by J. C. Staudt
They had come to the small grove of apple trees, near the tree Bastille had climbed a few days ago to get a better view of her surroundings. Her quarry that day, whom she now knew was the acolyte Brother Mortial, still hadn’t turned up. It was possible that Bastille alone knew Mortial had left the basilica through the labyrinth. She couldn’t admit it, of course, without admitting that she’d used the secret passageways herself. If she were to do that, questions would no doubt be raised about how she’d gotten back inside. They might even search her bedchamber for the key, and that was an object she wasn’t ready to part with just yet…
Sister Gallica gave a soft satisfied grunt, as if she’d lent some clarity to Bastille’s low sense of humor. “Tell me more about the Enhancements. How long does it take? Will there be pain? What will I feel when I wake up?”
Bastille wasn’t sure which question to answer first, so she did what she always did when she wasn’t sure what to say. She said everything she could think of. “It depends on what sort of Enhancements you’re receiving, the condition of the components, and your body’s willingness to accept the foreign entities as its own. All Enhancements are a multi-step process with a minimum of two phases, with an additional phase for each NewOrgan to be implanted. The first phase is the installation of the central NewNexus, which all inheritors must receive in order for the other NewOrgans to work properly. The Nexus itself is only about the size of a flattened peanut, but installing it takes several hours and requires a small amount of drilling through the thin layer of bone at the back of the nasal cavity. The procedures for the other organs vary widely in length and complexity. When you wake up you’ll feel groggy and sore from the incisions, but after your recovery you should enjoy a prolonged Cypriesthood without any of the ailments you experience now. NewOrgans are incapable of being corrupted or damaged by disease, as are natural organs. As long as they’re given adequate fuel they will last hundreds of years and will be reused many times after your passing.”
This summary did not appear to have given Sister Gallica pause. “What about my memories? Will I still remember… life?”
You discredit my experience, yet you presume to ask questions only an expert would know the answer to? “You’ll still be alive, Sister. Debatably less so, but still alive. The Nexus does interact with parts of the brain associated with breathing, heart rate, balance, awareness, posture, and sensory perception, but it shouldn’t cause memory loss. You should still remember all the details of your past life as you remember them now.”
“Life’s perfect enemy, leave me undevoured,” Gallica muttered. Then to Bastille, she said, “What about the pain?”
“You shouldn’t feel a thing until you wake up. Then I’d imagine there will be quite a bit of pain until you’re fully healed. The Nexus is designed to help with that.”
“How so?”
“The Nexus’s technical workings are a bit beyond my ability to explain,” Bastille said. “Or perhaps they’re beyond my understanding. I don’t make them—I just put them in. The way Brother Soleil explains it, think of the mind as a musical instrument with strings that are slightly out of tune. The Nexus tightens up the strings and makes them resound with perfect pitch. This is necessary to ensure that whatever NewOrgans are installed will operate at maximum efficiency.”
“It all sounds terribly dreadful,” said Sister Gallica, with muted enthusiasm.
It is, Bastille wished she had the nerve to say. Instead her reply was, “It sounds that way, but I’m sure you’ll find it to your liking.”
“It isn’t me we’re talking about, remember,” Gallica reminded her. “It’s whoever is chosen as our next inheritor.”
Bastille made a stiff smile with her lips, but as always, the rest of her face wasn’t involved.
They were crossing the arched plank bridge over the man-made stream that flowed up from the basilica’s well, making their way toward the edge of the conservatory. Bastille had spent the last few days watching and listening for signs of entrances to the labyrinth, hoping to find others before she had to risk using the key again. Now she noticed that at the end of the artificial stream where the water fell into a shallow grate, there was a round slab of cast iron, like a manhole cover, obscured by a thin layer of dirt. She guessed it must have been a seldom-used remnant left by the people who’d built this place, and she wondered why Brother Mortial hadn’t used it to enter the labyrinth here instead of fleeing to the kitchens. Maybe he hadn’t known this existed. Something else had been bothering Sister Bastille, too. If Brother Mortial overheard my conversation with Sister Adeleine and left the basilica because of it, who did he go off to tell?
