All the Hours in Between, part 5
Sep. 29th, 2007 04:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tamcranverPart 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Saturday
The mornings were always the worst, Spencer thought with his first rush of human consciousness. The pain of the transformation didn’t mean much to the wolf; it didn’t last, so he didn’t think about it. This, though…
He was lying next to Ryan. He’d know those long limbs, those finely-wrought features, anywhere. Already the features were blurring into the sharp angles of the hawk, but for just a moment, Ryan’s eyes met his. Oh, God, thought Spencer. Please let me touch him. Please just let me talk to him. One word, and I’ll be satisfied.
But his own face still wasn’t capable of speech, its bones shifting and churning painfully from their canine shape. Ryan smiled at him before grimacing in pain, the grimace melting into the hawk’s glare. But for a moment, Spencer had had that smile again. Ryan’s eyes were bright, as if he’d been crying, and Spencer yearned with everything in him to comfort him, to ask him what had happened the previous night and make it right. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even touch Ryan’s hand. As he reached for it, it flattened into a hawk’s wing, and, fully transformed, the hawk sprang to his feet and made a plaintive noise.
Spencer slammed a fist down on the ground in frustration, making the hawk shriek indignantly and jump away. So close.
The more he pictured Ryan’s smile, his thin-boned hand, the more it hurt, so Spencer sat up and looked around in order to find something else to occupy his mind. A change of clothing was folded next to him, and he hurriedly put it on, cursing at the cold. Brendon and Jon were huddled around a fire, eating what looked like oatmeal. Brendon’s dark head flew up at Spencer’s movement, and he smiled brightly. “Good morning, Captain Smith!” he said cheerfully, and Spencer wondered how on earth the boy managed to be so cheery with everything that had happened over the last week.
“Morning,” he mumbled, and he made his way over to the fire. Goliath and Jon’s mule were tied up to a nearby tree. The blankets were laid out on bare patches of ground, probably cleared of snow by Brendon and Jon, and the saddlebags were piled next to Jon. Everything was present and accounted for, except…. “Where’s my sword?” he asked.
Jon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darted over towards Brendon. Spencer turned his attentions as well, incredulous anger rising within him. Surely, surely they hadn’t lost his sword.
“Um,” said Brendon, fidgeting in a way that made Spencer want to smack him. “We—you see, we had to cross this river, sort of, last night. It was frozen, and the ice broke, and we needed it to—well, anyway, it fell in. The river, I mean.”
“What?” Spencer couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You—you dropped my sword in a river?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘dropped,’” said Brendon with a nervous giggle. “More like, uh, ‘let fall?’ I dunno. I’m really, really sorry. But—see, if you look at the bright side, now you don’t have to find a jewel for it. You don’t—it’s not so much a quest, or a mission, it can just be about breaking the curse.”
“Oh my God.” Spencer’s temper, which had been simmering pretty much since he’d met Brendon Urie, boiled over, and he stalked over to where the thief was sitting. “You dropped my sword in the river so I’d listen to your ridiculous plan, didn’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, Spencer grabbed him by the front of his tunic, ignoring Jon’s sharp cry of protest. “Damn you! That sword was my father’s! It’s the only thing I have of, of my family, of my honor!”
“It’s not always about you!” cried Brendon angrily. “God, can’t you see? This isn’t about revenge, it’s not about you going on some noble mission, it’s about doing what’s best for you and Ryan. You do remember Ryan, don’t you?”
“Oh, fuck you,” said Spencer, shaking him. The cloth of the tunic clearly wasn’t up to such harsh treatment. It gave way, tearing open down the front. Brendon fell to the ground, the remains of his shirt doing little to conceal a torso covered in vicious-looking gashes and scratches.
What? Spencer couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Was—had the Guard done that? Maybe it had been done to him in prison, but it looked too fresh, too haphazard for that. It looked—and Spencer found he couldn’t breathe—it looked as if he’d been mauled by a dog. Or a wolf.
Jon stood up and, for the first time Spencer could remember since the days when Jon had been his confessor, glared at him, his tense jaw and tightly drawn eyebrows radiating anger. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “You did that. Last night, on the river, when you fell through and Brendon saved you.” He turned his back on Spencer with a measured, deliberate movement and crouched next to Brendon. “I told you you should have let me stitch some of these up,” Spencer could hear him murmur. “You’re bleeding again.”
“It’s all right,” said Brendon, sniffling. Spencer didn’t think he’d ever hated himself so much. Fuck. Despite being annoying as all hell, Brendon was good in a tight spot, unexpectedly loyal, and…well, Spencer had encountered a lot of pickpockets in his time in the Guard, but he’d never met one he’d actually trust with his life before. Brendon was a friend. And Spencer, being the idiot he was, couldn’t recognize or repay that, either as a wolf or as a man.
“I,” he started, and then he swallowed. How could he even begin to apologize? He’d been a bastard to Brendon from the beginning. All the man wanted was to escape the gallows, and Spencer’d dragged him into a hellish situation that had put his life at risk more than once. There weren’t really words to apologize for that, but it’d be shameful not to try at least. “I’m sorry, Brendon,” he said quietly, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky to Brendon and Jon as it did to him. “You’ve saved my life and Ryan’s, and I’ve been incredibly ungrateful. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I—it’s all right about the sword. Maybe…maybe it’s a sign. A sign that I should’ve listened to you.” He swallowed the last bit of his resentment and nodded at Jon. “You, too.”
“Oh, Spencer!” Spencer found the last of his words smothered in Brendon’s shoulder as the pickpocket hugged him tightly. “It’s all right,” said Brendon. “After all, you’ve saved my life a couple of times, too. I mean, I’m actually losing count of the times we’ve saved each other, at this point.”
“I think that’s the point at which we give up counting and just agree to be friends,” said Spencer. He couldn’t remember the last time his heart had felt so light. Over Brendon’s shoulder, he could see Jon give him a tentative smile, and he returned it with what he knew had to be the biggest, goofiest-looking smile in the world. He didn’t even care.
“So,” he said, untangling himself from Brendon, “when’s this…day and night at the same time thing happening?”
“Tomorrow,” said Jon excitedly.
“And we have to confront the Bishop in person?” Spencer frowned. The idea hadn’t bothered him when killing the Bishop was a suicide mission, but now that there was a genuine spark of hope that the curse could be broken, he wasn’t that keen on being shot down by the Guard.
Jon nodded. “In the place where the curse was cast, which, if my sources are correct, is the main sanctuary of the cathedral.”
“Eww,” said Brendon, scowling disgustedly. “He cast a curse in the holiest part of the church?”
Jon shrugged, his own face more solemn. “It’s also the most powerful. He probably did it at night, so no one would bother him.”
“Well, at least we’ll know where to find him,” Spencer mused aloud. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, so he’ll be in the sanctuary giving Mass. But I think if we’re going to make it in there alive, we’re going to need some help.”
“What kind of help?” asked Brendon.
“Well, for starters, I’m going to be turning into a wolf at some point, so someone’s going to need to get a cage for me or something so I don’t waste time by running off and hunting rabbits. It’d also help if we had more swordsmen to help with the Guard, and someone to stand a lookout at the city gate.”
“I don’t know how much help I’ll be there,” said Jon, making a face. “Ever since I got excommunicated, most of my friends in the Church have been…less than friendly.”
Jon had been excommunicated? This was news to Spencer, and he felt a twinge of guilt for giving Jon such a hard time before. But the problem remained; they needed help, and they all seemed to be short on friends. Unless…
“Hey,” said Brendon. “I’ve got a couple of ideas. But we’re gonna have to hurry.”
***
“So, let me see if I have this right,” said Gerard, peering suspiciously at Brendon, Jon, and Spencer over the Ways’ table. “You’re planning to confront the Bishop, which will break this curse he’s put on Captain Smith and, at the same time, will show the people of Aquila that he’s a warlock.”
“As if he weren’t bad enough,” muttered Mikey, scratching at his bandaged arm. The Ways’ neighbor, a fidgety little man they introduced as Frank, cocked his head curiously.
“So?” he asked, with a respectful dip of his head towards Spencer. “I mean, if the people didn’t rebel when he charged us those godawful taxes, or when he started arresting and torturing and excommunicating people, why would they do anything now? I mean, most people I know already think he sold his soul to the Devil, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to fight him or anything.”
“They might not even have to do anything,” Jon broke in. “I’m not exactly sure how this works, but I know that Bill—the Bishop, that is, must have put a lot of himself into this curse. When it’s broken…I don’t know, he might die, or the spell might reflect back onto him. It’s hard to say, with magic.”
