Free Speak to the Devil by Dave Duncan

twirled his mustache, he flaunted his baldric and his baton; he used his height to overawe the senior gatekeeper, two successive novices, and three monks of steadily increasing age and rotundity. Best of all, his overwhelming youthful arrogance must seem so insufferable to these persnickety holy recluses that none of his victims would notice the nausea-racked boy behind him.
    It took time, though. They sat on a stone bench and watched servants crisscrossing the courtyard, attending to the minimal Sunday chores. Wulf’s innards gradually settled themselves. The bench faced east and the sun bothered him, so he pulled his sallet down, leaving only a narrow gap between its brim and the bevor that protected his chin and mouth.
    Anton said, “Why are you hiding?”
    Because he felt safer, somehow, not showing his face. But he said, “Sun is bright. Here comes someone.”
    A monk in a black Benedictine habit came pacing across the grass to tell them that they would not be allowed to speak with Brother Marek. Knowing that a monk would be able to read, Anton dug in his satchel for one of his imposing warrants and negotiations continued.
    Eventually, against all odds, instructions arrived to deliver the visitors for inspection by Abbot Bohdan. Clinking and clanking, they followed a disapproving, elderly monk through a cloister, whose pillars were fashionedof lovingly carved stone, then across an obsessively tended garden, until they reached the abbot’s residence abutting the north side of the church.
    The abbot was eating breakfast. The abbot did very well for himself. His board was liberally spread with dishes—two of fish, one of eggs, a bowl of frumenty, a basket of apples, a roast goose, and a boiled ox tongue. Apart from a servant who hovered behind him, ready to carve him another slice of goose, or refill his crystal wine cup, he was eating alone, seated at the far end of a table that would hold a dozen. It was furnished with gold candlesticks, the fireplace was carved marble, the walls hung with tapestries, and the mullioned windows shone with butterfly-bright images of saints and angels.
    He beckoned with a plump hand for the visitors to approach. The monk who had brought them remained by the door.
    As much as a man could swagger in armor, Anton advanced along the hall with his humble servant shuffling at his heels. Wulf’s mouth tasted of vomit and he feared that he would soon start retching again. He left his sallet down and his face hidden. That still felt right, though he didn’t know why.
    Abbot Bohdan was undoubtedly the fattest man he had ever seen, swathed in acres of black Benedictine wool. His face hung in folds below eyes like finger holes in dough. His cowl was set back to reveal an almost bald skull and hairless face, both of them beaded with jewels of sweat. He was tearing strips of flesh off a goose drumstick and apparently swallowing them whole. His piggy stare never left the visitors as they advanced.
    Anton halted and saluted. “My lord abbot.”
    The abbot reached for a gold chalice and took a drink. “What d’ju want with Brother Marek?”
    “Oh, largely just a fraternal visit. It has been many years since we saw our good brother.”
    “Magnus has renounced the world. To remind him of his former life of sin would not help him in his devotions and dedication. It would be a distraction and an unkindness.”
    “There is more. May I speak in complete confidence?” Anton asked airily.
    “Why is your companion hiding his face?”
    “Because I told him to. He went on a disgusting debauch last nightand is currently suffering the penalty. The sight of him is more than the rest of us should have to bear. About Brother Marek?”
    Curtains of flesh seemed to sink even lower over the nasty little eyes. “I give you two minutes to explain why I should listen to you for a third.”
    “There was an incident back before Brother Marek entered the cloister. I am charged to find out if he remembers anything of