Canticle poi-2

by Ken Scholes

  The one who’d answered the door coughed so violently that he shook, but he still tried to sit up. “The bird,” he said, his eyes wild and wide.

  “The bird is safe and sound,” Rudolfo said. “But you are neither safe nor sound here. The powders are undoing you, and you will need better care and rest than this hovel can afford you.” He nodded to the coops behind him. “You’re running a message post,” he said. “Why?”

  The man swallowed, his eyes lighting upon the note in Rudolfo’s hand. “I am under Grymlis’s orders.”

  Rudolfo leaned closer. “And what are those orders,” he asked, “exactly?”

  The man’s eyes were glazing over from the exertion of sitting up. He shivered and fell back. “I don’t know the codes,” he said. “I can’t tell what I don’t know.”

  Rudolfo gritted his teeth. The damnable paranoia of the powders combined with the normal caution of a loyal man were wearing his thin patience thinner yet. “I’ve not asked the codes. I’ve asked your orders.” He forced a reasonable tone to his voice and he lowered it. “I am a friend of the Order,” he said. “You’d know this if you were in your right mind.”

  The man laughed. “The Order has no friends.”

  Rudolfo sighed. “Very well. You’ve left me little choice.” He whistled, and First Lieutenant Jaryk entered, concern washing his face. “Dig up scout uniforms for these men, and when they’re dressed, bring the horses. Two of our own will stay here with me to mind the birds. I will hope to sort this puzzle out myself.” He gestured to the two Gray Guard. “These you’ll deliver to the inn in Kendrick’s Town. Lodge them there for three weeks’ time under my good credit.” He waved his hand. “Tell the innkeeper the truth-that they’re overmagicked and crazed from exhaustion.” His eyes narrowed. “They should be restrained at all times until in their right mind.”

  The Gray Guard’s eyes went wild. “No, Lord,” he said. “We can’t leave our-”

  Rudolfo’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “You are leaving your post one way or another. You either leave it in the care of my fully informed Gypsy Scouts or you leave it in more haphazard straits.”

  Swallowing one part pride and a good measure of phlegm, the Gray Guard passed his orders on to Rudolfo. Rudolfo knelt beside him, listening carefully, as he did.

  By the time the soldier finished and sagged back into his filthy bedding, Rudolfo knew all he needed to know. Taking the note, he scribbled his own code into the letter carefully. He worked the message into each jot and tittle, each smudge and blur of ink. Then, he pulled the next bird from its cage and tied the modified message to its foot with the green thread of peace.

  Suddenly, he remembered another bird, over a year past now, under the same color and going to Sethbert at the edge of the Desolation of Windwir. This felt just as much the lie as that message back then. He looked at the other threads scattered across the workbench.

  “They should all be red,” he said aloud in a voice that sounded more tired than he thought he should be.

  Lifting the bird to the window, he whispered a name and gave his message to the grayness of the sky.

  Petronus

  Hushed voices met his ears as Petronus’s unseen escort guided him through the streets. Blindfolded and magicked, firm hands kept him on his feet and moving forward though his legs were gone to water and the sound of his heartbeat filled his head.

  “You’ll be fine,” Rafe Merrique had told him that morning with a wink. “You may have a few nightmares. Beyond that, you’ll be good as new by morning.”

  Petronus had agreed reluctantly, letting the pirate dab the traces of the white powder to his shoulders and feet, forehead and tongue. Then he’d felt his stomach wobble-along with the room-when the magicks took hold.

  Now, he and his men were being jostled quickly through what sounded and smelled like a fish market. He listened for any telltale clue that might speak to their location but found, instead, all of his attention went to staying upright and moving forward. He did not know how Grymlis and his men maintained themselves so well, coming late as they did to the powders. And then there were men like Rudolfo’s Gypsy Scouts, bred to the magicks and knives and using both as if made to do so. It awed him.

  His stomach knotted into a cramp that caught his breath in his throat, and he staggered. “I’m going to be sick,” he said in a muffled voice.

  No one answered, but a hand on his shoulder squeezed in a reassuring way. It took him a moment to get his brain around the tapped message.

