“These are ladies of my Church, many of whom I’ve known all my life and most of whom have never set foot on this campus before.”
Isrulian stalked over to inspect Rayen. “This one doesn’t seem so ladylike to me.”
Verone stepped forward. “If I may, Your Ordinence, this is the uncle of the missing girl. He’s here because he has a medical condition that requires constant monitoring. His sister is the missing girl’s mother, and she couldn’t leave him behind.”
He inspected Rayen even more closely. “Is that so?” Then he moved to Dona. What about this one? I doubt you’ve known this one all your life.”
“She’s the missing student,” Verone replied. “And this is the girl’s mother. If you would like, Your Ordinence, I can take a moment to introduce them all.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Isrulian said. “The others I can well believe are Church Mothers, except for this one.” He pointed to Miranda. “To whom does this one belong?”
There was a long pause.
“Surely someone must claim her. What’s your name, young lady?”
“She’s my roommate,” Dona said.
“Did I ask you?”
Dona dipped in a contrite curtsey. “No, Your Ordinence.”
“I trust, then, that you have learned from this little outburst and, in the future, will keep a tighter rein on your exuberance?”
“Yes, Your Ordinence.”
He raised an eyebrow at Miranda. “Now, young lady, I caution you not to make me ask you again.”
“My name is Miranda—Miranda Connelly, Your Ordinence.”
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Isrulian wandered back over to Cartier just as the Inquisitor who was patting down the ladies reached Dona. Although she wasn’t carrying anything suspicious, she was still thankful he wasn’t doing a thorough job, until she glimpsed a long red scar on his right jawline. Her eyes widened in recognition. A slight turn of his head told her he’d noticed.
“Well then, Father Cartier,” Isrulian said. “Here’s a blunder to match allowing Monsignor Goodkin and Chancellor Wiggins to escape.”
“I don’t follow,” Cartier said.
The scarred Inquisitor patted his way around Dona until his breath was hot on her neck.
“Then allow me to spell it out for you,” Isrulian said. “Miss Connelly, do you happen to know a Constable Connelly?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“And precisely how do you know the Constable?”
“He—he’s my father.”
“Let that be a lesson to you, Cartier. Never conduct an Inquisition without familiarizing yourself with the families of your potential adversaries.”
It was all Dona could do to keep from pulling away from the scarred Inquisitor’s invasion of her space, but she held perfectly still.
“One word…” he breathed into her ear. “One word and we all burn.”
“Take the Connelly girl to Canasty as our guest,” Isrulian said. “If the rest pass inspection, they may go.” He wrapped his nightshirt more tightly and stalked back the way he’d come.
The carriage inspector approached Father Cartier. “The carriages pass.”
“Take the girl then,” Cartier said.
Miranda whimpered as the Inquisitor approached, but she allowed him to escort her away. Dona was powerless to stop him.
The scarred Inquisitor moved on to inspect Rayen and pronounced them all clear. He then started a second inspection on the carriages, this time on the outside surfaces, and underneath.
Dona leaned over to Rayen. “You take the vacant spot.”
“I knew we wouldn’t be walking,” he whispered. “That’s why I offered to do it.”
Cartier signaled to an Inquisitor stationed near the stone building that housed the gate mechanism. The gates ground slowly open.
Somberly, the ladies climbed into the carriages. Isrulian’s interrogation had delayed their progress, and dawn was now almost fully upon them.
“Quickly now,” Cartier shouted. “We don’t have all day.”
“Does anyone else smell smoke?” Mrs. Temrich asked.
Mrs. Caldor slapped her hand over Mrs. Temrich’s mouth, and Nathalie, who was driving her carriage, looked wildly toward Cartier, but the moan of the gate’s ancient hinges had apparently drowned out the stray comment. The instant the gate was open, Nathalie rushed her team forward, and Mrs. Curtsik’s team followed close behind. With a farewell wave to Cartier, Verone followed on Vengi as the first rays of light appeared over the horizon. Then the great gates ground closed once more.
