The Consuls of the Vicariate

by Brian Kittrell

  ← Chapter Five | Chapter Seven →

  Dealing with the Enemy

  Brice sat quietly in his room, the lock Caleb had given him in hand. The decorations, the inlays, and the mechanism all captivated Brice unlike anything—or anyone, for that matter—he had ever encountered. Each time he slipped the probe into the keyhole, he closed his eyes and envisioned the little world within, the blocks, levers, and shafts. Opening the lock and claiming victory over its intricacies would be proof that he could open any door or chest which barred their progress.

  He was beyond frustration, but he remembered the feeling well. In Reven’s Landing, Brice had had run-ins with many looms that had given him fits, and he had been tempered like steel to be patient and resolved when machinery malfunctioned. The lock he held, though, was not in need of repair. In fact, his goal was to make the lock work against its purpose and give up that which it protected.

  “Still playing with that?” Caleb asked.

  Brice blinked. With his attention fixed on the lock, he hadn’t noticed Caleb enter the room. “Trying to figure it out.”

  “It’ll have to wait. It’s time for the meeting.”

  “Already?” Brice turned to see only darkness through the window. “Sorry, I hadn’t noticed the time passing.”

  “Quite all right. Made any progress?” Caleb opened the door and led the way into the street.

  “A little. Halfway to getting it open, I should think.”

  Caleb smiled. “Then you’re close to the surprise.”

  “Surprise? What surprise?”

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, now would it?” Caleb chuckled. “You’ll get there. For now, keep your mind on the task at hand.”

  Brice nodded. “Where do you want me once we get there?”

  “There’s a well in the courtyard. You shouldn’t have a problem hearing us from there.” He passed Brice a mug. “Lie behind it with this in hand and hide yourself from view of either of the walkways leading to the tower. If anyone happens upon you, act like a drunkard and make your escape.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Caleb displayed a dagger at his hip.

  “I hope you’re good with it.”

  “I am.”

  Brice likened the sight of the bell tower to the lighthouses of Sorbia and Cael’Bril. The stone structure seemed old compared to the rest of the city, but the well-kept lawn indicated that the building had not lost its utility over the years.

  Caleb stopped at the intersection of two roads opposite the courtyard. “You go. We can’t be seen together.”

  Brice nodded, then hoisted the mug in the air. Once he reached the iron gate of the courtyard, he swaggered across the lawn and belted out a tavern tune with a drunken slant. Having taken a winding, indirect path to the well, he collapsed next to it and closed his eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard footsteps on the cobbled path. Not long after that, he heard another set of steps.

  “Who are you?”

  Brice recognized Forane’s voice.

  “Caleb. I’m all that’s left of us. Lester’s dead.”

  “And who is that?” Forane asked. “Why do you speak in such a familiar way, young man? As if I should know this Lester of whom you speak?”

  “Don’t toy with me, madam. You think Lester could’ve accomplished the task on his own?”

  “Maybe, and maybe not.” She held a long pause. “If you were involved with Lester, how much did I pay him?”

  “Pay him?” Caleb asked sharply. “You mean to tell me that bastard was paid? He told us it was for the good of the order!”

  If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve believed that one, Brice mused, trying to keep his mouth from bending into a smile.

  “Keep your voice down, fool,” Forane whispered. “You would see us discovered?”

  “I apologize, madam, but I hate being used. Good thing he’s dead, or I would’ve killed him myself.”

  “How did he die, exactly?”

  “He went alone—against my advice, I might add—to take care of… our friend. He crawled back to our spot with a slash in his belly. It would seem the vicar has better protection than we thought.”

  Forane, seemingly without any regard for Lester’s death, continued, “Matters are further complicated. The man has returned to the consulship, and we are in peril of losing control.”

  “Surely not, madam, for you are—”

  “Don’t. I have no time for flattery or games, young man.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Nothing as of yet. I have something else in mind to take care of him. If we are unsuccessful, I will contact you again—here, two nights hence.”

