The Book of Seven Hands: A Foreworld SideQuest (The Foreworld Saga)

by Anderson, Barth

  Basilio seethed, and the laudanum fog was cleared, only to be replaced with a blind fury that Basilio had never felt before in his life. “What?”

  “Manuel Sifuentes here beseeches the high duke for his third daughter Constanza’s hand in marriage.”

  “Don’t you dare read that.”

  “Oh, I won’t. The prose is contemptible, written by a murderer posing as a whining, lovelorn poet,” Zacarías said. “The point is, your father agreed. He agreed.”

  And then Zacarías fell quiet. His face went passive.

  Basilio waited for him to speak for a long moment, but then he felt compelled by his stampeding anger to fill the silence. “Yes, my father agreed. He adored Don Manuel, and I was of age.”

  “Ah. Well. There is divine truth, at last,” Zacarías said. He sighed.

  The archbishop placed a hand on Zacarías’s arm in congratulations.

  “Yes. You were of age, Constanza. So why did this depraved false knight abduct you if he had your father’s blessing?”

  He couldn’t bear hearing Don Manuel spoken of this way. If Basilio was angry before, he was apoplectic now, and the words came spilling out in a horrible gush that he couldn’t stop, even though he knew every word was another bullet in his hide. “He couldn’t marry me. He wouldn’t. Because I couldn’t marry him. He saw what I was and couldn’t, you filth, because I…” Basilio stopped.

  “Because of what you were?” the young Gregorian asked, cocking his ear toward Basilio. “What did you become, Constanza?”

  Basilio stared back at the three inquisitors, the nuns behind them, the knights and priests in the back of the church, milling and whispering as if this inquisition were a bustling vegetable market.

  “A man,” he said, as if the truth of it were self-evident.

  “Stop claiming you’re a man, Constanza,” Father Zacarías said.

  “I was Constanza. My body had changed into a man’s. I was a man. I am a man.”

  “All saints attend to us,” the youngest inquisitor whispered. “What do you mean, your body ‘changed’?”

  “I don’t know what I mean! You tell me, because there are no words for what I am,” Basilio roared at him. He wanted to say it all now, make them all recoil at the truth and run from the chapel from the hideous girl-man monster. “I was jumping from my horse during riding lessons and something—ripped. In me. It ripped open. My body. Something came through the skin—that was not there.”

  The knights in the room winced and crossed themselves. The archbishop’s drool cup poured over. Three of the nuns covered their faces in disgust, but the one with the crooked nose stared so intently at Basilio that he paused and stuttered before going on.

  “Don Manuel couldn’t marry me,” Basilio shouted. His breath caught. Joyeux. The wedding present from Don Manuel to his bride that could not be. “I couldn’t face my father. Not after…not…Don Manuel saved me from that fate.”

  No one moved. There was no whispering. The building itself seemed stunned into silence.

  “Aha,” Paracelsus cried. He leaped to his feet, thrusting an index finger at Basilio. “I was correct all along! As usual! Basilio is not a woman. Nor a man. But a blessed Philosopher’s Stone.”

  Basilio squinted at the alchemist.

  “You are not Spanish, Catholic, nor a priest recognized by the Holy See to make judgments here,” the Gregorian shouted. “Sit down and be quiet, Master Paracelsus, or I will have you flogged!”

  The archbishop wheezed, “What did Doctor Paracelsus say? What is this he says?”

  “The actual term used by Galen and Hippocrates,” Paracelsus said, emitting small tsks of contempt for those two mere mortals, “is ‘hermaphrodite,’ a gender unto itself. There are many recorded cases of hermaphrodites changing gender at some point in their lives, in just the way that has been described. Wondrous! But more amazing than that, hermaphrodites, like my friend Basilio, are the human embodiment of the ultimate state of being: trans-mu-tation! What alchemists have long called the Philosopher’s Stone. He is gold becoming iron, and iron becoming gold. Before our eyes! Astounding, perhaps, to us, we statues of mundane clay, but he is Adam and Eve, the divine creation that also creates.” Paracelsus marveled at Basilio for only a moment before he turned and leveled a finger at the archbishop. “And you would persecute him! Punish and condemn him? You are no better than the wildest cannibal in the far reaches of New Spain.”

