Root flopped down on her bed back in their room at the Eight Trees Inn. All that sitting around in a church had her exhausted.
Or, maybe the sitting wasn’t to blame, but the wave after wave of fear lapping at her like frigid seawater trying to drag her down to its depths.
“What now?” asked Beel, climbing up onto his own bed. Root looked at him, incredulous.
“You’re getting involved in the planning?”
“Well, I need to know what upcoming events I should be worried about.”
“The halo is the periapt,” said Vit. “No question. It’s a perfect match, and the way I felt in there…”
Azriah nodded. “He’s using it to poison the people of Urk. Like Hamlick with the flute, but more subtly.”
“Not for long,” said Root, propping herself up on her elbows. “What’s our plan?”
“We could take it during a service,” suggested Vit. “A window of time when it’s out of whatever protected vault they’re locking it away in, supposedly.”
“Thirty-eight guards,” said Beel.
“Beel’s right,” agreed Azriah. “Just because it’s not locked up, doesn’t mean it’s less protected. Not to mention all the eyes on it. The congregation might not be armed, but that doesn’t mean they’d take too kindly to someone snatching the crown from their leader’s head. We’d have a mob on our hands.”
“At our necks, probably,” said Root. Beel sighed. “Don’t worry,” Root added, turning to him. “You don’t have a neck, so you’re safe.”
“It was one thing with Hamlick—he had a crowd, sure, but the Children of Endkiu have churches and followers all over the worlds. We would make a lot of enemies. And they have a lot of resources.”
Vit spun webs around their fingers, fidgeting as they thought. “What if we took it on the way to or from the cathedral? Still guards, probably, but no mob.”
Root snapped her fingers. “Yeah, let’s jump him.”
“I don’t mean it like that.” Vit frowned. “We just… snatch it while he’s passing through the street.”
“Exactly.”
“No, I mean—”
“Still might not be our best opportunity,” interrupted Azriah. “Think of it this way. If they’re moving the halo—and David—from the palace to the cathedral, that’s when they’ll be on highest alert. Trust me, I’ve worked as a bodyguard enough to know. Point A to point B is always when your guard is up; you have to expect interference, situations to change. In a vault, the setting is controlled. Everything is planned and expected. The cathedral is the same—up at the front, David is practically in a vault of a sort. He’s behind protected lines, the defenses are well established. They know that in-between bit is dicey, because they’re moving, and an attack could come from any side and at any point in the walk. So if the guards are any good—and I’m certain they are—they’ll be watching every shadow, every rooftop, every finger.”
Vit mulled this over. “But doesn’t that mean the vault protections will be well refined and perfected?”
“Absolutely. They will have thought through the guard routines and protective measures from every angle. But then when they’re certain they’ve been perfected, they’ll trust them. Doesn’t mean they aren’t watchful, but they’d expect that if someone wanted to try something, they’d do it when David and the halo are out in the open.”
“So you’re saying we take the route the guards would consider stupid,” said Root flatly.
“Exactly that, and that’s exactly why.” Azriah tapped his temple. “Think like the guard, not the thief.”
Root considered it. “I guess that makes sense.”
Azriah shrugged. “We’d have no chance of making it past the whole mob of guards anyway. Like Beel said—there were quite a few, and that’s only the total we could see. Not to mention…”
“Their fire guy,” finished Vit. “Elijah.”
“Yes. Their pyvrin. I didn’t realize they had one—and the head of security, at that. In a fight, he’s fifty guards at least. Pyvrins are incredibly strong.”
“Yeah, well, whatever,” said Root a little too quickly. Her face was hot, and she caught a whiff of smoke. “Who’s to say they don’t have a hundred guards standing watch around wherever they keep the halo all day long?”
“Maybe they do,” admitted Azriah. “But another reason we can’t take it from David directly: if he’s wearing it, he can wield it. I don’t want to fight against a mote periapt again.”
Root shuddered, thinking back. When they’d first gotten the mirror, Ophylla had fought them using the power of the amulet. She’d turned them on each other, forced Azriah to attack them. And Ajis, using the ring they’d all but confirmed was another of these things, had stopped Root in her tracks while fleeing. If they ran at David while he had control of the halo, who knew what would happen. He could have them all turn and slit each other’s throats right there in the street. Or slit their own throats. They had three periapts of their own now, but that gave Root only a drop of confidence in a sea of doubt. They hardly used the things—kept them gagged and stuffed away in their bags at all times—so if it came down to it, would they even truly be able to level the field? David clearly had ample experience drawing on the halo’s abilities.
The ability to strike fear in the hearts of others. For all Root knew, they’d turn tail with a snap of David’s fingers whether they liked it or not. At least in Beel’s case that was a given.
“Yeah, all right, I think we get the point,” said Vit. “We can’t take it from David directly. And if at all possible, we don’t want anyone knowing it was us who stole it; like you said, they have a lot of wealth and resources. I don’t want to see what they’d send after us to get the halo back. It’s bad enough we have Ajis and Ophylla hunting us down.”
“And doing a shit job of it,” said Root.
(Somewhere under the floorboards, four serpentine eyes rolled.)
“But we don’t know anything about how the halo is locked up,” said Vit.
“Not yet,” said Root, and she could already feel her coin pouch getting lighter. “Sounds like we’re putting more money into the church’s pockets.”
“And this is the Hall of Relics,” said their tour guide, a man with more bounce in his step than a child in a birthday party inflatable. He had all the energy and extroversion that Anjeanette had lacked, but Root wasn’t sure that was a good thing. His name was Chip Lively and he wore it well; some people just look like they’re meant to have a name tag on.
