The wind bit harder than any sword that had ever sought Remy’s flesh. It came rolling off the frozen Ouse, carrying with it a damp that sank through wool and leather alike. Even as he stood at the base of the Archbishop’s palace, he could feel it gnawing through his gloves, down to the marrow of his fingers.

  The moon was half-hidden behind a veil of cloud, which was a mercy. The fewer eyes that could see him scale the Archbishop’s wall, the better. He pressed a gloved palm against the first course of stone. The wall rose sheer and pale, glistening faintly beneath a skin of ice. Sixty feet to the parapet and perhaps more. But he had climbed worse cliffs before like the ramparts of Harlech, the towers of Calais, even the bell tower of Saint-émilion.

  This was a task given by the Archbishop, though Remy suspected the old man only wished to see whether his bold claim of skill could match his deed.

  He exhaled slowly, watching the white plume drift away in the wind. Then he began.

  The first holds were easy. Time and frost had split the mortar, leaving deep seams between the blocks. He slipped the tip of a dagger into one such crevice, testing its bite. It held. With one hand gripping the dagger and the other a jutting stone, he drew himself upward. His boots scraped softly against the wall, the metal soles dulled earlier with ash to find purchase against the ice.

  The wall leaned slightly inward. His cloak, heavy with frozen snow, dragged at his shoulders. He tore loose the clasp and let it fall, vanishing soundlessly into the drift below. The cold struck harder without it, but his limbs felt freer, lighter.

  Six more feet. The stone changed there, smaller, tighter cut, with fewer cracks for his fingers. He flattened his hands against it, forcing his nails through the glove’s leather, testing for purchase. A thin sliver of ice broke free, skittering down past his cheek. His breath fogged against the wall, turning the next hold slick. He waited until the wind cleared it, then moved again.

  When at last he risked a glance downward, the courtyard below was little more than a blur of gray shadow. No one stirred, not a soul in that hour and weather would have reason to step beyond the hearth.

  He shifted left, reaching for a narrow groove worn smooth by rainwater over the years. His fingers wedged in, barely an inch’s hold, but enough. He pulled himself higher. His boots found the frozen shoulder of a statue, a saint whose face was lost to the frost, staring out over the gardens below.

  Resting there, Remy let his arms loosen and his breath steady. The stone’s cold seeped through his leggings. Above him, the parapet loomed close, a black edge against the pale sky. Beyond it lay the Archbishop’s solar and what he had been sent to retrieve.

  The climb grew worse near the top. The mortar here was newer, smoother, laid during some recent restoration. His fingers could find no cracks, only faint seams. Drawing his second climbing dagger, he pressed both blades between the joints, using them as climbing irons. Hand, foot, hand, foot was the rhythm of ascent.

  Halfway through that final stretch, his left dagger slipped. From below came a muffled bark that was somewhat uncertain. A guard’s voice followed, calling to hush the dog. Then silence again.

  Remy waited another few heartbeats, listening. Nothing.

  The moon slid free of the clouds then, silver light washing the wall. The ice glimmered like mail links under starlight. From his height, he could see all of Esztergom behind him. The spires and gables dusted white, the frozen river Danube stretching out like a sheet of glass.

  The last few feet he took with the care of a man moving through prayer. His fingers were numb now, throbbing only faintly in the cold. He could not feel the dagger’s hilt, only the deep ache in his wrists. He hooked an arm over the parapet, swung his knee up, and rolled over the lip onto the walkway.

  For a long moment he lay there on the stone, chest heaving, breath rising in pale clouds. The parapet was crusted with untouched snow, broken only by the delicate tracks of some small bird. At the far end, a brazier glowed faintly in a watchtower window, but no sound came from within. The guards were keeping warm, as any sane man would in this weather.

  Remy rose, working the stiffness from his limbs. His joints cracked like dry wood. From this height, the palace grounds seemed small, the gates distant and dark. Across the roofline stretched the Archbishop’s chambers that were tall, arched windows rimed with frost, their glass panes catching the moonlight. The tower he sought rose beyond, its spire gleaming faintly, silvered in the night.

