None of the seated servants would meet Ilan’s gaze as he passed, and his hard steps echoed in the rounded chamber.
“I’m surprised you haven’t yet brought the man in to hang,” Sandor said when they were alone in the corridor. Though they had plenty of space and Ilan took up far less of it, the larger man insisted on walking right beside him, occasionally jostling his arm. “You have quite a reputation for keeping the city spotless. Hard to believe you’ve only been at it, what, three years?” There was a needling note to the question, though when Ilan glanced at the man, his eyes were still straight ahead.
“Four." He’d been twenty-one when he entered the great city for the first time, and had been granted his rank two years later. The results had quieted even the loudest tongues wagging that he hadn’t truly earned it. “Humans crave order as much as they resist it. I simply put things right. I’m blessed to have such a calling.” He moved to the side and was followed, sped up and was matched. They danced step in step as his irritation rose. “And how fares the Incarnate?”
“Things are progressing well. Asten’s return is closer each day.” Sandor emphasized the words with another bump, and Ilan watched his steps, how easy it would be to jut out his foot just so, and send the man sprawling to the floor in the dapple of stained glass light. Just another accident, as Sandor would no doubt say all his ridiculous goat-like butting was. “No doubt the broken territories will be welcomed back to our fold by the end of the year.”
That was a far more generous assessment than the rumors said. The plan to bring the entirety of the continent back into the Union was on its second generation and seemed more of a drudge than holy war. The broken territories had decided Asten’s decision to abandon the world was enough reason to abandon Their Church, and in Ilan’s opinion, good riddance. The Church and governing classes alike were bleeding money into the campaign, if an entire region wished to declare themselves damned, so be it.
“I’ll pray for his success,” is what he said instead. It would serve everyone for the whole matter to end, one way or the other. “He can only do so much from afar. Like send orders for murder.” It was a sharp and graceless stab but would show him how much the Incarnate thought of the man he had sent.
Sandor’s steps didn’t falter. “The matter of the heretic, I take it? The one who didn’t die?”
So he did know.
“Who wasn’t killed,” Ilan corrected. “The girl they sent failed.” Refused.
“And yet as I rode through the city, it was quiet. Has the heretic spoken since the attempt?”
He’d spoken to Ilan, which had been unwelcome and extremely annoying, but not what Sandor meant. There’d been no gatherings last night. “No.”
“Then he was silenced, as Asten willed him to be. The Incarnate’s order was wise, and the result was achieved without sin. We do not always know why Asten orders what They do, but this was clearly what was meant to be.”
“Clearly.” Hopefully his rolled eyes would be mistaken for heavenward praise.
Sandor made a sound of assent that ignored Ilan’s tone. “I would love to see where the more passionate side of your work takes place. I suppose now those duties will be mine, too.”
Ilan inclined his head. If the man had the stomach for torture, at least he might be useful. “Of course.”
The main inquisitorial room was dim, even with the door propped to steal a little of the hall’s window light, but every hook, table, and instrument had been laid out to Ilan’s specifications. Something Ilan couldn’t read flashed over Sandor’s face as he took in the sight of the ropes and stretched leather straps that hung expectantly along the wall, waiting for wrists and necks.
“They say you’ve been zealous in your punishments,” Sandor said, reaching out to shake the knotted rope tails of a cat whip. “The church allows redemption through coin and service. Why choose this?”
Ilan shrugged. It was a common question, though people rarely liked his answer. “We have the same rich men paying off indiscretions every week. Write something on a man’s flesh, and that text will save his soul.”
As the words left his mouth, he remembered Lili and the weeping marks on the bodies before her. A momentary revulsion climbed his throat, and he quieted it with a prayer. When scars were made here, they were redemption.
“Noble of you to take on the sacrifice of such disturbing work.”
“Holy work,” corrected Ilan. There was no reason to defend the rest. No one sniped when a clerical priest enjoyed teaching or a mercy priest found peace in comforting the dying. A talent for pain was an equally useful blessing. There were even those who crawled to him voluntarily, submitting to purging before they were consumed by sin.
Ilan ran a finger down the soft leather strap of a flogger. All gifts had their uses to the faith.
Sandor picked up a small pair of iron shears, the kind heated to neatly sever fingers and tongues, and Ilan smiled. That tool had stopped many a heresy from entering the world. “They cauterize as they cut. Quick and far less bloody.”
Sandor dropped them with a dull clank that did nothing for Ilan’s headache. “You praise the blades’ mercy?”
“Mercy is one of the prime virtues.“ He took private victory in Sandor’s grimace. “If not the tools, maybe the paperwork is one of your strengths?.” Ilan gestured to the back of the room, where a sheave of paper sat, fresh-drawn victim portraits and older references. Beneath lay the ruined sheets, paper dark and rippled with dry ink.
“It’s not my strength you need to worry about, it’s the seal’s.” Sandor’s gaze fell on one of the smudged sheets. “A compendium of demons?” He scratched a long fingernail down the list of unholy names and the places that marked their banishment. “You really think the city is so far gone we’ve let a demon in.”
Ilan swallowed. “The victims have all been marked with shadow script. The seal is reacting. There’s clearly an evil presence.”
“The Prelate blesses with holy script. Is he an angel?”
The irritating smirk of the Izir flickered in Ilan’s mind. “No. But a demon or Sotir….”
“No Sotir have been born in a century and any child of the Union can tell you why.”
Because they and every soul who shared dark blood were slaughtered. There were murals devoted to the holy sacrifice of those dying so there was no chance the curse could spring up in future generations.
“If demons can enter Silgard, the city is already lost,” Sandor continued. “This is someone who knows shadow work, but only that. I’m shocked the faith of the former High Inquisitor is so weak.” He slapped his hand down on the stack, dislodging the buried papers. “Even the records are trash. If you thought this so important, you would have been more careful, no?”
Ilan’s frown deepened. He recognized something in that tone. The swagger of someone bluffing their way around doubts so they wouldn’t be questioned.
It was how he became who he was, from when he was eleven and informed his parents he would no longer be answering to the name they’d given him, to seven years later when he offered back his title to join the priesthood. He’d learned to speak like he was comfortable long before he was, claiming the words for what he wanted until experience gave them confidence and weight.
Sandor spoke with authority, but there was a quickness, a weakness behind it that a man serving the Incarnate should have been purged of long ago.
“My faith in the Church remains,” Ilan said, pushing the papers away from Sandor. “You, I don’t know yet. Where in the front were you serving?” If Sandor would push, Ilan could push back. They would see whose footing was secure.
“Banksa. Would you like our list of stops? The names of the men who died in our convoy so you can check them against service records?” Sandor’s gaze purposefully fell back on the pile of notes.
“I respect that an inquisitor is meant to be suspicious,” he continued, “but if you don’t want to work with me perhaps you’d like to join the congregational priests? There is always other work for the faithful.”
Reading books and taking confession, endless talking in sermon and counsel...It was important work, but Ilan never had been one for tedium. Or talking. “That won’t be necessary, Sandor.”
“Inquisitor,” the man corrected. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you time to get used to it.”
