“If you won’t turn us in, will you help us leave?”
She nodded. “This way.”
Before following her into the hall, Brice fetched Caleb from the wardrobe. “I’m going now if you’d care to join me.”
“Two of you?” the girl asked. “Follow me.” They followed her to the stairs, where she whispered, “The dining room is below the stairs.”
“Here.” Caleb crouched beside her, keeping his voice low. “Climb onto my back.”
“What?”
“A single set of footsteps. Once I’m down, you’ll come back for Brice to do the same.”
Brice grinned widely. “Brilliant.”
“No time to waste.” Caleb pointed over his shoulder, and the girl climbed onto his back. Once at the bottom, she slid to the floor, whispered to him, and pointed down the hall. Caleb disappeared around the corner, and the girl returned to the top of the stairs. Holding her on his back, Brice made the trek down the steps.
“What are you doing, girl?” Vicar Forane’s voice echoed through the house, and Brice stopped dead in his tracks on the first floor. “Running up and down the stairs and disturbing my peace of mind?”
“The waste baskets, madam. I’ve finished the upstairs.”
Hearing nothing more than silence in reply, the girl climbed off Brice’s back and led him down the hall. She opened the door and pushed him inside. “I’ll come back when the mistress sleeps.”
Brice glanced around the paltry room. A small bed-probably too small even for the thin, short girl-lay against the far wall, and a nightstand with a lone candlestick sat beside it. Brice and Caleb occupied the remaining floor space, and even with so little furniture, the room was quite cramped. The only thing left to do is wait.
* * *
After what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and the girl entered. The only way she fit was because Caleb had taken the liberty of sitting on the bed.
“Vicar Forane is upstairs in her chambers. I’ll show you out.”
Brice stopped her before she opened the door. “You could come with us.”
“No,” she said, dipping her head. “I’m too close to the end of my servitude to leave now.”
“Servitude?”
“My father disobeyed the church’s doctrine, and I was forced to serve to pay penance for his wrongdoing.”
“That makes no sense.” Brice shook his head. “Why didn’t he pay for it himself?”
“They can’t force a nobleman who is also head of the household to pay penance in such a way. The burden falls upon his heirs; it fell to me.”
“What, if I might ask, was his breach?” Caleb asked, rising from the bed.
“He’d been seen by his accuser philandering with other women. Though this is commonplace when done in secret, he became boastful to the wrong ears.”
Brice raised an eyebrow. “So you would be punished for your father’s indiscretions? It hardly seems reasonable.”
“Then you’re clearly not from this land. To the church, it’s quite reasonable-so reasonable, in fact, that it’s become an unwritten law. Now, I’ll never see my father again.”
“Wait… I thought you said you’d be released soon enough.”
She sighed. “My father’s dead. He passed away while I’ve been in this house.”
“How?”
“His way with loose women brought disease to him. Now I serve in an attempt to save his soul, that he won’t burn in the hells with Syril.” She folded her arms. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fortunate to be in this house; others have it far worse than I.”
“Worse than being beaten?”
“Much worse,” she replied, as if she’d witnessed the atrocity firsthand.
Brice averted his eyes. “Very well. Show us to the door, if you would.”
She led them to the darkened hall and the door through which they had originally entered. “Be on your way and good luck.”
“One last thing,” Brice said, offering his hand. “What’s your name?”
“Does it matter?”
Caleb opened the door and grabbed the tail of Brice’s shirt. “Let’s not waste the opportunity. Come on.”
“Your name, miss?” His hand remained outstretched, and she finally took it.
“Collette. Now, go.”
Once he had passed the portcullis, Caleb started to run, and Brice struggled to keep up. Brice grudgingly maintained the pace, staying within reach of Caleb’s fluttering cloak the entire way back to the Shimmering Dawn headquarters. Out of breath and sweaty, they burst through the door to find the others gathered at the large dining table.
