The candle was guttering, wavering, threatening to wink out. Snapping an order towards his back, Cardinal Filmor growled when he remembered that not even the boys who tended the candles were allowed into the conclaviat while a recount was in progress, the chamber being completely sealed off, guards at the doors and only he, the bursar and of course the Dean allowed inside. Resisting the urge to fling all the ballots up in the air, he pushed back his chair and stood, old joints creaking and cracking after sitting so long, made his way to the candles and relit them, returning to his seat, and resuming it – and the count – with the bad grace with which he had begun it. He had been against this from the start, but like the other two cardinals, he knew he had no choice. Ancient tradition allowed for this, and to refuse it would be to throw the shadow of suspicion and doubt upon the election of Humex, something which could not be permitted. A pope who began his reign under any kind of uncertainty began it in a weak position, and what they needed now was a strong pope.

So let that annoying twat Kolt have his count; nothing would be proven by it except that the runner-up was a sore loser, which could only detract from his own popularity, such as it was. He couldn't quite figure out what the man was up to, and as the Dean held up his hand and called for a break in the counting, he once again voiced his doubts.

“Why, in the name of His Creation, are we doing this?” he asked testily. “I truly don't understand the point.”

Jeron, the Dean, sighed, leaning back in his chair. It was not comfortable, being entirely made of wood and very common wood at that. Another attempt by the Church to convince its followers that even its mightiest priests did not enjoy luxuries. A separate reason put forward by – who was it that had instigated this? Oh yes! - Pope Sacrifax XXII, that old bastard - had been that the mind was better concentrated when not too comfortable. What was it he had said? Too much comfort is bad for the soul. Yeah, well it wasn't bad for the arse, remarked the Dean to himself, personally feeling the numbness spreading across his own aged backside as he squirmed and tried to get more comfortable in the chair, an impossibility in itself.

He had been contemplating, to himself, the answer to this question all morning, and as afternoon had come calling he believed he may have stumbled upon the only possible explanation for Cardinal Kolt insisting on a recount. It had nothing to do with his alleged worry that improprieties had resulted in a skewed count, and less to do with his hope of actually winning the election. Kolt knew he could never, would never be pope. He didn't have the supporters, he didn't have the experience and he certainly didn't have the ability. A man who had come from one of the border towns some ten years ago now – pissing time, in terms of being a cardinal – and had somehow, in a manner that baffled Dean Jeron, risen to a prominent place in the Evaricum, creating his own little army of spies and thugs, browbeating those he didn't agree with, actually beating (or, more accurately, having his goons beat) those who got in his way, and although it could never be proven, a suspect in at least six major murders in and around the city, including two within these sacred walls.

Who was he? Nobody seemed to remember attending seminary with him, nobody had seen him take mass, and yet somehow all his credentials were in order, he had very high profile patrons and guarantors, and he certainly did not seem to be short of a common or two, living in luxury in a purpose-built mansion that was really more of a palace, just on the very outskirts of the city. What went on behind those walls, nobody knew, but many was the figure who entered those big black doors and never exited them. If he had had his way, if he could have pinned anything – anything – on Cardinal Kolt, he would have had the man arrested, and he was sure he was responsible for much of the unsolved crimes that had taken place in Evaricon over the last five or six years. But nothing seemed to stick to him. Like some sort of slippery fish, he evaded any suspicion, confounded any evidence and confidently provided alibis for everything he had been accused of. A dangerous man, indeed, and one who must never hold the reins of power, the true reins of power, in his hands. How he had got this far – the Dean assumed through a mixture of blackmail, bribery and outright murder, none of which of course could be proven – Cardinal Jeron had no idea. But this was where his climb to power ended. Cardinal Humex had legitimately won the count, and this recount would do nothing but confirm that.

He shook his head. “He's just a cunt,” he sighed.
“He certainly is,” agreed Bethel, the bursar, leaning back in his chair and lighting his pipe. Thick grey smoke curled out of the bowl and ascended slowly to the sky, the look in Bethel's eyes as he watched the vapour climb making it obvious that he wished he could follow it. “He's just wasting our time, and he knows it, too.”

“It's odd though,” noted the Dean. “I hate the slimy little ****er, but even I have to admit he's not the sort of person who asks for something – well, demands it, really – without having some ulterior motive. Yet I can't discern one here.”

“Perhaps,” snorted Filmor, “he's going to take the opportunity to go, ah, remove the competition!”

They all laughed, no humour in the sound. “I'm sure he would if he could,” agreed the Dean, “but even Kolt is not that brazen. He prefers to strike from the shadows, and use agents rather than get his own hands dirty.”

“Indeed,” agreed Bethel, shaking his head. “Besides, the finger of suspicion would point directly to him, were he to do that. He would be the only suspect. Who else,” he asked, without bothering to wait for an answer, “would stand to gain from the death of Cardinal Humex? It would be career suicide, and whatever else that bastard is, he has never struck me as a man who would risk his own neck, especially after coming so close to what must be his goal.”

“There would be questions,” nodded Filmor, “that would be very hard to answer. But damn it all to Hell!” He thumped the desk, raising his eyes to the vaulted ceiling. “My apologies, Your Eminences,” he muttered. “Such blasphemy should not be spoken in this most holy of places.”