“Yeah, but what if none of that happens?” asked Gerard, looking solemn. “What if, at the end of it all, Captain Smith’s curse is broken but the Bishop’s just as powerful as ever?”
“Then I’ll kill him,” Spencer said bluntly.
Mikey and Frank looked satisfied by this, but Gerard frowned thoughtfully and said, “What happens then? Who takes over for him? Who takes charge of the Guard and the taxes and whatnot?”
Spencer could feel his eyebrows rise in surprise. It was a good question, one he’d been too wrapped up in thoughts of vengeance to properly consider. He looked at Gerard with newfound respect. It was amazing, the qualities that manifested themselves in the most unexpected people. He reminded himself to pay a hell of a lot more attention to the peasants on his estate if he ever made it back to the Smith lands.
“We’ll have to send for a new Bishop,” said Jon. “I think someone ought to go to Appia and tell the Archbishop about Beckett.”
“I could do that,” Mikey said. “You wouldn’t want me to tell him about Captain Smith killing him, right? You’d just want him to know about the witchcraft and the taxes and how the magic’s ruining the land.”
“Exactly,” said Jon, nodding. “And I’m hoping something will happen when the curse breaks, so we’ll have a churchfull of witnesses that the Bishop really was working magic. You know how to get to Appia?”
Mikey shrugged with his good shoulder. “I guess I can find it.”
Gerard and Frank looked at him dubiously. “Why don’t you go talk to Brian and see if he’ll go with you?” Gerard suggested. Brian, they’d learned earlier, was another neighbor whose lands had been ravaged by the Guard.
“All right,” Mikey said evenly. Spencer could only just see the beginnings of an exasperated twist of his mouth, and he hid a smile himself.
“What else would you want of us?” asked Gerard, turning his attentions back towards Spencer, Jon, and Brendon.
Brendon, who’d been shockingly quiet, broke in, saying, “A wagon. Preferably with some kind of cover, but any’ll do. Also, if you had some kind of cage or pen or something, we could use that. And we need lookouts once we get past the gates, to tell us if the guards are sending reinforcements.”
Gerard blinked. After exchanging an unreadable look with Frank, he said, “How big a cage do you need?”
“Big enough for a wolf,” said Spencer.
Mikey shuddered, and Spencer had a disturbing flash of memory that involved him gnawing on Mikey’s arm.
“I suppose my rabbit trap’s too small, then,” said Gerard, frowning.
“Hey,” said Frank, “I know time’s of the essence, but we could always make a cage. I don’t think it’d be that hard, and we could always use what’s left of my shed for lumber.”
“What do you think, Spencer?” asked Brendon, and Spencer felt a strange sort of happiness at being called by his name instead of “Captain Smith.” “You think we have enough time to make a cage?”
Spencer looked at the sky. It was still only midday. “We have time,” he said. “But we’re still going to need some more help.”
Brendon shrugged helplessly. Mikey raised his eyebrows, and Gerard said, “Well, there used to be a lot more people in this area, before the Guard started coming in. Brian’s going to be helping Mikey. There’s always Worm--”
Frank shook his head. “Worm got arrested.”
Spencer scarcely noticed. “I have an idea,” he said. If anyone had told him three weeks earlier how excited he’d be to have a priest, a pickpocket, and three peasant farmers look to him for a plan, he’d have laughed. Bitterly. But the truth of the matter was, Spencer was starting to feel like a commander again, and it was like recognizing a friend he hadn’t realized he’d lost.
***
“Hey,” said Brendon. “I know this place. I almost got executed here.”
Jon gave him an alarmed look, but Spencer just smiled calmly, which made Brendon a little nervous. The man had probably executed a thief or two himself, back in the day.
Sure enough, it was the very inn where the Guard had cornered him and Spencer had rescued him for the first time. He remembered the long-haired innkeeper who came out to watch their approach. He didn’t know the man with wild, curly brown hair standing next to the innkeeper, but the stranger seemed to know Spencer, and greeted him with a hearty, “Captain Smith! We were wondering where you’d gotten to!”
“Meeting some old friends, making some new ones,” said Spencer airily. “Nothing too exciting, Master Trohman.”
“Just stabbing former soldiers,” the innkeeper said in a dry tone, not looking at all welcoming. “Nothing too interesting.”
Trohman looked from the innkeeper to Spencer, shocked. “You were the one who stabbed Patrick? Why?”
Spencer scowled, staring down at his saddle. If Brendon didn’t know better, he’d say that Spencer was embarrassed or ashamed. “It was an accident,” he said. “Saporta pushed him onto my sword.”
“Yeah,” said the innkeeper. “That’s what he said, too.” He rolled his eyes. “Last time I get involved in a Guard conflict, believe me.”
“But he’s alive, then?” Spencer asked, his voice intense, and Brendon wondered just who the hell Patrick was.
“Yeah,” said Trohman. “I mean, he’s felt better, but he’s still alive and kicking in the back room. Why? Did you want to talk to him?”
“Hey,” said Frank, who was sitting with Brendon and Gerard on the wagon. “Have we come here for supplies, or what?”
Spencer visibly swallowed his emotions (though Brendon could still see his eyes shining with what looked suspiciously like tears) and gestured towards the two men who had exited the inn. “Friends, allow me to introduce Joe Trohman, a wine merchant from this area, and….”
“Andy Hurley,” said the innkeeper.
Spencer nodded graciously. “Master Hurley, Master Trohman, this is Gerard Way, Frank Iero, and Father Jon Walker. I believe you might remember Brendon Urie, Master Hurley.”
The innkeeper—Andy—nodded. “You’re the kid who wanted the most expensive drink in the place, right?”
Brendon could feel himself reddening. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and it sounded foolish when said like that. “That was me, yes.”
Andy nodded again, smiling, but it was more friendly than mocking, and Brendon let himself relax. “You want to come in?” asked Andy. “You can leave your wagon and mounts in our stables if you like. No one’ll take them.”
“Thanks,” said Frank, jumping down. Gerard stiffly stepped down after him; like Brendon, he’d taken a nap in the back of the wagon while they traveled, but unlike Brendon, he was clearly unused to catching sleep in odd places. Frank and Gerard stayed back to stable the mounts and the wagon—“Got to wake this old man up,” said Frank with a smirk at Gerard—while the rest of them followed Andy into a small back room in the inn, where Joe was sitting by the bedside of a man Brendon recognized from the group of Guard who’d tried to arrest and execute Brendon. He took an involuntary step back, his instincts for flight at their most alert, but stopped when he noticed another figure sitting at the foot of the bed.
“Pete? Pete Wentz?” Pete was a pickpocket from the city who’d taught Brendon his trade. Seeing him here was like—like—well, like seeing a captain of the Guard who rescued thieves, or a priest who spent his time researching magic to help a couple of outlaws.
Pete favored him with a toothy grin. “If it isn’t little Brendon Urie! I see you’ve managed to keep yourself alive thus far.”
Brendon couldn’t muster the presence of mind to respond to this, and instead he pointed to the man in the bed and said, “You do know he’s in the Guard, right?”
“Was in the Guard,” said the man, attempting to pull himself up to a seated position before Pete pushed him back down.
“Stitches, Stump!” said Pete. Turning back to Brendon, he said, “Oh, yeah, I know. But being in the Guard’s how he almost got himself killed, so now I’ve sort of adopted him. Taken him under my wing, if you will, to help him escape from the clutches of a life of law enforcement.” He grinned at the guard and covered him with a blanket to his chin.
“He has not,” said the guard irritably, but he let Pete tuck the blankets around him with no more resistance than a half-hearted sigh.
“How do you know Andy?” asked Brendon, confused. Whenever he’d seen Pete in the city, he was always staying in the same kind of lousy holes in the wall that Brendon was living in; he’d certainly never mentioned being friends with a prosperous, respectable business-owner.
Pete laughed. “Oh, Andy and I go way back. Used to run in the same kinds of circles, you know?” Pete had always been kind to Brendon, but he had a reputation in the shadier neighborhoods of Aquila that stopped Brendon from asking just what kinds of circles he and Andy had run in. He figured he probably didn’t want to know.
The guard gave Pete a curious little frown; evidently he did want to know. When he saw Spencer walk in, though, he jerked up again, knocking his covers aside and making Pete shake his head and cluck in disapproval. “Captain Smith!”
Spencer shrugged, looking very young. “You can probably just call me Spencer, Patrick, since neither of us is in the Guard anymore.” Pushing past Brendon to kneel at the guard’s—Patrick’s—bedside, he said, “I just--I wanted to apologize for….” He swallowed loudly. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but….”