“Have you led anyone here?” Piers asked without any apparent concern for their haggard appearance. His concern obviously lay with the safety of the headquarters’ secret location.
“N-no.” Caleb bent over and rested his palms on his knees, sucking in air.
Marac closed the door they’d carelessly left open.
Piers said, “What’s gotten into you? You both look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“We’ve come from… the Vicar Forane’s house…” Caleb choked out.
Piers gestured at the chairs. “Have a seat, you two.”
“Vicar Forane’s house?” Jurgen leaned toward Brice and Caleb as they sat. “Genevieve Forane?”
“Yeah,” Brice said before taking a swig from a nearby mug. “That’s the one.”
“What did you find, pray tell?” Jurgen asked.
“Correspondence. Letters between her and someone else, the Grand Vicar, I think.”
“And what did they say?”
Brice glanced at Caleb before responding, “You’re in danger.”
“What, specifically, did they say?” Jurgen demanded.
Caleb answered, “Lester was a traitor. He was working for Forane, and his task was to have you killed. We were all nearly caught up in his plot.”
“Bastard,” Piers said. “That little, sniveling cretin. Had us all dancing to his tune, did he?”
Brice nodded. “Almost. She doesn’t know what’s happened to him, and she wrote that she wanted to meet him tomorrow night-by a bell tower.”
“The city has many bells, but it is host to only one such tower,” Caleb said. “That is where the meeting will take place.”
“Were you able to procure one of these missives to use as proof?” Piers asked.
Brice shook his head. “We couldn’t. She would’ve taken it out on the girl.”
Piers narrowed his eyes. “What girl?”
“The servant girl Collette. She discovered we were in the house. She could’ve turned us in, but she didn’t. We wouldn’t have escaped without her help.”
Piers put a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “Have our whereabouts been disclosed?”
“Not from what I saw. Either Vicar Forane doesn’t know our location, or she hasn’t written of it. Surely even Lester wouldn’t have been that stupid.”
“Shouldn’t you relocate?” Laedron asked. “We can’t accept the lack of evidence as an assurance of safety.”
Piers rubbed his chin. “No. If she knows, we must keep up appearances. This could be a boon for us, though.”
“How could this, in any way, shape, or form, be a good thing for us?” Laedron asked.
“We could send someone to meet her tomorrow. To keep up the ruse.”
Laedron stared at Piers. “And how do you plan to accomplish that? Lester’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes, that he is, but perhaps someone else could win her confidence. Perhaps Lester had someone else helping him from our own ranks.” His hand landed on Caleb’s shoulder.
“As you wish, Master,” Caleb said.
Brice studied Caleb’s face-the downward turn of his eyes, the quiver of his upper lip, and the lack of regard for the locks of hair crowding his face. I can’t let him go alone. He’s afraid-genuinely scared. He must not be accustomed to face-to-face confrontations. “I’ll go with him.”
“You will not,” Lae
dron said quickly. “You’ve already gotten yourself in enough trouble.”
“Who will, then? You can’t let him do this on his own.”
“It already carries a narrow chance of success if he’s goes by himself,” Laedron said. “I doubt she would believe a total of three of the few Dawn Knights left in town would be willing to defect.”
“Laedron’s right, but I still don’t want Caleb going alone.” Piers returned to stand beside his chair. “Brice could go with him, but only to observe the happenings. I cannot do this myself, for she may be able to recognize me.”
Laedron huffed, then threw up his hands. “All right. Just don’t get yourself hurt out there. Should she attack, bring word of it here. Do not act alone.”
“Agreed.” Brice slapped Caleb on the back. “Ready for another adventure?”
Caleb nodded, but he didn’t seem excited.
“Then it’s settled.” Laedron turned to Jurgen. “What will you do?”
“I am still having trouble believing what I’ve heard. It’s difficult for me to believe that Genevieve Forane would have ill intent toward me. That’s not like her.”
“Explain, please.”
