A Season of Rendings

by Adam J Nicolai

  But if he'll be here in a few days, Shef must have sent for him earlier—much earlier. "When did you―?"

  "No more questions, Sister. I am taking control of this situation. Take whatever men you need and bring Ashandiel to the cells here in Majesta. If you lack the stomach for what must come next, we can wait for Marcus.

  "He will do what you can't."

  iii. Melakai

  "Crowns over clerics?" Cort asked with a knowing smile.

  Kai returned the grin despite himself. "Oh, crowns well over clerics tonight."

  Trius glowered as Cort began dealing cards. "You two should keep your voices down."

  "Why's that?" Cort asked. "Everyone in the bar is talking about it."

  He was right; the words floated atop the din of the tavern like scum on a pond. Land. Peasant. Rights. Prince Isaic.

  "Everyone's got big heads tonight," Trius said. "The Prince might have run his mouth, but that don't mean nothing. He's gonna die for what he said today—you mark me."

  "You're talking to two Crownwardens here, Trius," Melakai warned him, "and that was a bit close to a threat for my liking."

  Trius showed his hands. "No threat about it. I didn't say I was going to do it. The Tribunal . . . that's another matter. And there ain't cock-all you can do about them, Crownwarden or no." He sniffed and looked at his cards. "Don't know what got into him. Damn foolish thing to do."

  "You weren't there," Kai said. "She said they own everything, Trius. That they can just take it whenever they want."

  "Well of course they can! They speak for God, don't they?" Trius laid a trio of lovers and nodded at Cort.

  "Maybe they do and maybe they don't," Kai muttered.

  "M'sai," Cort said with a pensive glance around the room, "now I agree—keep your voice down."

  "Oh, rev'naas take it," Kai snarled back. "I been talking this way my whole life. My knees crack when I climb stairs and it hurts when I piss, I haven't been with a woman in years—they want to kill me for it now, they'll be doing me a favor."

  "That's a'fin, Kai, but they're likely to come after me too. Just for sitting with you." Cort set down a quad of merchants.

  "Who said they don't speak for God?" A flush had come into Trius's cheeks, a slight tremble to his neck. He's really angry, Kai realized. Honest-to-god, smoking mad. "What, you listened to that Matthew when he was here, didn't you? That where you get these ideas?"

  "What if I did?" Melakai had a cleric of suns in his hand which would likely win him the game, but it was too early to play it. He set down a quint instead, marking a progression into a third suit, and drew a card. "Man made some sense."

  "Nice play," Cort observed.

  "Man's dead now," Trius spat. He broke the run with an oct of lovers. "And the Church didn't even kill him—he fired up some peasant boys with all his talk who did the job just fine."

  He actually buys that dogsehk, Kai marveled. Trius was an old friend, he'd known the man for decades, but damn if he couldn't be gullible. Kai took another approach. "Even forgetting him. The clerics say they can prove they're tied to God 'cause they can work miracles. Right?" He ticked off a finger. "You got that one out in Keldale burned at the stake last year, working miracles in plain sight in front of an audience." Another finger. "That crazy kid who said he could talk to the birds down in Chesport—the one they stoned to death." Third finger. "That crippled lady in Ornbridge who said she healed her own legs, before they re-broke 'em for her . . . Akir, there's so many I can't even keep track."

  Trius fumed. "Those are―"

  "Hel, even this fruitcake putting people to sleep and then robbing them, right here in Keswick. That's a witch, you know it is."

  "Exactly. A witch. Not the same."

  "Ain't it?" Kai grunted. "Seems to me the only difference between a witch and a cleric is one of 'em's got a star around his neck."

  "All the difference I need," Trius said.

  Kai waved him off. Now he was getting angry. Some people just didn't—

  Blesséd sehk. Is that Jonah Horald at the bar?

  Kai got to his feet, his heart kicking into a trot. "I'll be right back, gentlemen." He started toward the bar as the crowd swirled, blocking his view. When he got there, he put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Jonah?"

  Jonah turned. "Captain."

  "Why aren't you at the Gilded Rose? You're supposed to be on guard duty."