  We’re nearly there. He had no idea whose hand it was; he didn’t care. Instead, he gave himself to putting one foot in front of the other. He reached into his memory to find one of the hundred Franci meditations he’d used to bring calm and comfort, but none of the muttered words could blot out the drumbeat of his heart, now pounding just out of time with the other hundred heartbeats within earshot. He heard the rasp of breath in and breath out, the jangled cacophony of a thousand other simple actions, all enhanced by the magicks, and he understood why their use had been forbidden by the Articles of Kin-Clave under all but extreme circumstances.

  Then, the afternoon light that burned into his scalp vanished and he felt shadows enfold him. He felt solid, stone steps beneath his leather boots. The press of bodies around him moved down like a river that carried him in its current; cool air licked his face and arms.

  They turned and turned again, a Whymer Maze of corridors. At some point, he was separated from the others and opened his mouth to protest. But before he could speak, the hand was back to his shoulder. Your host wishes a few minutes alone with you.

  Resolved, Petronus allowed himself to be led farther into the maze.

  Finally, they stopped and hands went to the back of Petronus’s head. More hands settled him back into a chair. The intensity of light when the blindfold came down stung his eyes and he blinked.

  “When I was ten years old,” a voice said from across the room, “I heard you speak in Carthas during the Year of the Falling Moon. Two years later, I mourned your death and swore vengeance upon your assassins with all of the fervor of a twelve-year-old boy.” There was a pause. “When I took my vows to the Order, I did so under your portrait in the Great Library.”

  Petronus looked in the direction of the voice. A stocky man with a careless beard and spectacles smiled. “You are still under the magicks,” the man said. “You have my apologies for that, Father. I know they’re. uncomfortable.”

  Petronus opened his mouth and found it dry. He licked his lips. “You’re Androfrancine, then?”

  “I was.” His smile faded. “I guard another light now.”

  Petronus dug through his memory for snippets of code brought by the bird. What was his name? It came to him suddenly. “You’re Esarov the Democrat, then.”

  He nodded. “I am.”

  Petronus chuckled. “You’ve been busy. How many of the city-states are a part of your congress now?”

  “Four as of yesterday.”

  He remembered the declaration Esarov and his cronies had posted on the door of the Overseer’s puppet Council of Governors. It had been a bold move on the heels of Sethbert’s unjust attack on Windwir and the war it spurred. With its economy broken and the war lost, that small seed of unrest grew into a choked forest of revolution, with this man-the author of the declaration-at its forefront.

  Petronus looked around. It was a simple room-a workroom with benches and tools strewn about on one side and stacks of books and papers on the other. A small wooden trestle table sat in the middle with a modest fruit bowl and half of a loaf of bread. A water-jeweled pitcher stood near a handful of empty mugs. Esarov waved to the table. “Please,” he said.

  Petronus’s stomach twisted at the sight of the food. “Later perhaps,” he said. “Meanwhile, I have questions.”

  Esarov smiled. “I’m happy to answer them.” He squinted at him. “Ah, you’re coming more into focus now.”

  “You’ve offered me refuge here, in a place where I ma
y or may not necessarily be safer.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “We have a common interest in recent events,” he said. “I think we have shared suspicions of a larger threat.”

  How does he know? Petronus said nothing, waiting for his host to continue.

  Esarov’s voice lowered. “I know about the secondary Tam network,” he said. “I know about the forged documents that led Sethbert into war.”

  Petronus blinked, grateful that the magicks masked his eyes. “Forged?”

  The revolutionary nodded. “Planted by House Li Tam,” Esarov said. “The same network that continues to operate in the Named Lands despite Vlad Li Tam’s rather sudden departure.”

  Another network, Petronus thought. Esarov believed House Li Tam responsible for the Desolation of Windwir. To the outside eye, that made sense. But not to Petronus. Vlad Li Tam had certainly changed in the years since they’d been boys together that summer in Caldus Bay, but Petronus still believed his last assurance that day in the Gypsy King’s Seventh Forest Manor.