“When I was still a member of the consulship, she was kind to me, to everyone with whom she had dealings. She aided me in every way, in everything I ever asked of her. It simply does not make sense.”
“Perhaps she found someone else in power. You did say you were supposed to be the Grand Vicar,” Laedron said. “She may have been paying homage to the prince to get close to the king.”
Jurgen gave him a long stare.
“Pardon the expression. I only meant to demonstrate the point.”
“I don’t believe it was that way. Believe me when I say that I think something has changed. That letter read nothing like the Genevieve Forane I knew before I left. Something’s changed.”
“Either way, she’s placed herself on the other side of a fine line. We must consider her to be the enemy.”
Jurgen threw up his hands. “Fine, then. I cannot argue based upon what we’ve been presented.”
“So, what will you do?”
“Tomorrow, I’ll go to the consulship to claim my seat.” Jurgen took a deep breath. “I want something from you, though.”
Laedron appeared to be confused. “What could you possibly need from me?”
“To go with me. To watch over us whilst we’re inside the Ancient Quarter and the Vicariate.”
“Impossible.”
Hearing the word cross Laedron’s lips gave Brice a strange feeling. Lae’s never said impossible before. What has gotten into him?
Jurgen shook his head. “Not impossible.”
“Then how?”
“The militia commander, Dalton Greathis. If I were to write a recommendation, you would be hired on without reservation.”
“Hired on? You mean the guard, don’t you? The militia?” Marac asked, displaying a dumbfounded expression.
“Yes, my young friend.”
“Won’t they figure us out, though? We’re not from here-not by far. Why would they believe us?”
Jurgen grinned. “I’ve known Master Greathis for years-from my church duties and in personal life-and a recommendation from me would get you in the door. So long as you don’t say anything foolish, few questions would be asked. Besides, Heraldans are descendants of the original Midlander settlers-Sorbians and Cael’Brillanders. You look like them for the most part. Anyone who might recognize you would likely dismiss any suspicions if you were wearing guard’s clothing.”
Marac gazed at Laedron, who was rubbing his chin as if deep in thought. “You can’t be considering this.”
“Why not?” Laedron asked. “What better things have we to do?”
“Eliminating Tristan, for one, and taking care of Vicar Forane might be a good start.” Marac fixed his eyes on Jurgen. “Right?”
Laedron nodded. “Those are all our goals, Marac, but Jurgen has work to do before we can accomplish any of it. We can’t just march into the Vicariate and slay them both.”
“He’s right,” Jurgen said. “I have work to do, and I’m not convinced Vicar Forane is the enemy.”
“Not convinced?” Brice got to his feet. “What, do you not believe me?” It seems nobody believes me. Seems as though no one takes me seriously around here.
“It’s not that, not by far.” Jurgen walked to his side and patted him on the shoulder. “She may be influenced or otherwise forced to act in this manner. I only mean for us to wait until we can verify where she stands.”
Nodding, Brice lowered himself into the chair. “Very well.” He turned to Laedron. “So, you and Marac will be parading as guards. Caleb and I will meet Vicar Forane, and Jurgen and Valyrie are going to the consulship.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Jurgen said. “I think we should send someone to the Ancient Quarter wellspring each night to keep in contact and coordinate our efforts.”
“Agreed.” Laedron took a sip from the cup before him. “May the Creator aid us in our mission.”
4
Returning to the Consulship
Valyrie heard a knock on the door, and her eyes flicked open. Her dreams had kept her in twilight the entire night, somewhere between being asleep and a groggy consciousness. She could still hear her father’s tortured screams, leaving her with a sick feeling. Since her father’s death, she could barely recall or remember the finer details of what had passed. In that moment, her life had changed forever.
Even the low light of the lantern caused her to squint, and the haze of suddenly waking blurred her vision. “Just a moment.” She covered her nightclothes with a long robe and opened the door.
Jurgen stood dressed in his priestly garb. “I thought we might get an early start. In truth, I’d much prefer to be there before Tristan arrives. It may make his dreadful gaze easier to bear.”
