by J. C. Staudt
“Brother Belgard,” she said, “you know how these sorts of rumors spread. The acolytes are worse than my chickens, forever clucking about one scandal or another. I am under a great deal of pressure from the Most High to train my replacements. I do not wish to be made obsolete, and I’m sure you don’t either. If the Order runs out of reserves, we’ll all be begging in the streets.”
“What is this advice you have for me then, Sister?”
“We’ll get to that in a moment. First, I have one further question for you.”
“Speak it.”
“What, in your estimation, are the chances of Brother Froderic’s eventual return?” Your answer will tell me everything I need to know, she promised.
Brother Belgard’s nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed. “Chances? Why, don’t you believe he’s coming back? You speak as if he’s abandoned the Order.”
Interesting, Bastille thought, studying him. So Belgard isn’t part of the cover-up. This campaign of misinformation is more widespread than I imagined. And Gallica has fewer allies than I thought… She cleared her throat. “My advice to you, kind Brother Belgard, is to reopen trade with the heathens. It is the quickest way to replenish our stores.”
“But that’s just it. We haven’t the food to barter with—”
“Certainly not,” Bastille said, “but we have other goods. Plenty of them, if I were to take an optimistic view. Which I do. That is why I do not recommend trading food away, but rather… trading for it.”
“Food is what the heathens need most,” said Belgard.
“Not anymore. Not since the savages started this full-scale war of theirs on the trade caravans. These days the heathens have enough food to go around and then some. We should be squeezing them for whatever we can. When wealth runs rampant, people turn from basic needs to luxuries.”
“I was under the impression that the nomad hijackings have made food scarce, not plentiful.”
That is what Brother Froderic may have wanted you to believe, Bastille almost said. Being here in the east tower, she could not help but think of what lay beneath her feet. She recalled Froderic’s discussion with Brother Soleil as they had come down that dark winding staircase to the room in which they performed their fornications. ‘With the stranglehold the nomads have put on the trade caravans, the residents of the city south have less to offer now than they used to,’ Froderic had told Soleil. ‘Lethari claims he’s made things better…’
The nomads have made things better, Bastille knew. Froderic’s lies and misdirection extended even to his superiors. “Have you not noticed that the heathens have summoned us to appear outside the gates less and less often lately?” she asked. “If they were truly in need, they would still be tossing their messages over the parapets every other day like they used to, notes written on scraps of dingy cloth, tied to stones with lengths of old shoelace. Yet I’ve not seen a new stone in the south yard in weeks.”
Belgard scratched his chin. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Brother Froderic was mistaken at the time. I’m sure he’s learned the better of it by now.”
I’m sure Froderic has had trouble learning anything since he lost his head. “Send out your best hagglers with our finest wares—good sturdy cloth from the spinnery, purified water from our little garden spring, and every inch of copper wire that hasn’t been stripped from these walls. Do this at the same time and on the same day each week. You’ll attract regulars that way. And if you’re feeling extra generous, why not have Brother Jaquar and his artificers chisel a bit of the gold filigree off the sanctuary ceiling and melt it down? With Sister Gallica’s permission, of course. As far as the Most High are concerned, tell them you see this as an opportunity to increase our stores before the heathens squander all the good fortune the nomads have brought them. Times being what they are… we all must make sacrifices, kind Brother.”
Brother Belgard’s face reddened again, but she suspected it was more out of embarrassment than anger this time. “Why would you presume to tell me how to perform my duties, Sister?”
Because you aren’t any good at it, and I fear you’ll be doing it for quite a long time. “I haven’t told you a thing. I’ve merely offered a set of suggestions which you may take or leave at your discretion. Heed my advice or don’t; ultimately, that remains up to you.”
He sobered. “You believe this will solve our problems?”
