by D. J. Butler
“I told him to,” Alzbieta said. “If someone must bear the consequences, let it be me.”
“Well, ain’t you jest a bunch of self-sacrificin’ sweethearts.” Calvin spat on the floor.
“Shut your mouth, Cracker,” the Podebradan muttered.
“Silence!” Sarah roared. She looked down at Cathy and her ministrations. “Will Sir William live?”
Cathy nodded. “He will not be walking great distances in the near future.”
“I know where we can git a sedan chair,” Cal muttered. “And eight big oafs to carry it.”
Sarah turned to face her cousin and steadied herself with a deep breath. “Your wizard lives.”
“I haven’t been allowed to look.” Uris’s gaze was steady.
“You’ve become a living Tarock, Uris,” Sarah said. “Did you know that?” She pointed to her own neck. “The Hanged Man. Curious. And yet, unless I missed some daring piece of wizardry indeed in my unwanted sleep, you have not become Alzbieta Torias.”
“I only—”
“Stop! If you open your mouth again, I’ll kill you myself.” Sarah turned her attention again to Alzbieta. “Your wizard lives. That is not a question, it’s a statement. I can see his orenda now. He weakens. He’s dying. But he isn’t gone.”
When he did die, the Polite Sherem would explode in a burst of mana-energy, as Thalanes had done, as Sarah had seen Firstborn travelers on the Natchez Trace do, murdered by the Imperial dragoons.
“Thank you,” Alzbieta said. She looked skeptical.
“I believe I can kill you and your companions here, now, if I wish. I believe in a battle with your men, I would prevail. I’m certainly willing to try. Do you see it differently?”
The burning hatred in Alzbieta’s eyes suggested she did not.
“Here’s what I offer.” Sarah took the Sevenfold Crown from her satchel and placed it on her own head, feeling the iron cold through the scant stubble that served her for hair. She knew it must give her a scarecrow appearance, dirty and thin, with mismatched eyes, and she embraced her own strangeness. “You will swear an oath of my devising on the Sevenfold Crown. Your companions will swear it with you. Then we’ll revive your wizard, he too will swear, and we’ll travel on to Cahokia together.”
“You’d compel me to swear an oath to help you take the throne?” The priestess looked offended.
“Of course,” Sarah said. “And not harm me or any of my companions.”
She looked at her cousin and saw herself. Ambitious, willful, disbelieving.
“I might be willing to do that,” Alzbieta said.
“Spoken with a lying heart.” Sarah pointed at her own witchy eye. “I see you, Alzbieta, do you understand? I know you think I can’t compel an oath from you. You believe you can make reservations in your mind, you can outwit me. Perhaps you think that if you make an oath you don’t intend, the Sevenfold Crown won’t enforce it.”
Alzbieta grew paler but said nothing.
“You’re mistaken. We’ll stand here until you’re ready. Your wizard Sherem will die first. He must have enjoyed the irony of putting me into enchanted sleep after I had done the same to him. That irony will be the last thing he enjoys. I’ll consume his soul as it evaporates on his death.”
Alzbieta shuddered. Sarah sharpened her stare.
“When Sherem has died, you’ll weep for your loss. You’ll pretend then that you’re ready, you’ll swear you’re prepared to fully mean your oath, but I’ll know it’s false. I’ll personally slit the throat of your Hanged Man, Uris, and as his life’s blood pours out onto this floor, I’ll drink his soul as well, and my power will grow.”
“That would be cold murder.” Small tears formed in the corners of Alzbieta’s eyes.
“Colder than your plan to assassinate me? At that point, your men outside, and the Unborn of Podebradas here, will make a desperate attempt. I won’t even turn my back as my beastkind tear them limb from limb, but I will savor their mana and fuel the fire of my own sorcerous might. I’ll enjoy your tears, too, which by then will be flowing. You’ll beg to die, I’ll refuse you, and finally, you’ll truly mean it when you ask to swear your oath.”
Alzbieta Torias trembled. “I will swear.”
“Then kneel.”
Alzbieta hesitated. Sarah stared at her.
