Chapter 22 Ilan
Ilan
The wooden cart clacked as it was rolled into the churchyard, the faces of the young inquisitorial priests drawing it grim.
There were already other priests and curious novices darkening the courtyard, and from the corner of his eye he could see Csilla skirting the edges, no doubt summoned by the bells.
She didn’t look any more settled for having been to see ágnes. This certainly wasn’t going to help.
‘Where was the body found?’
He pulled back the millet-stained tablecloth that had been draped over the old man, not even bothering to feign surprise at the marks on his wrinkled and pocked skin, another line in the cruel prayer.
The corpse’s mouth was open in a frozen gape, revealing holes where rotted teeth had fallen, and from the body came a stench of fetid rot.
The man’s eyeballs had already begun to shrink, the skin around them purpling and falling loose.
He reached to tug the veiny eyelids down out of respect and habit.
The young priest who had pulled the cart was explaining, still half-panting with exertion.
‘By the southern wall. He was at home. A mercy worker found the body when they were taking treatments.’
‘Are they here? Where is his family?’
‘No family that we could locate, and the one who found him went with the High Inquisitor. I don’t know . . .’
‘I know him.’ Csilla’s voice was clear as she stepped forward, far more steady than it had any right to be. Her hazel eyes were watery, but her mouth resigned, and Ilan gestured for the priests to move back and let her through.
‘Svoboda Elmere.’ She walked close to the cart and brushed the wisps of white hair on his forehead, on skin that was still warm. ‘He didn’t have any family here.’
The small, sad smile on her face pinched something inside him.
‘Did he . . .’ If he was one of the Izir’s, at least it was confirmation.
‘Yes.’ Csilla tenderly put the cloth back around the corpse, smoothing it with the care of a mother putting down a baby. ‘I’d promised him . . .’
The other priests looked at her, confused, but it seemed they hadn’t made the connection between the mercy girl everyone tried to ignore and this noble daughter dressed in wool and fur, and one put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Step back, girl. You can’t help him. We’ll take him to those who can, now.’
Csilla’s eyes widened, a struck expression as she was guided away from the body.
He almost wanted to tell them to let her stay, but they still had parts to play.
She was a wealthy woman of Silgard who let the Faith deal with the rawness of life and death.
He was the Church’s impeccable servant, with no connection to heresy.
Any worry for Csilla was chased away by the thrum of footfalls. A young inquisitorial priest, just sworn at the end of the year, ran through the gate, her breath heaving.
‘Is the High Inquisitor here?’ Her dark eyes darted between faces, landing nowhere like a fly unsure of its footing.
Ilan raised his hand. ‘No. But we have the body. Sandor is with the mercy priest who found it.’ Or so Ilan was told.
‘Oh, you’ve got the body then, that’s—’ The woman glanced at the man and drew back. ‘But he’s got both his hands?’
There was an intake of breath that had to be Csilla, and the hair on the back of Ilan’s neck prickled.
‘Should he not?’ The bodies had never been mutilated in that way before. ‘Why are you here?’
Her throat bobbed in a heavy swallow. ‘Because I found something worse.’
‘Worse than a body?’ Two bodies, perhaps? Either the killer was growing bolder, or they had accomplices.
The woman swallowed, grim. ‘Depends. What do you think of part of one?’
He spared a last glance at Csilla, who was still looking only at the dead man in the cart, her fingers worrying at the cape knot at her throat. Then he turned and followed the priest to see what new trouble had arisen.
?
A ribby, fawn-coloured dog trotted back and forth in the circle of horrified onlookers just inside the western gate, a bloated hand covered in dirt and blackening bite marks in its mouth.
‘Why did they let it in?’ one said, his face paling as the dog shook his prize and a jaundiced nail fell from a sausage-swollen finger.
‘It must have startled the guard.’ Another was repeatedly touching his mark, oily fingerprints marring the metal.
The hand was unsightly but hardly more than the other bodies they had been dealing with. Ilan pushed his way in front, to the dog whose wary look didn’t stop him from a slow wag of his tail and coming to sit.
Ilan put a gentle hand out to allow a sniff of introduction, then rubbed the dog’s floppy ears.
They were still puppy-soft, and the dog’s tail thumped in the dirt, rump wiggling with pleasure that at least someone was acknowledging his good deed.
He must have belonged to one of the pilgrims or refugees and run off after game.
