“Nothing rhymes with fathers.”
“Bothers does,” said Darla. She rose. “You must promise not to blaspheme in the church, dear. We might wish to married some day too, you know.”
“I’ll keep a civil tongue, just for you.”
“Liar.” She whistled, and damned if the mare didn’t trot right up to us and whinny.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Broken Bell hangs in Wherthmore’s southernmost belfry. Since Tamar intended to be pronounced Carris’s wife on the last peal of the Broken Bell’s afternoon ringing, I didn’t need to bother with visits to any of the other Church mainholds.
Which was good, in that it saved time. And bad, in that it dictated another visit to Wherthmore.
I’m not welcome at Wherthmore in the same way sewer rats are not welcome at the Regent’s tea parties. Something to do with blasphemy. Threatening a body of Holy Hands with violence may have played a role as well.
Laying the actions of a vampire blood cult at a renegade Wherthmore priest’s feet certainly didn’t help matters. I’d led Avalante and a mob of New People right to Wherthmore’s metaphorical altar, and even though all parties involved had thus far kept the ruckus secret I was not high on the prayer list at Wherthmore. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. I suspected it was only my association with Avalante that prevented me from suffering a fatal fall on a patch of rare summer ice in the days immediately following my rescue of Martha Hoobin, a year or so ago.
So as Darla and I charged down empty streets, I concocted and abandoned half a dozen schemes to get past the priests at the door and into the office of someone high enough in the ranks to help.
I was no closer to a brilliant strategy at the end of the ride than at the beginning.
When I saw a mob of red-robed Church acolytes move to close Wherthmore’s big doors at the mere sight of me, I decided to employ reason and calm discussion in the form of just charging the horse up the steps and inside the Church.
Darla screamed but held on tight. The mare, which I had suspected was a bit apostate herself, hunched her neck down and charged, sparks flying from her iron shoes, right amongst the acolytes.
They scattered, tumbling and shrieking, red robes flapping. The church doors burst open, and I added stampeding warhorses over holy thresholds to my lengthy list of sins.
Priests came running out of doors and fled back into them just as quickly. Darla laughed, a wild loud laugh, and I saw her pull her dagger from her boot as the mare trotted between rows of pews.
“Tell Father Foon his old friend Markhat is here to see him,” I shouted. “Tell him if he’s not here soon I’ll come find him myself.”
Darla buried a laugh in my back.
A priest appeared in a doorway. The red mask he held before his face was shaking in his hand.
“How dare you.”
“I dare plenty. You’re not Father Foon.”
“The Father is away on Church business.”
“You mean he headed South at the first hint of trouble.”
A younger priest tugged the first man aside. This young one kept his mask lowered.
“Are you mad?”
“Not yet. But I will be soon.” I let the mare trot forward a couple of steps. “If Father Foon is hightailing it for the Sea, I’ll speak to someone else. Who’s in charge of matters matrimonial around here these days?”
The old priest started sputtering, and the younger man stepped in front of him.
“This is not a circus,” he began. “This is holy ground.”
I cut him off. “Answering my questions is the best way to get rid of me. Not answering them is the best way to wind up with soiled carpets and broken doors.”
I let my hand fall casually down on the hilt of my borrowed sword.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes.” He spat the word in a most unpriestly fashion. “Markhat.”
“Good. Now, the man in charge of marrying people?”
“Father Wickens is here. But you will go no further on that beast.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. She just came for confession, anyway. Something about apples and carrots.” I swung down and offered Darla my hand.
“Have one of your masks see to her, won’t you?”
The man’s face went ruddy with rage.
“And don’t say how dare you again. I dare. This, and plenty more. Now, this Father Wickens, which way to his office?”
He puffed air in and out, trying to decide which Angel of Vengeance to call down upon me.
Darla smiled at him. “We’ll just wander about until we find him, dear,” she said.
I shrugged and made for the nearest open hall.
“Women,” said the priest, “are not permitted beyond this worship hall.”
“Then you’d better fetch this Father,” I said. “Because we’re going to speak to him, with or without your help. Come, dear. Let’s see how priests really live, shall we?”
Boots began to sound. I counted a couple dozen men. All the Churches keep soldiers handy. Smiting the unholy is an ancient religious tradition.
I drew my sword, just in case anyone approaching had smiting on his mind.
“Goodness. A horse, here in the Church. And a pretty horse too. Is she a Yearning Tall?”
I turned.
The speaker was an old man. His red robes hung off him, loose and none too clean. Someone with more enthusiasm than skill had hemmed the bottom so he wouldn’t trip, but hadn’t tackled the sleeves.
He was bald on the top but kept a ring of long white hair around his head, just above his comically large ears. His nose was long and crooked, and his eyes were blue and bright, sparkling at me behind thick spectacles.
He winked, hobbled over to the mare, and began to scratch her behind her right ear. She regarded him warily with a big brown eye for a moment, and then relaxed and settled in for a good long scratch.
“We don’t know much about her,” replied Darla. “She’s a borrowed Army horse. I am Darla Tomas, and this is Markhat. Might you be Father Wickens?”
The old man chuckled.
“Why, I do believe I am,” he said. “Father Perk, see to this gentleman’s mount. The rest of you, back to your duties.”
The old man never raised his voice, but feet scuffed and red robes scattered. A pair of kids took the mare away.
Father Wickens beamed at us.
“Few of my visitors are so adamant to be wed,” he said.
Give me credit. I wasn’t the one ready with a hasty rebuttal.
“We’re actually here to talk about another wedding,” said Darla. “But we’d prefer to speak in private.”
“Of course, young lady. I’m always happy to talk. This way, please.” He flashed me a mischievous grin. “We do have hitching posts outside, young man. For your use in the future, you understand.”
I grinned back, despite myself.
The Father chuckled and led us to a room.
Father Wickens listened, nodding and not quite smiling, while we explained our need to find Tamar Fields and her injured fiance before other less charitable parties did the same.
He clasped his hands together on the table when we were done, and pondered the matter for a moment.
