Well done, boy. So much simpler than creating the water. No – not over the roof – under the roof. You aren’t limited in your placement. Right on the fire—
The Duke cast. As he cast his working, Harmodius said, Aren’t we standing right under—
The wall of water extinguished the blaze instantly.
The new Duke of Thrake was not as elegant as he would have liked to be when he met his new chaplain a few minutes later – soaked to the skin in the chill autumn air, he was already shivering under his armour, despite the heavy cloak that Ser Michael produced and threw over him. Another cloak went over Bent, who’d been knocked flat by the water and was still having trouble breathing.
The Duke sneezed again.
‘So the man Cully took . . . ?’ he asked.
Bad Tom shook his head. ‘He knows some names and two locations. He’s paid a day-labourer in the Navy Yard, and he’s used to picking up a package from the palace every day.’
‘This wasn’t a complete waste of time, then,’ the Duke said, and sneezed again.
‘You might have told me,’ Ser Milus said.
The Duke nodded. ‘I probably should have,’ he admitted.
Ser Gavin came in and threw himself down on a stool. ‘Sellswords and thugs. The two that Alcaeus and the priest caught are merely more expensive thugs. They were hired to ambush anyone who came to the taverna.’
Cully, who had been sitting listening, shook his head. ‘Give me a straight-on battle anytime,’ he said. ‘They offered to pay us to desert, but they never meant to pay us, they only meant to kill us. We never meant to desert – we meant to capture them. They expected us to double-cross them and laid an ambush, but they didn’t expect you to bring the whole quarter guard with you, so we fucked them up.’
The Duke nodded. ‘That’s about it. So now we follow our leads: watch part of the laundry service to see who follows the directions our captured bully is used to leaving; pick up the day-labour spy at the Navy Yard—’
‘Who won’t know anything,’ Bad Tom spat.
The Duke shrugged, and then sneezed twice. ‘It was worth a try,’ he said.
Ser Gavin said, ‘You should dry your hair.’ He got a towel and tossed it to his brother. ‘Now what do we do?’
Ser Milus was still annoyed. ‘It sounds like you had a fight and I wasn’t in it,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Three in a secret,’ the Duke muttered. ‘I’m sorry, Milus, I wasn’t thinking clearly.’ He spread his hands. ‘I think I’m trying to do too many things.’ To Gavin he said, ‘Now let’s try a poison pill.’
‘What’s that?’ Gavin asked.
‘I tell several people that I suspect a secret has been betrayed – a very hot secret. I give them each a slightly different secret, and then I see what happens. It’s like dropping dye into a sewer, to see where it comes out.’
‘And then what?’ Ser Gavin asked.
‘No idea,’ the Duke answered. ‘But it’s time. We need to take the war to Andronicus, before he gets in here.’ He sneezed. ‘First we have to bring in the fur caravans.’
‘What fur caravans?’ Gavin asked.
The next day, the Duke of Thrake rode across the square to the tall onion-topped spires of the Academy and was admitted with much fanfare. He dismounted at the hundred steps that rose from street level all the way to the base of the ancient Temple of Poseidon – now the church of Saint Mark the Evangelist – and he walked up the steps accompanied by Ser Alcaeus and his new chaplain, Father Arnaud. He sneezed every few steps, and he didn’t move very quickly.
He paused at eye level with the ancient statue to Cerberus, guardian of the underworld. The statue was enormous, and each of the dog’s three great heads had its mouth open and fangs bared.
‘Why does it feel so empty?’ Father Arnaud asked.
The Megas Ducas patted a head affectionately. ‘The statue is itself an hermetical void. Students can throw anything they like inside. And they do. This is where they rid themselves of anything that went wrong.’ He grinned. ‘And no questions asked.’
‘Where does it go?’ asked the Alban.
The Megas Ducas smiled wickedly. ‘The Chancellor’s office? The Patriarch’s desk? Hell?’ He shook his head.
Ser Alcaeus looed at him. ‘Admit it! You were a student here.’
‘Never,’ said the Megas Ducas. ‘Come! Until we reach the antechamber, we have not yet begun to wait.’
