Orma fingered the coins in the offering bowl on the altar, letting the copper pieces dribble through his fingers like water. “Then they have gravely miscalculated,” he said. “While they sat around waiting for the knights to grow old, a younger generation has been raised on peaceful ideals, scholarship, and cooperation.”
“What if the Ardmagar were dead? If whoever took his place wanted war? Would this cabal need you and your agemates? Couldn’t they fight a war without you, especially if there were no dracomachia against them?”
Orma rattled coins in his hand and did not answer.
“Would the younger generation stand against the elder, if it came to it?” I pressed on, remembering the two saarantrai in the dining hall. I was being hard on him, but this was a crucial point. “Can the current batch of scholars and diplomats even fight?”
He recoiled as if he’d heard that accusation before. “Forgive me,” I said, “but if war is brewing in the hearts of the old generals, your generation may have some painful decisions to make.”
“Generation against generation? Dragon against dragon? Sounds treasonous to me,” said a grating voice behind me. I turned to see Basind mounting the steps of the shrine. “What are you doing here, Orma? Not offering devotions to St. Clare, surely?”
“Waiting for you,” said Orma lightly. “I only wonder that it took you so long.”
“Your wench led me here,” said Basind greasily. If he was hoping to get a reaction from Orma, he was disappointed. Orma’s face remained completely empty. “I could report you,” said the newskin. “You’re having trysts in roadside shrines.”
“Do,” said Orma, waving a dismissive hand. “Be off. Scamper and report.”
Basind looked uncertain how to respond to this bravado. He pushed his limp hair out of his eyes and sniffed. “I’m charged with seeing you report to the surgeons in time.”
“I gathered that,” said Orma. “But you will recall that my niece—yes, my niece, daughter of my nameless sister—wished to bid me farewell, and wished to do so in private. She is half human, after all, and it pains her that I will not recognize her when I see her again. If you would but give us a few more minutes—”
“I do not intend to take my eyes off you again.” Basind bugged his eyes to underscore the point.
Orma shrugged, looking resigned. “If you can endure human blubbering, you have a stronger stomach than most.”
My uncle shot me a sharp look, and for once we were in perfect understanding. I began to wail noisily, giving it everything I had. I howled like a banshee, like a gale down the mountainside. I bawled like a colicky baby. I expected Basind to stubbornly stand his ground—this seemed a very silly way to drive him off—but he recoiled in revulsion, saying, “I will stand guard just outside.”
“As you wish,” said my uncle. He watched until Basind had turned his back to us, then closed in, speaking directly into my ear: “Continue to wail, as long as you can.”
I looked at him, sorrowing in earnest, unable to say any words of parting because I had to expend all my breath on loud crying. Without a backward glance, Orma ducked behind the altar and out of sight. There must have been a crypt under the shrine, as sometimes happened; the crypt would surely connect with the great warren of tunnels under the city.
I wailed, for real and for true, staring down St. Clare, beating on the hem of her robe with my fist until I was hoarse and coughing. Basind glanced back, then looked again, startled. I could not let him work out where Orma had gone. I looked past Basind, over his shoulder, pretending to see my uncle’s face in the shuttered alley windows behind him, and I cried, “Orma! Run!”
Basind whirled, perplexed at how Orma could have reached the alley without his seeing. I rushed him, shoving him into a pile of firewood, causing a little avalanche of logs. I took off running as fast as I could. He recovered far more quickly than anticipated, his flat-footed gait echoing behind me, his silver bell ringing out a warning.
I wasn’t much of a runner; each step seemed to drive a spike into my knees, and the hem of my gown, sodden with dirty snow, clung to my ankles, nearly tripping me. I ducked left and jogged right, sliding on bloody ice behind a butcher’s. I climbed a ladder onto someone’s work shed, hoisted it up after myself, and used it to climb down the other side. That struck me as clever until I saw Basind’s hands grip the far edge of the roof. He was strong enough to pull himself up; that was unexpected. I jumped off the ladder and crash-landed, causing a ruckus among the chickens in someone’s little yard. I sprinted through the gate into yet another alley. I turned north, then north again, making for the crowded river road. Surely the crowd would stop Basind—not just slow him down, but restrain him. No Goreddi could stand idly by while a saarantras chased one of their own.
