By the time the new Pontiff had finished his private audience with the strange hunter-boy from the north, a temporary suspension of the endless canonical discussions among the Cardinals had been called; everyone agreed to turn in for the night, and to resume conversations, arguments, investitures, or whatever else the future might hold, starting the next morning.
Ocyrhoe and Léna were put together in a room on the first floor; at the new Pope’s insistence, Ferenc slept in his room. Helmuth and Cardinal Monferrato were also put together in another guest quarter, closer to the rest of the Cardinals.
Father Rodrigo’s room, not surprisingly, had a guard placed in front of it. That did not worry Ocyrhoe. In the dark hours of the morning, with a small kitchen knife and a kneading blade she had purloined from the castle kitchen, she let herself out of the room. Léna had not stirred as she had slipped out of bed and made her way to the door. Ocyrhoe did not feel that what she was about to do was at all contrary to her identity as a Binder, but still, she sensed Léna would discourage her from following her instincts.
Her plan was simple enough—the sort of misdirection that came naturally to her as a child of the streets. Like a mouse, she laid out a trail for the guard to follow. She planted a number of obvious clues—a piece of torn fabric, some bits of wax from a candle, a wedge of plaster, and powder from that plaster—down the hall, around another corner, and aimed directly at the door of Cardinal Fieschi’s room.
When she finished her false trail, she crept back to the corner near Father Rodrigo’s room. The guard was leaning against the wall, his lack of vigilance suggesting he had no idea who he was guarding. She tossed a pebble in his direction, making sure it bounced and rattled against the base of the wall. As soon as the guard roused himself, she scampered noisily away from the corner. There was a dark niche not far from the next corner, deep enough for her to hide in, and she pressed herself into the slot shortly before the guard stumbled around the corner.
She was counting on the guard’s boredom, that he would be more interested in following a trail of evidence that would result in the capture of a sneaky thief than the endless monotony of guard duty.
The guard paused as he came around the corner, looking around cautiously. Ocyrhoe held her breath, waiting for him to spot the piece of torn cloth. He did, and bowing over like a hound, he began to creep along the hall, his eyes clearly scanning for more clues. He passed by her hiding place without even looking in her direction. In another few heartbeats, he reached the corner and disappeared from view.
Ocyrhoe darted out of her hiding place and silently—like a mouse—ran back to Father Rodrigo’s chamber. She quietly picked the lock on the door with the kitchen knife, pushed up the simple latch with the dough blade, then slipped into Father Rodrigo’s small room and shut the door behind her. Ferenc and Rodrigo were already awake and dressed. A candle stub burned by the bed, throwing their shadows up against the high stone and plaster of the ceiling.
Father Rodrigo smiled benevolently. Did nothing disturb the man now? Perhaps a Pope was beyond fear.
Ferenc looked nervous and happy to see her.
Already she was loosening her satchel to pull out the map she had drawn. The moon was low but the compound in general never really slept; once she got them safely outside, away from people who would recognize their faces, they could walk off openly without causing suspicion. All the same, the map showed the most indirect, untraceable, forgotten pathways leading out of the city. Beyond the city walls, she could no longer help them.
She smiled in the candlelight and reached out for Ferenc’s hand. Good-bye, my friend, she signed, and then threw her arms around him in an embrace.
Ferenc went first, the idea being that the sight of the young Magyar might not raise as much alarm immediately as the sight of Father Rodrigo wandering around the halls. Father Rodrigo paused at the door to the room. “Will you stay here?” he asked, his eyes bright in the candlelight.
“Here?” Ocyrhoe whispered.
Father Rodrigo nodded. “An empty room is an easy mystery to solve, but a room that contains something other than what is expected will be confusing.” A small laugh slipped out of him. “Is that not what we find in our hearts?” he asked, though Ocyrhoe thought he wasn’t speaking to her. “We fear we are empty vessels, but we aren’t, are we?”
“No, Father,” she whispered. An oddly familiar and yet foreign shiver ran through her body, not unlike the sensation she had felt when she had first laid eyes on the priest in the marketplace.
“God bless you, child,” Father Rodrigo said, resting his hand on her forehead. His flesh was warm and dry. And then he was gone.
Ocyrhoe waited in the empty room, feeling a little bit empty herself. What a bizarre and unexpected few days this had been! What unimaginable outcomes had developed from it!
She looked around the room in the flickering light of the candle stub. I’ll sleep here then, she decided. Tomorrow morning, when they come for him, they will find me instead. They will be furious, but Léna will not allow them to hurt me.