Bishop
Lady Ismelda clapped her hands. One of the new servants, purchased in a different city by Casey and Esteban, came running. She blew on the wax seal on the letter to be sure it was cool, then handed it to the servant. “To the magistrate of records”, she instructed.. The servant nodded and departed.
The Lady sighed, closed her eyes, leaned back, and smiled. They now owned – she had come to think of herself as part of Señor Antonio’s household, though her own nobility had not, thankfully, been stripped away – a bit over half the block on which the townhouse sat. The record she’d just copied herself and sent would secure title to a different piece of property, nearer the market, where one shop they wanted would be moved, its family with it – where the shop would be larger and the family quarters as well; don Antonio had negotiated an interest in the business as part of the move. That meant tomorrow she would be concluding the acquisition of that shop, and paying carts to move both shop and family. Once those were moved, that shop – a leather worker – and the one next to it would be turned into stables, though when they would dare to bring horses into the town was knowledge belonging to God alone.
The steady sale of almost random items from the rooms discovered under what she’d known as the basement had indeed quieted the machinations of the bishop. Every time Casey and Esteban journeyed to another town to buy slaves or arrange for supplies, they took a quantity of the items, and used part of that cargo as payment for what they needed. That had spread the items across, so far, five towns and twenty-one sellers, leaving the bishop scrambling to track and buy them all. Some had begun reappearing on the market; don Delgado said that meant the bishop had examined them and concluded they held no relics.
She’d given in and trusted Esteban to carry the gold doubloons only when he’d introduced his great cat, Pounces, and Casey had introduced his, Streaker, who was Pounces’ father. The danger written in those great eyes had convinced her that no danger on the plateau could overtake the two young travelers, not with those protectors! They slept warmly, too, against the great beasts, and ate well, from their hunting. And they’d turned half the doubloons into excelentes “and change”, as don Antonio put it. That ‘change’ had bought a dozen new slaves and hired nine new servants so far, so the household was becoming almost as industrious as she remembered it.
Ismelda sat up straight and took up the letter from don Ramón’s brother, now Brother Thaddeus, a consecrated deacon pledged for the priesthood. She re-read the important passage:
I will come by the nineteenth, as I am able. Loss of the home in Pueblo Alvarez troubles me, but I will soon take vows and property will no longer matter. It pleases me you are now in Padillo, as that is a shorter journey.
The nineteenth was tomorrow. Everything was ready for the visit. Don Antonio had journeyed back to his estate and returned, leaving behind three more of Esteban’s colleagues who, now that a safe location was available, had decided to retire. He’d brought back a letter for don Delgado, with news that his sister had decided she would wed the “lovely and gallant Wizard Lord Ryan”, though she had not yet divulged that decision to the future groom; don Delgado had wished to depart immediately to be with her, but had nevertheless decided to remain for this meeting with Brother Thaddeus.
She worried about the meeting. Men who became priests gave up family loyalties; their family was the Church, with its head, the Vicar of Christ, in some other world – a thing she didn’t understand. But don Delgado assured them his brother had a passion for justice that would bring him to their cause, and he was also not yet a priest – quite. But if his loyalty had changed, anything could happen. Unknown to the others, she’d made her own preparations: if necessary, Brother Thaddeus would find himself taking an extended leave of absence from his studies.
Devon surveyed the bridge, then rode confidently over it. Eight bridges now, and one tunnel – actually a slot cut in a hill, lined with stone walls, and capped with an arched top over which soil and shrubs had been replaced – reached west from the road out of Fincado de la Vega. Two bridges were stone, one completely, the other a stone structure with a heavy plank bed, the others solid timber. Except for three stretches, done in stone, the entire road was planks. And whether they were halfway in terms of distance, they now reached halfway in a very important sense: the crews from the Valley of Horses clearing the route of trees had reached this end of the endeavor the afternoon before. Now he would ride west to oversee the important building of the tunnel that would cut through the mountain to Devon’s Mills.
He almost had more workers than he knew what to do with. The addition of thirty more slaves brought by Antonio had boosted his schedule ahead in a way that had put him off-balance and threatened to bring some parts to completion before others, an outcome that offended his sense of – he had to admit – beauty, so he’d peeled off a workforce to build inns. Two of those were of stone, the largest at the longer stone bridge that reached west from the sort of artificial tunnel; that location had gotten the name “Stone Place”, sitting as it did between stone bridge and stone tunnel on a stretch of the road that was paved with stone. He’d stayed there the night before, on the completed second floor – the designer, another Celt come to help, had determined the Inn at Stone Place would reach five floors high! It was already becoming a village; a second bridge had been built to a hill which had been logged and leveled, the flattened top turned into fields.
Behind him, the road down from Fincado de la Vega would be finished in ten days, winding in two switchbacks which took the ascent below three great towers, and through gates under each of those towers. When the stone paving was finished, the crews there would begin taking the road southward to Cromagh, planks and bridges all the way. Villagers there and at Tree Hall had already been shown the method, and were reaching out with their own roads. Amid it all, two people moved about like butterflies: Devon, directing, and Urien, keeping roads aimed correctly.
“We just might make the Valley by winter”, Devon said to no one in particular. “Or at least to the tunnel – and working on it will give us something to do with the winter!” A moment later he slid from the saddle and shook the hand of... well, the crew foreman, who was from lumberer village.
That was when he learned of the re-invention of the lathe, and its new demand for lumber.
“I see, brother”, said Brother Thaddeus, sinking back into the comfortable chair that Felix had gotten back at auction, as he had most of the old family furnishings. He caught himself and sat upright again. “Not ascetic enough, yet”, he admitted with a wry grin that quickly turned serious.
“And that is key to your complaint: the bishops care nothing for their vows, and live in luxury, seeking wealth and power. Now they fight for the high seat, not to be good shepherds, but for more power and wealth.” He hesitated only briefly, catching every eye in the private room deep in the second basement. “In this you are right. Yet none in the priesthood will speak out against this, for those who wish to advance dare not, and those who care not to advance... care not.”
“You care”, Antonio charged.
“Guilty”, the priest said. “Yet I am not a priest.”
“One need not be a priest to be chosen bishop”, don Delgado told him. “Our sister has written to me of this. If only we had our books from Pueblo Alvarez, I could look at the instances she indicates.”
Antonio cleared his throat. “We might have your books”, he said. “I bought your estate.” He looked embarrassed. “It was going to be a surprise.”
Delgado looked at him in surprise and puzzlement. “How did you buy our estate?”
“I had... a friend watching. Creditors seized it. This friend learned the total you owed, which they wished to regain, and offered twice that. So you have no debts now, and your property isn’t in anyone else’s hands.”
“But we cannot return there”, Delgado responded mournfully. He’d come to accept their effective exile, but having the estate practically theirs again, while not being able to enjoy it, saddened him.
“I’m trying to arrange for the Count to insult someone he can’t even touch with a sword”, Antonio claimed, exaggerating – he thought Rigel would like the idea, but hadn’t yet mentioned it. “But – can we get the book here soon enough?”
“I know instances”, Brother Thaddeus informed them. “Both were when the people of a town knew a godly person and demanded him as bishop – but never High Bishop!”
