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  “What’ve you got in mind?”

  “Just get them! And make certain they’re men we can trust. Have them dress in civilian clothes.” Rosacher indicated the three servants who were hustling the assassin from the room. “See that they get some money.”

  Once Arthur had gone, he went into the bathroom and lit the wall lamp. Memories crowded into his brain, new ones mixing with old, slotting into their rightful place, aligning with events, times, locations, and even before he looked into the mirror he knew that he had suffered a second and more substantial lapse of time. Six years! No, seven. Seven years. He was surprised by how greatly he had changed. His head was no longer shaven, his hair flecked with gray, curling down over his neck. His face was leaner, harsher, with deep lines beside the mouth and eyes. An imperious face, unadmitting of emotion. He found much to admire in that face. A new firmness was seated there, reflecting a pragmatic cast of mind—that must explain why he was not so disoriented as he had been on the previous occasion. He had grown more adaptable to change, though he could not adapt to the idea that years were being ripped away from him.

  Blood trickled from the cut on his jaw and from another on his brow, running down his cheek and neck. A bloodstain mapped the right shoulder of his nightshirt. He took off the shirt and inspected the wounds to his shoulder and collarbone. They were shallow and both had nearly stopped bleeding. His anger had dissipated to a degree, but now it hardened and thrust up from his other emotions like a mountain peak from a sea of clouds. Although he was furious with the Church, who had undoubtedly sent the assassin, the greater portion of his outrage was reserved for himself and for the worlds, the knowledge that he had not conquered in the way he had desired…and for Griaule, the agency ultimately responsible for his travail and disappointment. No blow on the head could have caused this and he could no longer deny that a monstrous lizard ruled his fate. That Griaule had spared his life by sending a messenger gave him no comfort. He was, he thought, being preserved for some more intricate fate and he hungered for something, a spell, a spoonful of medicine, a prayer that would restore his lost years. His thoughts lashed about in frustration.

  A tapping at the door diverted him and he yanked it open, preparing to vilify whomever it might be. The maid, her brown hair cropped short, broad-beamed and heavy-breasted, her dumpling face stamped with a common prettiness that would before long slump into matronly, double-chinned drabness…she bore ointment and bandages. As she applied the ointment, going about it with mute animal concentration, he felt an urge to re-establish control, to impose his will, and that urge combined with a less subtle desire. He fondled her breasts, an intimacy that did not cause her to complain. He might have been patting her on the head for all the reaction she displayed. Once she had done with the bandages, he bent her over the sink. She hiked up her skirts and diddled herself, making ready for him. Her bovine compliance irritated him and he spent the next ten or fifteen minutes trying to transform her stuporous expression into one that resembled passion. She hung her head and he ordered her to lift it so he could watch her face in the mirror. At length she closed her eyes and pressed her lips together and yielded up a thin squeal. He sent her from him, telling her to take a coin from atop the dresser, and—his confidence if not fully revived, then braced and polished—he threw on his clothes and went down to the cellar to determine what had been learned from the assassin.

  7

  Of all the buildings atop Haver’s Roost, the cathedral was the grandest and most graceful, a serene architecture of swoops and curves that made it appear as if the body of the building had been modeled after some natural shape—a nesting white dove, perhaps. Instead of the dove’s neck and head, a blunt spire arose, forming at its peak the setting for a crystal the size of a small house, the mother of the gem carried by the assassin (these crystals were mined only in the caves underlying the Cathedral of the Lioness in far-off Mospiel, the seat of the church’s authority, and a lavish ceremony accompanied their placement atop each new spire). Rather than looking out of place amid the less ambitious geometries of the government buildings, the cathedral seemed to knit them together, to be the altar before which they, the simple pews, were arranged.