At the top, they were met by a pair of priests who led them along the magnificent colonnade under the heavy marble decoration of the ancient architrave and into the right-hand building, another ancient temple, smaller, but gemlike in its perfection with gold inlay in marble and a row of statues that made the Duke pause in admiration.
The lead priest smiled indulgently. ‘Pagan heroes,’ he said. ‘The statues were brought from the old world.’
Ser Alcaeus had seen them every day of his Academy career, and he smiled to see his Captain admire one, and then the next.
‘Superb,’ he said.
Father Arnaud shrugged. ‘Why is our ability to duplicate God’s work in lifeless marble so attractive to men?’ he asked.
The Duke raised an eyebrow at him. He seemed to be saying, ‘Is that the best you can do?’
Father Arnaud shrugged.
They were led past the statues, through a palatial set of arches that were themselves part of one of the city’s most ancient pieces of fortification, and then into a relatively modern hall of stone and timber. There were several young men and four gowned nuns sitting primly on benches. The priests bowed and waved to servitors, who brought small glasses of wine – the precise quantity that travellers were usually offered at monasteries.
The young people watched the Duke carefully, as if he might be dangerous. Ser Alcaeus leaned over. ‘That’s the Baldesce boy,’ he breathed. ‘His father is the Podesta of all the Etruscans in the city.’
Father Arnaud sat on one of the long benches. ‘If I put my feet up and go to sleep, will the Patriarch be offended?’ he asked. He did pull his black cloak about him.
The Duke snapped, ‘As he’s the most powerful prelate in Nova Terra, yes. I’d rather you were polite, Father.’
The Baldesce boy rose from his friends and came over. ‘You are the new Duke of Thrake,’ he said with a pretty bow.
The Duke rose. ‘It’s all true,’ he said.
The young man smiled. ‘My father hates you,’ he said. ‘I should hate you too, but you are cutting a fine figure here. Is the Patriarch keeping you waiting?’
Ser Alcaeus tried to throw the Duke a warning glance, but the Duke nodded. ‘I suppose, but it’s scarcely waiting yet. Waiting, as such, only really starts after the first hour, or that’s what I’m told.’
The Etruscan boy laughed. ‘Well, I just thought someone should tell you that our friend is having his examination, and it is running long over time – but the Holy Father isn’t making you cool your heels.’
Noting that their friend hadn’t been eaten by the Duke, the four nuns and two other young men were drifting very slowly towards the conversation.
The Duke was interested. ‘Why is your friend being examined? For heresy?’
One of the nuns laughed. ‘He’s not a heretic as far as I know,’ she said. She looked confused. ‘Actually, he is. Now that I think of it, he’s a barbarian like you—’
The Duke paused and then sneezed into his sleeve. ‘Don’t worry, sister. Where I come from, barbarian is the very highest of compliments.’
There was some shuffling of feet.
‘Besides,’ the Duke went on, ‘almost no one is a barbarian like me.’
Baldesce laughed. ‘Is it true that you are making a truce with the Merchant League?’ he asked.
The Duke managed a smile. ‘Are you usually this bold?’ he asked.
‘My father is the Podesta,’ Baldesce said.
The Duke smiled. ‘In that case, it will do me no harm to say that we have release
d all of our Etruscan prisoners. The rest is between your father and the Merchant League.’
Father Arnaud rolled his eyes.
The double doors opened.
Morgan Mortirmir wore a smile as radiant as a hot fire on a cold day. Behind him, the Patriarch stood in robes that had once been black and had faded over many years to a dark blue-grey. The Patriarch had his arms in his sleeves and he was smiling, too.
He walked out into the antechamber. The young man’s friends walked over to him, shook hands, and in the case of two of the nuns, chaste embraces were exchanged. The young man continued to beam happily. ‘I passed,’ he said, six or seven times.
Baldesce pumped his hand. ‘You really are an idiot,’ he remarked. ‘Of course you were going to pass.’
The Duke walked over, inserted himself among the young man’s classmates – he was not more than five years older than the eldest – and shook the young man’s hand. ‘I gather we are countrymen,’ he said. ‘You are Alban?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ Mortirmir said. ‘I know who you are – I’ve seen you at the palace!’ He beamed at the Duke.
Now there is power. Hermes Trismegistus, that boy has power.
