LUTETIA WAS DOING ITS BEST TO APPEAR NORMAL, BUT ITS efforts seemed tired and desultory. Even the colours on the striped awnings of the cafés were muted and dull. Aubrey thought the scent of corruption was stronger, rising from the stones beneath their feet. As they went, he noted more blocked drains and eruptions of rubbish, almost as if the city were trying to purge itself.
The doomsayers had grown beyond print. While the crude posters still proliferated, street corners were now hosting wild-eyed speechmakers. From atop wooden fruit boxes, each harangued wide-eyed passers-by with a different horror waiting in store for Lutetia: plague, rains of blood, famine, flood and – Aubrey's worst nightmare – hosts of serpents.
They crossed the Meron Bridge, heading toward the Bankside district. Nothing was moving on the river. Boats, large and small, were mired in the thick, grey slop that it had become.
Aubrey stepped back from craning over the bridge, trying to get a better view of the expanse of the river. A bicycle bell rang. 'Look out, old man!' George cried and grabbed his arm, saving him from being run over.
The bicycle rattled to a stop. It was an ancient machine with a cloth-covered basket hanging from the handlebars. It was ridden by a small boy, barely large enough to reach the pedals and certainly too small to remain on the seat. He was dirty-faced and wore a sock hat that had once been red.
He frowned at Aubrey, studying his every feature, then – obviously satisfied he had the right person – dug in the pocket of his ragged trousers. Aubrey noticed he wore wooden shoes.
The urchin thrust a scrap of paper into Aubrey's hand and then mounted the bicycle. He wobbled off, picking up speed and disappearing into the streets of Bankside.
'It's from von Stralick,' Aubrey said after he'd scanned the paper. 'He says to meet him at the intersection of Kellerman Street and the road to Amelie at noon.'
'As if we're at his beck and call,' George muttered.
'He says he may have news of the artefact we're seeking.'
IT TOOK SOME TIME TO FIND THE CHURCH OF THE Innocents. They'd twice circled the massive collection of Gothic buildings that was the Ministry for Taxation before George called a stop. 'You said it was around here, old man. Where?'
'Bertie said it was near the Ministry of Taxation, that was all. I think he assumed I'd visited it.'
'I hope it hasn't disappeared like the Revolutionary Monument.'
'If it had, we'd see it boarded up, wouldn't we?'
Caroline reached into her bag with a look of exasperation.' I thought you knew where you were going. Here.'
She handed him a slim, green-bound book. 'The Green Guide to Lutetia for Visitors,' he read.
'Mother helped to write some of the sections. It's very good.'
'Naturally.'
Aubrey leafed to the appropriate page after finding the Church of the Innocents in the index. He lifted his head and stared at the Ministry of Taxation. 'It's in there.'
George snorted. 'A church in a government complex?'
'It says that this conglomeration began as a palace. King Pepin built the church as part of it. The complex grew over the years and swallowed the church.'
'Is it open to the public?' Caroline asked.
'It's supposed to be.' Aubrey eyed the guards standing at the iron gate leading into the depths of the bureaucracy.' But with the unrest . . . Let's see.'
The guards were surly when Aubrey and George approached, but brightened when they realised there was a beautiful young woman with them. Then they made a great show of allowing them in and even had a heated argument over who was going to accompany them through the maze of buildings.
The Church of the Innocents was dwarfed by the surrounding offices. It was a blocky, solid stone construction, more modest than Aubrey would have expected for a king's private place of worship. When he drew near he saw its age – thick walls, narrow windows, and a squat belltower. It was small, but it still had the traditional cross-shaped layout. When they entered the still, cool interior, they found they were alone, apart from a young priest. He pointed the way to the crypt.
Aubrey stood under a lantern that hung from the low ceiling. The crypt stretched into the shadowy distance, full not just with the tombs of kings, but the families of the monarchs – sons, daughters, wives, brothers, sisters, cousins.
The crypt was well-tended, with no cobwebs or dust. It had a dry, almost herbal smell, quite unlike the damp mustiness Aubrey usually associated with underground chambers.
The tombs were simple marble boxes, with lids carved into effigies of the deceased. The men were all clad in armour, with a sword resting on their chests, often with a shield bearing the owner's coat of arms. The women were dressed in robes of richness that even the years could not obscure.
Aubrey was struck by the simplicity of the tombs. These weren't gaudy monuments to the pride of the living. They were dignified, solemn resting places. No statues, pillars, angels or prophets to watch over the dead. They were not needed.
It was a serene place and Aubrey felt at ease. Here, death was undeniable, thus unremarkable. It was the natural closing of a life – a world away from the horror that the Soul Stealer wrought.
'What are we looking for, old man?' George asked in a low voice.
Aubrey held Bertie's letter up to the light. 'Prince Christian's tomb, if it exists. He was some sort of cousin to Stephen III. I remember reading about him.'
'Cousin,' Caroline murmured. 'Isn't that a euphemism for "illegitimate child"?'
'Ah, Bertie hasn't made that clear,' Aubrey said. 'But he's asked us to look for special features on the tomb.'
'Special features,' George said. 'That's a bit mysterious, isn't it?'
'The letter was rather guarded.' Which probably means Bertie thinks this matter is important, Aubrey thought.
They separated. Aubrey moved along the left-hand wall. In places, tombs had been set into the stone, hollowed-out cavities holding the coffins. Names were inscribed on brass plaques or carved on the sides of the tombs. The plaques were bright and free of verdigris, a further sign of the care that had been taken by the guardian priests.
'I've found him.' Caroline's voice came clear and steadfast from the far corner of the crypt.
The effigy on top of the tomb was worn and indistinct, but it was still recognisable as a warrior in chain mail, long sword by his side, feet crossed and resting against a small chest. If it weren't for the brass plaque, the tomb would have been indistinguishable from the others in this oldest part of the crypt.
'Prince Christian,' George read. He scratched his cheek. 'He doesn't look like Prince Albert. Are you sure he's a relative?'
'It'd be difficult for him to look like anyone, with the features worn like that,' Aubrey said. 'Bertie says that his research insists that this Prince Christian is his direct ancestor.'
'And he went mad?'
Aubrey winced. 'I wouldn't put it as bluntly as that, but he was reputed to be feebleminded, or prone to irrational rages, or both. Bertie says that Christian was locked away in a tower when he was only twenty-two, at a monastery in Fremont. Died there a forgotten man, apparently.'