I rode on, my mood growing more grim. I came to swap one crown for a different one, to exchange my throne for a less comfortable chair. Perhaps I would find Fexler Brews’ third way and paper over the cracks that ran through the world. I didn’t know. But I knew the Jorg who wore that new crown, who might sit upon the all-throne, would be no different. No better. No more able to tear free of his past and the hooks that sunk too deep.
The emperor’s palace sits amid a square so vast that the grand houses on the far side appear tiny. The four roads converge upon the palace dome, passing through an acreage of flagstones devoid of statue, fountain, or monument. On normal days the wealthy citizens might flock in this space, spending coin at stalls and stands able to cater to their excess. Around Congression the autumn winds sweep through unhindered.
‘God’s whore!’ Makin broke into my musings. He stood in his stirrups.
Sir Kent had himself a frown at that. Not so keen on the blaspheming since his conversion.
‘Such language!’ I tsked at Lord Makin. ‘What pray tell is amiss.’
‘You could see for yourself if you weren’t riding on your dignity,’ he said, half-smiling but still blinking in disbelief.
I sighed and stood too. In the distance, halfway to the palace, a thin line of black-cloaked soldiers stood across the breadth of West Street. Something familiar about the red-crested helms, the way the gleaming plate armour gave way to ridiculous pantaloons striped in blue and yellow.
‘Well fuck me, it’s the Pope.’ I sat back down.
‘The Pope?’ Rike asked, as if unfamiliar with the word.
‘Yes, Brother Rike.’ The column began to slow. ‘Fat old woman, interesting hat, infallible.’
We closed the distance, hooves clattering on the cobbled road. The papal guard waited, impassive, polearms with their butts to the flagstones, pennants fluttering, blades to the sky. Captain Devers brought his men to a standstill before the line. Behind the Pope’s men a sedan chair rested, a huge and ornate construction closed in on all sides against the weather and prying eyes. The ten bearers stood at attention beside the carrying poles.
‘Her holiness will speak with King Jorg.’ The centremost of the guardsmen called out the demand, perhaps the leader of the squad but marked no differently from any other.
‘This will be interesting.’ I swung out of my saddle and walked toward the front of our column.
Miana opened the door as I passed Holland’s carriage. ‘Make this right, Jorg,’ she told me. ‘Next time Marten might not be there to save the day.’
I turned, took her hand and made a smile for her. ‘It cost me forty thousand in gold to get this meeting, I’m not going to waste it, my queen. I may be foolish on occasion, but I’m not an idiot.’
‘Jorg.’ A warning tone as her hand slipped mine.
The front ranks parted and I approached the papal guard. The man who summoned me forward now looked pointedly at Gog, scabbarded at my hip.
‘Well, show me to her holiness, then. Can’t wait all day, I’ve got business to attend to.’ I nodded to the great dome of the palace rising behind him.
A pause, and he turned to lead me through the line. We came to the carriage-box and three of the bearers hastened forward with chairs, two hefting a broad purple-cushioned stool, one with a simple ebony ladder-back for me.
Another bearer joined them and they stood two to either side of the door to the carriage-box. A very wide door, I noted. A fifth man scurried around to the rear and I heard the opposite door click open. I guessed he might be tasked with pushing.
The closer door opened and an acreage of purple silk, strained across wobbling flesh, began to emerge. The bearers reached in and retrieved short arms, pudgy hands overburdened with gemmed rings. They pulled. The fifth man pushed. The mountain grunted and a head appeared, bowed forward, sweat making straggles of thin dark hair across a crimson scalp. A crucifix of gold hung below the wattles and folds of her neck, a hefty thing half an inch thick, a foot in length, a ruby at the crossing point for the blood of Christ. It must have weighed more than a baby.
And out she came, the supreme pontiff, shepherdess of many sheep, a slug teased from her nest. The flowered reek of perfumes and oils couldn’t hide the rankness that emerged with her.
They sat her on the stool, overflowing. The guard from the line stayed at my side. He had the look to him, pale eyes, watchful, scarred hands. I didn’t let the pantaloons distract me. Watchful men are to be watched.
‘Your holiness.’ Pius XXV if I were to call her by name.
‘King Jorg. I thought you would look older.’ She couldn’t be shy of seventy but hadn’t a wrinkle on her, all stretched away by her bulk.
‘All alone,’ I asked. ‘No cardinals, no bishops dancing attendance? Not so much as a priest to carry your bible?’
‘My retinue are the guests of Lord Congrieve at his country estate, investigating reports of irregularities at the Sisters of Mercy, a nunnery with a chequered history.’ She deployed a purple kerchief to wipe spittle from the corner of her mouth. ‘I will rejoin them in due course, but I felt a private meeting between us would be more … conducive. The words we exchange here will appear on no records.’ She smiled. ‘Even for a Pope, speaking for God himself, it is no simple matter to thwart the will of the Vatican archivists. To them there are few sins greater than allowing a Pope’s utterances to be lost.’ Another smile and the folding of many chins.
I pursed my lips. ‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Shall I have Tobias bring wine? You look thirsty, Jorg.’
‘No.’
She paused for the pleasantry or explanation. I offered none.
‘You’re building a cathedral in Hodd Town.’ Dark eyes watched me, currants