“Set me down,” the priestess said to her slave.
He complied.
“See?” Alzbieta knelt in the dirt and the blood. “You take my priesthood from me, and I let you.”
Sarah shook her head. “If the gods wish you to have priesthood, I can’t take it from you, no matter what taboos I force you to violate.”
“Say the oath I must swear.”
“The Unborn and the Hanged Man must join you.”
“Your Holiness,” Uris said roughly to his mistress, “I will die for you.”
“I am asking you to live, instead.” She smiled at him, and Sarah felt a small pang of guilt. She shoved it down deep inside.
Uris and Yedera both knelt.
Jacob Hop suddenly laughed out loud.
“What is it, Sergeant?” she asked.
“You said it yourself, Your Majesty.” Hop pointed at the three kneeling Cahokians. “Tarocks. The Hanged Man and the Priest. With the Daughter of Podebradas as the Virgin, they make a casting.”
Sarah permitted herself a soft chuckle. “And will you tell me how you read it?”
“Good things, Your Majesty. An unexpected birth after death. Consecration to a higher life. Meaning and reorientation. Surprise insight.”
“I’m ready,” Alzbieta Torias said. “We are ready.”
Sarah looked at them with her Second Sight, and saw that they were. “I,” she began, “say your name.”
“I, Alzbieta Torias…”
“I, Uris Byrenas…”
“I, Yedera, Unborn Daughter of St. Adela Podebradas…”
Sarah continued, “swear that I will provide every assistance I can, asked or unasked, to Sarah Elytharias Penn in her attempt to become crowned Queen of Cahokia.”
She opened the Orb’s conduit to the Mississippi. Light no one else could see flowed through her and the Crown and into the kneeling Cahokians as they took the oath.
“I further swear,” she continued, “that I will neither seek nor permit any harm to any loyal servant of Sarah Elytharias Penn.”
They swore.
“I swear that I shall be honest with her in all things. By my life and by the life of all my gods, amen.”
They finished the oath, and the Crown released them.
“Hell’s Bells, Your Majesty,” Sir William drawled weakly, his eyes fluttering open. “You compose oaths like a lawyer.”
Sarah smiled at Sir William to show her relief.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Alzbieta said.
“Wait.” Sarah wasn’t quite sure how to accomplish what she wanted to do next, but ignorance and inexperience hadn’t stopped her yet. She raised the Orb of Etyles over her head, drew power through it and through the Crown and focused it this time on herself.
She felt the burning crackle of fire flowing through her, and she felt something else, too. She felt extreme concentration. The world had fallen away, and all that existed was the cosmic chamber of her heart, a dark and warm space into which she spoke.
Reorientation. Unexpected insight.
“I, Sarah Elytharias Penn, swear that I shall reward your good faith with loyalty, with protection, and with every blessing I can bestow. By my life and by the life of all my gods, amen.”
The words fell into her heart and stayed there.
The Crown released Sarah.
She replaced the Orb in her shoulder bag. Slowly, because her skin was tender and her joints ached, she lowered herself to her knees facing the three oathtakers. Alzbieta, Uris, and especially Yedera stared at her.
Careful not to let the crown slip, Sarah bowed slightly toward the Cahokians.
“I need you to guide me,” she said. �
��I need you to help me find my way among my people, whom I do not know. I need you to help me take back my father’s throne.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” they said.
“You would turn our father’s funeral into an act of black magic?”
CHAPTER SIX
The door was locked, but it was a door whose key Etienne had long ago copied. He let himself in, followed by Monsieur Bondí and Armand. Armand closed the door and waited beside it, hands crossed unthreateningly in front of his waist, and well away from his weapons. Armand’s size was threat enough.
Etienne and Bondí sat.
August Planchet, the parish’s beadle, looked up from his ledgers in surprise. “Vous êtes le…fils de l’évêque.”
The beadle’s office was plain, if not austere. That was as it should be. The tapers were inexpensive, the drapes of plain cloth, the desk and three chairs all sturdy but simple. The two paintings on the wall were of St. Matthew the tax collector and St. Bernardo de Pacioli with his two columns. August Planchet knew what image the beadle should project to any visiting worthy.
