The dank basement hallway slowly slanted upward as the monk plodded onward. At the end of the hallway, there was an intersection that branched left and right. He took the left which went a short ways before terminating in a semicircular hub with three identical doors. The monk scratched his bald head as Zan and Caradon paused by his knees, ears twitching.
“This is the right way,” said the monk, a bit of doubt creeping up in his voice, “but I don’t remember which door I went through. Ha! This is what I get from drinking too much. I can’t remember anything any more. My memories are going. First, my directional sense and then the Lord’s prayer!” He gave a great sigh and ambled toward the door that was furthest to the left. “Let’s try all of them, shall we? This one looks promising. I must have left it open a crack to remind myself of the way.”
As the monk lurched toward the door and reached out to push it open, Zan thought she heard the murmuring of voices on the other side. No! Don’t go in there! She bit the edge of his robe and tried to drag him back. Caradon gave a soft bark and followed suit.
“What? What?” exclaimed the monk. “What’s the matter with you?”
Suddenly, one of the voices on the other side of the door became louder and clearer. “Oh, this isn’t closed all the way. We can’t be too careless.” And then the door abruptly slammed shut.
“Humph! Now that’s certainly strange.” The monk glared at the closed door. “I didn’t know there was a meeting about. And they never invited me! Well, I couldn’t very well go about ignorant about the Church’s workings, can I?” And he promptly pressed his ear against the door to listen in on whatever conversation was happening on the other side. Unable to resist eavesdropping, Zan and Caradon listened as well.
“…just arrived last night. He gave word that the Queen was seriously contemplating the Iberian ambassador’s offer of an alliance.”
“Oh? Has he resorted to petty gossip now? Has nothing happened at court at all? The Queen must be preoccupied with the latest insurgency in women’s fashions. Stripes and color wouldn’t do at all! She is still fond of all that black mourning lace, isn’t she?”
There was a brief round of loud masculine laughter.
“I suppose you could call the alliance offer petty gossip if you care not a wit for the consolidation of the country’s military with Iberian might,” said the first voice.
The laughter sobered. “What? Did the news include that bit in the negotiations with the alliance? How on earth did the Queen go from ignoring this to serious consideration? I thought she was on bad terms with the Iberian King.”
“She was, ever since she got snubbed by the royal pompous oaf at some official function that the Northern Tsar held in one of the Low Countries during the wedding celebrations of his second daughter about a year before. It is said that the King held a tendre for her, but she didn’t return his affections or his letters, so in retaliation, there was that horrible snub.”
“Well, he should know!” said a third voice. “The Queen’s been mourning the loss of her spouse for years now. I don’t think there’s any chance any of that mourning will let up. Sometimes, I think she uses it as an excuse to keep everyone away and to ignore her duties.”
The first speaker scoffed. “Ignore her duties? Certainly not, if the latest news is to be believed. If she does accept the alliance proposal by the Iberian ambassador, the mother country’s military will be augmented. And considering Iberian maritime might, the navy’s power would be increased at least three-fold. And if that happens, what will happen to relatively autonomous Islands like this one? The Queen’s Empire is already firmly entrenched here. Do you want this Island to be completely subsumed?”
“He does have a point. If that happens, our operations for independence will be in serious jeapordy.”
“Does this mean that his plan for deposing the Queen will actually come to fruition? After all, if she is gone, the crown goes to her half-wit son who cares only for his own pleasure.”
The monk gasped at the statement.
Deposing the Queen! That’s treason, Caradon growled to her.
“But we’ll have to wait until he gets back. After all, he’s the one authorized to send the message back to our contact back in the mother country.”
“When does he get back anyway? Is he missing our little tête-à-tête tonight or will he be by later? What is he doing, anyway?”
“Preparation for our plans, he says. He sent me a message to my home earlier saying that he finally had the final components for something some of his associates are working on that will help us keep even closer tabs on the Queen and possibly watch the goings on of other sovereigns as well.”
