“So far three of our patrols have been ambushed,” the Knight-Abbot said. “Skirmishing goes on even as we speak. Our casualties have been serious. We are cavalry, without firearms. We are not equipped to fight street battles with foes who possess arquebuses.”
“And you are sure it is the Hebrian soldiery who are involved, not civilians with guns?”
“Yes, your excellency. All our brothers report the same thing: when they try to force the barricades, they are met with disciplined gunnery. It has to be the garrison troops; there can be no other explanation.”
Quirion’s eyes were two blue fires.
“Recall our brethren. There is no profit in them throwing themselves under the guns of rebels and heretics.”
“Yes, your excellency.”
“And have all officers above the rank of deacon assemble in the speechhall at noon. I’ll address them myself.”
“At once, your excellency.” The Knight-Abbot made the Sign of the Saint on his armoured breast and left.
“What does this mean?” the Presbyter asked.
“Would you like me to find out for you?” Sastro di Carrera said, one hand fiddling with the ruby set in his earlobe.
Quirion turned to face his companion squarely. They were the only occupants of the high-ceilinged room.
“No.”
“You don’t like me, your excellency. Why is that?”
“You are a man without much faith, Lord Carrera. You care only for your own advantage.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Sastro asked smiling.
“Not everyone. Not my brothers . . .
Sastro yawned, stretching out his long arms. “I can deduce as well or better than the next man. My bet is that Rovero and Mercado have somehow had a communication from our ex-King Abeleyn. They have come down on his side at last—another reason why they postponed the viewing of the Pontifical bull scheduled yesterday. The army and the fleet will hold the Lower City against us until Abeleyn arrives in person, then go over on to the offensive. It is also my guess that your Knights were not meant to be slain; they pressed too hard. Obviously the general and the admiral meant this to look like a popular uprising, but they had to use national troops to defend their perimeter when your brethren tested it.”
“Then we know where we stand,” Quirion snarled. His face looked as though invisible strings had pulled chin and forehead towards each other; fury had clenched it as it might a fist. “They will be excommunicated,” he went on. “I will see them burn. But first we must crush this uprising.”
“That may not be so easy.”
“What of your friend Freiss?” And when Sastro seemed genuinely surprised, Quirion’s bass gravelled out a harsh laugh. “You think I did not know of your meetings with him? I will not let you play a private game in this city, my Lord Carrera. You will pull alongside the rest of us, or you will not be a player at all.”
Sastro regained his composure, shrugging. His hand toyed now with the gleaming, scented point of his beard. He needed to toy with his features constantly, it seemed to Quirion. An irritating habit. The man was probably a pederast; he smelled like a sultan’s harem. But he was the most effective of the nobles, and a necessary ally.
“Very well,” Sastro said casually. “My friend Freiss, as you put it, says he has won over several hundred men of the garrison, men who cannot stomach heresy and who expect to be rewarded for their loyalty once the Church has assumed full control of Abrusio.”
“Where are they?”
“In barracks. Mercado has his suspicions and has segregated them from the other tercios. He is probably having them watched also.”
“Then they are of little use to us.”
“They could stage a diversion while your brethren assault these absurd barricades.”
“My brethren are not equipped for street fighting, as you have already heard. No, there must be another way.”
Sastro regarded the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling with some interest. “There are, of course, my personal retainers . . .”
“How many?”
“I could muster maybe eight hundred if I called out some of the lesser client houses as well.”
“Their arms?”
“Arquebuses and sword-and-buckler men. No pikes, but then pikes are no better at street fighting than cavalry.”
“That would be ideal. They could cover an assault by my brethren. How long would it take to muster them?”
“A few days.”
The two men looked at each other like a pair of prize-fighters weighing up each other’s strengths and weaknesses in the ring.
“You realize I would be risking my house, my followers, ultimately my fortune,” Sastro drawled.
“The Hebrian treasury is in the possession of the council. You would be amply compensated,” Quirion growled.
“That is not what I was thinking of,” Sastro said. “No, money is not my main concern. It is just that my men like to fight for the betterment of their lord’s situation as well as their own.”
“They would be defending the True Faith of the Ramusian kingdoms. Is that not reward enough?”
“It should be, I know, my dear Presbyter. But not all men are as . . . single-minded, you might say, as your brethren.”
“What do you want, Lord Carrera?” Quirion asked, though he thought he already knew.
“You are looking through the archives, are you not, trying to establish who should take the throne now that the Hibrusid line is finished?”
“I have Inceptine archivists working on it, yes.”
“You will find, I think, that Astolvo di Sequero is the most eligible candidate. But he is an old man. He does not want the kingship with all that it entails. He will refuse it.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Oh, yes. And his sons are flighty, vicious young things. Hardly Royal material. You will need the next king of Hebrion to be a mature man, a man of abilities, a man who is happy to work hand in gauntlet with the holy Church. Otherwise the other noble houses might get restless, mutinous even, at the idea of one of Astolvo’s brats ruling.”
“Where might we find such a man?” Quirion asked guardedly. He had not missed the threat in Sastro’s words.
“I am not sure, but if your archivists delve deep enough I believe they may find the house of Carrera closer to the throne than you think.”
Quirion laughed his coarse laugh—the guffaw of a commoner, Sastro thought with disgust, though nothing of his feelings showed on his face.
“The kingship in return for your men, my lord?” the Presbyter said.
Sastro raised his carefully trimmed eyebrows. “Why not? No one else will make you a similar offer, I’ll warrant.”
“Not even the Sequeros?”
“Astolvo will not. He knows that were he to do so his life would be hanging by a thread. His sons are champing at the bit beneath him; he would not last a year. How would that look? The Church-sponsored monarchy of Hebrion embroiled in murderous intrigue, perhaps even parricide, within months of its establishment.”
Quirion looked thoughtful, gauging. “Such decisions of moment must be referred to Himerius in Charibon. The Pontiff will have the final word.”
“The Pontiff, may the Saints be good to him, will no doubt follow the recommendations of his representative on the spot.”