Bastille made a mental note to come back to the spot later—maybe during her morning chores, before Sister Usara’s gardeners and Sister Deniau’s cooks descended. “I’ll recommend to Brothers Liero and Reynard both that the inheritor be chosen soon,” she said. “With all the strange things that have been going on, I’d think it best to be prepared.”
Sister Gallica’s pockmarked face sagged into a frown. “Strange things… how do you mean? Aside from Father Kassic, what else?”
“The disappearances don’t strike you as strange?”
Sister Gallica relaxed. “Oh, that. Brother Froderic is our most charming emissary to the heathens. His passion is to be with them, right in the midst of the sinners’ toils. He has a gift for reaching the lost—and making shrewd trade with them at the same time. He’s always out and about doing one thing or another, making an impact for the benefit of the Mouth. I’d bet my supper he nabbed Brother Mortial, pressed him into service as a pack mule, and took off into the city to trade and evangelize.”
A pack mule with a crooked back—now that’s an amusing thought. The she-mutant has no idea what kind of trade Brother Froderic had been making before he died, does she? “Someone should check in the storerooms to see if there are any supplies missing,” Bastille said, “and we should ask the Cypriests at the gate if anyone has been in or out lately. They’ll know. They always know.”
“No need,” said Gallica, revealing a hand for the first time during their stroll to wave away Bastille’s suggestions. “Let’s not get caught up in idle theories or hearsay. You’ll have the whole basilica in a riot before long. Belmond is a dangerous city, kind Sister, but if there’s one thing Brother Froderic has proven, it’s that he knows what he’s doing. I’m sure he’ll return to us in no time at all.”
She does know, and she doesn’t want me looking into it. Or is she really so ignorant? Gallica is either blissfully unaware of anything that’s happened, or she’s a more cunning deceiver than I’ve given her credit for. Bastille was more uncertain now than she’d been before speaking with Sister Gallica, but she wasn’t ready to back down. “And if he doesn’t return? If neither of them do?”
Gallica’s face hardened. “Then may the Mouth devour them quickly. Is there anything else I can do for you, Sister Bastille?”
“Put your affairs in order. Be sure that Brother Lambret is prepared to assume oversight of the basilica in the event that you’re chosen as inheritor. And feel free to let me know if you have any further questions about the Enhancements.”
“I’m sure Brother Soleil will be more than happy to explain things in greater detail, when the time comes.”
“As you wish, kind Sister.”
Sister Gallica gave a nod and a soft grunt before she marched away and left Bastille standing on the edge of the gardens, along the outer glass wall between the hog pens and the courtyard exit. After the high priest disappeared through the wide double doors into the sanctuary wing, Bastille took in a fast, deep breath, as if waking from a trance. There goes my hope of gaining Sister Gallica’s trust. The Mouth, am I the only person in this place who hasn’t made half a dozen secret alliances? It’s as though I’ve gone to the market before closing and found only the rotten fruit left. I used to think I was the clever one. That was before I came to live in this house of jackals. Frauds and hypocrites, every one o
f them, all vying for the same thing: freedom from the constraints of the human lifespan. The Order is nothing more than a means of disguise for those seeking a NewNexus of their own. Even Brother Froderic was devout once. How did such a man fall into Brother Soleil’s clutches?
Bastille had to find a way to force an opening in the Order’s upper ranks and worm her way into the Esteemed. The other high priests would be more apt to give her their loyalty when she’d risen high enough to earn it. If Sister Gallica doubted Bastille’s skill in the surgical Enhancements, few others must have known she was even qualified to perform them. They should all be tripping over each other to win my affections, she thought. When Brother Soleil is gone, I will be the only person between them and the thing they want so badly.