Or perhaps he was the loyal friend of whoever owned the hand.
‘Well done. Drop it.’
The dog’s tail wagged harder, and he dropped the hand.
Ilan continued his ministrations as he inspected the pale bone, gristle, and what wrinkled skin was left.
The wrist was jagged, mottled with dozens of small abrasions.
This had been chewed off, not sliced, and there were no scraps of clothing to help identify who it was.
There was only so much he could do with a lump of greying flesh.
He gave the dog another appraising look, glad the pup wasn’t trying to lick him.
‘Have there been any reports of missing persons on the road?’ He turned and looked at the gathered crowd, most of them not wanting to meet his eyes.
Everyone shook their heads in turn.
If it were a citizen of the Immaculate Union, it was their duty to find the body and ensure it had rites.
The last thing they needed was someone using the body for a Shadow ritual.
The flesh there would be a bounty for the damned.
The deaths had breached the city’s borders, and they had to take responsibility.
‘Bring me something to wrap this,’ he said, and after flustered hesitation one of the men ran down to a baker and grabbed a bread bag. Ilan shook off what he could of the dusting of flour and wrapped the hand.
The dog was still wagging his tail, and Ilan offered him another bit of praise. He didn’t know how well he’d done.
?
‘Ilan. Does your . . . dog need a blessing?’
Prelate Abe raised an eyebrow as they approached the altar of the sanctuary hall.
The dog trotted along at Ilan’s heels, though whether it was from having decided on a new master or worry over what would happen to his prize, he couldn’t say.
The creature’s nails clipped on the marble tile of the floor as they passed by the dark benches of the nave, his footfalls echoing in the vaulted ceiling in quick staccato.
‘Sit,’ Ilan said as they reached the altar and its burning Eye, and the pup sank down on his haunches. At least he seemed trained and not inclined to pee on the pews.
‘He brought us something.’ Ilan unwrapped the hand, now smeared chalky and spectral. The curled fingers grimly beckoned to the Prelate.
‘Is this related to the murders?’ Abe gestured blessing over the hand, then another to be sure.
‘Unclear. I’d like to go look,’ Ilan continued. ‘Perhaps the dog will lead us back to the body.’
‘It’s beyond your jurisdiction,’ Sandor said, coming in from behind. As large as the sanctuary was, it became suffocating with his presence. ‘Is there any sign of dark magic on the bones?’
The dog tensed beside Ilan with a low whine.
‘No,’ Ilan answered. The hand was just a hand. But the fact that it was just a hand was a problem in itself.
Sandor huffed. ‘Then that body can sit until we’ve dealt with the latest one here. It’s dangerous out there now. You’ve seen how we’ve weakened. Every priest is needed in our walls.’
Ilan seethed, reaching down to touch the dog to diffuse his anger. ‘Every soul is sacred.’
‘Chase down one of the bard-priests. They’re the ones who handle such things.’ Sandor gestured to the hand. ‘It could even be a deserter, damned anyway. Burn the hand or throw it out – something will eat it.’
‘The Servants of the Road do holy work,’ Abe chided. Sandor at least looked abashed. One didn’t insult the other branches of clergy, even if their work was mostly travel and stories and the occasional rite. Not everyone was called to work in Silgard or serve the Incarnate.
‘And you yourself told me how busy they are,’ Ilan interjected. ‘What with us having to burn our own bodies.’
Sandor stiffened, though Ilan couldn’t read if it were anger or surprise.
‘Say rites over the hand and burn it if you must, and I’ll send word that if anyone sees anything suspicious, they should report it. It’s unfortunate, but we have to remember the greater danger.’
Leaving a soul was unfortunate? Caring for souls was the least of Asten’s commands.
Suspicion crawled through him again, a dozen quiet notes that couldn’t be silenced.
He thought of Csilla and her last terrible hope that hadn’t been extinguished.
She was being offered bloody rebirth and salvation, and though the admission was a dank rot, he wanted her to have it. This was part of that.
Perhaps his own sheen had dulled. He reflexively reached for the glass in his pocket.
‘A dark thought cross your mind?’ Sandor asked as the glass lit in Ilan’s palm. He stared, looking for the judgement his lie of omission would bring.
The surface glowed pale, no smoke-shadows creeping through the opalescent sheen. If anything, it was brighter.
‘You look surprised by your own virtue.’ There was a cut to Sandor’s words.