  Rudolfo was Tam’s work, he’d told him, just as Petronus was his father’s work. And Petronus remembered Tal Li Tam though they’d only met once. He’d been a tall, powerful figure with a tawny red mane and large, calloused hands. There’d been ruthlessness in those blue eyes that had chilled the young man when he’d reached out to shake his friend’s father’s hand.

  A secondary network, operating within the Order and within the complex kin-claves of the Named Lands, to bring down Windwir? It was plausible, but to what end?

  “I’ve been following the goings-on for months now,” Petronus said in a quiet voice. “It does appear to be manipulated.” But I count your so-called revolution among those manipulations, he thought but did not say. Even back into the days of the Younger Gods there’d been no circumstance where self-rule had not eventually reverted back to some form of hierarchy with a strong central leader.

  “And the Marshfolk are turning violent,” Esarov said. He pursed his lips. “This, too, could be manipulated. The Remnant is shrinking. Androfrancines are being attacked by Marshers in the north, those that aren’t hidden in the Gypsy King’s forests or hidden behind the locked gates of the Papal Summer Palace.” The revolutionary’s eyes narrowed. “And Rudolfo is a curious case. He’s the only one that appears to have actually profited from Windwir’s fall. And he was curiously untouched in these last attacks.”

  Petronus felt a spark of anger rise. Or was it defensiveness? “I’m the one who signed over the holdings to him,” he said. “I can tell you with surety that Rudolfo had nothing to do with Windwir. Sethbert did that, with or without the Tams’ involvement.”

  But of course the Tams had been involved, right down to Petronus signing over the accounts and lands of the Order, as much as he hated to admit it.

  And now the Ninefold Forest is the only stable corner of the New World.

  “Regardless,” Esarov said. “It is curious. I smell the work of House Li Tam in it.” He stood by the table now, facing Petronus. “And you are working through it all like a Rufello cipher, trying to untangle the truth.”

  Yes. Petronus looked down, saw his leg fading gradually into view. Then, he met Esarov’s eyes, though he doubted the man could tell that Petronus was staring at him. “I believe there is a threat outside the Named Lands,” he said. “I don’t believe all the papers were forged, though some signatures certainly were. I believe that the unrest in the Named Lands-and here on the Delta-is a product of that outside threat. I’m looking for evidence of it.”

  Esarov smiled. “You can look, but you won’t find it. We’re doing this to ourselves. But it’s irrelevant. We gain more by working together. And. ” His voice trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  “I believe you can help me. Erlund is holding someone important. An Androfrancine.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Petronus. Scribbled on it was an uncoded note in a reckless script:

  I am the Arch-Engineer of Mechanical Science for the Androfrancine Order in Windwir. I bear an urgent message for the Hidden Pope Petronus. The Library is fallen by treachery. Sanctorum Lux must be protected.

  Petronus read it again, slowly. “Charles is alive.” He’d not seen him in over thirty years. Then, the young man had been newly promoted from acolyte to Engineer, attracting the See’s attention with his reconstruction of Rufello’s mechanicals. Petronus handed the note back. “How old is this message?”

  “By the context, we think nearly a year.”

  Yes, Petronus thought. It had to be from before he had announced himself and stepped out of hiding there in the midst of the grave-digging of Windwir. The hidden Pope Petronus.

  Somehow, Charles had known. Could Introspect have told him? And why? What purpose did it serve?

  And what was this Sanctorum Lux that now required protection?

  As if reading his mind, Esarov answered. “I believe it’s a replica of the Great Library,” he said. “A sanctuary of light. But I’m hoping you can tell me.”

  Petronus shook his head. “It’s not familiar to me. But that doesn’t mean anything.” He thought about the forged signature authorizing the work around Xhum Y’Zir’s spell. “Still,” he said, “if the message is from Charles. ”

  The gears and wheels of the Rufello lockbox fell into place for Petronus, and as he looked to his host, he saw himself shimmering, fading in and out of focus, in the reflection of Esarov’s spectacles. “You need my help negotiating for his release.”

  Esarov nodded slowly. “In a way, yes.”