That was why Bastille was so desperate to find a protégé of her own; Brother Soleil would be chosen as inheritor long before it was her turn to undergo the Enhancements. If no one learned to perform the surgeries after Bastille, she would never become a Cypriest. She would never find respite from the tortures of her life, the stabbing pain of the headaches that seemed to grow worse with each passing year. Brother Mortial was missing and Sister Jeanette’s days in the Order were numbered. That made Sister Adeleine the only viable candidate, unless Bastille could find a promising apprentice among the next batch of initiates that came through the basilica’s gates. The quality of each new group is worse than the one before it, she desponded.
There was a reason Gallica was being so unhelpful in locating the two missing men. If Brother Soleil had helped Gallica accelerate her rise through the ranks, as Sister Jeanette had confessed, then there was little doubt Soleil had Gallica in his pocket. That accounted for half the Most Highly Esteemed. If Brother Liero or Sister Dominique were in similar debt to him, Brother Soleil might have the entire Order under his thumb. If that was true, then there was nothing Bastille could do about it.
It was a daunting realization. Brother Froderic’s beheading would be covered up as if it had never happened, his and Brother Mortial’s disappearances chalked up to a failed excursion into the city. Perhaps Gallica was already spreading the misinformation that would make that lie become truth someday in the near future. Maybe Brother Mortial had already returned, and they’d disposed of him like a mismatched shoe.
Before Bastille could continue her search for knowledge, she had duties to attend to. She came down a back staircase and through one of the dusty storage rooms, the same way she’d brought Father Kassic just the other day, and gave a sigh as the cellar air washed over her, drying the sweat beneath her prosaics. Today there was something sour in the air, a stench that spoke of a stopped-up privy or a dead rat. Both were commonplace enough, only the smell had never been this strong before. She hurried down the narrow hallway and into her examination rooms, hoping the odor would be weaker once she had distanced herself from the privy. But the smell only grew clearer and sharper. Yes, she knew that smell—perhaps better than she knew any other.
It was the smell of death.
When she closed the heavy door and lit the lantern, a shape moved among the shadows. Bastille jumped. The lantern slipped from her hand, clattered to the floor and flickered out. She backed up against the wall and froze there, listening.
“Sister Bastille? It’s me, Nor—Sister Adeleine.”
Bastille let out a breath. “Adeleine? You frightful creature. What are you doing all alone down here in the dark? Classes haven’t nearly started yet.”
“I know, kind Sister. I’m sorry. I came early, to study. I didn’t think—”
“You certainly didn’t, did you?” Bastille began to feel around on the floor, deciding on the choicest words to unleash on the acolyte. Then she remembered how condescending Gallica had been to her, and she softened. “What was that you just said?”
“What? When?”
“When I came in. You started to call yourself by a different name, I think.”
“My apologies, kind Sister. That was a mistake. It was my… before-name.”
“What was it, did you say?”
“Nora. Nora Freeminster.”
“Best you forget that name, once and for all. Others aren’t as forgiving about that kind of thing as I am.”
“Thank you, kind Sister. That’s very gracious of you. It won’t happen again.”
Bastille could almost picture Adeleine rolling her eyes as she said it. She must think me about as forgiving as Infernal’s heat. Bastille retrieved the lantern and relit it. The flame sprouted on the wick, and its glow spread across the chamber and over the stained concrete slab. Adeleine was seated on the floor, leaning against the adjacent wall. There was a short scroll in her hands, which she rolled up before getting to her feet.
“So tell me… how does one read down here in the absence of light?” Bastille asked.
The acolyte shrugged. “My eyes have always been good at night. I was never scared of the dark when I was a girl because I could see what the other children couldn’t. Sometimes I cover my bedchamber window with a sheet to make it darker. It’s soothing to me, that way.”
“The cellars are a good place for someone who loves the dark. However, I am not such a person,” Bastille said, hanging up her lantern and rounding the chamber to light the others.
