by Hilari Bell
Arisa’s expression brightened. “I wonder if there’s a weapon to go with it?”
“We don’t need an ax or a mace now,” Weasel pointed out. “We need a ladder.”
“I was hoping for a knife.”
“I’ve got a knife,” said Weasel.
“A real knife.”
“What would you do with a knife?” Weasel asked.
Something in the girl’s smile made the fine hairs on his neck prickle.
There were no weapons to go with the shield, but buried under a pile of old backdrops, painted with rooms and forests and streets, Weasel did find a ladder, almost seven feet tall.
“It looks old,” said Arisa dubiously. “Old and rotten.”
“We’ll test it before we put it on top of our stack,” Weasel assured her.
It creaked unnervingly but held his weight, and when Arisa followed, it held hers, too. They wrestled it up on top of their pile of crates and chests and eyed the result warily, but there was no other choice.
The whole stack wobbled as Weasel scaled the ladder, even with Arisa holding its base, and at the top he had to dig out his lock picks to open the small, square hatch.
The small, square passage it opened onto was dark, smelling of wet stone and mold. Weasel scrambled in and held the top of the ladder as Arisa climbed up to join him. He’d never seen a broader grin.
“We’re not out yet,” he warned her. “It could just be a ventilation shaft. Or an old laundry chute.”
“So? If it’s an air vent it will lead to the outside, and maybe we can climb down from there. And if it’s a laundry chute it will lead to the old laundry, and we can escape that way. Let’s go!”
It wasn’t a laundry chute, and if it was an air vent it was the oddest Weasel had ever encountered. They had to crawl on their hands and knees for almost twenty feet, and then the square passage changed to a tall slot, so narrow they had to turn sideways in places.
“I’ll bet we’re inside one of the walls,” Arisa murmured.
According to Weasel’s burglar friends, secret passages were the stuff of bad novels, but soon Weasel had to admit that it looked like one of the ancient kings had been a bad novel fan. After a time the passage changed again, the ceiling dropping so low that they had to walk bent over, though they didn’t have to crawl. They climbed down a steep flight of stairs, followed by another narrow tunnel that soon widened into one so large they could walk upright, side by side.
This passage smelled more of damp earth than stone and mold, and even Weasel wasn’t surprised when they came to another door.
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “A simple bolt. On our side.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arisa said. “If it’s an escape passage they’d need to be able to get out, and keep people outside from coming in. A bolt makes perfect sense.”
She pulled it back and pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.
“I told you,” said Weasel, with morose satisfaction. “It couldn’t be that easy.”
Arisa glared and shoved the door with all her strength. It opened about two inches.
It took both of them, pushing repeatedly, to force back the soil that had accumulated on the doorsill and tear the trailing vines, but soon the gap was big enough to step through.
“Outside!” Arisa whispered. “We’ve escaped!”
“Not entirely,” said Weasel, looking at the back of the three huge marble statues that stood before them. “I recognize these.”
“It’s one of the old kings, with the sword and shield beside him.” Arisa struggled through the underbrush behind the statue of a man who stood at the king’s left, holding his sword. “They’re in almost every town square.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Weasel picked up a stone and wedged the door open, just a few inches. You never knew when you’d need a bolt-hole, and the vines that trailed down the cliff behind the statues still concealed the door.
“We’ve got statues like this in the old parts of the city, as well,” said Weasel. Was she a country girl after all? “But this set is inside the royal park, which is attached to the palace.”
Arisa’s mouth drooped in dismay. “Then we’re still on the palace grounds?”
“Yes, but the good news is that there are half a dozen places you can climb over those walls—this was one of my favorite places to elude … well, anyone. Well be out of here and into the city alleys in ten minutes. Or less. And then …”
“What will you do now?” Arisa asked curiously. “I’m going home, though I don’t have to hurry. My mother won’t expect me for another week. Will you try to reach the conspirators? If they had contacts in the army, maybe the army could break your justice out. Or maybe the conspirators could get him a lawyer?”
“A lawyer can’t help him,” said Weasel. “Not against Regent Pettibone. And the lord commander of the army is Regent Pettibone’s man.”
There had been some discussion of that in the letters Weasel copied, and Justice Holis had once hinted that the title of lord commander and actual command of the army were two different things. But hinting was all he’d done, and despite his jests about identifiable handwriting, Holis had written and copied the most important letters himself. Weasel didn’t even know the identity of all the conspirators—but most of them were now in Pettibone’s dungeon, so that hardly mattered.
“The conspiracy’s finished,” he went on aloud. “Even the prince couldn’t—or at least he wouldn’t—stand up to Pettibone. I need another kind of help. And food, and a safe place to stay for the rest of the night. And the justice would want me to pass on a warning, if there’s still time.
“I’m going to church.”
CHAPTER 4
The proper worship of any god, or holiness in day-to-day life.