  Jonah shrugged. "Some Justicars came and relieved me. Prince's cleric was with them. Said they'd take care of it."

  "What? When?"

  "Don't know—an hour ago?"

  "You're supposed to be guarding Ben Ashandiel!" The accusation was reflexive; he barely bothered to finish it before turning away. Justicars. The Prince's cleric.

  Sehk.

  "Cort!" he shouted. "Cort!"

  Cort stood up.

  "Get to the Gilded Rose," Kai said as he grabbed his ante off the table, "then meet me at the palace." He tossed his cards to Trius. "Another time."

  "Sure," Trius said, but Kai was already leaving.

  It took him twenty minutes of hard riding to reach the palace, weaving around foot traffic and cutting through the alleyways. He burst past the Crownwardens at the gate, barely acknowledging their hasty salutes, and leapt from his lathered horse before it had come to a full stop.

  "Where's the Prince Regent?" he asked the guards at the servants' entrance.

  They exchanged startled glances. "I don't . . ." one began, as the other said, "Should be taking a late dinner."

  Kai pushed past them and made for the dining hall. He will not be happy to hear this, he berated himself. Should've put Crownwardens on that door, damn it, I knew Blackboots would just walk away if the Church came, why did I—

  His thoughts ground to a halt along with his pace. The door to the dining hall stood open, and Mother Angelica stood in the hall talking to her Preserver. When she saw Melakai, she spared him a satisfied smirk.

  All the urgency drained from him. There was no need to rush to tell the Prince Regent anything.

  He already knew.

  13

  i. Iggy

  Heavy this time, Hops complained, shaking his leg. She put rocks on me. I can fly with rocks, flew with worse, but it's not fair. You never said rocks.

  I'll give you extra to compensate, Iggy whispered back.

  Mate is getting upset, too. "Always flying for beard man," she says. "Wastes time," she says. Lots of bread right here. All kinds of goodness. No need to be flying into hard places all the time.

  That was true. More pilgrims arrived every day, and more merchants showed up to greet them. Tents were popping up everywhere, even the occasional wooden stall. That meant more food, which meant more waste—a pigeon's paradise.

  A few days ago you were complaining about coming out here. Now you're complaining about going into hard places?

  A few days ago this was different place. No wingless, no food. Times change. Keep up.

  Iggy chuckled and tossed the bird its bread. Let me get those rocks.

  The bird hopped forward and presented its left leg. Iggy cut off the small bundle tied to it and read the note aloud. "'Understood about Storm. Will be careful. Got a job—feed yourself.' Syntal signed it." Iggy checked the other side, which was blank, then passed the note to Helix. "And there's two shells, too."

  "Two shells?" Helix exclaimed. "Way to go, coz!"

  Look, Iggy said to Hops. See these? They're money. We can use them to buy things for you and your mate.

  Hops cocked his head in interest. Me and mate?

  Absolutely. And if you keep bringing us the woman's notes, she'll keep sending money, which we can use to keep buying things for you.

  The bird's eyes narrowed. What things? Just bread?

  Iggy spread his hands. What else are you after?

  The green balls. Not green like pine. Green like grass. Not trodden grass—rich grass.

  Balls? Iggy pictured himself holding a green ball.

  No, no
t like that. Moist and squishy. Usually already squished by the time we get them. Would like to squish them ourselves. You get us green balls unsquished, mate will be happy.

  Green balls unsquished. His confusion must have been evident.

  Big! Hops went on. Fill your whole mouth. Bursting with flavor.

  Are you talking about peas?

  Peas! Yes, that is wingless word for it.

  Peas are a spring crop. I'm sure someone around here will have some.

  No! Want from you. Want to get them safely. No fighting, no swatting. No squished ones. Unsquished and eat in peace. He glanced back and forth, then admitted: Is nice to eat in peace. Never get to.

  No, I meant—we'll get them. Today. You just keep checking in every morning.

  And bring mate?

  Bring mate.

  The pigeon fluttered its wings in pleased agreement, then flew away.

  "Kiir," Iggy breathed. "Never met such a bossy bird."

