A House of Cards

by Douglas Bornemann

  The Primal raised an eyebrow. “You really think I’ll need the formal set for this?”

  “I don’t think it matters, so long as we get you into them quickly.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Put your arm through here.”

  After a few more minutes of struggling with the vestments, the Primal reached for the cane by the edge of his bed and tried to stand. After two attempts, and with a little help from the Ordinal, he got to his feet.

  “Will I need anything else?”

  The Ordinal shook his head. “Once we get you downstairs, I’ll ask the guards to send for your carriage.”

  “Guards?”

  The Ordinal paused. “Since you’ve gotten so frail, I’ve asked someone to be on duty at the door at all times, just in case you need something and I’m not close by.”

  “I see. I guess that makes sense.”

  They made it down the stairs, but the effort took its toll on the Primal, who gasped and wheezed from the exertion. “They just don’t make Primals like they used to.”

  “True. The previous ones couldn’t hold a candle to the current model.”

  The guards snapped to attention as Laitrech opened the door. “Quickly, fetch the Primal’s carriage.”

  The guards saluted. “Right away, Your Ordinence.” One scurried off down the hallway.

  “You—assist His Primacy.” The other guard rushed to support the Primal, but their progress was still slow.

  After a few minutes, Laitrech shook his head. “This isn’t working. Carry him.”

  The guard hesitated, but once the Primal shrugged his permission, he lifted the Primal off his feet, and they made better time.

  “Have you left instructions with the Secretary?” the Primal asked. “I’ll need to be notified as soon as possible if Armand arrives.”

  The Ordinal mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Laitrech?”

  The guard stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He caught only a brief glimpse of an ancient withered face beneath a shock of white close-cropped hair before something solid took him in the cheek and swung his head around. He staggered, nearly dropping the Primal, until he steadied himself against the wall.

  The man in the Ordinal’s vestments stepped around to confront the guard and his precious cargo. The guard nearly dropped the Primal a second time, for the Ordinal now wore a face that precisely matched his own.

  “Listen carefully,” the guard in Ordinal vestments hissed. “You’re not sick, you’re being poisoned.”

  The Primal’s eyes went wide with horror. “What have you done with Laitrech, demon?”

  “Superstitious fool. Listen to me. I’ve done all I can—the rest is up to you. Trust no one, particularly not Laitrech.” With that, he sprinted down the corridor, his vestments fluttering behind him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Reinforcements

  Randolph Brent opened one eye ever so slightly, and what he saw through his lashes made him smile. Alphonse sat propped against a sarcophagus, sword in hand, his chin resting on his chest, his breathing slow and rhythmic. Peering past his self-appointed jailor, he could see the girl and her beau. The boy snored deeply, while the girl’s slumber was more fitful. More than once, she spoke in her sleep, but Brent had been unable to make out the words. Beyond them, the Monsignor slept, looking perversely peaceful, considering his surroundings. At the sight of him, Brent’s smile evaporated. The Morgatuan was cradled in one arm. To Brent, it seemed its glowing eyes fixed him with an unrelenting accusatory glare. He shook his head to dismiss the unsettled feeling, knowing it was foolishness—but the guilt did not abate.

  Silently, he rose and tiptoed to the altar. Other than a metal prybar, he recognized none of the implements strewn across it, but the grinning golden skull embedded in its surface was a symbol he knew all too well. It was reminiscent of the Morgatuan, but on a larger scale. As he got closer, he noticed the altar was not smooth as he had first thought. Instead, much of it was covered with finely graven symbols much like those that filled his journal. He leaned in as far as he could without stepping onto the dais and adjusted his glasses.

  “Can you read it?”

  The surprise of Alphonse’s whisper nearly made him lose his balance. “Don’t sneak up on old people like that.”

  “Sorry—I’m trying not to wake the others. Can you read it?”

  “Not from this distance.”

  “If you got closer?”

  “Why the sudden interest in ancient Chervillian script?”

  “I was wondering if it told us a way out. This place makes my skin crawl.”

  “Surely there’s nothing lurking here that blade of yours can’t handle.”

  “You mean like the floor dropping out from under you?”

  “Except for that.”

  “There has to be a way out, doesn’t there? Tell me my girl won’t have to live out her days wondering why her man abandoned her.”

  Alphonse’s earnestness softened the old man’s heart. “We’ll figure it out. These alcoves weren’t all filled at the same time. There must be a way back.”

  “That’s good—I’m too young for perdition.”

  “You and me both. Should we wake the others?”

  “I don’t think we need to. They will only want to know what this writing says, and they can’t help you with that. May as well let them rest.”

  “As you’ve seen, Ossaria are known for dangerous little surprises. I’ve been hesitant to step on the dais for fear of triggering something, but I don’t see an alternative if I want to read the writings.”

  “Do you think it might disappear like the floor in the passage?”

  “I can’t rule it out, though the two pits we’ve seen so far seem only to react to the Morgatuan. Of course, that pattern may itself be part of the trap. Notice how the dais is made of several wedges, any one of which could conceal another pit.”

  Alphonse rubbed his chin. “True, but it might also conceal the way out.”

