‘I … am …’

Brother Diaz let fall the hem of his habit, which he’d been obliged to gather up around his knees like a flustered bride arriving late to her wedding, his flapping footfalls echoing from mirror-polished marble as he scurried around the labyrinthine hallways of the Celestial Palace in ever greater extremes of sweaty panic.

‘I … am …’ He’d slipped on a patch of fresh saliva where a party of high-ranking penitents were licking the floor clean and thought he might have done himself a mischief around the groin area. It was all a very long way from the towering dignity with which he’d dreamed of sweeping through these hallowed halls to finally have his quality acknowledged. God, his head was spinning. Was he fainting? Was he dying?

‘Brother Eduardo Diaz?’ asked the immensely tall secretary.

The name sounded familiar. ‘I think so …’ He leaned on the desk with both fists, struggling to control his wheezing and appear worthy of a respectable post in the middle of the Church’s hierarchy. ‘And I can only … apologise … for being late.’ He managed, with a heroic effort, to prevent himself from vomiting. ‘There was a damned gouty crowd out for Saint Aelfric’s Day! And the driver—’

‘You are early.’

‘—was no help whatsoever, and I – What?’

The secretary shrugged. ‘It’s the Holy City, Brother Diaz. Every day is at least one saint’s day, and everyone is always late. We shift all the appointments to allow for it.’

Diaz sagged with relief. Sweet Saint Beatrix had come through for him after all! He might have dropped to his knees to weep his thanks on the spot, had he not feared he would never rise again.

‘But never fear.’ The secretary clambered down from what must have been a very high stool and revealed herself to be surprisingly short. ‘Cardinal Zizka has cleared her schedule and asked that you be shown in the moment you arrived.’ And she gestured to a door with a showman’s flourish.

A large man, craggy-faced and crooked-knuckled, sat on a bench beside it, perhaps awaiting his own interview. He sat with his grey eyes on Brother Diaz, in such perfect stillness it seemed the Celestial Palace might have been built around him. His clipped hair was iron-grey with two great scars through it, and his clipped beard was iron-grey with at least three scars through it, and his grey brows were more scar than brow. He looked like a man who had spent half a century falling down a mountain. Perhaps one made of axes.

‘Wait,’ muttered Brother Diaz. ‘Cardinal Zizka?’

‘Indeed.’

‘I understood I was meeting Her Holiness the Pope … to be assigned a benefice—’

‘No.’

Could it be that things were starting to look up? Her Holiness might be the Heart of the Church, but she assigned a thousand irrelevant positions, offices, and blessings to a queue of irrelevant priests, monks, and nuns every day, presumably with as little thought as a grape picker gives each grape.

A meeting with Cardinal Zizka, the Head of the Earthly Curia, was another matter entirely. She was undisputed mistress of the sprawling bureaucracy and colossal revenues of the Church. She only took note of the noteworthy. And she had cleared her schedule …

‘Well, then …’ Brother Diaz wiped sweat from his forehead, dabbed at his fat lip, tugged his skewed habit straight, and began to smile for the first time since he entered the gates of the Holy City. It was starting to look as if Sweet Saint Beatrix might have positively outdone herself. ‘By all means announce me!’

Considering it represented the very pinnacle of ecclesiastical power, Cardinal Zizka’s office was something of a disappointment. A huge space by the standards of a rural monk but made to feel positively cramped by dizzying piles of paperwork bristling with tassels, markers, and seals, deployed on benches to both sides with the precision of rival armies about to do battle. Brother Diaz had expected splendour – frescoes, velvet and marble with gilt cherubs crowded into every angle. But the furniture wedged into the strip of floor between those twin cliffs of bureaucracy might best have been described as dull and functional. The back wall was one blank expanse of stone, strangely rippled as if it had melted, flowed, then set in place, presumably some vestige of the ancient ruins on top of which the Celestial Palace was built. The only decoration was a small and rather violent painting of the Scourging of Saint Barnabus.

