Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (21 page)

Ad secondum dicendum licet creaturae non pertingant ad hoc quod sint similes Deo secundum suam naturam, similitudine speciei, ut homo genitus homini generanti; attingunt tamen ad eius similitudinem secundum repraesentationem rationis intellectae a Deo, ut domus quae est in materia, domui quae est in mente artificis. Non dicitur esse similitudo creaturae ad Deum propter communicantiam in forma secundum eandem rationem generis et speciei, sed secundum analogiam tantum; prout scilicet Deus est ens per essentiam, et alia per participationem. Ergo aelvi habent animae naturaliter unita.

THE LIGHTS OF ELEBRION were few and far between as they broke through the clouds. Fog and cloud encircled the city on its mountaintop like a crown. Marcus greeted the sight with relief. The open sky was bitterly cold despite the protection of the oversized leathers he was wearing, but it scared him almost witless to fly sightless through the dampness of the clouds.

Still, if it was frightening to ride upon the back of the powerful warhawk with only a thin leather strap preventing him from plunging to his death, it was nevertheless much to be preferred over being carried dangling below it in its claws.

Caitlys was a warm, sweet-smelling presence in front of him, and he couldn’t resist the urge to press more closely against her for warmth as she leaned back into him and pressed her cheek against his.

“Is there anyone you can trust?” she said over the wind.

“Yes!” he shouted back. “I have two slaves, a dwarf and a man.”

“Are you sure of them?”

“Yes! One saved my life on the journey here. The other I’ve known all my life.”

They soared low over the roofs, banking occasionally to avoid a spire or high facade that jutted inconveniently skyward. Marcus would have marveled at the warhawk’s incredible ability to anticipate and avoid potential disaster at such speed, if only he wasn’t terrified that every time they evaded an obstacle he was going to fall off. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to tighten his grip on Caitlys’s waist, which, he couldn’t help noticing, was inhumanly slender even under her sky-riding coat.

“There!” she cried, pointing to a three-story building that looked vaguely familiar to him. “We have to get you inside without anyone noticing. We’ll land on the roof. I hope your chamber has a window.”

Marcus thought about the small room he’d been given to share with Marce and Lodi. It did have a window, he was sure. It had two windows, in fact, on either side of the corner …

It was a corner room! It would make it, and him, easier to find.

Now, if he could only remember which corner it was and which floor it was on. Unfortunately, he’d been to it only once, when they’d been shown there by the elven guards after their first appearance before the High King.

Lost in retracing his steps earlier that day, he didn’t notice that Caitlys was landing the warhawk on the rooftop. As the bird lurched to an unexpected stop, his nose slammed into the back of her head and he cried out in pain.

“Pay attention!” she snapped. When he didn’t answer right away, she turned in the saddle to look back at him. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just my nose.” He examined the blood on his hand. “I’ll be all right. I think I know which room is ours. It’s the one over there on the highest level.”

She followed his pointing finger and nodded. “Good. It will be easiest if I lower a rope and you climb down. Can you manage that?”

“You have a rope?”

“Of course!” She pointed to a thick grey twine wrapped around the forward horn of the sky-saddle. “One never knows when someone will get hurt on a mountain or something needs to be moved quickly. And you’re inexperienced with birds, so I don’t think you’ll have the balance to jump from Vengirasse’s back to the window.”

“No, I don’t think I will. But you’re not strong enough to hold me, are you?”

“The rope’s tied to the saddle.”

Marcus nodded, thoughtlessly wiped at his nose, then tried unsuccessfully to wipe the blood off onto the leathers he was wearing. As he slid down from the bird’s back, Caitlys played out the rope to extend just past the top row of windows. “Two more,” he said. “You need to move him forward a little more.”

The elf girl made a clucking sound, and Vengirasse indignantly rose on his two legs and took a single step before ruffling his feathers and making a protesting sound. “Enough, lazy fowl.”Caitlys scratched at his neck until he lowered his feathers flat once more. “Will that do?”

“It should.” Marcus gripped the rope with both hands and slid slowly down the angled roof. The weathered stone was slippery, and he had to steel himself to slide out over the edge, bending at the waist so that he could get the rope below him wrapped around his ankle to slow his descent a little more. “I’ll try not to be too long.”

“Try not to fall or otherwise get yourself killed, Valerian. If the rope’s still there, I’m still here.”