That would make this conversation easy.
“The word you have omitted,” Etienne mused, continuing the conversation in French. “What would it have been…notorious? Criminal? Gangster? Violent? Dangerous?”
“Enterprising,” Bondí said. “Industrious. Thrifty.”
“Merciful,” Armand suggested. “Needlessly generous.”
“Other.” Planchet smiled. “You’re the bishop’s other son. I’m more accustomed to seeing Chigozie Ukwu in this office. I haven’t seen you since you were a small boy; remind me of your name.”
“Etienne.” He smiled. “The name my mother wished me to have.” Her locket tingled in his waistcoat pocket. “And these are two of my associates. Monsieur Bondí is an accomplished accountant.” He indicated Bondí, a Creole whom he knew to be part Choctaw, part French, part Sicilian, and part Bantu. He didn’t know the proportions or what else might lurk in Monsieur Bondí’s family tree, but Bondí was an excellent accountant, both managerial and forensic. He was also an apparently bottomless source of perspiration, so his white shirts were generally stained a splotchy yellow and on his best days he smelled a little sour, even in winter. “At the door is Armand, who practices an entirely different sort of reckoning. May I smoke?”
The beadle said nothing, so Etienne struck a Lucifer match and lit a cigarette, savoring the taste and examining his quarry with cool eyes.
Planchet leaned back in his chair, slowly steepling his fingers before him. “I’m pleased to meet any associate of yours, Etienne.” August Planchet was an old man, thin as Etienne’s father, with a short spike of white beard on his chin, long teeth, and eyes so pale they looked as if they’d been drained. “You’re aware I have no cash here.”
Etienne laughed. “Ah, Monsieur Planchet, how I esteem a good sense of humor. What need have I to take a loan from the parish?” He savored a deep puff of cigarette smoke, carefully releasing it toward the corner of the beadle’s office. “No, we’re here because you’ll be seeing more of my associates in the future, in particular Monsieur Bondí. I believe it behooves us to commence our working relationship on the best of all possible bases.”
Planchet continued to smile blandly, but he had visibly paled. Etienne’s father, the former Bishop of New Orleans, had been dead for two weeks. What must Planchet be thinking? Whether Etienne would now shake him down, no doubt. Or rob him at knife-point. Or simply have him killed.
“Oh?” Planchet said neutrally. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this future association?”
“The bishop’s throne is vacant,” Etienne said.
“The bishop doesn’t sit on a throne,” Planchet said immediately.
“Only in a figurative sense, of course. In Latin he sits upon a cathedra, a throne, and the church in which he presides is therefore a cathedral. Please feel free to correct me if I am mistaken…my knowledge of church governance is as rusty as my theology and my Latin.” Etienne steepled his own fingers and mirrored the beadle’s mild expression, cigarette tucked neatly into the corner of his mouth.
“Of course, you’re correct. The church requires a new prince.”
“And the Empire a new Elector. I know, as it happens, that the Synod has already acted. The vote wasn’t unanimous, but a majority agreed on a candidate, and in accordance with its traditions the Synod will only announce the outcome of the discussions, and not the misgivings of the dissenters. I expect that you’ll shortly be informed as to the identity of your new bishop.”
The beadle’s mild expression struggled against a look of terror. “Oh? They took months to appoint your father.”
Etienne nodded. “I understand this time they felt some urgency to act.”
“And…you also know whom they intend to anoint.” It was not a question.
“As I said, you’ll work a great deal with Monsieur Bondí here. And I felt it vital that we discuss one key issue ahead of time, before the new bishop is consecrated.”
“How thoughtful.”
“You’ve been stealing, Monsieur Planchet.”
Etienne leaned forward and placed his hands on the desk between them, palms down. It was a deliberate move to make himself appear harmless. “You’ve been stealing from the parish, Monsieur Planchet. You’ve been picking the pockets of the poor of the church.”
August Planchet looked back and forth between Armand and Etienne. His eyes jumped and his breathing became noticeably shallower, but he said nothing.
