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.
Dark work, Javel thought again, and ordered two whiskeys at the bar. The second was for pleasure; the first was an absolute requirement for him to be able to sit down at the table with Arlen Thorne, who had pulled Allie’s name from the lot with his own hand. When the shots came, Javel nearly threw the first down his throat. But he held on to the second, staring down at the bar, trying to linger there as long as he could.
Three stools down was an aging whore with a transparent white blouse and blonde hair that was almost certainly dyed. She leaned back against the bar in a contortionist’s pose, one that allowed her to poke her breasts out two inches farther than nature had ever intended, and looked Javel over with a businesslike gaze. “Queen’s Guard, are you?”
Javel nodded shortly.
“Five for a fuck, ten for the works.”
Javel closed his eyes. He’d tried to go to a whore once, three years ago, but he hadn’t been able to get it up, and had ended up weeping. The woman had been very kind and understanding, but it had been a surface sort of understanding, and Javel could sense her eagerness to get him gone so that she could move on to the next customer. Business was business.
“No, thanks,” he muttered.
The whore shrugged, taking a deep breath and thrusting forward again as two more men entered the pub. “Your loss.”
“Javel.” Thorne’s low, unctuous voice carried across the pub with perfect clarity. “Join me.”