Chapter 9 Csilla
Csilla
The day was rudely bright. Snow had melted into puddles in the street too large to avoid, dampening her hem.
She hiked her skirts up, trying to keep her dress out of the slush, suddenly conscious of the value of the fabric.
Her clothes had rarely been nice and never new, but if she stained or tore something beyond repair, it would be dear to replace now.
Everything in her told her to look back.
But what had been safety was now locked from her.
She had to look ahead. And she had to be careful.
Even when working alone, the knowledge she had a home to return to and people who knew and cared where she was had been a comfort as tangible and unnoticed as the fit of perfectly broken-in shoes.
Stripped of it, every step was cold and aching.
There were eight districts in Silgard, with the cathedral at its heart, once divided to provide a seat to every angel and the representatives of their respective territories.
Now the lines bled and the grand governing houses only sheltered the secular nobility when they saw fit to make pilgrimage.
With the Incarnate returning, some were no doubt preparing for just that, and there’d be no chance of hiding in an empty outbuilding to save her coins.
First, to find Mihály. Maybe he could even convince one of his followers to give her a place to stay. They seemed willing enough to do anything for him.
She picked up speed, brushing past women on their way to and from shopping at the streetside market stalls, nearly stepping into the road as a carriage clipped past. She couldn’t move back fast enough to avoid being splattered with grey water and barely got her arms up in time to defend against flecks of gravel that shot out from beneath the horses’ hooves.
The driver never slowed, yelling an insult to her mother as he passed.
Well, the insult was a black mark on him and nothing to her. Csilla had no idea who her mother was. She shook her skirts off as best she could and picked up her pace again. The alley looked more open in the bright light – all the easier to see that the ladder on the side of the house was gone.
‘Izir!’ Csilla called, but her voice didn’t carry. She scuffed her boot against the ground, seeking a rock to toss at the window, but there was only cobblestone and grit under the slush.
She hefted the weight of her bag again. The cheapest coins were thick iron grots, heavy and rough. She pulled one from her bag and threw it.
It hit under the window with a clank on the stone facade, then fell back. It left a pierced hole in the grey snowmelt banked against the house below. Csilla fished it out of the snow, ignoring the cold on her fingers. Steadying herself, she took better aim and threw again.
This time it hit the shutters with a satisfying crack, but the wood panel chipped under the assault, a flake of green drifting to the ground. Csilla gaped at the pale wood revealed by the damage. She hadn’t meant to hurt anything.
She startled at the creak of a tight-hinge door swinging open, and from around the front marched a middle-aged woman, face red beneath her kerchief.
‘What are you doing to my house, girl? All the commotion last night, and now throwing . . .’
She paused when she saw what Csilla was holding.
‘Throwing coins! Oh Great Asten above, deliver us from madwomen.’ She threw her hands up, eyes rolling towards the sky, and Csilla shrunk back.
‘I suppose you’re looking for the Izir,’ the woman continued.
‘He’s gone, came down the trap door in a hurry last night and took off. Scared my wife half to death.’
‘Gone? For good?’
Her stomach dropped. She’d told him to go herself, and it shouldn’t have been a surprise, but he was her only lifeline.
At least he’s safe, she told herself. That was the most important thing.
She had to be cheered by having saved a life, even if her feet were freezing and she wasn’t sure where her meals would be coming from.
The woman waved her hand. ‘He’s always coming in and out at odd hours, might be gone, might not be.’ Her face shifted, eyes narrowing with hawk-like focus. ‘What did you want with him?’
That was a very long story that wouldn’t make her come out any better in the telling of it.
‘I . . . I’ll just wait here and see if he comes back. And I’ll pay for that.’ She gestured to the chipped wood, hoping it wasn’t all the coins she had.
The little sack ágnes slipped to her had felt like riches when she’d first held it, but now she could feel how quickly money slipped away and how hard it would be to replenish.
She touched her iron mark again. Those calculations had never crossed her mind when she belonged to the Church.
Asten provided for those who served Them so they could focus on more important work.
‘Don’t worry about that, just get on. His people are like pigeons. One starts strutting around thinking there’s food and the whole flock shows up squawking.’
She waved Csilla away like one of the birds, and Csilla stepped back.
‘Do you have any idea where he is?’
