The bulk of the ruined Grand Cathedral loomed over the square, its broken walls clawing at the cloud-streaked sky like the fingers of some great, skeletal beast. The moon had risen behind it, and it threw grim shadows across the cobblestones. The plaza, which was never empty during the day, was curiously deserted but for a few people here and there who scurried through as if haunted by the oppressive spectre that reared above them.
Amoretta stroked Grimalkin's back with quick, nervous gestures. The fallen cathedral reminded her of the prison, somehow, but while that place had been possessed by the diabolic only through its influence on human wills, she now felt it in a more literal sense.
She glanced at the chimera next to her. It looked exactly like Lillet, even sounded like her, but it was not her. Amoretta felt bitterly alone, almost abandoned. She always felt that way when they were apart. She truly needed Lillet in a way that she couldn't quite put into words or even express in actions. Perhaps it was a flaw in her artificial existence, or it might have been created from the gulf between her angel's spirit and the body she wore.
"Aren't we going in?" the doppelganger asked, seeing Amoretta's hesitation. "We're late." Proving her point, a bell rang out, the clock tower atop the new Grand Cathedral marking the half-hour.
"Yes, we are. Keep a careful watch; I don't like the look of things."
"All right, Amoretta. You'd better stay behind me, though. Lillet wouldn't want you hurt."
They walked up the steps to what had once been the doors but was now an open arch, broken apart at the top. They passed through the nave into the sanctuary, and found the stairs to the crypt behind an intact door at the far end of the room.
"This door is still in good order," Amoretta noticed. "The lock isn't rusted at all." She pressed the flat of her hand against the door. "There's something else, too, the residue of a spell."
"A ward?" the chimera asked. "Some kind of barrier spell?"
"I'm not sure, but this door was both physically and magically sealed and now is not. There might be something here, not just an obscure meeting place."
It was odd hearing the false Lillet discuss various kinds of magic with apparent knowledge. How much of herself did she put into the copy? The notion of using one's own soul in such a way revolted her on some level, perhaps a ghost of the angelic existence she no longer remembered. Oh, Lillet...
"Let's go down," she suggested, lighting a lantern since the moonlight would not penetrate into the intact room beyond. They descended the stairs, noting the footprints that marked the dust. There seemed to be at least three or four persons, which Amoretta found odd. While there were many familiars with bodies of physical substance, these footprints were of ordinary, human-sized feet.
"They're here," a man's voice called out as the women reached the bottom of the curving stairs. The air was musty and stale, thick with dust, a fit place for crime.
The man who'd spoken was lean and athletic, wearing simple dark clothes of common cut but good condition. He held a drawn saber in his right hand, the steel well-kept and glinting in the light of the two lanterns that lit the crypt. The second lantern was in the grip of another man, burlier though shorter than the first and similarly armed.
"Don't get any ideas because we're not some fancy magic-tossers," the shorter man said. "A foot of steel through the heart will kill you as dead as any devil's fire."
"They get the point," hissed another voice. Amoretta looked, and saw a large black rat perched on one of the crypts.
"Are you the one called Tempell?" Amoretta asked.
"Of course." It looked over at the doppelganger and asked her, "You brought the homunculus with you?"
"It's her life at stake. Why should she have to wait at home? Besides, Amoretta is often helpful with my magic."
The rat sniffed; Amoretta wondered if it could somehow scent the doppelganger's artificial nature. If so, though, Lillet's soul should trick the devil, making it curious but not of a substitution.
"If you must."
"Why are we here? Surely there are dozens of places in the city where we could talk without having to crawl around in a dusty crypt."
"That is very true," stated a new voice. "I agree that a more congenial setting would be to my taste as well. However, the seal in this crypt would be difficult to break from a comfortable drawing room."
The voice was female, as was the figure that stepped out of the niche next to the effigy-capped sarcophagus of a bishop. She wore a heavy, dark hooded cloak over a blue dress, likely as much to keep off the dust that smeared it in several places as for concealment. The hood was up, concealing the face in shadow, but Amoretta's memory for sound extended to voices.
"Lady Anheuser? What do you have to do with this?"
Artos Benedictine leaned back in his seat, savoring the first puff on his pipe and letting the smoke stream out through his long, thin nose to waft up towards the ceiling. He flipped a card onto the green baize table.
"The nine, eh? Surprised you wasted it. I'd have sworn you knew I had the ten." Benedictine's opponent, the plump, red-bearded Manfred Riesling, proved his point by playing the card in question. "My trick, and my game as well, I believe." He totted up the score. "One hundred and seventy-four points at tuppence a point is seventeen silver eightpence. Really, Artos, your mind's just not on the cards tonight.
"You are right, and therefore I think that I shall cease further play." He pushed back from the table and rose.
"Well enough. Your servant, Benedictine."