“Thank you for not denying it. Monsieur Bondí and I have taken the liberty of letting ourselves in at night to examine your books. And I have enough men in my employ to investigate the factual questions, which made it a simple matter to locate the false charity and the nonexistent widows.”
The Creole cleared his throat. “I make it about one hundred fifty Louis d’or a year you’ve been taking, on top of your salary.”
“The salary,” Planchet said finally, “is a pittance unworthy of a man of my professional qualifications.”
“Quite.” Etienne relaxed back into his seat. “The parish expects you to contribute your time as an act of service. Worship, even. Your salary is merely intended to pay costs of living, and that at a rate I would characterize as…frugal.”
“Your father expected me to live as humbly as he did.”
“Yes, I know my father’s expectations.”
“I don’t believe your father knew. About the theft.”
Etienne laughed. “Of course not. He’d have called you to repentance.”
August Planchet looked around again at the three men in his office. “So…where do we go from here?”
“I propose to pay you twenty Louis a month to continue to act as beadle,” Etienne said.
Planchet frowned. “But the Synod…”
“Not, you understand, from the Bishopric’s funds. The Westwego plantations, the bonds traded in New Amsterdam, the rents from the Esplanade properties, the income from the textile mills, the cotton holdings…you will from this day forward treat that money as utterly sacrosanct. Do you understand me? The parish must be managed in a way that is completely above reproach.”
“But…” Planchet was clearly perplexed.
“You ask yourself two questions. I’ll give you two answers,” Etienne said. “First, your monthly twenty will come from my other businesses, which will continue to operate under the direction of Monsieur Bondí. You will have no contact with those businesses. Monsieur Bondí will examine the Bishopric’s accounts monthly, and provided they are pristine—understand me, they must be so shiningly, spotlessly perfect that you could write them in good conscience on the consecrated host—he’ll pay you twenty Louis.”
“I see.” Planchet finally allowed himself to smile again.
“The other question you ask yourself is: but this Etienne Ukwu is a famed breaker of legs, a man of violence and one who profits from the addictions and dire straits of others. He is a gambler a
nd a whoremaster and a moneylender. How can such a man possibly want an uncorrupted Bishopric?”
Planchet swallowed. “I will confess, the question had occurred to me. There has been more than one…fallible…priest in the past, and many parishes’ accounts show at least some sign of disorder. Why, even the Borgia—”
“The Borgia only saved himself from being forcibly unseated by the Emperor Charles the Affable by preemptively turning Turk. Why do you think we’ve had no popes or cardinals since?”
“And yet…”
Etienne smiled. “My father was an incorruptible man. He was personally abstemious, he was charitable, he was patient, he was good. If an irregularity had been discovered in the Bishopric’s accounts while he was bishop, everyone would have assumed he wasn’t to blame. Indeed, he would have been the first to seek to remedy the breach.”
“Truth.” Monsieur Bondí nodded sagely.
“But the new bishop is a much more fallible person, a man known for certain…irregularities in his attempts to live a Christian life. For such a man to survive as bishop, the parish must be error-free. The books and bank accounts of the Bishopric of New Orleans must come to shine with such a pure light of holiness and honesty that the most jaded and dishonest assailants couldn’t call into question the bishop’s management. Does that help you see the complete picture?”
“You plan to do battle.”
“As any prince must.”
“You will have seen the broadsheets on the Place d’Armes; the chevalier is recruiting additional gendarmes and raising their pay. It’s as if he, too, expects to do battle soon. And with physical arms.”
“Is that so?” Etienne knew.
“Yes.” August Planchet’s sly grin gave away his knowing flattery. “I can build you the suit of armor you ask, Your Holiness.”
Etienne chuckled. “Not yet, Monsieur Planchet. Not yet.” He stood, took his mother’s locket from his waistcoat, and looked at it.
Well done, my son. He felt the warmth of love and approbation from his mother, his gede loa since her death. This was the path onto which she had put him, following her death. Carry on her legacy, follow her spiritual path, protect his father.