A Fool of Sorts Read online

  “Ah, but by his features, I would have thought—but no matter,” said Tanao.

  Philip snapped a finger. “Lorenzo, Stefano Lorenzo, no?”

  “My uncle.”

  “Ah, but I knew the name was familiar,” said Philip.

  The mention of his uncle cast a spell of silence over the table, as it always did when the name Stefano Lorenzo was spoken aloud.

  “Why is it you’re not running for abbot?” Sal asked Jacques in an attempt to break the silence.

  “A sorted answer is the best I can give. I’ve never been much of a man for leading. It’s true, I garner the respect of some, and the position of abbot is an honorable post, but many and more know my true passions lie with my work in the infirmary and my work for the Lord that is Light. If I were to be elected, my life would be filled with bureaucracy and beadledom, long days and short nights. When it is all considered, I feel my life is better spent where I am.”

  “And if you don’t enter your name in the running, the lives of the men at this table could very likely be filled with emptying chamber pots,” said Philip.

  “Surely that couldn’t happen,” said Sal.

  “Ah, but it could,” said Philip. “You see, abbot is an elected position. As the highest authority within the abbey, it is only appropriate that my brothers and I have a say as to who will wear the collar of office. Aside from our abbot, the rest of the positions of the Enlightened Council are appointed and revoked by the abbot himself.”

  “Therein lies the rub,” said Tanao. “All the power lies with he who wears the collar of office, and as such, it is imperative that Jacques enters himself in the election.”

  “What you men seem to forget is that Leobald must first win the election. As you said, young Philip, abbot is an elected position. Leobald seems to think that, as prior, he will simply step into the position of abbot as though it is his rightful inheritance,” said Jacques. “I’ll admit, there are fools among our order who would vote for such a man, but do you truly believe the fools outnumber those among us with sense?”

  “Many men of sound mind have pledged Leobald their votes,” said Philip.

  “Pledges mean nothing. They are only words,” Jacques snapped, the first crack in his limestone demeanor. “Until the stones are cast, nothing is set. Keep in mind, when the last election was held, our brothers did not elect Leobald. They chose abbot Tarquin, who proved to be one of the most amiable men to ever wear the collar.”

  “Aye, it’s true, our brothers ought to elect a man worthy of the position. A man of strong will, good sense, and a humble heart,” said Tanao. “Yet, no such man has put forth his name, and when there are no good options, men will reach for the familiar. You know this as well as I, Jacques. As prior, Leobald has naturally been looked to as the transitory abbot and will remain so until the election. If things go smoothly until the time of the election, the brothers may say to themselves that things should stay as they are. They may know in their hearts Leobald is rotten to his black core, but they may forgive this fault if he can give them more of the same.”

  Jacques sighed and put his face in his hands dramatically. He drew in a breath, sat up tall, and turned to Sal. “Master Salvatori, I must apologize on behalf of my companions. It seems they forget themselves, even in the presence of an honored guest. Let us be done speaking of politics, my brothers.”

  Sal spooned another mouthful of porridge, his hand shaking involuntarily, his body weak and craving something with a hunger that food could not fill. What he wouldn’t do for skeev was anyone’s guess. “Forgive my ignorance, but what happened to the last abbot?”

  Jacques took on a somber expression, and Tanao busied himself with his food, but Philip scooted to the edge of the bench, elbows on the table as he leaned close to Sal and rubbed his palms together. “Sickness of the belly, consumption, wasn’t it, Jacques?”

  Jacques looked away, his eyes seeming to have welled up. “It began as a sickness of the belly, but when he developed a persistent cough, I knew what I was dealing with. Though, by then, it seems it was too late. Soon after I relayed my discoveries to the Enlightened Council, the sickness took our abbot swifter than anything I’ve experienced in my years as Master Infirmarer.”

  “Well, there’ve been rumors,” said Philip conspiratorially. “In the initiate housing, some of the other boys—”

  “Philip!” said Tanao, placing his spoon on the table and fixing the mousy monk with a leer like a mad dog. “You do forget yourself in our company. Put a hand on that shaved spot atop your empty skull and keep in mind, the Lord that is Light sees all from above. Would you profess your servitude to our Lord with your talents as rumormonger?”