  “Might I ask what you intend to do?”

  “It’s none of your concern. Worry only for yourself. Should we succeed tomorrow night, I shall pay you the other half of the money owed to Lester. If not, it will be up to you to earn it.”

  Brice heard the flap of a cloak, then footsteps growing distant. He peeked over the stone wall of the well to see Caleb exiting the courtyard. He waited until he thought it was safe to leave, then walked back to the Shimmering Dawn.

  Forane’s plotting deep and wide. We must warn them somehow. Reaching the last street before the headquarters, Brice took one last look around to see if he’d been followed, then he entered the building and heard Caleb relaying the essential details of his conversation with Forane to Piers.

  “She didn’t say where or how?” Piers asked.

  Caleb shrugged. “No, she wouldn’t reveal it. I can only assume it will be wherever Vicar Jurgen is tomorrow night.”

  “We should expect any possibility.” Piers ran his fingers through his hair. “With Lester’s failure, they could have anything in mind and may have little regard for subtlety or stealth.”

  Caleb folded his arms. “How do you think they will come for him?”

  “When dealing with the theocracy, there are a number of possibilities. Anything, Caleb. Anything at all.”

  “Should we shadow Jurgen?” Brice asked. “You know, to keep an eye on him?”

  “No, impossible,” Piers said. “Forane has seen Caleb’s face, and she would likely see you two in the district. If they were to attack, you two couldn’t be seen helping Jurgen. No, we must contact Laedron and Marac; his safety will be theirs to handle.”

  Brice took a seat across from Piers. “And I thought breaking into houses was dangerous.”

  “We’re not out of the fire yet, not by any means.” Piers took a quill and scrawled a message on a piece of parchment. “I shall prepare a missive for our friends. Brice, you will take it to them.”

  “Where?”

  Piers rolled the scroll, wrapped it with a red ribbon, and dripped some wax for a seal. “To the militia headquarters. The red brick building near the Ancient Quarter.”

  “That’s what that was?” Brice took the missive. “Right. I’ll be back.”

  “Good. Hurry back, but you must make sure you aren’t followed. The stakes are high in this game. The same goes for you, Caleb. I shall devise how we will handle the vicar.”

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  ← Chapter Six | Chapter Eight →

  An Army in the Holy Land

  After waking and dressing, Valyrie found Jurgen seated at the dining table.

  “Good morning,” Jurgen said, turning to her when she came into the kitchen. “I thought you’d never wake.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “You jest, Vicar. I’ve risen well before the rest of Azura.”

  “Come, have some of this. I fetched it from the mid-market just before dawn.”

  She thought fondly of the mid-market, a series of stands just outside the gate of the Ancient Quarter where one could acquire the freshest produce and dairy if the buyer came early enough. “Smells wonderful.”

  “One of my favorite recipes,” Jurgen said, then put the plate before an empty seat and offere
d her the chair. “Apple bellies.”

  “What’s an apple belly?”

  “A dash of cinnamon and sugar, a spoonful of butter, all wrapped up in sweet dough and twisted at the end. Oh, and the slices of peeled apple at the center, I can’t forget to mention those.”

  “But why the name?”

  Jurgen smiled, lifting his pastry by the twists at either end. “See how it dips low, like the belly of a pig?”

  Nodding, she took a bite and savored the rich flavors. The taste reminded her of the apple cobblers she’d enjoyed on numerous occasions at the inn, but more buttery.

  Having already finished most of his by the time she had started, Jurgen waited until the last bite passed her lips. “You seem troubled.”

  “My dreams trouble me. I can think of nothing but the dagger which pierced my father’s heart.”

  “The nightmares will fade in time. I have them myself, but I keep faith.”

  She dipped her head, swallowing the last bit of her breakfast. “Do you think we’ll make any headway today?”

  Jurgen frowned. “You say that as if we’ve done nothing. Blocking Andolis from becoming Protector was an important step.”

