“Five copper if you please, sir.”
Royce paid the woman without a word, then pulled a solid gold tenent from his pouch and pressed it sideways into the fruit. He walked back across the square. This time he took a different path, one that passed by the cart the boy lay under, and as he did, the apple slipped from his fingers and fell into the mud. Royce muttered a curse at his clumsiness and continued his way up the street.
As the day approached midmorning, the temperature grew oppressive. Arista was dressed in a hodgepodge of boyish clothes gleaned from the Diamond’s stash. A shapeless cap hid most of her hair. A battered, oversized tunic and torn trousers gave her the look of a hapless urchin. In Ratibor, this nearly guaranteed her invisibility. Hadrian guessed it was more comfortable than her heavy gown and cloak.
The three of them arrived at the intersection of Legends and Lore. There had been a brief discussion about leaving Arista in the Rat’s Nest, but after Hintindar, Hadrian was reluctant to have her out of his sight.
The thoroughfares of the two streets formed one of the many acute angles so prevalent in the city. Here a pie-shaped church dominated. Made of stone, the building stood out among its wooden neighbors, a heavy, overbuilt structure more like a fortress than a place of worship.
“Why a Nyphron church of all things?” Hadrian asked as they reached the entrance. “Maybe we got it wrong. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”
Royce nudged Hadrian and pointed at the cornerstone. Chiseled into its face, the epitaph read:
ESTABLISHED 2992
“‘Before you were born, the year ninety-two,’” he whispered. “I doubt it’s a coincidence.”
“Churches keep accounts concerning births, marriages, and deaths in their community,” Arista pointed out. “If there was a battle in which people died, there could be a record.”
Pulling on the thick oak doors, Hadrian found them locked. He knocked and, when no response came, knocked again. He pounded with his fist, and then, just as Royce began looking for another way in, the door opened.
“I’m sorry, but services aren’t until tomorrow,” an elderly priest announced. He was dressed in the usual robes. He had a balding head and a wrinkled face that peered through the small crack of the barely opened door.
“That’s okay. I’m not here for services,” Hadrian replied. “I was hoping I could get a look at the church records.”
“Records?”
Hadrian glanced at Arista. “I heard churches keep records on births and deaths.”
“Oh yes, but why do you want to see them?”
“I’m trying to find out what happened to someone.” The priest looked skeptical. “My father,” he added.
Understanding washed over the priest’s face and he beckoned them in.
As Hadrian had expected, it was oppressively dark. Banks of candles burned on either side of the altar and at various points around the worship hall, each doing more to emphasize the darkness than provide illumination.
“We actually keep very good records here,” the priest mentioned as he closed the door behind them. “By the way, I’m Monsignor Bartholomew. I’m watching over the church while His Reverence Bishop Talbert is away on pilgrimage to Ervanon. And you are?”
“Hadrian Blackwater.” He gestured to Royce and Arista. “These are friends of mine.”
“I see. Then if you’ll please follow me …” Bartholomew said.
Hadrian had never spent much time in churches. The darkness, opulence, and staring eyes of the sculptures unnerved him. He was at home in a forest or a field, a hovel or a fortress, but the interior of a church always made him uneasy. This one had a vaulted ceiling supported by marble columns and cinquefoil-shaped stonework and blind-tracery moldings common to Nyphron churches. The altar itself was an ornately carved wooden cabinet with three broad doors and a blue-green marble top. His mind flashed back to a similar cabinet in Essendon Castle that had concealed Magnus, a dwarf waiting to accuse him and Royce of Amrath’s death. That incident had started his and Royce’s long-standing employment with Medford’s royal family.
On this one, more candles burned, and three large gilded tomes lay sealed. The sickly-sweet fragrance of salifan incense was strong. On the altar stood the obligatory alabaster statue of Novron. As always, he knelt, sword in hand, while the god Maribor loomed over him, placing a crown on his head, anointing his son the ruler of the world. All the churches Hadrian had visited had one, each a replica of the original sculpture preserved in the Crown Tower of Ervanon. They varied only in size and material.
Taking a candle, the priest led them down a narrow, curling stair. At the base, they stopped at a door, beside which hung an iron key on a peg. The priest lifted it off and twisted it in the large square lock until it clanked. The door creaked open and the priest replaced the key.