The Kingdom Page 17

  “That’s called Scoundrels’ Cape,” Brother Thomas said, pointing to the cliffs. “This must be a good place to find danger, eh?”

  “I guess we’re about to find out.” Teo nudged his horse forward.

  It didn’t take long to discern that Cassee wasn’t just a quaint village of pastel cottages clustered around a picturesque harbor. Several of the taverns catered to the type of sailor whose idea of a “catch” didn’t mean tuna. The two travelers approached one of the seediest of the pirate establishments, a place called The White Rocks.

  The sailors inside hunched at the bar or sat at tables playing cards. It was midafternoon—too early for anyone to be intoxicated, but just right for the first stiff drink of the day. A sense of restlessness pervaded the room. Teo knew these men were ready to get back to the sea.

  “Ale for us both,” Teo said, putting a silver coin on the counter. The bartender drew two drafts with foam spilling down the sides, then collected the coin.

  As the bartender started to turn away Teo waved him closer. “I’m looking for information from anyone who might be in the know,” he said in a low voice.

  The bartender shrugged. “Anything can be bought here. Liquor . . . women . . . contraband . . . and information.”

  “Who should I talk to?”

  “The man in the back room might be able to help.”

  “Maybe you could introduce me.” Teo flipped a second coin to the bartender, who caught it in midair.

  “Knock on that door in half an hour.”

  As the bartender moved off, Brother Thomas looked at Teo admiringly. “You’re always so confident,” he remarked.

  Teo set down his mug and wiped foam from his lips. “It’s just a show,” he said with a grin.

  At the appointed time Teo left Brother Thomas at the bar and knocked on the door to the back room. A gruff voice commanded him to enter. Four pirates were seated around a table, smoking the tabako weed and playing a game with Marsayan tarot cards.

  “You must be Teofil,” said the leader, a stout fellow with a mean scar along his cheek.

  Teo was taken aback. “You know my name?”

  The scar-faced man laughed. “You came to me for information, didn’t you? Why are you surprised that I have it?”

  “I thought you’d know what’s happening around Cassee. I didn’t imagine your knowledge would extend to a nobody like me.”

  “To some people, you ain’t a nobody,” the pirate said cryptically.

  What does that mean?

  Teo shook off the perplexing comment and pressed forward with the reason for his visit. “I’m looking for information about any strange activity involving the religion of Christianism. Something unusual or out of the ordinary. In particular I think it might involve the Clan, or maybe—”

  “The shamans?”

  Teo paused. How did he know I was going to say that? The situation here was unclear, but Teo sensed trouble was brewing. “Yeah, the shamans,” he said evenly. “What can you tell me about them? I’ll pay.”

  “Keep your money. I’ve already been paid plenty to pass you a message.”

  “Someone paid you? Who?”

  “The man said he was a friend of the Christiani. That’s all I know.”

  Though Teo wanted to inquire further, he didn’t think the pirate would divulge the information, so he said, “Speak up then if you have something to tell me.”

  The other three men shifted uncomfortably at Teo’s brusqueness, but the scar-faced leader was unperturbed. “The shamans are planning an attack. A raid, if you will.”

  “Where? Cassee? Marsay?” Teo tried to imagine why the Iron Shield would want to attack this area. To prevent reinforcements from going to Jineve? To reestablish the Pact in its original locale?

  The pirate waved his hand. “No. That would be foolish. The Knights of the Cross have a powerful militia at their command.”

  “Where then?”

  “A coordinated attack on religious houses.”

  “Religious houses? What do you mean?” Apprehension seized Teo.

  “The Christiani have houses of devoted virgins along the coast around Roma. The shamans are planning to take those women captive. For what purpose, I don’t know.”

  Teo couldn’t speak. For a moment he couldn’t even think. The pirate’s announcement struck him like a club to the head. He felt his knees go weak, and he had to steady himself against the doorframe to stay upright.

  Through the haze of confusion and alarm, a single word formed in Teo’s mind. He tried to get it out twice but could only manage a breathy stutter. Finally he said, “When?”

  “Sometime before the equinox.”

  The equinox!

  Teo’s jaw hung slack. He put his hand to his forehead.

  That’s two weeks from today!

  The Astrebrilian monk fidgeted as he faced the High Priestess in her private rooms. “It is finished, Your Eminence,” he said, his gaze cast down. “Early this morning we were able to produce a purified sample at last.”

  “Excellent!” cried the High Priestess. “Do you have it with you?”

  “No, my lady. It is considered too dangerous to move.”

  “That shall have to be remedied or the substance will be of no use to me.”

  “We know. Men are working on that.”

  “Copper tanks?”

  “Yes, tanks to hold the fluid, with pressurized air to eject it in a mist.”

  “I assume you have followed the exact specifications I gave you.”

  “Of course, Your Eminence. You speak as the mouthpiece of the high god. We would never disobey your orders.”

  “Even so, I would like to evaluate your progress.” The High Priestess waved the visitor away with the back of her hand. “Return to the laboratory and prepare a demonstration. I will be there shortly.”

  “As you wish.” The Astrebrilian monk bowed and left the room.

