendant would see the error of his ways, would recant his heresy, and again join in communion with the Church.”

  Bumble looked down, as if he needed a moment to let him get the better of his emotions. “I should like to thank Caleb Frost for accepting the challenge no one else would, of defending Ephraim Fox, even though Fox did not desire defense. Caleb’s objections reminded us that we had a grave responsibility to present all the evidence so there could be no doubt as to Fox’s involvement with heresy. It was hoped that Fox himself would realize how firmly he was caught, and this realization would be the catalyst for his repentance. Despite Caleb’s spirited defense, it was not.

  “Even though the case against Ephraim Fox was so overwhelmingly strong, I hoped we would not be forced to pass down the sentence that we did. It is not an easy thing to condemn a man to death. To me, to my fellow judges, that sentence would not only rob him of his life, it would rob him of eternity. For if he died unrepentant, his soul would forever be consigned to the burning pits of Perdition. While we, my friends, will enjoy Paradise, he will only know unending torment.”

  The Bishop passed a hand over his forehead. “Even before we passed sentence, I went and spoke with Prince Vladimir on this point. Only he could grant the punishment of death. He had just finished examining Ephraim Fox himself, and what I saw on the Prince’s face made my heart shrink. For even though I wished forgiveness for a man who denied and defied God, I saw the Prince was not disposed to grant leniency for crimes committed against the Crown. Though I expressed a wish that he use his power to commute the sentence to life imprisonment at Iron Mountain so that Ephraim Fox would have a chance to reconsider and be saved, the Prince was adamant that insults against the Crown could not go unpunished. And while he could have conducted his own trial, and ordered Fox’s execution on criminal grounds, he felt it just as well to save time and allow our sentence to stand.”

  Bumble turned, nodded toward the Prince. He thought he detected some anger in the man’s eyes, but the Prince did a very good job in keeping his face impassive. That will teach you to defy me, and to try to thrust responsibility upon me.

  “The Good Lord commanded us to love our enemies as ourselves. He beseeched us to forgive and to turn the other cheek. But he also warned us to render unto the government that which was the government’s.” And now, Highness, I throw you a bone. “I know that Prince Vlad’s decision was not an easy one for him, and that perhaps his hands were every bit as much tied as mine. I look forward, in the coming days and weeks, to praying with him, so that together we can find peace with the choices thrust upon us. As is said, ‘uneasy is the head which wears the crown,’ and the same may be said for the mitre. Together, I hope, we can understand and forgive, as we shall hope to be forgiven.”

  Vlad nodded to Bumble, slightly, but enough to be noticed.

  Bumble returned the nod. “And for all of you, for all peoples who claim the Good Lord as their Savior, there is a lesson. Many are the false prophets who come and twist Scripture to deceive you. They wish to bind your thoughts in such a way that you are confused and seek understanding through them. Such a false prophet was Ephraim Fox. He and his work were placed on this earth to do only one thing: to sever your relationship with God and His son. The flames to which he will be consigned are the flames he shall know for all time without end. Look upon him and his fate, weep, and do not follow in his footsteps.”

  Nathaniel Woods, his face and hands blacked with burnt cork, huddled in the shadows across the street from the old Temperance Armory building. Two men sat before the door and a single lantern burned from where it hung from a nail above the doorway. One of the men, the fatter and older one, had tipped his chair back against the wall and was already nodding off. The other, a nervous young man who had been treated to an extra mug of ale for his dangerous duty guarding the heretic, had taken to bouncing from one foot to the other. He said something to his compatriot, then turned and walked to the alley beside the Armory.

  Nathaniel distinctly heard the thump of a body hitting the ground, but the first guard did not notice. Taking one last look up and down the street, Nathaniel darted across. With his right foot he caught a crosspiece on the chair and tipped it forward. As the guard rocked toward the street, Nathaniel dropped a leather hood over his head and pulled the neck tight. The man’s hands went to his throat to try and tear the hood off, giving Nathaniel an easy shot at the back of his skull with a leather sack filled with lead shot.

  The man pitched face first onto the ground. Nathaniel plucked keys from his belt, closed the shutter on the lamp, then opened the Armory door. He dragged his man in and tied his wrists while Owen did the same with the skinny guard. Nathaniel locked the front door, then the two of them walked to the back and opened a stout oaken door behind which the Steward had been placed.

  Fire’s prison had once been the strong-room constructed to store supplies of brimstone and firestones. It was fairly sizable for a prison cell, but Fire had been bound in the far corner. The short chain only allowed him to travel five feet. A tray with a crust of bread and a cup of water lay six feet away. Nathaniel thought that was an unnecessary cruelty, since with the gauntlets and the mask, there was no way he could have eaten that last meal.

  The Steward’s head came up and one eye opened. The other had swollen shut.

  Owen crouched next to him, unlocked the chains from the wall. “We don’t have much time, Steward. We’re taking you out of here. You’re not burning tomorrow. You’re not a heretic.”

  “Who sent you?”

