The night air in the Holy City of Santa Maria was different from inside the cathedral. Colder, laden with the salty smell of the distant sea, the woodsmoke from the poorer houses, and the sweet-rotten odor of fish and garbage piled in the alleys. Popess Paula felt this difference in every fiber of her body, and not just from the aromas.

  She was not wearing the heavy, imposing papal robes of white and gold brocade. Instead, she wore a simple woolen dress, dark gray, almost brown, faded from many washes. A wide hood of the same fabric, pulled well forward, concealed her face and her carefully pinned-up hair. On her hands, worn cotton gloves hid the whiteness of her skin, which could give her away. On her face, she also wore glasses made with vision crystal that allowed her to see any possible pursuer. She walked with quick steps but did not run, trying to mimic the posture of a servant or a poor widow returning from a late market.

  Phew... I think no one followed me this far, she thought, her heart beating a fast rhythm against her ribs. She allowed herself a brief pause in the deep shadow of an arcade, her eyes scanning the wet cobblestone street. An empty cart creaked past, pulled by a skinny horse. Two women with baskets on their heads conversed in low voices, heading home. To think I have to hide like a criminal in the streets of my own city. What a bitter irony.

  Her destination was a discreet establishment, closer to the port area. The cracked wooden sign simply read "The Sailor's Tavern." It was a place with walls grimy with soot, with small, opaque windows. Paula pushed the heavy door, which groaned in protest, and entered.

  The interior was dark, lit only by a few whale oil lamps, which left a greasy, rancid smell in the air. The pipe smoke from a single patron formed slow spirals in the still air. Only one table was occupied, by two rough-looking men in sailor's clothes, arguing loudly, their ceramic mugs thumping on the wood.

  "...and you saw those monks who arrived?" said one, a man with a wild, ginger beard. "They say they came to 'purify' customs! But I saw them on Flower Street, hitting on merchants' wives like they owned the world!"

  "Same old story," replied the other, older and more cynical. "The Church is full of corrupt people. I still remember the last Pope here, Henrique… that one wasn't worth the ground he walked on either. A bloodsucker."

  Paula felt a knot form in her stomach. Keeping her head down, she headed to a table in the darkest corner, with her back to the wall but close enough to hear the conversation. The table's wood was sticky with old spills.

  "But not everyone in the Church is like that, Heitor!" the older man retorted, pointing a dirty finger at his companion. "The Popess is different! She lowered the port taxes, remember? And that scheme to distribute medicine and vaccines…"

  "Yeah, and I wish I'd heard that from your mouth before!" the redhead, Heitor, laughed, a rough sound. "I remember well! You were always outraged, saying a woman couldn't be a Popess, much less one who… well, who used to be a man!"

  The older man lowered his voice, embarrassed. "It's… it's true. I was a foolish old man. But I saw with my own eyes the good she does. My grandson had swamp fever, and it was at her dispensary they saved the boy. For free! That counts."

  Paula, under the hood, closed her eyes for a second. A mix of gratitude and immense sadness washed over her. The people see. They know. But do they know the price this 'difference' is about to demand?

  She was interrupted by approaching footsteps. The waiter, a thin, tired man with a filthy apron, came to her table. His eyes, adjusted to the gloom, tried to peer under her hood. Instinctively, Paula pulled the cloth even lower, feeling the rough fabric against her forehead.

  Who would have thought becoming a public figure would bring me so much forced anonymity… she thought bitterly.

  "Good afternoon… or good evening already, ma'am," said the waiter, his voice rough from smoke and alcohol. "Can I get you something?"

  Paula did not speak. Instead, she placed on the table a small leather pouch that produced a solid, metallic sound. She pushed it towards the man.

  "A common beer. You can keep the change."

  The waiter took the pouch, felt its weight, and his eyes widened. He opened his mouth to say something, but a firm gaze (which he could barely see) under the hood made him swallow dryly. He merely nodded quickly.

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  "Right away, ma'am."

  He disappeared and returned with a pewter tankard, filled with a cloudy, warm beer, which he placed on the table with reverent care before retreating, hiding the pouch of coins as if it were stolen treasure. Paula didn't even look at the drink; she had no intention of touching it.

