Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  “I wish I could give this task to another and let you rest further, Father, but you and I have been around Ordoño the most. Other than a few guards, no one else has been close to him—not and been aware of it anyway.”

  Father Telo looked up sharply from pondering the sand. “Aware of it?”

  “Yes. Obviously I require your complete discretion, Father.”

  “Of course.” And for the first time since he had entered the tent, Telo’s eyes held a certain brightness.

  “Ordoño has been here, in this camp. He may still be here. Besides spying, he came to kill me and then changed his mind. Giving a description of him to a search party would do no good. He’s so damn ordinary. I suspect he has already changed his clothing. I need you, and a sizable party of soldiers, to look for him. Make sure he’s not lingering.”

  Telo swayed on his feet, and Julian jumped up and rushed a stool to the man, easing him down onto it before he fell. “I had no idea you were still so unwell. I’ll find—”

  The priest waved that off. “He came here to kill you, you say. Then didn’t. Why, my son? What changed his mind?”

  Julian glanced to the side, embarrassed. “I think he came to gloat . . . for my . . . failure to act. Indecision has been clutching me for some time. In fact, Ordoño’s threats helped wake me up.”

  “Threats?” Telo seized his arm, his grip strong despite his injury. The white of the bandages on his other arm stood out starkly against his dark skin. The burst of energy from the man was like someone awakened violently from a doze. “Who else did he mention?”

  “Why, my son and the witch girl, but they are both out of the camp. Ordoño could not gain access to them. He was just trying to upset me. To rattle me.”

  Instead of relaxing, the priest’s grip tightened. “Remember everything he said. Nothing he does is without purpose. It’s important. Don’t you see? Everything he does, everything he says has an aim. Ordoño didn’t fall into leadership of the Northerners. He took it. Clawed and schemed and, no doubt, murdered his way into it. Fought tooth and nail, and now he controls these Unbelievers enough to send them out of their land and into ours—sent them into war. He accomplished all that, and he isn’t of their race, my son. How much easier it would be to take over our people? He didn’t get where he is by letting any opportunity pass by.”

  Julian pulled free, his heart starting to beat fast as Telo’s words penetrated the fog he hadn’t fully gotten beyond. “He wasn’t just here to spy. It’s an assault. He plots out our weak points and exploits them.” He passed a hand over his beard. “Saints. I’ll send a rider after my son. There’s nothing I can do about the girl.” He started to turn and Telo grabbed him.

  “Did he threaten anyone else? The slightest mention?”

  Their eyes met, the priest’s filled with a cold rage. “My competition,” Julian said. “But he passed it off as a joke.”

  “Who would that be?” Telo demanded. “Which concejal? Or is it someone else?”

  Julian felt limp, unable to think. “It changes depending on the subject under consideration and the moment. Diego and I sometimes clashed over subsidies. Loyalties and allegiances shift. With Pedro and Adulfo dead . . .”

  “But who is your opposition since we’ve been here? Since Ordoño was in the camp.”

  “Lugo.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. I asked for them all to be brought here, but none have come. They were announcing the election for alcalde. They might have finished and disbanded. They could be anywhere in the camp.” Julian rushed to the entrance of the tent, the guards snapping to attention at his appearance. “Where has Concejal Lugo been living?” he asked them.

  “Why on the recreated Market Avenue, sir,” the guard answered.

  Julian may not have ventured through the camp much, but he knew the location of everything in Colina Hermosa and had been amused that the camp replicated the structure of the city. Like every other merchant, Lugo had chosen to camp in the spot corresponding to where his stores would have been found. Before becoming alcalde, they had been neighbors.

  Julian bolted from the tent, guards falling in around him. Market Avenue had been right down High Street, one of the largest avenues in Colina Hermosa, built of stone and surrounded by white stucco storefronts, kept swept and immaculate. Now, a track through sand with rolled blankets and hanging laundry alongside, the new version was not fit to be a goat path, let alone an avenue. It was also hard to distinguish one camp spot from the next, let alone pick out the one he wanted. Julian reached what would be the middle of the street and took the north side, scurrying through campsites, checking faces. Disturbed sleepers sat up in dismay. Voices called out asking his purpose, failing to recognize him in his hurry. He didn’t stop.

  “Here,” a guard called.

  Julian jumped over a kettle hanging over a small fire. His knee twinged, almost throwing him off his feet and sideways, but he righted and ran. Beatriz would laugh at him for forgetting his age. She might be right as there didn’t seem a need for worry. All was quiet. The guard stood over a peaceful form rolled in bedding.

  Lugo had no wife or children, only an elderly mother somewhere. He claimed his stores were all the family a man needed. With that kind of thinking, no wonder he refused to leave the burned shell of Colina Hermosa.

  Julian reached out and shook the Concejal. Instead of upbraiding everyone for being disturbed, Lugo flopped over, his eyes staring at the sky. Something sticky coated Julian’s fingers. Telo pulled up beside them touching heart, mind, liver, and spleen with his remaining hand.

  Lugo had been stabbed repeatedly in head, chest, and stomach, as if to mock the priest’s gesture.