The moment they clanged shut, the now-familiar clock-tower bell rang out a new warning.
“Dona?” Dona’s mother cried out over the reverberating bell as the carriages flew down the ramp. “Dona? Are you with us? Dona!”
. . . . .
From their vantage point atop the rise, The Crown Prince, his wife, and her brother could just barely make out the closing of the gates and the wild flight of the carriages. By contrast, the plume of thick black smoke rising over the University was plainly visible.
The Crown Prince pointed it out. “Where is that coming from?”
Michlos squinted. “I think that’s where the Hathaway Scholars are housed.”
“I pray they can contain it without our help” the Crown Princess said.
. . . . .
Dona strove to be inconspicuous as she stole her way back to the fraternity. Sticking to the morning’s longest shadows, she almost tripped over the body of a man lying just off the path. He had been stripped nearly naked, and at first, she was terrified he might be dead—until over the raucous calls of early morning birds she heard his snore. Then, startled by the clock-tower alarm, she abandoned all thoughts of stealth and simply fled.
. . . . .
By the time Dona made it to the fraternity, most of the residents had gathered on the front steps, where they stood watching smoke billow from the Hathaway compound. She had been smelling the smoke since Mrs. Temrich first mentioned it, but only now, when she climbed the steps and gawked with everyone else, did she see the dome. One of the Hathaway Scholars’ buildings was almost completely obscured by it. And, as with Dexter Hall, the dome apparently concealed a fire. However, this fire was already too large to be easily contained.
“Welcome back, Miss Merinne,” Reston said. “Some of the others are downstairs, if you care to join them. I’ll be back as soon as I see if there’s anything I can do in the Hathaway compound.”
“There’s no time for that, Professor.”
“The building is already lost, but maybe I can help to keep the fire from spreading.”
“You don’t understand—we have a more pressing problem.”
Reston glanced anxiously back at the smoke. “All right, downstairs. Quickly.”
After letting them into the chamber, Jonas resumed dragging on his pipe, while Tilly tended her pot of tea. Both had enough sleep in their eyes to suggest the alarm bell had been their wakeup call.
“Where’s Alexi?” Dona asked.
Tilly poured a cup. “Last we saw him, dear, he was leaving with you.”
Reston closed and locked the door. “All right, what’s the problem?”
“The Inquisition has taken Miranda.”
Reston’s jaw dropped. “Miranda Connelly? The Constable’s daughter?”
“Yes. It happened just now.”
Reston dragged his hand down his face and groaned.
“And that’s our problem, how?” Jonas asked.
“She knows about the book,” Reston said. “She thinks I lent it to Miss Merinne for an extra credit project. If they question her about heresy, she’ll lead them right back here.”
“Oh, I can see where that might be our problem.”
“We may have a little time,” Dona said. “There’s an Ordinal at Canasty Hall, and he only seemed interested in her because she was the Constable’s daughter. If we’re lucky, they might
not think to ask her about heresy right away, particularly if most of the Inquisitors are off fighting the fire.”
“A little time for what?” Jonas asked. “We can’t run—the gate is closed.”
“To rescue her, of course. If we don’t, we risk being accused of heresy by an Ordinal. We’d be fugitives the rest of our lives.”
“An Ordinal?” Reston asked. “Where was the Monsignor?”
“Oh, I forgot to mention that the Ordinal seemed upset that the Monsignor had escaped custody. It sounded as if he had been arrested.”
“The Primal’s brother arrested by an Ordinal? That seems unlikely.”
“I’m only saying what I heard.”
“Where did you hear all this?” Jonas asked.
“At the gate this morning. My mother and the church group were trying to leave the College. Miss Nevinander had it all arranged, but things fell apart when the Ordinal showed up. The Church group ended up leaving, but not before the Ordinal took Miranda hostage. Oh, and Professor Everson is masquerading as an Inquisitor now. He searched everyone before they were permitted to leave.”
