Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (27 page)

But here she was, thinking of Tanley and home again as though
they still existed—as though there would be something to come back to whenever
they returned. Lizneth had endured too many terrible ordeals these last few
months to hope something good might happen for a change. Then again, maybe it
was about time she and her family caught a break.

“I’ve known Kolki since she was younger than you are,” Papa
was saying. “I’d like to pay her a visit. Is that alright with you,
cuzhe
?”

“Yes, Papa. May I go back and find Mama and the others?”

“Certainly. Just promise me you’ll take that medicine. Kolki
is a very good
chabad
. I’m sure it’ll help.”

I have no doubt it will, Papa
, Lizneth wanted to say.
I’m
just not sure it’s the kind of help I want
.

CHAPTER 21

Squandered Stores

Sister Gallica was up to something, and Bastille was
determined to find out what it was. The she-mutant was almost certainly
involved in Soleil and Froderic’s illicit activities somehow, but pieces of
this puzzle were still missing. Bastille had been meaning to investigate the
basilica’s storerooms ever since Brother Froderic’s ‘disappearance’ and
subsequent appointment to the Most High, and Sister Gallica’s threats had only
served to heighten her desire.

Bastille wasn’t sure whether Dominique was wrapped up in all
this too, but she had begun to tolerate the woman well enough to remain
unconcerned with her. Dominique had given Bastille ample time to skim through
the small collection of documents in the hidden library. Since she wasn’t
allowed to speak with the fates themselves, reading about them was the next
best thing.

The summation of everything Bastille had learned from those
documents, however, amounted to little more than the high priestesses had
already told her. There were additional details about the fates’ destructive
power; about scientific studies that had been conducted years ago; about a vast
cover-up on the part of the Ministry to keep awareness of the fates’ existence
from spreading. But aside from the fact that they did exist, and the general
consensus that they were here to bring about the Aionach’s destruction, the
documents contained little.

Brother Froderic’s underling was a potbelly stove of a man
with close-cropped brown hair called Belgard. Now that Froderic was dead—or
missing, depending on who you asked—Brother Belgard possessed the only set of
keys to the storerooms besides Gallica’s. As overseer of the basilica, it was
well-known and often discussed among acolyte and priest alike that Gallica was
in possession of every key to every door on the premises, from tomb to
dormitory. Unless Bastille wanted to attempt a burglary of the she-mutant’s
keys, Brother Belgard was her only option.

She found him in one of the east tower studies, poring over
one of the thick leatherbound registers in which the supply records were kept.
The door was cracked open when she approached. She could hear him mumbling to
himself as he cross-referenced line items from a parchment sheet and scratched
out his sums with a quill pen. Bastille would’ve knocked, but the floor gave a
loud croak before she reached the door. Brother Belgard turned sharply,
startled by the intrusion.

“Forgive me, kind Brother,” Bastille said.

“Nothing to forgive, Sister Bastille.” Belgard removed his
glasses and rubbed his eyes, weary of his late-night toils. “To what do I owe
the pleasure?”

Belgard was one of the Esteemed, so he had the same reasons
as any other priest to grovel to Sister Bastille. Somehow, though, he seemed
unconcerned with making a good impression. Bastille found his casual, relaxed
air refreshing, though she also knew Belgard to be a particularly tedious
fellow, and one quick to take offense.
A person’s weaknesses are like tools.
One need only know how to turn them
, she told herself as she slipped into
the small chamber and closed the door.

“Please…” he said, gesturing toward the chair beside him.

She sat down. “I’ve come to you with a matter of great
concern, kind Brother. Not just to myself, but to the basilica as a whole.”

Belgard looked only mildly concerned. “And what might that
be?”

“Word has it that since Brother Froderic’s… departure… the
basilica’s stores have been utterly mismanaged.”

Belgard stuttered. “Wh—why, that’s preposterous.
I
have been managing the storerooms in Brother Froderic’s absence.”

“I am aware of that, kind Brother,” said Bastille. “That’s
why I wanted to speak with you.”

His face reddened. “You think I’m responsible for this?”

“Who else might you suggest is responsible?”

“Sister Bastille… I only took over recently.”

“So Brother Froderic is entirely to blame, then.”