  “Blessed saints,” Julian said respectfully. No fan of religion at the best of times, yet he felt sick at this mockery of their values. No one deserved this—not even Lugo. They may have worked from different opinions on most matters, but the man had cared about the city and the people. Ordoño was twisted.

  He looked around, knowing he needed to warn Ramiro, perhaps even assign a guard to his son—and send someone after the witch girl, for all the good it would do. He should—

  “Look,” one of the guards said, pointing at the body and leaning toward it with his torch. The civilians who had followed moved in to see.

  A small paper had been pinned near the feet, undeniably to avoid being soaked with blood. The words scrawled across it read, “For the Alcalde.”

  Julian could picture Ordoño throwing out his arms and laughing at this last piece of impudence. Horrified whispers sprang up. Rumors would run like wildfire that Julian had arranged this murder of his rival. Trying to keep it secret or asking people to keep quiet would cause them to spread faster. A great sinking feeling lodged in Julian’s stomach. He very much feared that Ordoño had won this round.

  He was even more afraid the madman was likely to win all the rest.

  Julian wait until Lugo’s body was respectfully taken away for burial, then headed back to his tent, followed by a handful of extra-attentive guards, flanking him like toddlers attached to their mother’s side. But long practice had taught Julian how to tune out such distractions. Being surrounded by guards was the nearest equivalent to being alone. He’d remained vigilant while Father Telo said prayers over the body, and then sunk deep in his own thoughts—they were very dark indeed.

  A painful tingle ran down his left arm, and he gripped the limb close with his right. He foresaw no simple maneuver out of this mess. Ordoño could have struck at no surer way to discredit him and keep him from using his influence to win reelection, and acting to save his people. Nothing he said would be believed. Every order he gave would be analyzed for hidden motive, even by those who supported him in the past.

  He scanned over anything he might have said to Lugo that could be taken the least bit threatening, finding way too many words that could be taken the wrong way. After all, rumor was like a snake with a thousand heads: Strike down one and a doz
en more would spring into life. Any innocent expression he had ever uttered could be taken the wrong way with just a little twisting. The people were already torn over supporting him and an election had already been called—this death added upon that would look more than suspicious and would drive the numbers against him.

  It wouldn’t matter that he was never alone and the guards could testify that he’d never left his tent. Any defense he brought to bear would be matched with something equally discrediting. The personal animosity between himself and Lugo was too well known. The people who wanted him guilty would always assumed he’d bribed the guards or paid someone to act for him—either a family member or a devoted supporter. His innocence would count for little against those determined to believe or even those who just loved a scandal.

  It didn’t take actual wrongdoing to ruin a politician.

  His inner landscape rocked and shook, threatening to bury him with the guilt, as he recalled the conversation with Ordoño to the best of his ability. Had he said anything or implied anything that would drive his enemy to kill Lugo? Had anyone else been killed? Was this his fault?

  Lugo was bitter and stingy with his money, and his respect. He might object and be obstreperous, but only because he honestly disagreed on the correct course, never for personal reasons. And never for outright personal gain. Stubborn as a mule, like the rest of them, he would change his mind if he could be brought to see a wiser path. Harsh, but fair, others said of him. Fairer in politics than in his business dealings, certainly. They did not like each other, often worked against one another, but Julian did not wish this upon him.

  Try as he might, the words he’d spoken to Ordoño slipped through Julian’s fingers, made vague by shock.

  He stumbled into the tent, sinking onto the bed, barely cognizant of the guards remaining outside and spreading out around the structure. As he stared without seeing, the light dimmed as someone closed the tent flaps, then the rope-strung bed gave as another sat next to him. Chilly hands touched his face, and sense returned.

  Mere inches distant, her eyes filled with concern, Beatriz said with a fierceness he’d come to expect of her, “It isn’t true. No matter what they say, it isn’t true.” His wife wore a dress robe over her nightclothes. Her hair twisted up in bits of rag to make it curl, but she looked no less ferocious for that.

  Before the conflict, in the early years of their marriage when first elected alcalde, their days were often spent apart, engaged in their own different pursuits, but evenings were always reserved for family time. Gradually, the boys had gotten older and drifted into their own hobbies and concerns, leaving just the two of them to meet each night for dinner or to spend their evenings in quiet reading or sometimes entertainment with friends and colleagues. They enjoyed the time when their sons were present, but were content, as well, to be the two of them. That, too, became a habit. Since the Northerners invaded, more and more Beatriz was forced to wake if they were to have any time together. Neither would have it so, but circumstances dictated and they adapted.

  Julian worked to extend a weak smile. He always knew lines of rumor and gossip ran deep through his people in a master web of communication, and every segment of it reported straight to his wife at some point. It was no surprise the news had beaten his return and been urgent enough to keep her from bed.

  “No,” he agreed. Deep inside, he knew the fault was Ordoño’s, not his own, but that didn’t make accepting it easier. Nor did the worry that someone else might be dead and yet to be discovered. “But I should step aside, and let the council rule until the election.”

  Beatriz bristled, her hands dropping. “That would be to admit responsibility—at least indirectly.”

  “No one would believe the truth if I spoke it now. Who would accept that I saw and spoke to Lord Ordoño, yet told no one, warned no one, until after Lugo was dead? It would seem the words of a man backtracking to cover himself.”