“But nothing!” Patrick waved a hand in dismissal. “You weren’t the one who pushed me onto your sword. In fact, I should thank you, because the whole incident made it abundantly clear to me that being in the Guard under Saporta is pretty much the same as being in a gang of mercenary barbarians, and I’m better off without them.”
Brendon sent a questioning look towards Jon, who shrugged. Ryan screeched from his position on a clothes-hook in the corner.
“Oh,” said Patrick, sad and wondering. “Spencer, is that….”
“Ryan,” said Spencer, his voice tightening a bit.
“Damn. I’m sorry.”
Brendon couldn’t stand the sadness that seemed to loom over both Spencer and Patrick, so without pausing to think about what Spencer’s plan in coming here might be and whether or not he was ruining it, he said, “We found a way to break the curse. Well, I mean, Jon did, but now we’re gonna do it.”
Everyone turned to look at Brendon. Spencer looked vaguely exasperated, but Joe, Pete, Andy and Patrick looked curious.
“No joke?” Joe asked. “What do you have to do?” Noticing Spencer’s sidelong look at Andy, he said, “Don’t worry about Andy, Captain.”
“I have a lot of respect for your work in the Guard,” Andy said casually. “Criminals got caught, punishments fit the crime. Not like now. I really can’t imagine any circumstances in which I’d give you up to the Bishop.”
Spencer blinked. “Um. Thank you.”
“That’s actually why we came here,” Jon broke in. “Um. Not, uh, giving Spencer to the Bishop. Obviously.” Brendon wondered when he’d gotten to know Jon so well he recognized when the other man was yearning for a drink. “But to get some help. To break the curse, we have to get back into Aquila. And, well, I don’t know how well any of us except maybe me can get in without being recognized by the Guard and arrested.”
“Same goes for me, fellow,” Pete said matter-of-factly. “That’s why I’m intruding on Andy’s lovely abode now—I only just escaped with my skin. City Guard’s in no mood to deal with pickpockets just now.”
“I could probably get in,” Patrick mused. “Depends on how organized Saporta was, and whether he made a formal announcement to the rest of the Guard about—um. I guess he’d call it my ‘betrayal.’ I don’t know how much good I can do once I’m there, though. Clearly I’m not going to be swordfighting for a while.”
“You’re not going to be getting out of bed for a while if I have anything to say about it,” said Pete, giving Patrick a stern look. Brendon thought they should form a society of sorts: The Society of Thieves Who Keep the Guards in Their Lives from Doing Stupid Things. It’d be a very small society.
Joe frowned, confused. “Well, wait,” he said. “Swordfighting? Just what are we doing in Aquila?”
“Overthrowing the Bishop,” said Spencer gravely.
Andy raised his eyebrows. “Count me in,” he said.
Saturday night
Ryan knew, of course, how he’d ended up in a wagon full of sweaty, dirty, commoners. He just wondered how he’d given in so quickly. Of course, at this point, he, too, was sweaty and dirty and dressed in an ill-fitting set of Andy Hurley’s clothes. “For a disguise,” Brendon had explained. “Nobody’ll recognize you with dirt on your face and patched clothes.” He was right, of course; the Ryan Ross who’d moved to Aquila some three years ago wouldn’t have been caught dead in this outfit. Even now, it made his skin crawl. But, he supposed, it was a necessary evil.
Spencer growled from his slapdash cage, and Ryan ignored the strange looks from Frank and Joe to reach his hand in and run it reassuringly along Spencer’s back. Even as a wolf, Spencer’s nervous show of irritation was clearly discernable from real anger. To Ryan, anyway. Patrick squirmed in the front seat and turned around to look at the back of the wagon.
“So,” he said tensely. “You all know what to do if the guards remember that Saporta stabbed me, right? You all have your weapons?”
“Relax,” said Frank. “You’ve told us what to do. A lot.” Gerard glared at Patrick suspiciously, moving his own hand towards the ax hanging at his belt. Ryan got the distinct impression that, assurances from Spencer aside, he wasn’t any too keen about working with a guard.
Patrick sighed. “I know. But there are so many things that could go wrong here, and I’m just--”
“We know.” Joe put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile. Ryan wished he knew these people, any of them. It was a sad day when he found himself plotting to overthrow a city government, and the compatriots he knew best were a former underling of Spencer’s and their loose-tongued former priest. Ryan felt a disturbing pang of nostalgia for Brendon Urie’s company. He and the other thief, Wentz, had split off long before they reached the city.
“Hey.” Jon’s voice came out harsh and hoarse, at odds with the cheerful expression of greeting he’d adopted. “Hush. We’re almost there.”
The motley group fell silent as they rattled towards the gates, a beacon of dim torchlight that cast shadows over the surrounding countryside. The guards straightened up at their approach, and one held out a hand gesturing for them to stop.
“Evening,” said Jon, and Ryan was amazed at the casual jovialty in his tone. He’d never have guessed that Jon was so good a liar.
“Evening,” said the young guard. “Who are all these men, and what’s your business in the city?”
“Oh,” said Jon with a nod, “these are some of the men of my parish, up north aways. Nobody wanted to ride alone with that--” He jerked his head in Spencer’s direction. “So Sergeant Stump here suggested we all come along. We figured six men ought to be able to handle one wolf, right?”
“It’s a gift for the Bishop,” Patrick interjected, and to Ryan’s surprise, the guard shuddered.
“Christ Jesus,” he said, sounding more unhappy than shocked or doubtful, “not another one.”
Jon raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “What His Grace wants, His Grace gets.”
“You can say that again,” muttered the other guard. “All right. Sergeant Stump, are you escorting them to the church?” Patrick nodded. “Well, I suppose you can all go in, then. But please, keep the animal under control. We’ve had just about enough of the Bishop’s damned wolves.”
“Of course,” said Patrick solemnly. Then, as they rolled away, “What the hell?”
“A friend of mine who works up in the church says the Bishop’s started collecting wolfskins,” said Joe. “Big black ones, like Spencer. There’s a strange man, a hunter--”
“We know him,” said Jon flatly. Ryan felt his blood freeze at the remembrance of that man and his traps, and the dead wolf he’d thrown in front of Ryan. He didn’t know what had become of him and Saporta in the woods, but he hoped with vicious fervor that their wounds had become infected and they’d died in the middle of nowhere, cold and in pain.
The wagon was silent. Finally, Gerard muttered, “Lord help us, this is some strange and unnatural shit.” Frank giggled, and Ryan felt the chill of the memory fade into the earthly cold of the night.
“I hope Brendon and Pete are all right,” said Jon in a low voice. “Those sewers have got to be freezing at night.”
Ryan thought of Pete’s cockiness with its undercurrent of reassurance, Brendon’s cheerful determination. “They’ll be fine,” he said, and inexplicably enough, he meant it.
***
“Christ Almighty!” sputtered Pete, gasping for breath and shaking water out of his hair. “I think I’d rather be hanged than do this again!”
Brendon was exhausted and cold and really didn’t want to think about what he was standing in. “Nobody asked you to come along,” he said wearily to Pete. “You could have stayed at Andy’s.”
“While all of you were out being heroic?” Pete snorted. “Not on your life, Urie.”
“Keep your voice down. The sound echoes down here, and I don’t know where all of these vents lead.” Brendon strained his ears for anything, anything at all, that would tell him where the cathedral was. It was too early yet for much light, and the dank darkness of the sewers hung over him like a funeral shroud.
“Ugh,” he said, shuddering. “Is the Bishop just determined to make my life miserable? Why, why lock the doors to the damn church during Mass?”
“’Cause he’s paranoid,” said Pete matter-of-factly. “The bastard knows how much the people hate him, so he keeps his poor little congregation in and everyone else out and scares them all with his Guard, just in case someone decides to do God a favor and slit his throat during the Sunday services.” He peered into the dark tunnel ahead. “So, what, do we just keep walking until you remember which drain shaft leads to the cathedral?”
“Unless you’ve got a better plan.” They trudged along in the slimy black waters in mostly unbroken silence. Brendon found that it wasn’t so bad, this second time around; it was still cold and gross, but it wasn’t quite as frightening to walk along with Pete by his side. The sound of water flowing to the river outside gradually faded, drowned in the ever-present noise of waste splashing into the sewers. A gray, dim sort of light began to reveal the contours of the tunnel walls, and Brendon felt a twinge of recognition at the sight of a small hole high up in the wall, the smell issuing from it rather stronger and more unpleasant than from the surrounding drains.
