Estructuras y mecanismos: máquinas y sistemas

“I was not, of course, present when my Lord Jürgen raided the monastery and only visited it well after the fact,” Lady Rosamund informed him as they descended the staircase that led to the lowest levels of the monastery, beneath even the storage rooms and the windowless sleeping chambers of the resident Cainites. “From what I saw, there was very little damage though my lord’s men were… a bit less than wholly respectful, I must admit.”

“Conquerors are generally not respectful of the conquered.” Myca replied, offering no reassurance and, in truth, feeling no need to make that offer.

Lady Rosamund was, for a moment, visibly un- comfortable before her diplomatic mask reasserted itself. “I would hardly define my Lord Jürgen as— “

“My Lady Rosamund, with all due respect, your Lord Jürgen has offended against the Obertus Or- der, the house of my blood, and the honor of myself and my sire. He has seized our territory on the thin- nest pretext and murdered our chattels. He breached a treaty that he swore upon his own honor to uphold, for no logical reason that I can perceive beyond the satisfaction of his own relentless am- bition.” They came to the bottom of the stair, and he brought out a heavy iron ring of keys, one of which fit the lock of the door they faced. It swung open with a screeching complaint of rusty hinges. “Your Lord Jürgen has much to answer for, but it is not to me that he will answer. My lord sire Symeon will no doubt take a great interest in these events, for it is his honor as the ultimate guarantor of the treaty that Lord Jürgen chooses to defame, and he does not endure such insults kindly.”

“Do you deny, then, that the Obertus Order had aught to do with the knowledge displayed by the kunigaikstis Geidas?” Lady Rosamund asked, with deliberate formality. He had no doubt that her temper was roused.

“That claim is, indeed, denied and, moreover, you have presented no evidence of its truth, Lady Rosamund.” And, so saying, he stepped across the threshold and went about lighting the handful of lamps and candles that provided the illumination for Nikita’s prison.

“Nikita…”

“Nikita is not a member of the Obertus Order. Nor, to my knowledge, does he serve Vladimir Rustovitch. The voivode of voivodes may be no Christian, but he is most assuredly no Heretic, ei- ther.” A pause. “And Lord Jürgen was not hunting Heretics when he saw fit to violate the Obertus demesne.”

The room was originally constructed as an ad- junct to Myca’s own private study, a storage room for the overflowing contents of his library, perfectly square and lined in bookshelves, several of which were as-yet empty. The small worktable was pushed back against one of them and the heavy wooden casket Nikita traveled in occupied the center of the room. Lady Rosamund stepped inside and looked curiously about; the three servants they had brought with them for protection, appropriate chaperonage, and heavy lifting entered behind her. They were all Obertus brothers, tonsured and sim- ply clad in brown wool robes, and each was quite capable of protecting himself and the Lady Rosamund against most normal dangers. One of them carried an iron pole to open the casket, and the others carried a selection of stakes, most of

them carefully carved of rowan, the wood deeply incised with pictorial symbols that Myca himself did not know how to decode. Ilias had made them earlier in the winter during an apparent fit of con- structive boredom; Myca sensed the power invested in them, could not define its providence person- ally, but trusted the wisdom of their creator.

Myca motioned to the monk carrying the pry- bar. “Open it.”

“My Lord Vykos, I do not think it entirely wise to free the… Archbishop.” Lady Rosamund used the term with considerable distaste.

“I have no intention of freeing him. I wish to look on him and I wish you to confirm that he has, in fact, been delivered and received unharmed.” Myca opened a drawer set in the edge of the table and extracted a half-filled workbook, flipping to a blank page. A handful of decent quills and a tiny blown-glass bottle of ink came out, as well. “Did Lord Jürgen locate any of the Archbishop’s personal effects?”

“Yes.” Lady Rosamund crossed the room and stood, somewhat uneasily, at his side as the monks went to work with the pry-bar. “He was, evidently, carrying a small correspondence chest, and a some- what larger box with a rather complicated lock. No one managed to puzzle it out, and my lord thought it unwise to break it open. I brought them both in my own baggage.”

“I will, of course, wish to see them.” The iron spikes used to hold the casket’s lid in place began giving with a screech that put his teeth on edge.

“If you wish, we can retrieve them now.” Some- thing in Lady Rosamund’s tone suggested she would be glad to rid herself of those particular artifacts. Myca nodded, and one of the monks hurried out

to accomplish that task. “My Lord Jürgen made certain to review the Archbishop’s documents be- fore we departed. It is his personal opinion, I know, that they will be of little use. Unless a very subtle and well-hidden cipher is involved, most of it was of relatively mundane nature, and much of it was also unfinished.”

“No journal?” Myca inked his quill and began taking notes in his fine, careful hand.

“None that was found. No clothing, either, oddly enough—no vestments of office or anything of the sort.” He cast a glance at her, and found her expression distant with recollection. “It is very odd. He dressed plainly when he passed through Chartres, more plainly than the Bishop St. Lys, at least, but he wore a cassock, and a ring. It is pass- ing strange that he would travel without the symbols of his office.”

