“I’ve played,” Mirren said. “That’s still three times out of four that he doesn’t know. What was it you said about long odds?”
The duration of their argument set my skin itching. “Custos, take me to Gehata’s office.”
He smiled, but my heart quailed at how pale he was. Even so, he turned and started down the hallway to the right, away from our escape.
Mirren and Bolt fell in behind us. Except for the occasional priest in red who eyed our strange company with curious suspicion, the hallways were empty.
“Why is the cathedral so empty?” I asked.
“It’s still a few minutes to sunrise,” Mirren said. “Everyone needs sleep.”
“That’s the truth of it,” I said.
Mirren cut her gaze my way, suddenly uncomfortable. After delving me, she knew of my peculiar affliction. We came to Gehata’s quarters, where a pair of cosp were posted outside the door. At the sight of Bolt, one of them sprinted away from us.
“Cosp! Guards!” His voice faded with the speed of his departure, but his screams continued.
The other moved to block our way, and we stopped. Bolt drew and advanced, his sword point down in a way that might have been intended to be less threatening. The guard didn’t seem to take it that way. He coiled, waiting for the last Errant.
“I’ve sworn not to kill any of the church,” Bolt said to the guard. “That’s a vow I’d prefer to keep if I can.”
The guard, a rangy fellow with a thin face, licked his lips. He was outmatched and knew it. “Then put away your sword.”
“Hmmm,” Bolt said, still closing. “If I do that, your bishop will put me back in prison.”
I didn’t see him move so much as I sensed it. The air exploded with violence as Bolt launched at the guard, his sword coming up in an attack on the high line.
Right at his head.
The guard was good, and he probably had enough fear coursing through him to fuel a whole company of soldiers. He parried Bolt’s first strike. The air whined in complaint as Bolt riposted toward the opposite side, and the guard managed to block that strike just short of his skull.
The third landed, and the guard crumpled, blood coming from the split in his scalp. I didn’t want to look, but I knew his gaze might tell me something, however unlikely, as he died. Only . . . he didn’t. The cut on his head hadn’t broken through the bone. I looked at my guard.
“I took him with the flat,” Bolt said.
Custos nodded. “Interesting. That would explain why your strikes were so noisy. I’ve read about that, of course, but I’ve never seen it before.”
The sound of boots, lots of them, sounded in the distance. Mirren bent to the guard. “Don’t bother,” I said. “One more or less won’t make a difference now. We have to get to Gehata.”
We locked the heavy door behind us, Bolt and Mirren disappearing into the interior. I tried not to stare at the opulence of Gehata’s quarters, but there was enough gilt in his rooms to cover a wall. “He’s an unassuming sort of fellow, isn’t he?”
“These rooms are nearly a thousand years old, and the wealth is held by the church,” Custos said. “Over that period of time, even incremental decoration accumulates.”
“You’re defending him?”
He shrugged. “I’m sure Bishop Gehata is as venal a man as you’ll find, but most of this wealth predates him.” He looked around. “I prefer figs, myself.”
Bolt and Mirren came running out of separate rooms, their faces wearing different versions of the same emotion. “He’s not here,” they said in unison.
The boom of impact and the splintering of wood filled the air.
“They have us now,” Bolt said. As slowly as a normal man, he drew his sword. “You were right about those long odds.”
Chapter 35
The door didn’t last through the next blow. Whoever had trapped us in the bishop’s quarters had planned ahead—they’d brought a battering ram. Cosp filled the room, but they didn’t strike, only set themselves with their swords and waited.
Bolt crouched, but a moment later he shook his head and tossed the sword onto the table in the middle of the room. “‘If there’s a choice between dying now and dying later . . .’” he murmured.
“‘Choose later,’” I finished. I’d first heard that saying from the southern mercenaries who entered the Darkwater with me ten years ago. It didn’t seem like a good omen.
A wall of cosp surrounded us and spilled out into the hall, cutting off any hope of escape. Bishop Gehata threaded his way through the soldiers, wearing that same smile of superiority that made me want to punch his face, but I noticed his eyes held a bit of the unbalance that probably still showed in mine.
“How?” Mirren asked.
The bishop’s smile grew. “You were a calculated risk, Mirren—one that I was almost unwilling to take. Letting you inside Lord Dura’s mind was a gamble, but necessary. I told my guards to watch me for any behavior that seemed out of place.” He turned to me. “After I’ve disposed of your friends, Lord Dura, I’ll be relieving you of your gift.” He looked around. “I’ll have to have my quarters cleansed, of course, but as we say, the growth of the church is watered by blood.”
If there was a means to redeem Gehata from his ambition, it eluded me. I looked at the guards around him, as stoic and uncaring of his blasphemy as stone. “Do none of you care that he’s going to destroy you all?”
The bishop’s laughter mocked me. “Like you, Lord Dura, I prize loyalty, and I’ve gone to great lengths to ensure it.” He sighed, almost purring his pleasure. Then he pointed at Custos. “I think