Riesling had the right of it. Benedictine's mind was definitely not on the game, but across the city with Lady Anheuser. He'd wanted to be there as well, but caution had forced him to send Tempell in his place. Bad enough that his employer would have to be there in person, but she had to be; it was a fundamental necessity. Benedictine was another matter. When dealing with a powerful magician as an enemy, it did not pay to show all one's cards.
Considering the quality of his card play that evening, he reflected, that was perhaps not the best simile he could manage.
In his heart of hearts, besides, he was almost glad to be away from the crypt. It galled him to be unable to perform a feat of magic, and he had no desire to stand by while a chit young enough to be his granddaughter did the job. Frankly, he'd rather she failed at it; after all, it was nothing to him if Lady Anheuser got what she wanted. No, puncturing that arrogant bitch Lillet Blan's pride would be the best result. Mage Consul, they intended to make her, Mage Consul! Well, she'd had plenty of suffering over that laboratory-made doll of hers, and there'd be more to come.
He exhaled, breathing out more smoke as he strolled from the lounge. Just then the meeting in the crypt should be going on, and soon enough they'd have an answer.
"Hey!"
The voice was high-pitched, feminine, and came from just above Benedictine's right ear. He turned to see a fairy hovering there, her bright insect-like wings buzzing.
"Is something wrong with your ears? I've been calling and calling!"
He glared at the familiar. Glamour was not his best field, and the rebellious free will of its spirits annoyed him.
"What is it?"
"Are you Master Benedictine?"
"Yes."
"Then here, this is for you." She thrust a folded note at him; he took it almost as a reflex and as soon as he did she flitted away down the hall. Apparently a reply was not required, or else the silly creature had just forgotten to wait. Curious, he unfolded the note.
Artos:
I think I know how that blasted thief got into the Royal House of Magic. Meet me in the castle park so we can test it out and seal it off.
Armand
Benedictine sighed in irritation. Tanqueray was obviously barking up the wrong tree, since Lillet Blan hadn't come in from the park outside the palace. Still, maybe he'd found something, some hole in the palace security that needed to be plugged, and if nothing else it could lay an additional false trail that could cover his own involvement,
The timing, though, couldn't have been worse! If Benedictine couldn't keep his mind on a card game, how was he expected to deal with a discussion of magical wards and set Runes of his own? He wanted to ignore the whole thing and let Tanqueray stew in the night air, but the man would know his fairy had delivered the message. There was nothing to do for it but go, he decided, and angrily shoved the note into a pocket of his robe.
The area of the castle park that actually abutted the palace wall was an open field, free of obstructions so that sentries could both see anyone approaching and direct arrow fire if necessary. Benedictine had expected to see Tanqueray there waiting, but the man was nowhere in sight. Caution was in the magician's nature, particularly in criminal affairs; he sent a mental message to Tempell.
How are things going there? Has Lillet Blan arrived?
Both of them have, came back. Even the rat's mental voice was harsh and grating.
Both? Benedictine replied, surprised.
She brought the homunculus with her. Why are you so nervous?
Nothing. Merely one of my colleagues playing games. Perhaps the fairy was supposed to lead Benedictine directly to Tanqueray but had flown off in a snit, disregarding orders. That would be par for the course for the little bugs.
He took a deep breath of the cool night air, then set off down the nearest path. Fallen leaves rustled under his feet as he stalked away from the palace, passing clusters of oak, elm, and beech trees and walking between hedge-like shrubbery. It was when he broke into a little clearing that he realized this could take half the night, given the size of the park and the obstructed view.
"Tanqueray!" he called, frustrated. "Tanqueray, damn it, where are you?"
Benedictine certainly wasn't going to stumble around the park half the night looking for the ward master. Using the stem of his pipe as a wand, he sketched out a basic summoning Rune and called out several ghosts. When the four azure flames bobbed in front of him, he sent them a mental image of Tanqueray. "Search this place, go find him, then come back here and lead me to him." The spirits flitted off. They could fly and pass through trees and shrubbery; let them do the searching.
Regardless of the ghosts' advantages, several minutes passed by without their return and Benedictine grew more and more impatient with the passing time. Now and again he'd hear rustling from the shrubbery, some animal or bird no doubt, which nonetheless caused him to flinch. More proof, he thought, of how tightly wound my nerves are over this business.
"I'll give you five more minutes, Tanqueray," he said aloud, "and then I'm going back inside before it rains."
All of a sudden the clearing was lit up by a blazing light from the starchild cradled in the hands of a Morning Star. At the far side of the clearing, next to the star spirit, stood a figure.
"Lillet Blan?" he gasped, almost choking on the words. "But how?"
"No, it's time for you to talk, not me," she said flatly, and the Morning Star sailed towards him.
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NOTE: Reisling's name comes from yet another variety of wine.
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