Ocyrhoe darted out of her hiding place and silently-like a mouse-ran back to Father Rodrigo’s chamber. She quietly picked the lock on the door with the kitchen knife, pushed up the simple latch with the dough blade, then slipped into Father Rodrigo’s small room and shut the door behind her. Ferenc and Rodrigo were already awake and dressed. A candle stub burned by the bed, throwing their shadows up against the high stone and plaster of the ceiling.
Father Rodrigo smiled benevolently. Did nothing disturb the man now? Perhaps a Pope was beyond fear.
Ferenc looked nervous and happy to see her.
Already she was loosening her satchel to pull out the map she had drawn. The moon was low but the compound in general never really slept; once she got them safely outside, away from people who would recognize their faces, they could walk off openly without causing suspicion. All the same, the map showed the most indirect, untraceable, forgotten pathways leading out of the city. Beyond the city walls, she could no longer help them.
She smiled in the candlelight and reached out for Ferenc’s hand. Good-bye, my friend, she signed, and then threw her arms around him in an embrace.
Ferenc went first, the idea being that the sight of the young Magyar might not raise as much alarm immediately as the sight of Father Rodrigo wandering around the halls. Father Rodrigo paused at the door to the room. “Will you stay here?” he asked, his eyes bright in the candlelight.
“Here?” Ocyrhoe whispered.
Father Rodrigo nodded. “An empty room is an easy mystery to solve, but a room that contains something other than what is expected will be confusing.” A small laugh slipped out of him. “Is that not what we find in our hearts?” he asked, though Ocyrhoe thought he wasn’t speaking to her. “We fear we are empty vessels, but we aren’t, are we?”
“No, Father,” she whispered. An oddly familiar and yet foreign shiver ran through her body, not unlike the sensation she had felt when she had first laid eyes on the priest in the marketplace.
“God bless you, child,” Father Rodrigo said, resting his hand on her forehead. His flesh was warm and dry. And then he was gone.
Ocyrhoe waited in the empty room, feeling a little bit empty herself. What a bizarre and unexpected few days this had been! What unimaginable outcomes had developed from it!
She looked around the room in the flickering light of the candle stub. I’ll sleep here then, she decided. Tomorrow morning, when they come for him, they will find me instead. They will be furious, but Lena will not allow them to hurt me.
She was confident of that.
She blew the candle out, pulled back the cover of the bed, and snuck under it. It was much nicer than the bedding she and Lena had been given. This would actually be quite nice, she decided, sleeping in a Pope’s bed, and allowed herself to smile. From the Emperor’s camp to the Pope’s bedroom in a single day! Sleep began to tug at her mind, and she welcomed it.
Until she heard voices outside the room. Male voices, and one of them a little bit familiar-Cardinal Fieschi. She looked around. There was no place in here to hide, and no way to escape before he entered.
An empty room is an easy mystery. Something unexpected is altogether more confusing.
She flung aside the covers, scrambled out of the bed, pulled the covers back in place, and knelt beside the bed in a position of prayer.
The door opened.
Fieschi entered, carrying a torch, already incensed. “A thief? In the palace? Are you a fool?” Handing the torch off to the guard behind him, he flicked the latch. “It’s not even-”
He had spotted her, and the change that came over him was frightening in its ferocity. He lunged at her, teeth bared, hands like claws, murder in his eyes.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Gansukh felt well rested, all things considered. He had not expected to sleep that night, and it was only by a stroke of luck that he had stumbled upon the fact that Chucai had left the camp. Chucai’s ger had seemed like a perfect place to hide from Munokhoi.
The ex-Torguud captain had nearly assaulted Gansukh at the fights, barely managing to contain his volcanic temper. Gansukh was certain Munokhoi was waiting for him somewhere in the camp, and if the positions were reversed, he would have certainly lain in wait near his ger. He had been of half a mind to sleep in Munokhoi’s ger, figuring that the ex-Torguud captain’s rage would keep him alert and fixed in place outside of Gansukh’s ger, but in the end that had felt too risky of a proposition.
What he needed was another opportunity like that of the night before to publicly mock the ex-Torguud captain without being seen as challenging him. It wasn’t a very clever plan, but it would get the job done as long as there were witnesses-people who would attest that Munokhoi attacked first, without provocation-then any response on his part, including a fatal one, would be seen as self-defense. No one would be fooled, but propriety would be maintained.
He had learned that much from court-the maintenance of propriety. The phrase even sounded like something from one of Lian’s endless scrolls. The understanding-the unspoken rule of acceptable behavior-was that it didn’t matter who knew what you had done, as long as you gave the court an excuse to pretend otherwise. And if you took care of a persistent thorn, you were given latitude.
Of course, this was all predicated on Munokhoi playing along-at least with the part where he was supposed to lose his temper publicly-but this plan didn’t leave as bad a taste in his mouth as the option of assassinating Munokhoi.
He was running out of time, however. The Khagan was supposed to leave for his hunt today.
“Ho, Gansukh!” It was Tarbagatai, eager as ever. The mountain archer jogged up to Gansukh, his round face nearly bursting with some irrepressible news. His face fell slightly when he realized Gansukh’s hand was on the hilt of his knife. “Did you not sleep well, friend?” Tarbagatai asked. “You seem jumpy.”
Gansukh relaxed. “I slept quite well, in fact. It’s just…”
“Oh,” Tarbagatai said, nodding. “It’s-yes, the fights… I… I think I understand.” His brow furled, betraying the fact that he probably did not have as much clarity as he claimed.
Gansukh realized the mountain clan archer wasn’t that much younger than himself-only a few years. What a difference those years made, he thought. I would be just like him if I hadn’t gone to Kozelsk, if Chagatai Khan hadn’t picked me as his envoy.
“I’m sorry,” Tarbagatai said, dropping his gaze. “I have said something to offend you.”
“No, no,” Gansukh assured him, brushing aside his melancholic thoughts. “Forgive me. I am… distracted this morning. It is the excitement of this…” he struggled to focus his attention, “of the Khagan’s hunt.”
“Yes,” Tarbagatai agreed. “But not today.”
“What?”
“You haven’t heard? The Khagan”-Tarbagatai mimed drinking from a cup-“We will go tomorrow.” He brightened. “I have never participated in a hunt with the Khagan before.”
Gansukh reflected on the hunting technique typically used by the Khagan. “I fear it will…” He paused, all too aware of the other man’s enthusiasm. “It will be fantastic,” he amended, clapping Tarbagatai on the arm. Privately he was relieved to have another day in the camp. Another chance to draw Munokhoi out…