“Hey,” he said, pointing. “I think that’s the drain that comes from the prison. We’ve actually gone a little too far—the cathedral vent was back that way.”
Pete rubbed his hands together, either in excitement or an attempt to warm himself. “Excellent,” he said. “Got your lock picks ready?”
“We’ve got to get up there, first,” Brendon pointed out. But he couldn’t stop the thrill of excitement he felt, and he bounced up and down on his heels for a moment, feeling for the thin blade Pete had given him for prying open the grates and working at the cathedral doors’ lock. This was it—his chance to help Spencer and Ryan, to help everyone. Not in spite of who you are, but because of it. He smiled widely at Pete and started walking back towards the cathedral’s drain, his step lighter and quicker than it had been a few moments ago.
Sunday
“Well,” said Spencer, examining his rag-tag band of men, “this is it. If anyone wants to back out, now’s the time.”
Frank made a rude noise, and Andy gave Spencer a cool, almost disdainful look. Gerard and Joe regarded him steadily, neither looking as if they had any doubts at all. Spencer felt a warm sense of camaraderie bubble up in his heart and he smiled. “Thank you.” He turned his smile on Jon and Patrick, who were sitting in the wagon with solemn faces, and said, “All of you. And thanks for lending me your sword, Patrick.”
Patrick nodded, looking pale. The wagon ride clearly hadn’t been any too easy on his recovering body, but his voice was strong enough as he shrugged and said, “Wasn’t like I was going to be using it today, right?”
Spencer returned the nod and fingered the hilt at his belt. It wasn’t his broadsword, not even close, but it was a serviceable blade and Patrick clearly kept it in good condition.
Jon squinted at the sky and let out a sigh. “Maybe two hours until the eclipse. Maybe a little more. Hard to tell with all these clouds.”
“Is that gonna ruin the curse-breaking?” Joe asked with a frown. “If the sun’s covered in clouds, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” said Jon. Spencer didn’t even let himself think about what it would mean if he were wrong.
“All right,” he said. “If Brendon and Pete have done their job, the doors should be unlocked now. But there’ll still be guards, inside and out. After we dispatch the ones standing outside, Gerard and Frank, you two stand by the door and alert us if reinforcements come. Andy and Joe, you and I will deal with the Guard inside the cathedral.” They all nodded, and Spencer switched his attention to Jon and Patrick. “You two watch Ryan,” he said. “If the church bells haven’t rung when the—the eclipse happens, Jon, you bring him into the church. If they have, that means we couldn’t get in and the service went fine. And that I’m dead, because there’s no way on Earth that I’m giving up as long as I have breath in my body.”
“What do we do then?” asked Patrick bleakly.
Spencer allowed himself to despair, just for a moment, at the thought. If they failed, if they all squandered this last chance to make things right…he shrugged. “If Ryan died, I wouldn’t want to live either.” Everything in him protested at the thought, but God only knew what would happen if one of them died, still bound by the Bishop’s magic. Death, he thought, would probably be preferable to the toll the curse would exact.
“Wait.” Jon narrowed his eyes. “You mean….”
“No life at all is better than half a life.” Jon looked like he wanted to argue with that, but he bit his tongue. Spencer was grateful; he didn’t want a resurgence of his old bitterness towards Jon, and he didn’t want to leave him and Patrick with angry words.
“Good luck, then,” said Patrick, giving Spencer a Guard salute with a tight smile. Jon nodded grimly.
Ryan screeched and hopped down from the wagon to land on Spencer’s shoulder, rapping his head sharply with his beak. Spencer blinked tears from his eyes and scratched around Ryan’s neck feathers. “Stay with Jon and Patrick,” he said quietly. “I know you want to fight, but this…you can’t die, yet. Not now. Not when we’re so close.” God willing, neither of us will have to die at all today.
Ryan gave him a sharp glare, as if to say, “I think you’re an idiot.” With a harsh, disdainful noise, he fluttered away to perch between Jon and Patrick on the wagon seat. Spencer didn’t trust himself to speak. He gestured to the other four men to follow him and started down the narrow roads that led to the cathedral.
“Hey,” said Joe in a harsh whisper that was almost covered by the noises of their boots scrabbling on the cobblestones. “What if Pete and Brendon couldn’t open the door? Or if they got scared and ran off?”
Andy raised his eyebrows. “I’ve known Pete a long time,” he said coolly, “and as far as I know, he never shies away from doing something just because it’s dangerous. Or, for that matter, stupid. He’ll do it.”
For his part, Spencer couldn’t believe that Brendon, who’d seen more battle at this point than many novice guards, would turn tail and run. There was no turning back now, for any of them; if the door was still locked, he’d kill the guards and break down the door, with or without help from his new comrades.
The spires of the cathedral rose in his view, and he slowed his pace. Caution.
“Hey,” said Frank. “That’s the cathedral, right?”
“Yes,” Spencer said curtly. He could see the doors, now, across the square from where he and the others paused behind the corner of the bakery. He vaguely recognized the men standing guard; Chris Fallers and Darren Wilson had both been new recruits when Spencer was captain. They must have done something right over the years, because they both had sergeants’ uniforms. Spencer really didn’t want to have to kill them.
“All right,” he said. “We’re going in. Defend yourselves as best you can when you need to, but—if you could avoid killing them….”
Frank and Gerard exchanged sullen expressions, but Andy nodded serenely. “We get it,” he said. “You know them. We’ll try not to kill any friends of yours.”
Spencer wondered, not for the first time, just what the hell Andy had done for a living before opening his inn, but now wasn’t the time to worry about it. Taking a deep breath, he started walking.
He knew the second that Darren and Chris recognized him. They straightened up, their faces full of surprised recognition, and drew their swords partway out of their sheathes. Spencer raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning. Fallers. Wilson.” He nodded at both of them. “Congratulations on your promotions,” he added, trying out a smile.
Darren smiled tentatively back. Chris, on the other hand, seemed even more nervous. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “We’re—nobody goes into the cathedral once Mass has started. And the Bishop wants us to arrest you.”
“Well, are you going to arrest us or stand guard?” asked Gerard tartly. “You can’t do both at the same time.”
Chris and Darren gave each other confused, anxious looks, and then turned back to Spencer. Darren wiped a hand on his tunic and said, “Captain Smith, we have our orders.”
“I know.” Spencer couldn’t even find it within himself to be irritated at them. God knew they were in a difficult position. “I don’t mean to make difficulties for you. But as a man who was your captain once, and who with any luck will be again, I’ll ask you to let me pass.” He gestured to his makeshift band of warriors. “There are five of us to your two, but I’d just as soon nobody came to harm this morning.”
“There are more of us inside,” said Chris. At first Spencer thought this was a threat, something to keep them at bay. But then Chris added, “Also, the door’s locked” and stepped off to one side, and Spencer realized that he was moving to let them pass.
Darren bit his lower lip, met Spencer’s eyes for a brief, solemn moment, and then followed Chris’s lead. Thank God, thought Spencer before turning to his companions. “All right. Frank and Gerard, stay out here and alert us if any reinforcements come.”
“Aren’t you going to need help in there?” asked Frank. “I mean, if there are a lot more Guard in there, another couple of men might be useful.”
“There are about two dozen inside, or maybe a little more,” piped up Darren. He shrugged. “Captain Saporta, too. I guess they knew you were coming.”
Frank turned to Spencer as if to say, See? But Spencer still didn’t think Darren and Chris would necessarily decide to help him if forced to choose between their former Captain and their current brothers-in-arms, and he didn’t think either Gerard or Frank had enough weapons training that he was comfortable leaving one of them alone with two sergeants of the Guard. “If we need backup,” he said, in commanding a tone as he could muster, “we’ll call you. Otherwise, stay here and make sure nobody else gets in.”
“Except for, like, Brendon or Patrick or Pete or Jon, right?” asked Frank, and Gerard elbowed him in the ribs.
“Don’t worry. We’ll keep a lookout for more Guard.” He gripped his ax in his hands and gave Spencer a tight smile. “Try not to get yourselves killed. I’m kind of hoping to get a new Bishop out of all this.”
Spencer nodded. Joe sighed resignedly. “Well,” he said, “Guess it’s time to see if Pete and Brendon held up their end of this plan.” He gestured towards the door. “Shall we?”
“Let’s,” said Andy, barrelling into the door with no further ado.
“Shit!” shrieked Joe. “A little warning next time, huh?!”
But there wasn’t time to say any more than that. Pete and Brendon had clearly known what they were doing; the door opened onto a church full of startled parishoners. And about thirty armed and irritated-looking guards.