“Unless he was making some attempt at se- crecy, but, even so, you are correct. The ring, at least, he should have kept in his possession, even if he traveled otherwise incognito.” Myca noted that point. “Could you describe the ring?”

Lady Rosamund shook her head. “I never saw it closely enough to make out details, but it was a heavy gold signet, and large. It took up most of the last knuckle on his ring-finger, and his hands were long.”

“I should hate to imagine what you would no- tice if you were observing for detail, ambassador.” He made a quick sketch and, as he finished, the last of the nails came free and the casket lid came off. “Come, my lady… let us see.”

The Obertus brothers backed away, crossing themselves and murmuring quietly to each other in Greek. Myca offered Lady Rosamund his hand to clasp, if she wished, an honor she declined, and

they stepped closer to view their prisoner. Nikita of Sredetz, Myca reflected distantly, had clearly not gone down without a fight. The Archbishop of Nod was not a tall man, but every inch of his body was rigid with tension, his hands hooked into rending claws, his face twisted in a rictus of emotion. A cascade of dark hair wound beneath his head. The robes he “wore” were wholly organic, the product of his own blood, flesh, and bone, and Myca rec- ognized the work of a master flesh-sculptor in the elegant functionality of their lines despite the rents and tears of the violence done him. “My Lady Rosamund, is this the same man you saw in Chartres?”

“It appears so, yes. But appearances, as we both know well, can be deceptive.” She hesitated frac- tionally, then drew closer, her expression becoming somewhat abstracted as she studied him closely. “I thought he might be wearing the ring, if it was not among his possessions, though my lord made no mention of it.”

Myca let his own vision expand and refine, ex- amining Nikita’s physical shell closely, the shape of the bones in his face and his hands, the tension of the skin across his cheeks, brow, and throat. “He has been shaped but… the markings are very fine, almost invisible. I do not think he alters his form very often, or his flesh would show more obvious signs. Perhaps he chooses not to confuse his con- gregation on a nightly basis.”

“Perhaps.” The ambassador echoed. “My Lord Vykos, if there is nothing more you desire of me I fear I am finding this quite unsettling.”

“No, my lady, I have no further questions of you, for now.” He caught her hand and kissed it, properly, and bowed low to her, as well. “Brother Milos and Brother Antol will escort you to the oriel.”

She curtseyed deeply, and departed, one monk leading and one monk following, with the perfect obedience to which they had been bred. Myca him- self remained, alone and thoughtful, contemplating the man lying helpless before him. He did not, in fact, have any intention whatsoever of setting Nikita free, despite Lady Rosamund’s fears to the contrary. Honoring the ties of blood kinship was a wonderful idea in theory but, in practice, it was substantially more convenient simply to keep the man as he was until some decision was made about what to do with him. Word had come to him from nearly all points west and east where he had col- leagues and correspondents that the Cainite Heresy had fallen on hard times since the final destruc- tion of Narses and Nikita’s assumption of the Archbishopric of Nod. Heretical temples looted and burnt, heretical congregations put to the sword, heretical officials stumbling fatally in their efforts to win the hearts and minds of their fellow Cainites. The Archbishop of Nod himself appar- ently felt the situation dire enough to risk traveling from one end of Europe to the other in order to show his support for his struggling faith.

“When did you leave Sredetz, Nikita?” Myca murmured aloud, noting the question in his book, beneath a swiftly detailed sketch of the man’s twisted face. “What induced you to leave the very bosom of your little nest of serpents? What is to be gained from keeping you safe?”

He refined his vision still further, pushing his sight past the bounds of the purely physical, until the concrete objects of the room became flat and lifeless, and only the torpid body of Nikita retained any reality, that reality defined by his soul. He was deeply withdrawn into himself, the essence of his being concentrated into a tiny, egg-shaped pool of

radiance, shining faintly from deep within. His halo was so pale and weak, so devoid of emotion, that Myca nearly thought he imagined its existence. He absently laid aside his notebook and came closer, gaze drifting from Nikita’s contorted face down the length of his body—and it was real. The Archbishop’s halo was there, just impossibly faint, and deeply scarred in black. Relief welled up in- side him, for some reason he could not adequately name, even to himself and, almost involuntarily, entirely impulsively, he rested his hand on the Archbishop of Nod’s pale brow.

Nikita’s hair was soft beneath his fingertips and the skin beneath his palm had the cool dryness of one who had spent freely of his strength without a chance to replenish himself. As Myca stood con- templating this, something leapt between them, a spark, a shock that sent itself all the way up his arm, and, in the instant, he knew precisely what he should do. He ran his hand over Nikita’s face and throat, across his chest and the length of his body to his pale, unclad feet. When he finished, a shudder passed through him, nearly as strong as the sudden burst of understanding that possessed him, and he jerked his hand away, startled and disturbed. His grip on his sight shattered and his vision dis- solved into normal realms of sensory perception.

