The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (15 page)

CHAPTER 15

In Violation

The secret staircase descended into the damp blackness
of the basilica’s cellars. Sister Bastille took up her candle and entered the
doorway at the back of the huge walk-in freezer, her thin canvas slippers
echoing on the stone. The only other sound she could hear was the savage
pounding in her chest.

The bottom stair sank beneath her weight, and the hidden door
whisked shut behind her.
There must be some devilry in the hinge workings
that makes it work so quietly
, she mused. She considered turning back, but
if she wanted to catch up with her quarry, there was little time to stop and
think about it. She allowed herself one final chance to change her mind before she
forged ahead.

A rough rectangle brown with mold, the wet cobbled walls of
the corridor shot straight forward, plumb as the shaft of an arrow, until the light
of her candle reached its limit and there was nothing but the dark. The low
ceiling was no more than half a foot taller than she was, and the passage was
so narrow she had to hold the candle out in front of herself. In such tight
quarters, it was difficult to avoid the lagging flame and dodge the occasional
stray embers that sought to tuck themselves into the crisp folds of her robes.

At the end of the corridor was another staircase, with its
own pressure plate on the lowest step, just like the one she’d come in by. From
there, the passage turned right and sloped downward. Her best guess was that
the passage had taken her across the yard to the exterior parapet of the
basilica, where the Cypriests stood guard.

Instead of a regular door, the portal at the top of these
stairs was a trapdoor in the ceiling. Amongst all the half-noticed comings and
goings of the Esteemed that Bastille had witnessed, never had she seen an
opening in the floor. Perhaps this did lead out beyond the walls of the
basilica grounds and into the city somewhere. If it did, she had no reason or
desire to go through it, so she opted for the corridor to the right instead.

The passage rolled gently downward for about a hundred yards
until it came to a split landing with passageways to the left and right.
Reddish mud flowed from the joint at the top of the wall, and on the floor was
a fresh muddy footprint with a canvas texture. There was a mark on the wall, as
if a sort of rough brush had dabbed the thin layer of mud there, and she saw a
few gray woolen threads sticking out. Someone had been in a hurry and slipped.
I
may be a proper tracker after all
, Bastille thought.
Never mind that the
footprint is in plain sight, where anybody with half a wit could’ve noticed it
.

The markings led to the left. If this T-junction was
underneath the border wall as she had guessed, that meant her quarry had been
going
away
from the basilica, bound for someplace outside. She
considered the possibilities; maybe she was only convincing herself the
footprint was fresh, and it had in fact been made some time ago. Could she
really have known how long a footprint had been there just by looking at it?
She rubbed her temples to soothe the aching in her head. There was something
more to this; something she wasn’t seeing. If her quarry had taken the path to
the left, she should at least have a look.

Dim light from up ahead splashed the corridor in sheets of
blue-green. The stone wore away from the walls, and the rigid corners softened until
the corridor had become a rounded tunnel of dense-packed earth. The dirt floor
revealed dozens of footprints, all of them canvas-textured and soft around the
edges. At last the tunnel brought her into a shallow circular room made of
patterned green stone about fifteen feet across, with a concrete tank built
into its center and a thick plastic tube penetrating the ceiling. Slivers of
daylight shone in around the sides, making the aquatic-colored mosaic sparkle
like a crystalline sea.

Bastille had seen this place before. It was the inside of the
dry fountain that crowned the old park off the north end of the basilica
grounds; she’d seen it countless times from the north tower. This circular
chamber would have been the fountain’s reservoir.

A working fountain this massive must have been a sight; one
of the major landmarks of the old city. It was hard to imagine so much cold,
pure water in one place, and harder still to imagine so much of it being used
in such a wasteful way. Still, Bastille marveled at the way the fountain must
have danced and sparkled; the people surrounding it on blankets in the grass,
having picnics, reading books, walking their house animals, laughing as they
played running games in bare feet. Where had Bastille’s quarry gone, if they’d
come this way? Nothing in the room looked as if it had ever moved. She was
baffled, but she’d come too far to let this go.

