The Moneylender of Toulouse (33 page)

“Good boy,” I said, patting him on the back. “Now, go.”

He walked across the square to the church and went inside.

“You know what to do?” I asked Claudia and Helga.

They nodded.

“Good luck,” I said.

Helga vanished. Claudia turned to me.

“We still haven't figured out who killed Armand,” she said. “I forgot about him in all the rush.”

“I haven't,” I said. “But there are things to do first. I will see you later.”

She gave me a quick kiss, then left. I watched her walk away until she disappeared around the curve of the street. Then I turned and walked toward the river, muttering and humming the Office of None. I turned upriver as I passed Saint Pierre des Cuisines. Sunday afternoon, and the tanners' pits loomed on my right, their toxic waters seeping into the skins of dead things while their minders were at prayer or rest. I went through the gate. Guilabert's fortress glowered at me, but that was not my destination. I passed Bonet Borsella's sawmill, which was quiet except for the groaning of the wheels.

A stone bridge, wide enough for two wagons to pass each other without touching wheels, connected the bank to the island. I crossed it unchallenged. One mill after another lined both sides of the channel, but there were no millers at work. At the far side of the island, the Bazacle dam stretched across the Garonne. There was a single sluice gate right by the shore. It was open since the mills weren't in operation, and the water poured through in a torrent, spreading back out across the shallow riverbed. A small footbridge crossed the sluice to the dam proper. I walked over it, stepping carefully from piling to piling until I was about twenty feet from shore. The Garonne surged against the dam, occasionally sending up some frigid spray. I wrapped my cloak tightly around my motley and sat facing upstream. I watched the river as the sun set to my left, taking what little warmth there was with it.

I sensed his approach without hearing it, I'm not sure how. His footsteps made no sound, yet there was a disturbance in the world, a vast amount of air displaced by a massive body of a man. I glanced over my shoulder to see him standing at the other end of the footbridge, his face hidden in the shadows of his cowl. I looked back at the river.

“I have been thinking about water, Brother Vitalis,” I said, not giving him another glance. “Where it comes from, how it gets here. It's so clean when it begins its journey, whether from the mountains or raining from God's Heaven above. It travels in brooks and streams, then small rivers, then large. And in each place where men touch it, it becomes more defiled.”

I cupped my hands and dipped them into the Garonne, then sipped from them.

“This still isn't too bad right here,” I said. “This is the last point before the city captures it. And just two miles downriver, I wouldn't drink it if I was dying of thirst. It becomes rank, filled with death and decay, all because it has come to Toulouse. Does that happen to people when they come here? Do they start out as pure as a mountain stream or Heaven's rain, then become corrupt when they come to this city?”

“Mountain streams aren't pure,” he said.

I started, quickly getting to my feet. It wasn't Brother Vitalis's voice.

“Bears piss in them,” he continued. “So do wolves. But they drink from them anyway. They have no choice. We do. We come to the city, knowing the dangers, expecting to be corrupted. We drink the water. It's our choice.”

“Brother Donatus,” I said. “I wasn't expecting you.”

“Apparently not,” he said, pulling down his cowl. He held up the scroll I had given Oliver. “This was misdelivered. That child must have been told to take it to the large monk. That happens to Brother Vitalis and me frequently. We usually get a laugh out of it.”

“I'm surprised anything makes you laugh,” I said.

“Nothing from you has done so,” he said.

“Then I have failed in my profession,” I replied. “Forgive me.”

“I took the liberty of reading it,” he said. “‘I have what you lost. Meet me at the dam after sunset.' It looks like you have something that doesn't belong to you.”

“I have many things that once belonged to others,” I said. “Could you narrow it down?”

“Something that you took,” he said.

“Anything I take I regard as mine,” I said, smiling broadly.

“Things that are taken can be taken back,” he said.

“Not everything. A life, once taken, cannot be returned.”

“Are you accusing me of murder?” he said.

