by Sarah Read
“Inquisitor.”
“Don Rodrigo.”
There was a beat of silence as the two men, one arrayed in all the shifting colours of silk and gold, the other in grey and black, met and matched themselves, one against the other.
Don Rodrigo de Vega nodded. “I was delayed. I apologise.”
“Not at all,” said Alonso, after the briefest of pauses.
“You have met my nephew, Lope.”
“I have had the honour.”
“He is... concerned that the fruits of his investigation have been discounted.”
“Not discounted, but rather put aside. For the time being.”
“Good. His mother would never let me hear the end of it otherwise. You know how it is.”
“No.”
A beat of silence again.
“What do you want?”
“Information.”
“I have said all I have to say.”
The inquisitor gave no reply but stood in silence, a grey, black ghost of death.
“Am I under interdict?”
“No.”
“Then I have nothing to say.”
Alonso de Salazar Frias reached into his robe and brought out a text slate. “Xavier Güell. Juliet Pomés Leiz. Ignasi Sola-Morales.”
“Who are they?”
“Pere Calders. Ildefenso Falcones. Joan Marti de Gualba.”
“Who are these people?”
“They are the names of some of the men, women, and children executed by sentence of the auto da fé instituted by your nephew, Lope de Vega—the illegal auto da fé instituted by your nephew. The blood guilt lies on your family, Don Rodrigo. If I so wish, that news will be communicated to the relatives of those who died. However great and powerful a family the de Vegas are, vendettas by so many will leave you... diminished.”
Don Rodrigo de Vega stood entirely still. The only movement was at his temple, where a vein pulsed visibly.
“What sort of information...?”
¤
Don Rodrigo rang and the major domo appeared.
“Escort Inquisitor Alonso de Salazar Frias to his horse,” he said.
“It’s a donkey,” said Alonso. “A mule, to be precise.”
“You ride a mule.”
Alonso took the words as a question. “I do. Thank you for your cooperation, Don Rodrigo.” He bowed, and silently followed the major domo out.
From the window, Don Rodrigo watched the inquisitor mount his mule.
“This is the man you so admired, Lope.”
A door, hidden behind veils of silk, slid open. Lope de Vega took his place beside his uncle.
“He was my inspiration,” said Lope.
“He is alone.” Don Rodrigo turned to Lope. “The peons of La Mancha have reason to hate the Church since it took their land. What would they do if they were to hear a solitary cleric, riding a mule, was crossing the poor remnants of their land?”
Lope de Vega slowly nodded, but there were tears in his eyes.
¤
The inquisitor rode towards distant Valladolid. The town appeared to float in the afternoon heat, its walls dissolving into a shifting play of shadow and light. Dust floated up from the mule’s weary hooves. The twitch of its ears against the persistent flies was the only quick movement the animal made. Alonso brushed a fly from his face, glad that the mule attracted most of the insects’ attention. He looked around with heat-dulled senses at the shabby hovels and poor, infertile land that was squeezed in between the well-tended ranges of the haciendas. From the gloom of the hovels, blank eyes tracked the rider down the road.
The mule plodded on. Alonso glanced up at the copper disc bronzing the sky, then hurriedly looked down. Mortal eyes could not endure that radiance for long. Instead, he unfurled the umbrella—a gift of Don Rodrigo’s major domo—and held it so that it shaded the mule. The beast appeared not to notice and Alonso was tempted to take the shade himself, but he had a cowl and the animal was doing the work: the mule kept the shade.
Dancing through the heat haze, Alonso saw tall shapes with wide spreading arms that he might have thought giants if the outward journey had not revealed them as windmills, tattered and derelict. Their sails were reduced to bleached rags, hanging limply in the turgid air. Clustered around the windmills was the remains of a village. The inquisitor had seen countless such places in his travels: waystations between perdition and the void. Looking at the vacant faces that stared blankly at him as he rode into the village, the inquisitor suddenly felt a chill, as if a stone dropped into the village well would fall forever, without end.
