At the time of the crowning, he hadn’t yet heard the story of what had happened on the Keep Lawn; the price for his seclusion and study was a woeful ignorance of current events. But in the days since, his brother priests had refused to leave him alone. They knocked on his door constantly, ostensibly for clarification of some point of theology or history, but none would leave without hearing some version of the Queen’s crowning. In return, they told Tyler of the freeing of the allotted, and the burning of the cages.
This morning Father Wyde had come in, fresh from handing out bread to the beggars who lined the steps of the Arvath. According to Wyde, the beggars were calling her the True Queen. Tyler knew the term: it was a female variant on the pre-Crossing Arthurian legend, the Queen who would save the land from terrible peril and usher in a golden age. The True Queen was a fairy tale, a balm for childless mothers. Yet Tyler’s heart had leaped at Wyde’s words, and he’d been forced to look out the window to conceal eyes suddenly bright with tears.
I am part of God’s great work.
He didn’t know what to say to the Holy Father. The Queen had refused to swear allegiance to God’s Church, and even Tyler knew the importance of that vow. The Regent, despite a complete lack of personal morality, had remained firmly under the Holy Father’s control, donating vast sums of money to the Church and allowing construction of a private chapel inside the Keep. Should an itinerant friar come along, preaching the ancient beliefs of Luther to an ever more enthusiastic audience, the friar would disappear and never be heard from again. No one spoke of these things, but Tyler was a perceptive man, and he knew the sickness of his church. Over the years he had chosen seclusion, loving God with his whole heart, intending to die quietly someday in the small room, surrounded by his books. But now he’d been inexplicably drawn into the great events of the world.
Tyler’s heart thumped in the narrow cage of his chest as he trudged up the enormous marble staircase toward the Holy Father’s audience room. He was getting old, yes, but he was also frightened. His private conversation with the Holy Father had been limited to a few words of congratulation upon Tyler’s ordination. How long ago had that been? Some fifty years gone. The Holy Father had aged, just as Tyler had, and was now nearing his hundredth year. Even in the Tearling, where the wealthy lived long, the Holy Father’s life span was impressive. But illness plagued him: pneumonia, fevers, and some sort of digestive ailment that reportedly prohibited him from eating meat. However, his mind had remained sharp as his body dwindled, and he’d managed the Regent so adroitly that the Arvath now had a steeple of pure gold, a luxury unheard of since the pre-Crossing. Even the Cadarese, with their enormous supply of underground riches, didn’t confer so much wealth upon their temples.
Tyler shook his head. The Holy Father was an idolater. Perhaps they all were. When the girl refused to take the vow, Tyler had made an immediate decision, perhaps the first of his entire life. The Tearling did not need the Queen to be loyal to the Church, with its infection of greed. The Tearling simply needed a queen.
Two acolytes were stationed outside the door to the audience room. Despite their shaven heads and eyebrows, they shared the narrow weasel’s look of all the Holy Father’s attendants. Both of them smirked as they unbolted the doors and tugged them open, the message clear: You’re in trouble.
I know, Tyler thought. Better than anyone.
He crossed the threshold, making a special point of keeping his gaze down. The Holy Father was rumored to become difficult when people failed to pay him proper respect. The walls and floor of the audience chamber were constructed of quarried stone that had been washed so white by the passage of water that the room actually seemed to glow under the skylight. It was extremely warm; with the skylight glassed in, there was nowhere for the heat to go. After his many bouts with pneumonia, the Holy Father reportedly liked the excessive warmth. His oakwood throne sat atop the dais in the center of the room, but Tyler halted at the foot of the dais and waited, keeping his head carefully lowered.
“Ah, Tyler. Come here.”
Tyler mounted the steps of the dais and reached automatically for the Holy Father’s outstretched hand, kissing the ruby ring, then retreated to the second riser and knelt. His left hip began to throb immediately; kneeling always played hell with his arthritis.