“As a matter of fact, no,” I replied. “Not recently, anyway. But I'm new in town.”

“The book,” he said.

“You mean this?” I asked, pulling it out of my pouch.

“Where did you find it?”

“I took it from someone who took it from someone who took it from someone else,” I said.

“I have been searching for it for some time now. Lately, I have noticed that you and your fellow fools have been popping up in the same places I've been looking. Then came that fire, and I realized in the middle of everything that there was an extra monk there, a tall man who kept his cowl up at all times. Is that when you obtained it?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Is that why you were watching my place?”

“Maybe. Hand it over.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I represent one who has a proper claim to it,” he said.

“Your big brother?” I asked.

“Now, how did you know about that?” he asked softly.

“No shame in being a bastard,” I said cheerfully. “I'm one as well. Not a whoreson like you, though I've been called one often enough, but still a bastard through and through. Why do you want this book so much? Is it really worth killing for?”

“Someone thinks so,” he said, stepping forward.

I jumped over to the downstream pilings and held it over the river. He stopped.

“Not much of a reader myself,” I said. “Is it worth more dry or wet?”

“I am willing to pay a fair price,” he said quickly.

“But I don't even know what the market value is,” I said. “Tell me why it's important so I know how much to sell it for.”

“It's worth your life if you don't give it to me,” he said.

“That doesn't help at all,” I said. “My life is worth a great deal to me. More than I can afford most the time. But everyone else thinks I'm a worthless fool. How am I to know the truth?”

“No man is worthless in God's sight,” he said, clasping his hands in mock piety.

“You sound like a monk, you look like a monk, yet you are willing to kill me,” I said. “Will you shrive me first?”

“To save your soul, I would,” he said.

“Thanks, but on second thought, no thanks,” I said. “Want to buy a book?”

“I am a poor man,” he said, holding his hands out to show they were empty. But Lord, they were large. “If you were to give it to me freely, I could arrange for an indulgence for your soul.”

“From the Bishop himself, no doubt,” I replied. “I saw his name at the end. Hmm, eternal Paradise in exchange for a donation to Donatus. Not a shabby offer at all. But what happens if I do that, and then your big brother's plan ends up killing people? What happens to my newly purchased soul then?”

“What plan would that be?” he asked, taking another step toward me.

“Guilabert's a miller at heart,” I said. “The river runs, the wheel turns, and all manner of gears and shafts spin away, grinding and grinding until all is dust. Who will be grist for the Guilabert mill? The Cathars? Not worth the effort, if you ask me.”

“I didn't ask,” said Donatus, starting to walk toward me again.

“He's going after the Count, isn't he?”

He stopped.

“How did he coerce all of these men into signing their lives to him?” I asked. “Debts forgiven? Threats by you?”

“A little of each,” he said. “Some came willingly. They saw which way the wind was blowing. The Count is a deeply flawed man. Left alone, he will lead us to ruination.”

“And big brother will run things better, I suppose.”

“He is a great man,” he said. “He's been planning all of this for a very long time. And I have helped him, every step of the way.”

“Very fraternal of you, Brother Donatus. When did the Bishop join the cause?”

“A few months ago,” he said. “He had many debts. Arnaut bought them up and traded them for a bishop's loyalty.”

“I'm surprised it was that recent,” I said. “I thought your brother had bought the Bishop's election. Weren't you the canon who switched his vote to Raimon de Rabastens?”

“No,” he replied.

“That was me,” said Brother Vitalis.

Donatus turned, a knife suddenly in his hand. Vitalis was standing with his arms folded. He had come up quietly while we were in the middle of our conversation.

“How did you know about this?” asked Donatus. “The message was delivered to me.”

Vitalis held up another scroll.

“A young lady handed me this,” he said. “It said to follow you, and I would learn about the book.”

“Two scrolls, two messengers, two monks,” said Donatus, turning back to me. “Neatly done.”