  Philip opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say, they would never know. At that moment, commotion spread through the gathered monks like the rush of a storm over calm water.

  When the message reached their table, it was delivered by a little monk with a lazy eye. “Prior Leobald has asked that the masters of the Enlightened Council gather at the orchard.”

  “A most unusual request,” said Jacques, arching an eyebrow.

  “Does the prior not know this is the hour at which we break our fast? I will join him when I’ve had my fill,” said Tanao, raising his hand to summon one of the serving boys.

  “I’d not keep the prior waiting,” said the little monk with the wandering eye. “It seems to be a matter of urgency.”

  “Very well,” said Jacques, standing. “Come, Master Brewer. It seems we are required in the orchard.”

  Tanao stood, scowling. “Would that I’d broken my fast in the brewhouse, where dodgy eyed imps seldom come with summonses from their master.”

  “Light’s blessing upon you, Brother Tanao,” said the little monk with the wandering eye.

  As the two monks began to walk away, Sal felt a pang of anxiety. He wasn’t going to let Jacques out of his sight until he got his locket back. He stood, and when no one stopped him or said a word in protest, Sal followed the two masters out the frater doors.

  Jacques and Tanao joined another cluster of three monks. The group crossed the yard and made for the orchard, where they saw another group of seven monks some ways into the trees. The others were gathered about the massive trunk of a pardimon tree. Soon to be twelve strong, they made up the entire Enlightened Council.

  As they neared the massive tree, its gnarled, leafless branches spotted black by carrion birds, a distant scream sounded in Sal’s head.

  He nearly dropped to his knees. Terror gripped him by the throat with an icy hand. His heart set to racing, his legs weak and shaking. There was something familiar about the pardimon tree, something horribly familiar.

  The monks nearest the tree had begun shouting, and it sounded as though a scuffle might break out.

  “What is the meaning of this?” said Jacques.

  The gathered monks began to part in order to make way for Jacques, who, it seemed, was a rather big deal, even amongst the Enlightened Council.

  Sal had never wanted a cap of skeev more than at that very moment. Everything inside him said to run, to be as far from that place as he could get, but he couldn’t move. His feet were planted to the spot.

  As the monks made way for Jacques and the other newcomers, Sal caught a glimpse of what they’d gathered about. A black heap lying on the ground. No, not black, brown, a man in drab brown robes—a monk.

  “Brother Dennis,” said Tanao breathlessly.

  Jacques knelt to examine the body closely.

  Others gasped, one man’s breath caught, another began to break down and sob there and then.

  Sal felt a tightness in his throat and a hollow pit in his stomach. Something nagged at him, a familiarity he could not pinpoint. A terrible sinking feeling, ominous as black storm clouds on the horizon.

  “A demon walks amongst us, brothers,” said Leobald in a loud, shrill voice. “I have summoned you here today to witness for yourselves, and so, there can be no denying the truth. Befor
e you is the victim of a violent and senseless act.”

  “Strangled,” said Jacques. “A garrote.”

  “Brother Dennis,” said a tall monk. “One of the initiates reported him missing at the morning prayers.”

  “This was not brought to my attention,” said Leobald.

  “I’d not thought it to be of import,” said the tall monk defensively.

  “It is not uncommon for an initiate to miss the morning prayers,” said Tanao. “As they are often undisciplined.”

  “Your failure to recognize authority is not the issue at hand,” said Prior Leobald. “Someone has violated our laws of sanctuary, despoiled holy ground.”

  “My concern lies, not with the ground, but with the taking of a life,” said Jacques. “This boy was our brother, a member of our order. We should not concern ourselves with the theological implications, but those that pertain to corporeal matters. Our concern, my brothers, should be for the safety of the flock.”

  The collected group began to mutter their ascent.

  “The only way to guarantee the safety of the flock,” said Leobald bitterly, “is for the shepherds to beat back the wolves. Our path is clear, brothers, it has been illuminated for us by the Lord that is Light. We must hunt for this wolf that has infiltrated our walls. We must kill this wolf and hang his pelt above our gates as a sign to others who would think our sheep ripe for the taking.”