Antonio chuckled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to vault you that far anyway, Brother – since you’re ‘not ascetic enough, yet’.” That drew a mild smile from Thaddeus. “I wouldn’t want to tempt you to keep all the furnishings. Though if you know of a bishop who’s dying, sooner than the High Bishop...?”
“The bishop of Corazon dos Reyes effectively is dead”, Brother Thaddeus stated disapprovingly. “He can no longer stand in vestments, yet the Monsignor has him carried to his seat in the cathedral.”
“What’s the succession look like?” Esteban inquired. Brother Thaddeus regarded the young man with distaste; Esteban’s origin had come out.
“There is no favorite I hear of.” His eyes went distant. “It would be a great honor to be bishop of Los Reyes....”
Casey grinned at the not-quite-priest. “I’m sure we could arrange to keep you ascetic – luxuries could just disappear, and be sold for the poor.” Thaddeus looked at him with dark disapproval before he realized Casey was joking – mostly.
Esteban was muttering to himself. “You could be bishop. It could work.”
“Is anyone asking if Brother Thaddeus even wants to be a bishop?” inquired Lady Ismelda. “Is that not important?”
Delgado’s brother regarded her with mournful eyes. “No, I do not want to be a bishop. Yet the Church suffers most grievously at the hands of impious men; if I may aid in correcting the affliction by taking the robes of a bishop, that is my duty.”
“What do you want to be?” Casey asked, honestly curious.
“A scholar. I would study the scriptures, that they could be taught to the people more plainly. I would gather copies of all books into one place, available to all clergy and nobles.”
Antonio dove into the pause. “What if you could have the scriptures in the language of the people? and in the original language?”
Thaddeus stared at him. His expression wavered between shock and delight. After a quarter minute he schooled himself to a scholar’s calm seriousness. “In the language of the people”, he mused. “I am taught this would be dangerous, and yet... could they not learn the scriptures more readily if they could follow in their own copies? But only few read... and from where would come the scribes to make so many copies? Hundreds, thousands, would be needed!”
“If you’re interested, I could help with that”, Antonio assured him. “But also – if I’m going to lend my help to raise you bishop, I want a commitment to put at least a few books in the common tongue.”
Brother Thaddeus regarded him with no change in expression. “Tell me, don Antonio, which books would you have in the Quistador tongue?”
Antonio was ready for this. “Genesis and Exodus, Psalms, Matthew’s and John’s Gospels, Romans, and Galatians. First John would be nice, too.”
“Creation and God’s great redemption, blessed words of praise, the common and philosopher’s accounts of our Lord’s life, the great letter of faith’s foundation”, Thaddeus murmured. “Yet why San Pablo’s letter to the Galatian Christians?”
“It’s the call of Christian liberty”, Antonio replied. “It’s the warning against those who would turn our Lord into a new and more terrible Moses.” He held his breath, hoping Brother Thaddeus would catch his meaning – hoping he would agree!
“You speak of the Inquisition. Be assured, I share my brother’s views, more so recently – though I say nothing more, there. They have a zeal for God but without God, for God says, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice’. Still, don Antonio, no bishop can oppose the Inquisition!” He was surprised when his brother laughed, and the rest joined him.
“Read this.” Don Ramón handed him a copy made from the Book of Aragon. Brother Thaddeus had one making of a scholar, Antonio observed: he read rapidly. When he came to the end, he looked up at his brother.
“It’s real, hermancito”, Ramón assured him. “Believe it.”
The potential bishop read it again. He began to shake. On reaching the end this time, he threw the paper to the floor and stood, fists tight enough that blood dripped where one fingernail sliced the skin, shaking so hard he kept moving his feet to keep balance.
“Wow”, Casey commented. “Peace, Brother! It happened a long time ago. Don Ramón showed it to you because it’s a weapon. There’s more than one way for a bishop to oppose the Inquisition.”
“A long time ago, yes”, answered the Brother. “But have they changed? No – of that I am certain. Yes, you are right”, he went on, calming himself, this is a weapon.” He bent and picked up the sheets he’d thrown down. “But not for me to use. I would take it to Bishop Moreno of Lago Blanco. He is wiser than I, as well as much safer.”
“Why safer?” Antonio asked.
Esteban snickered. “His church is on an island in the lake. There’s only one way to sneak up, and it worse than jumping through a window. Though there’s little reason to sneak there, anyway – he likes simple things.” He didn’t seem to care that he’d just implied that his only reason for visiting a bishop would be to steal from him.
“You know the bishop?” asked don Delgado.
“We have met”, Thaddeus replied. “He would remember me.” A smile lit from memories. “He also wished to be a scholar.” A deep breath filled his pause. “And now, if you are able to make a miracle, I will follow his path.”
“Time for a trip”, Esteban declared with glee. “Don Antonio, I shall need silver and copper.”
“What a mess”, Devon muttered to Crystal, the only Snatched in Cavern Castle who knew enough about rocks to understand his comment. They stood at the mountain face upstream from Devon’s Mills that had been cleared for working on the tunnel. All trees, brush, and even dirt was gone, leaving the rock revealed. There were sedimentary, metamorphic, and igneous layers, not just stacked, but tilted, intruded, interrupted, offset, and in more than one placed, dropped or raised or jumbled. “That part looks like it was flipped over!”
Crystal was practical. “Will that make cutting a tunnel harder?”
“Some. If I have to go through any of the jumbled section, it could collapse. And a lot of what I dig out won’t be any good for building with.”
“So use it for fill”, she recommended. “You said the road crosses valleys.”
“I hoped for building stone”, he told her.
“Dev, don’t be such a gloom. You’re going through a whole
mountain! You’ll get lots of building stone. And you need lots of fill anyway. Now – go cut by the jumbled stuff. See which way it slants inside the mountain. You might not have to cut through it at all!”
Devon first went to the workers laboring to assemble pre-fab wooden supports for once the digging began. They were fashioned to be brought in, tipped upright, and adjusted to whatever height was needed. Later they’d be replaced by properly-fit supports, which would eventually give way to stone arches, but for now they were his best effort at protection from collapses as they extended the tunnel. “Any problems?” he asked.
“Slides jam”, a man responded. “But pig fat solves.” Devon had been afraid of that, but hadn’t seen a way around the risk. He probably should have asked one of the Smithcraft Masters after all.
At the rock face, Devon cut in near the jumbled part. A meter in, he hadn’t encountered it; at two meters, the same. Since he was between it and the spot marked for beginning the tunnel, he concluded he wouldn’t have to deal with that formation.
Since he’d cut already, he spent a third of an hour making a space large enough to serve as a three-walled room, on the principle that holes in the mountain should be useful. He was just tidying the back left corner when a worker came.
“Engineer, things are ready.”
“Good”, Devon responded. “Get a support on this, near the outside. We’ll use it for storage or something.” The worker headed back toward the tunnel beginning; Devon followed.
Someone had marked a line where the first cut should go, using an ‘ink’ made of pig grease and charcoal. Devon assessed it, stepped up, and made the first cut for the tunnel that would put them days closer to the Celts.
Thieves loved spreading rumors; they went delirious at the idea of actually being paid to do it. So word was heard on the streets that God had sent a young man, a scholar, a man of simple ways who loved the Virgin and adored Her Son, who wanted the people to know and be comforted by God’s own words in the scriptures. He was a kind man, everyone said, devoted to the poor even as the Lord Himself when he took on flesh, a wise man who would listen to all, a just man who would not favor one over another for gold or promises, a man angry over injustice and merciful to those who needed mercy.