  "She got a job." Helix had learned to wait until the animal was gone before speaking. "I hope she's being careful."

  "Well, she was able to send us the money, so apparently she's being careful enough." Just in time, too. Their provisions had run out yesterday morning, and foraging was thin with so many people about. The roadside was filling with startling speed; when Iggy and Helix had first made camp, the location had felt remote. Now there was another camp not fifty feet to either side of them, a makeshift shack just up the road, and fires burning throughout the night, along with near-constant traffic on the road. They weren't the only ones lacking for provisions, and farmers from around the countryside knew it.

  "Yeah. Well, I'm ready to spend it. I'm starved."

  "Same," Iggy muttered. "But, hear me out: do you think it's still safe here?"

  Helix halted as though Iggy had just pointed out a bee on his arm. "What? What do you mean?"

  "I just mean . . ." Iggy swept a hand in front of him, taking in the sprawling camp site. "Look around. We're half a mile from the city, but it doesn't matter. The city's coming to us. Shop today, sure, but should we move camp?"

  Helix followed the sweep of his hand and nodded. "Keep an eye on it, maybe. I don't mind a little civilization, as long we're not walled in. And I'll tell you what I don't see: Preservers and clerics."

  Or even Church guard, Iggy thought. In fact, the only God's Stars he saw at all were the cheap ones getting hawked to pilgrims. He nodded his concession. "Fair enough. Let's find some peas."

  A quizzical look from Helix. "Peas?"

  "Yeah." Iggy waved him off and started up toward the road. "Long story."

  ii. Angbar

  "Sixty-seven sheets." Mistress Zandra squinted and ruffled the papers one more time, as if she expected the ink on them to vanish, then gave Syntal a look of suspicion mingled with curiosity.

  Syntal returned an even nod. "Two shells, five and a half heels."

  Zandra didn't move for the coin box. "Hardly. The nog didn't meet the quota."

  Angbar dropped his eyes. She was right—he'd only finished eighteen pages today—but it was that word again, the haughtiness of her accusation, that really drained him.

  "Doesn't matter. You said we were a pair. The real quota is forty sheets per day, and we've well surpassed that."

  "Yes," Zandra said tightly, "and just after highsun at that, when most of my scribes are turning their twentieth sheet."

  Syntal gave a slight tilt of her head: All right; but so what?

  "The quota was twenty per person. The nog only completed eighteen. Taking his off the tally, that's one shell, ten heels, and a half-heel."

  "If you take his off the tally, you're changing the terms. If you change the terms, I can also change the terms." She grabbed the sheaf of papers. "If you're not going to pay for them regardless, I trust you won't mind if I tear up eighteen of these?"

  Zandra snatched the stack back. "Mind your hands, girl! You'll smudge the ink." She worried at the top parchment with a thumb before sniffing and setting it back on the desk. "M'sai," she finally sighed. "Two and five. But I've no half heels just now—I'll round you up tomorrow instead."

  Syntal looked annoyed. "Fine."

  "I knew you two would be trouble," Zandra muttered to herself as she went behind the desk to get the coins. "Heaven save me from nogs with pens."

  "I can't believe her," Syntal fumed once they were on the street. In just the past few days, the city had gotten busier; today it was swarming with people. "We've been scribing for days now, making quota every time, working for less than her fastest workers—and every payment is still a fight!"

  "She doesn't like me, Syn."

  "I know, I don't think she likes me either. Why didn't you make quota today?" She lowered her voice, though it was hardly necessary with all the tumult. "Is there something wrong with the chant?"

  "No, the chant is fine. It was that lot in front of me. One of them lost his coin purse and they were talking about it all morning. They kept looking back at me like I took it. It rattled me, that's all. Slowed me down."

  "What? Why would you take his coin purse?"

  "I didn't." He didn't think she'd meant it that way, but it still made him bristle.

  "No, I know, I just mean . . . oh, forget them." They came to the corner. Syntal was steering them back toward the Hall of the Council.

  "Syn. Look at the crowd."

  "It's busy," she conceded automatically, but she didn't look. Her eyes were trained ahead, toward Alabaster Crossing and the path to the Hall.