  “But how can we know?” said one of the monks.

  “A servant of Sacrull cannot conceal himself among the righteous for long,” said Leobald. “We must be vigilant. We must be aware of all that which may seem queer, if only in the slightest. We must—” Leobald stopped speaking as his scanning gaze fell on Sal. “What in Light’s name is this creature doing here?”

  The others seemed only then to notice Sal.

  “Salvatori is my guest,” said Jacques. “He has come at my invitation.”

  “He has come to view his night-work in the light of day!” said Prior Leobald, his eyes burning with something like realization. “I want him seized.”

  No one moved. The eleven others seemed as shocked as Sal.

  Yet, an instant later, two of the monks began to close toward Sal with the clear intent of subduing him.

  Before anyone else answered the prior’s call, Sal ran for it.

  He fled the orchard, crossed the yard, cut through the cloister, and burst through the transept of the cathedral. Taking a sharp turn, he sprinted, disregarding shouts of protest that rang through the nave.

  Once he’d pushed past the cathedral’s oak doors and out the Abbey Gate, Sal felt the elation of freedom, but he didn’t stop. He ran down the cobblestone street, fast as his feet would take him, giving no regard to where he went, so long as it was away from Knöldrus Abbey and the corpse beneath the massive pardimon tree.

  2

  A Hero’s Return

  Too tired to run any farther, Sal slowed as he neared the Singing Bridge. His lungs were on fire, his mouth dry as salted meat, stomach twisting and cramping painfully. He put his arms above his head and breathed hard as he walked. Passersby stared, one man leaned toward his companion, pointing at Sal, and both men began to laugh.

  The hum of the Singing bridge was soothing, the Oleander’s current streaming pleasantly beneath his feet as though in no hurry to meet her mighty sister, the Tamber. He bypassed Town Square, sticking to the less trafficked streets and darker alleys. By the time he reached South Market, the morning’s business had slowed to a trickle, the stink of fish was always worst just before the midday heat. The vendors and fish mongers stayed out until the latest possible hour, in hopes of selling the last of the days catch.

  The Godstone came into sight, a towering relic of the past. The slate gray pillar stood alone at the center of the market-round. There was sequestered beauty to the secrets held within the ancient ivy-wrapped stone, a boundless unknowing that had intrigued Sal since the first time he’d set foot in South Market as a small boy, gripping tight to his mother’s finger, eyes wide with wonder.

  A bony hand grabbed Sal by the wrist.

  “Fresh redeye, boy! Here, boy, here, fresh, all fresh,” said a fishwife, attempting to drag Sal toward the stinking buckets near her stall. Sal slipped the old woman’s grip and pressed on.

  He needed only to cross the market-round, a flagstone courtyard, cylindrical in shape and occupied with vendors, carts, and barrels full of anything that could conceivably come from the sea. Although, by this hour, there were more open spaces than vendors and more vendors than market-goers, an unfortunate situation for both buyers and sellers.

  Sal saw a young nobleman haggling over crabs. He considered a way to brush past the nobleman, but realized, as he planned out the pickpocket, that he likely wouldn’t be able to pull it off.

  “Oof,” Sal blurted, running headlong into a stout, barrel-chested Yahdrish.

  The man’s fat belly was hard as a rock. He ran his fingers through his curly, black hair and rubbed at his stomach with the other.

  “Come, come,” said the Yahdrish, wrapping his arm about Sal’s shoulders. “The finest creatures to ever swim the great waters. You will see, not even Jasper’s lampreys, nor Aliana’s cockles, can hold a candle to my stock. Come now, you will see.”

  Sal tried to slip free, but the man’s meaty arm had encircled his shoulders. The stout Yahdrish was strong, but more to the issue, Sal felt weak as a newborn child. He was half dragged to the Yahdrish fishmonger’s cart, three barrels, mostly empty aside from the one filled with stinking cloudy-eyed perch, near black with scale rot.

