“Have you heard the reports from the Fairwitch, Majesty?” the Holy Father asked.
“I have. Children disappearing and some invisible murderer that stalks in the night.”
“How do you plan to address the matter?”
“Difficult to say, until I get some hard evidence of what’s going on.”
“While you wait, Majesty, the problem grows worse. Cardinal Penney tells me that several families have disappeared in the foothills. The Cardinal himself has seen dark shadows in the night around his castle. It’s the devil’s work, for certain.”
“And how would you suggest that I fight the devil?”
“Prayer, Majesty. Devotion. Have you never considered that this might be God’s vengeance on the Tearling?”
“For what?”
“For laxity of faith. For backsliding.”
Father Tyler dropped his fork. It hit the ground with a clatter, and he crawled under the table to retrieve it.
“Prayer will not save us from a serial killer, Your Holiness.”
“Then what will?”
“Action. Judicious action, taken after all the consequences are weighed.”
“Your faith is weak, Majesty.”
Kelsea put down her fork. “You will not goad me.”
“I had no thought to goad, only to offer spiritual advice. Many of your actions subvert God’s will.”
Kelsea saw where this was going now, and she leaned her chin on both hands. “Do tell, Your Holiness.”
The Holy Father raised his eyebrows. “You wish me to list your transgressions?”
“Why not?”
“Fine, Majesty. I will. Three heretics and two homosexuals were in Crown custody at the start of your reign, and you have freed them all. Worse, you tolerate open homosexuality in your own Guard.”
What was this? Kelsea fought down the urge to look at Mace, or at any other member of her Guard. She had never heard a whisper of any such thing.
“Your own failure to marry sets a terrible example for young women everywhere. I have heard speculation that you may have homosexual sympathies yourself.”
“Indeed, Your Holiness, the sexual freedom of consenting adults is the greatest threat this kingdom has ever faced,” Kelsea replied acidly. “God knows how we’ve lasted so long.”
The Holy Father was not derailed. “And most recently, Majesty, I have been informed that you mean to tax the Arvath, like any secular body, on its landholdings. But surely this must be a mistake.”
“Ah, so we finally come to it. No mistake, Your Holiness. God’s Church is a landholder like any other. Beginning in February, I will expect monthly payments on all of your property.”
“The Church has always been exempt from taxation, Majesty, all the way back to David Raleigh. The exemption encourages good works and selflessness on the part of our brothers.”
“You reap profit from your land, Your Holiness, and despite your mandate, you’re not a charitable institution. I don’t see the vast bulk of your income flowing back to the public.”
“We distribute bread to the poor, Majesty!”
“Well done. Saint Simone herself could hardly do more.” Kelsea leaned forward, trying to soften the edge in her voice. “However, since you bring up the point, I have an offer for you.”
“What is that?”
“If my estimates are correct, by the end of July, most of the Tearling will be housed at the Caddell Camp outside the walls. When the Mort come, all of the displaced will need to be brought into the city.”
“That will make New London terribly crowded, Majesty.”
“Indeed, and since you claim to be a charitable institution, I thought you could show some of that Christian spirit by providing food and housing as well.”
“Housing?”
“I will be opening the Keep to refugees, but you have the second largest building in New London, Your Holiness. Nine floors, and I’m told that only two of them are actually used for housing.”
“How do you know that?” the Holy Father asked angrily, and Kelsea was dismayed to see him shoot a glare at Father Tyler. “The Arvath is sacrosanct.”
“Seven empty floors, Your Holiness,” she pressed on. “Think how many displaced people you could house and feed.”
“There is no extra space in the Arvath, Majesty.”
“In return,” Kelsea continued, as though he had not spoken, “I would be willing to consider all of the Church’s New London property as charitable, and forgive the tax on those landholdings.”
“Only New London?” The Holy Father burst out laughing, an unexpected sound from his mirthless face. “New London constitutes only a tiny fraction of our property, Majesty. Now, if you were willing to throw in our holdings in the northern Almont, there might be an arrangement to make.”
