Un Lun Dun

71. Men of the Cloth

They hollered and stared up into the webbed vault, ready for another attack. No motion was visible. They had no idea where the thing had gone. There was no trace of Rosa at all.

Back in the light of the UnSun, Jones stamped and shouted miserably, and kept saying Rosa’s name.

“Years, we’ve been together,” Jones said. “Years! She fought by my side in the Siege of the Battery Sea. Drove search-and-rescue to the coldmines for years. It was her came over from London with me…”

“I know, I know,” said Deeba. They all stood in a circle, trying to work out what to do.

“Oh, dratted shame,” said someone. “Are we too late?”

Deeba whirled around. Behind her were two tall, dry-looking priests. They wore big, silly popes’ hats, and carried shepherds’ crooks. They were incredibly ancient. One was stubbly, with very dark red, almost black, robes. His skin was the same color. The other was as pale as Hemi, and wore a long white beard and white— though dirty— cassock.

The men moved in tiny tottering zigzags, diagonally, forward and back.

“Who are you?” Deeba said.

“What’s that?” said the pale man, cupping his ear. “Oh, who are we? I’m Bishop Alan Bastor.”

“And I’m Bishop Ed Bon,” said the other. “We know the secrets of this place, et cetera.”

Their two voices were indistinguishable. They sounded extremely posh and elderly. Old English gents.

“May I say,” said Bishop Bastor, “gather you lost a comrade. Awful business. Dreadfully sorry.”

“Time was we met every arachnofenestranaut, warned them with a few home truths,” said Bon. “Didn’t stop them all, of course, but at least they had due warning.”

“Now we’re older, there’s always some we don’t get to,” said Bastor.

“Arackno— what?” said Hemi.

“Ah. Rack. No. Fenestra. Naut,” said Bon. “Travelers like yourselves.”

“You run this place?” said Deeba.

“Oh, no,” sighed Bon. “Bless you.”

He and Bastor looked sadly at each other. They were both coated in dust. Their eyes were as droopy and tired-looking as bloodhounds.

“We were military chaplains.”

“Spiritual support for the troops.”

“You were a team?” Deeba said. The two men looked shocked.

“Absolutely not,” said Bastor. “Deadly enemies.” He said this in the same vague, slightly tremulous tones with which he had said everything. Bon nodded judiciously.

“Quite right,” he said. “Implacably opposed.” The two men looked at each other mildly.

“What are you doing here?” said Deeba.

Bastor handed his staff absently to Bon, who took it without a word and waited while his companion scratched himself vigorously.

“Bastor and I were spiritual staff, for each side.”

“Although that didn’t stop me kicking a little bottom at times,” sniffed Bastor with satisfaction. “A couple of knights rather regretted tangling with this His Eminence.”

“Absolutely,” said Bon. “I doubt your lot would’ve thought me very holy, either.” They both chuckled in reminiscence.

“And?” said Deeba.

“We’re on a bit of a schedule here,” said Hemi.

“Sorry, sorry. Well, we both got taken.”

“But his lot were shockingly lax on security.”

“I didn’t exactly get stopped at the fence myself, old chap.”

“We bumped into each other here. We’d had a similar idea.”

“Bishops, you know? Heard this was an important church.”

“Turned out not to be quite what we’d had in mind,” Bon said, waving at the silk. “Still—”

“— neither of us could very well let the place fall into enemy hands. But then we were both hors de combat as they say in Parisn’t.”

“So after a few stiff words—”

“Yes, I was awful, wasn’t I?”

“— we came to an arrangement. You see, I’m watching to make sure he doesn’t claim it.”

“And I he. Until we find out who won the war.”

“As soon as we find out my lot’ve won, you’re for it then, I’m afraid.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” said Bastor placidly. “Soon enough you’ll be in my power.”

“Truth is, though…we’ve rather lost touch of the state of the campaign. Haven’t had any communiqués for…how long would you say it was, Bon?”

“Oh, a few years now.”

“I think they’re talking about the Eight-by-Eight War,” the book muttered to Deeba, apparently hoping that the two bishops were too deaf to hear it. “No one knows anything about it, except that it happened. Centuries ago.”

“Anyway,” said Bon. “Once we realized what was in the church, and that people were trying their luck, we thought it only fair to act as warning. Gives us something to do.”

“Or at least…try to do,” said Bastor apologetically.

“We know as much about this place as anyone. We try to set the more deluded treasure seekers straight about what they’re up against.”

“Until we find out who’s the victor.”

“Someone’ll come and tell us.”

“Someone rather special’s due.”

“To whom we’ll owe…well, I don’t know what.”

“Everything, I suppose.”

“Good,” said Jones. “You know about the Black Window. Then you have to help us.”

“We have to get past it,” said Hemi.

“Forget getting past it,” Jones snapped. “We need to know how to get the bloody thing. It took Rosa.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bon gently. “Your friend is gone. Even if by any chance she isn’t dead, we have no way of knowing which of them took her.”

“What?” Hemi said. “It was the Black Window.”

“Yes, but which one?” said Bastor.

The travelers stared at them, aghast.

“I think we’ve found another mistake in you,” Deeba said to the book. “Defeat the Black Window to get the UnGun, you said. Which bloody one?”