  Sal held his breath and looked away from the barrels. He felt the Yahdrish man’s grip tighten, the vendor clearly unwilling to pass up the opportunity of a sale. As Sal averted his gaze to anywhere other than the barrels, he saw her.

  She walked alone, wearing a simple dress of green wool, a basket in the crook of her arm, likely returning from her morning’s venture outside the city walls to forage herbs and wildflowers. Nicola passed right by him, head held forward, eyes set on her destination.

  “I’ll take a half dozen of the perch,” Sal said.

  The vendor’s grip didn’t loosen. When Sal looked the Yahdrish in the eyes, the man hardly seemed to believe what he’d heard.

  “A half dozen?”

  “Yes,” Sal said, putting an edge on the word. “A half dozen, and I’ll want something to carry them in, a crate or a bit of netting.”

  “But of course, right away,” said the fishmonger, releasing Sal in order to fill his order.

  The moment the Yahdrish released his grip, Sal bolted away. The vendor shouted at Sal’s back as he ran, but he didn’t stop. By then, Nicola was nearly inside her home, but Sal managed to catch hold of the handle just before Nicola closed the door.

  “What in the Light’s—Salvatori? What are you—”

  “Sister, please.”

  Nicola let out a sigh. “What do you want?”

  Sal put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath. “I need help, and I don’t know where else to go. I don’t have anywhere else.”

  Nicola’s face was deadpan.

  “Nicola?” said a man from inside the house. “Who is—Salvatori?”

  Sal felt his pulse quicken, the exhaustion of moments before pushed aside by the heat that coursed through his veins. Oliver Flint stood in the doorway behind Nicola, one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder.

  “Your lordship, a touch early for a visit, is it not?” Sal said, giving his sister a look of reproach. “Or might it be that this is late in the visit? In which case—”

  “We’ll not be doing this, Salvatori,” said Nicola. “You’ve had your chances. I can’t do it again, not now.”

  “Nicola,” Sal said, but she turned away and walked inside as tears came to her eyes. “I’ve kicked the stuff, I’m done,” Sal said, but his words fell on deaf ears.

  Oliver looked on him with sympathetic eyes. “I’m sorry, mate.”

  �
�Right. Well, it was nice seeing you, Oliver. But just to be clear, you stick your prick in my sister, I prick my sticker through your eye, yeah?”

  Oliver winked, a little smirk playing across his lips as he closed the door.

  Sal was crestfallen. He felt alone, but even more, he felt betrayed. He knew this to be a self-serving lie. Deep down, Sal knew he was to blame. It had been he, not Nicola, who’d stolen and lied. It had been he who’d shattered her trust, he who’d betrayed her.

  Still, she could have listened. If only she’d heard him out, she would have understood. Should he have told her about the monk, the man who’d been strangled beneath the pardimon tree? Should he have told her men would be looking for him, monks given authority by both church and duke to wield the sword of justice?

  In truth, he remembered little and less of the night before. Yet he recalled a scream, the kind of blood-curdling scream that leaves a man so badly shaken, even the memory of the thing makes his blood run cold. Had that dead monk been the one who’d unleashed the scream? Had it been Sal himself? Or had it merely never been, was it something that he’d only imagined, something that had been inside his own mind?

  It was impossible to know.

  He knew the dead monk had been real. He was an initiate of the Vespian Order, and he had been strangled in the orchard of Knöldrus Abbey. Yet, why the man was strangled, and who had strangled him was unknowable.

  Sal had gone to the abbey that night, not to take shelter from the storm, but to rob the place under cover of darkness. He shivered, struck with a bout of shame, before fatigue swept through him. The craving was back, and suddenly, skeev was all that was on his mind. He needed to get a cap, but a cap meant coin, and that was something Sal was desperately short on.

  Sal grabbed at his collar as he realized something was missing. The monk, Jacques, Master Infirmarer of Knöldrus Abbey, still had Sal’s locket.

  He would need time to come up with a plan to retrieve his locket, but for the moment, sick and shaking as he was, Sal needed to do something about his failing body before he could worry over the locket.