  Nathaniel worked on the mask’s buckles. “Ain’t no time for that. God’s got more work for you. You know that. We’s just making sure you do it. Come with me.”

  The two men helped the Steward to his feet. Nathaniel took the keys from Owen and carefully walked the preacher toward the rear of the old Armory building. It had been built with its back to the Benjamin River, which made transporting supplies from Norisle easier. Nathaniel unlocked a small door and guided the Steward through.

  A twenty-foot-long war canoe waited beside the dock. A slender, clean-shaven man of average height accepted the keys from Nathaniel, then helped the Steward into the canoe. Justice Bone bid the man lie down, then covered him with tent cloth, making the prisoner look like little more than wadded fabric. Nathaniel took his position in the front of the canoe.

  Owen came out of the Armory and tossed a strip of cloth into the river, then got into the middle, all but sitting on the Steward. Nathaniel pushed them back from the dock, and Justice guided them into the middle of the broad river. The sliver of a moon half-hid itself behind thready clouds. All three men paddled, keeping their pace steady and serene. They waved to those who saw them passing beneath bridges and excited no alarm.

  As they made it past Temperance’s western wall, all three men breathed a sigh of relief. Nathaniel turned. “You weren’t in there much time at all.”

  Owen smiled. “They’ll get the message, literally. We’re halfway done.”

  They left the city precincts behind, then picked up speed. Within two hours they headed toward the south shore and brought the canoe up against a dock. Justice made the canoe fast while the other two helped the Steward from the canoe and up to a woodshed set back from the river. Once they had him inside, they freed him from the chains. Justice came and got all the restraints, then headed off to sink them in various deep-river
channels.

  After he departed, Count von Metternin appeared with bandages and ointments. “It is good to meet you, Steward. You will be my guest for some time-until your wounds heal and even longer, I hope.”

  The Steward looked at the three men, tears welling in his eyes, confusion and fear battling for control of his expression. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “I gots me an idea.” Nathaniel shrugged. “But don’t you be worrying none about us. You’re a very important man, and saving you is going to mean a lot.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It is not important that you do, Steward.” The Count slowly began to wrap the man’s hands in clean bandages. “What is important is that the Prince does, and when the time becomes appropriate, he shall explain all.”

  Bishop Bumble had been certain that Vlad had arranged for the escape, but his conviction died when he saw Vlad’s astonishment and anger at reading the message scrawled on the Armory wall. It outrages him as much as it does me.

  The cleric offered a restrained smile. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Highness.”

  Vlad distractedly waved a hand at him and moved deeper into the Armory’s front room. A message had been written in ink, clearly scratched there by fingers wrapped in an ink-stained cloth. The vandal had written, “The Croun has no ryte to tak no mans lyfe.” Vlad traced some of the letters in the air, then shook his head and turned.

  “This is clearly your fault, Bishop.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t be coy. In your sermon, you laid the blame for Fox’s execution firmly at my feet. You know, you have preached against anti-Crown sentiments, and this time you went and stirred them up.” Vlad thrust a finger toward the message. “Do you know what I see here? Do you? Look closely.”

  Bumble blinked. The anger on the Prince’s face, the anger in his voice, made no sense. “It is a message, yes, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  “No? Is that how you spell right? Is that how you spell life? No, I bet not.” Vlad’s eyes tightened. “But in Richlan they do spell those words that way. Richlan, where your man Fox traveled before he went beyond the mountains. You thought all his settlements had been destroyed. Apparently not. Or he had sympathizers. Or your trial and plan for a grand execution brought people in, then you set them on me. How do you think this will look in a report to Launston? Have you thought of that?”

  “How dare you speak to me in that tone!”

  Vlad covered his face with his hands for a moment, then opened his arms wide. “Do you not know what you’ve done? Let me explain. You laid Fox’s death upon me. You made it a matter for the Crown. Now he’s escaped. The message is an anti-Crown message. Because it is anti-government, now I must act. I must call out troops and have them search. How do you think people will like that? The foment stirred up by this search will increase resentment. It is a spiral that will rage out of control. It cannot be stopped. It cannot.”

  Bumble’s heart began to pound. He understood the Prince’s scenario. The idea that things could rage out of control-out of his control-sent a cold trickle through the Bishop’s guts. This was not the way things were supposed to go. “There must be something we can do.”

  Vlad shook his head adamantly, but slowed the expression and looked up. “Did anyone witness the escape?”

  “No.”

  “And those who discovered it, what have they seen?”

  Bumble shook his head. “Just that the guards were tied up and that the cell is empty.”

  “Then it would be possible…” Vlad frowned. “No, you would never do it.”

  “Do what?”

  The Prince headed back toward the cell and waved the Bishop in his wake. “In the morning half-light, your men likely did not notice the magick circle and forbidden sigils painted there in the corner where Fox sat.”

  “What sigils?”