  The morning star had risen and the sky had lightened to a deep royal blue by the time Rosacher and his militia reached the church. He deployed half his men, armed with rifles and under an officer’s direction, to watch the exits of the rectory attached to the rear of the church, and kept the remainder to guard the double doors at the front. Once the men were in position, he appropriated two lanterns and hurled them against the doors, an act that magnified his rage. Burning oil spattered the wood and soon the doors were ablaze. Arthur sent four men to guard the entrance to the square. Showing uncommon foresight, the city fathers had chosen to leave the entrance a narrow path between buildings that could barely funnel two men walking abreast into the square, thus permitting it to be easily defended against a mob. Rosacher doubted there would be more than token resistance to his actions, if that. In recent years the influence of the church, both in Teocinte and elsewhere, had been undercut by the popularity of mab.

  The doors collapsed into a heap of burning boards and, calmer now that he had taken this step, Rosacher kicked them aside as he moved into the nave, catching sight of a priest jumping down from the altar and ducking into the corridor that led away into the rectory. Except for the chuckling of the flames at his back, all was silent and, though his attitude toward the Church was thoroughly cynical, he found the body of the cathedral daunting, with its formidable phalanxes of empty black pews and a ceiling illumined by a mural that depicted the advent of the Gentle Beast (its image not shown, but its presence intimated by a wash of white light before which the lesser beasts, man included, bowed). Aisles carpeted in dark green channeled toward the altar, a stage set decorated in a medley of greens and sectioned off by velvet ropes behind which were displayed seven wooden thrones, each inlaid with a design of gold and lapis lazuli denoting its station; and above it all was suspended a crystal smaller than the one atop the spire, though not so small that it failed to light every corner of the cathedral. Even Arthur looked to be cowed by the setting, but he ordered the militiamen forward and, with Rosacher at their head, they advanced to the foot of the altar.

  “Your assassin is dead!” shouted Rosacher. “Must I ferret you from your holes?”

  He waited for a reply and, when none was forthcoming, he said, “I want to speak with Bishop Ruiz! I’ll give you two minutes to send him out! Two minutes! Then I’ll send in my men!”

  Arthur eased up beside him. “What’s the plan?”

  “That’s up to the bishop,” said Rosacher.

  “Burning down the doors of a church…it won’t sit well with the prelates in Mospiel.”

  “What would you have me do? Kill them?”

  “You can’t trust ’em. Might as well be damned for stealing a crown as for stealing a penny.”

  “Perhaps I will kill them. But one should never act before one explores the possibilities for negotiation.”

  “I thought you were angry,” Arthur said. “When I’m angry I don’t think about nothing.”

  Rosacher grunted in amusement. “You may find that instructive.”

  A thin, dark priest in a brown robe, his skin a shade lighter than Ludie’s, emerged from the door leading to the rectory. His crispy hair was turning gray, yet his features were those of a handsome man of middle years: wide, full lips, a broad nose and a high forehead.

  “Good morning, Bishop,” said Rosacher. “I apologize for disturbing your sleep, but then mine was disturbed this night…and most rudely.”

  “If you leave now I may be able to intercede with you before the Beast,” Ruiz said sternly.

  He drew himself up, possibly preparing to deliver a vow or an imprecation, but Rosacher stepped into the gap and said, “Put to rest any notion that your animist claptrap has any hold on me. Surely a man who has been in the religion business for as long as you can r
ecognize a confirmed skeptic? I recognize you as such, so let’s do away with pretense and see if we can devise a circumstance that will guarantee your safety beyond morning.”

  Ruiz was stoic, yet his anxiety seemed to stir the air. “I will not speak with you so long as your men occupy the church.”

  Rosacher ordered the militiamen to withdraw and, once they were out of earshot, he said, “There. No witnesses save for Arthur, and you may think of him as an interested party to our conversation.”

  “You dare much,” said Ruiz. “Do you know the force that will be brought against you for this night’s work? Once news of your sacrilege reaches Mospiel, they will move swiftly.”

  “The news may never reach Mospiel,” said Rosacher. “At least in no form that you would sanction.”

  With a florid gesture he invited the bishop to sit with him in the front pew. Arthur leaned against the altar rail.