A first glance at Cardinal Zizka herself was honestly something of a disappointment, too. She was a sturdy woman with a shock of greyish hair, engaged in taking papers from a pile on her left, signing them in a disappointingly untidy hand, then adding them to a pile on her right. She appeared to have slung her golden chain of office over one of the prongs on the back of her chair, the front of her crimson vestment adorned instead with a scattering of crumbs.

Had it not been for the red cardinal’s hat abandoned upside down on the desk, one could have taken this for the office of some junior clerk, engaged in a junior clerk’s humdrum business. Still, as Brother Diaz’s mother would have said, that was no excuse to let his own standards slip.

‘Your Eminence,’ he intoned, delivering his best formal bow.

It was wasted on the cardinal, who did not so much as look up from her scratching quill. ‘Brother Diaz,’ she grated out. ‘How have you been enjoying the Holy City?’

‘A place of …’ He politely cleared his throat. ‘Remarkable spirituality?’

‘Oh, without doubt. Where else can one buy a desiccated pizzle of Saint Eustace from three different stalls within a mile of one another?’

Brother Diaz was desperately unsure whether to treat that as a joke or a searing indictment, and ended up straining to do both by grinning and shaking his head at once while murmuring, ‘A miracle indeed …’

Fortunately, the cardinal had still not looked up. ‘Your abbott speaks very highly of you.’ He’d bloody better, after all the favours Brother Diaz had done him. ‘He says you are the most promising administrator his monastery has seen in years.’

‘He does me too much honour, Your Eminence.’ Brother Diaz licked his lips at the thought of bursting free from the smothering confines of that very monastery to claim all he deserved. ‘But I will strive to serve you, and Her Holiness, in whatever capacity you might desire, to the very limits—’

He jumped as the door was noisily shut behind him, spinning about to see the scarred grey man from the bench outside had followed him into the cardinal’s office. Baring his battered teeth, he lowered himself into one of the hard chairs before her desk.

‘To the very limits …’ persevered Brother Diaz, uncertainly, ‘of my abilities …’

‘That is a tremendous comfort.’ Her Eminence finally tossed down her quill, placed the latest document carefully on top of its heap, rubbed her inky forefinger against her inky thumb, and looked up.

Brother Diaz swallowed. Cardinal Zizka might have had the bland office, drab furniture, and stained fingers of a junior clerk, but her eyes were those of a dragon. A particularly formidable example that suffered no fools.

‘This is Jakob of Thorn,’ she said, nodding at the newcomer. That chopping-block of a face had been troubling in the hallway, but thrust into Brother Diaz’s private interview it was positively distressing. Rather in the same way that finding a beggar in your doorway would be merely distasteful, while finding one in your bed would be cause for considerable alarm.

‘He is a Knight Templar in the sworn service of Her Holiness,’ said Cardinal Zizka, which was far from an explanation and even further from a comfort. ‘A man of long experience.’

‘Long.’ The one word growled from the knight’s immobile mouth like a handful of old gravel between new mill wheels.

‘His guidance and advice, not to mention his sword, will be invaluable to you.’

‘His … sword?’ Brother Diaz was no longer sure where this interview was taking him but did not at all care for the notion that he might need a sword when he got there.

Cardinal Zizka narrowed her eyes slightly. ‘We live in a world beset by perils,’ she said.

‘We do?’ asked Brother Diaz, and then, having considered it, changed the question into a sad observation. ‘We do.’ And finally to a grim assertion. ‘We do.’ Not personally, in his case, of course.

He lived in a small but actually – now he really thought about it – quite comfortable cell with a view of the sea, and a breeze washing through the windows that at this time of year was rich with the scent of juniper. He had a creeping suspicion the scent of juniper was not among the perils to which the cardinal was referring. That suspicion was all too soon confirmed.

‘The Eastern and Western Churches are in schism.’ Her Eminence seemed to be glaring right through Brother Diaz’s head into a distance crowded with threats.

‘I understand the Fifteenth Grand Ecumenical Council did little to resolve the outstanding issues,’ lamented Brother Diaz, hoping to impress with his knowledge of current events and theology at once. He knew the Church of the East had male clergy, that they wore the wheel rather than the circle, that there was some furious row about the date of Easter, but he honestly had almost no understanding of what the deeper divisions were. Few did, these days.