  The Prince lowered his voice, but stressed his words. “The ones Fox drew with his own blood. One of your men removed the muzzle so Fox could eat. Fox bit his own tongue, then used the blood to lick a circle and sigils. Then he spoke words and his Satanic master stole him away. The devil used imps to capture the guards to humiliate them and you.”

  Bumble slowly nodded. “And we…”

  “Not we, Bishop, but you discovered the method of escape. I was walking into the cell when you thrust me back and scattered the demons left herein. You cast them out, a legion of them, in a titanic struggle. Were I to tell that tale to Caleb Frost, and were you to deny it, in all modesty, of course, it would be believed.”

  “Yes, yes it would.” Bumble looked back toward the front room. “And of the words on the wall? More deception?”

  “Nothing a coat of paint won’t conceal.”

  “But Fox is still out there.”

  “I know, and a danger to us both, now.” Vlad’s expression sharpened. “I’ll send my best men after him. If Nathaniel and Owen can’t find him, he can’t be found. And if they do, gunfire will do for him what a bonfire would have. Like as not he’s headed west, toward what was once his empire.”

  “Your plan has merit. I believe we can make this work.”

  “It better.” Vlad nodded solemnly. “If it doesn’t, we both will be destroyed.”

  Bumble hid a smile. In that, Prince Vlad, you are half right.

  Chapter Forty-one

  8 July 1767 Temperance Temperance Bay, Mystria

  Clad only with his lover’s fading warmth, Ian Rathfield sat at his desk and slowly paged through the report he’d prepared for his superiors in Launston. He had, primarily, stuck to facts that were mission critical. Occasionally he offered insights into the nature of Mystria and Mystrians. Never did he allow himself to speculate about things he could not confirm.

  “Could you not sleep?” Catherine Strake, wrapped in a bed sheet, entered the parlor. “You should come back to bed.”

  Ian shook his head. “I wished to review this one more time. I guess I am trying to anticipate the changes Prince Vlad will suggest.”

  “Whatever they are, you should make none of them.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know he will be sending his own report to supplement yours.” She rested a hand on his forearm. “You know he will do you no favors. His report will stress all the things that you did not see. He will diminish your accomplishments.”

  Ian smiled. “You need not begin that again, Catherine. I have decided to acquiesce and append a copy of the Gazette story about the expedition to my report.”

  “Good.” She drew over a chair and sat, leaning forward to again hold his forearm. “You must learn to avoid the mistakes Owen made, lest you be trapped here as he is.”

  How could I see Mystria as a prison with you here? “I have agreed with you, darling, but I cannot avoid the fact that I have little or no recollection of parts of the expedition.”

  “But you have done yourself injury, Ian, by understating what you have seen, and your part in the expedition. You were sent west to find Postsylvania and bring the people back. You did this, at great risk to yourself. And in the process you discovered the Antediluvian ruins. Were you to have centered your report on them alone, you would have done well.”

  “I know. I recall you telling me to write a book about it, and that my fortune would be assured.” Ian flipped pages back atop his copy of the report and squared the edges. “I know that this report is accurate, but it seems lacking, terribly lacking.”

  “It is modestly presented, as befits the hero you are.”

  He shook his head. “You say that because you believe it, Catherine, but I know the real reasons for the modesty. The primary one is that the men with whom I traveled impressed me. Awed me, even.”

  She drew back, her eyes narrowing. “You do yourself a grave injustice with the implied comparison.”

  “But it is accurate, because I know who I am.” Ian’s heart began to speed up as memories he’d wished to remain at rest began to rattle around in his mind. “These
men, your husband included, took to incredible hardships with good nature that I could barely understand. I could not let them believe they were better suited to things than I, but were it not for Count von Metternin and their respect for him, I doubt we should have called a halt to marching save for nightfall. And the Gazette, it does not do the battle against the wolves justice. We survived not only by dint of courage, but because they had the foresight to choose our campsite carefully and to build a small breastwork to offer defense.”

  “Beasts fighting beasts.”

  “I disagree, my dear.” He rested a hand on hers. “I know you have no love for Woods or Kamiskwa, and Bone is of a class with them and Dunsby, but crude use of language cannot be mistaken for a dull mind. Though I found his words bordering on blasphemy, Nathaniel Woods proved very capable in addressing a logical argument. Back in Norisle, there’s more than one Oxford Don who would meet his better in Woods.”

  “Still, Ian, you are a more courageous man. Benefiting from breeding and education, you understand more fully the risks you take. This makes your actions far more brave than theirs.”

  Ian swallowed hard. “I trust you will continue to think that, Catherine, for there is something that I must reveal to you. Something of which I am not proud, for it reveals me to be a coward.”

  She squeezed his forearm. “I shall never think poorly of you, dear Ian.”

  He glanced down, unable to meet her gaze. I must tell her, I will tell her, but just not all of it yet. “Catherine, you know I was married. My wife killed herself. Many people put it down to her having been quite fragile of spirit, and reports of my death wounded her. My injuries, though I recovered from them, further frightened her. She feared losing me, and that fear consumed her life.”