A dozen sailors were rigging an enormous awning over the bleachers.
“I saw ’em do it in Liviapolis,” Ser Gerald said. “Mind you, they had a magister to seal it.”
The Lord Mayor made a hasty wave of his hand. “God between us and evil. Until we’re rid of the new bishop, don’t even speak of such things.”
Random spat in annoyance. “Gentles,” he said, “among us, we control most of the flow of capital in this city.” He looked around. “Are we going to stand for this?” He pointed his elegant cane at the two pargeter’s apprentices who were carefully taking down the Queen’s arms from the central viewing stand over the mounted lists.
“What choice do we have?” Ser Richard asked. “I don’t have an army. Nor am I much of a jouster.”
Ser Gerald looked around carefully. “There’s Jacks moving into the city,” he said. “And there’s Galles coming. And a tithe of fools who ape the Galles.”
Darkwood spoke very quietly. “And Occitans. The Queen’s brother won’t just stand by and let her be arrested.”
Ser Gerald looked around. “Let’s speak frankly, gentles, as it becomes merchants. Leave lying to the lords. The King’s champion and his cronies are leading us into a civil war, as sure as the wind blows.”
The other two men shifted uncomfortably.
“And if they fight here, in our streets-” Ser Gerald narrowed his eyes. “Imagine fire in our houses. And soldiers. Looting.”
“Sweet Christ, we’d all be ruined.” Ser Richard shook his head. “It would never happen here.”
Ser Gerald looked around again. “Since my adventure last year among the Moreans,” he said with some authority, “I have friends among the Etruscans.”
“So I’ve noted, to my discontent,” admitted Darkwood. “There were Venike and Fiorian merchants who got their furs before I did!”
Ser Gerald raised an eyebrow. “There was fur eno’ for every house,” he said. “And one of my principal backers asked that I make sure the Etruscans weren’t cut out. Any road-the Venike captain, Ser Giancarlo, what docked Thursday last-he’s brought me news.” He looked around again. “He says the King of Galle has ordered all this. That it is a plot-that de Vrailly works for the King of Galle. That he will seize the kingdom and hold it for his master.”
Ailwin Darkwood tugged his beard. “I’ve always thought so. Since the assault on our coinage started.”
Ser Gerald was surprised. “But-”
Darkwood shrugged. “I take my own precautions. What do you suggest we do?”
Ser Gerald raised an eyebrow. “Nothing against the King,” he said.
Ser Richard looked furtive. “This is treason.”
Ser Gerald shook his head vehemently. “Nothing against the King, I said.”
Master Ailwin and Ser Gerald both glared at Ser Richard. “What do you have planned?” Ser Richard asked, but his body language clearly said that he was not with them.
An hour later he was sharing wine with the Archbishop of Lorica, who affected unconcern.
“Fear nothing, good Ser Richard. Some of your countrymen are traitors, but the King is safe. Indeed, I think I can tell you that in the next few hours, a plot will be revealed that will do much to allay your fears.”
Ser Richard rose. “Random and Darkwood and Pye, between them, control most of the militia-the Trained Band. They will use it.”
The archbishop laughed. “Peasants with pitchforks? Against belted knights?” He laughed heartily. “I hope they try. In Galle, we encourage them-it thins the herd.”
Ser Richard knew little about war, but he tugged his beard in agitation. “I think your knights may find them formidable, ser. At any rate, I must away. I cannot have my hand in this. After this unpleasantness is over, I’ll need to do business with these men.”
The archbishop escorted him personally to the door of his chamber, saw him handed out the door, and returned to his desk. To his secretary, Maître Gris, a priest and doctor of theology, he said, “That man imagines that when we are done, he can go back to his business.” He shook his head. “Usury and luxury and gluttony.”
His secretary nodded, eyes gleaming.
“We will have the richest church in all the see of Rhum,” the archbishop said.
“And you will be Patriarch,” his secretary said.
They shared a glance. Then the archbishop shook himself free of his dreams and leaned back.
“Fetch me my Archaic scribe,” he said.
The secretary frowned, but he went out, his black robes like a storm cloud.
The archbishop concentrated on a letter explaining-in measured tones-that no priest of the church was subject to any civil or royal law, and that the Manor Court of Lewes had no jurisdiction nor right to hear any case against their reverend father in Christ.
His secretary returned. In tones of quiet disapproval, the man said, “Maître Villon.”
A thin figure in the threadbare scarlet of a lower caste doctor of law bowed deeply.
The archbishop could smell the wine on him. “Maître,” he said sharply.
The red man stood solidly enough. “Your eminence,” he said.
The archbishop gestured sharply at his secretary. “I will handle this,” he said.
His secretary nodded sharply.
The archbishop sat back. “Maître Villon, you understand, I think, why I brought you to Alba.”
Maître Villon’s bloodshot eyes met his and then the doctor of law looked at the parquetry floor in front of him. “I am at your eminence’s will,” he said softly.
“Very much so, I think,” the archbishop said. “Need I go into particulars?”
Maître Villon didn’t raise his eyes. “No, Eminence.”
“Very well. I wish a certain set of events to come to pass. Can you make them happen?”
The man in red nodded. “Yes, Eminence.”
“I wish a man to die.” The archbishop winced at his own words.
“By what means?” the doctor of law asked.
“By your means, Maître Villon.” The archbishop spoke sharply, his voice rising, like a mother speaking to a particularly stupid child.
“By the hermetical arts,” the doctor of law said softly.
The archbishop half rose. “I have not said so!” he said. “And you will keep a civil tongue in your head. Or you will have no tongue at all.”
The red-clad man kept looking at the floor.
“Can you effect this?” the archbishop asked.
The red-clad man shrugged. “Possibly. All things are possible.”
“Today.” The archbishop leaned forward.
The man in red sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Can you have someone get me something he wears? Something he wears often?”
The archbishop seemed about to expostulate, but then paused. “Yes.”
The man in red nodded. “If, perhaps, someone could steal his gloves? I assume he is a gentleman.”
The archbishop was looking elsewhere. “Pfft,” he said.
The man in red ignored him. “And then, later today, we could return his gloves, as if they were found in the street.”
“And you can work your hideous perversion in that little time?”
The man in red bowed. “In your eminence’s service.”
“You try me, Maître Villon. Yet I hold you and all you think dear in my hand.” The archbishop fingered the amulet he wore with his cross.
The man in red shrugged. “It is as you say, Eminence.” He sounded tired, or hopeless, or perhaps both.
As he went out, the secretary glared at him with unconcealed hate.
“How can you allow such a man to live?” he asked.
“Tush, Gilles. That is not your place to ask.” The archbishop frowned. “Have you not asked yourself whether Judas was evil, or whether he was bound to deliver our lord to the cross? And thus merely a tool of God?”