Humex turned his back on him in exasperation. “You're mad!” he shouted, perhaps as much to convince himself as to quiet the terrified voice that was again screaming for attention as he steadfastly ignored its shriek: He knows! “I think it would be best if you were to retire from the Church. In fact, I'll see to it myself as one of my very first duties, once I am pope.”

Again. “You will never be pope.”

“Devils take your soul!” He was screaming now, in frustration, anger and, it had to be admitted, more than a little giddy fear.

“Fine words for a man who expects to be pope,” observed Kolt drily. “But not perhaps surprising that such utterances proceed from the mouth of a heretic.”

“I AM NOT A HERETIC!” Shrieking now, and almost dancing with temper, Cardinal Humex pointed a long finger at him. “You cannot accuse me without proof!”

A short silence. Water dripping into a basin somewhere. The tramp of feet a good distance away, the clank of a staff perhaps. “Oh, I have proof.”

Humex's heart, burning with rage, suddenly nosedived into his boots. Freezing fingers danced down his spine and sweat began to pour down his face. Staggering a little, he reached out for support and was intensely annoyed that the support turned out to be Kolt, who caught his arm and led him to a chair, into which he had no recourse but to sink, his legs having suddenly turned to jelly. Red-faced, he watched Kolt pace up and down, like a tiger assessing its prey, calculating the optimum moment to strike. For a fleeting second, he wished he had a weapon. Or at least that someone else was there with him. But he was alone, just he and Cardinal Kolt, and between them, the Secret.
He must know. Oh Great Architect! Save me! He does know!

He did know.

“Did you wonder, perhaps, why I shattered your statue, Cardinal?” Abruptly, Kolt was back on one of his maddening tangents, or so it seemed. Every time the axe seemed likely to fall, this intensely hateful man, whom Humex could wish dead a thousand time overl, stopped short of cutting his head off. A game of cat and mouse. And there was only one cat in the room, pacing the floor, his eyes turned away from his prey. Receiving no answer to his in any case rhetorical question, Kolt went on. “You could, I suppose, see it as a metaphor, a parable perhaps. The moral to be learned being that not all that which looks beautiful on the outside is so inside, or that appearances may be deceiving. How long have you had that statue, Cardinal?” Again, he did not wait for an answer: one was not necessary anyway. “Months? Years? And you never suspected it was a fake. Then I see it – one time only! - and I know immediately that it is not what it seems.”

Suddenly, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper, he whirled to face Humex, glaring down at the seated man. “If I can find that out so quickly, my dear Cardinal Humex, what else do you think I can discover?”

Oh Great Carpenter!

“I mentioned earlier that you seemed to have an obvious interest in all things elfin, Humex,” he said, repaying the insult the pope-elect had paid him a few moments ago. This was no longer a polite conversation – it never had been – and the gloves were off now. Now, it was a down and dirty, no holds barred, to the death streetfight. And Kolt knew how to fight dirty. He raised a finger as he counted them off. “Art. Music. Literature. Fashion.” He had noted, without mentioning it to the cardinal, several items of quite obviously elfin design stuffed away in a closet, as if someone had tried to hide them, which of course they had. Tried to. But nothing much remained hidden from Kolt. He straightened, frowning as if he had forgotten something. “Have I covered everything?” he asked himself, then theatrically snapping his fingers, declared, “Oh no, of course! How could I forget?” And he leaned very very close to Humex, pushing his face to his till the two were almost touching noses as he said the word. “Women.”

Humex felt the axe blade brush the top of his head. Oh Great Architect! I implore you! Deliver me from this trial!

But it seemed that the Great Architect was not listening, or if He was, had no intention of helping the soon-to-be fallen cardinal. All he could do was mouth the word “W-w-w-women?”

“I really must congratulate you on your commitment to your cause, Cardinal Humex,” Kolt told him cheerfully. “You are quite an all-rounder. You listen to elfin music, read elfin books, buy and display elfin art and, I shouldn't be at all surprised to learn, dress in elfin clothes when nobody is around.”

“That is a scurrilous lie!” Suddenly Humex found his voice. He tried to rise, but Kolt pushed him back into the chair.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “It will matter little though, when the truth comes out.” He turned away, as if to leave the room, and Humex, with an effort, struggled to his feet.

