Hell's Foundations Quiver (41 page)

“Good,” the archbishop said. “And as soon as you've done that, Allayn, I want a complete analysis of this Brother Vyktyr's files. I want every report he ever wrote, and I want every agent inquisitor he ever worked with interviewed. I want to know exactly who he might have interrogated or interviewed about Vicar Sebahstean's assassination. It's most likely he got too close to something the heretics don't want us to know about, but it's remotely possible that something else—something that may have happened
years
ago but which they were afraid he or his superiors might put together—was behind it. Whatever it was, I want it found.”

“Understood, Your Eminence.” Wynchystair bowed, his nondescript face iron-hard. “If it's there to find, we'll find it for you.”

*   *   *

Snow fell silently, sifting onto the sidewalks of Mylycynt Court without the cutting winds which so often swept through the streets of Zion. Ahrloh Mahkbyth gazed out at it through the front window of his quietly elegant shop, watching the thick flakes settle as gently—and coldly—as a false lover's kiss. It was already dark and growing quickly darker. Other shops' windows glowed with lamplight, and he smoothed his guardsman's mustache with one index finger as he considered the time.

He wasn't as much a stickler as some of his fellow merchants about exactly when he closed shop, especially in the winter. His clientele was extremely well-heeled, including many members of the episcopate and more than a few vicars. Not that he often saw such exalted individuals in person here in the shop; that was what servants and wine stewards were for. He did see quite a few priests and upper-priests, though. He supposed some of that was a case of ambitious members of Mother Church's hierarchy being eager to be seen patronizing the “right” shops, but mostly it was because he was one of the half-dozen best in the entire city of Zion at his trade.

The fact that he was also an honorably retired Temple Guardsman didn't hurt, but he'd always had a refined palate. Twenty-two years ago, shortly after his son's death, he'd used the generous pension the Guard had extended to him, along with his savings and loans from a few people who'd believed in him, to open Mahkbyth's Fine Spirits and Wines.

He smiled—briefly—at the memory. Even his wife, Zhulyet, who'd loved him dearly, had been convinced he'd lost his mind. And, truth to tell, in some ways he'd come pretty close to doing just that after Dahnyld's death. But he'd proved the doubters wrong, and while the first major customers he'd secured might have been … ladies of negotiable virtue, their enthusiastic recommendation to their own clients had brought Ahrloh to the attention of his present ordained and quite often excessively wealthy customers.

He'd stayed in touch with his old comrades in arms, as well. At sixty-one, his physique remained powerful, kept that way by rigorous exercise that included regular fencing bouts with several current members of the Temple Guard. A dozen of his old friends had risen to senior rank in the last two decades, and he doubted their recommendations hurt his prospects with their ecclesiastic superiors, either. Whatever the explanation, business was brisk despite the unsettled times and life was about as good as a childless widower could have asked for.

On the positive side, Mahkbyth's Fine Spirits and Wines showed a very comfortable cash flow. Indeed, one of the reasons his hours could be as flexible as they were was that so many of his sales were special orders, with the price tags that implied these days. Perhaps even
especially
these days, since his cellars were deep and he'd laid in an extensive collection of the harder-to-get brands—especially from Chisholm—before the embargo had shut down legal commerce with the heretical Out Islands. There were some, mostly competitors, who suggested—quietly—that at least a few of those bottles and casks had found their way to Zion
after
the embargo was declared, but no one paid much heed to such libelous accusations. The mere thought that such illustrious individuals as Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair, Mother Church's own Chancellor, would patronize a common
smuggler
was preposterous! Why, even the Grand Inquisitor's wine steward had been known to nip into Mahkbyth's shop for the odd bottle of Vicar Zhaspahr's favorite Old Mykalym Grand Reserve, the single thing about Chisholm which had somehow escaped the Inquisition's anathematization.

On the negative side, when one of his special customers requested him to remain open a little later, he didn't really have much choice. Those sorts of people were accustomed to special treatment. They tended to get … surly when they didn't receive it, and the last thing anyone in Zion needed these days was to have high-ranking clergymen irked with him.