No one knew his name, but rumor made it Nathaniel, or Bartholomew, or even Matthew, definitely a saint’s name. Other rumor made him one of the Saints themselves, come to Corona dos Reyes in time of need, loaned back to them by Heaven by a gracious God who had at last heard their prayers. Priests denied that, publicly, but it was said everywhere that those who did so did because they knew it was true, and feared for the luxuries they so sinfully adopted and clasped to themselves.
Casey laughed with Esteban at the latest version of one of their rumors. In just five days Corazon dos Reyes had been covered with their bits and pieces and had invented twists and even new rumors. “Now all we need”, Esteban declared softly, “is for you-know-who to die.” Casey understood by now that such talk was no risk; people were always talking of hoping a grandfather or uncle or someone would die so they could get an inheritance or vengeance or promotion; their wishes blended in with all the rest.
“You’re thinking of helping him along”, Casey accused.
“Why not? He’s really dead already.”
“We’ll see what Antonio says. It’s time to go back and tell Brother T, anyway.” Esteban disappeared along their way out of town, rejoining Casey with a pair of steaming berry pies. “So we travel better!” he declared, happily licking juice dripping from a crack.
“Brother T” was incredulous. “In so few days, the city knows of me?!”
Esteban just shook his head. “Lords know nothing”, he pronounced yet again. “From the bottom, a word may reach a whole town in a day. In five days, the town grows its own tales, always more astounding. Before we return, they may expect you to arrive with angels.”
Thaddeus had suspicions. “What lies did you tell about me?” he demanded.
Casey fielded that one; Esteban would have gotten too fiery. “We didn’t tell anything about you. We said God had provided a man to be the next bishop. We suggested a scholar, someone simple, someone who hates injustice, someone who cares for the poor. Those are things you should be anyway – it’s what being a priest means, right? But rumors start themselves – now this man God is sending has healed children with his hands, saved women with his prayers, been visited by the Holy Virgin, speaks with saints come back from heaven to aid him, was sent by the Pope from the holy world where far Rome stands, was taken in spirit to see and touch the nail holes in Our Lord’s hands. But the thing we heard over and over is that this man stands for justice regardless of wealth or rank, and that he wishes the people to truly know the Word of God.”
Brother Thaddeus was staring with his mouth open. “I cannot be all those things!” he protested. “I would cower in terror if the Virgin came to me, and hide under my bed if Saints came to speak with me!”
“I don’t think you have to live up to that part”, Antonio assured him. “Those are people’s hopes speaking, hopes for some deliverer. If you just do the ordinary human parts well, you’ll be more than they’ve ever expected.”
“He speaks truth, hermancito”, said don Delgado. “You have been too long in the halls of study and prayer, or you would know this.”
“Any change in the bishop?” Antonio asked. “I hate wishing someone would die, but... we need him to die.”
“That is impious!” Brother Thaddeus declared.
Antonio shrugged. “It’s practical. Everyone dies, and it would be helpful for us – it would be helpful for our people! – if he died soon.”
“To me it seems the poor man must be suffering”, Lady Ismelda offered. “Death would mean rest in the Redeemer’s arms.”
Brother Thaddeus regarded her with a troubled look. “Perhaps it is so. But we do not know this.”
“Then I will pray for his release from suffering, however much he suffers”, she responded. “All suffer. All desire release.”
Antonio held up a hand to silence any further discussion. “We can only do what our consciences say”, he asserted quietly. “Leave it there, between each one and our Lord.” That seemed to satisfy Brother Thaddeus. They switched to making plans to travel to Corazon dos Reyes.
The trip was slower than the younger duo had managed, running much of the way. Antonio took along six men as guards, knowing that the larger the group, the more slowly it traveled. Casey and Esteban did their part by going ahead at their own rate, thus keeping the size down. It also allowed them to check on things before the rest reached the town.
“Holy crap”, Casey whispered. “How did that get there?”
“That” was a giant portrait of Brother Thaddeus, on the wall of the fortress across from the cathedral. He looked beatific, maybe wise, certainly compassionate. “‘Tis a miracle, visitor”, a voice declared solemnly. “‘Tis God’s own choice for our next bishop.”
“Your bishop died?” Casey asked, boiling inside. How Esteban had managed this, he didn’t know, though it was tolerable, but if he’d tried to “help” the bishop dead....
“Oh, not yet. They carried him to Mass again this morning. Some”, the townsman added in a conspiratorial tone, “say he’s dead already, but the Monsignor keeps him painted so he can keep the power.”
“That’s ghastly!” Casey exclaimed, meaning it – not that the thought hadn’t occurred to him, as something someone might try; after all, in
Weekend at Bernie’s it had worked.
“So it is, so it is. But the Monsignor cannot be bishop; he was once of the Inquisidores, and none will elect him. He has held the bishop’s power for four years now, and why would he wish to give it up?”
Casey shook his head. “Why indeed?” he agreed. “Thank you, townsman”, he said, and dragged Esteban off to the Bold Blade, a quite respectable establishment on the square. There, he cornered Esteban with his questions.
“Yes, I gave a fellow a sketch of Thaddeus. No, I didn’t choose the fortress. No, I didn’t think it would be so huge. No, I didn’t ask anyone to help the bishop die. No, I didn’t know the Monsignor was an Inquisidore.” He answered it all defensively. At the end he brightened. “It is a good portrait, isn’t it? I wonder why they haven’t scrubbed it off?”
The question was something Casey was wondering as well. He waved for service, and when the server, a young woman lovely enough to make his thighs tingle, came over, he asked her.
“Oh, but they did”, she gushed. “Inquisidores and soldiers and slaves, they scrubbed it clean. But next morning it was there again. Is it not a miracle?”
“I suppose”, Casey answered, wondering how the thing had gotten there and how whoever had put it there managed to put it back at night without being caught! “What do you have to drink?”
Over weak ale Casey wouldn’t have wished on his worst enemy growing up, they came to an agreement. “Inquisidores are fair game”, he told Esteban, who agreed fervently. “How hard would it to be to arrange for this one to... suffer an accident?” He winced at the price Esteban quoted; he could cover it, but it would leave them without silver. On the other hand.... “Come on – let’s go to some different inns.”
Esteban grinned. “You mean worse ones, right?”
By nightfall Casey had won enough lagging coins they had no worry about coming up short on cash.
Streaker and Pounces stalked shadows outside the town walls. Neither liked having his human off away like that, where so many dark-robes lived. To them it was a trap, like a pit with openings that closed at night, leaving no way to flee to safety. Their human cubs were strong and swift and canny, but they were still cubs.
>as am I< Pounces observed.
Streaker laughed mentally. >but you are
my cub – that is different< Pounces didn’t understand, but he accepted his father’s word.
They left the town and went prowling. Though hungry, they ignored the deer; a full meal would make them sleepy and slow. But the scent of roasting venison drew them; they followed, since where men ate, deer could be had in portions.
>dark-robes!< Pounces’ mental snarl was vicious. He didn’t know why he knew that dark-robes were evil, he just knew, had known without his father telling him. Now here was a camp full of them, a camp with sentries so confident they watched little more than their daydreams. And in that camp was meat....