Spencer pulled out his sword and leapt into the fray.
Part 6
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Saturday
The mornings were always the worst, Spencer thought with his first rush of human consciousness. The pain of the transformation didn’t mean much to the wolf; it didn’t last, so he didn’t think about it. This, though…
He was lying next to Ryan. He’d know those long limbs, those finely-wrought features, anywhere. Already the features were blurring into the sharp angles of the hawk, but for just a moment, Ryan’s eyes met his. Oh, God, thought Spencer. Please let me touch him. Please just let me talk to him. One word, and I’ll be satisfied.
But his own face still wasn’t capable of speech, its bones shifting and churning painfully from their canine shape. Ryan smiled at him before grimacing in pain, the grimace melting into the hawk’s glare. But for a moment, Spencer had had that smile again. Ryan’s eyes were bright, as if he’d been crying, and Spencer yearned with everything in him to comfort him, to ask him what had happened the previous night and make it right. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even touch Ryan’s hand. As he reached for it, it flattened into a hawk’s wing, and, fully transformed, the hawk sprang to his feet and made a plaintive noise.
Spencer slammed a fist down on the ground in frustration, making the hawk shriek indignantly and jump away. So close.
The more he pictured Ryan’s smile, his thin-boned hand, the more it hurt, so Spencer sat up and looked around in order to find something else to occupy his mind. A change of clothing was folded next to him, and he hurriedly put it on, cursing at the cold. Brendon and Jon were huddled around a fire, eating what looked like oatmeal. Brendon’s dark head flew up at Spencer’s movement, and he smiled brightly. “Good morning, Captain Smith!” he said cheerfully, and Spencer wondered how on earth the boy managed to be so cheery with everything that had happened over the last week.
“Morning,” he mumbled, and he made his way over to the fire. Goliath and Jon’s mule were tied up to a nearby tree. The blankets were laid out on bare patches of ground, probably cleared of snow by Brendon and Jon, and the saddlebags were piled next to Jon. Everything was present and accounted for, except…. “Where’s my sword?” he asked.
Jon’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darted over towards Brendon. Spencer turned his attentions as well, incredulous anger rising within him. Surely, surely they hadn’t lost his sword.
“Um,” said Brendon, fidgeting in a way that made Spencer want to smack him. “We—you see, we had to cross this river, sort of, last night. It was frozen, and the ice broke, and we needed it to—well, anyway, it fell in. The river, I mean.”
“What?” Spencer couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You—you dropped my sword in a river?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘dropped,’” said Brendon with a nervous giggle. “More like, uh, ‘let fall?’ I dunno. I’m really, really sorry. But—see, if you look at the bright side, now you don’t have to find a jewel for it. You don’t—it’s not so much a quest, or a mission, it can just be about breaking the curse.”
“Oh my God.” Spencer’s temper, which had been simmering pretty much since he’d met Brendon Urie, boiled over, and he stalked over to where the thief was sitting. “You dropped my sword in the river so I’d listen to your ridiculous plan, didn’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, Spencer grabbed him by the front of his tunic, ignoring Jon’s sharp cry of protest. “Damn you! That sword was my father’s! It’s the only thing I have of, of my family, of my honor!”
“It’s not always about you!” cried Brendon angrily. “God, can’t you see? This isn’t about revenge, it’s not about you going on some noble mission, it’s about doing what’s best for you and Ryan. You do remember Ryan, don’t you?”
“Oh, fuck you,” said Spencer, shaking him. The cloth of the tunic clearly wasn’t up to such harsh treatment. It gave way, tearing open down the front. Brendon fell to the ground, the remains of his shirt doing little to conceal a torso covered in vicious-looking gashes and scratches.
What? Spencer couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Was—had the Guard done that? Maybe it had been done to him in prison, but it looked too fresh, too haphazard for that. It looked—and Spencer found he couldn’t breathe—it looked as if he’d been mauled by a dog. Or a wolf.
Jon stood up and, for the first time Spencer could remember since the days when Jon had been his confessor, glared at him, his tense jaw and tightly drawn eyebrows radiating anger. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “You did that. Last night, on the river, when you fell through and Brendon saved you.” He turned his back on Spencer with a measured, deliberate movement and crouched next to Brendon. “I told you you should have let me stitch some of these up,” Spencer could hear him murmur. “You’re bleeding again.”
“It’s all right,” said Brendon, sniffling. Spencer didn’t think he’d ever hated himself so much. Fuck. Despite being annoying as all hell, Brendon was good in a tight spot, unexpectedly loyal, and…well, Spencer had encountered a lot of pickpockets in his time in the Guard, but he’d never met one he’d actually trust with his life before. Brendon was a friend. And Spencer, being the idiot he was, couldn’t recognize or repay that, either as a wolf or as a man.
“I,” he started, and then he swallowed. How could he even begin to apologize? He’d been a bastard to Brendon from the beginning. All the man wanted was to escape the gallows, and Spencer’d dragged him into a hellish situation that had put his life at risk more than once. There weren’t really words to apologize for that, but it’d be shameful not to try at least. “I’m sorry, Brendon,” he said quietly, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky to Brendon and Jon as it did to him. “You’ve saved my life and Ryan’s, and I’ve been incredibly ungrateful. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I—it’s all right about the sword. Maybe…maybe it’s a sign. A sign that I should’ve listened to you.” He swallowed the last bit of his resentment and nodded at Jon. “You, too.”
“Oh, Spencer!” Spencer found the last of his words smothered in Brendon’s shoulder as the pickpocket hugged him tightly. “It’s all right,” said Brendon. “After all, you’ve saved my life a couple of times, too. I mean, I’m actually losing count of the times we’ve saved each other, at this point.”
“I think that’s the point at which we give up counting and just agree to be friends,” said Spencer. He couldn’t remember the last time his heart had felt so light. Over Brendon’s shoulder, he could see Jon give him a tentative smile, and he returned it with what he knew had to be the biggest, goofiest-looking smile in the world. He didn’t even care.
“So,” he said, untangling himself from Brendon, “when’s this…day and night at the same time thing happening?”
“Tomorrow,” said Jon excitedly.
“And we have to confront the Bishop in person?” Spencer frowned. The idea hadn’t bothered him when killing the Bishop was a suicide mission, but now that there was a genuine spark of hope that the curse could be broken, he wasn’t that keen on being shot down by the Guard.
Jon nodded. “In the place where the curse was cast, which, if my sources are correct, is the main sanctuary of the cathedral.”
“Eww,” said Brendon, scowling disgustedly. “He cast a curse in the holiest part of the church?”
Jon shrugged, his own face more solemn. “It’s also the most powerful. He probably did it at night, so no one would bother him.”
“Well, at least we’ll know where to find him,” Spencer mused aloud. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, so he’ll be in the sanctuary giving Mass. But I think if we’re going to make it in there alive, we’re going to need some help.”
“What kind of help?” asked Brendon.
“Well, for starters, I’m going to be turning into a wolf at some point, so someone’s going to need to get a cage for me or something so I don’t waste time by running off and hunting rabbits. It’d also help if we had more swordsmen to help with the Guard, and someone to stand a lookout at the city gate.”
“I don’t know how much help I’ll be there,” said Jon, making a face. “Ever since I got excommunicated, most of my friends in the Church have been…less than friendly.”
Jon had been excommunicated? This was news to Spencer, and he felt a twinge of guilt for giving Jon such a hard time before. But the problem remained; they needed help, and they all seemed to be short on friends. Unless…
“Hey,” said Brendon. “I’ve got a couple of ideas. But we’re gonna have to hurry.”
***
“So, let me see if I have this right,” said Gerard, peering suspiciously at Brendon, Jon, and Spencer over the Ways’ table. “You’re planning to confront the Bishop, which will break this curse he’s put on Captain Smith and, at the same time, will show the people of Aquila that he’s a warlock.”
“As if he weren’t bad enough,” muttered Mikey, scratching at his bandaged arm. The Ways’ neighbor, a fidgety little man they introduced as Frank, cocked his head curiously.
“So?” he asked, with a respectful dip of his head towards Spencer. “I mean, if the people didn’t rebel when he charged us those godawful taxes, or when he started arresting and torturing and excommunicating people, why would they do anything now? I mean, most people I know already think he sold his soul to the Devil, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to fight him or anything.”
“They might not even have to do anything,” Jon broke in. “I’m not exactly sure how this works, but I know that Bill—the Bishop, that is, must have put a lot of himself into this curse. When it’s broken…I don’t know, he might die, or the spell might reflect back onto him. It’s hard to say, with magic.”