“What truth?” he demanded, though it came out as more of a plea. Without turning around, and still walking towards the door, Kolt replied

“Why, that you fuck elfin women, of course. Oh, I do beg your pardon!” He mock apologised. “How rude of me. You do of course only fuck one elphina, but I believe that's still the required amount to qualify as heresy.”

As he had predicted to himself as he left the conclaviat for his meeting with Humex, the personal world of the pope-elect had just come crashing down around his ears. The axe had fallen; it was sharp and it removed his head completely, leaving him a bleeding, kneeling headless man, the stump of whose neck gouted the thick blood of sin, covering him in ignominy and shame. His secret was out, and his life was over. Possibly literally, depending on how Kolt used this information.

Beaten, defeated, figuratively on his knees and possibly soon to be so literally, Humex whispered “What do you want?”

“I?” Kolt turned with surprise on his face. “What would any true servant of the Church want, Cardinal Humex? What is the duty of any of us, from the highest to the lowest, when we discover such sin festering within the very heart of our most sacred place? What I want is immaterial, my dear Cardinal: my duty, however, is clear, and that is to expose a heretic and ensure the Wood Throne is not occupied by one who consorts with heathens! How,” he asked with a sly smile, “can I be expected to do else?”

“You will destroy me.” Humex was almost crying, a sight that both gladdened Kolt's heart and sickened him to his core. “And her,” he added.

“Ah yes, her,” Kolt mused. “The lovely Ivan'isa. A charming woman – for an elphina, of course, and so innocent.” He spread his hands in a grotesque parody of grief. “What, after all, did she do, this fine flower of Valeron, but fall in love with the wrong man? And why,” he went on, raising his hands to the sky, “is their love forbidden by our Church? What difference should it make if two people from different races fall in love? Why should this be a sin?”

Seeing a glimmer of hope, Humex gathered himself, sniffling a little. “Yes, why indeed?” he echoed. “Surely love cannot be a sin? You see that, don't you, Cardinal Kolt?”

“Ah, alas, 'tis not for me to change dogma,” Kolt told him sadly. “Personally, I have nothing against elves – their women are most beautiful, and I believe you can fuck them for literally hours before coming!” Grinding his teeth, Humex told himself he would have to let this horrible sexual slur go; he was in no position to defend his mistress's honour, nor his. “But I am merely another servant of the Church,” he pointed out. “I must follow the rules, the same as anyone else.”

“Even the pope.” Humex was finally beginning to see the pieces of this complicated puzzle come together, and he did not like the picture they were forming.

“Even the pope,” agreed Kolt. “Of course,” he shrugged, “if I were to be pope, I could over time work to have such dogma reversed. I mean,” he hunkered down in front of Humex, his eyes bright and yet somehow also dark, “for too long the One True Church has ignored the cries of the sinners from other races who long to be saved. Pagans, we call them, and heretics, good only for the fire. But are pagans not simply Churchers who have yet to be converted? Is heretic not just another word for those who have not yet heard the Glad News? Why should we deny these people everlasting life and the glory of the Great Architect? As pope, I would ask such questions and demand answers, and change would come under my leadership. The One True Church would expand, taking in millions more new followers, until finally it would not be only the One True Church, but the Only True Church.”

“A laudable policy,” agreed Humex, “and one that would find much opposition.”

“Yes,” agreed Kolt, again turning to leave. “But I would relish the challenge. First though,” he pointed out “I would have to be elected pope.”

An eternity of silence as Humex tried to get inside the man's head. Surely he could not be allowed to lead the Church, be the next pope? And yet, if he shared what he knew, then Humex's own chances of sitting on the Wood Throne were about as likely as his own mistress placing her finely-formed posterior on that august chair. He could kill him, but Kolt was not the kind of man to come with an offer or threat without arranging backup, and surely his agents had strict instructions to pass on the information should Kolt not return from his meeting. Humex could just see Dean Jeron opening the letter with mild curiosity, that would turn to horror, outrage and then fury. There would be no hiding place, for him or for Ivan'isa, to say nothing of their soon-to-be-born child.

He could deny it. But of course, again, Kolt would not have made vague and unfounded accusations. Yes, he could have put some nuggets of information together, supplied a lot of alleged links and come up with a story, but he knew the cardinal better than that. He would only have approached Humex with this if his story was watertight. So denial would be useless, and anyway, like most scandals, even if somehow this could not be proven, the suspicion would always remain, and taint his papacy. The Church would not allow that, and one way or the other he would be removed as pope, either before or after his coronation, and perhaps permanently. Accidents had a way of happening at the Evaricum.

