by Kat Ross
“I take it no one else saw them?”
“No.”
“That’s rather damning,” she said.
He scowled. “I thought you were here to help.”
“I am. How much farther?”
Spassov halted, peering down at her. His eyes were close-set like a shaved bear. And like ursus horribilis with a new cub, he radiated fierce protectiveness. “Are you his friend, Kasia? Alyosha has very few.”
“I want to be,” she answered honestly.
He glared for another moment, then subsided into a fragile grumpiness. “I am afraid for him. He isn’t right in his head.”
“I know.”
The priest looked away. “All this has pushed him to the edge. I think not even his Marks will save him if he falls. But he’s not mad. Just . . . worn out.”
“Why can’t he sleep?”
“I don’t know. He has scars from the war. I try not to pry.”
She laid a hand on his sleeve. “I swear on my life that I mean him no harm, Father. Now, are we close? If I’m gone too long, people will come looking for me. I don’t want to bring you any more trouble.”
He nodded. “Only a little way.”
Sure enough, the next turning brought the faint glow of torchlight ahead. Two priests sat at a folding table, quietly chanting the afternoon liturgy over meditation beads. They greeted Spassov with friendly nods. He introduced her as Fra Bryce’s little sister. Kasia wiped away tears as she begged for a brief visit and the guards agreed on the condition Spassov accompany her to the cell.
It was halfway down the next corridor. A blue Ward glowed above the cell. Alexei sat against the wall, head tipped back. He threw a hand up at the torch.
“Alyosha?” Spassov said gently. “I brought a visitor.”
Kasia stepped forward. He regarded her with profound wariness.
And a hint of fear.
“I’m quite real,” she said, curling her gloved fingers around the bars.
Alexei clambered to his feet. A line of dried blood ran from ear to jaw. Her mouth tightened in anger. They hadn’t even given him medical treatment.
“Kasia?” His voice was raw.
“Yes, I’m here.”
Alexei drew closer, until only the bars stood between them. “I’m so sorry,” he began.
“None of that,” she said briskly. “I don’t understand all of it, but Cardinal Falke sits at the heart of this case like a spider in his web. You got in his way so he spun a straightjacket for you. He thinks he’s beaten us both.”
A flash of mordant humor crossed his face. “I rather think he has, Kasia.”
“Not yet.” Her voice lowered. “You kept my secrets and I’ll keep yours. Tell me one thing. Are you innocent of this charge?”
Alexei held her gaze. There was no guile in it, just profound weariness. “Yes.”
She found his fingers through the bars and held them tight. “I believe you.”
He squeezed her fingers.
“I’m not what they say.” She searched his face. “I know right from wrong.”
“I know, Kasia.”
Spassov cleared his throat. “I must go.” Kasia withdrew her hand. “Keep the faith, Fra Bryce.”
His smile was a flash of white in the darkness. “I haven’t lost it yet. Just don’t tell me to get some sleep.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The parchment curled black at the edges and then to white ash. Cardinal Falke tossed it into the fireplace and lit the accompanying map of the ley lines with a beeswax taper. That, too, was given to the flames.
“There will be nothing to tie us to Ferran Massot now,” he said heavily. “Saints forgive us.”
“Are you forgetting Kasia Novak?” Archbishop Kireyev replied. “And Bryce?”
“Novak was a courier. The cylinders were intact when Sor Foy delivered them. I’m certain the girl never read the messages.” He cast a sharp glance at the gnome-like man squinting up at him through a pair of round spectacles. “She is not to be harmed.”
“But—”
“Does the Curia kill innocent women now?” Falke’s voice cracked like a whip. “Is that what we have become?”
Kireyev bowed his head. “Of course not, Your Eminence. I only point out—”
“Consider Domina Novak to be under my personal protection.” He frowned. “Come, you’ve used her skills for years. Are you so eager to dispose of her?”
“I defer to your judgment on the matter,” Kireyev muttered. “Bryce poses a greater problem. He has defied my authority at every turn. I cannot be sure how much he knows.”
