Chapter Two: Glorious Assent

There! High on the bell tower! That shadow against the stars! There it is!

Tethered at the topmost mooring posts, the cloaked one-man dirigible swayed in the midnight breeze. The cloak, of a fine-weave matt black canvas, was thick and heavy, helping to further suppress dangerous drift and masking the vessel against the night sky. If you didn't know to look, didn't spot those edge-most stars glittering back into view, you would never know it was there.

Father David crouched with perfect balance upon the greasy shingles, carefully hidden by the haphazard layers of roofs of the fine old buildings across the river from the Cathedral. He ignored the grounds, teaming with guards and dogs, for he knew better. He stared into the detail of the distant architecture high on the tower, searching for the slightest sign of - there!

Movement almost invisible, but a novitiate would need to be something else indeed to evade the watchful eye of The Church's premier field agent. Father David shook the prideful thought aside, concentrated on the tiny shape across the gulf, the novitiate, inching his way towards that one overlooked point of egress. He had done his research well, the youngster, but perhaps not as well as he might think - as an escape route that was a long, tricky way back. Unless he had something else in mind...

Father David lowered his binoculars and rose in silent contemplation. This was a tricky one and would make a good agent - and he had better act fast if he was to be there at the crux. He quickly stashed the binoculars beneath the eaves of the roof and turned to the inky silhouette of his glider, perched like a moth on the tiles beside him. Buckling its straps across his chest, he crossed himself as well - not for fear of technical failure, as the Church's technology was, of course, infallible. It was simply the done thing.

Father David took two light steps forward and launched himself into the night.

*

The novitiate drew his pry-bar from its sheath and levered up the second tile to reveal the handle beneath. No stronghold of the Lord was ever built to be perfect; it would be a prideful sin on the part of the architect, and the grim fate of Christopher Wren had long since quieted all dissent from that quarter. The novitiate was also bending rules, that most dangerous of actions. He shouldn't even know of this most secret of entrances; it had required months of searching in the archives, and for his success heads might even role in the library - but not his, so long as he proved himself beyond all other doubt.

A twist, a pull, and the roof hinged along a seam invisible even in blessed sunlight. The novitiate dropped through like a ghost clad all in black, resting the hatch against the bar to keep it open. In the dark within he drew his blade.

From an alcove above a corridor the novitiate watched a lone priest approach murmuring soft prayers or perhaps a popular hit under his breath. The fool! The entire building was committed to his memory. The path to his target's quarters blazed in his mind. But only one fall of the knife; he must not be seen, could not strike to silence an inadvertent witness. He must be Right.

The novitiate dropped from his hiding place as the priest turned the corner, then darted away with just a rustle of cloth. He didn't see the secret hatch rise, nor a gloved hand still the pry-bar before it could ring out a warning.

*

The door to the bedchamber opened and the novitiate entered, pressing it closed again and releasing the handle with silent care. He crouched, slipping a wedge under it against accidental discovery - he was in! His eye took in the opulent decor with contempt, finding it a poor substitute for the glorious austerity of his own cell; a cell he would never return to, he remembered. It fell, at last, upon the great bed, curtained, four posted, rich in red and gold. A final glance to prove the room harmless, then the young man allowed himself a smile of pleasure and advanced upon the bed with a deliberate lack of caution.

He threw the curtains open and looked upon the loaded crossbow in horror. Who could have -

"You!" he spat, trying and failing to hide his sudden terror behind haughtiness.

"Novitiate." Father David smiled in his usual, confiding manner from the bed. "I must say, the head of the, divine guard, will be annoyed. Your bragging has put him on edge, all week. He was determined, not to let you in, he-ere." For the briefest of moments, the eyes above that smile turned icy. "And you should address me, as Father."

The youngster swallowed his pride along with a great draught of fear, bowing his head. "I'm sorry, Father David."

"That is quite alright, novitiate. Please, put your knife, on the bedside table." Father David got up, his small crossbow trained unerringly upon this inventive and dangerous target. The novitiate did so with clear reluctance, having nothing left upon him to strike or defend; he may have cheated his way to the target, but it was a matter of pride to use only the -

"Where is the Sinner?" Father David noticed the flash in the novitiate's eyes; this one had real passion indeed. "He was my duty!" His shoulders slumped suddenly. "Did you take him?"

"He is alive, and well," said Father David, locking the crossbow and secreting it within his combat robes. "I should hardly take, the life, of our inquisitional head." The novitiate looked at him in astonishment and Father David nodded. "Yes: Cardinal Blackett is, far, from what you were led to believe. Isn't that right, your Eminence?"

"It is, Father David. I thank you for your sterling efforts." Cardinal Patrick Blackett entered and both invaders took to one knee. He was a stately-looking man, grand in his ceremonial finery but carrying his tall hat instead of wearing it. "Please rise. I would prefer to finish this business soon, so I can get back to my own bed instead of this, silly show piece." They obeyed, but the novitiate kept his eyes low as if afraid to look his former target in the face. The Cardinal smiled icily.

"Yes. You have done very well, getting to this room in the manner you did - even if your methods call into question some of our own. But the church always seeks out the new, and the inventive; and always demands that it receive the coldest scrutiny of all. There is no greater danger imaginable to the sanctity of the church than one arising from within. This is why you were charged with eradicating just such a thing, and you have used the strengths of your target against it." Still the novitiate looked to the floor, but a flush of pleasure rose in his cheeks. The Cardinal raised an eyebrow. "I must say, I've not been so impressed by an act of devotion for almost thirty years. How old are you, novitiate?"

"Twenty-three, your Eminence."

"Really? Well, it seems Father David's record will continue unchallenged a little longer still. He was only nineteen." The Cardinal smiled thinly as the colour fled from the boy's face. He'll probably thrash his back raw this evening, he thought. Ah, youth. He donned his ceremonial headgear and with two fingers crossed the air between them as Father David came to his side.

"Kneel," He commanded, and the youngster did. "By the power vested in me, by the command of the Church, the blessed Pope, and by God himself, I induct you into the order of the Holy Inquisition. You fell to us from grace, as do all men - arise, Brother Richard."

Brother Richard, born Clinton Richard Dawkins in the year of Our Lord, 1941, stood again, his chest beating with pride and his eyes shining with fervour. Father David looked into them and knew that Brother Richard saw nothing outside the confines of his own head in that moment. I was wrong, he thought. He's the perfect agent. Terrifying.

"His Will Be Done," intoned the Cardinal, holding out his ring-bearing hand. Brother Richard clutched at it with both hands, kissing the lip-polished stone passionately.

"His Will Be Done!" he cried, tears flooding down his face and into a wide, unconscious smile.

"His Will, Be Done," said Father David, and the Cardinal looked his way.