‘The many grasping princes of Europe ignore their holy duties and squabble with each other for earthly power.’

Brother Diaz rolled his eyes piously to the ceiling. ‘They will all face judgement in the hereafter.’

‘I would prefer they faced it a great deal sooner,’ said Cardinal Zizka, with an edge on her voice that made the hairs on Diaz’s arms prickle. ‘Meanwhile we are plagued by a veritable infestation of sundry monsters, imps, trolls, witches, sorcerers, and other practitioners of the many foul faces of Black Art.’

Words temporarily failed him, so Brother Diaz contented himself with making the sign of the circle on his chest.

‘Not to mention even more diabolical powers, plotting the ruin of creation from the eternal howling night beyond the world.’

‘Demons, Your Eminence?’ whispered Brother Diaz, making the circle with even greater enthusiasm.

‘And then, of course, there is the apocalyptic threat of the elves. They will not stay in the Holy Land forever. The enemies of God will boil out of the east again, bringing their unholy fire, and their unclean poison, and their accursed appetites with them.’

‘Damn them,’ croaked Brother Diaz, in danger of wearing a circle into the front of his habit. ‘Is it certain, Your Eminence?’

‘The Oracles of the Celestial Choir have been consulted and leave no doubt. We live in a world sunk in darkness, in which our Church is the one point of light. The one hope of humanity. Can we that are righteous suffer that light to be extinguished?’

Here was an easy one. ‘Absolutely not, Your Eminence,’ said Brother Diaz, vigorously shaking his head.

‘And in this battle of what can only be described as good, against what can only be described as evil, defeat is inconceivable.’

‘Absolutely so, Your Eminence,’ said Brother Diaz, vigorously nodding.

‘With God’s creation and every soul it contains at stake, restraint would be madness. Restraint would be craven dereliction of our holy duty. Restraint would be sin.’

Brother Diaz had a creeping suspicion that he was somehow straying onto wobbly theological ground, like a clumsy bear chasing rabbits onto a half-frozen lake. ‘Well …’

‘A time comes when the stakes are of such enormity that moral objections become themselves immoral.’

‘Do they? I mean – they do? That is – they do. Do they?’

Cardinal Zizka smiled. A smile somehow more troubling even than her frown. ‘Are you familiar with the Chapel of the Holy Expediency?’

‘I … don’t think that I—’

‘It is one of the thirteen chapels within the Celestial Palace. One of the oldest, indeed. As old as the Church itself.’

‘I understood there to be twelve chapels, one for each of the Twelve Virtues—’

‘It is sometimes necessary to draw a curtain over certain regrettable facts. But here, at the very heart of the Church, we must look beyond the mere appearance of virtue. We must tackle the world as it is, with the tools available.’

Was this some kind of test? God, Brother Diaz hoped so. But if it was, he hadn’t the slightest idea how to pass. ‘I … er …’

‘The Church must, of course, remain faithful to the teachings of our Saviour. But there are tasks that must be undertaken, and methods used, to which the faithful and unimpeachable … are not suited.’

Brother Diaz supposed, if you really squinted, you could make that argument, but he didn’t want to be anywhere near it himself. He glanced towards Jakob of Thorn, but found no help there whatsoever. He looked like a man whose methods were deeply impeachable. ‘I’m not sure I entirely follow—’

‘Those tasks are undertaken, and those methods used, by the congregation of the Chapel of the Holy Expediency.’

‘By the congregation?’

‘Under the direction of its vicar.’ And Zizka raised her brows significantly.

Brother Diaz was helpless to prevent his own rising to match. He touched one hesitant fingertip to his chest.

‘Her Holiness has selected you for this honour. Baptiste will introduce you to your charges.’

Brother Diaz spun about for the second time to find a woman leaning against the wall behind him, arms folded. He couldn’t have said whether she’d slipped in silently or been standing there the whole time and didn’t care for either possibility. Her origin was hard to place – one of the many shores of the Mediterranean was his closest guess – and she struck him as being every bit as much trouble as Jakob of Thorn, but of an opposite sort. Her clothing was as flamboyant as his was dowdy, her broad face as expressive as his was stern. She, too, had scars. One across her lips. One beneath the corner of her eye, which made him think of a teardrop, strangely at odds with the amused quirk constantly hovering at the corner of her mouth.