“Bryce is locked up.”
“There are holes in the case.”
“Then plug them,” Falke growled. “Have your men finished searching Massot’s residence?”
“Every scrap of paper related to his research went into the furnaces.” He shifted uneasily, lips pursing in distaste. “We found journals, Your Eminence. And . . . other items. Massot was a sexual deviant. We never should have permitted Malach to Mark him in the first place. The doctor was weak in both mind and soul. It corrupted him, just as I predicted it would.”
Falke stared into the flames. “We had no choice. He couldn’t study the abyssal ley without touching it himself and only a Nightmark can grant that power.” A pine knot popped in a shower of cinders. “Oto Valek was supposed to be monitoring him. You promised me the orderly was a reliable informant, Casimir! How could he possibly have missed such blatant misbehavior?”
“Valek will be disposed of.” Kireyev began to clean his spectacles with a square of blue silk. “After he performs a last service to the Curia. What can I say? The doctor was paranoid, as you well know.” He scowled. “It is a scandal for the Institute, and what have we gained? The experiments were a failure and we only averted disaster by the skin of our teeth. If Malach had seen the letter—”
“I will deal with Malach,” Falke said. “He’s my responsibility.”
“Are you certain he will come?”
A dry chuckle. “He pretends obedience and thinks I don’t know he’s plotting behind my back. I expressly forbade him from contacting Massot for any reason and yet, lo and behold, the two of them conspired to . . . .” He trailed off, his face setting into grim lines.
Kireyev swallowed hard.
It was the elephant in the room, what that burned letter to Malach said. Neither man had believed it at first, yet the evidence at Massot’s house supported the claim beyond any shadow of a doubt. As did the medical records of Patient 9. The Marks, as the doctor had informed his master, did not lie. If the truth got out, there would be panic in the streets—and that would be the least of it.
“Valek comes on his shift at six,” Kireyev said. “We need him if the operation is to run smoothly. It will all be over in a few hours.”
“After everything he has done for the Church . . . I only wish there was another way.” Falke sighed. “But we do what we must, Casimir. If Massot figured out who he is, others will too. There is no safe place for a lunatic who wields that kind of power. If the mages gain control of him, we will face a Third Dark Age. Another descent into the abyss, this time with no hope of salvation.”
Kireyev used the square of silk to blot sweat from his brow. “I know, Your Eminence.”
“Humanity has come so far.” He closed his gloved fist. “Enlightenment is nearly within our grasp. We cannot throw it all away for the sake of one man, even if he is a living saint. And do not forget, there is the matter of who put him there in the first place.” For a moment, he looked every hour of his age. “I am afraid, Casimir. There is a cancer in the Via Sancta, one that has been quietly growing in the dark for years, yet its source remains nameless.”
“At least we know it cannot be the nihilim. The Pontifex’s Palace in Jalghuth is even more heavily Warded than ours. Which means it must be one of Lezarius’s inner circle. What do the records say about how he came to the Institute?”
“Nothing. They are gone. Massot must have destr
oyed them.”
“What about the nihilim?”
“I told you, I’ll deal with him.”
“Does he know?”
“Think, Casimir. He is aware of the letter’s existence, but he wouldn’t have gone after the Novak woman if he knew what it said. He would have gone straight to the Institute to claim his prize. He must realize by now that the message has fallen into our hands, so he will come to us. And he will never leave the Arx again.”
“And Fra Bryce?”
“The Interfectorem is your problem. Just ensure he doesn’t interfere.”
Kireyev nodded slowly—and a little regretfully—but Falke didn’t notice because he was gazing into the hearth, where the last of the letters curled to ash.
Chapter Twenty-Four
For eleven years, since the day she turned sixteen, Nikola Thorn had been a char at the Arx. She polished the gold chalices, shook the dust from the carpets, lit the hearths and scrubbed the stone floors. Acres and acres of stone floors. At twenty-seven, she had chronic bursitis in her knees. The joints of her hands ached when it rained, and it rained more often than not.