Basind’s breath rasped close by my neck; his hand hit my swinging satchel but couldn’t quite get a grip on it. I burst out of the alley into bright sunlight. People scattered before me, crying out in surprise. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but what I saw then stopped me short. I heard Basind stop running at almost the same moment, arrested by exactly the same sight—we’d emerged in the middle of a cluster of men in black-feathered caps: the Sons of St. Ogdo.
I did the first thing that occurred to me. I pointed at Basind and cried: “He’s trying to hurt me!”
It’s possible he was; I’m certain he looked guilty, chasing me out of an alley like that; and I knew, in my heart, that I was maligning one dragon to save another. But I should never have said such a thing, not to the Sons of St. Ogdo, who needed little enough excuse to harm a saar.
They mobbed him, slamming him up against the side of a building, and I knew I had started something far larger than I had intended. There must have been forty Sons in this cluster alone; their numbers were growing daily, with the Ardmagar here.
My eyes met those of one of the Sons, and with a shock, I recognized the Earl of Apsig.
He was disguised—homespun clothes, a cobbler’s apron, a squashed hat holding his black feather—but nothing could alter those arrogant blue eyes. He’d surely seen me when I dashed from the alley; he tried to conceal himself now, ducking behind his fellows, averting his face while they chanted St. Ogdo’s Malediction Against the Worm: Eye of Heaven, seek out the saar. Let him not lurk among us, but reveal him in his unholiness. His soulless inhumanity flies like a banner before the discerning eyes of the righteous. We will cleanse the world of him!
I looked around desperately for the Guard and spotted them approaching from the north, riding toward us in a unit.
They were escorting the royal coaches around to the Golden Plays. The Sons noticed them too, and called to each other. Leaving just two men to restrain Basind, who hung limply between them, the rest spread across the roadway, just the way they’d been standing when I came crashing out of the alley.
The Sons had been waiting here for the Ardmagar’s coach.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Josef duck up the alley. He had the right idea. I’d been in riots before; the novelty wore off quickly.
I shouldered my way through the crowd and reached the alley just as the Guard reached the front line of Sons. Shouts rang out behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. I couldn’t. I fled the fighting as fast as my cold feet would carry me.
The Sons had gangs all over town, I discovered. I had not, in fact, started the worst day of rioting our city had ever seen, but that was cold comfort. The Sons had seized the Wolfstoot Bridge; in the warehouse district, they were throwing bricks. I kept to the alleys but still had to cross the major arteries of the city without getting my skull cracked open. Orma was lucky to be underground.
I had hoped to reach my father’s. I made it as far as the cathedral; from there, the action in the plaza and upon Cathedral Bridge looked grim. The Guard had subdued the plaza, but the Sons had erected a barricade upon the bridge and set it on fire, and they were holding their ground behind it.
Someone had vandalized the Countdown Clock, switching th
e heads of the Dragon and Queen and posing them suggestively together. A question was scrawled across the clock face: But how long until the filthy quigs go home? Another hand had written in answer: Not until we drive the devils off!
The cathedral could provide me with refuge until the Guard retook the bridge. I was not the only one who hoped so. There were about fifty people in the nave, mostly children and elders. The priests had corralled them all together and were treating injuries. I didn’t care to huddle with everyone else. I skirted the eastern side of the Golden House without the priests noticing and crept quietly toward the south transept.
The megaharmonium hulked in its alcove under a tarp, defense against dust and greasy fingers. I wandered behind it for a closer look and because the chapel offered a space away from the questioning eyes of the priests. Behind the megaharmonium were bellows as tall as my shoulder. Did someone have to sit back here, pumping endlessly, going slowly deaf? That sounded like unpleasant work.