Streaker’s answer was to dash and slash. A sentry’s blood spurted into the grass; he fell grabbing at his throat. The great cat ignored two soldiers, sliding past them to disembowel one dark-robe and break the back of another. Pounces waited until all attention was on his father, then rushed in from the side, tearing out throats – he liked the feel of the flesh ripping while blood spurted – and snapping necks. He didn’t see any reason to avoid killing soldiers, but since his father was doing it that way, so did he.
Pounces screamed as a crossbow bolt grazed his shoulder. The bowman’s head vanished, torn off by a wrathful Streaker. Pounces took out his rage on a tent of dark-robes struggling to find clothes; since there was no way to tell if any were soldiers or all were dark-robes, he killed them all.
Silence fell. No dark-robes remained alive; Streaker was certain of that, though he couldn’t count above four; no human with a dark robe had managed to flee, and no human with neither robe nor armor lived. Some soldiers had fled, but the cats didn’t care about soldiers. Together they searched out some warm venison, and snacked.
Casey sat up bolt upright. He’d dreamed of killing things, lots of things, and chasing others away. Beside him, Esteban whimpered in his sleep. He listened for a minute, shrugged, and snuggled back under the furs.
A massive arch with two lesser arches beneath, an even lesser between them, framed the end of the opening into what was being called “Devon’s Dig’. The great arch was thick, several meters thick, and crested with a peak steep enough to shed snow. The two main inner arches were high and wide enough that horsemen could pass beneath two or three abreast, Ryan judged; the small arched between was tall enough for the tallest of men.
Devon came to meet him. “Think it’s overdone?” he queried.
“Some”, Ryan decided. “Who designed it?”
The Engineer chuckled. “You can tell it wasn’t me, huh? It was a sort of committee.”
“Too brute-force for you”, Ryan replied. “Looks sort of monstrous.”
Devon laughed. “They decided it should hold against an avalanche or mountain slide. I didn’t see any fault with that, so there it is.”
“How far in is the tunnel?”
“Half a klick.” Devon kicked at the turf. “We ran into that blasted jumble after all – three cave-ins before we got a safe bridgehead. Now there’s gonna be a big cavern where it all collapsed. Since the roof’s gonna be high anyway, now, once we get the thing stable and lined, I’m going to cut straight up.”
“Messy.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have Anaph here to line me up from the top. Besides, letting crap fall is easier than hauling it upward.”
Ryan nodded. “I see that. So what’s the estimate for completion?”
“To be able to walk through? Maybe by Solstice, but it won’t really be safe or very useful. For a horse... spring equinox. All three passages... maybe by next summer solstice – maybe.”
“How many vents?”
“One every half-klick. I like the cavern idea, so every other vent will go up from a cavern roof.” He grinned. “You know the inns we’re spacing along the Road? The spacing puts one in the tunnel. I’m going to carve it out on the side of a cavern.”
“The ‘Cold Stone Inn’”, Ryan quipped. “You’ll have to do a special vent for a chimney.”
“Not sure it would work”, Devon responded. “Gotta be able to get the air column ion a chimney moving before smoke will go up. For a good inn, that means a chimney big enough for a couple of dozen fireplaces. To keep that air moving would take keeping a big fire going about all the time.”
“We could try making methane – no, same problem”, Ryan corrected himself. “So what do you want to do? have a real stone-cold inn?”
“I’m hoping Anaph will help me out. Maybe he could bring up some heat to the inn – he did the hot springs in the cavern.”
“Worth a try”, Ryan said. “I want to look at the inside.” He made it a question; Devon answered by leading off.
“Engineer! Oldran says – pardon, my lord!” The man hesitated, unsure of how to go on, with the two in front of him.
Ryan chuckled. “Go on, man – this is the Engineer’s domain; I’m just visiting.”
“Thank you, lord! Engineer, Oldran says you must come, to see.”
“See what?” Devon asked, increasing his pace and aiming for the tunnel opening.
“Stones slides from the wall, gravel like at the Falls. That is what I know.”
Devon groaned. Loose gravel in a formation could be deadly, and he had no foamed concrete to pump in under pressure. “Ryan, let’s hurry”, he said. Hurrying didn’t mean jogging, except for at the start, Ryan found: the center path, the only one excavated for the most part, had rails, and on the rails were carts – and the tunnel had a slight slope. The three of them grabbed a cart, pushed, and jumped in once it was rolling well. Then Devon popped up a pole with a handle and started to push, fore and back. Ryan, delighted, joined in.
“What if there’s another cart on the track?” he inquired.
“Won’t be”, the messenger answered him. “When a foreman sends for the Engineer, the track stays clear.”
“It’ll go better”, Devon puffed, “when we can get a second track in. But this is better than jogging half a klick and more.”
It proved to be more: workers were lifting timber and stone, turning a great round chamber into a dome; three on the floor jumped out to help the cart stop when they saw it. “Farther, Engineer”, one stated before returning to work. That turned out to be about forty meters.
The cutting was beautiful work, in very solid stone. “Get good building stone from here”, Ryan observed.
Devon nodded. “Already have been – lots of brick-sized and brick-proportioned stuff, for houses and whatever. This really doesn’t need bracing; we’re just doing it to keep in habit”, he added, slapping an oak timber along the way. “I’ve got a pile going for Antonio, to ship once we get the road done. It’s beautiful, a pale gray-blue – if he wants to sell it instead of use it, he can get gold for it.”
“Shards”, Ryan breathed as they stepped out of the last shadow and into the lit end of the tunnel. That end looked as though someone had back up a dump truck – or two – and just dropped over a dozen yards of river gravel. Brown, smelly ooze crept out from the bottom of the heap; one workman went methodically along the edge, scooping the crud into a bucket. When it was empty, he handed it to a waiting youth, who headed out the tunnel, and began filling another.
Oldran waved, a huge grin on his filthy face. Ryan remembered him from... one visit or another to something Devon was doing; he couldn’t recall which. The foreman was holding up a small pebble, which he tossed to Devon when the only clean pair in the area got close. He plucked up another and tossed it to Ryan, then say grinning.
“No way”, Ryan breathed. He wiped the small pebble, less than half the size of a marble, on his pants, vigorously, then looked again. The lamp light could be misleading, but– But the teeth can tell, he reminded himself, an adage from rock club. He put the pebble between his side teeth and bit.
“Is it?” Devon asked.
Ryan nodded, grinning like an idiot. “Gold, Dev! This has to be an old buried river. Oldran, how much is there?”
“Those two, a smaller, and tiny flakes”, was the answer. “We’ve sent out half as much gravel as you see before you, to find that. Wizard, the men are making a sluice, but perhaps you could aid?”
Ryan nodded. Devon had a question. “Rye, how dangerous is this?”
“From risky to catastrophic”, Ryan replied. “Oldran, can you see up there at all?”
“Not to mention, Wizard. But the flow is slower. I judge we’re nearing a lip.”
“Brace this well”, Ryan instructed, “really well. Dev, You might have to detour; I’m not sure. Oldran, once it’s braced, work at digging it out until it stops. Once it’s stopped, call me and I’ll look around. And I’ll go help with the sluice.” He grinned at Devon. “Dude, this is a lot more fun than accounts and ledgers!”