Root wondered if he’d gotten the job on the merit of his name. After all, the church probably wouldn’t have wanted a tour guide named Chip Deadly. Few places would. As far as the church was concerned (which was quite an expansive distance), it would break from their whole schtick, for one, and certainly wouldn’t go over well with their fan base either.
The hall was laid out like a cathedral with the pews ripped out—a great place to preach if you liked the echo of your own voice but didn’t care for an audience. A raised section at the far end held a number of display cases arranged like a museum. The largest of these sat just where an altar might’ve, and it was built much the same—if an altar needed to withstand the impact of a meteor.
It was a huge block of stone and metal so solid and immovable that Root had to imagine the whole palace had been built around it. Along the center of the front, top, and back were three glass panes, which even from afar looked just as thick and strong as the stone, cloudy with the distortion of glass as thick as a brick wall and twice as durable. In comparison, the other cases—mostly glass and only as thick as a boot sole—looked like free pickings for wayward hands.
Light filtered down from stained-glass skylights in the ceiling nearest the entrance. Each had been refitted with a heavy iron grate that blotted out some of the light and made the images less impressive, but had clearly also taken into consideration the censoring of a few less-than-modest depictions. The skylights looked up into the central balconies around the inner rim of the tiered stories of the palace, a dizzying vortex of brick and tile and overflowing foliage visible only through the scattered clear pieces amidst the multicolored glass.
“This hall used to be a cathedral for the church…” started Chip, launching into a spiel of history that none of the tour members appeared to care for in the slightest, judging by their wide-eyed, distracted stares. Root had never seen such a perfect cohabitation of interest and disinterest.
The others approached the display cases, so Root took it as a sign that they could do the same without looking too overeager. They’d sat through the rest of the tour for this moment in particular.
Root scanned the other cases on her way by, just to look like she had no particular aim. Weapons and armor and other bits filled them: a sword in a golden scabbard, a set of gauntlets, a massive bow and even more massive axe, a pair of bull’s horns plated in brilliant blue stone.
Whatever ruse she was trying to keep up with the detour was entirely unnecessary, as it turned out. Nearly every other member made a beeline for the central case like their salvation depended on it.
Root sized up the case as she approached. Though positioned like an altar, it was taller, rising to her chest. Two massive blocks of stone formed the end caps, sandwiching the open interior between them, a glass-faced heart cradled deep within a ribcage of stone and steel.
Inside, past the thick layers of glass, was the unmistakable form of the halo they’d seen on David’s head that morning. Glimmering gold, it rested on a cushion of magenta fabric to match the gemstones. A cord of gold lay around the cushion, perhaps a necklace of some kind. But Root knew what the halo looked like; instead, she took a moment to inspect the lock.
It didn’t look like anything exceptional—a small keyhole to unlock and lift the panel of glass and metal at the center of the case’s top. It couldn’t be that easy—could it?
“Wow,” said Vit, feigning adoration as they brushed a hand over the glass top and keyhole.
Root looked around. A few guards stood at attention on either side of the lower part of the room, but otherwise the Hall of Relics was empty. They had, however, passed numerous other guards in the courtyard just outside, and twice as many in the entry hall beyond that—to make no mention of the number standing just outside the door itself. Dozens stood alert in the span between the halo and freedom.
Freedom from the palace, that was. Then, of course, there was the gate in the wall that rimmed the palace and surrounding buildings, the gate into the next sector, the gate onto that other street—or had there been another between those two…?
Undeniably, Urk was built like a prison with one function in mind: keep the halo locked inside a thousand layers of security at all costs.
Vit seemed to be making similar calculations as Root watched their eyes drift from the hall guards to the courtyard and the door beyond.
“Now if you’ll follow me this way, please…” said Chip. The tour grouped up and filed off after him. Root and Vit lagged at the back, soon joined by Azriah and Beel.
“Not many guards in the Hall of Relics,” said Vit—quietly, but casually enough that any prying ears would take it as an observation and nothing more.
“Lot at the door,” said Beel.
Azriah nodded. “A lot. Enough that no one would ever walk in or out without authorization—not without an army, and maybe not even then. Certainly they have reserves, ready at a moment’s notice…”
Vit cocked their head. “No one’s going through the front door,” they agreed. “Um, unrelated—do you remember what our last tour guide said?”
“Best place to hide in the Numinous Cathedral is—” started Root.
“No. The other thing.” Vit scanned their faces, clearly wanting to say as little as possible. After a moment, they sighed. “She said this used to be the home of the Unsightly King. He got so paranoid…” They looked between them all again. “Rumor says he built a network of secret tunnels under the palace in case he ever needed to escape.”
All four of them shared a glance. Vit shrugged and smiled.
“Wonder if those rumors are true.”
“I think the mistress has done a fine job of keeping tabs on them.” It was a defensive tone, and a little bit hurt.
“Shusssh.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Stay quiet. Besides, it’s been the mistress and us.”
“Right, yes, but the mistress sent us.”
There was a folding of limb in some approximation of crossed arms despite no arms being involved. “The mistress isn’t cramped up in the dust.”
“No, that’s our job.”
“Always our job. But I think our work is exemplary.”
“But Ajis, though—”
“Yes, Ajis—”
“‘Shit job,’ she said? Yes, Ajis has done a shit job.”
“Yes. Egh—always a shit job with him giving the orders. Ha ha. Now shush, I’m trying to listen.”