City of Light Page 2

expelled—said, “you might as well commit the other. Can’t go to Hell twice.”

  Perhaps there was a time and place for the Andrian lunkhead’s bull-in-a-china-shop philosophy.

  I set my empty tankard on the top of the wall with a resolute clank and set off toward the outskirts of Benshma, and the towers beyond.

  The sun finished its descent into the western horizon as I crossed a potato field. On the far side, I detoured between blocky stones in haphazard heaps and tall stacks: Pingwot’s long-abandoned lower wall. Beyond was a narrow path hewn from the rock, so I angled toward that. The city now loomed over me, the towers—to my perception—leaning outward, cantilevering over my head.

  Just then a light, a genuine manmade one, flashed a glowing cone against one of the structures.

  Others flicked on, bathing the pale walls in an otherworldly glow. I forced myself to look down before I tripped on something.

  Over the fading sounds of revelry came the unmistakable patter of horses. Still a bit emboldened by the ale, I refused to give them the satisfaction of looking over my shoulder. Despite the hopelessness of the situation, I forced myself to keep walking until the riders thundered past and wheeled around to block my path.

  “Father Dorini,” came the unmistakable tenor of Rickard. “You couldn’t have expected I’d just assume you’d take no for an answer, after so many days of hard travel?”

  I briefly considered walking past them. Then I visualized Rickard giving the order to have my head caved in by a mace, leaving my body among the ruins of Pingwot’s lower wall. “Do I at least get a ride back into town?”

  Rickard favored me with a sneer. “Right to the front door of our jail.”

  At least, back in Benshma, the party continued, so cheerful faces surrounded me as I paraded past to the siege headquarters building.

  A short, white-haired man in Andrian uniform stood on the steps holding a tankard, which he handed to a junior officer at our approach. “Ah, Major! I was wondering if you’d finally decided to storm the walls yourself.”

  Rickard deflated a little, though he still threw a crisp salute. “No, sir. I would certainly ask for orders to that effect.”

  “What have we here? Going on a ride with—oh, a man of the cloth! Good evening, Father! Have you come to give Father Peter a hand at Saint Jon’s?”

  “From what His Excellency tells me, Father Peter works best alone. I’m Father Bertolo Dorini, Order of Saint Francis.”

  “How do you do. General Farson Burz, Siege Commander. I see you’ve met Major Rickard. What brings you this far south, Father Dorini?”

  “He wishes to enter Pingwot,” Rickard answered for me.

  General Burz gave his adjunct an annoyed look, but didn’t ask me to state my business in my own words. “I believe Sergeant Gordeon can arrange an escort for you.” He pointed to a thick, pasty-faced man standing behind him. “Of course, we will have to examine your bags for contraband. This City is still under siege, after all. We’ll regrettably have to confiscate any gold, food, alcohol, tobacco, or literature that you have brought with you. Except, of course, a Bible; we’re not barbarians.”

  I shrugged in response. “I brought no bags with me, Sir. I’m a Franciscan, after all.”

  I recognized the polite horror on his face. I see it all the time on those with a measure of power or wealth. An educated man willing to go through life with nothing but a walking stick and the clothes on his back is nobody they want to have around for long. An inner voice asks such a person if they could renounce their station as St. Francis had done.

  Before the sight of me could trouble him too much, I thanked the General for his city’s hospitality, taking special care to complement the local brew. Sergeant Gordeon, an aging, leather-skinned man with the scars of real combat, began leading me out through the crowd.

  Rickard glared at me as I passed, with the beady, predatory eyes of a raptor on his perch, but said nothing. Forgive me, Lord; there was a smirk on my face as I walked past him.

  For the second time that evening I approached the city, and started to ascend the trail hewn into the mesa when Gordeon grabbed me by the arm. “Not a good idea, Father. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do this, and we’ve spent a few centuries figuring out protocol. Holy garb or not, they’d likely skewer you with fifty flaming arrows before you managed a dozen paces.”

  He extracted a white cloth from his pocket and tied it around the spearhead of the pike he used as his walking stick. He waved the makeshift flag over his head for a minute, until a single flaming arrow left the battlements, tracing an arc through the sky until it struck the first switchback on the trail. That seemed to be the sign Gordeon wanted; after giving me a nod, he began the climb.