“Yeah, but without accounts and ledgers nothing would get done well”, Devon pointed out. He grinned. “You need what they used to call a Steward: someone to do all that for you, and you just check on him every now and then.”
“That would be heaven”, Ryan agreed. “Dev”, he went on as they turned and left, “even if there’s not piles of gold in there, this is fantastic. What he’s got out so far is almost an excelente worth, and in Quistador territory, that’s serious cash. Even if we only get five excelentes total, that will go far in supporting Antonio.”
“If that’s a lens deposit, maybe we can mine it all out”, Devon mused. “Just the gravel will by nice to have, and if there’s more gold – super.”
Don Delgado’s brother recoiled at the sight of what was recognizably his own face carved in the wall of a wooden building right next to a hot pork stall in the NearGate Market. The shop owner glanced at him, then did a double-take – and a new rumor was born.
Esteban and Casey attended the evening Mass at the cathedral. The place was packed, far more than usual; people were coming to pray for this new bishop God was sending. The Monsignor was patently furious over the stated intentions of many prayers, but there was nothing he could do about it. His muscular deacons deposited the bishop in his seat, and the Mass began.
The homily was about how we all ought to wish that God’s servants would live a long time, that they might accomplish much. Antonio considered it a bald statement meant to encourage the people to support the status quo. The Eucharist itself was bland, mechanical. Then the Monsignor turned for the benediction, lifting his hands
He crumpled to the ground.
Someone screamed. Two priests dashed to help the man, but the Monsignor was dead. Foolishly, one announced that fact. The orderly assembly became a churning mob, most uncertain, many frightened, a few panicked, while some extreme individuals cried it was God’s hand. Casey looked to see what became of the bishop; he was startled to see robes of red and black peeking out from beneath the liturgical dress of three priests who came to help the bishop leave. But he got a good enough look to notice two things about the bishop: first, that he was in truth alive – his eyes blinked and he smiled weakly; second, that he was drooling like a baby. He focused in on that face, and what he saw was fear.
“No, he was scared of the Inquisitors”, he insisted later in the private dining room at the Rock Springs Inn. “He was drooling, like someone really old who can’t keep his jaw shut. He was blinking at everything like someone who can’t keep track of things. And he was scared of the Inquisidores dressed like priests.”
“This is vile”, Brother Thaddeus declared. “They dare!”
“Obviously they dare”, Antonio pointed out. “The question is how we can turn this to our plans.” A sudden thought struck him. “Casey, did the bishop look drugged?”
Casey frowned, recalling the face he’d looked at so carefully. “Not really”, he said with a shake of his head. “What he looked was senile.”
They were still mulling over ideas when the town outside their inn started getting noisy. A look out the window showed people in the streets, some cheering. A group was gathering, yelling. “Esteban, would you go find out what’s happening?” Antonio requested.
“Forty?” don Delgado asked in shock. “Forty Inquisidores dead, torn by demons?”
Esteban shrugged. “That’s what everyone says.” He grinned. “I have an idea – I’ll be back.” He sped out the door and away.
“An idea?” Antonio looked pointedly at Casey, who shrugged.
“He didn’t tell me. But I bet he thought of a rumor to start that will help us.”
Less than an hour later they were hearing rumor in the common room. Esteban hadn’t returned, so they weren’t absolutely sure he’d begun it, but Casey thought he had, or had at least taken a rumor he’d heard and spread it. “Yes, I say”, one man insisted, pounding his mug on the table in emphasis. “The Inquisidores had a pact with the Devil, and they failed his bidding. So demons came to punish them!”
The second man looked dubious, but nodded. “When God’s chosen bishop comes, he’ll set things right. No pact with the Evil One will stand against him.”
“He should burn the Inquisidores!” the first declared. “They say fire purifies the soul – could be it might work even for them!”
Esteban crouched on the ledge. He was cold, and both tired and impatient. To get what he’d wanted, he’d had to steal a bit of silver, and he hadn’t checked in with the local organization. Then he’d had to argue over quality; second-best wouldn’t do. Now he was counting the timing of sentries as they passed by. Their pattern seemed random, but he wasn’t convinced; it felt like there was order to it. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.... Three minutes later, he grinned: it was a combination of three cycles, with the first dominant over the second, the second over the third, and the third over the first – clever, but not good enough. He did the figures in his head: the second cycle would bring a guard... the third cycle and the first fell close together, so the third would dictate the time... He had fourteen minutes to wait.
Slipping into the bishop’s room wasn’t hard; the window latch was already cracked, so all he had to do was help it along. The bishop was sleeping, drooling. Esteban saw that the room was bigger than he’d expected, but other than that had everything he’d hoped: a banked fire, several mugs, one with a spoon in it, a pitcher, and a jug – water and wine. He pulled out his little pouch and went to work. Almost half an hour later he was done: a pot of hot tea sat on the hearth. He dipped a finger in and licked it off. The pleasant sensations took a minute to become evident, but they–
The door rattled, and a servant came into the room. The young man saw the pot of tea and stopped, looking around the room. Then he shrugged, filled a mug from the pot, and took it to the bishop. From beneath the bed, Esteban watched the feet move about.
“Here, bishop”, a pleasant voice said. “Doctor’s medicine.” Esteban heard slurping, then at long last the thunk of mug hitting bed stand. The feet moved about again for a minute, then left. Esteban waited a count of fifty before he rolled out. He picked up the bishop’s mug and filled it again, only half way this time. The bishop was sleeping, a slight smile on his lips; Esteban dribbled some tea down the wrinkled chin and onto the bed cloths. Then he checked everything to be sure he’d left no sign, and went out the same way he’d come.
The next morning, there was no bishop at Mass. The senior priest who led the liturgy announced that the bishop had died in his sleep, and asserted that the man had died secure in God’s arms, since he’d been found with a smile on his face. “In two days, we shall choose his successor”, the priest declared, then dismissed everyone.
“Three excelentes, seven duros”, Lady Lucinda announced. She’d had one of Kinner’s journeymen make her a set of scales, which she’d calibrated using her small supply of coin. “There is no more?”
“Not right now”, Ryan answered. It was hard to focus on business with her so close; he had to keep his eyes on the gold from the tunnel. “Oldran says there’s about twice as much gravel left as we got already, so there ought to be more once they get the tunnel strengthened past there. Maybe we’ll end up with ten excelentes.”
“Even a great many Quistador caballeros never have so much in coin, Ryan”, she responded, savoring the feel of his name on her tongue. “You think it little, but it is wealth.”
Ryan tapped the scales gently and watched the little pile of gold rise and fall, rise and fall slowly. “I’ll send this to the Mint.” That was a joke that had grown between them; it was just a small room where their dies for making copies of Quistador coins were kept. “Best to make it all into duros. We’ll save it, for getting another estate started.”
“You are thinking of don Cortez?” she asked.
Ryan shook his head. “I just know Rigel wants more estates filled with people.” He wasn’t yet aware that some of those people were already toiling north.
Episcopal troops already lined the square, but they didn’t bother Esteban. He wasn’t confident of getting past them – episcopal troops were
good! – but if he didn’t, he had a safety plan. Of one thing he was confident: no episcopal soldier would ever be in the pay of los Inquisidores. While that wasn’t directly relevant, it nevertheless comforted him a great deal: a bishop’s troops were men of honor, dependable honor – unlike that of bishops themselves, or nobles – so they would do nothing but question him if caught.