“Other sovereigns! Just imagine—if we could tell what the Iberian King was doing or the plans of those backwoods New World governors before they even knew what they were doing. Our mission to infiltrate…”
“Well, what have we here?” This well modulated voice with dangerous undertones came not from behind the door, but behind them. The monk and the black fox-shifters turned to see Jebediah Southmore, the Church’s emissary standing in the middle of the hallway end dressed in the simple dark red robe of his station.
“Emissary!” stammered the monk. “I just happened by and heard something…”
Southmore’s face hardened into a grim mask. “Heard something? I think you heard a little too much, my dear Brother.” He withdrew a small shiny pistol that he had tucked inside one of his sleeves. “You will have to go, and your little dogs too.”
At the surprising appearance of the emissary, Zan froze. Caradon bristled and snapped his teeth. The monk emitted a thin high wail as Southmore took aim. The pistol fired with a deafening bang, but the monk had already collapsed on the floor, nearly squashing her. She looked up to see a bullet hole in the door and Caradon leaping toward the emissary.
Caradon, you idiot! He’ll kill you! She scrambled out from underneath the prostrate, sobbing monk and leaped after him.
He had aimed for Southmore’s weapon hand and as his jaws snapped around the man’s wrist, Southmore yelled. Zan clambered up the emissary’s robed figure and grabbed a hold of his graying hair before getting a better purchase of her hind legs on his shoulders. Then she covered his eyes with her paws.
“Damned bloody animals! Call your dogs off me, monk!”
In reply, the monk stuttered incoherently.
The door opened, revealing several men—some in suits, some in the vestments of church officials. “Southmore, what the hell is happening here?”
“Somebody get these beasts off me!”
One of the men took a step forward, but tripped over the monk on the floor. The others following behind him stumbled as well and they dropped around the doorway like so many wobbling toy soldiers, only with much cursing.
“You fools!” Southmore managed to fling Caradon away. He landed on all four paws, growling and barking.
“It’s a demon!” someone yelled in the pile of men.
“Demon? Where? Does anyone have holy water with them?”
“Fools!” Southmore shrieked again. “They’re some damn dogs!” He switched his pistol to his other hand and tried to bat Zan off his head. Before she dropped to the floor, she tore a lock of hair out of his head with her claws. The emissary howled, more in rage than in pain, and the pistol went off a second time, with the bullet ricocheting off the ceiling.
The cabal of men who had been conspiring against the queen began shouting and stumbling back to their feet at the sound of the shot.
Come on! We have to get out of here! Zan had run back to the monk and was pulling on his sleeves. The portly man got up to his feet unsteadily.
“Get out of here?” asked the monk. “Oh yes, that sounds like a fine idea.”
Meanwhile, Caradon was busily snapping at the heels of the other men, trying to create a diversion. They panted and shouted, “Demon, demon!” trying to get away from his jaws. Southmore looked wild, his normally coiffed hair in a mess after Zan’s tussle.
“Stand still, you idiots, and let me get him,” the emissary commanded. He fired in Caradon’s general direction, but one of the men screamed.
“I’ve been shot! My foot…”
The monk tried the middle door and then the one at the far right. Finally, they found a flight of stairs.
Hurry, over here, she shouted in his mind.
Caradon streaked past panicked legs and through the door, just as the monk slammed it shut and locked it with one of the keys on his keyring. The three of them raced up the stairs. They could still hear shouting from the basement and Southmore shooting his pistol yet again. Then someone pounded the door and rattled the doorknob.
Near the top of the stairs, the monk panted. “I’m much too fat, my furry friends. It’s nothing a bit of exercise wouldn’t cure, but I’m afraid I am too addicted to food and drink. I must thank you for saving me from a terrible incident.”
Thank us later, Caradon directed the thought to him. We’re not out yet. And if you haven’t realized it, you’re no longer safe staying at the Church.