  “I’ve been speculating on the effect that a weakened church may have upon my enterprise for some time now,” said Rosacher. “I presumed the waning of the church’s influence would be good for business, but I didn’t anticipate the swiftness with which it would wane. Nor did I expect the church would be moved to acts of desperation. I take it the order for the assassination originated with that old fart in Mospiel?”

  Ruiz maintained a stiff silence.

  Rosacher made a frustrated noise. “There’s no point to your obstinacy. The boy has confessed.”

  “If you already know the answer,” said Ruiz, “why ask the question?”

  “I wish to confirm that His High Holiness issued the order and not you. It will make a significant difference in my handling of the situation.”

  Ruiz deliberated for a matter of seconds and returned a minimal nod. “I have no voice in such decisions.”

  “Why send a boy to do the job?” asked Rosacher. “Is the Church’s opinion of me so low?”

  “Understand that I was against this from the outset. My opinion aside, they had used the boy previously. He was adjudged competent.”

  “Well,” Rosacher said. “He’s no longer capable of competence, let me assure you.”

  “They?” said Arthur. “Not we?”

  “I deemed it unnecessary,” Ruiz said. “When measured against the life of the church, the life of one man is transitory and unimportant. Even should you live out your natural span, you’ll die soon enough.”

  “Most reasonable,” said Rosacher. “But mab will continue to be produced long after I die.”

  Ruiz sniffed. “People tire of perfection.”

  “A verity that likely explains the longevity of the church.”

  Ruiz refrained from comment.

  “I suppose we could debate whose drug is superior,” said Rosacher. “But our time might be better spent in coming up with a strategy that will allow the two to co-exist.”

  “Are you toying with me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I don’t believe you. I’m told you’re the kind of predator who likes to lick his prey all over before biting them in half. I refuse to engage in the process.”

  “Whom have I bitten in half recently?”

  Ruiz turned from Rosacher and sat facing the green-and-gold depth of the altar.

  “You won’t talk to me?” Rosacher asked. “Even though it may be to your advantage?”

  The bishop closed his eyes and sighed.

  “I’ll talk, then.” Rosacher crossed his legs and leaned back. “Almost fifty years ago the church convened a council to determine whether or not Griaule should be included in its pantheon. Not surprisingly, the decision was a narrow one in favor of the status quo. I’m of the opinion that the council should be re-convened to study the question anew.”

  It appeared that Ruiz was about to speak, but he pressed his lips together and maintained his silence.

  “But I’m getting ahead of myself,” Rosacher went on. “If war should arise from what I’ve done this morning—and the Church has prosecuted wars with much less provocation—it will be long and costly. I control the militia and the city council. I can promise you that Teocinte will defend itself vigorously no matter how great a force is brought against it. Yet this can all be averted by a simple negotiation.”

  “People have also warned me against your negotiations,” Ruiz said.

  “Then you are forearmed, are you not?”

  The bishop inclined his head. “Do you have a proposal?”

  “I do. In exchange for a cessation of hostilities between the Church and myself, I am willing, after the passage of twenty-five years, to hand over all factories and business connections, all my stock, everything relating to the production and sale of mab. Further, I’ll reveal the process by which the drug is refined. In the interim, I’ll cease my ranting about the church.”

  Ruiz looked at him askance. “That seems rather one-sided. Why would you capitulate to this extent?”

  “I’m already wealthy,” said Rosacher. “In twenty-five years I’ll be obscenely wealthy. Within a decade mab will be but a minor portion of my business interests and so, in return for what will be inconsequential to me, I’ll have peace of mind. I’ll never entirely trust you, of course, but I will trust that you won’t raise an army against me.”

  “Perhaps we should have sent an assassin years ago,” Ruiz said with a half-smile.

  “I wasn’t prepared to make this offer years ago,” said Rosacher. “I am now. Will you convey my proposal to Mospiel?”

  “What surety can you provide that you’ll reveal the refining process?”

  “The same you can provide me that there’ll be no future attempts on my life. None. A certain amount of trust is implicit in every bargain. But you will have a legal document certifying the transferal of my stocks of mab to the Church. That alone will profit you enormously.”