  Andolis. Tristan IV. “He still rules. Though he does not possess the title, he remains in power, right?”

  “Indeed, but the powers of a Protector are sweeping and total. As Grand Vicar, he suffers some restrictions. Only through small steps can we hope to make a change, and the first was yesterday. Today, we continue along the path. We can do nothing more.”

  She leaned back to take the pressure off her full stomach. “I fear for the future, near and far away. If we don’t do something soon, the war will claim more and more.”

  “I know, and I share your concern. Come now to the consulship; we’ll make no progress sitting here.” He slipped on his ceremonial garb and led the way out the door.

  * * *

  She sat at Jurgen’s side, and again the drums roared throughout the chamber as the Grand Vicar made his entrance. Valyrie glanced at him, and then she stared at the onyx ring on his finger. The pulsing, shimmering glow didn’t come from the sun or the candles and torches ringing the auditorium. The stone itself glowed with an unnatural light. How can that be?

  “Brothers and sisters,” Tristan said, then waited until the assembly grew silent. “I must apologize for my hasty exit yesterday. The stress of how best to serve our most holy church has weighed heavily on my mind of late, and the path is unclear at times. I spent the night in my private chapel praying that Azura would guide my hand, and I believe I have come to a solution.

  “Vicar Jurgen is correct. Anointing a Protector will do us little good in these times, and we have yet to exhaust all of our options.”

  Valyrie did her best to keep her face from telling her feelings of confusion and doubt at his words.

  Tristan opened his hand to Jurgen. “You were right, my brother. Rise and be recognized.”

  Jurgen stood, then bowed to the other vicars. A light applause echoed throughout the room. Valyrie could tell by the looks on the vicars’ faces that they were just as bewildered as she.

  Tristan turned to the assembly. “Azura has shown us through her actions that even in the most dire of times, we must demonstrate our restraint and faith. Consuls, I yield to Vicar Forane, who has news for us from Balfan.”

  “Thank you, Grand Vicar.” Forane emerged from the sea of consuls, and Valyrie was able to match a face to the voice she had heard the previous day. “It has come to my attention by way of a messenger that we are now under siege. The Arcanist ships we refitted for battle were unable to break the blockade, and Sorbian troops…” She lowered her head for a moment. “Forgive me, for this news may be difficult to bear. Soldiers from Sorbia have landed and surrounded Balfan in the night.”

  Valyrie felt fear tainting the once-serene halls of the Vicariate. The vicars gasped and muttered profanities. Even Jurgen, who she had thought unshakable, seemed to be uneasy.

  “Those are the facts,” Forane continued. “The city isn’t expected to resist for long since they haven’t any walls or a force capable of repelling the enemy.”

  “Master Greathis,” Tristan said, sitting on the throne. “Pray tell, how long we can expect to hold out?”

  When she heard heavy footsteps, Valyrie turned to view Master Greathis. He was adorned in Falacoran armor and spoke with the throaty, dense accent of that country. “A few months, I should say.” Greathis walked to the center of the chamber just below the Grand Vicar’s perch. “The militia can keep them out for some time, but we won’t last forever, and we won’t force out or dislodge a professional army.”

  Tristan quickly rose to his feet. “Then, we must raise an army of our own.”

  “We cannot,” Jurgen said, standing. “The procurement of soldiers is not the church’s business.”

  “You would see us destroyed, our hallowed ground trampled underfoot of the invaders, our great cities lying wasted?” Tristan asked. “The enemy has now come to our gates, Jurgen, and we must do something about it!”

  Jurgen cleared his throat. “Can we not negotiate? Make a compromise with the Sorbians?”

  “Negotiate with the aggressor?” Tristan asked. “Why would they speak with us? The way I see it, their plan goes quite well for them. They have declared war and invaded us, and they are making progress.”

  Valyrie recalled Laedron’s story of the attack at the Sorbian mage academy. The Grand Vicar lies, or he does not know the truth. Gustav… Andolis must know the actions of his own brother.