“No, Brother. I believe it will solve yours. Now if you’ll excuse me, it is quite late.” As Bastille shut the door behind her, she couldn’t help feeling she’d made an ally. Not a friend; friendship would’ve required mutual fondness. Whether or not Belgard liked her, surely he could appreciate her insight for what it was. So long as he believes this was a favor done out of kindness, he can think of me whatever he wants.
The tombs were not Bastille’s least favorite place in the basilica. She cared far less for the refectory, where one was expected to be polite and sociable with porridge dribbling down her chin. Eating should be done in solitude, she had always believed. Of all the things that did not lend themselves to conversation, shoving things into one’s mouth seemed the most obvious. Then again, Bastille would’ve preferred to do most things in solitude, given the chance.
The Mothers were hard at work among the tombs when she arrived. Sawdust covered the floor of the woodworking room, where Mothers Thayer and Vicault were planing wood for a new coffin. Bastille passed the Mothers’ dormitory, a single large room full of simple canvas cots adorned with chicken-feather pillows and woolen blankets. Much like the Fathers, the Mothers kept to themselves. Yet things were always happening in the Hall of Ancients, even as the dead rested peacefully.
Heat from the crematorium’s fires bombarded Sister Bastille as she passed, carrying with it the smell of seared flesh. The long hallway beyond was lined with cavities where the Order’s dead were laid to rest. Toward the far end were entombed clergymen and women belonging to whatever church inhabited the basilica before the Order came to be.
Bastille thought of the corpse she’d discovered in the hollow behind the wall of the east tower, rotting and thick with flies. She had suspected the body was Brother Froderic’s, but it had vanished before she could check to make certain. That was why she was here now; to search for evidence that could prove Froderic was dead. The crypts had been inundated with dead in the days following the attack, which would make searching for him now all the harder.
The Order held a strict policy for dealing with corpses. Those of the heathens, the initiates, and any disgraced acolytes were sent to Bastille’s preparation rooms to be sacrificed, while the bodies of priests and Cypriests went to the Hall of Ancients to be honored in death. This was always the case, regardless of the cause of death. Since Froderic’s corpse hadn’t passed through her preparation rooms, Bastille was sure it had to be down here somewhere. The she-mutant may have disposed of Froderic’s body elsewhere, but Bastille did not think her capable of debasing Froderic’s memory in that way.
Mother Mauger was the head recordkeeper in the Hall of Ancients. Bastille found her at a podium in the embalming room, making note of Father Huron’s condition and the day and time of his planned retirement. Huron lay on one of the stainless steel embalming tables as Mothers Pelletier and Jolivet fussed over him, taking measurements and checking fluid levels in their machinery.
“My apologies if I am interrupting, kind Mother,” said Bastille. “I’ll come back another time, if it suits you.”
Mauger turned to stare at her with dull blue eyes. The Cypriests’ movements tended to be so rigid and deliberate it gave one the impression they were guided like robots by some unseen programming. In truth, the NewNexus did provoke a sort of reconditioning in its hosts, whose behavior became so stark and emotionless it often unsettled those not used to it. Sister Bastille was used to it, but it disturbed her all the same.
“Now is a good time,” Mauger said, putting her pen down.
“Good. Would you mind if we spoke alone?”
�
��Not at all, Sister.”
When she turned to exit the room, Bastille noted the tight gray bun into which Mother Mauger’s hair was tied. A detailed woman, both in life and afterward, she decided.
Cypriests were unlikely to do much gossiping, but anyone with ears was too great a risk for Sister Bastille. The crematorium ovens hissed and chugged in the distance as they strolled the hallway. Bastille made it a point to head toward the far end, where there was a smaller chance of running into anybody.
“I would’ve asked to see your record books first,” Bastille began, “but I know how sharp a memory you have.”
Mauger made no effort to acknowledge the compliment.
“I’m wondering if you might recall whether anyone was brought to you to be buried in the weeks before that most unfortunate attack,” Bastille said.
“Not that I recall, Sister.”
“For a period of, say, two weeks prior… you’re saying no one was buried in all that time?”