“Yeah, but what if none of that happens?” asked Gerard, looking solemn. “What if, at the end of it all, Captain Smith’s curse is broken but the Bishop’s just as powerful as ever?”
“Then I’ll kill him,” Spencer said bluntly.
Mikey and Frank looked satisfied by this, but Gerard frowned thoughtfully and said, “What happens then? Who takes over for him? Who takes charge of the Guard and the taxes and whatnot?”
Spencer could feel his eyebrows rise in surprise. It was a good question, one he’d been too wrapped up in thoughts of vengeance to properly consider. He looked at Gerard with newfound respect. It was amazing, the qualities that manifested themselves in the most unexpected people. He reminded himself to pay a hell of a lot more attention to the peasants on his estate if he ever made it back to the Smith lands.
“We’ll have to send for a new Bishop,” said Jon. “I think someone ought to go to Appia and tell the Archbishop about Beckett.”
“I could do that,” Mikey said. “You wouldn’t want me to tell him about Captain Smith killing him, right? You’d just want him to know about the witchcraft and the taxes and how the magic’s ruining the land.”
“Exactly,” said Jon, nodding. “And I’m hoping something will happen when the curse breaks, so we’ll have a churchfull of witnesses that the Bishop really was working magic. You know how to get to Appia?”
Mikey shrugged with his good shoulder. “I guess I can find it.”
Gerard and Frank looked at him dubiously. “Why don’t you go talk to Brian and see if he’ll go with you?” Gerard suggested. Brian, they’d learned earlier, was another neighbor whose lands had been ravaged by the Guard.
“All right,” Mikey said evenly. Spencer could only just see the beginnings of an exasperated twist of his mouth, and he hid a smile himself.
“What else would you want of us?” asked Gerard, turning his attentions back towards Spencer, Jon, and Brendon.
Brendon, who’d been shockingly quiet, broke in, saying, “A wagon. Preferably with some kind of cover, but any’ll do. Also, if you had some kind of cage or pen or something, we could use that. And we need lookouts once we get past the gates, to tell us if the guards are sending reinforcements.”
Gerard blinked. After exchanging an unreadable look with Frank, he said, “How big a cage do you need?”
“Big enough for a wolf,” said Spencer.
Mikey shuddered, and Spencer had a disturbing flash of memory that involved him gnawing on Mikey’s arm.
“I suppose my rabbit trap’s too small, then,” said Gerard, frowning.
“Hey,” said Frank, “I know time’s of the essence, but we could always make a cage. I don’t think it’d be that hard, and we could always use what’s left of my shed for lumber.”
“What do you think, Spencer?” asked Brendon, and Spencer felt a strange sort of happiness at being called by his name instead of “Captain Smith.” “You think we have enough time to make a cage?”
Spencer looked at the sky. It was still only midday. “We have time,” he said. “But we’re still going to need some more help.”
Brendon shrugged helplessly. Mikey raised his eyebrows, and Gerard said, “Well, there used to be a lot more people in this area, before the Guard started coming in. Brian’s going to be helping Mikey. There’s always Worm--”
Frank shook his head. “Worm got arrested.”
Spencer scarcely noticed. “I have an idea,” he said. If anyone had told him three weeks earlier how excited he’d be to have a priest, a pickpocket, and three peasant farmers look to him for a plan, he’d have laughed. Bitterly. But the truth of the matter was, Spencer was starting to feel like a commander again, and it was like recognizing a friend he hadn’t realized he’d lost.
***
“Hey,” said Brendon. “I know this place. I almost got executed here.”
Jon gave him an alarmed look, but Spencer just smiled calmly, which made Brendon a little nervous. The man had probably executed a thief or two himself, back in the day.
Sure enough, it was the very inn where the Guard had cornered him and Spencer had rescued him for the first time. He remembered the long-haired innkeeper who came out to watch their approach. He didn’t know the man with wild, curly brown hair standing next to the innkeeper, but the stranger seemed to know Spencer, and greeted him with a hearty, “Captain Smith! We were wondering where you’d gotten to!”
“Meeting some old friends, making some new ones,” said Spencer airily. “Nothing too exciting, Master Trohman.”
“Just stabbing former soldiers,” the innkeeper said in a dry tone, not looking at all welcoming. “Nothing too interesting.”
Trohman looked from the innkeeper to Spencer, shocked. “You were the one who stabbed Patrick? Why?”
Spencer scowled, staring down at his saddle. If Brendon didn’t know better, he’d say that Spencer was embarrassed or ashamed. “It was an accident,” he said. “Saporta pushed him onto my sword.”
“Yeah,” said the innkeeper. “That’s what he said, too.” He rolled his eyes. “Last time I get involved in a Guard conflict, believe me.”
“But he’s alive, then?” Spencer asked, his voice intense, and Brendon wondered just who the hell Patrick was.
“Yeah,” said Trohman. “I mean, he’s felt better, but he’s still alive and kicking in the back room. Why? Did you want to talk to him?”
“Hey,” said Frank, who was sitting with Brendon and Gerard on the wagon. “Have we come here for supplies, or what?”
Spencer visibly swallowed his emotions (though Brendon could still see his eyes shining with what looked suspiciously like tears) and gestured towards the two men who had exited the inn. “Friends, allow me to introduce Joe Trohman, a wine merchant from this area, and….”
“Andy Hurley,” said the innkeeper.
Spencer nodded graciously. “Master Hurley, Master Trohman, this is Gerard Way, Frank Iero, and Father Jon Walker. I believe you might remember Brendon Urie, Master Hurley.”
The innkeeper—Andy—nodded. “You’re the kid who wanted the most expensive drink in the place, right?”
Brendon could feel himself reddening. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and it sounded foolish when said like that. “That was me, yes.”
Andy nodded again, smiling, but it was more friendly than mocking, and Brendon let himself relax. “You want to come in?” asked Andy. “You can leave your wagon and mounts in our stables if you like. No one’ll take them.”
“Thanks,” said Frank, jumping down. Gerard stiffly stepped down after him; like Brendon, he’d taken a nap in the back of the wagon while they traveled, but unlike Brendon, he was clearly unused to catching sleep in odd places. Frank and Gerard stayed back to stable the mounts and the wagon—“Got to wake this old man up,” said Frank with a smirk at Gerard—while the rest of them followed Andy into a small back room in the inn, where Joe was sitting by the bedside of a man Brendon recognized from the group of Guard who’d tried to arrest and execute Brendon. He took an involuntary step back, his instincts for flight at their most alert, but stopped when he noticed another figure sitting at the foot of the bed.
“Pete? Pete Wentz?” Pete was a pickpocket from the city who’d taught Brendon his trade. Seeing him here was like—like—well, like seeing a captain of the Guard who rescued thieves, or a priest who spent his time researching magic to help a couple of outlaws.
Pete favored him with a toothy grin. “If it isn’t little Brendon Urie! I see you’ve managed to keep yourself alive thus far.”
Brendon couldn’t muster the presence of mind to respond to this, and instead he pointed to the man in the bed and said, “You do know he’s in the Guard, right?”
“Was in the Guard,” said the man, attempting to pull himself up to a seated position before Pete pushed him back down.
“Stitches, Stump!” said Pete. Turning back to Brendon, he said, “Oh, yeah, I know. But being in the Guard’s how he almost got himself killed, so now I’ve sort of adopted him. Taken him under my wing, if you will, to help him escape from the clutches of a life of law enforcement.” He grinned at the guard and covered him with a blanket to his chin.
“He has not,” said the guard irritably, but he let Pete tuck the blankets around him with no more resistance than a half-hearted sigh.
“How do you know Andy?” asked Brendon, confused. Whenever he’d seen Pete in the city, he was always staying in the same kind of lousy holes in the wall that Brendon was living in; he’d certainly never mentioned being friends with a prosperous, respectable business-owner.
Pete laughed. “Oh, Andy and I go way back. Used to run in the same kinds of circles, you know?” Pete had always been kind to Brendon, but he had a reputation in the shadier neighborhoods of Aquila that stopped Brendon from asking just what kinds of circles he and Andy had run in. He figured he probably didn’t want to know.
The guard gave Pete a curious little frown; evidently he did want to know. When he saw Spencer walk in, though, he jerked up again, knocking his covers aside and making Pete shake his head and cluck in disapproval. “Captain Smith!”
Spencer shrugged, looking very young. “You can probably just call me Spencer, Patrick, since neither of us is in the Guard anymore.” Pushing past Brendon to kneel at the guard’s—Patrick’s—bedside, he said, “I just--I wanted to apologize for….” He swallowed loudly. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but….”