When he looked up, Tyler felt a small stirring of pity. The Holy Father had once been a well-built middle-aged man, but now one arm was withered and useless from the stroke he’d suffered several years ago, and his face was likewise lopsided; the right side sagged like a sail that had lost its wind. For the past few months, the Arvath had quaked with rumors that the Holy Father was dying, and Tyler thought this was probably the truth. His skin was as transparent as parchment; actual bone seemed to poke through his bald head. He had not aged so much as shriveled, and now he seemed almost the size of a child, nearly lost in the folds of his white velvet robes. He gave Tyler a benevolent smile that put Tyler immediately on his guard, dissolving the pity like sugar.
Beside the Holy Father, just as Tyler had feared, was Cardinal Anders, stately in his voluminous robes of scarlet silk. Cardinals’ robes had once been nearly orange due to the imperfect red that dyers produced in the Tearling, but Anders’s robes were true red, a clear sign that the Church, like everyone else, was getting Callaen dyes off the black market out of Mortmesne. In addition to the robes, Anders wore a small gold pin in the shape of a hammer, a memento of his time spent on the Regent’s antisodomy squads. Anders’s hatred of homosexuals was well known, exceptional even for the Arvath, and rumor said he was the one who had originally suggested the idea of a special law enforcement contingent to the Regent. But then, several years ago, he had gone a step further, volunteering for duty in his free hours. It had made for quite the scandal, a sitting cardinal working for law enforcement, but Anders had refused to quit and stayed with the squads for several years. Tyler wondered why the Holy Father still allowed Anders to wear the pin on top of his robes, now, when Anders had finally ended his involvement.
Cardinal Anders’s presence at this meeting meant trouble. He was the Holy Father’s clear choice as successor, even though he was only forty-three, over twenty years younger than Tyler. Anders had first come to the Arvath at the young age of six; his parents were devout nobles, and they’d intended him for the priesthood since birth. Smart and unscrupulous, he had risen through the ranks with extraordinary speed; at the age of twenty-one, he’d been the youngest priest ever promoted to the bishopric of New London, and he’d been named a cardinal only a few short years afterward. In all that time, his face never seemed to change; it was a slab of wood, heavy features pitted with scars that suggested adolescent acne, and eyes so black that Tyler couldn’t distinguish iris from pupil. Watching him was like staring at a Tearling oak. Tyler had met greedy priests, venal priests, even priests tormented by hidden, twisted sexual desires that were repugnant to the Church. But whenever he saw that wooden face, the face of the next Holy Father, which would look on God’s work and the devil’s horrors with the same clinical detachment, Tyler felt profoundly uneasy. He didn’t like or trust the Holy Father, never had, but the Holy Father at least was a predictable blend of religion and expedience; one could work with the man. Cardinal Anders was another matter altogether; Tyler had no idea what he might be capable of without restraint. The Holy Father was a weak check only, a check that would soon be gone.
“What service can I do Your Holiness?”
The Holy Father chuckled. “You think I’ve brought you here to consult your specialized knowledge of history, Tyler? Indeed, no. You’ve been bound up in extraordinary events lately.”
Tyler nodded, hating his own eager, servile tone. “I was summoned by Lazarus of the Mace, Your Holiness. He made it clear that I was wanted immediately, or I would have sent for another priest.”
“The Mace is a fearsome visitor, to be sure,” replied the Holy Father smoothly. “And how did you find our new Queen?”
“Surely there i
sn’t a soul left in the Tear who hasn’t heard the story by now, Your Holiness.”
“I know the events of the crowning well, Tyler. I’ve heard the tale from many sources. Now I wish to hear it from you.”
Tyler repeated the Queen’s words, watching the Holy Father’s face darken. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze speculative. “She refused to make the vow.”
“She did.”
Anders broke in. “And yet you took it upon yourself to complete the crowning.”
“It was unprecedented, Your Eminence. I didn’t know what to do. There are no rules set down . . . there was no time . . . it seemed best for the kingdom.”
“Your primary concern is not the health of this kingdom, but the health of God’s Church,” Anders replied. “This kingdom and its people are the concern of its ruler.”