He wrinkled his nose at the stench left from the riot just after dark, not so many hours ago. In a way it had been his riot – no, it had been his riot, he admitted to himself, striving for honesty; he’d paid to send off the true rumor that the bishop had been a prisoner of los Inquisidores. Though they little respected their bishop, people got enraged at the thought that his corruption hadn’t been his, but that of the most hated power in the realm. Two shops had burned; that made Esteban sad; three houses known to house Inquisitors had also, and that sat with great satisfaction in his heart. That there had been Inquisitors in them made no real difference to him; they would have died eventually anyway, and to him the means was only justice, not something to be happy about. Oh, he was certainly happy that they, and the forty shredded in the forest by something, the forty his second rumor had said were coming to set one of their own on the bishop’s throne, were–
Esteban lost his march of thought, forgot his mission, and just froze, cold certainty in his heart: it hadn’t been demons in the forest, it had been two great cats, his friends. He wondered if Casey knew, The question brought its own answer; the moment he thought of Casey, he knew with certainty just where Casey was, outside the walls, not alone. That meant his friend was with the cats, and by now knew.
>shadow-hunter<
The mental call brought him back to his situation. Disgusted with himself, he decided he had to abandon his plan: he’d lost his count, and lost track of one of the roaming sentries the episcopals used. He’d need another hour just to get back to where he’d been, and by then sunlight would be streaming through the square, morning mists vanishing, and all hope of stealth gone.
Hi, Pounces, he thought.
>stealthing?<
He chuckled silently.
Yes, stealthing. Streaker? Happy-Hunter?
>with<
A stronger, deeper – if that made any sense with pictures in his head – voice spoke. >Happy-Hunter comes<
“All right”, he said to Brother Thaddeus three minutes later – he’d retreated hastily, abandoning his best skills – “that way won’t work. Let’s be... bold. Follow me.”
The semaphore message arrived with breakfast. Ryan didn’t know whether to be happy or irritated:
Lords Perez and Ramos to occupy two adjoining estates Rigel’s vassals vassals. The repeated word at the end told him to be cautious; he guessed they were troublemakers. Why put troublemakers side by side he didn’t know, unless they were expected to keep each other out of trouble. Yet it did tell him that these shouldn’t go to the castle he’d explored, On the other hand, it was a good idea to put problems where they could be watched....
Ryan didn’t recall sending for maps, but they arrived, and by the time he’d finished eating, he knew where he’d send them.
Getting through things meant to keep people out always made Esteban happy. This one was a particular delight, a secret entrance to a private garden by the cathedral, one meant for meditation by high cathedral clergy and visitors. The beauty of using it now was that according to The Hand – the generic name for the head thief in any town – the episcopal soldiers didn’t know it existed. So when he found the little niche, set the --
Set the saint by the deer, press the red duster tree, count to three for the click, put the saint back by the rock, he thought, matching action to word. A section of what looked like solid stone shifted; he caught the edge with his toe, let go the little tree, and with Brother Thaddeus’ help, pulled. The mechanism was silent; mentally he complimented whoever maintained it.
“What do I
do?” Thaddeus asked softly.
Esteban managed not to groan. “What do you want to do?” he asked back. He feared the man would want to give up and go back.
“Pray before the conclave”, came the answer. Esteban was delighted; that was perfect!
“Then that’s what you do, and that’s what you tell anyone you meet.” He felt the tension go out of the Brother.
“Then... no deception.” More tension melted away.
“No deception”, Esteban agreed. “But the rest is under the seal.” Brother Thaddeus chuckled at that; neither was a priest, so neither could claim that. Both, though, knew what was meant.
“Now”, Esteban said firmly. Together they pulled, opening the portal enough for Thaddeus to slip through. “Count to five first!” the young thief called softly.
Terens Morales blinked. The mist in the corner of the garden was moving. He’d thought it foolish to post a guard where the only door was back into the cathedral, but it wasn’t his job to ask questions about orders, only to carry them out effectively. He saw the early morning’s light dance as the mist swirled, a small whirlwind. The whirlwind faded, revealing a solid, hooded, robed figure there, walking calmly, slowly toward him. “Román!” he yelled, the name of his backup just inside the little vestry that served two side chapels.
Román had been looking out the window at the garden. He liked flowers, and was hoping to see some glory as the morning mists, lit by early rays of sun, swirled around the bishop’s own blossoms. So he saw the swirl of mists, he saw the figure emerge, and was already turning the door lever when Terens called. It was an arrogant name for a son, but that father’s offspring had no arrogance in him, just solid competence and unwavering honor and loyalty. That name had made it rough going at first, but he’d proven himself, and now there wasn’t a man in the episcopal companies who’d so much as hesitate to answer Terens’ call.
The figure was definitely a man. Terens issued the standard challenge – “State your business!” – as Román came up beside him, sword loose.
“I desire to pray before the conclave begins.” Listening from outside, Esteban nodded approval: Brother Thaddeus sounded no different than if they’d walked down an aisle of the cathedral and been questioned at the entrance to a small chapel.
“How did you get in here?!” demanded Román. Esteban froze. If the Brother gave the truth... but then he wanted to dance for joy, because Thaddeus indeed spoke the truth, but apparently something of Casey and Esteban had rubbed off on him.
“Through the mists, my son. May I pass? I would pray in the garden, but....” Thaddeus shrugged as though to say the reason should be obvious.
“Remove your hood”, Terens ordered, managing to keep the tremble from his voice. “Román, go check that wall.” Esteban heard a gasp – had to be the soldier seeing the Brother’s face.
“Wall’s more solid than a sergeant’s head”, Román reported. The tremble in his voice didn’t stay hidden.
“Then may I go pray?” There was a touch of impatience in Thaddeus voice. To Esteban, it meant that he was tired of games and really just wanted to go pray; to the soldiers...?
Román gasped in turn as Thaddeus looked him square in the eye while he walked to rejoin Terens. The two soldiers looked at each other, then toward the fortress where Thaddeus’ face had graced the wall for the past few days, and then crossed themselves.
“As you please, holy sir!” Román replied hoarsely, just as Terens stumbled through, “Without delay, blesséd one.”
And like that, Brother Thaddeus walked on into the cathedral, to be found there alone, praying, when the senior priest of the diocese opened the doors to begin the conclave. Terens and Román swore on the altar’s relics that the wall was solid, it had not parted, that there had been a swirl of mists and a figure appeared – and why would they not grant admission to the cathedral to a man already within its bounds?! Had it not been for the commander of the bishop's guard, they might have been put to the question, but he had no patience with Inquisitors when it came to his men -- and until the presiding bishop took charge, he commanded the cathedral.
Esteban didn’t trust the soldiers to spread any word, so he did it himself, claiming to have heard from an awe-struck soldier what had happened. He added a touch of glowing aura to one version, a beam of light through the mists leaving the figure in its place in another, the figure appearing as at a great distance and approaching to a third. Of course he only used one, himself; the other versions he gave to beggars already out with their bowls – beggars could be trusted to pass exciting rumors, because a good tale brought coin.
He was back at the Rock Springs Inn in time for breakfast. Esteban left out the part about his first plan, and told only the entry of Brother Thaddeus into the cathedral. The rumor he’d spread, with the glowing aura, he shared; the others he kept to himself. But he couldn’t fool Casey.