  Leaning back in the chair behind her desk, the High Priestess stroked her iron collar as she considered the important milestone she was about to pass. Her best men of science had been experimenting with chemicals for years. Though the explosive powder of Astrebril was fearsome and deadly, the priestess had long wanted to develop a second weapon, one that could be sprayed across a battlefield to inflict widespread suffering. The founder of Chiveis, Jonluc Beaumont, had left instructions on exactly how to do this, yet no one had attempted it until the High Priestess came to power. It didn’t take long for her scientist monks to realize how difficult it would be to replicate the machines and devices of the Ancients. Years of vigorous effort had been invested to reach the goal. Now the day of victory had arrived.

  The High Priestess rose from her desk and went to a chest. She knelt and unlocked it, then lifted the lid. Books were stacked inside, most of them old and tattered. She hissed as she noticed the sacred book of Christianism lying among the others. It recited mythical stories about the creator god Deu and his son, the crucified criminal. The High Priestess uttered a raspy imprecation as that god came to her mind. His self- righteous pretenses at holiness disgusted her. She knew Astrebril hated that god—and feared him too, which made his hate all the more intense. The High Priestess owned the only copy of Deu’s book in Chiveis. Sometimes she forced herself to read it to understand her adversary, and she also used it for her rituals of desecration. But today she wasn’t interested in that book. Her mind was set instead on the important text that Jonluc Beaumont had bequeathed to his consort Greta the Great.

  The original manuscript was long gone, of course, but scribes had preserved a single copy over the centuries. The High Priestess lifted the codex from the chest and took it to her desk. It was brittle, and its illuminations were now faded, yet the words remained clear enough to read. The title was written in a bold, flowing script: Weapons for a New World.

  “I thank you, great lord,” the High Priestess intoned as she thumbed the pages. “You have brought us to this momentous day by the dominance of your power.�
� Awe filled her as she considered the supremacy of Astrebril.

  The book contained detailed drawings of scientific apparatus: beakers and vials and tubes and vats, much like the equipment at a distillery. Beaumont’s explanations were clear and concise. He was a master of the Ancients’ chemical lore. Few who survived the Great War of Destruction possessed such knowledge, and fewer still had the ingenuity to win power with it. That combination made Beaumont a great man.

  The explosive powder of Astrebril was only the beginning. Beaumont’s book went on to describe how to render brimstone and other chemicals into a liquid that could be spread as a cloud of gas. An entire battlefield could be enveloped in a toxic yellow fog that smelled of mustard. The gas didn’t seem particularly harmful at first. For several hours the afflicted soldiers wouldn’t even know they were injured. Then all the powers of hell would break loose.

  The High Priestess smiled as she read about the effects of the noxious gas. The victim’s eyes would swell shut as tears and mucus flowed from them in great quantities. Blisters would develop on the skin, bulging like fat tumors filled with yellow bile. The enemy soldiers would writhe in agony, unable to stop screaming at their continuous torture. Yet as horrible as the external symptoms were, what was happening inside the body was even worse. The burning gas penetrated the throat and lungs, stripping away their delicate linings. Every choking gasp produced searing pain. Those who received a mortal dose of the gas would die after weeks of unbearable suffering. Nothing could be done for them except to look on with horror, and that was the weapon’s most powerful effect. Though it might not produce mass casualties on the battlefield, the intensity of its torments would produce something even better: abject terror at the prospect of being gassed.

  A vial on the High Priestess’s desk contained the explosive powder of Astrebril. She poured some of the black granules into a dish, then struck a match. The powder flared up in a flash of light and smoke. “Ahhhh, yes, my lord,” the priestess said as she inhaled the acrid vapors with her eyes closed. “The good bounty of thy hand knows no end.”

  With the aroma of Astrebril still upon her, the High Priestess rose and went to the door. She descended a spiral staircase to the ground floor, then exited her spire and walked toward a low building constructed against the wall that surrounded her temple complex. Snow crunched under her feet as she walked. A cowled monk met her at the door.

  “Welcome, Your Eminence,” he said. “We have been hard at work for you here.”

  “We shall see if your labors have paid off.” The priestess handed her embroidered cloak to the monk.

  The laboratory was filled with equipment for distilling chemicals and pumping gasses. An oaken door at the back of the room led to an inner sanctum where the demonstration would take place. A transom window above the door opened toward a grate in the ceiling, a means of escape for the poisonous fumes concocted in this place.

  Most of the room was occupied by a table. Lead figurines of miniature soldiers had been spread out to imitate a battlefield. Several wicker fans on long rods lay on the table as well. And in the midst of everything was a small metal cylinder set into a tiny wheeled cart made to fit it.

  “That cylinder has been filled with an inert substance,” said a humpbacked scientist standing by the table. “Compressed gas forces it out. The machine worked just as your instructions suggested it would.”

  “That is because my instructions came from the great Beaumont himself,” answered the High Priestess. The handful of monks in the room murmured at this.

  The senior scientist beckoned to his assistants. The men came forward and took up the fans, waving them briskly to create an air flow. “Pretend that is the wind,” the scientist said. He rolled the little cart into position and opened a valve on the cylinder. White vapor began to spew from it, wafting across the figurines in the breeze from the fans.