So she searched—around the edges of the bowl, up the sides of
the tank, along the walls, over the floors, and across the ceilings. The room’s
reflective façade was cracked in places, greened with moss and lichen, and
stained with other things that gave wet earthy smells. There was no indication
of another way out, until she came close enough to see that what had appeared
to be a rivulet of grime staining the lip of the wall was actually a collection
of tiny scuff marks. Marks made by people climbing onto the ledge hidden in the
space above. If she could climb a tree, Bastille was sure she could hoist
herself up onto the ledge. Everything within her wanted to follow, but outside
it was broad daylight, and she knew better than to venture out into the city on
her own.

There was more to consider, too. She was still inside the labyrinth,
in violation of the unspoken laws of the Order, and each moment she lingered
here was a moment that put her at further risk of being caught. It made her
head throb all the more to think of what would happen to her if anyone caught her
down here. She decided she’d come as far as she dared, and headed back down the
tunnel toward the basilica. Under her breath, she swore on the name of the
Infernal Mouth, frustrated. Discovering the identity of the person who had
overheard her conversation with Sister Adeleine seemed a lost hope. She stepped
over the muddy footprint at the T-junction and turned into the corridor,
heading toward the stairs that would take her back into the walk-in freezer.

There was a flickering orange light and the echo of slow
footsteps coming from around the next bend. When the sounds of two male voices
came to her ears, Bastille doubled back and headed down the only passage she
hadn’t been down yet—the same intersection where her quarry had instead gone
left toward the fountain. She went right, her chest pounding, the blood beating
in her head as she hastened down the corridor. A sudden warm breeze blew back
her hood and made the candle gutter, and she had to slow her pace to keep the
flame from dying.

The next change in the passage was as far along as the first,
a winding stone stair that twisted down into utter darkness. To the right was a
small square chamber, empty but for the ladder that hung from the far wall.
Bastille considered each option before heading for the ladder. The sounds of
the men behind her were growing louder, but there was still time before they
reached the next bend.

A pressure plate on the floor below the ladder was the
obvious trigger for the trapdoor above, but pressing it did nothing. Dread
washed over her when she noticed the indentations in the wall beside the
ladder. A keyhole. Had there been others like it that she hadn’t noticed? The
pressure plates must close the doors from within, but some device was required
to open them again to get out.
All the better to deter unwanted intruders
,
she thought.
I should’ve anticipated as much
.

With her company drawing near, Bastille fled the ladder room
in favor of her only other route of escape, and scuttled down the winding
staircase. At the bottom, she came to a landing with a sturdy wooden door,
banded in shining tin straps that reflected the candlelight with a mirror
sheen. She could smell the newness of the wood and see the grain in its light
brown color, but it was mounted on a rusted iron frame that looked as old as
the basilica itself. She would have expected to find some ancient rotting thing
attached to those hinges, but this door looked as if it had been hung within
the long year. The door had a keyhole, but no handle, and neither pushing nor
pulling moved it.

Bastille felt along the top of the door frame, checked for
loose stones in the wall, and stepped on each flagstone, shining her candle
into every nook she could find. Finally she tucked herself into the space below
the stairs, snuffed the candle, and crouched in tight to the wall. For a time,
she was alone in utter darkness.

At the top of the staircase’s circular shaft was a ceiling
made of solid wooden rafters topped by thick planks.
This is the underside
of the floor in the east tower
, she discerned. It was likely that this part
of the floor joined the scriptorium or one of its many studies or classrooms.
Bastille’s stomach dropped, recalling how the floors in that part of the
basilica so often heaved and creaked. One rotted rafter, and anyone within that
room would find themselves tumbling two stories straight down into this secret
place.

