Shroud of Shadow (44 page)

“The serving girl?”

Natil nodded. “I was trying to take her home. She had been . . . hurt.”

“Hurt . . .” Jacob looked away. “By Edvard and Norman, right?”

“It is so. They had . . .” The words failed. Natil forced herself to utter others. “I killed them. I—”

Jacob gripped her arm. “That's enough,” he said. “That's enough.” His mouth tightened, and his eyes clenched with something terrible, something dark. Then, slowly, painfully: “You saved me the trouble, girl.”

Natil only looked at him, as pained by her guilts as by the bitterness that she heard in his voice.

“You saved me the trouble.” And the bitterness came again, like a wave. But then he breathed, sighed. “And we'll leave it at that. Francis can shovel them in. And we'll put Omelda in the cathedral. And we'll just leave it at that.”

Natil, though, could not just leave it at that. She feared, in fact, that she would never be able to just leave it at that. She had killed, and she had betrayed. So much she knew now about being human! “And what of the others?” she said softly.

Jacob's voice was a rasp. “They vary.”

In two words, he had said it all, and when Natil was strong enough to don her clothes, pick up her harp, and walk, unassisted, out of the dungeon, she found that the courtyard of the House of God was littered with damaged human beings. Some, to be sure, like Paul and James and Simon and their loved ones, had not suffered much save from fear, and they stood together near the gate, Jew and Christian weeping freely and holding one another without hesitancy or qualm. Others, though . . .

Natil padded slowly and noiselessly among them, now and then pausing to touch, to speak a kind word. Here was a man who had not seen the sun in thirteen years, and he was now all but blind. Here was a man who had no legs because they had rotted off. Here was a woman who had gone a little mad, for she spoke to herself . . . and to others who were not there.

Men, women, even children: scarred and wounded and marked with hunger and torture and fear. And the men who had yesterday worked to make them that way now labored to tend their hurts, and asked solicitously and sincerely about their comfort. And all because of gold.

Manarel took Natil gently by the arm. “We're going to take the sick to the bishop's house,” he said. “Albrecht has given it over for a hospital. He's sent for physicians from Belroi, even from Ypris and Hypprux.”

And Natil finally saw, over near the wall, in the shadow of the high tower, the dead. They lay beneath plain muslin sheets. “Physicians?” she said, her voice catching. “That . . . that is good. There is much healing to be done here.” She was still looking at the dead. A stray breeze fluttered one of the sheets optimistically, then let it fall.

“You need to rest, Natil. You need to have someone look at your face. I'll take you to the bishop's house.”

But her fingers tightened on her harp, for she heard in his words a temptation to another betrayal. To yield, to depart? Never. She was an Elf, and there was helping and healing to be done. “I will go to the bishop's house,” she said, “but I will not rest. I have work to do.”

Manarel looked puzzled. “Work?”

She looked again at the dead. “I can harp,” she said. “I can help . . . a little. I can heal . . . maybe. I must try.”

“But, Natil—”

She shook her head, breathed the starlight, saw the shimmer of her hand bright against the brown wood of her harp. Elven. Forever. And that tree . . .

“It is why I am here,” she said.

***

Albrecht stood in the triforium gallery.

It was the first time in years that he had come here in the daylight, but he thought it fitting that he now see his cathedral clearly, with no night or shadow to obscure it. He would, he knew, see it even more clearly as the years passed, when laborers would bring mortar and stone and pile them high, when artisans would come to make statues and colored glass, when carpenters would come to build forms and make roof beams.

There was nothing now to prevent it. Thanks to Jacob, the gold originally intended for the wool cooperative had been spread thickly among the informers and guards and secretaries and torturers of the House of God; and though for years they had worked for Siegfried and his plans, they now suddenly discovered that their sympathies lay anywhere but with the Inquisition.

And then the gold had spread further, glittering coins falling into palms that had previously been fortunate to know only dull copper and worn brass. Loyalties had abruptly altered, allegiances had been reforged. In the space of a night, the entire city had, either tacitly or outright, pledged its wholehearted support to Albrecht, bishop and benefactor of Furze. Even David a'Freux, who was always interested in money—whether in saving it through monastic incarceration of an unwanted daughter, or in acquiring it through alliance with a silly old man with a gimpy leg—had fallen into line.

