‘I’ve told him it’s a foolish thing for a practitioner,’ Baldesce said.
The Duke smiled. ‘I’ve never found it that foolish,’ he answered, and then ruined his patronising look with a heavy sneeze.
He walked from Mortirmir to the Patriarch, who allowed him to kiss his ring. ‘There goes a most entertaining young man,’ said the Patriarch. ‘Very late to his power – very powerful, I think. Perhaps not the most powerful in his class, but very bright. A pleasure to test.’ He bowed and led them down another corridor, this one a row of cloisters facing into a beautiful courtyard with four quince trees trained to heavy wooden screens. One was in flower; one was just budding, one was in fruit, and one was green and empty.
The Patriarch led them along the cloisters and into a small office with a single massive desk covered in books and scrolls. ‘Find room where you can,’ he said, a little absently. ‘How can I help you, my lord Duke?’
‘Holy father, I’ve come-’ the Duke was looking at a scroll. ‘This is an original copy of Hereklitus?’ he said. ‘But the Suda says he offered his book as a sacrifice to Artemis!’
The Patriarch smiled. ‘The Suda says a great many foolish things. You read High Archaic?’
‘Very slowly, Holy Father.’ His finger was following his eyes.
Ser Alcaeus tried to attract his Captain’s attention.
Father Arnaud stood rigid as a board.
The Patriarch looked at Father Arnaud. ‘You are a knight of Saint Thomas, I think?’
‘Yes, Holy Father,’ the chaplain said. ‘A priest.’
‘A priest? That must be very difficult, Father. The teachings of Jesus are not easy to reconcile with violence.’ The Patriarch leaned forward. ‘Or how does it seem to you?’
Father Arnaud bowed. ‘I have had struggles,’ he admitted.
The Patriarch nodded. ‘You would be a mere brute if you had not.’ But he seemed well satisfied, and offered his ring to the priest to kiss.
‘Ser Alcaeus,’ he said. ‘How is your lady mother? Busy hatching plots?’
Rather than taking offence, Ser Alcaeus nodded. ‘Truthfully, Holy Father, she is too busy to hatch the least plot. Her only plot now is to save the Empire.’
The Patriarch raised an eyebrow at this but he chuckled warmly and turned to the Duke. ‘You must pardon me, my lord, but Alcaeus was one of my students – not much of a practitioner, but a fine mind and a very able poet, when he chooses to use his powers for good. He wrote many scurrilous verses about his teachers.’
Alcaeus writhed.
The Patriarch’s heavily lidded eyes fell back on the Duke.
‘Surely you can read faster than that,’ he said.
The Duke looked up. ‘The Academy is choosing to remain neutral,’ he said.
Alcaeus blanched.
The Duke went on, ‘The University’s neutrality is close to treason, Holy Father. The Emperor has been taken, and the traitor who took him has already offered to sell a portion of the Empire to get what he wants. The Emperor’s own magister, who must have been appointed by the Academy, has proven a traitor. He is a man of exceptional power. Why is the Academy so chary of taking sides?’
The Patriarch’s face gave nothing away. ‘I’m sorry that you feel we’ve been neutral,’ he said carefully. ‘The Academy is at the service of the palace – now and any time in the future.’
‘Couldn’t you have prevented the Emperor’s capture?’ the Duke asked. He sat up. ‘At least one of your astrologers must have predicted it.’
The Patriarch steepled his fingers. ‘And we informed the palace.’ He made a motion with his hands. ‘Sadly, through Master Aeskepiles, who really is a traitor – to the palace, and to his training. But that is not the fault of the Church or the University.’ He leaned forward. ‘You are a mage yourself,’ he said. ‘But something about you is quite odd – as if you have two souls.’
The Duke leaned back.
Hide.
Silence . . .
‘I had a tutor in the ars magicka who was trained here. I practise when I can.’ The Duke nodded. ‘If I had any time at all, I’d ask to attend some classes.’
‘The capture of another soul is necromancy, is heresy and is an illegal hermetical act,’ the Patriarch said. He leaned forward. ‘Is that another soul I sense?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the Duke lied smoothly.
The Patriarch narrowed his eyes.
‘Holy Father, if I were a daemon I’d hardly have strolled into your office . . .’
The Patriarch leaned back and laughed. ‘I sometimes wonder. But it may just be my age. Sometimes I sense doubles in the aethereal.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘And sometimes I sense heresy where there is none. You bear the reputation as the very spawn of Satan, despite saving Lissen Carrak from the Wild.’
‘Really?’ asked the Duke. ‘I also saved this city from treason, I believe. And my people have been attacked by hermeticism – right here, under your very nose, Holy Father.’
The Patriarch leaned back. ‘I am hardly your foe, here.’
The Duke nodded. ‘I never thought you were. May we speak privately?’
Father Arnaud led the procession out of the Patriarch’s private office.
The two men were entirely amicable when they emerged. The Patriarch held the Duke’s arm, they embraced, and then the Duke kissed the Patriarch’s ring.
‘Save the Emperor,’ the Patriarch said.
‘I’m doing all I can,’ said the Duke.
Father Arnaud stepped forward. ‘Holy Father, I have a message from Prior Wishart.’
The Patriarch nodded. ‘I have never met him, but he has a great reputation. Yet your order has, in the past, remained aloof from us and even leaned towards Rhum.’
Father Arnaud merely held the scroll out and said nothing.
The Patriarch laughed. ‘Old men will go on,’ he allowed, and took the scroll. He read quickly, and then looked over the top of the scroll at the Duke. ‘The King of Alba is appointing a Scholastic Bishop of Lorica?’ he said.
The Duke was, for once, obviously taken aback. He glared at Father Arnaud and bowed to the prelate. ‘My apologies. I had no idea.’
The Patriarch tapped the scroll on his teeth. ‘I will see you in less than a week. Let me think on this. ‘He raised a hand and made a full benediction. ‘Go with God.’
That was far too close.
Harmodius, you are becoming a liability.
I’m working on it! The old man shook the head of his statue. I’m finally in a town where I can buy things I need. Things you need. I just need more time.
Old man, you have taught me well; you have saved the company at least once; without you, I’d have lost the siege at Lissen Carak. But my headaches are worse every day, and I’m starting to make mistakes – mistakes that will kill people I love.
I just need more time. A few weeks. Must I beg?
No, said the Red Knight.
Harmodius made an extra effort to go deep.
When they left the Patriarch, the Duke took his friends shopping. Ser Michael and a deeply blushing Kaitlin met them at the foot of the Academy steps, as did Ser Gavin and Ser Thomas and Ser Alison. They all wore a minimum of armour – just breastplates – and carried swords and wore their jewels. They were attended by forty pages in the scarlet company livery, and even though they were riding almost every horse the company possessed, they looked very capable.
‘Look rich and dangerous,’ he told them.
Shopping in the city was an endless set of nested choices – tables of wares and booths and shops with polished hardwood walls and glass – real glass – in the windows, or small stalls made of hand-woven carpets from the far east, or simply a rude box of barn boards. There was a square of jewellers, a square of glovers, a square of sword smiths and a square of armourers, of silk weavers, of tailors, of veil makers, of perfumers.