“I am something of a planner myself,” I said. “Now, I could have the two of you bid against each other for the book, but an auction where the only participants are monks doesn't sound like it would be very lucrative. Therefore, I propose a contest. The champion shall win it.”

“You said that you could sell tickets for a match between us,” said Brother Vitalis.

“Oh, I would dearly love to see that,” I said. “Alas, there was no time to advertise this battle. But the match I suggest is one of words, not blows. The best story wins. I have heard from Donatus. Now it is Vitalis's turn to tell me about the book, and why it should belong to him.”

“So that it will not belong to Guilabert,” he said.

“Succinctly put and a good argument,” I said. “But I would like more of a story, if you please. How did you get it?”

“From Milon,” he said. “Two days before he died. It was a Saturday morning. He came to services at Saint Sernin, which surprised me.”

“Because he was a Cathar.”

“That, and because I thought that he hated me to the depths of his corrupted soul,” said Vitalis. “For which he had good reason.”

“I am not interested in the reason, Brother Vitalis. What did Milon tell you about the book?”

“That it was a danger to any who held it. That the men whose names appeared in it would stop at nothing to get it back. He thought that because our mutual hatred was well known, no one would suspect me of helping him, which is why he was asking for my help. Using me was his way of—of telling me that he forgave me.”

“When he was killed, why didn't you bring the book to the authorities?”

“Because I didn't know who to trust,” he said. “The Count was still away, and anyone in Toulouse might have been corrupted. And I also thought that Milon had been killed by someone else, someone who had nothing to do with the book.”

“Béatrix,” I said. “You thought she had killed him. You were protecting her.”

He bowed his head.

“She didn't do it, Vitalis,” I said.

“I cannot be certain of that,” he said.

“But I can,” I said. “We have Milon's murderer in captivity, complete with confession. Béatrix had nothing to do with it.”

“Is it true?” he cried. “God be praised!”

“This is all very touching,” sneered Donatus as he started to cross the footbridge. “But I am done listening. Hand over the book or I will kill you.”

“No,” I said, scratching my nose.

“I swear, Fool, that—”

Vitalis suddenly dove forward, bringing him down from behind. Donatus swung his dagger blindly behind him and was rewarded by a cry of pain. Vitalis let go with one hand, but clung tightly to Donatus's cowl with the other.

With a speed and agility that defied his mass, Donatus rolled, spun, and kicked hard at the other monk's jaw. This time, Vitalis relinquished his hold as he staggered and fell backward onto the shore. Donatus straightened and turned back to me, his knife raised.

“The book, Fool!” he screamed. “Give it to me now!”

I held it high over my head.

“Let all oaths be abrogated!” I cried to Heaven. “Let all sins be washed clean in the river!”

Donatus took another step toward me, then roared with pain as an arrow hit him in the back of his thigh.

“You want it?” I yelled. “Then take it!”

I tossed the book high and to his left. He reached for it desperately, but the wounded leg gave way. With a cry, he tumbled into the sluice.

I rushed forward to help, but the current, funneled into that narrow opening, swept the monk out into the river. He struggled feebly against it, but his wet robes tangled about his body. He started to slip below the surface.

“He hit his head,” called Vitalis from the other side of the bridge. “We have to go after him.”

“No need,” I said, pointing.

A pair of longboats launched from the small beach below the sawmill. I saw the dark forms in them lean over to grab the wounded monk and haul him to safety.

“He's alive!” one of them shouted.

“Thank God,” said Vitalis. He looked over at me. “The Count's men?”

“Yes.”

The book had landed on the lip of the sluice. He picked it up.

“I suppose this means I don't get it back,” he said.

“Read it first,” I said. “You won't find it very interesting.”

He looked at me, puzzled, then held the book up to the moonlight and opened it to the first page. It was blank. So were the rest.

“Did you really think that I would risk the real book on this little production of mine?” I asked, taking it back.