  He moved along the parapet, crouching low, one hand brushing the stone for balance. The wind howled over the height, tugging at his surcoat and pressing the cold deeper into his bones. Each step left a faint mark in the snow and he brushed them away behind him.

  At the juncture where the wall met the main roof stood a carved figure of Saint Michael, whose sword was raised high above a vanquished devil worn faceless by weather. Remy set his boot against the angel’s arm, swung himself across, and dropped onto the roof below.

  The sheets gave a low, hollow ring beneath his boots. He froze, listening. No answer came. The city slept on.

  The roof sloped steeply downward, glazed with frost. He lowered himself onto his hands and knees, creeping forward inch by inch. His gloves left streaks where the frost melted under his palms. Ahead rose the tower, its walls curving upward like the sides of a goblet. Near the base, a narrow window slit broke the surface, just enough.

  He reached it, drew his dagger once more, and worked its point between the casement and frame. The latch was ancient, rusted by damp, and gave way with a soft click that still sounded far too loud. Remy waited for one heartbeat, two, three. No movement.

  He eased the window open and slipped inside.

  Warmth met him. The air smelled of wax and parchment. It took his eyes a moment to adjust. A single candle burned low on a heavy table, its light casting long shadows over piles of scrolls and books.

  He straightened slowly, flexing his fingers to chase the numbness. Crossing to the table, he took care not to disturb the inkpot or scatter the ashes in the tray. There, atop a stack of ledgers, lay the object of his errand, a letter, sealed in red wax. The Archbishop’s signet pressed deep into it.

  He broke the seal with his thumb. The parchment inside was brief, written in the Archbishop’s clean, deliberate hand.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Remy read it once, expression unreadable. Then he folded the parchment and slipped it into his pocket.

  A cold draft stirred through the room as he turned back to the window. The candle flame trembled, then died. The chamber sank into darkness.

  The descent would be harder. It always was.

  He crouched by the open window, looking out across the city spread below him like a tapestry of frost and light. The wind screamed around the tower, but he felt calm, strangely so. The task was done. Only the return remained.

  He slipped out the same way he had entered, lowering himself onto the roof. Snow had begun to fall again, fine, swirling flakes that glimmered in the moonlight. His tracks from before were already half-buried. Moving quickly now, he retraced his path to the parapet.

  The wall was slicker than before, glazed over with new ice. His hands burned where the frost bit through the gloves, then went numb again.

  Halfway down, his boot struck loose a chunk of ice. Remy did not hesitate. He dropped the last ten feet, landing hard in a drift. The shock drove the air from his lungs, but he rolled through it, rising already in motion.

  Jehan waited at the base of the wall, clutching his cloak to her chest. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, the frost glittering on his armor.

  “I believe,” she said breathlessly, “that the task is done?”

  Remy smiled faintly, lifting the sealed letter between his fingers, its wax seal now broken.

  “It is,” he said.

  The wind howled again, carrying away his words into the night.

  By the time Sir Remy was ushered into the Archbishop’s office, dawn had broken fully. A thin, white light crept through the stained-glass windows, turning every breath to mist. The fire in the hearth burned low, perfumed faintly with cedar. Behind the great chair hung a tapestry of Saint Stephen whose colors were faded by age, yet still proud.

  Archbishop Pálóczi Gy?rgy sat in that chair, wrapped in the crimson robes of his office, their hue muted by the dim morning light. His face was pale, worn by the long vigil of winter, yet his eyes were sharp and grey as tempered steel missed nothing. He smiled faintly as Remy entered, though whether in welcome or amusement was impossible to tell.

  “So,” the Archbishop said, his voice smooth as oiled parchment, “how was your climb, Sir?”

  Remy bowed, though without much ceremony. The exhaustion and cold had stripped away any taste for formality.

  “Cold,” he replied simply. “Treacherous, and poorly thought out. The walls will keep men out well enough, but not water from seeping into the stone. Another winter like this, and your masons will be patching cracks before Lent.”