No one of such august stature had made any such request tonight, though, and so he stood there, watching the lights and thinking about the past, about his vanished family, about the future which would never have them in it, and about the things which made that future worthwhile anyway. A snow lizard-drawn trolley car rolled noisily past, the draft lizard's breath jetting like smoke, and he wondered how low the temperature was going to dip. Some of his fellow shopkeepers began to shutter their windows for the night, and the snow fell a little faster, and he stood there, watching it.

The bright, cheerful jingle of the silver bell above the shop's door was so sudden that Ahrloh twitched in surprise. Then he shook himself, straightened the subdued but well-tailored tunic that went with his professional standing, and turned to greet the last-minute customer.

“Good evening, Father.”

“And good evening to you, Master Mahkbyth,” the newcomer replied. He was a solidly built man, thirteen years younger and an inch or so taller than Ahrloh, who wore the purple-badged cassock of a Schuelerite priest under his heavy coat and carried a cane in his right hand. “I apologize for arriving so late, but I was delayed at the office.”

“It's not a problem,” Ahrloh assured him. “I was just standing here, watching the snow. Besides,” his lips twitched a fleeting smile, “there's no one waiting for me to get home by any set time. Well, no one except my housekeeper, and she's used to my … irregular habits, let's say.”

“If you're sure I'm not keeping you?”

“Well, to be honest, you are, Father.” Ahrloh smiled at him. “As I just said, though, my time's my own, and you're one of my better customers. In fact, I only wish you could afford the
really
expensive brands.”

“Ouch!” The priest raised his free left hand in a gesture of surrender. “You're already my greatest single monthly expense, Master Mahkbyth!”

“It's always a pity when the demands of someone's palette exceed the reach of his purse,” Ahrloh observed with another smile, this one more of a grin, and glanced over his shoulder at Zhak Myllyr, his senior employee.

“I think the snow's going to pile deeper tonight than we expected, Zhak,” he said. “If it does, the trolleys won't be running much longer, and you'll have a fair walk home in the cold. Why don't you go ahead and start now?”

“Are you sure, Master Mahkbyth?” Myllyr was about the priest's age, with hair and eyes as brown as the apron he wore. “I don't mind staying till closing.”

“Oh, don't be silly!” Ahrloh waved dismissively. “You've already swept, there's no dust anywhere I
can
see it, and I can close up just fine. And unlike me, you've got a wife and two children still at home waiting to make your life miserable—or maybe
my
life miserable—if you're late getting home. On the other hand, if I decide to, I can easily bed down here for the night. That's why I've got the cot in the office, isn't it? Mistress Gyzail doesn't start my supper till she sees me coming this time of year, and if I don't turn up, she'll feed Chestyr for me before she turns in herself. Two good things about cat-lizards: they'll eat dry food, and they don't need to be let out as long as there's a pan handy. Of course, he'll make my life Shan-wei's own hell
tomorrow
night, but every so often a man has to remind his cat-lizard who's in charge.”

Myllyr snorted, then shook his head and began removing his apron.

“In that case, I won't pretend I wouldn't like to get home while the trolleys are still running,” he admitted. He hung the apron on a hook behind the counter; bundled into his coat, scarf, and gloves; and nodded to the priest. “Good night, Father.”

“Good night, Zhak.”

The bell jangled again as Myllyr disappeared into the gathering darkness, and the cleric turned back to Ahrloh.

“How do you manage to smile at him that cheerfully?” he asked, leaning on his cane.

“He's been with me for twelve years, and he really does know his spirits. He's worth every silver I pay him, and as for the rest—” Ahrloh shrugged. “I've had lots of practice. Besides, not all of Rayno's informants are evil at heart any more than all of Rayno's enemies are pure of heart.”

“I suppose. Langhorne knows there are worse bastards out there,” the Schuelerite acknowledged, and it was his turn to shrug. “I really am sorry to be dropping in on you this late, Ahrloh, but something's come up.”

“That's what I figured when you sent your note around this afternoon,” Ahrloh replied. “Let me lock up behind Zhak, then we'll go down into the cellar where we can talk and I'll pick you out a bottle of something nice in case anyone asks about it.”