  Not long after, the tavern door groaned again. A man of medium stature entered, but with a prominent belly that stretched the thin, expensive fabric of his dark doublet. His face was round, with rosy, clean-shaven cheeks, and his small, lively eyes scanned the place with the speed of a merchant appraising a new market. He saw the hooded figure in the corner and went straight to her without hesitation.

  Without ceremony, he pulled out the wooden chair and sat down heavily opposite Paula. His gaze fell on the untouched tankard.

  "You're really going to make me drink this warm, flat beer?" asked Francisco with a theatrical sigh of resignation.

  Paula's voice came out low but firm from under the hood. "Just sit down and stop complaining, Francisco. It's not for lack of better options that I'm here."

  Francisco obeyed, picking up the tankard and taking an experimental sip. He grimaced. "Worse than it looked. So, what's with all the secrecy? A coded note, a filthy place… Not your style, Holiness."

  "Haven't you heard?" she whispered, leaning slightly forward. "The Pope's envoys are everywhere. We have an 'illustrious' visitor from Alba, and more are on the way. I'm no longer free to receive whom I want, where I want. My own walls have ears."

  Francisco looked at her with an expression mixing pity and understanding. He took another sip, swallowing with difficulty.

  "So, how can I help?" he asked, getting straight to the point.

  Paula was slightly surprised. "Who said I need help?"

  Francisco laughed, a muffled, rough sound. "You, Paula, don't hide in stinking taverns for tea. It's either help, or it's a matter the pious ears of the Curia must not hear. And about our… trade agreements, they already suspect. Orsini has caught a whiff."

  "You're almost right," she admitted, her gloved fingers tracing a circle on the sticky table. "There's something they don't know yet. Something even I didn't know until recently. Francisco, how do you get so many divine artifacts? The true source."

  Francisco's round face lost some color. He set the tankard down carefully, as if it were fragile.

  "That… is trade secret, Paula. If I tell you, I'm exposing my only real advantage, my most profitable source of income. And putting… other parties at risk."

  Paula raised her head just enough for him to see her eyes sparkling in the shadow of the hood. Her voice, previously whispered, gained a blade of steel.

  "Source of income? You are, without a doubt, the richest man in this city, Francisco. All thanks to the exclusive trade with the Republic, the symbolic taxes I authorized, the contracts I directed to your hands." She paused, letting the words weigh. "Know this, if you don't answer me, that special treatment ends. And I won't be the one to end it. Orsini is reviewing every transaction, every tribute. He's already seen the exemptions I granted. Everything will change. Your rates will triple. Your licenses, reviewed."

  Francisco swallowed dryly, his throat moving with difficulty. The waiter's fat tip now seemed like a bad joke. He looked at the bad beer as if seeking courage.

  "I understand, Paula. Truly. And I came here willing to help you. You gave me a chance when no one else would. I'm not petty enough not to repay…" He hesitated, his plump fingers drumming on the table. "But I have… personal, very deep reasons for keeping this secret. And frankly, I don't see how knowing the origin could help you now."

  Paula's irritation grew, but she contained it with visible effort. She took a deep breath, the musty air of the tavern filling her lungs.

  "Carlos discovered how the artifacts are summoned," she said, her voice dropping to an almost imperceptible whisper. She glanced around, but the two sailors were now arguing about fabric prices. Still, she leaned in further. "It's through a gem. The Gem of Sacrifice. But it needs to… feed on human lives."

  Francisco paled for real. His small eyes widened. "Paula, for heaven's sake… I swear, I would never, at any time, buy something bathed in innocent blood! Do you believe me?"

  "I believe you, Francisco," she replied, her voice softening a degree. "But I don't necessarily believe your source. And that's not all. Carlos discovered that with the right gem and the proper knowledge, it's possible to summon specific things. Books. Manuals. Knowledge that could save thousands of lives, accelerate our research, strengthen the Republic against what's coming. I need to know if your source is clean. And if it can be directed."

  Francisco fell silent for a long moment, contemplating the cloudy bottom of his tankard. The faint light from the lamps accentuated the shadows under his eyes and the sudden rigidity of his jaw. The air in the tavern, previously laden only with smoke and murmurs, seemed to have grown heavier, as if the confession to come was already pressing the space between them. When he finally raised his eyes, his voice was different. All the mercantile tone, the trader's patter, was gone. What remained was something graver, older, and laden with a pain he normally buried under layers of gold and smiles.

  He opened his mouth to begin, and Paula, under her hood, held her breath.