  The Archbishop’s brows rose, more intrigued than offended. “You speak as though you were the architect, not the trespasser.”

  “I speak as a man who’s tested your defenses more honestly than any mason,” Remy said. “Your parapet stones are too smooth, your mortar too new. The frost will find its way between the cracks. And your guards, ” he gave a small, disdainful shrug, “they hear, but do not listen. A man climbing makes less sound than their snoring.”

  For a heartbeat, the Archbishop only studied him. Then he laughed, a rich, unexpected sound that filled the chamber and startled the secretary standing by the door.

  “You are either the most insolent knight in Christendom,” he said, “or the most honest.”

  “Both, perhaps,” Remy answered.

  The Archbishop gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Sit. I would hear more of your… architecture.”

  Remy sat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. The Archbishop leaned forward, steepling his fingers. Firelight glinted off the heavy ring on his hand, the same ring that had pressed its seal into the letter Remy had stolen only hours before.

  “Tell me,” the Archbishop said, “if you were in my place, if you wished to make this palace truly unscalable, what would you do?”

  Remy looked toward the window, where frost veined the glass. “First, I would strip the lower walls of their carvings. The saints and statues make better footholds than ornaments. Second, I’d plant iron spikes along the ledges. the kind they use in Milan to keep thieves from the tower bells. Third, I’d place the watchmen where the walls meet the roofs, not in the gatehouse. A thief climbs where it’s quiet, not where it’s guarded.”

  The Archbishop listened, nodding slowly, his lips curling into that same half-amused smile. “You speak like a soldier,” he said, “but also like a thinker. Most men are one or the other.”

  “I’ve had to be both,” Remy replied. “In war, the man who climbs the quickest lives the longest.”

  The Archbishop chuckled, softer this time. “And tell me, did you climb in armor, as they say?”

  “I wore half-plate,” Remy said. “Enough to keep a dagger from finding me if a guard stirred. Not enough to drown me if I fell.”

  The Archbishop’s eyes gleamed with something between admiration and calculation. “Half-plate,” he murmured. “In winter. Up sixty feet of frozen stone.” He leaned back, exhaling slowly. “God has blessed you, Sir Remy, blessed you with the strength of ten men, and the wit of a scholar. A rare combination.”

  “Blessing or curse,” Remy said quietly, “depending on who’s watching.”

  At that, the Archbishop’s smile deepened. A strange warmth entered his tone. “Dangerous,” he said. “That is what you are, not merely strong, not merely clever, but dangerous. You climb walls as if born to them, speak to archbishops as if they were squires, and judge fortresses as though God himself named you their keeper.”

  He paused, studying Remy closely, as if trying to see past the grime and frostbite to something truer. Then, almost in a whisper, he added, “If you had ever dared to be king, Sir Knight… who would have stopped you?”

  Remy met his gaze, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips. The old fox, draped in silk and scripture, looked back with eyes brightened by both fear and fascination. After a long silence, Remy merely shrugged.

  The quiet stretched between them. The fire cracked softly. The secretary shifted near the door. Somewhere in the cathedral beyond, a bell began to toll the hour.

  Finally, Remy spoke. “As I have said, I never cared for crowns. They weigh more than armor.”

  The Archbishop smiled again, slower this time, folding his hands together. “A wise answer,” he said. “And a safe one.” He gestured toward the parchment lying between them, the same letter Remy had stolen, now resealed and resting neatly on the desk. “You’ve already carried more weight than most kings ever will.”

  Remy inclined his head. “Walls fall when the men behind them forget why they were built.”

  The Archbishop chuckled softly. “A sermon worthy of my pulpit.” Rising from his chair, he drew his robes around him, the golden cross at his neck catching the light. “You remind me of a storm, Sir Remy. You pass through stone and snow alike, and the world bends itself to your will, but when you are gone, men are never quite the same.”

  Remy rose as well, offering a short bow. “Storms don’t ask permission, my lord.”

  “No,” the Archbishop said, voice low and thoughtful. “They do not.”