“Deaths in our Order are uncommon, except under uncommon circumstances.”
“Such as the attack…”
“Yes, Sister.”
“And you are the recordkeeper for both the north graveyard and the Hall of Ancients, isn’t that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Are the records kept separately, or all in one place?”
“In one place. You may see the record book, if you wish.”
“I would indeed.”
Mother Mauger led her back to the embalming room and handed over the book in which she’d been writing earlier. Bastille flipped back a few pages and scanned until she found the final listings before the attack. The last person to have been buried was Mother Gotreaux, nearly seven months prior. Bastille remembered excising the old woman’s NewKidneys and Nexus under Brother Soleil’s supervision. It had been the last operation she’d led before winning his approval to perform them on her own.
When she looked further down the page to the timeframe after the attack, the listings became more interesting. She saw plenty of names she knew: Father Rook, Brother Padrig, Sister Aubertin. But there was one name she had never heard before: a Brother called Thiers. The cause of death was listed as exsanguination. The date was the same as the attack. His remains were to have been cremated.
“Who is this, Mother Mauger?” Bastille asked, tapping the name with a finger.
“Brother Thiers, Sister.”
“Yes, I can read. Who was Brother Thiers? What was his position and rank in the Order?”
“I do not know, Sister.”
“Take me to the tomb where his remains are kept.”
“Certainly, Sister.” Mauger referenced the alphanumeric value shown in that row, then closed the record book and slid it onto a shelf beside the podium.
The plot was located at the far end of the Hall of Ancients. This is out of the way, isn’t it? Bastille thought with amusement. A wall of stone squares marked the columbarium, where niches housed the cremated remains of dozens of priests in simple clay urns. A niche at waist level with a gray marble faceplate bore the name THIERS in pristine carved lettering. Bastille knelt to examine it. I’ve been here for years, living with these other priests, learning their names and occupations. Never in all my time have I encountered a Brother by the name of Thiers. She was by no means prone to making friends, but Sister Bastille knew who was who in the basilica. “Open it, kind Mother, if you please,” she said, standing.
Mother Mauger delivered her blue-eyed stare. “The niche is sealed, Sister.”
“Unseal it. I want to see what’s inside.” Bastille didn’t know what she expected to find. It wasn’t as if a corpse with a severed head would’ve fit inside the tiny cubbyhole.
“The plate is bolted into place, Sister.”
“Then fetch me a boltdriver and I’ll open it myself.”
The Cypriestess did as she was bid. Bastille loosened the bolts and slid the faceplate away to reveal the cavity behind. Inside stood a large clay urn, jarlike, plain and unmarked. When Bastille reached for it, she saw Mother Mauger’s hand twitch at her side.
The urn was heavy. The clay was dry and smooth, cold to the touch. She brought it out, then lifted the lid and looked inside. Gray ash filled its confines, rising nearly to the brim. The niche was otherwise empty. Ashes prove nothing, she thought, defeated. But when she adjusted her grip to put it down again, she felt a groove along the urn’s back side.
Setting it into the niche, she spun the container around for a look. There was an engraving of simple letters etched into the surface of the clay. FRODERIC II, it read. A line beneath the name displayed the years of Brother Froderic’s birth and death.
Bastille made a silent exclamation. I’ve found you out, Gallica. That’s one piece of the puzzle put into place. The question now, is… why? Why carry on the farce, claiming in front of the whole priesthood that Froderic still lives? And stranger still, why appoint him to the Most High? She spun the urn around to hide the engraving. Then she bolted on the faceplate and handed Mother Mauger the boltdriver. “Thank you, kind Mother. This visit has been most… educational.”
The Cypriestess gave her a shallow bow. “Certainly, Sister.”
Bastille left the Hall of Ancients brooding over what to do next. It was getting late, and she could feel a headache coming on, so perhaps it was best to retire for the night and think things through. She would need to tread carefully if she were going to investigate this matter further. Gallica was already suspicious; she’d made that clear in no uncertain terms.
