Rise Of Empire (34 page)

The sun had barely peeked over the horizon and already the air was hot, heavy with a stifling blanket of humidity. The rain had stopped but clouds lingered, shrouding the sun in a milky haze. The streets were filled with puddles, great pools of brown water, still as glass. A mongrel dog—thin and mangy—roamed the market, sniffing garbage. Flushing a rat, the mutt chased it to the sewers. Having lost it, he lapped from the brown water, then collapsed, panting. Insects appeared. Clouds of gnats formed over the larger puddles and biting flies circled the tethered horses. They fought them as best they could with a shake of the head, a stomp of the hooves, or a swish of the tail. Before long, people appeared. Most were women clad in plain dresses. The few men were shirtless, and everyone went about barefoot, their legs caked with mud to their knees. They opened shops and stands displaying a meager assortment of fruits, eggs, vegetables, and some meat, laid bare, to the flies’ delight.

Royce had barely slept. Too wary to close his eyes for more than a few minutes at a time, he had given up. He rose sometime before dawn and made his way to the surface. He climbed on the bed of a wagon left abandoned in the mud and watched East End Square come alive. He had seen the sight before, only the faces were different. He hated this city. If it were a man, he would have slit its throat decades ago. The thought appealed to him as he stared at the muddy, puddle-filled square. Some problems were easily fixed by the draw of a knife, but others …

He was not alone.

Not long after first light, Royce spotted a boy lying under a cart in the mud, only his head visible above the ruts. For hours, the two remained aware of each other, but neither acknowledged it. When the shops began to open, the boy slipped from his muddy bed, crawled to one of the larger puddles, and washed some of the muck off. His hair remained caked with the gray clay, because he did not submerge his head. As the boy moved down the road, Royce saw he was nearly naked and kept a small pouch tied around his neck. Royce knew the pouch held all the boy’s possessions. He imagined a small bit of glass for cutting, string, a smooth rock for hammering and breaking, and perhaps even a copper coin or two—it was a king’s ransom that he would defend with his life, if it came to that.

The boy moved to an undisturbed puddle and drank deeply from the surface. Untouched rainwater was the best. Cleaner, fresher than well water, and much easier to get—much safer.

The boy kept a keen eye on him, constantly glancing over.

With his morning wash done, the lad crept around the cooper’s shop, which was still closed. He hid himself between two tethered horses, rubbing their muddy legs. He glanced once more at Royce with an irritated look and then threw a pebble in the direction of the grocer. Nothing happened. The boy searched for another, paused, then threw again. This time the stone hit a pitcher of milk, which toppled and spilled. The grocer howled in distress and rushed to save what she could. As she did, the boy made a dash to steal a small sour apple and an egg. He made a clean grab and was back around the corner of the cooper’s barn before the grocer turned.

His chest heaved as he watched Royce. He paused only a moment, then cracked the egg and spilled the gooey contents into his mouth, swallowing with pleasure.

Over the waif’s right shoulder, Royce saw two figures
approaching. They were boys like him, but older and larger. One wore a pair of men’s britches that extended to his ankles. The other wore a filthy tunic tied around his waist with a length of twine and a necklace made from a torn leather belt. The boy did not see them until it was too late. The two grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the street, where they forced his face into the mud. The bigger boys wrenched the apple from his hand and ripped the pouch from his neck before letting go.

Sputtering, gasping, and blind, the boy struggled to breathe. He came up swinging and found only air. The kid wearing the oversized britches kicked him in the stomach, crumpling the boy to his knees. The one wearing the tunic took a turn and kicked the boy once, striking him in the side and landing him back in the mud. They laughed as they continued up Herald’s Street, one holding the apple, the other swinging the neck pouch.

Royce watched the boy lying in the street. No one helped. No one noticed. Slowly the boy crawled back to his shelter beneath the wheel cart. Royce could hear him crying and cursing as he pounded his fist in the mud.

Feeling something on his cheek, Royce brushed away the wetness. He stood up, surprised his breathing was so shallow. He followed the plank walkway to the grocer, who smiled brightly at him.

“Terribly hot today, ain’t it, sir?”

Royce ignored her. He picked out the largest, ripest apple he could find.

“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.

“Doesn’t make much sense, does it? To keep the key there?” Royce pointed out.

The priest glanced back at it blankly. “It’s heavy and I don’t like carrying it.”

“Then why lock the door?”

“Only way to keep it closed. And if left open, the rats eat the parchments.”

Inside, the cellar was half the size of the church above and divided into aisles of shelves that stretched to the ceiling and were filled with thick leather-bound books. The priest took a moment to light a lantern that hung near the door.

“They’re all in chronological order,” he told them as the lantern revealed a low ceiling and walls made of small stacked stones quite unlike the larger blocks and bricks used in the rest of the church.

“About what time period are you looking for? When did your father die?”

“Twenty-nine ninety-two.”

The priest hesitated. “Ninety-two? That was forty-two years ago. You age remarkably well. How old were you?”

“Very young.”

The priest looked skeptical. “Well, I’m sorry. We have no records from ninety-two.”

“The cornerstone outside says this church was built then,” Royce said.

“And yet we do not have the records for which you ask.”

“Why is that?” Hadrian pressed.

The priest shrugged. “Maybe there was a fire.”

“Maybe
there was a fire? You don’t know?”

“Our records cannot help you, so if you’ll please follow me, I’ll show you out.” The priest took a step toward the exit.

Royce stepped in his path. “You’re hiding something.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort. You asked to see records from ninety-two—there are none.”

“The question is, why?”

“Any number of reasons. How should I know?”

“The same way you knew there aren’t any records here for
that date without even looking,” Royce replied, his voice lowering. “You’re lying to us, which again brings up the question of why.”

“I’m a monsignor. I don’t appreciate being accused of lying in my own church.”

“And I don’t appreciate being lied to.” Royce took a step forward.

“Neither do I,” Bartholomew replied. “You’re not looking for anyone’s father. Do you think I’m a fool? Why are you back here? That business ended decades ago. Why are you still at it?”

Royce glanced at Hadrian. “We’ve never been here before.”

The priest rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Why is the seret still digging this up? You’re Sentinel Thranic, aren’t you?” He pointed at Royce. “Talbert told me about the interrogation you put him through—a bishop of the church! If only the Patriarch knew what his pets were up to, you would all be disbanded. Why do you still exist, anyway? The Heir of Novron is on her throne, isn’t she? Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to believe? At long last, you found the seed of Novron and all is finally right with the world. You people can’t accept that your mandate is over, that we don’t need you anymore—if we ever did.”