“But nothing!” Patrick waved a hand in dismissal. “You weren’t the one who pushed me onto your sword. In fact, I should thank you, because the whole incident made it abundantly clear to me that being in the Guard under Saporta is pretty much the same as being in a gang of mercenary barbarians, and I’m better off without them.”
Brendon sent a questioning look towards Jon, who shrugged. Ryan screeched from his position on a clothes-hook in the corner.
“Oh,” said Patrick, sad and wondering. “Spencer, is that….”
“Ryan,” said Spencer, his voice tightening a bit.
“Damn. I’m sorry.”
Brendon couldn’t stand the sadness that seemed to loom over both Spencer and Patrick, so without pausing to think about what Spencer’s plan in coming here might be and whether or not he was ruining it, he said, “We found a way to break the curse. Well, I mean, Jon did, but now we’re gonna do it.”
Everyone turned to look at Brendon. Spencer looked vaguely exasperated, but Joe, Pete, Andy and Patrick looked curious.
“No joke?” Joe asked. “What do you have to do?” Noticing Spencer’s sidelong look at Andy, he said, “Don’t worry about Andy, Captain.”
“I have a lot of respect for your work in the Guard,” Andy said casually. “Criminals got caught, punishments fit the crime. Not like now. I really can’t imagine any circumstances in which I’d give you up to the Bishop.”
Spencer blinked. “Um. Thank you.”
“That’s actually why we came here,” Jon broke in. “Um. Not, uh, giving Spencer to the Bishop. Obviously.” Brendon wondered when he’d gotten to know Jon so well he recognized when the other man was yearning for a drink. “But to get some help. To break the curse, we have to get back into Aquila. And, well, I don’t know how well any of us except maybe me can get in without being recognized by the Guard and arrested.”
“Same goes for me, fellow,” Pete said matter-of-factly. “That’s why I’m intruding on Andy’s lovely abode now—I only just escaped with my skin. City Guard’s in no mood to deal with pickpockets just now.”
“I could probably get in,” Patrick mused. “Depends on how organized Saporta was, and whether he made a formal announcement to the rest of the Guard about—um. I guess he’d call it my ‘betrayal.’ I don’t know how much good I can do once I’m there, though. Clearly I’m not going to be swordfighting for a while.”
“You’re not going to be getting out of bed for a while if I have anything to say about it,” said Pete, giving Patrick a stern look. Brendon thought they should form a society of sorts: The Society of Thieves Who Keep the Guards in Their Lives from Doing Stupid Things. It’d be a very small society.
Joe frowned, confused. “Well, wait,” he said. “Swordfighting? Just what are we doing in Aquila?”
“Overthrowing the Bishop,” said Spencer gravely.
Andy raised his eyebrows. “Count me in,” he said.
Saturday night
Ryan knew, of course, how he’d ended up in a wagon full of sweaty, dirty, commoners. He just wondered how he’d given in so quickly. Of course, at this point, he, too, was sweaty and dirty and dressed in an ill-fitting set of Andy Hurley’s clothes. “For a disguise,” Brendon had explained. “Nobody’ll recognize you with dirt on your face and patched clothes.” He was right, of course; the Ryan Ross who’d moved to Aquila some three years ago wouldn’t have been caught dead in this outfit. Even now, it made his skin crawl. But, he supposed, it was a necessary evil.
Spencer growled from his slapdash cage, and Ryan ignored the strange looks from Frank and Joe to reach his hand in and run it reassuringly along Spencer’s back. Even as a wolf, Spencer’s nervous show of irritation was clearly discernable from real anger. To Ryan, anyway. Patrick squirmed in the front seat and turned around to look at the back of the wagon.
“So,” he said tensely. “You all know what to do if the guards remember that Saporta stabbed me, right? You all have your weapons?”
“Relax,” said Frank. “You’ve told us what to do. A lot.” Gerard glared at Patrick suspiciously, moving his own hand towards the ax hanging at his belt. Ryan got the distinct impression that, assurances from Spencer aside, he wasn’t any too keen about working with a guard.
Patrick sighed. “I know. But there are so many things that could go wrong here, and I’m just--”
“We know.” Joe put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile. Ryan wished he knew these people, any of them. It was a sad day when he found himself plotting to overthrow a city government, and the compatriots he knew best were a former underling of Spencer’s and their loose-tongued former priest. Ryan felt a disturbing pang of nostalgia for Brendon Urie’s company. He and the other thief, Wentz, had split off long before they reached the city.
“Hey.” Jon’s voice came out harsh and hoarse, at odds with the cheerful expression of greeting he’d adopted. “Hush. We’re almost there.”
The motley group fell silent as they rattled towards the gates, a beacon of dim torchlight that cast shadows over the surrounding countryside. The guards straightened up at their approach, and one held out a hand gesturing for them to stop.
“Evening,” said Jon, and Ryan was amazed at the casual jovialty in his tone. He’d never have guessed that Jon was so good a liar.
“Evening,” said the young guard. “Who are all these men, and what’s your business in the city?”
“Oh,” said Jon with a nod, “these are some of the men of my parish, up north aways. Nobody wanted to ride alone with that--” He jerked his head in Spencer’s direction. “So Sergeant Stump here suggested we all come along. We figured six men ought to be able to handle one wolf, right?”
“It’s a gift for the Bishop,” Patrick interjected, and to Ryan’s surprise, the guard shuddered.
“Christ Jesus,” he said, sounding more unhappy than shocked or doubtful, “not another one.”
Jon raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “What His Grace wants, His Grace gets.”
“You can say that again,” muttered the other guard. “All right. Sergeant Stump, are you escorting them to the church?” Patrick nodded. “Well, I suppose you can all go in, then. But please, keep the animal under control. We’ve had just about enough of the Bishop’s damned wolves.”
“Of course,” said Patrick solemnly. Then, as they rolled away, “What the hell?”
“A friend of mine who works up in the church says the Bishop’s started collecting wolfskins,” said Joe. “Big black ones, like Spencer. There’s a strange man, a hunter--”
“We know him,” said Jon flatly. Ryan felt his blood freeze at the remembrance of that man and his traps, and the dead wolf he’d thrown in front of Ryan. He didn’t know what had become of him and Saporta in the woods, but he hoped with vicious fervor that their wounds had become infected and they’d died in the middle of nowhere, cold and in pain.
The wagon was silent. Finally, Gerard muttered, “Lord help us, this is some strange and unnatural shit.” Frank giggled, and Ryan felt the chill of the memory fade into the earthly cold of the night.
“I hope Brendon and Pete are all right,” said Jon in a low voice. “Those sewers have got to be freezing at night.”
Ryan thought of Pete’s cockiness with its undercurrent of reassurance, Brendon’s cheerful determination. “They’ll be fine,” he said, and inexplicably enough, he meant it.
***
“Christ Almighty!” sputtered Pete, gasping for breath and shaking water out of his hair. “I think I’d rather be hanged than do this again!”
Brendon was exhausted and cold and really didn’t want to think about what he was standing in. “Nobody asked you to come along,” he said wearily to Pete. “You could have stayed at Andy’s.”
“While all of you were out being heroic?” Pete snorted. “Not on your life, Urie.”
“Keep your voice down. The sound echoes down here, and I don’t know where all of these vents lead.” Brendon strained his ears for anything, anything at all, that would tell him where the cathedral was. It was too early yet for much light, and the dank darkness of the sewers hung over him like a funeral shroud.
“Ugh,” he said, shuddering. “Is the Bishop just determined to make my life miserable? Why, why lock the doors to the damn church during Mass?”
“’Cause he’s paranoid,” said Pete matter-of-factly. “The bastard knows how much the people hate him, so he keeps his poor little congregation in and everyone else out and scares them all with his Guard, just in case someone decides to do God a favor and slit his throat during the Sunday services.” He peered into the dark tunnel ahead. “So, what, do we just keep walking until you remember which drain shaft leads to the cathedral?”
“Unless you’ve got a better plan.” They trudged along in the slimy black waters in mostly unbroken silence. Brendon found that it wasn’t so bad, this second time around; it was still cold and gross, but it wasn’t quite as frightening to walk along with Pete by his side. The sound of water flowing to the river outside gradually faded, drowned in the ever-present noise of waste splashing into the sewers. A gray, dim sort of light began to reveal the contours of the tunnel walls, and Brendon felt a twinge of recognition at the sight of a small hole high up in the wall, the smell issuing from it rather stronger and more unpleasant than from the surrounding drains.
“Hey,” he said, pointing. “I think that’s the drain that comes from the prison. We’ve actually gone a little too far—the cathedral vent was back that way.”
