The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  “Right this way,” Franklin said, as if he were leading a stranger, instead of a bedmate.

  She remained quiet.

  Fitzgerald followed him through the dark hallway. Their footsteps echoed ominously off the stone. Each time she came to this place, it felt like she was walking the steps to The Cleansing, doomed to death. She hated coming here. Her anger turned to dread. When they reached the chamber door, Franklin held up the torch and fumbled with the doorknob.

  “Franklin, is that you?” a voice called from inside. Father Winthrop.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Do you have the girl?”

  “Yes, Fitzgerald is with me.”

  “No need to come inside, then. Send her in.”

  Franklin paused. He squeezed Fitz’s arm, but she didn’t look at him. She stared straight ahead, refusing to face him. Their breathing filled the hallway, as if they’d been running the alley races rather than walking through town.

  Finally, Franklin pushed open the door. Fitzgerald smiled grimly and entered the room. The Bishop was perched on the edge of the bed, his garments half-removed. He smiled lasciviously.

  Franklin hovered at the door.

  “That’ll be all, Franklin,” Father Winthrop said. “You can leave us now.”

  She heard Franklin swallow. As the door swung closed, she snuck a glance over her shoulder and met the novice’s eyes. His face burned with jealousy; his lips quivered. Fitzgerald mouthed goodbye.

  And then the door clicked shut.

  Chapter 32: Beck

  With two of his brawniest young scholars to accompany him through the darkness on Tiffany’s Row, Beck carried three of Ivory’s books, double-wrapped in sheepskin. Where Tiffany’s Row got its name, he had little idea, but the grandmothers told a tale of a princess named Tiffany, who had so many jewels and other fineries that she sold them just to make room in her vast house. To Beck, it was the street where all the wealthy merchants sold their wares. Unlike the market where the farmers, birders, and hunters sold their products from temporary stalls erected on the day when they had something to sell, the merchants on Tiffany’s Row had permanent shops.

  Kreuz’s smoked meat market commanded one of the largest spaces on Tiffany’s Row, at a corner with double doors opening onto the intersection. If that wasn’t opulent enough, each of the doors had set in it three glass panes. Three! It was the talk of the town when old Kreuz had them installed eleven years ago. How much he paid for the matching set of six pieces of ancient glass, he never told. People often speculated as to how deep old Kreuz’s pockets went as they paid for the smoked meats with his addictive blend of spices, like nothing else in any of the three towns.

  It was rumored that Kreuz kept two of his sons on a secret farm in the forest, growing special spice plants that had been husbanded through a dozen generations since the time of the Ancients. Two more of his sons kept the fires smoldering in a smokehouse out on the southern edge of Brighton. There, they purchased wood from a family of woodcutters who chopped only certain types of trees, and in special proportions. Old Man Kreuz held many secrets for the preparation of his meats, secrets that made the meat so delicious and tender that no other smoked meat market existed in Brighton, though it was the largest of the three towns. The other two towns had five such markets between them, but nothing coming close to the flavor of a Kreuz smoked meat.

  Such were the things on Beck’s mind when he selected Old Man Kreuz. Kreuz had a desire to possess as many ancient artifacts as he could afford with his substantial wealth, and books were high on his list, though as far as Beck knew, neither Kreuz nor his sons could read. That was another reason Beck thought these particular books would interest Kreuz.

  They were the three that had fallen out of Ivory’s backpack. They were full of images, some, of such clarity as to be a mirror of an ancient reality. Beck couldn’t even imagine how small the brush was that painted them or how expansive the palette. He couldn’t imagine how many years an artist had worked on each picture. And they were all perfect, save the magical, inexplicable devices and surroundings.

  Stepping up to Kreuz’s double door, each of the two brawny young men opened one, and as the pungent, oily smell of smoked meats flowed out to embrace him, Beck motioned for his two men to wait outside as he walked in.

  Inside, a dozen oil lamps kept the shop in a glow. Shelves and bins of dried meats, near to overflowing the last time Beck had been inside a year ago, were now only half full. A few other customers were inside with their market baskets in hand, examining and selecting pieces of meat for their families.

  “Minister Beck,” Kreuz’s gravelly voice greeted from behind his counter.

  “Hello Kreuz,” Beck said as he crossed the floor. Beck pointed to the walls with the bins and the shelves. “You must be selling everything. I’ve never seen the shelves so sparse.”

  “Bah.” Kreuz waved a hand. “Not getting much from my hunters and farmers lately. I had to raise prices just to keep customers from buying out all my inventory.” Kreuz shrugged. “As it is, I make as much coin as I did, but now I work half as hard.” He cackled as he swayed back and forth on his stool. “What brings you here today?”

  Beck laid his bundle on the counter in front of Kreuz and paused before unwrapping the books.

  He knew the smell of the meats, which seemed to have permeated every bit of exposed wood in the shop, was sinking into his clothing and hair and would stay there for days. That same wonderful, pungent smell would taint the pages of these books to such a degree that days, weeks, maybe even years in the future, whenever anyone opened them, they’d smell Kreuz’s smoked meat market.

  Still, Beck had come with a purpose in mind. “I have something special that will interest you greatly.”