“What were you going to do first?” his friend demanded when they were alone.
“It doesn’t matter – I gave it up. This worked better anyway.” Esteban was still surprised at that.
Casey stared at him. “Tell me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me our furry friends slaughtered forty Inquisidores?” he fired back.
Casey laughed softly. “Okay – I’ll stop asking. I didn’t tell you ‘cause I didn’t know. I sorta dreamed it, and it woke me up, but I wasn’t sure. Then I wanted to see Streaker.”
“Was either cat hurt?” Esteban demanded anxiously.
“Pounces got a little cut.” Casey grinned proudly. “His dad ripped off the guy’s head.” The two basked for a moment in the warmth of their bonds with the cats, and increasingly with each other.
“Hey – I knew you were outside the wall this morning – explain that!”
“Yes!” Casey exulted. “You have the Scout spark. One thing it does is let you know where your fellow Scouts are – well, if they’re not too far away.” He closed his eyes and concentrated.... Nothing. “I’m too far away from the other guys, but we’re close.”
Esteban chuckled at himself. “You know when I’m sneaking around, then!”
Casey grinned. “Yep. How much did you get on that third floor place?”
Esteban felt like his privacy was violated, but also... he couldn’t put a name to it, but he liked it, liked having someone who always knew where he was. “Forty silver sueldos and fifty billon blancos. But it’s gone.”
“Bribes for spreading rumors”, Casey stated, knowing that had to be it. “What other rumors did you start this morning?” Esteban told him, and they shared a good laugh.
Antonio interrupted them. “We’d better get to the square”, he told them, a bit grim. “Come on.” Esteban paused long enough to shrug and stretch, while Casey adjusted his pants and scratched his right ear. They grinned at each other; the actions had little to do with stretching or clothing, but were their ways of moving just enough to be able to tell if all their little toys were in place.
The square was packed. The episcopal troops had withdrawn to the steps of the cathedral; after all, the people of a town had the right to a voice in the choosing of their bishop. That it was rarely exercised made no difference; they couldn’t be banned. Nor would the soldiers have been easy about it anyway; Terens and Román’s account of the apparition in the garden had spread through the ranks, and while among the honorable episcopal troops a tale was passed on without embellishment, the raw truth was powerful enough.
From time to time a soldier would glance at the fortress across the square. Casey enjoyed watching their expressions: the image of Thaddeus was gone without a trace; he certainly wished he knew how that had been done, when it had reappeared on its own for days. The soldiers looked varyingly nervous, awed, puzzled, fearful, curious, and more than one crossed himself at the absence of the image now that the actual man was inside.
That he was inside, the crowd had no doubt. Call after call to the soldiers made that clear: “Bring him out!”, “Let us in to see him!”, “Where is he?”, “Who is he?”, “Bring the God-sent!”, “What’s his name?” Thanks to the two young thieves and dress armor on Sir Antonio and Sir Ramón, they’d gotten to the front of the crowd before the crowd’s mood began to change.
“How do we calm them?” Antonio asked Ramón.
The older caballero chuckled. “No one can calm a mob. Only pray they remain just people.”
Something smacked into the breastplate of a soldier. He didn’t move, but that only angered some in the crowd. But a hand brushed the mark off, and the crowd quieted. Someone else had decided the crowd was turning unruly, and had come to do something about it.
“I am Centurion Tacito Vargas”, the man called in tones that reached to the fortress across the square. His words weren’t understood that far, because of the crowd’s own noise, but they quieted the half nearest him, and the rest followed their example. He started over. “I am Centurion Tacito Vargas. I command the bishop’s guard. I ask peace here.” There were somber expressions, plus murmurs and muttering; one on one, a bishop’s guard could take any man alive, except possibly the Duke’s Own. And among bishop’s guards, those in Corazon dos Reyes were regarded as the best. Vargas let the quiet return and grow.
“The people have a say in choosing their bishop. There are seats in the cathedral which are not filled. So I will allow some in.” The crowd surged; he drew his sword and slapped his breastplate with it. The ringing crack! Froze everyone. “I say that I will allow some in. No rushing, pushing, or sneaking, and if anyone tries a bribe, his hand shall be severed.”
With the rest of the crowd, Casey had no doubt the centurion meant it.. He didn’t want in, anyway. But he started to jump up and down and wave as if he did, and nudged Esteban to do the same. He got what he really wanted: a soldier came to quiet them, noticed the two caballeros and a lady standing behind the youngsters, and returned to mention them to Centurion Vargas. Within a minute, Casey was cheering quietly as his more fashionable friends were ushered inside to join the merchants, smiths, carters, bakers, cobblers, and other craftsmen and artisans the centurion had been selecting.
The crowd began to thin as people realized that some common people, not churchmen, were being allowed ins; to many, that meant they had a voice, even if it wasn’t their own. Open space, however thin, drew sellers of everything a crowd might want: meat pies, fruit pies, drinks, pastries, and more. It became a carnival atmosphere – and one where Casey got introductions to some of the city’s least fine, thieves and pickpockets of Esteban’s recent acquaintance, who were having a field day.
Casey was blowing on a fresh pie, redberries with diced venison, when Esteban started laughing. “Come”, Estaban said, tugging at his sleeve. They didn’t go far; when they stopped, Esteban took the hand of an old woman who was searching through pockets. “Old mother”, he said, “I saw a thief take your coin. I did not know how much was yours, so I got all he had, and it is now yours.” He poured a fistful off copper with an occasional silver into one of her pockets. Casey heard her gasp, and put an arm around her as tears began to flow.
“Bless you, young master!” she declared. “The Virgin bless you! The Son and all His Saints bless you! And the new bishop they’ve sent us bless you, too!” She took out some of the money Esteban had brought her. “Here, have yourself a pie!” she insisted, and forced a billon blanco into the thief’s palm.
Esteban actually stuttered, embarrassed. “Thank you, old mother, but I did it because no one should steal from those who have little already.”
The vendor of meat-and-berry pies laughed. “Had it been a caballero, you would have let it pass?” People laughed.
“He has his sword – let him get it back himself!” Esteban declared. At that, nearly everyone laughed. One didn’t, a man whose eyes were following them closely. Casey realized the man had been watching, alert, the whole time. He caught those eyes and held them. After a time the man nodded, bowed slightly, and moved on.
Esteban had been watching. “What was that about?” he asked.
“You’re the townsman”, Casey answered. “You tell me.”
Esteban stopped and thought. “Not Inquisition; none of them would have bowed. Not of the shadow folk” – the thieves association – “none of them would have let you catch him watching us. Maybe one of the lords, but lords hardly ever have such men. That doesn’t leave much.”
“What does it leave?”
“Not here”, Esteban told him. Instead, they went to the edge of the square and climbed a huge white oak, stopping a good twelve meters above the ground. “It leaves Duke’s men, or a cofradia.”
“What’s a cofradia?” In Casey’s head it came across as “fraternity”, but he didn’t think the man had anything to do with college.
“Brotherhood. Guild. Association. There are various – those who kill, those who learn, those who...sabotage things.”
Casey felt a chill. “He could be here to kill us?!”
Esteban laughed. “No – you would never have seen him. He’s probably here learning something, and nodded, then bowed, because he recognized that you’d caught him.”
