Brian Kittrell - The Consuls of the Vicariate

Closing the door once he had passed through, Brice surveyed the room. A huge wardrobe dominated one side, and an equally large desk with a matching chair occupied the other. Beyond two glass doors lay a balcony, and bookcases filled with tomes and expensive keepsakes lined the rest of the available wall space. Caleb rushed to the desk, snatched up a handful of scrolls, and glanced through each one.

“I thought we were supposed to-”

“Don’t worry. I’ll put them back the way I found them,” Caleb said, never taking his eyes off the parchment.

Brice glanced over the books on the nearest shelf, whispering the titles under his breath. “ The Tenet of Faith, The Miracles of Our Lady, The Heraldan Church: Foundation to Dominance.” He paused. “This is a priest’s house?”

“Not just any priest.” Caleb glanced over at him, then returned to the scroll. “If you pull out any of those books, remember to replace them the way you found them.”

He struggled to keep his voice from cracking. “Whose house is this, Caleb?”

“Forane’s.”

Brice hesitated. He had trouble placing the name, but before he could ask, he remembered the conversation between Jurgen and Velan, the innkeeper in Pilgrim’s Rest. The Vicar Forane. She had been at the cathedral in Pilgrim’s Rest to see the Southern Lights. “But-”

“This one, yes!”

“What is it?” Brice fought the trembling in his hands, but it was no use.

“Listen to this.” Caleb held a parchment near the window and read aloud.

Yes, madam, I am aware of your situation, and I thank you for your services thus far. You have made contact with a weak one in their ranks, and now is the time to increase his pay. Instruct him to keep a lookout for the priest Jurgen and tell him you will pay tenfold if he would see fit to do away with that problem. -D

Brice gazed at Caleb. “They hired an assassin for Jurgen?”

“Not just any assassin. Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“The assassin was Lester.”

Brice was filled with surprise. “They had a spy in the Dawn Knights?”

“We have to go. We have to warn-” Caleb pressed his ear against the door. “Hide.”

“Hide?” Brice whispered. “Hide where?”

Licking his lips, Caleb pointed at the balcony door. “We’ll jump.”

Brice stopped him when he opened the door. “We can’t jump out there. It’s twenty feet or better to the ground. We’ll be seen, too.” He searched for another option. “There, the wardrobe. Get in.”

Brice waited for Caleb to get all the way to the back. Feeling a draft, he glimpsed the still-open balcony door, but he jumped into the wardrobe upon hearing footsteps coming from the hall. He closed the armoire and sat next to Caleb only moments before he heard the study door burst open. Silently, they arranged the clothes hanging above to hide them in case anyone opened the wardrobe.

“Collette!” a voice shouted, muffled by the sturdy oaken construction of the bureau, but still discernible. “Left my balcony door open again, fool girl!”

“Sorry, madam,” another voice replied. “I’ll-”

“No, I’ll do it.” The angry woman had neared the wardrobe, and Brice tensed at her shouting. She’s going to find us; I just know she is. And when she does, poof-a pile of ash or worse.

“Letters scattered. Do you not remember me telling you the wind blows in from this side and tosses around all of my correspondence?”

“Yes, madam. Sorry.”

A silence followed the girl’s apology, then Brice heard a few footsteps going away.

When the steps paused, the woman shouted, “Have you been reading these letters, girl?”

“No, madam, I swear-” Even through the dense wood Brice heard the slap and the crying that followed.

The front of the bureau flew open, and he caught sight of a woman’s face. We’re done for. Hanging her silver and gold robe on the rod, the woman huffed and puffed with anger, then turned back to her maid. “Don’t lie to me. If it weren’t so difficult to find help these days, I’d have done away with you long ago.” She slammed the wardrobe door closed.

The girl spoke with a sick desperation. “No, please. I knocked them over, madam. I didn’t read the letters, though. I was cleaning. I forgot to pick them up when you called for me.”

Brice stared at his shoes with pity in his heart. I can only imagine the life this girl has, knowing she did no wrong, but admitting it nonetheless-only to keep from getting walloped again.

“So long as you didn’t read them,” the older woman said, her voice no longer as angry. “Very well, I forgive you… this time. Prepare us some supper, and I’ll join you in a while.”

“Yes, madam.”

Brice heard the door close, then the sliding of wood against the stone floor. The sound of cloth rubbing against leather followed, and he assumed Vicar Forane was seated at her desk. The scratching of a quill against parchment confirmed his assumption.

* * *

With no way to measure time, Brice didn’t know how long it had been since Vicar Forane started writing, but he was thankful when he heard the chair slide against the floor and the hallway door open. Caleb, who had been perfectly still the entire time, let out a quiet groan as he pulled a shoe from behind his back.

Brice rose to his feet, but remained crouched since the ceiling was low.

“What are you doing?” Caleb whispered, tugging at Brice’s pant leg. “It isn’t safe to leave yet.”

Turning back, Brice said, “I want to see what she wrote.”

“No, get back in.”

Ignoring Caleb’s plea, Brice emerged from the dresser. Only a few steps brought him to the desk, and he leaned over to read.

My Lord,

To answer your question, no. None of the priests in Balfan know Jurgen’s whereabouts, but he was seen in Pilgrim’s Rest briefly in the company of some monks. We can only assume that he fled when the cathedral was attacked, but he hasn’t yet resurfaced. I cannot agree more that having sorcerers in our country is a problem, and I work daily to discover their whereabouts.

My contact is overdue in returning my latest reply, but I have faith that he will accomplish the task I’ve assigned by your request. As always, you are correct when you say we must keep Jurgen from the consulship. Nothing is of greater importance to our goal.

As we agreed, I plan to meet our friend tomorrow night by the bell tower, and I shall demand to know why he has not answered my correspondence. If he does not attend, we may have to seek other ways to find and eliminate the pretender.

Your Servant, F.

The words shocked and surprised Brice so that he didn’t notice the door creak open until it was too late. He gasped and turned to run, then saw the face of a girl looking back at him, a fresh bruise marring one side of her otherwise pretty features. He wanted to run, to flee, to jump out the window, but he stood and stared, and the girl made not a sound. Brice couldn’t tell if she was too frightened to scream, or if she held her tongue so as not to alert her mistress. With apparent reluctance, the girl finally stepped through the door and closed it behind her.

“I suppose you mean to do my mistress harm,” she half-whispered. “I knew the day would come, but I never thought it would be so soon.”

“No, miss.”

“No?”

“We mean her no harm, not this day.”

“Then you spy upon her. Will you undo her?”

If only it were that simple. Brice sighed. “Probably. Eventually, we hope. Why do you remain quiet with burglars in your house?”

“The house isn’t mine. My only purpose here is to make sure it stays clean and its residents well-fed.” The girl touched the bruise and winced. “Some days are better than others.”