  The three members of the tribunal stared at Paracelsus like a row of lidless fish.

  “Even as we behold him now, Basilio is transitory as a passing planet. He becomes something else and changes us by our simply knowing what he is. He is transubstantiation in a way that your Catholic Church can only imagine and wildly dream—”

  “Remove him!” the young inquisitor shouted to Don César.

  “Take him outside!” César shouted to one of his lieutenants.

  “Remove Paracelsus? You can’t remove truth from the cosmos!” Paracelsus shouted as a knight leaped over the back of his pew and took hold of him. “Stop that, I’m Swiss! The Philosopher’s Stone is dissolving you and your world into—ow! My leg!”

  The archbishop looked shaken and his hands were trembling. “Strange. I thought we were prosecuting a transvestite or hopefully a lesbian.”

  “This only reinforces my faith,” Zacarías said to the other two inquisitors. He too seemed shaken. His eyes were round with fear or maybe sudden understanding. “This horror is beyond anything I imagined when the Vatican sent me here to root out the evil Don Manuel.”

  “The Vatican sent you?” the archbishop asked.

  “Don Manuel is not evil,” Basilio said, shaking his head slowly.

  A murmur went through the chapel crowd.

  “I have proof that he is.” Zacarías held up the forged steel coin that Don Manuel had given to Basilio, hanging by the chain he’d purchased in Antwerp. “What is this, Constanza?”

  “A gift to me from my master.”

  “O-M-V-I,” Zacarías said, pronouncing each letter. “It stands for the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, the name of an anti-Papal order of fighters that was banned by Papal Bull and forced into hiding centuries ago. You were initiated into this coven by Don Manuel himself. And this Book of the Seven Hands is a tome of witchcraft.”

  All eyes drifted to the books before the archbishop. One of the nuns rose as if against her will, then sat and crossed herself. That same woman. Basilio suddenly felt light-headed, dizzy again. He did know her. Not French. She was from southern Spain somewhere.

  “I have studied only la destreza, not witchcraft,” he said to Zacarías, “and I never knew what those letters stood for.”

  “Say what you will,” Zacarías said, still brandishing the charm. “You were recruited to join this order of anti-Papist knights for a specific reason.” He gestured at Basilio with the coin in his fingertips. “Because of what you yourself say you are. An aberrance. A thing from outside God’s creation.”

  You are indomitable and will be indomitable your whole life, Basilio, Don Manuel had told him, because of what you are.

  Basilio nodded his head, eyes upon his espada, which was lying before the archbishop on the table. Behind his back, Basilio carefully gripped the forged handle, feeling its balance. Oh, it was a good one that Paracelsus had left for him.

  At the moment, from far off, Basilio heard a hollow thump.

  Don César, his lieutenant seated next to him, and Basilio all lifted their chins, listening to the air.

  The thump was followed by a crash, like a load of lumber falling from a great height, quite some distance away.

  Basilio and the knights all looked at one another and knew immediately what the sounds were, but the incongruity of it made no sense.

  Cannon fire.

  “If there was no witchcraft,” the archbishop asked, listening to the noise, then turning his attention back to Basilio, “then how do you explain the extraordinary nature of what you are?”

 
Basilio planned to bathe in the blood of Zacarías. But he was just an old priest. Unarmed. He could be taken easily.

  Basilio looked straight at Don César.

  Think of the truest thing you know. Think of your love for your woman, or, hell, think of how cold the Mediterranean is in winter, Don Manuel had once said to Basilio when he was practicing with the knife. When its truth is all the way in you, throw it.

  “I am the Great Basilio,” he said to the tribunal and stood. Then his right arm came whipping forward, releasing the throwing dagger hidden behind his back. The dagger buried itself to the hilt in Don César’s throat. The knight lurched to his feet, his one good eye round as a cow’s, a hand clenching the dagger at the hilt.

  “And that is all you need to know,” Basilio said.

  It was only a distance of two strides to the table where the tribunal of three inquisitors sat.

  The lieutenant seated beside Don César leapt at Basilio.