It was the scent that Weasel remembered, as he opened the big church door; wet wool, stale sweat, and the big pot of soup that was set to simmering every evening in the kitchen behind the One God’s shrine. When all the house owners in the neighborhood were locking up for the night, the church of the One God opened its doors, so that those who had no home might sleep safe, and those who hadn’t eaten might be fed.
Weasel had taken advantage of both services in the lean time after his mother died, before he mastered his new trade. The benches were uncomfortable, but the soup wasn’t bad.
He’d gone halfway down the aisle before he realized that Arisa had stopped at the threshold, peering warily inside. Definitely a country girl, despite the lack of accent. But she’d helped him break out of the cell, so he owed her a safe place to spend the night at least. He went back to the door, but she spoke before he could.
“There are people in there. Snoring. I can hear them.”
“They’re just poor,” Weasel told her tartly. “It’s not contagious.” He took her arm and pulled her into the church.
Her gaze darted about, half-curious, half-nervous.
“They don’t have anywhere else to sleep dry,” Weasel continued. “Or some just need a meal.”
“But how can the priest give his talk with all these people living here?”
“They don’t live here. They’ll be wakened at dawn and be gone an hour after. That’s part of the deal. Then, except on Mansday when the priest gives his talk, the children come in for school. The ones too young to work, at least. Some stop coming when they’re nine years old.”
“That’s still too young to work,” said Arisa. “Did you go to school here?” She was walking so quietly her shoes hardly made a sound on the stone floor, though Weasel knew from past experience that it would take a shout or a crash to rouse most of the sleepers.
“Are you a … a follower?” she added.
Weasel had been in churches of the One God, for various purposes, throughout his life. But for some reason her question brought his earliest memories of the church flooding back; cold stone walls, hard benches, and an old man talking on and on while his mother hissed at him to sit still!
“I did g
o to school,” he admitted. “Not in this church, but in one a lot like it. It was because I was literate that Justice Holis made me his clerk. As for being a follower … The One God didn’t save either of my parents, so I don’t figure I owe him.”
Arisa nodded and didn’t look shocked, the way most people did when Weasel told them that. Justice Holis hadn’t been shocked either.
“The priest here, Father Adan, is a friend of the justice’s,” Weasel went on, leading her behind the shrine where the door to the kitchen was concealed.
“A friend?” Arisa asked. “Or …”
“Yes,” Weasel told her. “The condordance didn’t just need a majority of the nobles, it needed the support of the church leaders as well. In fact, according to the old law, they were the ones who had to call for the meeting.”
“How odd,” said Arisa softly.
Weasel stirred the soup before taking two bowls from the stack beside the hearth. “What’s odd?”
“If that law’s as old as you say, the church leaders would have been … Never mind. It doesn’t matter, and I’m hungry.”
Arisa held the bowls while he ladled in soup. It was beef and barley tonight, and it wasn’t bad, Weasel decided, chewing the first mouthful. Though as hungry as he was, he hardly cared what it tasted like. He ate half the bowl standing beside the hearth. Then he added another ladleful and kept eating while he climbed the stair that led to Father Adan’s private quarters.
He was prepared to wake the priest. Warning him that most of his coconspirators had been arrested was more important than sleep. But when Weasel and Arisa reached the landing at the top of the stairs, light glowed beneath all three doors, and muffled sounds of movement came from the study.
“He already knows,” said Arisa softly.
Weasel nodded and knocked. The sounds ceased. Weasel waited for several seconds before he realized that a knock on the door a few hours before dawn might alarm Father Adan right now.
“It’s me, Weasel,” he called. “Justice Holis’ clerk.”
The door opened and Father Adan appeared, blinking behind his spectacles. He was young for a priest, with brown hair already receding from his forehead. But the owlish eyes gazed at Weasel with sincere joy. “I heard that you were arrested with him.”
He gestured for Weasel to enter, then stopped, staring at Arisa.
“I was, but we broke out of the palace. Not the justice,” Weasel added swiftly, as incredulous delight dawned on the priest’s face. “Just me and Arisa here.”
Father Adan sighed. “I suppose that was too much to hope for. Come in, Mistress Arisa. You clearly know everything already.”
Weasel stared at the chaotic study. He’d been here before, carrying messages from the justice. The room was always untidy, but now it looked like a whirlwind had struck it. “You’re packing.”
“And burning every paper that so much as mentions another man’s name, whether he was involved with us or not,” Father Adan confirmed. “There’s a hunt shaping up. I’d hate to involve some innocent person, whose only crime was to have business with me or with the church. The regent’s been concentrating on the nobles, but according to the old law the church had to be a part of the concordance. He’ll be coming for us soon.”
“But you’re not a church leader,” said Weasel. “They probably don’t know about you.”
“They may not know about me yet,” said Father Adan. “But I can’t depend on that to last. I’ve an old friend in … another city. I think it’s time to pay him a visit.”
Weasel saw that instead of the archaic, dark robes he usually wore, Father Adan was dressed in brown britches and a plain waistcoat. The matching brown coat was thrown over a chair. With his thick spectacles, he looked like an accountant.