The voices approached, and the first hint of torchlight cast
their wavering shadows along the stairwell. When the footsteps reached the
midpoint of the staircase, the vague drone of voices sharpened into distinct words.

“…what she wanted was not to be thought of as a lover of the
heathens, naturally. Our stores are strained, and with the stranglehold the
nomads have put on the trade caravans, the residents of the city south have less
to offer now than they used to. Lethari claims he’s made things better, when in
truth the nomads are keeping the best of everything for themselves.”

“The nomads—those savages have set up a permanent camp in the
old chemical factory, wouldn’t you know it,” said the other voice.

“I do know it. And on top of that, to claim that our
generosity stems from anything but a desire to appease the heathens.
Preposterous.” The man spoke in a brusque whisper, and as they made their way
to the bottom of the stair, Bastille recognized him as Brother Froderic, one of
the Greatly Esteemed. When he glanced at his companion, Bastille was sure he
would look past the man and spot her where she was crouching in the shadows. But if
he had, he gave no indication of it.

“Anyone who is hungry—man or beast—loses his ferocity when he
is fed. But if he is fed so much that he grows lazy and sluggish with excess,
he begins to expect these things, believing that he must no longer work for
them, and even going so far as to think he deserves them.” To Bastille’s
surprise, this was the voice of Brother Soleil, the bony old codger whom
Adeleine had confessed was the father of Sister Jeanette’s unborn child.

“She is bent on doing a little good,” said Brother Froderic.

“Let her do it then,” said Brother Soleil, “and leave her be.
Our stores may be low, but we still have plenty to share. Where in the
scriptures does it say that we are to bear ill will toward the heathens?”

“According to the scriptures, the unrepentant heathens are to
be regarded as already-devoured,” Brother Froderic replied. “Spending more than
necessary on those who have died already is a waste. It shows a lack of
reverence. Now,
trading
is another matter entirely.” He grinned,
searching the pockets of his robes. “Now where did I put that—ah, here it is.
We are much better served in our dealings with the…”

Bastille lost his words as the two men went through the door,
their voices growing hollow and muffled behind it.

The door clunked against the frame, but when Froderic let go,
the hinges sighed and the door inched open, not latched properly. Against her
better judgment, Bastille crept over and peered through the narrow slit. The
stench from within was familiar and unbearable: waste and death, like the city outside,
but stronger. Brother Froderic fastened his torch to a sconce on the far wall.
Light threw trembling puddles of shadow off each of the priests and danced
along the iron bars of a cage. Chains rattled somewhere out of sight. Bastille
thought she heard a whimper, but it was too faint to know for sure.

Brother Froderic crossed his arms and swept his robes up over
his head, tossing them to the floor below. He was the sort of stocky man one
might’ve categorized as fat. Now that she saw him unclothed, Bastille noted
that the surplus was more than marginal. He had pudgy arms, a squat belly, and
a thinning shock of stormy gray hair that his robe had tousled when he removed
it, making him look like some half-mad troll on stubby legs.
Being in charge
of the storerooms has given him ample opportunity to make use of their contents
,
Bastille mused.

Froderic thrust his white underclothes down around his ankles
and stepped out of them. His skin glistened, as did the dense silver thatchings
of hair on his chest and shoulders. Metal sounded again, a brighter tinkling
this time, and Brother Soleil was backing outward with the wide cage door in
his hand and the key in its lock.

No matter how she strained, Bastille couldn’t get a view of
the cage’s contents through the tiny sliver between the door and its frame. The
chains clinked once more, and something in the sound was more urgent and fierce
this time.

Struggling.

Soleil said something to Froderic and laughed; Froderic
muttered a reply under his breath, a brutal glimmer passing through his dark
eyes. His mouth hung open, and he seemed to have forgotten all about what
they’d been discussing. He was erect, entranced by whatever was behind those
bars. He strode toward the cage, past the rightmost edge of Bastille’s view,
and out of sight.
Oh, the Mouth… is this what those who profess to believe
are really like?