True, the loyalty had been bought outright (Albrecht had no illusions about that), and with gold now comparatively plentiful, other problems were surfacing: the price of a loaf of bread, for instance, had already doubled and redoubled twice over. But Albrecht was sure that things would eventually settle down, and that, when they did, he would have a chance to foster honest piety and un-self-conscious charity . . . neither of which had been able to coexist very well with chronic hunger and poverty.

The future was full of hope—for the cathedral, for Furze—and Albrecht felt good about it. “I'll win them for You, God,” he said softly. The afternoon breeze came in from the west, bringing the scent of a summertime forest and the deep green odor of pasturelands. “I'll win them. And I won't do it with prison or torture or tribunals, and I won't do it with money. I'll just do it by myself. With Your help.”

He shook his head slowly, still almost unbelieving. It had all happened so quickly, and he could not help but remember, with a twinge of fear, Mattias's words: Boom! Just like that. Boom!

A sound behind him made him turn. Siegfried was stepping out of the shadow of the stairway. The Inquisitor's skin was the color of parchment, and his dark hair and beard were dusty and matted with dirt and blood. His grotesquely swollen nose was still bandaged, but there were fresh cuts on his cheek and a gash in his forehead. The fingers of one hand were bruised and scraped.

He looked rather like a madman, and Albrecht instinctively looked for a place to which to retreat. But there was none. The stairs were the only way up . . . or down.

“Brother Siegfried,” he said politely.

Siegfried took a step away from the stairs and into the sunlight. Albrecht noticed that his mantle was dusty and torn.

“What . . . what happened to you?”

Siegfried stood like a splotch of night against the pale wall. “I udderstad dow what you did,” he said slowly, his speech slurred as though with fatigue or perhaps injury. “Giovaddi and I asked questiods. We foudd out.”

Albrecht said nothing.

“Do you realize what you have dod?”

Instinctively, Albrecht began to quail before the Inquisitor, but then, very deliberately, he checked himself. He had seen what had been brought out of the House of God, had watched as Natil, herself injured, had bravely harped for people who had lost all hope, had listened to stories of torment. He had touched those who would never walk or see again. He had embraced those who did not have arms with which to return the gesture. He had kissed those whose lips were so swollen and scarred that they could not kiss back.

And as he returned Siegfried's gaze levelly, he realized suddenly that this was not a man to fear. This was a man for whom to feel only either blazing anger or the deepest compassion.

Albrecht stood up straight, braced his bad knee, took a step forward. “I let some people out of jail,” he said. “That's what I did. I can't make the lame walk and the blind see, but I'm doing what I can.”

Siegfried hardly seemed to hear him. “You have unleashed the forces of darkdess,” he said. “You've allowed debods to escape. Satad hibself could be walkig the streets of Furze, ad you
would dot care
!”

Albrecht was incredulous. First heresy, and now demons! “Oh, come now, Siegfried!”

“Frob her owd lips I heard it!” cried the Inquisitor. “I had her before be, ad she codfessed everythig, ad dow you have furthered her plots.” Siegfried clenched his fists. “Do you dot udderstadd? You have let all the plagues of the Apocalypse loose od the earth, and bed of God caddot eved walk the streets of Furze in safety!”

And then Albrecht understood how Siegfried had come to be so battered. The townsfolk, recognizing their former tormentor, had attempted to vent twenty years of fear and anger on him. Siegfried was very lucky to have escaped alive, and Albrecht suspected that he knew what had happened to Giovanni.

He breathed a silent prayer for the friar's soul. Then: “I'll make sure you get out of the city safely, Siegfried. But I'm afraid that there will be no more Inquisition in Furze. By my authority as bishop, I simply won't allow you to operate in my city.”

Siegfried was suddenly raging, his white face turning red in an instant. “Your authority!
By
authority cobes frob the pope!”

“Yes,” said Albrecht, who had seen firsthand how the Holy See operated. “I suppose it does.”

“Do . . . do . . . that is dot right.” Siegfried was shaking his head, clenching his fists, trembling all over. “It cobes frob God. That is it: frob God. God was the first Inquisitor. It was God who tried Adab and Eve id secret, who did dot call witdesses because He knew they were guilty, who foudd theb guilty by their codfessiods! I take by authority frob God!”