“He didn’t laugh! Anyone would catch that!”
Esteban shook his head. “Anyone would
see that. Most would catch a sour disposition. You caught a man busy being watchful.”
The voice of the people admitted to the cathedral was almost unanimous; Brother Thaddeus was elected without a vote of dissent by the clergy, many of whom feared the mob. When he came out, the crowd went wild; more coin came to the cathedral coffers that day than in most months. Brother Thaddeus wouldn’t touch a copper of it, which made the crowd love him more. That evening he complained to his brother as he was being dressed for his ordination to the priesthood.
“They eat at me”, he said, his eyes haunted. “They put hope on me. I am just a man. I shouldn’t have done this.”
“Too late for that now”, Antonio noted. “And they still need you. You told me about other candidates – how many of them would have said to put all those coins in the fund for the poor?”
The Brother’s lips lifted in a wan, hollow smile. “None, or at best the prescribed third. But most of it was from the poor! How could I not give it back to them?!”
“That’s why you will be a great bishop”, his brother said. “You don’t even understand the possibility of a great deal of the corruption in our Church. No one will be able to say you put on a pious show. You are nearly what God had in mind when He decreed that priests serve His people.”
“‘Nearly’?” Thaddeus queried, a ghost of a smile on his lower face.
“As I am not God, nor has He written to tell me just what He wishes in a priest, I must humbly declare I cannot know for certain. But whatever He meant, certainly you come closer than any man I’ve ever met.” The brothers’ eyes held each other. “Hermancito, when you went to become a priest, I thought you a fool, you of the pranks and the disobedience and the stretched stories”, Ramón said softly. “But here I see you becoming a bishop, and the most worthy candidate in a lifetime.”
“Now you’re supposed to ask him to clear your name”, Casey quipped. Both Delgados laughed; that was the way of things, favors and debts and the Game – but not here.
The only flaw in the ordination of their man sent by God was no flaw in the eyes of the people of Corazon dos Reyes: he wept when lifted and marked with the sacred oil, and again when he celebrated his first Mass. Those were tears of joy, everyone could tell that, and for a man to be joyful to come into God’s service was as close to a miracle as most had ever hoped to see.
Then through three days of fasting and prayer, Brother Thaddeus, now become Father Theodoro, studied as he never had before. On the third day he’d be consecrated bishop, and before then he was expected to know all the law of the Church. He’d studied some, of course, in preparation for the priesthood, but only in connection with other subjects. This was immersion.
“That’s idiocy!” he exclaimed late on the night before the consecration.
“Now what is?” Antonio asked, sleepy like the others, but determined to help Father Theodoro through his ordeal.
“Listen:
if a man’s brother dies, and he has means, he must wed his brother’s wife, to raise up a son for his brother or to raise his son. Now should a man fight his brother, and kill him, he shall not suffer punishment, for God has ordained that he must raise his brother’s offspring.” Theodoro started to throw the book at the fireplace, but just dropped it on the floor.
Antonio had to laugh. “That is pretty stupid. But what would you do?”
“First I’d ask if there were any other brothers”, Theodoro replied. “If there were, the man who killed his brother would get punished.”
“What punishment?” don Delgado inquired.
“If it were truly a fight, he does not deserve death. He could be put to the work gangs, but then I’d have to worry about his children – and look for another brother!” The bishop-to-be burst out laughing. The others joined, imagining a cascading chain of punished brothers handing their families over to other brothers.
Theodoro sobered. “The true idiocy is that this should fall to the Church. Yes, we must see to the care of the flock, and for that is makes sense we should know to whom the fatherless family should go for nurture and protection, since Nature tells us no woman should head a family alone.” Antonio winced at that, and turned it into a shudder. He tugged a cover off the back of the couch where he sat and pulled it over him. “Yet the matter of punishment belongs to the estate of the Sword.”
“Re-write the laws”, Casey suggested with a yawn.
“As you are a scholar, write why the law ought to be changed”, Lady Ismelda offered. “Surely others before you have said such a thing, and it was written.”
That brightened the priest’s outlook. Fortified by a woman’s good sense, he retrieved the book and went back to studying.
Casey wished they’d started the sunrise Mass for consecrating Father Theodoro as Bishop with Morning Has Broken. Since they hadn’t, he did it himself, singing the words softly while the choir intoned words supposedly Latin in notes supposedly Gregorian – he didn’t know, and didn’t really care; boring music with words he couldn’t understand wasn’t his thing.
He wondered about the man in the square, the one Esteban thought might be a cofradia member, but not an assassin, or maybe a Duke’s man. Casey went with the first; he couldn’t figure out why a Duke’s man would be there checking on things about the consecration of a bishop when news of the death of the last one hadn’t even reached the capital yet, but he could imagine all kinds of thrilling reasons a cofradia might be interested.
It’ll probably be something boring, if we ever find out, he decided.
He wondered as well just what Brother Thaddeus – now Father Theodoro and on his way to bishop – thought about while he was lying face down on a cold stone floor. With the heat the beginning of the day promised for later, that might have been a nice position for later in the afternoon, but the cathedral didn’t have anything like insulation, so Casey guessed the floor wasn’t much above freezing – which changed his question to one of could Father Theodoro think, there. He felt amusement from Streaker over the matter of deliberately putting one’s self on a freezing cold surface, and an image of himself stretched out on a nice stone slab in a meadow, with thoughts of warmth.
He found himself happy for the Father when they let him get on his knees, and finally, after oil and other things, to stand. Then the new bishop got to take over and celebrate the Mass, which Casey thought of as Communion and Oran called Eucharist. Something bothered him about the ceremony, though, and he didn’t figure it out until it was all over.
“Don’t they need a bishop to make a bishop?” he asked Lady Ismelda.
“Three, usually”, she answered, “but when the people of a place directly call for a bishop, only one, because the people are the Church. Brother Oremo is a bishop.” She saw Casey didn’t know whom she meant. “The elderly one with a limp. He was bishop in Padillo, once. I’d forgotten he retired here to the monastery. But he’s still a bishop.” Casey thought bishops stayed bishops for life, and wondered why one would retire – maybe it had something to do with the limp.
They all met that evening for dinner in the same private room used before. Don Delgado was chuckling when he came in. “Would you know what my brother’s first official act as bishop was?” he asked.
“This could be interesting”, Antonio remarked. “I’m ready – tell us.”
“He found that five excelentes had been set aside for redoing the bishop’s residence. He ordered that it be transferred to the account for the poor. Then as his second act he went through the residence and had the servants take down anything more expensive than might appear as a decoration in a good, respectable inn – they’ll be sold one at a time, so they’ll bring more coin.” Everyone waited for more.
Antonio laughed. “I surrender – what’s he going to do with the money?”
“The biggest plaint from the poor in town has been leaky roofs. The work will start on the worst – he plans to put new roofs over the heads of all the poor who have their own houses. For renters, he says he’ll pay half the cost of a new roof.” Delgado shook his head. “Soon he’ll be famous for helping the poor. Then people will start wishing him dead.”
“He’ll make the other bishops look bad”, Esteban explained. “Don’t worry about him, don Ramón – the thieves will like him; they’ll take care of him.”
Why am I thinking bumbling/"lucky" Montgomery, as opposed to Nelson?? 
Good Grief, Khuli! What have you gotten us into now? 