“Very true,” agreed the Dean, winking. “But also understandable. I don't think His Creation will take offence this once. Krystus! The Great Architect Himself likely doesn't trust Cardinal Kolt!”

This set off another round of chuckling, but when it had died down the question remained, like a bad smell hanging in the room. It was so annoying because they knew there was an answer, but none of the three men could figure it out. Like people trying to fit together a difficult puzzle, who find they are missing one piece and can never complete the thing, their failure to discover what Kolt was up to irritated the three most powerful men in the Evaricum. And, if they were totally honest, worried them more than any of them would like to have admitted. With ironic humour, the three of them spoke at once.

“What the fuck is he up to?”

The same thought may have very well been going through the mind of Cardinal Humex, as he watched his rival pick up and examine a small carven figure, inwardly hoping Kolt was not going to drop it. Not only was it worth a small fortune, but it had sentimental value. Kolt, however, merely stood looking at the artifact, turning it over in his hand and peering at it, so hard in fact that Humex was convinced the other man was trying to see through it. At length, however, the ornament was replaced without any damage. Kolt turned to Humex and remarked “A fine specimen. Early Fifteenth Horse, unless I miss my guess?”

Not in any way desiring to enter into a conversation with the defeated cardinal, who had simply followed him into his rooms, Humex could not though resist correcting the man. “Fourteenth”, he replied tersely. Kolt's eyes narrowed.

“Really?” he said, as if surprised. “I suppose I must brush up on my elfin sculpture. Could have sworn it was a year later.”
Humex sighed. “I believe, Your Eminence,” he conceded, “the artist began it on the last month of the Fourteenth but did not complete it until the second of the Fifteenth.”

“Ah!” Kolt brightened, like a man who had won an argument. “So in essence, I was correct.”

Humex scowled at him. “I think it would be more accurate to say we were both correct,” he offered. “Begun in the Fourteenth year of the Horse, completed in the Fifteenth.”

“Yes.” Kolt seemed unwilling to let it go. “I believe however that things are judged by the date on which they were completed, not begun. After all, the great painter Cerv -” He found himself unable to expound on this, though, as Humex cut him off with an annoyed grunt.

“As you wish, Cardinal Kolt,” he said, adding “You did not come to my apartments to talk about fine elfin statuary, did you?”

“No,” agreed Kolt, crossing to the door and locking it, a gesture that chilled Humex more than he wished to admit. He would never be so bold, would he? The thought hung in the air, no answer forthcoming. Kolt turned to him with a pained expression on his face, false sympathy. “I came to give you a chance, Your Eminence.”

“A chance?” snorted Humex. “A chance to do what?”

“Why,” said Kolt, grinning, like a man with a secret he will soon reveal that will totally change the game, “to bow out of the race for pope, of course.”

Dead silence followed. Humex felt anger bubbling up inside him, desperate to be released, but he would not debase himself by hitting this – this insignificant man. When he was crowned pope, in a few short hours, then Kolt would learn the error of his ways. For now, he must retain control, and to do so he lost himself for a few moments in one of his favourite paintings; the colours always soothed him and the textures calmed his mind.

“Why should I do that?” he asked as levelly as he could. Kolt was behind him now, also examining the painting.

“Another fine example of elfin art,” he commented. “Breschure, if I'm not mistaken? Yes, yes, surely this is a Breschure?”

Forced to answer, Humex agreed that it was. To his intense consternation, Kolt ran a finger lightly along the frame. Humex did not like his art to be touched by hands other than his, and Kolt knew this. And Humex knew that he knew. He was doing it to bait him, to goad him, to make him lose his temper. He would fail. Cardinal Humex was famed for his control, his calm manner, his ability not to crack under pressure. It was one of the very many qualities that would make him a great pope, perhaps one of the greatest in recent times.

“I've always had a soft spot for Breschure,” Kolt told him, intensely aware that the other man had not the slightest interest in his preferences when it came to art. Or, indeed, come to that, anything at all. The two men were not friends, and today they were most certainly rivals. Not only that, they were victor and vanquished, and what exactly the latter hoped to gain from the former at this late stage was completely beyond Humex. But he, like everyone else in the Evaricum, knew Cardinal Kolt, and he knew he did nothing without purpose. If he was honest, this made his slightly uneasy, though he could not think what the cardinal could do to him, now that he was pope in all but name. Still, the nagging feeling would not go away, and he wished that it, and Kolt, would do so. Kolt of course did not oblige, staying stubbornly where he was.

“Yes,” he went on, as if having a polite conversation about art, while Humex knew this was anything but, unable to detect the subtext that must run underneath Kolt's seemingly innocent words. “My own preference tends to run to more, ah, human artists,” he told Humex, placing an odd emphasis on the word human and turning to look the pope-elect right in the eyes. “You, ah, you don't seem to have any human art around here, Your Eminence?” he remarked, again on the surface an innocent comment, an observation, but beneath it, somehow, for some reason, Cardinal Humex felt the ground beneath his feet begin to give way, to crack and split.