When the room was bright enough, she beckoned Sister Adeleine to help her unload a new corpse from the cold lockers. This one was in poorer shape than the last few, a heathen who’d ventured too close to the basilica walls last week. The body was perforated with holes; one beside the navel, another in the right shoulder, a third through the top of the left breast, and a fourth in the left buttock. There were splinters from one of the broken crossbow quarrels in the latter. Sister Adeleine greened as she hoisted her end of the steel tray onto the slab, then wiped her hands on her prosaics.
“You shouldn’t be wearing that,” Bastille said. “Neither of us should.”
Both women slipped their robes over their heads and hung them on the wall hooks. Adeleine began to shiver. Bastille was glad of the cold, but the smell was still troubling her. It wasn’t coming from her lockers, she knew. Her corpses were well-preserved, dissected and disposed of before they could put off a stench that was anywhere near this bad. Even when Bastille cut the dead woman open, it didn’t seem to contribute much to the smell.
“Did you notice the smell when you came down?” Bastille asked.
“I was wondering whether you’d mention it,” said the acolyte. “It’s stronger than usual.”
“Yes, I know. Hand me the forceps. It’s the privy, most likely. You know, I was just speaking with Sister Gallica this afternoon. Hold the light a little higher. I wish I’d known of this then. Remind me to notify her or Brother Lambret when we’re done here.”
“I don’t think so, kind Sister.”
“You don’t think what? You’re refusing to remind me?”
“N-no, kind Sister. I don’t think the smell is coming from the privy.”
“Well where, then?”
“Somewhere in the scriptorium. Did you notice the stains on the ceiling?”
Bastille put down her scalpel. “Stains, you say. Show me these stains.”
Together they donned their prosaics and left the chamber with Sister Adeleine leading the way. They reached the end of the hall and turned into an alcove, the joint between the east tower and a straight staircase that led up to the basilica’s main level. It was a different route than the one Bastille had come in by. Sure enough, the alcove’s ceiling was stained the color of dark wine, a damp splotch that ran the width of three floorboards and half the length of the alcove. The smell was unbearable.
Bastille dug her nose into the crook of her elbow. “The Mouth, that’s absolutely horrid.” As she thought back over the events of the past few days, she remembered being aware that the east tower was above the room where Brothers Soleil and Froderic had been keeping their slaves. It only stands to reason, then, that…
“What do you think it could be?” Adele
ine asked, her voice muffled by the hands cupped over her face.
Bastille knew what it could be. “Stay here. Or better yet, go back to my room and shut the door. I’m going to find Brother Lambret.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help, kind Sister?”
“I’ve just told you what you can do. Now go. I’ll return shortly.”
Adeleine trudged down the hall, dispirited.
The top of the staircase opened into a side hallway that ran between the athenaeum and the scriptorium—the basilica’s venues for reading and writing, respectively. Brother Ephamar didn’t look up from his book as Bastille passed the athenaeum’s open doors, though she slowed for a moment to see if she could catch his attention. Engrossed in those fairy tales of his, as always, Bastille thought, and continued down the hall. Ephamar had a love of all things bizarre and fantastical, including the sensationalist histories of the Aionach he often read, whose content was probably more fiction than fact.
The scriptorium was an L-shaped room with windows on five of its six sides, providing views west to the cloister, south to the lower courtyards, and east to the morning parapet. Domed ceilings spindled like parachutes into the round pillars along the walls. At each end of the room sat an empty hearth, bare and unused in the decades since the Heat. Rows of angled writing desks for scribing, copying, and illuminating texts were spread across the floor, each with its own uncomfortable wooden chair. And in the back corner, where the curve of the east tower wall abutted the room, a set of bookshelves and a pair of storage cabinets stood collecting dust in the afternoon light.
Those cabinets had collected something other than dust, by their smell. Bastille checked down the hall both ways before she entered the scriptorium and made her way toward the back corner. The entrance had no door, and there were many windows through which curious souls could peek in from the outside.