Her eyesight finally returned to normal, and she could see the darkened halls past him. “What’s the hour?”
“One, maybe two hours before dawn. I’ll wait in the common room.” He turned and walked away, and Valyrie closed the door.
Though she wanted to give parting words to the others, she decided simply to pack her things and leave. After dressing, she met Jurgen in the common room, and they departed the headquarters.
Upon passing a familiar street, she said, “We’re not far from the inn.”
Jurgen glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the road ahead. “Yes, no more than two or three blocks.”
She wondered how long it would be before her uncle got word of her father’s passing. I hope he doesn’t find me when he does. The man’s never liked me. I’d surely find myself given up as a ward of the church. Her thoughts drove her to miss her father even more. She knew he would have never allowed that to happen, but he was gone.
Jurgen led her along the familiar boulevard, which opened to the view of the Ancient Quarter. Before Jurgen had returned, she would often visit the ancient structures and dream up stories of people and places long ago, and when she told her father her tales, he took it harshly. Quit fooling around, girl, he would say. You’re wasting your time. Learn a trade, do it well, and get hired with a noble family with sizable wealth.
As they passed the rich mansions, she smiled. Like that one, Father? she mused, observing a seneschal holding a cumbersome ledger while being chastised by his employer, a well-dressed noblewoman who had probably never lifted a finger to do her own work. That would have been a better choice?
Jurgen entered the portcullis of the Ancient Quarter first, and he quickened his pace. The familiar gray and tan stones seemed more vibrant inside the Ancient Quarter, as if washed and maintained on a regular basis.
“Slow down,” Valyrie said, picking up speed. “Why are you so hasty?”
“These are the consuls’ houses. I don’t want to be seen.”
Once beside him, she slowed to match his pace. “You’ll have to be seen eventually. Isn’t that why we’re
coming here?”
He raised the cowl over his head. “Yes, but not too soon. We must go to the steward’s house.”
“The Ancient Quarter has a steward?” She recalled the last time the local steward had visited the inn-to collect taxes and make sure everything was on the up and up. “What’s the need?”
“He handles the housing assignments in the Ancient Quarter, amongst other things. Vicars aren’t required to pay rent, but we must check in.” Jurgen stopped at a door fronting a common house smaller than the others she’d seen, but by and large better than the domiciles of the lower quarters. He knocked and received a muffled, unintelligible reply from within.
“Yes?” a man asked, opening the door. “Oh, it’s you. We weren’t told of your visit, Vicar Jurgen.”
“With war swirling on our very borders, I thought it best to make my way back. I’m in need of a place to stay, along with my charge.”
The man stepped back inside, leaving the door ajar. Sorting through a cabinet of drawers, he produced a key, then returned. “Here you are, Your Grace. Anything else I might do for you?”
“No, and I prefer to announce myself at the consulship today. No need to spread the word prematurely.” Jurgen exchanged a smile with the man and took the key. “I’ll let you know.”
“Very good. And good to see you back, Your Grace.”
After giving the man a nod, Jurgen walked with more confident steps, seeming to know the way without instructions. Valyrie followed him to the end of the row, and they stopped in front of a smaller townhouse set off from the street. Though not as large as those close to the entrance of the Ancient Quarter, the house had been constructed with the same fine materials. The yellow bricks gleamed in the morning light, and the exposed wood of the supporting posts shined as if freshly lacquered.
Jurgen slid the key into the lock, then pushed open the door. Inside, a staircase led to the second floor, and the first floor seemed to be some kind of storage area-too small and uncomfortable for a living space. Upon reaching the upper level, Valyrie took note of the narrow build of the house, the open floor plan, and the stairwell along the western wall. Each section clearly had a specific purpose-a writing desk, a sofa, and a table with chairs in the back, and each area had been plotted with no more room than necessary to perform its function. Tight, but comfortable. Like the inn in many ways, but much nicer.
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