  Kreuz’s face turned curious and he scooted up to the counter to look at the bundle.

  Beck untied the twine holding the skins in place. With a reverent flourish he folded back each flap of skin until the books were exposed. Then, using the open skins as a place on which to display the books, he spread them out in front of Kreuz.

  Kreuz’s jaw fell open and his voice ran away. He mouthed and pointed at the books as his hand reached down to touch.

  “Careful, please,” said Beck. “From your reaction, I know you appreciate the remarkable condition.”

  “The covers are indeed remarkable,” said Kreuz. “Are they the same inside?”

  Grinning, Beck said, “Better.”

  “May I?” Kreuz asked.

  Beck nodded.

  Kreuz wiped his hand up and down on his pants and then on his shirt. He reached for a book then stopped himself. He looked up at Beck, “Just a moment.” He hurried into a room in the back of the store.

  Beck heard a bit of a commotion, then the sound of a pail banging something. A minute later, Kreuz came out of the back room carrying a bucket of water and a couple of cloths. Beck nodded approvingly. Kreuz understood as well as Beck did that soil on the fingers would transfer to the porous old pages, and eventually ruin the artifacts.

  Kreuz took his time scrubbing and drying his hands, all the while eyeing the books with the impatience of a child looking at a new toy. When he finished, he positioned himself in front of the books and reverently reached out to open the cover of the first. He gasped.

  Chapter 33: Fitzgerald

  Fitzgerald let her mind wander, ignoring the grunts and thrusts of the man below her. She thought back to the words Franklin had spoken on the way over, about his devotion to The Word. What about his devotion to her? She gritted her teeth, quelling her anger.

  She fixed her eyes on the fireplace across the room, watching the flames flicker and dance. She occupied herself with a new plan. She needed to leave Brighton. The only hope for a used, barren woman was to become a servant to the Elders, or worse, to be sold to one of the wea
lthy merchants. Most of the merchants who were interested in owning a barren woman were abusive and cruel. She’d seen several of the former House women around town, their heads hung low as they carried their masters’ dung pails. Often, they were charged with tending the children, who would rather throw stones at them than listen. Their lives were only as good as the moods of their owners.

  The future was bleak.

  If Franklin wouldn’t leave Brighton with her, she’d go by herself. She’d continue collecting silver until she had enough to hire a guide, and then she’d bribe him to keep quiet. She needed to be especially careful. Women who fled The House faced the worst punishments of all—she’d seen women stoned, even dragged behind horses. Brighton was protective of those it considered property. According to one rumor, a woman had had her limbs removed before being tossed outside the wall for the demons.

  Winthrop paused below her to catch his breath. She looked down at him. His body glistened with sweat; his stomach overlapped his midsection.

  She cringed.

  That was another problem. With Winthrop consuming the past few of her nights, she was unable to collect additional coin. Her best gifts came in the evening, when inebriated men turned generous and forgetful. In order to move forward with her plan, she’d need to be rid of Winthrop, and the only way for that to happen was for him to grow tired of her.

  “What’s wrong?” Winthrop asked, frowning. It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation of insufficient attention to his needs.

  “Nothing. I’m just hoping you’re happy with me.”

  The Bishop’s jowls flowed down onto the pillow and stretched a smile across his old, yellow teeth.

  Her carefully chosen words disgusted her. But they always did. The Bishop furrowed his brow and nodded. For a brief second, it seemed like he might sympathize with her. Then he relaxed his face and went about his business.

  When they were through, Fitzgerald rolled off Winthrop and sat at the edge of the bed, waiting to be dismissed.

  “Stay a moment, if you’d like,” Winthrop said.

  She looked longingly at the door, wishing she had a choice. “Thank you, Father,” she said. She cursed herself internally for addressing him formally, rather than the way he liked. But he didn’t seem to notice. She looked around for her dress and retrieved it from the edge of the bed. She began putting it on.

  “No need to rush,” Winthrop said. “Lie down for a moment. Keep me company.”

  She reluctantly put down her garment and lay next to him. She held her breath. Neither the incense nor the fireplace smoke completely masked his odor—he smelled like the unwashed feet of a pig farmer, or a soldier who had marched for too many weeks without taking off his boots.

  After a few moments, Winthrop spoke.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a moment’s rest after a hard day’s worship,” he said aloud, as if convincing himself. “A man’s mind is only as strong as the body that carries it.”

  “Yes, Winthrop.”

  “So how are things at The House?”

  “They’re well.”

  “Mary does a commendable job, given the hardships she has to endure.”

  “Yes, Winthrop.”

  “Have you thought of another name for me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ve been calling on you a lot lately, if you’ve noticed.”

  “I have.”

  “Consider it a compliment. You perform your service very well.”

  Winthrop reached over and caressed her face. Fitzgerald shuddered, but didn’t speak. The last thing she wanted was to provoke him. She stared at the ceiling, her mind drifting to Franklin. Was he lingering by the door? Was he waiting? She’d tried listening for him, but she’d lost track. Winthrop had been particularly loud.

  Normally Franklin escorted her home, and if time permitted, he snuck her back to some isolated part of the temple where they could be together. As angry as Fitzgerald was with him, she’d prefer his company to Winthrop’s.