“Ah, yes . . . your farmlands. Where the poor work for pennies a day and their children start in the fields at the age of five. Charitable property indeed.”
“These people would otherwise have no employment at all.”
Kelsea stared at him. “And that allows you to sleep at night?”
“I sleep well enough, Majesty.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Majesty!” Father Tyler stood up abruptly, his face panic-stricken. “I must use the restroom. Excuse me.”
Somewhere during the argument, Milla had slid a dessert plate in front of Kelsea: cheesecake dotted with strawberries. Kelsea made quick work of it; it wasn’t one of Milla’s best efforts, but there really was no bad cheesecake, and even Kelsea’s temper was not enough to blunt her appetite. Mace gave her a pleading glance, but Kelsea shook her head. While she chewed, she cast surreptitious glances at her guards, wondering for whom that remark about homosexuality had been meant. Perhaps, like so many things in God’s Church, the Holy Father had simply produced it from thin air, but Kelsea didn’t think so; it was too odd a claim. And was it any of her business anyway? According to Carlin, the institutionalized homophobia of the pre-Crossing had wasted vast amounts of time and resources. Barty, with characteristic practicality, always said that God had better things to worry about than what happened between the sheets.
No, Kelsea decided, it’s not my business. She wished she could simply tell the Holy Father to go fuck himself—it would feel wonderful—but where would she house all of those remaining refugees, if not in the Arvath? Bedding, sanitation, medical care . . . without the Church, it would be a disaster. Briefly, Kelsea considered threatening to seize the Arvath itself under eminent domain, just as she had threatened that group of idiot nobles a few weeks ago. But no, that would be a disastrous move. A direct attack on the Arvath would only confirm every dire warning the Holy Father’s people recounted in the pulpit, and too many people believed the Church’s nonsense. The Holy Father had been trying to make her angry, Kelsea realized now, and he had succeeded. Anger made Kelsea strong, but it weakened her as well; she saw no route to wend her way back into negotiation now, not without losing ground.
“I think His Holiness and I have provided enough entertainment for one evening,” she announced, standing up. “Shall we move on to the real performance?”
The Holy Father smiled, though the smile did not meet his eyes. He hadn’t touched his cheesecake either, and Kelsea cast her mind back, trying to remember if he’d eaten anything at all. Was he worried about poison? Surely this man would not scruple at making one of his acolytes taste the food.
You’re wandering. Focus on the Arvath. The Mort.
Kelsea tried, but she didn’t see what could be done to repair the situation now. And wasn’t this all academic anyway? The Mort would be here long before the new tax year, and New London would never stand up to a prolonged siege. Debating next year’s taxes was like painting a house that lay right in the path of a hurricane. Perhaps she should just relent, but at the mere thought of it, Kelsea’s mind conjured the Arvath steeple: pure gold, worth many thousands of pounds. She could not give in.
As the group mov
ed toward the throne, Father Tyler reappeared beside Kelsea, speaking in a low voice. “Lady, I beg you not to antagonize him further.”
“He can take care of himself.” But Kelsea paused, seeing anew the priest’s pale face, the weight that had dropped from his already thin frame. “What is it you’re frightened of, Father?”
Father Tyler shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing, Majesty. My concern is for you.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I do plan to be on my best behavior for the rest of the night.”
“And yet that plan so often fails.”
Kelsea laughed, clapping him on the back. Tyler’s grimace became more pronounced, and she bit her lip; she had forgotten that she wasn’t supposed to touch a member of God’s Church. “Sorry, Father.”
He shrugged, then grinned mischievously, a rare occurrence for Father Tyler. “It’s fine, Lady. Unlike His Holiness, I’m not concerned about your wanton sexuality.”