  "Yeah," he muttered, then barked, "Hey!" Finally she glanced back at him, looking irritated. "Yeah! And if it's busy here, think of the line at the Hall."

  They'd been to the Hall of the Council three times now, and managed to glean that the Church treated it as a museum of sorts. The line they'd seen the first day had only grown longer every visit since, swelling with the rising tide of pilgrims. Worse, some of the people Angbar had seen in line on one visit had still been there on their next visit—in other words, the line was literally days long.

  "It's not getting any shorter, Syn. Between now and the Dedication, it's only going to get worse." And even if they did get in, what would they do there? They couldn't exactly search the place under Church surveillance, and likely most of it would be off-limits anyway. "We need another plan."

  Syntal sighed, but nodded. She pulled him into a nearby alley, out of the bustle of the street. "M'sai." She worried at her lip, strategies flickering behind her eyes.

  Angbar found himself hoping she wouldn't be able to come up with anything, that she would abandon this ridiculous scheme to find the third wardbook. The thought of joining Iggy and Helix outside the city while Lyseira had her personal reckoning struck him with shame, but he'd do it in a heartbeat. He hated this place.

  Lyseira and Syntal were both willing to die in a Tribunal dungeon for what they wanted. He'd rather not.

  "M'sai," Syn said again, and the hope died. "What if we go at night?" She held up a finger. "No guards." She held up a second finger. "No crowd."

  Angbar folded the second finger back down. "The people in line are staying overnight." He folded the first finger, covering her fist with his own. "Which means the guards are staying all the time."

  She took her hand back, vexed, and resumed chewing. Now and again, she shook her head.

  "It's not worth it, Syn. I know we're waiting for the Dedication so Lyseira has a chance to see the Fatherlord, but there's so many pilgrims right now―"

  Syntal snapped her fingers. "That's it! The Dedication!"

  Sehk, he thought. She never gets that look unless she's really on to something.

  "All those people in line—they'll leave for the Dedication! They didn't come here for the Hall, they came for the Fatherlord." Her eyes widened. "In fact, the Hall will be closed on the day of the Dedication! I saw a sign last time we were there!"

  Angbar had seen it too. At the time, he'd thought, Well, at least if we can't get in by the Dedication, we won'
t be getting in at all.

  Idiot, he scolded himself.

  "That's it," Syntal repeated. "That's perfect. Lyseira and Seth will be at Basica Sanctaria for the Dedication. The crowds at the Hall will be gone. The scribing house will even be closed."

  "And Lyseira wants us to stay behind when she goes." He felt a little sick saying the words. "She told me the other night."

  Yes, told you in a moment of weakness, out of a genuine sense of compassion, he thought. Because she cares about you, not because she wants you to take the opportunity to sneak around on her.

  "Syn . . ." he began. The girl was fairly beaming. "Are you sure this is―"

  "There he is!" Angbar had barely registered the man's voice before Mark was on him, grabbing his shirt and slamming him back against the wall. A flock of pigeons startled and took to the air.

  Syntal stumbled away, surprised, then her face darkened. Angbar sought out her eyes and shook his head. No. Don't. One chant, and they were all dead.

  "Where's the purse, nog?" Mark demanded, his breath rank. "We know you have it."

  The man's friends jogged around the corner—Bangs and two others.

  "I don't have it." He could hear his own voice trembling. He was a cornered rabbit, his heart thundering, every muscle aquiver. "I heard you lot talking about it, but I don't―"

  Mark slammed him back again. His skull cracked against the brick. "You were listening to us?"

  "Let him go!" Syntal yelled.

  "No, you were loud!" Angbar retorted. "I heard you!"

  "Where's the money?" Mark roared.

  "Let him go," Syntal said again, her voice cold and level, "or by God you will regret it."

  "Syn, no!" Anbar had bit his lip; the words came out spattered with blood. "You can't!"

  Bangs crossed to stand in front of her. "This nog bothering you? Do you need help?"

  "He's my friend, you idiot!" she rejoined. "Leave him alone!"