Nikita’s face, when he looked, was still and peaceful, emptied of its welter of emotions, and his body was eased of its painful tension, his hands lying open and empty at his sides. He looked as though he slept nestled in the earth of his own grave, beyond pain or fear, wholly at rest in body and spirit. Myca slowly backed away, his fingers working into his palms, feeling, for a moment, as though his hands belonged to someone else, the

blood still stirring in his veins with the echo of what had passed between them. A silent commun- ion.

He turned, and fled.

***

The oriel room was not really an oriel, but the residents of the monastery haven called it that for the touch of the exotic the term lent. It was not part of a tower, nor did it extend any- where above ground. It was, however, perfectly round and the product of the architectural ge- nius of the engineer-monk who designed the private dining chamber, and who had a passion for oddly shaped rooms. It consisted of two sto- ries, the main floor and an upper gallery that connected to both the guest chambers and the private suites of the monastery’s Cainite resi- dents by means of a single corridor. The main floor was lit by lamps burning gently perfumed oil and warmed by strategically placed braziers, and its walls were draped in panels of heavy fab- ric that fell from the edge of the deeply vaulted roof to the floor. A gaming table and chairs oc- cupied the center of the room, while large, flat floor pillows occupied the periphery for specta- tors and idle conversation. The second floor gallery doubled as a stage for the monastery’s resident musicians.

Nicolaus, Ilias knew, would be completely use- less for any task more arduous than lounging about and looking pretty given his exertions of the pre- vious evening, and so that was the task he was given. Bathed and oiled, painted and perfumed, clad in red silk and gold, he was the very picture of beautiful indolence among the cushions of the musicians’ loft where he sat, coaxing a sweet tune

from a long wooden flute. His lover, fair silver Sergiusz, sat with him, a harp imported from the west in his lap, teasing accompaniment from its strings. They were both, Ilias admitted to himself, pale from the evening before but musical enter- tainment was well within their capabilities, and they rose skillfully to the challenge. He was quite pleased with both of them, and showed his plea- sure by granting them both an extra taste of him. It put the bloom back in their cheeks. The oriel itself was constantly attended by four of the come- liest youths in the monastery’s service, two male and two female, all of whom had also been freshly bathed and scented, were flawless in their com- portment and excellent in their service, and under strict orders to give the masters’ guests anything they required.

It was obvious from the start of the evening that Sir Gilbrecht had no particular interest in actually enjoying any of the many pleasures—or, for that matter, basically pleasant services—avail- able to him. He lingered in the oriel only long enough to play a single round of draughts with Sir Landric, eye the servants with naked distaste, and request, somewhat brusquely, that he be permitted to speak with his mortal lieutenant. Ilias granted that request, but required a brace of Obertus broth- ers to accompany him at all times, a stipulation that irritated the man’s already choleric tempera- ment even further. Ilias failed to care, having little love of Teutons in general and even less for most of the minions of the Black Cross. Sir Landric, at his superior’s gesture, remained behind and proved to be much more congenial company out from un- der the eye of Sir Gilbrecht, curious and talkative, while discussing nothing of substance. Ilias re-

turned that favor, thinking it all to the best. They played two quick games of draughts, Sir Landric besting him soundly both times, and Ilias had just suggested backgammon when Lady Rosamund en- tered in the company of her Obertus escorts.

Ilias noticed at once that Lady Rosamund ap- peared a bit unsettled, which, considering that she’d just been subjected to Myca at his no-doubt less than diplomatic best, was not entirely surpris- ing. He recalled also that the lady had a pronounced poor reaction to ugliness of any sort, and he didn’t doubt that Nikita of Sredetz was not the most pleasant thing to look upon. He surren- dered his seat at the table to her and begged her pardon, on the grounds of minor matters of a do- mestic nature requiring his attention. As it happened, there were, and he ended up instruct- ing the brothers sent to retrieve the Archbishop’s belongings from Lady Rosamund’s baggage to place the two boxes in the main study, dispatching two more brothers to monitor the activities of Sir Gilbrecht and his men, and almost going down- stairs to check on Myca.

He restrained that last impulse, knowing that, should his lover require him, he could make that need known silently and efficiently through the blood they shared between them. He almost whis- pered a question through that bond, but checked that impulse, as well; whatever he was doing, Myca was clearly, fully engaged in it, and disturbing him unnecessarily when he was absorbed was one of the surest ways to put him out of sorts. Ilias sensed still- ness and concentration emanating from below, Myca’s intellect very much at work, and decided to leave him alone. He would come upstairs when his initial rush of curiosity quenched itself.

Lady Rosamund, he had been told, was sup- posed to be very good at backgammon, which was more than could be said for Myca.

The night wore on. Lady Rosamund proved to be as skilled at tables as she was in diplomacy. Ilias was privately glad that they weren’t playing for more than boasting rights, as she bested him slightly more than half the time. As the night passed, her unease gradually left her, as well, and once or twice he thought he coaxed a real smile and a genuine laugh from her. It was difficult to