The woman looked over her worn clothes, the money sack in her fingers all too clearly all she had in the world, and her face softened.
‘Try the cemetery. When he doesn’t come home, he’s talking to ghosts.’
?
The dead had their own sanctuary. The limited space available to cemeteries within the walls of Silgard had led to the soaring limestone and marble towers that interred ashes.
When Csilla stepped into the cemetery, it was as if the rest of the city had been sucked away and this was an empty quarter where only the delivered were welcome.
Mihály’s black coat was stark against the white of the tomb. He lay with his forehead on the stone as still as if he’d been carved from it. His lips weren’t moving. Odd, to be in a cemetery and offering no prayers.
‘Izir . . . Mihály?’ she said softly as she approached.
He lifted his head to look at the tomb, face momentarily brightening, then over at her, a strange disappointment flickering over his face.
‘Csilla?’ His confusion softened into a wan smile. He looked disappointed that it was only her speaking. Perhaps his ghosts talked back. ‘I knew you’d find me. Or have you come to kill me again? It’s a very convenient location.’
Was that a joke? When she didn’t reply, he rubbed his eyes and looked at the cloud-dusted sky, face surprised.
‘What time is it?’
‘After lunch, I think.’ She was so wrapped up in her head she hadn’t heard any bells. ‘Are you alright?’
He gave a little shake of his head and straightened, placing one hand on the marble wall.
‘Fine. Perfectly fine.’ He tilted his head, looking down at her in a way that made her stomach squirm.
‘I’m not here to kill you,’ she said as he opened his mouth again. ‘I need your help.’
His hand pressed harder against the stone.
‘I spared your life,’ she continued. ‘And I warned you to leave, even if you didn’t. You have to help.’
‘Not even the priests dare command Asten’s chosen.’ But there was a slight smile on his lips and a sweetness to his voice that called her to step closer. ‘Go back to the Church. You belong there. Or maybe in the seat of the Incarnate if you’re so bold?’
She cringed at his words. She was being terrible and didn’t even have a Shadow soul to blame for her rashness. But this was the only door open to her. She stood up straighter and tried again.
‘They won’t have me.’ The wind picked up, plucking at her cloak, and for a moment she froze. The touch was too much like spectral fingers.
‘That is a problem.’ He was looking back at the stone now, a long finger trailing the cold surface.
‘So help me.’ She couldn’t keep the pleading out of her voice. ‘You said you wanted to show me your research.’ That had to be true. If not, there wasn’t even one person left in the city who needed her. ‘I’ll go with you. I’m ready now.’
Well, maybe not ready. Just willing, for a lack of options.
‘You’ve come here asking my help, but only on your terms? Cheeky.’ He reached out and tapped her nose, laughed when she started and blushed. ‘Well then. Tell me, Csilla. What do you want me to do for you?’
His eyes were still indulgent, amused. She held his gaze, waiting for the moment the patronising would stop.
‘There’s a killer in Silgard.’
‘So I’ve heard. So I told you, in fact.’ His smile turned cutting. ‘Is that what the Church was getting at? They say I encourage disobedience. Make it so people don’t mind sinning quite so much.’
‘You do . . .’
It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to think someone who listened to rumours that dead souls weren’t lost wouldn’t feel as much guilt about killing. Or that the kind of person who was interested in heresy would also study demons.
He put a finger under her chin, raised her gaze to meet his as the point of contact burned.
‘I give people hope, Csilla.’
She swallowed. She couldn’t fault him for that. ‘But this isn’t about you and the Church. I want to catch them. The killer.’
Something glittered in Mihály’s eyes. ‘You think that’s going to make the Church care about you?’
Tears pricked her throat, and she wasn’t even sure why. She didn’t blame him for the doubt in his voice. She barely had any faith in herself. But she also didn’t have a choice. It was going to take an amazing good for the Church to open its arms to her again. Something like saving the city.
‘It might. And I do need help. You hear more from the people than I do. You know more than I do. And I didn’t kill you.’ It couldn’t hurt to remind him.
He stood silent for a moment, filling the whole of her vision.
‘I do want you to see what I do,’ he said, voice softer. ‘And I think it will benefit both of us.’
‘And you’ll help me?’ It came out as a plea. He still hadn’t agreed to anything.
He placed a hand on her head, the way priests gave benediction to the small.
‘That very much depends on you.’