  “Very well,” Ruiz said after a pause. “I’ll pass along the proposal. I imagine Mospiel will be sufficiently interested to send an emissary who will judge whether or not you’re a reasonable man. He’ll be someone with the authority to negotiate the particulars of an agreement.”

  “Excellent! I look forward to speaking with him.”

  Ruiz adopted a more relaxed posture. “This business of a re-convened council? What does that have to do with the agreement we’ve discussed?”

  “We’ll need an explanation for the burnt doors. Since people tend to blame the weather on Griaule, why not blame him for this? Or credit him?”

  “Credit him with violating the sanctity of the Church?”

  “If the Church intends to associate itself with a product that incorporates the dragon’s blood, it would be foolish to demonize him further. It would be helpful, as I said, if the church convened a council to revisit the question of Griaule’s divinity. They needn’t reach any conclusion. Merely convening such a body will send a signal that will be impossible to ignore.”

  “I see your point, but what excuse can there be for burning down the doors of a church? How can it be painted as a righteous act?”

  “Two prostitutes were murdered in Morningshade last week. Isn’t that right, Arthur?”

  “Aye. Chopped into bits, they were,” the giant said.

  “And the murderer escaped without being identified, did he not?”

  “That he did. He wore a hooded cape and none saw his face. It’s said he were a traveler in ladies’ apparel, but there’s no proof of that. At any rate, I wager he’s long gone from Teocinte.”

  “There’s your excuse,” Rosacher said to Ruiz. “The murderer sought refuge in the church. Griaule, aware of this as he is of all things, became so outraged that he sent a wisp of his fiery breath to point the way. I’ll leave it to you to provide the miraculous details. You’re more versed at it than I.”

  “Your men,” said Ruiz. “They witnessed the event.”

  “They’re good lads,” said Arthur. “They know how to hold their tongues. They’ll bear witness to whatever they’re told to.”

  “As, I’m s
ure, will your priests,” Rosacher said. “And if we both stand behind the story, who’s to gainsay us?”

  Ruiz rested the point of his chin atop his clasped hands and nodded. “It’s very neat. I can see no flaw. None that would be an impediment, at any rate.” His smile seemed the article of an oily complicity. “Everyone expects a loose end or two where religious matters are concerned.”

  “It’s settled, then?”

  “I can’t speak for Mospiel, but once they’ve studied your proposal I have little doubt that they’ll seize the opportunity to enter into an agreement.”

  “Very well, then!” Rosacher stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now all we need is a priest to stand in for the murderer.”

  Ruiz gaped at him.

  “The common folk loves their executions,” said Arthur. “They don’t never feel so right as when someone’s dancing the Devil’s Jig.”

  “Do you have a true believer among your priests?” Rosacher asked. “Someone young and naïve who’ll perceive his sacrifice as necessary for the good of the Church?”

  “It’s best when they go to the gallows all pale and stricken,” Arthur said. “It don’t really matter if they proclaim their innocence. People’s blood is up and they’d drop the trapdoor on his High Holiness himself just to watch his heels kick.”

  Ruiz’s expression swerved between outrage and bewilderment.

  “Surely you didn’t think this gain would come without some trivial cost?” Rosacher asked.

  “Trivial? You call a man’s life trivial?”

  “I believe you yourself expressed a similar idea,” said Rosacher. He pretended to search his memory. “How did you put it? Something about the life of one man…”

  Ruiz came to his feet. “I’ll have nothing to do with this!”

  “Your participation would facilitate matters, but it’s scarcely essential. I will, through some agency, succeed in gaining the prelate’s ear. You might consider how it will go for you when Mospiel learns of your reluctance to pass on a lucrative offer. I understand you have friends in high places, but the church has been uniformly repressive of those who stand in the way of its profit. I feel certain they would thwart any ambitions you harbor with regard toward advancement in the hierarchy. And that may be the least consequence of their displeasure.”