Belgard shut the ledger book and slid it away so he could
prop his elbows on the table and lace his fingers together. When he looked at
Bastille, his expression was drawn tighter than a crossbow string. “It’s only
that—I’m not sure what you expect me to do. Much as I would like to, I am
unable to conjure up something where nothing exists.”

“So the storerooms were in a bad state when you inherited
them.”

He took a breath before answering. “With all due kindness,
Sister, what concern is it of yours? Your responsibilities in the Order have
little to do with the maintenance of our reserves.”

Bastille leaned back in her chair. “The products of my
preparation chambers go directly toward feeding our livestock, nourishing the
Cypriests who defend our walls, and fertilizing the ground in which we plant
our crops. My relevance to your duties is indirect, but no less substantial. I
can help you, kind Brother. Though perhaps I was wrong to think you’d want my
advice.”

“Your
advice
? Is that what you call this—this…
assault?”

“Brother Belgard,” she said, “you know how these sorts of
rumors spread. The acolytes are worse than my chickens, forever clucking about
one scandal or another. I am under a great deal of pressure from the Most High
to train my replacements. I do not wish to be made obsolete, and I’m sure you
don’t either. If the Order runs out of reserves, we’ll all be begging in the
streets.”

“What is this advice you have for me then, Sister?”

“We’ll get to that in a moment. First, I have one further
question for you.”

“Speak it.”

“What, in your estimation, are the chances of Brother
Froderic’s eventual return?”
Your answer will tell me everything I need to
know
, she promised.

Brother Belgard’s nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed.
“Chances? Why, don’t you believe he’s coming back? You speak as if he’s
abandoned the Order.”

Interesting
, Bastille thought, studying him.
So
Belgard isn’t part of the cover-up. This campaign of misinformation is more
widespread than I imagined. And Gallica has fewer allies than I thought
…
She cleared her throat. “My advice to you, kind Brother Belgard, is to reopen
trade with the heathens. It is the quickest way to replenish our stores.”

“But that’s just it. We haven’t the food to barter with—”

“Certainly not,” Bastille said, “but we have other goods.
Plenty of them, if I were to take an optimistic view. Which I do. That is why I
do not recommend trading food
away
, but rather… trading
for
it.”

“Food is what the heathens need most,” said Belgard.

“Not anymore. Not since the savages started this full-scale
war of theirs on the trade caravans. These days the heathens have enough food
to go around and then some. We should be squeezing them for whatever we can.
When wealth runs rampant, people turn from basic needs to luxuries.”

“I was under the impression that the nomad hijackings have
made food scarce, not plentiful.”

That is what Brother Froderic may have wanted you to believe
,
Bastille almost said. Being here in the east tower, she could not help but
think of what lay beneath her feet. She recalled Froderic’s discussion with
Brother Soleil as they had come down that dark winding staircase to the room in
which they performed their fornications. ‘
With the stranglehold the nomads
have put on the trade caravans, the residents of the city south have less to
offer now than they used to
,’ Froderic had told Soleil. ‘
Lethari claims
he’s made things better…
’

The nomads
have
made things better
, Bastille
knew.
Froderic’s lies and misdirection extended even to his superiors
.
“Have you not noticed that the heathens have summoned us to appear outside the
gates less and less often lately?” she asked. “If they were truly in need, they
would still be tossing their messages over the parapets every other day like
they used to, notes written on scraps of dingy cloth, tied to stones with
lengths of old shoelace. Yet I’ve not seen a new stone in the south yard in
weeks.”

Belgard scratched his chin. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe
Brother Froderic was mistaken at the time. I’m sure he’s learned the better of
it by now.”

I’m sure Froderic has had trouble learning anything since
he lost his head
. “Send out your best hagglers with our finest wares—good
sturdy cloth from the spinnery, purified water from our little garden spring,
and every inch of copper wire that hasn’t been stripped from these walls. Do
this at the same time and on the same day each week. You’ll attract regulars
that way. And if you’re feeling extra generous, why not have Brother Jaquar and
his artificers chisel a bit of the gold filigree off the sanctuary ceiling and
melt it down? With Sister Gallica’s permission, of course. As far as the Most
High are concerned, tell them you see this as an opportunity to increase our
stores before the heathens squander all the good fortune the nomads have
brought them. Times being what they are… we all must make sacrifices, kind
Brother.”

