“Can I talk with the children?” Jael asked.
“We’ve tried, but either they don’t know or they’re too afraid to say.” There was a shout from the atrium, bickering from the sounds of it. Sarah frowned. “I’m sorry dear, but I must get back. If I hear anything else, I’ll make sure word gets to you.”
“And I’ll be sure to come see you again soon. God bless you,” said Leonhardt as they parted ways. She watched her friend go, then began circling the corridor in contemplation on how to proceed. She didn’t make it far. Before Jael had crossed three pillars, a grubby hand was pulling at her surcoat. She turned and found the two boys smiling up at her—bold, red Nicholas and skittish, yellow Giovanni.
“We are just going to the privies,” said the latter boy.
“Don’t listen to him,” interjected the former, “we want to see your sword.”
Sneaky Imps, Jael thought, thumbing the pummel. Then a revelation hit her. “If I agree to show you my sword, do you think you’d be willing to help me?”
The two boys huddled together, muttered, then turned back to her. “That depends,” said Nicholas, “what you want,” finished Giovanni.
She scanned the corridor to ensure it was empty. “I’m looking for someplace scary and old inside the church. Do you know anyone who might know where that is?”
“You mean the—ouch!”
“Shut your mouth, Giovanni,” said Nicholas, pounding his hand with his fist. Then he said to Jael, “We might know someplace. If we take you there, do you swear to God on your grandmother’s grave that you’ll show us your sword if we do?”
“In the Lord’s name, I swear I’ll show you.”
“I said on your grandmother’s grave.”
Jael bit her lip, this time to keep from laughing. “Alright. I swear on my grandmother’s grave” Where ever that is.
“Alright,” he replied, “but you can’t tell anybody. Come on.”
The two boys moved like a pair of thieves, sneaking from pillar to pillar, their feet silent in hemp-sandals on the stone floor as they darted passed open doors, unseen by the servants inside. Leonhardt observed them out of the corner of her eye, walking out in the open and slowly to give them time to slip into place. It was a short way to where they were going—the kitchens—and within, they disappeared behind another door. Jael followed, explaining to the cooks that she was on official church business, that she was not to be disturbed while inspecting…“the wine cellar,” one of the servants told her, “you’re free to look around, but it is empty, milady. We haven’t had any wine since His Grace was anointed.”
She thanked the man for his help and descended, blind in the pitch dark as the door shut behind her. And in the sudden dankness, she found a new appreciation for the beauty of the cathedral, for the warmth, lightness, and brightness of its air. For down there, down the spiral of black stairs reaching deeper than a mere wine cellar ought to reach, there was only cold and damp and the odor of mold and a grubby hand to grab her shirt as she gasped.
“It’s her,” she heard Giovanni’s voice, then the scratching of pinions—a flicker—and a lantern ignited. It was dim light, yellow and smoky, and in it the children smiled like shadow clad demons. “You promised,” Nicholas said. “You swore to God. If you break your promise now, then you and your grandma’s souls will go straight to Hell.”
“A sword cuts both ways,” she replied, squinting over the cellar and its army of vacant wine racks, its stacks of barrels spilling over with flour. She took a step and felt stale crumbs crunch under her boot. “Is this basement all you swore to show me? Surely, you brave boys don’t find this place frightening.”
Nicholas’s grin split his face. He scurried to the far corner where a row of racks traced behind some barrels. “It’s here,” he said, pointing overhead to the a single bottle left on the rack. Or was it, Jael thought of the dull shape half hidden in the dark. The boy leapt and grabbed its neck; the false bottle shifted. There was a clunking of wood and iron, then a whine of ancient hinges, then the boy—still hanging from the lever—drifted midair where the wall swung open. Giovanni held the lantern to the horror. Jael drew her sword.
“God save me,” she whispered. There were tables littered with all shapes of razors-sharp implements, chairs and posts fitted with ropes and rusted manacles, wooden horses stained black by old blood, and a dried-up waterwheel with a trough full with dust and rat bones. She’d uncovered what she sought, evidence of Vaufnar’s guilt. Now, she thought, the hard part. She’d need to convince Corvin to come down to the basement.
She found him and Ogdon waiting in the vestibule, worry on the squire’s face, irritation on the paladin’s. And they were not alone. She was happy to see that Vaufnar had lingered with them, that after all her work and abuse she’d suffered, that she would get to see his soft-leathery face when she laid her accusation. He was the first to notice her, Bishop Vaufnar, and he welcomed her with an ardor to match his glowing sanctuary.
“You must be the ardent lady Sir Brandon is looking for. Jael Leonhardt, it is my honour to meet you.”
“Your Grace.” She bowed politely, tasting bile as she did, then turned to face Corvin’s wrath.
He turned his back
