“How do you know that?” the Holy Father asked angrily, and Kelsea was dismayed to see him shoot a glare at Father Tyler. “The Arvath is sacrosanct.”
“Seven empty floors, Your Holiness,” she pressed on. “Think how many displaced people you could house and feed.”
“There is no extra space in the Arvath, Majesty.”
“In return,” Kelsea continued, as though he had not spoken, “I would be willing to consider all of the Church’s New London property as charitable, and forgive the tax on those landholdings.”
“Only New London?” The Holy Father burst out laughing, an unexpected sound from his mirthless face. “New London constitutes only a tiny fraction of our property, Majesty. Now, if you were willing to throw in our holdings in the northern Almont, there might be an arrangement to make.”
“Ah, yes … your farmlands. Where the poor work for pennies a day and their children start in the fields at the age of five. Charitable property indeed.”
“These people would otherwise have no employment at all.”
Kelsea stared at him. “And that allows you to sleep at night?”
“I sleep well enough, Majesty.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Majesty!” Father Tyler stood up abruptly, his face panic-stricken. “I must use the restroom. Excuse me.”
Somewhere during the argument, Milla had slid a dessert plate in front of Kelsea: cheesecake dotted with strawberries. Kelsea made quick work of it; it wasn’t one of Milla’s best efforts, but there really was no bad cheesecake, and even Kelsea’s temper was not enough to blunt her appetite. Mace gave her a pleading glance, but Kelsea shook her head. While she chewed, she cast surreptitious glances at her guards, wondering for whom that remark about homosexuality had been meant. Perhaps, like so many things in God’s Church, the Holy Father had simply produced it from thin air, but Kelsea didn’t think so; it was too odd a claim. And was it any of her business anyway? According to Carlin, the institutionalized homophobia of the pre-Crossing had wasted vast amounts of time and resources. Barty, with characteristic practicality, always said that God had better things to worry about than what happened between the sheets.
No, Kelsea decided, it’s not my business. She wished she could simply tell the Holy Father to go fuck himself—it would feel wonderful—but where would she house all of those remaining refugees, if not in the Arvath? Bedding, sanitation, medical care … without the Church, it would be a disaster. Briefly, Kelsea considered threatening to seize the Arvath itself under eminent domain, just as she had threatened that group of idiot nobles a few weeks ago. But no, that would be a disastrous move. A direct attack on the Arvath would only confirm every dire warning the Holy Father’s people recounted in the pulpit, and too many people believed the Church’s nonsense. The Holy Father had been trying to make her angry, Kelsea realized now, and he had succeeded. Anger made Kelsea strong, but it weakened her as well; she saw no route to wend her way back into negotiation now, not without losing ground.
“I think His Holiness and I have provided enough entertainment for one evening,” she announced, standing up. “Shall we move on to the real performance?”
The Holy Father smiled, though the smile did not meet his eyes. He hadn’t touched his cheesecake either, and Kelsea cast her mind back, trying to remember if he’d eaten anything at all. Was he worried about poison? Surely this man would not scruple at making one of his acolytes taste the food.
You’re wandering. Focus on the Arvath. The Mort.
Kelsea tried, but she didn’t see what could be done to repair the situation now. And wasn’t this all academic anyway? The Mort would be here long before the new tax year, and New London would never stand up to a prolonged siege. Debating next year’s taxes was like painting a house that lay right in the path of a hurricane. Perhaps she should just relent, but at the mere thought of it, Kelsea’s mind conjured the Arvath steeple: pure gold, worth many thousands of pounds. She could not give in.
As the group moved toward the throne, Father Tyler reappeared beside Kelsea, speaking in a low voice. “Lady, I beg you not to antagonize him further.”
“He can take care of himself.” But Kelsea paused, seeing anew the priest’s pale face, the weight that had dropped from his already thin frame. “What is it you’re frightened of, Father?”
Father Tyler shook his head stubbornly. “Nothing, Majesty. My concern is for you.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I do plan to be on my best behavior for the rest of the night.”
“And yet that plan so often fails.”
Kelsea laughed, clapping him on the back. Tyler’s grimace became more pronounced, and she bit her lip; she had forgotten that she wasn’t supposed to touch a member of God’s Church. “Sorry, Father.”
He shrugged, then grinned mischievously, a rare occurrence for Father Tyler. “It’s fine, Lady. Unlike His Holiness, I’m not concerned about your wanton sexuality.”
Kelsea chuckled, and gestured for him to come with her to the top of the dais, where two armchairs had been set up. The Holy Father was already seated, and he gave Kelsea one of those disturbingly bland smiles as she sat down. His acolytes remained standing at the foot of the dais; Mace gestured for Elston to stay with them. So Mace, too, was worried about the tall acolyte with the weasel’s face. Memory tugged at Kelsea for a moment before letting go.
Mace snapped his fingers at the magician, Bradshaw, who came forward and made a shallow bow. He didn’t wear the brightly colored clothing Kelsea had seen on so many street performers; rather, he was dressed very simply, in black. A table had been set up nearby to hold his props: an assortment of objects, including two small cabinets placed perhaps two feet apart. Bradshaw opened the cabinets, lifted each to show that there was no false bottom, then took a cup from the dinner table and placed it in one cabinet, shutting the door tightly. When he opened the door of the other cabinet, the cup was there.
Kelsea clapped, pleased, though she had no idea how the trick was done. Not magic, surely, but it had the appearance of magic, and that was good enough. Bradshaw made a quick succession of objects appear in each cabinet: one of Dyer’s gloves, a bowl from the table, two daggers, and finally, Mace’s mace. This last caught Mace out with a bewildered expression that turned momentarily to anger, then back to bewilderment as Bradshaw took the mace from the cabinet and presented it to him with a smile.
Kelsea clapped loudly; few people could put one over on Mace, and even fewer would have dared to try. Mace inspected his favorite weapon for a moment, as a jeweler would inspect diamonds, and finally appeared to conclude that it was indeed the same mace. In a low voice, Kelsea told Elston to give the magician a fifty percent tip.
The Holy Father was clearly unimpressed; he had watched the entire performance with an increasingly sour expression and had not clapped once.
“Not a fan of illusions, Your Holiness?”
“Not really, Majesty. All magicians are con artists, deceiving the common people into belief in pagan magic.”
Kelsea nearly rolled her eyes, but stopped herself. Her window of opportunity was closing here; once the Holy Father walked out the door, he was never coming back. And perhaps he would be more amenable to reason now, when there were fewer people to overhear. Bradshaw was waving his hands in a performative fashion below; Kelsea waited until he produced a mouse from nowhere before asking quietly, “What would tempt you to accept my offer?”
“Perhaps we could reach a compromise, Majesty. Forgive the taxes on both our New London holdings and half of our acreage in the Almont, and the Church will happily feed and house four floors’ worth of the displaced.”
Kelsea looked up at Mace. “How much tax money is that?”