“No doubt failing to notice anything incriminating that Miss Nevinander may have been carrying,” Reston said.
“He never even searched her.”
“He may have finally found his calling,” Reston said. “It took him almost no time to go from Priest to Inquisitor. No doubt next time we see him, he’ll be Primal.”
“We’d best act fast. The longer Miranda remains the Ordinal’s guest, the greater the chance they’ll learn about the book. If we move soon, most of the Inquisitors will be fighting the fire.”
“Just what are you suggesting?” Jonas asked. “Mount an assault on Inquisition headquarters?”
“I don’t care what we do, so long as Miranda is free when it’s over.”
“Free to do what? Sit here at the fraternity with the rest of us until the Inquisition finally tracks her down? It’s not like we’ve come up with any sort of plan to get anyone out of here.”
“Maybe it’s time we did. The longer we stay here, the worse our chances get. Have you considered what happens when Everson gets discovered?”
“Then we’re fugitives anyway,” Reston said.
Jonas puffed out a smoke ring. “Maybe we should take a cue from this Everson character.”
“How so?”
His eyes twinkled. “Listen up, folks. I’ve got an idea.”
Chapter Seven
Cloak and Dagger
Alexi trailed his toe in the duck pond. The ice-cold water stung a little, but he barely noticed. Complex aromas wafting from the cafeteria announced lunch was imminent, but even had they been appetizing, he wouldn’t have been interested. All around him, students were returning from canceled classes wearing expressions that ranged from relief to righteous indignation, but he didn’t care.
Alphonse sat beside him. “You might improve your chances with a worm and a hook.”
Alexi grunted.
“Let me guess. She decided you weren’t the one?”
Alexi stared into the water. “How could I have been so naïve?”
Alphonse chuckled. “Naiveté is part of the game, my friend. Without it, you aren’t really playing, and if you don’t play, you can’t win.”
“But at least you can’t lose.”
“You never really lose, you know, at least not if things end early and cleanly. It may be painful, but the pain is brief”—he tossed a pebble into the pond—“and the pool of eligible fish is vast.”
Alexi shook his head.
Alphonse clapped Alexi’s shoulder. “Look, the good news is that if you just keep playing, winning is inevitable. How many games can claim that? The only way to really lose is to prolong a bad fit.”
Alexi looked up from the pond. “But I didn’t think it was a bad fit. How could I not have known that?”
“Oh, now I understand. You’re upset because you were the one who was dumped.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks for understanding.”
“Hey, anytime things don’t work out, someone has to realize it first. Why would you assume it should always be you?”
“It always has been before.”
Alphonse flashed a wry smile. “And so naturally, it should work that way every time? You’ll never pass logic with reasoning like that. I’d say this means you are getting better at selecting candidates. You’ve managed to find one you didn’t want to ditch. Now all you have to do is find one who doesn’t want to ditch you.”
“And go through this all over again? No thanks.”
“Well then, there’s always the monastery.”
“Oh, now there’s a good fit.”
“Job security, three meals a day, all the beer you can brew, and absolutely no chance of having to suffer through the pain of getting dumped.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“You really are in a bad way if even the monks wouldn’t have you.”
“Thanks, I feel so much better now.”
“Face it, my friend—it’s going to be a while before the sun comes out from behind these clouds. In the meantime, what could be more distracting than a sabre winging its way toward your jugular? Let’s get in a bout or two before lunch, shall we?”
“I can’t do it.”
“I’ll let you win.”
Alexi snorted. “You say that every time, and then you pummel the daylights out of me.”
Alphonse shrugged. “What can I say? Helplessness brings out my killer instinct.”
“I am not helpless.”
“And now you have the perfect opportunity to prove it.”
Movement behind Alphonse caught Alexi’s eye. “Hey, what’s going on over there?”
“Nice try, but you aren’t getting out of this that easily.”
“Seriously, there’s a mob gathering, and it’s coming this way.”
