“Regard this view,” the archbishop offered, gesturing with his winecup. “It is magnificent, is it not? The best view in all Petrodor.”
Sasha looked, and found that it was. The city-every dwelling, every road, every detail, in sprawling profusion about the harbour. The high sun, sparkling on the waters, and the silhouette of ships and rigging against that golden light.
“I've been out fishing on that harbour,” Sasha volunteered. “Have you?”
“In my youth,” said the archbishop. He flicked her a sideways glance. Then up, about at the walls. “Do you recognise these paintings?”
Sasha half turned in her chair and surveyed the walls. “That one would be the Enoran High Temple. And that's Saint Tristen on Mount Tristen. And that's Saint Sadis, and that's Saint Ambellion, of course. Not the others, though.” She was supposed to be impressed. And intimidated. The cumulative weight of Verenthane history pressed down upon this grand chamber. As though all of the gods and saints were watching.
Sasha stared at the archbishop. “You're drinking wine? Is that proper?”
“It is the Torovan tradition, even amongst clergy,” said the archbishop with a frown. “Tell me-”
“Is it proper that I should be here?” Sasha continued, not missing a beat. “I mean, this is Porsada Temple, the holiest temple in all Rhodia.”
“Second holiest,” said the archbishop, with the first trace of temper.
“Ah yes, the Enora High Temple comes first, doesn't it? These are your private chambers.” Sasha glanced around. “The archbishop's quarters? When was the last time a woman set foot in these quarters? When was the last time you even spoke to a woman? In Baen-Tar, even the new priests would run away from me. But now I'm being held in a secure room in your chambers. Tell me, are you in the habit of holding young women hostage in your chambers? Does anyone else even know I'm here?”
There was no mistaking the temper in the archbishop's eyes now. “You should recall to whom you're speaking, young lady.”
Sasha shrugged. “I'm just wondering how seriously you take this ‘holy vows’ stuff here in Petrodor. I mean, we hear all the stories in Lenayin-all the little boys buggered behind the altar, that kind of thing. And now you're drinking wine and holding pretty girls hostage for your private amusement…”
“You are being held here as a direct favour to your dear sister Marya!” hissed the archbishop between clenched teeth. “I did inform her that it would be highly improper for a woman to be quartered in the temple, but she did insist! You should be thankful for my mercy that you were not given directly into the hands of Family Steiner, I doubt they'd have arranged such comfortable lodgings for you as we have.”
“What would they do?” Sasha asked darkly. “Start pulling out fingernails?”
“At the very least. You cause great difficulties for Family Steiner, young lady. Have you no sympathy at all for the difficult position into which you put your sister?”
“Oh poor darling,” Sasha muttered. “I'm sure her fancy clothes and jewellery are just chafing right now.”
“Your love of family seems wanting,” the archbishop observed, recovering some of his poise. “Do you hold as much disdain for all the tenets of Verenthane morality?”
“Marya made her choice,” Sasha said shortly. “I've made mine.”
“Be aware, Sashandra Lenayin, that your position here is most tenuous.” The archbishop sipped at his wine and considered the view. “I could hand you to Family Steiner at any time should your behaviour displease me. As you have observed, it is not proper for you to be here at all. Do not grant me an even greater incentive to unload this burden with which I am presented.”
“Unload?” Sasha said with contempt. “Or sell cheap, like the cheap salesman you are? You don't practise morality here, the priesthood of Petrodor never has. You just buy and sell like all the other merchants. Buy off the families to keep you happy. Trade favours when it suits you. Peddle influence. I may be Goeren-yai, but I've known many good Verenthanes in Lenayin, priests amongst them. Their gods were never so short of gold and treasure as yours seem to be.”
“You doubt my resolve,” said the archbishop icily. “We have already disposed of one Nasi-Keth girl this morning. My guards found her hiding near your meeting place on the Cliff of the Dead. I'm told she put up a stubborn resistance and would have escaped had it not been for an excellent crossbowman. If you wish to join her at the bottom of the harbour, please just say so, and we shall dispense with these tiresome games and insults…”
Sasha lifted the table with an explosive heave. The archbishop toppled backward and Sasha rushed forward, but a guard threw her to the ground. She fell awkwardly, struggling to rise with tied hands, but a shield crashed into her side, throwing her further from the archbishop. She rolled fast, but an armoured boot in the side stopped her, and then one crashed into her head and stunned her. It was several kicks later before her head cleared. A kick in the back was agony and one in the stomach drove the breath from her lungs. She curled up and braced as hard as she could, arms over her head to protect what mattered most. Then the kicks stopped.
She lay still, breathing hard, trying to listen past the pain. She heard the archbishop's voice, disappointingly calm and reassuring, talking to the guards. The squeal and crash of the table being returned to its place. Candleholders resettled. Then a hand grabbed her under each armpit and hauled her up. Her feet barely touched the floor until the guards dumped her in the chair once more.
Sasha tried licking her lips, but it hurt to move her jaw. Her ear stung and her mouth was tender. When she dared to move her tongue past her lips, she tasted blood. She couldn't quite manage to sit straight on the chair, her back and ribs hurt and the world kept trying to tip sideways.
“That was ill advised,” said the archbishop. A servant came scurrying to put a new cup of wine in his hand. He sipped it, trying hard to look unperturbed. Smug shit, Sasha thought. She nearly rushed him again, just to prove her contempt. Only the thought of injury stopped her. If she were injured further, she'd never escape. “You seem a little dense, although given your reputation, that is hardly surprising. Let me explain to you how this arrangement will work.
“You will tell me things about the Nasi-Keth. Or not me, not precisely-my interrogators. Where they live, how many they are, what the current political situation is like-and I understand it is quite fragmented-all of this. Should you not, I shall change my more polite interrogator for a less gentlemanly variety with ingenious inventions to make even the stubbornest Lenay princess talk. And then, you shall be very sorry.”
“You hurt me,” Sasha half mumbled with uncooperative lips, “and Kessligh will kill you. No…he'll gut you and make sure you live long enough to see what colour your insides are.”
“Kessligh's followers are Verenthanes, even if he himself has lapsed,” the archbishop said confidently. “If he wishes to retain any of his fast-fading support on the dockfront, he'll not dare touch a hair on my head.”
It didn't make sense, Sasha reflected, back on her bed in the cell. Her hands had been untied and she lay on her back with arms above her head to stop her bruises from stiffening.
The archbishop only wanted her for information? Not likely. He seemed very concerned about Kessligh, that was certain. It was more likely blackmail, she reckoned. Blackmail to keep Kessligh from interfering in whatever came next. Probably they would not risk harming her, as long as she remained useful-which would be for as long as Kessligh remained powerful. Kessligh would not remain powerful for very long if blackmail prevented him from acting…or, if in acting, he lost his best guarantee of prestige within the Nasi-Keth-his uma. However she figured it, she had to get out of here.