  “And who would we recruit for our fledgling army, Your Holiness?”

  “Well, people from the city. They would have no problem coming to the defense of their homes.”

  Jurgen walked from behind his desk. “Yes, the young ones of our own capital. The untrained children, strangers to battle and war. They would be slaughtered outright, and that would be an atrocity, one committed by us, not our enemies.”

  “Then what else is there, Vicar Jurgen? I’m all ears for a solution.”

  Jurgen rubbed his chin, standing in the center of the hundred or more people in the consulship, all of them silent and still. Valyrie likened him to a defenseless animal in a cage surrounded by hungry hunters preparing to make a kill.

  “Tell them, Your Grace,” Valyrie said, standing. “Tell them of what we discussed earlier of your service as an emissary.” She tried her best to conceal the lie with a concerned tone.

  Jurgen eyed her for a moment. “Yes. I had discussed the option with my clerk earlier.”

  “Well, tell us more of this great plan,” Tristan said.

  “Your Holiness, if it pleases the consulship, I could go to Balfan and negotiate with the Sorbian commander to get them to leave our lands peacefully.”

  Tristan stood and shook his head. “The only thing they would accept is surrender. We both know that.”

  “Perhaps, but perhaps not. A nation such as Sorbia does not rise to its status by being barbaric and unreasonable to compromise.” Jurgen clasped his hands. “I feel such a course would be better than sacrificing our inexperienced young men to the jaws of war.”

  “It can’t be permitted,” Forane said, walking onto the main floor across from Jurgen. “Azura stood on the battlefield against insurmountable odds once, and now we must follow her example. Send the defilers to the hells where they belong!”

  “Forane and I are in agreement.” Tristan returned to the throne. “I request a vote on the question, Chamberlain. All those who would be in favor of raising an army to defend our most holy church, respond ‘yes.’ Those who would oppose, and see us destroyed outright, respond ‘no.’”

  Jurgen sighed, then returned to his desk. “We, of course, will respond with ‘no,’” he whispered to Valyrie.

  The chamberlains collected the votes with the same efficiency as the previous day. The room became silent while the chief chamberlain counted and tallied the votes.

  Eventually, the chamberlain
stood. “By the grace of Azura, we congregate to do her will in all things. It is the will of the consuls that an army not be raised.”

  Unlike with the last vote, the chamber remained silent with the announcement.

  Tristan stood with disappointment riddling his face. “Thus is the will of the consuls. Tell me, Chamberlain, the count in favor and of those against.”

  “Half of the assembly plus one dissent the question, Your Holiness,” the man said, then took his seat.

  “It would seem half of you—plus one—would see our church destroyed. To see it annihilated by the invaders, to see our precious cities in upheaval and our people enslaved. Very well.” Tristan put his hands on the iron rail and leaned toward the consuls. “If this body is unable to do what is needed, I shall act on my own. I shall raise the army we so desperately need.”

  Jurgen shot out of his chair. “It cannot be! You have no authority to override this body’s will, Andolis.” His words were received with shouts from the gallery expressing disdain for Tristan.

  “Enough!” the Grand Vicar shouted. “If none of you have the strength to see this done, I must preserve us.”

  “You have no power to act on our behalf, especially not when we’ve said no.” Jurgen pointed at Tristan. “You have no right.”

  “I am Tristan IV, Grand Vicar of the Heraldan church. Sworn to uphold and defend the church in all matters, chosen to lead us in accordance with Azura’s teachings and to protect that legacy. Do not presume to tell me what is and what is not in my power, Vicar Jurgen. I shall see us through the night and into the morning, with or without your help.” Tristan turned and walked toward the exit.

  Jurgen called out, “Wait, Your Holiness.”

  Tristan paused, then turned to look at Jurgen. “What need have you for me?”

  “A compromise.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Instead of an army, we could increase the size of the militia. That would serve our goals, would it not? Provide better protection for the city when the siege comes?”