Alphonse finally allowed himself to look. “Are those nuns?”
“Sure looks like it, though I don’t think I’ve ever seen them driving a cart before.”
“Forget the nuns,” Alphonse said. “What’s that they’ve got in the cart?”
Alexi shaded his eyes. “I’m not sure, but unless I miss my guess, I’m going to be taking a rain check on the pummeling.”
“All right, then,” Alphonse said. “I suppose if it occasionally takes a strange nun to take your mind off being ditched, who am I to judge? Just don’t get in the habit.”
Alexi groaned.
. . . . .
Cartier paced his makeshift office, trying to work out some way to repair the damage the meddling Ordinal had done to his plans. While the Inquisition remained bottled up in the University, he couldn’t make any progress in his investigation, and once the Crown found out they were holding the Constable’s daughter, it would be impossible to establish the amicable working relationship he’d envisioned. Without it, he’d never be able to discover the evidence he so badly needed—evidence that would make even the unpopular Inquisition seem the preferable alternative.
The knock on his door was long overdue. He’d expected this new fire to be under control more than a half hour ago. The prospect of the Ordinal accusing him of failing again was one he didn’t want to contemplate. “Come in,” he yelled. “Is it out yet?”
The young Inquisitor who entered was covered with ash and grime. “No, Father, the darkness is complicating our efforts, and now the fire has spread to another building. We need more manpower.”
“Take more men, then. The place is crawling with them. Get that fire under control.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
“There is one other thing….” The Inquisitor opened the front of his grimy vestment and removed a long floral length of fabric. The pungent smell of smoke mingled with the faint scent of roses. “We found this caught in one of the hedges near the burning building, I kept it as clean as I could.”
Carti
er took it from the young man and inspected it.
“I think it’s some sort of ladies’ cloak. At least, I assume it belongs to a lady. I don’t know any men who would wear such a flowery thing—or want to smell like that.”
Cartier thought it looked somehow familiar. It had a tag sewn into a seam at the neck. Taking it to the window, he made out tiny embroidered letters. Once he’d read them, and then reread them, he threw back his head and laughed.
“I knew I’d seen this before.”
“What does it say?”
Cartier grinned ear-to-ear. “It’s a name. It says Marguerite Serrola.”
Distracted by a small crowd gathering near the gate, Cartier opened the window and leaned out. He immediately recognized several of Isrulian’s sycophants. “Now what?”
The question was rhetorical, but the young man answered anyway. “I think the Ordinal is up on the barbican speaking with someone outside the walls.”
Cartier threw him a sidelong glance. “I don’t suppose he’s threatening to jump?”
“I don’t think so, Father.”
Cartier sighed. “As if I don’t have enough fires to put out. Speaking of which, you’d best get back to the Hathaway compound.”
“Yes, Father.” The young man bowed and left.
Cartier took a deep breath and ducked outside. It wasn’t long before he heard Isrulian’s booming voice echoing above the gate. “I assure you, we have the situation well in hand.”
A man’s voice, amplified by a speaking trumpet, responded. “We have men with training, experience, and equipment ready to assist, Your Ordinence. Such fires can be treacherous. Are you certain you don’t wish to reconsider?”
“The University is currently under the jurisdiction of the Inquisition. Until our investigation is farther along, these gates must remain closed for security reasons. I’m sure you understand.”
Cartier took the barbican steps two at a time. Isrulian leaned out through one of the arches, speaking to a small delegation of men bearing the standard of the Crown of Trifienne. At the group’s forefront, a powerfully built man with hair and a goatee so blond they were nearly white, lifted an eyebrow at the Ordinal.
He raised the trumpet once more. “I’m sure you can appreciate my position as well, Your Ordinence. We have no desire to impede your investigation, but without our help, the Crown is concerned the fires may rage out of control. If you refuse our assistance and that should happen, I’m afraid he will have to hold the Church financially accountable. May I tell him you find that arrangement agreeable?”
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