Tyler stared at him. The statement was nearly identical to the new Queen’s words at her crowning, yet the meaning was so far distant that Anders might as well have spoken in an unknown language. “I know that, Your Eminence, but I had no time to reflect and I had to choose.”
The two senior priests regarded him narrowly for a moment longer. Then the Holy Father shrugged and smiled, a smile so wide that Tyler wished he could retreat down the steps. “Well, it couldn’t be helped then. Most unfortunate that you were thrust into such a situation.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” Tyler replied. His hip was throbbing in earnest now, with that particular delight that arthritis seemed to take in its own doings. He considered asking the Holy Father if he might stand, and then dismissed the idea. It would be a mistake to show weakness in front of either of these men.
“The Queen will need a new Keep priest, Tyler. Father Timpany was the Regent’s man, and she will distrust him, wisely so.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“Because of your role in her coronation, you’re the logical choice.”
The statement meant nothing to Tyler. He waited.
“She’ll trust you, Tyler,” the Holy Father continued, “certainly more than she’ll trust any of us, precisely because you crowned her without the vow.”
Realizing that the Holy Father was serious, Tyler stammered, “Wouldn’t the Church prefer someone else in that role, Your Holiness? Someone more worldly?”
Again, it was Anders who replied. “We’re all men of God here, Father. Devotion to your God and your church is more important than your understanding of the things of Caesar.”
Tyler looked down at his sandals, his stomach roiling with nausea, the sensation that a nightmare had come to life all around him. He had come here expecting to be censured, perhaps even to have his duties altered for a time; priests who committed a small infraction typically had to spend a period down in the kitchens, washing dishes or hauling garbage. But for a priest who wanted only to be left alone in his room with his books and thoughts, an appointment to the royal court was infinitely worse, perhaps the worst thing that could happen.
Perhaps she won’t have a Keep priest. Perhaps she’ll boot the lot of us from the Keep and that godless chapel can molder to dust.
“We must have eyes and ears on this throne, Tyler,” the Holy Father continued, his tone still deceptively mild. “She hasn’t given the vow, and that puts the life of God’s Church at great hazard under her rule.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“You’ll give periodic reports directly to me.”
Directly to the Holy Father? Tyler’s anxiety deepened. Anders was the one who buffered dealings between the Holy Father and the rest of the Church, the rest of the kingdom. Why not Anders? The simple answer came immediately: the Holy Father had handpicked Anders as his successor, but even he didn’t trust the man.
I’m in a nest of wasps, Tyler thought miserably.
“What shall I report on, Your Holiness?”
“Those things occurring within the Keep that concern the Church.”
“But Your Holiness, she’ll know! She’s no fool.”
The Holy Father’s eyes bored into him. “Your loyalty to this church will be measured by the detail imparted in these reports. Do you understand?”
Tyler understood. He would be a spy. He thought again with longing of his room, the rows of books there, all of them utterly vulnerable to the Holy Father’s heavy hand.
“Tyler? Do you understand?”
Tyler nodded, thinking: I am part of God’s great work.
“Good,” the Holy Father remarked softly.
Javel crept down the Butcher’s Staircase, shrouded in a grey cloak. If anyone saw him, they would take him for a Queen’s Guard, which was the idea. He’d actually tried to become a Queen’s Guard long ago, at the beginning of his career. They hadn’t accepted him, so he’d been relegated to guarding the Keep Gate. But the grey cloak still retained as much power over him as ever; with every man who drew aside in the street, or gave him a shallow bow, Javel felt himself stand taller, straighter. Illusion was better than nothing.
At the end of the staircase he found himself in a tight alley, a curtain of mist hanging just above his head, and he crept along with his hand on his knife. The streetlamps in this part of the Gut had been broken for years, and moonlight shone only briefly through the mist, bathing the alley in dim blue effulgence that did nothing to reveal potential predators. Javel carried no gold, but the cutthroats in this area wouldn’t bother to ascertain that before they rushed him, and they were likely to stick a knife into his ribs for good measure.