The chapel looked like it had stood empty a long time; the walls were stripped of decoration, leaving only traces of gilt in the cracks of the wood paneling. I could discern dark shapes that had once been painted letters. It took some squinting, but I finally read the words No Heaven but this.
That was the motto of St. Yirtrudis. I shivered.
Above me, her outline was just visible beneath layers of whitewash. There was a rough patch where her face had been chiseled off, but around it her shadow lingered: her outstretched arms, her billowing gown, her … hair? I hoped that was her hair and not tentacles or spider legs or something worse. Nothing was clear but the silhouette.
I heard muttering out in the transept and poked my nose out of the chapel. There stood Josef, Earl of Apsig, minus his black-feathered cap. He talked quietly with a priest. The priest’s back was to me, but he wore a string of amber prayer beads around his neck. I drew back quickly and crouched behind the instrument, watching their feet between the legs of the bench. They conferred, embraced, and then parted. By the time I felt safe to rise, Josef had departed through the southern doors.
I crept back to the great crossing, stood behind the Golden House, and looked for the priest he’d been speaking with among those tending injuries in the nave. None of them wore amber beads.
A peculiar movement in the north aisle of the nave caught my eye. I thought the figure, cowled and cassocked, was a monk at first, except for how strangely he was moving. He stood frozen in unnatural attitudes for long stretches, followed by almost imperceptible motion. It was like watching the hands of a clock or clouds on a still day, all of this punctuated by extremely brief bursts of motion. He obviously intended stealth but seemed unfamiliar with the usual means of achieving it.
I suspected a saar.
I lay low until the figure reached the north transept, where I had a better viewing angle. I looked full at him, recognized his profile, and froze.
It was the Ardmagar.
I followed him toward the shadowy apse, keeping my distance. The floor of the apse was marble, so finely polished it looked wet. Hundreds of tiny candles reflected off the gilded ceiling vaults, lending a shimmer to the incense-spiced air. Comonot walked more normally now, past grim St. Vitt and devious St. Polypous. He proceeded to the chapel at the very end, where St. Gobnait, round-cheeked and benevolent, sat enthroned, her blessed beehive in her lap, her head crowned with golden honeycomb. Her eyes shone a brilliant unearthly blue, the whites a glaring contrast to her burnished face.
Comonot paused, lowered his cowl, and turned to face me, smiling.
The smile took me aback, coming from a dragon, but it evaporated the instant he recognized me. He turned away from me, back toward the Holy Skep, which the monks took outside in springtime to be a dwelling for her blessed bees.
“What do you want?” said Comonot, addressing St. Gobnait.
I addressed his plastered-down hair: “You should not be out on your own.”
“I crossed the city on foot without incident,” he said, gesturing grandly. I was hit by a waft of incongruous perfume. “No one looks twice at a monk.”
They’d look twice at a scented monk, but no good could come of arguing the point. I kept on doggedly: “There’s something I must tell you, about my grandfather.”
He kept his back to me, pretending to examine the Skep. “We know all about him. Eskar is probably biting his head off right now.”
“I have maternal memories—” He scoffed at this, but I persisted. “Imlann revealed to my mother that he isn’t alone in despising the peace. There’s a cabal. They’re waiting for Goredd to weaken sufficiently, at which point I can only guess—”
“I’m sure you don’t have a single name.”
“General Akara.”
“Caught and modified, twenty years ago.”
I gave up trying not to antagonize him. “You never informed our Queen.”
“My generals are loyal,” he sniffed over his shoulder. “If you wish to convince me of a plot, you’ll have to do better than that.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but an arm wrapped around my throat from behind, choking off my voice, and then someone stabbed me in the back.
Or tried to, anyway.