Brother Belgard’s face reddened again, but she suspected it
was more out of embarrassment than anger this time. “Why would you presume to
tell me how to perform my duties, Sister?”

Because you aren’t any good at it, and I fear you’ll be
doing it for quite a long time
. “I haven’t told you a thing. I’ve merely
offered a set of suggestions which you may take or leave at your discretion.
Heed my advice or don’t; ultimately, that remains up to you.”

He sobered. “You believe this will solve our problems?”

“No, Brother. I believe it will solve yours. Now if you’ll
excuse me, it is quite late.” As Bastille shut the door behind her, she
couldn’t help feeling she’d made an ally. Not a friend; friendship would’ve
required mutual fondness. Whether or not Belgard liked her, surely he could
appreciate her insight for what it was.
So long as he believes this was a
favor done out of kindness, he can think of me whatever he wants
.

The tombs were not Bastille’s least favorite place in the
basilica. She cared far less for the refectory, where one was expected to be
polite and sociable with porridge dribbling down her chin. Eating should be
done in solitude, she had always believed. Of all the things that did not lend
themselves to conversation, shoving things into one’s mouth seemed the most
obvious. Then again, Bastille would’ve preferred to do most things in solitude,
given the chance.

The Mothers were hard at work among the tombs when she
arrived. Sawdust covered the floor of the woodworking room, where Mothers
Thayer and Vicault were planing wood for a new coffin. Bastille passed the
Mothers’ dormitory, a single large room full of simple canvas cots adorned with
chicken-feather pillows and woolen blankets. Much like the Fathers, the Mothers
kept to themselves. Yet things were always happening in the Hall of Ancients,
even as the dead rested peacefully.

Heat from the crematorium’s fires bombarded Sister Bastille
as she passed, carrying with it the smell of seared flesh. The long hallway
beyond was lined with cavities where the Order’s dead were laid to rest. Toward
the far end were entombed clergymen and women belonging to whatever church
inhabited the basilica before the Order came to be.

Bastille thought of the corpse she’d discovered in the hollow
behind the wall of the east tower, rotting and thick with flies. She had
suspected the body was Brother Froderic’s, but it had vanished before she could
check to make certain. That was why she was here now; to search for evidence
that could prove Froderic was dead. The crypts had been inundated with dead in
the days following the attack, which would make searching for him now all the
harder.

The Order held a strict policy for dealing with corpses.
Those of the heathens, the initiates, and any disgraced acolytes were sent to
Bastille’s preparation rooms to be sacrificed, while the bodies of priests and
Cypriests went to the Hall of Ancients to be honored in death. This was always
the case, regardless of the cause of death. Since Froderic’s corpse hadn’t
passed through her preparation rooms, Bastille was sure it had to be down here
somewhere. The she-mutant may have disposed of Froderic’s body elsewhere, but
Bastille did not think her capable of debasing Froderic’s memory in that way.

Mother Mauger was the head recordkeeper in the Hall of
Ancients. Bastille found her at a podium in the embalming room, making note of
Father Huron’s condition and the day and time of his planned retirement. Huron
lay on one of the stainless steel embalming tables as Mothers Pelletier and
Jolivet fussed over him, taking measurements and checking fluid levels in their
machinery.

“My apologies if I am interrupting, kind Mother,” said
Bastille. “I’ll come back another time, if it suits you.”

Mauger turned to stare at her with dull blue eyes. The
Cypriests’ movements tended to be so rigid and deliberate it gave one the
impression they were guided like robots by some unseen programming. In truth,
the NewNexus did provoke a sort of reconditioning in its hosts, whose behavior
became so stark and emotionless it often unsettled those not used to it. Sister
Bastille was used to it, but it disturbed her all the same.

“Now is a good time,” Mauger said, putting her pen down.

“Good. Would you mind if we spoke alone?”

“Not at all, Sister.”

When she turned to exit the room, Bastille noted the tight
gray bun into which Mother Mauger’s hair was tied.
A detailed woman, both in
life and afterward
, she decided.

Cypriests were unlikely to do much gossiping, but anyone with
ears was too great a risk for Sister Bastille. The crematorium ovens hissed and
chugged in the distance as they strolled the hallway. Bastille made it a point
to head toward the far end, where there was a smaller chance of running into
anybody.