  Petronus stood. “You need someone Erlund wants more than Charles. You want to make an exchange.” He felt something cold and hollow take root inside him, growing alongside a seedling of hope. And maybe, just maybe we restore the library. All of the library, he realized, not just what the mechoservitors carried about in their memory scrolls. He wondered in that moment if Esarov realized the exactitude with which Xhum Y’Zir’s spell had surgically removed all of the war-making knowledge the Androfrancines had guarded. All that had been left was a hand cannon that he’d sent Neb to destroy. The hand cannon that Resolute had used to take his own life and end the war. Thousands of years of digging and storing, and that was all of the weaponry that remained. Not even the spell had survived, according to Isaak, though Petronus thought that to be a miracle in their favor. Still, Santorum Lux was nothing more than an obscure reference from a man who could very well be dead by now.

  But Petronus knew that no matter how unlikely, they needed to be sure.

  “He may not want you more than Charles, but our laws will compel him to bargain with us and to arrest you. Sethbert was near-kin to Erlund and was executed without a proper trial,” Esarov said. “This could be a tremendous opportunity both for your light and mine.”

  Petronus studied the strategy he saw before him and wondered if this indeed was part of a larger conspiracy or if Esarov had truly struck this note of genius under his own power. He saw an elaborate net laid out that could, if set well, expedite the end of this civil war and eventually rally the people behind the fledgling Democratic movement. It was as brilliant and careful as any Tam intrigue. “A trial for the man who killed Sethbert?”

  Esarov nodded. “But more than that. Our legal system relies on the Jury of Governors. He’ll be forced to acknowledge the four new governors, duly elected by the people, or show himself truly for the dictator he is. And if you invoke your rights to Providence of Kin-Clave, based on your actions as a king. ” He offered a tight smile. “My emphasis at the Order-before I left-was New World law as developed from the Articles and Rites of Kin-Clave established at the First Settlers Congress.”

  A message for the hidden Pope Petronus. Sanctorum Lux must be protected. The words played out behind his eyes.

  Charles knew he was alive, then, and knew of something called Sanctorum Lux. And whatever this sanctuary of light was, Petronus knew they could not dismiss it.

  He looked to the door.
There were two men, each wearing cloth hoods that hid their faces. They wore the simple garb of fishermen, but he had no doubt they were soldiers. He also had no doubt that though he was being asked to cooperate, the plan was too carefully constructed to truly allow such a thing as choice to interfere. “You intend to exchange me for Charles. What guarantee do I have of a trial?”

  And would it be any more just than the rabbit-and-sparrow show he’d put Sethbert through?

  Esarov picked up an apple, bit into it and chewed thoughtfully before speaking. “It will be part of the truce we negotiate. I’ve a man close to Lysias. The general is still a reasonable fellow. We will also be certain that you are placed under house arrest and well treated, as is fitting of your former office.”

  Some refuge I’ve found. He would be public. He would be removed from his work and under constant watch. And if Esarov was wrong at any point along this path, Petronus could find himself facing an axe or a hangman’s rope.

  He bowed his head, studying the fabric of his robe as it reasserted itself and the magicks guttered out their last. On the night he’d been attacked, Petronus anticipated a reckoning there in the relative obscurity of his shack on the bay.

  Now, he realized, that reckoning truly had found him.

  He looked up, met eyes with the younger man, who blinked behind the glass lenses he wore. “I’ll do it,” Petronus answered.

  And his voice was steady and strong as he said it.

  Chapter 11

  Rae Li Tam

  Rae Li Tam paced the beach, shouting orders that were in turn shouted out to what remained of her father’s iron armada. Her family scrambled and scurried about her, helped by natives obligated now by kin-clave and by reciprocity for the fine tools and trinkets they now possessed.

  Her family had to leave.

  Now.

  Before the bird had arrived this morning, they were down three vessels plus the flagship. Those Vlad Li Tam had steamed forth to rendezvous with and his own vessel. She’d followed protocol and sent out two more when the distress bird reached them, informing her that a vessel was reefed and in need of repair. She’d also sent two additional engineers and a sizable portion of their repair parts. Now she knew both vessels and crew would not be coming back.