Pete rubbed his hands together, either in excitement or an attempt to warm himself. “Excellent,” he said. “Got your lock picks ready?”
“We’ve got to get up there, first,” Brendon pointed out. But he couldn’t stop the thrill of excitement he felt, and he bounced up and down on his heels for a moment, feeling for the thin blade Pete had given him for prying open the grates and working at the cathedral doors’ lock. This was it—his chance to help Spencer and Ryan, to help everyone. Not in spite of who you are, but because of it. He smiled widely at Pete and started walking back towards the cathedral’s drain, his step lighter and quicker than it had been a few moments ago.
Sunday
“Well,” said Spencer, examining his rag-tag band of men, “this is it. If anyone wants to back out, now’s the time.”
Frank made a rude noise, and Andy gave Spencer a cool, almost disdainful look. Gerard and Joe regarded him steadily, neither looking as if they had any doubts at all. Spencer felt a warm sense of camaraderie bubble up in his heart and he smiled. “Thank you.” He turned his smile on Jon and Patrick, who were sitting in the wagon with solemn faces, and said, “All of you. And thanks for lending me your sword, Patrick.”
Patrick nodded, looking pale. The wagon ride clearly hadn’t been any too easy on his recovering body, but his voice was strong enough as he shrugged and said, “Wasn’t like I was going to be using it today, right?”
Spencer returned the nod and fingered the hilt at his belt. It wasn’t his broadsword, not even close, but it was a serviceable blade and Patrick clearly kept it in good condition.
Jon squinted at the sky and let out a sigh. “Maybe two hours until the eclipse. Maybe a little more. Hard to tell with all these clouds.”
“Is that gonna ruin the curse-breaking?” Joe asked with a frown. “If the sun’s covered in clouds, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” said Jon. Spencer didn’t even let himself think about what it would mean if he were wrong.
“All right,” he said. “If Brendon and Pete have done their job, the doors should be unlocked now. But there’ll still be guards, inside and out. After we dispatch the ones standing outside, Gerard and Frank, you two stand by the door and alert us if reinforcements come. Andy and Joe, you and I will deal with the Guard inside the cathedral.” They all nodded, and Spencer switched his attention to Jon and Patrick. “You two watch Ryan,” he said. “If the church bells haven’t rung when the—the eclipse happens, Jon, you bring him into the church. If they have, that means we couldn’t get in and the service went fine. And that I’m dead, because there’s no way on Earth that I’m giving up as long as I have breath in my body.”
“What do we do then?” asked Patrick bleakly.
Spencer allowed himself to despair, just for a moment, at the thought. If they failed, if they all squandered this last chance to make things right…he shrugged. “If Ryan died, I wouldn’t want to live either.” Everything in him protested at the thought, but God only knew what would happen if one of them died, still bound by the Bishop’s magic. Death, he thought, would probably be preferable to the toll the curse would exact.
“Wait.” Jon narrowed his eyes. “You mean….”
“No life at all is better than half a life.” Jon looked like he wanted to argue with that, but he bit his tongue. Spencer was grateful; he didn’t want a resurgence of his old bitterness towards Jon, and he didn’t want to leave him and Patrick with angry words.
“Good luck, then,” said Patrick, giving Spencer a Guard salute with a tight smile. Jon nodded grimly.
Ryan screeched and hopped down from the wagon to land on Spencer’s shoulder, rapping his head sharply with his beak. Spencer blinked tears from his eyes and scratched around Ryan’s neck feathers. “Stay with Jon and Patrick,” he said quietly. “I know you want to fight, but this…you can’t die, yet. Not now. Not when we’re so close.” God willing, neither of us will have to die at all today.
Ryan gave him a sharp glare, as if to say, “I think you’re an idiot.” With a harsh, disdainful noise, he fluttered away to perch between Jon and Patrick on the wagon seat. Spencer didn’t trust himself to speak. He gestured to the other four men to follow him and started down the narrow roads that led to the cathedral.
“Hey,” said Joe in a harsh whisper that was almost covered by the noises of their boots scrabbling on the cobblestones. “What if Pete and Brendon couldn’t open the door? Or if they got scared and ran off?”
Andy raised his eyebrows. “I’ve known Pete a long time,” he said coolly, “and as far as I know, he never shies away from doing something just because it’s dangerous. Or, for that matter, stupid. He’ll do it.”
For his part, Spencer couldn’t believe that Brendon, who’d seen more battle at this point than many novice guards, would turn tail and run. There was no turning back now, for any of them; if the door was still locked, he’d kill the guards and break down the door, with or without help from his new comrades.
The spires of the cathedral rose in his view, and he slowed his pace. Caution.
“Hey,” said Frank. “That’s the cathedral, right?”
“Yes,” Spencer said curtly. He could see the doors, now, across the square from where he and the others paused behind the corner of the bakery. He vaguely recognized the men standing guard; Chris Fallers and Darren Wilson had both been new recruits when Spencer was captain. They must have done something right over the years, because they both had sergeants’ uniforms. Spencer really didn’t want to have to kill them.
“All right,” he said. “We’re going in. Defend yourselves as best you can when you need to, but—if you could avoid killing them….”
Frank and Gerard exchanged sullen expressions, but Andy nodded serenely. “We get it,” he said. “You know them. We’ll try not to kill any friends of yours.”
Spencer wondered, not for the first time, just what the hell Andy had done for a living before opening his inn, but now wasn’t the time to worry about it. Taking a deep breath, he started walking.
He knew the second that Darren and Chris recognized him. They straightened up, their faces full of surprised recognition, and drew their swords partway out of their sheathes. Spencer raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning. Fallers. Wilson.” He nodded at both of them. “Congratulations on your promotions,” he added, trying out a smile.
Darren smiled tentatively back. Chris, on the other hand, seemed even more nervous. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “We’re—nobody goes into the cathedral once Mass has started. And the Bishop wants us to arrest you.”
“Well, are you going to arrest us or stand guard?” asked Gerard tartly. “You can’t do both at the same time.”
Chris and Darren gave each other confused, anxious looks, and then turned back to Spencer. Darren wiped a hand on his tunic and said, “Captain Smith, we have our orders.”
“I know.” Spencer couldn’t even find it within himself to be irritated at them. God knew they were in a difficult position. “I don’t mean to make difficulties for you. But as a man who was your captain once, and who with any luck will be again, I’ll ask you to let me pass.” He gestured to his makeshift band of warriors. “There are five of us to your two, but I’d just as soon nobody came to harm this morning.”
“There are more of us inside,” said Chris. At first Spencer thought this was a threat, something to keep them at bay. But then Chris added, “Also, the door’s locked” and stepped off to one side, and Spencer realized that he was moving to let them pass.
Darren bit his lower lip, met Spencer’s eyes for a brief, solemn moment, and then followed Chris’s lead. Thank God, thought Spencer before turning to his companions. “All right. Frank and Gerard, stay out here and alert us if any reinforcements come.”
“Aren’t you going to need help in there?” asked Frank. “I mean, if there are a lot more Guard in there, another couple of men might be useful.”
“There are about two dozen inside, or maybe a little more,” piped up Darren. He shrugged. “Captain Saporta, too. I guess they knew you were coming.”
Frank turned to Spencer as if to say, See? But Spencer still didn’t think Darren and Chris would necessarily decide to help him if forced to choose between their former Captain and their current brothers-in-arms, and he didn’t think either Gerard or Frank had enough weapons training that he was comfortable leaving one of them alone with two sergeants of the Guard. “If we need backup,” he said, in commanding a tone as he could muster, “we’ll call you. Otherwise, stay here and make sure nobody else gets in.”
“Except for, like, Brendon or Patrick or Pete or Jon, right?” asked Frank, and Gerard elbowed him in the ribs.
“Don’t worry. We’ll keep a lookout for more Guard.” He gripped his ax in his hands and gave Spencer a tight smile. “Try not to get yourselves killed. I’m kind of hoping to get a new Bishop out of all this.”
Spencer nodded. Joe sighed resignedly. “Well,” he said, “Guess it’s time to see if Pete and Brendon held up their end of this plan.” He gestured towards the door. “Shall we?”
“Let’s,” said Andy, barrelling into the door with no further ado.
“Shit!” shrieked Joe. “A little warning next time, huh?!”
But there wasn’t time to say any more than that. Pete and Brendon had clearly known what they were doing; the door opened onto a church full of startled parishoners. And about thirty armed and irritated-looking guards.
Spencer pulled out his sword and leapt into the fray.
Part 6