Kelsea chuckled, and gestured for him to come with her to the top of the dais, where two armchairs had been set up. The Holy Father was already seated, and he gave Kelsea one of those disturbingly bland smiles as she sat down. His acolytes remained standing at the foot of the dais; Mace gestured for Elston to stay with them. So Mace, too, was worried about the tall acolyte with the weasel’s face. Memory tugged at Kelsea for a moment before letting go.
Mace snapped his fingers at the magician, Bradshaw, who came forward and made a shallow bow. He didn’t wear the brightly colored clothing Kelsea had seen on so many street performers; rather, he was dressed very simply, in black. A table had been set up nearby to hold his props: an assortment of objects, including two small cabinets placed perhaps two feet apart. Bradshaw opened the cabinets, lifted each to show that there was no false bottom, then took a cup from the dinner table and placed it in one cabinet, shutting the door tightly. When he opened the door of the other cabinet, the cup was there.
Kelsea clapped, pleased, though she had no idea how the trick was done. Not magic, surely, but it had the appearance of magic, and that was good enough. Bradshaw made a quick succession of objects appear in each cabinet: one of Dyer’s gloves, a bowl from the table, two daggers, and finally, Mace’s mace. This last caught Mace out with a bewildered expression that turned momentarily to anger, then back to bewilderment as Bradshaw took the mace from the cabinet and presented it to him with a smile.
Kelsea clapped loudly; few people could put one over on Mace, and even fewer would have dared to try. Mace inspected his favorite weapon for a moment, as a jeweler would inspect diamonds, and finally appeared to conclude that it was indeed the same mace. In a low voice, Kelsea told Elston to give the magician a fifty percent tip.
The Holy Father was clearly unimpressed; he had watched the entire performance with an increasingly sour expression and had not clapped once.
“Not a fan of illusions, Your Holiness?”
“Not really, Majesty. All magicians are con artists, deceiving the common people into belief in pagan magic.”
Kelsea nearly rolled her eyes, but stopped herself. Her window of opportunity was closing here; once the Holy Father walked out the door, he was never coming back. And perhaps he would be more amenable to reason now, when there were fewer people to overhear. Bradshaw was waving his hands in a performative fashion below; Kelsea waited until he produced a mouse from nowhere before asking quietly, “What would tempt you to accept my offer?”
“Perhaps we could reach a compromise, Majesty. Forgive the taxes on both our New London holdings and half of our acreage in the Almont, and the Church will happily feed and house four floors’ worth of the displaced.”
Kelsea looked up at Mace. “How much tax money is that?”
“Only Arliss would know for certain, Lady. But you’re talking at least a thousand square miles of producing farmland. A year’s taxes would be a good sum.”
“Not just a year,” the Holy Father interjected. “In perpetuity.”
“In perpetuity?” Kelsea repeated in an incredulous whisper. “I could build my own damned Arvath with the money the Tearling would lose over five years alone.”
“You could build it, Majesty, but you don’t have the time.” The Holy Father grinned, and for the first time his eyes showed a glimmer of light . . . but it wasn’t a good sort of light at all. “The Mort will be here by autumn, and you’re over a barrel. That’s why we’re having this conversation.”
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that you’re anything more than a convenience to me, Your Holiness. I don’t need your pile of gold.”
“Then don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m frightened of your tax collector, Majesty. By the time the New Year rolls around, you’ll be in no position to tax anyone.”
Kelsea had been thinking the same thing not five minutes before, but this fact only made her angrier. She turned fully toward him, no longer even pretending to take interest in the magic show. “And what good is all that gold doing you, Your Holiness? Who is it you’re trying to impress with that steeple of yours? God?”
“God is not interested in such trifles.”
“My point exactly.”
“Devout parishioners donated that gold, Majesty, as a matter of repentance and good works. Your uncle was one of them.”
“My uncle had seven concubines and no marriage in sight. How devout could he be?”
“Your uncle confessed those sins to Father Timpany, Majesty, and was absolved.”
“A fascinating system. Children of four are subjected to more discipline.”