“Sounds good to me—you have so much better taste in these matters than I do, anyway.”

“Byrtrym, with all due respect, I could scarcely have
worse
taste than you do! Everyone knows you've been trusting me to pick out your whiskeys for the last eight years.”

“Yes, and I've been grateful to Arbalest ever since, even if you are a snob about it.”

Ahrloh laughed, then twitched his head towards the cellar stairs.

“Should I assume this has something to do with that little gift we left in the crypt at Saint Evyryt's?” he asked as he opened the door at the head of the stairs.

“You should indeed. In fact, it's had an … unanticipated consequence. Guess who Wynchystair's decided should coordinate with our esteemed Adjutant's and Grand Inquisitor's security staff?”

“Langhorne!” Ahrloh paused on the stairs, looking back over his shoulder, then whistled when the priest nodded. “Never saw that one coming.” He shook his head. “Opens all sorts of possibilities, doesn't it?”

He started down the stairs again as he spoke, the priest following him, careful on his weakened right leg.

“Not as many as we might like,” he said. “We could have gone ahead and gotten Rayno at Saint Evyryt's, you know. Now that he's been warned, he's going to be a lot more careful, and I'm only Wynchystair's liaison. It's not like I'm going to be involved in the day-to-day planning of his schedule, and you can be damned sure he and his bodyguards will be keeping that as close to their tunics as they can, especially after Saint Evyryt's.”

“Point's not about killing Rayno—not yet, anyway,” Ahrloh replied, turning up the wick on the lantern at the foot of the stair. “Mind you, I'd love to see the bastard dead, and his day'll come. But Arbalest's right. Killing Rayno before we get a clear shot at Clyntahn would produce the worst bloodbath Zion's ever seen—worse than when Clyntahn went after the Wylsynns and his other opponents in the vicarate. It would hurt the fat pig badly, at least for a while, but he'd find a replacement, and the cost to the innocent bystanders would be way too steep for such a short-term advantage. Scaring the shit out of all of them in the meantime's likely to be a lot more useful. Arbalest's right about that, too.”

The priest nodded, albeit a bit grudgingly, and Ahrloh lit another lantern from the wick of the first and led the way down a narrow aisle between dusty bottles.

“Let's go get that bottle of the good stuff,” he suggested. “In fact, let's get two of it. I think your news is worth cracking the seal for a wee dram or two of our own before you head back out into the ice and snow.”

*   *   *

“Hello, Stefyny.”

Stefyny Mahlard opened her eyes at the sound of her name.

She was warm. That was her first thought, the very first thing she realized. She was
warm
, and her vision blurred as that blessed, glorious warmth flowed through her. And then she realized she wasn't hungry, either. And that she didn't hurt—not
anywhere
.

She blinked away the tears of gratitude and made her eyes focus.

She lay on a bed, warmer and more wonderfully comfortable than any bed she'd ever felt, in a nest of crisp, clean sheets and blankets. An arched stone ceiling soared above her, glassy smooth and gleaming as if it had been polished in the light of some sort of lamp. That had to be what it was, although she'd never imagined any lamp remotely like it.

A lady leaned over her—the most beautiful lady she'd ever seen—and a soft hand was gentle on her cheek.

“Are … are you an angel?”

Her voice sounded tiny, even to herself, and the lady smiled, then sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress didn't even dip, a corner of Stefyny's mind realized, and the lady shook her head.

“No, dearling.” Her voice was as beautiful as her face. “No, I'm not an angel, and this isn't Heaven. I'm sure a girl like you will go there eventually, but not yet.”

“I'm not dead?”

Somehow she felt almost disappointed, and she blushed as the lady laughed gently and smoothed the hair—the beautiful, clean, freshly washed hair—back from Stefyny's forehead.

“Not yet,” she said. “And neither are your father and Sebahstean, although I'm afraid they're not awake yet. I promise you, all of you are as safe as if you were cradled in the hand of God, but you and I need to talk for a little bit before they wake up, all right?”