‘It’s simply nice to have my virtue confirmed.’ He held it out, still luminous. ‘If your methods are so righteous, let me see.’
The older man hesitated, then took it. There was a sheen on the surface, but in the centre, drops of blackened sin. Ilan let out a chuff.
‘And you lecture me about obedience? You require penance.’ Whatever it was looked too dark to be a simple lie or stray lustful thought.
Abe raised a hand.
‘Ilan. Not everyone is as assured of their blessing as you. You’ll find darkness on every soul here. You’ll find darkness on the Incarnate himself. That is why we serve; because we understand what it is to sin.’
‘He needs—’
‘Allow me to speak plainly, Ilan.’ Sandor looked ready to throw the glass, but clutched it instead.
‘I know who you are and that you think having given up every luxury possible to play hero to the Church makes you self-sacrificing, special, when the position you took was one you dearly wanted anyway. I know you think you earned your former title when it’s your father’s gold that paid for last year’s repairs. ’
The rage that rose was like the snap signalling an avalanche. He was going to punch the other man in the face.
‘Sandor.’
It was Abe who stepped inbetween them, and Ilan felt a bolt of shame at resorting to being handled like children brawling in the street.
‘We do not bring up our servants’ pasts. They come to us as they are, for what reason they do.’
That was true, and Sandor would know it. The ire ebbed, leaving more suspicion. The low blow was a tactic to knock him from his course.
‘Prelate. The Incarnate is returning and pilgrims along with him; the roads need to be pristine. There will be merchants, celebrations. We can’t have bodies on the road.’
It wasn’t celebrants crowding the city now. It was terrified refugees.
‘We’ve seen no sign of bodies on the road,’ Sandor said. ‘And the people coming to the city are all the more reason we need everyone to stay here and protect them. This could be old, and from anywhere in the woods.’
‘Not that old,’ Ilan said. He’d become quite an expert in the ageing of dead flesh.
‘And what of the latest murder? You’d put that aside for something that might not be murder at all?’
‘I’m not putting it aside. I’m being thorough. We all should be.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to point out the latest marks and their bloody poetry, to beg them to consider the stories refugees were telling more carefully.
Instinct won out, barely. Sandor had already rebuffed him once. If Abe also refused to accept that the weakened Seal was actual dark magic and not just a matter of faith, Ilan would find himself branded a heretic and no longer in any place to do anything at all.
‘Very well,’ Sandor said after a moment of standoff. ‘If you’re so concerned, you can go. You’re excused from our rounds if the Prelate thinks it wise.’
Abe nodded. ‘We shouldn’t abandon those seeking refuge here. They are ours, in the gates or out of it.’
Ilan tried not to let the surprise show on his face. ‘Thank you. I’ll take—’
‘You’ll go alone.’ Sandor followed.
They never went out alone.
‘That doesn’t seem safe.’ Ilan was confident in himself, but extra eyes were always helpful.
‘Walking around in a forest scares you?’ Sandor’s smirk galled. ‘Still on about your demon tales? Well, if you don’t think it’s safe, stay here. I’m not sending more priests who are needed to defend a place more holy.’
Ilan weighed the options and took a quieting breath. Instinct rarely led him wrong, and instinct told him to go. And to take Mihály. Finally the Izir could be useful for something.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll report what I find. Come,’ he told the dog.
‘And throw that cur out of the city while you’re there. It’s likely diseased if it’s been feasting on corpses.’ Disgust dripped from Sandor’s words.
Well, the dog was thin, his yellow-brown coat patchy, and he was in bad need of a delousing, but his eyes were clear, his temperament good. Ilan had grown up sneaking his father’s hunting pack into his rooms on cold nights, and this pup would be an equally pleasant addition to their staff.
Sandor’s annoyed scowl didn’t fade as Ilan considered. That was the best argument for keeping the dog.
‘He’s my dog now, and he will stay with me.’
The dog seemed to understand, stopping when his new master did and thumping his tail in confused happiness. Hopefully he continued to behave and didn’t chase the cats.
Abe shrugged. ‘It may prove useful to have a hound about. As long as he stays clean and you feed him, he’s welcome to live out with your horse. Besides, he’s likely to know where he found the corpse. Makes for quick work.’
Ilan smiled, but it was the smallest of victories.
It would be a blessing if the owner of the hand was the only body outside.