  But Basilio had covered the distance already, seizing Joyeux from the table. He raised the sword to kiss the blade and then slashed to his right, carving his dueling circle across the face of the Red Spur knight.

  Before he could reach Zacarías, though, Basilio had two knights, older men with heavy swords, charging into his circle. They were good fighters with strong footwork, and they forced Basilio to yield ground.

  The young Gregorian and Zacarías jumped back from the table, and the many clergy in attendance ran yelling for the door. The lame old archbishop could only sit in place and scream for Don César to help him.

  Don César yanked Basilio’s throwing dagger from his throat and staggered toward him, blooding gushing down his shirt. But the knight’s eye wheeled to the archbishop, and he reached out to lean across the tribunal’s table.

  A double-feint froze one old knight, and Joyeux’s sword point found his unprotected thigh and the artery there. With Basilio extended in a thrust, the other knight threw hell at him, trying to take Basilio’s head.

  Don César dropped his upper body upon the table before the archbishop.

  “Absolve me!” he rasped, looking up at him in horror. “You must do it now!”

  Basilio cocked his head, and the heavy war sword passed so close it cut hair from his scalp. He countered. He found the man’s heart. He drove himself at the knight, all but tackling him, and when the old man felt heavy on his sword, Basilio let him fall.

  He turned and looked at the archbishop, whose old, yellowed eyes were on Basilio.

  “Kill him! He’s going to kill me! Kill him, César!” the archbishop screamed.

  Basilio saw four Red Spurs come running in from outside the chapel. He wondered how many were out there, how many he could possibly kill with his left arm in a sling.

  There was another distant thump, and a moment later, another explosion of lumber somewhere in the city.

  The haggard knight looked at Basilio, seeming ready to turn and fight him, and Basilio was eager for it, even with those four knights gathering their courage to charge him.

  “Come, César,” Basilio said, “I owe you so, so much.”

  But to Basilio’s shock and amazement, César reached out and grasped the archbishop by the throat, sending his drool cup flying, and dragged the decrepit old priest up out of his chair.

  Basilio wanted to watch this, but the four knights rushing at him were young and deserved his full attention. Facing them, Basilio stepped into the opening of the center aisle. This was going to be difficult with only one weapon and an arquebuz ball in his stomach, Basilio figured, but there was nothing left to do but fight more fights.

  For Alejo and Don Manuel.

  Basilio took his L-shaped stance and glanced to his left as the archbishop fell to the floor, the throwing dagger in his heart. Don César was staggering back like a drunkard, and one of the nuns, the woman Basilio thought that he recognized, ran to the fallen old man.

  The first two Red Spurs lunged into his sacred circle and all other thoughts fell away. All that remained was la destreza. The art of Don Manuel.

  Parry and parry and counter and parry.

  Slice. A throat opened.

  And slice. Joyeux across the eyes.

  Those two fell and Basilio inhaled.

  He glanced again at the nun. He’d thought she was aiding the fallen archbishop, but as her hands fell upon the Book of the Seven Hands and the translation, she looked up at Basilio. Her mantle was pushed back and he could see her auburn hair now. Large, fine eyes. And the broken nose. And he knew.

  “Imelda?” he said, blinking at her.

  Imelda shred the nun’s mantle from her body. Like the archbishop, Don César, the Red Spurs, and everyone else, she was here for the books. She was here for revenge, Basilio figured, as the next two Red Spurs rushed at him. They lunged, and a single parry of Basilio’s guided both swords aside.

  Don Manuel was dead. Didn’t she know?

  The knights persisted, but they were slowed by their armor, and so it was easy enough to shove one into the other, pile them into a pew and fall on them for the kill.

  As Basilio stood, red cloth swirled in the corner of his eye. It was Zacarías. He held a smart-looking espada and crouched in the side aisle, facing off with Imelda. She was carrying both books under one arm and an absolute treasure of an espada in the other hand.

  “Time for you to make good on your end of the bargain, my lord,” she said.

  My lord? Basilio stared. What was this about?

  More knights came running in the front door of the chapel. Basilio faced them but kept his attention on the priest and Imelda.

