Church soldiers, who will be present to ensure that no threat can reach you from within or without! Not,” he added, “that I envision any sort of danger appearing within our own ranks.”
Glares turned to outright snarls. Had Sicard openly commanded them not to bring anyone, they might have had room to object. By casting it as a matter of propriety and trust in the Church, he had again made the eyes of the common folk his own enforcers. And surely they understood, as well, that his comment about “threats from within” meant that no political infighting or such misbehavior would be tolerated, either.
Sicard smiled beatifically over his flock, but he couldn't quite suppress a nervous twitch at one corner of his lips. If this didn't work—and it could go wrong in so very many ways—he might well have just made himself more than one enemy among the aristocracy.
Then again, if the situation is as dire as has been described, it's entirely possible that failure on our part will render any such political rivalries a moot point.
With a wave toward one of his under-priests to lead his “guests” to their gathering, Sicard descended the dais and vanished into the rear hallways as rapidly as propriety would permit.
“I trust I need not point out,” the duchess intoned in a voice that even career soldiers found intimidating, “that this is not your office.”
From his position at the head of the massive room, beneath a graven image of the Eternal Eye, symbol of all 147 gods of the Hallowed Pact, the bishop dipped his head. “No, Your Grace, I am quite well aware. My own chambers, roomy as they may be, seemed insufficient to host a group this size. I decided that the private chapel was more appropriate.”
Intended for familial rites or other exclusive religious gatherings, the smaller sanctuary bore only scant resemblance to the greater one from which they'd come. A small podium stood beneath the Eternal Eye, as did a table holding all the ceremonial basics: a few holy texts, a bronze censer, some incense and candles, and so forth. An array of pews, rather more comfortably cushioned than those in the main hall, faced the podium in tidy rows. No stained glass here; just a pair of oil-burning chandeliers, only one of which was currently alight.
Intended to seat as many as a hundred, if need be, the chapel was more than roomy enough for the dozen or so guests now occupying it.
Well, a dozen or so guests, plus Sicard. And his allies, though they had yet to make their entrance. And a small contingent of Church soldiers.
Anyone unfamiliar with the traditional garb might well have laughed at those guards, in their brightly colored pantaloons and puff-sleeved tunics, their mirror-polished breastplates and overly elaborate helms, the old-fashioned halberds too large even to effectively swing in the smaller rooms or narrower halls of the Basilica.
Anyone who had seen them in action—either with those bladed pikes or with the pistols and dueling swords they also carried—would absolutely not have laughed.
That they had very carefully positioned themselves so that some were always beside the exits, others always within a few running paces of the gathered aristocrats, made them even less funny.
“So, out with it!” This from Charles Doumerge, the Baron d'Orreille, a limp-postured and limper-haired dishrag of a nobleman, who, it was commonly accepted, must have had a weasel, or some form of large rodent, in his ancestry. “Now that you've blackmailed us all into coming here, you could at least be prompt.”
“Blackmail?” Sicard asked innocently. “I merely made a request of you all, as the civic leaders of our fair city.”
“Laying it on a bit thick, Your Eminence,” Beatrice Luchene warned, not without a touch of humor.
“Ah. Apologies, Your Grace. If you'll permit me just one more moment's unpleasant business…. Guards?”
Backs and halberds snapped to attention, and most of the nobles couldn't help but flinch.
The bishop glanced down at a small scrap of paper, mumbling to himself, then nodded. “Him,” he said, pointing to one of the guests, who had now gone far more than fashionably pale. “Him. Her. Her. And…” His finger ended its ragged course aimed directly at Doumerge. “Him.”
“Now just a minute—!” the baron began.
“Would you kindly escort these five madames and monsieurs to my office? And keep them there until I instruct otherwise?”
Multiple voices shouted protests, Doumerge's only one among them. Even several of the House worthies who had not been named decried this bizarre treatment of their own.
“We