  “You are sure this substance is harmless?” the priestess asked.

  “Quite sure. Look.” The old scientist bent over and breathed it with no ill effect.

  Cautiously, the High Priestess approached the table. With her finger she flicked each figurine until all of them were toppled. She turned to the leader of the monks. “Show me the actual sample.”

  After waving the other men from the room he escorted the priestess to a wooden chest on a bench. After opening it, the scientist donned thick leather gloves and removed a glass vial. The stuff inside was an ugly yellow-brown, like the contents of a chamber pot.

  “The poison is very potent,” the scientist said. “We sprayed it on rabbits, and they nearly clawed out their eyes. All of them died thrashing in a mess of vomit and blood.”

  “Very good. How much of this substance have you been able to manufacture?”

  “Only what you see there, my lady.”

  The High Priestess raised an eyebrow. “Your abilities disappoint me. No doubt Astrebril is displeased as well.”

  The humpbacked scientist cringed. “Your Eminence, we could make more now that we’ve perfected the process, but one thing holds us back.”

  “And what is that?”

  “We need more brimstone. Supply us with that and we can make many barrels of this poison—enough to cover a battlefield.”

  “Brimstone, you say? That is your only obstacle?”

  “That’s right, my lady. I know it’s precious and rare, but perhaps you could obtain some.”

  The priestess walked to the door and gazed up through the grate in the ceiling. She stood silent for a long moment, hands on her hips, praying to the god of the dawn. At last she turned back to the nervous scientist.

  “Soon,” she vowed, “soon you shall have what you need.”

  The Midnight Glider was ready to sail, but the winds were adverse. Teo stamped his foot on the deck, fighting to remain calm.

  “The gale will pass,” Marco said. “I want to get out of here as much as you do. We’ll weigh anchor the moment we can.”

  Teo clasped his friend’s shoulder. “I know. It’s just so hard to wait.” Marco nodded understandingly.

  The news from Cassee that the Exterminati were planning a raid on the convents had thrown Teo into action. He had nearly killed his old nag rushing back to Marsay’s harbor. Though the Glider wasn’t fully provisioned yet, Marco had ordered an immediate departure. He was as concerned for Vanita’s safety as Teo was for Ana’s.

  Unfortunately the weather didn’t cooperate. A gale had blown up that lasted into the next morning. Marco claimed the system would clear out before midday. In the meantime Teo struggled to be patient. Every moment of delay was an agony.

  At last the ship left Marsay beneath overcast skies. Brother Thomas was aboard, along with ten friar-knights under his command. All were warriors, and Teo had a hunch their skills would be needed before this business with the Exterminati was over.

  Despite the late start the ship made good progress. There was a delay at Manacho when the authorities demanded to board for an inspection. Teo hid in a crate below deck because he had been banished from Likuria forever. The inspectors didn’t find him, and the journey resumed. Marco ordered his men to sail at top speed. The days slid by, and after a week the Glider arrived at the harbor where Roma’s river met the sea.

  “Have your men arm themselves,” Teo told Brother Thomas. “Captain Marco’s crewmen are fighters too, so they’ll come with us. We’ll be a strong force. I just hope we can get to the convent in time to prevent disaster.”

  Brother Thomas closed his eyes and touched the cross tattoo on his forehead. “Let it be so,” he said.

  The day the shamans came was rainy and cold.

  Ana rose early to check on Liber, whose knife wound had become infected. Sister Deidre had numbed it with a tincture of poppies and stitched it shut, but instead of healing the cut grew red and swollen. Although the big man with the childlike mind had received the best possible treatment at the convent, everyone agreed it was time for him to go to the Christiani basilica. The doctors there would
have bread-mold elixir to deal with the infection. Two young nuns were appointed to escort Liber to the river, where a ferry would take them to Roma. A message had been sent ahead to the Papa, who held Liber the Beloved in high regard as Deu’s chosen vessel to preserve the New Testament.

  Once Liber was safely off, Ana went to the kitchen to see if she could assist with breakfast. She had always enjoyed cooking, but her twenty-one-month exile from Chiveis had given her little opportunity for that. She tried to help out in the convent’s kitchen whenever she could.

  As Ana diced potatoes for a breakfast hash, she offered a prayer for Liber’s safety. Tension had been high ever since the break-in and stabbing a week ago. Although the incident of arson and theft last autumn had been dismissed by the nuns as an aberration, it was clear to Ana that nefarious forces in the outside world had their eye on the little convent. The housemother tried to suggest a third break-in was unlikely. She held out hope that the two crimes were unrelated—just petty thieves looking for easy loot. But Ana and Vanita had a different theory about the recent attack. Though the nighttime intruder didn’t wear the traditional robe of the shamans, the women sensed he was a member of that evil sect. Certainly he was no thief—nothing in the convent had been stolen or disturbed. On the surface things appeared to be back to normal. Yet as Vanita liked to say, “Just because you don’t see the cockroaches doesn’t mean they’re not there.” That repulsive thought was running through Ana’s mind when she heard the loud crash that changed everything.