the True Church itself. Though the prelate abided at Castle DiVecci, most of the Church's administrative and bureaucratic activities were performed here.
The wing where Ral was met by a young manservant was decorated in an antique style oozing with old money and power. Gold leaf dripped from every conceivable surface. Huge silk tapestries covered the high walls. The atrium's ceiling was painted with scenes from scripture displaying the majesty of the Church Fathers. There was hardly any evidence of their fabled mercy. One painting showed the current prelate, Benevolence II, with a golden orb in one hand and a bloody sword in the other, an impressive pile of dead sinners at his feet.
Ral reached down to clutch the hilt of his sword while he paced across the black marble tiles, but his hand came away empty; the guards had confiscated his weapons, the ones they could find. He hadn't volunteered the few they missed.
Waning rays of moonlight streamed through the tall windows lining the hallway. Oil-soaked flambeaux crackled in wrought-iron cressets on the walls. Two bodyguards in white surcoats over black mail stood at attention, poleaxes held rigid in their hands, on either side of an oaken door.
Ral wanted to laugh. They believe their guards and these stone walls make them invincible. But violence could reach anyone, at any time. That was a lesson he had taught to more than one aristocrat.
He ignored the costly objects d'art surrounding him, the jeweled diadems in their crystal display cases, even the rack of ancient weapons that might have interested him another time. He was not looking forward to this meeting. He had considered not coming at all. He was tired from his journey, which, although it had been successful, had taxed him more harshly than he anticipated. He would have much preferred a hot bath and a fine meal followed promptly by several hours of undisturbed sleep, but he wasn't likely to see any of that anytime soon.
The summons had been waiting for him at home when he arrived, the archpriest's soldiers insisting in excruciatingly frank terms that he accompany them at once, regardless of the hour. So instead of procuring that hot bath and sweet slumber, he had ridden through the early morning streets of Othir and answered the call he could not afford to ignore. Not yet.
He knew why he was here. News had reached him on the road: the Esquiline Hill job had been botched. The archpriest must have his own informants close to the scene. Ral didn't like that. He had told Vassili he would handle it personally and to hell with the fallout, but the archpriest had insisted on doing things his way. Now matters were even more mucked up than before. Of course, Ral would be expected to make everything all right. And he would do it, with a smile if that's what was required. The rewards made it all worthwhile.
The manservant returned and ushered Ral into the archpriest's office. Lustrous parquet replaced the marble floor tiles. Comfortable furniture was arranged about the room at precise angles. An immense stone hearth stretched along most of the west wall; a company of silver figurines crowded the mantelpiece in strict formation. As he entered the chamber, Ral got the fleeting impression someone had just left. Yet the parlor's frosted-glass windows were closed tight against the night air and there was nowhere else for a person to hide. A faint odor hung in the air. It reminded Ral of a spice, pepper perhaps, or cloves gone stale.
Archpriest Vassili sat behind a heavy chalcedony desk. Draped in a wine-colored robe trimmed with mink, he was at least sixty, and in the stark candlelight he looked every year of it. A silk tonsure, the color of blood from a lung wound, capped his close-cropped white hair; matching rubies sparkled on stick-thin fingers. Around the loose folds of his neck, inscribed with sacerdotal icons, hung a bulky golden medallion on a thick chain of the same noble metal.
Vassili was reading from a scroll when Ral entered. His desk was littered with long sheets of parchment. A platter of piscis galantine on a bed of black caviar sat at his elbow, hardly touched. The papers were architectural plans for the new cathedral under construction in the heart of the city. Ral had seen the building often in his comings and goings, and noted its stark white marble walls, the legions of frozen angels and saints frowning down at passersby in stern disapproval.
The archpriest