“I – I prefer the more esoteric work that has come out of Valeron, Cardinal Kolt,” he told him, unsure why he was bothering to defend his taste in art to a man he would rather not even talk to, given the choice. Why had he not just thrown him out when he had followed him into his apartments here? After all, technically he was trespassing. But then, he had really broken no law, had he, and Kolt would no doubt plead innocence and try to use the incident to damage Humex's popularity, perhaps a last-ditch attempt to have him disqualified from taking the crown under some long-forgotten ancient rule. Best to humour him. Not to mention, he had to admit he was curious as to what the endgame was here. Kolt knew he had lost, and that a recount was nothing more than a delaying tactic. What could he hope to gain by this idle chit-chat? Make Humex lose his temper? Better men than he had tried. Accuse him of stealing the elfin art that abounded in his apartment? He couldn't prove that, because there was no truth in it. Humex had paid for every piece he owned, and could prove its provenance if required.

So what in the name of the Carpenter was the man up to? The count would be completed soon, and all that was left then was for the two of them, along with all the other cardinals, to return to the conclaviat and confirm his victory, whereafter he would be invested as Pope , and that would be the end of all this chatter about art and paintings and elves. So what if he preferred elfin art? True, the Church frowned upon anything not of human design, but he was not the only one to own art and music that had been created by other races. It was not a crime. Art was a man's own choice, and nobody could tell him what to like or what not to like. It was a matter of taste, in which Churchian dogma played no part.

“They are very good, I'll grant you that.” Kolt's voice pulled him back from his thoughts and reminded him the man was still here, and while he was, and as long as the papal crown did not yet adorn Humex's head, he was a danger, and must be treated as one.

“What?” Kolt's comment had somewhat derailed his own train of thought, and he felt slightly disoriented.

“Elves,” clarified the other man, pointing at yet another painting, and sweeping his arm around to take in two giant statues of stern-looking men who looked like they were soldiers. Well, they were garbed in armour and one held a sword, on which he rested, the point stylised into the ground, while the other aimed a crossbow at the viewer, the expression on the faces of neither friendly. They looked human in some respects, but the sculptor had successfully brought out the greenish tint to the skin that all elves possessed, the hair was slicked back and worn in a long ponytail in the elfin style, and of course there were the ears, sharp and pointed, and angled while also placed much further down the skull than human ears are. “They're a fine people, and they really know just how to capture the moment. Last Stand of the Four Brothers, yes?” He turned back to Humex, who gritted his teeth and nodded.

“One of Giralona's finest works,” he agreed. Kolt scratched his chin, as if unsure of something.

“Indeed,” he nodded. “But am I incorrect, Cardinal Humex, or are there only two of the brothers here? Bostil and ...” he looked closer, raised a finger, “Triblek?”

Unwittingly, or perhaps not, Kolt had hit upon a sore point with these two statues, as Humex explained. “You are correct, Cardinal Kolt,” he told him, the words scouring his mouth like acid as they came out, the admission bitter on his tongue. “Giralona did fashion four separate statues, but as yet I have only been able to acquire these two. At great personal expense, I might add.”
The unspoken words in Kolt's eyes – Yeah. Personal. I just bet! - would have been a serious accusation if voiced, but Kolt was no fool. He knew he could not make unfounded, or at least, unprovable, accusations like that, least of all to the man who would soon lead the One True Church. But he made sure that Humex saw the intent in his look. The pope-elect fumed at the unspoken slur, but was similarly powerless to act against it.

“Yes, I believe the last two are very hard to track down,” Kolt commented, looking at the two statues and then, very pointedly, at empty space beside them before he casually remarked “unless you know where to look, of course.”

For a moment, just the tiniest instant, Humex forgot that Kolt was an unprincipled bastard, a (to be proven) killer and a man who would walk over anything and anyone to get what he wanted. The man who would shortly sit on the Wood Throne would – figuratively, obviously, not literally. Well ... - sell his soul to obtain the precious missing two pieces of his collection. Not only would such a coup establish his fame and prestige in the world of art collectors, a position he desperately wanted to achieve, but the monetary value of a complete set of The Four Brothers was almost impossible to calculate. Suffice to say that he could buy most of the land outside the Evaricum, and still have plenty left over. If this nasty little man truly did know where he could buy the last two statues ....

But wait, he thought suddenly, abruptly remembering who he was talking to (or more accurately, who was talking to him): could this be the ploy? Was this why Cardinal Kolt had accosted him in his chambers, to reveal the location of two of the most sought-after pieces of elfin art in the world, and in exchange for what? The papacy? Was he offering to help Humex complete his collection, fulfil his life's dream, in return for stepping out of his way and allowing Kolt to become the next pope? And would he? Would Humex consider it? He wondered. Certainly, once he was invested he could issue a papal bull ordering a search for the two statues, on some pretext or other (it would have to be something like these are false idols and must be destroyed as the Church was, as he knew, notoriously racist with regard to any other species, allowing none but humans to join, or even worship in their chapels). But even then, without knowing exactly where to look, who to ask – information it seemed the oily Cardinal Kolt possessed – the search could take forever.