  She held her breath for a second, listening. The bedchamber—moments ago filled with sound—had gone quiet. The only noise was the crackle of the fire. Winthrop let go of her hair and put his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes, dozing.

  The hallway outside the room was silent.

  After a few minutes, a low rumble sounded from her left.

  When she looked over at Winthrop, he was asleep. Relief washed over her. Normally, she’d have to wait to be dismissed, but now she could slip out on her own. She’d have to be sure not to wake him.

  She sat up, masking the creak of the bed, and reached for her dress. Clutching it against her chest, she rose and padded away from the bed. She kept an eye on Winthrop as she slipped on the garment, afraid he might awaken and bid her to stay, but he was fast asleep. Thankfully, he’d tired himself out, the old lard.

  Fitz’s boots were by the door. She walked over to them and then stopped, admiring the paintings on the wall.

  She was suddenly hit with a thought.

  She’d been in the room several times, but always under Winthrop’s scrutiny. She’d never been free to snoop.

  The night before, she’d seen him tucking a box underneath his bed as she arrived. Certainly the Elders had riches beyond what The People could imagine, she thought. She’d heard whispers of precious metals being found in the wild, gifts given to the leaders and squirreled away. Jenny had once told her that Winthrop collected relics from an ancient religion.

  Could she get to the box without waking him?

  The thought was both thrilling and wrong.

  Leaving her boots at the door, Fitzgerald crept across the room on bare feet, her heart pounding furiously in her chest. Winthrop’s mouth hung open; his tongue lolled over his lips, and sleepy drool was already running over his cheek. She deserved at least a peek into the box for keeping his company. Right?

  She kept going until she was at the end of the bed, then stooped and peered underneath. The flickering fire threw shadows across the room, making it difficult for her to see. Her pulse knocked violently. She considered turning away from her despair-induced scheme and stealing back into the hallway.

  But the box was there. Beckoning. It was pushed halfway underneath, just far enough to be within reach.

  Fitz swallowed.

  She glanced back up at Winthrop, confirming that he was still asleep. The steady throb of his snoring was a signal that she was safe. She crouched lower, pressing her palms against the floor. Then she reached for the box, snagging it and pulling it toward her and into the light. The box was made of wood, about six inches wide and three inches long. Whatever was inside was probably valuable.

  She opened the lid.

  Her eyes widened.

  Inside the box was an array of small, metal relics. Most of them looked the same—two pieces of metal laid across each other. Fitzgerald picked one up and twisted it in her fingers, admiring its smooth contour. She set it back, her attention grabbed by another, then a third. Each was beautiful. Entrancing. Unique. She was so enthralled that for a moment she forgot where she was. The crackle of the fire reminded her. She startled and looked up, holding one of the objects. Its silver sheen was magnificent, especially in the fire’s glow.

  Winthrop hadn’t budged.

  She couldn’t chance looking any longer—she had to put it back.

  She twirled the relic one last time, committing it to memory. And then, without realizing what she was doing, she closed the box, the relic still clenched in her fist. She pushed the box back under the bed. Fitzgerald’s mind screamed at her to put the beautiful object back, but she ignored her inner voice, getting to her feet and padding to the door.

  What am I doing?

  Her feet kept moving. It’s owed to me.

  She’d
spent several nights with Winthrop—nights she could’ve spent with other, more generous men. She held the relic as she stole to the door, retrieved her boots, and slipped them on. The object felt foreign and unnatural in her hand, like an ember she’d stolen from the fire rather than a precious piece of metal.

  She gave one last look at Winthrop, terrified he’d be awake and staring at her, but he was still asleep. The man’s mouth hung open like a cavern; his bare legs dangled off the bed.

  It serves him right, she thought.

  Fitzgerald sucked in a breath as she crept out into the hallway.

  Chapter 34: Fitzgerald

  What have I done?

  The hallway felt smaller and darker than it had before. Fitzgerald clung to the walls for support, staving off panic. Without the light of Franklin’s torch, she was left to make her own way.

  She kept her ears perked, not only for Franklin, but also for anyone else who might be roaming the halls. She’d stolen from the Bishop. What was she doing? A part of her wanted to run back into the room and sneak the possession back into the box, to pretend this hadn’t happened. But if he caught her, she’d be instantly condemned. It was too late to turn back.

  Her best option was to keep going, in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice it missing.

  She envisioned the ancient objects in the box—there’d been a lot of them, too many to count. Perhaps Winthrop wouldn’t realize the relic was gone. If he did, it might take him a few days. In that time, there’d be others to blame—one of the servants, or one of the other clergymen. She’d have to hide it; that was all. She’d find a better spot in her room, or better yet, somewhere outside The House altogether.

  Her guilt made the hallway feel like a trap from which she needed to escape. She found the door at the end, fumbled for the handle, and pushed it open.

  All at once, she was in the night air. Free again. Fitzgerald suppressed the urge to run. She kept a steady pace, glancing furtively over her shoulder several times to ensure she wasn’t being followed. If Franklin had been waiting, there was no sign of him. Perhaps he’d given up.