“A braver man might stay,” the priest went on. “Might join his friends, stand up for his convictions. But—”
“That would be stupid,” said Weasel bluntly.
“That’s the conclusion I reached,” Father Adan admitted. “That, or perhaps I’m not the stuff of which martyrs are made.”
Weasel snorted. “Justice Holis doesn’t need a martyr. He needs help.”
Father Adan sat down on one of the spindly chairs beside his desk. “If there’s anything I can do, then I’ll do it,” he promised. His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles showed white, but he meant it. Weasel remembered why he liked this priest.
“Nothing dangerous,” he said. “I just need information. I know you hear a lot from the priests in other cities.”
“We all do,” said Father Adan. “It’s part of our duty, to notify each other of matters that might affect the church. The One God is the god of man, and all human affairs are in his keeping.”
“Yes, I know,” said Weasel impatiently. “But does that include … illegal affairs?”
Father Adan eyed him cautiously. “It can,” he admitted. “What are you fishing for?”
Weasel drew a breath. “I went to the prince,” he said. The priest’s eyes widened. “I asked him to pardon Justice Holis, but you, you conspirators, were right. He won’t stand against Pettibone.”
“Hence the conspiracy,” said Father Adan. “Weasel, will you come with me? The last thing Justice Holis would want is to take you down with him.”
“If any other justice had caught me,” said Weasel, “I’d be in prison right now. Maybe worse. And if the prince can’t stand up to Pettibone, I don’t think any justice or lawyer is going to do it. We can’t save Justice Holis legally, so we have to take him out of the law’s hands. It’s time for swords, not law books.”
“You mean a jailbreak? You’re mad! It would take an army!”
“Exactly,” said Weasel. “An army that isn’t afraid to take on Pettibone—or at least, has nothing to lose by it. An army I know isn’t secretly loyal to the regent. I need to find the Falcon.”
Arisa made a choking sound, but when Weasel looked at her she was staring at her hands. It had been a pretty outrageous statement, but he needed something outrageous to rescue Justice Holis.
Father Adan frowned. “The Falcon? Weasel, the Falcon’s a road bandit. A criminal. A real criminal.”
“In the country,” said Arisa, “they say that the Falcon is a rebel, not a bandit. A rebel against Regent Pettibone, just like you.”
“Against the prince, too,” said the priest. “If he’s not a bandit, why does he steal from carters and common coach passengers? And sometimes kill people who’re just trying to defend their possessions?”
Arisa shrugged.
“If he’ll fight Pettibone,” said Weasel, “if he’ll break Justice Holis out of jail, I don’t care what else he does.”
“Justice Holis would,” said Father Adan.
Weasel winced. “Fine. But he has to be alive to lecture me about it. Father Adan, do you know how I can find the Falcon?”
“No,” said Father Adan. “If I did know, I’d have to think long and hard about whether or not to tell you. But the only way I know to find the Falcon is to be robbed by him or his men—an experience not everyone survives. The Falcon isn’t the only bandit out there either, and some of the others are even more ruthless. It’s not a plan I recommend.”
Weasel didn’t like the idea of being robbed himself. “There has to be another way.”
“Weasel …” For the first time, the priest hesitated.
“What?”
“I know you’re not much of a believer, and ordinarily I wouldn’t suggest this to you, but … You weren’t out on the streets two hours ago, were you? I know you weren’t, or you’d have seen them.”
“Them? What are you talking about?”
Father Adan’s face took on a strange expression, exultant and embarrassed at the same time.
“About two hours ago, three shooting stars crossed the entire sky. Very slowly, all moving in the same direction. It was like … It was as if the One God dragged the tips of three fingers across the sky, leaving trails of light behind them.”
“I believe these shooting stars are a portent,” Father Adan said firmly. “A message from the One God. I may not be the stuff of martyrs, but I recognize a portent when I see one.”
“Father,” said Weasel gently, “shooting stars aren’t stars. They’re big pieces of iron, mixed with some kind of gas that ignites when it touches air. One of the university men traveled all over the world, finding places where they’d crashed and bits of the remains. He wrote a paper about it.”
“I know,” said Father Adan. “In fact, I’ve read that paper. But meteors take random paths, they don’t follow each other like geese in formation. For three of them to take exactly the same course, at the same moment, lasting the same amount of time … Do you know how high the odds against that must be?”
“Astronomical?”
Arisa snickered, and even Father Adan smiled.
“I don’t suppose it would do me any good to tell you that I believe the One God is taking a hand in these events, that you should leave saving Holis to him and come away with me?”
Weasel’s expression must have answered for him, for the priest sighed.
“Very well. There is one thing I can tell you about the Falcon. It’s just a rumor, mind, and it might be dangerous, too, but it’s probably less dangerous than setting yourself up to be robbed by armed bandits.”
“What is it?”
Father Adan grimaced. “It’s rumored that the Falcon has connections, dealings some say, with the Hidden.”
“The Hidden?” Weasel asked incredulously. “They steal small children and sacrifice them to the old gods, and you think they’re less dangerous than bandits?”