But she was a faithful worker, always arriving on time and rarely taking sick days. The sisterhood of chars was close. All were Unmarked and they looked out for each other. They also knew more about what went on inside the Arx than anyone except Archbishop Kireyev. If the Pontifex’s spymaster had any inkling that such a network existed under his very nose, he would have used it himself, but he thought of the women in gray with vague pity when he thought of them at all.
Nikola went about her rounds, greeting the other chars with a smile that felt false though no one seemed to notice. When it came time for her break, she joined a woman named Marysa in the kitchen that served the Arx’s central dining hall. Kettles and skillets hung from hooks near the great wood-burning ovens where the cooks baked bread and stirred soup in enormous black cauldrons. Nikola usually found the kitchen to be a cozy, fragrant place, but tonight the smell of boiled cabbage and yeasty dough made her stomach roil.
Marysa had married an Unmarked man and they had three young children. He stayed home to care for them while Marysa worked. Nikola had always pitied her. She couldn’t imagine dealing with a bunch of screaming brats when she got home from a shift. If Nikola finished work before the cafés closed, she’d go out for a quiet drink, then home to a hot bath. On her day off, she mostly slept. It was hard to reset your clock when you worked nights. But mothers didn’t get days off, not ever. Marysa didn’t complain, in fact she seemed happy enough, which was a mystery. Now Nikola felt an unwanted kinship.
They made mint tea and sat down at the scarred trestle table.
“How much does it hurt to give birth?” she asked. “Like, one to ten?”
“Twelve, but you don’t really remember it later.” Marysa smiled. “Why? You met someone special?”
“No.” Twelve? “Just wondering.”
“Well, you’re still young. There’s time.”
Marysa opened a paper bag and offered her an almond cookie. “Homemade,” she said.
Nikola took a tiny nibble. “Delicious,” she said.
When Marysa looked away, she shoved the rest into her pocket. They drank tea and traded idle talk. With some subtle prompting, she learned that Sister Chernov had ordered fresh linens for three guest rooms in the east wing of the Castel Saint Agathe. Her rounds included mopping the floors in the chapel so after her break ended she went directly to the hulking headquarters of the vestals.
Another cup of tea with a friend and Nikola knew which rooms they occupied—top floor, east wing. Malach hadn’t forbidden her from speaking to the women, not that Nikola gave a damn if he had. She wasn’t his Marked to be ordered about. If he failed, all her plans would be for naught. Worse, she would be burdened with his child. The thought was intolerable.
Bells in the highest tower chimed the hour. She was supposed to meet Malach, but she wanted to be sure her information was correct. Nikola knocked at the door of the first guest room. There was no answer so she tried the second.
“Come in,” a low female voice called.
She opened the door but stayed at the threshold. “Pardon, Domina, Sister Chernov sent me. Do you have everything you need?”
A woman stood at the window. She was of medium height with an enviable figure. Long black hair fell loose over her shoulders. She wore bright red lipstick and matching nail polish and looked like she ought to be out dancing at a music hall, not confined to this stark stone chamber of the Arx. Dark kohl lined her eyes, but it was the directness of her gaze Nikola found most interesting. She knew from the chars that Tessaria Foy was nearly eighty, and Natalya Anderle had curly blonde hair and brown skin, so this must be Kasia Novak.
“Thank you, Domina, but I lack for nothing,” she said.
No one ever called Nikola by the polite form of address. The other chars used her first name and the bosses called her Thorn.
“Supper is in an hour.” Nikola inclined her head. “If you think of anything, just find a woman in gray. She will assist you.” She started to close the door.
“Wait,” Kasia said.
Nikola paused.
“Won’t you come in for a minute? If you’re not too busy.”
That was unexpected. Nikola stepped into the chamber. A trunk stood in the corner, the contents carelessly strewn about. Shoes and clothes and cosmetics and a deck of cards. It looked rather like her own flat.
“Have you ever met the Pontifex?” Kasia asked.
“I’ve seen her, but we’ve never spoken.”
“What is she like? Surely you must hear things. Is she open-minded?”
