Chapter 11 Ilan #2
Sandor made a sound of assent that ignored Ilan’s tone. ‘If it becomes a problem again, we will address it again, but for now 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 sinners paying off indiscretions every week. Write something on a man’s flesh, and he will remember it long enough to 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 knowledge 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 cauterise 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.’
Sandor paused and looked him over – a long, appraising stare. The kind Ilan was used to giving, and loathed being on the other side of. ‘The problem is sin. An abundance of mortal evil, here in our most holy city.’
Something in the man’s posture, the slant of his gaze as it darted off the paper again, rubbed at Ilan with a niggling friction. He wasn’t saying everything.
But when he raised his hand to wipe at his brow, Ilan saw the ring again. Sandor didn’t need to say everything. He had spoken to the Incarnate more recently, accepted a direct charge for the Faith. Ilan could ask him question after question, and he would never be required to answer.
‘So put all thoughts of the script aside.’ Sandor set a heavy hand on Ilan’s carefully illustrated work. ‘The killer clearly means it as a distraction, and it’s working. Their tactic has you wrapped up in stores of Knowledge, ignoring Justice. You were led astray from your purview, Ilan.’
He smiled then, though there was nothing kind in it. ‘That is why I am here.’
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.
The truth of that stung like the kiss of a lash.
Sandor continued. ‘This is someone who knows of 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, the indignance of being rightly chastised fading with suspicion. He recognised 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.’
Leading sermons and taking confession, endless talking and administrative 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.’
Ilan bowed, but his skin prickled with anger and lingering shame. There was no denying that he hadn’t caught the killer. Underneath his quick-flaring anger was that unavoidable truth.
‘I’m even going to give you a present, Ilan,’ Sandor continued in a jovial tone.
‘We are going to have to take stricter measures. You wait for evidence of sin before bringing people in – I think they’ll be more encouraged to confess if we act first. We have some changes to make; we’ll set a curfew and stricter watches and begin working our way through the city.
You can handle the interrogations as you like. ’
The man genuinely looked as if he thought this would be welcome news. Ilan frowned. ‘The Prelate and I have had this discussion and decided against it. Not everyone here is a sinner.’
Silgard’s citizens were still his to protect, and even the pain he gave was a part of that protection.
‘No, but anyone could be,’ Sandor said, gravel in his tone. ‘That’s why Asten left. Bring them all in.’