She swept off a gold-fringed hat and bowed low enough that her mop of dark curls brushed the tiles, then leaned back with one gold-buckled boot crossed over the other in a display of nonchalance that seemed positively offensive in light of Brother Diaz’s own mounting panic.

‘Is she … one of my flock?’ he stammered.

That quirk became a grin. ‘Baaaaaa,’ she said.

‘Baptiste is what one might call, within the unique context of the chapel …’ Cardinal Zizka paused for a moment, considering her. ‘A lay minister?’

Jakob of Thorn made a strange snort. Had it emerged from any other face, Brother Diaz might have considered it a chuckle.

‘Living in a nunnery for a few weeks is as close as I ever came to being ordained.’ Baptiste struggled to wedge her unruly hair back into her hat, leaving several stray curls dangling. ‘It didn’t suit the nuns, but they needed the money.’

‘The nuns?’ asked Brother Diaz.

‘Nuns have to drink, Brother, like anyone else. Perhaps a bit more. It’s been my honour to assist several former vicars of the chapel, including your predecessor.’

‘Assist how?’ asked Brother Diaz, rather dreading the answer.

Baptiste’s grin became a smile. Behind the scar across her mouth she had two gold teeth, top and bottom. ‘However was expedient.’

‘You seem perplexed,’ said Her Eminence.

Perplexed was the very least of it. Brother Diaz wasn’t sure what he’d got into, still less how, but he was developing a strong sense that he wanted to get out of it, and if he didn’t do it soon, it would be too late. ‘Well, you know … my thing is really … mostly … bureaucracy?’ That windowless expanse of stone behind Cardinal Zizka was developing the look of a prison cell. ‘I reorganised the books. In the library. At the monastery. That was my big … contribution.’ He wrestled to minimise the very accomplishments he had spent months outrageously inflating. ‘Accounts. Paperwork. Bit of negotiation over grazing rights and so forth. Inky fingers.’ He chuckled, but no one else did, and his laughter died a death almost as painful as that of Saint Barnabus, in his plain frame on the wall. ‘So, erm …’ he waved towards Jakob of Thorn, ‘knights, and …’ he gestured towards Baptiste, ‘er …’ then realised he had no idea what to call her and gave up, ‘and devils in the howling night beyond the world …’

‘Yes?’ asked Cardinal Zizka, with signs of growing impatience.

‘It all comes across as a little … outside my experience?’

‘Did Saint Evariste have experience when at fifteen years old she took up her father’s spear and led the Third Crusade against the elves?’

‘But didn’t she end up getting … a little bit …’ Brother Diaz winced. ‘Eaten alive?’

The cardinal’s brow wrinkled. ‘We are at war for our very existence against merciless enemies. To win a war, one must, sometimes, make use of the weapons of one’s enemies. To fight fire, one must be prepared to use fire.’

Brother Diaz’s wince grew even more twisted. ‘But wouldn’t it follow, Your Eminence, that to fight devils … one must be prepared … to use devils?’

Jakob of Thorn rocked his weight forwards, bared his teeth, and stiffly stood. ‘You see it,’ he said.

‘This is an enormous opportunity. For your own advancement. For the advancement of the interests of the Church. But most importantly …’ Cardinal Zizka rose, plucking her chain from the back of her chair and slinging it skewed around her shoulders, the jewelled circle swinging back and forth. ‘To do good.’ And she jammed her hat on, indicating beyond doubt or hope that the interview was concluded and its outcome irreversible. ‘Isn’t that why we all join the Church?’

Brother Diaz’s mother had made him join the Church to spare his family further embarrassment. But he somehow doubted that was what the Head of the Earthly Curia wanted to hear. And if there was one thing that was within Brother Diaz’s experience, it was telling people what they wanted to hear.

‘Of course,’ he said, managing a watery smile. ‘To do good.’

Whatever the hell that meant.