his eyes to it, and then straightened, mounting his restive destrier. “I must be on my way. Good luck to you on your errand, priests. If you meet Macrobius, tell him that Corfe sends greetings, and that he does not forget the retreat from Aekir.”
“You know Macrobius?” Albrec asked wonderingly.
“I travelled with him, you might say. A long time ago.”
“What manner of man is he?”
“A good man. A humble one—or at least he was when I knew him. The Merduks cut out his eyes. But men change, like everything else. I can’t answer for him now.”
He turned to ride away, but Joshelin halted him. “Colonel!”
“Yes?”
“It may be that Barbius will not be so easy to find, nor Martellus either. Let me ride with you, and I will set you upon the right road at least.”
Corfe looked him up and down. “Can you ride?”
“I can stay on a horse, if that’s what is needed.”
“All right, then. Get up behind me. We’ll find you a mount from the spares. Good day, Fathers.”
The warhorse leapt off into a canter with Corfe upright in the saddle, Joshelin clinging on behind him, as elegant as a bouncing sack. Siward followed his comrade’s departure with thin lips, and it was with real disgust in his voice that he turned back to the two monks who were his charges.
“Well, let’s get you down into the city. I may as well see it out to the end.”
T HE antechambers of the new Pontifical palace were large, bare halls of cold marble and stuccoed ceilings. Little gilt chairs stood in rows, seeming too frail to bear anyone, and the new Macrobian Knights Militant stood guard like graven mages, gleaming with iron and bronze. Someone had unearthed a few score sets of antique half-armour from a forgotten arsenal, and the Knights looked like paladins from another age.
The antechambers were busy, teeming with clerics and minor nobles and messengers. Macrobius, whom Himerius in Charibon labelled a heresiarch, was spiritual leader of three of the great Ramusian kingdoms of the west, and even in time of war the business of the Church—this new version of it, at any rate—must go on. Bishops had to be reconsecrated in the new order, replacements had to be found for those who remained faithful to the Himerian Church, and the palace complex was full of office-seekers and supplicants whose contributions to the Church’s coffers had to be rewarded. A new Inceptine order was being organized, and in fact all the trappings and facets of the old Church were here being duplicated at high speed, so that the Macrobians might be considered worthy rivals to the unenlightened of Charibon. Albrec, Avila and Siward stood amid the crowds and stared. The Merduks were baying at the gates, and still men haggled here, seeking novitiates for second sons, exemptions from tithes, tenancy of Church lands.
“Life goes on, it seems,” said Avila, not without bitterness. He had been the most worldly of clerics, and an aristocrat to boot, but he surveyed the worldly strivings of the New Church with much the same weary amazement as Albrec.
“We must see the Pontiff,” they told a harried Antillian who was trying to organize the throng.
“Yes, yes, no doubt,” and he walked on self-importantly, dripping disdain.
The two monks stood like a couple of lost vagabonds, and indeed that is what they were—disfigured, ragged and filthy. Albrec hobbled after the Antillian. “No, you don’t understand, Brother—it is of the utmost urgency that we see the Pontiff today, at once!” He tugged at the cleric’s well-tailored habit like a child harassing its mother.
The Antillian snatched himself away from the diminutive tramp. “Guards! Eject this person!”
Two Knights Militant strode forward, towering over the pleading Albrec. One seized him roughly by the shoulder. “Come, you. Beggars wait at the door.”
But then there was a blur of dark movement, a whistle of air, and the Knight was smashed off his feet by the swing of Siward’s arquebus butt. The Fimbrian dropped the weapon, whipped out his short sword, and the second Knight found its glittering point in his nostril.
“These priests will see the Pontiff,” Siward said evenly. “Today. Now.”
The hubbub in the antechamber died away, and there was a silence, all eyes on the ugly tableau unfolding before them. More Knights came striding up the hall, swords unsheathed, and for a moment it looked as though Siward would be cut down where he stood, but then Avila spoke up in a clear, ringing aristocratic voice:
“We are monks from Charibon, bearing important documents for the eyes of Macrobius himself! Our protector is a renowned Fimbrian officer. Any mistreatment of him will be seen as an act of war by the electorates!”
The Knights had frozen as soon as the word “Fimbrian” came out of Avila’s mouth. The Antillian’s jaw dropped, and he stammered:
“Put up your swords! There will be no blood shed in this place. Is this true?”
“As true as the nose on his face,” Avila drawled, nodding at the sweating Knight who had two feet of steel poised at the aforementioned feature.
“I will have to see my superior,” the Antillian muttered. “Put up your swords, I tell you!”
Weapons were sheathed, and the hall began to glimmer with talk, speculation, surmise. Avila clapped the narrow-eyed Siward on the shoulder.
“My friend, that was as good as a play. I’m only sorry you did not have the opportunity to spill his entrails on the marble.” Siward said nothing, but picked up his arquebus, kicking aside the other, still-senseless Knight as he did so. No one dared interfere.
An Inceptine appeared, heavy-jowled and glabrous. “I am Monsignor Alembord, head of His Holiness’s household. Perhaps you will be so good as to explain yourselves.”
“We did not travel here through blizzards and wolves and marauding armies to bandy words with a lackey!” Avila cried. He was obviously enjoying himself. “Admit us to His Holiness’s presence at once. We bear tidings that must be heard by the Pontiff alone. Thwart us at your peril!”
“For God’s sake, Avila,” Albrec murmured, helping the Knight Siward had knocked down to his feet.
Monsignor Alembord seemed torn between alarm and fury. “Wait here,” he snapped at last, and jogged off with the unfortunate Antillian in tow.
“You should have been a passion-player, Avila,” Albrec told his friend wearily.
“I’m sick of being abused, especially by fat insects like that Inceptine. It’s time to stop sneaking around. Things need to be stirred up a little. Ramusio’s beard, do they think they tore down the Church only to build a doppelganger in its place? Wait until the Pontiff sees the tale you carry, Albrec. If he’s a decent man, as that fellow Corfe seemed to think he is, then by the blood of God we’ll make sure he shakes the world with it.”
Rabelais
I T was the thunder of the distant guns that drew them. It muttered beyond the horizon like the anger of some subterranean god. Artillery, by battery, and the rolling crackle of arquebus fire. Morin dismounted and laid his ear to the ground, listening to the unseen engagement. When he straightened there was a look of something like wonder on his face.
“Many, many men, and many big guns,” he said. “And horses, thousands of horses. War echoes through the earth.”
“But who is it?” Andruw asked. “Martellus or Barbius? Or both?”
The other members of the party, Corfe included, looked at Joshelin. The grizzled Fimbrian sat upon a restive Torunnan destrier looking tired and irritable. He was not a natural-born horseman, to put it mildly.