Despite the heat, Alonso shivered.
And slowly, dully, the peons of the village flowed towards the mule and its perspiring rider. It was only when a line had formed across the road that Alonso shook off the lassitude that had dimmed his mind, but even then his thoughts were slow and dull. The mule plodded on towards the waiting line of men.
Alonso fumbled the stylus from his sleeve and jabbed it into his hand. Pain flared, but distantly, like far-off fireworks.
The mule walked steadily towards the men.
The inquisitor bit down on his tongue. Hard. This time, the pain blew the dullness from his mind. Alonso spat frothy blood into the dust and reined back the mule. He was in trouble.
The men closed around him, forming a crescent that would soon become a circle and have him completely trapped. Their faces were as dull as his mind had been, but a heavy, hopeless hatred lay behind their eyes and in their drooping faces.
“I am Alonso de Salazar Frias, Inquisitor of the Suprema, bearing an edict of grace...” The words were slowly flattened by the weight of the sun and the unvarying advance of the peons. Normally, the mere mention of the Inquisition was sufficient to provoke fear, but these men did not even blink. Alonso circled the mule, riding it up towards the thinnest places in the line, but the men did not flinch. The circle had closed and the men were now standing firmly shoulder to shoulder.
“Let me pass!” shouted Alonso. “I am a servant of the Church!” But the dull eyes of the peons did not change, nor their advance slow. In a minute, they would be upon him, and he would be borne down beneath a slow tide of flesh.
The inquisitor scanned the countryside, looking for aid, but the land lay heavy, still and empty beneath the sun.
There was nothing else for it. Alonso de Salazar Frias sighed. He disliked treating men as pawns, in the manner of the evil he fought, but sometimes he had no choice. Closing his eyes, he whispered the litany of the saints and brought his mind to stillness. Then he sent it forth, skipping lightly from one blank mental surface to another: the minds of the peons were as featureless as their expressions, but under it all were carefully stoked fires of long burning resentment.
The inquisitor disappeared. The men blinked and their tread faltered. Glances flicked this way and that, searching for Alonso. But one of their number headed slowly away towards the distant town. As he went, a chill wind brought an unexpected, if brief, easing of the heat. The ruined windmills floated above the shifting ghostlight. As he went, he flickered into the shape and robes of Alonso de Salazar Frias, leading his mule. Turning, the inquisitor traced a blessing over the now distant group of peons. The benediction made, Alonso mounted the mule and dug his heels into its flanks. In response, the animal speeded from an amble to a stroll. Alonso made to goad it again, then smiled, shook his head and patted the beast’s sweaty flanks.
“In the Lord’s good time,” he said, and settled down to telling his beads as the mule plodded steadily towards Valladolid.
Alonso did not see a deeper shadow in the gloom of the last windmill he passed. The shadow pressed itself back into the darkness, as silent as the afternoon hush, but eyes followed the inquisitor. When Alonso had disappeared completely into the heat haze, a figure emerged, led by its extravagant profile.
Lope de Vega stepped into the daylight and stared after the inquisitor.
“Witchcraft,” he said.
¤
>
“Thank you for answering my summons and coming to this Council of the Families.” Alonso de Salazar Frias stood in the centre of the Assembly Room of the Municipale. The throne-like seats of the First Families of Terrassa edged the room, each turned in upon the space at the centre of the room. Sitting on each was the don of the family, each man a direct descendant of the first settlers of Terrassa. The dons were surrounded by their heirs, and kin, and their retainers, all in ceremonial dress. The shifting colours of their silk and gold finery flickered in the light of the one hundred and forty-four torches that lined the hall—one for each clan.
Jaume de Casellas, Don de Valladolid, rose from his seat. Alonso saw that the chair of the Casellas family was set far from the places of honour at the head of the Assembly. But from the book of the First Families, the inquisitor had learned that the Don de Valladolid was elected by the Council. The Casellas were a minor clan, and thus acceptable to powerful families like the Vegas. But though Jaume, as don, first took the floor, he knew when to give way to the foremost of Terrassa.