  Beatriz gasped when he admitted speaking to the Northern enemy, but stayed silent to let him continue. “To say nothing is to make it worse. To speak out is pointless. It’s like the man knew just what to do to make my position untenable, mi amor.” It was so and there was no getting around it. Ordoño had acted with deliberation to cut out his legs and leave him nothing to stand upon. The man seemed to find Julian responsible for the loss of his army and attempted the most intimate revenge possible. To a man of such bitterness, death would indeed seem too easy a solution—no wonder the madman had not cut Julian’s throat when he had a chance.

  “If there is no way out, then you will do what is right.”

  Julian came out of his abstraction to see Beatriz sitting tall on the bed, a light of determination shining in her eyes as she took his hands. “Now and forever,” she said. “I am not just the wife of the Alcalde. I am the wife of a good man. What is the right thing to do?”

  “Save our people.”

  Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Then forget political concerns. Do you know how to do that? Do you believe your wisdom the best to accomplish that?”

  Julian hesitated, staring at their joined hands. Did he? Could not someone else lead them perhaps just as well, if not better? He thought of the concejales’ timid response at their most recent meeting. With their position so exposed and hopeless, they would be almost as likely to roll over for Ordoño, like dogs showing their bellies, as fight him. Julian had a sense of the man now, and it was clear appeasing him would not dissuade him from his vicious course.

  Beatriz squeezed his hand as if to force an answer from him. “I do have an idea,” he said reluctantly. “But it is as likely to destroy us as save us. Try as I might, I find no other sound alternative.”

  “Then act to make it happen. The power is still yours.”

  He considered her words. Was the power still his? Would anyone follow him if he gave commands? Without doubt the military would. The pelotónes captains would stick with him no matter what due to his years of support of them. He had increased their funding, gotten them the supplies they craved. They loved that both his sons had found homes with them—ah saints, Salvador! Grief rushed in, and he struggled to push aside the pain of his loss to focus.

  Yes, he could count on the loyalty of the troops. And the concejales?

  If the councilors opposed him, his actions to save their people would flounder. But . . . without Lugo, the councilors would be cut adrift. His was the leadership that brought the rest together in opposition. Osmundo and Sarracino were used to being followers. The new council members would be struggling to find their feet. And Julian still had support on the council. Without Lugo’s presence, they might not be able to get the votes to veto his commands. He doubted they had the backbone to supersede law and speed the election. And some might even approve his plan, at least the parts he told them about.

  The people would follow where the military and the councilors led, and he should have the muscle to control them for the time needed.

  He nodded. “I should have the power for eight days.”

  She leaned in and kissed him softly on the side of his mouth. “Take it from a woman: Much can be done in eight days.”

  He let her surety wash over him; always he felt stronger when they were in accord. His resolve hardened. Julian refused to go down without a fight. “Pack your things. I’m putting forth orders right now that the camp is to move in the morning—sooner is better to catch the concejales off-balance, before they can react.” God, let the remaining concejales be alive. He wanted no more deaths on his conscience. Their situation was never worse than today. And he had never been a politician to bully his decisions onto the people—much as he’d offered an out to the witch from the council’s bullying—but that situation was different. His people had voted him their approval to make decisions for them and Claire had not. He tried to put aside the small voice that said that had been true about his people at one time and was no longer. Indecision got them nowhere. He either exercised the power or he did not, and the choice
had been made.

  “You opposed my leaving you before,” he said, patting her hands. Of all he had asked of her as a political wife, this might be the most difficult. The death of their firstborn could have driven them apart, made her blame him. Instead, they had drawn closer than ever, devoted in all things. “Now, I require your support on our separation, though I don’t go to the enemy. I go to Crueses and Suseph, then Aveston to prepare the way. I need you here to be my good right hand, showing strength to others as our home is left behind and making sure my orders continue to be followed. The military will be your support in this. Just keep the concejales squabbling enough to not fight me directly. Normally, I wouldn’t have to ask . . .” They both knew he spoke of Salvador’s death and the fragileness they felt now. In happier days, there would be no one better equipped to manage the task he needed done, but Beatriz dealt with their son’s death and he worried at adding to her load and separating from her when she needed him. “Can you endure this for me?”

  She blazed up like tinder when a spark hits it. Beatriz stood with hands flying to hips. “Blessed saints, Julian Alvarado, do not say a word more! Do you honestly think a woman cannot put love of self and family below the needs of her country, cannot feel patriotism, just as a man? Can you, of all people, believe so low of me! I’ve trained you better than that!” As quickly as it came, the anger leeched from her. She settled back on the bed, close enough for their hips to touch. “Tell me this plan of yours, and I will do what has to be done—for us, for our family—for our kind—the Lord bear witness, if I can find value in a witch and consent to her being around our son, I can handle this.”

  “What is this?” He frowned. Why would she bring Ramiro’s relationship with the witch up? That was over and Beatriz wasn’t one to dwell on what was handled. “Ramiro is on his way to Crueses. I sent him there myself. He is not with the girl any longer.” A dawning realization hit. “Or is he?”