  “You have a point. I suppose I do tend to view my cup as half empty.”

  Alphonse grinned. “Probably you’ve been drinking from it longer.”

  “Let’s wait to wake them until after I’ve had a look at the writing. Here, give me a hand with this coffin.”

  Together they approached the open sarcophagus and inspected its lid. There were chips out of one edge, but it was otherwise intact.

  “What do you want to do with it?”

  “I’d like to lay the lid across several of the wedges. If one disappears, maybe I won’t disappear with it. The lid ought to be heavy enough to trip anything set to trigger from someone’s weight.”

  Alphonse lifted his end without difficulty, but Brent managed only with much grunting and puffing. The noise of their exertions finally woke Dona and the Monsignor, who approached to see what they were up to. With effort, Alphonse slid the coffin lid close enough to the altar for Brent to read the altar etchings. The dais seemed unaffected. Brent tested with his toe, and when it held, he tested his full weight. He shrugged, had a seat, and began reading to himself.

  “What do they say?” Dona asked.

  Brent peered at Dona over his glasses. “I don’t know—it’s not like I’ve had much chance to digest it yet.”

  She blushed but met his gaze. “Well, there could have been a title or something.”

  Brent huffed and went back reading.

  Steeling herself, Dona peered into the open sarcophagus. “This is empty. Do you suppose it was robbed, or was it never filled?”

  “I hope it was robbed,” Alphonse said. “It would be great to know that someone else who made it in here also made it out.”

  The Monsignor cleared his throat. “Assuming he did make it out.”

  “It was filled.” Brent said.

  Dona inspected the sarcophagus more closely. “How can you tell?”

  “The lid was inscribed, and there are signs it was sealed.”

&n
bsp; “Whose coffin was it then?”

  “Some long-dead Chervillian’s, I would imagine. I can only translate one thing at a time.”

  “Well, pardon me.” Dona shook her head and turned her attention to a statue the Monsignor was studying.

  “Gracia Terrati, if I’m not mistaken,” he said.

  “Who is that?”

  “The Chervillian equivalent of a Saint. A fairly typical representation—note the open book in the right hand and the skull in the left. Legend tells us she was a pivotal figure in the Schism.”

  “Schism? From whom did they split?”

  “Oh, the Church, of course. Officially, it never happened, but numerous historic sources suggest the Chervillians were once a sister organization. To this day, a similar relationship exists between the Church and the Sisters of Solace, whose habit you currently wear.”

  “The Sisters aren’t a part of the Church?”

  “Technically no. They collaborate closely with the Church, but they do not answer to the Primal.”

  “If you are quite done with your lecture,” Brent interrupted, “I have a rough idea what these etchings are about.”

  “By all means, Mr. Brent.”

  “They outline some sort of procedure—I can make out several distinct steps, but their purpose is never explicitly stated.”

  Alphonse brightened. “Maybe it’s telling us how to get out.”

  The Monsignor rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. This place was likely home to quite a few procedures, most of which are probably best avoided.”

  “Think about it, though,” Alphonse said. “The faithless get perdition and the faithful get new life. Who, other than the faithful, could even read this writing? It’s got to be the way out.”

  The Monsignor still looked dubious. “What do the etchings instruct you to do, exactly?”

  “They speak of several rods and the order in which they are to be used.”

  The Monsignor was nonplussed. “What do you mean by rods?”

  “I’m the translator, not the author. How should I know?”

  Dona pointed at the altar top. “Are they talking about those?”

  The Monsignor stiffened in shock. “Those aren’t rods—they’re wands.”

  Brent snorted. “Rods, wands, sticks, whatever.”

  “You don’t understand. A wand is a uniquely Phrendonic tool. I’ve never heard of them being found in a Chervillian stronghold before, much less being described in Tep’Chuan inscriptions. A Chervillian-Phrendonic alliance would be a disturbing development, indeed.”

  “I’d see it more as the natural consequence of the Church’s actions.” Brent said. “After all, when haven’t the persecuted sought out the enemies of their enemy and called them friends?”

  “Are we following the instructions, or aren’t we?” Alphonse asked.

  The Monsignor took a step back. “I’d first need a far better understanding of these wands and their purpose.”

  “Agreed,” Dona said. “How do we find that out?”

  The Monsignor exhaled slowly. “I’m not sure. You can test them, of course, but that’s tantamount to using them, and depending on what they do, may not be informative. Perhaps there are other writings?”

  “Should we fan out and search?” Alphonse asked.

  The Monsignor frowned. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea either—there may be other traps.”

  “Well, what then?”

  Alexi hobbled over to join them. “I say we try them. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  The Monsignor raised an eyebrow. “I take it you aren’t familiar with the Phrendonic practice of Infernal Sacrifice?”

  Alexi swallowed. “Not really.”

  “I thought not. At the end of the Caprian Inquisition, when it was clear the Church would prevail, some heretics resolved they would sooner die than recant. They devised a way to incinerate themselves upon capture. They perished in flames of their own making, taking everyone nearby with them.”

  Alexi and Dona’s gaze met in horrified epiphany.