Nikola wondered what Kasia was after. “The Reverend Mother is wise and gracious. She embodies all we aspire to.”
“Of course.” Her gaze searched Nikola’s face as if she thought they might know each other from somewhere, though Nikola could swear they had never met before that moment. “How do they treat you here?”
“Quite well, Domina.”
“And they pay you a salary?”
“Naturally. Slavery is outlawed in the Via Sancta. The Meliora condemns it as one of the vilest crimes against humanity.”
“But you weren’t given much of a choice, were you?”
Nikola lifted her chin. What business was it of this woman? “I’m afraid I must attend to other duties, Domina.” Her tone was polite but chilly.
“Forgive me. I have no right to question you.” The words seemed heartfelt. “It’s not just idle curiosity,” Kasia continued quietly. “I . . . I have a sister who is Unmarked. She ran away a long time ago, but I think of her often and hope she is well.”
Nikola’s heart beat faster. Despite Malach’s bravado, she doubted he would walk out of the Arx in one piece. Most likely he would die before he ever reached this room. But if she could befriend this woman and discover the information he sought . . . .
“There is nothing to forgive,” Nikola said with a warm smile. “What is your sister’s name? Ash Court is a neighborly place. If she lives there, I might know of her.”
“Natalya.”
What a coincidence, Nikola thought dryly. She’s lying, but why?
“Hmmm. I do know a Natalya, but she is old enough to be your grandmother.”
“Never mind. Tell me one more thing, Domina. How would one gain an audience with the Reverend Mother?”
“Well, it is not a simple matter. She has aides who manage her schedule. It’s booked up quite far in advance.” Nikola adjusted her scarf, pretending to think. “I assume this is an urgent matter.”
Kasia nodded.
“One that demands perfect discretion.”
Another nod.
Nikola glanced at the open door, then furtively closed it. “If you give me some idea of what you need to speak to her about, I could convey the message myself. I lay her fire in the mornings and pour her tea.”
“I thought you’d never spoken to her.”
Kasia
Novak looked like a socialite with her hair and makeup and fashionable clothes, but there was a cold canniness lurking beneath the surface that Nikola recognized. She resolved to watch her step.
“I haven’t. Not beyond a ‘Good morning, Reverend Mother.’ That sort of thing. But I see her every day.” Nikola hesitated. “I don’t mean to offend . . . .”
“Go on.”
“If you’re in some sort of difficulty, I’m certain the Reverend Mother would help you. She is kind and generous. A light among us.”
Nikola had never met the Pontifex and despised her as much as all the rest of them, but Kasia seemed to believe it.
“What is your name, Domina?”
“Nikola Thorn.”
“I am grateful for your help, Domina Thorn. It is not myself I fear for, but someone else.”
“A man?”
“A priest. It’s not . . . what you think. He’s a friend. But he’s in deep trouble.”
Nikola nodded sympathetically.
“I’m the only one who can help him. But if I’m wrong, I’ll lose a great deal.” Kasia gave a throaty laugh. “I’m usually the one people confess their secrets to. You must think me a fool.”
“Not in the least. We all face difficult decisions. It helps to have someone to talk to.” She paused. “When we don’t trust our own judgment.”
“Yes, that’s it precisely.” Kasia thought for a moment. “I suppose you’ll see the Pontifex in the morning?”
Tomorrow would be too late. “Actually, I’m taking her some tea in an hour.”
Kasia bit her lip. A look of reckless desperation crossed her face. “Tell her—”
She cut off at a peremptory knock on the door. It opened and an older woman entered the room. She wore a simple dark blue cassock but had the haughty demeanor of an archbishop—or even a cardinal. She stared at Nikola without expression for a long moment. “Pardon me,” she said to Kasia, her accent precise and cultured. “I didn’t know you were occupied.”
“Not at all,” Kasia said. “She just came to change the linens but I explained that it wasn’t necessary.”
Nikola curtsied before the hostile gaze. The woman was Raven-Marked but wore no ring. A plain vestal, then.