He nodded and waved, then turned his attention to the task at hand. It was difficult but not impossible to hold his full weight by his arms. His hands were the real problem, as they felt as if they were burning because the rope was cutting into them. Placing his feet against the building and walking himself down helped a little. Happily for his hands, the window ledge was only three body lengths from the roof, and it wasn’t long before he was crouched in the shelter of the lighted window bay.

He peered into the room and saw Lodi, but no sign of Marcipor. The dwarf, Marcus noticed, was no longer wearing the bright red tunic he’d worn at the king’s dinner. He banged on the window glass. Once. Twice.

Alarmed, Lodi whirled around at the first sound, his arms spread wide as if he was reaching out for weapons that weren’t there. Marcus almost called out to him, until he realized that to announce his name might well prove fatal if anyone else were listening nearby. He waited, therefore, as Lodi picked up his axe and peered closely at the glass, so close that his bulbous nose was nearly pressed against it. Then his expression changed, and he tossed the axe onto the closest bed before opening the window outward.

“Marcus, where the deep pits you been? What’re you doing out the window? And what are you wearing?”

“Shhh!” Marcus whispered. “Keep quiet. There’s an elvith on the roof. She’s a friend. She lowered the rope for me. Now listen to me! The Michaelines aren’t real. They’re mercenaries, not real priests. They’re planning to kill me and Bishop Claudo and Father Aestus, so we have to tell them and get them out of here somehow. And then get out of here ourselves!”

Lodi raised his thick eyebrows, but showed no other sign of surprise. “Can’t say as they struck me as real priest-like, but then, they were supposed to be priest-warriors after all. Of course, man priests aren’t much like dwarf priests, either.”

The door to their room opened and they both whirled around to see Marcipor entering. He blinked with surprise. Unlike the dwarf, he hadn’t changed and was still elegantly attired, if a bit disheveled.

“Shut the door,” Marcus hissed.

“Did he hit you?” Marcipor asked Marcus as he closed the door. “Lodi, slaves don’t get to punch their masters in the nose, even when they deserve it as richly as ours does. Marcus, what happened to you? Cassius Claudo has most of the Michaelines roaming all over Elebrion looking for you. I’ve almost lost my voice from running around calling out your name.”

“I’ll just bet they are,” Marcus remarked sourly. He quickly explained the situation to Marcipor, who frowned, but otherwise took the news in stride.

“So, what do we do?”

Marcus wiped his nose. “I’ll warn the bishop, and you tell Father Aestus what’s going on. Lodi will get our gear together. Then we’ll all climb onto the roof. I don’t think the bird can carry more than three on its back, although maybe it can carry a fourth in its claws.” He shuddered at the memory of the fear and cold. “Or perhaps Caitlys can ferry us to the stables. The bishop and Father Aestus should sneak out as soon as they can and meet us there. I don’t think the treacherous false Michaelines will strike tonight as long as they don’t know we know of their plan.”

“Too dangerous,” Lodi said, picking up his axe. “You’re the target, boy. You stay here and pack. I’ll go to the bishop. Marcipor, you go to the fat little priest, but don’t tell him to sneak out. Have him keep his window open instead.”

“Aestus can’t climb the rope,” Marcus said. “He’s too fat. He probably couldn’t even hang on while we pulled him up! And Cassius Claudo is too old.”

“I’ll climb down and carry them up,” Lodi said. “No miner hasn’t climbed up and down a shaft with twice the weight of that priestling on his back. And the roof is safer than trying to go out the stairs. If anyone sees either of them two sneaking about, they’ll know somewhat’s up and might just start their killing on the spot.”

“Listen to the dwarf,” Marcipor urged. “He’s right. It’s not safe for you to leave this room.”

Reluctantly, Marcus agreed. Marcipor and Lodi departed on their separate missions, stealing silently out of the room and closing the door softly behind them.

Marcus looked around the room and saw that, fortunately, the habits of the road had not abandoned them upon their arrival in Elebrion: their packs remained largely unemptied. He shrugged off the overlong coat, slipped out of the too-long leather trousers with the legs rolled up, and removed the ruined remnants of his court finery. He felt a mild pang of regret for having worn them only once. But, since the fine fabrics were ruined anyhow, he scrubbed clean his hands on them and gingerly dabbed at his nose, which had almost, but not entirely, stopped bleeding.