Two dogs snarled from a doorway. They might as well have announced his presence, but Javel was only wary, not frightened. He’d been a Gate Guard forever, but like most of the outer guards, he never penetrated further into the Keep than the gatehouse. The Keep was a mystery. Javel’s environs were here: the Gut, a labyrinth of echoing alleys and darkness and bolt-holes that he knew almost as well as the shape of his own hands. The entire sector was buried in the depression between foothills; mist always seemed to collect there, as did people with business to hide.
At last Javel came to the paint-chipped door of the Back End. He glanced behind him to see if he’d picked up any tails, but apparently the grey cloak had done its work again. No one wanted to give a Queen’s Guard any trouble, particularly not now, when the poor had taken on the new Queen as their champion. Even to someone like Javel, who had little interest in the mood of the people, the transformation was extraordinary. Already, songs for the Queen were beginning to circulate through the city. Mobs of idle poor roamed the boulevards shouting the Queen’s name, and those who didn’t join in risked a beating. The city people were like every drunkard Javel had ever known, including himself, enjoying the slide of a long, oblivious night with no thought toward the next morning. They would sober up soon, though. Even now, the Mort would be mobilizing, their soldiers preparing to march, their foundries working overtime in the production of steel. Thinking of Mortmesne made Javel think of Allie, her long blonde hair hiding her face as she disappeared. Every day it was something different about Allie, some feature that jumped up and bit him on the ass and wouldn’t let go. Today it had been Allie’s hair, a curtain of blonde that looked amber indoors and gold outdoors. Javel’s fingers shook as he opened the door of the pub. Inside would be whiskey, but also Arlen Thorne.
The Back End was a drunkard’s pub, a tiny, windowless hovel with cheap wooden floors soaked in years’ worth of beer. The entire place smelled like a vat of yeast. It wasn’t one of Javel’s favorite haunts, but beggars couldn’t choose. The better areas of New London observed a closing time of one in the morning; the Gut was the place to go if you wanted to keep drinking until sunup. But now the pub was nearly deserted; it was almost four in the morning and even the day laborers had dragged themselves home. Only someone with a serious drinking problem or truly bad business would still be awake. Javel suspected he had both. A feeling of doom hung over him, a premonition of dark work that would not be shaken.
The note had come from Arlen Thorne just as Javel was getting off
shift at midnight, and it told Javel nothing. Whatever else Thorne might be, he was a slippery bastard, certainly not fool enough to put anything incriminating in writing. Javel had never spoken to Thorne in his life before, but there had been no question of refusing the note; when Thorne demanded your presence, you went. Javel didn’t have any relatives left to be shipped off to Mortmesne, but he didn’t underestimate Thorne’s ability to think of something equally vile. Allie’s hair surfaced again in his mind. Ever since that day on the Keep Lawn, all the whiskey in the world couldn’t keep her at bay.
Still, I’m ready to try again, Javel thought miserably.
Thorne sat at a table in the corner of the pub, his back against both walls, sipping from a cup that almost certainly contained water. It was a well-known fact that Thorne didn’t drink. Early in his career his sobriety, combined with his tall, thin frame and delicate features, had made Thorne a prime target for the Regent’s antisodomy hooligans. He had taken several beatings at their hands before he’d begun to move up in the Census. Were any of those men still walking around breathing? Javel doubted it.
Vil, who dealt directly with Thorne from time to time, said that Thorne didn’t drink for the obvious reason: he didn’t like to be out of control for even a single second. Javel thought this assessment was probably correct. The pub was nearly empty, but still Thorne’s eyes marked Javel, dismissed him in the same second, and then continued around the room, clocking who was there to notice him, who might see that the Overseer of the Census was meeting with a Gate Guard, who might care.
Seated beside Thorne was the woman, Brenna. Javel had never seen her before, but he knew her instantly. Her skin was a deep, translucent pearl, so milky white that Javel could see the blue veins running up and down her arms. She was ageless, her hair a thinning blonde cap around her face. Javel, along with everyone else in the Tear, had heard of her, but few ever saw her, for she could only go out at night.