The door to the Archbishop’s office opened, and Jactans came bustling out to bow to Bolt and the rest of us. “My humble apologies for the delay. The Archbishop will see you immediately, of course.”
Bolt held out his hand to the secretary. “Might I have my medallion back? It’s a bit worn, like me, but I’ve had it for a long time.”
Jactans bobbed his acquiescence. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
We stepped through the polished mahogany doors and into two thousand years of accumulated opulence. A long rosewood table that I could have used as a shaving mirror held a dozen gilded chairs across from a desk big enough for a squad of soldiers to stand on. The northern wall was filled from floor to ceiling with books, and I wondered idly if there were any there Custos hadn’t read. As I reminded myself to stop in to visit my old friend, I craned my neck to look at the mural on the ceiling, some twenty or thirty feet above eye level. Stained-glass scenes from the liturgy filled the southern wall and cast a rainbow of colors on the white marble floor.
Rory stood goggling at the altar against the east wall. All the implements were solid gold, and every edge of the dark wood had been gilded in the metal as well. “The sale of one serving plate could feed all the urchins for four years or more,” he whispered.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Bolt whispered back. “This is probably the most powerful man on the continent. He might not appreciate it if any of his toys went missing.”
The Archbishop himself sat at the desk, to all appearances waiting patiently for our shock and awe to run its course. A fringe of pure white hair ringed the tanned and age-spotted dome of his head and a short beard and mustache matched the fringe, but his eyebrows still held hints of jet that had been its color in his youth.
After a brief glance at Bolt, his gaze latched on to me, and he stood. “Greetings, Lord Dura.” His voice held hints of effort, as if he worked to force enough air from his lungs to be heard. He then nodded toward Bolt. “Errant Consto, it’s been too long since you’ve graced us with your presence here in Cynestol.”
Bolt shook his head. “You know why I don’t go by that name anymore and why I don’t come to Cynestol.”
The Archbishop shrugged. “Yes.” He sighed. “I do, but I so seldom meet a man of true humility. I think I can be forgiven if it throws me off balance.”
“It had nothing to do with humility, and you know it,” Bolt said.
Vyne nodded as he took in Gael and Rory with a glance that belied his years and I amended my original estimation. Archbishop Vyne, might be old, but he didn’t miss much. “Well, I suppose we’ve satisfied the obligatory pleasantries. How did you get stuck with this duty, Lord Dura? Did you roll double ones or draw the short straw? I told Hradian to bring Pellin or Toria Deel.”
I shrugged. “I more or less became Hradian’s desperation choice. If you’d wanted one of the others, you should have sent him earlier. Pellin and Toria Deel had already left by the time he got to us.” I cocked my head. “You don’t seem very disappointed.”
He nodded with a knowing look in his eyes. “I’ve found that an unexpected turn of events often leaves room for the will of Aer. I’ve been surprised more times than I can count when circumstances have turned out for the best precisely because events didn’t follow my particular plan. Tell me, did the Eldest find something more important to do elsewhere?” Vyne moved past me to take a seat at the head of the polished red-tinted table. I watched his reflection in the wood, like an offering of blood, as he waved at the chairs. “Please, be seated.”
I took the seat to his immediate left. Gael, Bolt, and Rory arrayed themselves along either side. “The Eldest keeps his own counsel, Archbishop,” I said. “I noticed you sent striplings with Hradian. That seems to indicate a fear that there were dwimor operating in Cynestol. I’m told Queen Chora was hardly ancient and the crowds headed into and out of the city seem to indicate that she died before she could pass her gift on to her heir.”
“The youth were for the protection of the Vigil, Lord Dura. As for the queen, people die from accidents every day,” Vyne said. “Every great once in a while, those people are important. It would be a mistake to assume a probability equates to murder.”
“Do you think she was murdered, Archbishop? Do you need my unique combination of gift and skills?”
Vyne sighed as if I’d failed some sort of test, and his black and gray eyebrows drew together over his aquiline nose. “You disappoint me, Lord Dura. After Chief Brid Teorian’s reports, I expected to be witness to a more impressive display of investigative or intuitive acumen. Surely, your observations on the way to see me should indicate whether or not I believe your skills are needed.”
“I won’t know that until I gather a bit more information, Archbishop,” I said. “I’ve seen too many strange occurrences lately.”
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Really? Such as?”
“A suicide disguised as a murder.”
He nodded. “Ah, the girl, Viona Ness. The Chief of Servants told me about her. Very well. You wish to investigate the queen’s death. What do you offer in return?”
“What do you want, Archbishop?”
Vyne nodded. “Exactly what I would have required from Pellin, had he come here. The queen fell down a staircase to her death, and as you’ve conjectured, her gift has gone free. The most powerful throne on the northern continent is empty, and any number of men and women would do anything to fill it. I want you to use