But there was another problem too, one that perhaps the wily Kolt had not considered. How could he, Humex, back out now, when he had been all but confirmed as the next pope? What excuse could he give? Bad health? He was in excellent health. Loss of faith? Nobody would believe that; he was a very pious and devoted man. Even if he did have a sneaking admiration for Gorelas, the elves' chief god. Oh, he didn't pray to him, of course, but he allowed the possibility of his existence, and that in itself was blasphemy and would leave him open to a charge of heresy. The count would show he had been correctly and legally elected, so how could he refuse the honour? And yet, if he did not, Kolt would ensure he suffered the most awful humiliation and persecution, and his family would be ruined.

“What have you in mind?” Best to ask the master puppeteer how he wished him to dance, he supposed. Kolt grinned.

“Backing out of the race would not be an option,” he told him, “under normal circumstances. But on compassionate grounds, well, there is precedent for that.”

Humex's blood, already cold, froze completely. “Compassionate grounds?” he repeated, his eyes narrowing, his lips trembling. “What have you done, Kolt? If you've hurt her...”

Kolt ignored the threat, empty as it was. Humex had gambled and lost, and he had no more cards to play. Time to pay up and leave the table, and head out into the night of an unfamiliar city. “Have you heard of Broklar's Syndrome?” he asked conversationally. Humex took a step back, his eyes wide with fear.

“No. No. No.” He didn't quite say the words but his lips mouthed them.

“Quite painful I believe,” Kolt informed him, “and completely incurable. Although,” he seemed to consider, “I believe they have made quite impressive advances in Valeron. It might be your only hope. Perhaps I should say, your mistress's only hope.”

“You – you – you fiend!” Humex finally found his voice, launched himself at the other cardinal, who stepped out of the way.

“Now now, Cardinal!” he tsked. “Every moment you waste here is a moment you could be getting closer to the elf land. I believe it's a four month trip, give or take a few days. The incubation period for Broklar's is, let me see, oh how convenient! Six months. So you'll have time to get to see an elfin doctor before, well, before it's too late.” He smiled, a smile Humex wanted so badly to smash off his face he could taste it. “I do so hope they can help you,” he said. “Such a beautiful young lady. And with child, I'm reliably informed.”

Sinking to his knees, head in his hands, it was clear that all the fight had gone out of the man expected to be the next pope. Kolt hunkered down beside him, hissed in his ear “You will go to the Dean and request a private audience. You will tell him your wife – let's try to be as civilised as we can here – is unwell, and you must take her overseas for treatment. You will of course leave out the name of your destination, and will avoid any awkward questions, offers to help, anything that might lead to the discovery as to who your – wife – might be.” Humex nodded, dumbly, the sound of tumbling boulders and cracking earth loud in his ears, the taste of rising clouds of dust assailing his nostrils and blinding his tear-filled eyes. So this is what it feels like, he told himself, when the world falls down.

“You will then tender your resignation from the Church, citing the amount of time you will have to spend with your – wife – and will take ship for Valeron.” He leaned down even closer, whispering right into the unfortunate Humex's ear. “If I ever see or hear that you have returned,” he warned him, “I will reveal what I know, and issue a bull for your arrest and trial as a heretic. As well as,” he added chillingly, “your mistress and whatever brat she bears you. Do not test me on this, Cardinal Humex. Make a life for yourself in Valeron. And stay there.”

As he walked along the corridor, heading back to the conclaviat as the bell rang out, summoning the cardinals back to witness the result of the recount, he found himself whistling, an action that caught the attention of another cardinal, who remarked with wonder “For a man who has narrowly missed out being our next pope, Cardinal Kolt, you are in surprisingly good spirits.”

Giving the man (whose name escaped him, and who cared anyway) a bright smile, he replied “The day is not yet done, my friend, and the Great Architect has been known to move in very mysterious ways.”

Behind him, the man who until about an hour ago had had the world at his feet and the Wood Throne in his grasp stared at a broken statue at his feet, the powdered remains of one more lie, one more disappointment, as his own shattered life crumbled and turned to dust.