The Mongoliad: Book Three

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Monferrato’s sedan chair had gotten them into the compound, though Monferrato had been dismayed to learn that he missed the vote and apoplectic to realize that a simple priest had been elected. Ocyrhoe thought the Cardinal’s eyes were going to pop out of his head when he learned that the College of Cardinals had not immediately invalidated the election.

“How is this possible?” Monferrato had spluttered to the ostiarius who was leading them through the dark halls of the Castel Sant’Angelo.

“You had best speak to Cardinal Fieschi,” the tall ostiarius said, his pace quickening as if he could escape further interrogation.

“Where is he?” Monferrato demanded.

The ostiarius slowed, confusion showing on his face. “He is with the other Cardinals,” he said. “But I thought-”

“We do,” Lena said smoothly. She indicated Ocyrhoe and Ferenc. “However, these are longtime companions of the Pope. He will want to see them immediately. After which, you may escort Cardinal Monferrato to see Cardinal Fieschi.” Unlike the Cardinal, her voice was calm and soothing, and it had an immediate effect on the ostiarius, who nodded eagerly and started walking again.

Monferrato started spluttering again, his eyes bulging even more, and Lena forestalled any further discussion by putting a finger to her lip and shaking her head.

Ocyrhoe grabbed Ferenc’s hand and hurried after the ostiarius. She didn’t need to be part of their argument; she only wanted to see Father Rodrigo.

Their guide took them to a hall with multiple doors, and he chose a small one on the left-it seemed terribly unassuming to Ocyrhoe to be the door that led to the Pope. But she said nothing as the ostiarius opened the door and indicated they were to enter. Still holding Ferenc’s hand, she stepped through the door into the narrow chamber beyond.

Ocyrhoe was struck by the difference in Father Rodrigo, meeting him this time. First, of course, he was physically much healthier-which made him look younger. But more than that, he radiated beatitude-an emotional stability that she could not associate with the man she’d first met.

She enjoyed watching the affectionate blandishments Ferenc and Bendrito showered on each other. She could not follow the language they spoke, but she could read their faces and body language, and sense the emotional pitching and tossing that Ferenc was going through as he listened to Father Rodrigo speak.

Finally, after perhaps a quarter hour, Father Rodrigo turned to her and began to speak in the language of Rome. “Sister, Ferenc tells me you have been good to him and he is fond of you,” the new Pope began.

“That is mutual, Father. Your Holiness,” she corrected herself without hurry.

“He tells me that you are a native of the city and that you can help us to escape.”

“They are holding you captive here, then?”

“Ferenc tells me you saw me speaking in the marketplace. Did it look like I left there by my own free will?” He gestured around the room. “I have just been made Summus Pontifex Ecclesiae Universalis, yet, I reside in a small, windowless room with no pot to defecate in, eating cold food. Do you think I am here by my own choice?”

Ocyrhoe squirmed a bit under the intensity of Father Rodrigo’s gaze, hoping that he wasn’t suggesting what she feared he was. Based on Ferenc’s gleeful expression, though, she suspected that escape was exactly what Father Rodrigo had in mind.

By the time the new Pontiff had finished his private audience with the strange hunter-boy from the north, a temporary suspension of the endless canonical discussions among the Cardinals had been called; everyone agreed to turn in for the night, and to resume conversations, arguments, investitures, or whatever else the future might hold, starting the next morning.

Ocyrhoe and Lena were put together in a room on the first floor; at the new Pope’s insistence, Ferenc slept in his room. Helmuth and Cardinal Monferrato were also put together in another guest quarter, closer to the rest of the Cardinals.

Father Rodrigo’s room, not surprisingly, had a guard placed in front of it. That did not worry Ocyrhoe. In the dark hours of the morning, with a small kitchen knife and a kneading blade she had purloined from the castle kitchen, she let herself out of the room. Lena had not stirred as she had slipped out of bed and made her way to the door. Ocyrhoe did not feel that what she was about to do was at all contrary to her identity as a Binder, but still, she sensed Lena would discourage her from following her instincts.

Her plan was simple enough-the sort of misdirection that came naturally to her as a child of the streets. Like a mouse, she laid out a trail for the guard to follow. She planted a number of obvious clues-a piece of torn fabric, some bits of wax from a candle, a wedge of plaster, and powder from that plaster-down the hall, around another corner, and aimed directly at the door of Cardinal Fieschi’s room.

When she finished her false trail, she crept back to the corner near Father Rodrigo’s room. The guard was leaning against the wall, his lack of vigilance suggesting he had no idea who he was guarding. She tossed a pebble in his direction, making sure it bounced and rattled against the base of the wall. As soon as the guard roused himself, she scampered noisily away from the corner. There was a dark niche not far from the next corner, deep enough for her to hide in, and she pressed herself into the slot shortly before the guard stumbled around the corner.

She was counting on the guard’s boredom, that he would be more interested in following a trail of evidence that would result in the capture of a sneaky thief than the endless monotony of guard duty.

The guard paused as he came around the corner, looking around cautiously. Ocyrhoe held her breath, waiting for him to spot the piece of torn cloth. He did, and bowing over like a hound, he began to creep along the hall, his eyes clearly scanning for more clues. He passed by her hiding place without even looking in her direction. In another few heartbeats, he reached the corner and disappeared from view.

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.