  “Kill Basilio and stamp out the heresy,” Zacarías shouted, pointing across the pews at Basilio.

  “No more delays,” Imelda snapped. “Tell me where to find Don Manuel.”

  His voice suddenly lurching out in a sob, Basilio bellowed, “For the love of God, Zacarías killed him, Imelda. Don Manuel is dead!”

  Then, as if punctuating his words, there was a distant thump of sound, followed by the whistling noise of a cannonball.

  The hair on Basilio’s arm stood up as he listened to the incoming ball. From up on the cedar ridge, he figured. From where he’d met the monks. Italian-speaking monks.

  Milan, 1499, he realized.

  It wasn’t a big cannon, judging from the sound—probably nothing more than a little falcon, a falconette, the very kind that Italian mobile artillery teams loved. They were here for revenge on Don Manuel too, for his siege in 1499.

  “Knight with a Thousand Enemies is right,” Basilio said. He dived under a pew, letting out a scream of pain as he stumbled, landing flat on his wounded arm and stomach.

  There was a loud crash of lumber overhead, and plaster and wood fell in a dense cascade, hitting the pew seat above Basilio’s head. The Red Spur knights who’d entered the church were now bolting for the front door.

  Word had gotten out that Basilio was here, he imagined. Alejo’s body was in the mausoleum below. The old Italians must have thought that Don Manuel was in this chapel too, and now that experienced artillerymen had found it with one cannon shot, the next was coming shortly. The little building was doomed.

  Basilio sighed in agony and rolled onto his side so he could see under the pews. Zacarías and Imelda were swearing, stamping the floor and circling one another, oblivious to the falling timber and plaster dust. From this angle, Basilio could see only their feet—the priest’s shoes and Imelda’s black and indigo Turkish slippers. It looked like a dance.

  “I should have known,” she shouted. “You killed Don Manuel?”

  Down the row, Basilio could now see the Book of the Seven Hands and the translation stacked on the bench where Imelda had obviously set them. He crawled toward the books on hand and knees, and was halfway down the row of pews when someone grabbed his ankle and yanked him backward. He landed on his belly with a shout of pain and looked back.

  Don César had his ankle in one enormous, gloved hand. He was glaring at Basilio with h
is one eye, the rest of his face a burned mess of flesh.

  Basilio’s sword was pinned underneath him. He couldn’t get a grip on the hilt.

  Crawling up Basilio’s leg, hand over hand, and simultaneously dragging him backward, Don César shouted, “You just won’t die!”

  “I was going to say that to you!” Basilio said, still fumbling for his sword.

  Basilio looked back over his shoulder, and, suddenly, a rondel was in Don César’s hand. He raised it, leaning back to plunge it into Basilio’s back.

  Basilio kicked and thrashed to free himself.

  Just then the haggard knight gave a muffled grunt, his grip slackened, and his breath came out in a horrible hiss.

  Someone was there, standing over Don César. Basilio looked back. A tall man with an espada of Toledo make. A red beard and a balding pate.

  “The Toreador!” Imelda shouted in dismay. “He’s bloody alive!”

  “What,” Zacarías said, “in the name of God?”

  The two were fighting back and forth across the altar now, the wide dais where Alejo had been laid out.

  Basilio looked up at him. “Alejo?”

  Alejo shouted down at the dead César. “That’s for killing my cousin, dog-sodomite.” Then he looked at his blood-brother. “Holy hell, what happened to you?”

  Basilio gawked up at him. Alejo seemed truly alive and so himself. Loud. Boisterous. Obtuse in his farm-boy way.

  Zacarías shouted, “Why are you fighting me? Your duty is to extinguish the heretics!”

  Imelda broke off from Zacarías with a cry of disgust and anguish. Spinning, she rushed at Alejo.

  Alejo, barefoot and still wearing his white linen burial shift, stepped back into the center aisle and deftly met her charge, their swords crossing.

  “Basilio,” he called, “it’s Imelda!”

  “Put down the espada, Toreador,” Imelda said as Zacarías stepped forward to cover her flank.

  Alejo kept the pews on either side of him, protecting his flanks too. “Why in the world should I do that?”