Please efface yourself. How much do I need to drink, to rid myself of you?
‘You are a student here, I understand?’ the Duke asked.
‘Yes, my lord Duke.’
‘Study hard. Ever thought of a career as a professional soldier?’ the Duke asked.
‘Yes, my lord!’ the boy said.
‘I see you wear a sword,’ the Duke continued.
‘I’ve told him it’s a foolish thing for a practitioner,’ Baldesce said.
The Duke smiled. ‘I’ve never found it that foolish,’ he answered, and then ruined his patronising look with a heavy sneeze.
He walked from Mortirmir to the Patriarch, who allowed him to kiss his ring. ‘There goes a most entertaining young man,’ said the Patriarch. ‘Very late to his power – very powerful, I think. Perhaps not the most powerful in his class, but very bright. A pleasure to test.’ He bowed and led them down another corridor, this one a row of cloisters facing into a beautiful courtyard with four quince trees trained to heavy wooden screens. One was in flower; one was just budding, one was in fruit, and one was green and empty.
The Patriarch led them along the cloisters and into a small office with a single massive desk covered in books and scrolls. ‘Find room where you can,’ he said, a little absently. ‘How can I help you, my lord Duke?’
‘Holy father, I’ve come—’ the Duke was looking at a scroll. ‘This is an original copy of Hereklitus?’ he said. ‘But the Suda says he offered his book as a sacrifice to Artemis!’
The Patriarch smiled. ‘The Suda says a great many foolish things. You read High Archaic?’
‘Very slowly, Holy Father.’ His finger was following his eyes.
Ser Alcaeus tried to attract his Captain’s attention.
Father Arnaud stood rigid as a board.
The Patriarch looked at Father Arnaud. ‘You are a knight of Saint Thomas, I think?’
‘Yes, Holy Father,’ the chaplain said. ‘A priest.’
‘A priest? That must be very difficult, Father. The teachings of Jesus are not easy to reconcile with violence.’ The Patriarch leaned forward. ‘Or how does it seem to you?’
Father Arnaud bowed. ‘I have had struggles,’ he admitted.
The Patriarch nodded. ‘You would be a mere brute if you had not.’ But he seemed well satisfied, and offered his ring to the priest to kiss.
‘Ser Alcaeus,’ he said. ‘How is your lady mother? Busy hatching plots?’
Rather than taking offence, Ser Alcaeus nodded. ‘Truthfully, Holy Father, she is too busy to hatch the least plot. Her only plot now is to save the Empire.’
The Patriarch raised an eyebrow at this but he chuckled warmly and turned to the Duke. ‘You must pardon me, my lord, but Alcaeus was one of my students – not much of a practitioner, but a fine mind and a very able poet, when he chooses to use his powers for good. He wrote many scurrilous verses about his teachers.’
Alcaeus writhed.
The Patriarch’s heavily lidded eyes fell back on the Duke.
‘Surely you can read faster than that,’ he said.
The Duke looked up. ‘The Academy is choosing to remain neutral,’ he said.
Alcaeus blanched.
The Duke went on, ‘The University’s neutrality is close to treason, Holy Father. The Emperor has been taken, and the traitor who took him has already offered to sell a portion of the Empire to get what he wants. The Emperor’s own magister, who must have been appointed by the Academy, has proven a traitor. He is a man of exceptional power. Why is the Academy so chary of taking sides?’
The Patriarch’s face gave nothing away. ‘I’m sorry that you feel we’ve been neutral,’ he said carefully. ‘The Academy is at the service of the palace – now and any time in the future.’
‘Couldn’t you have prevented the Emperor’s capture?’ the Duke asked. He sat up. ‘At least one of your astrologers must have predicted it.’
The Patriarch steepled his fingers. ‘And we informed the palace.’ He made a motion with his hands. ‘Sadly, through Master Aeskepiles, who really is a traitor – to the palace, and to his training. But that is not the fault of the Church or the University.’ He leaned forward. ‘You are a mage yourself,’ he said. ‘But something about you is quite odd – as if you have two souls.’
The Duke leaned back.
Hide.
Silence . . .