My attacker released me with a cry of dismay. His dagger made no dent in my scaly midriff; he dropped the weapon on the marble floor with a ringing clang. Comonot whirled at the sound, drawing a sword concealed in his robes. I ducked; the Ardmagar struck faster than I’d believed possible in a man of his age and girth—but then, he wasn’t an ordinary man. By the time I raised my head, there was a dead priest on the floor of the apse, his robes a tangled mass of black, his life a wash of crimson pooling before the bishop’s throne. His blood steamed in the frigid air.
I glimpsed the string of amber prayer beads at his throat. This was surely the priest I’d seen speaking with Josef. I rolled him over and cried out in alarm.
It was the clothier who’d threatened me. Thomas Broadwick.
Comonot’s nostrils flared. This could not be good, a saarantras smelling fresh death. I heard voices and the scuffle of feet rushing up the apse toward us; the din of our brief battle had not gone unnoted. I froze in panic, not knowing whether to urge the Ardmagar to run or to turn him in myself.
He’d saved my life, or I’d saved his. Not even that was clear.
Three monks reached us, skidding to a stop at the sight of our gruesome tableau. I turned to Comonot, intending to follow his lead, but he was unexpectedly shocked and pale; he looked dumbly at me, shaking his head. I took a deep breath and said, “There’s been an assassination attempt.”
Comonot and I were not officially detained, but “voluntarily” confined to the bishop’s study until the Queen’s Guard arrived. The bishop had good food and wine sent up from the seminary kitchens, and welcomed us to peruse his library.
I would have been happy to make free with the books, but Comonot would not stop pacing, and anytime I moved at all he flinched, as if he feared I might come over and touch him. I probably could have cornered him behind the lectern if I’d had a mind to.
At last he burst out: “Explain this body to me!”
He was asking the right person. I had addressed similar questions from Orma twenty dozen times. “What specifically perturbs you, Ardmagar?”
He seated himself across from me, looking directly at me for the first time. His face was white; sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. “Why did I do that?” he said. “Why did I reflexively kill that man?”
“Self-preservation. He’d stabbed me; he was likely to go for you next.”
“No,” he said, shaking his jowls. “That is, perhaps he would have attacked me, but that’s not what went through my mind. I was protecting you.”
I almost thanked him, but he seemed so profoundly disturbed by the whole thing that I hesitated. “Why do you regret protecting me? Because of what I am?”
He regained some of his hauteur: his lip curled and his heavy lids lowered. “What you are is every b
it as repulsive to me as it ever was.” He poured himself a large glass of wine. “However, I am now in your debt. If I had been alone, I might be dead.”
“You shouldn’t have come here alone. How did you leave the entourage without being seen?”
He took several large gulps and considered the air in front of him. “I was never in my carriage. I had no intention of viewing the Golden Plays; I have no interest in your queer religion or the dramas it spawns.”
“Then what were you doing in the cathedral? Not finding religion, one assumes.”
“Not your concern.” He sipped wine, his eyes narrowing in thought. “What do you call doing something on behalf of someone else for no apparent reason? Altruism?”
“Er, you mean what you did for me?”
“Of course that’s what I mean.”
“But you had reason: you were grateful I had saved your life.”
“No!” he shouted. I jumped, startled. “That didn’t occur to me until after the deed was done. I defended you without even thinking. For the merest moment I …” He paused, his breath labored, his eyes glazed with horror. “I had a strong feeling about what happened to you. I may have cared! The idea of you hurting made me … hurt!”
“I suppose I’d call that empathy,” I said, not exactly feeling empathy myself for how much the idea disgusted him.
“But it wasn’t me, you understand?” he cried, the wine already making him histrionic. “It was this infernal body. It fills with a great surge of feeling before one has a chance to think. It’s a species preservation instinct, maybe, to defend the young and helpless, but I care nothing for you. This body wants things I could never want.”
It was, of course, at that very moment that Captain Kiggs opened the door.
He looked embarrassed. I don’t imagine I looked much different. The last time we’d spoken I’d been under arrest. “Ardmagar. Maid Dombegh,” he said, nodding. “You’ve left a bit of a mess up by the Skep. Care to tell me what happened?”
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