“I call on Don Rodrigo de Vega to speak for the Council of Families to Alonso de Salazar Frias, Inquisitor of the Suprema.” The small man sat down again smartly.
Don Rodrigo rose languidly to his feet. The chair of the Vega family was at the head of the Assembly, and before speaking he looked at each of the dons in turn, acknowledging their almost imperceptible obeisances or accepting their impassive claim to equal status with the Vegas. Then, Don Rodrigo turned to the inquisitor.
“We could hardly fail to heed the summons of an inquisitor of the Suprema. But if duty was our spur, zeal is our goad: zeal for the Lord and fervour for our holy Faith.” Rodrigo de Vega stepped down from his dais and gestured to encompass the families of Valladolid and Terrassa. “And that faith has been tested, and reforged, in the purifying fires of the auto da fé, Inquisitor. There is scarce a family here that has not been touched in some way, for we have learned to our cost that witchcraft reaches its foul fingers into even the oldest and most respected families. ‘But if thine eye offends thee, pluck it out.’” Don Rodrigo stopped in the centre of the Assembly, beside the inquisitor.
“An infection left unchecked will spread through the body politic. We chose to cut it out, summoning the accused before the auto da fé and burning the witch from our midst; acting swiftly lest the disease consume us all. For in these days, a request for help to the Suprema may go for weeks, months, years even, before it is answered. We are, however, most grateful for your arrival here, Inquisitor Salazar, so soon after our pleas were dispatched to the Suprema. It is most gratifying to know that our simple and humble world is in the mind of the Suprema. We trust that our zeal for the Faith will be recognised, and your holy seal be placed upon our efforts to defend the purity of the Faith.”
Don Rodrigo paused. He did not look at the inquisitor. However, the slight turn of his shoulders indicated that he awaited a response from Alonso. But the inquisitor stood without movement or speech at the centre of the Assembly, amid the Council of Families, and his hood hid his face, and his hands were folded over his chest.
Don Rodrigo held out his hand and a servant scurried to him, carrying a letter.
“From Duke Girolamo d’Estense, Alcalde: To the Council of Families of Valladolid and Terrassa, fraternal greetings. I salute your fervour for the Lord and your resolve in the defence of the Faith. You are assured of our support in all that you do to preserve the Autoridad.” Don Rodrigo handed the letter back and took in the silent, watching families with a single, sweeping glance.
“So, we have heard from the Lords Temporal. Now, let us hear from the Lords Spiritual.” And he bowed to Alonso de Salazar Frias and made his way back to his seat at the head of the Council of Families.
The inquisitor was again alone at the centre of the Assembly. He noted the retainers standing in silence behind each family’s seat, armed with all the arcane dueling weapons of a Recension World. Alonso himself was unarmed. He had debated when he dressed, briefly but intensely, whether to conceal weapons and shields beneath his robes. But in the end, he came unarmed. He could not stand alone against the Council of Families, for while only non-projectile weapons were allowed on a Recension World, he knew full well that these families would have ready access to most of the weapons of the Autoridad. Better to go without weapons, conscious of his vulnerability but therefore doubly alert, than to rely on a flourished gun to get him out of danger.
The inquisitor lowered his hood. No one moved. But from outside, Alonso heard the low murmur of the mob. The militia held them back for the moment, but they could as easily be unleashed as corralled.
“Burn the witches!”
The chant started, quiet and low, growling in the square outside the Municipale.
“Burn them!”
One or two of the minor families began to shift in their seats. Retainers fingered sword hilts and checked daggers.
“Burn them!”
The chant grew louder. Even some of the middle-ranking families were looking nervous, although Jaume de Casellas continued to stare vacuously towards the head of the Assembly.
“Burn them!”
The torches began to flicker. The cool of the evening—once the sun set, the temperature plummeted on this dry world—penetrated into the high-ceilinged hall.