  The shared moment wasn’t lost on the Monsignor. “Oh, so you are familiar with the practice?”

  Alexi shrugged. “I guess I didn’t know that’s what it was called.”

  The Monsignor bowed his head. “It was a dangerous time to be an Inquisitor. Anyway, you asked what’s the worst that could happen. Not all those who Sacrificed were capable of the heresies required to set it up. Worse still, not all the participants were willing.”

  Dona’s jaw dropped in revulsion. “They turned people into bombs?”

  “As I said, it was a dangerous time.”

  Alphonse’s brow furrowed. “But why would the Chervillians bother writing directions for something like that? If they wanted to kill us, couldn’t they have done that when we walked in?”

  “I’m not saying that’s what these wands actually do, I’m just saying they should not be treated lightly.”

  Alphonse scratched his head. “Maybe we can get a better idea of what they do from how they’re used?”

  Brent felt all eyes turn to him. “If my opinion matters,” he said, “I think the Monsignor has a point. Ossaria are nothing to trifle with. We already have a blueprint for getting out of here, if only we can retrace our steps. At very least we should make sure that’s not an option first.”

  “We haven’t tried going back to the pit and turning off the Morgatuan,” Alexi offered.

  “I don’t believe we have,” the Monsignor said. “I guess we were all pretty tired last night. It’s worth a shot.”

  “We should first make a plan for getting across the pit,” Brent said. “What if the Morgatuan closes the entrance to the chamber but leaves the pit open?”

  Alexi shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose we’re going to need another light?”

  Dona peered into an alcove. “Can’t we just use one of these vigil lights? Here, let me get one.” With both hands, she retrieved a sturdy cage—in its center floated a glowing human skull.

  The Monsignor scrambled toward her. “No, don’t.”

  “Whoa,” Dona said. Regardless how she tilted the cage, the skull remained suspended in the its center. “How does it do that?”

  The Monsignor mopped his brow. “In the future, I’d really appreciate more warning before you touch anything.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You knew the lights were skulls all along, didn’t you?”

  “I saw no reason to make anyone more uncomfortable. I was concerned you might find the presence of so many human remains disturbing.”

  “If we are quite finished desecrating graves,” Brent said, “perhaps we can get down to business?”

  Dona put the cage back “Fine by me. This thing is way too clumsy to use as a light anyway. Alexi, can you make another?”

  Alexi set his sword alight once more, and together they filed up the stairwell.

  Alexi eyed the pit. “With a good ankle, I might have been able to jump it.”

  “I don’t know,” the Monsignor said. “The ceiling is pretty low.”

  Brent kicked a pebble into the abyss. “Do we have rope? Perhaps we could swing across?”

  The Monsignor shook his head. “I don’t think we have the materials for that. I’m fresh out of ideas.”

  “All right,” Dona said. “Let’s try turning off the Morgatuan, then. Are we agreed?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Here goes,” The Monsignor said. He held aloft the Morgatuan, flicked a ring out of alignment, and waited expectantly.

  Nothing happened.

  His face fell. “I was afraid of that.”

  “I guess that leaves only the wands.” Alphonse said.

  The group trudged back into the chamber.

  “Let’s hope they still work after all this time,” the Monsignor said. “What must we do?”

  “The procedure requires only one operator,” the Bursar said. “It would be safest if the rest of you stayed well away, maybe even back up the stairs�
��just in case.”

  Alexi shivered. “If the wands don’t us get out, surviving them probably does no one any favors.”

  “I’ll do it,” Alphonse said. “Tell me what I must do.”

  The Bursar shook his head. “I appreciate your bravery, lad, but we may only get one shot at this. I’ll need to see what’s happening to make sure the directions are followed precisely.”

  Alphonse shook his head. “But they’ll need you to lead them out if this doesn’t work.”

  “If this doesn’t work, there may not be a way out. Go on, now. Up the stairs with you.”

  The Monsignor remained behind. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “We both know I do. No one else can translate Tep’Chuan.”

  “You could write it out.”

  “And risk a translation error? It’s not worth it. Now, get up those stairs before I lose my nerve.”

  With a heavy sigh, the Monsignor withdrew. At the base of the stairs, he paused. “My sincere apologies for having misjudged you, sir.”

  Brent nodded and faced the altar.

  . . . . .

  Cartier appraised the Inquisitor from behind his makeshift desk. The man was tall, heavily muscled and, so far as Cartier could tell, humorless. “You come highly recommended.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “As you would have discovered shortly, I have agreed to dismiss the Exidgeon Inquisition.”

  The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow. “How does his Ordinence feel about this development?”

  “His Ordinence is not currently in charge of operations here. Is that a problem?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Good. Despite this small concession to the Crown, the search for heretics will be far from over.”

  “So, there is to be a clandestine operation?”

  Cartier leaned forward. “If there were, I would need a capable person to spearhead it.”

  “Understood. And what would be the goal of such an operation?”

  “To bring a certain suspect into Church custody.”

  “Sounds simple enough. What’s the catch?”

  “The suspect would have to be apprehended without being harmed and taken directly to the Holy City under conditions of utmost secrecy.”