It took him a moment to find his own riding leathers, which he’d previously left lying on the soft grey-feathered elven bed but were now missing. He located them in the bottom of the clothing chest, where Marce, or more likely Lodi, had put them. He wrinkled his nose as he drew them on. They were still filthy from the ride, but they would keep him warm.

His sword and the Merithaimi elvenblade were in there too, but he elected to stow the sword in his pack and content himself with slipping the scabbarded knife into his belt. If it came down to a fight with the wardogs, they were already dead. But one never knew when a sharp blade might be of value.

He stuffed Lodi’s dress clothes into the dwarf’s giant bag, which clanked ominously. Marcus gave it an experimental pull and found he could barely lift it. Marce’s leathers, he laid out on the bed. The rest of their personal gear was packed away according to whom it belonged.

The door opened and he looked up, his hand dropping to his belt. But it was only Marce, who slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. Marcus nodded at him and kneeled beside Lodi’s pack to put away the long-tined metal comb the dwarf used on the rare occasions he unbraided his thick orange hair.

“You were faster than I expected. You told Father Aestus what he must do?”

“Father Aestus is dead, Marcus. They killed him.”

There was something strange in Marce’s voice. Marcus glanced back over his shoulder and saw that his bodyslave was moving toward him, holding his ludicrous gilded sword in hand.

For a moment, Marcus was too amazed to react. Or speak, or think at all. He simply stared at the tall figure with the familiar face and the eyes of a stranger, who barely seemed to even recognize him.

“Not you, Marce. It’s not you. It can’t be you!” His eyes dropped to the sword. The blade was bright and clean. “You didn’t kill anyone. Why the sword?”

Marcipor stood over him, the blade hesitating in the air. “I’m not— This is … not what it seems.”

He staggered a step and his sword arm dropped. “I can’t do this. They told me I could, but I can’t. I just can’t.” Marcipor’s eyes were bright with tears now. “I can’t kill you, Marcus. I’m supposed to, but I can’t do it.”

Marcus rose slowly to his feet and kept his hand well away from his knife. He could see Marcipor was struggling with something inside himself, and it was impossible to tell what might cause him to react one way or the other.

He wasn’t afraid to fight the Marcipor he had known all his life, not even with a knife against a sword, for Marcus was the better-trained fighter by far.

But the Marcipor he’d known would never have raised a sword against him. Unless … unless he had been ordered to do so by someone he wouldn’t dare disobey.

“Was it Magnus? Did Magnus hire the mercenaries?”

“Magnus? No. Not that I know of. It was after that night, the night the dwarf saved you from the wolf-thing. I was so glad you weren’t hurt badly, but I was thinking about what it might have meant for me if you didn’t … Please, you have to understand: I didn’t want you to die! I’d never even thought about it, but after we talked, I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to be free after all.”

“I believe you,” Marcus said, never taking his eyes away from Marcipor’s face. “What happened? Who approached you?”

“The next day, I was riding ahead. Maybe you remember? With Zephanus and Captain Hezekius. I said something about you nearly getting killed and Zephanus laughed. He said it might have saved a lot of people a lot of trouble if you did and … they gave me gold, Marcus. Captain Hezekius himself gave me gold and told me I could ride with them if I wanted to join them. That I could be one of them. That I could be free like them—the lying devil! He should have given me thirty pieces of silver.”

Marcipor looked at the sword and laughed bitterly. He cast it aside so it landed on the bed. “You should have whipped me when I asked, Master. Now you’ll have to kill me. There’s only one punishment for a slave who tries to kill his owner.”

“You haven’t tried to kill me, Marce, not yet. Who killed Aestus?”

“One of the Michaelines. Serranus probably. He’s the real killer. Even the other Michaelines are afraid of him.”

Not Zephanus, Marcus thought. He’d seemed so friendly. It must be that the smiling, laughing warrior-priest was an accomplished liar, and he was certainly intelligent. It occurred to Marcus that he was probably the most dangerous mercenary of all, except possibly for the captain. Zephanas had never served with Corvus, after all! But the lies had flowed as smoothly off his tongue as a fine vintage wine being poured from a crystal decanter by an expert servitor. Marcus had never thought to doubt him for a moment.