Albrecht felt his jaw tighten. From God!

But then, with an effort, Siegfried drew himself up and opened his arms as though to embrace Albrecht. The bishop, though, shrank back at his approach, again conscious that he was trapped against the edge of the gallery. There was no railing or balustrade, only a one hundred and twenty foot drop.

“Dear brother in Christ,” said the Inquisitor, “you bust listed to be. There is a plot afoot that, if left udchecked, will sweep all of Christendob into Satad's hadds.” His tone was almost pleading. “It cad be fought. It cad be checked. But you and I bust work together.”

There was an unpleasant light in Siegfried's dark eyes. Albrecht neither liked nor trusted it. “What plot is this?”

“Jacob Alderdacht,” said Siegfried. “Jacob Alderdacht is working with debods. Elves. He is using his fortude to spread their idfluence. We bust use that fortude to cobbat the evil that is dwelling abonk us. Add we cad do it!”

Albrecht understood, then: it was money. That was it. Siegfried had gutted Furze, had stifled any hope of betterment for the city, and now he wanted to tamp down the last spadeful of earth on the corpse. “Jacob Aldernacht,” he said flatly, “is one of the finest men I know.”

Siegfried was undeterred. “He gave you his bodey. He gave it to you id ad attembt to thwart its codfiscatiod.”

His words sounded to Albrecht like an accusation. “Yes, he gave it to me,” said the bishop. “He gave it to me because he wanted to do some good with it. No layman can keep anything from you, Siegfried, and so Jacob put his money under episcopal authority.”

Siegfried's hands clenched again, and what was left of his conciliatory tone evaporated in an instant. “You are in league with hib, thed! Adbit it! You do lonker believe id the teachings of Holy Church. In fact, you are dow actively working agaidst us. You are a heretic!”

Albrecht, though excruciatingly conscious of the drop behind him, stood his ground. “I believe in what Holy Church teaches,” he said. “And Holy Church teaches that God became a common man, and walked the earth, and returned good for evil, and healed the sick, and . . .” To his shock, he discovered that he hated the Inquisitor and all that he stood for. “. . . and was finally tortured . . . and killed.”

“Heretic!” The word was half strangled, forced out through a throat constricted with rage.

Emotion made Albrecht's voice exceedingly calm. “You, Brother Siegfried, are a liar.”

Siegfried lunged. Before Albrecht could move, the Inquisitor had seized the front of his shabby soutane and was screaming: “Do you dot udderstand? I
had
to do it. We all had to do it! It was the odly way!”

“Brother Siegfried!” Albrecht struggled both to keep his balance and to pry himself loose, but the Inquisitor had the strength of a madman. Together, the two men tottered at the edge of the gallery. “Let go, brother! You need help!”

“I deed bodey!” Siegfried was shouting. “I deed bodey to fight Satad! You have to understand, Albrecht! I deed it! I had to lie, but dow I'm telling the truth! I deed your bodey! Give it to be!”

“Brother . . .”

“
Give it to be!
”

They spun, wavered, tottered. Siegfried clung to Albrecht and shrieked his demands in a voice that fragmented with emotion. Albrecht fought, pleaded, attempted to coax the Inquisitor into reason. And then the bishop's knee, always an unreliable servant, suddenly buckled. Albrecht collapsed, and his shoulder smacked directly into the middle of Siegfried's chest, sending him staggering back into empty space.

Albrecht made a desperate grab as Siegfried went over the edge of the gallery, and he managed to seize his sleeve; but in trying to check the Inquisitor's fall, he was pulled flat down on his chest, and the burst of broken ribs went through him like a bright light.

His vision blurry with pain, Albrecht looked down. Held only by his sleeve, his feet kicking uselessly in the air, Siegfried was staring up at him.

“Please,” said Siegfried. “Please.”

“I'm holding you, Siegfried.” Albrecht gasped as his shattered ribs ground against themselves, against his flesh. “I'll pull you up, but you need . . .” His hand was on fire with the strain. He could not hold Siegfried for long. “. . . to help me. Can you find anything to push against with your feet?”

But Siegfried did not appear to be hearing Albrecht. In fact, he did not even appear to be looking at him. He was, rather, staring past him, staring up at the blue sky, his eyes widening, deepening as though they had been confronted with the face of God.