‘I had a tutor in the ars magicka who was trained here. I practise when I can.’ The Duke nodded. ‘If I had any time at all, I’d ask to attend some classes.’
‘The capture of another soul is necromancy, is heresy and is an illegal hermetical act,’ the Patriarch said. He leaned forward. ‘Is that another soul I sense?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the Duke lied smoothly.
The Patriarch narrowed his eyes.
‘Holy Father, if I were a daemon I’d hardly have strolled into your office . . .’
The Patriarch leaned back and laughed. ‘I sometimes wonder. But it may just be my age. Sometimes I sense doubles in the aethereal.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘And sometimes I sense heresy where there is none. You bear the reputation as the very spawn of Satan, despite saving Lissen Carrak from the Wild.’
‘Really?’ asked the Duke. ‘I also saved this city from treason, I believe. And my people have been attacked by hermeticism – right here, under your very nose, Holy Father.’
The Patriarch leaned back. ‘I am hardly your foe, here.’
The Duke nodded. ‘I never thought you were. May we speak privately?’
Father Arnaud led the procession out of the Patriarch’s private office.
The two men were entirely amicable when they emerged. The Patriarch held the Duke’s arm, they embraced, and then the Duke kissed the Patriarch’s ring.
‘Save the Emperor,’ the Patriarch said.
‘I’m doing all I can,’ said the Duke.
Father Arnaud stepped forward. ‘Holy Father, I have a message from Prior Wishart.’
The Patriarch nodded. ‘I have never met him, but he has a great reputation. Yet your order has, in the past, remained aloof from us and even leaned towards Rhum.’
Father Arnaud merely held the scroll out and said nothing.
The Patriarch laughed. ‘Old men will go on,’ he allowed, and took the scroll. He read quickly, and then looked over the top of the scroll at the Duke. ‘The King of Alba is appointing a Scholastic Bishop of Lorica?’ he said.
The Duke was, for once, obviously taken aback. He glared at Father Arnaud and bowed to the prelate. ‘My apologies. I had no idea.’
The Patriarch tapped the scroll on his teeth. ‘I will see you in less than a week. Let me think on this. ‘He raised a hand and made a full benediction. ‘Go with God.’
That was far too close.
Harmodius, you are becoming a
liability.
I’m working on it! The old man shook the head of his statue. I’m finally in a town where I can buy things I need. Things you need. I just need more time.
Old man, you have taught me well; you have saved the company at least once; without you, I’d have lost the siege at Lissen Carak. But my headaches are worse every day, and I’m starting to make mistakes – mistakes that will kill people I love.
I just need more time. A few weeks. Must I beg?
No, said the Red Knight.
Harmodius made an extra effort to go deep.
When they left the Patriarch, the Duke took his friends shopping. Ser Michael and a deeply blushing Kaitlin met them at the foot of the Academy steps, as did Ser Gavin and Ser Thomas and Ser Alison. They all wore a minimum of armour – just breastplates – and carried swords and wore their jewels. They were attended by forty pages in the scarlet company livery, and even though they were riding almost every horse the company possessed, they looked very capable.
‘Look rich and dangerous,’ he told them.
Shopping in the city was an endless set of nested choices – tables of wares and booths and shops with polished hardwood walls and glass – real glass – in the windows, or small stalls made of hand-woven carpets from the far east, or simply a rude box of barn boards. There was a square of jewellers, a square of glovers, a square of sword smiths and a square of armourers, of silk weavers, of tailors, of veil makers, of perfumers.
The ostensible purpose of the expedition was to buy everything required for a wedding, but the Duke clearly had his own agenda, and in the square of the jewellers, he led them to the most elegant shop in the middle of the long block, where he was received like a visiting prince. He turned to Ser Michael and took him by the hand. ‘You are rich,’ he said. ‘Buy this beautiful young woman a trinket or two.’
‘With what?’ Michael spat.
‘Just choose some things,’ the Duke said, and followed his host through a door which closed behind him.
Sauce, of all people, chose a comb with red and green enamel. The comb depicted two knights locked in mortal combat – dagger to dagger – in lovingly detailed harness, and she took off her hat, put it in her hair, and smiled into a mirror – and then closed her mouth to hide the missing teeth. ‘How much?’ she asked.