Paul Kearney - The Heretic Kings

Patrols of the Knights Militant and squads of the Almarkan garrison soldiers prowled the streets of Charibon, and the monks at Vespers whispered up and down the long pews when they were not singing to God’s glory. There was a murderer, or murderers, loose in Charibon. Heretics, perhaps, come spreading fear in the city at the behest of the heresiarch Macrobius who sat at the Devil’s right hand in Torunn. The senior Justiciars were forming an investigative body to get to the bottom of the affair, and the Pontiff himself was overseeing them.

But late that evening, in the white fury of yet another snow-storm, two events went unremarked by the patrols which were watching the perimeters of Charibon. One was the arrival of a small party of men on foot, struggling through the drifts with their black uniforms frosted white. The other was the departure of two bent and labouring monks bowed under heavy sacks, feeling their way through the blizzard with stout pilgrim’s staves and gasping in their pain and grief as they trudged along the frozen shores of the Sea of Tor, bypassing the bonfires of the sentry-posts by hiking far out on the frozen surface of the sea itself to where the pancake ice bunched and rippled under the wind like the unquiet contents of a white cauldron. Albrec and Avila struggled on with the ice gathering on their swollen faces and the blood in their hands and feet slowly solidifying in the intense depth of the raging cold. The snowstorm cloaked them entirely, so that they were not challenged once in their fumbling progress. But it also seemed to be fairly on the way to killing them before their flight had even got under way.

The party of black-clad men demanded admittance to the suites of the High Pontiff Himerius, and the startled guards and clerical attendants were spun into a frenzy by their unexpected appearance. Finally they were billeted in a warm, if austere, anteroom whilst the Pontiff was notified of their arrival. It was the first time in four centuries that Fimbrian soldiers had come to Charibon.

The Pontiff was being robed by two ageing monks in his private apartments when the Vicar-General of the Inceptine Order entered. The monks were dismissed and the two Churchmen stood looking at one another, Himerius still fastening his purple robe about his thickening middle.

“Well?” he asked.

Betanza took a seat and could not stifle a yawn: it was very late, and he had had a trying day.

“No luck. The two monks remain missing. They are either dead, if they are innocent, or fled if they are not.”

Himerius grunted, regarding his own reflection in the full-length mirror which graced the sombre opulence of his dressing chamber.

“They are guilty, Betanza: I feel it. Commodius was trying to stop them from committing heresy, and he died for it.” A spasm of indefinable emotion crossed the Pontiff’s aquiline features and then was gone. “May God have mercy on him, he was a loyal servant of the Church.”

“What makes you so sure that was the way of it, Holiness?” Betanza asked, obviously curious. His big soldier’s face was ruddy with the day he had spent, and scarlet lines intagliated the whites of his eyes.

“I know,” Himerius snapped. “You will send out search parties of the Knights to find these two runaways as soon as the weather permits. I want them brought back to Charibon to undergo inquisition.”

Betanza shrugged. “As you wish, Holiness. What of these Fimbrians closeted below? Will you see them tonight?”

“Yes. We must know if their arrival here at this time is a coincidence or part of a larger plan. I need not tell you, Betanza, that the events of today must not leave the city. No tales of murder in Charibon must trickle out to the kingdoms. This place must be unbesmirched, pure, unsullied by scandal or rumour.”

“Of course, Holiness,” Betanza said, at the same time wondering how he was supposed to muzzle a city of many thousands. Monks were worse than women for gossip. Still, the weather would help.

“A courier arrived here this afternoon, while you were occupied with other matters,” Himerius said lightly, and there was a different air about him suddenly, a glittering triumph that he could not keep out of his eyes. The Pontiff turned and faced the Vicar-General squarely, his hands clasped on his breast. It looked as though a wild grin was fighting to break out over his face. For an instant, Betanza thought, he looked slightly mad.

“Good news, my friend,” Himerius said, mastering himself. He was once more the sober cleric, weighed down with dignity and gravitas . “The courier came from Alstadt. It would seem that our devoted son of the Church, King Haukir of Almark, has died at last, may the Saints receive his flitting soul into their bosoms. This pious king, this paragon of dutiful faith, has left his kingdom to the Church.”

Betanza gaped. “You’re sure?”

“The courier carried a missive from Prelate Marat of Almark. He has been named regent of the kingdom until such time as I see fit to organize its governance. Almark is ours, Betanza.”

“What of the nobles? Have they aught to say about it?”

“They will acquiesce. They must. Almark has a strong contingent of the Knights Militant in its capital, and the Royal armies are for the most part billeted further east, along the line of the Saeroth river. Almark is ours, truly.”

“They say that events of moment are like nodes of history,” Betanza mused. “Where one occurs, others are likely to happen at the same time, sometimes in the same place. You may face these Fimbrians with new confidence, Holiness. The timing could not have been more opportune.”

“Precisely. It is why I will receive them now, though it is so late. I want the news to be a shock to them.”

“What do you think they want?”

“What does anyone these days? The Church owns Almark, it controls Hebrion. It has become an empire. Accommodation must be sought with it. I have no doubt that these Fimbrians are come to test the waters of diplomatic exchange. The old imperial power is bending in the new wind. Come: we will go down and meet them together.”

The Pontifical reception hall was full of shadows. Torches burned in cressets along the walls, and glowing braziers had been brought in to stand around the dais whereon rested the Pontiff’s throne. Knights Militant stood like graven monuments every ten paces along the walls, blinking themselves awake and stiffening the moment the Pontiff entered and sat himself down. Betanza remained standing at his right hand, and a pair of scribes huddled in their dark robes like puddles of ebony ink at the foot of the dais, quills erect. To one side Rogien, the old Inceptine who was also the manager of the Pontifical court, stood ready, his bare scalp gleaming in the torchlight.

The Fimbrians had to walk the length of the flame-and-shadowed hall, their boots clumping on the basalt floor. Four of them, all in black, except for the scarlet sash that one wore about his waist.

Hard-faced men, wind-burn rouging their cheeks and foreheads, their hair cropped as short as the mane of a hogged horse. They bore no weapons, but the Knights who lined the walls on either side of them watched them intently and warily with fists clenched on sword-hilts.

“Barbius of Neyr, marshal and commander in the Fimbrian army,” Rogien announced in a voice of brass.

Barbius inclined his head to Himerius. Fimbrians did not bend the knee to anyone save their emperor. Himerius knew this, yet the slight bow had so much of contempt in it that he shifted in his throne, his liver-spotted hands tightening on the armrests.

“Barbius of the electorate of Neyr, you are welcome in Charibon,” the Pontiff said calmly. “The urgency of your errand is written in your face and those of your companions, and so we have deigned to grant you an audience despite the lateness of the hour. Quarters appropriate for your rank have been set aside for you and your comrades, and as soon as the audience is over there will be food and drink served to help sustain the flagging spirit.”