There was one priest who knew Gallica’s affairs better than any other: Brother Lambret, her second-in-command in the basilica’s general oversight. If anyone was likely the she-mutant’s creature, it was Lambret. He might be of some use, if I can manage to glean anything from him without raising his hackles.
By the time Bastille emerged from the tombs, her head was pounding. Fumes from the crematorium, she suspected. As she ascended the stairs, she realized it was something else. Patterns of vivid color splashed the wide main hallway and danced over the stonework.
She went out to the cloister and stood beneath the arcade walkway, staring up into a midnight sky robed in violet and green. Her head began to quake and spin, and soon she had to steady herself on the pillar beside her. The starwinds, she thought. The fates are moving.
Out of the corner of her eye, Bastille saw the shadow of someone coming down the hallway between the cloister and the scriptorium. She slid behind the pillar. At this time of night, nothing good could come of being seen outside her bedchamber. When the figure rounded the corner, she leaned out for a better look.
It was Brother Belgard, leaving the east tower with his leatherbound register tucked under one arm. He looked tired, but he turned down the hall heading away from the dormitories, not toward them. He’s going to the storerooms, she ascertained. Perhaps she could manage a look at the Order’s reserves without him noticing.
She crept back inside and strode after him, keeping her distance and minding her every footfall. She thought he might turn around when he reached the storeroom door, so she slid against the wall and waited. She heard his keys jingle, heard the lock click, and peeked out to see him step inside. If I don’t learn to stop following people around, she thought, sooner or later it’s going to get me in trouble.
A short span of hallway was all that remained between Bastille and a look into the Order’s most critical supply depot. The storerooms held everything from jars of preserves and pickled foodstuffs to candles to sacks of grain, rice, beans, and flour. The kitchen pantries held their own stocks of common everyday items, but this was where things were kept for the long term. It was, in a sense, a measure of the basilica’s surplus; everything it produced above what was needed.
Bastille lifted her hood as she slid against the near wall and inched toward the door, ready to run at the first sight of Brother Belgard. The first few shelves came into view. Empty, but for a layer of dust and the odd jar or pla
stic container. The more she saw, the worse it got. The larger picture of the storeroom was one she’d never forget.
Brother Belgard stood balancing an open book across one hand while holding a candle in the other. He was surrounded by shelves as bare and dusty as old bones. It was such a horrifying sight it made Bastille forget about trying not to be noticed.
“We have nothing left,” she breathed.
Belgard whirled, dropping the book and nearly losing his candle as well. “Who—what are you doing?”
“Have the Most High seen this?” Bastille asked, without removing her hood to reveal herself.
“Sister Bastille? What are you still doing awake?”
“I was in the cloister, admiring the starwinds, when I saw you walk by,” she said. “Are you the only one who knows about this?”
“Everyone knows we’re running low. Or else, they will soon. You said so yourself.”
“This is less than low, Brother Belgard. This is nothing.”
“We’ll replenish.”
“Will we? Are you certain of that? How many people know how low our stores truly are, kind Brother? Who has seen this room with their own eyes?”
Belgard took a gulp and glanced at the leatherbound register on the floor.
“May I see that?” Bastille asked.
Belgard stooped and snatched it up, gripping it across his chest protectively.
Our Order seems to find its record books the perfect place to record fallacies. “You use this register when you report to the Most High,” she said, only half-asking.
He nodded.
“If I were to wager a guess that the numbers in your book are different than the numbers I see before me, would I be far off?”
Belgard shook his head.
“So the only people who have seen what’s really in this room are the people standing in it.”
After a moment of hesitation, Belgard nodded.
Bastille was smiling inside. Not only did she have an ally; she had a means for making him stay that way. “It’s a bold thing you’ve done to protect Brother Froderic while he’s away,” she said.
