The screams died, and Robin looked up.
"Witches!" someone cried out in despair. "That evil creature slew the High Bishop!"
She saw the face of a nightmare, a crowd ready to tear anything and anyone apart in sheer, unadulterated panic. In a moment, they might very well remember seeing Jonny fling that pendant at the High Bishop—
They'd kill him, and her—and then do exactly what Donnar had feared; run wild through the streets looking for evil mages, killing, and burning. They'd certainty run rampant through the Warren—and if they found T'fyrr, they'd tear him to pieces, too.
They weren't going to listen to her—
"You're a man!" she shouted at Kestrel. "They'll listen to you! Say something! Stop them!"
Jonny knew the face of the mob when he saw it; he'd already had a taste of what they could do. They were poised to act—and someone had to give them direction, or it would turn into hate, fear, and destruction. Someone had to say or do something before one of them pointed him out as the one who'd broken Padrik's defenses and let the Ghost through.
But him? He could hardly say two words without stuttering!
Fear held him paralyzed for a moment. Then, in his mind, he heard Harperus. "You can't say it? So sing it."
He did not even waste a moment on consideration; he leapt to the top of the altar, and held up both his hands.
And gathered, reached, desperately, for the melody he needed. For the Magic . . .
"Stop!" he cried/sang, his voice ringing out like a trumpet.
The mob obeyed.
People froze in place, staring at him, mouths agape with astonishment.
Words poured from him as if from some supernatural source; he told them everything, as their faces gazed up at him, expressions dumbfounded. How Padrik was a fraud, working his "miracles" with the help of criminals. How he had truly used their donations—the House he ran, the luxuries he enjoyed. And before anyone could challenge him, he signaled to Robin, who began to reproduce some of those "miracles."
She started with bursts of flash powder, and then "magical appearances" of the altar-decorations by sleight of hand. She worked her way around the altar and made a couple of quick movements; Kestrel heard a muffled thump. She then found the mirror-rig, and used it to reproduce the "demon"—a puppet hanging slackly among the sculptures of angels up above the altar, out of sight of the congregation.
He told how Padrik had bound the spirit of a poor nonhuman, murdered by an evil Abbot of Carthell, to become the High Bishop's own personal executioner.
He stretched the truth a little, describing Reymond as a "holy mage of the Church," who had discovered this and had freed the Ghost, sending it to take its own revenge on Padrik.
He poured his heart into his words, falling into the same kind of trance he invoked when playing his music. Behind his words, he heard another strand of melody, as Robin wove her magics in with his. She was singing an accompaniment to his rhapsody, steadying his lips, giving him strength beyond his own. As if the words came from someone else, he heard himself eloquently describing how Padrik had taken over all the trade in the Cathedral market—how Padrik confiscated the goods of those he sent off to be slain by the Ghost—how he had been collecting more and more money, and doing less and less for the poor, the sick, those to whom it was supposed to go.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, part of him gave an astonished cheer as the crowd began to pay more and more attention to him—and as their mood, staring at Padrik's chosen Priests, turned uglier and uglier.
"Go!" he heard himself urge, as his voice rang out in a triumphal call-to-arms. "Go and look in his quarters! See what luxuries he has hidden there! See the place where those vagabonds he consorted with are living, how they eat from silver and drink from crystal! These things were bought with your money, and with blood-money! He has been living off of you and off the stolen goods of the innocents he has sent to their deaths, and all falsely in the name of God!"
A long silence filled the Cathedral for a moment.
It was broken by a single whisper of sound; the rustle of robes as one of the Priests tried to edge his way out of the Cathedral, ducking behind the statue of Saint Tolemy—
"They're running away! Get them!" someone shouted.
The false Priests broke and ran, holding up the skirts of their robes in order to run faster, fleeing into the Church buildings behind the Cathedral.
Robin plastered herself up against the altar as the mob flooded past her, storming after the fleeing Priests, brushing aside the guards. Kestrel just watched them go, sinking wearily to the surface of the altar. Padrik's quarters were in there, somewhere, and he had no doubt that they were as luxurious as he had described. The mob was going to have something to vent its rage on, after all.
When they had all gone, their shouts fading as they passed into other parts of the complex, he looked over at Robin and held out his hand. She smiled, exhausted, walked over to him, and took it.
Sunlight poured down through the hole in the roof to pool around the altar. Kestrel saw that there was someone lying behind the pulpit, quite unconscious, next to an obviously broken and jammed trapdoor. The back, and the clothing of the figure seemed oddly familiar.
Robin grinned, and turned the body over.
"Who is it?" he asked.
She straightened. "The Clan Chief of the Patsonos," she replied, her voice filled with glee. "Come give me a hand with him—"
She had grabbed one arm and tugged him, none-too-gently, across the marble floor.
"Why?" he asked, taking the other arm, and blinking in bafflement. "What do you want to do with him?"
They hauled the Gypsy up the altar stairs, as she panted out her answer. "Someone—ought to be here—to answer questions," she said, her voice and face brimming with malicious enjoyment. "And we have—a nice big cage here—to make sure he is the one to answer them."
"And not us," Kestrel supplied, in complete understanding and agreement. "Good idea!"
They locked the Gypsy in the cage that had held T'fyrr, first making sure that the Haspur had not left his lock picks behind, that the Patsono Chief did not have a set of picks on his person, and—with a judicious thump on the head with the pommel of Kestrel's dagger—that he would probably not wake up until after there was someone here to deal with him.
"That should do it!" Robin said, as they slammed the door shut on him. "Prey for Peregrine." She looked around the ruined Cathedral, thoughtfully.
"You know, things are going to get very interesting here for a while," she said, nibbling her lower lip. "And they just might dc looking for more people to blame . . . ."
"I've always wanted to see Trevandia," Kestrel declared, even though he had no such longing until just that moment. But Trevandia was the farthest place he knew of from Gradford that still had welcomed Gypsies and Free Bards.
"Why, so have I!" Robin exclaimed. "You know, another kingdom seems like a very good place to be right now!"
They looked at each other for a long moment—then broke into only slightly hysterical laughter.
"Trevandia it is!" Kestrel said, when they could catch their breath. "As soon as we get the wagon."
There was a growling sound in the distance—growing nearer. It was that of an angry crowd returning.
"How about now?" Robin asked, innocently.
He did not bother to reply; only seized her hand. Together they ran out into the square, and did not stop running until they were past the gates of Gradford—and they did not once look back.
THE END
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The Robin and the Kestrel
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
>
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
The Robin and the Kestrel Page 33