The Holy Father’s voice tightened in anger. “You have criminal laws for secular punishment, Majesty. My concern is simply salvation of the soul.”
“But the gold helps, right?”
“How dare you—”
“Your Majesty!” Bradshaw gave another elaborate bow at the foot of the dais. “For my final trick, may I ask one of your Guard to volunteer?”
Kelsea produced a wilted smile. “Kibb.”
Kibb headed down the steps, to the chuckles of the other guards, but Kelsea barely paid attention. Her hands were clenched tightly on the arms of her chair. It was all she could do not to throttle the man sitting next to her.
All that room, she thought, staring at the Holy Father, her temples throbbing. All that room and all that gold. You don’t use it, you don’t need it, but it’s not to be shared. If we live through the invasion, my friend, I am going to tax you until you scream for mercy.
The Holy Father stared back at her with the supreme arrogance of one who had nothing to fear. Kelsea remembered a remark Mace had made, weeks ago: that the Holy Father wasn’t above dealing with Demesne under the table. If the Holy Father had already made his deal, then of course he wouldn’t be threatened by Kelsea; he need only sit and wait until the Mort army rolled in, sparing the Arvath and laying waste to everything else. And now Kelsea felt the first seeds of despair take root in her heart. She had spent the last month running back and forth, moving frantically from one option to the next, trying to find a solution, and now she looked up and found herself surrounded by cannibals.
“In honor of your holy guests, Majesty!” Bradshaw produced the cup he’d used earlier and filled it with water from a small canteen, then handed it to Kibb. “Have a sip, sir, and please confirm that it’s water.”
Kibb sipped gently at the cup. “Water indeed.”
The magician brought the cup to the front of the dais and held it up for Kelsea’s inspection, waiting until she nodded to continue. With a small, polite bow to the Holy Father, Bradshaw covered the mouth of the cup with one hand and snapped the fingers of the other. A small flash of light appeared between his fingers, and then Bradshaw held the cup up to Kelsea again, removing his hand. The water in the goblet was now a deep, dark red.
“For her Majesty’s pleasure!” Bradshaw announced. “Where’s my able assistant?”
Kibb raised his hand, and the magician danced over to him, holding out the cup. “Taste it, sir. It will
do you no harm.”
Kibb, smiling with a touch of anxiety, took a small sip from the cup. An astonished look came over his face, and he took a second, larger sip. Turning to Kelsea, he announced in an amazed voice, “Majesty, it’s wine.”
Kelsea chuckled, then giggled, and finally could not stop herself from roaring with laughter. She didn’t miss the look of fury on the Holy Father’s darkening face, but that only made her laugh harder. Below the dais, Bradshaw smiled, his face flushing with triumph.
“Get up, get up!”
The shorter acolyte had fainted dead away, and the taller one was shaking him, hissing commands. But the young man was out cold.
The Holy Father rose from his seat, his face a deep, rich red that pleased Kelsea no end. Father Tyler was murmuring gently in his ear, but the Holy Father shoved him away. He showed no concern for the unconscious boy on the floor.
“I see no humor in an insult offered to guests,” the Holy Father snarled. “That was a blasphemous joke, Majesty, in poor taste.”
“Don’t look at me, Your Holiness. I don’t keep court performers. His tricks are his own.”
“I want an apology!” he snapped, and Kelsea, who had assumed that this sort of ludicrous outrage was part of a Holy Father’s job description, found herself hesitating, because his anger was clearly genuine. But even if Bradshaw had produced Mary the Virgin from a hat, no one could possibly take a magic trick seriously. The smart move was conciliation, but Kelsea was long past that now. She tapped her nails on the arm of the chair and asked sweetly, “An apology from whom?”
“From this impostor, Majesty.”
“Impostor? I’m quite sure he didn’t mean to represent himself as the actual Christ, Your Holiness.”
“I demand an apology.”
“Did you just give the Queen an order?” Mace asked, his voice deadly soft.