Alonso de Salazar Frias walked out of the Assembly without a word. For a moment, none of the families moved. Then Jaume de Casellas looked at Don Rodrigo, who recovered from his open-mouthed surprise to jump to his feet.
“Follow him!”
The inquisitor led them to the gates of the Municipale. A row of militia stood across the doors, but beyond swirled the mob, as inchoate as the sea.
Seeing the inquisitor standing on the steps of the Municipale, the First Families hanging behind him, the crowd fell into a watchful, wakeful silence.
But still the inquisitor held his peace. The chant now stilled, he walked down the steps, through the line of militia and into the crowd. The people broke around him, pushing backwards that they might not touch the holy but dangerous hem of his gown. A channel formed after Alonso along which Don Rodrigo and the other families, after a brief hesitation, followed.
The inquisitor ascended the steps to the judgement seat of the auto da fé. The crowd moaned in animal anticipation, and some began to take up once again the chant, but the inquisitor held up his hand for silence.
With their retainers making liberal use of the hilts—and sometimes the points—of blades, the First Families took their rightful place below the judgement seat.
Alonso felt his skin tighten. It was cold. Power, subtle but strong, was being exerted. He could see one or two of the faces in the crowd taking on the dull, blank demeanour of the peons who had tried to kill him.
Time to speak.
Alonso withdrew the edict of grace from its place by his heart, kissed it, and set it upon his chest for all to see. It was marked with the sigil of the Suprema, terrible and awful and magnificent.
“I hereby decree the auto da fé of Valladolid, held these past twenty-eight days, entirely null and utterly void, and declare all those executed, amputated, and imprisoned by the said auto da fé to be free of the taint of sin and innocent in the eyes of the Church.”
Alonso rose from the judgement seat and pushed it from the dais. The chair slowly toppled backwards and crashed down upon the cobbles, splintering into a thousand pieces.
The First Families, as one creature, surged forwards. The mob moaned, and some cried out, although whether in guilt or grief was not clear.
Don Rodrigo de Vega pushed his way past the other families and ran up on to the dais. With his hand upon the hilt of his rapier, he faced the inquisitor.
“Are you accusing us of murder?”
Alonso did not turn to him, but continued looking out into the crowd, as if searching for someone.
“Yes,” he said.
The silence, sudden and terrible, was broken by another man asce
nding to stand beside Don Rodrigo. Lope de Vega stared at the inquisitor. Alonso ignored him.
“But there was—is—witchcraft here!” Lope yelled. “I found it, I burned it out, I cleansed us with fire.”
Alonso finally turned to Lope. “You are correct in this: there is witchcraft in Valladolid. But there was no sin in the wretches you executed.”
“They were guilty! Guilty of witchcraft. Guilty!” Lope shouted.
“No.”
From the margins of the crowd, growing slowly, came the first cries and shouts and calls for blood.
Don Rodrigo stepped forward and his rapier whispered from its scabbard. The crowd gasped as its point pressed into the soft flesh of the inquisitor’s neck. A bead of blood blossomed on his pale skin, but Alonso did not move.
“Nephew, I think perhaps you should tell the Council what you saw on the road to Valladolid this morning.”
Lope pointed at the inquisitor.
“He’s the witch. With these eyes, I saw him disappear. He’s the witch. Burn him.”
The crowd whispered and watched, but from the surrounding First Families, Jaume de Casellas appeared, as if ejected. He glanced behind, as if to see who had pushed, then climbed reluctantly up on to the dais.
“What do you want?” snarled Don Rodrigo.
The Don de Valladolid glanced at the watching Families.
“Come, come, Don Rodrigo, we are all getting overwrought. Can you not just put down the sword and then I’m sure we can discuss this like civilized men.”
“He’s the witch,” said Lope.
“Please, Don Rodrigo, consider what you are doing—an inquisitor of the Suprema. You do realise you are acting alone, without any authority from the Council of Families?” Jaume turned a little as he spoke, to ensure his words were heard by all.