  After an interminable series of steps up the narrow trail, we approached the massive main gate, a stone’s throw high. I doubt that anything less than a team of draft horses could have opened them. They obviously weren’t made for frequent use. Gordeon approached, pensive, glancing back and forth at a pair of archers’ loopholes cut into the wall at either side. He grabbed a purple cord that ran into a hole in the door, and pulled on it once.

  After a minute, a creaky voice addressed us through one of the firing slits. “Gordeon, you fat, ugly drunkard! What brings your oversized carcass up here at this late hour?”

  The Andrian held his arms apart, as if preparing to embrace a pachyderm, and sang out, “I bring you a Churchman, you vermin-eaten, incestuous, diseased old crank!” Over his shoulder to me, he murmured: “Beg pardon, Father.”

  “Step forward, visitor. I’m deeply sorry you had to be near that old coot, breathing his feculent stench.”

  I took two steps forward, in front of Gordeon. “I am Father Bertolo Dorini, of Minaplas. I have come at the behest of my Bishop, his Excellency Mark Andrew, to engage in a fact-finding mission within your city walls. I believe he sent a courier ahead to notify you of my coming.”

  The voice inside howled with laughter. “Damned Andrians haven’t let us get mail for six…uh, pardon the language, Father. So you want in? And they’ll let you?”

  I merely nodded, then turned to Gordeon. “Thank you for the escort, Sergeant.”

  He backed away to begin his descent. “Think nothing of it, Father. Any demons you can expel from these foul wretches, especially that old crank Dinsmore, would be most appreciated.” Then he turned and walked back down the trail.

  “That’s right! Run away, coward!” jeered the voice inside the gate. Whether Gordeon did not hear, or simply lacked the energy to respond, I never found out.

  Dinsmore required a few minutes to extract himself from the globe and let me in. From one of the cyclopean main doors came a clatter of pins sliding from boltholes, followed by a screech of metal on metal, and a plug the size of a large dog retracted inward. I squatted to look inside; the opening was large enough to crawl through, but doing so would leave my neck exposed.

  After hesitating, I decided if they were depraved enough to decapitate a lone priest, they’d have already used me for target practice.

  I righted myself after crawling through and came face-to-face with a bear of a man in quilted armor. “Welcome to Pingwot, Father.” His voice was a warmer, more vital version of the one that had challenged us and hurled invectives at Gordeon. He extended a hand, nearly crushing mine when I clasped it in greeting.

  “You’re Dinsmore? The same one who was just insulting the Andrian?”

  His laugh sparkled with mischief. “We like to project a certain image to them. They picture us as an inbred, fetid lot who constantly suffer pestilence and famine as we barely cling to life.”

  “If you wish to keep them at bay, shouldn’t you project the opposite image?”

  “We’ve found our way works better. Those sodden idiots down there haven’t had an interest in storming the city for a couple of centuries. In fact, we haven’t even had a healthy skirmish in over three generat
ions.”

  “Nobody’s discussed a truce in all that time?”

  “Come,” he offered with a dismissive laugh, “the Andrians are an inhospitable sort, about as interesting as root paste. I’m sure your intellect has been screaming for attention if you’ve had to travel all the way from Minaplas with them.” He clapped a palm on my shoulder and led me through an entryway, fifty paces or so in length. Above, a number of murder holes peppered the ceiling. Below, I noticed many of the flagstones had larger than normal gaps between them and wobbled slightly.

  Dinsmore noticed my interest. “If anybody breached that door,” he commented, “they’d get arrows or boiling oil from above and from below, they’d…well, I guess I’d better not be too generous with the strategic information, should I?”

  “If it’s any consolation, the Church hasn’t had a standing army for almost 1500 years. And we aren’t equipped to meddle in the political affairs of others.”

  The Pingwot gave me another laugh. “Oh, relax, Father.” He spread his arms as we exited the passageway, and the full city in its entire splendor came into view. “We’ve had far more interesting things to do than persecute strangers.”

  I gasped. None of the exterior views of the city could have prepared me for the sight. There was so much light! From thousands of different sources, countless hues, shades, and tints jostled for